The Secret Documents of Sherlock Holmes

by June Thomson

  ‘Let me see,’ I replied, a little amused by the simplicity of MacDonald’s ‘wee test’ for it was evident that most, if not all, of the bystanders and the apparently casual passersby on our side of the street would be plain-clothes officers. ‘I suggest the commissionaires, the man over there waiting outside the theatre entrance as if for a companion, the newspaper seller a little way off and his two erstwhile customers who are so earnestly reading the Evening News under the street lamp.’

  MacDonald gave a chuckle.

  ‘Not bad! Not bad at all! You have picked out six from the total complement of twenty.’

  ‘Twenty! Then where are the others? I see not one else who might be your officers.’

  ‘Try the far side of the street, Dr Watson,’ MacDonald suggested, nodding his head in that direction. ‘Most of them are over there, walking up and down as large as life among the other pedestrians. There are more inside the police station, under Inspector Bradstreet’s supervision. Now you’re a former army man yourself, Dr Watson …’

  ‘An army surgeon,’ I corrected him.*

  ‘Even so, you will appreciate the need in a situation such as this for organisation. With that in mind, I have planned this arrest as carefully as a military campaign. My men will make a pincer movement, thus confusing the enemy when they realise they are being attacked on two fronts.

  ‘I have also posted two men at either end of Bow Street, each provided with a whistle. The one at the Long Acre end will give warning when the Earl of Evesham’s carriage comes into sight, for we have already decided the route it will take along Shaftesbury Avenue and into Charing Cross Road. However, as we canna be certain in which direction Huret will come …’

  ‘But surely his vehicle will follow behind the Earl’s carriage?’

  ‘Ah, but can we count on that, doctor? From all I’ve heard, Huret is as canny as an old fox. He must realise the English authorities will know about his exploits in Paris and, with Monsieur Auriel visiting London, might take precautions to protect him. At least, if I were in the man’s shoes, that’s the way my mind would be working. So in order to throw any possible hunters off his track, he may decide to approach from the Russell Street end. I know it is a long shot but it is better to be wise before than after the event. So my other lookout has orders to give a double blast on his whistle should any vehicle turn into Bow Street from that direction. Belt and braces, Dr Watson! As a practical man by nature and a cautious Aberdonian by breeding, that’s the principle I always work on.’

  ‘I take your point,’ I began, impressed by MacDonald’s forethought. I was about to add some complimentary remark about his own native intelligence when I was forestalled by the single blast on a whistle from the Long Acre end of the street, clear and loud enough to be heard above the hubbub of voices and the rumble of a passing four-wheeler.

  At the signal, the scene immediately erupted like an overturned ants’ nest. On our side of the road, the men whom I had identified as MacDonald’s officers converged on the opera house, forming a double cordon to keep back any innocent passers-by. At the same moment, six other men joined them from the other side of the street, some emerging at the double from the police station, some pushing their way through the crowd of pedestrians. Among these I recognised a blind beggar who, moments before, had been standing in the gutter rattling his tin cup at passers-by. Some of the officers who had remained on the opposite pavement had, I noticed, placed themselves at the edge of the kerb, ready to rush forward as soon as the Earl’s carriage drew to a halt.

  MacDonald, too, had prepared himself for action, flinging aside his silk hat and throwing back his cloak to leave his arms free. I followed his example, abandoning my own hat but keeping a tight grip on my stick which, should the need arise, would serve as a useful weapon.

  He had taken up his station at the front of the cordon and at the end nearest to the road where I joined him, noticing that six others were likewise positioned, including the commissionaires, the newspaper readers, the beggar and a loutish-looking individual who could quite easily be mistaken for a street ruffian.

  I had no time to ponder on the consequences of the drama which at any moment was to be played out, nor even to examine my own emotions although I was aware of that feeling of heightened excitement mixed with an exhilarated and fearful anticipation such as I had experienced at my first taste of battle in Afghanistan, which sends the blood racing through the veins and the heart banging like a drum.*

  Hardly had we taken up our positions than the Earl of Evesham’s carriage came into sight, the pair of matched greys which drew it approaching at little more than a walking pace as they covered the last few yards to the theatre where they would be drawn to a halt. Indeed, the coachman was already reining them in while the groom, seated on the box at the rear of the carriage, was preparing to jump down and open the door to let the passenger alight, when the window in it suddenly shot down and a head was thrust through the opening.

  Although the man’s grey hair and pince-nez were momentarily and confusingly unfamiliar, the voice was instantly recognisable.

  ‘Watson! MacDonald!’ I heard Holmes shouting. ‘The driver and the groom! Quick! Seize them, for God’s sake!’

  I have no clear recollection of the events which followed, only a confused impression of men throwing themselves forward, some clutching at the horses’ bridles, others leaping upwards to wrestle the driver to the ground, while one of the commissionaires together with MacDonald and myself scrambled to seize the groom who, thrusting a hand inside his coat, had produced a revolver, its barrel glinting wickedly in the light cast by the theatre’s lamps. Mingled with all this turmoil of movement was a clamour of noises, of men shouting and women screaming, of horses stamping and whinnying in terror.

  It was by sheer good fortune that, when I raised my stick to bring it down on Huret’s right arm, I struck my intended target and not MacDonald’s head which was inches from it. I heard the man give a grunt of pain followed by the metallic clatter as the gun, struck from his hand, fell into the gutter where the newspaper seller kicked it swiftly out of reach. The next instant, Huret himself was down on the pavement, fighting like a wild beast in a frenzy of flailing arms and legs until MacDonald and one of the commissionaires, with a practised dexterity which spoke of years of experience, flipped him over to lie face downwards and the Inspector snapped a pair of handcuffs on his wrists.

  ‘Excellent! Well done!’ I heard Holmes exclaiming and I turned with something of a shock for, in the excitement of the events, I had quite forgotten his presence. He was alighting from the carriage wearing full evening dress although he had discarded the grey wig and the pince-nez. I noticed he was much broader in figure than usual, especially across the back and shoulders, and that he moved with considerably less ease.

  ‘Let me see his face,’ he was saying to MacDonald who was grinning broadly like a triumphant schoolboy who has just scored the winning touch-down. With the commissionaire’s assistance, the Inspector forced the man to his feet so that he and Holmes stood confronting one another.

  ‘Monsieur Alphonse Huret,’ Holmes said softly, as if reminding himself of the man’s identity.

  It had never been in his nature to gloat over a fallen adversary and it was so on this occasion. For several long moments, the two men looked in each other’s eyes, Holmes’ face expressing nothing more than a polite interest much as one might show when introduced to a stranger.

  As for Huret, I was struck more by the unremarkable nature of his features than by any overt sign of villainy although this should not have surprised me. As Holmes had once told me, the most winning woman he had ever known was hanged for poisoning three small children for their insurance money.*

  Huret was young, little more than in his mid-twenties, with a slight, almost boyish build. As for his face, it was long, especially about the chin, a peculiarity which, as Holmes had already predicted, might account for his partiality for wearing beards during his reign of terror as t
he Boulevard Assassin. His eyes were set well back in his head while the mouth was so thin as to be almost lipless. Even so, it was the type of countenance which one could sit opposite to in a railway carriage and, half an hour later, not recall a single detail about it, except perhaps its total lack of humour. He had fought like a mad beast to avoid capture but all that stupendous vitality was now dissipated apart from his black, deep-set eyes which still blazed, like live coals, out of their bony sockets.

  It was his accomplice, the driver of the coach, an older man in his fifties, who showed the most emotion. His hands, too, had been secured behind his back and two of the plain-clothes men, the street ruffian and the beggar, had hauled him upright. He was still struggling against the restraints of the handcuffs and the men’s grasp on his arms, his countenance distorted with fury as he screamed out in French against his captors. If one wished to look into the face of true villainy, it was there in his twisted features, the wide-stretched mouth and the expression of utter hatred which suffused even the flesh as if his rage had turned to black, bitter blood which coursed just below the surface, darkening the skin.

  At a nod from Inspector MacDonald, the two prisoners were taken across the road to the police station, Huret’s accomplice first and then Huret himself, a small, inconspicuous figure who walked haltingly between his two tall captors, the left foot turned inwards at the ankle. For the first time, I was aware of that physical disability which Holmes had also prognosticated even before he had set eyes on the man.

  MacDonald was saying, ‘Why, man, it never crossed my mind they would seize the Earl’s carriage to carry out …’ when Holmes interrupted him.

  ‘Explanations later, Mr Mac,’ he said crisply. ‘We must first make sure the real coachman and groom have come to no harm, unlike some of Huret’s other victims.’

  ‘Aye, of course!’ MacDonald replied. ‘I will see to that at once!’ Without another word, he sprinted across the road and disappeared inside the police station.

  ‘Pray God they are still alive,’ Holmes murmured under his breath and then stood silent, head averted, as he waited for MacDonald’s return.

  Within minutes, he rejoined us and announced that a uniformed sergeant and a constable would be despatched to the Earl of Evesham’s Park Lane residence to make full inquiries and to report to his lordship and the French minister on the evening’s events. Indeed, as he was speaking, the two officers in question emerged from the police station and, having hailed a cab, were driven off at speed in the Long Acre direction.

  ‘And now for the explanation,’ Holmes said, leading the way across the road, ‘for there is little else we can do until their return.’

  V

  After a short consultation with Inspector Bradstreet, who reported that the two criminals were safely locked up below in the cells and that he would personally arrange for an experienced man to drive the Earl’s carriage back to its rightful place, we were shown into a small, whitewashed room at the rear of the building, plainly furnished with a deal table and some upright chairs.

  No sooner had the door closed behind us than, to my great surprise, Holmes began to divest himself of his tail coat and white waistcoat, revealing a most extraordinary undergarment. It was like a sleeveless jerkin made of canvas but, instead of buttoning down the front, it was secured across the chest by several leather straps. The back was even more curious than the front for it was quilted into small, square segments, each one thickly padded and each containing some weighty object for, as Holmes unbuckled the straps and lifted the garment off his shoulders, it was evident it was extremely heavy, which would explain those awkward movements of his which I had remarked on earlier.

  As MacDonald showed no surprise, I assumed he already knew of this strange garment and of Holmes’ intention to wear it that evening so it was entirely for my benefit that Holmes offered an explanation.

  ‘A bulletproof surcoat, Watson,’ said he. ‘I took the idea from the “Jack” or “brigandine”, a padded linen jacket, reinforced by metal plates, which was worn by foot soldiers in the Middle Ages. There are some examples of it in the Tower of London’s collection of weapons and armour, where I went to inspect them. More recently, in fact a mere five months ago, a certain Herr Dowe exhibited a similar bulletproof coat in London which used only padding.* I paid a tailor I know in Old Jewry to make my own version of it. As I assumed Huret would fire at me from behind, all I needed to protect was my back. I am of the opinion that such a surcoat would be useful to the police although its chief disadvantage is its weight.† It is also extremely cumbersome. However, in this case, it served a double purpose for it also gave me the portly figure I needed as part of my disguise as Monsieur Auriel.

  ‘My greatest mistake was to underestimate Huret’s audacity and cunning. It never for a moment crossed my mind that he would use the Earl of Evesham’s own carriage in his assassination attempt.’

  ‘When were you aware of it?’ I asked.

  ‘Even before I set foot inside it. When the carriage arrived from the mews and drew up outside the Earl’s residence, the groom got down from the box to open the door for me. It was then I noticed the man walked with a pronounced limp and the awful truth dawned on me. There was nothing I could do, of course, except continue to play the part of Monsieur Auriel and wait until we arrived outside the opera house to warn you of the true situation.’

  ‘I am astonished,’ MacDonald interjected, ‘that the pair of them did not take you to some quiet side street and murder you there and then. Why, man, you were a sitting target!’

  ‘A good point, my friend, but these anarchists are no hole-in-the-corner murderers, killing their victims by stealth, with no witnesses present. They are political assassins who glory in the act and the public alarm it arouses. They want their deeds blazoned across the front page of every newspaper to draw attention to their cause. Without that oxygen of notoriety they would wither away like noxious weeds starved of light and air.’

  It was an hour before the sergeant and the constable returned from their inquiries in Park Lane and, in the meantime, the three of us discussed the case and its political implications although, as the minutes passed, Holmes withdrew more and more from the conversation, his thoughts quite clearly elsewhere: on the fate of the Earl’s coachman and groom, I suspected.

  It was therefore with anxious trepidation on Holmes’ part, and also on mine and MacDonald’s, that we saw the door finally open and Inspector Bradstreet enter. To our relief, he was smiling broadly so, even before he spoke, we knew that the news was good.

  ‘Both men are alive but considerably shaken by their ordeal,’ he announced. ‘It seems the villains attacked them from behind as they were harnessing the horses, bludgeoning both of them senseless, which is probably why their lives were spared as they hadn’t seen their assailants. They were then stripped of their uniforms and left bound and gagged in the stable.’

  ‘Excellent news!’ Holmes exclaimed, shaking Bradstreet heartily by the hand as if the Inspector himself were solely responsible for the men’s safety.

  Although I eagerly scanned the newspapers in the days immediately following the arrest of Huret and his accomplice, I was disappointed to find that little attention was paid to their capture apart from short reports which gave only the minimum of details.

  Meanwhile, Holmes was as much occupied as he had been before the events with official appointments at Scotland Yard, the French Embassy and our own Home and Foreign Offices, none of which I attended. However, I was invited to accompany him to a meeting with his brother at the Diogenes Club a few days later.

  As before, we gathered in the Strangers’ Room where Mycroft greeted us warmly before pouring both of us a whisky and soda and replenishing his own glass.

  ‘Congratulations, Sherlock, and you, too, Dr Watson, for I understand from our friend MacDonald that it was you who administered the coup de grâce to Huret. As for you, my dear brother, you cannot imagine how your praises are being trumpeted on both sides
of the Channel. As well as removing two very dangerous men from society, the arrest of Huret and his accomplice has done much to improve our relations with the French government. In fact, I have here,’ Mycroft added, producing an envelope from an inner pocket, ‘a personal letter of thanks from the French President, Monsieur Casimir-Perier, which was sent over this morning in the diplomatic bag. I have also been asked to sound you out on your willingness to accept the Order of the Legion of Honour. Knowing your aversion to public awards, I feel obliged to find out what your answer would be before the offer is made.’

  Holmes was silent for several moments before replying.

  ‘As you so rightly remarked, Mycroft,’ he said at last. ‘I am reluctant to accept any official accolades. The work is itself its own reward without the need of a decoration to hang about my neck or pin on my lapel.* However, in this case, and this case only, I am willing to go against my principles and accept the honour.’

  ‘Thank heaven for that, dear boy!’ Mycroft exclaimed in relief. ‘Had you refused, it could indeed have ruffled diplomatic feathers and caused considerable offence to our Gallic neighbours. I shall pass on your acceptance and you will no doubt shortly receive an official invitation to the Elysée Palace for the investiture.

  ‘And now to more practical matters. The Home Office has received a request from its French counterpart to extradite Huret and his accomplice to France to stand trial for the assassination of Monsieur Boncour and the other murders or attempted murders they have carried out. I have recommended that the request should be granted as it, too, will help improve our relations with France. As some of our more vociferous anti-European backbenchers might protest at this should the full facts be made public, the arrest of Huret and his colleague has received as little publicity as possible. It could not be entirely passed over as too many people witnessed the event. However, as you have probably seen, an official statement has been given to the newspapers, not naming the assassins but merely referring to them as two dangerous criminals wanted by the French police for a series of armed robberies. A further statement will shortly be issued, explaining that, when they were arrested, they were on their way to commit a similar crime here in London, having stolen the Earl of Evesham’s carriage as a cover for their activities. As for the notice of their extradition to France, that, too, will be dealt with as discreetly as possible.’