by J. R. Trtek
Gresson won handshakes from all his companions on the stage and returned to the lectern to accept the majority’s continued applause. As Holmes remained still beside me, I followed his lead; however, I had to admit that the American had made a solid prima facie case for his side, though I did not agree with it.
“Let us go,” said Holmes as several from the audience jumped upon the dais to further congratulate the American orator and the hall fell into a boisterous intermission. “I have observed what I needed to see.”
We negotiated our way through a surging throng and exited the hall to regain Newmilns Street. Following a line of street lamps, Holmes led me briskly away from the neighbourhood and back toward the River Clyde, and it was only after several minutes that he spoke.
“Blenkiron is certain that Abel Gresson is one link in the Black Stone network,” he said without preface. “Bullivant has charged us to find the final link in the chain to Biggleswick. The first step in that determination was taken tonight, by Shinwell Johnson.”
“He passed on the false document to Gresson?” I asked.
“No, not to Gresson directly,” Holmes reminded me. “Bullivant and Blenkiron arranged the creation of a false page supposedly torn from the Weser Zeitung—it is a newspaper published in Germany. In Bremen, to be more specific. The sheet holds some interesting news—false, of course—regarding the influence of Berlin on the Austrian government’s decision to allow some socialists to attend the upcoming Stockholm conference.154 It also contains an assertion that, during the crisis of 1914, the Kaiser sent a telegram to the Czar agreeing with Russia’s suggestion that Austria negotiate for peace with Serbia rather than pursue war. The contents of that apocryphal telegram are even included in the forged article.”
“It all sounds rather esoteric and obscure.”
“Yes, it is meant to be. No such reports are known to have been made anywhere, so that anyone citing them in future must have learnt of them from a chain that includes Gresson. Shinwell Johnson, playing the part of a vocal socialist from the south of London, was to casually show the page to a man named Toombs, who is a follower of Gresson. Our hope was that Toombs would take the page and show it to his leader. Johnson has succeeded in that endeavour.”
“How can you be certain?”
“For reasons of discretion, Johnson was instructed not to approach either you or me at the rally. However, if he were successful at letting the false page fall into Toombs’s hands, he was to indicate that in the meeting hall tonight by fanning himself with his hat.”
“I saw him do that constantly.”
“Yes. We have accomplished each of the three goals I wished to attain on this trip: convey further instructions from Bullivant to Andrew Amos, confirm that Gresson has seen the false newspaper article, and glean information about Gresson from immediate observation of him.”
“That third wish was granted also?”
“Oh yes. Thus far, Bullivant and Blenkiron have known nothing of Gresson’s movements south of Glasgow. Where he goes and by what means has been a mystery. From what I saw of his person, however, I believe he travels along the coast while serving on one or more merchant ships.”
“How so?”
“No doubt you caught the nautical references in his remarks on the dais before his speech—a dogwatch, for example, is a period of work duty.”
“I am quite aware of that,” I said. “The last dogwatch is from six to eight o’clock.”
“Just so. You may also have noticed the nautical tattoo on the back of Gresson’s left hand, as well as the fact that he was chewing tobacco, an activity not restricted to but certainly associated with both ships and mining. He has neither the hands nor the face of a miner, however—nor the hands of a common sailor, either, though his walk is clearly that of a man who spends much time at sea.”
“You think he may be a ship’s officer, then?”
“Yes,” said Holmes. “At least, he serves in such a capacity intermittently, for we know that he spends a good deal of time on shore as well. I suspect he goes to sea now and then, when it suits his needs for travelling on behalf of the Black Stone, and that suggests he is perhaps a temporary purser or steward aboard one or more vessels. There are several that sail south from Glasgow, travelling down the coast and among the Hebrides, both near and far.”
“And that region includes Skye, where Launcelot Wake is supposedly hiking at this very moment.”
“Yes,” admitted Holmes, who added nothing more to my comment.
We walked in silence, retracing our steps backward along the way we had come, past the park where we had met Andrew Amos.
“We shall enter the subway,” Holmes said, “at the Kinning Park station, to be precise.”155
At length, we found the station entrance and descended to the platform, which was relatively deserted.
“Johnson should be arriving shortly,” Holmes said. “Our conversation with him will be brief, and then we shall return to the hotel.”
As Holmes stood in thought, I buried my hands in my coat pockets and slowly walked round. At length, I heard other footsteps descending, and turned to see a familiar figure shamble toward us.
“Greetings, Mr. Holmes” came the low, raspy voice of Shinwell Johnson. “And I of course recognise you, Doctor,” he said to me. Smiling, he added, “I do not believe I’ll have to ask you to produce one of Mr. Bullivant’s purple-and-white wafers, eh?”
I had not seen Johnson in the flesh for over five years. The former criminal, who had become one of Holmes’s principal agents during the later portion of the detective’s practice, appeared the same bluff, jovial and earnest person I had known in the past.
“You accomplished the transfer of the false newspaper page?” Holmes enquired.
“I did, yes,” said Johnson. “I sidled up to that man Toombs in a pub before first closing156 and began spouting off about the war and socialism. I mentioned that I had access to a trove of publications from Germany and Austria, and then I pulled out that page. Toombs took great interest in it and asked if he could have it in order to show it to a friend, a proposal I readily accepted.”
“Good,” said Holmes. “We know that Toombs is one of Gresson’s leading henchmen. No doubt he has already shown the article to his boss.”
“Sir Walter Bullivant told me that, having completed that task, I am to follow any further instructions you might have.”
“Yes, there is one other chore for you to complete,” said Holmes. “I wish you to make enquiries at various shipping offices. Ask to see crew rosters and passenger lists for as many independent vessels as you can.”
“And what is the goal of my search?”
“The name of Abel Gresson on any of those manifests,” said Sherlock Holmes. “Note the vessel or vessels and his position aboard each. Once you find him, make certain you do not stop your search at that point. He may be serving from time to time on more than one ship.”
“As you wish, sir.”
“Once you have concluded that task,” Holmes went on, “submit your findings to Andrew Amos and then take them on to Bullivant in London. He will forward them to me.”
“Of course. Is that all, Mr. Holmes?”
“Yes,” said the detective. “And you performed good work in getting that false document into the hands of Toombs, and through him, to Gresson.”
“Another humble contribution to the cause,” said Johnson with a chuckle. He turned toward me. “Take care of yourself, Doctor. I reckon I will see you both in London in the days ahead,” he said as he vanished up the stairs. “Oh, and Farrar sends his regards, sirs,” he called to us.
The following day, Holmes and I journeyed south from Glasgow, enjoying the relatively short trip through Kilmarnock and on to Dumfries, which we had not visited in almost three years.
We debarked our carriage and then left the station with baggage in hand, for our intent was to remain a night in the town before returning to Biggleswick. As we made our way toward the centre o
f Dumfries, I halted in my tracks and exclaimed under my breath.
“Have you seen a ghost?” asked Holmes amiably.
“A demon, more like it. Look there,” I said, nodding ahead and to the right, for both my hands held valises.
“Ah,” murmured Holmes. “It is our four-legged friend again.”
Trotting down the street came the same ill-tempered cur I had encountered at the train station three years before, only this time approaching in the company of a different master: not the old, drunken man who had been the animal’s companion on that earlier occasion, but rather a much younger fellow who appeared to be a herd.
“I recall that dog most pleasantly,” said my friend, who had enjoyed a much different experience with the creature.
As we both stood to one side of the street—and I prepared for the worst—the dog and its new master passed us, perhaps from a distance of five feet. The man flashed a quick smile in our direction, but the animal ignored both of us.
“My God,” I said, watching the pair recede into the distance. “The dog did nothing.”
“Indeed,” said Sherlock Holmes. “That is most curious, is it not? Well,” he said with a smile, “shall we proceed? I believe you expressed a desire to put up at one local inn in particular.”
“Yes,” I replied as I set off to the northwest, leading Holmes in that direction. “I wish to obtain rooms where I was taken into custody by Charlie Taylor.”
“Do you believe your constable may still be here?” asked Holmes. “Or do you suppose he is in France?”
“I confess that learning the answer to that question is a prime reason for coming here,” I said. “If we have an opportunity and he has also remained in Galloway, I should wish to visit Ewan Clark as well.”
“Ah yes, the innkeeper who lives off to the east,” said Holmes. “There was also Sir Walter Bullivant’s godson, was there not? But you have told me you saw him in France on more than one occasion, I believe.”
“Sir Harry Christey? Yes, he is an officer on the staff of the high command,” I said. “Rather changed in some ways,” I said. “Do you remember me telling you how he was a Free Trader and leaning a tad pacifist before the war?”
“I do.”
“Well, he’s quite the convert these days,” I said. “All for crushing the Huns and stringing up the Austrian emperor as well as the kaiser. Ah, the place is in sight,” I said, nodding toward the inn ahead.
I quickened my step, and Holmes fell in behind me. Within seconds, we entered the establishment where I had stayed the night more than once in decades past, and within whose walls I had been taken prisoner under suspicion of being a murderer three years before.
I almost expected to see the same two grizzled men that had been amused by my apprehension, but the place proved empty, save for one familiar face that sat behind the counter, reading a book.
“Dr. Watson!” said Charlie Taylor, looking up.
The constable, out of uniform, closed the volume and beamed at me. Smiling, he awkwardly leaned over the counter, extending his arm.
I let go my luggage and eagerly took his hand to shake it with enthusiasm.
“Constable!” I exclaimed. “It is so good to see you after such a long time.”
Taylor winced slightly at my words, and he squeezed my hand before breaking off our handshake. He glanced at Holmes and made as if to speak, but remained silent.
“This is my friend, Sherlock Holmes,” I said.
Holmes smiled and accepted Taylor’s hand, once more extended.
“We are visiting Dumfries for a day,” I said, “and thought we might stay the night here, if there are rooms available. That is, should I be asking you? I see that you are not—”
“Not in uniform, no,” said Taylor. “Neither police nor army,” he said. “Not now.” He smiled awkwardly at us and then made his way around the counter so as to be on the same side of it as we.
He did not rise, however, to take the journey on foot.
Instead, we watched him emerge from behind the barrier in a narrow wheelchair, his hands deftly rotating its large wheels. From the waist up, Charles Taylor appeared more robust than he had the last time I had seen him. His face was full of colour and his arms even stouter than before. Below the hips, however, his body ended abruptly, with what I assumed were stumps buried in unused inches of trouser legs rolled up to form two neat cylinders of tweed laid end to end.
“It happened during the Somme,” Taylor said simply, without elaboration.157 “But san fairy ann.”158
I nodded, and Holmes leaned on the counter respectfully, giving the man his full attention.
“I enlisted in the Galloway Pals,” Taylor said.159 “Along with Boyd Watson, the younger Murray brothers and all the rest, including good old Ewan Clark.”
I bent down to address Taylor. “Is he—Clark, that is—is he…?”
“At home,” the man said. “At that family inn near the foothills. You’ll be seeing him as well, Dr. Watson?”
“Of course,” I said.
I looked at Holmes, who silently affirmed my statement.
“He’s different too, you know,” the former constable said. “You’ll see.”
“How was your treatment?” I asked. “I have been in France on occasion as well, as an observer for the RAMC.”
“Yes, I was aware of that, Doctor,” said Taylor. “I once crossed paths with Sir Harry Christey in the trenches, a bit before the big offensive started. He’s a lieutenant colonel now.”
“Yes, I know.”
“He recognised me at once and spoke to me just like a regular person, ignoring our differences in rank—as he ignored our class differences when we tried to start that fellow’s aeroplane down in the southern field before the war. He told me you were in the medical corps, teaching the ones that took care of us, and that you’d visited the front.”
I nodded.
Taylor smiled, and his eyes glistened. “That were a fun morning, eh? With us and the aeroplane, I mean.”
“Yes, Charlie. It was great fun.”
A door opened on the far side of the room, and Taylor’s wife appeared. The young woman’s eyes still sparkled, but her face had acquired its first lines of age. She pursed her lips and then showed great surprise as she caught sight of me.
“Averil,” declared Charlie, “look who has come to visit us!”
“Dear Dr. Watson,” said his wife, “it is wonderful to see you again. And you are…?”
“Sherlock Holmes,” I said at once as the detective bowed. “My good friend.”
“And consulting deducing man, or whatever it is called,” replied the woman, putting a hand to her mouth in slight embarrassment.
“Consulting detective, aye,” said Taylor. “We know well of you, sir. And you’ve come with the doctor here to visit Dumfries—and us, I hope.”
“Yes, of course,” I said after briefly taking Averil Taylor’s hand. “We thought to stay here, in this inn, while looking up the pair of you. I had no idea that you…”
“After the…” Mrs. Taylor halted and then stepped back to allow her husband to reply.
“After I returned to Dumfries,” he said with good nature, “I obviously could not resume my post with the local constabulary. Ross, the man who was keeper here—the one who had me fetched to take you into custody all those months ago—had gone up to Edinburgh to find war work, and so the owner of the place, Mr. Morrison, offered me the position here. Averil helps as well,” he added quietly, reaching up to put his hand on hers, which had come to rest on his shoulder. “We having no children or such to tend at home.”
Mrs. Taylor, a purposeful smile etched upon her face, asked if we wished to register. “There are two wonderful rooms on the first floor that have gone begging for months,” she said. “I believe you will like them. How long will you remain in Dumfries?”
“We had been thinking of remaining only the one night,” said Holmes, who kicked both my bags in his direction.
I
made as if to take my luggage in hand, but he gently waved me off.
“However,” Holmes added, “I believe we have talked of extending that by one or two days. Might you show me to our rooms, Mrs. Taylor?” he suggested as he took hold of our combined baggage. “I believe the doctor and your husband may wish to catch up on old times.”
The woman took Holmes’s suggestion to heart and led the detective toward the back of the inn. Taylor watched them go and then, as we both heard the pair ascend the stair, he reached out with one hand and murmured, “It is so good to see you again, Doctor.”
“It was during the morning hate,” Taylor related to us over the dinner table that evening.160 “Toward its end, really, for the boys were already grumbling about how it would be nice to get rum with breakfast that day, before the company commander made his rounds.
“I heard nothing until the shell hit,” the former constable said. “Some of us turned and jumped as it landed, but the thing exploded right in the trench itself, a bit down the line from my group. Men, pieces of men, and debris swept across us. Both my legs took vicious shards of duckboard, 161 the right one ending up with a huge splinter sticking straight through it. We lay there a while,” he told us. “Then those of us still alive were carried off to a casualty clearing station. I lost both legs, and the rest of me is history, I suppose,” he said with a wan smile.
“You are doing well now, though?” I asked.
“About as well as could be expected,” Taylor replied. “I came back better than some.”
“You came back,” Averil Taylor said, and her husband smiled as they held hands.
The next day, after a hearty breakfast, Holmes and I set out in a dogcart borrowed through the efforts of Mrs. Taylor, riding dos-à-dos in the carriage.162
“I hope you do not mind the delay in returning to Biggleswick,” I said yet again as we plod eastward, heading for the hills in whose shadow Ewan Clark’s inn lay. “I feel I must see him.”
“As I keep reminding you, old fellow, it is no great hindrance to take our time returning to the Cotswolds,” replied Holmes, looking back in the direction of Dumfries, which was no longer visible. “Particularly given the story that your Mr. Taylor related to us yesterday and this morning, it would be remiss not to take the opportunity to talk to Ewan Clark as well. There was also that pilot, Captain Harper. Have you written him of late?”
