Sherlock Holmes and Young Winston - The Jubilee Plot

by Mike Hogan

  Churchill was in the doorway.

  “The door was open, sirs. I came to deliver these telegrams to Mr Holmes.” He waved a thick bundle of envelopes. “They came all in a bunch to Baker Street.”

  “I like your Humber,” said Lord Salisbury, standing and peering out of the window. “It is a lively green. No Irish connotations I hope. You hardly see a bicycle in plain black these days. General Stacey has his in the blue and red of the Guards. My valet has a silver Rudge of a most advanced design.”

  “Tea?” asked Mycroft as Winston slipped into a seat beside me.

  “You came on Irene?” I whispered.

  He nodded. “Eleven minutes flat with Billy in front and Bessie as Captain.”

  I smiled a well-satisfied smile.

  “The dynamite attacks of the past few years have been deeply disturbing,” Lord Salisbury continued as we refilled our teacups. “Especially those outrages that took place in the central, government districts of course. Gladstone and I gave Mr Monro’s predecessor, Jenkinson, wide powers; it may well be that he went beyond even that extensive brief.”

  “Jenkinson was a highly-strung person: an enthusiast,” said Mycroft. “And of course his position of power and influence depended on plots being discovered and dangers averted. He encouraged his informants to use their imaginations.”

  “Odd that the worst scares seem to come just before elections,” said Holmes.

  “How dare you, sir!” cried Lord Salisbury heaving himself to his feet. “I did not come here to be roasted over the coals by Holmes the Younger. I have not been spoken to in such a fashion since I last lunched with Lord Randolph. I mean no offence, Winston. You know that your father is no respecter of rank. I value him the more for it.”

  “He says that you are -”

  “Churchill,” I said, “you will leave the room this instant!”

  “One of the few statesmen in the Tory Party with firm strength of character and a broad vision,” said Churchill, stalking from the room and softly closing the door.

  “Oh dear,” I said. “I am sorry, Lord Salisbury. I will apologise to Spencer-Churchill when I next see him.”

  “Let me ask you this, young man,” said Lord Salisbury ignoring me and wagging his finger at Holmes. “What if Morgan and the Donovan brothers had been playing a triple game, eh? What if they were in reality what the papers vilify them for: ardent dynamitards? What if their loyalty was to the rebels and they had dastardly designs again the Queen? Would you have spotted it?”

  “Yes,” said Holmes.

  “Well then. What man in the Kingdom other than you might have? Who were we to turn to, while the newspapers bayed for their blood? Should we have cut the Boulogne and Paris conspirators down like the firstborn in case they constituted a threat to the Queen? I refer to King Herod in the Bible, although I make no comparison whatsoever between him our own dear monarch.”

  He turned to me.

  “Serious people counselled so: they counselled a pre-emptive attack. I appeal to you, Doctor, as a reasonable man and not an enthusiast, were we not right in asking Mr Holmes to use his formidable powers to determine whether a threat existed in France? Our cosy assumption that we had the menace contained needed to be tested. What better man for the job?”

  “You were right, Your Lordship,” I said. “But you sent Holmes into battle with a bent sword and dented shield. You should have taken him into your confidence from the beginning.”

  “Well, that may be so,” said the Prime Minister heavily. “I may have erred; I am not divine. And I find forgiveness less and less easy to achieve as I get older. I wish you good day. I must pick up a document from Melas upstairs - he is translating it now - and then I have an appointment with my tailor; we must all look our best at the Abbey tomorrow.”

  I stood as Mycroft ushered Lord Salisbury from the room.

  “Churchill came here on your wretched machine, Watson,” said Holmes in an acid tone. “Bessie steered and Billy pedalled in front. I was made a fool of. I fear that we must deliver Churchill back to his nurse.”

  “Eleven minutes flat,” I retorted with an impenitent grin.

  “How much does Assistant Commissioner Monro know?” Holmes asked as his brother returned.

  “I have no idea,” said Mycroft. “He is doing his best to get Morgan extradited. It is vexing. We cannot allow General Morgan to testify in a British court of law. He would open a mountain of Pandora’s boxes going back years. Monro would also like to feel the collars of the Donovans and Trent-Hall, which would be even worse. The Assistant Commissioner knows more than he lets on: he is very dour.”

  “What a complicated life you lead, Mycroft,” said Holmes as he slit his telegraph envelopes open with the sugar tongs.

  “Thank you, Sherlock,” said Mycroft with a smug smile. “And I have yet to pacify Venezuela.”

  Keep off the Grass

  Holmes consulted his watch and waved a telegram.

  “Lestrade wants us at the Palace of Westminster at two or thereabouts. Let us take a moment to examine the Fortnum and Mason’s package that purports to be a present from the Queen to our North-West Frontier spy, Major Smythe.”

  He placed the package on the table at a precisely equal distance between him and his brother.

  “That is not Fortnum’s seal,” said Mycroft pointing to the red wax that sealed the brown paper covering the parcel. “And the string is a different shade of brown: theirs is darker.”

  “Brother,” said Holmes. “I am surprised that you did not make the same observations when your cake was delivered to you.”

  “Unlike you, dear Brother, I am not by nature a suspicious person,” Mycroft snapped back.

  Holmes heated a butter knife in the flame under the tea urn and gently slid off the wax seal.

  “Do take care,” said Mycroft. “That knife was Grand-mama’s.”

  Holmes snipped the string and took off the wrapping paper. He held it up to the light. “They spared no expense with the ink: it is of the very highest quality. The handwriting is American, of course. May I borrow your microscope, Mycroft?”

  Mycroft fetched it from its cupboard and Holmes set it up by the window under a bright oil lamp. I watched in amusement as the brothers ripped off pieces of wrapping paper and examined them under the microscope, each elbowing the other out of the way to claim the lens. They talked of weights, threads and weaves of paper as I nibbled a stale water biscuit. I looked up as they fell silent. Holmes held up a scrap of brown paper and beamed at his brother.

  “I found this fragment of paper in a cleft in the bark of the plane tree in our backyard at 221B. It is identical in all respects, save that it is somewhat scorched, to the wrapping of the cardboard box containing the opium-impregnated Dundee cake sent to Major Smythe. This piece of cardboard, taken from atop our outside lavatory, exactly matches the cake box. The robbers who took the emerald necklace from the Thakore of Gondal sent us a present of explosives: black powder, not dynamite. It was a warning: keep off the grass.”

  “You take the packaging, Sherlock. I had better keep the cake,” said Mycroft as we said our goodbyes. “We do not want our gallant Major Smythe, player of the Great Game against the Russians, to be discommoded with soporifics. He needs to keep his mind sharply focused on the Khyber Pass. I will have a fresh tin sent round from Fortnum’s if he returns from wherever he is spying.”

  Mycroft followed us out into the landing in front of his apartment.

  “One last question,” said Holmes. “How much money, in whatever form, did Maharajah Duleep take with him when he fled to France?”

  “How much money has Maharajah Duleep? Well he had a considerable pension. That is stopped, although we still support the family. Duleep was a profligate, not a man to save for the future. He had some holdings in the Imperial Brazilian Sinking Fund at
five per cent, and the Chilean six-per-cent loan. His man of business was an American, long since decamped.”

  He smiled. “He lost his cash on his way to Russia. There are his remaining jewels, of course; he keeps them close. Some are very valuable.”

  Holmes shook hands with his brother - the first time I had seen him do so. “Thank you for sending the Enchantress,” he said.

  “The Admiralty owes me a favour or two, Sherlock. They were happy to oblige. I am glad that none of your people were hurt,” Mycroft answered with a look of deep affection.

  “Take care, Brother,” said Holmes, returning his look.

  We stepped out of the relative coolness of the lobby of Mycroft’s building and into the searing bright sunshine.

  Churchill and Irene had disappeared. Despite the fierce heat, Holmes insisted on cutting through Carlton Gardens and picking up a cab in Waterloo Place rather than taking one of several free cabs in Pall Mall.

  “Isn’t it strange,” I said, as we rattled along Horse Guards Road, “that Mycroft, who is influential with the Ministry, Colonel Delacy, who is an expert on India, Mr Melas the linguist and this mysterious spy Major Smythe all live together in the same house?”

  Holmes smiled. “That house, like most houses in the row on the south side of Pall Mall, is leased to the Ordnance Office by the Crown. The Minister for War likes to keep his experts to hand. The flats are grace and favour.”

  I mulled that for a moment. It explained the seedy ground floor sitting rooms, no doubt used by War Office clerks.

  “How did you know that the handwriting on the package was American, Holmes? Do they cross their sevens like the Germans?”

  “I expect the German-Americans do. The address was written in the Spencer script. It is taught all over the United States in special schools for business professionals. It is a cursive script, like our round hand, but there are elements that make it distinct. The writer was an American, in poor health - you noted the wavering horizontals I am sure - using a pebble point nib.”

  “And you think that we were not targeted by the Fenians and that the attack is connected with the Thakore’s emeralds. It seems unlikely, Holmes.”

  “You may be right. However, the fact that the much less effective black powder was used instead of dynamite and the similarities of wrapping paper and cardboard are hardly coincidental.”

  He leafed through the stack of telegrams again.

  “The Irish Question has one advantage,” he said, looking up with a bright expression. “It is convoluted beyond measure!”

  8. A Bleak Melody

  No Plan is Perfect

  We followed the directions of a police constable guarding the gates of the Palace of Westminster and found Inspector Lestrade deep in its bowels watching a group of labourers hacking at the stonework.

  “Good afternoon, gentlemen. We are chipping out the Parliamentary lavatories to look for explosives. All the labourers are Welsh; we brought them in special from the mines.”

  I frowned.

  “The lavatories were put in last year by Irish navvies, Doctor. The Powers that Be think that they might have packed in some dynamite.”

  He sighed. “They’re getting jittery, the Powers. They picked up a French governess on the Isle of Wight carrying a suspicious substance in her bag that turned out to be modelling clay. We had an Irishman off the SS Adriatic from New York in custody at Queenstown for possession of explosives. They were harmless American fireworks. It is a mad house, sirs.”

  “How may we be of service, Inspector?” asked Holmes.

  “Well, I know it is an imposition, Mr Holmes, but I wonder if you would take a walk to the Abbey with me and look things over from the security point of view.”

  “I would be happy to oblige,” said Holmes. “Coming, Doctor?”

  We followed Lestrade up the stone staircase, outside into Parliament Square and along the side of the Abbey to the West Door. We stood for a moment looking along row after row of pews towards the altar and the magnificent stained-glass windows above it. The afternoon sun had made no impression on the ancient walls. The atmosphere was cool and conducive to prayer and meditation.

  The Abbey was packed with seating, including the newly installed tiered rows of wooden seats that one newspaper correspondent had thought so dangerous in the case of Fenian fire.

  “We’ve got the Royal Engineers poking about downstairs in the crypt with the latest type of electric torches,” said Lestrade in a tired tone. “The rumour is that the Donovan brothers have packed the coffins with explosives. The Duke of Cambridge let the Quorn foxhounds loose down there to poke them out.”

  “The brothers did not strike me as foxy Fenians,” said Holmes. “Come, let us view the ground.”

  “I am suddenly weary, Holmes,” I said. “I shall wait here.”

  I picked a seat in the nave, wondering whether it would accommodate a duke or a maharajah the following day, and watched in fascination as Holmes led Lestrade along one side and then the other of the great edifice. Holmes’ arms wind milled as he pointed something out or emphasised a point. It took an hour or more for the detectives to reach the altar. Another hour was spent viewing the transepts, side chapels and galleries. I watched Holmes striding towards the gallery stairs with a wilting Lestrade in tow.

  I tried to make sense of the potential threat to Her Majesty from the dynamitards. It was clear - if anything was clear - that a most ridiculous and scandalous situation had developed in France. The plotters vilified in our newspapers were under the direction of different elements of the British security services: they spied on each other. Scotland Yard, in the person of Assistant Commissioner Monro was either unaware that Morgan, Donovan and company were bogus, or he played a deep game of his own. He was attempting to persuade the French to extradite fake dynamitards who were in British pay!

  I shook my head and tried to clear my mind by concentrating on my surroundings. I recalled that the present church was thirteenth-century, built on the site of one in which William the Conqueror was crowned on Christmas Day in 1066. I thought of the ceremonies that had taken place in the abbey: the coronation of our own Queen-

  “Watson, wake up old chap.”

  Holmes had reappeared without Inspector Lestrade.

  “I was not asleep, Holmes. I was at my prayers.”

  “Ha! Lestrade ran out of puff in the Chapter House.” Holmes sat beside me and we watched as the space before the altar filled with white robed clergymen.

  “They are having a practice service,” said Holmes. “That is just as well after the problems with the Coronation and the Royal Wedding. The Coronation was a dreadful muddle. The Bishop of Bath and Wells turned over two pages of the order of service by accident. Queen Victoria had to be called back to repeat the oaths. One old nobleman fell down the altar stairs, and others, touching Her Majesty’s crown to show fealty, smacked it about so much they gave the poor Queen a concussion. Come.”

  I followed Holmes to the West Door where a troop of Yeomen of the Guard assembled. We stepped out into the Sanctuary and bright sunshine.

  “How are the arrangements?” I asked. “If you can tell me.”

  “Oh, well enough. Lestrade thought to pack the Abbey with police: exactly what I would want if I were planning an outrage. I would dress my confederates and myself in police uniforms and hide in plain sight. I suggested that the policemen should be deployed in pairs, men who know each other, wearing distinctive armbands distributed tomorrow morning by a superior officer who can vouch for each recipient: sergeants for choice as they know their subordinates intimately. The same tactic must be followed with the Army: each man vouches for his neighbour. The head of the clergy and all his assistants must meet at the Abbey in the morning and patrol the building looking for anything out of place, again in pairs. A single clergyman or policeman would be suspected
and examined.”

  “What if the attackers come in pairs?”

  “No plan is perfect,” said Holmes stiffly.

  “I hope that a close watch is kept on the Irish members of Parliament,” I said in an ironic tone. “According to The Times, they are Parnellite to a man and deeply involved with the ‘dynamiters’ in Paris.”

  “Whoever the dynamiters are,” said Holmes bitterly. “You do realise, Watson, that all this spying and counter-spying in France was done with the knowledge of our client, the Prime Minister. The newspapers quote, as evidence of Parnell’s involvement in dynamite plots, his links to Morgan, who is in British pay. It is evident that one of our clients, the Prime Minister, is attempting to disgrace the other, Mr Parnell!”

  We darted through the traffic across Parliament Square and secured a cab at the rank.

  “As for the MPs,” Holmes continued as we trotted off. “Lestrade is concerned with uninvited guests not invited ones. Colonel Roebuck at Buckingham Palace is in overall charge of security for the Jubilee. I do not covet his job. A member of the College of Arms is in trouble for trying to sell his ticket to the Service to the highest bidder. An impecunious canon of Westminster Cathedral advertised his ticket for sale in the classified columns of the daily newspapers. It is, as Inspector Lestrade rightly says, a mad house.”

  I laughed, but stopped when I saw Holmes’ sober expression.

  “Lestrade said one thing that gave me pause. The stern and imperturbable Assistant Commissioner Monro, scourge of the Wahhabi dacoits in Oudh, has refused his daughters permission to attend the service. They have tickets, but they are ordered to stay safely at home.

  The Torch of Liberty