“Notice the extra-wide gangplank joining it to the quayside.”
“Unusual, but is that significant?”
“Perhaps we shall find out.”
The moment we reached the steamship, Holmes stepped on deck and examined the covering of the hold. “It has been significantly strengthened,” he said. “But why?”
He knocked with his cane on the wheelhouse door. It opened, and a man appeared. He was large and muscular, with narrowed eyes and an aggressive manner. I stepped back in alarm. But he didn’t intimidate Holmes for one moment.
“What do you want?”
Holmes returned the man’s stare. “I have a proposition for you.”
“Who are you?”
“My name is Sherlock Holmes. I am assisting Scotland Yard in a very serious case. And your name?”
“Alfred Dexter.” The man spat into the water. “You have a proposition for me, do you, Mr. Holmes? What kind of proposition?”
“Your boss has hired you to undertake a singular task.”
“Says who?”
“Don’t deny it.”
The man shrugged, but looked suddenly wary.
“I want you to tell your boss that you have changed your mind. You will allow him to use your vessel and crew, but not with you in command.”
Dexter laughed. “He’ll kill me. Nemirov doesn’t like traitors.”
Holmes smiled. At least we now had a name for the mystery man. “Then I suggest you make yourself scarce.”
“And if I don’t?”
“I will see that you are hanged for treason.”
Dexter looked alarmed. “Now, look here, Mr. Holmes. I went along with this business at first, but kidnapping the Queen was never my idea.”
More of the plot was confirmed. “Then pull out while you still can.”
“How can I do that, and stay alive?”
“Take the next train for the West Country, and lose yourself there.”
“But they’ll come looking for me.”
“I think not. They have only two days before they have to flee the country.”
“Look, I’m no supporter of the British Establishment, but I have to admit, I never was keen on this business. I prefer Mr. Marx to Mr. Nemirov.”
“Then go. But first, tell me everything you know about these people. This Council of Four.”
“That’s a good name for them, Mr. Holmes. Although Nemirov doesn’t like titles and names. The crew are mostly Dutch, but they understand English, and they were hired by Nemirov, so you’d better come down to my cabin. Then I’ll tell you all I know.”
We all squeezed into the captain’s cabin, which was more a cubbyhole than a place to sleep. Holmes and I remained standing, as Dexter slumped onto the bunk.
“Let’s begin with this man you called Nemirov,” said Holmes. “What can you tell us about him?”
“He’s a refugee from the Russian Tsar. I don’t know what they want him for, but he seems to be on the run, so to speak. He has a passionate dislike for authority of any kind.”
“Hmm. A man with a chip on his shoulder.”
“He plans to build a bright new world, and he’s prepared to move heaven and earth to achieve it.”
Holmes nodded. “I understand a man called Henry Tinderman may involved in this business too.”
“A man high up at the Home Office,” Dexter agreed. “That’s him, all right. But he spends a lot of time at Buckingham Palace.”
“Helping prepare for the Jubilee,” said Holmes.
“That’s right. He used to be a loyal servant of the Queen.”
“But not now?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“A certain personage at the Palace took some friends to spend a week with him. I don’t know what happened, but it plunged the household into financial ruin. Tinderman is now a very angry man, Mr. Holmes.”
“And a dangerous one.”
Dexter nodded.
“And the woman?”
“Angelique Pellier. She comes from a humble French family, but she wanted to make something of herself. She fell out and fled to England. Now she’s in service at the Palace.”
“And the other man?”
“Benjamin Sligo. Like his name, he’s Irish. He wants to see the liberation of his country from the British crown.”
“Like so many.”
“He served in the army until he was injured and was forced to make the best he could of life as a civilian. His skill with horses helped him find work as a groom. And now he’s a valued member of Nemirov’s conspiracy.”
Holmes glared down at Dexter. “That information is extremely useful. But before we go, tell me one thing. Is there to be another meeting?”
“Yes. A full gathering of their supporters.”
“Where?”
“The Boar’s Head in Clerkenwell. This evening.”
“Of course. And the password to get in?”
“‘Jubilee’.”
“Naturally. Well, thank you, Mr. Dexter. Now I suggest you leave at once. London is no longer a safe place for you. I shall send a telegram in your name, informing the meeting that you no longer wish to be a part of their scheme, and that you will not be at the gathering tonight.”
“Thank you, Mr. Holmes. You’d better send it to Tinderman, at the Home Office.”
“I shall do that. But, for the sake of your life, you must disappear before he receives it.”
* * *
Upon our return to Baker Street, Holmes immediately set about combing through his filing system. I could detect a frenzy in his search, which meant he would resent any interruption until he had found whatever he was looking for.
I sat down beside the hearth, and waited.
After several minutes, he stood up. “A-ha!”
“What have you found, Holmes?”
He held up a newspaper cutting. “Nemirov. I thought the name rang a bell.”
“Sounds East European.”
“A known anarchist by the name of Anton Leonid Nemirov. Born in Kiev in 1839.”
“An anarchist? You mean, he hates everyone.”
“He is a man with a vision, Watson. This is a report of a public speech he gave a few months ago in Hyde Park. He blames the Russian Empire for persecuting his family and murdering his parents. He now calls upon everyone who has been treated badly by the authorities in any country to join him in forming a new state, a nation where everyone is free to live out their own lives without fear of persecution.”
“A utopian dream,” I replied. “But to kidnap the Queen is a capital crime.”
“Then we need to know what happens at that meeting tonight. We have to find out exactly what they are planning.”
“Will you go, Holmes?”
“I would like for you to go instead, Watson.” He looked towards me. “Take Bessington with you. Lestrade will have finished with him by now.”
“Good idea, Holmes.”
“And see if you can persuade Sir Cuthbert to go with you as well. He might not like it, but his presence there could prove useful.”
“Won’t the landlord have warned Nemirov in advance?”
“No. Scotland Yard have sworn him to secrecy.”
“And how do we gain entrance without alarming the guests?”
“That is why you are taking our friend Bessington with you.”
“And what will you be doing, Holmes?”
“Making plans,” he replied, as he sat back and lit his favourite briar pipe.
* * *
I arrived with Bessington at the Boar’s Head early in the evening. Sir Cuthbert had agreed to accompany us. He felt it his responsibility to help deal with this threat to t
he Queen’s safety.
The sound of voices, together with the smell of alcohol, told us the Public Bar and the lounge were busy with customers. Bessington led us to the rear of the building, and lifted a metal grille. “This is the tradesman’s entrance,” he told us with a chuckle. “I usually get in this way. And not just at this place, neither.”
In the evening light, Sir Cuthbert’s face showed his annoyance. Only his sense of duty prevented him from hurrying back to the Palace.
Following Bessington, we climbed down through the opening and into the cellar we had visited only a few hours earlier.
Again, the air in that underground room smelt musty, and I could feel the cold seeping out of the stone walls.
I lit the lantern I had brought with me, and looked around. The place appeared to be empty. We found a corner at the dirtiest end of the cellar, doused the flame, and sat hidden in the darkness.
I had dressed suitable to the occasion in a tweed suit and a flat cap. Against my advice, Sir Cuthbert had tried to maintain his dignity by wearing his usual black suit and top hat. “I hope we won’t have to stay here long,” he muttered.
“I think we might,” I told him, “so you’d better make yourself comfortable.”
At the far end of the cellar, the door at the top of the stairs opened and light flooded in, while we sat hidden among the shadows. I heard somebody climbing down the steps and, peering from the darkness, I saw a man that I didn’t recognise. He hung a lighted lantern on a joist in the centre of the cellar. Only now could I see properly how the room had been set out. Several rows of chairs faced towards the front, where four seats stood facing the other way. Some event was planned to take place there that evening - the meeting we had come to observe.
Another man remained at the top of the stairs. We heard him ask the next person for the password. The fellow muttered “Jubilee”, and was allowed to descend. Other people followed, until the gathering had amounted to about thirty individuals.
I noticed another man arrive who looked particularly suspicious. He was dressed like a fisherman in a navy blue jersey, corduroy trousers, and a peaked cap. The seating area filled rapidly, and soon a cloud of blue tobacco smoke hung over the gathering. Somebody slammed the entrance door shut. At the front of the gathering, the four chairs were now occupied. One of the men seated there stood up and called for order. He was tall and had an air of authority about him.
“Tinderman,” hissed Sir Cuthbert into my right ear.
I nodded. The man from the Home Office.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” said Tinderman, “the time is drawing near when we shall see the fulfilment of our grand design.” All around the room, people nodded and whispered to one another. “We are a select few. Each of us has a unique reason for being at this gathering. The fact that you knew the password secures your right to be here this evening, and guarantees the distinction of our gathering. This pleased the crowd. Tinderman continued. “I shall now hand you over to the man who had masterminded this whole affair.” He sat down, and another man stood up.
This man was less tall, but stood ram-rod straight. A shock of blond hair stood out from his head, giving him an eccentric appearance. His eyes panned around the room. Then he bowed towards the gathering. “Welcome to this meeting,” he said, in an accent which placed him firmly from Eastern Europe. This had to be the Ukrainian. Nemirov. “This will be our final meeting before Tuesday, when our purpose is achieved.” A rumble of conversation rolled around the gathering, but faded away again as Nemirov continued. “Thanks to the support of each one of you, everything is now ready. You each know your particular roles. But a problem has developed.”
People sat upright, and many leaned forward, all intent on learning about this new threat to their plans.
“Dexter.” He spat the name. “The captain of the steamer has absconded.” Angry words emanated from the gathering. “He has run out on us. But we still have the ship itself, and her crew. Now we need a new pilot for the Drakesian.”
It was at this point that the fisherman stood up and pushed his way to the front. “I’ll do it,” he said. “I’ll skipper that ship for you.”
“And who are you?”
The fisherman took off his cap respectfully. “Name’s Craster. An honest seaman who has spent twenty years before the mast, and has now fallen on hard times, all because of those ship owners - faceless businessmen who want to wring out every last penny from the poor, and take no thought for the honest working man.”
“And do you share our goals?”
“Freedom for all men,” said Craster. “That’s good enough for me.”
“Then you must be ready to sail on Tuesday evening - the very moment we appear with our precious load.”
Craster looked up at him. “And what or who might that be, sir?”
“If you don’t know by now, then it is better you don’t know at all.”
“You mean Her Majesty?”
Nemirov’s face broke into a mirthless smile.
“May a humble man like myself ask the purpose of this action? I can see it as a blow against authority, but what will we do with Her Majesty?”
The Ukrainian stood straight and proud. “We will hold her in comfortable seclusion. In Rotterdam. And negotiate a ransom.” A rumble of approval ran around the gathering. “We will force them to take us seriously.”
“May I be so bold as to ask the price of an Empress’s ransom?”
Tinderman stood up again. “Simple. The complete abolition of the monarchy.” Everyone cheered.
I felt Sir Cuthbert stir beside me. “The bounder!”
Faces turned towards where we were sitting. “Who’s there?” demanded Nemirov.
Bessington turned towards us. “That’s blown it. They’ll be after us now.” He pointed towards the grille where we had entered. “Go!”
I pushed Sir Cuthbert back towards the steps that had brought us down into the cellar. Behind us, I heard Bessington call out, mimicking his drunken drawl. “No need to worry, gents and ladies. It’s only me.”
Masked by the sounds of shouts and scuffling, I pushed Sir Cuthbert up through the grille and into the night air.
Clutching his cane and top hat, Sir Cuthbert followed me, as we ran for our lives.
* * *
The next morning, Monday, Holmes seemed more interested in the newspaper than in listening to my story.
“Today,” he told me, “Her Majesty will travel from Frogmore, and this evening will attend a dinner to be held in her honour.”
My eye was drawn to the back page of his paper, and to an article in the Stop Press column. “Look at this, Holmes.”
He turned the paper over, and read the article.
“Early today, police pulled the body of a man from the River Thames. Inspector Lestrade of Scotland Yard identified the man as one Josiah Bessington, a vagrant of no fixed abode.”
I gasped. “Bessington. Drowned.”
“I very much doubt if that was how he met his end, Watson.”
“I agree, Holmes. The poor man must have given his life so that Sir Cuthbert and I could escape. If it hadn’t been for him, the police would be dealing with three corpses by now.”
Holmes folded his newspaper, and dropped it onto the table. “Today, we must wait, Watson. Prepare. But tomorrow, we shall see what will happen.”
Holmes was absent for much of that day, and when I later asked him how his day had gone, he merely smiled and said it had gone as expected.
* * *
On the following day, June twenty-first, 1887, Victoria, Queen of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Ireland, and Empress of India, rode in an open carriage to celebrate her Golden Jubilee at Westminster Abbey. She was escorted by Indian Princes and other dignitaries. Crowds thronged the streets, and people gathered to see the
pageantry and to celebrate the Queen’s fifty years on the throne. The Queen later waved to the cheering crowds from the balcony of Buckingham Palace. After receiving various dignitaries, she celebrated with yet another banquet.
As I sat with Holmes over afternoon tea, he gave me my instructions. “Your part in this evening’s events is crucial, Watson.”
“My part?”
He explained what would happen. “Naturally,” he continued, “you must liaise directly with Sir Cuthbert. He has been told exactly what to do. Officially, the Queen will be wheeled outside to enjoy a display of fireworks.”
“Officially?”
“In reality, she will be travelling by closed carriage, for an evening of peace and quiet at St James’s Palace.”
“But where will you be?”
“Unfortunately, I have other matters to deal with. But I trust you to do the right thing.”
“Which is?”
“To keep Her Majesty safe. Oh, and don’t forget to take your service revolver along with you.”
* * *
Dusk was falling when I reached Buckingham Palace, and joined Sir Cuthbert at one of the side entrances near a coach house. He seemed agitated. “I really do not like the idea of putting Her Majesty in any kind of danger.”
I took out my revolver. “Don’t worry, Sir Cuthbert. I won’t let anything happen to her.”
“Well, for better or worse, the time has come to put into operation Sherlock Holmes’s plan.” He disappeared inside.
The clopping of horses’ hooves made me turn and hurry towards the inner courtyard. There I saw an enclosed four-wheeled clarence waiting. The two horses seemed anxious to be off.
I slid into a dark corner beside the building as three shadowy figures boarded the clarence. A figure I recognised as the French woman, Angelique, climbed in. The groom, Benjamin Sligo, climbed onto the box seat at the front, and took the reins. Then Henry Tinderman, dressed in his finest attire, appeared and took his place beside the driver.
Once more the door opened, and Sir Cuthbert emerged, escorting a small woman. She was dressed in black and held a veil across her face. Sir Cuthbert helped the woman climb up into the clarence and then closed the door. I recognised the figure at once. “The Queen,” I murmured as Sir Cuthbert joined me.
The MX Book of New Sherlock Holmes Stories - Part IX Page 20
