The Naval Knaves

by Craig Stephen Copland

  “Nothing,” she replied.

  “No, darling,” I said. “Clearly there is something bothering you.”

  “John, I said there was nothing.”

  Any man who has been married for more than a month has learned, usually the hard way, that when he asks his wife what is troubling her and twice receives the reply of “Nothing” that the true answer is more along the lines of “There is something bothering me. I do not want to talk about it. So stop asking.”

  I stopped asking.

  When I returned to my home at the end of the following day, I could sense that Mary was still deeply troubled by something, but I knew that if I were to inquire, it would be at my peril. At the end of a pleasant supper, during which we chatted about the weather, the news, the new emporium that was about to be opened by Messrs. Marks and Spencer, and the events that had taken place during our day.

  “I had a lovely time with Annie,” said Mary. “We met in in Piccadilly and had a luncheon on Regent Street, and then we did some shopping.”

  “Excellent,” I said. “And what did you buy?”

  “Nothing, but we had an interesting chat.”

  “Excellent, and what did the two of you talk about?”

  “Oh, nothing, really. But John, darling, would you mind asking Sherlock Holmes if Annie and I could have a brief meeting with him?”

  I had not expected such a request.

  “Of course, dearest, I can do that. What is it about?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Dearest, it cannot be about nothing. What in the world would you and Annie want to talk to Holmes about?

  “It is nothing, but if you are all that curious, I suggest you come with us, and you can find out.”

  I scribbled a note and went out to the pavement and hailed a page on a bicycle to run the note over to Baker Street. Just before my bedtime, a reply came back confirming that Holmes would be available to meet with Mary, Annie, and me the following day at five o’clock.

  Mary, who still refused to talk with me about the reason for the meeting, met again for lunch with Annie Phelps. The two of them would find their own way to Baker Street, she assured me. I departed from my doctor’s office in ample time to arrive early.

  Mrs. Hudson greeted me warmly at the door and ushered me up the stairs where I waited alone. About ten minutes later, Sherlock Holmes walked in and almost immediately after him, my wife and Mrs. Annie Phelps.

  “My dear Sherlock Holmes,” began my wife once the three of us had been seated. “My husband informed me regarding the tragic deaths of the two French Captains the night before last.”

  Holmes merely nodded and gestured that she should continue.

  “Mrs. Phelps and I are in agreement that whatever was the cause of their duel, it most certainly was not their competition for the attention of Princess Casamassima,” said Mary.

  “Absolutely not,” said Annie Phelps. “Whatever was the cause of their deaths, it could not possibly have been because of that woman.”

  “Holmes took the pipe out of his mouth. He was obviously intrigued. So was I.

  “You have my attention. Please explain your reasons.”

  “It is a matter that is immediately perceived by any woman on earth,” said Mary.

  “Yes, any woman knows,” confirmed Annie.

  “When a woman,” said Mary, “is in conversation with a man, she perceives, without fail, whether he is a gentleman who is addressing himself to her face…”

  “Yes, her face,” added Annie, “not her bodice.”

  “And if he is expressing any romantic interest, then he does so as a gentleman,” said Mary.

  “And not a knave,” said Annie.

  “Mrs. Phelps and I could tell that both of those French Captains were ravishing us with their eyes and treating us quite shamefully in their minds.”

  “It felt as if we were standing stark naked in front of them,” said Annie.

  “And all the while,” said Mary, “they were standing beside a stunningly beautiful young woman who they appeared to know rather well.”

  “And they were,” said Annie, “completely ignoring her and directing all their animal spirits toward us.”

  “She may as well,” said Mary, “have been a block of ice. They had not a scrap of interest in her, and it is impossible that a few days later they would have acquired such a passion that they would kill each other over her.”

  “Yes, impossible,” said Annie.

  “Whatever was the cause of their duel, it most certainly was not over the Princess,” said Mary.

  “It must have been something else,” said Annie, “for it certainly was not that woman.”

  Holmes looked intently at the two women, slowly moving his head back and forth and altering his gaze on first Mary and then Annie. He gave an appreciative nod each time.

  “I have learned,” he said, “that there are one or two matters where a woman has superior judgement to a man.”

  “Actually, Sherlock,” said Mary, “I believe you mean to say that there are some matters in which women are never wrong, and men are entirely ignorant.”

  “Frankly,” said Annie, “they are complete blockheads.”

  “And does this,” asked Holmes, “appear to one of those times?”

  In unison, both women replied in the affirmative.

  Holmes lit his pipe and leaned back in his chair. “Watson,” he said, turning to me. “Behind you on the table is today’s post. I have not had the opportunity to view it yet, and the large brown envelope is most likely the report from Scotland Yard and the morgue. We will all see what they have to say about our two French captains. Would you mind handing it to me?”

  I did as he had requested and could see the stamp of Scotland Yard on the largest piece.

  He opened it and began to scan it quickly. Suddenly he threw it down on the coffee table.

  “Those imbeciles!” he shouted. He leapt to his feet. “Ladies, kindly excuse us. Mrs. Watson, please hold your husband’s supper for him until later this evening. Watson, come with me.”

  He was already walking out of the room. I bade my wife a quick good-bye and followed him down the stairs.

  “Good Lord, Holmes,” I shouted at him as he hailed a cab. “What in heaven’s name is it? Where are we going?”

  He gave the driver an address on a road behind Kensington Palace.

  “There was no duel. They were both murdered.”

  I gasped. “Both of them? How can you tell?”

  “I should have guessed when they simultaneously shot each other spot on in the heart. The likelihood of that happening is remote.”

  “But still possible,” I replied.

  “In total darkness?”

  “What?”

  “The police report said that the bodies were discovered by some bloke walking his dog in Hyde Park, just south of Bayswater. He found them at first light. He called the police immediately, and they were there in less than five minutes. The bodies were no longer warm to the touch, and the boys at the Yard agreed that they must have been dead for at least four hours. They were shot somewhere around midnight. No one schedules a duel between midnight and two o’clock in the morning when it is impossible to see who you are firing at. It is utterly absurd, even for the French.”

  It did seem a bit far-fetched when I thought it over.

  “Where are we going now?”

  “The French Embassy residences are along a street just behind Kensington Palace. That is where the two Captains have been living since they arrived in London.”

  The address was not far from Baker Street, and we arrived in less than ten minutes. The French diplomatic residences were immediately obvious by the Tri-Color flags hanging above several doorways in a parade of elegant row houses. The cab driver slowed down and looked for the specific house number that Holmes had given him. As we pulled up to the curb in front of that address, three people, an older couple and an attractive young woman, exited the house. I thought I had see
n the three of them before.

  “Were those service people at the reception at the Langham,” I asked, wondering out loud.

  “I was not there,” said Holmes.

  “Oh, yes, of course, you weren’t. It is just that they looked familiar, that is all.”

  “You can ask about them when we go inside,” said Holmes.

  We walked up to the front door and were greeted by a very attractive red-haired woman in a maid’s uniform. The bodice was cut rather low, and the skirt was somewhat on the short side, flared, and would be considered highly provocative at a house in Mayfair. But it was the French style, and as this was where they housed their diplomats, I assumed that it was in keeping with their ideas of fashion.

  “Good evening, mademoiselle,” said Holmes. “We are here on behalf of Scotland Yard to conduct the investigation into the duel.”

  The poor girl looked quite confused, and Holmes walked past her quickly. I followed him into the parlor.

  “I did not know,” I whispered to Holmes, “that we were sanctioned by Scotland Yard to inspect a diplomatic residence.”

  “We are not. Fortunately, the maid does not know that either. With the two Captains dead and gone, I suspect that the staff are in a sorry state of confusion. The girl seems pleasant enough. I suspect she is Irish and would be terrified if her mother and her priest knew that she was wearing a uniform like that. I will inspect the premises. Why don’t you go and chat with her and see if she knows anything about what took place here on Sunday night?”

  Holmes disappeared to the second floor, and I sought out the maid.

  “Excuse me, miss,” I said to the maid when I found her back in the kitchen. “Might I have a word with you?”

  The poor girl looked awfully apprehensive and gave an awkward curtsy.

  “Yes, sir. Of course, sir,” she said.

  “My name is Doctor John Watson …”

  That was all I had said before she gasped in astonishment.

  “The Dr. Watson? The writer. Is that … is that man with you … Sherlock Holmes?” she asked.

  “Yes, that is Sherlock Holmes.”

  She clasped her hands together under her chin, looked up at the ceiling and closed her eyes. Her lips were silently saying the words thank you, Mother Mary repeatedly. I made a mental note to pass on the Holmes the news that The Virgin appeared to be familiar with him.

  “Oh, Dr. Watson, sir. This is an answer to my prayers. The past week here has been rotten, sir. I have been praying that The Virgin would come to my aid, and She has. She has sent Sherlock Holmes himself to help me.”

  I noticed a tear creeping down her freckled cheek, and her face was beaming with joy. I made another mental note to tell Holmes that he was not only known by the Virgin Mary but was now being sent as her emissary. I was not at all sure whether he would be pleased with his divine promotion.

  “Please, miss,” I said. “I assure you that Sherlock Holmes will do everything within his power to make sure that you and the other members of the staff here are safe. You could be a wonderful help to him, and he might even wish to thank you in one of the stories I write about him, if you would be so kind as to answer a few questions.”

  The dear girl’s face lit up like a lamp, and she gasped again. “Indeed, sir? Would that be possible, sir? Why, of course, Dr. Watson, sir, if there is anything I can help you with, please just say so. I am at a loss for words to tell you how relieved I am that you and Mr. Holmes are here.”

  I was not sure that I knew anyone from Ireland, man or woman, who was ever at a loss of words for any reason, but I proceeded with my questions.

  “And what is your name, miss?” I asked.

  “I would be Bridget O’Halloran, sir. From Galway, sir.”

  “Lovely to meet you, Miss Bridget. Please, my dear, there is no need to be afraid. But kindly tell me why it is that the last week has been so bad for you? Was it better before?”

  “Before, sir, it was a bit of both good and bad. The wages we were paid were grand as was the food, seein’ as they are French and all. It was no so bad before these two captains came and then it went manky. Those two were always bullin and they made the girls dress like prostitutes, and they were always puttin’ their hands where they shouldn’t be. The Douglas couple, fine Presbyters they were from Glasgow, they up and quit. That’s when Captain François brought in Mr. and Mrs. Tangay to do the charring and the night watch. But we all knew it was on account of the daughter, Becky, that he hired her. That young bure is quite the feek. He was soon all over her like a randy bull on a heifer. Made Mrs. Tangay mad as a hornet, she was. Especially with his bein’ a Frenchie.

  “But that were not the worst of it. A week back there starts comin’ around a dozen or so other bowsies and they are all yellin’ and screamin’ and calling the captains names. And that made the captains quite cheesed, and they take it out on those of us in service, they did.”

  “Pray, tell me, miss,” I said. “Could you tell what these men who came around were angry about?”

  “Well now, doctor, sir. In the first place, they were not all men. There were some women too, and they were screamin’ like banshees as well. I have no languages other than English, sir, but it was like the Tower of Babel, sir. All sorts of tongues bein’ screamed in, there was. What I could gather was that it all seemed to be about money, sir. Every day there was people I did not know comin’ around, and this house has been hell and damnation for the past week, it has sir. And then we hear that the captains would be dead and we’re not surprised, we’re not, sir.”

  “Ah, is that so?” I said. “Did you know that the police are saying that the captains fought a duel over a woman and that is how they died.”

  Miss Bridget gave me a look of complete disbelief.

  “If that is what the police believe, sir, then God help us all, sir. That is madness. Those coppers must be fluthered if that is what they think.”

  “And why do you say that, miss?”

  “Those captains, sir, they were knaves when it come to women, sir. They didn’t fight, they shared, and they thought it was all a lark, sir.”

  That was an interesting comment, I thought. It was not without reason that the French gave an entire new meaning to the word ménage. I decided to pursue another line of questions.

  “Were there any other unusual visitors that came around in the past few weeks?”

  “In this last week from hell, sir, no there weren’t. Before that it was mostly other Frenchies, navy officers they looked like, sir, who came and got right ossified. Then a couple of months back there was the fuzzy-wuzzy fellow who came and did some repairs, but that was all.”

  “Pardon me, Miss Bridget, but what do you mean by a fuzzy-wuzzy?”

  “Well, you know, sir. Like what the poet described – “a big black boundin’ beggar with an ’errick ’ead of ’air.” A bleedin’ golliwogg, he was. One of those dark-skinned chaps from Africa. He came here for over two weeks and did the repairs.”

  “And might you remember the name of this fuzzy-wuzzy fellow?”

  “His wagon, sir, had a name on it. It was Ibrahim and Company, it was, sir. On Acre Lane in Brixton was what was on the wagon, sir.”

  I continued to ask the girl several more questions and was sure that I had missed some data that Holmes would have sought out. I thanked her and wished her well.

  “But what is to become of me, sir? With no one stayin’ in this house, I’ll be let go. And with the captain dead, who will give me a recommendation so that I can find a new position?”

  “My dear girl,” I said. “Here is my card. Send me a note, and I will be very happy to write a letter for you.”

  “Oh, sir. That would be right hatchet; it would sir. Every fine house in London knows your name, sir. Thank you, sir.”

  “And I will even add that you were very helpful to Sherlock Holmes.”

  I thought the dear girl was going to faint from joy. She went so far as to throw her arms around me and place a slo
ppy wet kiss on my cheek. Had she not been scantily clad in her French maid’s uniform, I might not have felt quite so uncomfortable with her display of affection.

  Chapter Eight

  Fuzzy-Wuzzy Wasn’t, Was He?

  I FOUND HOLMES and joined him in searching the remainder of the house. The entire place was neat and clean and stylish, as might have been expected of the French. Other than wardrobes that were overflowing with suits from Saville Row and military dress uniforms, paintings of naked women by French artists, and an abundance of busts of Napoleon, there was nothing out of the ordinary.

  I passed on to Holmes the data I had acquired from Miss Bridget.

  “It is highly unlikely,” he said, “that it would be of any use to question the carousing French officers who visited here. And we do not know who the hostile visitors for the past week were yet. However, as we do know the name and location of the workman who had been coming by, we may as well start with him. Might you be free first thing tomorrow morning to meet me at Brixton Station? And it might be a good idea to bring your service revolver.”

  At eight the next day I met Holmes in Brixton, and together we walked around the corner to an address of a shop on Acre Road. There was a fellow there loading up a workman’s closed wagon that bore the name we had been given, and it was unmistakably the man that Miss Bridget had described. His skin was coal black and his head of hair, pointing in all directions at once, was very striking. On his face were several symmetrical scar markings.

  “Pardon me, sir,” said Holmes. “Might we have a word with you?”

  He looked up at us, gave a respectful nod and replied. “You wish to have a word with me, is it? And who might I ask is it that wishes to have this word?”

  Like many of the African chaps who now live in London, he had a heavy accent and spoke as if he had a mouth full of wool.

  “My name is Sherlock Holmes, and this is my colleague, Dr. Watson.”

  The African fellow’s eyes widened, and a broad smile appeared on his face.

  “Does Mr. Sherlock Holmes, the detective, wish to have a word with me? Then Mr. Hassan Ibrahim will be honored to speak with Mr. Sherlock Holmes. But am I able to do so this instant, you will ask. No, forgive me, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, but I am not. And why am I not? Because I am responding to an urgent call from a lady up in Chelsea whose ceiling has collapsed on her. And when will I become available to speak with Mr. Sherlock Holmes? In no more than one hour for that is all it will take to prop up her ceiling and make an estimate of the materials and time it will take make repairs. And will I be available after doing that? Yes, I will, and I shall meet you at The Rose on the bank of the Thames. Do they serve good food there for your breakfast, Mr. Holmes? No, sir, they do not. It is wretched, but it will have to do if you wish to speak with me this morning.”