by J. R. Trtek
“Why no, sir,” replied the American, who then gave a mild start.
“Drinking warmed milk could merely be personal preference,” Holmes said. “But I chose to assume it is a reflection of digestive troubles.”
Blenkiron nodded.
“Well played, sir,” he declared, lifting his cup at my friend. “Let me admit to suffering from such problems. The milk calms me down below.”
At that moment, the elder Holmes brother returned in the company of a large-framed man with a florid face. As we all rose from our chairs, the newcomer’s shrewd eyes immediately fixed upon me through tortoiseshell spectacles.
“Who is this person?” he demanded before there had been any introductions. “Why is he here?”
There was an awkward moment of silence before Mycroft Holmes stepped forward.
“This is Dr. John Watson, Sir Walter,” he said. “You may have heard of him as my brother’s former consulting associate.”
“I don’t give a damn if he’s Jesus’s current batman,” exclaimed Bullivant. “Get him out.”14
I looked at both Mycroft and Sherlock Holmes with some embarrassment and made as if to go, but from the corner of my eye I sensed a discreet gesture from Blenkiron suggesting I remain.
“I have placed my life in Dr. Watson’s hands on more than one occasion, Sir Walter,” declared Sherlock Holmes. “I have no hesitation in trusting him with the destiny of our nation, and I request that he be allowed to remain.”
“The hesitation is mine, not yours, Mr. Holmes.” Bullivant transfixed me with his stare. “What purpose does he serve here?” he asked, looking once more at Mycroft.
The older Holmes did not respond, but rather deferred again to his brother, who said, “I have recruited him for my enterprise, as I have recruited the others.”
“Yes,” replied Bullivant, “but Messrs. James and Hollins and Steiner do not sit here in the innermost circle, do they? It was a breach of security to inform him of this house’s existence, let alone allow him to enter it. I am your immediate superior, Mr. Holmes, as I have constant need to remind you. You should have asked permission for this rash act, permission that would not have been granted in any event.”
“Sir Walter, I can more than vouch for the doctor,” asserted Mycroft Holmes. “And, if I do not appear too pre-emptory, please do recall that I in turn am your immediate superior. I confess it was I who granted Dr. Watson entry, and I also should very much prefer that he remain.”
Bullivant exhaled with force and then reluctantly nodded.
“Very well,” he said in a tired voice, motioning for us to sit down as he took to the remaining empty chair. “Mycroft, on your recommendation, we will let the matter drop. Let us get on with the business, then. So, Mr. Blenkiron,” he said, now ignoring me altogether, “What had you heard from your man Scudder before he disappeared?”
“I have only one small item that he passed on to my government a few days ago,” the American admitted. “That item, however, would appear to have great significance.”
“Yes,” said Bullivant. “Mycroft indicated you had something of importance. What the devil is it?”
“It is, Sir Walter, just a pair of phrases: ‘Black Stone—part of Cerberus.’”
Mycroft Holmes appeared intrigued, while Bullivant awkwardly cleared his throat. Sherlock Holmes merely sat and watched, his face impassive.
“And what are those phrases supposed to mean?” asked Sir Walter.
“Aside from the mythological reference, I do not know,” admitted Blenkiron.15 “The only other thing I can tell you is that, whatever their meaning, they must have a heap of import for the Germans.”
Bullivant again cleared his throat and then spoke. “Have you any thoughts, Mr. Holmes?”
The detective leaned back and made a steeple with his fingers.
“It appears the two phrases must be taken together,” he said, “and thus we must pay equal attention to the non-mythological one: Black Stone. Mr. Blenkiron, you say the American government came by this through Franklin Scudder?”
“It was all he was able to write upon a small scrap of paper which he left for one of our agents to retrieve at a designated site,” the American replied cautiously.
In the corner of my eye, I saw Mycroft Holmes and Bullivant both shift in their chairs.
“Was it Traill’s, John?” asked the elder Holmes brother.
“Yes,” admitted Blenkiron after a moment. “So you know of the bookstore, Mycroft?”
Bullivant sniffed loudly.
“Of course we do,” said the older Holmes brother, smiling.
“Traill’s Bookshop in Haymarket Street,” Blenkiron said to Sherlock Holmes and me almost immediately. “I myself own it as a pastime, for I love books and enjoy dealing in them, but in addition, it has served my country’s intelligence service as a way station, in somewhat the same manner as this house serves you.”
“Yes,” said Mycroft. “That is what we have been given to understand. You have owned it for the past two years, have you not, John?”
“Yes, and it was my intention to eventually share with you knowledge of the place and its role, Mycroft.”
“Which you have just done,” replied the elder Holmes brother with another gracious smile. “As we shared with your government information about my brother’s mission to your country—from the beginning.”
“I get your point,” said the American.
“If we may return to the issue at hand,” Sherlock Holmes interjected, “it should be noted that while Cerberus, whatever it is, incorporates the Black Stone—whatever, in turn, that happens to be—it by implication has other parts as well. The mythological Cerberus had three heads in toto, did it not?”
“Three was the most common number mentioned,” said Blenkiron, “if I’m remembering my classics correctly.”
“Well, at the moment, only the Germans—and, perhaps, Franklin Scudder—know the exact count,” said Mycroft Holmes. “I refer to Mr. Scudder in the present tense, for I expect he is still alive. Did your examination of his flat near Portland Place support that belief, Sherlock?”
“It did,” replied the detective. “The body in Scudder’s flat is most definitely not that of Scudder. Dr. Watson and I have established that.”
Blenkiron cocked his head slightly, and Mycroft Holmes nodded.
“I thought such might be the case,” the latter said. “I had been informed that the body was found in pyjamas, and from what little I do know of Scudder, it seemed unlikely that he of all people would be caught sleeping, as it were.”
“Where may he be, then?” asked Bullivant. “And why has he not reported? Why could he not simply go to the American embassy?”
“Or more pointedly,” noted Mycroft Holmes, “why has he not fled to your bookshop in the Haymarket, John?” He drew himself up and gave Bullivant a look of mild reproach. “Of course, were Safety House available to the agents of our allies, as I have frequently urged, its address might have previously been given to Scudder as an additional haven from his pursuers.”
Bullivant clasped his hands together. “I grant that you are correct in that hindsight, Mycroft, but hindsight provides precious little solace in our present situation, does it?”
“The reason Scudder has not attempted to find refuge on Haymarket Street is because he was directed not to,” said Blenkiron, apparently desiring to steer the discussion away from further discord. “The shop’s real purpose is not known to anyone else—other than you British now, I hope. Scudder had left his note there earlier with complete discretion, but he had also been directed to not approach the bookstore if he ever felt he were being closely watched or pursued. We don’t want the identity of the shop compromised—even at the risk of an agent’s safety, I must confess.”
The elder Holmes shrugged. “In our present situation, I trust the experience and judgment of my brother. Well, Sherlock, what can we do to find Scudder?”
“By which question,” the younger Holmes
replied, “you mean what can I do to find him.”
Mycroft smiled. “You know I never enjoy stating the self-evident to you.”
“And I am equally aware that you savour even less having the obvious laid out for you,” said Sherlock Holmes. “However, for the record—if this secret gathering even has a record—I think it obvious that Scudder knew he was being watched and that his life was in danger. He no doubt made arrangements to make it appear that he had committed suicide—apparently by obtaining a body from some latter-day Burke and Hare16 and then setting up the scene in his flat before somehow escaping the building, hoping that his pursuers would believe he had taken his own life.”
Intent on justifying my presence at this council, especially to Bullivant, I steeled myself, leaned forward and said, “If he did escape the building.”
All eyes turned toward me, and I meekly added, “Could he not, perhaps, still be within that same block of flats?”
My friend ignored the scowl that appeared on Sir Walter’s face.
“I admit that was a thought I pondered there in Scudder’s sitting room as I waited for you to finish your examination of the body,” he said. “It would be a bold move on the man’s part, but the likelihood of it hinges upon his personality and character. Do you have any understanding of that character and nature, Mr. Blenkiron?”
The American leaned back and imitated Holmes’s previous gesture of making a steeple with his fingers. “I may have some small insight into him, I suppose, but, to be honest, Franklin Scudder has remained a cipher to many of us, even though he’s one of the best players of the game I’ve ever seen—but then, because he is one of the best, perhaps he should be expected to remain an unknown.
“The man is honest, certainly, but he is also half crank, half genius. He’s brilliant at working a crowd. I’ve seen him pose as a Harvard professor lecturing on Ibsen—Ibsen, for God’s sake—and fooling everyone within earshot, myself included, and I knew it was a ruse at the time! However, his one fault is a decided preference for playing a lone hand.”
“Ah,” said Holmes. “Cooperation is not in his blood.”
“Exactly,” said Blenkiron.
“And if he is loath to bring in partners of his own trade,” the detective went on, “he would be even less likely to seek assistance from a stranger.”
“That’s a fair bet, Mr. Holmes,” replied Blenkiron. “For Scudder to, say, barge into another man’s rooms and take up residence there would be most unusual for him.”
“But this is an unusual situation,” I observed.
“In fact, Doctor,” said Bullivant dismissively, “it is a situation not at all unusual for the game, is it, Mycroft?”
The elder Holmes brother sighed. “Well, it is certainly not uncommon. I will grant you that, Sir Walter. Sherlock?”
“I have been wrong before.” The detective glanced at me and smiled. “Indeed, I have been wrong far more often than the public suspect; however, if I must choose in this instance, I opt to believe that Scudder is not in hiding at Portland Place. All of London may be a dangerous place for him, but it still gives him a wider pitch in which to find solitary concealment than does the enclosed block of flats where he began. Even if the building were being watched, as I am certain it was and may still be, I believe an agent of Scudder’s calibre would have found means to leave unnoticed.”
“Perhaps by posing as a tradesman,” suggested Mycroft. “A milkman, say.”
“Precisely, my astute brother.”
“In any event,” said Bullivant, “I understand the inquest concerning the body found in the flat is to be tomorrow.”
“Yes,” replied Sherlock Holmes. “That is what Magillivray conveyed to me.”
“The inspector will orchestrate the proceedings nicely,” noted the spymaster.
“He is a good man,” observed Mycroft. “I believe the time is coming when he should be granted admittance to this circle.”
Sherlock Holmes discreetly looked at me and smiled.
“Perhaps,” admitted Bullivant, who also cast a glance in my direction, albeit a darker one. “Particularly since the circle seems to be expanding with every passing day.”
“I suggest that Dr. Watson be present at the inquest,” said Holmes abruptly. “It is natural that he should be asked to testify,” my friend said, as all eyes fell on him. “He treated Scudder for headaches only last week.”
“And what relevance do headaches have to this situation?” asked Bullivant sourly. “Other than as metaphor. Magillivray will be at the inquest, after all.”
“The inspector will be intent on making his case to the jury,” Sherlock Holmes explained. “The doctor’s testimony could help influence that panel to make the very judgment you desire, Sir Walter, and he would also be able to observe the proceedings at greater leisure when not being questioned, all in the bargain.”
“You believe there may be German agents present?” asked the American.
Holmes shrugged. “For all I know, Mr. Blenkiron,” he said with a wry smile, “some of your own agents may be there as well. Another pair of eyes would simply be helpful, and I must travel to Sussex early tomorrow to meet with my other master,” the detective declared, “the estimable Heinrich Von Bork.”
“My brother’s suggestion is reasonable, Sir Walter,” said Mycroft. “As a physician who treated Scudder recently, Dr. Watson’s presence would create no suspicion, and his testimony—properly given—may be very helpful,” he added glibly.
Bullivant thought for a moment and then waved his hand in an exasperated manner. “Of course,” he grumbled. “Do as you wish. However,” he said, leaning forward in Blenkiron’s direction, “We still have these cryptic references to Black Stone and Cerberus to sort out.”
Blenkiron nodded. “I have put my people onto it as, no doubt, you will yours, Sir Walter, all the while hoping that Scudder eventually turns up with an explanation.”
There followed several minutes of discussion among Bullivant, Blenkiron, and Mycroft Holmes on matters of which I had no understanding, and so, as the conversation ground on, I glanced about the room while Sherlock Holmes merely stared at the ceiling.
Eventually, Bullivant slapped the armrests of his chair and got to his feet. “All right, then. Everything seems in order, I suppose. Unless there is more you want from me, Mycroft, I will go.”
“I believe we have covered all items in the agenda,” said the elder Holmes brother, smiling gently. He and the rest of us also rose. “Thank you for attending, Sir Walter. I will convey more as needed.”
And with that, after acknowledging everyone but me, the spymaster left the room in the company of Mycroft Holmes.
“Well, Dr. Watson,” said Blenkiron, settling back in his chair and once more reaching for his cup of milk as the house door closed, “you have had your christening with Sir Walter Bullivant.”
I could only smile awkwardly as Mycroft Holmes reappeared.
“And that ceremony completed,” said his brother, “it becomes necessary to instruct the doctor in what to say at tomorrow’s inquest.”
“And how to say it,” added Mycroft.
“That is, how to say it in such a way that people will believe you,” amended Blenkiron.
“Once that is accomplished,” declared Sherlock Holmes, “I will extract you from this coven of deceit, old fellow, and make certain to get you back to the safety of Queen Anne Street for the night.”
§ § §
On the following day, as both witness and secret observer, I attended the inquest into Franklin Scudder’s presumed death. My testimony included a description of having treated him for migraines, but following the instructions of Blenkiron and both Holmes brothers, I also declared—quite untruthfully—that I could see the troubling suggestion of suicidal tendencies in the American after the fact.
A man I later supposed to be one of Sir Walter Bullivant’s agents appeared in the guise of a partner in some publishing firm and identified Scudder as the agent of a
paper firm from across the Atlantic, explaining that the deceased had brought him propositions concerning wood-pulp. The American’s valet, that sad little man who had discovered the body, said nothing that was new to me, and the glass of sleeping-draught turned out to have been quite harmless.
It was late afternoon when the jury finally declared that Scudder had taken his own life while being of unsound mind, the self-execution accomplished by means of a gunshot to the head. The man’s effects were authorised for transfer to his nation’s consul, and the hearing disbanded.
As I joined the small, slowly departing crowd, I saw from the corner of my eye one of the other onlookers gracefully step in front of another man, who had paused to allow him to join the exiting queue.
“Thank you much,” came a resonant voice, and I looked up at once to see that same weathered face with drooping moustache that I had encountered on the stair at Portland Place the day before.
Stirred into sudden alertness by my second encounter with this individual, I looked back into the room for Magillivray, who had presented Scotland Yard’s case, but I failed to espy the inspector, who had evidently left the room through another door. Torn between the choice of either following the anonymous man or alerting Magillivray, I decided to pursue the former.
Discreetly and at a distance, I trailed my quarry from the government building and then along a crowded pavement. My immediate fear was that the stranger might seek a taxicab or lonely hansom at any moment, but he kept striding along so briskly that soon I instead became anxious about matching his pace on foot—it was clear that he was a devotee of long, strenuous hikes.
The man had gained some distance on me when, fortunately, he stopped to enter a milliner’s, where he spent the better part of a quarter hour. I bided my time somewhat awkwardly in front of a bakery and then once more took up pursuit when he left the hat shop, no longer as far ahead of me as before.
In much the same matter, I followed him with stops and starts across the expanse of the City,17 finally approaching that block of flats in which Franklin Scudder had resided, and where I had first encountered the man I now surreptitiously pursued.
