“When the faux Englishmen left the room,” Holmes continued, “I followed them. They went to the waterfront.”
“I trust you were not seen,” I said.
Holmes fastened a withering glare on the painting of an alpine meadow on the far wall. “When I don’t wish to be seen,” he stated, “I am not seen.”
“Silly of me,” I said. “What did you observe?”
“They entered a large warehouse next to a pier jutting into the lake. Attached to a short line by the warehouse door—”
“Three clothespins,” I ventured.
“Three white clothespins,” he corrected.
“Well,” I said. “Now we know where.”
“Not quite,” Holmes said. “I observed several more people entering the warehouse over the next hour. And then a door opened on the water side of the building, and the men boarded a steam launch named the Isolde, which was tied up to the pier next to the building. It then chuffed out onto the lake and away. I investigated and discovered that there was only one man, an old caretaker, left in the warehouse.”
“Ah!” I said.
“The boat returned about an hour ago. Some men got off. A few of them were the same men who had boarded earlier, but not all.” He tapped his long, thin forefinger on the table. “They’re doing something out there somewhere on the lake. But it’s a big lake.”
“That presents an interesting problem,” I said. “How do we follow them over open water?”
Holmes stared out the window. “A two-pipe problem,” he said, pulling out his ancient brier and stuffing it with tobacco. “Perhaps three.”
Having smelled the foul mixture he prefers to smoke, I excused myself and went downstairs, where I indulged in a kaffee mit schlag. Mit, as it happens, extra schlag. About an hour later Holmes came downstairs, gave a slight nod in my direction, and went out the front door. After a suitable time I followed. Night had fallen, and the streetlights were sparse and dim. A chill wind was blowing in off the lake.
Holmes was standing in the shadow of an old stable a block away. I smelled the foul tobacco odor emanating from his clothing before I actually saw him.
“Commandant Vernet,” I said.
“Herr Stuhl.”
“Have your three pipes shown the way?”
“If we had time, we could build a large observation balloon and watch them from high aloft,” Holmes said. “But we have no time. I think one of us will have to stow away on that steam launch and see where she goes.”
“If nominated, I shall not run,” I told him firmly, “and if elected, I shall not serve.”
“What’s that?”
“The American General Sherman. I am taking his excellent advice.”
Holmes looked at me with distaste. “With all your faults,” he said, “I didn’t picture you as a coward.”
“And neither am I foolhardy,” I told him. “There is little point in indulging in a foredoomed course of action when it will accomplish nothing and merely succeed in getting one killed. Remember Alphonse Lamphier.”
Holmes stared glumly into the dark. “I have nothing better to offer,” he said. “In large parts of the ocean ships leave a phosphorescent wake that lasts for some time, I understand, but not in lakes, however large.”
“What an excellent idea!” I said.
“A phosphorescent wake?”
“A wake of some sort. The craft will go wherever it is to go, and we shall follow in its wake.”
“How?”
“A moment,” I said, staring into space. “Why not oil? Some light oil dyed red should do it.”
“Brilliant!” said Holmes. “And who shall we get to sprinkle this oil on the water as the boat progresses?”
“We, my doubting Sherlock, shall construct a mechanism to do the task,” I said.
And so we did. The next morning I procured a five-gallon drum of fish oil, which seemed appropriate, and took it down to a deserted jetty Holmes had observed yesterday in his wanderings. I then went back to the main street and returned with a pair of iron exercise dumbbells, purchased from a junk shop. Holmes joined me shortly after, bringing a coil of quarter-inch marine line and a small bottle of red dye; some sort of pastry dye I believe, which we added to the oil. It seemed to mix satisfactorily, so we busied ourselves affixing some handles on the drum with metal screws. The screw holes would leak slightly, but that didn’t matter.
We changed into recently purchased bathing costumes and rented a two-man rowboat, wrapping our clothing and other items we might need in oilcloth and stowing them on the bottom of the small craft. After about twenty minutes rowing along the shore we came in sight of the pier in question. The steam launch Isolde was tied up alongside.
There appeared to be no one on watch in the launch, so we came up as quietly as possible to the opposite side of the pier and tied our boat to a convenient hook. Slipping into the chill water, we towed the drum of oil under the pier to the starboard side of the Isolde. We could hear the deep chugging of the steam engine as we approached the boat, which suggested that there would shortly be another journey.
I screwed two four-inch wood screws into the hull near the stern, and fastened one end of a twelve-foot length of marine line to them. The other end Holmes fastened to the oil drum. My calculations indicated that it would take the weight of both the iron dumbbells to keep the drum submerged, so the two of them were tied firmly onto the sides of the drum. All that remained was to put a screw into the cork plugging the drum’s bunghole and attach it by a short line to the pier. That way as the steam launch left the pier, the cork would be pulled and the drum would begin leaking colored oil.
As we were completing this last task, we heard footsteps above us on the pier, and the voices of the pseudo-Engländers as they began boarding the launch. They all spoke English, those who spoke, and their accents were slight. Yet of all the myriad of homegrown accents that pepper the British Isles, allowing one man to despise another who grew up twenty miles to his north, these were none.
After about ten minutes the boarding was completed, the chugging of the steam engine grew louder and deeper, and the Isolde pulled away from the pier. There was a slight but satisfying pop as the cork was pulled from the oil drum, and it began its journey bobbing out of sight behind the steam launch, spilling red oil as it went.
“We’d better get out of the water,” said Holmes, “I’m losing sensation in my hands and feet.”
“Cold baths are much overrated,” I agreed, shivering uncontrollably as I threw myself back into the rowboat. I held it steady for Holmes to climb aboard, then we were both occupied for some time in toweling ourselves off and putting our garments back on.
“Let’s get going,” Holmes said after a few minutes. “They’re getting farther ahead by the moment, and besides the exercise of rowing will warm us up.”
I took up one pair of oars, and Holmes the other, and we maneuvered our small craft out onto the lake. The sun was overhead, and a slight but clearly visible red stain was slowly widening as it led off in the direction of the departing steam launch, which was already distant enough for its image to be covered by my thumb with my arm extended.
We rowed energetically after the Isolde, cutting easily through the gentle swells left by her wake. If she was barely visible to us, surely our small craft was no more than a speck to any of her company who should chance to be peering back toward shore. Soon she was out of sight entirely, and we followed by keeping in sight the slight red smear visible under the bright sun.
It was perhaps half an hour later when the tenuous watery red trail brought us in sight of the steam launch. She was headed back toward us, pulling away from a large black barge which had a curious superstructure, and seemed to have been outfitted with some sort of engine at the rear. At any rate, the barge was moving slowly under its own power even as the Isolde pulled away. The deck of the Isolde was crowded with men and, as it seemed probable that there were even more men inside the cabin, it looked as though the crew o
f the black barge were going home for the night.
We altered our course slightly to make it appear that we were headed for the opposite shore, and tried to look like two middle-aged gentlemen who were passionate about rowing, perhaps recapturing their youth. As the Isolde approached us we waved in a friendly but disinterested manner, and two of the men on deck replied with similar salutations. Who, I wondered, was fooling whom? I hoped it was we, them, or our story might have quite a different ending than we had intended.
“What now?” Holmes asked me, when it was clear that the steam launch was not going to turn around and investigate us more closely.
“The black barge,” I said.
“Of course,” Holmes told me. “I repeat, what now?”
“As it’s still under power, although making slight headway, there are still men aboard,” I said. “So just pulling alongside and clambering on deck is probably not a wise option.”
Holmes lifted his oars out of the water and turned to glare at me. “Astute observation,” he said. “I repeat, what now?”
“We could swim over to it underwater if the water weren’t so cold; if we could swim that far underwater. We could come alongside and flail about, claiming to be in distress, and see whether those aboard choose to rescue us.”
“Or just shoot us and toss us overboard,” Holmes commented.
“Yes, there’s always that possibility,” I agreed.
Holmes sighed deeply. “I guess there’s nothing for it then,” he said, shipping the oars and lying back in his seat to stare at the cloud-filled sky. “We float about here until dark and spend our time praying for it not to rain.”
Which is what we did. Our prayers were almost answered, in that a light, but extremely cold drizzle fell for a while, but then went away to be replaced by a chill wind.
One thing I must say about Holmes is that, barring his periodic fixation on me as the fount of all that is evil, he is a good companion: dependable and steadfast in adversity, intelligent and quick-thinking in a fix; a loyal ally and, as I have had occasion to discover in the past, a formidable foe. I found myself thinking about Holmes and our past history as we waited. What Holmes thought about I cannot say.
Dark fell with admirable speed that evening. By ten past eight I couldn’t read my pocket watch without striking a match—the light well shielded from view, of course. There were no lights visible from the black barge either. If lamps were lit in the cabins, the windows and portholes must have been well shielded. We waited a while longer—how long I cannot say as I didn’t want to strike another match—then, dipping our oars as silently as possible, headed in the direction of the barge. The moon was a slender crescent, the light was scant, and the barge proved as difficult to find as you might imagine a black barge on an almost-moonless night would do. For a while we could hear the painfully slow throb of the barge’s motor, but it was impossible to tell from just what direction it was coming. And the sound carried so well over the water that it did not seem to increase or lessen in whatever direction we rowed. And then it stopped. It wasn’t until a man came on deck carrying a lantern, heading from the aft deckhouse to the forward deckhouse, that we were able to be sure of our heading. In another five minutes we were under the stern overhang of the barge, where we tied the rowboat up to the port side and paused to consider.
“Up onto the deck, find a blunt object or two to use as weapons, and get below, or at least inside, as quickly as possible,” Holmes said.
“Forward or aft?” I asked.
“We are aft,” Holmes said, “so let us not waste time by going forward.”
I agreed. We moved the rowboat around to the side of the barge as far as we could without untying it and I felt about for a handhold. “Well!” I whispered. “Piety and good works are indeed rewarded in this life.”
“What?” Holmes murmured.
“There’s a ladder fixed to the side here,” I told him. I took hold with both hands and started up, with Holmes right behind me. Once on deck we moved toward the rear cabin, feeling our way along the railing. I reached some impediment; a large metal object covered with a canvas and gutta-percha weather shield, and paused to feel my way around it and to determine what it was—like the blind man trying to describe an elephant. But after a few moments of grasping and groping, the outline of the elephant became clear.
“Well I’ll be!” I said, or perhaps it was something stronger.
“What is it?” asked Holmes, who was right behind me.
“It is a three-inch naval gun, probably a Hoskins and Reed. It will fire a nine-pound projectile something over three miles accurately. It’s the latest thing in gunnery. Royal Navy destroyers are being outfitted with them even now.”
“I didn’t know you were so well acquainted with naval ballistics,” Holmes said. His voice sounded vaguely accusatory, but then it often does when he speaks to me.
“I am well acquainted with a wide range of things,” I told him.
We continued our progress toward the aft deckhouse. I was hoping to come across a belaying pin, or a length of iron pipe, or anything that could be worked loose and used as a weapon, but nothing came to hand.
We reached the deckhouse door, and Holmes pulled it open. It was as dark inside as out. We entered. By creeping ahead silently and feeling along the wall we were able to ascertain that we were in a corridor of unknown length, with doors on each side.
Light suddenly cascaded into the corridor as a door farther down was opened. A man stood in the doorway talking to someone inside the room, but in another second he would surely come into the corridor. I tugged at Holmes’s sleeve and pointed to what the light had just revealed: a stairs, or as they call anything with steps on a ship, a ladder, going up. By mounting quickly we could avoid being seen. We did so. There was a door at the head of the ladder, which I opened, and we went through. The door made a loud click on closing, and we paused, waiting to see whether the sound would alert those below. Holmes assumed the “standing locust” Baritsu posture to the left of the door, ready in mind and body for whoever might come through. I grabbed a spanner from a nearby shelf and stood, poised, on the right side.
There were no hurried footsteps up the ladder, no whispered voices from downstairs, so after a few moments we relaxed and looked around. An oil lamp on gimbals mounted to the ceiling cast a dull light around the room. It appeared to be the wheelhouse of a large vessel, with the forward windows covered with heavy drapes. There was an oversized ship’s wheel in the center, with calling pipes, and a ship’s telegraph, a chart cabinet and chart table to the rear, and various bits of nautical equipment affixed here and there throughout the room. A captain’s chair was bolted to the deck on the left, excuse me, port side, and a ship’s compass squatted alongside. A metal-strapped leather chest big enough to hold a fair-sized man doubled over sat on the other side of the chair.
“A wheelhouse for a barge,” Holmes whispered. “How odd.”
“It does have an engine,” I said.
“Yes, but I doubt if it can attain a speed of greater than three or four knots. One would think that a tiller would suffice.” He took the oil lamp off its mount and began a slow inspection of the room, bending, sniffing, peering, and probing at the walls, floor, and bits of apparatus scattered about. The chest was securely locked, and there seemed to be nothing else of interest in the room. After a few minutes he stood erect and put the lantern on the chart table. “This is very peculiar,” he said.
“It is indeed,” I agreed. “This is not the wheelhouse of a scow—this is the command bridge of a naval ship.”
“Say rather a full size model of it,” Holmes said. “The chart cabinet is devoid of charts, and the chart that’s pinned to this table is a Royal Navy chart of the Bay of Naples.”
“Perhaps,” I suggested, “we have found the fabled Swiss navy.”
“I think not,” Holmes said. “I found this.” He held out a blue cap for my perusal. It was a British Navy seaman’s cap, and on the side the wo
rds “H.M.S. ROYAL EDGAR” were embroidered in gold thread.
“The Royal Edgar is a destroyer,” I told Holmes. “Royal Henry class. Four funnels. Six torpedo tubes. Two four-inch and eight two-inch guns. Top speed a hair under thirty knots.”
“How do you happen to know that?” Holmes asked, an undercurrent of suspicion creeping into his voice.
“I have recently done some work for the Admiralty,” I explained. “I, of course, made it a point to learn the names and ratings of all of Her Majesty’s ships currently in service.”
He shook the cap in my face. “You mean they trust you to—” He paused and took a deep breath. “Never mind,” he finished. He pointed across the room. “That chest may hold something of import, but the rest of the room is devoid of interest.”
“Except for the hat,” I said.
“Yes,” he agreed. “That is very interesting.”
“I didn’t bring my picklocks,” I said, “and if we break the chest open, we will be announcing our presence.”
“Interesting conundrum,” Holmes allowed.
It was one we never got the chance to resolve. There was a rumbling and a thudding and a screeching and the sound of voices from below. No—from the deck outside. Holmes closed the lantern, and we pulled one of the curtains aside to see what was happening.
The steam launch had returned and was tying up alongside. If the men embarking from it saw our rowboat tied up at the stern, life would get interesting over the next few minutes. But the rowboat had swung back around out of sight, and it would be an unlucky accident if they were to see it.
There was a barking of orders—in German, I noted—and the eight or ten men who had come aboard scurried about to do whatever they had come aboard to do. Three of them headed to the door in the aft deckhouse below us, and the two men inside had opened the door to greet them.
“If they come up here …” Holmes said.
“Yes,” I said, remembering the layout of the darkened room. “There is no place to conceal ourselves.”
“Behind these curtains is the only possibility,” Holmes whispered. “And that’s not a good one.”
Sherlock Holmes: The Hidden Years Page 28
