The Stone of Destiny

by Richard T Ryan

  Turning around, Mrs. Hudson glanced at my bedroom door, but then realizing there was no one else in the room, she began to look at me again.

  Finally, she came closer and after examining me very carefully, she turned to my friend and said, “Mr. Holmes, I am used to you playing dress-up, but now you have Dr. Watson doing it too.” With that, she shook her head and left.

  After she had departed, Holmes said, “She will be your toughest critic. If you stay in character, I am certain that you can deceive Miss McMahon if you should happen to encounter her on the streets of Cork.”

  “Do you think that likely?”

  “I do not know, but I am loath to take any chances with your safety,” said Holmes.

  I must admit that I was genuinely touched by my friend’s expression of concern.

  Chapter 17 – London, Feb. 8–11

  After Mrs. Hudson had brought us the tea and departed, Holmes said, “I received another communiqué from Mycroft.

  “He informs me that the government has received a telegram saying the stone will be returned when Ireland is free. As you might expect, that makes our task considerably more difficult.

  “Right now, the only thing we know is the stone is probably in Ireland. We do not yet know how it was transported there, although I have developed a theory.

  “That said, our only lead of substance is one Miss Kathleen McMahon, late of Madame Tussaud’s. With regard to said Miss McMahon, we know that she is a skilled papier-mâché artist. I am reasonably certain that she comes from County Cork, her protestations about Donegal notwithstanding.

  “We also know that at present Cork is the largest county in Ireland, with a population of some 350,000 souls. It is incredibly diverse in that it contains both Protestants and Catholics. Of more interest to us is the fact that in Cork can be found a unionist community, which favors the status quo between Britain and Ireland; a nationalist majority, whose leanings are diametrically opposed; and a small contingent of radical republicans, who are the wild cards in this deck.

  “If I were a betting man, I would give you odds that we will find our quarry among the last group.”

  “Can we count on any of the others to help us?” I asked.

  “I do not know,” said Holmes. “I am pretty certain that we will be able to find allies among the unionists, but who they are and how trustworthy they may be – that remains to be seen.

  “Now, a few more things about your character, Sgt. Ward. The observant will notice your hands are rather soft. They lack the callouses that a real laborer would have developed. To help conceal that fact, I stopped at Harrods and purchased a pair of fingerless leather gloves. You must wear them at all times, and I know this will pain you, but you must also try to keep your hands as dirty as possible.”

  “I understand,” I said, though I must admit I was rather repulsed by the thought of not being able to wash my hands as frequently as I liked.

  “Anything else?” I wondered.

  “I think it would help if you shaved but once a week.”

  “And?” I continued.

  “Your manners must go on holiday,” suggested Holmes. “Consider the station of your character, not your own, A laborer would rather spend his money on drink than handkerchiefs. To that end, you might keep a small flask in your pocket.”

  “Holmes, is there anything you haven’t thought of?” I asked.

  “I hope not, Watson,” said Holmes turning quite serious. “Any oversight on my part or slip-up on yours might mean our lives, and I should never forgive myself if something were to happen to you.”

  “We’ve been down this road many times,” I said. “This is just one more excursion.”

  Little did I know how wrong I would be.

  The next morning, Holmes and I dined together and went over our plans one more time.

  Holmes was to leave that night, and I was to follow him in three days’ time. He would find lodgings and send a telegram to the main post office in Cork for George Ward, instructing me where and when to meet him.

  The day seemed to drag out endlessly. Finally, around 5 p.m., Holmes emerged from his room dressed as a chimney sweep. His clothes were disheveled and his sooty face and hands bore mute testament to his occupation.

  He was carrying a bag filled with brushes and other tools, including a rather evil looking borer.

  Although I knew it was Holmes, the face was somehow different. He also appeared shorter and stockier, and when he finally spoke it was with a heavy brogue. I will not try to duplicate it here, but you may rest assured that Holmes was impeccable in his cadence and inflections.

  Looking at me he said, “I’m off Watson, I shall look for you in three days. While I am gone, stay in character. Go to the docks and listen to the voices and the slang the workers use. It is not genteel, but it is authentic.”

  With that he headed for the door, as he opened it, he said to me, “Watson?”

  “Yes,” I replied without thinking.

  “That could have been a costly misstep,” he cautioned.

  “For the foreseeable future, Dr. John Watson is no more.” I said, “That wasn’t quite fair.”

  He replied, “I do not think the people we are up against are overly concerned with the niceties of rules or fairness.”

  Although it pained me, I had to admit that once again Holmes had been right, and I was determined not to disappoint my friend a second time.

  I did as Holmes suggested and devoted the next three days to honing my character. I spent most of my time down on the wharfs by the Thames, watching the way sailors and longshoremen walked and talked and joked with one another.

  It helped with a number of little things such as inflections and colloquialisms. It also allowed me to catch myself on a couple of occasions. One time I entered a shop and was about to buy the Times. Seeing my reflection in the mirror behind the counter, I realized Sgt. Ward would not be reading that particular paper, so at the last minute, I asked for a pack of cigarettes instead.

  On the morning of the fourth day, I left our rooms and again caught myself. Instead of hailing a cab, I limped a few blocks, carrying my bag, and boarded a horse-drawn bus for Paddington Station.

  I thought I was getting fairly comfortable in my character, and I was certain that Holmes would be pleased.

  Instead of a compartment, I purchased an ordinary coach ticket and soon found myself in a cramped carriage, filled with people from all walks of life.

  With no book to read and no Holmes to talk to, I quickly nodded off and was awakened when we pulled into Birmingham. The car let off more people than it took on, so there was a bit more room to stretch out. Someone had left a copy of the Daily Mail on the seat next to me.

  The Daily Mail had been started just a few years earlier by the Harmsworth brothers, both of whom were viscounts. I thought the paper, being so new, had little cachet and even though it was aimed at the middle-class, I believed it to be the type of paper Sgt. Ward might read. It helped pass the time and there were several articles that I thought Holmes might find interesting, so I tried to commit them to memory. After I had dozed off for a second time, I awoke as the train jerked to a stop in the Liverpool station.

  I made my way to the waterfront and booked passage to Cork and soon found myself wishing I had held onto the paper. Although I was able to purchase a cup of tea and a meal on the boat, I realized that I should have eaten a bigger breakfast. By the time we left Dublin, I was famished and couldn’t wait to dock and get something substantial under my belt.

  I arrived in Cobh long after dinner time. With no idea of where I was to stay or when I would see Holmes, I decided that food was my first priority. Remembering my station in life, I asked one of the deckhands, rather than a steward, where I might get something to eat.

  He suggested I take a horse-d
rawn bus train into Cork City and recommended several pubs, his favorite being The Cottage Inn on Curragh Road. After about a 40-minute ride, I found myself standing in front of the pub. Venturing inside, I discovered it was filled with all manner of working-class people.

  After a meal of shepherd’s pie, which was quite tasty, and an ale, I asked my serving girl for directions to the main telegraph office. She told me it was about a 25-minute walk to Oliver Plunkett Street. She also told me the post office was closed but that the telegraph office there was open all night.

  After my trek, I entered the telegraph office on Plunkett Street and asked a young woman if they might be holding any wires for Sgt. George Ward. She returned a minute later and handed me an envelope.

  I signed for it, opened it and read, “Careful. Stop. The vicar is coming. Stop.”

  Holmes and I had prearranged a code. The seven letters in the first sentence gave me the house number and the use of the word vicar gave me the name of the thoroughfare. Finally, the six-letter word “coming” told me it was Vicar Street. Had the vicar been right or away, it would have been Vicar Road or avenue.

  After leaving the post office, I asked a young mother with three children how to get to Vicar Street. She said it was about a 15-minute walk from Tuckey to South Main Street and then across the River Lee where South Main would become Barrack Street, which would lead me directly to Vicar on my right.

  The thought of seeing Holmes again quickened my walk and scarcely 10 minutes later, I found myself knocking on the door of 7 Vicar Street.

  A voice from within said, “Come inside and close the door directly.”

  Chapter 18 – Clonakilty, Feb. 12–13

  Denis Lyons was growing impatient. He had sent the telegram to the British government five days ago, and there had been no reaction. It was as though the King and Prime Minister had decided to pretend that nothing was amiss. The only small comfort he could take was the fact that nothing about the coronation had been announced either, so perhaps they were waiting for him to make the next move.

  Analyzing the situation, Lyons thought, the British had time on their side, but he had the stone. Reasoning that an impasse would serve no one, he determined to press the issue.

  Going to the school where he taught, he decided to compose a letter explaining exactly what would happen if there were no signs of progress in the immediate future.

  Sitting alone, he began to write. After a number of stops and starts and several revisions, he finally arrived at a message that he thought would convey a strong sense of purpose and, with the addition of a small token, would drive home his point in a manner that could not be missed.

  As he re-read the letter once again, he was struck by the distinctiveness of his handwriting. At that point, he decided that he would type the letter on the headmaster’s new typewriter. “That way it can never be traced back to me,” he thought.

  He had considered the school foolish when it decided to spend so much money on a machine – money he felt might have been better used for books, but as he entered the headmaster’s office to begin typing, he was glad, for the moment, that they had ignored his protestations.

  Hitting each key very carefully and slowly, he began:

  YOUR ROYAL MAJESTY,

  PLEASE ACCEPT OUR DEEPEST CONDOLENCES ON THE PASSING OF YOUR MOTHER.

  HOWEVER, THERE IS OTHER BUSINESS THAT REQUIRES YOUR IMMEDIATE ATTENTION.

  AS I AM SURE YOU KNOW BY NOW, THE STONE OF DESTINY, OR THE CORONATION STONE, IS NO LONGER IN YOUR POSSESSION. SHOULD YOU WISH TO ADHERE TO CENTURIES OF TRADITION AND ACCEPT YOUR CROWN WHILE SITTING ON THE CORONATION CHAIR IN WESTMINSTER ABBEY, THEN YOU MUST GRANT IRELAND ITS FREEDOM. FOR TOO LONG, WE HAVE GROANED UNDER THE YOKE OF YOUR TYRANNY.

  IF, HOWEVER, THE CUSTOMS OF YOUR ANCESTORS MEAN LITTLE TO YOU, THEN YOU MAY TAKE THE CROWN TOMORROW.

  JUST SO THAT YOU WILL NOT BE TOTALLY BEREFT OF YOUR TRADITIONS, I HAVE ENCLOSED A SMALL PIECE OF THE STONE UPON WHICH YOU MAY FEEL FREE TO SIT.

  THERE WILL BE NO NEGOTIATING.

  IRELAND WILL BE FREE OR THE STONE OF DESTINY WILL FIND A RESTING PLACE IN THE BOTTOM OF A BOG, FAR FROM YOUR HANDS.

  BRAITHREACHAS PHOBLACHT NA HEIREANN

  THE IRISH REPUBLICAN BROTHERHOOD

  After he had read it over several times, he typed a second copy. He then went home and slept, knowing that he had a hard ride ahead of him the next day.

  Rising very early, he set out before daybreak for County Tipperary. He knew that he could not send the parcel without O’Leary’s authorization.

  As he rode through the beautiful Gaelic countryside, he thought about the centuries of injustices that had been heaped upon his nation by England.

  And then he considered the struggle for freedom. Whoever had first organized the Brotherhood had done a masterful job. All of the top members were protected by layers of secrecy. In fact, he was one of only nine men who knew that John O’Leary, whom he was going to see, was the president of the Brotherhood. In turn, only nine men knew that he was an officer.

  Lately, though, he had come to believe that tongues were wagging in certain quarters, but that was a subject that he and his eight counterparts would have to take up with O’Leary another day.

  He thought about England celebrating the centenary of the Act of Union, and he considered how the British had bribed their way to having it passed in the Irish Parliament.

  Since that time, no Catholic in Ireland had been truly free, and the bitter taste of subjugation rose in Lyons’ throat.

  He passed the hours thinking about the history of the struggle and the great sacrifices made by those who had come before him and loved freedom as much as he did.

  It was early evening when he finally arrived at the farm of John McGettigan. To say that his counterpart in Tipperary was taken aback to see him would be an understatement.

  “Denis, what brings you this way?” asked McGettigan. “I’ll be needing a word with Himself,” replied Lyons.

  “I’ll send one of my boys to fetch him,” McGettigan said, “In the meantime, come inside and refresh yourself. You’ll be staying for dinner, and I’ll have Margaret make up the extra bedroom for you.”

  McGettigan called his eldest son, Robert, and said,

  “Tell Mr. O’Leary, if he is free, that we should like to meet with him here tonight. Tell him it is important, and we have a visitor from Clonakilty.”

  While Robert was gone, Lyons and McGettigan sat at the table, talking about the movement. Margaret McGettigan brought them plates of beef stew and brown bread along with a pitcher of hard cider.

  Just as they were finishing, Robert returned and said, “Mr. O’Leary says he will be here at ten o’clock.”

  “That’s a good lad,” McGettigan said, “Now run along and eat before your mother yells at me.”

  After the boy left, McGettigan said, “So tell me about your adventure in London.”

  For the next hour, Lyons recounted the tale of the theft for his host.

  When he had finished, McGettigan said, “So where do things stand now?”

  At that moment, there was a knock on the door, and before McGettigan could rise to answer it, John O’Leary had let himself in.

  Looking more like a scholar, which he was, than a firebrand, O’Leary said, “It’s good to see you, John, and Denis, what can I say? If the country knew what you had done, there would be a statue erected in your honor in every freedom-loving town.”

  “You flatter me,” said Denis. “But it’s that business that brings me here.”

  “Go on,” said O’Leary.

  “There has been no response to the first telegram, so I composed a second letter. I wanted you to read it and see if you thought it hit the right tone.”

  Pulling a paper from his pocket, he handed it to O’Leary, w
ho perused it. When he had read it through twice, he looked at Lyons and said, “This is quite good. But does it go far enough? I think we need something more than just threats?”

  “I agree,” said Lyons, “that’s why I thought sending them a piece of the stone might drive home the point.”

  “Yes,” reflected O’Leary, “perhaps you are right. Have you anything else to report?”

  “I believe that the King has asked Mr. Sherlock Holmes to look into this matter,” said Lyons. “Kathleen told me that he paid a visit to her while she was working at Madame Tussaud’s. Rather than risk exposure, she left the next day and is now living with her family in Clonakilty.”

  “That’s too bad,” mused O’Leary, “She has proven herself invaluable, but we have other eyes and ears in London.”

  After a pause, O’Leary said, “If you have the piece of stone with you, give it to me. I will have it packaged and posted from Dublin by one of the brothers. As for Mr. Holmes, I’ve heard of him. People say he’s quite clever. Tell your boys and I’ll tell the other captains to be on the lookout for any unfamiliar faces. My guess is that if he is trying to find the stone, he will come to Ireland. I’m hoping his English accent will betray him, but all the same, tell everyone to be vigilant and to be wary of any strangers.”

  Lyons said, “Tell the boys in Donegal to be especially alert. That’s where Kathleen said she was from.”

  O’Leary laughed and said, “You have a good crew there Denis. Mr. Holmes may be clever, but together, I’ll wager we are smarter. And if he causes any trouble for us, perhaps it’s him that will find the bottom of a bog instead of the stone.”

  At that they all laughed, but had anyone caught the glint in O’Leary’s eye, he would have known that his words were anything but idle threats.

  Chapter 19 – Cork, Feb. 11–14

  Sitting before the fire was a man with his back to me. I thought it might be Holmes, but having been fooled by my friend so often in the past, I refrained from saying anything.