The MX Book of New Sherlock Holmes Stories, Part VI

by David Marcum

  “Leave us, Lieutenant,” growled the Colonel. He smiled sadly as he turned back to us. “He is right, of course, although my name will soon be infamous in any case.[25]

  “You, sir,” he added, speaking to me. “I understand you are a doctor?”

  “John Watson,” I answered automatically, “formerly surgeon of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers.” Inwardly, I cursed my soldierly forthrightness to this man. He gave me a sympathetic nod, seeming to recognize my mixed emotions.

  “Follow me, please, gentlemen.” He led us toward the palace in a way calculated to avoid both the royal bodies and his fellow officers. At the head of the wide stair serving as an entrance, there stood a huge black bear. Our guide noted absently that someone had shot it during the Bulgarian War. Inside, the Konak was a scene of desolation. Its doors had been dynamited open, and another body lay amid the rubble on the floor. The Colonel stolidly ignored it.

  “One of our officers,” he informed us, “was severely wounded in the fighting with the palace guard. He took three bullets to the chest, and our surgeon is uncertain whether they may safely be removed. We would value the opinion of an English doctor.”

  “Surely,” I conjectured, “such injuries will inevitably prove fatal.”

  “For most, perhaps. This officer is not a common man.”

  As we descended to the basement, I noted gouts of blood and spent shell casings littering the stairs. On a settee in the lower hallway lay the mustachioed giant who had danced “Queen Draga’s Kolo” on his way to kill that hapless lady. He was propped against a pile of cushions, breathing harshly but still fully conscious, his empty pistol on the floor.

  “So, Apis,” the Colonel greeted him phlegmatically, “you still refuse to leave our world?”

  “I know too well what awaits me in the next one.” The wounded bull (for “Apis”, I remembered, was an Egyptian bull-god) produced an evil grin for his commander. That officer chuckled appreciatively, but he glanced at the Serbian surgeon, who could only shrug.

  “Well, my friend,” the Colonel sighed, “you will have much company there.”

  “Ah, yes,” gasped Apis, “all the Obrenović’s will be there. Not only Alexander and his barren whore, but the worthless Milan... and Miloš, the murderer of Kara-George.” His voice grew weaker as he rambled on, sagging back against the cushions.

  “The Emperor of Austria,” whispered Apis, “old Nicholas of Montenegro... all those who stand against the destiny of Greater Serbia... all of them must die.”

  The executioner sank into unconsciousness, and it appeared he might precede his enemies while we stood watch. I held a hurried consultation with my colleague, the Colonel serving as interpreter. We concurred that if the bullets had touched any vital part, Apis would have died already. Whether he survived the shock and blood loss would depend entirely on his constitution, but an operation might prove fatal. In later years, I learned that I had almost operated on a man who did as much as anyone to bring on the Great War. I have often wondered what our world would be like in this new century had Captain Dragutin Dimitrijević died under my knife that morning in Belgrade.[26]

  This time, as we left the Konak, the Colonel took us past the murdered King and Queen. My only recollection of them is that poor Draga wore one yellow stocking. Sherlock Holmes, however, was not content to let the outrage pass.

  “Why have you allowed those bodies to be treated in so barbarous a manner?”

  For the first time, the Colonel looked shamefaced. “We thought it prudent for them to be visible when dawn broke,” he explained, “so that anyone still loyal to the Obrenović’s would see that they have nothing left to fight for. The dynasty is finished.”

  Holmes grunted noncommittally. “And what do the regicides intend to happen now?”

  “The provisional government will reconvene the Skupština, which will invite Prince Peter Karadjordjević to return to Serbia as King. We are confident that he will accept the offer.”

  “How confident?” enquired my friend, with a very searching look. The Colonel met his gaze with equanimity.

  “Mr. Holmes,” he answered quietly, “I do not expect you or your government to understand or to condone what happened here last night. I myself will make no effort to explain it, except to say that my comrades and I believe that we acted in the interests of our country. Whether our motives can excuse so terrible a crime will be for history to judge.”

  “Then let us trust that history will judge you justly, Colonel,” replied Sherlock Holmes. “Unhappily for Serbia, the nations of the world will not delay so long in passing judgement.”

  As if to prove his point, we met a fussy little gentleman inside the palace gate. I learned afterward that this was M. Charikof, the Russian minister, who had watched the night’s events unfold from his legation’s windows. Now, he stood ready to berate the assassins from beneath a huge umbrella, bravely declaring to the Colonel that his gruesome exhibition of the bodies was “really quite uncivilized.”

  “Please, sir,” the Russian quavered plaintively, “take Their Majesties inside the palace now. You must clean up this mess!”

  “That, Your Excellency,” replied the Colonel wearily, “is what we have been trying to accomplish.”

  After Holmes telegraphed his report to London, Mycroft’s return cable ordered us not to convey it to the embassy, for the Cabinet had decided to break off relations with the new regime. With no official function and the purpose of our journey gone, we took a train from Belgrade on the evening of the twelfth of June. Three days later, we were back in Montenegro. I, for one, was heartily glad to be forever quit of Serbia.

  “Our mission was little more than a fool’s errand, Watson,” my friend grumbled as we rolled across the plain of Hungary. “This conspiracy was far more extensive and advanced than Count Vukčić’s sources had divined. With treason inside the Konak as well as out of it, the King and Queen could never have survived for long, even had they received our warning.”

  “Yet, the names on Vukčić’s list were accurate.” I nodded toward the stack of newspapers Holmes and I had just perused. Most featured interviews of the regicides by members of the foreign press. Incredibly, the officers had described their crimes in great detail, unconcerned with either infamy or punishment.[27] All were identified within the document we had been unable to deliver.

  “Yes,” sighed Holmes, “I must admit that I misjudged the man. Whatever the ambitions of his royal master, the plot was real enough, God knows. We must credit the Montenegrins with at least trying to avert it. What a cesspool of perdition Belgrade is! I shall apologize to Vukčić the moment we arrive.”

  It was now Tuesday the sixteenth, and we were scheduled to depart for London the next day. Whether Sherlock Holmes had yet made his apology I had no idea. He and the Count had been summoned to the palace at nine o’clock that morning, in order to recount the crime in Belgrade to Prince Nicholas. It was not an interview I envied either of them.

  I, meanwhile, waited in Irene Adler’s boudoir to fulfill a promise. As I stood idly beside her writing desk, my eye fell upon the photograph of a boy I had not seen before. Although no more than ten or eleven, he was tall for his age and already inclining to his uncle’s stoutness. The lineaments of the Holmes family were unmistakable.

  “That is my son Scott,[28] Dr. Watson,” said a voice behind me. “He is away at school.”

  I turned to find Irene Adler in the doorway. With her stood the maid who had greeted us sixteen years before, when Sherlock Holmes, the King of Serbia, and I had called to remove an incriminating photograph from Miss Adler’s London home. Now, after her mistress suggested that she tidy the adjacent bedroom, the woman glided by me with the same sardonic smile.

  “A handsome lad,” I noted as I replaced the photograph.

  “Very like his father, would you not agree? I fear he may g
row fat at Harrow, unless his masters treat him strictly. Here in Montenegro, he has fewer opportunities to indulge his love of fine cuisine. Not that he’s likely to encounter any at an English public school,” she laughed, “but there are restaurants in London, I have heard.”

  I decided to reciprocate her frankness. “Does Holmes know he is Scott’s father?”

  “Could he see him and not know? They have met several times since Scott was born. Naturally, I have not yet told my son, although by now he must have guessed. Sherlock - I may call him ‘Sherlock’, Doctor, mayn’t I? It seems ridiculous to call him ‘Mr. Holmes’, given the subject of our conversation. Sherlock, then, has insisted upon financing Scott’s education.”

  “He would see that as no less than his duty, ma’am.”

  I cursed myself for what must have seemed a cold response. Miss Adler tactfully covered my embarrassment by proposing that we proceed with her examination. Alas, it was soon over, and the resulting diagnosis confirmed my worst fears.

  “Well, Doctor,” she asked whimsically, after she returned from dressing in her bedroom. “what is to be my fate?”

  “It is as I anticipated, Countess. A weakness of the heart, probably congenital, and likely to become more serious as you grow older.”

  “Ah. I am not surprised to hear it. The heart has always been my weakness, after all.” How long may I expect to live?” she added brightly.

  “Why, for many years!” I assured her, with perhaps more feeling than with perfect truth. “You will need to take things easily, of course. It was wise to give up so stressful a career as opera singing. Moderate exercise, such as walking in the hills, is fine, but avoid any prolonged or steep ascents. Needless to say, bearing more children would not be advisable.”

  “That is flattering at my age, Doctor, but it will not be an issue in my present marriage.”

  “Very well. Obviously,” I went on, “there are specialists better qualified to advise you than I am. The nearest is in Budapest. The best is in Vienna.”

  “Both places are eventually accessible from here, as you have seen.” Irene Adler, who had been seated at her writing desk, now rose and took my hands in hers. “Thank you, Dr. Watson, for speaking to me honestly. Thank you for being as good a friend to me as you have always been to Sherlock.”

  “Of course, Miss Ad - that is, Countess Vukčić.”

  “Oh, Irene, for Heaven’s sake!” she cried. “You Englishmen! In America, where I was born, people acquainted for as long as we would be insulted at being denied their Christian name. Now, may I please ask you two more favours, John? Only two, I promise.”

  “Of course, Irene.”

  “See? You can do it! First, will you promise me to keep an eye on Scott in London? I know you have your own family to look after now, but - to the extent you can? Sherlock will no doubt take an interest, too, in his haphazard way, but he has not your quality of steadiness.”

  “I shall be honoured. And the second favour?”

  “You must not tell Sherlock about this.” She placed a hand upon her breast. “About my condition, and - ” she looked at me quite calmly “ - its likely outcome.”

  “He already suspects, I fear.”

  “Oh, I daresay he does. I have never been able to hide anything from him for long. Still - unless he asks - say nothing, at least until you have returned to London. It would spoil our time together, for you know he hates a scene as much as I do.”

  “Very well, Irene. I promise.”

  “Thank you, John.” She leaned across and gently brushed my cheek, a kiss that I have treasured all my life.

  After breakfast the next morning, while Count Vukčić and I played a game of billiards, Sherlock Holmes and Irene Adler walked for half-an-hour in her garden. He has never confided to me what was said, or left unsaid, between them. I only know that when we drove away, bound for Cattaro, there were tears in my friend’s eyes. It was the first time I had ever witnessed Holmes succumbing to emotion, and I have not seen the like again in all the years thereafter.

  We arrived at Victoria Station on the twenty-first of June. For me, it was a joyful sight to see Priscilla waving from the platform, and my stepchildren positively jumping up and down with glee. However, our reunion was maddeningly short-lived, for Mycroft’s representatives were waiting to whisk Holmes and me away to Whitehall. There we briefed his morose elder brother, whose doubts about our mission had been amply justified. As he so often did, Mycroft showed remarkable prescience in predicting what would follow.

  “Will a strong Serbia,” he wondered, “be more likely - or less? - to promote peace and order in the Balkans? Pan-Slavic sentiment now pervades the country. Even if King Peter repudiates the regicides, he must strive to redeem his fellow Serbs in Bosnia and Herzegovina, or risk the fate of Alexander Obrenović. Should Austria respond by annexing those two provinces - which now she merely occupies - she will certainly arouse Russia’s ire. This revolution has made of Belgrade a more volatile powder-keg than ever. Far better, gentlemen, had we never shown our hand to the conspirators in such a hopeless cause. Wasn’t it your old friend Bismarck who warned that ‘some damned foolish thing in the Balkans’ would set off the next war?”

  During the following months, I focused on my family and my practice, only infrequently visiting Sherlock Holmes to assist in several cases. My friend had grown melancholy since our return from Serbia, and I noticed that his deductive ability seemed less sharp than usual. To my amazement, Holmes even remarked that London had begun to weary him, though he had often quoted Johnson’s dictum that “a man who is tired of London is tired of life.”

  It was early in October that I received a note requiring me to come to Baker Street. As always, I complied, no matter how peremptory the summons. The moment I reentered our old quarters, Holmes abruptly announced his decision to retire. He then handed me a telegram from Vukčić, which informed us of Irene Adler’s death. She had perished, along with many others, in a train derailment near Vienna, while on her way to consult the heart specialist I had recommended. My friend and I spent the afternoon together reminiscing. We agreed it was a kinder fate for Irene’s courage, grace, and beauty to be cut down in their full flower, rather than to linger and diminish in an illness that could only end in death. At last, when Holmes haltingly began to tell me of their son, I was able to spare him the pain of that confession by admitting what I knew.

  In later years, Scott would become a source of pride and comfort to his father, but that must be a tale for someone else to tell. My purpose here is simply to abjure my long denial that Sherlock Holmes “felt any emotion akin to love for Irene Adler,” and to restore the reputation of a brave and noble lady who once honoured me by naming me her friend. Even at so late a date, it is a relief to set down the true story, which may now replace my early fable called “A Scandal in Bohemia”.

  1 Watson’s “bitter memory” is recounted in my story “Sherlock Holmes and the Adventure of the Tainted Canister”, available as an e-book and an audio book from MX Publishing.

  2 Irene Adler’s 1891 affair with Holmes is revealed in William S. Baring-Gould’s Sherlock Holmes of Baker Street (Avenel, NJ: Wings Books, 1995 [1962]), pp.207-212. David Marcum also mentions it in “The Adventure of the Other Brother” from The Papers of Sherlock Holmes: Volume One and Volume Two (London: MX Publishing, 2014), p.290. Baring-Gould, Marcum, and I all agree that “the result of their union” was Rex Stout’s almost equally famous detective, Nero Wolfe.

  3 I am indebted to David Marcum for allowing me to borrow his account of Irene’s marriage to Vukčić from “The Adventure of the Other Brother”, op cit. Vukčić translates in Serbo-Croatian as “coming from a wolf”, another link between Sherlock Holmes and Nero Wolfe.

  4 My portraits of the last two Obrenović’s came initially from two sources. Vladimir Dedejir’s The Road
to Sarajevo (New York: Simon and Schuster, 1966) traces their declining political fortunes on pp.82-87. A more entertaining and personal - though highly polemical - account can be found in Rebecca West’s fascinating study of Yugoslavian history, Black Lamb and Grey Falcon (London: Penguin Books, 1982 [1941]), pp.537-564.

  5 See Herbert Vivian, The Servian Tragedy, with Some Impressions of Macedonia (London: Grant Richards, 1904), p.91. Vivian, a British journalist who visited Serbia in 1896 and 1902, held a higher opinion of King Alexander than most other writers. He blamed the king’s fall on a small group of malcontents and was furious at the Serbian population’s acceptance of the coup.

  6 Without the Internet, the travel guides published by the German firm of Karl Baedeker (1801-1859) must have been indispensable for European travel in Holmes’s day. For this trip, Watson would have used the 9th English edition of Austria, Including Hungary, Transylvania, Dalmatia, and Bosnia (London, Dulau and Co., 1900), available online, through the courtesy of Emory University Libraries, at: https://archive.org/stream/01703017.5423.emory.edu/01703017_5423#page/n7/mode/2up. (I also consulted the 1905 and 1911 editions.) It is a fascinating snapshot of that vanished realm.

  7 Most of the Balkans, as well as Russia, did not convert to the Gregorian calendar until after World War I. The Obrenović’s fall was therefore known in Serbia as “The May Coup.”

  8 According to Reginald Wyon and Gerald Prance, who toured Montenegro just before our heroes, the Austrian Lloyd Line ran two express steamers between Trieste/Fiume and Cattaro: The Graf Wurmbrand and the Pannonia. They took the Graf Wurmbrand. See The Land of the Black Mountain (London: Methuen & Co., 1903), online at: http://www.hellenicaworld.com/Montenegro/Literature/PranceWyon/en/TheLandOfTheBlackMountain.html#image_31

  9 Watson, of course, uses the British definition of “one storey,” meaning a “first floor” above ground level. An American writer would consider the Vukčić residence a two-storey house.