by Mike Hogan
“My goodness, Holmes, private rooms are like - like aluminium. Is it not beyond our budget?”
“No, no, Watson. Think what we will save in cab fares this year as we glide through London on your Humber.”
I could not tell from his inscrutable expression whether he spoke in earnest or in jest.
“I took the precaution of booking a room for a party of twelve several months ago,” Holmes explained. “I have invited Colonel Cody and Red Shirt from the Wild West Show, Churchill, Mycroft and Melas. If Colonel Delacy is not incarcerated in the Tower, I hope that he will join us. Monsieur Bertillon and Inspector Dubugue are on their way from France. Ours is a purely bachelor affair, else we could not induce Delacy and Mycroft, let alone Bertillon, to attend. With you and I, and Red Shirt’s young interpreter, that makes eleven. What do you say to asking Inspector Lestrade to make up our party, if he is free?”
“With all my heart, Holmes. Ah, here are our drinks.”
Holmes, Lestrade and I gulped our beer and nodded to one another in quiet satisfaction. Never was a glass of our national brew more welcome.
“Come, Watson,” said Holmes. “You must help me with the menu card for our dinner this evening. You will join us, I hope, Inspector. It is a little surprise that I have just sprung on Watson: dinner tonight at the Cafe Royal. We shall sit down early to allow Colonel Cody and Red Shirt to appear in the last Wild West Show of the evening at Olympia.
Lestrade grinned his assent.
“You will? Excellent. If I get this card to the Cafe Royal by five, they will have it printed as a souvenir of the occasion. Let me see, the heading is fine:
A Gala Dinner given by Mr Sherlock Holmes and Doctor John Watson on the occasion of the Golden Jubilee of our Most Gracious Sovereign, Queen-Empress of India, Queen Victoria, etc.
“I ordered a couple of potages: Printanier and la Reine, then saumon and whitebait. I cannot recall the French for whitebait. Then des Cailles en Chaudfroid (quail in aspic) and calf sweetbreads à la Buffalo Bill. Let me see, there’s saddle of mutton, roast goose, lobster à la Jubilé, a macedoine de fruits and gelées. I will rely on the Cafe Royal to provide cold cuts, vegetables and the side dishes. The wine list was approved by Inspector Dubugue.”
Holmes, Churchill and I arrived at the Cafe Royal in a private cab, just as Buffalo Bill, Chief Red Shirt, and the chief’s young follower, Running Deer dismounted from their horses.
The doorway and canopy were covered with bunting and flowers in patriotic colours. Passers-by gave the Colonel and the Indians a hearty welcome with applause and cheers. Colonel Cody had the good grace to return the greeting with a cry of “God save the Queen”.
A fine, strong murmur of masculine conversation followed our introductions, and no reserve due to differences of class or national character was exhibited during our dinner. Indeed, our convivial chatter was regularly pierced by manly laughter and much interrupted by gracious salutes and toasts. I sat between Colonel Cody and Red Shirt and we managed a congenial exchange, with occasional translation by the Colonel, on the eating habits of mankind: knives and forks, fingers, spoons and chop-sticks. We moved on to a stimulating and informative discussion of differences in funeral rites.
Holmes sat between Inspector Dubugue and Monsieur Bertillon, opposite Mr Melas. He refereed a spirited conversation in French on a subject that eluded me. Colonel Delacy, Churchill and the young Indian boy engaged in a heated debate on the old chestnut, the mounted lancer versus the infantryman with the bayonet. Judging by their sweeping gestures, the Colonel espoused the lance, Churchill the bayonet and Running Deer, Red Shirt’s young translator, was a proponent of the tomahawk.
Across the table from me, Mycroft and Lestrade murmured conspiratorially together on what I was sure was police or government business. I saluted them with my glass of wine, and received warm smiles and lifted glasses in return.
Our waiters served a last course of savouries and cleared the table. Colonel Cody rose and proposed the Queen. Holmes stood and replied on her behalf with The United States of America. I offered La France. Dubugue replied with England, St George, the British Police and Scotland Yard in particular. Lestrade jumped up and proposed the Sûreté, and Bertillon, followed with Amity between Nations. Holmes diverted Colonel Delacy from proposing Waterloo by substituting Sebastopol. Red Shirt had not eaten much, but he had drunk a great deal, and although he was perfectly willing to propose a toast, he stood, and immediately slid under the table. Running Deer supervised as a pair of phlegmatic French waiters laid him out on the carpet next to the skirting board.
“May I say, gentlemen,” said Holmes, “as co-chairman on this festive occasion, and without any disloyalty to the Crown, that we have eaten as well as the fifty kings and crown-princes that dined yesterday with the Queen at Buckingham Palace?”
He was greeted with roar of approval and applause.
Churchill stood with his thumbs in his waistcoat pockets and his elbows akimbo. He proposed a vote of thanks to the chairmen, then trumped us all with a toast to Her Majesty’s Diamond Jubilee, and the hope that our band of brothers might meet again on that occasion. I caught Holmes’ eye and saw that he agreed with me that the boy was coming along well. His interrogation of the night watchman at Carlton Gardens had provided confirmation of Holmes’ deductions - which seemed to annoy him for some reason - and the discovery of the lump of aluminium had opened a new line of enquiry that could prove most fruitful.
I saw the boy reach for another glass of red wine and I gave a discreet signal to the waiters. The wine bottles were instantly whisked away and replaced by pots of steaming coffee.
10. We Are Being Played, Watson
Count the Spoons
We said our goodbyes under the restaurant canopy.
Colonel Cody, Running Deer and the resuscitated Red Shirt trotted off through the crowds towards Olympia. Colonel Delacy invited Mycroft, Melas, Bertillon and Dubugue to his home for a nightcap. Lestrade marched off, swaying slightly, in the direction of the Yard.
Holmes had the foresight to book a private cab for the evening, and we found the driver, George, outside the restaurant. The central streets were still closed to wheeled traffic to accommodate the crowds viewing the illuminated shop fronts of the West End and the City, and he had been obliged to park his cab some distance away at Ormond Yard. Holmes and I decided to walk home and view the illuminations in Oxford Street and Piccadilly. We gave Churchill, fast asleep to George; he slung the boy over his shoulder and set off towards his cab.
“You know, old friend,” I said blearily. “I did not know that you were a Grecian.”
“Eh? Oh, I suppose I could still construe Xenophon without a crib,” Holmes replied. “You are thinking of Madame Melas. I know a few simple thoughts in modern Greek, and some phrases of introduction and welcome. I thanked Madame and said that the food was delicious. If the food had been otherwise, I would have been mute for reasons of linguistic inadequacy as well as good manners.”
“You never fooled me with that giraffe-hiring nonsense,” I said, tapping the side of my nose.
Holmes smiled and took my arm.
An hour or so later, we turned in to Baker Street and ambled towards 221B.
I noticed that a closed carriage stood outside our door. The horses’ heads drooped, and there were flecks of dried foam about their mouths. Our pageboy Billy poked his head out of the open doorway and peered up and down the street. He spotted us, gave a view holloa cry into the house and ran to meet us, frantically waving his arms.
“There’s two Indians in the waiting room,” he said.
“One’s absolutely beside himself,” said Mrs Hudson wringing her hands in agitation as we entered the hall. “I had to give him a medicinal brandy and lemon - we’ve no more ice, sirs - and get Bessie to fan him with my Jubilee fan or he would have gone ‘pop’ and then where would we be
? I sent Master Winston in there to have a nice chat with them while they waited.”
“Oh dear,” I said. “He is not a calming influence, even when sober. Are they Gondal and his adviser Kanji, do you think?”
Holmes shrugged. “Let us see.”
I opened the door of the waiting room and I was surprised to see, not Gondal, but his older friend, the Thakore Jaswantsinhji of Limdi. The man with him was a deeply suntanned European in a black, frogged and embroidered uniform with a cocked hat tucked under his arm. The Thakore was in an elaborate court dress with medals and decorations, and his turban glittered with jewels. Bessie fanned him with a paper fan decorated with images of the Jubilee.
“Thank God, you are here at last Mr Holmes,” cried the Thakore jumping from his chair. “A very terrible thing has occurred!”
The other man stepped forward. “May I introduce myself? Major Perkins, assigned from Bombay as Political Agent for Gondal.”
Ah, I thought, Eton and King’s, the ex-Apostle with an awkward wife. I made the introductions and we shook hands. Churchill stood by the fireplace, with his thumbs behind his lapels, swaying gently. He smiled a lopsided smile.
“As Thakore Jaswantsinhji of Limdi has intimated,” said Major Perkins in sepulchral tones. “A most serious situation has arisen. Kanji, the senior adviser to Thakore Bhagwatsinhji of Gondal has disappeared; we fear that he has been abducted, or worse. Gondal asks that you attend him immediately, Mr Holmes.”
I sent our punkah wallah, Bessie, to fetch tea. Churchill was helped out by Billy.
“Put him to bed,” I instructed.
Billy paled.
Our carriage stopped outside the Travellers Club and Holmes, Major Perkins and I got out. The Thakore of Limdi remained seated.
“The reception at Buckingham Palace starts in forty-five minutes,” said Perkins, checking his watch. “Thakore Jaswantsinhji must not be late; it would be intolerably rude. He will inform the Palace that Gondal is ill. The heralds will have to reassign the seating arrangements; they will be very displeased. They have pored over the Almanach de Gotha, the Red Book and the Indian order of precedence for weeks. The Prince of Wales will be livid.”
The carriage rattled away through the mass of sightseers crowding Pall Mall and we mounted the steps into the lobby of the Travellers Club. The manager sat in a chair in the lobby looking pale and distraught. I immediately prescribed a large brandy.
Holmes spoke to the doorkeeper and joined Major Perkins and I.
“How well do you know the Thakore Jaswantsinhji of Limdi?” Holmes asked the Major.
“I’ve known him since he was a senior at Rajkumar College. If you think that he is somehow behind all this, you are wrong. He has been a tower of strength to young Gondal. If he had not hurried here, despite being in the middle of dressing for the reception, the boy would have thrown himself out of the window.”
“Thank you. I shall send to ask Colonel Delacy to join us here.”
“Will you, by Jove?” exclaimed Major Perkins. “Well, good luck to you. He is a sharp old buffer, but he left his sense of moderation back in Oudh ten years ago. He has the ear of Great Ones in London and he is a considerable nuisance to men on the spot in India. I must go. I do not attend the reception at the Palace, as it is a meeting of princes, but there is a separate reception for political agents at the India Office. I must appear, or there will be speculation that will further damage young Gondal.”
He shook our hands. “I will say goodbye to the Thakore.”
He hurried upstairs and we followed at a slower pace. We arrived outside the Thakore’s bedroom just as Major Perkins opened the door and stepped out.
“He is on the edge of hysteria, Doctor. Perhaps you could prescribe something calming?”
I nodded and reached for the door handle.
“Is anything else missing?” asked Holmes.
“Anything else missing, Mr Holmes!” cried Major Perkins in a highly displeased tone. “An intimate member of the Thakore of Gondal’s staff has been abducted. Do you want us to count the spoons?”
I ministered to the Thakore and then found Holmes in the next-door bedroom, presumably Kanji’s, on his hands and knees examining the carpet.
“Ah, Watson. A plethora of evidence is laid before us, although the carpet has been much trodden on. Ah, more blood: these fellows are ready with their cudgels. They have left us a convenient handkerchief that somehow wafted itself under the bed. How kind of them.”
He handed it to me.
“A faint tinge of chloroform,” I said.
“Just so. No other points of interest. That is strange, is it not?” He stood back against the mantelpiece, lit a cigar and surveyed the room.
“I believe smoking is only allowed in the Smoking Room, Holmes.”
“You will immediately notice the clothes and books placed tidily along the ottoman. It is inconvenient; there is no room for us to sit.”
He strode across the room and opened a large wardrobe. “Yet there is ample room to store these items here, out of the way.” He smiled. “Two attacks in the same place: they are playful. To the roof!”
We clambered up the small dusty staircase that we had ascended a few days earlier. Holmes loped across the roof to the balustrade at the back of the building. I breathed the cooler air and lit a cigar.
“Nothing. We are being played, Watson,” Holmes said. “I feel the hook in my cheek. Six months or more of preparation, and a large expenditure, for a string of inferior emeralds and an ancient courtier. I think not. The emerald theft was a profitable venture, but it was a rehearsal. The aluminium ladder is the lightest in the kingdom - in the world. It can be set up and dismantled in seconds and carried by one man with ease. They have a greater crime in mind than the Gondal jewels and the kidnapping of Kanji, I am convinced of it. This is a herring drawn across the true scent.”
A police constable appeared at the head of the staircase, puffing hard. We followed him down to the landing outside Kanji’s bedroom. A uniformed police inspector stood in the doorway.
“Ah, Inspector,” said Holmes jovially. “The scoundrels left a handkerchief under the bed and a tidy pile of silk and linen on the sofa.”
He chuckled. “I must draw your attention to the lack of points of interest on the carpet and to the singular matter of the space under the window.”
The Inspector and I peered into the room. “There is nothing in the space under the window, sir,” said the Inspector in a puzzled tone.
“I commend that fact to your attention,” said Holmes. He turned to me. “Let us talk to the keeper of the gates.”
We found the doorkeeper on the pavement outside the Club. He was a huge, bearded man in a blue uniform.
“The manager is in a right old mood,” he said. “Two attacks in a week. I told him straight out, I can’t help it if they come in over the roof. I ask you sirs, do I look like a bleeding aerialist?”
He was a corpulent person and the answer was easily arrived at. I shook my head.
“No, sergeant, you do not,” said Holmes. “Kindly list every person who has come in or out of the Club today. Or since the Thakore of Gondal stepped out this afternoon.”
“The Indian prince? Quiet day, sir, according to the day man. Not much in or out until after the procession. I came on at six, and saw the Indian prince return an hour or so ago with the English gentleman, the one you arrived with.”
“Major Perkins,” I said.
“Two minutes after they went upstairs, the gentleman, Major Perkins you say, came running down crying that the old Indian gent was missing and there was blood all over. I sent for a bobby and the Major sent a message to the other Indian prince. He arrived in a carriage and sped off ten minutes later with the Major. Then you arrived.”
A boy in a white sailor suit crossed the
road.
“Churchill, what are you doing here?” I asked sternly. He was red-eyed and pale.
“I went across to the cab rank, Doctor. They are having their Jubilee supper in the mews. When the police questioned them earlier, the cabbies kept mum, thinking one of their own was involved. I explained our suspicions of a fake cab; they said that they were aggrieved that a strange hansom had picked up a trunk from the Travellers Club at eight this evening. That was against an agreement that cab owners would give their men leave to join in the Jubilee festivities from seven until two tomorrow morning. A gleaming new job, they said, with green wheels. The horse was no cab horse; it was a runner.”
Holmes looked quizzically at the door attendant.
“I didn’t see a trunk, sir. But -”
“Yes?”
“I was called away for a few moments by a man who smelled smoke in Carlton Gardens. I went with him to have a look; it was all nonsense. That was at eight or so.”
“Was he a pale fellow in his twenties?” Holmes asked.
The porter nodded. “He was.”
“Well done, Churchill!” Holmes said. “You have made actual the trunk that I merely inferred from the space under the window.”
“Kanji was spirited out of the Club in a trunk,” I exclaimed.
Holmes pursed his lips. “It seems so.” He looked across the road. “Churchill has almost made up for dragging that green monster over here and parking it outside the Diogenes Club.”
I turned and noticed a small crowd of men clustered around the Goddess. Billy waved from the captain’s seat.
“Several members have come out to look,” said Churchill. “They are chatting to Billy.”
“Cyclists do not cling to divisions of class when on the road, Holmes,” I explained. “I helped Lady Irene Fairfax with her drive chain a fortnight ago in the Strand.”
