The Naval Knaves

by Craig Stephen Copland

  Now that the issue was revealed, Annie Phelps visibly relaxed.

  “Directly, sir.”

  “And how did that come about?” asked Holmes.

  “We shared many dinners and private conversations together.”

  Goodness gracious, I thought to myself. That was a very strange thing for a married woman to admit, and she seemed not in the least embarrassed by it.

  “Please, let me explain,” she said.

  “I wish you would,” said Holmes. “I am quite intrigued.”

  “Percy and I were married not long after the terrible incident with the naval treaty. Our home, as you know, is in Woking, and it has not been practical for him to return every night and then go back into London every morning. He stays overnight at his club from Monday through Thursday. But he is a most attentive husband and sets aside time every Friday beginning in the late afternoon for the two of us to be together. I would come to London, he would depart his office by half-past four, and the two of us would take in the sites, walk in the parks, have a lovely supper together, and occasionally go to a play in the West End. And then we would stay at one of the select hotels. These were very special times for us, and we valued them highly.”

  “That all sounds quite lovely,” said Holmes. “But how does Charles Gorot come into the picture?”

  “As Percy advanced in his career, especially after his appointment to such a responsible position at the Admiralty, there were many times, to his great frustration, that he could not leave his desk at four-thirty. Sometimes he would be delayed for half an hour, but often it would be for two or even three hours. He is a most considerate gentleman as well as a loving husband, and he was deeply distressed to think that I would be awkwardly sitting in a café or a posh restaurant waiting for him. Thus, if he knew he was going to be quite delayed, he would send Charles, his secretary, over to meet me, with the instruction that he should amuse me and carry on a conversation with me until Percy was free of the office. Then he would meet us and thank Charles, and Charles would depart.

  “At first, my conversations with Charles were stilted and difficult. We would chat about the weather, about the décor of the restaurant, or about stories in the news. However, in the past five years, I have met with Charles over one hundred times, and many of those times we had to wait two or three hours for Percy to arrive. We became more and more familiar with each other, as did our conversations. Eventually, we abandoned all those walls that people erect around themselves, and we talked to each other … from our hearts. Our conversations became more and more intimate, and we shared, you might say, the secrets of our souls.”

  “And did you,” Holmes asked, “also fall in love with him?”

  Again, I was annoyed by Holmes’s utter lack of discretion and tact and was about to interrupt, but I felt a sharp kick to my ankle from Mary, whose look instructed me to keep quiet.

  Annie Phelps was blushing, but her reply was not what I had expected.

  “If you are asking me, Mr. Holmes, if I came to care very deeply for Charles, to be terribly fond of him, then yes. I did. And he developed similar feelings for me. Did our friendship ever transgress and enter into any forbidden realm? No. We were both completely circumspect. We never engaged in any physical contact beyond his taking my hand for a brief moment when we met, in the manner of a perfect gentleman.”

  “Yes,” said Holmes. “But apparently something did take place. Otherwise I rather doubt that you would be here.”

  “What happened was much worse.”

  “Was it? Pray, go on.”

  “Charles, as you know comes from a very devout Huguenot family. They are very severe in their refusal to partake of the things of this world as they call them. They would never touch a drop of alcohol; they do not allow tobacco; dancing is forbidden as is the theater; a music hall is the devil’s playground; and the sin of gambling is a sure pathway to hell and eternal damnation.”

  “I am aware,” said Holmes, “of the ascetic convictions of some of the Reformist sects.”

  “I fear that I led Charles down the broad path and through the wide gate that leads to destruction. It was not my intent, I assure you. But whereas Charles had been raised believing that even a sip of an intoxicating drink is a deadly sin, I grew up next door to Scotland. My father was convinced that the Scots were barely evolved beyond barbarians, but he did credit them with discovering the ‘water of life’ as he called it, or Scottish whiskey. He acquired a great fondness for it, and so did my mother, and so did my brother … and so did I.

  “When Charles and I would sit and chat for hours, he would order endless cups of tea, and I would ask for a fine single malt mixed with water. If Percy were quite late in arriving, I might have enjoyed several glasses of Scotch before he showed up.”

  “Pardon me, Mrs. Phelps,” said Holmes. “Are you saying that you were prepared to be somewhat inebriated when meeting your husband?” Holmes sounded as if he were honestly shocked by such behavior. Mary laughed.

  “Oh, Sherlock,” she said. “Sherlock, you are such a bachelor.”

  He gave her a rather harsh but puzzled look. She laughed again.

  “Please, Annie. Enlighten him,” said Mary.

  Mrs. Phelps could not resist a sly smile. “It is not without reason that since the dawn of time, men have offered copious amounts of wine and spirits to women. By the time Percy arrived I would be feeling, shall we say, more than a little amorous. I would insist that we abandon the plans for a walk, or even the theater, and proceed directly to the hotel and order room service. My husband was never angry with me. Need I say more Mr. Holmes?”

  Now Holmes was blushing.

  “No. Please do not. Kindly return to your conversations with Mr. Gorot.”

  “Very well, then. I would tease him about his tea and, in jest, kept encouraging him to try ‘just a wee dram’ of Scotch. Well, he did try, and that was the beginning of the slippery slope. He acquired a taste for it as well and soon would match me glass for glass and then some. But, I am afraid, that was not the end of it. My dear Northumbrian family used to love to pass a Saturday night playing every known game of cards. As Charles and I had endless hours to pass, beginning a year ago, I taught him how to play bridge and whist. Now Charles has an absolutely brilliant mind and he not only learned quickly, he soon was trouncing me in almost every round.

  “Recently, he made a confession to me and swore me to secrecy concerning it. Had he not been put in jail and charged with treason, I would never have broken that promise.”

  “I am waiting,” said Holmes, “rather impatiently, for you to break it. I assume that is the reason for our meeting. Please, get to the point, Mrs. Phelps.”

  “Charles admitted that several months back, for the first time in his life, he joined a club in which card-playing and other forms of gambling took place. He tried just a few hands of whist and came away with twenty pounds in his pocket. He started to visit the clubs every weekend, and he began to play for higher and higher stakes. He is so clever; he has such an exceptional mind for numbers, and an unfailing memory, that he won more and more money. He was soon winning several hundred pounds every week. Every Monday he would deposit his winnings into his bank account.”

  “Ah, ha,” said Holmes. “So that is the source of the bank deposits that Lestrade discovered. But that is hardly reason to make a false confession for treason. What else is there to the story, Mrs. Phelps?”

  She lowered her eyes and spoke in a hushed voice.

  “Charles confessed to me that he had engaged in some activities that were depraved. As you must be aware, sir, the gambling clubs attract some rather loose women and there he was, a handsome young man, with a brilliant mind, a respected billet with the Admiralty, and now rather rich. Women were throwing themselves at his feet, and he succumbed. Of late, he has acquired a mistress. He says that she is beautiful and brilliant and he has fallen hopelessly in love with her. He seems quite besotted and ready to die for her.”

  “M
adam,” said Holmes. “He is not the first gentleman to acquire a mistress, I assure you. And I also assure you that I have never heard of any other man sending himself off to prison for a decade after doing so. You are making no sense at all.”

  “Oh, don’t you see, Mr. Holmes? It is about his family. I knew it must be from our many intimate conversations. His father died when he was only sixteen years old. His mother and his younger brothers and sisters all look up to him as if he is a saint. He is admired and respected highly by all the members of his church. If it became known that he was living a double life and that he had become utterly dissolute, his family would be shamed. He fears his mother would die of pain and unspeakable disappointment. He is terrified that the truth will out. I know these things because I visited him in his prison cell on Sunday. I confronted him. I looked into his eyes. I could see into his soul. I told him that I had discerned the reasons for his confession and knew that he had given a false statement to protect his family. I know his spirit, sir, and I persisted. At first, he denied it, but then he thought it over carefully and he came clean and admitted it all to me.”

  “Did he now?” said Holmes. “So, he prefers to be branded a traitor and sent to jail? How can that possibly be less a shameful thing than debauchery?”

  “But, sir. Do you not see? After he admitted to me that he had made a false confession, he said that his family would be devastated if they knew he had given his life over to the pleasures of the flesh, but they would believe that he acted treasonously if he did it for the French. His people are Huguenots. They are French. They would understand. They would shake their heads at his foolishness, but they would begrudgingly admire him. That’s why he is doing this.”

  A cold hard look came over Holmes’s face. “You have informed me, Mrs. Phelps, that a highly respected young man, with a wonderful future in front of him, is no more than a degenerate hypocrite. He gave a false statement to the police to prevent the exposure of his debauchery which, after meeting with you, he now recants. You admit to loving him, and you are now asking me to intervene and rescue him from the wages of his sins. Pray tell, why, in the name of all that is holy, should I lift a finger to help him?”

  Mrs. Phelps returned his look with a hard one of her own, and I witnessed a flash of the steely resolve that I had seen seven years ago in Woking.

  “Because Scotland Yard believes him. And Mr. Sherlock Holmes now knows the truth, and if you do nothing, then Sherlock Holmes will be allowing the real criminal to walk away scot free. Is that what you wish to do Mr. Holmes?”

  She had discerned the chink in his armor and stabbed through it. Holmes was visibly angry. He hated being pushed around, or manipulated, especially by a woman. His hands gripped the arms of the chair he was sitting in, and his knuckles whitened. I had watched him feign anger at clients in the past, but he was not pretending. He was furious.

  But he had no choice.

  He stood up, strode over to the door and opened it. Gesturing to Mrs. Phelps to leave.

  “Good day, madam. I will pay a visit to Mr. Gorot on Monday. By the end of next week, I assure you that he will be released. I trust you will have a pleasant evening … with your husband.”

  Annie Phelps looked as if she were about to return the jibe, but she restrained herself, nodded, rose and departed. We followed her out of the room, down the stairs, and out on to Baker Street.

  “I have the impression,” she said to Mary and me, “that he does not like me.”

  “Can you blame him?” said I.

  “But what could I do?”

  “You did,” said Mary, “what you had to do and it is done. In a few days, Sherlock will get over his anger and will have a grudging respect for you. It has happened before when he has been bested by a woman.”

  “Oh, I hope you’re right,” said Annie. Then she pulled out her watch. “I have to meet Percy in an hour. Is there any place where around here where a girl can find a decent glass of Scotch? I could truly use one.”

  Chapter Five

  Huguenots and Anarchists

  A NOTE FROM HOLMES came to my medical office at noon on Monday. It ran:

  Meeting Charles Gorot at Wandsworth at 4. Please join me. Meet at front gate. Holmes.

  I rushed through my afternoon patients and caught a cab south through the park and across the Battersea Bridge into Wandsworth. Holmes was pacing back and forth on the pavement in front of the main gate of Wandsworth Prison.

  The prison was a somewhat new facility. It had been built according to the most humane principles of the mid-century and each prisoner had his own cell and toilet. The six radiating spokes and the spacious grounds removed the accusation of horrendous treatment of criminals that had been leveled at Newgate at other London prisons.

  Charles Gorot was housed in the north wing, where those men were kept whose crime had not involved physical violence. Prison officials led us to his cell and opened the door. He appeared to be surprised to see us.

  “Why hello there,” he said, quite pleasantly. “To what do I owe the honor of a visit from Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson? I do hate to disappoint you, but there’s not much of a story here for readers of the Strand.”

  “Our visit,” snapped Holmes, “has nothing to do with the Strand. We are here because the true traitor is free on the streets of London, while you are in prison because of lying in your confession in order to save your mum’s precious feelings. And this nonsense has to end.”

  His face displayed shock. “Annie spoke to you, did she not? I made her promise not to say anything to anybody. Dear God, now what am I going to do?”

  He sat back down on the edge of his bed and buried his face in his hands.

  “What you are going to do, Mr. Gorot,” said Holmes, “is admit your sinful actions to your mother, and then to the police, and recant from your false confession. And you must do it immediately. Enough is enough.”

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Holmes. I simply cannot do that. It would break my mother’s heart. I would rather spend the rest of my life in jail.”

  “I am not giving you a choice, Mr. Gorot. I have made arrangements for your mother to visit you here tomorrow. Either you will tell her the truth and tell the same to the police, or I will.”

  “Have you,” said Gorot, “no feelings at all for a dear devout woman? Can you not understand that she would rather die than know how I have failed her?” He touched his hand, quite dramatically, to his chest as he spoke.

  “She will not,” replied Holmes, “be the first mother in England to be deeply disappointed in her eldest son. From Queen Victoria, with her dissolute son, our Prince of Wales, right down to the humblest scullery maid, mothers have had their hearts broken by their sons. You mother will survive and will have to live with the shame and so will you. You have until tomorrow at this time. Good day, sir.”

  Holmes turned and abruptly left the cell. I followed.

  The following day was warm and sunny, and after supper, my wife and I enjoyed a cup of tea by the open window of our front room. I brought her up-to-date on what all had transpired in the Admiralty case, and she kept me informed about her work with the various social reform movements to which she devoted her time and energy.

  Whilst we were enjoying a cup of tea, a cab pulled up to the curb and its passenger, a woman alone, descended to the pavement in front of us. She was a lady well into her fifties, but was tall and slender and carried herself upright, in an almost military posture. She was dressed in a conservative gray dress and a light black jacket. Her graying hair appeared to have been gathered up and arranged under her simple black felt hat. Her shoes would be described, speaking charitably, as sensible, and she was entirely unadorned with any trace of jewelry or cosmetics. Her face immediately gave away her identity, and I rose from my chair to open our door to Mrs. Gorot.

  “I apologize for interrupting you,” she said. “I wish to speak to Dr. Watson.”

  “I am he,” I said and gave a respectful nod. “Please, come in. This is
my wife, Mary and no apology is necessary. May we offer you a cup of tea? I suspect that there might be one or two things you are interested in chatting about. You are Mrs. Gorot, Charles’s mother, if I am not mistaken.”

  She smiled and took a seat with us. “Thank you. Yes. I am Mrs. Othniel Gorot, and yes, I am here because of my son.”

  Mary had quickly put out another cup and saucer and poured a cup for our guest. The lady took a sip before speaking again.

  “I had called first at Baker Street. Mr. Holmes was not in, but his landlady was kind enough to give me your address. I am sorry for barging in upon you without warning, but I felt it important to do so.”

  “Mrs. Gorot,” I said, “considering what you must have been through during the past few days, no excuse is necessary. Mothers have every right to do whatever they feel necessary in matters concerning their sons.”

  “Thank you, doctor. You are most gracious. My reason for stopping by is to thank you and Mr. Sherlock Holmes for knocking some sense into the thick skull of my oldest son. The good Lord gave him a brilliant mind, but I could not believe that he had been so idiotically stupid.”

  “Madam?”

  “Honestly, doctor, can you imagine anything more unbelievable than a young man sending himself off to prison for a decade as a way of trying to hide sowing his wild oats?”

  I was surprised, although I later thought that I should not have been. Everything about this woman said sensible in upper case.

  “That is an interesting observation,” I said.

  “Interesting? Perhaps it is, but it is also true. Our Lord divinely told us that he had not come to call the righteous but sinners to repentance. Had Charles not strayed from the straight and narrow and indulged his youthful animal spirits, he would not have been a normal young man. I repeated the words of the Lord to the woman taken in adultery. I told him, ‘Neither do I condemn thee. Go and sin no more’ Like any sinner, my son has to confess his sins before the Lord, and give up his sinful ways, and his mistress, which may be the most difficult for him. Then he must trust in the Lord to direct his paths from now on. That is my prayer for him, and I will keep praying that prayer every day”