by Ashton, Hugh
Holmes had recently returned from a visit to the Continent, where, he informed me later, he had been assisting the Sûreté Nationale of France in their capture of the notorious forger and confidence trickster who had been passing himself off with considerable success as Baron Lemaître. My practice was doing well, and I have to confess that it was with more than a little irritation that I opened a telegram from my friend, which read, “Come at once. Your assistance required urgently.”
“I really cannot spare the time,” I said to my wife. “Mrs Anderson’s case of shingles is coming to a point where I really fear to leave her unattended, and the whole of the junior portion of the Prout family is suffering from whooping cough.”
My dear Mary was completely undeceived by my protestations. “John,” she told me. “Your patients are not suffering from serious conditions, I am sure. And I know how much you have missed your friend, however much you may deny it. It will do you good to go off with him on one of your adventures. Simply make your usual arrangements with Anstruther to take over for a few days.”
It was true; although I was more than content with my lot as a happily married general practitioner, there was a part of my life that I had come to expect from my association with Holmes that was now missing. As is so common, a woman’s intuition came closer to the truth than it was possible for mere male rational thought to achieve, and I accordingly made the arrangements as Mary had suggested.
An hour later, I was climbing the stairs to my friend’s lodgings in Baker Street, having telegraphed my acceptance of Holmes’ invitation, and entering the well-known room where I had spent so many hours in the past. I cast my eye about the apartment for evidence of change, but much seemed as it always had done in the past – the jack-knife skewering the unanswered correspondence to the mantle-shelf, the Persian slipper containing the rough shag tobacco with which Holmes was accustomed to fill his pipe, and the wall above the fireplace where Holmes had patriotically delineated the initials of our Sovereign with bullets fired from his revolver.
Holmes himself was standing in the centre of the room, coated, hatted and gloved, apparently impatient to leave. “Come, Watson,” he said, pulling out his watch. “We must make haste.”
“Where are we going?” I asked as we made our way downstairs and passed into the street.
“The Diogenes Club,” replied
“Brother Mycroft?” I asked, having been previously acquainted with Holmes’ elder brother and the strange circles in which he moved.
Holmes nodded. “He wishes us to run around on his behalf, or rather on behalf of the government. As you are aware, Mycroft is by no means the most energetic of individuals and he makes use of my energy where he cannot summon up his own.”
“You mean that he wishes you to run around on his behalf?” I corrected, placing a slight emphasis on the pronoun.
“You do yourself a disservice, Watson,” replied my friend. “I made a specific request for you to be included in the invitation and I will require your assistance, I am convinced. Mycroft has already informed me that the case is peculiarly baffling to him, and if he finds it so, we can be sure that it will be taxing. I need my Watson beside me.”
I was under few illusions that my intellect and powers of deduction were in any way equal to those of Sherlock Holmes or his brother, but knew from past experience that my participation would be chiefly as a sounding-board for the music of Holmes’ thoughts, though he was kind enough to say otherwise much of the time.
On arrival at the Diogenes Club, that singular establishment where conversation between members is not only discouraged, but forbidden on pain of expulsion after the third offence, we were shown by a porter into the Strangers’ Room, the only location within the Club where Mycroft could converse with us without incurring the wrath of the governing committee.
Holmes and I settled ourselves into the comfortable chairs that the Diogenes provides for visitors and awaited the arrival of the elder Holmes. After a few minutes, the massive bulk of Mycroft Holmes blocked the door, which he pulled to before sinking into another chair, which obviously by its size, if not for his use alone, was reserved for those of similar build.
“Well, Sherlock,” he greeted his younger brother familiarly. “I see from the press that you have been busy. I take it that the wife in the Fromalle affair had no knowledge that the rubies had been substituted.”
“Not until I brought the fact to her attention,” replied Sherlock. “I fear that the marriage will end up in the Divorce Court, but it is probably for the best. He is somewhat of a brute, and I fear for her continued sanity if they are to remain together as man and wife.”
Needless to say, I had no knowledge of the matter being discussed. As always, I was struck by Mycroft Holmes’ considerable intellect, which seemed to provide him with the most intimate details of events, despite his extreme indolence. He and Sherlock debated abstruse points regarding a political scandal in a remote German barony, while I sat astounded at the detailed comprehension displayed by both participants.
“You did not bring us here to gossip about the Graf von Metzelburg, though, Mycroft?” said Homes at length.
“No, the matter on which you and Watson can be of assistance is a good deal closer to home. Dr Watson,” he turned to me. “Apologies for not greeting you earlier. I hope that you will serve as somewhat of a brake on my brother’s rather wilder extravagant notions. Your good sense will be of great value here.” I felt flattered by these words, but given the extraordinary capabilities of the speaker, and those of his brother, I had serious doubts as to any additional value I was able to bestow. Mycroft addressed us both. “As you know, there is to be a change in the composition of the Cabinet in the near future. One of the alterations will be in the Admiralty, where a new First Lord is to take office. Sir Watkin Goodall has served with distinction over the past years, but the Prime Minister agrees with my suggestion that new blood is required there. The nation at this time needs a First Lord who is able to see past the pipeclay and brass polish and paint, and consider the strength of the Navy in comparison to those navies of our continental neighbours, not to mention those of the United States of America and even of Japan, and take advantage of the new technical developments that are revolutionising the art of naval warfare.”
“I am sure when you made this suggestion to the Prime Minister you had a particular individual in mind,” Sherlock Holmes remarked.
“I did indeed. Augustus Wilmott, Lord Haughton, the eldest son of the Earl of Harrogate, was the candidate I recommended for the post. He has served with distinction as an officer in the Mediterranean Fleet, and rose to the rank of Captain through his abilities, rather than by reason of his birth. He has a sound practical knowledge of the workings of the Navy at sea, and on his recent retirement from the Service became a director of the firm of naval architects responsible for the design of the latest class of battleships. He is also, as I am sure you are aware, an active Member of the House of Commons. I can think of no better man in the land to step into the shoes of Sir Watkin.”
“But there is a problem?” suggested Holmes.
“There is indeed. Lord Haughton has not been seen for the past five weeks at the least.”
“He is up in Scotland, killing defenceless animals, or tormenting fish with artificial flies,” Holmes replied. “You would not expect to see him in London at this time of year, surely?”
“Sherlock, there are times when I despair of you,” retorted his brother. “Do you think that was not the first possibility that suggested itself to me? I have made discreet enquiries among his friends and relatives. None has seen him, received any communication from him or heard word from him over the period I mentioned.”
“It would seem impossible for a man of his fame and distinction simply to vanish from view in this way,” I broke in. “Surely he must have travelled overseas?”
“Our agents have scoured Europe,” replied Mycroft, “and have failed to discover any trace of Lord Haughton i
n any of the resorts he is known to have frequented.”
“Perhaps he has suffered a fatal accident in some remote spot in the countryside and is no more?” I suggested. “This is why he is not to be found anywhere you have searched.”
Mycroft Holmes turned his lazy gaze upon me. “For reasons I shall go into later, we believe that this is not the case.”
“Do you suspect foul play?” interjected Sherlock.
“With the information available to us at present, we have no positive evidence one way or the other, but the answer to your question regarding suspicion is in the affirmative. Maybe I should outline the case as we have it so far,” suggested his brother.
“Pray do so.” Sherlock Holmes and I settled back in our chairs, and I brought out my notebook and proceeded to take notes as Mycroft Holmes explained the matter in his usual logical and incisive fashion.
The facts of the matter as he related them were as follows. Five weeks ago, Lord Haughton had been staying at his father’s country residence in Hampshire. He had announced his intention to visit former naval comrades in Portsmouth for a luncheon to be given in his honour, and set off alone for the local station at Shawford from where he would catch the train to Portsmouth. The Shawford station-master, to whom Lord Haughton was well known, had noticed him board the Portsmouth train, and a man answering to his description appeared to have been seen at Portsmouth station. However, in the short journey between the railway station and the battleship HMS Colossus, in the wardroom of which he was expected as a guest, he seems to have disappeared.
One of the officers on board the Colossus watching through field-glasses claimed to have seen a man whom he took to be Lord Haughton on the quay, boarding a small steam-launch, accompanied by two men whom he did not recognise. It was expected that the steam-launch would then bring him on board the battleship, but instead, it steered towards for a small tramp steamer, passing behind the hull of the latter, and obscuring any view of any passengers disembarking or embarking. The Colossus officer watched the steam-launch return to the quay and dock, but saw no-one resembling Lord Haughton leave the boat, though the two men who had accompanied him on board disembarked and walked together in the general direction of the centre of the town. About ten minutes after the launch had left the coaster, the latter raised anchor and left the harbour. Though the officer reported the incident to his brother officers after the ship had left harbour, it proved impossible to identify the steamer, and since there had been no positive identification of the mystery passenger, it was impossible to persuade the authorities to follow the ship.
The officer, when questioned further, claimed that he could not be absolutely positive that the person he had seen was indeed Lord Haughton, but since he was well acquainted with him, it was considered that his testimony could be relied upon. As to the ship that had presumably carried the passenger away, he was able to give a reasonably detailed description, but it seemed that she had not called at any British ports. He had noticed, however, that the coaster was flying a Dutch flag.
“That would seem to argue that he is on the Continent, as Watson suggested just now,” Sherlock pointed out to Mycroft.
“If he is, then he is in some sort of captivity,” replied Mycroft. “But we have good reason to believe that he was in this country for some time, even if he has recently been taken to the Continent.”
“Your reasons for believing this?”
“The Admiralty have received letters from him, postmarked in this country. One each day, with the series coming to an end a few days ago. It is this sudden cessation that has brought me to your door, figuratively speaking.”
“The letters prove nothing,” remarked my friend. “Letters can be written in one country and posted in another.”
“The handwritten letters all contained references to the newspapers of the morning of the day that the letters were written and posted,” remarked his brother, a little testily. “It would not have been possible for those letters to have been written in another country and posted in a British post office box at the time given. All the rules of logic make it certain that he has been in this country up to four days ago. He may still be here.”
“From anyone else I would doubt the accuracy of that statement, but from you I will accept that this is in fact the case,” said Holmes. “I assume that you have made extensive checks on the authenticity of the handwriting?”
“There can be no doubt as to that,” replied Mycroft. “The finest analysts have examined these letters closely, and compared them with confirmed samples of the missing man’s handwriting. They are in unanimous agreement as to the fact that these letters could not have been written by anyone other than Lord Haughton.”
“And the content?”
“This is another puzzle. There is little of import in these letters. They appear to be no more than ramblings about his health or the weather or the scenery. I have had photographic copies made, which I will have delivered to you at Baker Street. The originals must, as you appreciate, remain in Whitehall.”
“There is no secret writing or invisible ink?” asked Holmes.
“Sherlock, I believed you had a higher opinion of my abilities than to ask such a question. And to anticipate the next question I believe you will ask me, no, we have examined the content of these messages for a code or a cypher, but have been unable to find any such.”
“Are the police involved in the search?”
“At this stage, they have been given the description of Lord Haughton, but not his name. If they discover a man who answers to the description, they are to inform London immediately. This is to prevent any possibility of panic. The possible abduction of such a prominent member of society would undoubtedly cause considerable public alarm.”
“Undoubtedly,” Holmes agreed. “How long has the search been proceeding?”
“Just over four weeks.”
“And all that has been received in this time are these letters?”
“There was a report last week from the local police that a man resembling Lord Haughton had been seen in Nuneaton. It turned out to be mistaken.”
“And I assume you are tending to the conclusion that he has been abducted by agents of a foreign power?” Mycroft nodded his great head silently in answer to his brother’s question. “Are there any good reasons why he should be so abducted that you are at liberty to vouchsafe to us?”
“He has been a serving naval officer on many of Her Majesty’s most advanced warships of the day. He is intimately involved in the design and construction of the most modern and deadly of the Royal Navy’s ships, as well as serving on various Parliamentary Committees concerned with naval affairs. You would be pressed to find one man who knows more about the operation and design of the ships, as well as the political matters concerned with the modern Navy. That, of course, is the reason why I passed along the recommendation that he become First Lord.”
“You should have consulted me earlier, Mycroft. You have wasted valuable time.” Holmes spoke sternly in a tone of voice I had never previously heard him use to his brother.
“I admit it, Sherlock. But I was given to understand that you had other matters requiring your attention.”
“True,” replied my friend, “but you know well that you can always call on me in an emergency of this kind. If I am to assist you in this matter, I will require the loan of the originals of the letters, together with their envelopes, as well as photographic copies for me to retain. A copy of the statement of Lord Haughton’s brother officer who claimed to recognise him would also be invaluable. I trust you can arrange that, together with a suitable laissez-passer to open doors that might otherwise remain shut to us?”
“I can certainly have all of that prepared for you.”
“Please have them delivered to Baker Street within the morning, together with any likenesses of Lord Haughton that you may have. Watson and I will await these documents, and lay our plans accordingly.”
-oOo-
“Well, Wats
on, a pretty puzzle, is it not?” remarked Holmes as we drove back to Baker Street. “Such an individual typically does not vanish from view unless he has a good reason to remove himself from the public gaze, or unless another party wishes him to be so out of the limelight. The fact that he was escorted to the strange ship and never returned from there, while his companions did so would seem to argue that he was in some way kidnaped or otherwise abducted.”
“There is no definite proof of this, if I understood your brother’s account correctly,” I pointed out. “The officer who described the incident may well have been mistaken, both in his identification of Lord Haughton, and in his description of the events he described.”
“And even given that he may have been correct on both those counts, his listeners, including us, may well have been mistaken in our interpretations of those events,” added Holmes. “We will have to investigate the events at Portsmouth and discover more. For now,” he commented as we arrived at his Baker Street lodgings, “we should examine what Brother Mycroft will send us.”
We waited for the promised materials in Holmes’ rooms, using the time by verifying details of Lord Haughton’s life as recorded in the various reference works filling Holmes’ shelves. As Mycroft had informed us, he appeared to be one of the foremost men of the nation in the field of naval affairs. He had served with distinction in ships around the world, including several incidents in the East Indies where he had been decorated for his gallantry, and had commanded several capital ships before retiring from the Navy. His work with the world-renowned firm of naval architects that bore his name had resulted in a stream of orders from overseas as well as from our own Senior Service, and his speeches and statements in Parliament displayed an uncommon grasp of the practicalities of statecraft as it related to naval affairs. Truly, as Mycroft had said, if there were one man who embodied the British naval tradition, it was Lord Albert Haughton.
