by Geri Schear
“How very odd. The papers said he acted alone. You don’t think that’s true, Holmes?”
“His act may have been his own but I am convinced others were involved in the planning. I have discovered that membership in anarchist organisations in Spain alone runs to tens of thousands. It does not take much to rouse a man’s rebellious tendencies. An unscrupulous individual can manage it easily enough. Learn where a man keeps his passions: a thirst for justice or a sense of being unfairly treated can become tools to persuade anyone that violence is not only justified but is for the greater good. Then you show him a target and simply wait. I believe that’s what happened to Angiolillo.”
Watson shivered and pulled down his overnight bag. With a look of annoyance he ripped off his black scarf and replaced it with the wool. He then shut the window. “Cold,” he said, by way of explanation.
We sat in silence enjoying our cigarettes. After some moments Watson said, “It’s a pretty alarming thought, Holmes, this idea of an international conspiracy designed to topple some of the great governments of Europe.”
For a moment I weighed telling him everything. But it is unkind, surely, to alarm him about a risk I cannot even be sure is real? Time enough for full disclosure once I have proof.
“Yes,” I replied. “But we need much more information before we can be sure.”
“So what did you do after you left Spain?”
“I will not weary you with all the details. Indeed, little of it is worth telling. I travelled around Europe purporting to be a wealthy businessman looking for investments. From Spain I went to Italy: they have many peculiar ideas about government in that country. I blame the Romans.
“However, Italy proved dull indeed, except for a charming afternoon when I had luncheon with His Holiness, the Pope. At his suggestion I headed to Naples where I learned of a thriving anarchist group in France, and so I went to Paris. There, I learned of an organisation who would stop at nothing to create a new world order, one in which Germany, not England, must be prominent. Only whispers, though. No one would speak aloud. All I could find was that they were located in Bavaria.
“In Munich I heard of a certain dealer in art and antiquities who has an interest in politics and I endeavoured to meet him, a man by the name of Porlock. He is an Englishman of German and Italian extraction and he divides his time between Germany and England.
“This man interests me exceedingly, Watson. I wrote to Mycroft and had him conduct some additional research. Between his efforts and my own, I learned that Porlock has been on hand whenever any political scandal has occurred. He was in France in ’94 when Marie Francois Sadi Carnot was assassinated, and a year later he was in Bulgaria when the former Prime Minister, Stefan Stambolov was murdered. He was also in Spain the day of del Castillo’s shooting...”
I did not add that he had been in London in February during the week of my assault and that he left the city the day Lady Dalrymple’s Rose Diamond was stolen. Nor that he was in London on the day I was followed to Simpsons by the asthmatic gentleman.
“Did you get to meet him?” Watson said.
I leaned forward and said, “Yes, I met him at the Nationaltheater München where so many of Wagner’s works premiered.
“I had heard from a very reliable source that Porlock was taking his family to the opera. Oh yes, Watson. He is a family man, a husband and father to two little girls. Quite the charming group they made as they sat together in the best seats. All of them with hair so pale as to be almost white. Even the wife. They presented a very model of the Aryan family.
“I had arranged for someone to introduce me and though I was presented as ‘Mr Bathgate’ I have no doubt at all the man recognised me.”
I managed to suppress a shudder but Watson knows me too well. “Is he as monstrous as all that, Holmes?” he asked me. “He had a profound effect upon you, I can see.”
“On the surface, no, he is perfectly affable. He bowed to me in that precise Germanic manner and said, ‘Mr Bathgate, is it? I am delighted to make your acquaintance.’ He affected a slightly Teutonic accent, but there is no denying his English origins. From the malice in his eyes I have no doubt my life would not have been worth a moment’s purchase if I’d been alone.”
“Good heaven! You must be careful, Holmes. If this man is as dangerous as you say, you could be at grave risk. A man who thinks nothing of striking down heads of state will hardly shrink from killing you.”
“I have no doubt you are right, my dear Watson.”
I said no more and after he finished his cigarette, Watson fell asleep. I found my mind too restless. It is still.
Porlock’s gaze was like gazing into the depths of a glacial lake. He stared into me, rather than at me. It felt as if my mind was being probed by a shard of ice. “I hope you are enjoying Munich, Mr... Bathgate,” he said. “True, our weather is not as congenial as it is in Italy, but we have, as you see, splendid music.”
Was that comment about Italy a guess, or does he know my movements? Almost certainly the latter.
“I do enjoy the opera,” I replied. “But Munich is certainly very chilly.”
“You must be careful where you go, my dear sir. Bavaria can be very dangerous. Just one misstep and you could fall off a cliff. Or down a waterfall.”
His pale, almost colourless eyes, sparked malevolently.
I replied, “I am always careful, Mr Porlock. It is why I am still here and others are not.”
For an instant, his face contorted into a vision of pure fury. He did not like the reminder that I walked away from Reichenbach while Moriarty did not. So, there is a link, then.
Later, when I returned to my hotel, I discovered my room had been turned out, my belongings slashed and on the wall, written in red paint, the words, “Go home, Mr Holmes.”
Since then I have felt his presence like a shadow on my mind. I hoped that shadow would fade when I returned to Britain, but it has not.
I must try to sleep. I will not let this loathsome creature distract me from my purpose.
September 15th, 1897
It was considerably after midnight before I finally fell asleep. By the time I woke, the fire was brightly lit and a second pot of coffee being poured. Watson had already dressed and dined. Indeed, he was on his second lot of kidneys when I came into the living room.
Mrs Hudson was humming and periodically stopped to make sure my friend had a full plate or to pat his shoulder.
“Oh, there you are, Mr Holmes,” said she. “What a pleasure it is to have my gentleman back home again. Now, sit you down and I shall get your breakfast.”
I winced at this demonstration of bright spirits. Still, I know it will only last until I leave a pile of newspapers on the floor, or conduct one of my more noxious experiments. Really, it is too bad people cannot understand I do not do these things merely for my own pleasure.
After a late breakfast I went to visit Mycroft in his Whitehall office, but first I stopped to talk to Billy.
“We was missing you and the doc, like, Mr ’olmes,” said he. “Rough old time of it we ’ad an’ all.”
“Well, I’m back now, Billy, and I have a job for you and the other lads, if you’re interested?”
“Cor, a job? You can count on us. Whatcher need doin’?”
I gave him specific instructions then took a cab to Whitehall.
Gillespie, Mycroft’s aide, greeted me warmly. I refused his offer of coffee and went straight up to Mycroft’s office.
He was pleased to see me, I think, but we spent no time on social niceties and instead got right down to the business at hand.
“You did a splendid job, brother, in Europe. I have done some searching and there is no doubt in my mind this Porlock fellow is worth further investigation.
“He has a house here in London, in Finsbury Park, where he stays f
or several months at a time, sometimes with his family, sometimes alone. Do you really think he recognised you in Munich?”
“I have not the slightest doubt of it,” I replied. “His malice was alive. I am not a fanciful man, but I vow my flesh crawled in his presence.”
“Hmm. Now he knows you suspect him, I think it may be some time until he returns to England. In the meantime, my agents on the Continent have him under surveillance and I have alerted the governments of France, Italy, Spain and Germany since they seem to be where he has the firmest foothold.”
“Is that enough?” I asked. “Can your agents not find something with which to charge him?”
He shook his head. “He’s far too clever for that. He hires underlings to do his dirty work and, I believe, he pays them well, when they succeed.”
“And when they fail?”
Mycroft drew his finger across his throat in a graphic representation of murder. “His sort does not allow for failure. Unfortunately, we have nothing to charge him with, and I do not believe the Continent will be any more successful than we. We must be patient and learn as much as we can. I cannot say whether the late professor’s organisation has reformed, but I would urge extreme caution, Sherlock. If he recognised you, if the people who have twice attacked you are in his employ... I need hardly say more.”
“I take my revolver with me everywhere I go, and I am being careful.”
“Do. Please do. I am quite fond of you, you know.” He gave me a quick smile and that, combined with his uncustomary kindness, filled me with alarm as little has ever done.
“By the way,” he said, handing me a photograph. “This may interest you.”
It was a picture of a group of young men standing on the lawn of one of our most prestigious universities. On the far right of the back row stood my old friend the late Professor, and standing beside him the pale and malevolent Albrecht Porlock.
4
September 16th, 1897
For a man who is a very epitome of the English gentleman: honourable, loyal, brave, John Watson is remarkably fond of a little housebreaking.
As soon as I told him of my plans his eyes lit up. Oh, he made the usual admonishments, an Englishman’s home is his castle sort of thing, but I knew it was merely a sop for his conscience. “If this man is as dangerous as you believe, Holmes,” he concluded. “You know you can count on me.”
“Always, my dear fellow. Always.”
“What is it you hope to find?”
“If we are very fortunate, I hope we shall uncover documents that will put a noose around his neck. Something so incriminating that nothing will save him. That is my hope. It is not my expectation.”
“Then why bother?”
“Because at a minimum I can expect to learn something of the man: his nature, his habits. Perhaps, even, his weaknesses.”
A little after midnight we made our way to Finsbury Park. This is a leafy suburb, more country than city, and very popular with the professional classes. It has neither the elegance of Knightsbridge nor the squalor of Whitechapel. It is pleasant, unobtrusive, and, to my mind, a peculiar place to find a lord of the criminal underworld.
Watson and I left the cab on the Seven Sisters Road and walked to the address Mycroft had given me.
“Are you sure the fellow isn’t home?” Watson whispered.
“Mycroft says he is still in Munich and won’t be back for a week. We should be able to work undisturbed. Relax, Watson. We shall be in and out in less than half an hour.”
“I hope so. One of these days we’ll be caught and that’ll be a fine how do you do. I can picture the headlines: Respected physician and renowned consulting detective convicted of burglary. Not how I would choose to end my career.”
“Hmph,” I replied. “At least in your scenario you get top billing, Ah, there’s the house.”
The home of Albrecht Porlock is ordinary, even elegant and faces the park. It is a three story building with a white stone exterior, a bay window at ground level with a rather savage looking holly bush all around the base of the building. I glanced up and offered a silent prayer that I wouldn’t have to climb the drainpipe. Who’d plant holly all around a building so even the drainpipe was protected by its thorns? A man who was anxious to keep out intruders.
We went up the steps and I pointed at the three locks set into the door. I took out my set of picks and began to work.
The first two unlocked easily enough but the third took a little longer. I jiggled it for several minutes and was at last rewarded by a satisfying click as the tumblers fell. I pushed the door open and stepped into the dark hallway. I was instantly on my alert. The house did not smell unoccupied. There was an odour of meat and, beneath it, something else. Something animal and dangerous. At almost the same instant I heard a low growl.
“Back, Watson! Back!” I cried as one of the two Dobermans leaped at me. I struck at the beast with my cane. It fell back with a snarl and his twin took up the attack.
The gaslight came on at the top of the stairs and a man’s voice demanded, “Who’s there? I have a pistol...”
A shot rang out and the dogs roared.
Watson half-pulled, half-dragged me from the building and between us we managed to get the front door closed against the beasts and their savage owner.
Several minutes later we sat on a soggy bench in the park trying to catch our breath.
“My heart is still racing,” Watson said. “Good God, Holmes, that was as unpleasant an experience as I’ve ever known. I thought the house was unoccupied?”
“So Mycroft said.”
“Well, it seems he was misinformed.”
“Indeed.”
Misinformed? Mycroft? I’ve never known such a thing to happen and the possible explanations alarmed me. Still, this was not the time to think of such things.
“We should not linger, Watson. If you have caught your breath, let us try to find a cab and return to Baker Street.”
“You’re sure you’re not hurt. I really thought that animal had taken hold of you.”
“I was fortunate that my cane protected me. My coat and gloves took the worst of it, I think. It would have been a lot worse if you had not pulled me to safety so quickly. You’re a good man to have in a crisis, John Watson.”
I couldn’t see his features properly in the darkness, but I think he smiled. “All the same,” he said, “I’ll have a look when we get home.”
We walked swiftly and quietly to the Seven Sisters Road and there we found a cab. Watson said, “Holmes?”
“Yes... Yes, Watson, just wondering...”
“Wondering?”
“What it is that Porlock is hiding in his house that he protects it in such a savage manner.”
It was almost two o’clock by the time we got back to Baker Street. I have a few scratches on my arm from the teeth of the beast but my clothes protected me from serious harm. I shudder to think what might have happened.
Watson cleaned the wound with antiseptic and poured me a brandy. Then, suddenly, he burst into laughter. “Oh, the look on your face when you saw those dogs, Holmes,” he said, tears spilling down his cheeks.
“I never thought to end my days as a meal for a pair of savage hounds,” I said, laughing just as loudly. Then, as the laughter subsided, “We have been very lucky. I do not mind telling you, Watson, it could have been exceedingly unpleasant. Those dogs can rip a man’s throat apart in seconds.”
“Do you mind?” Watson said. “I’d like my sleep without a serving of nightmares.”
For a medical man he can be surprisingly squeamish.
Watson went to bed but I sat up a long time. Several questions vexed me:
How had Mycroft’s information been so wrong? Why had Porlock returned to England? What secrets was he keeping? And how was I going to
gain access to that house?
At length I gave it up and went to bed. The temptation to theorise is great but there are too few facts and I am in danger of manufacturing clever answers with nothing to sustain them. Something here is most unpleasant and makes me uneasy. Well, who knows what tomorrow will bring.
I am going to bed.
September 17th, 1897
Two men are lurking across the street. I do not recognise them, but there is little doubt they are watching 221B.
I left Watson sleeping and walked to Mycroft’s office in Whitehall. The pair followed me the whole way, always keeping a considerable distance, but they made no secret of the fact that they were dogging my heels.
Dogging. Unfortunate choice of words.
They made no attempt to accost me and I made no attempt to lose them. I have other, more pressing matters to occupy me this morning.
Mycroft was alarmed at my report.
“It’s not like Frobisher to get it so badly wrong,” he said. “It might be an honest error, Sherlock. Or perhaps Porlock had a last minute change of plans...”
“Or perhaps your agent is less reliable than you suppose. Watson and I barely made it out of there without serious injury, Mycroft. I have other business of my own to occupy me, you know. I do not need to be your lapdog.”
Dog. There’s that word again.
“I really am sorry, Sherlock. I understand your anger. I am angry too. I can bring Frobisher in and question him-”
“No,” I said. “Do not alert him that you have any suspicions. Just keep a close eye on him.”
We sat in silence for several minutes, lost in our thoughts.
“We still need that information, Sherlock,” Mycroft said at last. “I do not suppose you’ll be able to gain access to the house for some time. Porlock will be on his guard. But in a few weeks, you need to try again. At least this time you can go in knowing what awaits you.”
