by C J Lutton
“Yes, Watson, seeing your expression, I must concur. I thought the same thing. The last I heard of Jaeger was that he was at Pentonville Prison. But for reasons yet to be made clear, he was transferred to Bedlam. I have my suspicions as to the culprit responsible, but we shall bide our time regarding that. For now, at least.”
“But, Holmes, the man’s an incompetent! Do you remember how they captured him? He simply walked up to one of the Palace guards and asked for directions to Victoria’s quarters! The man is not only incompetent; he’s a dolt as well!” My voice rose a notch as I contemplated how unsettling this news was.
Holmes eyed me, curiously. “Perhaps. Then again, would you explain how this incompetent dolt was able to penetrate the palace’s defenses? How he appeared out of nowhere and tapped one of the guards on the shoulder? On the third floor, no less! And how this incompetent dolt was allowed to walk out of Bedlam? No, Watson, there’s more to this man than we are led to believe. He’s cunning and well-schooled. Mycroft told me that Jaeger is brilliant, although unhinged. He can, it would seem, appear or disappear at will.”
“Even if what you say is true, Holmes, what has all of this to do with Morel? I haven’t the foggiest idea as to what is going on.”
“Sadly, at present neither do I. But I’m sure that we haven’t heard the last of Erich Jaeger.”
Holmes gave me my orders: “Separate everything that is relevant to this case, Watson. I shall join you once I’ve finished reading this. We have a scant four hours before I have to return these boxes.”
“What am I looking for?” I asked, grabbing my coffee and sidling up to the boxes.
Holmes sprang to his feet and walked to the slate board. “I’ve taken the liberty of jotting down the names of the individuals involved. If you come upon any document with any of these names, place it to the side. We’ll come back to it, after we’ve sifted through everything. Take note of anything at all, no matter how innocent in appearance.”
Holmes rapped a piece of chalk against the board for emphasis. There he had listed twelve names: Johann Voort, Linton, Maria DeMare Morel, Erich Jaeger, Mikhail Barukin, the Celestial, the Clarity, the Bard, Jonas Morel, Barlow-Smythe, Thomas Connelly, and Captain Hobbes-Nesmith.
“Who are Johann Voort and Mikhail Barukin?” I asked.
“They were listed as the ship owners for the Clarity and the Celestial respectively. Mr. Connelly is a shareholder in the venture. I believe he is the man who obtained the financing for the ships. Erich Jaeger dreamed up the system for refrigeration and many other inventions. As Mycroft suspected, the man is a genius. The Bard was a name mentioned by Maria Morel, if you recall. Obviously it’s a pseudonym or nickname, but I figured there might be a clue as to the Bard’s real identity in these papers.”
Confused and flustered, I kept my wits about me. I refused to give Holmes the satisfaction of knowing that I had been duped, once again, by one of his charades. Instead, I spoke calmly, “You may as well tell me everything, Holmes, and stop grinning like the cat that ate the canary. I am entitled to at least that much consideration.”
But he didn’t satisfy my curiosity. I took a seat across from Holmes. Although I struggled to seem unperturbed, my demeanor was more of a parody than the circumstances warranted. Indeed, I groused under my breath before stealing a doleful glance in Holmes’ direction.
His response was contrary to what I had hoped. He burst out laughing! “Good old Watson! It’s a fortunate thing that your chosen field is medicine, for I surely think that you would have failed as a cardsharp! Your expressions are too telling!”
Mimicking my pouting face, he walked over and clapped me on the back. I should have been cross with him, but sadly, all I managed was an embarrassed shaking of my head.
We pored over the contents for nearly a full hour with nary a word between us. Once the initial inspection was completed, we had a separate pile of documents, neatly divided according to each name listed on the slate. Surveying the expanse of our accomplishment, I was thankful that the stacks were not overly cumbersome. After eliminating the irrelevant documents, the remainder seemed manageable.
“Aha!” Holmes waved a scrap of newspaper in the air. “An illustration of Jaeger. A most singular visage, would you not agree?”
I took it from him and studied it. Jaeger’s close-set eyes were interrupted by a much-maligned nose, evidence of involvement in a great many pugilistic endeavours. One ear was badly damaged as well, resulting in that sort of deformity first catalogued in ancient Greece amongst wrestlers. The trauma the appendage had endured resulted in thickening, loss of circulation, and a general deformity. Added to these battle scars was a nevus, an unattractive mole, blossoming over one eye. Taken as a whole, the man was incredibly ugly. Sadly, that was the long and short of it.
I was delighted to have a vivid rendering of the fiendish persona behind these many woes. Holmes, on the other hand, believing that one could never have enough information, bemoaned the meagerness of our spoils. “Confound my brother!” he cried aloud, to no one in particular. “Ever since childhood, Mycroft had a most admirable trait—he could never discard anything. He would often say to me, ‘Leave nothing to chance; always possess the tangible. Everything will be of some use in your life.’ These blasted inserts!” Sherlock Holmes railed, holding one of the cards in the air. “‘Material removed and destroyed. Dated/Duplicate/No longer critical—M.H.’ Of all the times for my brother to become a conscientious bureaucrat!”
With an air of disgust, he tossed away the card. He got to his feet and paced the parlour. From the pocket of his waistcoat, he withdrew the gold sovereign given to him by Irene Adler, now suspended from his watch chain as a memento. When contemplating a particularly thorny problem, Holmes would rub his thumb and forefinger against the coin repeatedly, a habit that quelled his overactive nerves while helping him think.
“Holmes,” I said, tentatively, “you yourself have said numerous times that if Mycroft finds something to be of little or no importance, then you can wager a crown that that is precisely what it is—not important!” I watched my friend, waiting for an impatient rebuke of my observation.
Much to my surprise, Holmes stopped, tucked the coin away, and said, “Perhaps you’re right. Perhaps the information gleaned from these cartons is the cream rising to the top. It’s possible that the destroyed files would have sent us off on a fool’s errand. Yes, Watson, you’re quite correct. Our meager reward for our efforts must be tant mieux. Of course, one must assume that the actions of an individual working for the government will, at all times, be virtuous and altruistic—never contemplating a separate or ulterior agenda!” Holmes’ words dripped with sarcasm.
“You’ve made your point, Holmes,” I agreed in an exasperated tone. “But if this is all that we are given, then let’s make the most of it. I’m growing tired of being manipulated and held in the dark.”
“Quite right, Watson. Bravo! It’s time for us to take matters in our own hands—and let them rue the day that they’ve decided to cross swords with us!”
20
He clapped me on the back and took one of the piles of documents over to the sofa. “Come,” he said, tapping the sofa’s cushion. “Sit next to me. We’ll sort this out together.”
We scoured each document, checking for any correlation of previous pages against the others. After placing the documents back in the cartons three hours later, we had a fairly accurate picture of the fiendish plan.
Sensing my excitement to discuss the matter in greater detail, Holmes gestured for me to remain silent. I opened my mouth to protest, but a flicker of a muscle in his jaw warned me to stay mum. Holmes pressed himself deeper into the sofa and stared at the door in an expectant manner. I sat by docilely, not sure of what was to happen next. Holmes lit his pipe and peered through the smoke.
Never taking his eyes off the door, he fished his watch from his pocket and raised it to eye level. A crooked smile played along his lips, as he silently bobbed his head up
and down in rhythmic time. I craned my neck to better see his watch and noticed that it was about to come up on one o’clock, four hours from whence Holmes had started his quest.
“Enter!” shouted Holmes. The door opened a crack, then wider still. Five men entered without uttering a word or acknowledging our presence. They removed the cartons from our apartment and, silently but swiftly, closed the door when they left.
Holmes laughed, startling me with his boisterous manner. “Ah,” he said, shaking his head. “It must be comforting to be in the employ of the government—following instructions and never having to make decisions. This government of ours, filled with uninspired people placed in positions requiring little or no thought—laden with intellectual theorists, who’ve never toiled —practicing their theories and grand schemes on those who work. People in exalted positions of trust, who cannot be trusted. Yes, Watson, our government is truly a marvel. It’s a wonder that anything good is ever accomplished.”
Sadly, I nodded in agreement. Mrs. Hudson came up immediately after the men left with the cartons. She had fixed us a fine assortment of cold meats, cheeses, and bread. I was happy to eat it, as working our way through so many papers had proved more taxing than I had imagined it would.
“Now, to business,” said Holmes, facing me. His face heralded a look of anticipation. “With your help and inspired intellect, we’ll sort through the most obtuse and obfuscating facts that mark this case and bring these fiends before the mast.”
My chest swelled with pride at Holmes’ high regard of my opinion, but silently I prayed that I was up to the task.
“I would like to put this entire, sanguinary plot into chronological order, so that we will know where we stand,” Holmes said as he dragged the chair over to the sofa. He set it in front of me and plopped himself down. Then he leaned forwards, placing his elbows on his knees and cupping his chin in the palms of his hands. “Take notes, if you feel it’s warranted.”
It has long been his custom that whenever he would put his thoughts into words, he would do so in a monotone. But in this instance, his demeanor was energized. His eyes were alert and keen, and most of all, his words were vibrant, filled with excitement and awe. In his mind’s eye, he was one of the villains: he thought like them, he spoke like them, he breathed their air, he ate their food, and he understood them. Such were the powers of his imagination.
I would often take copious notes when Holmes interviewed a client, witness, or suspect. However, when we were discussing the merits of a particular case in private, I usually abandoned this laborious practice in order to actively participate in the conversation. It was precisely because of the complex nature of this case that I felt it a moral imperative, as well as a sincere desire, to place the events into their proper historical perspective and context. I decided to take Holmes up on his suggestion and selected a new journal from a ready stack. I also grabbed a pen and a lap desk. With those implements at hand, I sat down in one of the armchairs.
There were other advantages of committing Holmes’ words to paper. Besides providing a concise accounting of the events that had already transpired, it would allow my readers a glimpse of the inner workings of Sherlock Holmes and the ofttimes circuitous nature of his logical mind. Holmes waited patiently, as I titled the ledger and prepared to chronicle the affair to date.
Holmes nodded at my readiness. As is often the case, he paced the floor, walking in circles as he chewed on the stem of the little black devil. “First, let us presume that we have all of the information there is to possess. Or, at least, we can presume that all that we possess is all that we will receive. With that in mind, would it be possible to solve this case and bring the guilty to the dock?”
I glanced up at Holmes, not sure whether or not I was to answer him. His faraway look indicated that his question was of a rhetorical nature, so I sat by silently, waiting for him to continue.
“Sadly, the answer is no,” remarked Holmes. “At this juncture, we know we have a dead man who was tortured and killed, and a quantity of gold. We might have, and cannot be sure of, a missing husband. We might or might not have a missing ship. So far, we don’t even have enough to link the two parts—those of which we are sure and those that are possibilities—together. I believe that we have not entered this case at the beginning. Then we must go back and figure out how long has this been going on? Has the gold from Australia been diverted for long?”
I waited. His question seemed unanswerable and yet he seemed to have a response to the riddle he had posed. Holmes continued, “To answer that, we must go all the way back to a ship called the Elvira Stockton. If you recall, her circumstances are shrouded in mystery. Alas, her inglorious demise shall forever be the fodder of those whose pitiable existence thrives on vague rumours and innuendo. They have fallen prey to the belief that sea monsters or other such rot caused the horrors that befell the Elvira Stockton.”
“Of course,” I said, “now I recall. The Elvira Stockton was found roaming the seas under full sail. The initial reports stated that her entire crew had gone missing. However, at the trial, there was testimony that half her crew was missing and the other half had been killed. I recall speaking with a sailor, who said that his ship was nearly swallowed whole by the very same sea serpent! Holmes, you’re not suggesting a connection? Why, that was nearly a year ago!”
Holmes stared at me slack-jawed, his eyes bulging with incredulous disbelief at my firsthand accounting of the existence of the monster. “Watson, do not let the facts stand in your way. By all means, enlighten me with your tale of Poseidon’s minions.”
Acutely aware of how my näiveté had placed me in such an indefensible position, I replied huffily, “There’s just no talking to you when you’re in such a carping mood. I knew the sailor’s tale was a lot of poppycock. I just wanted to share what I had heard.” My cause was hopeless, and I knew that had I uttered another word, my pompous indignation would become almost comical. I sat with my head bowed, stoically resigned to accept his mocking smile with a modicum of dignity—sea serpents, indeed!
“Ah, Watson, it’s not your fault. If you cannot trust the government, then…” His eyes narrowed slightly, prodding my reaction. Slowly, I lifted my head and peered at Holmes, questioningly.
“That’s right, Watson. Our government planted the seeds of this mythical sea monster. The case of the Elvira Stockton was of such disastrous proportions, the government, in order to hide the true facts of the matter, fabricated this sea monster nonsense.”
I shook my head, stunned by his revelation.
Holmes continued, “There were several sightings of the Elvira Stockton when she was first reported missing. She was seen with her tattered sails billowing in the wind and showing no signs of life. She drifted in and out of fog banks, almost purposefully staying clear of any attempts to board her—much like the fabled ghost ship, the Flying Dutchman. As the weeks wore on, rumours swirled in the docks. There circulated tales of this phantom ship and her ghostly crew. Of course, these flames were fanned ever brighter still by agents within our government, who under orders, spoke of demons and monsters until it became impossible to separate truth from fiction!”
“I remember, Holmes,” I remarked. “There was even a report of finding settings for tea left untouched in her saloon. Tea that was still piping hot! I’ll tell you, Holmes, the further we go into this mess, the more bizarre it becomes.”
My friend groaned in agreement. He walked to the side table and lifted one of his large reference books. Leafing through the pages as he scanned the text, he slammed it closed with a thud.
“Of what useful purpose is it to have these books, if the information that I need is not within their covers? Ah well, I shall have to make do with my memory. If you recall, Watson, one of the stories concerning the Elvira Stockton was that on her manifest, she was listed as carrying alcohol?”
“Yes, and the alcohol was left untouched. Everything was as it should have been, excepting that the crew was missing.”
“Right you are, but like the Celestial, there were two other items that were not listed, though she was heavily laden with both! First, she was carrying a queen’s ransom in gold, and, second, every inch of space below deck was crammed from stem to stern with munitions.”
“Are you telling me that our government was in league with these scoundrels?”
“No, Watson, not in the sense that you mean. You see, an ambitious young man, Erich Jaeger to be precise, had a plan. A few months before the Elvira Stockton affair, there was a brazen robbery. Scoundrels attacked a munitions shipment bound for Aldershot. There was also a very highly-placed foreign dignitary on that train. He was taken hostage, and twenty-three soldiers killed whilst defending the shipment.”
“Twenty-three men killed!” I shouted, leaping from my chair. The writing desk clattered to the floor. “Why am I now hearing the first of this? What’s this world coming to, Holmes? Twenty-three men killed, and no one knows anything about it!”
“Don’t feel put upon, Watson,” Holmes replied. He picked up my writing desk and handed it to me. I sat on the sofa, and he then took the chair opposite it, leaning back in it and crossing his arms over his chest. “It is my business to know of these things.”
“Actually,” he continued, through clenched teeth. “I would not have learned of this at all had it not been for an apparently errant remark by my brother at a Buckingham Palace garden party. Before we sat down, he and Queen Victoria were off to one side, whispering and thinking that I couldn’t hear their conversation. But I overheard them as they spoke of resurrecting the Elvira Stockton and the sea monster.”
“Sea monster?” I cried. “Do you mean…?”
“The very same,” replied Holmes. “Having heard this, I decided to press them both, regarding the Elvira Stockton. I thought it better to bring the entire episode to light. It was then that Mycroft told me of the robbery and the ambush.”
