by Mike Hogan
“Same to you, Doctor. Very happy to see that you and Mr Holmes is well. And that Mrs H, Billy and Bessie was unhurt in the outrage.”
Wiggins, the chief of the Baker Street Irregulars, Holmes’ band of street Arab informants, winked a greeting at Churchill and sat at our table. I mixed him a weak whisky and soda.
“We heard about the bomb down Lambeth way from the coppers as they changed shifts at midnight. The Irregulars reported to Baker Street at one. Gawd, what a how-d’ya-do. There was a bleeding great fire engine in the street blowing out clouds of steam. Its ladder was up to the roof and firemen were all over looking for smoke and cinders. Captain Shaw was here with his silver helmet on. He looked disappointed that he’d not got a proper bomb with flames to the rooftops. Him and Eddie do love a good blaze.
“Mrs Levine, the district nurse from round our way, was here looking after Mrs H, and Billy here told his story to the reporters at a double-florin a go.”
Billy coloured and quietly withdrew.
“Gawd, you should have seen Bessie. She stood in the doorway with a skillet in her fist seeing off anyone who wanted to gawk inside. She told them that they were not a-going in, not never no-how. Captain Shaw was dead nervy of her.”
“Ha,” said Holmes, “We missed the show. You deployed the Irregulars?”
Wiggins took a gulp of whisky and nodded. “Quiet like, having a wander and listening in. We heard the commissionaire say how he had delivered the bomb in a box. He was in a faint too. He said it came from Victoria Station, so I sent Monty off with half a crown to the commissionaire’s office there. He had to wait ‘till they opened in the morning. The tea lady remembered the cove that left the parcel, so we got a description.”
Holmes nodded. “I have your wire. What more of Baker Street?”
“Your neighbours were all out whining. They weren’t happy after the last bust-up in the street with the Wild West Show. I sniffed out an old lady that lives up the road: always at the window she is. She said that a cab parked outside her house for hours and never took a fare. Then she said there’s a new knife sharpener on the corner that never done no business. He was there when she saw you and the Doctor and Winston leave the house with luggage yesterday morning. He ducked away as your cab went by.”
“I say, Holmes,” I said. “We were on our way to catch the Boat Train at Victoria. They were watching us.”
He smiled and nodded for Wiggins to continue.
“I thought that if these were the beggars that bombed your house, they’d want to see the fun. I spread out the Irregulars with the old lady’s description of the cabby and knife grinder and sure as toast, we caught the hansom just as it trotted off down the Marylebone Road at ten to three this morning. There wasn’t another cab to be had.”
“See, Holmes,” I said. “If they’d had the Humber -”
Holmes held up his hand.
“We lost him,” said Wiggins hanging his head.
Holmes smiled and Wiggins looked up again with a grin. “I ordered out the whole Irregulars force, Mr Holmes. We tried the police on fixed point duty first, the twenty-four hour ones, at a bob each. We picked the cab up in Fitzroy Square. Another copper noticed his fine horse skipping along at a good pace at Regent Circus.”
“You paid these policemen a shilling each for information?” I exclaimed. “That’s monstrous.”
“That’s why they call them ‘bobbies’, Doctor,” said Wiggins. “We paid five other coppers who’d no information thruppence for their time and trouble. A baker and a printer each saw the cab on Orange Street at a tanner each. Again, the horse struck their fancy.”
“Pall Mall,” I said visualising my map of London.
“There we drew a blank,” Wiggins said. “At dawn, I sent out scouts west and south from Orange Street. They gave out the description to ostlers and cabbies, and we picked up the scent at ten this morning. It led us to Grosvenor Place and we lost the bugger.”
“That’s near the Royal Mews,” I said. “Surely there can be no connection?”
“We picked up the dray across the street, Mr Holmes. When it took off, I followed it myself and saw it turn into Lyall Mews. I found a talkative fellow in the pub on the corner. The horse’s name is Sasha. He lives in Chesham Place with his brother Ivan.
“My God, Holmes!” I exclaimed.
“The Imperial Russian Embassy,” he said softly. “Well, well. My opponent plays the game with finesse.”
“Here’s the accounts, Doctor. One pound, eleven and six, in round figures.”
“Well done the Irregulars,” said Holmes. “Pay up, Doctor. Churchill, pop downstairs with Wiggins and see what Mrs Hudson can do in the article of tea and cake for our visitors.”
“Who is Eddie, Holmes?” I asked as the Irregulars were mustered in the backyard and refreshed.
“Wiggins referred to Edward, Prince of Wales. He likes to visit the bigger fires. How do you feel about liver for supper?”
“Indifferently,” I answered with a sniff. “But we will never get a table at a restaurant. They have all been booked for weeks, if not months, for Jubilee dinners.”
“Tut, tut, Goldini will tuck us in somewhere. Although now I recollect that I once ate in the kitchen with Goldini, Mama and the bambini. It was an honour, but it is not an experience that I would care to repeat. No, let us drop by at Pagani’s and see what he can do.”
“We’ll never get a cab.”
“What a Jeremiah, you are, my dear fellow. The restaurant is in Great Portland Street, not Turin. We can saunter there in twenty minutes and work up a fine appetite in the process. Churchill will run ahead and reconnoitre the ground. Our second line of attack would be a plate of fried fish and potato ‘chips’ from a less salubrious establishment off Oxford Street.”
“Can I go on the Green Goddess, Doctor?” Churchill asked, coming into the room.
“He means the tricycle,” I explained. “He suggested that we change the name.”
I turned back to Churchill. “Mention to Mrs Hudson that we shall be dining out - hopefully.”
Churchill scampered off downstairs.
“Green Goddess, Watson?” Holmes asked with wry smile.
“Yes, Irene is such a parochial name.” I reddened. “I hope to take her up to the Crystal Palace on Saturday. The Pickwick Cycling club is holding tricycle races.”
Holmes looked doubtfully at me.
“I will watch the experts and pick up the necessary techniques,” I said stiffly.
Wiggins, his moustache disguise replaced, said his goodbyes and he led his men towards the Russian Embassy.
Holmes, Churchill, Billy and I stood on the pavement outside our lodgings as crowds of people of all classes streamed past us.
We contemplated the Goddess.
“Mrs Hudson cannot spare Bessie?” I asked again.
“No, sir. There was language spoken,” said Billy. “Mrs H is peeved about the liver, truth be told. She’s made the pastry for a liver and bacon pie. And there’s bread-and-butter pudding to follow, with her special custard.”
We all looked at Holmes. He stared up and down Baker Street. It was still hellishly hot and the pavements were packed with people looking at the shop window displays and idling towards the centre of town and the Jubilee illuminations in the shopping districts. There was not a cab in sight. The centre of Town was closed to traffic and the cab companies had given all their drivers the evening off. Roads to the West End were a heaving mass of humanity.
Holmes focussed on the Metropolitan Railway station.
“They are jamming passengers in by brute force,” I murmured. “Worse than the first night of a pantomime. The temperature is eighty-seven degrees. Pharmacists are selling reviving potions to heat-struck and smoke-stupefied passengers as they stagger out of the station exit.”
/> Holmes stared at the Goddess, shuddered and sighed.
“Liver and bacon pie is not so bad,” I suggested.
“Never you mind, sirs,” said Billy, as he ushered us back inside. “We’ve strawberry jam with the pudding, and I got a new slab of American ice.”
Churchill, Holmes and I washed the bread-and-butter pudding down with bumpers of iced Jubilee Champagne in a merry party of three.
We saluted Her Majesty with a hearty rendering of ‘God Save the Queen’ that echoed from below stairs and along both sides of Baker Street. I had sent a bottle of Jubilee Champagne down to the kitchen, and judging by the volume of Billy’s voice, it was having its usual exhilarating effect.
A barrel organ parked on the opposite side of the road played a selection of patriotic tunes. It would have sent Holmes into a towering rage at any other time, but he entered into the spirit of the occasion to a surprising degree. I looked up at the ‘VR’ that Holmes had pocked in pistol shots in the corner of the sitting room during one of his black periods. Holmes caught my eye and he, Churchill and I stood to toast Her Majesty with cheers, three times three.
Churchill had a surprising repertoire of English and American songs, and a sweet treble. I prevailed on Holmes to bring out his newly strung violin, and he accompanied the boy in various airs and glees.
Gradually, after midnight, as the noises outside and below died down, Holmes violin playing took on a darker tone. A loud rumble from far off stopped him, woke Churchill and made me jump to the window. The reverberations continued, like distant artillery. I looked at Holmes.
“Fireworks,” he said. “On London Bridge.”
“Pray God all goes well on the morrow, Holmes,” I said softly.
“Amen,” said Holmes, playing a soft, bleak melody.
9. In This Small Corner of the Empire
Processional
Few cabs were on the streets early the next morning, but Billy managed to find a private one at double fare and I packed Churchill off home to Connaught Place.
He carried with him a brace of Jubilee Champagne bottles and a tin of unadulterated Dundee cake for his parents and packets of chocolate guardsmen for his brother and nanny.
People were moving out in family groups towards Baker Street Station and the omnibus stands. All carried flags, fans and baskets of food and drink. The mood was festive and the children danced and sang.
Inspector Lestrade arrived at six o’clock in a police carriage with two constables. He was in the full glory of his inspector’s uniform and cap. He joined us for breakfast.
“Have you seen the papers, gentlemen? The penny illustrated papers scream of dynamite plots, death and destruction on half the pages, and cry glory and majesty on the others.”
He laid a stack of the early editions on the table.
“I must say that I am happier in my mind that the thieves that stole the Gondal emeralds are behind the bombing here,” I said. “At least the attack was not from a Fenian group.”
Holmes pursed his lips and said nothing.
“Davitt and Egan stayed quietly at home all week,” said Lestrade. “There is no news of landings by blood-oath Irish assassins with air sticks. Morgan and the Donovan brothers have made no move. General Trent-Hall was last seen carousing in the Irish-American Bar in Paris. He is closely watched by the French.”
He helped himself to coffee. “We are spread thin, sir.”
“I know it,” said Holmes. “That is what is so absurd about the situation - ha. Let us get dressed in all our finery, Watson. We must not look too out of place in the Abbey.”
“The Abbey, Holmes? We do not have entrance tickets.”
“You are forgetting Assistant Commissioner Monro’s daughters. He does not want them exposed to danger and so there are two spare seats.”
Lestrade held up two elaborately printed tickets.
“Monro has gracefully -”
Lestrade coughed.
“Or perhaps not so gracefully, agreed to let us have them. Not front row, but right at the centre of any explosive activity that may occur. Lord Fortescue has written to The Times expressing a certain conviction that the Abbey does not contain enough oxygen to sustain the mass of people who have been invited to the Service; he expects that we will be suffocated in our pews. So, Watson, we will have the satisfaction of expiring amid the flower of British and foreign nobility. What do you say, old friend. Are you game?”
“No,” I said. “I am not game. What do I wear?”
“Have you no courtier’s dress?” Holmes called back as he disappeared into his room. “Have you no gold-embroidered jacket and breeches? Wear your sword and medals.”
I presented myself downstairs some fifteen minutes later. I was relieved to see that Holmes was also in his best black frockcoat and holding a lucent top hat.
“In the uniform of an English gentleman one can never be out of place,” he said. “I see you are wearing your Afghan War medal, with two clasps.”
“I’m not sure that it is appropriate,” I answered.
Lestrade reached into the pocket of his uniform and shyly pulled out a line of three medals. I helped him pin them to his breast.
“Let me see: Jubilee medal, distinguished service, and what is the first medal, Inspector?”
“Bravery,” he murmured, as he flushed a bright pink.
“I feel quite naked,” said Holmes. “Perhaps I should have accepted the diamond chelengk that the Turkish - what is that stink?”
I sniffed. “Mrs Hudson and Bessie may be wearing the perfumes that I brought them from Boulogne-sur-Mer. I bought Billy and Churchill pocketknives. The presents were suggested by the woman in the kiosk at the station, and they were well received. Mrs Hudson is going to try for a place on the Embankment to watch the procession. Billy left at four to stake a claim for them. Oh, I say, the house will be deserted.”
“I will have a man outside the door,” said Lestrade. “And one in this room, at the window. Good, steady, married men, sir - armed.”
We watched the two constables climb down from the open police carriage and receive their instructions from Lestrade, I took Mrs Hudson aside. “It might be wise to lock the spirits tantalus,” I suggested.
We trotted in the police carriage through streets that would usually have been thronged with commuters. They were packed instead with pedestrians streaming slowly towards the route of the procession. The area around the Abbey and the centre of London were closed to wheeled traffic unconnected with the Thanksgiving Service.
“The Queen has insisted on a circuitous route, sirs,” said Lestrade in a lugubrious tone. “She wants as many of her subjects as possible to see her. She passes out of Buckingham Palace and proceeds up Constitution Hill -”
“That is where several previous assassination attempts were made,” I said.
“Eh?”
“Historically speaking,” said Holmes patting him on the back. “I trust that she is not venturing south of the River.”
“No, sir,” he said with a chuckle. “There’s no-one there today; the streets are empty.”
He leaned forward across the carriage. “The Duke of Cambridge is concerned that reduced police presence in the south of London might induce the lower orders to make an attempt at the West End. He doesn’t want a repeat of last year’s Hyde Park riots. He offered the police commissioner two regiments of dragoons to guard the bridges across the Thames. The Horse Artillery is on alert at the Tower to seal the City if Whitechapel makes a threatening move.”
He sat back again. “I don’t expect trouble. We’ve made it clear through our contacts with the underworld that anything going down today will be met with a most ferocious response from the Yard. The Met and City Police and have done the same. Your average English criminal is highly respectful towards Her Majesty. The Italians
are a monarchistical lot too. The Chief Commissioner got a nice note from the Carbonari extortion clubs promising all quiet in the Italian section of Saffron Hill for the duration of the Jubilee, and wishing Her Majesty all the best in Italian. No, if I had time to worry about anything other than the Queen’s safety, I’d look for trouble from the occupants of the rookeries that don’t know we have a queen or what country they live in.”
We stopped at a control point. Lestrade showed his credentials, and Holmes and I showed our tickets to an officious police sergeant. He let us through on to the Mall.
The grand avenue swarmed with columns of marching men and troops of cavalry. Companies of guardsmen in red coats and bearskins, and squads of infantrymen in their helmets assembled beneath the shade trees before marching to their places along the route. Regimental bands played a mixture of patriotic songs and hymns.
“We’ve had police patrolling the route since dawn,” said Lestrade in a gloomy voice. “People were already taking up places. No report of trouble yet, just squabbles over the prime viewing sites.”
We rode up the Mall to Buckingham Palace and the start of the processional route. A large troop of Household Cavalry in glinting armour stood before the palace gates, and scores of carriages were parked in the front yard. We continued up Constitution Hill to Hyde Park Corner. Both sides of every street were crowded with onlookers. Guardsmen with rifles and fixed bayonets lined the route shoulder-to-shoulder, and policemen were stationed at intervals of a yard or two.
“We have men on every rooftop,” said Lestrade noticing Holmes’ grave look.
“But not at every window,” said Holmes. “A fanatic with no thought for his survival would be able to throw a grenade at the procession with ease. Nothing you or I could do would stop him.”
Lestrade’s already lugubrious expression fell further into despondency.
“Never mind,” said Holmes brightly. “If I were the fanatic, I would ignore the procession and target the Abbey.” He doffed his hat to a group of Chelsea Pensioners and received a cheer. I felt obliged to copy his salute, feeling embarrassed and foolish.
