by J. R. Trtek
And, in a more distant place, Mary Lamington stood in watch over the comings and goings of Moxon Ivery in Biggleswick, while we all waited in anticipation of Richard Hannay’s reappearance from his trip north in pursuit of Abel Gresson’s secret network of contacts.
I faithfully kept to my role as mere companion to my friend, allowing him to sharpen his thoughts against a human whetstone. That in itself was valuable service, I admitted, though to me it was one that could have been taken up by anyone. As the days wore on, I wished for some dramatic turning point to occur.
Very soon, it did.
On a Tuesday evening, I found myself in the sitting room, waiting for Holmes to return from Office 54, where he had gone to obtain enemy war communiques for decipherment in Queen Anne Street as an occasional respite from fretting about the riddle of Cerberus’s final head. The Third Battle of Ypres was still raging under a new commander, and I read with anxiety reports that, on the Eastern Front, the Germans had captured Riga.210
It was well past eleven o’clock when Holmes arrived home. Upon hearing the door close, I put down the newspaper, rose from my chair, and crossed the sitting room. Seeing the offending issue of The Strand still upon a table, I turned the magazine over as I passed. Then, reaching the doorway, I peered down the hall and saw Holmes hanging up his coat, Martha having retired for the night some time before.
“Have I kept you up waiting, old fellow?” said he, approaching along the corridor.
“No,” I replied as Holmes passed me and entered the sitting room. “I have been somewhat deep in thought,” I told him, intending that to be prelude to yet another confession of dissatisfaction with my current state of idleness, prior to laying out an argument for asking the RAMC to give me an alternate assignment.
“As have I, Watson.” He took his black clay pipe from the mantel. “Deep in thought, indeed.”
“Perhaps you are still grappling with our friend, Wolfram Schwefel?”
Holmes smiled as he filled his pipe.
“On my way back here, yes, I thought of him, but to no effect.” He reached for a vesta and, glancing across the room, espied the issue of The Strand turned facedown. Sighing deeply, Holmes lit his pipe and then extinguished the vesta.
“Watson,” said he, tossing the match onto the coals, “I do apologise again for any indignity which you may feel you have suffered on account of the appearance of that Von Bork story.”
I returned to my chair. “As always, I assume your intentions are—”
My sentence was interrupted by two sharp bursts.
Holmes and I stared at one another.
“Great God,” I exclaimed. “Sound rockets. Are they—?”
“Bombarding us by night, as they did from the Zeppelins?” Holmes uttered, completing my question. “Such appears to be the case, old fellow. I will gather up Martha and join you in the basement before the aeroplanes arrive.”211
No bombs were yet falling in our vicinity, but we heard many distant explosions as we descended. The three of us maintained a cautious vigil in the basement for at least an hour: Holmes and I read newspapers by candlelight while Martha slept upon a cot she had previously prepared for such an emergency. More than once, her snoring served as reminder that the elderly woman was in no way bothered by the potential danger from above.
At length, after a long interval of quiet, we ascended to the ground floor as the hour approached one.
“Do not bother rising at your usual time,” Holmes told our housekeeper. “The colonel and I will manage for ourselves in the morning.”
“It is already morning,” I noted disconsolately. Then, with concern, I added, “I do wonder how many were killed tonight.”
“More than a few, I fear, judging from the number of explosions we heard,” Holmes replied. “I expect Bullivant or Mycroft will inform us tomorrow—or, rather, today, for we have a meeting with them at Safety House at ten.”
“Well,” I said with resignation, “now that you have informed me of that fact, I shall have at least a handful of hours in which to try to gain some sleep. In truth, however,” I added as Martha trod off to her room, “it occurred to me earlier this evening, Holmes, that I am nothing but baggage in this endeavour of yours. Perhaps I need not attend that meeting at all.”
My friend paused and tilted his head, as if prompting me for more.
“I long for a return to action of some form directly relevant to the war,” I declared abruptly. “At Isham, I felt I was being of use. In the current instance—”
“In the current instance, Watson, your value to me is beyond words. Please,” he said, as I saw a hint of desperation flash in his eyes, “let us have no more such talk.”
After daylight had returned, Holmes and I took a taxicab to the vicinity of Safety House and then entered the building through its back door. We passed into the sitting room, where Mycroft Holmes waited with Sir Walter Bullivant.
“Do you already know the facts surrounding last night’s raid?” asked the elder Holmes brother. “Or do you wish to learn them?”
“The latter,” said Sherlock Holmes as he took a chair.
I claimed a seat beside my friend.
“The German aeroplanes crossed our shores in waves, between half past ten and a bit after midnight,” said Sir Walter. “Two of our squadrons put craft into the air, but not a single one of the pilots was able to engage the enemy. However, an Archie battery at Borstal212 appears to have shot down at least one of the German aircraft. A search is being conducted for wreckage and crew.”
“I thought you were hoping to receive advance warning of such attacks from that agent of yours in Belgium,” said Sherlock Holmes.
“We did receive warning,” replied his brother. “Unfortunately, the methods of transmitting such alerts along our own spy network are not yet well coordinated. The message from our Belgian agent arrived after the attack was completed.”
“We heard the first bombs about half past eleven,” said the detective.
“Some fell in West Ham and Stratford,” Mycroft informed us. “Another landed near Oxford Circus, and yet another exploded in Agar Street.”
“Was there damage to the hospital?” I asked.
“I am not aware that it suffered structural damage” was Mycroft’s reply. “All I know is that a bomb struck just outside the building’s entrance, and there were casualties.”
“Still others fell in and around the Victoria Embankment,” added Sir Walter. “One of those struck close to Cleopatra’s Needle and killed three people in a passing tram, including its operator.”213
“How many any other deaths have been reported?” asked Sherlock Holmes.
“At least three, though I have already alluded to them” said Mycroft grimly. “A woman and two Colonial soldiers, from the bomb that fell near Charing Cross Hospital. There are, as well, perhaps ten or more injuries that resulted from that explosion. I have no doubt that additional casualties will be reported as we move into the afternoon.”
“Well then, M, shall we proceed to our planned agenda?” asked Sir Walter, as if eager to move to another subject.
“Yes, I believe so,” said the elder Holmes. “If we first—”
Mycroft was interrupted by a loud, patterned knock upon the front door of Safety House. He and Bullivant stared at each other.
“Magillivray, perhaps?” said Sherlock Holmes.
“I will go and see,” said his brother, much to the detective’s surprise.
A moment later, Mycroft Holmes returned to the sitting room with the Scotland Yard inspector and a breathless Richard Hannay, who was dressed in the rumpled uniform of an army private.
“Hannay!” said Bullivant, excitedly rising to his feet. “Where have you been? We have been waiting—”
“I thought they were shot!” were the first words from Hannay’s mouth. “I thought the three men we collected on the Ruff years ago were all shot.”214
Bullivant did not reply, while Mycroft Holmes once more took to th
e sofa and remained silent, as did Sherlock Holmes and I.
“The plump man escaped, didn’t he?” asked Hannay.
“Yes,” admitted Bullivant after a moment.
“When?” Hannay asked. “Where? How?”
“We failed to intercept him at the base of the Ruff in 1914,” Mycroft Holmes calmly declared from his perch on the sofa. “He was expected to swim for the Ariadne, as you recall, where he would have been seized, but he never arrived at the ship.”
“What happened? What did he do? Where did he go?”
“Some presumed that he drowned,” Mycroft replied, looking at Bullivant. “Many of us were not so certain.” He glanced over at Hannay and raised a brow. “I apologise for keeping the information from you. It was deemed most secret. Dare I ask how you came to learn of his escape?”
“I saw him last night,” Hannay replied with an edge to his voice. “The third one. The plump man. Good God, he is the one we have known as Moxon Ivery!”
“What?” exclaimed Bullivant as Mycroft Holmes gripped one arm of the sofa.
Sherlock Holmes leaned back and drew a deep breath.
“Where did you last see him, Mr. Hannay?” asked the detective. “Do you know his current whereabouts?”
“I ran across him at the Strand Tube entrance215 last night. I’d gotten to London after a rather eventful journey up north and back.”
“Yes,” said Bullivant, glancing at the uniform that Hannay wore. “I cannot wait for that story.”
“It must wait, sir,” Hannay said urgently. “Moxon Ivery is more important at the moment. I was in Charing Cross when I heard the first bombs explode last night. I took to the Tube entrance, as did almost everyone else in the vicinity, and while I stood amongst the crowd—all of us cheek by jowl—I saw him.”
“You saw Ivery, whom you now believe is the plump man?” said Sherlock Holmes.
“Yes,” replied Hannay. “I saw Ivery—and yet it was not Ivery. At that moment, in my mind, for what reason I do not know, he seemed to change shape. I saw him not as Ivery but as that stout, plump man who had been at Trafalgar Lodge in Broadgate three years ago. I thought that fellow long dead, but there he was. And then he turned his head and saw me.”
“And his eyes betrayed understanding that you had recognised him at last?” enquired Holmes.
“Exactly!” said Hannay. “He knew that I knew. I saw him slip farther back into the crowd huddled in the Tube entrance, and I resolved to rush to Blenkiron’s bookshop, for it was the closest place I could think of where I might sound the alarm.”
“Blenkiron is in France at the moment,” said Mycroft Holmes, pulling out his watch. “Or, rather, he was, for by now he now should be in transit back to London. Still, one of the Americans would have opened the door to you. I take it you never arrived there.”
“I did not.” Hannay motioned to the uniform he wore. “It was tied all in with this.”
“On his way to the bookshop, Mr. Hannay was picked up by the military police,” explained Magillivray, who apparently had already heard Hannay’s full story. “Some pompous fool provost marshal kept him confined and under guard in his office all night, on suspicion, until permission was granted to call me at Scotland Yard. I arrived and freed our friend, and then thought bringing him to Safety House might be the best thing to do, in case any of you gentlemen were here.”
“And so we are,” said Mycroft Holmes. “Well, Mr. Ivery was obviously playing you from the start, wasn’t he, Mr. Hannay? No doubt he recognised you from the confrontation on the Ruff and knew who you were when you first entered Biggleswick under your alias.”
“Yes,” Hannay said disconsolately. “He flattered me, applauded my remarks—even urged me to go to Glasgow, and no doubt was laughing at me all the time. I met Gresson, by the way, and I’m certain Ivery had already put him on to me. I was almost drowned on board Gresson’s ship, you see, and they set the local police against me, and—”
“As you said earlier, Mr. Hannay,” interjected Sherlock Holmes, getting to his feet, “we will have time to hear your full saga later. For the moment, we must attempt to capture Ivery before he leaves Britain.”
“He has hours of head start,” Hannay declared. “I’ll bet you a pony he’s already across the Channel.”
“And I’d give a load of monkeys216 to have the man taken,” said Sir Walter with desperation, “but all we can do is hope for the best. Inspector, shall we go?”
“Yes, sir,” replied Magillivray. “I’ve already put our men on alert.”
“And I will contact the military authorities at once,” said Mycroft, heaving himself to his feet with a mighty effort. “The RNAS217 boys can patrol the coast from the air.” He turned toward Bullivant and Magillivray. “We have our work cut out for us. Shall the three of us leave together?”
“Of course, M,” said Bullivant, who glanced at Hannay. “What should we do with—?”
“Colonel Watson and I will take Mr. Hannay in tow,” said Sherlock Holmes. “That is, with M’s approval,” he added sardonically.
“Interview him by all means, Sherlock,” answered Mycroft. “Forward the gist of Mr. Hannay’s story to me. And if you have suggestions that may assist us in snaring Ivery, do not hesitate to make them. And, of course, let yourselves out the back when you depart. Gentlemen, as much as I hate impromptu journeys, we must be going,” he said to Bullivant and Magillivray.
The three departed Safety House, leaving Holmes, Hannay and me in the sitting room. The South African appeared even more dismayed than before.
“He knew me from the outset,” he said again. “All the while he was toying with me.”
“I believe we have established that beyond doubt, Mr. Hannay,” agreed Holmes. “It is not impossible that he saw Colonel Watson and myself as objects of play as well.”
“Should we not go out also, to find and seize Ivery?” Hannay asked.
“I think it best that we let my brother work his will unattended by us. He has ample support from Inspector Magillivray and Sir Walter. I suggest instead that you relate to us your activities these past many days.”
Hannay exhaled, leaned back in the sofa usually occupied by Mycroft Holmes, and told us of his trip north to Glasgow as the pacifist Cornelius Brand, where he made contact with Andrew Amos, met Abel Gresson at a political rally, and then accompanied the latter aboard a ship to the Hebrides. Along the way, he had been involved in a fight with British soldiers, almost drowned by an unknown assailant, and chased by the police on account of his tussle with the soldiers. Through a string of good luck, which had included an aeroplane ride with a Royal Flying Corps friend met by chance—somewhat akin to my own journey with Cecil Harper—he had reached London safely, disguised as an army private.218
“The important thing is, I found Gresson’s mailbox, as it were: a peak on the island of Skye, where he transfers his information to a Portuguese fellow, who must carry it on south, perhaps to Ivery himself,” said Hannay.
Holmes nodded.
“Oh, and I ran into Launcelot Wake, of all people,” Hannay said. “He’s a good fellow, after all. Indeed, he provided me invaluable assistance. The man is not a German spy, after all.”
“Yes,” said Holmes, glancing at me. “We determined that after you had left for Glasgow.”
Hannay related all the other details of his journey, to the moment when he recognised Moxon Ivery for who he was and on through his incarceration by military police. At the end of a half hour, it was clear that he was more than ready to leave Safety House.
“I’m going to Westminster,” he said. “I’ve kept rooms there as Cornelius Brand, my alter ego. Then I’ll take a taxi to my Park Lane flat, which I keep as Richard Hannay.”219 He laughed cynically. “I believe I’ll need some time there in order to return to my real persona.”
“I quite understand,” said Sherlock Holmes. “I wish you well, Mr. Hannay. Once again, you have performed a magnificent service.”
“Do you believe so, Mr. H
olmes? Even though Ivery no doubt recognised me from the start?”
“Yes. If nothing else, you have determined the next link in the Black Stone chain beyond Abel Gresson. And you are certain that neither he nor this Portuguese fellow were aware that you were watching them in that wilderness on Skye?”
“Quite certain.”
“Good. No doubt, Ivery’s house in Biggleswick will be occupied by the police, if it is not being invaded as we speak.”
“We can only hope that is the case,” sighed Hannay. “Tell Sir Walter to reach me at Park Lane. I will be chomping at the bit for news, of course.”
Hannay’s sentiment paralleled my own, and after saying our farewells to him in the alley behind Safety House, Holmes and I returned to Queen Anne Street, where we passed several anxious hours. Holmes poured over numerous fruitless reports already received from Frank Farrar and Shinwell Johnson, and he occasionally decoded more German war communiques brought from Office 54.
I, meanwhile, busied myself with staff paperwork for the medical corps. We ate an early dinner, which did not discommode Martha, and then received a telephone call at seven in the evening.
“It was Sir Walter Bullivant,” said Holmes. “He wishes us to be at his residence in Queen Anne’s Gate within the hour. I propose to make that within the half hour.”
“Shall we try for a quarter hour?”
“There is no harm in attempting the impossible, Watson.”
We arrived at Bullivant’s house at twenty minutes past seven and were admitted by a stolid, impassive butler who led us down the green-panelled entrance hall, past an alcove, and on to the end of the corridor, where we reached a back room in which Sir Walter Bullivant was pacing back and forth upon a hearthrug, an unlit cigar between his fingers.
“Greetings, gentlemen,” came a doleful voice from the side and, turning, I espied John Blenkiron ensconced in a plush armchair. “Bad business this evening, I’m afraid,” he remarked. “Not the sort of thing I’d hoped to hear upon returning from France, to be sure.”
