Sherlock Holmes and Young Winston - The Jubilee Plot

by Mike Hogan

  “No, no, Watson,” said Holmes, playing his irritating mind game. “We must not allow ourselves the luxury of despair. It is our plain duty to our friends in Baker Street to remain calm. We must face the situation with equanimity and unruffled composure - good Lord.”

  He stopped, put down the pot and stared across the harbour. Puffing sedately out of the harbour entrance was the ferry. A loud mournful sound on its whistle covered a string of epithets from Holmes.

  “Damn Dubugue! Damn all the French. A more untrustworthy huddle of blackguards - ah.” Holmes strode to an officer standing at the quayside with his back to us watching the ferry leave. He tapped him on the shoulder, and even before the man had turned, subjected him to a bombardment of rapid and emphatic French.

  Churchill and I watched as the young officer turned first pink, then red as he tried to stop the flow.

  “I say, Doctor,” said Churchill, “surely that is a British naval officer.”

  We sat in armchairs in the sumptuously appointed lounge of the Admiralty yacht Enchantress as she sped across the Channel towards London as fast as her whirling paddle wheels would drive her.

  The British papers were spread across a long table between us, and a heap of telegraph forms lay before Holmes. The unopened bottle of French red wine stood in the centre of the table with a forlorn bundle of bread sticks.

  “I am sorry about the soup, Watson,” said Holmes. “I hope that I may be forgiven in the trying circumstances: the trying circumstances that I thought we were in.”

  “Don’t mention it, old chap, I am not very partial to pea soup,” I said with a wan smile.

  “I am,” said Churchill, giving Holmes a reproachful look.

  “I expect the lady from the cafe will be able to retrieve her pot from the quayside,” I said. “We can send her a message from Dover. What is that to the news that our friends at Baker Street are safe? Read the telegrams again, Holmes.”

  He slid two telegraph slips across to Churchill.

  “Outrage 221B,” Churchill read. “Outhouse destroyed but all safe. Sending Enchantress. Mycroft.”

  “Ha,” cried Holmes. “An imprecise message. He could have saved the ‘but’ and added ‘yacht’ in front of Enchantress. We might have expected a lady magician or a courtesan. I have several bones to pick with Mycroft.”

  “Read the one from Mrs Hudson,” I said.

  Churchill reached across and took the telegram. “Dynamite attack on us poor souls in Baker Street, dear Mr Holmes and Doctor. That old tin bath is in bits and windows all broke. We are bonny. God save the Queen.”

  “Bonny. That’s her Scots ancestry,” said Holmes.

  I stood. “I think I shall go out on deck for a last smoke, and then take advantage of Lieutenant Blake’s kind offer of a cabin. I am fagged out.”

  “Are you sure that you don’t want something from the galley?” asked Churchill.

  I shook my head. “I take it as a point of honour to wait for our return home and Mrs Hudson’s kippers.”

  7. A First Class Scandal

  A Baddish Business, Mr Holmes

  We arrived at our lodgings in Baker Street at dawn to find a sleepy police constable guarding the front door, and the house in an uproar.

  Mrs Hudson, Bessie and Billy (in his shirtsleeves) waited for us in the kitchen. They led Holmes and I outside into the backyard to view the damage in the early-morning light. I coughed and spluttered; the stench of smoke and explosives was still strong. The windows at the back of the house, which looked out on to the yard, were roughly boarded up on the inside; most of the glass was missing. Our tin bath was upside down against the back wall, stained black and badly bent. The door of the outside convenience was off its hinges. Our poor plane tree had lost most of its leaves. Holmes examined the bath, the tree and the wreckage; he picked up a shred of what looked like cardboard from the lavatory roof, and another from the tree. Mrs Hudson, Billy and Bessie tried to tell their tale all at once causing a cacophony that sent Holmes scurrying upstairs.

  “Mrs Hudson,” he called. “Come up.”

  I left the maid and Billy downstairs with Churchill, and followed our landlady up to our sitting room. I ushered Mrs Hudson to a dining chair. She was pale - with fear, fury or both, I could not tell - and her hands were shaking.

  “Mrs Hudson,” cooed Holmes. “My dear Mrs Hudson, from the beginning, if you please?”

  I fetched a weak brandy and water that calmed her.

  “It was yesterday evening,” she began hesitantly, “and we’d had our bit of supper. I was folding the linen in my little bedroom, Mr Holmes. Billy was on guard here in your sitting room, as you had ordered, and Bessie was changing the gas mantle in the hall: them flat mantles don’t last. I told Doctor Watson that we must get Suggs globes.”

  “Indeed you did, Mrs Hudson. I shall do so first thing today,” I said.

  “Well, it’s only for the hall as there’s a draught and we leave it on ‘till late.”

  “Mrs Hudson,” said Holmes mildly. “Pray, continue your story.”

  “There was a knock at the door, sir, and Bessie answered it to Mr Peterson, the commissionaire, with a package for Mr Holmes sent from Victoria Station half an hour before.”

  “Addressed to me?” asked Holmes.

  “Yes sir. It was dropped at Peterson’s station like the messengers do sometimes when it’s getting late. They leave it for the local man to deliver as he knows the area.”

  Churchill slipped into the room, took his customary place at the table and opened his notebook. His eyes shone as he smiled across at me. Holmes gestured for Mrs Hudson to go on.

  “Bessie paid a shilling charge from our five-bob float, and put the parcel on the bottom step for Billy to take up to your sitting room. A bit later, I made a cup of tea and called up for him. He came down, saw the parcel on the steps and had a look - you know what a curiosity he is, Doctor. And the next thing I know, he came running through the kitchen with the box in his hands shouting for us to scarper. ‘It’s an infernal device,’ says he.”

  She took a gulp of brandy.

  “I looked out into the yard as Billy dragged out the old bath and filled it from the standpipe and hose. He shouted something rude at me and Bessie (for which he has apologised) and we thought it best to run to the hall. I told Bessie to cross to the cab rank and have them fetch a constable. The policeman was just coming up in a cab when there was a huge bang and crash of glass breaking and, I don’t know, sir, all smoke and dust that will have to be cleaned up and we’ve only a month and a bit ago had a spring-clean.”

  She sniffed and I handed her my handkerchief. “I thought Billy was gone before his time, sirs.”

  “Nonsense, Mrs Hudson,” said Holmes. “The boy was born to be hanged. Send him up would you? And we are absolutely clemmed, my dear lady. The Doctor did not touch a morsel of food in France. He insisted that nothing would induce him to eat food not prepared by Mrs Hudson. He said that he would prefer to starve.”

  “Very kind, Doctor. Did you enjoy the tongue sandwiches?”

  “Ambrosia,” said Holmes. “Is there any chance of coffee?”

  Billy came upstairs and stood before us in his buttons uniform.

  “First of all, sirs, it smelt funny,” he said solemnly. “It had a sort of tarry smell, like creosote. And then it didn’t feel right.”

  He mimed tipping the box from side to side.

  “So, I went to Doctor Watson’s room and took his tube thing, beg pardon, Doctor, for the liberty.” He mimed listening through a stethoscope and sudden wide-eyed shock. “I heard a clock, Doctor.”

  He gave us his impression of the sound. “It ticked like it says in the penny papers that the bombs do before they go bang. I grabbed the bugger - pardon my French, sirs - and ran it out to the yard. I filled the bath, dunked the par
cel in and ran for cover. A second later I heard a huge bang and I was blown off me feet, down the hall, through the front door and I rolled to a stop on a copper’s boots.”

  He grinned at us and slowly turned around. His pageboy jacket was split from hem to collar.

  “I told you that buttons suit was too tight,” I said. “We’ll get you a new one from Whiteley’s.”

  “Any chance of a nip of brandy for the shock, Doctor?”

  “Views?” asked Holmes after Billy, the hero of the hour, had been clapped on the back and given a sovereign, a half-tumbler of brandy and my present from France, a pocketknife with eleven blades inscribed ‘Boulogne-sur-Mer’ on the handle.

  “Davitt and Egan,” I said. “They knew that we were going to France, but not when. Morgan and the Donovan brothers would have arranged for the bomb to explode when we were back at home. And neither Morgan nor the giggling Donovans displayed the attributes of ardent dynamitards.”

  “It was a warning,” said Holmes. “The package, according to Billy was about a foot and a half square. That amount of American dynamite would level half Baker Street. We have two broken windows, a split jacket and a bent bath. The bomb was in a cardboard box. That is suggestive.”

  “Perhaps only a portion of the explosive went off?”

  The door opened and a familiar figure walked into the sitting room.

  “Hello Inspector Lestrade,” I said heavily. I was not sure whether I was too tired or too hungry to be sociable, and I wanted no more of business until I had refreshed the inner man, and slept.

  “Will you join us for breakfast, Inspector?” asked Holmes.

  “Thank you, no sir. I had a bacon sandwich at the Yard. A cup of coffee would be amply sufficient.” He shook his head. “A baddish business, Mr Holmes.”

  “Yes,” said Holmes. “On the bright side, it suggests that we are getting close. They would not target us if we were off the scent. Ah, here is breakfast. Now, Doctor, you must not mind us, tuck in. You would not believe it, Inspector, Doctor Watson managed a day and night trip to Paris without touching a morsel of French food.”

  “I don’t blame you, Doctor,” said Lestrade shaking his head. “Nasty foreign concoctions, I expect. I had a soup once in Cardiff that gave me merry hell for a week. Those kippers smell good.”

  “Join us, my dear fellow,” said Holmes. “We will give you an account of our interrogation of the Continental dynamitards.”

  Churchill brought in a rack of toast, and he and Lestrade took their places at the breakfast table. Mrs Hudson laid out a fine English breakfast: kippers, bacon, eggs, devilled kidneys and beefsteaks, with stewed fruit for sweet and fresh fruit for dessert.

  “Let us tell you what we have learned,” said Holmes as we sat back with our coffees. “First of Morgan: he and his wife rarely leave the hotel except to saunter along the quayside with their good friends Mr Thompson and his wife. She is taking the sea air for her gout. Thompson is a retired Metropolitan Police inspector. They are now in the pay of whom? Any idea, Inspector?”

  Lestrade shook his head and lit a cigarette.

  “Morgan scurries out every morning to pick up his Times at Merridew’s Library near the seafront and to have a glass of wine and an omelette at one of the excellent cafes nearby,” Holmes continued. “Apart from the intrepid Thompsons, his visitors in the last week were a retired chief constable in a floppy hat and orchid and Watson and myself: hardly dynamite conspiracy material. Are these the activities of the feared General Morgan, chief instigator of bomb outrages in Great Britain? I think not.”

  “I met the man in the floppy hat and the orchid in his buttonhole,” said Churchill through a mouthful of stewed pears. “He watched as you followed Mr Morgan into the Writing Room. He came up to me and asked whether Mycroft Holmes had sent you. I had a strong impression that he supposed that Mr Mycroft Holmes was checking on him. He was angry.”

  “Manners,” I said. “A gentleman does not speak with his mouth full -”

  “Did he, by Jove?” said Holmes. “I noticed the elderly Englishman lurking in Morgan’s hotel lobby. Yes, he fits the description that the Thompsons gave me of ex-Chief Constable Williamson. Who are his employers, I wonder, Inspector? Pass the coffee.”

  Lestrade passed the coffee jug and said nothing.

  “I suppose I should mention something odd, Holmes,” I said. “As I followed you out of the Writing Room, Morgan asked whether you were Mycroft’s brother. When I answered in the affirmative, he laughed in an offensive manner.”

  Holmes nodded. I noticed a steely glint in his eyes. “I have arranged a meeting with Brother Mycroft for eleven o’clock this morning. I shall require explanations.”

  “What of the twenty-four tins of American dynamite?” Lestrade asked.

  Holmes shrugged. I saw another trace of his mercurial French persona in the gesture. “The consul at Havre examined every consignment from America in the week of the alleged shipment and found nothing. If a bill of lading, a consignment note, or any documents whatsoever linking dynamite with the ‘Muller’ alias existed, there would be ample grounds for Monro, or the Home Office, to request the French to pick up General Morgan and throw him to us for interrogation. There is no such evidence; at least it is not in the highly detailed dossier I have on Morgan. I agree with the Donovan brothers that the Gentle Torpedo, for that is their nickname for the General, is no threat to Her Majesty. She could visit Boulogne-sur-Mer tomorrow in perfect safety.”

  “And what of Michael Dynamite Donovan and his brother?”

  “They are print compositors; Watson and I immediately noticed their spatulate and ink-stained left thumbs.”

  I was saved from having to admit that I had not noticed by Billy at the door. “Sorry, Doctor, in all the excitement we forgot to tell you. A delivery came for you. We sent it round to the Mews.”

  Churchill jumped up; my frown forced him back to his seat.

  “The brothers have a brisk trade in bespoke dynamite plots,” Holmes continued. “They have a tariff for products that range from seditious rumblings to nationwide civil unrest. I do not see a shred of evidence that they have been involved in any outrage here, in Ireland, or anywhere else, other than that ridiculous affair of Maharajah Duleep. The Fenian plot in France is a farce: Morgan, Trent-Hall and the Donovans are puppets controlled by divided factions in Whitehall. We have been duped. Watson is particularly incensed.”

  I sipped my coffee in my best incensed manner.

  “Well sir,” said Lestrade. “I am glad to hear that the Paris-Boulogne connection is proven false.”

  He stood. “We have Davitt and his cronies under close watch, and if the blood band of a hundred and fifty assassins from New York land at any port in the realm, they will meet with a hot reception from the Militia. If you are right in discounting the danger from the Continent, I will sleep easier.”

  He leaned forward and tapped the side of his nose in a familiar gesture. “But someone bombed your house, sir, and they are still at large. I hope and pray that we will track the perpetrators of that outrage, as I hope and pray that tomorrow’s procession and Divine Service will not be marred by any incidents. Good morning to you.”

  He left us; Holmes put down his coffee cup and stood. “Now, Watson, if you have quite finished breakfast and if you are feeling up to it, let us go and pick a bone or two with Mycroft.”

  I checked my watch. “Oh, I might just have another cup of coffee, Holmes. We have plenty of time.” I nodded to Churchill and he slipped out the door and pounded down the stairs yelling for Billy.

  Holmes narrowed his eyes and reached for his pipe.

  “Very well,” he said with a knowing smile.

  The Lowest Circle of Hades

  A confused noise came from the street below.

  I heard laughter, screeching children and horses neighin
g nervously. “I say,” I said, sauntering to the window. “What’s the hullabaloo?”

  “Your new toy has arrived, Watson. Tell me that you decided on a Humber, rather than a Rudge.”

  Holmes joined me at the window and we watched as my new, bright green, three-wheel tandem bicycle weaved along Baker Street with Billy whooping in front and Churchill steering from the back seat. A dozen or so children ran beside it screeching. The tricycle narrowly missed a gambolling toddler, swerved around a police constable, shuddered to a halt against the kerb outside our door, and pitched forward onto her small nose-wheel throwing the boys off. There was a great cheer from the crowd.

  “We will need to practise,” I observed. “Come and see her.”

  Holmes followed me downstairs and onto the pavement outside 221B. “Unlike most tricycles,” I explained, “the two large wheels of the Humber are at the front, and the smaller steering wheel is behind them.”

  I patted the handlebars. “The chap at the back pedals and steers, and the chap in front pedals and hoots at anyone in the way. This is the fastest machine of its type in the country, Holmes. A pair of fellows recently covered a measured mile in two minutes, forty-seven seconds.”

  “And this tiny wheel at the very front, on which the machine is resting its nose? What is its function?”

  I pursed my lips. “If the Humber has a fault. If it has a tiny eccentricity, it is that it has a tendency to tip forward if the weight is not distributed correctly. That is why I considered the Rudge. The asymmetric design of the Rudge - one big wheel on the left and two small on the right - makes it stable: much like an outrigger canoe in the Pacific Islands.”

  “The Rudge is the tricycle that looks like a cross between a defrocked picnic umbrella and a demented sewing machine,” said Holmes. “I saw a picture of it in one of the cycling journals you have been devouring for the last week or more. Your machine is at least conventional, humdrum even; it resembles the humble baker’s bicycle cart, without the cart.”