“Yes, I believe so, though perhaps not formally. My brother I think you will remember, but you may not recall his friend. May I name Dr. John Watson to Your Royal Highness?”
Watson bowed deeply, Holmes less so.
The man who would someday be King of England came forward. He ignored Watson for the moment and concentrated his gaze on Holmes, considering him with a distinctly cold look.
“So, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, we meet again,” said the prince, his tone suggesting that the memory of their previous meeting was something less than pleasurable to him. It was not quite a withering glare that he bestowed upon Holmes, but it came close.
Holmes returned the prince’s gaze without flinching. He waited an interminable moment before saying with icy correctness: “Your Royal Highness is kind to remember me.”
There was another awkward interval of silence during which Holmes and the prince continued to stare at each other, the prince with a fixity that any other man would have found terrifying, Holmes with a total lack of expression that under the circumstances could be considered only impertinent.
Mycroft coughed delicately and, casting his brother an urgent glance of warning, stepped in quickly to save the moment.
“Good of you to see us on such short notice, sir. Good of you, indeed.”
The prince finally looked away from Holmes and turned his gaze on Watson, changing his manner abruptly.
“Doctor, did I hear Mycroft refer to you as? A medical chentleman, are you?”
His voice, strange to note, had a guttural quality to it, a slight but obvious Germanic accent, and he seemed to have particular trouble pronouncing his r’s.79
“Yes, Your Royal Highness, though I am presently retired from active practice, I fear.”
“I see,” said the Prince. Then, harumphing: “There are those who vould say that I, too, am retired from active practice, so you needn’t apologize on my account.” He harumphed again, then threw back his head and laughed — an explosive, boisterous, jolly laugh that was highly infectious, the quality of the humor notwithstanding.
Mycroft and Watson joined in, of course, for when a prince of the royal blood is disposed to deliver of himself a merriment, a joke — especially a self-deprecating joke, even a feeble one (most especially a feeble one), it is only natural and polite, and certainly politic, to laugh along with him. Somehow, strangely, a joke seems that much more amusing coming from royalty, or from anyone in authority, for that matter.
Holmes did not laugh. His features remained devoid of expression.
The prince considered him under lowered brow for a moment, then purposely turned his broad back to him and walked to the billiard table, where he picked up a ball at random from out of the perfect pyramid and idly began tossing it in his hand.
“Vell, what is it, Mycroft? Somesing tedious, I warrant, from your brother’s sour countenance.”
Mycroft cleared his throat. “Something most delicate, Bertie. And I fear quite painful.”
“Oh!” The prince stiffened and gave him a look. “Really tedious, then. You come from Her Majesty, do you?”
All of a sudden he had become apprehensive. His accent had thickened noticeably, as it always did when he became upset.
Mycroft smiled weakly. “No, it is not that, Bertie.”
The prince sighed gratefully.
It was no secret that His Royal Highness did not get along with the Queen, and it was barely a secret that he was positively terrified of her. It was strange to see any man who was past middle age afraid of his mother, let alone such a commanding figure as the Prince of Wales. But then, the Queen was not any mother. She was strict, domineering, and demanding and held her family to the highest standards of conduct; and in her eyes her eldest son fell far short of the mark. She disapproved of him in no uncertain terms, being highly critical of his intemperate habits, his hedonistic, pleasure-seeking ways, and even his choice of friends. And she let no opportunity go by without telling him so.
That Mycroft did not bear ill tidings from the Queen was such a relief to the prince that whatever ill tidings he did bear could only pale in comparison. Accordingly, the royal mood brightened considerably.
“Vell, this calls for a trink, if anysing does. Brandy, everyone? Doctor, I take it you are not vun of those tiresome practitioners who adfocates abstinence?”
“Heavens no, Your Highness! Indeed, I often prescribe spirits for a variety of ailments — in moderation, of course.”
“Do you now? Do you indeed? I must consider you for the post of my Physician in Ordinary. The fellow I have now sinks I imbibe too much, damn him.” As if in reflex, he pulled his cigar case from an inner pocket.
“Sinks I smoke too many Havanas too. But a fellow’s got to have some vices, don’t he?” He favored Watson with a broad wink, and Watson, flattered beyond words, flushed with pleasure.
He could be forgiven. The prince had the knack of putting people at their ease and could be most charming when he set his mind to it. Indeed, some of his critics claimed he made a career of it. “He can charm the birds from out of the trees and the ladies from out of their knickers,” someone once said of him with only slight exaggeration and the merest hint of envy. That he also had remarkable success in calming the wrath of husbands he had victimized said much for the versatility of his talent, and, if anything, added to his stature.
To his critics, and there were many, this much-vaunted charm of his was one of his few saving graces, for he was not the most clever of men or the most knowledgeable or the hardest working. He had little talent for diplomacy or patience with the tiresome details of governance; he rarely read a book, knew little about world affairs, less about scientific matters, had a short attention span, and could be most intolerant, cruelly insensitive and highly irascible, especially when someone had the effrontery to subject him to anything that was the least bit boring. Early in life he discovered that charm could cover a multitude of sins, and if artfully applied could bend others to his will. Since it was something that came naturally to him anyway, it was a talent he was able to cultivate with such success that he deemed it unnecessary to make any serious effort in any other direction. And besides, what he could not accomplish with charm, he found he could generally accomplish by bullying. He was equally good at that.
At a summons on the bellpull, brandy and glasses were brought in without delay, not by one of the club’s servants, oddly enough, though they were conspicuous in great numbers throughout the club, but by a tall, cadaverously thin gentleman referred to by the prince, with obvious fondness, as Xtopher.
Mycroft, well-acquainted with the gentleman, made the introductions. He was the Honorable Christopher Sykes, known in the prince’s close circle of friends as the Great Xtopher. A rather humorless man from the look of him, and somewhat dull-witted in both appearance and manner, he seemed a strange choice to be on such close terms with the ebullient, fun-loving prince. But it was obvious he enjoyed the royal favor and, equally as obvious, that he was as devoted as a puppy. He catered to the prince hand and foot, performing the most menial tasks for him, anticipating his every wish. Rarely was he seen far from his side, despite the fact that he was sometimes used badly by his royal friend, and was often the butt of his practical jokes. More than one glass of port had been poured down his neck over the years, the contents of more than one ice bucket deposited in his lap.
Perhaps this was why the prince insisted upon keeping him in close attendance: The Great Xtopher was good for a laugh. He was the perfect fool and could always be depended upon to take it in good grace. No matter how great the indignity or cruel the treatment, he invariably responded (to the glee of those present) with a long-suffering, “As Your Royal Highness pleases.” And he was always there for the next time.80
Dull-witted appearance notwithstanding, he was perceptive enough to realize that Mycroft Holmes’s presence — along with that of his well-known brother, the consulting detective — must be of a confidential nature and of some importanc
e, so after pouring the brandy and handing the glasses all around, he made his excuses and discreetly withdrew, neatly sparing himself the awkwardness of being dismissed by the prince and thoughtfully sparing the prince of the awkward necessity of having to do so.
The door closed softly and once again the room became silent.
The prince took a sip of his brandy, observing Mycroft and Holmes over the rim of the snifter. He did not like the looks on their faces, and never one to readily undertake distasteful business when there was the possibility of putting it off, he didn’t give Mycroft an opportunity to explain the purpose of the visit.
“Come!” he said with sudden jollity. “Ve shall shoot a game of billiards. Who vill play vis me? Not you, Mycroft — you are a terrible player! In your hand a cue stick is a dangerous veapon. Doctor, how about you? You have the commendable look of a man vis a misspent youth. You know the game, do you?”
Watson looked very pleased to have been singled out. “I am not totally unfamiliar with it, Your Highness,” he admitted modestly.
“Ah-ha! I don’t like the sound of dat. I shall take care to be on my guard. And let me varn you, sir, that mine vas a misspent youth also, so you had best be on your guard. Come, choose your cue stick and name your vager.”
Watson looked flustered for a moment, then smiled and bowed.
“Allow me to defer to Your Highness,” he said politely but not wisely.
Mycroft winced, knowing what was to come.
“Very vell,” the prince said. “Let us make it interesting: Is ten pounds comfortable for you?”
Watson blanched. His army pension, his sole source of income, totaled a munificent eleven shillings sixpence a day. Ten pounds equaled more than two weeks’ earnings. To him it was a princely sum indeed, no pun intended. He swallowed hard. “As Your Royal Highness pleases,” he said with a casualness he did not feel.
It was just as well that he could not see the expression on Holmes’s face, which was hidden by shadow. It would have neither inspired confidence in his judgment nor done anything to improve his game.
Both men removed their coats and, in shirt-sleeves, went about the ritual of choosing their cue sticks and chalking them, like two duelists preparing for combat.
The table was set up for snooker pool, the most popular of the various billiard games. It was played with fifteen red balls (those placed in the inverted pyramid) and one each of pink, brown, black, green, yellow, and blue, those of the latter colors being spotted in designated locations around the table. In a classic demonstration of noblesse oblige, the prince waved aside the ritual drawing of lots to decide the order of play and generously invited Watson to make the first stroke, giving himself the advantage, of course, since there was virtually no chance at all of scoring with the opening shot.
But he hadn’t counted on Watson’s skill at the game. The best strategy in such a situation was to play for safety, and that was what Watson chose to do, aiming at the outside of the inverted pyramid of red balls, at the very last ball in the farthest row. Despite his nervousness, he hit it bang on target with just the right degree of force, the ball barely being nudged from its place. But the cue ball, amazingly, did just what the book says it will do when it is aimed precisely and at just the right velocity. It deflected off the target ball at exactly the right angle, struck the back cushion, careened off the side cushion, and, with stately grace, rolled slowly, slowly back toward Watson to return over the balk line, where it finally came to a halt — right behind the brown ball on the center spot.
It was a classic shot.
The prince contemplated the placement of the balls with a scowl, slowly shaking his head from side to side. “Snookered, by gad!” said the heir to the throne, glancing across the table at Watson with admiration. “You’ve played this game before,” he accused him.
Watson, to his credit, managed the affair with total aplomb, for no one was more surprised at the beauty of the thing than he. He stood tall and very dignified, his cue stick held in the parade-rest position, looking for all the world like a man who had done nothing out of the ordinary. But the truth of the matter was that in fifteen-odd years of trying, not only had he never made the shot before but had rarely seen anyone else make it so perfectly. Nodding his head politely in the prince’s direction, he said with almost excessive dignity: “Your Royal Highness’s stroke, I believe.”
From out of the darkness came a single word, a sound really, the source of it unmistakably Sherlock Holmes — one must assume that it was involuntary: “Hah!”
Watson’s opening was so deftly accomplished that the prince was left with an impossible shot. No matter what he did he would suffer a penalty, for the rules required him to strike a red ball before that of any other color, and this he clearly could not do, the brown ball being in his way. But he had no choice but to attempt it anyway, which he unwisely did like a bull in a china shop rather than with finesse, succeeding only in scattering the field to Watson’s benefit, leaving him now with a choice of several excellent possibilities.
Watson circled the table and examined the layout of the balls with care, absently chalking his cue all the while. Rather than selecting the easiest, most obvious shot, he chose one that if executed properly would leave the cue ball in the perfect position for yet another. Leaning over the table, he swiftly made it.
Kerplocketa! Into the corner pocket it went.
The next ball and the next were similarly dispatched — quickly, cleanly, and decisively, one after another in rapid succession.
The prince could only stand there and watch, the scowl on his face becoming deeper and deeper.
Finally came a ball that was not so accommodating. Watson attempted a tricky deflection shot that required some backspin, but it did not come off the way he had intended and the ball bounced off the rim of the pocket and stopped nearby, leaving the prince with an easy potshot. He took it effortlessly. However, he had no luck with the next one, and it became Watson’s turn again.
The remaining balls on the table were potted in short order, with Watson employing a variety of shots from his repertoire with admirable poise and skill. He had never played better. Almost every stroke that he attempted he made, and the few he did not were managed so well that the prince was left in an untenable position every time — tied up and in a tangle with nothing but impossible shots and forlorn hopes.
He was noticeably angry.
“We vill have another game,” he announced curtly when Watson dispatched the final ball with a click and satisfying clunk. “Same stakes.”
There was no mistaking the tone in his voice. Clearly, it was not an invitation but a royal command.
But this time Mycroft was determined. “Bertie, you must forgive me,” he stepped in, “but our business is of extreme importance.”
The prince shot him a look of displeasure, a look that men ignored at their peril. “It vill vait!”
Mycroft stood his ground, apologetically but insistent. “Of the utmost importance, I am afraid.”
The prince glared at him for a long moment, then sighed and dropped his stick on the table with a clatter. “Very vell then. You have my total attention.”
Mycroft took a deep swallow from his glass and began.
It was a pale, shaken Prince of Wales to whom Watson gently handed a second glass of brandy five minutes later. He sat slumped on the leather banquette, looking nothing like the imposing figure of before. His face was gray and haggard; his eyes were dull in their sockets. He had taken the news badly, and there was little that could be said or done to ease his distress.
Mycroft had done his best to be gentle, using all of the tact he was capable of, but even so, the prince was in a state of shock. He knew that his son associated with some fairly objectionable, even disreputable characters — what young man didn’t on occasion? (certainly he had when at that age) — but he never dreamed it was a homosexual crowd to which Prince Eddy belonged. And to think that one of them could be involved in this infamous
series of murders that was in all the newspapers! It was beyond belief! The very thought that his son and heir was in some way implicated, or could be tied even remotely to someone who was, came as a terrible blow, and it was enough to make him physically ill.
If the news should get out, the consequences would be disastrous, and the prince knew it. The scandal would be unbearable. It would have repercussions that would last for years, well into his own reign when the time finally came for him to ascend to the throne — if it ever did come.
And good God! What would he tell Alix, the boy’s mother? She would be inconsolable. And what would the Queen say? How could he ever face her? She would be furious, positively livid, and would blame it all on him, of course — just as she always blamed him for everything!
Maybe this time she will be right. He should have devoted more attention to the boy, kept him on a tighter rein. He should have been more strict, more aware.
The Queen will be unmerciful.
But that was the least of it. He looked up at them in disbelief, the full realization of it striking home. This scandal would cause incalculable damage; it would rock the very foundations of the monarchy. He harbored no false illusions: Given the tenor of the times, this thing could topple the throne. Victoria would be the last of the royal line, and he would never reign. After all these years of waiting, he would never be given his chance. They would all be sent off into exile, the lot of them: Uncles and sisters and cousins and sons, all to live out their lives in genteel poverty in some foreign place, humiliated, despised, and, worst of all, pitied, to join the ranks of other failed royal houses, useless to themselves and to the world, the objects of contempt and universal scorn.
The thought carried the Prince of Wales to the very depths of despair, and for the second time that day Watson feared that his medical services might be required.
But he had forgotten with whom he was dealing. This was a man whose background and training throughout the whole of his life had prepared him for one thing and one thing only: To lead other men, to set them an example. This was not a man to give into despair.
The Further Adventures of Sherlock Holmes: The Whitechapel Horrors Page 29
