Sherlock Holmes and the King's Evil: And Other New Tales Featuring the World's Greatest Detective

by Donald Thomas

  No carter’s van had called at any address in Jubilee Street to deliver rifles. For all their cleverness, Mycroft Holmes and the pursuers had lost the scent of that consignment. I stood up, stretched, and wished my friend good-night. I noticed, as I did so, a carte-de-visite on the sideboard. It showed a tiny head-and-shoulders photograph of an expressionless Englishman in a suit and hat, under the inscription: “Memorandum from Chung Ling Soo: Marvellous Chinese Conjuror.” Written underneath were the words, “Wood Green Empire until Saturday. Always a pleasure to see you in the stalls.” What on earth Holmes wanted with a stage conjuror I did not know and, at that moment, I did not care.

  8

  If Sherlock Holmes and his brother had an idea of what was going on, they seemed in no hurry to do anything about it. Then a few mornings later I went down to breakfast and once again sensed a smell of solder or hot metal in the sitting-room. It did not seem to emanate from the room itself. Sherlock Holmes had it on his clothes. But where had he been that night? Who had he been with and what had they been doing? He certainly looked, once again, as if his head had never touched the pillow.

  I thought perhaps I should become my own detective but I did not suppose I should get very far. Even Scotland Yard had accomplished little. Thanks to an innocent couple who came forward because they wondered what had happened to their lodger, the CID had located Poloski Morountzeffs workroom. The chemicals found there, chosen for the manufacture of bombs, he had explained away to the credulous landlord as a formula for his patent fire-proof paint. There was a supply of rifle cartridges, though no rifles, and clips of ammunition for a Mauser pistol. Morountzeff had been well-behaved, an ideal lodger, who sometimes locked his rooms and travelled to the Continent.

  During the next week, thanks to such “information received,” the City of London police arrested three men and two women. Fedoroff, Peters and Duboff were charged with the Houndsditch murders, Sara Milstein and Rosie Trassjonsky with conspiring to assist them. Unfortunately, it seemed that the informants against them were more attracted by the rewards offered than by any allegiance to the truth. When the evidence was examined, all the defendants were set free. Murder could not be proved against the three men, much less against the two women.

  It was difficult to establish the identity of any of the suspects. The internal security system of the Anarchist movement discouraged the use of names. Where necessary it still preferred to allude to “The Frenchman” or “The German” or “The Russian.” For every man who knew the sobriquet of “Peter Piatkoff” there seemed to be a thousand who knew “Peter the Painter.” What was not known could be betrayed, even under police questioning.

  A few names were known to the police, among them such men of violence as Fritz Svaars and Yoshka Sokoloff. They had not been caught, as Holmes remarked with a sigh, and it seemed likely that they were in Russia or France by now.

  Such was the situation when I went to bed a few nights later and, somewhen after midnight, had that unusual sensation of waking from a dream within a dream. After what seemed like several minutes, but was probably more like ten or twenty seconds, of dreaming about dreaming I was fully awake. It was almost four o’clock in the morning and, so far as I knew, Sherlock Holmes was in bed and asleep. He had certainly retired before midnight. Now, however, I heard voices in the sitting-room below me.

  I had missed whatever they were discussing but I was quite clear in my mind that one of the voices was Sherlock Holmes and another was his brother Mycroft. There were at least two more, probably four but I could not be sure. I did not recognise these other speakers, though one of them had a very distinctive tone of voice. His words were spoken rather slowly but emphatically and, at times, with something like a growl. The voice was rather slurred on occasion, as if the tongue might be a little too large for the mouth. When this visitor concluded a rather lengthy remark, another speaker whose voice was unfamiliar to me addressed him as “Winston.”

  I began to wonder whether I was not, after all, still dreaming. What were the government’s most senior civil servant, Mycroft Holmes, the Home Secretary, and someone who knew the Home Secretary well enough to call him “Winston,” doing in our sitting-room at four o’clock in the morning? The discussion was less intense now. They dropped their voices and I could make out only a rumble of talk.

  Instinct told me that it would not do to walk in on their debate. On the other hand, I must be dressed and ready in case my presence should be necessary. I was just fumbling with a collar stud and tie when a board outside creaked and Holmes, perhaps seeing light under the door, tapped gently as he entered.

  “I heard you moving about,” he said quietly, “I fear there is trouble boiling up near the Anarchist Hall in Jubilee Street, or rather about two hundred yards away. It seems as if we may have an insurrection on our hands. If Sergeant Atherton’s information from the underground is correct, the aim is to kill as many of our officers and officials as possible, and of as high a rank as possible. In other words, assassination under cover of a general outbreak. Rifles for the one, pistols for the other.”

  I began to unscrew my trouser-press.

  “What will you do?”

  “Major Frederick Wodehouse of the War Office is here. So is the Home Secretary—Wodehouse picked up Mr Churchill from his house in Eccleston Square on the way. Nothing is to be said, at this stage, about either of them. It would not look well for the military to be involved.”

  “And you will go with them?”

  His profile, in the gaslight, looked leaner and tauter than ever I had seen it.

  “This minute, old fellow. We also have a captain of the Scots Guards in attendance. Theirs is the nearest regiment, at the Tower of London. This is likely to be more than the police can deal with. We have no more room in the motor, so you must follow on as quickly as you can. Take a cab from the Metropolitan line for Stepney police station, just off Commercial Road. Ask for directions there. The desk sergeant will know where we are.”

  With that he was gone. I heard footsteps and voices going down the stairs from our sitting-room to the front door. Then I took out my watch and looked at it. The hands were at just five minutes past four. Ten minutes later I was walking up Baker Street towards the rank at the underground railway. A single cabby was dozing on his perch. He was awake and alive in a second.

  We did the journey to Commercial Road in less than half an hour, through a ghost-like city of empty streets and half-lit avenues. I told the cabby to wait and went up the steps, illuminated by the blue police lamp. Inside, it was as though I had stepped into the foyer of the Alhambra theatre five minutes before the curtain went up. This was plainly the headquarters of the operation, police officers pushing this way and that. I found my way to the sergeant’s desk and was answered in two words which would soon travel round the world.

  “Sidney Street.”

  I was not given the number of the building but, if even half of what Holmes had told me was true, I should not need one. My cabby drove the half-mile through Stepney, past the deserted Anarchist Club, down Hawkins Street—and then no further. A helmeted constable stepped out into the roadway ahead of us, swinging his bulls-eye lantern side to side to bring the cab to a halt. As he did so, I noticed in the beam of light that snow had begun to fall. There were no tracks of other wheels to be seen.

  “No way through, sir,” The policeman’s face was at the window. “The road ahead is blocked off. If you want to drive west, you must turn back and go down to Commercial Road.”

  “I am a medical man, Dr John Watson. I have a rendezvous with Mr Sherlock Holmes. I understand he is with Major Wodehouse and Mr Churchill.”

  “That’s different then,” the policeman said, opening the cab door, “I shouldn’t wonder if you weren’t needed presently.”

  I paid off the cabby and followed the policeman through the thin drifts of the falling snow. I had not brought my medical bag with me but just then I could see—or hear—no reason why I should need it. Nor had I packed
my revolver in my pocket.

  Perhaps it was the snow which gave Sidney Street its sinister appearance as the clocks struck five. More probably it was the sight of a formation of men standing absolutely motionless in a side-street and uttering no sound. If this was Anarchist Communist revolution, it seemed just then to be a remarkably silent affair.

  Sidney Street, as we came to its corner, was at least forty feet wide. Its terraces of plain red-brick working men’s houses faced one another. The block of eight houses which was now the centre of attention, Martin’s Buildings, was named after its owner and had been built ten years earlier. Each house had about ten rooms located on several floors. At the rear they overlooked a jumble of yards, sheds, and alleyways. At the front, the windows had a clear view across the street but only restricted visibility along its length. Immediately opposite the house which had become the focus of interest was a yard with a wooden fence and gate. Its paintwork dimly proclaimed “Isaac Dickholtz, Coal Merchant and Haulier.” On either side of the street, some of the houses had little shops on their ground floors with grilled windows and shabby black paint.

  Further off, at the next road junction north, stood the tall buildings of Mann and Crossman’s Brewery with a yard and stables to the rear. The van gates also opened opposite Martin’s Buildings. In the other direction, the Rising Sun public house, which we were now approaching, occupied the next corner site on the other side of the road. The flat roofs of the Rising Sun and the cooling tower of the brewery both offered a vantage-point, looking respectively north and south along the thoroughfare towards 100 Sidney Street. There was still no sight nor sound of a gang of Anarchist assassins.

  In the dim lamplight of the early morning, the large but silent body of dark-clad police cutting off the thoroughfare at either end was concentrated in two side streets, out of view of the windows of houses in the middle of the block. As to the suspect house itself, there might be fifty armed gunmen ready to fight to the death—or one—or none.

  Just as we drew level with a back lane, running along the rear of the houses, I saw three figures. Two of them were uniformed police officers and between walked a young woman, barefoot in her underclothes, her white petticoat immediately visible.

  “They are evacuating the other houses in Martin’s Buildings,” said Sherlock Holmes, just behind me. I gave a start for I had neither seen nor heard him approach. “The Home Secretary is here with Major Wodehouse, but that is for your ears only. We do not want every reporter in London getting under our feet or betraying his presence to the enemy, for he would immediately be at risk.”

  “How many gunmen are there?”

  He drew me towards the street corner outside the bar-room windows of the Rising Sun, on the opposite side of the street from Martin’s Buildings.

  “No one knows. We have the names of two. Fritz Svaars and Yoshka Sokoloff, otherwise known as The Limping Man. They are not in Russia after all, it seems, and both are very efficient shots. Others who will try to come and go may keep up an impressive fusillade. Piatkoff, if he is in there, will be their commander. ”

  “And the police?”

  “Lestrade is on his way but this is a matter for marksmen and the police have none. Twenty or thirty constables have occupied the houses on the far side of the street, as well as the vantage-points of the brewery and the flat roof of the Rising Sun. Several of their men are armed but that will not do.”

  “And Mr Churchill?”

  Holmes chuckled.

  “He has taken command from the Commissioner of Police, as he always meant to do. Major Wodehouse tells me that ‘Winston likes a straight fight.’ A telegraph has gone to the Secretary of State for War requesting the immediate release of a detachment of the Scots Guards from duties at the Tower of London. That too is for your ears only, though they will be here within the hour.”

  As we groped our way up the dimly-illuminated staircase of the Rising Sun to the darkness of its flat roof, I thought of the repercussions of Scots Guards and straight fights, if this should prove to be a fuss about very little. As we came out into the open air, a city clock across the quiet streets struck quarter-past five. It crossed my mind that at this time of year it would hardly be light much before eight.

  Close at hand there were three small groups, engaged in quiet conversation. One of these included Major Wodehouse and the Home Secretary, who was dressed in his long coat with its velvet collar and cuffs and his tall hat of black silk. From the gruff confidence of Winston Churchill’s voice and his face as I had seen it in a magazine photograph, I had imagined a much taller man. Yet, though he was burly in build, I guessed that Sherlock Holmes topped him by almost a foot.

  For the next hour or so we were pestered at intervals by the landlord, who had hoped to hire out his flat roof to newspaper reporters at a sovereign a time. Major Wodehouse’s aide told him briskly to “cut along” and leave us to our business. It was no part of the plan to have the press in attendance before there were events to report. Mr Churchill’s instructions were also positive in another matter. There was to be no battle until the sky was light enough for us to see who we were shooting at and to make it more difficult for our opponents to enter or escape from the houses on the far side of the street.

  “It will be the easiest thing in the world, sir,” interposed Sherlock Holmes, “for those opponents to break through the ceilings of the upper rooms and travel from one house to the next. In the roof spaces there may be no proper dividing walls and, if there are, they will be no more than a single thickness of brick, easily broken through. If that happens, the battlefront will be eight houses long.”

  “Quite so, Mr Holmes,” the Home Secretary said gruffly, “I am obliged to you for your very salutary reminder.” Mr Churchill then stepped behind the shelter of a chimney stack and presently I noticed the faint glow of a cigar, concealed by the brickwork from the street below.

  We had a bitter couple of hours, waiting for the sky to lighten. At intervals, the landlord appeared with tots of rum and sandwiches of ham or tongue. Finally, when the steeple clocks had struck seven, the Home Secretary said,

  “Very well gentlemen, let us proceed. Everyone, unless instructed otherwise, will remain under cover and out of sight.”

  He descended the stairs, followed by Major Wodehouse and his aide, then by Captain Nott-Bower, who was Commissioner of the City of London Police. Sherlock Holmes and I had been bidden to bring up the rear. I could not say what use we might be but when my friend went down I kept him company. In the saloon bar of the public house, Lieutenant Ross of the Scots Guards in his greatcoat and cap was already in attendance. Though it had taken some time to rouse the Secretary of State for War and obtain permission, a detachment of the regiment, including two sergeants who were musketry instructors and nineteen private soldiers, had volunteered for this duty. Lieutenant Ross had come on ahead and the volunteers were on their way.

  In the street, the snow had turned to slush. Our party moved quietly along the far side, out of view of the windows of 100 Sidney Street, behind which might lie an entire Anarchist gang or a single gunman. We crossed over to the exposed side, where Major Wodehouse, Holmes and I drew into the shelter afforded by the stone pillar at the gate of the brewery’s stable-yard. To my astonishment, the Home Secretary remained with head and shoulders in view, his identity plain, staring up at the closed curtains of Martin’s Buildings. He spoke sideways, confirming an instruction. At this, a uniformed constable walked across and banged on the front door of 100 Sidney Street. There was silence. The policeman stooped, retrieved a handful of small stones and threw them at one of the upper windows.

  It was at this moment that I saw the slow and sinister protrusion of a rifle barrel from the slit of a partially opened upstairs window. Had they been hand-guns, the chance would have been doubtful but a rifle fired by a trained shot could scarcely miss Mr Churchill at this short range. There was a flash of fire from the gun barrel and a crack that reverberated like thunder between the two rows
of houses. I expected to see the Home Secretary fall but he ducked his head and then straightened up again, still standing against the wall close to us. Why did he not keep down?

  Now there was a second rifle barrel, protruding from a gap in the adjoining casement. I have read often enough the cliché of a man whose heart was in his mouth with fear but I never knew the truth of it more certainly until that moment. A second crack and a spurt of flame from a rifle barrel came in Mr Churchill’s direction. It was often said afterwards that he had to be compelled to take cover and this, I believe, was the source of that story. A third rifle snout appeared and again there was a bolt of fire and a crack that made the ears ring.

  Like a stage magician, after three rifles had missed him at such short range, the gruff figure in the long coat and tall hat turned and walked the few yards to shelter, close to our stone pillar. It was as if the gunmen had recognised who he was, which was quite possible, and were determined to silence him at all costs. For this they paid a heavy price, by giving away their positions and numbers to the firepower which now faced them. Had they held their fire, on seeing the Home Secretary, they might have escaped in the darkness or perhaps even shot their way out before the Scots Guards were in position.

  A few minutes later came the crash of a first fusillade from our side. Bullets streamed from the first of the Guards as they hastily scrambled into place. They were aiming from front rooms at street-level, where they shot from behind overturned sofas, or else had climbed up among the chimney stacks. The windows from which the Anarchist rifles had fired at first were now smashed to pieces. Their net curtains were in shreds and one of them was on fire. Then there was a command to the Guards of “Cease fire!” though our ears still rang with the echoes. Presently a further sequence of shots was exchanged, the gunmen this time keeping up the greater rate of fire. I saw one of the constables go down suddenly, among a group who were too close to the far side for their own good. “Jack, I am done!” he cried to his comrade as he spun and fell. He was taken to hospital at once and happily survived his wound.