Sherlock Holmes and Young Winston - The Jubilee Plot

by Mike Hogan

  The Inspector spoke again in rapid French.

  “They are holding the last Boat Train from Calais to London for us on another platform,” Holmes translated. He checked his watch. “It was due to leave two minutes ago. If we take it, we can be in London by six tomorrow morning.”

  I looked from Holmes to Churchill and shook my head. “No, Holmes. Please thank the Inspector, but it will not do. We must go on with our investigation. We must face these blackguards and confound their purposes. The timing of this attack is not without significance. They want to send us scurrying back to London while they continue their preparations unmolested. We must go and face them down. We have a duty to Her Majesty.”

  Holmes translated and the Inspector wrung my hand, sharply saluted and unleashed another barrage of French.

  “The Inspector says that he expected no less,” said Holmes. “A fast carriage is at our disposal. The authorities will hold the last ferry from Calais to Dover for us.”

  Holmes took the Inspector aside and gave instructions. The three gendarmes raced off in different directions.

  “What of Mrs Hudson and Billy, and Bessie?” asked Churchill on the edge of tears.

  “We shall engage a special train, Winston.” I smiled down at him. “And a special boat if necessary. We will be in London tomorrow morning if we have to charter a balloon. You may trust me on that.”

  A closed two-horse police van carried us at a spanking pace across Paris, south-west towards the Seine. Holmes kept up a rapid conversation with Inspector Dubugue. I sat with my arm around Churchill’s shoulders.

  The Inspector passed Holmes a folded newspaper. He glanced at it and handed it to me. “Friday’s Morning Advertiser from London; an interview with Michael Donovan, the man we are to meet. He speaks of trouble on the Afghan border fomented by Irishmen of known ability.”

  I read the article in the light of the swinging oil lamp. “Braggardry and bounce,” I said throwing down the paper. “Ineffable twaddle.”

  “He also speaks of dynamite,” said Holmes quietly. “He says there will be something coming off, and soon.”

  Inspector Dubugue leaned across the carriage and handed me a heavy revolver.

  “The Inspector begs you to accept this,” said Holmes translating his remarks. “And he begs that you will not use it to shoot anyone as the pistol is registered to him, and any discharge results in reams of paperwork. Inspector Dubugue hates paperwork. However, it may be brandished in appropriate circumstances, and accidents do happen, even in police work.”

  I smiled. “Merci, Inspecteur, mais je, um pense que je ferais - ah, oh dear. Holmes, please say that in my present mood, I’d better not even carry my own firearm, let alone this piece of artillery; you know what I mean to say.»

  Holmes answered the Inspector in another kind of French, and the Inspector nodded, smiled and shrugged a Gallic shrug.

  It was dusk when the van clattered to a stop and we climbed out onto a pleasant street of what looked like government buildings. The lower floors were mostly shops and restaurants.

  «The rue Duras,” said Inspector Dubugue gesturing along the street. “The Elysée Palace is near in the behind from her.”

  Our destination was obvious. The door to the Shamrock Bar was wide open, and tall, half-curtained windows glowed with bright gaslight; a flute and drum band played an Irish jig. Holmes nodded to me and led the way. I motioned for Churchill to stay outside with the gendarmes and followed Holmes into the bar.

  The public room was long and high ceilinged, with a gleaming bar on one side and groups of tables and chairs on the other. Both walls were mirrored, and the reflections of the rows of bottles and glasses behind the bar were dazzling in the intense gas light.

  As the Shamrock Bar was a known haunt of American Fenians, I had expected tweed suits and slouch hats to be the norm, but most customers were dressed in the style of the French bourgeois, in soft shirts and hats; relatively few wore top hats and evening dress. The only odd note, in what was clearly a high-toned establishment, was the strange mix of gentlemen and men in the blue blouses of the ouvrier, the labourer. There were more women than I had expected, and they were well, and soberly dressed.

  Holmes marched to an empty stool in the centre of the bar and sat. I sat next to him. I was unsurprised when Churchill slid into the seat beside me. I watched in an angled mirror above the bar as Inspector Dubugue slipped in the door and took a seat at a table next to the entrance. He gave me a discreet nod.

  A sturdy, ruddy-faced man in a spotless white apron came out from a side door behind the counter, stood before us and looked grimly at Holmes.

  “I run a quiet bar, sirs,” he said in a soft Irish brogue. “I don’t hold with politics myself, and I won’t have any political arguments or trouble in my bar.” He nodded towards the bar entrance. “And I don’t like police in here, neither.”

  “I am sorry, landlord,” said Holmes. “I am not here to provoke an altercation. I wish -”

  “The lads are in the back. The boy will show you. Mind my words, now and be good gentlemen.”

  An unsmiling, pale boy in an apron ducked under the bar counter. He led us through an arched doorway into a wide, smoky, low-ceilinged room with two billiard tables in the centre. A dozen or so men stood around the tables, drinking beer and watching the play. Heavily upholstered banquettes lined the left side of the room. The boy led us to one in which two middle-aged men sat. They stood, and I could see immediately that they were siblings: Joseph and Michael Donovan, I thought, Fenian firebrands of the vilest kind.

  Holmes made our introductions and shook their hands. I could not bear to follow his example, so I made a show of sitting down and settling Churchill next to me. The brothers smiled, but they made no direct comment.

  “You’ll take a glass of wine, though Doctor,” said Michael, in a pleasant brogue, filling a glass.

  “Very well,” I said stiffly. I thought that it might help to quell my hunger pangs, which were getting intense, painful, and embarrassingly noisy. I listened, as if at a distance, as Holmes explained that we had come from Boulogne, where we had interviewed General Morgan. He passed the brothers his letter of introduction from Davitt in London.

  “We read your interview in the Morning Advertiser,” said Holmes.

  The brothers exchanged amused looks.

  “The journalist fellah paid five pounds in solid gold, Mr Holmes,” said Michael. “I had to give him his money’s worth. He could have had a kidnap plot against the Prince of Wales for a tenner, or outright armed insurrection in any Irish county of his choice for fifteen quid cash money.”

  “Are you saying that you made the story up?” asked Holmes stiffly.

  The two men shook their heads and giggled like a pair of schoolgirls. They were obviously the worse for drink. It was sad, I thought, that a nation known for its poetry and arts should have such a reputation for its inhabitants’ excessive drinking and brutish drunken violence.

  “You know why I am here,” said Holmes sternly. “As I told Morgan, I will use all the resources at my command to thwart any outrage during the Jubilee and beyond. Should Her Majesty be targeted by any individual or group, I promise you that I will exact a terrible price from the perpetrators.”

  Michael nodded and took a sip of wine as he seemed to consider his answer.

  “We are not party to dynamite plots against the Queen,” he said carefully.

  His brother laughed.

  “Do you know of any attempts? Is Morgan involved in anything?” Holmes persisted, clearly irritated by their levity.

  Michael shrugged. “The General has his little operation with his missus down there at the seaside at Boulogne. I would not have a clue what he is up to. Nevertheless, was I Her Imperial Majesty, I’d not be shaking in my glass slippers with the news that the Gentle T has her in his s
ights. That’s what we call Brigadier-general Morgan around here, the Gentle Torpedo.”

  He refilled our glasses.

  “Where are the tins of dynamite?” I croaked. The brothers looked at me with astonishment. I felt myself slipping from the banquette before everything went black.

  A Point of Honour

  “For God’s sake, get the man some tea.” I heard the landlord’s voice from far away.

  I opened my eyes and found Holmes bending over me holding a tumbler of brandy under my nose.

  “Thank God,” he said softly. He helped me back up into a sitting position.

  “I’m sorry, Holmes,” I said. “It was that damned absinthe from that swine Morgan.”

  “Absinthe, Doctor?” said Joseph Donovan. “That would do it sure enough: the Green Goddess. It’s been my brother’s ruin.”

  “And your own,” countered Michael with a grin.

  “The doctor hasn’t eaten since breakfast,” said Churchill in a cracked voice. “And that was just toast, as we were in a hurry and we expected a fine luncheon in France. I am ashamed to say that I ate his sandwich in Boulogne.”

  I sat up straight and mopped my brow. “I am perfectly fine.”

  “Food is it?” asked Michael. “We’ve not much in the way of French food, Doctor. This is an Irish house. The Ambassador could do you a fine plate of Irish rashers, eggs and black pudding with a pot of strong tea, or a glass of porter to wash it down. How does that sound?”

  “Wonderful,” said Holmes smiling at me. “Just what the doctor ordered.”

  The landlord returned with a welcome pot of tea. Michael ordered my food. A band started up again with a jolly reel and a fine tenor singing the melody.

  “Why do you call the landlord the ‘Ambassador’?” I asked to make conversation while I reassembled my faculties.

  “He’s a great diplomat,” said Michael. “Politics in prose is forbidden on the premises; we got a grudging dispensation for tonight. You can be as seditious as you please in poetry or song. I would not like to translate the song the lad is singing now in the Public; he would be arrested in Dublin. And the Ambassador was kind to the Maharajah, when most people were laughing at the poor fellow, or angling for his money.”

  “Maharajah Duleep Singh,” said Holmes. “How came he to use your name and your British passport when he left for Russia?”

  Michael looked down at the table. “He borrowed my passport for a consideration, Mr Holmes. It was a piece of parchment to me, and I didn’t expect to have need for it for a while. Our Maharajah isn’t the bright spark. Trent-Hall convinced him that we would set up a military colony in Afghanistan that would draw thirteen-thousand Irish deserters from the British Army under a famous general. They’d invade the Punjab. Ha, ha.”

  “Trent-Hall, the Fenian Brotherhood leader in Europe,” said Holmes.

  Michael smiled. “I wouldn’t know what Mr Trent-Hall does for a living, sir. I know he fought for the Pope once. He is a Chevalier of the Order of the Holy Sepulchre and holder of the Crimean and Venezuela medals, among many other awards. At least, that’s what he tells us. He is over there playing billiards if you want to have a word, but I wouldn’t bother your head. Compared to him, the Gentle Torpedo is Spring-heeled Jack incarnate. Anyway, you’ll not get any sense out of him after l’heure verte. He’s another in the arms of the Green Goddess. She’s a terrible taskmistress. Ah here is your late breakfast, Doctor.”

  The solemn serving boy laid a huge platter of bacon, eggs and black pudding in front of me, with another plate piled high with buttered bread.

  I stared at it, and shook my head. “It looks and smells wonderful, but I cannot eat it, Holmes. I cannot touch it. I will not eat with these people. The food would choke me. Excuse me. I mean no personal affront. It is -”

  I staggered to my feet.

  “Perhaps I could -” began Churchill.

  I heard Holmes behind me making our excuses as I weaved my way to the bar to pay the bill.

  “No charge, Doctor,” said the Ambassador with a friendly wave.

  Inspector Dubugue took my arm and helped me to the van. Holmes and Churchill jumped in beside me, the boy surreptitiously chewing a crust of bread. We raced back to the Gare du Nore. At the station, I flatly refused to delay the special train for a second to buy food. We jumped straight into our carriage and, with a mournful hoot on the train whistle, we set out for Calais at high speed.

  I woke with a start as the carriage rattled over a set of points.

  I sat up. The compartment was dark; I could see only the glow of Holmes’ pipe opposite me and smell the rich tobacco smoke.

  “Here, Watson,” he said softly. “I have filled your pipe with Ship’s. That will set you up again. How do you feel?”

  I considered as I fumbled for my matches. “Better than expected. I am surprised that I had such a vehement reaction to the absinthe.”

  “It is made with wormwood,” said Holmes’ calm voice. “The Bible tells us that forbidden women are bitter as wormwood, sharp as a two-edged sword.”

  I yawned. “I feel uncomfortable about refusing the hospitality of the Ambassador. I could not eat the food.”

  “You were thinking of Mrs Hudson bringing us breakfast.”

  “Exactly.”

  Holmes was silent for a long moment.

  “I ordered Billy to stand guard over our papers in the sitting room, Watson. That may have been his death warrant.”

  “I hope and pray that he has not been harmed, that they are all unharmed.”

  “Amen. Churchill said that in his prayers before he slept.”

  Holmes leapt from the train as it coasted gently to a halt at Calais.

  As Churchill and I got out, a pair of gendarmes hurried along the platform towards us. Holmes had a short conversation with them and handed one some papers as we joined him under the station clock. “No telegrams from London,” he said. “I had hoped - never mind. They may not know that we have engaged a special train. I requested Dubugue to contact Mycroft directly from the Sûreté on their telegraph line to Scotland Yard. I was sure that he would have made arrangements to have it manned overnight.”

  Holmes dismissed the gendarmes. “You noticed Dubugue’s accent: he is a Breton. He claims English ancestry from the time the Britons fled across the Channel to escape the Saxons. He complains that this new French Republic is little more than a howling democracy. Monsieur Dubugue firmly believes that a king, or in our case a queen, is the only true fount of honour. One can rely on such people.”

  He looked up at the station clock and consulted his watch.

  “One cannot rely on the clock above us. French station clocks are deliberately manipulated by the management. We have twelve minutes before the ferry’s regular sailing time. Dubugue has arranged to hold it for us, but we should make haste. We do not want to miss our connection at Dover. The gendarmes tell me that there is a cafe open nearby; it caters to railway and ferry workers as they come off their shift. You wait here on this bench for a moment or two, and I will trot over there and see what we can get.”

  “There’s really no need, Holmes,” I protested.

  “Nonsense, I am hungry myself and Churchill is famished. Wake up, boy!”

  Churchill sat up and rubbed his eyes.

  “The boy will run to the kiosk by the exit,” Holmes said. “They are unpacking the English newspapers that came on the Night Mail. Get all the English papers, young man. Give him some money, Watson.”

  I walked across to the kiosk with Churchill. My thoughts were all of Baker Street. I had hoped to have time to get a small gift from France for Mrs Hudson, and something for Billy and Bessie too. I decided that it would bring good luck if I went ahead with my plan despite my misgivings. The woman at the kiosk spoke adequate, if heavily accented, English. I put my p
roblem to her, described Mrs Hudson and the staff as best I could, and let her pick out the gifts and deduct the cost, with that of a sheaf of London newspapers, from the French coins that I had in my palm.

  Holmes appeared out of a cloud of steam like a stage ghost. He carried a sack from one hand, and he had a bundle of French bread sticks under his arm.

  “Come, friends, our ferry awaits,” he said with a smile. He led us towards the dock.

  “The lady in the cafe was extremely concerned for you, Doctor. No French person can conceive of being without nourishment for more than an hour, two at the most, except on fast days. She had a pea soup on the hob: it was instantly wrapped in this towel with a clean soup bowl as a lid. You will have to do without a spoon, but you may dip these fine fresh baguettes -”

  A small girl screeched up to us crying out in French and holding out a bottle of red wine.

  Holmes slapped his forehead. “This creature is from the cafe. I forgot to order wine. Give it a five-franc coin, Watson, and pat it on the head. Allez, messieurs.”

  He marched us to the quayside.

  “Madame says that the best cure for starvation is a pair of pig’s trotters prepared à la Sainte-Menehould; she is from the valley of the Marne. You will recall that trotters were the undoing of Louis the Sixteenth. He passed through Menehould as he fled before the revolutionaries, and he could not resist stopping for the famous pieds de cochons. He was recognised, brought back to Paris and off went his head. Madame explained that the dish takes two days to prepare. We reluctantly agreed that the ferry, manned as it is by Englishmen with no sense of culture, or cuisine, would probably not wait.”

  I could not help feeling that Holmes’ levity was out of place. I did not share his vaunted immunity to sentiment. I could not retreat from emotional attachments and armour myself with the chainmail of cold logic and the breastplate of stony reason. I knew that my fear for Mrs Hudson, Billy and Bessie was debilitating and perhaps unmanly, but I was unashamed.

  I placed a consoling hand on Churchill’s shoulder.