The Stone of Destiny

by Richard T Ryan

  The others nodded in assent.

  Feeling vindicated and a bit self-satisfied, Lyons said, “You all remember the oath you swore when you joined the Brotherhood? Then now is the time to keep your word. This is a big step in our quest to free Ireland. I know I can count on you, right?”

  As he looked around, they nodded again.

  Lyons then asked, “O’Brien is there anything left in that flask of yours, or have you drunk it all, you selfish bastard?”

  They laughed and the bond between them was made firmer.

  As they passed the whiskey, each one knew that he had played a minor role in what they were certain would be a major victory for the Irish Republican Brotherhood.

  ***

  By the time they arrived home from Kerry, it was early evening. It had been a long few days, but Lyons couldn’t have been happier. Things had gone smoothly, and Michael Collins had proven his worth once again.

  As he drifted off to sleep, Lyons could only imagine what might have happened had Michael not begun to weep.

  He woke a few hours later and was ravenously hungry. He considered cooking and decided to go to the Sin E’ on Coburg Street and see what the papers had to say about the theft.

  After a brisk walk of about 20 minutes, he found himself in the familiar surroundings of his favorite pub. After ordering dinner with a pint, he asked Eric if there were any newspapers about. He was rewarded with copies of the Daily Irish Independent and the Freeman’s Journal. Neither had a word about the theft of the Coronation Stone.

  “So that’s how they want to play it,” thought Lyons. “Well, two can play at that game. If they want their King to be crowned on the stone, they must make the first move.”

  After eating, Lyons was just about to leave the pub and head home, when Robert, the messenger from the cable office, poked his head into the door. “Oh, there you are, Mr. Lyons,” he exclaimed. “I’ve been looking all over town for you.”

  “Have you now?” asked Lyons.

  “This cable came in for you about an hour ago,” the boy said. “I went to your house and then by the school. Then I visited Mr. Santry, and finally, I thought I’d give this place a try.”

  “You’re a tenacious fellow,” Lyons said, handing the youngster a few bob.

  “Thank you, Mr. Lyons. I hope it is good news.”

  Opening the envelope, Lyons pulled out a single sheet of paper. It read: “Marie is doing quite well. Stop! She is visiting several homes. Stop! She may visit you next. Stop! Best, Charlotte. Stop!”

  He knew it was from Kathleen because Charlotte was the code name the Brotherhood had given her in recognition of her favorite wax figure, Charlotte Corday.

  He thought for a second or two doing the calculations. The first sentence had five words. The closing had two, which multiplied to 10. Counting to the tenth word, he saw “homes.”

  “Homes,” he wondered what it might mean. However, it wasn’t until he had said it aloud that the veil was suddenly lifted, It wasn’t “homes” he realized, but “Holmes,” and “She may visit you next” was obviously meant to convey “He may visit you next.”

  So, the government had brought in Sherlock Holmes, and somehow he had already found his way to Kathleen.

  A few minutes later, he found himself at the telegraph office sending a reply of sorts and a second cable.

  As he walked home, he thought, “Perhaps I can dissuade Sherlock Holmes from crossing the Irish Sea before he even attempts it.”

  He continued ruminating. “This is none of your affair, Mr. Holmes. I have no quarrel with you, but if you do have the temerity to visit me, the next adventure to run in The Strand may well be ‘The Case of the Disappearing Detective’.”

  Chapter 12 – London, Feb. 4–5

  Holmes refused to discuss Miss McMahon over dinner, so while he enjoyed his meal of trout with spinach and roasted potatoes, I could only pick at my food.

  When we had finally reached our rooms and he had settled into his chair with his pipe, I broached the subject of Miss McMahon once again.

  “Watson, had you taken less notice of her smile and paid more attention to her workroom, you would not begrudge me my suspicions.

  “To begin with, did you see all the chicken wire that she uses to make her frameworks? It is the exact same type that was used to construct the counterfeit stone.”

  “You yourself said it was of the most common type,” I replied.

  “Indeed, I did,” Holmes admitted. “But there is also the matter of the paint. She has the same three colors in her studio that were used to create the substitute.”

  “And many others as well. Again, you said the paint was very common. It could just be a coincidence,” I said.

  “You said that to me once before old friend, do you recall?”

  “Honestly, no,” I replied.

  “In the case that you dubbed ‘The Adventure of the Second Stain,’ I intended to interview a man named Eduardo Lucas, and you informed me that he had been killed the previous night. When I asked your opinion, you called it ‘an amazing coincidence.’ Again, Watson, she has the wire, she has the paint, and, more important, she has the skill to execute such a task. I tell you now as I did then: The odds are enormous against its being coincidence. No figures could express them.

  “And if all that weren’t enough,” he continued, “were you to examine the manner in which the papier-mâché has been trimmed on certain sections of the stone and compare it to the way that Miss O’Brien has trimmed her creations, you would find that they are very similar – if not identical.

  “She is involved, Watson. Whether she is a willing participant or has been coerced remains to be seen. Given your obvious fondness for her, I can only hope it is the latter. Still, for right now, she is the best lead that we have and her actions will require careful scrutiny.”

  Although I was shattered, I knew that my friend was correct. Sometimes, I could find his logic infuriating.

  The next morning when I awoke, Holmes was gone. When Mrs. Hudson brought me my breakfast, she informed me that Holmes had left the house quite early.

  I spent much of the day reading the papers and catching up on my correspondence. When I had finished my writing, I was surprised to see that it was late afternoon, and I still had not heard from my friend.

  Although Holmes had a history of disappearing from time to time, he usually would keep me informed, so I was just beginning to worry when I heard his familiar footsteps on the stair.

  When he entered I could see that his face was flushed and his right hand was wrapped in a handkerchief as though he had injured it. Despite his rather disheveled appearance, his air was decidedly jubilant.

  Looking at him, I said, “Holmes, what have you been up to?”

  He smiled broadly and said, “I was just set upon by two blackguards in the street.”

  “You’re joking,” I exclaimed.

  “I assure you Watson, I am not. There are two proud sons of Erin who will bear witness to my story.”

  “You know who they were?” I asked.

  “I do not know their names, but I can certainly find them should the need arise.”

  “And they were Irish?”

  “Indeed,” said Holmes. “Both had heavy brogues. As I turned onto Baker Street from Allsop Place, I noticed the two of them loitering right in front of our door, so I walked right past them onto Melcombe Street and then to Glentworth Street. I then walked along to Ivor Place and then to Park Road and so made my way back to Baker. They were still there – just standing and waiting. But now I knew that they were waiting for me even though they did not know me.

  “Having gained the upper hand, I walked up to them and said, ‘I am Sherlock Holmes. I can see that you have been waiting for me for quite some time. How may I be of assista
nce?’

  “To say that they were taken aback would be something of an understatement,” Holmes said as he examined his bruised and bloody knuckles.

  “Let me get my bag,” I said.

  “There’s really no need,” Holmes continued.

  Feeling his hand, I could tell that none of the bones had been broken, but he did have two rather nasty cuts. “Just let me clean and bandage these,” I said, fetching my satchel.

  While I was tending to Holmes’ hand, he continued his story.

  “After they had recovered, one of them said, ‘Mr. Holmes, I have been asked to deliver a message to you.’

  “Have you?” I asked. “And what would that be?”

  “Pulling a paper from his pocket, he read, ‘This is one stone you must leave unturned or face the consequences.’

  “Are you threatening me?” I asked.

  “Take it any way you like,” said the first one, “but you have been warned.

  “At that point, the second one decided to insert himself into the conversation. ‘We do not threaten, Mr. Holmes. We promise.’

  “And exactly what is it that you are promising?”

  “’Pain’,” he said, “‘such as you have never felt.’ At that point, he attempted to shove me, but as he went to extend his arms, I sidestepped, grabbed his wrist and twisted it so hard that he screamed.

  “‘Like that?’ I asked. And then it was on. The first one then attempted to punch me, but he missed, so I hit him as hard as I could in the face. I may have knocked a tooth or two loose – and hurt my hand in the process. By now, the second one had recovered to a degree, and he made a feeble attempt to strike me in the head with his other hand.

  “I blocked that blow, and hit him squarely in the nose with the same hand I had used on his companion.”

  As they lie on the ground, I said, “Tell whoever sent you that he must do better next time.”

  “You let them go,” I exclaimed.

  “I did, but as I said, I can find them should the need arise.”

  “Did you try to follow them?”

  “No,” said Holmes. “There was really no need. Besides, they had given me plenty of information already.”

  “In that warning?” I asked.

  “No,” replied Holmes, holding up a piece of foolscap, “In this note that the first one was kind enough to drop during our slight set-to.

  “By the way, Watson, I am attacked by a pair of Irish toughs the day after we visit your Miss McMahon. Do you think that a coincidence as well?”

  Holmes can be absolutely maddening when he is correct.

  Chapter 13 – London, Feb. 6

  Kathleen had always known the day might come when she would be forced to abandon her comfortable London life.

  She had just never imagined that it would arrive this soon.

  The ironic part was, she thought, that she had committed no crime. All she had done was accept a commission from an old friend to create a papier-mâché replica of the Stone of Destiny.

  She was pretty certain that although it might eventually be traced to her, there would be the devil to pay before they could prove that she had actually fashioned it.

  All the materials used had been of the most common types. Still, as she packed, she wondered how Holmes had tumbled so quickly to the fact that it was she who had fashioned it. She had watched him prowl about her workroom, picking up some of her creations and examining others quite closely, all with an air of practiced nonchalance, and the entire time he continued to feign interest in her discussion of the papier-mâché process.

  She had to admit his performance had been quite good, but she had seen right through his little charade. When she heard that Holmes had bested the two men Lyons had sent to frighten him, she had known that it was time to return home.

  Besides, she missed her family, and she knew that they had missed her as well.

  After she had carried her bag downstairs and bid her landlord farewell, she hired a cab to take her to the new Marylebone terminus of the Great Central Railway. There was a train leaving for Liverpool at 11 a.m., and she was determined to be on it, then across the sea and she would be home in Clonakilty by tomorrow.

  When she arrived at the station, she purchased her ticket and saw that she had a little less than an hour until her departure. With nothing else to do, she set out to explore the station and its amenities.

  She was so engrossed in her thoughts that it was quite a few minutes before she thought that a young boy, no more than 11 or 12, had been following her throughout the station.

  Thinking that the youngster might be one of Holmes’ legendary street urchins, she determined to confront the lad, but when she wheeled around to accuse him, there was no one there.

  Although she felt relieved, she was determined not to let her guard down again.

  When she boarded the train, she felt a definite sense of relief. She had not seen the youngster again, nor had anyone else aroused her suspicions. She might miss London, she thought, but she knew that she would be far happier – and of much greater use to the cause – in Ireland.

  Chapter 14 – London, Feb. 6

  Late the next morning, Holmes and I once again received an urgent summons to the Diogenes Club. As we were leaving our lodgings, a young boy ran up to Holmes, and after catching his breath, the youngster handed my friend a note.

  After reading it, Holmes said, “You have done well, John.” Then he wrote a short note, fished a few quid from his pocket, and said, “Give these to Dicky when you see him. Tell him to be careful and to keep in touch.”

  The youngster looked at the money with eyes as big as saucers, then he snapped to attention, saluted and said, “I will, Mr. Holmes,” and then he scampered off.

  “Pray tell, what was all that about?” I asked.

  “In due time, Watson,” replied Holmes and then he lapsed into thought.

  When we arrived at the Diogenes Club, we found Mycroft waiting for us in the Stranger’s Room.

  “This must be a matter of some import to disrupt your daily routine,” said Holmes.

  “Despite our best efforts, we have not been able to recover the stone,” said Mycroft. “Quite frankly, we have no idea where it might be,” he said bitterly.

  “Well, I think we can safely assume that it is no longer in England,” said Holmes.

  “I quite agree,” said Mycroft. “If it were, between your contacts and mine, I am certain that we should have heard some rumblings as to its location.”

  “Well, I do have one promising avenue of inquiry,” said Holmes, who then proceeded to inform Mycroft in painstaking detail about his investigations into the papier-mâché artists, concluding with the attack by the two thugs the previous evening.

  When he had finished, Mycroft said, “I shall put Miss McMahon under constant surveillance. Perhaps she will make a misstep of some sort.”

  “I fear she is far too clever for that,” said Holmes. “I am also afraid that you are too late.”

  Taking out his watch, he looked at it and said, “Unless they are running late, Miss McMahon boarded a train bound for Liverpool thirty-seven minutes ago.”

  “The boy!” I exclaimed.

  Holmes smiled, “I have had my lads keeping an eye on her since shortly after our first meeting. Late last night, she received a telegram, and this morning she departed London. I think it is safe to say that our fair Miss McMahon is returning home.”

  “Well played,” said Mycroft.

  Holmes smiled and said, “And unless my ears deceive me, she is headed to County Cork – not Donegal.”

  “We must resolve this with all due haste,” said Mycroft.

  “I shall do my best,” replied Holmes, “but at this point, the matter is almost entirely out of our ha
nds. We can only react to their next move. So we must wait for them to take action, and hope that we are given a clearer sense of purpose and direction.”

  Pausing, he looked at Mycroft, and said simply, “Out with it. Why this sudden sense of urgency?”

  Mycroft looked at us and then he actually stuck his head into the hall to see if anyone were in the vicinity. Since members of the Diogenes Club are not allowed to take notice of one another, I could only assume that Mycroft was willing to risk this serious breach of club etiquette because of the gravity of the situation.

  Turning back to us, he stated, “The Prime Minister has informed me that King Edward refuses to be crowned until the Coronation Stone has been recovered. Obviously, the coronation will not take place until after a suitable period of mourning has passed.”

  “So then time is on our side,” said Holmes.

  “It would seem so,” said Mycroft. “Still, there appears to be no negotiating with him on that point. Although he rules the Empire, he has made it quite clear that he wants order restored as soon as possible. He has sworn that he will not even entertain the notion of accepting the crown in Westminster until the stone is once again a part of the Coronation Chair.”

  I hardly expected Holmes to react in the manner in which he did.

  “You can’t be serious,” he said to Mycroft. “He doesn’t believe all the myths and legends associated with the stone, does he?”

  “I am not privy to the workings of the King’s mind,” said Mycroft. “Although if I were required to explain His Majesty’s motives, I would ascribe them to the manner in which he thinks family members might react to a coronation taking place under anything less than ideal circumstances.

  “I should also think tradition plays a large role in this. Just as it is difficult for us to imagine a coronation without the Crown Jewels, I think His Majesty feels that way about the Coronation Stone. He wants everything in its proper place before he will even consider planning his coronation.”

  “Yes, I should think you are on the right track there,” said Holmes. “Fortunately, that appears to buy us a bit of time.”