by J. R. Trtek
“Of course,” said the agent. “I do hope that—”
“Allow me to escort you, sir,” volunteered Holmes, gently taking the man by the elbow to guide him to the building entrance, where he was to wait. Moments later, the detective returned and assumed his place as true leader of our coterie.
“You all have been given instruction in the manner of examining this interior,” he told Sergeant Scaife and the constables before glancing round to Magillivray and me. “Let us begin the process.”
For the better part of the next hour, we all gave full attention to a minute inspection and thorough scouring of the warehouse. Very soon after we had begun, Inspector Magillivray came across a small residue I believed to be a deposit of sulphur mustard and that Holmes theorised was the spot where young Billy had become infected with the noxious substance. We marked the area, and Magillivray indicated he would contact Sir Walter Bullivant, who would arrange for the army to dispose of the material, as well as any other such dangerous remnants we might come across.
During the ensuing minutes, Holmes and I oversaw the efforts of the policemen in identifying items of interest. Many of these struck me initially as hardly of importance, but on more than one occasion, Sherlock Holmes disabused me of that notion.
“Notice the dried soil and vegetative remnants here about the entrance and along the principal corridor,” the detective declared as we stood together near the building door, while the rest of our party busied themselves elsewhere within the structure.
Holmes got down upon his knees, quite indifferent to the effect his action might have upon his clothing. He took quick, short intakes of breath. “I am again reminded of your sense of smell, Watson, so superior in native ability to mine. However, I do not suggest you share my present mode of indignity.”
“To what conclusions does your nose lead you?” I ask.
“These portions of debris likely came from a marshland,” said Holmes as I helped him to his feet. “I have no doubt that the area in question is the river’s edge.”
“The marsh near the gasworks, perhaps?”
“Yes. I suggest that men debarked a vessel moored in that area—”
“The Nemesis, perhaps?”
“No doubt.”
“Stores of sulphur mustard were unloaded from the launch and conveyed here?”
“Quite possibly,” said Holmes. “Perhaps also with ‘tungsten.’”
“Whatever might have been brought here has since been removed, however,” I declared, “The question is, to where?”
“It appears that several trips were required to load this building with its temporary store of mustard gas,” said Sherlock Holmes as we walked back toward the main room of the structure. “Perhaps those who moved it elsewhere left evidence of that other terminus, since more than one journey would presumably have been needed to lodge the gas in another place, and those making that transfer may have brought with them evidence of that second endpoint.”
We returned to the great space in the middle of the building, where Inspector Magillivray, Sergeant Scaife, and their group of constables had assembled a collection of items retrieved from all reaches of the warehouse.
“We found no other pools of mustard gas,” the sergeant said. “This is everything that we could lift, Mr. Holmes. We marked the original positions. It’s just a collection of odd items, really: an assortment of nails, screws, and bolts, as well as some dining utensils and a hammer, and the valinch and floggers you had seen before. And a couple of broken knives, both of them soiled with tar. Oh, and we also found that copper pan, there at the side,” he said. “That is the largest item in the lot.”
“What of the newspapers?” I asked.
“Newspapers?” Magillivray said. “Oh yes, there were stained scraps of newspaper as well. We simply piled them in that corner.”
Holmes walked past the principal set of artefacts and stopped directly in front of the discarded papers. He rummaged among them for but two or three seconds before exclaiming, “Ha!”
“Something of interest, sir?” asked Magillivray, seemingly taken aback by Holmes’s search among the discarded sheets.
“I believe so,” replied the detective, bringing one piece to the inspector, who looked at it for a moment. “Did you bother to read these newspaper pages?” asked Holmes.
“Why no,” said Magillivray. “There’s nothing but Chinese writing on them.”
“All the more reason for reading them—as evidence,” Holmes declared. “And as you say, they are stained.” He cautiously sniffed the sheet he held. “Oil associated with cooked food.”
“And all that tells us something?” asked Magillivray as Holmes stepped toward the collection of items assembled by the constables.
“It suggests the possibility that those who transferred the mustard gas to another location may have returned with food wrapped in these papers,” my friend said. He dropped the newspaper sheet and picked up the copper pan, which he also brought to his nose. I saw a broad smile break out upon his face as he turned and held up the piece of metal.
“Limehouse,” Holmes declared. “There is a good chance that the sulphur mustard has been moved to Limehouse.”243
“The copper pan,” said Magillivray, stepping to Holmes’s side. “Are you suggesting it has been used for—?”
“Boiling opium,” declared Holmes, lifting the pan to Magillivray’s nose.
The inspector took a whiff and nodded. “Right you are, sir.”
“It strikes me as odd that Von Bork should allow such lack of discipline,” said Holmes.
“Perhaps he is not the leader of this new spy group, after all,” I suggested.
“Or he has been absent of late,” replied Holmes. “But you are correct, old fellow,” he said. “I have no firm evidence of Von Bork’s presence, only an intuition of his spirit. Well,” he declared, setting down the pan before kneeling to observe the other items assembled upon the floor, “I will give the various rooms my own quick examination, but I suspect that will yield nothing more than your own fine efforts have provided us.”
“And so the focus shifts to Limehouse?” I enquired.
“I beg pardon?” said Holmes, who had picked up the two knives which Magillivray and his men had found.
“Limehouse becomes our target now?”
“Yes,” said the detective in an abstracted tone. “However, I believe that Sandy Arbuthnot’s talents are best suited for that locale. We will put him onto it at once.”
“And are those two broken knives of interest?” I asked.
“Perhaps,” replied Holmes. “You see, as the inspector noted, they are stained with tar, just like the blade we found on that body in Eversholt Street.”
On the following Wednesday, I shared lunch at a restaurant with Vespera Cochrane, who had travelled into town to spend several days with a friend in Kensington. During our meal, I was sorely tempted to reveal to her the details of our discovery of the warehouse where mustard gas had been stored, but the uniform I wore was a silent reminder to me that discretion was upmost, and so we passed the time in idle if enthusiastic conversation concerning topics unrelated to the war, until my lunch companion finally broached that subject.
“I have seen my first American soldier,” Miss Cochrane revealed to me. “Or, rather, soldiers. They were walking near Olympia Station: perhaps ten in all, and at least two of them were officers, I believe.”
I nodded as I set my cup of coffee down upon the table. “Yes, they are assembling here at last. I do not know that they will go into action by the end of this year, however.”
“Oh?” said Miss Cochrane. “They are not going to plug holes in the front?” she asked with a coy smile.
“That is not my understanding,” I said awkwardly, concentrating upon my cup before lifting it again. “I believe that Blenkiron—the American fellow I have previously mentioned to you—has said their leaders wish them to fight as units under their own separate command, not mixed with our troops or th
ose of the French. Moreover, I am told they will be undergoing additional training before being sent across the Channel.”
“I should not think the Americans would need more training in how to fight,” she said. Sighing, she added, “After all, some men do not require additional training in anything, do they, Colonel?”
I gulped the last of my coffee and checked my wristlet watch.244
Arriving at my residence in Queen Anne Street later that afternoon, I was greeted at the door by Martha, who in hushed tones advised me that Holmes was embroiled in heated discussion with a caller named Gawain Owen. Allowing her to take my coat and cap, I quickly strode down the corridor and approached the sitting room door, which, as usual, had been left ajar.
Cautiously, I tiptoed to the entrance.
“It is not my obligation to tell you anything, sir!” I heard a man’s voice declare in gruff tones.
“But this may have a critical effect upon our nation’s safety, Mr. Owen,” Sherlock Holmes asserted. “I must demand that you give me the details.”
“And who are you to tell me what’s right for England, eh?” replied Owen. “Who are you? I got my orders from a real military officer. I’ll not betray that trust. I’ll tell you nothing!”
I thought feverishly for a moment, and though I had no idea of the substance of the discussion I was hearing, I nonetheless grasped the dynamics of the moment and, glancing down at my own RAMC regalia, immediately decided upon a course of action. Reaching toward the open door, I silently pushed against it and stepped into the sitting room.
“You can forget about any accommodation, sir!” the visitor said sharply as he turned away from Holmes, who was sitting in his armchair. “If treason is part of your offer, I will never—”
The man stopped as he caught sight of me standing in the doorway. I, in turn, found myself facing a short, stocky fellow of late middle age sporting a walrus moustache whose grey colour matched a ring of hair surrounding the bald spot upon his head. Holding a billycock hat with both hands, he brought it up to his chest and reared back slightly as he studied me.
The stranger stammered a series of unintelligible syllables and then took a step sideways.
“I congratulate you, Mr.—Mr. Owen, is it?” I said.
“Yes it is, sir—or colonel or major or captain, or whatever your rank is,” he said haltingly, motioning at my insignia. “I am Gawain Owen.”
“Mr. Owen responded to my newspaper offer to exchange gold sovereigns for paper notes at an advantageous ratio,” Holmes said quickly.
“Yes, so I did, sir,” growled Owen, his back to my friend. “But this fellow here suddenly changed the subject and tried to get information from me of a most sensitive matter as part of the deal,” the man told me. His right eye began to exhibit what I took to be a nervous tic, but after moment I realised he was attempting to wink at me as he spoke in hushed tones.
“This here…Mr. Holmes, he tried…to get me to talk about…certain things. The LTL, for instance,” he whispered. “I told him nothing, I swear.”
“And again, I congratulate you,” I said, thinking feverishly. “You have passed the test, Mr. Owen. Do you not think so?” I said, looking past the man at Holmes, who cocked his head.
“Test? What test?” asked Owen.
“A test of your loyalty and discretion,” I said, stepping past him and into the middle of the sitting room. I casually reached for my pipe and Arcadia mix. “Perhaps, after this trail at the hands of my friend, you wish to sit down and calm yourself?”
“What?” said Owen, turning round to follow my actions with a questioning eye. “I’ve been examined, you mean?”
“Of course you have,” I said, smiling as I packed my pipe. “You have been examined for loyalty and discretion. And you passed marvellously, for you revealed nothing about the, uh, LTL.” I turned to Holmes, whom I asked nervously, “Perhaps you might explain to our friend here?”
“I should be happy to, Colonel,” said my friend with a sly smile, immediately grasping my ploy.
Leaning back in his armchair, Holmes opened his hands to Mr. Owen as a gesture of reconciliation. “I do apologise for any upset I may have caused you, sir. However, my…orders from Colonel Watson here were to put you to as stern a test as I might. I am certain you understand.”
“Well,” said Owen, hesitantly taking to the basket chair in response to my silent gesture. “I am certain I will understand, once you explain it all to me.”
He delicately set his hat upon his lap and sheepishly watched as I lit my pipe, tossed the vesta onto the coals, and leaned against the mantel.
“I assume I will have that explanation presently?” the man ventured cautiously.
“You volunteered for special government service?” I asked, glancing at Holmes as I posed the question to Mr. Owen.
“Well, I answered the advertisement, yes,” said the man. “Not his, I mean,” Owen added, gesturing to Holmes. “That is, I did respond to his notice, but I speak of the earlier one in the papers.”
“Which earlier one?” asked Holmes sharply.
“The one calling for the services of men in the moving and delivery trades,” Owen replied hesitantly.
“Ah, yes,” said Holmes, reaching for pile of newspapers. “Perhaps you can verify your statement by identifying the very posting in one of these—”
“Oh, they don’t seem to advertise anymore,” said Owen. “I haven’t seen any for weeks. They must have collected all the men they need. I told my wife’s brother about it soon enough and got him hired, though.”
“Of course,” remarked Holmes. “Perhaps you should recount your experience in all this, Mr. Owen—I believe Colonel Watson expressed a desire to make certain all was going well with your part of the endeavour.”
The man shrugged. “I suppose all is well with myself. The endeavour, however, is a great unknown to me. Since my initial hiring, you see, I haven’t heard from anyone about it, until I spoke with you two gentlemen today.”
“Nothing at all?” I said as Holmes pondered Owen’s remark. “That is somewhat strange. Perhaps, as my colleague just suggested, you should recount for us your complete experience in this matter.”
“Well, there isn’t much to tell, but I can do that now, I think, seeing as how you are a military officer—and you know of the organisation, obviously.”
I gave the man an expectant look.
“The LTL, I mean.”
Oh yes,” I replied. “Of course. The LTL. Go on, then.”
“Well, the advertisement in the newspaper sought men in the moving and delivery trades, with the promise of good money, and that came true, all right.”
“Your pay was in gold sovereigns,” said Holmes.
“Yes. I didn’t expect that, but who was I to argue with such a plan, eh?” Owen looked down at his hat. “I stored mine away, since the coins were gold, but I couldn’t resist the appeal of your advertisement, either, sir. And so,” he said, the glimmer in his eyes seeming to brighten, “you gentlemen said you have been testing me. Testing, perhaps, to see if I would divulge all those details of the LTL that I had pledged to keep secret?”
“Precisely,” said Holmes.
“Ah, I understand it now,” muttered Owen with a chuckle. “And I didn’t squeal one bit to you,” he said. “I never revealed anything to you about the London Transport League, did I?”
“No, you did not,” replied Sherlock Holmes. “Not even its name.”
“From time to time, we lure our volunteers into situations such as you found yourself, Mr. Owen,” I said, still leaning upon the mantel. “We test their loyalties and sense of discretion.”
“And I passed,” the man said again.
“Superbly,” replied Holmes. “Now, might you proceed with your story?”
“It was that uniform what done it,” said Owen jovially, pointing to me. “If you hadn’t slipped in at the conclusion of my examination here, I never would have revealed a thing to your man here. I’d have walke
d right out—oh yes, I would have.”
“Indeed, you would have,” answered Holmes with growing impatience. “I should have gotten nothing from you at all. Now then, again, might you recount your full experience with the League to Colonel Watson?”
“My experience?”
“You were going to tell us about how you were accepted into the London Transport League,” I interjected. “And also your instructions and obligations. You see, we need to catalogue your present recollection of the League and its workings, to compare it with what you should be aware of at this stage.”
“And so will you proceed with your story?” Holmes asked earnestly.
“Oh, of course,” said Owen. “The tale is short and simple. I happened to see the advertisement in one of the papers, as I said, and always willing to add to my sources of income, I replied to the posting.”
“You did so by applying at a residence or building?” asked Holmes.
“It was a flat, yes, in Ilford. There were two gentlemen: a tall man who resembled you somewhat, Mr. Holmes, and a young army officer. The tall one never gave his name, but merely said he was secretary to some Cabinet minister. The officer identified himself as a Captain Beaman.”
“Pardon me,” said Sherlock Holmes. “I realise this may seem an odd question, but did this Captain Beaman have blond hair and two prominent moles?”
“Yes, he did, as a matter of fact. That is, I cannot be sure about the hair, you see, for it was under his cap, which he never removed.” The man chuckled. “However, my eyes couldn’t avoid coming back to those moles upon his cheek. One was an ugly brown brute, I must say. So you know him?”
“We are mildly acquainted,” said Holmes as he raised his head and glanced at me.
“Well, the two of them explained that transportation of goods was vital to the war effort,” Owen said, “and that included transport not only in France but here at home as well. They told me that the government had formed a secret Transport League composed of men expected to haul crates from one part of town to another at a moment’s notice. Somewhat like the Ambulance Column, I supposed.245
