Sherlock Holmes and Young Winston - The Jubilee Plot

by Mike Hogan

  «Enchanté, monsieur,” I murmured.

  “Bertillon,” he said. “Happy.” We bowed distantly.

  Holmes instantly released a deluge of rapid French, of which I could make nothing. Monsieur Bertillon listened impassively, occasionally acknowledging a point with a doleful nod, or a pursing of his lips in disapproval or disapprobation. Churchill nodded with him, smiling brightly or looking grave to order.

  I had not seen Holmes in such a full flow of his grandmother’s native language. With his grand gestures and eloquent facial expressions, he seemed far more French to me than the lugubrious anthropometrician Bertillon: Mercury to his Saturn. Bertillon’s feeble efforts to expound his position on whatever they were discussing were borne down in a storm of praises, apologies and excuses.

  I looked around and spotted, just across the street, a promising-looking little cafe that offered, according to an advertisement plastered across its windows, a gourmet seafood lunch for five francs and fifty centimes, wine not included. I was in the middle of my mental arithmetic, turning francs to sterling, when I noticed that Holmes had gone quiet and had turned to me. Bertillon puffed and mumbled unhappily beside him.

  “Monsieur Bertillon has kindly arranged a demonstration of his method of criminal identification,” Holmes explained with a bright and artificial smile. “I have expressed my profound regret that I have an immediate appointment with the British consul: one of the persons over there by the clock might be he.” He nodded to a man and lady in English-cut clothes that stood below the station clock; they were watching our party with interest.

  “Monsieur Bertillon has most reluctantly and generously agreed that, as you, Watson, are our little agency’s expert on investigative techniques, he will impart his considerable store of technical knowledge to you. He has engaged the use of a nearby schoolroom.”

  “Holmes,” I cried, appalled. “Monsieur Bertillon speaks no English, and my French is hardly adequate for me to conduct a technical discussion on criminology with him.”

  “You do yourself an injustice, Watson,” said Holmes with a patently insincere laugh. “Your vocabulary may be limited, but your accent is of a singular perfection. Should any small misunderstanding arise, you can instantly switch to that most valuable lingua franca of the medical and forensic fraternities: Latin.”

  He pulled me close and murmured.

  “He is obsessed with ears. I have autographed a copy of my monograph on the subject. It is in the folder with Parnell’s papers. Get a firm opinion on the Parnell signatures and the secretary’s handwriting. Meet us at the Hotel de Poilly at 13 rue Amiral Bruix by three at the latest.”

  Holmes bowed to Monsieur Bertillon and strode off towards the group under the clock. Churchill scrambled behind him with our bags.

  I looked longingly at the seafood cafe, sighed, and faced Monsieur Bertillon.

  “Alors, je comprends que vous avez un intérêt singulier dans les oreilles, mon cher monsieur,» I suggested tentatively.

  He looked blankly back at me.

  L’heure Verte

  “I have listened to three hours of lugubrious French, Holmes, of which I understood not a thing.”

  I had arrived at the Hotel de Poilly a few moments before, limping, in a foul mood and an hour late. “The man slowed his speech so much that every syllable took an age. He was not saturnine, he was sepulchral.”

  Monsieur Bertillon had assured me that the hotel was close by, and I had decided to walk there, partly to avoid his offer of a lift in his carriage, but mostly because I needed fresh air. I found Holmes and Churchill at a table by the window drinking red wine.

  “It took him a minute and a half for him to pronounce the words signalement anthropométrique and three full hours to describe them. He barely glanced at the Parnell materials. For luncheon, not wanting to lose any time from his exposition, he provided black bread smeared with a scrape of garlic and olive oil, and water to wash it down. I am famished, Holmes, and we are in France!”

  “I’m sorry old friend. Let me order you a glass of this excellent Bordeaux,” said Holmes. “And we will see what the hotel can provide at short notice. I assumed that you would take luncheon with Bertillon at one of the many fine cafes near the Port. Churchill and I visited an excellent little restaurant in the rue de la Lampe at the invitation of Monsieur Surplice, our local consul. It would be hard to over-estimate our French neighbours’ understanding of seafood. We had a superb -”

  “Holmes.”

  “Oh, I am sorry old fellow. It would be invidious to particularise, as Fortnum’s put it, but I would do my host Monsieur Surplice no justice were I not to mention our most noble turbot, that king of fish. No English egg sauce for him, ha! Surplice suggested a charming wine to accompany him, a Condrieu from an estate near Saint-Michel-sur-Rhône. I intend to order a dozen.”

  I gave him a steely look as my wine arrived.

  He patted me on the back in an annoying Continental fashion, spoke to the waiter, and turned back to me.

  “The garçon says that he is almost sure that they could arrange a cheese, or even a ham sandwich, although it is after the luncheon hour and before dinner. You just have time. I sent Morgan a note and put back our appointment; we have eleven minutes.”

  “Please petition the waiter to make haste,” I pleaded.

  “Now,” said Holmes in a confidential murmur. “I should tell you that the government has made a move at last. Monsieur Surplice was yesterday instructed by the Government to ask the French authorities for their assistance in trailing Morgan and determining his part in any dynamite plot against the Queen.”

  “About time, Holmes.”

  He nodded. “There are several watchers already on his trail. Two joined us for our excellent luncheon. They are a retired police inspector named Thompson and his estimable wife; she is sadly plagued with gout. They stay in this hotel with Morgan and his wife, and claim to be fast friends of the couple. Which faction in the Home Office sent them to dog the Morgans, I have been unable to discover.

  “They report that another policeman, a retired chief constable no less, appeared at the hotel a week ago. The Thompsons say they have no idea who sent him. This ex-officer, Chief Constable Williamson, warned Morgan of dire consequences if he did not disclose his plots and immediately abandon any dynamite plans in Britain. The old gentleman told the Thompsons that he gave Morgan ‘a good wigging’. Morgan, it seems, did not admit or deny that he is planning an outrage.”

  “And what of the case of explosives consigned at Havre for Mr Mullen alias Morgan?”

  “It has disappeared; if it ever existed.”

  Holmes sipped his wine. “The local police have agreed to mount a surveillance of this hotel and follow Morgan when he travels. Ah, here I think is our man. He is a little before his time. Wake Churchill.”

  A man in his sixties in a dark suit of American cut entered the lobby. He looked around as he lit a cigar. He spotted us, and walked directly to our table. We stood.

  “Morgan, I presume,” said Holmes, coldly.

  “Brigadier-general of artillery, Frederick Morgan,” he answered in American-accented English. His face was mottled in red. Its most prominent feature was a large blotchy nose, indicative of the serious drinker. His wavy hair was greying; his walrus moustache was mostly white. I remembered from Morgan’s dossier that he was in his mid-fifties; he looked much older. He carried a heavy stick in one hand and a felt hat in the other.

  “Follow me to the writing room, gentlemen. It is always free in the afternoon and it is where I am usually interrogated by British detectives.”

  “Churchill,” said Holmes. “You will wait here and guard our luggage while we interview Morgan. Look, the boy is asleep again. Really Watson, without you there to correct him, he ate far too much - oh, I’m sorry old man.”

  As we followed Mor
gan across the lobby, I noticed an elderly Englishman in a floppy hat and a light suit with an orchid in his buttonhole seated by the door. He watched us intently over his Times.

  Morgan led us into a tiny, windowless room furnished with a desk, four chairs and writing materials. He sat behind the desk and we took seats facing him. He had not offered to shake hands, and I was immediately suspicious that he might have a pocket pistol ready in his palm. I glanced at Holmes, but he was concentrated on the man opposite him.

  Morgan spread his arms and sighed. He looked exhausted. “How can I help you, gentlemen?”

  “You claim that you were promoted to general in Mexico by Juárez in the 60s,” said Holmes in a flat monotone. “That was in the war against the French. You joined the Fenian Brotherhood in Mexico and since that date you have lost no opportunity to conspire against the British Empire with whoever will listen: Boers, Zulus, Afghans, Russians, Irish rebels and the French. You are not particular.”

  Morgan sat impassive for some moments. “You have something for me?” he asked at last.

  Holmes handed him a sealed envelope. Morgan read the enclosed letter carefully.

  “Davitt warns me to be careful with you, Mr Holmes. He says that you like to play the simple man, but that your webs are intricate and dangerous.”

  Holmes smiled. “I am a man of simple loyalties, Morgan. I was born, like you, a subject of Her Majesty, Queen Victoria. I owe duty and fealty to the Crown. You took the Queen’s shilling. You fought in the British Army in the Crimea.”

  Morgan sighed again. “A long time ago. I would prefer, if you will not use my military title, that you call me Mr Morgan.”

  “Or should I call you Mr Muller?” asked Holmes. “You came to France from New York on the SS Gascogne of the Compagnie Générale Transatlantique, landing at Le Havre on the eighteenth of April. You travelled as Mr Muller. You reported to another so-called general in Paris, an American named Charles Trent-Hall. He is the principal agent of the Fenian Brotherhood in Europe. You presented a commission from the Fenian Council in New York. It was to celebrate Mrs Brown’s good health. That would presumably be with fireworks, would it not?”

  “Fiend,” I cried, starting from my chair and brandishing my cane.

  “Calm, Watson,” said Holmes grasping my wrist. “Morgan is beginning to realise that his plans are in our hands, his people are known to us, and his movements are dogged by Scotland Yard.”

  Morgan seemed unperturbed by his accusations. He smoked his cigar and gazed at Holmes with bloodshot eyes under hooded lids.

  “The following month, a large package was consigned from New York on a French steamer to a Mr Muller in Paris. It contained twenty-four tins of Atlas Class A dynamite,” said Holmes. He waited for a reply.

  “What is it you want from me, sir?” Morgan asked in a weary tone. “I have already been rapped on the knuckles by the old gentleman from Scotland Yard. He sang from the same hymn sheet.”

  “Nothing,” said Holmes shortly. “Any assurances you might give me, given your record, would be worthless. I merely wish to pledge to you that, should any untoward incident occur during the Jubilee Year - or for that matter during the reign of Queen Victoria - in which I conclude that you are an active or passive partner, I will come for you. Unlike my friends in Scotland Yard, I am not constrained by law or jurisdiction; I care not if it is a noose or a garrotte that brings about the end of a foul traitor.”

  “Your bombs have already killed a seven-year-old boy and many innocent men, and sent women screaming to the madhouse,” I exclaimed.

  Morgan looked across at Holmes with his half-closed eyes. He seemed about to say something when there was a knock at the door and a waiter entered and placed three glasses of green liqueur, a bowl of lump sugar, and a jug of iced water in front of him.

  “It is l’heure verte,” said Morgan, brightening. “The Green Hour, or as near as makes no matter.”

  He placed a flat, slotted, silver spoon over one of the glasses and put a sugar lump on it. He dribbled iced water over the spoon; the liqueur in the glass immediately clouded and a strong odour of anise filled the tiny room. Morgan repeated the process with the second glass, and turned to the third.

  Holmes glanced at his pocket watch, stood and left the room. I made to follow him. I stopped at the door.

  “I’ll tell you something, if you’d like, Morgan,” I said.

  Morgan took a sip of absinthe and looked up at me with a smile.

  “Continue at your present level of alcohol consumption, and your liver will fail within a year, two at the very most. I speak as a medical man.” I picked up a glass of the milky liqueur. “Cheers, sir, to your continued good health.” I gulped the absinthe, put down the glass and grasped the doorknob.

  “May I ask you something, Doctor?”

  I turned.

  “Is Sherlock Holmes the brother of Mycroft?” Morgan asked in a soft voice.

  “Yes,” I answered, stiffening.

  Morgan began to laugh. I walked out and closed the door behind me. I could still hear him cackling as I followed Holmes back to our table. Churchill lolled back in his seat asleep. An empty plate sat in front of him. I shook him awake.

  “Did you eat that sandwich?”

  “Mmm, thank you Doctor. The bread was stale, but the cheese was delicious.”

  “Never mind,” said Holmes in a solicitous voice, again patting me on the shoulder in his infuriating, foreign way. He consulted a printed slip.

  “The next train to Paris leaves in precisely fifteen minutes, I am assured by the British Consul that it has a dining car - similar to the Pullman system. I am sure that they will offer an excellent service. Ah, there is a cab. We will pick up our train at Boulogne Central.”

  Outrage in Baker Street

  An ancient brougham pulled by a bony, smelly nag carried us to the station.

  I sat in silence attempting to master my hunger pangs. The glass of absinthe had been a very, very bad idea. My stomach rumbled ominously.

  “Pardon me,” I said.

  “Oh,” said Churchill, “I thought it was the horse.”

  “Who says that the French are not to their time?” said Holmes brightly as our cab stopped by the platform to Paris. “There is our train. Pay the cab, Watson.”

  “Might I implore you to stop for a moment, so that I can get a sandwich, a roll, anything?” I asked.

  The train whistled. I handed the cab driver whatever coins I had handy and stumbled after Holmes and Churchill. We jumped into a carriage just as the train started to move.

  “There now,” said Holmes. “Despite the delays caused by Monsieur Bertillon’s well-intentioned efforts, we are back on schedule. Let us settle ourselves for a moment, and then we can find our assigned carriage and seats. While Churchill guards our bags, I will conduct you to the dining car and watch, over a glass of fine wine, while you make up for lost gustatory opportunities. Watson, are you listening?”

  “No, Holmes,” I said in an icy tone. “I am not listening.”

  Holmes looked at me in astonishment.

  “I think,” Churchill said softly, “that Doctor Watson has noticed that we are in a standard second-class carriage.”

  “Eh?”

  “We are in the wrong part of the train. We cannot get to the restaurant car: there is no corridor.”

  “Oh dear,” said Holmes. “Never mind, we can change carriages at Amiens.”

  “This is a through train,” said Churchill. “Doctor Watson checked the timetable in his Baedeker.”

  “I see. Well, are there no humbugs left?”

  “Morgan was bored, Watson. I saw no revolutionary fervour.” Holmes said as our train rattled through the countryside.

  “Could he be organizing atrocities for pay?” I asked. “Is he a mercenary?”
>
  “Morgan is no general. I do not think that he could organise a church fête at Frinton. Things are not as they seem. He sits in Boulogne doing nothing. I do not understand why Assistant Commissioner Monro is so obsessed with him. And Morgan’s daughters are still in London, doing even less than he does. It makes no sense, unless he is a blind for the real conspirators in Paris. That must be where the American dynamite was destined. He may be a front for Trent-Hall and the Donovan brothers.”

  “He mentioned the ‘Green Hour’,” I said. “Could that have some Irish revolutionary meaning?”

  “It means the sun is over the yardarm and it’s time for absinthe.”

  “It is horrible stuff, Holmes. I feel quite unwell.”

  As we arrived at the Gare du Nord in Paris, I extracted a solemn promise from Holmes and Churchill that our next stop would be the station restaurant.

  We staggered out onto the platform, fended off the attentions of rapacious porters, and walked along the line of carriages to the exit.

  “There Holmes,” I said as I spotted a bright restaurant sign. He took my arm and shook his head. My heart fell when I saw a grey-suited man and three uniformed gendarmes running along the platform towards us.

  “Inspector Dubugue,” said Holmes. “How good of you -”

  The Inspector bore him down with a torrent of French. Holmes blanched white as he listened. He turned to me.

  “Watson, there has been an outrage in Baker Street. Our home has been attacked with an infernal machine.”

  In my weakened state, I almost fainted. I grasped Churchill’s shoulder for support.

  “There are no details. The bombing took place less than an hour ago.”

  He held up his hand as I started to form a question. “I do not know whether anyone was hurt. The news came over the wire to the Sûreté from Scotland Yard twenty minutes ago. Monsieur Dubugue telegraphed to Boulogne and was told that we were on the train.”