Sherlock Holmes and Young Winston - The Jubilee Plot

by Mike Hogan

  I lapsed into silence as I contemplated that horror. I recalled newspaper accounts of the assassination of the Russian Tsar six years previously, and the carnage the terrorist bomb had caused. It seemed impossible, grotesque, that such a brutal crime might be perpetrated in the heart of peaceful London.

  Our cab trotted slowly along Pall Mall, and Holmes stopped it between two lamp-posts, fifty feet from Mycroft’s residence. We clambered out. A gas company cart was parked under a lamp in front of the Diogenes Club; a workman on a tall ladder performed some maintenance, another held the ladder steady and a third sat on the driver’s bench.

  “Holmes.” I gestured discreetly towards the Haymarket end of Pall Mall. A policeman walked slowly towards us.

  Holmes led the way along the pavement. He knocked lightly on the door of Mycroft’s building. The policeman crossed the road and walked towards us.

  The door opened and Mycroft ushered us inside. He closed the door and we waited as the clomp of the policeman’s heavy boots approached and passed.

  We went up the stairs once more, passing Mycroft’s flat and up one more floor. We assembled in the lobby between the flats of Mr Melas and Colonel Delacy.

  “I checked with the caretaker lady,” Mycroft murmured. “The Colonel told her over a week ago that he was off to Torquay the following morning. The pageboy says that his subscription copy of The Times is still delivered daily, left outside the door. The subscription is always suspended when the Colonel is on holiday.”

  The space outside the front door of the apartment was clear. Someone was collecting the newspapers.

  Poor Staff Work

  Holmes knelt on the floor and unpacked his housebreaking implements.

  I checked my dark lantern and revolver. I handed Churchill a police rattle and quietly instructed him to spring it to attract help if anything should go wrong. I made it clear that he was not, under any circumstances whatsoever, to follow us inside. He promised; I could not see, in the gloom, whether or not he had crossed his fingers.

  Mycroft stood to one side looking nervous. “I say, Sherlock, is this quite legal? Do you have permission from the Ordnance Department? They lease the property from the Crown. We are their tenants.”

  Holmes knelt and inspected the door lock closely. He selected a pair of fine tools from the oiled cloth roll. “A little light, Watson.”

  I opened the shutter of my dark lantern a sliver. I had forgotten my gloves and I burned my thumb. Holmes jiggled the picklocks in the keyhole and held them in position with his left hand while he inserted a delicate wire tool with a hook at the end. I heard a faint click.

  Holmes replaced the tools and stood. He drew his revolver from his frockcoat pocket. I closed the shutter of the lamp, burning myself again.

  “Remember, Watson,” he murmured. “These are rebel fanatics. Do not hesitate to return fire.”

  I hefted my revolver and nodded.

  The door opened smoothly and I followed him inside. We moved through a short hall and stopped at the door of the sitting room. It was closed. We listened intently. Holmes shook his head; all was silent and in darkness. He reached for the door handle and turned it slowly. He opened the door a crack, peered inside and smiled at me. I followed him into the sitting room.

  The room was the mirror image of the one in the flat opposite. The windows were closed and heavily curtained. We stepped on to a thick carpet.

  “Light, Watson,” whispered Holmes. I fiddled with the lantern. The smell of burning oil and hot metal was strong. As I plucked at the slide, a bright light shot across the room from the corner opposite the windows and dazzled me.

  “Do not move,” said a stentorian voice. “I have a shotgun aimed at your heart.”

  I stiffened and dropped the lantern. Flaming oil spilled across the carpet. I screeched and stamped on the flames.

  “Let me light the gas,” said Holmes.

  “Stop jumping about, damn your eyes, or I fire!” cried the voice.

  A match flared; one gas jet blazed, and then another. Holmes leaned against the mantelpiece and lit a cigar with the match. I knelt and picked up the lantern, burning my hand again.

  I looked up.

  An elderly man in a black uniform and cap crouched behind a heavily stuffed armchair. He aimed a large bore shotgun directly at my solar plexus.

  “Colonel Delacy,” said Holmes. “Allow me to introduce Doctor John Watson, late of the Sixty-Sixth, the Berkshire Regiment. The boy peering around the doorway in that impertinent fashion is Winston Spencer-Churchill. Behind him are your neighbours, Mr Mycroft Holmes and Mr Melas. I am Sherlock Holmes.”

  Good, I thought, now that we are introduced, we can converse, rather than aim formidable weapons at one another.

  “I know you,” said the Colonel.

  “I am tolerably well known in certain circles,” said Holmes, adjusting his cravat in the large ornate mirror that stood above the fireplace. “I am the world’s foremost consulting detective -”

  “I meant the boy. You are the son of Lord Randolph. He was godfather to my nephew, Lambert Delacy.”

  “Oh,” said Churchill striding across the room and offering his hand. “Your people are the Shropshire Delacys. How do you do?”

  The Colonel shook Churchill’s hand, broke his shotgun and removed the shells. He came out from behind the armchair and inspected the oil and footprint stains on the carpet through his monocle.

  “I bought that carpet in the souk at Isfahan in ‘63,” he said taking my lantern. “Shoes off.”

  He spread a copy of The Times at my feet; I took off my shoes and laid them on it.

  “Come in, gentlemen,” the Colonel called to Mr Melas and Mycroft. “Sit, if you can find a place that’s not a blasted, burning heath.”

  “I heard a noise: shouting,” said Mr Melas. “Mr Holmes, Mr Mycroft Holmes, was outside in the hall, so I -”

  “Port all right?” asked Colonel Delacy. “Have to be as it’s all I’ve got. I can’t cater for dacoits that crack my door in the middle of the night; might as well be on the line in Peshawar. Come boy.” He took Churchill by the arm and disappeared through a doorway.

  I sat on the edge of a sofa in my socks, feeling ridiculous. Mr Melas sat next to me tut-tutting at the stain. “It’s not just the oil,” he said. “The fibres are black-scorched.”

  He bent to take a closer look. “In Greece we would take a dried sponge and -”

  The Colonel returned with a dusty bottle and a tray of glasses. Churchill followed him carrying a pile of small plates and a large Dundee cake. Mr Melas’ face fell.

  Churchill cut slices of cake and passed around glasses of port.

  “I knew when you came blundering in that I was dealing with amateurs,” said Colonel Delacy. “That’s why I didn’t blast you as you blundered about like a gang of inebriated hippos. I can tell misplaced good intentions at a thousand yards: all that muttering in the hall - ha! Reminded me of a covey of nervous subalterns in the Mess dithering with the decanter - imbeciles.”

  “You were lying in wait for someone,” said Holmes. “May I ask who?”

  “Don’t see what damn business it is of his,” said the Colonel evidently to himself but in a conversational tone. “Long-haired busybodies breaking into me home and stamping flaming oil into the carpet. What business is it of yours, eh?”

  “We were expecting a nest of Fenians with infernal machines, Colonel,” said Churchill loudly. “They have designs against the Queen.”

  The Colonel jumped up, spilling his port on his sleeve.

  “The fiends!”

  As Churchill mopped the sleeve with his handkerchief soaked in water, Holmes explained that a cab driver and a lounger had stalked us. We suspected that the Colonel was in danger.

  “I suppose I should thank you for your concer
n,” the Colonel said doubtfully. He blinked at Holmes. “Idiot thinks I’m an old dodderer that can’t pull up me own socks. I shot for the brigade at Jaipur - damn busybodies.”

  “May we ask what made you concerned for your safety?” asked Holmes.

  “I was not so concerned - buffoon. I was, as you suggested, lying in wait. I was packing for Torquay a week ago, when a young clergyman came to the door - dressed as a clergyman anyway. Shouldn’t have got past the caretaker woman, but she’s a drunk. The pageboy is an idiot: he peeks through keyholes, picks his nose, and smells of fireplace ashes and stale cheese.

  “This clergyman said that he had been sent to interview me by an American historical foundation. They wanted me to give a series of talks about moral choices in war or some such infernal nonsense: religion in the ranks and all that rot. Well, I knew at once that they’d mixed me up with my older brother. He was a regimental chaplain in India with a line infantry regiment until they caught him up to no good with his organist - a native to boot.

  “I told this young chap that he’d got the wrong brother, but he was insistent. He offered full fare to New York on a smart ship, all expenses paid, and five hundred dollars in cash money. If the youth had rung true as a priest, which he didn’t, and had I known the first thing about the Almighty, which I don’t, I’d have been tempted. As it was, I closed the door in his face. I heard his un-reverential snarl of rage through the door and I resolved to be on my guard.

  “The man had not done his staff work; he’d approached the wrong brother. The foundation was probably a fiction. Why, I wondered would they want my unlovely brother in New York?”

  “A similar case occurred in Sofia in ‘84,” said Holmes bending forward, putting his elbows on his knees and steepling his fingers. “As Count Esterhazy related the matter to me -”

  “They wanted me out of my house,” said the Colonel overriding him. “Burglary, I thought. But I had nothing valuable enough to warrant such a complicated plan. The transatlantic ticket at least would have to be genuine, and they aren’t two-a-penny: a hundred pounds or more in saloon class. No, they wanted my house to be empty. If this reverend had asked the caretaker woman downstairs, he’d have known that I was about to leave for Torquay. He could have moved in at his leisure: more bad staff work.”

  “I have reached the conclusion that -” offered Holmes.

  “I resolved to lie in wait. I’ve hunted heavy game, and men too; I have shikari skills. I suppose you noticed I still took my Times. I know it’s available at the Club, but some idiot is always pencilling in the margins, and one’s Times is not something one shares gladly.”

  Holmes nodded. “The Times, and that you were still watering the petunias.”

  “Not entirely the idiot he looks, then,” said the Colonel, pursing his lips. “What are they up to - my reverend and your stalkers?”

  “I do not know,” said Holmes.

  “Ha,” said the Colonel jumping to his feet. “Consulting detective claptrap. I knew he was a wrong ‘un as soon as I set eyes on him, long-haired lout. More port anyone? No? Then bugger off. I’ll see you to the door.”

  “I say, Colonel,” I said, reaching for my pocketbook. “You must let me pay for the damage to the carpet.”

  “After five hours of shrewd and resourceful bargaining,” Colonel Delacy replied stiffly, “I paid forty-three Bombay-minted, Maria Theresa silver thaler for that carpet. Included in the price was delivery to Pall Mall and an evening with the carpet vendor’s houris to celebrate the sale.”

  “Oh,” I said.

  “Come along, Watson,” Holmes called from the lobby.

  Colonel Delacy shook hands with Churchill and followed us out into the hall. He watched in astonishment as the mother of Mr Melas marched out of their apartment and across the hall, smiled, and walked past him into his flat. She carried a bathroom loufa, a bowl, and a bottle of ouzo.

  “What did Colonel Delacy give you?” I asked Churchill as we went down the stairs.

  “It’s a wedge of Jubilee Dundee cake from Fortnum and Mason, wrapped in a napkin.”

  “No more cake tonight,” I said. “You have eaten far too much already. I ordered a cold collation from Mrs Hudson for late supper.”

  You Do Me Too Much Honour

  We finished supper and Holmes retired to his bedroom.

  Churchill and I played a hand or two of Bezique. We had completed the first round - Churchill was dozy and off-form - when Holmes emerged from his room. I looked up and my heart fell. He wore a curly, red wig under a battered, brown bowler hat. Orange side whiskers adorned his chin, a mass of freckles were splashed across his face and yellow teeth set in a permanent grin protruded from his mouth. He wore a patched, brown suit with a moleskin waistcoat and a bow tie in a nubby material. His trousers were bloused into calf-length boots. He carried a heavy knobbed stick.

  “Good evening to all here,” he said in a stage Irish accent.

  Churchill laughed so hard that he fell off his chair and literally rolled about. I had never seen that metaphor brought so vividly to life.

  I remained stony silent, for I could guess what Holmes meant to do.

  “What a fine night it is, to be sure,” said Holmes.

  “I have visited Ireland,” I said coldly. “Churchill lived there for some time when his grand-papa was Lord Lieutenant. You can see the effect that your Irish whiskers and accent have on him. I will probably have to administer either a thrashing or an enema or both to bring him back to his senses - get up, Churchill.”

  I stood. “I strongly advise you, Holmes, as a sincere friend, your physician and an avid admirer of the comic theatre, not to go out looking as you do unless you intend to mount the boards at the Alhambra and give us a song and a jig.”

  I pulled Churchill up by his ears and set him at the table. “Deal the cards.”

  Holmes stalked out without a backward look and clumped downstairs. We heard the street door slam shut.

  I jumped up and darted to the window. “Holmes is taking a hansom. Quick now, get a cab from the stand. Wait until his cab has turned the corner - don’t let him see you.”

  I took out my revolver from the desk drawer and checked the load. After a moment’s thought, I filled the right pocket of my jacket with extra cartridges. I crossed the room and opened the door to Holmes’ bedroom. His make-up sticks and paints were strewn across his dressing table in his usual untidy way. Protruding from a map-book of London was a telegram. Our pageboy had given it him when we arrived home earlier in the evening. The telegram was directed to Holmes, but I had no compunction whatsoever in reading it.

  Golden Lion Wardour Street Soho. Midnight. Davitt.

  I ran down the stairs and outside on to the pavement of Baker Street. Churchill waited across the road beside a cab. The driver was one of our regulars. “George, the Golden Lion pub in Wardour Street. Drive like the devil, Mr Holmes is in peril of his life.”

  I climbed into the hansom and Churchill jumped in after me. We took off at a spanking rate.

  “He has three and a half minutes on us,” I said consulting my watch. “How long do you think it will take the patrons of the Golden Lion, Fenians of the vilest sort I make no doubt, to see through his disguise?”

  Churchill considered. “If he says nothing, two minutes; if he opens his mouth at all, at all - as many seconds.” He yawned.

  I nodded. “They will assume that he is a police informer. They will take him somewhere to interrogate him, another room in the public house perhaps, or another safer place. Then they will kill him.”

  As we raced towards Soho, I wondered whether I could have done more to dissuade Holmes from his foolish and dangerous act. I knew that he would want to infiltrate the Fenian lair, and that he would fall back on his ludicrous Irish stable hand act. Elderly clergymen and common loafers were Holmes’ forte. I had
tried on many previous occasions to persuade him to not to stray into farce or worse.

  I stopped our cab at the corner opposite the Golden Lion. The street was almost empty. The flaring gas lamps of an apothecary’s shop, set behind huge glass jars of purple, yellow, red and blue, supplemented the lamp-posts and gave the street a festive air. A forlorn hurdy-gurdy player had pitched outside the pub and he played lively music hall tunes. The few passers-by who tramped along the street, heads down and shoulders hunched despite the clement weather, took no notice.

  “George,” I said to the cabby. “Wait around the corner.”

  I nodded to Churchill and he followed me past the chemist’s to the dark doorway of a shuttered office. We stood in shadow and inspected the pub across the road. The frosted windows were brightly lit and shadows moved behind them in vague patterns. I heard a piano over the sound of the hurdy-gurdy. No one had gone in or out since we had arrived.

  There was no cab parked outside, so Holmes had either dismissed his hansom or ordered it to wait in another street.

  “Churchill, I shall enter through the public bar door. At the sound of shots, riot, or if I am not out in ten minutes, run to George and have him spring his police rattle.”

  I turned Churchill’s head to face mine. His eyelids seemed to droop in the lurid violet light from the chemist’s.

  “Under no circumstances are you to enter that public house, even if you hear a call for help; your job is to look out and fetch the authorities. Show me your pocket pistol.”

  Churchill reluctantly gave me his American Derringer, an unfortunate gift from a previous client that had proved oddly useful. It was unloaded.

  “A palm pistol will not be of any use against the Fenian fanatics who congregate across the road. They plan an act against the Queen! Look out, and fetch help. Promise.”

  He did so; I made sure that the boy’s fingers were not crossed and gave him back his pistol. I patted him on the shoulder in a manly gesture, crossed the street and swung open the door to the public bar of the Golden Lion.