by Mike Hogan
We turned on to the Victoria Embankment. I looked for Billy, but did not spot him. We continued up Bridge Street and into Parliament Square and the West Door of Westminster Abbey.
The area in front of that great entranceway was a place of peace in a sea of organised chaos. Police and Abbey attendants directed carriages to the North and other entrances; the West Entrance was kept clear for Her Majesty.
Inspector Lestrade looked at his watch. “We aim to have all the lords and bishops and ambassadors and princes and what-have-you in their seats in sixty minutes exactly. At ten the doors close, and we wait for Her Majesty.”
“Slowly suffocating,” I said to lighten the mood.
Versailles
Lestrade led us through the West Door and past a knot of high clergy in their bright silk plumage.
They cast disapproving glances at Holmes and I in our plain frockcoats. We found Assistant Commissioner Monro standing in the aisle chatting with the Home Secretary, Mr Matthews. Both wore glittering court uniforms, and both looked pale and drawn. Monro introduced me to Mr Matthews just as the organ began a loud and complicated piece of music; we smiled and nodded. Mr Matthews evidently knew Holmes, and he brightened as they shook hands. I heard snatches of their conversation over the organ music. It concerned a case a month or so earlier in which a police officer had arrested a young lady for soliciting. The aftermath might have been embarrassing for the Government, had Holmes not quietly discovered the truth, to the satisfaction of all parties involved.
Monro was not in the mood for conversation. I contented myself with watching the ushers quietly and calmly seeing people to their seats. It was remarkable that these lords and ladies, drawn from the highest in the Land, and used to commanding others rather than being commanded, meekly followed the instructions of the Abbey servants so as to cause the least interruption to the august proceedings. No other nation in the world, I thought, could carry out such a complex proceeding with such cultured and well-mannered ease. The English -
“Will you gentlemen kindly take your seats and stop cluttering the aisle,” cried a young voice behind me. I turned to face a furious clergyman or servitor of no more than twenty. I drew myself up and was about to remonstrate at his tone, when I noticed that the Home Secretary had hurried away and that Holmes and Monro were already in their seats in the centre of a row.
I settled next to Holmes in the seat of one the absent Monro daughters.
Holmes turned to Monro. “May I ask you a question, sir?”
Monro gave him a long look, and nodded.
“Would the Irish suspect that you might plant evidence on them?”
Monro squirmed in his seat. “No, they would not,” he said in his strong Scots accent. “They may, with truth, suspect us of using agents provocateurs, if you are hinting at that, Mr Holmes. We have done so, mostly with ludicrous results. The problem is, with enough drink taken, an Irishman will cheerfully agree to any scheme you may propose, short of attacking the Pope.”
He smiled a grim smile. “There’s an old saying, ‘Keep your friends close, and keep your enemies closer’.”
“Sun Tzu,” said Holmes nodding.
Monro made no reply.
The seats around us filled rapidly. Big Ben struck the half-hour. I was puzzled by another sound, a strange rustling sound that I could hear above the muttering and coughing of the congregation. I gave Holmes an enquiring look.
“It is the susurration of silks from the ladies’ dresses and headdresses; the buzz at a slightly lower frequency is caused by the flapping of a myriad fans.”
A large group of clergy in glorious gold, scarlet and green silken robes hurried by us, attended by harassed-looking servitors.
“Not only ladies’ dresses,” said Holmes with a smile.
I turned to watch the priests go past and stiffened. Holmes twisted in his seat to follow my stare. A fat, bareheaded policeman crept down the aisle from the West Door holding a brown envelope in his hand. His efforts to be invisible reminded me, and some other members of the congregation to judge by the cackling and tittering, of the comic policemen in the Gilbert and Sullivan operetta, Pinafore. He stopped at our row and the envelope passed from hand to hand to Monro. He read it and stood.
“Would you mind coming with me for a moment?” he asked with a fixed smile. We followed him along the row to ‘tuts’ and stronger expressions of disapprobation from the worthies seated there.
We stopped at the entrance arch of the Abbey. A group of magnificently coped and caped clergy stood on either side of the aisle twittering to each other like a flock of anxious peacocks. The Abbey organ stilled the chatter with a tremendous chord.
Monro turned to us. “Confirmation from sources in America,” he said in a loud, cracked voice. “There is a huge bomb in the crypt.”
“Oh,” I said, looking over his shoulder. I pulled Monro aside and we hid behind a line of Beefeaters as Her Majesty, Queen-Empress Victoria walked slowly past us, followed by her ladies-in-waiting and pages. I was amazed to see Holmes, on the other side of the aisle, the only figure in plain black amid the gaudy gold, silver and rainbow hues of the archbishops and deans, make an elegant, sweeping bow that was acknowledged by the Queen with a demure nod and a bright smile.
Holmes and I followed Monro down several stone staircases.
“My goodness Holmes,” I said. “Where did you learn to bow like that - Versailles?”
We arrived at the bottom of the steps. To my astonishment, the crypt in front of us was illuminated as brightly as a butcher’s shop. A tall, white-whiskered man in a flat cap, an old wrinkled suit and heavy boots approached us. Monro introduced us to Colonel Majendie, the famous explosives expert. He noticed me blinking in the bright light.
“We have seven movable arc lamps from the Brush Electric Company in America. These crypts have never been so well lit since their ceilings were built. We have found early graffiti, mostly very rude. Come and have a look.”
A huge dog raced across our path.
“Bloodhounds?” said Holmes. “What are they seeking?”
“I have not the faintest idea: each other probably,” said Colonel Majendie. “They are the province of another department. They are supposed to flush out Fenian rats. They are having a wonderful time playing hide-and-seek. You have no idea how many departments want to put their oar into this crypt.”
He chuckled and patted a massive ribbed vault. “I doubt that a bomb of the size I have been instructed to find would do much to this building. Anyway, I guarantee you that there are no bombs here.”
“You defused the Fenian bombs in Victoria,” I said.
“Victoria station? Well, I didn’t do much. A cloakroom clerk became suspicious of a portmanteau and opened it with a duplicate key. Inside were twenty pounds of dynamite and a small japanned tin box that contained a clock of American manufacture. A small pistol was arranged behind it to explode a cap. The clockwork had let off the pistol, but the cap had missed fire. I removed the tin box and got my name in the penny shockers.”
He delved into a leather satchel and pulled out a large packet wrapped in a cotton napkin. “I heard that you suffered an outrage, Mr Holmes,” he said as he undid the knot.
“A warning,” said Holmes. “A pound or two of black powder in a cake box.”
The Colonel nodded as he opened his packet. “Keep off the grass. Would anyone care for a cheese sandwich?”
We left him propped against a vault, eating his sandwiches.
“Let us get up into the fresh air,” said Monro. “There is nothing we can do here.”
“Have you met Mr Davitt and Doctor Egan, Mr Monro?” Holmes asked as we ascended the stairs.
“I have not. I read the report of your meeting with them: it seemed inconclusive. What of Boulogne and Paris?”
The people I met in Fran
ce, sir, followed the ways of pleasure rather than those of God.”
“Timothy 2, 3:4,” Monro replied instantly. “Traitors, headstrong, puffed up, lovers of pleasure rather than lovers of God.” We reached the top of the steps and paused at the entrance.
A mounted policeman galloped up to Monro and handed him a telegram. He grunted as he read it. “General Morgan is still at his hotel in Boulogne. He has packed his bags and paid his bill. According to Williamson, he is sitting in the lobby in a high state of excitement, looking up as any messengers or telegraph boys come to the hotel. He is waiting for news.”
He turned to Holmes with a grim expression. “There is a Scots proverb, Mr Holmes: ‘False friends are worse than bitter enemies’.”
“You will continue your attempts to extradite Morgan, the Donovans and Trent-Hall?”
“That is my job, Mr Holmes. I can think of no power that will turn me from that purpose.” He bowed. “I wish you good day, sirs.”
Holmes watched him go. “If I were the Prime Minister, I would not sleep easy with my guilty conscience while Assistant Commissioner straight-bat Monro is on the job. I expect a most tremendous explosion - of scandal!”
He turned to me “Shall we go back in, Watson? Or shall we pop around the corner and sneak a cigar behind a flying buttress?”
We relaxed in the shade listening to the muffled strains of the organ. Churchill peeked around our buttress.
“I saw you slip out with Mr Monro,” he said with a bright smile.
The boy looked splendid in a gold and silver pageboy’s uniform. I congratulated him on it.
“I borrowed the costume from Cresswell Minor, a boy at my school. His father is a High Court judge and would have been here, but he’s visiting Cape Town. We’re about the same size. He often borrows my things, usually without asking.”
He waved his feathered hat like a fan.
“How are your parents?” I asked
“Mother is beautiful. My father is with some gentlemen at Poet’s Corner, smoking and forming a group to sue those boarding schools that do not return to parents a portion of the meal and accommodation expense they saved with the extension of the school holidays for the Jubilee. I got an extra fortnight off.”
“He is perfectly correct,” I said. “I have not followed the correspondence in The Times, but I see that the topic has attracted a vigorous debate.”
“Mycroft exhibits far too sanguine a view,” said Holmes, waking out of a brown study. “He did not stamp on the dying embers of the conspiracy. What does he expect Duleep to do? Where is he to find shelter? The Maharajah still has symbolic value. What will happen if the Tsar is presented with a fait accompli? What if the Punjab erupts and requests his aid? Or if Alexander is assassinated? Mycroft’s little farce with Duleep will take on an altogether darker hue. Oh, Churchill, you look very fine.”
“Thank you, sir. I had best get back.”
He ran off.
“I saw in The Times that Lord Randolph was in Trowbridge yesterday preaching Primrose League, down with Irish Home Rule and to the Devil with Gladstone,” I remarked. “He does like to fan the flames.”
Holmes and I watched the Royal Procession form up for the return journey to Buckingham Palace. The Queen’s carriage, drawn by four magnificent bays, was walked to the West Door. A large group of brightly uniformed, and heavily bemedalled kings and princes poured out of the Abbey. They made heavy going in their riding boots and swords to where sweating servants held their horses.
The monarchs mounted their hot, over-excited and capering chargers with less difficulty than I would have expected, given the girth and advanced years of many. One old gentleman used up so much of his breath heaving himself up on a spirited black stallion that he went quite purple. I moved forward to administer medical aid, but Holmes held me back. I noted that the German Crown Prince needed no assistance to mount his tall and imposing horse, despite his withered arm.
The two Indian Thakores that we had met at the Travellers Club were in a group of other Indian princes glittering in their jewels and silks. Limdi recognised Holmes and I, but he rightly took no notice of us.
A troop of turbaned Indian lancers formed up with the Life Guards at the West Door. The Abbey organ played a suitably majestic tune as the Queen emerged into the sunlight and, after a Royal Salute from her guards, took her place in the open carriage. She wore no crown, just a simple bonnet. I felt a catch in my throat as I saw this tiny woman at the centre of the panoply of Empire. The carriage and lancers led off the procession and dozens of kings, princes, and lesser mortals followed them on horseback and in a long line of carriages.
Lestrade appeared beside us.
“Those Indian lancers are magnificent specimens,” I said. “I feel happy that the Queen is under their protection.”
“She is not in the slightest danger,” said Holmes. “I have the strongest assurances from the mother of Mr Melas.”
Amity Between Nations
“What does Madame know of the business?” I asked.
“It seems she occasionally drags her son to an inspirational man in the Charing Cross Road. She requires assurances as to Mr Melas’ marriage prospects. She has several suitable brides in mind, all of Greek extraction of course, but her son is showing a worrying interest in meeting English ladies. His mother is persistent in the matter of marriage, but she has naturally drawn the line there.”
“I suggested that he take up tricycling, Holmes.”
“The Seer of Charing Cross not only gave her the assurances she requested, he also made a prediction with regard to the Jubilee, gratis. He said that Jupiter, who rules Her Majesty, is in his full dignity in the heavens and no sinister event could possibly occur. He said that a misfortune might befall someone connected with a royal house and a horse.”
“With so many mounted royals that does not require much astrology to predict,” I said with a chuckle.
“The Marquis of Lorne was thrown from his horse this very morning, sir,” said Lestrade in a wondering tone. “In the Park it was. He had to cry off joining the procession. Lord love us.” He laughed aloud. “What nonsense people do believe.”
I passed him a cigar from my case. Carriages streamed past us. Men in court dress loosened their collars, put their plumed hats under their arms and reached for cigarettes or cigars. Ladies opened parasols against the fierce heat of the sun, and servants struggled to get excited, thirsty, and overheated horses under control.
“A magnificent service, Mr Holmes,” said Lestrade with a huge and uncharacteristic grin. “Everything went like clockwork!”
He looked as if he would cut a caper of his own for us, given half a chance. “I made arrangements for us to know when the Queen reaches the safety of the Palace. There are sailors on the roof of the Houses of Parliament; they are expert chaps with a system of communication using coloured flags. Oh, talking of sailors, I spoke to Captain Shaw a few moments ago. He is on duty with his firemen, sweating it out in a quiet street around the corner. The Captain said that the heat is so intense he almost gave his men permission to loosen their collars. He sends his regards, and good wishes on your bomb outrage.”
“Sailors? What has the chief of the Metropolitan Fire Brigade to do with sailors?” I asked.
“Captain Shaw will entertain no other recruits. He will take only men with nautical experience. I wish we had the same policy for policemen; we get a rum lot from the recruiters, very rum.”
A walrus-moustached police constable marched up to Lestrade and handed him a slip of paper. He scanned it and turned to Holmes.
“A gentleman was arrested on the roof of a house in Pall Mall. He brandished a large-bore elephant gun as the Queen’s carriage passed below. He claims to be a retired colonel of Indian infantry and that he was patrolling the rooftops against Fenian dynamite throwers and Wahhabi dacoits
.”
Lestrade produced a pencil from his pocket, licked the tip and chuckled as he wrote a reply to the note using the sweating constable’s back as a damp writing desk.
Lestrade sent the constable off just as a maroon banged out from the roof of the Houses of Parliament; a pair of white rockets screeched up from the same place and exploded in a shower of stars.
“Her Majesty is safely within the gates of Buckingham Palace,” Lestrade said with a sigh of relief.
He looked down at his gleaming boots and then at Holmes and I, blinking in embarrassment. “If you do not have another call on your time, gentlemen, I wonder if you would condescend to accompany me across the road to the Red Lion public house for a quiet glass of something refreshing to signify a job well done. It is a polite house, much frequented by Members of Parliament and peers of the Realm.”
I looked at Holmes.
“I would say that our work for Lord Salisbury is done, wouldn’t you, Watson? The Queen is safely in her palace, and all is well in this small corner of the Empire. I would be honoured to be your guest, Inspector.”
“And I,” I said, wringing his hand.
“Long live the Queen,” I cried, too loudly and in one of those moments when the general hubbub of sound produced by a milling crowd diminishes for some reason. My cry was taken up, not only by my friends, but also by those policemen, soldiers and church officials around us. I had the gratification of hearing it echo through the crowds thronging Westminster Bridge, and travel across the River towards the dark lanes of Lambeth. People in Parliament Square carried the cry in the opposite direction towards the public offices in Whitehall, and east through teeming multitudes towards Victoria. A regimental band in front of Parliament started the National Anthem. Lestrade saluted and Holmes and I stood to attention, bareheaded. It was one of the proudest moments of my life.
“I booked a private dining room at the Cafe Royal for dinner this evening,” Holmes murmured as we sat at a reserved table in the Red Lion and Lestrade fought through the crowd to the bar counter to get our drinks.
