by J. R. Trtek
“In any event, they told us that our services might not be employed in any given week or month, but that we were nonetheless to be constantly at the ready. And while we would be waiting in reserve, we would still be paid at the rate of two pounds a week, whether we hauled or not. Two pounds a week! That’s what you’d get in a shipyard for skilled work, ain’t it? And this for just sitting and waiting to be called.”
“And you were paid regularly?” Holmes enquired.
“No, sir. They said they’d pay in advance, and was they true to their word! When I signed on, they gave me six months wages then and there. Fifty pounds, just like that! It were like a rich uncle had died—two rich uncles, for that matter.”
“And when was your application made?”
“Oh, let’s see…I suppose it’s going on four months since I was accepted into the League.”
“And your pay was all in gold sovereigns?”
“It was,” said Owen. “The sight of those coins was more than enough to convince me then and there. I signed up for it, pledged myself to secrecy, and was given my assignment and pay for a half year, all with the understanding that I was to do the government’s bidding when called upon, which I haven’t been since.”
He pulled a gold coin from a coat pocket and held it up. “Not that I’m complaining, mind you.”
“And did you return to the Ilford flat after that?” asked Holmes.
“Twice,” replied the man, putting the sovereign back into his pocket. “The day after I signed on, I brought my wife’s brother over to Ilford to get him registered with the LTL as well. The two men were still there in the flat with a short line of men waiting to apply, but they gladly signed on my own recruit, who got his assignment and advance pay as well.”
“And the second time?”
“Ah, that were a week later. I had told a neighbour that I knew how he could pocket half a year’s wage in one afternoon, and so he came with me to the men’s flat. By then, however, it had been vacated, and the landlord said he knew nothing of those to whom he had let it for a few days. My neighbour did not believe my claims and still won’t speak to me.”
“Did you not show him your pile of sovereigns?” asked Holmes.
“Of course not!” avowed Owen. “I had pledged complete secrecy. I was allowed to recruit others, but I could not give them any details or show them any specific proof until they was signed on as well—under threat of a firing squad! I was allowed only to declare that I knew of an offer that paid remarkably well.”
“You said you were given an assignment,” said Holmes. “What assignment was that?”
Gawain Owen looked sheepishly back and forth between Holmes and me. “Well,” he said, “I wasn’t supposed to reveal that above all else, but seeing as how you’re a captain, sir—”
“Colonel,” I corrected.
“Right, a colonel there…Well, I was told that if I were to be called—and they never said how I was to be called, just that I would know it when I was—were I to be called, I was to park my lorry in the middle of Theobald’s Road—what some call King’s Way— right where it meets Old Gloucester Street.”
“That is in the vicinity of Russell Square,” I said.
“Yes, you got that right,” answered Mr. Owen.
“And do you know what your wife’s brother’s assignment is?” asked Holmes.
“Well, that assumes he told me what it was, which he wasn’t supposed to do,” replied Owen coyly. His expression became one of pleading. “And if he were to have done that—which he knew he weren’t supposed to—he wouldn’t be reprimanded, would he?”
“Of course not,” replied Holmes. “We are testing only you, Mr. Owen, not your brother-in-law.”
“Ah well, then,” said the man, obviously relieved, “he was told to set up station at the intersection of Great Eastern Street and the Curtain Road.”
“That is farther east,” I said.
“And still just north of the City,” added Holmes.246
“Once more, simple geography,” drawled Owen.
“And you were not told what to expect when you reached your designated location?” enquired the detective.
“No, I was not,” the man replied. “I was instructed to simply wait for further orders once I had arrived at my destination and to let no one dislodge me from my station. Not even the police nor anyone else, except a military officer like Colonel Watson here,” he said. “I was to stand by and await my cargo, whatever it might be.”
Holmes remained deep in thought for several minutes as Gawain Owen shifted idly in his chair. At length, my friend looked up and asked, “Were you ever told of any preparations you were to make before setting out on such a call?”
“What do you mean?”
Holmes held up his hands. “Were you directed to bring special containers, tarpaulins, or tools?”
“No,” said Owen. “I was to bring just the horses with the lorry.”
The detective cocked his head. “Your sister’s brother is a hauler as well,” he said.
“Of course he is. That’s why I recruited him, isn’t it?”
Holmes thought for a moment and then asked, “Does he employ horses also?”
“He does. Neither of us has invested in motors yet. Wave of the future they are, though, for certain.”
“You said that when you went to the flat to apply to the London Transport League, you saw a line of other men with the same intent. Did you recognise any of them?” enquired Holmes.
“Yes,” Owen replied. “There were three or four I was familiar with by name, and a few others I had seen but was not acquainted with.”
“Can you supply the names of those you knew?”
“I suppose I could,” the man said suspiciously. “Though it seems—”
“It is part of our method of evaluating the recruitment practices we employ,” I interjected. Conspicuously, I adjusted my Sam Browne belt before continuing. “I am certain that you understand our reasons for doing so.”
“Uh, well, yes, of course,” stammered Owen. “Makes perfect sense to me. Give me a paper and pen, and I will gladly give you that list.”
“Excellent,” said Holmes as he motioned for me to fetch the desired items and then leaned back in the sofa. “We will suggest a commendation for this, Mr. Owen.”
“No, I have no complaint against the RAMC itself,” I admitted to Sir Walter Bullivant as I sat opposite him in the sitting room at Safety House two days later. “I am allowed to come and go as I choose, and to remain in Queen Anne Street if desired for days on end. However, I do wish—”
“Good,” replied the spymaster with a chuckle as he leaned over to smile at me. “Remember: your work for the medical corps is subterfuge, Watson. Your real work is to be found at the side of Holmes.”
“We call it a covering activity,” remarked John S. Blenkiron from a corner chair. The American had once more returned from France, where he was continuing to forge a more effective combined espionage network comprised of agents from all Allied nations.
“In any event,” declared Mycroft Holmes from the sofa, “this London Transport League business is rather intriguing. And you have found several men who have enlisted in it?” he asked his brother, who sat beside me.
“Yes,” said Sherlock Holmes, shifting in his chair, his eyes still upon me following my comment to Sir Walter Bullivant. “Watson and I discreetly interviewed three haulers from Gawain Owen’s list who were accepted into this questionable brotherhood, and once more, the colonel’s uniform was all it took to convince them to relate all they knew, including the various locales where they were to drive their lorries—all of which are horse-drawn, by the way.”
“You believe that aspect is significant?” asked Bullivant.
“I do not yet know,” replied Holmes. “However, we now have identified five members of this League, including Mr. Owen and his brother-in-law, and none of them employ motorcars in their delivery work. In this day and age, from such a sample, I
should expect at least one or two would employ motors.”
“You think it more than coincidence, then?” enquired Blenkiron.
“Again, I cannot be certain, but I do find it suspicious.”
“Well,” said the American. “The pattern of their destinations is certainly intriguing, isn’t it?”
“Yes,” replied Holmes. “Joining those points appears to draw a line curving round the City, leaving the river itself to close the circle on the south.”
“But to what purpose?” asked Bullivant. “To distribute mustard gas to various points in London?”
The two Holmes brothers looked at one another, and then Mycroft leaned back in the sofa.
“I am inclined to think not,” said the elder Holmes. “If these haulers were to deliver the sulphur mustard to different locales, I believe they would all have been directed to assemble where the substance is being stored. And that is in Limehouse, you think?” he asked his brother, who nodded.
“On the other hand, if the mustard gas has instead already been placed in different areas for immediate use, why load it onto vehicles again?” concluded Bullivant. “Yes, I see your point.”
“Could the LTL be connected to the ‘tungsten’ written on that paper for the messenger that was killed near Eversholt Street?” I asked. “I assume that the ‘sulphur’ in that note referred to the sulphur mustard gas.”
“But who can say what ‘tungsten’ even means in this instance?” declared Blenkiron. “I know that I cannot at this moment.”
“I agree that the mention of sulphur in that message was likely a reference to the mustard gas,” said Mycroft Holmes. “Tungsten, however, appears to have no relevance to that aspect at all. The only use for the element that makes any sense in the context of our situation is its employment in light filaments.”
“And that advance is but a relatively recent development,” said the American.247
“But a light filament is the only thought regarding tungsten that we have at present,” Sherlock Holmes reminded him.
“And what does that thought suggest?” asked Blenkiron.
“That something is to be illuminated,” said Holmes with a smile. “I wish it were ourselves.”
“One thing we do know,” interjected Mycroft, “is that the Germans will, without question, stage a massive offensive in France by the coming spring. Whatever they are planning for London would likely to be coordinated with that move on the battlefield.”
“Agreed,” said Blenkiron.
“I believe it will come within the next two months, for that span will mark the end of the six months for which the LTL members have been paid,” said Sherlock Holmes. “I expect that the Germans have planned that the next time they contact their unwitting accomplices, it will be to actually deploy them.”
“For whatever purpose they have in mind,” interjected Blenkiron.
“Yes,” agreed Holmes. “The question is, what is that purpose?”
There was a momentary pause, and then I asked, as I often did at such meetings, “And what of General Hannay and Miss Lamington?”
Blenkiron leaned back in his chair. “Dick Hannay has left his battle post and is now pursuing a number of clues we have uncovered on the Continent that may lead him to the man we know as Moxon Ivery.” He paused, glanced at Bullivant, and then added, “As for Mary Lamington, she is…”
“She is in France as well,” Sir Walter informed us.
“Also in search of Ivery?” asked Sherlock Holmes.
Bullivant nodded.
“Independently of Hannay?” I enquired with a hint of anxiety in my voice. “Is that not a rather risky venture for her?”
“This grand enterprise is a risk for us all, Watson,” said Sherlock Holmes. “I should judge Miss Lamington more than able to safeguard herself.”
“I suppose I should convey to you one more item of interest,” Bullivant told Holmes. “We have traced that Gussiter firm to Switzerland. Blenkiron found the final link.”
Our eyes all fixed upon the American.
“It was a relatively simple for me, Sir Walter, once your man Macandrew performed all the tedious work,” Blenkiron admitted.
Our compatriot’s mention of Bullivant’s subordinate in Lime Street reminded me of the afternoon spent in the man’s office learning basic code and cipher practice three years before.
“Between the addresses given in those advertisements and the information you obtained from the agent for that warehouse you examined over by the gasworks,” Blenkiron said, “Macandrew was able to trace the Gussiter firm through several holding companies and finally to the ultimate owning company, which goes by a different name. I eventually took that information and located its headquarters in Geneva.”
“And there lies the centre of the German code operation,” said Bullivant.
“Indeed,” said Mycroft Holmes from the sofa, “it would not surprise if it were the real operational headquarters of the entire Cerberus operation.”
“And how close do you believe Sandy Arbuthnot is to finding the sulphur mustard’s new home in Limehouse?” asked Blenkiron.
“I do not know,” said Sherlock Holmes. “I have asked him to not approach Safety House in reporting on that quest. Instead,” he added, “I will send successive emissaries to meet with him.”
The detective appeared lost for a moment in thought and then resumed. “Those representatives will rotate, and we shall begin with the colonel here. That is,” he added, “if you are willing to accept this most vital role, Watson.”
All eyes turned to me as I learned of the obligation for the first time.
“As has been the case since before I can remember,” I said with quiet patience, leaning back in my chair, “I remain at your disposal.”
* * *
240 This brief exchange contains some mildly intriguing implications. It would seem almost certain that the affair referred to is that involving Colonel Warburton’s madness, one of Holmes’s unchronicled cases that is mentioned in passing in “The Adventure of The Engineer’s Thumb.” According to Watson, it was one of only two instances in which he referred a client to the detective. The suggestion in the present narrative is that Watson was related by marriage to the Warburtons, but it is not clear if that was through his only known wife, Mary Morstan, or another spouse. On the other hand, it is conceivable that the Warburtons were instead related to Watson’s sister’s husband—see Appendix A.
241 The Almanach de Gotha is a directory of European royalty and nobility.
242 This is probably a fictionalized reference to the Silvertown explosion of January 1917, in which fifty tons of TNT ignited at a munitions factory. Over seventy people were killed, and substantial damage to the surroundings occurred. It was not the only such accident that occurred in Britain during the war: a similar incident at Faversham resulted in the accidental detonation of two hundred tons of TNT, and another blast at Chilwell killed 137 people.
243 Limehouse is an area of east London, on the north bank of the Thames, whose population was at the time largely made up of foreign sailors, including many Chinese. By the late nineteenth century, the district had achieved notoriety as the home of several opium dens.
244 Although wristwatches had been worn by military men since the late nineteenth century, they were, in general, considered more appropriate for women until the First World War, when the British War Department began issuing them to soldiers, starting in 1917.
245 The London Ambulance Column was a voluntary civilian organization whose members met trains arriving in the metropolis with wounded soldiers, whom they conveyed to various hospitals. Providing this service freed members of the RAMC to serve directly at the front.
246 See footnote 17.
247 Though tungsten had been viewed as a likely substance for making filaments much earlier, the technology required to draw it into fine wire was not developed until a few years before the events of this narrative. By the start of the First World War, long-lasting tungste
n filaments were a practical reality.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE: CERBERUS ROUSED
I dined alone the very next evening in Soho and just before seven o’clock walked down Old Compton Street to catch the first eastbound motor omnibus I could find. For several minutes, I shared the ride with a pair of inebriated theatregoers in evening dress, a wary young couple and a bumptious clerk, but I kept to myself as the bus entered a district of small, low shops lining streets where the gentle glow of gas still reigned. As the vehicle made its way toward Limehouse, I saw increasing numbers of men with Oriental features or Hindoo attire, and after passing rows of shadowy houses punctuated by fried-fish bars displaying slogans in several languages, I debarked the bus near a hippodrome248 whose harshly lit exterior blazed with stark beauty into the night.
I walked through Pennyfields and on to the Causeway,249 mindful of shabby shopfronts with Chinese signs that I passed in the company of a curious blend of off-duty soldiers, rough-looking dock workers, cautious onlookers, and an underlying bedrock of local denizens whose origins were far removed from Britain’s shore.
More than once, I thought myself studied carefully by clusters of Celestials,250 but I sensed no hostility, only veiled curiosity. My instructions from Holmes were to proceed along the Causeway, where at some point I should expect Sandy Arbuthnot to discreetly accost me. Beyond those instructions, I had received no further advice, and as I progressed slowly in the direction of the East India Docks, I began to feel a degree of unease, for though I had not yet espied Sandy, I had the clear sensation of being followed.
Noting my present location on the main thoroughfare, I decided to take a circuitous path in hopes of evading my presumed stalker. Swiftly turning one corner and then the next before attempting to lose myself in the flow of traffic, I occasionally stopped to glance into dusty shop windows. The reflection of one shadowy figure was always present in successive panes, and I soon realised that, conspicuous outsider that I must be, there was no hope of shaking free of my patient pursuer. And so, wishing time to ponder my situation, I entered a dimly lit restaurant, where I parted bead curtains and found for myself a small table next to a pair of seamen who were shovelling food into their mouths with chopsticks.
