The driver shook the reins and the horses trotted slowly out of the courtyard, heading towards one of the side gates of the Palace grounds. I began to panic. The very people who had been plotting the kidnap of the Queen had now taken her into their own hands, and away from my own care. Would our plan work? Why had we let things go this far? Was this truly what Holmes wanted? Undoubtedly, it had to be part of his scheme, but I hoped with all my heart he knew what he was doing.
As soon as the vehicle had rounded the corner of the building and was out of my sight, I felt Sir Cuthbert take me by the arm. “Quickly, Dr. Watson. We must leave at once.” I calmed myself - this was what we had planned.
I followed him around the corner of the coach house and towards a hansom cab standing in the shadows. It was ready to leave at once. We climbed on board, and immediately drove off at a brisk trot.
“Make sure that you stay out of sight,” Sir Cuthbert called to the cabbie. Then to me. “He’s a man we can trust - the best in the whole of London.” We sat back, as there was nothing more that we could do at the moment. Our fate, and the fate of our Queen, remained at that moment in the hands of our skilled and determined cab driver.
Surrounded by the sound of fireworks and the voices of exhausted and drunken members of the populace, we rattled along at a fair old lick, following the clarence through the streets of London until it reached the north bank of the river. Not far, but far enough for my fraying nerves.
I could see the clarence now, in the distance and almost out of sight. It had already reached the Drakesian. I could now see the purpose of the extra wide gangplank, as the horses and carriage had driven straight onto the deck of the steamer and had drawn to a halt there. Several of the ship’s crew were now busy tying the clarence down, whilst others cast off the ship’s mooring lines from the quayside.
I could see all this happening, but I was too late to prevent the steamer from pulling away. Sir Cuthbert leaned out of the window, and called to the driver. “Slow down.”
I noticed a man stepped out from the shadows. It took a moment before I realised that it was Lestrade.
“Dr. Watson,” he called, “our water transport is ready and waiting.”
Sir Cuthbert and I climbed down from the hansom and followed Lestrade towards where two stream launches lay at the quayside, smoke already rising from their funnels. We boarded the nearer of the vessels. The engines rumbled and belched out smoke and sparks into the night air, and the propellers churned up the water behind us into a maelstrom of furious foam - fury which reflected my inner anxiety that the kidnappers might get away.
I gazed ahead into the darkness, looking for any sign of the steamer. Then I saw it. Already well downstream of London Bridge, it was steadily pulling ahead of us. The light air was heavy with coal smoke billowing from the vessel ahead. Their ship’s lights showed them to be making rapid progress.
“Look at their speed!” I cried. “They’re getting away!”
“They’re certainly making a run for it,” said Lestrade. “In this river, at night, such speed is utter madness.”
We weren’t getting any closer. It would take a miracle if we were going to catch up with that speeding vessel now.
But then, the miracle happened. The ship turned abruptly towards the north bank of the river. It struck something below the water, and came to a shuddering halt. As we drew closer, I could see the carriage we had pursued through the streets, still tied securely to the rail stanchions, and presumably still holding the person of the Queen. We heard loud and heated voices coming to us across the water as men shouted at one another and quickly turned their anger upon us.
Drawing level with the stranded steamer, I leapt on board and took out my revolver. I could see three men standing in the bows of the ship. Nemirov stood farthest away from me. Although I couldn’t see his face, I could tell that he was angry at having been stopped. Benjamin Sligo, the Irishman, stood between the two horses still harnessed to the clarence. He was struggling to keep the animals calm. Henry Tinderman stood nearest to me. In the darkness, I observed that he was holding a boathook, which he held out towards me in a threatening manner. I remained where I stood, while members of the Metropolitan police swarmed onto the deck.
With his eyes fixed only upon me, Tinderman failed to notice another, smaller man who jumped up onto the deck beside him. He turned too late to avoid Sir Cuthbert’s swinging fist. It caught the traitor’s jaw with a sickening thump, and sent him sprawling to the deck.
“You swine!” growled Sir Cuthbert.
At the sound of confusion around them, the horses began to panic. When the second launch coming up behind us sounded its steam-whistle, both animals reared up, and one of them landed on Sligo. The Irishman screamed as the terrified horse trampled him to death.
Another man hurried forward, took hold of the reins, and calmed the animals down. I recognised this man as the replacement pilot, Craster.
I dragged Sligo’s body away from the horses, but there was nothing that I could do save him. The pilot turned towards me. “I’m glad to see you are unharmed, Watson.”
“Holmes? What on earth are you doing here?”
“I had to make sure these rogues didn’t get away.”
“You mean, you deliberately ran the ship aground.”
“Indeed.”
I looked around. “But where’s Nemirov?”
“I saw him drop over the side of the ship,” said Holmes. “Lestrade is organising a search party at this moment.”
“How can I help?”
“Check on the carriage.”
“Of course. The Queen.”
I hurried to the clarence, opened the door and looked in at the black figure sitting in the rear seat.
“Your Majesty,” I said. But then I noticed another figure. Sitting facing her was the final member of the Council of Four, Angelique Pellier. She was holding a small, single-shot pistol, and was pointing it towards the figure in black. The young woman gave me a cutting stare, saying, “Step back.”
“Your conspiracy has failed,” I told her, raising my revolver. “Drop your weapon.”
“You can kill me,” she hissed, “but first I shall kill the most powerful woman in the world.”
The woman in black removed the veil from her face. “I don’t think so, my dear,” she said.
I recognised both the voice, and now the face. “Mrs. Hudson?”
“Hello, Dr. Watson,” she said. “I’ve never in my life impersonated the Queen before.”
Even in the darkness, Angelique Pellier looked as confused as I felt.
My landlady again turned to the Frenchwoman. “If you kill me, nobody will miss me very much. Your plans were always doomed to fail. You see, you were up against Mr. Sherlock Holmes.”
In desperation, Angelique Pellier cried out for her co-conspirator. “Anton!”
When she received no reply, she pressed the gun against her own head and blew out her own brains.
* * *
It was nearly dawn by the time Holmes and I returned to Baker Street. Having made Mrs. Hudson feel like genuine royalty and then delivered her to her own rooms, we stood at the foot of the stairs leading up to the sitting room. I started to question Holmes as to how he could place our landlady in such jeopardy, but he held up a hand. “There was still too much that was uncertain, Watson,” he said. “We had to give them rope to make absolutely certain they were committed to the plan, so that they couldn’t wiggle out of the charges. We needed someone to take the place of the Queen. There was no one else that I trusted more than Mrs. Hudson, and she was willing. And if we had told you, you would have objected.”
I could see that he didn’t want to discuss it further right then, but I would have a few more things to say in the future, both about the lady’s safety, and my ignorance of his plan. Leaving it
at that, we finally retired to our rooms.
I opened the door and immediately stood stock-still. In the thin light of the early morning sun, I could see a man sitting in a chair beside the fireplace. I recognised him at once. Nemirov. He was holding a revolver.
Holmes did not seem the least bit surprised to see him, but sat down in a chair facing the Ukrainian.
Nemirov waved the gun to indicate that I should close the door and take another chair.
Holmes broke the tense silence. “Your plot to kidnap the Queen has failed, Nemirov. Sligo and Angelique Pellier are both dead. Tinderman is under close arrest. And the crew of your steamer are in the hands of Scotland Yard. Nothing remains for you except the hangman’s rope.”
“Nemesis,” I breathed.
“Precisely, Watson.”
The Ukrainian smiled. “In reality, we did nothing more than kidnap your landlady - if you can call it kidnapping. She came with us willingly enough.”
“You still have to answer for sedition and murder.”
“We are all driven by our dreams, Mr. Holmes,” said Nemirov. “Mine is to see a world of freedom and equality.”
“But not for people like Bessington.”
“Who?”
“The drunk that you murdered.”
“A nobody.”
“On the contrary, a man with the right to the very things that you claim to stand for.”
“But his death hardly affords the publicity I seek. On the other hand, the murder of the famous Sherlock Holmes would bring the attention of the entire world to my cause.”
A carriage drew to a halt in the street outside. In silence, we listened as somebody climbed the stairs, and stopped on the landing outside our rooms.
Nemirov scowled at the door, and gripped his revolver more tightly.
The door opened, and a man stood framed in the doorway. I recognized him. His waxed moustaches gave him an imperial demeanour. Dressed in black, with his left hand in his pocket, he held a gun in his right hand.
I watched as the expression on Nemirov’s face transformed. He looked as if he were facing the devil himself. The Ukrainian stood up, and raised his revolver with a shaking hand. The crack of two gunshots assailed our eardrums, and shattered the early morning calm.
Nemirov collapsed onto the hearthrug, with a single bullet-hole in the centre of his forehead. I later discovered the Ukrainian’s bullet buried deep within the wooden doorframe. It remains there to this day.
The man in the doorway lowered his weapon. “I am indebted to you, Mr. Holmes, for giving me the chance to deal with this scoundrel myself.” The man spoke with a slight but detectable German accent. “I consider Her Majesty’s honour now restored. Her Majesty would like you to accept a small gift in recognition of your services last night.” He held out a small box, which Holmes took and opened. Inside lay a miniature: A small painting on mother-of-pearl of the late Prince Albert.
“Please convey my thanks to Her Majesty,” said Holmes, “but I cannot possibly accept this gift.”
I was shocked. “But Holmes, you cannot refuse the Queen.”
“Indeed not. But the gift should go instead to our landlady, Mrs. Hudson. After all, she proved more courageous last night than any of us.”
I nodded. “She will be delighted.”
Now satisfied, the man in the doorway gave a sharp bow, clicked his heels, and left.
Holmes breathed a deep sigh. “I do believe that this case is now at an end.” He waved vaguely towards the body of Nemirov. “Lestrade can tidy up, and take the credit, if he likes.”
Later that morning, I sat in our rooms, reading the newspaper reports of the Jubilee celebrations. Holmes stood in the open window, violin in hand, playing a romantic melody. His face showed a look of sublime happiness. Summer had finally come to Baker Street.
The Resplendent Plane Tree
by Kevin P. Thornton
Note to the Publisher: Given the relative recent infamy of one member of this case, I recommend a 100-year embargo from the date of my signature.
John H. Watson
January the 1st, 1918
London, that summer of 1888, was a torrid and desultory place to be. The hot days were muggy and hazy, the rain when it fell was torrential, and the drains were either dry and fetid or overflowing and malodorous. To top it all, the Australian cricket team were touring, and for the first time in history they had won a Test Match against England at home. So far it had been a dreadful summer.
Holmes had been restless since the solution of the Vatican Cameos, and what cases he’d had since were “mere trifles”, as he put it. A missing woman from Barking he solved by deducing, correctly, that she was running away with another man; a theft of family heirlooms was righted without him even leaving the rooms on Baker Street, noting only that sibling rivalry was as dangerous as several gangs of cutthroats. So too did he solve the case of a haunted house in Horsham. He sat in his chair, enervated only by the answers to telegrams he’d sent, and concluded it was an ingenious insurance fraud. He was right of course, and his mood sank with each trifling victory.
Whenever Holmes lapsed into these languid torpors, there was a danger he would revert and try to medicate his brain into numbness. Consequently, I was always hoping that some form of fascinating puzzle would walk through the doors or arrive in the mail. Sadly, when Mrs. Hudson came up with the first of the morning deliveries, the only letter was addressed to me.
It was postmarked Dover from the previous day, and the return address was The Plane Tree Sanatorium. I knew only one person at that facility, and as I read silently, my worst fears were attained.
I regret to inform you of the death of Captain James McGrory, late of the 66th Regiment of Foot, at this establishment yesterday. I betray no confidences to you, a fellow medical professional, when I say that while we felt we had made great progress in the treatment of the Captain’s afflictions, all seemed to be for naught. Just this afternoon, in front of at least five witnesses, Captain McGrory dashed to the edge of the cliffs and flung himself off, there to render himself lifeless on the beach below.
There was more to follow, but I was too dumbstruck to be able to take it in.
“Come, Watson, do sit down before you fall. Tell me what has happened to your friend, the Captain. How did he die?”
“Confound it Holmes, what manner of trickery is this?” I said, unable to hide the asperity from my tone. “I have just opened the envelope to find the most distressing news, only to have you address me as if you were reading the very letter over my shoulder. How did you know it was about my friend Jim McGrory, how did you know the news was bad, and how on this earth could you possibly know his rank? Have you been steaming open my letters to learn enough to play your little mind games on me?” The minute I said that, I wished I could take it back. I had accused my best friend of dishonour. There could be no worse thing to say to a gentleman, and Holmes would have been well within his rights to take deep offense to my words.
He didn’t. He looked at me gravely and said, “I can see I will have to tell you before you crush that letter in rage.” I looked down and relaxed my fist, anxious not to damage the missive, even though I would dearly love to erase its contents from history.
“You are a very patriotic man, Watson, and I have observed before that the conditioning you received while serving Queen and Country comes back to haunt you at times. The letter caused you to stiffen upright and stand to attention, something you do when you hear the National Anthem, hear mention of Royalty, or cast your mind back to your soldiering memories. Your distress was so obvious that even Mrs. Hudson would have noticed, so it became clear to me it was bad news about someone you were close to. That made it likely to have been a soldier with whom you served. Such links are, I am told, of the highest bond. It is unlikely, given the quality of the paper and en
velope you hold, to be someone of the lower ranks, so it is most probably a fellow officer. As servicemen are drawn closest to those of similar rank, it seemed a reasonable leap that the person who had caused you such distress was, like you, a Captain.”
“It always seems so easy once you have explained it, Holmes. I am so sorry to take offense, and even more sorry that I cast aspersions on you.”
“Think nothing of it,” said Holmes. “If I might trouble you to see the letter?”
I handed it to him. He read it quickly.
“You have never mentioned Captain McGrory before,” he said.
“Have I not? He has never been far from my mind. We served together, and although I was for the most part tending to the lame and wounded and he was a soldier in the thick of things, we became friends in the mess and shared many special evenings. Such friendships are forged quickly and deeply, as can only happen when you live as if every day might be your last.”
“I see,” said Holmes.
“Jim was jovial, easy-going, yet keen of intellect. When he failed to come back one day from a sortie with his men, we feared he had died in the skirmish. His unit had been ambushed by a larger force of men, and the rout of his unit was disordered and chaotic. The sergeant reported that it had been every man for himself, and the survivors came back five men short from their company. One of them was Jim.”
“What happened?” said Holmes
“It was two days before they were able to go back. They arrived in sufficient numbers and overran the Afghan camp. They found the other four men staked out in the burning sun, tied with leather that had tightened and stretched them so that their joints had dislocated in the heat. They had been tortured over many hours and they died slowly, one by one. Jim was in the middle, facing them, buried in the side of an anthill up to his neck. Not only had he been forced to watch everything, but he had been slowly driven mad. They covered him in honey, Holmes, before they buried him. That sweetness must have attracted every insect in the desert, and they all feasted on Jim as he watched his lads die. He would surely have died too had they left him much longer, and nearly did.”
The MX Book of New Sherlock Holmes Stories - Part IX Page 21
