Sherlock Holmes and Young Winston - The Jubilee Plot

by Mike Hogan

  “Ah,” said Holmes. “Now I see where your cycle craze originated, Watson. Lady Fairfax is quite the beauty.” He nodded towards the opposite pavement. I saw Mycroft, Melas, Colonel Delacy and our French guests ambling along the street towards us.

  “I must speak with Mycroft. Then we must await news from the Irregulars before we move. They may have taken Kanji to the Russian Embassy: it is the obvious place. And yet - I have a strange feeling about this case. All is decidedly not as it seems.”

  The Green Goddess

  We assembled in Mycroft’s chambers for what he called a final loyal toast.

  After the first several: the Queen, France again, General Gordon, the Guards, the brave Sixty-Sixth at Maiwand, and to several things in French that I could not catch, I thought that I was duty-bound to check again on my patient, the young Thakore. I saw Holmes buttonhole Mycroft and move with him to a less noisy corner.

  Churchill appeared beside me holding two glasses of soda water. “I wonder why the robbers came back for Kanji, Doctor.”

  “It is strange. We’ll know more when we hear from the Irregulars,” I answered, sipping the soda water. “If he was taken to the Russian embassy, there will be the devil to pay.”

  “The kidnapping has knocked the Thakore for six.”

  I blinked down at Churchill.

  “I mean,” he continued. “If anyone wanted to upset me, they might kidnap a member of my family, or Mrs Everest. I don’t know what I’d do.”

  I put my glass down on a side table. “I believe I may see whether our patient is comfortable.” Churchill’s remark had started a worrying, but still nebulous train of thought. I had a feeling that we were missing something.

  Churchill and I slipped out, padded down the stairs and crossed the lobby. On the floor above, Colonel Delacy began a barrack room song in Gujarati. His parade ground voice made the chandeliers tremble.

  We walked down the steps onto the pavement and saw that Billy was fast asleep on the tipped-forward Goddess with his feet up on a wheel. I crossed Pall Mall, threading through strolling couples and groups that called out happily and waved flags. I gave the tricycle a pat on the handlebars. I resolved to put her through her paces the following day. I needed to have a firm idea of her quirks before my weekend jaunt at the Crystal Palace. I walked back across the street to Churchill and we passed into the Travellers Club.

  “It’s all right for some,” the porter said with a grin, gesturing towards Mycroft’s rooms from which a loud chorus issued. “They’re a peaceful bunch, normally.”

  I quietly opened the door of the Thakore’s bedroom. I left it ajar for light as I moved to his bed. I took his pulse: it raced. He grabbed my arm with a claw-like grip and jerked up to a sitting position.

  “Doctor, I had a terrible dream,” he said in a voice charged with horror. “I dreamed that Kanji had been taken.”

  I gently patted his shoulder. “I’m sorry, old man. That was no dream.”

  He looked at me, his eyes filled with horror. “And the rest?” He tore back the bedclothes and leapt out of bed. I thought that he might be trying to get to the window and commit the dreadful sin of self-murder. I tackled him to the floor. He lay still, sobbing. Churchill lit the gas.

  The Thakore jumped up again. He ran, not to the window, but to a roll-top desk in the corner of the room. He scrabbled furiously at the papers inside. He swept more papers off the mantelpiece crying out to himself in his native tongue. He threw open the doors of his wardrobe and flung clothes to the floor. He pushed past me into his anteroom and returned with an armful of jewel cases. He opened them - all were empty.

  “They have taken my jewels and court clothes,” he said softly, looking up at me with tears welling in his eyes.

  “Holmes suspected that something else might be missing.”

  “I had no reason to wear my court robes since the reception at the Foreign Office last week - Wednesday was it? And this afternoon for the Thanksgiving Service. And my jewels are missing, with my Jubilee Medal and the insignia of my position as Knight Commander of the Indian Empire. The emeralds were taken already.”

  He sat on the end of the bed with his head in his hands, sobbing.

  “I am sorry, old man. It must be frightful for you.” I could sympathise with the young man to some degree. I knew the value people of his class, particularly foreigners, put on their gorgeous baubles. However, I felt that there was something unmanly in his behaviour. The loss of his adviser, in circumstances that suggested violence, should, I thought, have been his first concern.

  He seemed to guess my judgement as he straightened and stood before me with his eyes wide, and a strong, fierce expression on his face.

  “You do not understand, Doctor. There is a grand reception for foreign princes and statesmen tonight at Buckingham Palace. Kanji collected the invitation card last week. The instructions that came with the card were explicit: it must be presented at the door or no admission will be allowed.”

  “They took the card,” I said, my apprehension mounting.

  “And my court clothes.”

  I turned to Churchill. He was wide-eyed and deathly pale. He turned and we raced out of the room, downstairs and out of the Club. Mr Melas’ voice, singing a Greek ballad, came from the open windows of Mycroft’s sitting room. We ran upstairs, and Churchill flung open the door.

  “Holmes,” I cried in a voice that silenced the revellers. “The thieves aim to impersonate Gondal and gain access to Her Majesty. An outrage is planned against the Queen!”

  There was a moment of stunned silence, and everyone started talking at once.

  “Come,” called Holmes above the babble. “Churchill, fetch a cab. There is not a moment to be lost.”

  I led the way down the stairs and out to the pavement. I took Churchill by the arm before he could run to the mews.

  “It will not do, Holmes,” I said flatly. “There are no cabs. The cabmen are celebrating the Jubilee. They will have to harness a cab and that will take time. They will also be drunk, drunker than usual, very much drunker than usual.”

  I crossed the street, woke Billy, retrieved my cycling gloves and cycling cap from him and wheeled the Green Goddess back to where Holmes stood on the pavement. Churchill jammed his deerstalker onto his head and took his place standing behind me. The Goddess tipped backwards into its driving position. There was a roar of approval from the members of our little drinking club as they spilled into the street. Gawkers clustered around, shouting and waving flags and fans.

  “I can go ahead, Holmes, and you may follow as you can. Perhaps the mews has a riding horse. Billy, you are stoker. All aboard.”

  Holmes jammed his top hat on his head, pulled Billy out of the front seat and took his position. We engaged the pedals.

  “To the Palace,” cried Holmes waving his stick. “Tally-ho!”

  We started slowly and jerkily as we groped for the rhythm. Holmes flapped his top hat at pedestrians in front of us. I swerved just in time to avoid a flag and bunting seller in the middle of Pall Mall. The steering was much firmer with the extra weight of Churchill up behind. I noticed that he had somehow acquired a large Union Flag; he waved it furiously.

  We swung into Waterloo Place, garnering more cheers now that we had a patriotic banner. Holmes and I were closer in rhythm, but still raggedy. I was astonished when he started to sing ‘Rule Britannia’ in fast time. Churchill and I took up the refrain, and as if by magic, I found that Holmes and I were in perfect synchronisation. We hit the Mall at high speed, scattering a contingent of Highlanders returning wearily to barracks. There was no wheeled traffic on the leafy track. A policeman, then several more tried to jump in front of us. Holmes batted them away with his hat and Churchill flourished our battle flag as we swerved around them. They chased us, springing their rattles, whistling and hallooing.

 
Buckingham Palace came up fast. A group of mounted officers in the silver cuirasses and plumed helmets of the Life Guards were chatting by the Palace gates. One officer faced towards us; he waved his sword, and mimed cuts and parries as he described a fierce engagement. He stopped in mid-thrust, and looked past his colleagues as he saw us heading towards the gates, now pursued by a half-dozen policemen. He stared at us; he stood in his stirrups, shaded his eyes and stared and stared.

  He came to a decision, spurred his mount into motion, levelled his sword and galloped at us, his silver helmet and cuirass glinting in the gaslight.

  “Oh dear,” I said, reaching for the brake. “Wave the flag, Churchill!”

  “Charge,” cried Holmes pedalling with all his might. “Aim straight for him, Watson!”

  I steered the Goddess directly at the cavalryman and we closed at a combined speed of better than thirty miles an hour. At the last moment, the horse shied and swerved and we skimmed past him. I heard a hiss and a crack as he swung his sword backhanded and it cut the air above my head.

  Ahead of us, the tall, main gates of Buckingham Palace were ajar. Two guardsmen dithered. One tried to close the gates, the other stood en garde with his rifle and bayonet. We streaked past them and swerved between the gates, giving one a glancing blow. We skidded and bounced out of control as I braked as hard as I could. The Goddess swung through a circle on two wheels or less, clipped the edge of the Palace wall, and skidded to a halt in the central archway.

  Churchill jumped back and I stepped off the Goddess as she tipped forward onto her nose. Holmes was pitched onto the gravel. There was a thunder of hooves and I felt a sharp point in my back. An unsmiling detachment of Her Majesty’s Sikh lancers surrounded us.

  “The beast,” said Churchill waving his empty snapped-off pole. “That chap cut off my flag.”

  “It’s the bloody Quakers again,” said a loud voice that echoed down the narrow corridor.

  “They petition to be presented to Her Majesty, but they refuse to doff their hats. They say that to uncover the head is a sign of reverence that should be shown to God alone. We cannot forbid them an audience with their Queen; we cannot let them into the Royal Presence with their hats on. What to do?”

  We had been marched down a labyrinth of service corridors by a section of Beefeaters with halberds. Judging from the pokes that I received from these fellows, their pikes were not just for show. Behind them marched a corporal’s section of guardsmen with fixed bayonets, and last of all the cavalry officer who had charged us struggled along in his glossy leather thigh boots, spluttering with indignation. We were pushed through an open door into a large and cluttered office in which a colonel in undress uniform sat behind a desk. The room was crowded with court officials and police officers.

  “Who are you?” the Colonel shouted, pointing at us. “I have no time for gawkers.”

  The cavalry officer elbowed his way into the room, still vehemently brandishing his sword. He gave his account of the recent action with a good deal of swashbuckling.

  “The Quakers won’t take off their hats in the presence of the Queen,” said Holmes, taking a seat in front of the desk. “They will not object if you do it for them. Have an attendant respectfully remove each man’s hat as he passes into the audience chamber, and return it to his head when the audience ends.”

  The Colonel waved the cavalryman away and raised an eyebrow.

  “I am Sherlock Holmes, and these are my friends and colleagues, Doctor John Watson and Winston Spencer-Churchill. You are Colonel Roebuck, I presume.”

  One of the senior police officers whispered in the Colonel’s ear. He waved the officer away.

  “No, no. I don’t care who they are, I won’t have them skulking about the Palace looking like a pack of navies. Look at the hat the boy is wearing. I won’t have it, do you hear? Her Majesty, or worse, the Prince of Wales might see you. He is a stickler, the Prince. He’d have my head on the block, and rightly. No, I won’t have it. That is my last word. Go away.”

  “Colonel,” said Holmes quietly. “There has been a breach in security. A person impersonating the Thakore of Gondal has infiltrated the Palace. It is a long-matured plot that may have a design against the Queen. We came here in the fastest conveyance we could find to warn you.”

  “The lancers took the Green Goddess,” said Churchill. “It is private property.”

  The same police inspector whispered again in the Colonel’s ear.

  Colonel Roebuck banged the table with a fist.

  “Very well then, take them to the Herald’s Office. On your head be it if the Prince of Wales spots them.”

  He waved us away, then he stood.

  “Wait. They talk of goddesses. Do not let them near the Highlanders: they are susceptible to ghosts. You will say nothing of goddesses in front of the Black Watch. We have lost our bagpipers to the four winds at Balmoral for flapping washing, let alone green goddesses. That is my final word on the matter.

  An Attempt upon Her Majesty?

  “Their Majesties and Highnesses are assembling in the Bow Room,” said a gorgeously plumed official of the College of Heralds in a soft, unruffled tone.

  “They will take refreshments in the supper room and then dance in the ballroom - ta ta ta ta deee, dee dum dee dum. At two in the morning, we will usher them gently onto the lawn to view Mr Brock’s fireworks. They will then be conveyed home in a state of monarchical bliss. This is what we do, young man. If I may say so, we do it rather well.”

  We sat in an ornate anteroom on the first floor of the Palace. Three magnificently apparelled heralds lolled in armchairs sipping sweet sherry and nibbling arrowroot biscuits. Liveried footmen stood at the doors.

  “And the Thakore of Gondal?” asked Holmes.

  “Nice polite young prince, light skinned for a Kathiawar nobleman. We heard from one of his fellows that he was unwell. Nevertheless, the poor chap dragged himself to the Palace. He couldn’t manage the assembly. He will go in to supper.”

  The official glanced at a clock on the mantelpiece and checked it with his pocket watch. “He will go in to supper in eight minutes. That’s the main thing, for we can’t have a gap, do you see? I’ve had my head stuck in the Almanach de Gotha and the Red Book all week. There are more pashas, satraps, nawabs, tycoons and three-tailed bashaws in London than there are costermongers. It would be the devil’s own job to reorganise the seating. No, that young chap is a good ‘un.”

  He gave his colleagues a knowing look. “I’ve heard rumours that he might find himself very much in the Queen’s favour in the not too distant future, if he keeps his nose clean.”

  He smiled. “We put him in the Music Room with a carafe of water and a plate of Hill’s digestive biscuits. His Royal Highness sent him a box of cigars. Best thing for tummy troubles, a good cigar. Her Majesty intimated that she might have a word as she passes through to the dining room - in seven minutes. She has a soft spot for pale, well-bred Indian boys.”

  The official took a pinch of snuff from a tiny ormolu case and sniffed delicately. “I feel for the poor chap, of course. However, his indisposition was useful: it gave people a topic of conversation. You can imagine that with all the fêtes, and balls and receptions and dinners and garden parties of the last month or so, their highnesses are finding conversation with the same people rather wearing. The weather has been tiresomely invariable. I can assure you that the boy did himself an immense amount of good by staggering here and getting talked about by HM and the Prince.”

  He chuckled

  “Oh, you will say that it is a ploy of his advisers and you may be right. If it was a stratagem, it worked wonderfully. They are up to these little tricks to gain grace and favour; princes, ours included, are a competitive bunch. What else have they to do except plot little schemes of advancement?”

  Holmes pulled out his pocket watch. �
�Sir, in exactly six minutes, The Queen will visit Gondal on his couch in the Music Room to wish him well. The real Thakore is in his bed at the Traveller’s Club in Pall Mall, if he has not committed self-murder in his mortification and shame. The man who wears his emeralds and clothes, and who presented his ticket of entrance, is an impostor. He may be a Fenian dynamite fanatic or a blood-oath Irish assassin with a French air stick. We can vouch that he organised a bombing outrage against us, and that he has kidnapped the Thakore’s closest adviser.”

  The officials stood, aghast.

  “You think it might be an attempt upon Her Majesty?” cried one.

  “That is a possibility.”

  The senior official called over footman and muttered in his ear. The man nodded and marched out of the room at a stately pace.

  “There is some urgency,” I said.

  Holmes smiled and shook his head at me. “Calm, my dear friend.”

  We waited, the clock ticking gently on the mantelpiece. The heralds sat and munched their biscuits and sipped their sherry with worried frowns on their faces.

  A young officer of the Guards appeared with four soldiers in bearskins carrying rifles. Again, the official muttered instructions and they marched off at a slow pace. A contingent of three tall footmen arrived next. Again, they were given their instructions. I was astonished to see that each pulled out a large revolver from beneath his jacket and checked the load. They too left at a leisurely pace. The official glanced at the clock.

  “We have seventeen seconds,” he said. “The doors of the supper room are about to open. We have informed Her Majesty that the Thakore had to return home. He had an unfortunate relapse, the poor lad. I will arrange that we send him a Dundee cake.”

  “The Music Room?” asked Holmes.

  “Sealed and guarded. Her Majesty has been hedged with tall men, armed and pledged - as who of us is not - to defend the Queen with their lives.”

  He smiled at Holmes. “As soon as the guests are seated for supper, we can nab the fellow. Ah, here is Bluemantle. He was at the gate earlier this evening. He admitted the Thakore.”