by J. R. Trtek
At length, I asked, “Do you believe Evans can possibly find the Nemesis? And we have no way of knowing that the motor launch is being used by a German spy ring, do we?”
“There is no absolute assurance, certainly, with respect to your second question, Watson. Yet between the strong suggestion that at least one member of the launch’s crew is a native German and Farrar’s espying of the enigmatic Dieter, we have little else on which to base any action at all. It is all or nothing, even though we possess little or nothing.”
“I do hope you have not mortally damaged your financial standing with that cheque you gave Tatty Evans.”
Holmes nodded. “Oh, I am naturally generous,” said he. “Especially with the government’s money.”
I looked at my friend, who smiled back. “Mycroft deposited a rather large sum in my account some time ago, for use as a slush fund.”198
I shrugged. “Well, Evans is certainly dedicated to finding the Nemesis,” I said.
“Yes, and that is a principal reason for paying him to conduct the search, rather than the other way round. His familiarity with the river and those who inhabit it are other points in favour of the present arrangement. Even at the price Mycroft has paid, Evans will prove a bargain, I think. But come along, old fellow,” he said, rubbing his hands together. “There is a chill in the air, and I fancy a bath at the Imperial. Do you care to join me?”199
“Allow me to signal for a taxicab,” I said.
“I am certain you will find your staff duties with the medical corps challenging enough to suit you, Watson,” said Sherlock Holmes that evening as we occupied the sitting room: I reading in the basket chair and Holmes on the carpet, with papers and books scattered about him. Neither of us had spoken for the past half hour.
“I beg pardon?” I said.
Holmes put aside the magnifying glass with which he had been closely examining photographs of German naval vessels.
“Though you picked up that book of sea stories nearly an hour ago, it has lain open and facedown upon your lap for the better part of that time. Your gaze has instead lingered alternately on four items in the meanwhile: the photograph of the staff at Isham Hospital that you have set upon the mantel, your framed commission in the RAMC that hangs here upon the wall as it did in your Biggleswick cottage, the hearth, and your open palms.
“No doubt, you have been thinking of the duties of your service and rank, Watson, and the great good that you have performed for large numbers of people these past months. In comparison, keeping me company round the hearth must seem a disappointing gruel indeed, as empty as the palms into which you have stared so often these past minutes.”
“Holmes, I must confess that I often feel as if—”
“I understand your resentment at returning to London in this manner, even if it is to your own home.” He caught sight of my suppressed smile of irony and added, “Though it is a home, I suppose, which I have commandeered—and in your eyes and Martha’s, nearly laid ruin to—without your leave.”
“Permission was implied from the start,” I replied wearily. “For the commandeering, at least.”
“Still, after thirty years, I continue to take much for granted from you, do I not?”
“Perhaps,” I said after a moment’s consideration. “But that liberty has been earned, Holmes. You know I value our friendship, far more than I can say in words.”
“Friendship is best expressed in a medium other than words, old fellow, and you have always proved most eloquent in that respect. It is I who have invariably abused the bond, Watson. I know that.”
“Nonsense.”
He looked at me with a wan smile.
“Nous verons,” I heard him whisper under his breath.
* * *
183 Ashley Tate’s remark is probably in reference to the British Royal Family’s change of surname, which at the beginning of the war was Saxe-Coburg and Gotha, derived from Prince Albert, husband of Queen Victoria. Because of strong anti-German sentiment in Britain during the First World War, however, King George V changed the family name to Windsor by proclamation on July 17, 1917.
184 The relatively small professional army that Britain fielded in the fall of 1914 was virtually destroyed during the first months of the war while helping blunt early German advances through France and Belgium. Kaiser Wilhelm was alleged to have expressed exasperation with the “contemptible little army” that was delaying the victory of his forces, though there is no proof he ever made such a statement. The British survivors of 1914 thereafter were referred to as The Old Contemptibles, however, a title they bore with pride.
185 These words are the chorus finale of the song “Till We Meet Again,” written by the Americans Richard Whiting and Raymond Egan. However, Watson’s memory seems faulty here, for the song was not published until 1918, a year after this episode in the narrative occurs. A recording of “Till We Meet Again” by Henry Burr and Albert Campbell was the number one hit of 1919, though, and the recollection of that success may have led the doctor to misremember which piece the men sang. That he knew the words, no matter what the song, suggests a musical aspect of Watson’s character that perhaps remains unexplored.
186 “While I breathe, I hope” is a modern paraphrase of the sentiment expressed by, among others, the Roman statesman Cicero.
187 Sailing barges were flat-bottomed sailing boats, mostly built of wood and perhaps ninety feet long with two masts. They were common commercial vessels on the Thames into the early twentieth century, used to carry cargo such as bricks, sand, coal and other goods. They were manned by small crews that often numbered only two. Meanwhile, the St. Katharine Docks were located on the north side of the Thames, just east of Tower Bridge. Unable to accommodate large ships, these docks were not a great success after opening in 1828 and in the 1860s were incorporated into the neighboring London Docks. The area sustained heavy damage by bombing during the Second World War, and the site is now a housing and leisure complex.
188 “Coke” refers here to the fuel usually made from coal. Murston is located near the Kentish coast, a few miles southeast of the mouth of the River Thames.
189 Crossness is on the southern bank of the Thames in the eastern reaches of the metropolis. The sewage pumping station there was constructed in the mid-nineteenth century and decommissioned in the 1950s.
190 Located at Trinity Buoy Wharf, which was used for the docking and repair of lightships, the lighthouses were built in the 1850s and 1860s and used to train lighthouse keepers and to conduct experiments in new technologies. One was demolished in the 1920s, and the surviving structure is no longer used as a lighthouse.
191 This is likely a fictionalized reference to the Lyons Corner Houses, which were owned by the Lyons conglomerate that included restaurants, food manufacturing, and hotels. The Corner Houses were generally large buildings which contained food counters, hair salons, telephone booths, differently themed restaurants, and more.
192 This may an alias for the Cave of the Golden Calf, which was perhaps the first openly gay bar in London, as that term is understood today, though by the time of this episode, that establishment had closed. In passing, it should also be noted that during these years, waitresses at the Lyons Corner House in Piccadilly regularly reserved a section of that establishment for homosexuals; the area became known as the Lily Pond. These references—as well as others—suggest that Frank Farrar was gay, and they may also cast doubt on the authenticity of this narrative, for—based on his earlier writings—it is unlikely that Watson would have included such direct suggestions of Farrar’s presumed sexual orientation.
193 Canal Street is in Manchester. Ironically, it is now the center of that city’s gay village.
194 From subsequent descriptions, this may have been the Beckton Gasworks, opened in 1870 for the purpose of manufacturing coal gas and coke. It was located in the eastern portion of London, on the north bank of the Thames, and was one of the largest such plants ever constructed.
195 Beg
un a generation before the St. Katharine Docks, which they came to incorporate, the London Docks were finally closed to shipping in 1969, and portions of the land were eventually used for development.
196 The transom of a vessel is the surface that forms its stern. Those of Thames sailing barges were indeed shaped like champagne glasses, with a large rudder hanging from them. Leeboards, meanwhile, are foils on the side of sailing vessels used to prevent a craft from lifting from the water when it leans under the force of the wind. Thames sailing barges possessed two such devices. That Watson was familiar with naval terminology and this type of craft in particular suggests another unexplored aspect of his personal history, one consistent with his apparent love of nautical fiction: a possible connection with sea or river transport.
197 Llŷr is a Welsh god of the sea, as Poseiden is the ancient Greek god of waters. Davey Jones is the devil of the sea in sailor and pirate lore.
198 The phrase “slush fund” dates from the mid-nineteenth century. It was originally a nautical term for money collected from selling slush, the leftover grease from meat cooked aboard ship. That money, in turn, was usually employed to buy luxuries for the vessel.
199 Holmes is expressing a desire to experience a Turkish bath at the Imperial Hotel.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN: A DEAD MAN’S FIST
It took less than a week for my new responsibilities as a staff secretary for the RAMC to assume the nature of tedious routine. Though my superiors had informed me that I might work most days from Queen Anne Street, where material would be delivered to me, I insisted that I labour instead at my assigned office in Whitehall, at least for the first few weeks of my assignment.
Each morning, a different motorcar arrived at my door so that one chauffeur followed by another in turn could transport me to an imposing building where I dutifully transferred papers from one side of a desk to the other. In the evening, after countless documents had passed beneath my eye, yet another driver conveyed me home. So intent was I upon doing my work—even in the motor, both coming and going—that it was only on the third day that I realised that all those behind the wheel were women.
Just short of a fortnight into this tedium, I resolved to walk to my office instead. And so, waving off the chauffeur du jour, who that morning was the youngest daughter of a Cabinet minister, I bade farewell to Holmes, whose time was now almost exclusively spent in our sitting room, where he continued to puzzle over the enigma of Cerberus’s third head while waiting to hear from Tatty Evans concerning the Nemesis or from Shinwell Johnson regarding suspicious activity around the gasworks, or learn from Frank Farrar that the mysterious Dieter Baumann had once more been seen.
On my way to Westminster that day, I passed a newsagent’s shop in Soho and saw on display a magazine whose cover produced in me a numbing sense of shock, followed by the most profound fit of anger. With shaking hands, I purchased a copy of the issue and carried it to my office, where I read the offending article contained within. I seethed throughout the rest of the morning and on into the afternoon, and I was wise to walk home that evening as well, for the effort drained from me at least a portion of the ire I felt as I threw the periodical down before Holmes, who still sat upon the floor, a map of London to his right and half a dozen copies of the Daily Telegraph on his left.
“I shall sue!” I thundered in such a voice that Martha was compelled to poke her head into the sitting room.
“Colonel?” she enquired cautiously. “Are you quite all right?”
“No, I am not!” I replied. “But my cure is beyond your abilities, I fear. Go on, dear lady. Your best course is to let me stew.”
Bowing her head sheepishly, our housekeeper withdrew, taking care to gently shut the sitting room door, which was usually left ajar. I turned and saw that Holmes had picked up the magazine I had thrown upon the carpet.
“The audacity!” I said.
“What?” said Holmes. “You believe that war secrets are being revealed in this article on the development of the tank?”
“Do not play coy with me,” I replied tensely. “I speak, of course, of that!” I shouted, bending down to point at the banner that ran across the middle of the cover.
“‘Sherlock Holmes Outwits a German Spy,’” said he, sniffing.200
“It is Doyle! I read the story at my office. I read it six times, by God. How can he have the audacity to write it? How can The Strand have the temerity to print it?”
Holmes took a deep breath, paused, and then exhaled. “I am afraid, Watson, that The Strand printed the tale because Mycroft asked them to print it.”
“And why did your brother make such a request?”
“Because I urged him to do so.”
“You?” I said, breathlessly. “You had a role in this back-stabbing cabal?”
“I admit that I have been remiss,” said Holmes after a moment. He held the magazine in his hands, contemplating it. “I should have asked your permission beforehand.”
“Ask permission?” I asked cynically while stalking across the room. Reaching the far wall, I found myself face to face with the painting by DéGousses. Disgusted, I turned.
“Why should Sherlock Holmes deign to ask my permission for another person to chronicle his exploits? A friendship of over thirty years should never pose an obstacle to anyone seeking a replacement biographer,” I declared, approaching him. “Of course, that it should be Doyle—”
“But it is not Doyle.”
“It is so printed right here,” I said, ripping the magazine from his hands and turning to the story’s first page. “‘His Last Bow,’” I read with a bitter voice. “‘The War Service of Sherlock Holmes.’”
“Watson—”
“‘By A. Conan Doyle,’” I concluded before closing the periodical and hurling it across the room. “Your treachery wounds me grievously.”
Holmes covered his mouth with a hand and then let it drop down to massage his jaw. Allowing the arm to fall into his lap, he looked up and extended his other hand.
“Please sit down, Watson,” said he. “If you are determined to render punishment, having already cast judgment, you might be gracious enough to at least hear my confession.”
Brusquely, I took up position in the basket chair.
“It will come as no surprise to you when I say that I have spent the better part of recent months attempting to discern evidence of our fabled sleeping German spy group,” Holmes began.
“Ah yes, the third head of Cerberus,” I remarked in a jaded tone. “As if I am not quite tired of hearing that phrase by now.”
“I apologise for the repetition. You recall, no doubt, my hypothesis that this spy ring may be dormant at present, waiting to become active,” said Holmes.
I crossed my arms.
“Understand, Watson, that I must grasp at every straw I can imagine.”
Still camped upon the floor, Holmes leaned against the armchair that sat behind him.
“What do you suppose ever happened to Heinrich Von Bork?” he asked abruptly.
“You caught him,” I said curtly. Motioning to the copy of The Strand that lay askew upon the carpet, I added, “One can read all about it in that accursed story.”
“After that,” he said. “I am speaking of afterward, Watson.”
I shrugged. “The man returned to Germany, as we both know.”
“There to remain, unused and inactive?”
“Why not?” I replied. “Such is the state in which I find myself these days.”
“The staff work you do for the medical corps is important, I am certain.”
I gave a voiceless sound of disagreement.
“And your mere presence here in London is most vital to me, old fellow, as I have professed time and again,” Holmes added in a quiet but heartfelt voice. “I could not pursue this work,” he explained, motioning to the newspapers and map that lay before him, “I could not sustain the effort without your companionship and perspective. Consider me selfish and callous if you like, but I dear
ly need you in this enterprise, Watson—for my own sake.”
I could not easily dismiss the earnest sentiment my friend had expressed, yet my fit of pique remained. More calmly than before, I said, “Then how could you—”
“I do not believe Von Bork will sit in Berlin forever, fated to do nothing more than contemplate his last failure or his next match of tennis,” asserted Holmes. “It is possible that he will or has already secretly returned to Britain, and if that is the case, what better role for him to assume than that of chief agent of our supposed third head of Cerberus? And I apologise for employing that phrase yet again.”
“You have evidence that Von Bork has returned to our shores?” I asked, taking sudden interest.
“Utterly none,” replied Sherlock Holmes. “My statement is pure speculation. But if you grant the possibility of Von Bork’s return, Watson, can you then grasp the reason why I should wish that story to see print at this time?”
I sat back and uncrossed my arms, pondering my friend’s enquiry. Finding myself less irate than before, I reflected upon my reaction to coming across the hated magazine article that morning. And then, in sudden revelation, I said, “It would enrage him, remind him of your victory over him. Prick his pride. Goad him into making, perhaps, a rash miscalculation.”
“Precisely, Watson!” said Holmes, his eyes sparkling. “Do you recall the loathing he expressed toward me as we removed him from his house on the Essex coast? ‘I will get level with you.’ That is what he said to me. ‘If it takes me all my life, I will get level with you.’”
“The old sweet song,” I declared, recalling Holmes’s characterisation of Von Bork’s tirade. I gestured toward the issue of The Strand. “If he is here in London, waiting to activate the spy cell that he may now lead, then this is your way of rubbing his nose in his past failure, reminding him of humiliation at your hands and spurring him to rouse that sleeping cell of agents all the sooner—and perhaps recklessly—in order to prove his superiority to you.”
