Sherlock Holmes and Young Winston - The Jubilee Plot

by Mike Hogan

“First-class statehood for Gondal and an eleven-gun salute for the Thakore,” I said.

  “That is a state secret,” Mycroft said crossly.

  The Colonel chuckled. “The boy was the Queen’s guest at Holyroodhouse Palace. You know how partial she is to almond-eyed young Indian boys. Look at that idiot Duleep Singh she fawned over a few years ago.”

  “I say, Colonel,” I protested.

  “I expect she gave young Bhagwatsinhji a discreet hint over tea and crumpets,” he continued, ignoring me. “Imagine, the Thakore of Gondal arrives back home in Kathiawar with his palace band tootling the state anthem and his little army banging out a first-class salute of eleven slow guns. He’d be cock of the walk: a maharajah. His wives - four is it? - could lord it over the ladies of lesser princes, and he would shoot up the precedence list like a monkey up a mango tree. His political minder would get his half-colonelcy, which would please his appalling memsahib. His chum, the Thakore of Limdi would be livid. He claims that his dynasty dates back to the fifteen-hundreds; Gondal is a mere upstart at mid-seventeenth.”

  “So, Limdi could be involved in the plot,” I said. “Perhaps he coveted the jewels.”

  “All this trouble for a few mangy emeralds worth, what, a few thousand pounds!” exclaimed the Colonel. “Ha, it would be as if I paid a gang of dacoits to burgle your house because I ached to possess your pearl tiepin, Doctor. No, mark my words, this is a zenana plot, with the connivance of the local chiefs.”

  “The power structure in the princely states is fragile,” said Mycroft. “The princes are encouraged by the Raj to emulate the modernising schemes that we have introduced: railways, schools, hospitals and so on. The lesser chiefs are bypassed by more centralised forms of control. They are losing sources of revenue. The situation is ripe for mischief making. And the shadow of the Russian bear is in the North. What would the Russians not pay for India?”

  “I may be an old buffer,” said the Colonel as our apple pie and custard and fruit plate was served. “But I see a prince taking time by the forelock; he is making a modern state. It is a kind of litmus test for the Raj. Will it work? More importantly, what rewards will he get? If Gondal is raised to the first class, his nine-gun co-princes will be in equal parts beside themselves with rage and green with envy that a princeling with the demeaning ambition to be a doctor is a first-class prince!”

  He screwed his monocle into his eye and regarded the apple pie. “The emeralds may not be valuable, but we cannot underestimate the effect of the theft. The necklace is worn on all religious and state occasions. The people of Gondal will be outraged at its loss, particularly on a trip abroad. The more superstitious of his people - and they are all deeply superstitious - fear that he has lost caste, or karma, or at least luck by crossing the ocean. If he had loyal and discreet advisers, I’d say fake the bloody emeralds in paste. That pie is not fresh; apple pie should steam. It is no use relying on the custard to warm it up; dreadful goo that is too. My major domo makes an apple pie that hisses with steam. Pass the fruit bowl.”

  “I am afraid that paste will not answer,” said Holmes. “The thieves made provision against that possibility. If the emeralds were discovered to be counterfeit, I fear that the rage of the Gondal people would be much augmented. If no-one except Churchill is having pie, shall we smoke our cigars in the garden?”

  “What is the Irish connection in the affair?” Colonel Delacy asked as we stood under the shade of a plane tree in the pub garden. “Is this a criminal enterprise or is there a political aspect?”

  “I have no idea,” said Holmes.

  The Ideal of Dundee Cakes

  “I understand the tattoo and the papers,” I said as we settled back in our sitting room in Baker Street. “But how did Mycroft know that the dead man was of Irish extraction? And how did you know that the cabby was his brother, and had lived in France?”

  I mixed two whiskies and sodas, and added the last of our American ice.

  “It was perfectly simple,” said Holmes. “I did not bother to state the obvious. The bowler hat is perhaps three-years old and of a rakish, youthful, curled-brim style that was the vogue in Paris at that time. The name P Walsh is printed on the hat lining. There were few sweat marks. The few hairs adhering to the lining are black and bone-white, without the traces of grey that you would expect in a hat worn by an elderly man. We could discount the possibility that it was Walsh senior, the father. It belongs to the brother of our corpse, the cab driver who has tried to cover the white streak in his hair with black dye.

  “As for his nationality, he had a silver shamrock on his key ring with an inscription in the Irish language. Mycroft guessed that it was the motto of the County Mayo. I checked and he was lucky. It was a guess, Watson, based on the frequency of the name Walsh in that county. I reprimanded him for his statistical audacity.”

  “He was right, Holmes.”

  “That is no excuse. I saw no deductive basis for his conclusion; it was on a par with his Chicago fire of whenever nonsense. Firemen get burned; it is a consequence of the job. You cannot date a burn.”

  “But -”

  “Excuse me, gentlemen,” said Churchill. “Before you have your afternoon tiff, should I give you the testimony of the night watchman?”

  He flapped his notebook at us.

  Holmes sniffed. “A cretin. I do not expect that he will add anything material to the case. He says that not a sausage occurred in the alley last night - ha! Whence then came the body?”

  Churchill checked his notes. “Mr Noakes shared a cigar and a swig or two of brandy with the night porters of the Reform and Travellers - the Carlton porter is too snooty to join them - at two-thirty this morning. There was no body. That puts the burglary at between then and dawn.”

  Holmes shrugged agreement.

  “At about four in the morning last Saturday, Mr Noakes came upon the gas men digging the trench in Carlton Gardens. He describes three men. A pale-faced younger man with the voice of a toff and a heavy gold watch chain was in charge, but he did a share of the digging. That aroused Mr Noakes’ suspicions. The other men were very alike, one older wearing a bowler, the other younger bareheaded. Both avoided answering Noakes’ questions, leaving the talking to the pale man.”

  “Noakes saw all this in the dark,” said Holmes. “There are no gaslights in Carlton Gardens.”

  “He has cat’s eyes,” said Churchill.

  “They meant to make their attempt from the alley, Holmes,” I exclaimed. “They intended to shin up their ladder to the roof of the Reform Club, and down into the Travellers. The trench was a blind to give credence to their identity as gas men. Noakes was suspicious, and he called a policeman. That spoiled their game. The robbers rethought their plan and decided to attack through Colonel Delacy’s flat. They spiked the Dundee cakes with opium and had them delivered to Delacy, to the other occupants of his building and to the Travellers Club. They attacked early the next morning. What devils!”

  “Devils?” said Holmes. “Ha! A mediocre plan and that poorly executed.”

  “Colonel Delacy and your brother slept through the robbery,” I countered. “We do not know whether Mr Melas was affected, but he was not disturbed. The pageboy and his mother may also have been drugged in some way. It seems to me that the plan -”

  “The boy was bought,” said Holmes dismissively. “The cake ploy was feeble. They posed as gas men; why not fake a dangerous gas leak in the building -”

  “I say, Holmes,” I said, jumping to my feet. “I think that you might give some credit -”

  “Gentlemen,” said Churchill quietly. “Would you like to see what I found?” He slowly pulled something shiny out of his jacket pocket and slipped it onto the table.

  I looked down at a lump of what looked like a silvery metallic substance, about six inches long and mounded or carved into an L shape like a shelf bracket.
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  Holmes bounded to the table and pounced on the object. He pulled out his magnifying glass and glared through it.

  “I spotted a glim of silver in the grass from the rooftop,” said Churchill. “While everyone was busy with the dead man, I whipped over there and snagged it from under a tree in Carlton Gardens.”

  Holmes lifted the object and weighed it in his palm. “It is as insubstantial as air, Watson.” He passed the lump of metal to me.

  “Extraordinary, Holmes. It gleams like silver, but it weighs far, far less. Look, it has fractured: both edges are sheered. It was once a square, no, a rectangle like a small picture frame. I wonder where the other piece is.”

  Holmes turned to Churchill. “You found this on the Reform Club side of the Gardens?”

  Churchill nodded. “I searched and searched; there weren’t any more bits.”

  “I say, Holmes,” I said. “This is evidence. We have to inform Lestrade. It was probably an offence to remove it.”

  “Well done, Churchill,” said Holmes. “Watson, give the boy a humbug. Come, now we have not one, but two calls to make this afternoon.”

  “What have we learned?” asked Holmes as our four-wheeler threaded through the backstreets of Mayfair to avoid the main shopping avenues. “What do we know now, that we did not know yesterday?”

  “They never look up,” said Churchill.

  “And you should never look down,” I said.

  Holmes ignored our quips. “Someone went to great trouble and expense, and some danger, to steal a necklace of second-rate emeralds from the leader of a third-rated state in India. It makes no sense. If this,” he held up the lump of metal, “is what I suspect it to be, the robbers spent thousands of pounds to gain not much more.”

  “They have undermined one of our strongest supporters in India,” I said. “If the emeralds are not recovered, the Prince of Gondal will be in a pretty pickle.”

  “A thousand square miles of dust and a few horses,” said Holmes with a dismissive pout. “Gondal is not the Punjab. If Gondal made trouble, we would send in a detachment of police: a corporal’s command.”

  “You exaggerate. What about the Colonel? He is certain that the women of the Prince’s zenana are involved,” I said. “Perhaps the aunt who dislikes female education is planning a coup.”

  Holmes waved his finger in negation. “How would this aunt in Gondal arrange a burglary by Irish Americans in the City of Westminster? It beggars belief that she, or any of the Thakore’s followers, would have connections with thieves in Chicago and London. Did they advertise in the American papers? ‘Expert cat burglars required for interesting employment abroad, Irish with experience of heights and ladders preferred’. I think not.”

  “What about that other prince?” asked Churchill. “He is rather a cad.”

  “He was gaudier and less prepossessing than his younger friend,” said Holmes. “His whiskers ape the German Crown-Prince. But, one should not judge a man by his whiskers: look at Watson.”

  “Look at the Emperor of Austria-Hungary,” I countered sharply. I tried to put aside my irritation at the Thakore of Limdi’s lack of manners, and judge the possibility of his involvement from an objective viewpoint. Clearly, the same objections that made it unlikely that Gondal’s aunt was behind the matter applied equally to the Prince of Limdi. How would such a person make a connection with the underworld in London and Chicago?

  We trotted on in silence for a while.

  A fine primrose-yellow tricycle came up beside us at Piccadilly Circus. A lady in a yellow coat and dainty straw hat sat in front, and a gentleman in bicycling attire and cap was up behind. The lady had the bright-eyed, rosy-cheeked look of one who took frequent exercise. As she concentrated on keeping her line, the tip of her tongue peeped out of her mouth in so fetching a way that I wanted to laugh aloud. I tipped my hat to her and earned a fierce scowl from her passenger and knowing looks between Holmes and Churchill.

  I felt that I had to voice a concern that had been growing in me since we had taken up the emeralds case.

  “I say, old man,” I said. “Are we not remiss in following this trail when our whole strength should be arrayed against the potential regicides? Should we not be entirely focussed on the threat to Her Majesty? The procession is in but three days.”

  “My dear friend,” said Holmes with a cheery grin. “We will pick up the threads of that investigation in France. We are in currently in Piccadilly, and here is Fortnum and Mason’s emporium.”

  “Her Majesty graciously condescended to purchase a large number of cakes for presentation to Court officials, members of Parliament, foreign dignitaries and certain other notables,” the tall, elegant, spade-bearded and frock-coated floor manager of Fortnum and Mason’s said loftily.

  “Our Dundee is not only an excellent cake in itself; it has the Fortnum and Mason imprimatur of quality: it is the ideal of Dundee cakes.”

  We stood by the balustrade of the circular staircase looking down three floors into the main hall below us. A tall ice sculpture of Britannia surrounded by summer flowers sat on a circular table directly below us. It gave at the least the impression of coolness. The shop was thronged with lady shoppers in pairs and small groups. Sweating salesmen in frock coats darted through the silks and crinolines, bowing, escorting customers and taking orders.

  “Do you have a list of persons to whom Her Majesty extended her favour with regard to your excellent Dundee cake?” asked Holmes.

  “A list? Not as such, no. We did not think it appropriate for reasons of delicacy. Those not on the list might feel - you catch my drift? Our clientele is a varied one. We even cater to foreign persons of distinction. It would have been invidious to particularise.”

  “How do you know to whom to send the cakes?” I asked.

  “We receive the cards that are to accompany the cakes from the Palace. The address, name and title of the receiver are on the envelope. We rely on their protocol department, the heralds at the College of Arms in most cases, to give us the correct title. It is of the utmost importance that no mistake is made. One can place some trust in the Scandinavian, Spanish and Austrian patents of nobility. The Portuguese and Russian versions of our Debrett’s Peerage are accessible to those blessed with the appropriate linguistic capabilities. The Germans are a mongrel breed; we rely on the Almanach de Gotha as far as that goes. The French nobility is in some disarray since their tribulations at the end of the last century. And then there are the Americans.”

  He spread his hands expressively.

  I put a minatory hand on Churchill’s shoulder as I recalled that he, like Charles Stuart Parnell, had an American mother.

  “In cases where the customer does not have an account with us, we rely on the address and title sent from the Palace,” the floor manager continued. “We group the addresses by district and make the delivery with our vans. Our delivery department would have records of those addresses.”

  “I see,” said Holmes. “And these cakes are sold to the public as well as to the Palace?”

  “Yes. Her Majesty was insistent on that point. Everyone may enjoy the cake if they can pay the requisite price. They are our best Jubilee items, along with our Jubilee wines, Queen Victoria bon-bons and chocolate guardsmen.”

  “Do you have records of bulk orders of the Dundee cakes?”

  The manager smiled a condescending smile. “We do. Many companies have made large purchases, sometimes several large purchases. They include embassies, clubs, private and public firms, even patriotic associations of men of the labouring classes. The Association of Constables of the City Police requested a batch, and we were pleased to comply with their request. A club of working men in Leeds ordered a gross, and we were happy to take the order. We accepted an order from the staff at the Bedlam Lunatic Asylum; that order was fulfilled without the Jubilee tin that features the Q
ueen resplendent, naturally.”

  “Naturally,” said Holmes.

  “We have been selling the cakes since the beginning of the year. Our suppliers can hardly keep up with demand.” He frowned. “May I ask what this is in connection with?”

  “Poisoning,” said Holmes casually. “Adulteration of your Jubilee cakes with opiates.”

  The manager staggered to the wall, his face ashen.

  “A number of people have been affected,” Holmes added. “Those poisoned include two Indian princes - guests of Her Majesty here for the Jubilee - a general of Indian infantry, a senior adviser to the Government and a prominent physician.”

  “And the nephew of the Duke of Marlborough,” said Churchill in a sombre tone, shaking his head.

  “It is important,” said Holmes, “that we track -”

  “Important, sir? Important?” the manager cried. “Have you any idea what - do you have the slightest notion what might occur if this were to come to the attention of the Press?” He mopped his brow with his handkerchief. “We abhor the prospect of public scrutiny.”

  Holmes considered. “I think we might be able to keep things quiet if you could request your staff to go through your records and see whether you delivered Dundee cakes to the following addressees in Pall Mall.”

  He handed the stricken employee a note.

  “And we might need to test a sample or two,” said Churchill mournfully.

  “That jolted the poor man,” I said as we left Fortnum’s and stood on the scorching pavement. “I thought I would need my sal volatile.”

  “It was worth a try,” said Holmes, shaking his head, “but we are no further along. The cakes were undoubtedly bought from the retail shop, the opium was added, and they were delivered by hand, probably by public commissionaires. I do not think that Fortnum employees were involved at all.”

  Churchill grinned and held up two hefty bags containing Dundee cakes, chocolate guardsmen, Jubilee bon-bons and six bottles of 1884 vintage Jubilee Champagne.