“If an attack or an event of some sort is planned,” said Holmes, “it will not occur here. I believe that I can report that to Mycroft with absolute certainty and save us a return trip here, unless, of course, you should desire to attend the funeral,
Watson.”
“I think I should feel very out of place,” I said truthfully.
“As would I,” said Holmes. “Let us grieve and honor the Queen in our own heartfelt way.”
After we had returned to London, Holmes drafted a detailed report, with one or two suggestions, and sent it by messenger to Mycroft.
Over the next several days, the pace of the city remained sluggish and then on Saturday, the day of the funeral, it was as though London’s heart had ceased beating altogether.
Few shops were open during the day, and I can only assume that both business owners and their employees had descended on the route to Windsor in an effort to pay their final respects to their beloved monarch.
Holmes was gone for most of the day, and he didn’t return until late in the afternoon. When I asked him where he had been, he said that he had spent the morning honoring his Queen. When he didn’t elaborate, I thought it prudent not to press the issue.
After dinner, I heard the strains of the violin coming from his room, so I decided to read for a while and then turn in early.
At dawn the next day, I was called away to tend to a patient. I returned mid-morning, and I must have dozed off in my chair. Suddenly, I was awakened by Holmes shaking my shoulder and telling me, “Come, Watson. We have been summoned by Mycroft, and unless I miss my guess, it is a matter of utmost urgency.”
I grabbed my coat, and then Holmes and I hailed a cab and told the driver to take us to the Diogenes Club.
Chapter 3 – London, Feb. 2
Big Ben had just struck four.
Denis Lyons stood in the small undercroft. Surrounding him were three other members of the Irish Republican Brotherhood– James Santry, Edward Nesbitt and John O’Brien.
“So, they want to celebrate the hundredth anniversary of their beloved Act of Union,” Lyons sneered. “We’ll give them something to think about this night, my boys.”
“British bastards,” said O’Brien. “They are free, but we shall never be? Surely, God would not allow such an abomination to continue.”
“All we need is the all-clear sign from Michael, and we can get to work,” Lyons said.
O’Brien pulled out a small flask and said, “I’ll drink to that.”
“Put that away,” exclaimed Lyons, “There’ll be time enough to celebrate after we’ve concluded our business.”
A chagrined O’Brien returned the flask to his pocket – unopened.
A few minutes later, young Michael Collins entered the room.
“What say ye boy?” asked Lyons.
“The church is locked tight, but I did see two Bobbies. One is standing on Abingdon Street, not too far from the entrance to Cromwell’s Green. The other is further up Abingdon, standing almost in front of the Jewel Tower.”
“How about the sides and the rear?” asked Lyons. “Did you look there as well?”
“Yes sir,” replied Michael, “and I saw no one but the two coppers.”
“You have done well, my boy. Here’s a little something for your trouble,” he said, giving the boy a shilling.
“That’s not necessary,” said Santry.
“Good work should be rewarded,” replied Lyons,” and he has done a splendid job. Now, Michael, you go back to the boarding house and wait for us. I don’t want you involved in this part of the operation.”
“But I can help,” exclaimed the boy.
“You already have,” said Lyons, “and you may yet again, but now is not your time. I know they call you ‘The Big Fella’ at home, but tonight, we need the strong fellows.”
“I’m strong,” protested the youngster.
“I’m sure you are laddy,” said Lyons, “but I don’t want you involved – just in case this goes south. Your mother would never forgive me. Do you understand?”
The boy nodded.
Turning to the rest of his crew, Lyons said, “I wish you all had his spirit. Are you ready?”
They grunted assent.
“Do you have the pipes?” asked Lyons.
“They’re in the wagon,” replied Santry.
“And the other thing?”
“That’s hidden in the wagon as well,” said O’Brien.
“Well, we must be very careful with it,” said Lyons. “Without that, this is nothing but an exercise in futility.”
The four men left the undercroft, and Lyons and Santry climbed into the front of the wagon while O’Brien and Nesbitt rode in the rear. With Santry holding the reins, they drove slowly along Great College Street and then turned left toward Westminster Abbey. They were all wearing dark suits, and they looked as though they might have been part of a small funeral cortege.
Slowly, they drove onto the grounds and approached a little used side door, far back from the main entrance.
A blacksmith, Santry had dealt with a great many locks in his career, and he’d fashioned many different skeleton keys on the off-chance they might be needed.
From his pocket he took a large ring. All the keys on it had been wrapped in cloth so as to muffle any jingling sound they might make.
On the third try, the key turned smoothly and opened the lock.
The four of them then carried the coffin, in which they had placed the pipes and the other necessary items, from the wagon.
Once they were inside the church, they lit two dark lanterns and headed straight for the Chapel of St. Edward the Confessor.
When they had reached it, they opened the coffin and O’Brien took out the tools that he needed. Within minutes, the four had done what they needed to do, and they left with Lyons and Santry leading the way and O’Brien and Nesbitt following behind.
When they had loaded the wagon, Santry carefully closed and locked the door to the abbey. After a 10-minute drive, during which they all sat in silence, they found themselves back in their rooms where young Michael was waiting for them.
No sooner had they entered, then he said, “You did it! You did it! Can I see it please?”
“Of course, my lad,” said Lyons, “It’s in the wagon. One peek and then to bed. We have to leave for home in a few hours, and I want to put as much distance between us and this accursed country as possible. There’s a train leaving for Liverpool at one, and I intend to be on it.”
“So one quick look then” he continued, “and then you must get some sleep.”
He took the boy outside and carefully pried the nails from the lid. As he lifted it, he watched as Michael’s grin grew bigger and bigger.
“This will teach them,” the youngster exclaimed.
“And now to sleep,” said Lyons. “This is only the beginning of our journey. I’ll wait here, Michael. Tell Mr. Nesbitt that he has the first watch.”
“Yes sir,” said the youngster, saluting as he scurried inside.
Chapter 4 – London, Feb. 2
For the second time in a week, Holmes and I had been summoned by Mycroft to the Diogenes Club.
We arrived just after 10:30 a.m. and had barely taken our seats in the Stranger’s Room, when Mycroft entered. His usual unflappable demeanor was absent, and I thought I detected just a hint of urgency in his voice.
“Thank you for coming,” he said. “I hate to summon you on such a day as this, but you are my only hope.”
Holmes said, “Come now, it can’t be as bad as all that.”
“Oh, but it is,” said Mycroft. “They have taken the stone.”
“To whom are you referring,” said Holmes, “And what stone is it that they have taken?”
“I must confess that I do not know who they are,” said Mycroft, “although I am inclined to think they are either Scottish separatists or Irish nationalists. I am more disposed to believe it is the latter since this is the centenary of the Acts of Union.”
“Are you going to tell me that the Coronation Stone has been taken from Westminster?” asked Holmes incredulously.
“I am afraid so,” said Mycroft miserably. “Sometime early this morning while everyone was at Windsor preparing for Queen Victoria’s funeral, thieves took advantage of the lull in security to break into Westminster Abbey to steal the Stone of Destiny.”
“It can’t have been easy,” I said, “it must weigh at least 200 pounds.”
“Actually, doctor,” said Mycroft, “It weighs exactly 336 pounds.”
“If memory serves, it’s not all that big,” said Holmes.
“Having come to understand that all knowledge is grist for your mill, I have anticipated your question. The Stone of Scone – or the Stone of Destiny or the Coronation Stone, as it is more widely known – measures exactly 26 inches by 16 and three-quarter inches by 10 and a half inches. A rough cross has been carved into one surface, and iron rings have been embedded near either end to aid with transport.”
“So it could easily be concealed in a trunk or a large piece of luggage,” observed Holmes.
“I suppose so,” said Mycroft, “as long it were being carried by an extremely strong man.”
“How did you discover that it was missing?” asked Holmes.
“One of the caretakers took it upon himself to clean the Coronation Chair and see what repairs it might require for King Edward’s coronation. As he braced himself to push the chair away from the wall, he noticed that it moved quite easily. When he examined the stone, he discovered that it had been replaced by a very clever papier-mâchécounterfeit. But for his diligence, the theft might have gone unnoticed for weeks, perhaps months.”
“Oh, I’m quite certain you would have heard from the thieves before too long,” observed Holmes drily.
“I’m sure you are right,” agreed Mycroft.
“If I go to Westminster now, am I liable to find anything, or has Scotland Yard been trampling all over the scene, obliterating any clues that might have been left behind?”
“Once the theft was discovered, both the chapel and the abbey were sealed,” said Mycroft. “No one knows of this catastrophe, but more important, no one must learn of it. It would cause a national scandal.”
“So who does know?” asked my friend.
“Only the caretaker and the Dean of Westminster, George Bradley, who had enough sense to close the church immediately and then inform me,” said Mycroft. “I have known Bradley a great many years, and he is the soul of discretion. In fact, he is detaining the caretaker until he hears from me.”
“Bravo,” said Holmes. “Watson and I shall go to Westminster immediately, and see what clues, if any, we may uncover.”
“In the meantime,” Holmes continued, “You must let it be known as soon as possible, albeit discreetly, that all trunks and other large pieces of luggage are to be thoroughly inspected before they can be put on a train or a ship.”
“It will be done immediately,” said Mycroft.
“I don’t suppose it is possible to close the borders,” mused Holmes.
“I could do that as well,” replied Mycroft, “but we run the risk of an international incident. We would also tip our hand to the thieves that we have tumbled to their deception so quickly. Should that happen, who knows what action they might take.”
“True,” said Holmes. “For now, let us sit and wait and watch, and when they make the next move, we will be ready to respond.
“Now, Watson, we are off to Westminster,” exclaimed my friend.
Chapter 5 – London, Feb. 2
“We have to visit just one place on our way to the station,” said Lyons. “I know it’s rather early, but we are expected.”
Before they left their rooms, Lyons went ahead to see what other guests were awake. When he returned and said no one was stirring, Nesbitt and Santry each made their way to where O’Brien was now standing guard by the wagon.
Lyons and Michael carried the other bags out, and a few minutes later, they were on Edgware Road, where they made a single stop and picked up a brushed brass plaque that O’Brien neatly affixed to the lid of the coffin with four wood screws.
“That’s a bit of brilliance, Denis,” said O’Brien as Nesbitt nodded in assent.
“Even if they are looking, which I doubt they are, I do not think they will look in there,” Lyons remarked.
After just a short drive, they arrived at the Liverpool Street Station. As the men climbed down, they separated, each to buy his own ticket.
Lyons, Santry and young Michael remained with the stone, which they lifted onto a porter’s dolly.
At the ticket window, Lyons said, “I need two tickets for the next train to Liverpool. We are bringing my sister home to bury her in Ireland.”
After expressing his condolences, the clerk told Lyons the cost was 17 shillings each for third class and 10 shillings for his “sister” to ride in the cargo car. When asked, the clerk said the journey would take approximately eight hours.
After heading over to the right track and slipping the conductor a few shillings, Lyons obtained permission to ride in the cargo car so that he could grieve for his beloved sister.
As two porters lifted the coffin into the car, one remarked to the other, “Jesus, she weighs a ton. I guess she must have liked her own cooking.”
The other tried to suppress a laugh, and Lyons pretended that he hadn’t heard the comment.
After they had placed the coffin in the car, Lyons slipped them a few more shillings. A short while later, he saw a police officer approach the porters.
“Are you checking all the large trunks as I instructed you?” he asked.
At that point, Lyons, who was sitting in the car and could not be seen by the officer, listened intently, fearing for a second that all might be lost.
“We are, sir,” said one of the porters. “And so far, we have nothing to report.”
“Keep up the good work, men,” he advised.
Shortly before one, Santry and Michael took seats in the closest car, and a few minutes later O’Brien boarded the train and sat at the other end of the car. Just as the train was about to leave, Nesbitt pulled himself aboard, and the journey to Liverpool had begun.
The trip was long and tedious, and after an hour had passed, Michael asked Santry if he might join Mr. Lyons in the cargo car.
“I have no objections if he has none,” said Santry.
As Michael entered the cargo car, he saw Lyons sitting on the floor next to the coffin, reading a book.
“I’m glad you are here, Michael. I could use the company,” Lyons said, putting the youngster at ease.
After checking to make certain they were alone, Michael asked, “Will you tell me about the stone again, Mr. Lyons? And why does it have so many names?”
“To answer your first question, I’d be happy to. As for your second question, perhaps that will become clear as I answer your first.”
“By what names, do you know it, Michael?”
“I have heard it called the Stone of Destiny, the Stone of Scone and the Coronation Stone,” the youngster replied.
“It has several other names as well,” said Lyons. “I have also heard it referred to as Jacob’s Pillow, the Lia Fáil and the Tanist Stone.
“While the origins of the stone are shrouded in mystery, the legend that I choose to believe says that in biblical times, the Stone of Destiny was used as a pillow by Jacob as he fled from his brother, Esau.
“Supposedly, it traveled with the Israelites in the wilderness for
40 years and was the source of their water. It was brought to Ireland hundreds of years before Christ was born by the prophet, Jeremiah. Once it was here, it was set up on the hills of Tara, where it was called the Lia Fáil and all the ancient kings of Ireland were crowned there.
“When the Celtic Scots invaded and occupied Ireland, under the leadership of Cináed mac Ailpín, whom you know as Kenneth MacAlpin, he had the stone brought to Scone, where he was crowned king in 840. It was then used as part of the crowning ceremonies for the kings of Dalriada, in the west of Scotland.
“John Balliol was the last Scottish king to be crowned on the stone at Scone in 1292.”
Lyons paused to see what effect his words were having on the boy.
“So the stone is rightfully ours then?” asked the youngster.
“Indeed it is lad. Would you like to hear how the tale ends?”
“I would,” said the boy.
“At the end of the 13th century, the British King, Edward I, decided to seize control of Scotland. So the monarch, who was known as ‘Longshanks’ because of his height and ‘The Hammer of the Scots’ because of his prowess in battle, invaded in 1296 and seized the stone and other Scottish relics and had them taken to Westminster Abbey. Several years later, he had a special throne called the ‘Coronation Chair’ constructed, and the stone was placed inside it.”
“The stone was in the chair?” the boy asked,
Nodding, Lyons continued, “Yes. King Edward saw it as a symbolic way of telling the world that the kings of England were also the kings of Scotland. Since that time, every British monarch has sat in the Coronation Chair and thus upon the Stone of Scone, or as they like to call it the Coronation Stone, when they are invested.”
Lyons paused for effect, “But I tell you this, Michael. If the next King of England hopes to carry on that tradition, he must be willing to make some serious concessions.”
Chapter 6 – London, Feb. 2
Holmes and I took a cab to Westminster where we met George Bradley in the Church House, which had been finished just five years earlier.
The Stone of Destiny Page 2
