by Anna Lord
“That settles it,” said Mycroft sternly, eating mushy peas straight from his knife like a naughty schoolboy when he thinks no one is looking. “The telephone will have to be moved. Nash was right. It will be mounted between the windows.”
She was lying on her back on the settee, counting down the minutes while absently reading the Latin inscription from Plato’s Republic that ran around the perimeter of the dome: A true pilot must of necessity pay attention to the seas, the heavens, the stars, the winds and everything proper to the craft if he is to really rule the ship.
Mycroft was the philosopher-king ruling the ship of state just as Jacques de Molay was the true pilot during the time of the Crusades but who was the French king?
“Dieu n’est pas content, nous avons des ennemis de la foi dans Le Royaume.”
12
Templar Knight
Mycroft’s keenly balanced knife dropped into his portly lap, smearing green mush over his immaculate crotch. “What did you just say, young lady?”
She didn’t bother to translate – God is not happy, we have some enemies of the faith in the kingdom - he spoke fluent French and there was nothing wrong with his hearing. “The Diogenes Club is not unlike the Order of the Knights Templar during the times of the Crusades but who is the French king of the day?”
“Who told you that? It was Nash, wasn’t it? The man has been trained to withstand torture and the moment my back is turned he blabs out everything! I won’t ask what sort of torture you applied!”
“Calm down, Uncle Mycroft, you’ll give yourself indigestion. And don’t blame Major Nash. It was not difficult to move deductively from primus baro to first baron to Templar Knight. Besides, the fact the humidor in the Stranger’s Room is shaped like the Temple of Solomon rather gives the game away.”
“Damn Sherlock! That’s what comes of allowing clever women into gentlemen’s clubs! No one else has ever made the connection!”
“Well, they wouldn’t unless they were Jewish and as you are only considering extending membership to Americans and Irishmen it will be a while yet. I travelled with my step-aunt through the Holy Land and we had an excellent dragoman who was an expert on ancient history. The humidor is rather splendid, especially that secret compartment…”
“Enough, young lady!”
She redirected her quizzical gaze to the inscription gracing the dome. “King and Pope? But who is Philip and who is Clement?”
“Don’t ever repeat what you just said outside this room,” he warned severely. “I love you dearly but I will not tolerate any disobedience on this matter.”
She threw her arms around his thick neck where a vein throbbed violently, and was about to bestow a reassuring, devoted kiss on his pasty, avuncular forehead when Major Nash walked in clutching a Matryoshka doll.
Mycroft pulled back from the sentimental embrace that did nothing to calm his agitation. “Damery’s doll, is it?”
“Yes, sir. Our men found it this afternoon while searching his townhouse. It was necessary to create a diversion to get the servants out of the house. A small gas explosion was staged in the attic. Several roof tiles blew off. No one was injured.”
Mycroft used his napkin to spread the stain on his trousers even further; it added to his black mood. “Lock it away with the others, Nash, and first thing tomorrow organize to have that wall-mounted telephonic device moved away from the door. Did Mrs Klein accept the invitation to join us at Longchamps?”
Major Nash continued to stand stiffly by the door, sensing some tension between the lovers. “Yes, sir, she did.”
“Pour yourself a drink. You’ve earned it. You know where the extra glasses are kept. Did Mrs Klein seem keen to accept?”
Major Nash ignored the invitation to have a drink and continued to stand by the door as if attending some sort of martial drill. “Not at first, sir, but when I mentioned I heard the Countess say she would be pleased to see as few ladies as possible at Longchamps Mrs Klein changed her mind.”
“Mrs Klein will act as the draw card for Prince Sergei. When he learns four eligible ladies will be at Longchamps I think he will alter his grouse shooting plans. Fetch a glass for the Countess while you are getting one for yourself, Nash. That’s the second glass of my Romanee-Conti she has drained.”
Major Nash returned with just the one glass. He filled it and passed it to her without meeting her gaze. “I won’t have a drink, sir. I think I will have an early night for a change. Do you want me to escort the Countess home in your carriage before I turn in? I see it is parked at the end of the street and she is off-duty in thirty minutes.”
Major Nash was talking as if she wasn’t even there and he still hadn’t met her gaze; in fact he was deliberately avoiding it.
It didn’t take a genius to understand why.
“No, you go to bed, Nash. You’ve been burning the candle at both ends. I will see the Countess home. I think we will need to stage a sprained ankle on the stairs for the benefit of Pettigrew. I will tell him I am going out to visit someone and I can drop Grimsby home at the same time.”
“I will organize for one of our crack shooters to sit alongside the coachman.”
Mycroft sighed heavily, trying to downplay the two assassination attempts at his life; he hoped the weekend might expose the enemy in their kingdom because this business was distracting him from more important affairs of state. “If you feel that is necessary.”
“Merely a precaution - in the event of an incident may I ask where you will be going?”
“Number 6 Mayfair Mews and then 221B Baker Street.”
“Excellent! Excellent!” sang Sherlock, his one good eye twinkling excitedly when Mycroft told him the bomb man had been fished out of the lake. “Drowned?”
“Strangled first.”
Sherlock immediately ceased playing the Stradivarius, folded his lanky frame into the padded armchair by the fire, wrapped his faded dressing gown around his bones, steepled his fingers, closed his eyes and retreated into his mind palace.
It was up to Dr Watson to explain to Mycroft about Mr Myles Trotter of Pimlico. “No doubt the great detective will be in Battersea Park at first light scouring the water’s edge for clues.”
Mycroft studied his younger sibling in the low-burning gaslight – the ocular lens in his right eye, the exo-skeleton contraption that supported his weak left arm, the knee-high boot strapped to his left leg to make up for the fact he had no left foot – and duly lowered his tone. “Walk me to the door and tell me how he’s going?”
“Surprisingly well,” whispered the doctor, looking back over his shoulder. “He has hardly touched his supply of cocaine all day; just enough to allay the pain in his leg from that heavy boot. And tonight he managed to keep down most of his dinner. He is thrilled with this case. It’s like the old days have come back. How did the Countess go at the Diogenes Club? Did she pull it off?”
“I don’t know how she did it but she managed the impossible. Major Nash saw through the disguise but that’s his job and he’s good at what he does. I didn’t hire him for his looks, though he has those as well. She overheard some useful information. You can tell Sherlock that Damery, de Merville and Freddy Cazenove each had a Matryoshka doll in their possession. He will understand the significance. Major Nash has the dolls under lock and key. Damery and de Merville will guess I’ve got them and will be on their guard at Longchamps. The weekend could blow up in our faces if we’re not careful.”
They reached the bottom of the stairs.
“Is Sherlock planning to come to Longchamps?” asked Mycroft, glancing back up the stairwell to make sure his brother wasn’t eavesdropping.
“Yes, he’s going to disguise himself as an old stable-hand.”
“At least that will keep him out of the house. If he confines himself to the stable he won’t get underfoot and ruin things.”
Dr Watson bristled. The comment sounded harsh. He wondered what Mycroft meant by it but he was loath to ask. He unlocked the door and a blast
of Arctic air slapped his face, whooshed through the narrow hall, flew up the stairs rattling picture frames and slammed the door at the top of the landing.
“Where’s your carriage?” he said, peering into the soot-soaked gloom.
Mycroft clung tightly to his top hat to stop it blowing away. “Circling the block. According to Major Nash a moving target is harder to keep track of. It will come round in a minute or two. Go inside and close the door. No need for you to freeze as well. Ah, here it comes now. I can hear the clip-clop of equus. Goodnight, Dr Watson.”
Dr Watson waited till he saw two yellow carriage lamps swimming toward him through the wild swirl of wind and fog and smoke playing merry hell with the night then closed the door and was in the process of bolting it when he heard a series of terrifying sounds that curdled his blood – a thunder clap, the sound of terrified horses, a runaway carriage, the primal yowl of a ferocious beast, a massive crash that almost took the front door off its hinges and a gunshot.
It was enough to wake the dead.
Frightened out of his wits, he couldn’t remember whether he had bolted the door or not. He then bolted it. Realising his mistake, he tried to remedy it, but his fingers, tangled at sixes and sevens, refused to obey his brain. The faster he tried to free the bolt the more it jammed.
Sherlock came hurtling down the stairs, taking them by twos and threes, no easy feat for a man with one good leg and the other footless peg strapped into a heavy boot.
“Watson!” he screamed. “Open that door!”
Mrs Hudson, shaking like a leaf, appeared at the end of the hall. “What’s going on?” she cried, adding to the mayhem. “What’s going on?”
Dr Watson flung open the door and Mycroft fell backwards onto the floor with a sickening thud, landing on top of Sherlock. Dr Watson ran to render assistance. He thought Mycroft had been shot but there didn’t seem to be any blood.
Mrs Hudson kept crying. “Oh, Lordy! Oh, Lordy! What’s happening now!”
The two Holmes boys found their feet and neither was seriously injured, merely winded and stunned. On the doorstep was a huge black dog - a Great Dane by the looks of it. It had been shot dead and was lying on its side. Blood had soaked into the doormat and was trickling down the step, along the cracks in the footpath and into the gutter. The muzzle of the dog was covered with hideous white foam, a sign the beast had been rabid.
Standing to one side of the door was Colonel Moriarty, a large package under his arm and a smoking revolver in his hand. He was breathing hard as if he had been running.
Sherlock turned back to the distressed housekeeper. “It’s all right, Mrs Hudson. It’s just a dog. It was run over by my brother’s carriage. I will clean up the mess. Go back to bed. Nothing to worry about here. Just an accident. Goodnight, Mrs Hudson.”
It took more than an hour for the four men to locate a wheelbarrow, cart the dog and the bloody doormat to the nearest waste-ground, build a bonfire, add some paraffin, burn the remains, sluice the step, and clean themselves up.
By then the carriage had returned, having careered out of control for a good fifteen minutes. The coachman having no idea where he was by the time he regained control of the terrified horses took nearly an hour to work his way back to Baker Street with the help of the crack shooter still clinging to his seat, wondering what had happened. All he could remember was the black beast from hell that came out of the fog, growling and frothing as it leapt at the throat of Mr Holmes. Someone fired a shot but it wasn’t him. His gun was still cold. The horses bolted and the world turned black as pitch.
The coachman and his armed sidekick enjoyed a cup of tea in the kitchen with Mrs Hudson who was too rattled to sleep. She was happy to have company and brewing a cuppa always helped to calm her nerves.
The other four opted for something stronger. Brandy was called for and the first round went down without touching the sides. While Dr Watson refreshed the glasses, Sherlock directed the first question at Colonel Moriarty, who seemed to be studying his host with utmost curiosity.
“What were you doing in Baker Street at eleven o’clock at night?”
“I came to return Dr Watson’s kilt.” He indicated the package on the table by the window without removing his gaze from Sherlock’s ocular device. “The woman who does my laundry washed and ironed it. It is like new. I was informed you and the doctor are night owls so I thought eleven o’clock would be a suitable time to call.”
“You shot the dog?” continued Sherlock interrogatively.
“Yes, I was approaching the house when a large black dog came out of nowhere. It loped straight past me, almost knocking me over, and leapt at Mr Holmes. He fell back against the door and I put a bullet into the beast as it went in for the kill.”
“I want to thank you,” said Mycroft, voice still slightly shaky. “It was a terrifying sight and I’m not ashamed to admit that mad dog will haunt my sleep for several weeks.”
“I thought I heard a thunder clap?” said Dr Watson. “It came at the start.”
“Yes,” agreed the colonel, staring at Sherlock’s knee-high boot. “I heard it too. It was the thing that caused the horses to take fright. It seemed to unnerve the dog as well. He began to run toward Mr Holmes when it exploded. I think it might have been a penny banger.”
“That suggests the dog was trained to act on command of a sound,” said Dr Watson, recalling the case of the horrible hound of the Baskervilles. “Did you recently lose an item of clothing, Mycroft?”
“Yes, I misplaced my herringbone wool scarf. It turned up a week later inside my carriage. It’s the same one I’m wearing now.”
“That’s why the dog leapt at your throat,” said Sherlock without a skerrick of emotion, “a well-trained beast and deliberately infected with rabies too. That, gentlemen, was the third attempt to kill my brother.”
A chill ran down every spine. Another round of drinks did little to dispel the horror of what they had recently experienced. If not for Colonel Moriarty, Mycroft would have been the one bleeding on the doormat, his throat ripped out, infected with rabies just in case he survived the vicious mauling.
“It is more imperative than ever to find the man behind this,” said Sherlock, reaching for his briar pipe, filling it with shag and lighting it. “I will be at Battersea Park first thing tomorrow morning. Whoever strangled the photographer and dumped him in the lake may have left a vital clue.”
Moriarty coughed to clear his throat and because he wasn’t sure if he should speak up or not – oh what the heck! “Major Nash and I met up by the lake the night after the ball to discuss certain matters. We both got the impression there was someone else in the wood. We also heard a dull splash, as if something went into the lake. It could have been the body of the photographer.”
“Hmm,” said Sherlock. “I find it hard to believe he would risk returning to the scene of his crime the night after the ball. However, I do not doubt what you say is true. The facts must fit,” he muttered to himself. “The facts must fit.”
Dr Watson wondered if his friend had been injecting himself in secret; his mind seemed less sharp. “I will come with you to Battersea. An extra pair of eyes will not go astray.”
Sherlock withdrew his pipe and rested his elbow on the mantelpiece. “No, Watson you must return to the Turkish Baths. What you discovered today was of vital interest. We have ground to cover. We cannot all keep to the same patch.”
“The Turkish Baths?” said Moriarty. “The ones on Northumberland Avenue?”
“Yes,” replied the doctor. “The Aga Hammam Baths. Do you sometimes go there?”
“Never – they are owned by Mrs Isadora Klein.”
The three men seemed taken aback.
“Are you sure?” questioned Mycroft, wondering how such a fact had skipped his attention; he really had allowed himself to become distracted by family business – first his brother and now his niece.
“I heard it from Freddy Cazenove. She bought out the previous owner when he went bankrupt
. The Roman Baths were a bit tired looking according to Freddy so she set about renovating them, changing them into something more exotic, like her – that’s what he said. He told me she is of Spanish extraction and has the blood of Conquistadores in her veins. Her late husband, the sugar baron, Mr Adolphus Klein, was immensely wealthy but she is going through the fortune fairly quickly and needs a regular income to supplement her investments and her spending.”
“How did you find the Turkish Baths, Watson?” quizzed Sherlock. “Up to scratch?”
“They were superb. I couldn’t fault them. Clean, airy, well-ventilated, excellent masseurs, and beautifully decorated with Moorish tiles. Mrs Klein has superb taste and has certainly improved things.”
“Many men there?” he pursued.
“Oh, yes, the place was busier than Trafalgar Square, men coming and going, here and there, in and out, and yet I was surprised at how easy it was to hear the conversation in the next alcove.”
“How so?”
“Well, I put it down to the trellis of brickwork. The walls only go part way up and then they are trellised. It allows for steam to circulate and promotes healthy ventilation.”
“According to Freddy it promotes other things,” gibed Moriarty.
The other three men turned to look at him.
“Explain yourself,” said Sherlock.
“Well, Freddy claims some of the bricks are hollow and listening devices have been installed. They amplify the sound and direct it to various hidden chambers.”
“For the purposes of blackmail?” reasoned Sherlock.
“So it would seem,” said Moriarty. “What’s more, some rooms are restricted to young men who pay a premium for a private massage.”
“More blackmail,” added Sherlock with disgust.
Moriarty nodded. “I cannot confirm any of what I just told you. I didn’t ask Freddy where he got it from. He does tend to exaggerate things. It’s a way of big-noting himself.”
