The Deadwood Stage

by Mike Hogan

  Title Page

  Sherlock Holmes And Young Winston

  THE DEADWOOD STAGE

  By

  Mike Hogan

  Publisher Information

  First edition Published in the UK by MX Publishing

  335 Princess Park Manor

  Royal Drive, London, N11 3GX

  www.mxpublishing.co.uk

  Digital edition converted and distributed in 2012 by

  Andrews UK Limited

  www.andrewsuk.com

  © Copyright 2012 Mike Hogan

  The right of Mike Hogan to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1998.

  All rights reserved. No reproduction, copy or transmission of this publication may be made without express prior written permission. No paragraph of this publication may be reproduced, copied or transmitted except with express prior written permission or in accordance with the provisions of the Copyright Act 1956 (as amended). Any person who commits any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damage.

  Although every effort has been made to ensure the accuracy of the information contained in this book, as of the date of publication, nothing herein should be construed as giving advice. The opinions expressed herein are those of the author and not of MX Publishing.

  Cover image by www.huntingtown.co.uk

  Cover design by www.staunch.com

  Dedication

  To Mary

  Foreword

  A very considerable section of the population of Great Britain, and perhaps of the World, knows that my friend Sherlock Holmes, the first and still the foremost consulting detective, lived and worked at 221B Baker Street in London. Our rooms there attract visitors of all classes and nationalities, a nuisance that has necessitated the posting of a police constable on the pavement outside.

  However, it has come to my attention that some persons, even those living under wise stewardship of the British Empire, have formed the opinion that Winston Spencer-Churchill, the son of Lord Randolph and Lady Spencer-Churchill, was not a historical figure: that he was a figment of an author’s imagination, like Robin Hood or Pinocchio.

  I have decided to refute this monstrous imputation and set the record straight. I therefore lay before the public the hitherto untold story of the first meeting of Sherlock Holmes and young Winston Churchill, our subsequent association, and the adventures we shared.

  John H. Watson, M.D.

  1. The Marlborough Nephew

  An Incident in the Park

  On a blustery morning in the Queen’s Jubilee summer of 1887, I was examining the breakfast coffee pot in the hope of obtaining a last half-cupful, when my friend, Sherlock Holmes made what was for him a startling suggestion.

  “It has the makings of a charming, breezy day, Watson,” he said as he gazed out of our open sitting-room windows at the busy street below. “It is a perfect day for a stroll in the Park.”

  I was pleased to accommodate my friend, not only because the weather, after a succession of harsh, baking days, was agreeably fresh, but because I was worried about his health. Holmes’s recent exertions in the immensely convoluted Baron Maupertuis fraud had left his exceptionally supple mental faculties dulled and brittle. A nervous prostration had brought on the blackest of depressions. A saunter through Hyde Park with summer flowers in full bloom, the breeze stirring the leaves, and the waterfowl squabbling on the lake was just what this doctor would have ordered.

  Our stroll was not the relaxing experience I expected. Holmes set a brisk pace as he threaded through the pre-luncheon crowd circling the Serpentine. He tipped his hat or waved his cane to acquaintances in his easy, informal manner while his angular figure parted the throng of strollers like the cutwater of a twenty-knot armoured cruiser. As we reached the bridge, I was stung into remonstrance.

  “Holmes, you suggested a walk in the Park, not a footrace.”

  “Eh?”

  He stopped and turned back with a rueful smile. “Oh, my dear fellow, forgive me. You are puffing like a grampus. Come, we can take a rest here on this convenient bench while you catch your breath. We can smoke a quiet pipe out of the crowd.”

  He sat on the wrought-iron bench, and I settled gratefully beside him. A cool, refreshing wind blew across Hyde Park as we fumbled for our pipes. I filled my pipe and lit it with a match. Holmes gave me a sly look.

  I sighed. “Holmes, you are going to guess what I’m thinking again. It is poor conversation and irksome in the extreme.”

  He pouted, and blinked at me with a disappointed expression.

  “Oh, very well then,” I said. “Do your worst. What am I thinking?”

  “No, no, I am no stage mesmerist,” he said offhandedly. “I do not guess. But I agree with you that the Elizabeth Caspar case -”

  “Holmes! That is precisely what I was thinking about. You have deduced my thoughts exactly! How the devil did you read my mind?”

  He shrugged in his Continental manner.

  “It is a simple enough chain of reasoning. When I explain it, you will sniff and make some remark about how elementary the matter was.”

  I remained silent, as I knew he could not be. Holmes leaned back and took a pull on his pipe.

  “As we sat, an attractive young woman passed our bench. She wore a dark-blue shawl over a green, paisley-patterned dress. She was unchaperoned. Your eyes followed her as you reached into your pocket for your tobacco pouch -”

  “I say, Holmes.” I reddened.

  “You took on a considering expression as you recalled the facts, widely reported in the sensationalist Press, of the latest cause célèbre, the arrest of Miss Elizabeth Caspar for soliciting.”

  “Holmes, there are ladies within earshot!”

  “For soliciting for the purpose of prostitution on Regent Street, or perhaps Oxford Street. I understand from Inspector Lestrade that witnesses attest to various locations for the arrest.”

  He wagged his pipe stem at me. “Untrained observers, Watson: untrained observers. Even the police constables involved gave conflicting testimony. It is a matter of judicial concern that we rely so heavily on witness statements, when it is an oft-proven fact that only a trained observer, such as myself, can offer accurate and reliable evidence.”

  “Miss Caspar is a respectable woman, Holmes. She is a frock-maker with an established firm.”

  “Yes,” Holmes said. “I saw that thought cross your mind as you lit your pipe. Then your eyes narrowed, and you frowned as you wondered what a respectable young woman was doing out in Regent (or Oxford) Street at nine in the evening.”

  “The constable was adamant,” I said, “He testified that he had seen her twice or thrice before, talking freely with men. She denies it. What motive would he have for lying?”

  I heard a splash from the direction of the lake, followed by a cry, a high-pitched screech and a shout of “Stop, thief!”

  “A pertinent question,” said Holmes, “and one on which the case may - what’s the hullabaloo?”

  A burly man in a flat cap raced along the path towards us. A park attendant and several strollers took up the view holloa and pointed at him. Holmes and I leapt to our feet.

  Holmes adopted a peculiar stance in the centre of the footpath. He set one foot forward, knee bent, and placed the other foot twisted sideways behind him. He waved his arms like a magician casting a spell.

  “Stand aside, Watson,” he murmured. “I have the fellow.”

  He st
iffened his posture and emitted a strange keening sound interrupted by a succession of high-pitched yelps. The man thundered towards us and crashed full pelt into Holmes, knocking him off his feet and over the park bench. The man stumbled past me, and I brought him down with a rugby tackle.

  “I say, Holmes, are you all right, old chap?” I asked.

  “Yes, yes,” he said groggily. “Is he down?”

  “He is out cold. He knocked his head on a ‘Kindly Keep off the Grass’ sign. I have staunched the bleeding, but he is still out for the count. He was holding this.”

  I held up a gold pocket watch on a heavy gold chain.

  “Splendid.” Holmes stood unsteadily. I brushed off the detritus of leaves, grass cuttings, and soil from his coat and replaced his battered bowler hat on his head. He stood over the unconscious felon and smiled triumphantly.

  “You will have recognised, of course, the Shinden Fudo Ryu technique of Ninjutsu, the ancient martial art of Japan. It uses one’s opponent’s own vital energy against him. You saw how effective it was?”

  “Oh, yes,” I said with a smile. I did not mention how useful my training with the Blackheath Rugby Club had been.

  “The beast!”

  A young, fair-haired boy pushed through the ring of spectators that had gathered around the body on the grass. He wore a cutaway Eton jacket and black trousers that were soaked from the knees down.

  “He pulled my watch from my pocket, and he pushed me into the lake.” The boy shook his fist at the body on the grass. “Beast.”

  The thief began to stir, and I helped him to his feet. He stood, swaying slightly, looking down with a puzzled frown at the pugnacious boy glaring up at him.

  “You are a mean fellow to play such a trick,” the boy said as he poked his finger at the thief’s chest. “You should give up this shameful activity and take up gainful employment. My father says that they are crying out for men in the building trades.”

  “Why, you are Bonner,” Holmes said to the thief, “Bruiser Bonner. What are you doing up West, Bonner? Your pitch is Bethnal Green, is it not?”

  He turned to me. “Bruiser is one of the foremost bare-knuckle boxers in London. I saw him down Sketty George in three hours and forty-one minutes in the backyard of the Horn of Plenty public house at Spitalfields. He is a consummate sportsman.”

  “He attacked me from behind, sir,” the boy said fiercely. “I was feeding the under-duck. That was hardly sporting.”

  “I never meant any harm to the young gentleman,” said Bonner. “I tea-leafed his watch.”

  “My dear fellow, look at your hands,” said Holmes. Bonner held out two bruised and mangled hands with knuckles awry and evidence of several badly mended fingers.

  “Are these the hands of a pocket-picker?”

  Bonner hung his head. “I don’t know, sir, I’m sure.”

  “I see that a constable is approaching,” said Holmes. He turned to the boy. “Do you wish to press charges against this man?”

  I handed the boy his watch. He examined it carefully, opening the cover and checking the mechanism.

  He looked up. “Not if he will pledge to end his evil ways and search for honest employment.”

  “Bonner?”

  “I will pledge, sir. And sorry for the inconvenience, like.”

  “Very well,” said Holmes. “Be off with you.”

  Bonner picked up his cap, saluted, and turned away. Holmes took him by the shoulder and slipped a coin into his hand.

  “I hope I didn’t hurt you, Bruiser. I used the Ninjutsu.”

  “Kind of you I am sure, Mr Holmes,” said Bonner with a puzzled look. “And thank you for the shilling.”

  “You should get home as soon as possible, young man,” I told the boy. “There is an unseasonably chill wind in the air today.”

  The boy checked the time and slipped his watch into a pocket of his jacket. “I am late for an appointment with my mother,” he said. “Thank you, gentlemen, for your help. The watch is dear to me.”

  He solemnly shook our hands.

  “Here,” said Holmes, holding out a half-crown. “You might like to take a cab, under the circumstances.”

  “Thank you, sir. I have sufficient funds.”

  He turned away.

  “One question,” said Holmes. “You mentioned that you were feeding the under duck when you were attacked. The duck - singular?”

  The boy turned. “A mallard chick is backward and does not get its share of the bread. I am training it to stand up for itself and claim its rights. I call it the under-duck.”

  “I see,” said Holmes. “Thank you.”

  He took my arm and we sauntered down the path.

  “What an odd child,” he said. “I would have thought that the most discriminating youth could find use for a half-crown. With income tax at eight pence in the pound, it is no mean sum.”

  “Well, Watson? Come along, out with it,” said Holmes as we left Hyde Park at the Piccadilly end.

  “I think you know my views on the Law, Holmes,” I said stiffly. “We should have given your man Bonner in charge of the constable.”

  “Come, come, Bruiser is not a bad chap. He succumbed to overwhelming temptation. I expect that the boy fairly swung the watch in his face. Bruiser is a virile fellow. I would bet a sovereign to a halfpenny that he has several wives and dozens of children to support.”

  I laughed. “Very well.”

  “Let us take a stroll along Piccadilly. The work at the Shaftesbury Avenue side of the Circus is complete. The boy was correct about the builders; they are turning London into a gigantic construction site.”

  We braved the heavy traffic at the Circus and, slipping between the cabs, vans, and omnibuses, we gained the north side of the street.

  Piccadilly, our nearest approach in London to the Parisian boulevard, was thronged with carriages of every description. There were the fine barouches of rank, the broughams of beauty, the mail-phaetons of the ensign of cavalry, the shabby four-wheel growlers and hansom cabs of the gentleman, and the omnibuses of the humble. I nudged Holmes and nodded at a fine young lady in a glittering mulberry and green equipage with a sleek pair of matched greys. She glared at me and twirled her parasol in a pretty way.

  “I say, Holmes,” I exclaimed, smoothing my moustache.

  Holmes sniffed. “She with the umbrella?”

  He lifted his hat in greeting, and I hastily raised mine. The lady nodded distantly.

  “You know her, Holmes?”

  “She is an infamous poisonatrix, now on her second marquess.”

  “Oh.” I glanced back at the girl just as she turned again, lifted her parasol, and looked over her shoulder. She gave me a brilliant smile.

  I was utterly taken aback.

  What message had the pretty girl intended to convey? Hers was an arch look, a smile with the slightest hint of a pout; she had fluttered at least one set of eyelashes at me, if not both.

  No matter, I thought, tipping my bowler to a jaunty angle. An angelic face, a playful look, and a dazzling smile had uplifted the heart of an ignoble and unattached doctor of medicine.

  Holmes smiled and nodded at me, as if to confirm my conclusion. He took my arm, and we walked together in companionable silence.

  The Matter of the Watch

  “What of the boy, Watson?” said Holmes, as we passed the entrance to the Criterion Bar and Grill. He turned his penetrating gaze to me. “What is your opinion of him?”

  I considered. “There is little to go on. He was well spoken and well dressed. His watch was valuable. He had a slight lisp. That is all I can think of.”

  Holmes smiled. “I might be able to flesh out the picture. Twelve or thirteen, I would suppose: a typical specimen of upper-class English boyhood in the throes of awkward ad
olescence. Distant parents: you will have remarked the appointment with his mother. They will take luncheon at an hotel. Father will not attend, as he is busy in politics or the City.

  “The son idolises his father from afar and has absorbed, or partly digested, his radical conservative political views. In our short ornithological conversation the boy espoused the cause of democratic conservatism. He admonished this ugly duckling (and by analogy, the poor) to pull itself up by its bootstraps. You will have marked the Primrose League pin in his lapel.”

  “The Primrose League? A Conservative association,” I said. “They are pledged to uphold God, Queen, Country, and the Conservative Party.”

  “In what order of priority?” Holmes asked with a smile.

  “The boy seemed self-possessed,” I suggested. “He spurned your half-crown with aristocratic disdain.”

  “Confident to a degree,” Holmes answered after a moment of thought. “But he is something of a lonely boy, left to himself or under the feeble discipline of a younger sibling’s nurse.”

  Holmes tipped his hat to an acquaintance.

  “He is lightly built, but not altogether sedentary. He has the shoulders of an ardent swimmer, and the good posture of a frequent rider. The creases on his boots, and his threadbare knees and elbows, show that he is an inexpert roller-skater; he bears the marks of frequent spills. Judging from the vile carelessness with which he has knotted his tie, despite his maternal appointment and her inevitable annoyance, he is an untidy and thoughtless boy.”

  “One shoelace was undone,” I offered, thinking hard.

  “Oh, yes, he is a procrastinator. His left shoelace is frayed to the point that it will no longer tie; it has not been replaced. He will be scolded, as he has been scolded recently by his father in the matter of the watch.”

  “The watch, Holmes? What of it?”

  “A gold hunter as you saw, rather fine, with a ducal coat of arms engraved on the inside cover. You saw how keenly he examined it when I returned it to him.”