“Yes, m’lord,” replied Mycroft. “I fear so.”
“And you are saying that His Highness, or at least one of his friends, may in some way be personally implicated?”
“The evidence strongly suggests that possibility, m’lord.”
“Good God, it cannot be!” He stared at Mycroft in disbelief.
Mycroft looked down at his hands and said nothing.
The prime minister turned to Sherlock Holmes. “You are certain of your facts? You are absolutely certain there can be no mistake?”
Holmes, without a word, rose from his chair, leaned over the prime minister’s desk, and deposited three small glassine envelopes in front of him.
Lord Salisbury looked down at the envelopes and then up again at Holmes, questioningly.
“In one is the sleeve link, my lord, with the three feathers of Wales upon it. In the other, a sample of the cigarette found at the scene of the Hanbury Street murder. The third contains the cigarette end I observed one of His Highness’s companions discard in the street last night.”
The prime minister made no move to examine the contents of the envelopes. “And you are certain the young man you saw was with Prince Albert Victor?”
Instead of replying, Holmes gestured to Watson. Watson cleared his throat. “Yes, my lord. There is no question about it. I had occasion to observe His Highness at Epsom Downs last racing season, though from a distance, of course. But I have a pair of excellent binoculars, and was able to study his face, and those of the others in the royal enclosure, most carefully. There is not a doubt in my mind that it was he.”
“And the identity of this young man?”
Holmes shrugged. “That should not be difficult to ascertain, but as yet I have made no effort to do so. It is someone who quite obviously is often in the prince’s company, so we may assume he is an intimate of his.”
Lord Salisbury looked down at his desk for several minutes and stroked his beard, deep in thought. When he raised his head at last, he did so with a heavy sigh.
There was a light tap at the door, and the prime minister’s young secretary stuck his head in. “My Lord, His Grace, the Duke of —”
“Oh, do go away, Stillwell! Bugger His Grace!”
The secretary looked positively shocked. Lord Salisbury was known to be a very religious, highly moral individual who never, never — even when under the greatest stress — used intemperate language.
The door closed quickly.
Wearily, the prime minister directed his gaze to Mycroft once again. “All this comes upon me too suddenly, I fear. I am in somewhat of a quandary. We must act immediately, of course: Prompt measures must be taken. The matter is far too explosive to consider it at our leisure. First, I must ask you, how many are there who are aware of all of this?”
Mycroft replied: “Only those of us who are in this room, m’lord.”
Lord Salisbury looked at Holmes and Watson. “No more, you are certain?”
“Absolutely, m’lord.”
The old man nodded. “Then it must remain so. No one else is to be brought into it without my knowledge and express approval. No one.”
“Yes, m’lord. That point is already understood by both my brother and Dr. Watson.”
To Watson’s discomfort, the prime minister then directed his gaze at him. “Ah, yes, Dr. Watson.” The question in his eyes was unstated but unmistakable.
Sherlock Holmes responded to it: “The doctor has been intimately involved in this investigation from the very start, Lord Salisbury. His services are invaluable to me. He is a man of unquestionable integrity and has my absolute trust.”
The prime minister turned his great shaggy head toward Holmes and studied him briefly. Holmes met his gaze unflinchingly.
Mycroft cleared his throat. “Prime Minister, the reason Dr. Watson is here is because his involvement, whether, er, desirable or not, is a fait accompli. I thought it best — and you will forgive me, Doctor, for being direct — I thought it best that he be included in our little circle as the surest way of insuring his silence.”
There was an awkward moment in which no one said anything. Then Holmes spoke once again. “As I say, he has my complete trust. If that is not good enough...”
Lord Salisbury closed his eyes and raised his hand. “Then he shall have mine also. And that shall be an end to the matter.”
He turned in his chair and gazed out the window for a few moments.
“I need not tell you, gentlemen,” he said finally, his back still toward them, “that I do not intend to spend my final days in office and on Earth presiding over the dissolution of the British Empire.” He turned to face them, his tired eyes boring into them. He smiled gently.
“Now that we have settled on that,” he said dryly, “we have only to decide on the simple matter of how best to go about preserving the Empire. Mycroft, what course of action do you recommend? I can always count on your clear thinking in a crisis.”
Mycroft did not hesitate. “First, m’lord, the young man in question must be identified and, ah, neutralized. And His Highness must be taken in hand.”
The prime minister looked at him. “How? Send him away, you mean?”
“For the moment, a lengthy overseas tour would serve nicely. I have no doubt the Foreign Office can arrange one in quick order. India, perhaps — or Australia. But of course he must be closely watched at all times. Someone whom we can take into our confidence, at least to a certain degree, must be in constant attendance upon him. That person must be carefully selected.”
Lord Salisbury nodded and considered the matter. Then he looked up sharply and studied Mycroft through rheumy eyes. “What do you mean, ‘for the moment’?” he asked, the tone of his question suggesting that he was not going to like the answer.
Mycroft did not falter in his reply. “A more lasting solution, m’lord, will have to be considered at some point. It is an absolute necessity. There is no alternative in my view.”
Lord Salisbury continued to stare at him.
Mycroft held his ground. “There is no alternative whatsoever.”
“I need not remind you,” said the prime minister, his voice weary beyond belief, “that you speak of the Heir Presumptive to the throne of England.”
Considering the import of his words, Mycroft seemed amazingly calm and self-possessed. His reply was almost offhand. “M’lord, I have considered every possible solution. You must believe me when I say there is no alternative. Absolutely none whatsoever.”
The implications of Mycroft’s statement hung heavily in the air. A shiver went down Watson’s spine. He looked at Holmes. Holmes’s face was like stone.
Twenty
SATURDAY, NOVEMBER 3, 1888
“The circumstances are of great delicacy, and every precaution has to be taken to quench what might grow to be an immense scandal and seriously compromise one of the reigning families of Europe.”
— A Scandal in Bohemia
“His Royal Highness will see you now,” said the equerry from the other side of the room, his manner a good deal more lordly, more pompous, than was either necessary, desirable, or justifiable. He was a self-important young man, tall and straight and good-looking in a blank sort of way, impeccably groomed and with the unmistakable stamp of “good family” in his bearing. His pronouncement, being one that he was called upon to make many times during the course of a given day, had been refined through diligent practice to what he considered the absolute peak of perfection, and that he was abundantly pleased with the result, as well as with himself, was abundantly obvious.
That Mycroft Holmes was not pleased with him was also obvious. “Insufferable little twit,” he snapped, making certain his voice was loud enough for the young man to hear across the room.
But if he had, he would never permit it to be apparent. It was his lot to endure, to suffer in silence. His role as a junior aide-de-camp to the Prince of Wales required a certain thickness of hide and at least a nodding acquaintance with the princip
les of stoicism, for his master could be most trying at times, displaying as he did both a propensity for regal testiness and a predilection for practical jokes.
If Mycroft Holmes was aware of the young man’s unenviable position in life, he was not in a particularly caring mood. It was nighttime, well past the dinner hour, and he had not as yet dined. Mycroft Holmes was not the sort of man who could miss a meal and look upon it with equanimity. He did not like to miss his meals. He did not like it at all.
Aside from feeling decidedly peckish, he was looking forward to this engagement with the Prince of Wales with positive dread. No one in his right mind would relish confronting HRH with disagreeable news, let alone disagreeable news regarding one of his progeny, especially when it concerned his firstborn, who was very much of a disappointment to the prince, an embarrassment and a sore point. Added to it was the fact that Mycroft Holmes was genuinely fond of the prince and considered him a friend, and he, basically a kindly man beneath it all, did not savor the prospect of telling a friend that his son and heir was a degenerate and... possibly worse.
Under the circumstances, it was only natural that he be in a foul temper, and his brother, recognizing the danger signals earlier on, had plotted a course to steer well clear of him. Watson, following Holmes’s lead, had wisely tacked in succession.
It had not been easy, for the three of them had been in close company for the better part of the day. Following their meeting with the prime minister, Mycroft had sent an urgent message to Marlborough House, requesting an immediate audience with the prince. They then returned to the Diogenes Club to await a reply and plot out a course of action. The reply was not received until very late in the day. It came from Knollys, the prince’s personal private secretary, and was delivered by hand. His Royal Highness, said the note in flawless copperplate handwriting, because of the press of official engagements, regrettably found it quite impossible to meet Mr. Mycroft Holmes’s request for an audience that day, but would be pleased to grant him a few moments of time at three-fifteen o’clock on October the eleventh instant.
A scrawled note at the bottom, in Knollys’s handwriting, added:
Mycroft —
Suggest you try to catch HRH at his club around midnight. He’s bound to pull himself away by then. Usually manages to.
K.
Accordingly, the three of them, parting briefly to dress in evening clothes, appeared at the appointed hour in front of the doors to the Marlborough Club in Pall Mall, just across from the prince’s official residence, Marlborough House, from which the club took its name.
The Marlborough was unquestionably the most exclusive gentlemen’s club in London — the most exclusive, the most lavish, the most extravagantly furnished. No expense was spared to equip it with every conceivable luxury and convenience, and to do so in the most opulent manner possible. To be made a member of the Marlborough was to be accepted in the very highest strata of male society, a sign of recognition that in its way was akin to being awarded a knighthood or a peerage. It was no accident that only those who were well known to the Prince of Wales and were in his good standing were invited to put their names up for membership. After all, the club was founded by the prince and it was he who decided who was acceptable.78
Mycroft, while not a member (few commoners were), was well known to the doorman, so he and his two companions were shown directly to the Strangers’ Room while his card was conveyed upstairs. Within five minutes the imperious young equerry appeared to ask their business, and just as quickly disappeared, not to return for another half hour.
Now the young man was subjecting the three of them to a quick but thorough scrutiny, and was making no effort to be discreet about it. It fell to him to assure that there was nothing in their attire that would offend His Highness, for the prince was most particular in matters of dress, changed his own several times a day, and had very definite ideas of what was proper to wear in his presence. It was not unknown for him to publicly take to task anyone who had the cheek to appear dressed in a manner inappropriate to the time of day or occasion. While the young man did not exactly resort to examining their fingernails, he did cluck over the bit of dandruff on Mycroft’s shoulder, but after a flickering glance into the latter’s eyes wisely thought better of calling for a valet to attend to the matter.
These preliminaries concluded, the equerry conducted them up a sweeping marble staircase to the second level and, beneath glittering chandeliers, down a long red-carpeted hallway, its walls hung with oils depicting English hunting scenes. Everything was bright and shining and highly polished — the woods, the brass, the silver, the marble, the crystal — creating an atmosphere of comfort, of tasteful though unabashed opulence that was unmistakably masculine in flavor.
From the hallway they were conducted into a dimly lit billiard room smelling of rich leather, fine brandy, polished wood, and good tobacco. It was like no other billiard room Watson had ever seen (and he, being partial to the game, had been in many in his day). It was a large rectangular-shaped room, its walls wainscoted in paneled walnut, covered above with a tartan fabric, predominantly dark green in color.
Green leather banquettes lined two sides of the room, the leather obviously dyed to contrast perfectly with the color of the material on the walls. The banquettes were situated well back from the magnificent table that was the room’s centerpiece and which occupied its space with great dignity and unmistakable authority.
The room sat in hushed splendor when they entered, there being no one else present, and it took a moment or two to become accustomed to the dim light, for only the surface of the table was brightly illuminated. If the facility was used often or at all, it was not apparent; everything in it looked perfectly new. But in actuality it was a popular room with the members and was occupied frequently during the course of an average day. The secret of its pristine appearance was that it received, like the other rooms in the club, a thorough going-over after each and every use, and any signs of wear or stain or age were quickly attended to. The effect was to create the illusion that the room and its contents were prepared solely and especially for whatever party of individuals happened to next walk through the door, and that once they were gone, the room and everything in it would be gone also.
The equerry, having done his duty, departed without a further word, closing the door soundlessly behind him.
“Insufferable,” muttered Mycroft Holmes, scowling.
His younger brother considered him with one of his looks of wry amusement. Watson considered him not at all, having not heard him. He was totally captivated by the billiard table, lost in awe of its magnificence.
Although feeling that he shouldn’t, he could not resist placing a hand on the table to lightly caress its cushioned banks. The covering of green felt was in flawless condition, not a sign of wear in evidence, not a blemish or speck of dust. The highly polished wood of the table was a rich, warm walnut, the same hue as the paneled wainscoting of the room.
Watson leaned over to read the small bronze plaque affixed to the side of the table.
Presented to HRH the Prince of Wales on the occasion of his fortieth birthday Messrs. Thurston & Co., Ltd. Of Leicester Square
Of course the table would have come from Thurston’s: They were the premier manufacturers of billiard tables in all of England, and therefore the world. Deftly inlaid with mother-of-pearl and ivory, its workmanship was flawless, the grain of the wood without peer. It was, simply, a thing of beauty, a work of art equal to the finest piece of furniture that Watson had ever seen. He ran his hand over the highly polished surface. He could not even begin to estimate its cost, but guessed that it would amount to many times his annual pension. Indeed, it was probably a sum that would feed a working-class family for several years.
Watson crouched down and lined up an imaginary shot. The cue ball, thoughtfully, had already been spotted on its mark, placed in position for the opening shot. All that was required was the blow to send it on its way.
&n
bsp; At the other end of the table, precisely aligned on the green felt surface, was a perfect inverted pyramid of red balls, standing like a formation of soldiers on the field of battle, dumbly awaiting the violent blow that would destroy its perfection and cause it to burst apart with sudden fury.
Several minutes went by. The three of them waited quietly. Not a word passed among them.
Holmes wandered over to a rack of cue sticks along the wall and examined it disinterestedly. Mycroft merely stood and fumed. He did not like to be kept waiting in any event, but on this occasion was particularly eager to get it over with.
Several more minutes went by.
Suddenly and without warning a pair of double doors on the other side of the room flew open and, heralded only by a sharp intake of breath by Watson, in strode the Prince of Wales.
“Ah, Mycroft, old chap,” he boomed. “How very good to see you!” He strode around the billiard table, his hand extended.
The prince was an extremely large man of truly Falstaffian proportions — not tall, merely large. Indeed, Watson was surprised to find that he was well below average height, five foot six or seven at most, but his girth made him seem almost massive. And he looked considerably older than his forty-seven years, more like a man who was in his sixties. He had a large head, protruding, heavily lidded eyes, a long and rather full nose, and a neatly trimmed beard, pepper and salt in color. The admirable cut of his evening clothes made his swelling girth majestic and that, along with his booming voice, gave him a most imposing presence. It would not take much of an imagination to picture him dressed in the costume of an earlier age, bearing an uncanny resemblance to his distant ancestor, King Henry VIII.
Mycroft stepped forward, took the prince’s hand, and bowed. “Good evening, Bertie. Forgive me for taking you away from the tables.”
“It is just as vell that you had,” laughed the prince. “I was losing abominably. It is not my night for baccarat.” Then, catching sight of Watson and Holmes in the subdued light: “Who’s this you have vis you? Have these gentlemen been presented to me?”
The Further Adventures of Sherlock Holmes: The Whitechapel Horrors Page 28
