Thirty-Nine Steps from Baker Street

by J. R. Trtek

  “Did Mycroft inform you that Abel Gresson has been taken into custody?” asked Bullivant of the detective.

  “No,” said Sherlock Holmes as his brother spoke into the telephone. “Enough material evidence was found to justify arresting him?”

  “Yes, thanks to Blenkiron and the Americans. We’ve also identified some of the hiding places used by the Portuguese man that Gresson contacted in the Hebrides. He is still roaming at large, but we expect to have him in our nets shortly.”

  “That leaves only Moxon Ivery,” I said, taking care not to divulge Holmes’s hypothesis concerning Ivery and the Graf Von Schwabing.

  “As well as Heinrich Von Bork,” said the detective, adding nothing as he smiled at me.

  “All is in the process of being arranged,” declared Mycroft Holmes after ringing off. “It is too late to have a man fly over the City today to take photographs today, but we are guaranteed that it will happen tomorrow. At least one camera is indeed available in our area, and an aeroplane will take it aloft from Burton’s Farm in Hornchurch.265 Would you care to supervise?” he asked Bullivant.

  “Of course,” replied the spymaster. “What time will the plane go up?”

  “About nine o’clock,” said Mycroft. “We will want the sun low enough to create sufficient shadows for definition, of course.”

  “Do you care to join me at the aerodrome tomorrow?” Sir Walter asked Sherlock Holmes and me.

  Without hesitation, we both agreed.

  Early the next morning, Holmes and I accompanied Bullivant in a government vehicle to Burton’s Farm. Our chauffeur was a young woman who had driven me to my RAMC office several times previously.

  “You know the route?” Sir Walter enquired of her.

  “I believe so, sir. We continue out along the Barking Road for a way, and then proceed on past Dagenham, heading east and just a tad north.” She smiled. “You can watch and correct me as we go along, if you like.”

  “Of course,” said Sir Walter awkwardly. “Carry on.”

  On the horizon, we could see the beginnings of London’s defensive balloon apron floating against the dawn sky. A distant row of inflated bags hovered in the crisp air, a large cable hanging down to the ground from each of them. Successive horizontal lines, sagging from gravity, linked each vertical cable, and in the space between the balloons, more lines hung from those gently curving sideways lengths—all forming a slotted wall at least one thousand yards high.

  “In the initial phase of construction, it will stretch from Tottenham to Lewisham,” said Sir Walter. “Aeroplanes approaching from the west will be forced to climb over it, and our anti-aircraft guns will be trained to that height. I hope it proves an effective obstacle to the raiders.”

  We passed beyond the tenuous cordon of the balloon apron and on to the east. As we neared Hornchurch, I noticed many military transport vehicles.

  “Is there a depot in this district?” I asked.

  “I am not certain,” said Sir Walter. “At the start of the war, there was a depot established just north of here at Grey Towers—a mansion that the Army Council purchased when it went up for sale. Some of our troops were based there for a time, before the ANZACs took it over last year.” Bullivant turned toward me. “It’s since become a convalescent hospital for New Zealand troops, I think.”266

  I nodded silently, as memories of Isham percolated upward in my thoughts.

  At length, we arrived at Burton’s Farm, an expanse of perhaps somewhat under a hundred acres that served as a field for many of the aeroplanes that stood ready to defend London from attack. We entered the grounds and immediately saw to our right a pair of large hangars, with other buildings on the opposite side of the lane. Our motorcar pulled up before what we took to be the headquarters building and debarked, leaving our chauffeur to tend the vehicle. Entering, we discovered ourselves to be in the officers’ mess instead and were quickly directed to the station commander’s office.

  “Ah, I have been expecting you, Sir Walter,” that officer said. “A courier arrived last evening with orders that made my responsibilities more than clear. I have the pleasure to inform you that all is in readiness.”

  “The photographic survey may proceed this morning, then?” the spymaster enquired.

  “Yes,” replied the officer. “We had no camera here at the field, but one arrived just after midnight. It is a C-camera—not the newest type, but it will suit your purpose to a tee. Our men worked through the night to secure it to the fuselage of one of our two-seaters, and as I just told you, we are prepared to fulfil the desired mission.”

  “You have men assigned to fly the aeroplane?” asked Bullivant.

  “Oh yes, both pilot and observer. The pair readily volunteered when I announced the mission.” The man chuckled as he added, “Indeed, the man who will pilot the craft absolutely insisted on taking part after I remarked that you would be on hand, Sir Walter. He said he did not know you, but did know of you. Mentioned that a friend of his named Hannay had dropped your name on more than one occasion.”

  “Well, speak of coincidence,” said Sherlock Holmes. “Is this officer about?”

  “Let us go to the field proper,” said the officer, reaching for his cap. “He should already be there with his crew mate, preparing to go up.”

  We left the commander’s office and reached the main door to exit the building. As we stepped out into morning light, I saw an officer leaning upon our motorcar, engaging the female chauffeur in very friendly conversation.

  “Ah, Roylance!” called out the commander. “The government representatives are here; we were just speaking of you.”

  The young man turned and saluted his superior before nodding at Bullivant, Holmes, and myself in turn. He was a tall fellow with lean, high-coloured cheeks, a bluff if engaging smile, and a manner that seemed devoid of any self-consciousness.

  Our chauffeur, on the other hand, appeared somewhat abashed, and she looked away, her face already blushing.

  “Taking the trouble to acquaint yourself with our visitors, Captain?” the commander said coyly, indicating the young woman as we approached.

  “I am acquainted with the lady already, sir, having danced with her numerous times,” replied Roylance. “She’s one of Lord Otterbank’s nieces, you know.”

  “This is Sir Walter Bullivant,” said the commander, ignoring the young man’s comment. “Sir Walter and gentlemen,” he said, “may I present Captain Archibald Roylance, the pilot for your mission.”

  “‘Archie’ does fine for you civilians,” said the young officer. “Like the rat-tat-tat Archie, you know.”267

  “And I understand you are acquainted with General Hannay,” replied Bullivant.

  “I am, sir. I was one of his subalterns in the old Lennox Highlanders back at the beginning of the war, but I left the company just before the Somme to join the flying corps. Met up with him again recently,” Roylance said, smiling at Bullivant. “In the course of one of his missions for you, sir.”

  “We heard all about it,” Sir Walter said, placing a hand on the young man’s shoulder. “Good work, I must say.”

  “And this is Sherlock Holmes and Colonel John Watson,” the commanding officer said.

  “The retired detective?” said Roylance, shaking the detective’s hand. “And Doctor Watson? But you said he was a colonel, sir. Retired?” he asked as he took my hand in turn.

  “I am out of uniform today, by choice,” I replied. “But I remain with the medical corps.”

  “Ah well, what’s good for the goose is the better part of valour, I suppose,” said the young man as we left the motorcar and headquarters building behind. I glanced at Holmes, but my friend merely shrugged at Roylance’s curious remark as we walked past the hangars and toward open field, where several aircraft were visible in the distance.

  “Good fellows, the medical corps,” the young pilot said. “To a man. Do you know General Hannay as well?” he asked cautiously.

  “Somewhat,” replied Hol
mes.

  “Actually, they are acquainted very well,” revealed Bullivant. “You may speak freely in front of these gentlemen, Captain Roylance.”

  “Ah, good,” said the officer, now smiling broadly. “You see, I was the one who flew Dick down to London while he was on his latest mission—out of the frying pan and into the breach, more or less. The police were after him. The army was after him. The Hun spies were after him. That was an adventure and a half, I tell you.” He laughed. “Who knows, perhaps when all this business is over, it will be part of another book about Dick, eh?”

  “One can never tell,” said Sherlock Holmes. “Especially when there are eager biographers lurking about, hungry to tell the tale,” he added, smiling at me as we crossed the open field.

  “Do you know where General Hannay is at present?” Roylance asked Bullivant. “Last I heard, he was back with his brigade in France, but there was some gossip that he’d been relieved.”

  “He is, uh, on a special assignment as we speak,” confided Sir Walter.

  “Ah, I understand,” said the young man. “Hush-hush and all that.”

  We now approached two aeroplanes with RFC markings standing apart from the others on the field.

  “Ours is on the left,” said Roylance. “It’s one of the newer reconnaissance craft.”

  “That is what Command gave us, I am afraid,” remarked his superior. “I know you men do not care for the aeroplane.”268

  “It’s all right, sir,” replied the younger officer. “I’ve flown them before, and I can certainly handle this one for a peaceful jaunt over London. Not likely to run into an HB on this mission, am I?” he jovially asked Sir Walter.

  “I rather think not,” answered Bullivant.

  “Hostile battery,” I whispered to Holmes, for his benefit.

  Just then another man emerged from one of the hangars. Clad in flying gear and holding a pair of fur gloves, he appeared to be about Roylance’s age, and as he drew nearer, he saluted his commanding officer before giving the rest of us a nod.

  “Captain Geoffrey Jenkins,” said the commander, who then introduced Holmes and myself to the man.

  “I won the coin toss,” said Roylance as he stepped away, in the direction of the hangar. “I’ll be pilot, and Jenkins here gets to play at being observer.”

  Jenkins playfully slapped Roylance’s shoulder with his gloves as the latter passed. “I think everyone is on to Archie’s two-headed coin by now,” he said to us in a loud voice. “Halloa, gentlemen,” the man added, shaking hands with us. “I never thought I’d be spying on my own folk, but we’ve got a clear day for it, don’t we?”

  “You have the maps?” the commander asked.

  “Yes, sir,” said Jenkins, pulling folded charts from his flight suit. Once Archie is properly clothed, I suppose we can look at them to make sure we’ll get the photographs you desire.”

  We engaged in a brief discussion of aeroplanes and the weather while Captain Roylance was in the hangar. He emerged minutes later wearing flying clothes and holding gloves and leather helmet in one hand.

  “Where do you wish to discuss our target?” he asked.

  “The ground is as good a place as any,” suggested the commanding officer, and we all walked to the aeroplane the men would fly.

  I observed the worn mahogany box housing the aerial camera, which was attached to the craft’s fuselage. Roylance and Jenkins got upon their knees to spread a map of inner London across an expanse of the tarmac before looking up at us expectantly.

  “The area of concern lies within this region,” said Sherlock Holmes, tracing an arc across the map with the toe of his new boot. “It is in essence the City, bounded by this curve on the north and the river on the south.”

  “What we seek,” added Bullivant, “are photographs of the blocks within that confine, of sufficient quality that we may distinguish details on the tops of buildings.”

  Jenkins nodded. “Those are several blocks you speak of, sir.”

  “And even more buildings,” added Roylance. He looked at his fellow pilot. “We shall have to make more than a few runs, no doubt on through midday.”

  “Winter will soon be upon us,” observed Sherlock Holmes. “I should think the sun will remain low enough to cast the necessary shadows, even at noon. The photographs you take will not be difficult to interpret, I fancy.”

  “You’ve analysed aerial reconnaissance before, Mr. Holmes?” asked Roylance.

  “Now and then,” the detective answered with a smile.

  Roylance nodded and said, “Well, then, I suppose—”

  The young officer suddenly broke off speaking and raised one hand as he cast his eyes around the area. Jenkins smiled knowingly as Roylance cocked his head, as if to catch a particular sound.

  “Sorry,” said Roylance. “I thought I heard the bittern again.”

  “Bittern?” I said.

  “Archie is the base’s unofficial ornithologist,” explained Jenkins with a chuckle. “He thinks he’s been hearing that bird for the past week.”

  “Well, it would be somewhat of a novelty,” remarked Sherlock Holmes. “Sighting a bittern in this area, that is.”

  “Quite right,” agreed Roylance, giving the detective an added look of respect. “Are you familiar with their call, Mr. Holmes?”

  “The odd, low booming?” replied my friend. “I have heard it on occasion. I fear, however, that this past moment was not one of those.”

  “Ah,” said Roylance with resignation. “You do not believe it was one?”

  “Sadly, I do not,” Holmes declared.

  “Ah well,” lamented the young officer. “I am perhaps too eager to believe one is lurking about.”

  “It has been a few years since that one specimen set down in Oxford Street, is it not?” said Holmes.

  “Quite so!” exclaimed Roylance, his appreciation of the detective’s avian knowledge heightened even more. “Were you aware that—”

  Bullivant cleared his throat, and the RFC pilot abruptly changed subject. “Well then,” he said, nodding at Captain Jenkins, “I suppose that we’d best be about our work, then.”

  Mechanics were called to pull the aircraft into position and make final preparations for flight. In particular, the aerial camera was examined carefully to make certain it was functioning correctly.

  “And you believe you will finish the reconnaissance by early this afternoon?” asked Bullivant.

  “I reckon we will, sir,” replied Archie Roylance. “From then on, I suppose it’s a matter of how quickly the plates can be developed for you.”

  The two RFC pilots took to their craft. Holmes and I, along with Bullivant and the commanding officer, stood at a distance as the engine was started and the aeroplane began to move away. I imagined the slipstream in my face, and I thought I caught a whiff of castor oil, though I knew that was but fantasy. Narrowing my eyes as the aeroplane drove toward the morning sun and lifted skyward, I thought of him whose spirit was already and forever aloft.

  “We will repeat the procedure tomorrow and each day thereafter, of course, should we find nothing in this batch of photographs,” said Sherlock Holmes that evening as he set a small leather box upon the dining table at Safety House. Sandy Arbuthnot and Jack James entered the sitting room carrying two more such boxes each. At Holmes’s silent direction, they placed them beside the first and stepped away from the table as Bullivant and I looked on.

  “Continuing until we see what you are expecting to see?” asked the spymaster.

  “Yes,” replied the detective. “The Germans will place or uncover the searchlights upon the target buildings in advance of the actual attack but not so early as to risk premature detection,” he explained as he opened the first box and pulled out a stack of photographs, each one with a numerical and letter code in the upper right corner.

  “Do you wish assistance in laying out the prints?” I asked.

  “No, but thank you, old fellow,” replied my friend as he completed a large
rectangular mosaic with the images. “We will examine them section by section, one group at a time. Now, where was that—?”

  Holmes gave a small start as I held a magnifying glass before him. Smiling, he took it from me and bent over the table, slowly surveying each image, which showed the tops of buildings in the heart of London as photographed by Captains Roylance and Jenkins earlier that day. With minute care, he examined each frame thoroughly, eventually completing the initial set of twelve before moving on to the next group.

  Bullivant, Arbuthnot, James, and I sat or stood expectantly, waiting to be of assistance or hear of success. Then, in the midst of surveying the fourth collection of photographs, Holmes gave a sudden start.

  “Halloa!” he cried as he squinted, face close to the table top. “I believe we have something of interest.”

  James and Arbuthnot looked at one another.

  “A search light?” asked Bullivant, drawing near.

  “No,” replied the detective, drawing himself up to his full height. “Not a search light, but a large crate that could hold such a lamp, I think. Here,” he said, handing his lens to the spymaster while pointing to a portion of one photograph. “On the top of that building. Do you see it?”

  “Yes,” said Sir Walter after a moment. He handed the glass off to me, and after observing the grainy image of what appeared to be a large wooden box sitting atop one building, I passed the instrument in turn to Jack James and then Arbuthnot, who both quickly confirmed Holmes’s observation.

  “It is most curious,” Sandy said.

  Holmes had already marked on a street map of London the known rendezvous points assigned some members of the Transport League. He now noted on it the position of the building bearing the suspicious object and then returned to the rectangle of photographs and finished his survey, in the process discovering a second crate, identical to the first, on another building two blocks away from the initial find.

  “The more of these we see, the greater will be our confidence,” the detective murmured with satisfaction.

  And so the evening was spent, until on toward midnight. Just before that hour arrived, Holmes finished examining the last set of photographs. He put down the magnifying glass and stood back, a subtle smile on his face.