by Mike Hogan
“At the Palace, Doctor. They had several.”
11. Charades
That is my Job
Holmes requisitioned the Library at the Travellers Club as our headquarters.
We extracted Mycroft and Billy from the party at Mycroft’s flat, and Holmes sent Churchill to Baker Street on the Goddess. Mycroft sat on a sofa and promptly fell asleep.
“We must let the Baker Street Irregulars know to report here,” said Holmes as he took a large map of London from a drawer and spread it across a table. “If the robbers go to the Russian Embassy and that energetic officer of Life Guards chases the gas van through the Embassy gates, which he will if he gets the chance, war is inevitable.”
He looked up at me with a predatory gleam in his eyes. “Thus far, the Russian involvement has been distant: carriages and horses lent, no more. I do not expect that they are entirely in the know. No, I do not think that the villains will take the Koh-i-Noor to the Embassy.”
“Let us hope that the Life Guards catch them on the street,” I said.
Holmes folded the map. “It may be disloyal of me, Watson, but I hope that they do not catch them at all; that is my job.”
I considered. “If we had gone straight up to the vault room at Buckingham Palace instead of chatting with the heralds, we might have caught the thieves red-handed, and prevented the theft, might we not, Holmes?”
“We might have; it was a possibility. But my dear friend, our first concern had to be the person of the Queen.”
Holmes glanced up, but he did not look me directly in the eye. I frowned a rather sceptical frown.
“Pass me the Shipping News, old chap,” he asked, after a long pause. I found the newspaper on a rack and passed it to him.
“There is one man in England who could have planned this, Watson; he is my evil doppelgänger, the Professor. There are perhaps four who could have carried it out. I fancy that any one of them would have made a better job of it. We are therefore up against a newcomer. This is his first caper at this level; He is Jonathan Dacre, a cadet, on trial.
“The aluminium ladder was a masterstroke. With its aid, they were able to continue the robbery even after the loss of their confederate. Two men stole one of the most valuable jewels in the world from the Queen’s apartments at Buckingham Palace. It shows how useless the Queen’s guards are when they are so easily gulled.”
“But why not just use the gas leak ruse to get under the window of the vault room, and then climb up and through the window? Why bother with the impersonation?”
“They did not know in which room the safe was installed. The fake Thakore picked door locks, found it and opened the window for his confederate. Even our dim-witted sentry might have been suspicious if two men had climbed up to the windows of the Queen’s apartments and forced them, gasmen or no. The impersonation gave them flexibility. And I can’t help thinking that young Dacre has a penchant for the dramatic.”
Holmes smiled and shook his head. “It is a fault.”
I smiled my own ironic smile as Holmes continued.
“The theft at the Travellers paid the thieves expenses. I am sure they received not just the price of the jewels, but much more for their political significance. They had the jewels, but they had to strike again to get the court clothes and invitation card to the reception.”
“Yes, I see that,” I said. “They did not take the clothes and invitation card in the first raid because they would have been missed. But why not take the emeralds, the clothes and the card in one swoop? And how did they know that Gondal wasn’t wearing the necklace that particular night? He said that he didn’t wear the emeralds because he was intending to visit a gaming house with his friends. It was a sudden decision; he wanted to cheer up his political adviser. How did the thieves know? And why did they take Kanji? Why go to the trouble of sticking the old fellow in the trunk and carting him out? What value does he have?”
“As so often, Watson, you ask the key questions. Why did they take him? Why did they not kill him? That would have unnerved the Thakore more than his kidnapping. The boy would have been in no state to go to a party. He might not have noticed the missing clothes and invitation until the next day. They have been strangely scrupulous considering the stakes. They are violent, but not murderous. It is as if someone, or something, is staying their hand.”
“Nothing rings true, Holmes. For the theft to succeed in its political dimension, the robbery must be made public. If Duleep Singh announces to the world that he is the reincarnated Lion of the Punjab and that he possesses the powerful Koh-i-Noor, who will believe him when the British government denies the fact and produces the brooch? The thieves saved the government some money by leaving a replica - well had saved until you broke it into several pieces.”
“Indian gemmologists will be able to tell that it is genuine and not a fake,” Holmes countered. “They are among the best in the world. However, you are right again, my dear friend; you focus on the crux of the affair. Who would believe them against the word of our government without confirming evidence?”
Holmes clapped me on the shoulder. “The plan was good, the execution unsteady; success trumped their mistakes. This young man will do well, after a period of apprenticeship. It is unfortunate for him that he came up against me so early in his career. I hope he is not the sensitive type.”
He called out through the Library doors for a pageboy. A boy peeked nervously around the door. “Coffee,” said Holmes. “Strong and black. Quick as you like, this is a national emergency.”
He drew up a chair to one of the Library desks and flipped through the Shipping News. He ringed an entry. “Wake Mycroft, would you, Watson? He will get snappy if I do it. We will need his help tonight.”
I shook Mycroft’s shoulder. He coughed and felt bleary-eyed for his pipe.
“Now,” said Holmes. “The robbers will want to be in a safe haven, far from British jurisdiction, as soon as possible. That leaves the train - there are no trains to the Continent until the morning, and then they will be closely watched - or a steamer.”
“They expect to have fooled us with the fake brooch,” I suggested. “They think that they have time. Why should they rush?”
Holmes stood and adjusted his necktie in the mirror over the fireplace.
“What Sherlock is intimating by that little display at the mirror, Doctor,” said Mycroft with a dry chuckle, “is that the gang knows that the great Sherlock Holmes is on the case.”
“They have some respect for my abilities,” Holmes snapped. “Else they would not have tried to scare me - us - with the bomb. Do not pout, Watson, old friend. You know that when I say me, I mean you and me, and Churchill, of course. It is like saying England when you mean England, Scotland and Wales.
“The explosion was, like their other efforts, tentative and ineffective. I believe that they worried over and adjusted their plan. The first steamer leaving for the Continent tomorrow is the paddle steamer Biarritz, bound for Hamburg and Saint Petersburg. I am certain that they will be on it.”
“Russia!” I exclaimed.
“Not just Russia, the Imperial capital,” said Mycroft with a look of intense concern. “The Koh-i-Noor would impress Alexander. He knows its history and covets it. He will be afraid too: they say that it cannot be worn by a man without dreadful consequences. If he infiltrates Maharajah Duleep into the Punjab with the jewel, the consequences could be catastrophic. He could set the subcontinent aflame!”
“We must inform Lestrade and have the ship searched,” I said.
“On what grounds?” asked Holmes. “We have no proofs. And, according to the Shipping News, she is carrying despatches to the Russian Imperial Court.”
“There would be an immense scandal if the police boarded her and found nothing,” said Mycroft sharply. “It might trigger an incident that could have tragic European reper
cussions. We must have proof. Then, with the Prime Minister at my back, I can fire up the mandarins at the Foreign Office, conjure an excuse and have the paperwork arranged to detain her.
“And it will take time, rounding up the Powers-That-Be after Jubilee Day. It will be a Labour of Hercules. I cannot guarantee anything until late afternoon. Doctor Watson is right, Sherlock: the ship must be delayed.”
“We must make certain sure that our quarry is aboard her before we act,” said Holmes. “Act, act,” he said to himself. “I wonder?”
He pulled out a briar pipe and lit it.
The pageboy entered with a tray of coffee. I poured coffee as the Holmes brothers meditated over their pipes.
The clock on the mantel struck the quarter hour.
“A comic interlude,” said Holmes with a smile.
“A charade,” said Mycroft, nodding.
Holmes sat at a desk and began to scribble on sheets of Travellers Club notepaper.
Curiosity overcame my manners, and I peered over Holmes’ shoulder. “The second and third notes are perfectly illegible, Holmes. Anyone would think that you are the doctor. I shall rewrite them.”
“Hurry, the Biarritz sails in four hours,” he said. “Fetch me down the Almanach de Gotha.”
He flicked through the pages. “Ah, the Duke of Saxe-Coburg-Gotha; he will do. I laid bare a scheme by French scoundrels to blackmail his butler. He will not mind if I borrow his title in the Queen’s service. There, Watson, you must play a German.”
I gave him a snarl and a sneering look. “I shall require a monocle,” I demanded in a Prussian bark.
Mycroft chuckled and Holmes shook his head. “My dear fellow, you are too thoroughly an Englishman. It is an admirable trait. No, no, let me think; of course, you shall play a doctor. We need to find a proper foreigner, preferably a German or a Russian.”
“What about a Greek?” I suggested. “Mr Melas speaks Russian, and he is to hand.”
“Again, my dear fellow, you hit the mark. Pass me the notepad.”
Churchill reappeared with a negative report from the Irregulars. Nothing stirred at the Russian Embassy.
“You brought Bessie?” asked Holmes.
Churchill yawned and nodded. Holmes turned to me. “Bessie is the most powerful cyclist in our household, is she not?”
“At the moment,” I agreed reluctantly.
Holmes checked his watch. “Roads in Central London and the City are closed to commercial traffic until two. I need Bessie and Billy to deliver these notes with the Goddess. We will meet at our assembly point in two hours. I suggest that meanwhile we should try to get some sleep on the Library sofas.”
I was certain that in my state of nervous exhaustion I would not be able to close my eyes for a moment. The look on Mycroft’s face as he expressed his grave doubts as to our success; the terrible consequences of failure, in European and Asiatic terms, had chilled me to the bone. With modern guns and explosives, any war would be as bloody, or bloodier as the terrible recent conflict between the American states. Could England survive such a terrible war?
“Watson! Watson, wake up. It is time.”
Holmes, Mycroft and Churchill sipped steaming cups of coffee. They looked wan and dispirited in the yellow gas-light.
“Billy picked up a private cab on the way home and he persuaded the driver here at double fare,” said Holmes. “He and Bessie have done well. All my messages were delivered and the recipients have agreed to act with us. It is a wonder what can be achieved when one can request and require in the name of the Queen. Churchill brought your pistol and medical bag, my dear friend; we may need both.”
We filed downstairs, through the hall and past the doorkeeper of the Travellers Club. The Green Goddess stood behind the cab under a street lamp. Billy had wired an oil lamp to her and it still glowed fitfully. She had done well, I thought, but I was happy to climb into the cab and let horsepower do the work of leg power. My hams ached abominably, and I had felt a twinge or two from my war wounds. As we climbed aboard our four-wheeler, Churchill yawned prodigiously.
“Make an effort, Churchill,” said Holmes. “Try to look Greek.”
Cry God for Victoria!
The streets were dark and empty as we clattered south towards the River.
The Jubilee illuminations had been doused, and the revellers of the night before slept in their beds. I wished that I too were under a soft blanket in my bed in Baker Street.
We alighted at the entrance to the Savoy Theatre on the Victoria Embankment. The doors were open and gas lamps lit in the foyer. A tired-looking commissionaire sat on a chair just inside, smoking a cigarette. A pageboy leant against the wall of the foyer, asleep. He woke and jumped to attention as we entered.
“Smarten up, young man,” Holmes snapped. “Take us to the stage.”
We followed the boy through a side door and along narrow, dusty corridors to the wings. The stage was dark and empty. The bright-yellow theatre curtain was up, and the auditorium was dimly lit by gas lamps. I had an impression of several figures huddled in the first few rows of the stalls. Holmes nodded to a stagehand who sat at a complicated looking board, like one of the machines that one saw at the back of telegraph offices. It emitted a strange buzzing sound. The man pulled up a handle and electric globes ignited, bathing the stage in a brilliant white light.
Holmes strode to centre stage.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” he cried in ringing tones into the auditorium. “I have called you here today on a matter of the gravest international consequence. A great conspiracy has been constructed against Her Majesty the Queen, against the Empire, and particularly against that magnificent jewel in the Imperial crown, India.
“We will endeavour to return to its rightful owner, the Prince of Gondal, the emerald necklace that is the emblem of the rulers of his state, and the source of that principality’s spiritual power.”
He bowed to where I could make out the young prince and his friend in the front row of the stalls. The Thakore of Gondal stood and acknowledged a smattering of applause.
“We intend to return another great jewel to Her Majesty,” Holmes continued. “To do so, we must pit our wits against one of the greatest criminal minds in this century of the world. His minions violated the sanctity of the Queen’s private apartments and stole a most precious possession. They intend to use it to incite treason and foment rebellion. What we do this morning may avert a tragedy of European proportions. Failure may mean a loss of human life on an unimaginable scale. The Russian bear is poised on our border in Kashmir; only we may turn him back. We must recover a literal jewel in Her Majesty’s crown, the symbol of that martial race, the Sikhs, and the key to the Punjab: the Koh-i-Noor diamond.”
Holmes bowed again, and I joined in a barrage of applause that, despite our thin ranks, seemed to fill the theatre. The house lights came up as man in a black frockcoat and high top hat walked down the aisle to the orchestra pit clapping his hands.
“Bravo, Mr Holmes,” he said. “I shall have to find a place for you in our next production. How would Captain Corcoran suit? We may revive Pinafore in the autumn.”
Holmes laughed. “You are too kind, Mr Carte.”
“That is Mr D’Oyly Carte, the impresario and owner of the Savoy Theatre,” I exclaimed.
“He is our director,” Holmes murmured.
“Beginners, please,” said Mr Carte looking at his notes. “We need the Greeks, man and boy, with nurse and servant girl.”
I took my chance to view the electric lights that illuminated the stage more closely. I had seen The Mikado in electric light the previous year, but I had not had the opportunity to examine a globe close up. I sat on a bench and peered at one. It looked like a small laboratory flask with a clear, bright flame in the centre. There was no particular smell. I blinked and saw strange flashes be
fore my eyes; I felt dizzy for a second. I sat back, blinked again and looked away.
Mr Carte appeared on stage and marshalled his performers. “Mr Melas, is it, sir? Then yours is the plum part. According to my note, Mr Holmes wishes you to play a Greek nobleman. This boy, Winston Spencer-Churchill, is your son. You are in the pay of the Russians and spying on England. You are blown upon: suspected. English detectives dog you, etcetera and so on. You must escape to Russia. The Russian Embassy has given you documents that will convince the captain of the Biarritz to convey you to Saint Petersburg in secret. Good. I am happy to see, Mr Holmes, that there is no magic lozenge in the plot. If you decide to make it into a light opera, Mr Sullivan will have no objections. Willy will find suitable Greek clothing from the Wardrobe department.”
He looked around. “Where is Willy?”
“Here, sir,” cried a sweet voice, and an effete young man with a shock of ginger curls came out from the wings.
“Greek nobleman and son, Willy. Now, Mr Melas, you will have to improvise your lines; the gist is a plea for help and a heavy bribe. We can go through the scene and block out the moves with me as the ship’s captain. The chief point is that your request for help is sustained by a banker’s draft for - how much Mr Holmes?”
“A sufficient amount, Mr Carte. I am arranging the paperwork.”
I joined Holmes at a small table that had been set up at the side of the stage directly under an electric globe. A short bald man sat at it surrounded by papers and inks. I nodded to Wiggins who stood behind him.
“No change at the Russian Embassy, Doctor, except that there’s a brigade of cavalry looking ugly and ominous through the gates. We rescued a window cleaner and his lad on a cart that was about to be spitted by the Life Guards. Let me introduce my uncle Josiah.”
The bald man half rose from the table and bowed.
“Uncle Josiah,” I said. “The forger who -”
Churchill poked me in the arm and nodded to where Lestrade and two police constables sat in the auditorium. He put a finger to his lips.
