The Stone of Destiny

by Richard T Ryan

  Upon opening the front door, Bradley looked at my friend and inquired, “You are Mr. Sherlock Holmes?”

  When my friend nodded, Bradley exclaimed, “Mr. Holmes, I cannot tell you how relieved I am to see you.”

  Holmes then introduced me, and Bradley said, “Were this day not marred by tragedy, I should be very happy to make the acquaintance of both of you. However, our Queen is gone, and now the Coronation Stone has been stolen.”

  “Who else knows about the theft?” asked Holmes.

  “Only Mr. Dodge, the caretaker who discovered the theft. I have kept him here, and I have had the church and grounds secured. I am familiar with your methods, Mr. Holmes. I can only hope that I have acted quickly enough.”

  “You have done splendidly,” my friend assured him. “Now, I should very much like to speak with your Mr. Dodge.”

  Bradley led us into a small sitting room where we found a man of about 50 sitting by the fireplace. He rose when we entered and said, “You must be Sherlock Holmes.”

  “Guilty as charged,” replied Holmes. “Now, would you mind if I asked you a few questions?”

  “If I answer them, can I go home for lunch?” he replied. “I’m sure my missus is worried sick.”

  “Then I shall be as quick as I can,” said Holmes. “How long have you worked at the abbey?”

  “I started here 19 years ago,” he replied.

  “And what exactly are your duties?”

  “I do general maintenance – painting, cleaning and such,” he replied. “And in the warmer weather, I tend to the plants and gardens.”

  “And how did you come to discover the Coronation Stone was missing?” asked Holmes.

  “I thought that with the Queen passing, we would soon be having a coronation here. She last used the Coronation Chair in 1887, during her golden jubilee year.” He paused and then asked, “Have you ever seen the Coronation Chair, Mr. Holmes?”

  “Only from a distance,” my friend replied.

  “Well, over the years, the students from the school and some visitors as well, I suppose, have carved their initials and names into the back of it. There are also scratches on the arms. I thought I would try to repair it as best I could. So I brought my cleaning supplies with me, and when I went to push the chair farther out from the wall so that I could see the back better, it slid right out. That’s when I knew something was amiss.

  “When I looked closely at the Coronation Stone, I soon realized it wasn’t the stone at all, but some sort of imitation. So I went straightaway and found Mr. Bradley, and we then ushered everyone out of the church, saying that repairs to the roof had to be made immediately. We locked all the doors; Mr. Bradley informed the authorities, and I’ve been here ever since.”

  “And you didn’t notice anything unusual? You saw nothing suspicious?”

  “No sir,” said Dodge.

  “Well then, I am sorry you had to go through this,” said Holmes, “But you have done well.”

  Holmes then tried to hand the man a five-shilling coin. “I can’t accept that,” said Dodge.

  “Please, buy your wife some flowers,” Holmes said. “But whatever you do, you must not repeat any of this to anyone. Right now, secrecy is our greatest ally.”

  “You have my word, Mr. Holmes,” he said. “Mr. Bradley, shall I come back after lunch?”

  “No, Mr. Dodge, take the rest of the day off, and I will see you in the morning.”

  Bradley walked him to the front door and then rejoined us. “He’s a good man,” the dean said.

  “Yes, I think you are quite lucky to have him,” said Holmes.

  “Now, I should very much like to see the church and the grounds,” said Holmes. “Since it is rather overcast, have you any torches, Mr. Bradley? And a blanket?”

  “I shall get them,” he said. A minute later he returned with three of the new electric hand torches that were just coming on the market and a thick woolen blanket. “I hope these will suffice,” he said.

  “I am sure they will,” said Holmes, who then led us out the door and headed for the side of Westminster Abbey.

  “I rather doubt they came through the main entrance,” said Holmes. “Let us go to the north doorway first.”

  As we approached the massive door, Holmes cautioned us to stay a few feet to the side of the path and to be careful not to step on the ground directly next to it if possible.

  “I want to check both the ground and this path to see if they have been kind enough to leave any footprints,” he informed us.

  Holmes then spread the blanket out on the ground and threw himself upon it. With his lens, he began to examine a section of the path.

  “They arrived in a wagon drawn by two horses, one of which needs a new shoe on its left rear hoof,” he said. “When they departed, they were carrying something quite heavy in the wagon as you can see by the deeper ruts in the mud.”

  Even without a close examination, I could make out the wheel ruts coming from the church, though how Holmes spotted those going to it escaped me. When we arrived at the door, Holmes instructed Bradley and me to shine our lights on the lock as we were now standing in a deep shadow. “There are no signs of forced entry that I can discern, which makes me think they had a key.”

  “That’s impossible, Mr. Holmes,” spluttered Bradley.

  At the word “impossible,” Holmes looked at me knowingly and then fixed his gaze on Bradley. “Well then Mr. Bradley, how did they get in? Nothing has been broken; the lock is intact and appears to be working. Do you have a key, sir?” he asked.

  Bradley produced a large ring from his pocket and after examining several keys, let the others fall and said, “This is the key for that door.”

  “Mr. Bradley, looking at this key and that lock, I can say only that older isn’t always better. If I wished, I could pick this lock in just a moment or two. Although the horse is out of the barn, I strongly suggest that you consider replacing your present locks with something a bit more secure. In addition, you might also consider hiring a night watchman and installing him in the abbey.”

  With that, Holmes opened the door with Bradley’s key, and we stepped inside the abbey.

  Even in semi-darkness, the majesty of Westminster Abbey was obvious. We made our way past the chapels of St. Andrew, St. Michael and St. John the Evangelist. Directly across from the Islips Chapel is the Chapel of Edward the Confessor, and Holmes immediately headed for the Coronation Chair.

  As Bradley and I looked on, he examined the chair with his lens, and then, without much effort, slid it about a foot.

  He then knelt and examined the wood framework that had surrounded the stone.

  “I think one of the men involved must be a carpenter,” he said.

  “You can see by the fresh marks here and there,” he said pointing to the sides of the bottom of the chair, “that this piece has been very carefully removed and then reinserted. It seems rather obvious that it had to be taken out in order to gain access to the stone.”

  Holmes asked me to pull on one of the front legs of the chair and Bradley on the other. With our help he was able to dislodge the piece of the wood and carefully remove the papier-mâché Stone of Destiny from its resting place.

  “From what little I remember of the stone, this appears to be quite a good likeness,” Holmes remarked.

  “It is quite like it,” Bradley said.

  “Mr. Bradley, the first thing in the morning – even before you open the abbey – you are to remove the Coronation Chair and hide it. Should anyone ask, you can tell them it is being cleaned and restored for King Edward’s pending coronation.”

  Bradley nodded, “I’ll get Mr. Dodge to help me. We shall put it in the triforium. I think it will just fit in the narrow staircase.”

  “Triforium?” I asked.

 
“That’s a splendid suggestion,” said Holmes.

  Pointing up to the darkened ceiling, Holmes said to me, “You can just about see it now, but there is a small gallery up there, right below the clerestory windows. It is closed to the public, and, if I recall, the only way in is through the private door in the Poets’ Corner.”

  “Mr. Holmes, I am surprised at how much you know about the church.”

  “I expect that I shall know even more before long,” he replied drily.

  “Now, I have one more request, Mr. Bradley.”

  “Anything,” he replied.

  “Can you fetch us a large sack, Watson and I will be taking this stone with us.”

  After Bradley had left, I said to Holmes, “I know there must be a clue in there, but for the life of me…”

  Holmes cut me off saying, “A clue? Watson, when they left this behind, they might as well have handed me their calling card.”

  Chapter 7 – Liverpool, Feb. 2

  “Wake up, Michael. We’re here,” said Lyons, shaking the boy.

  They had finally arrived in Liverpool, and although it was evening, the station was teeming with people. Michael watched as Lyons, Santry and Nesbitt lifted the coffin down from the cargo car. A few minutes later, O’Brien joined them.

  “I’ve a wagon that will take us to the docks,” he said.

  “We must be very careful,” Lyons whispered. “They know the stone has been taken, and they are inspecting all trunks. We must hope our luck holds.”

  So they carefully hoisted the coffin on their shoulders and carried it through the station like pallbearers.

  They gently placed the coffin in the rear of the wagon, and then Lyons sat up front with the driver while the others took their places in the back.’

  After telling the driver to take them to the Isle of Man Steam Packet Company docks, everyone lapsed into silence and young Michael began to weep softly.

  The driver looked at Michael and then at Santry.

  “There, there, lad,” Santry comforted him. “She is in a better place.”

  When they arrived at the docks, Lyons booked passage for them all on the Tynwald, the same ship on which they had crossed a few days earlier.

  Michael could hardly hide his disappointment. He had been hoping to return home on the much newer and faster Prince of Wales. Lyons told him that ship wasn’t sailing for two more days and the passage was quite dear compared to the Tynwald.

  As the porter approached, Michael resumed his weeping.

  “What’s all this?” the porter asked solicitously.

  “My sister, his mother, has passed, and we are bringing her home to Ireland,” said Lyons.

  “My deepest condolences,” said the porter.

  After slipping the man a few pounds, Lyons was assured that he would be able to ride in the hold with his sister if he so desired, and the boy would be able to sit with his mother as well.

  “I hope you have your sea legs, sir,” the porter said. “If the waves are is rough, this ship pitches something terrible.”

  “We’ll be fine, Lyons assured him. “And you say we shall reach Cobh in approximately eighteen hours?”

  “If the ship doesn’t dally in Dublin, and the water is calm, perhaps even a bit less,” said the porter.

  After they had boarded, Lyons told the men to go to the cabin and then to eat. “And when you’ve finished, could one of you bring us something?”

  “I will,” said O’Brien.

  After they had left, Lyons said to Michael, “The tears were a bit of genius my boy.”

  “I’m just trying to help,” said the youngster.

  “And so you have, Michael. Ireland would be proud of you.”

  Finally, after another hour had passed, the anchor was lifted, and the Tynwald set sail for Ireland.

  Chapter 8 – London, Feb. 2–3

  After we had returned to Baker Street with the faux stone, Holmes immediately set about analyzing it. Knowing that I would be of little use to my friend once he became engrossed in his scientific endeavors, I decided to take in a show and settled on “A Chinese Honeymoon.”

  There was a touring company in London, and I must admit that I enjoyed the comedy immensely.

  As I ascended the stairs to our rooms, I could smell the results of Holmes’ labors, and I paused for a second and considered enjoying a nightcap at a nearby pub. However, my curiosity got the better of me, so despite the malodorous condition of our lodgings, I pushed open the door. Holmes was peering at something intently through his microscope. So engrossed was he that for a second I thought he might not have heard me enter.

  Without looking up, he asked me, “So, how was the show?”

  “How could you possibly know where I have been?” I asked.

  He turned to me and smiled, “It is now 10:22. With intermission, the average show runs approximately two hours. Allowing an extra five minutes for a crowded theater, and then deducting two minutes from the normal walking time of 13 minutes to stroll to the West End on a balmy summer night, that should put you here right about now.”

  I chuckled, “You never cease to amaze me, Holmes.”

  “And is ‘A Chinese Honeymoon’ as amusing as they say?”

  “Now, you go too far,” I said.

  “What on earth do you mean?”

  “Either you followed me or had someone do it. There is no way that you could know which play I went to see otherwise.”

  “I could if I looked at the playbill protruding from your pocket,” he laughed.

  I looked down and there it was, sticking out of my coat pocket. “I apologize, Holmes,” I said.

  “No need for that, old man.”

  “Well, let me see if I can repay you in kind. I can see that you have made some progress, but there are still several things that elude you; otherwise, you would not still be at your experiments.”

  “Bravo, Watson!” he exclaimed.

  “I do believe that I have made some small headway, but the extent has yet to be determined.”

  “Why do you say that?” I asked.

  “Thus far the stone has yielded precious little. I am afraid that I was more than a bit premature when I likened it to a calling card.”

  He continued, “The chicken wire that was used for the frame was manufactured by Barnard, Bishop & Barnard.”

  “Well that is surely a clue that we can follow,” I said.

  “I’m afraid not,” Holmes replied. “It is the most common type available and can be purchased at any number of ironmongers throughout the city.

  “I thought the materials in the papier-mâché might offer an avenue worth exploring, but again, they are all of the most common types and can be obtained at any decent emporium. Even the paint used is widely available.”

  “So what then have you discovered?” I asked.

  “Consider the stone itself for a second, Watson. The thieves were hoping their substitution would pass muster for who knows how long. So this wasn’t just cobbled together. The more I examined it, the more I became convinced that this was created by an artist. The edges have all been neatly trimmed. There is no wasted material, and everything has been formed and molded just so.

  “So, then I had to ask myself, how many people in London are capable of producing such a piece, and after a bit of thought and some research, I was able to compile a list of three names.

  “There is a young man, Ernst Granger, with a shop on High Street, who was an apprentice under Ludwig Grenier. A second young man, Daniel McCormick, is employed by Asprey and Co. in New Bond Street. The third person is a woman, Kathleen McMahon, who works at Madame Tussaud’s on Marylebone Road.”

  “If Mycroft is correct about Irish nationalists, then the last two names – McCormick and
McMahon – are quite telling, are they not?” I suggested.

  “They may be, but let’s not jump to conclusions until we have met and interviewed them.

  “Now, let us enjoy that nightcap you were considering and then to bed,” said Holmes.

  “I’m not even going to ask,” I laughed.

  “He who hesitates on the stairs is usually weighing other options,” said Holmes. “Considering the hour, I believe yours were rather limited,” he added.

  The next morning, we awoke and after breakfast made our way to High Street where we discovered that Ernst Granger had closed his shop about a year ago and then returned to Germany.

  Next, we headed over to New Bond Street. In business for more than a century, Asprey & Co is generally regarded as one of London’s foremost shops, offering “articles of exclusive design and high quality, whether for personal adornment or personal accompaniment and to endow with richness and beauty the table and homes of people of refinement and discernment.”

  I was quite familiar with the store, having purchased several items for my first wife there.

  As we entered, George, the manager, greeted us, “Dr. Watson, it has been a long time since you have graced us with your presence. How may I be of service?”

  “George, this is my friend, Mr. Sherlock Holmes.”

  “The one about whom you so often write?” asked George incredulously. “And all these years, I thought he was just a fiction. Mr. Holmes, I am delighted to meet you.”

  “I am quite real, I assure you, sir,” said my friend coolly. Leaning in, Holmes said to him in a subdued tone of voice, “Were I not, how else would I know that you have had a terrible row with your wife this morning? And that if you keep up your dalliance with that sales clerk, she is going to leave you.”

  “Mr. Holmes,” he whispered, his façade of bonhomie, shattered. “How could you possibly know?”

  “Sir, you manage one of the most esteemed stores in London. Yet your shoes are not shined, your tie is askew and your eyes are puffy and red as though you have been weeping. No self-respecting woman would let a man of your position leave the house looking as you do, unless she were quite angry with him.”