“In the interim,” Mycroft said, “all I can do is relay the message which I received from Downing Street. His Majesty will not even consider accepting the crown until the stone has been recovered.”
“And you have been tasked with the recovery?” asked Holmes.
Mycroft merely shrugged.
“So now your task has become my burden,” Holmes continued. “I will get to the bottom of this,” said my friend, “and I will do it in as expedient a manner as is possible. However, I do have certain conditions.”
“I would have expected nothing less,” said Mycroft.
“I will brook no interference from the local constabulary – either here or in Ireland,” said Holmes, “and if I should require something of you, it will be provided with no questions asked.”
“Within reason,” said Mycroft.
“That point is not negotiable,” said Holmes.
“Done,” said Mycroft with a hint of resignation.
“One final thing,” said Holmes. “I shall be reimbursed for any expenses incurred.”
“Of course,” said Mycroft, “I’m surprised you thought you had to ask.”
“I have found that it is always better to leave nothing to chance,” Holmes said. “Now, if you will excuse us, we have a
King to comfort.”
“And you will keep me informed?” asked Mycroft.
“I fear that my reports may be irregular, but to the extent that I am able, I shall endeavor to keep you abreast of our progress.”
When we had departed, I said to Holmes, “So you have a plan?”
“I have a very definite idea of how to proceed, Watson,” he said. During the ride back to Baker Street, he explained his proposed course of action to me.
When he had finished, I said, “You are playing a very dangerous game.”
“I quite agree,” he replied, “but I fear I have no other choice.”
Chapter 15 – Feb. 7
After a fairly calm voyage across the Irish Sea aboard the Prince of Wales, Kathleen made her way to disembark and saw Lyons waiting on the pier for her.
As she reached the bottom of the gangplank, he embraced her and said, “Welcome home, my girl. You’ve done well.”
“I’ve done what had to be done,” she said resolutely. “The cause is all that matters.”
Once they had put her bags into his carriage, they began to drive to her home. They hadn’t gone very far before Lyons asked, “Have you any idea how Holmes tumbled to you so quickly?”
“Oh, he’s a sharp customer that Mr. Sherlock Holmes. I cannot say for certain, but I should think that my reputation as a papier-mâché artist is what brought him to Madame Tussaud’s.”
“Yes, I should have anticipated that,” admitted Lyons.
“You should have seen him,” continued Kathleen. “He was skulking about my workroom, touching every-thing, examining each item very carefully – all the while looking for clues while pretending to listen to me.”
“Did he find any?” asked Lyons.
“I do not think so, but I cannot say for certain. All I know is that had I remained there, a single slip on my part and we might all have been undone.”
“No, coming home was the right decision. We have other eyes and ears in London. None quite as sharp as yours – or as pretty Miss Donnelly,” said Lyons. “By the way, why did you change your name?”
“When you first broached this scheme a few years back, I decided that if your grand plan should ever come to fruition, which it has, the fewer loose ends the better. So Kathleen Donnelly set sail on the Tynwald in Cobh that day, and Kathleen McMahon disembarked in Liverpool. If Mr. Sherlock Holmes should come to Ireland, he will waste his time searching for a Kathleen McMahon who no longer exists. And, best of all, he’ll be looking in Donegal and other points north, not here in Cork.”
Lyons laughed. “You are truly amazing,” he exclaimed, adding, “I wonder how many times Mr. Holmes has been bested. Not too many, I’m sure of that. But you have done it, Kathleen, and lived to tell the tale.”
“Yes, but there’s no tale to tell unless Ireland is free,” she said. “Have you sent the telegram?”
“Some of the boys up north are going to send it from Dublin,” he replied.
“And you trust them?”
“You know that we all take an oath of secrecy when we join the Brotherhood,” he said. “I would trust those men with my life, just as I would trust you.”
“And what will it say?”
“It’s very direct and to the point,” he said. “It says simply:
‘If Edward would be crowned on the stone,
Then Ireland must be free’.”
“That’s a lovely sentiment,” she said. “Do you think they will accept it?
“Honestly, I don’t know,” replied Lyons. “I suppose it all depends on how important the stone is to King Edward. If he wants it returned, then he must agree to our terms. If he does not, then the stone can remain exactly where it is, and the press will soon learn that it has been taken. Perhaps that revelation will sway public opinion to our side.”
“And it may just as easily turn the people against us,” she said.
“You’re right, of course. However, that is a chance I’m not only willing to take, but one that I feel I must. The British are celebrating a hundred years of Irish domination – an entire century. That’s far too long, and I say it must end now. It has to end now!”
He had grown quite passionate during his little speech, and Kathleen could see why he was so effective as a schoolmaster and why he had risen through the ranks of the Brotherhood so rapidly. Denis Lyons was a natural-born leader who challenged others to be better and who pushed himself as hard, if not harder, than he pushed them.
For the first time, she began to think that perhaps they had a real chance for success.
And then Lyons concluded, “And if they do not agree, I have other plans that may be employed to bring pressure on the throne. I pray that they are not necessary.”
“What are you thinking?”
“If it comes to that, you shall know soon enough. I just pray that it never does.”
They lapsed into a prolonged silence and then all of a sudden Kathleen’s thoughts were interrupted by a voice yelling, “It’s Kathleen! She’s come home, Ma.” And she looked up to see her brother Frank, standing in front of their cottage, waving to her excitedly even as her mother’s face appeared in the doorway.
“We have a good life,” she thought as the carriage stopped in front of the home. “I just hope that my actions are not the cause of misery for my family and my country.”
And then she climbed down to her mother’s embrace and all thoughts of the possible conflict were eclipsed by the joy at being reunited with her family. “If only Da were alive,” she thought, “my happiness would be complete.”
But at the same time, the thoughts of her father’s death steeled her resolve. Caught somewhere between joy and determination, Kathleen Donnelly, late of Madame Tussaud’s in London, was a woman in conflict.
Chapter 16 – London, Feb. 8
The next morning Holmes and I breakfasted together, and we reviewed and made a few slight revisions to his plan.
I was filled with doubts about being able to hold up my end, but Holmes kept reassuring me that I had nothing to worry about.
“I am not nearly so deft a dissembler as you,” I said.
“That’s because you haven’t practiced as much as I have,” he explained. “Once you come to believe in your new self, I should think you will find it comes naturally to you, Watson.”
I sniffed, “I suppose that was intended as a compliment of some sort.”
“Indeed it was,” exclaimed Holmes. “Now, let us go visit Oliver
and see what suggestions he may offer. I have some thoughts of my own, but I am always eager to get the opinion of a professional in these matters – especially when it doesn’t concern me.”
“Are you certain this is really necessary?”
“It is absolutely imperative,” said Holmes, “I’m going to ask you to play a much larger role in this case than is normally your wont.”
“You can rely on me,” I said.
We hailed a cab and headed for the East End. I knew that Holmes had many friends who worked in the theater. While some were performers, others served in a variety of functions, from stage managers such as Bram Stoker, to makeup artists such as Oliver Kennedy.
One of his oldest and dearest friends, Kennedy was a gentle giant of a man, who also served as the wardrobe manager and jack-of-all-trades at the St. James Theatre on King Street. I had never met Kennedy, but I knew that Holmes trusted him and had relied on him on several occasions in the past.
The theater was empty when we arrived. Thankfully, the stage door had been left open, and soon Holmes and I were standing on the proscenium. Thinking back, I recalled spending many pleasurable nights here watching such triumphs as “Lady Windermere’s Fan” and the premiere of “The Importance of Being Ernest,” both by Oscar Wilde. The latter had been staged shortly before his precipitous fall from grace and imprisonment. I had also enjoyed Anthony Hope’s swashbuckler, “The Prisoner of Zenda.”
One of the most storied theatres in all of London, the St. James also boasted in its history that a young Charles Dickens had trod the boards there in 1846, appearing as Captain Bobadil in an amateur performance of Ben Jonson’s “Every Man in His Humor.”
Standing there, I was roused from my thoughts by a booming voice exclaiming, “Mr. Holmes, it is so good to see you again.”
Oliver Kennedy emerged from the side of the stage and greeted us warmly. After Holmes had introduced me, Kennedy said, “So I have you to thank for chronicling all of our friend’s adventures. I am in your debt, sir.”
I expressed my appreciation for his kind words, and then he turned to Holmes and said, “How may I be of assistance?”
Holmes then outlined what he hoped Kennedy might accomplish and concluded by saying, “As you know, I can fend for myself in this department. It is Dr. Watson’s safety that is of paramount concern here. Do you think you can help us?”
“I don’t see why not,” said Kennedy jovially. “Besides, I do appreciate a good challenge.”
“Follow me,” said Kennedy as he led us backstage.
Taking us into a well-lit room, he had me sit in front of a large mirror. Cupping his chin in his hand, Kennedy began to study me. After making a full circle around me and analyzing me from every possible angle, he said, “I think I have it.”
I was almost afraid to hear what he was thinking, but I finally mustered up the courage to ask, “What is it that you think you have?”
“The first thing we must do is shave the moustache,” he announced.
I do not consider myself a vain man, but this seemed to me totally unnecessary. “Can’t we just trim it a bit?” I asked.
“Out of the question, Doctor,” said Kennedy. “Next, we cut the hair differently – much shorter – and dye it gray. Finally, we give you a limp, perhaps a cane, and possibly spectacles. Top it off with a new wardrobe and Dr. John Watson is no more. In his place, we have…,” he let the words trail off and looked at Holmes.
Studying me and envisioning Kennedy’s suggested alterations to my appearance, Holmes finished the sentence, “… Sgt. George Ward, late of the 10th Royal Hussars, wounded at the Battle of Maiwand. Now working as a stevedore.”
Holmes explained, “You always want there to be an element of truth in the lie you tell. There is simply no way to conceal that you were once a military man, so we must take that into account and include it as part of your new identity.
“Now, I will leave you in Mr. Kennedy’s capable hands, and I shall return in…” he looked at Kennedy.
“Give me an hour or so, Mr. Holmes,” said Kennedy.
Holmes looked at me, “I bid you farewell for the moment, Dr. Watson. I shall see you anon – or perhaps not you, exactly.”
After Holmes left, Kennedy led me into another room and bade me sit down. He then began to shave my moustache and then he cut and dyed my hair. All the while, he refused to allow me to see a mirror. After asking my shoe size, he brought me a pair of boots, and in the left one he placed a small heel-shaped wedge.
“That may be uncomfortable for a while,” he explained, “but it changes your balance just enough to throw it off and makes you walk with a very slight but obvious limp.”
“Try it,” he encouraged.
Pulling the boots on after adjusting the wedge, I tried to stride across the room, but I found myself walking a bit slower than I might have normally and taking extra careful steps with my left foot.
“You see,” he exclaimed, “I know you didn’t believe me, but now you do.”
He then spun around and reached into a closet. Turning back to me, he handed me several more wedges. “These are all different heights,” he explained. “If you feel yourself getting too comfortable, simply change the one in the boot for one of these and your limp will miraculously reappear.
“Now,” he said, thinking aloud, “the clothes.” He looked me up and down and then said, “I shall return momentarily.”
He came back a few minutes later with a pile of garments. Handing me a well-worn pair of gray gabardine trousers, he urged, “Try these on.”
I pulled my trousers off and the ones he had handed me on. The waist was just about right, but the legs were far too long.
Reaching into his vest pocket, he pulled out a piece of tailor’s chalk and quickly marked them. “Give them to me,” he said, “I’ll return shortly.”
When he reappeared a moment later, he handed me a dark blue cambric shirt and a heavy, wool pea coat. He had a good eye because both fit reasonably well. Finally, I was given a knitted watch cap, which I pulled on my head.
“Just so you know doctor, that is a very special cap,” he said.
“How so?” I asked.
“It is double-lined. Can you feel that?”
Pulling it off my head, I looked inside and saw that he was telling the truth.
“There are lots of double-lined caps,” I said. “What’s so unusual about this one?”
“Indeed, there are,” he replied. “But not all double-lined caps will do double-duty as a balaclava. I have no idea what you and Mr. Holmes are about, but there it is, should you need it. I will give you an extra one for Mr. Holmes – just in case.”
At that moment, there was a knock at the door and Kennedy answered it and returned with my trousers. After I had pulled them on along with the boots, I stood up and looked at him. “I must say, I feel ridiculous. I can’t imagine how silly I must appear.”
“Well then, you must have a look at yourself,” said Kennedy. “But before you do, one last thing.”
He walked over and opened a drawer. Taking out a tray filled with spectacles, he chose a silver pair and said, “Try these on. The lenses are just glass, so they will not affect your vision.”
Gazing at me once more, he said, “Follow me.”
We walked back to the room where we had begun, and he said, “Now, you may take a look.”
I must admit that when I saw my reflection, I was stunned. I looked like a worker who had spent too many rough years on the waterfront. If clothes make the man, rest assured, they can also unmake him. To say that I looked disreputable would be doing Kennedy a disservice. I thought that I appeared positively…
“Yes, Watson, you do look rather dangerous,” said Holmes, who had entered the room. “Oliver, you have done splendidly. I believe his own mother wouldn’t recognize
him.”
“Thank you, Mr. Holmes. I am happy to be of service.”
“I won’t bother to ask how you knew what I was thinking,” I said. “I’ve seen that trick before.”
As we were about to depart, Kennedy said, “Wait here just one moment.”
When he returned a few minutes later, he was carrying a package wrapped in brown paper, which he handed to me.
“What on Earth?” I sputtered.
“Some extra clothes,” he explained, “Even the most weathered laborer has a spare pair of trousers and more than one shirt. Your own clothes are in there as well.”
As we left, Holmes tried to slip Kennedy some notes, but he was having none of it. “Think of it as payment in part for the many favors that you have done me,” Kennedy said. “Good luck, gentlemen. If I can be of further assistance, you know where to find me.”
“Now, we shall put your disguise to the test, Watson. If you are able to deceive Mrs. Hudson, I should think you might fool anyone.”
Holmes stopped the cab a few blocks before our lodgings. He told me to walk to Baker Street, and he would go on ahead and tell Mrs. Hudson that he was expecting a caller shortly.
As I limped along Baker Street, I was grateful for the warm clothes, Kennedy had provided me. Having no gloves, I had to thrust my hands deep into my pockets.
After about ten minutes, I arrived at 221B and rang the bell. Fearing that Mrs. Hudson might recognize my voice, I tried to speak more slowly than I normally do, and I also tried to speak from the back of my throat.
I heard myself say, “I am here to see Mr. Sherlock Holmes.”
After thoroughly appraising me, Mrs. Hudson said simply, “Wait here.” Then she abruptly closed the door in my face.
She opened it a few moments later and said brusquely, “Mr. Holmes will see you now.”
I followed her up the stairs and she led me into our rooms.
“It’s so good to see you,” said Holmes warmly.
As Mrs. Hudson started to leave, Holmes said, “Mrs. Hudson, would you bring me a cup of tea?” Pausing, he added, “And Watson, would you care for one as well?”
The Stone of Destiny Page 6
