by Bill Peschel
It reminded me of Black Bart, who I knew in San Francisco. He was a desperate man. Nothing scared him. He showed fright over nothing, except nuns. Whenever the mothers of Mary appeared, Bart minded himself so carefully it would make a dog laugh. We would have, too, except he wasn’t afraid of us, and we were definitely afeared of him.
Ayush sidled over to me. Turning his back on Mycroft, he snorted, then spoke softly, and to my shock in English.
“A question, may I ask? If you were free, out in the street, what would you do?”
“Do? I’d kick up so much dust racing for the ferry that you’d think a sandstorm was coming.”
He could feel a sneeze coming on, but pressed to say, “You wouldn’t, say, you understand, tell the consul?”
“Why you blithering wretch! Of course I—”
A hand clamped over my mouth.
“Of course we wouldn’t!” Mycroft said. Ayush loose a sneeze that puffed his scarf out of place. Then he sneezed again.
Mycroft paused, his head tilted like a coon dog hearing something in the bushes. The ruffian’s nasal music had stirred a chord of memory in Mycroft. He said, “Binky? Is that you? Of course it is!”
The beast slumped at being found out. He pulled his scarf back, revealing a deeply tanned face. “Fiddles! You always were hard to fool, Ego.”
“Dust never suited your sinuses, and don’t call me that.”
“Only if you drop that Binky nonsense. It won’t do in the field.”
“Done. What are you doing in the back of beyond? Whitehall didn’t—”
He made a shushing gesture. “Security, you know, one hand can’t be seen washing the other—”
“A bloody bollocks, if you asked me.”
“Yes, well,” Binky dropped the tip of his sword and rested on his pommel like a farmer hanging over the fencepost. “Have you seen Twiddles? You were so close. How’s the pater—”
Their confab was interrupted. Dietrich came back in, trailed by Si el Aziz. “What is going on here? Why are you talking to them?” He drew his gun. “I give an order; it shall be carried out.”
Binky turned back into Ayush Et-Lezra and said, “Sidi—” meaning “Master.”
“Take them out of here! Perhaps they need encouragement even if this will lower his price,” and he pointed his gun at Mycroft’s feet.
He froze. Binky’s sword pricked the center of Dietrich’s throat. “I wouldn’t do that old chap. Seems that Ego’s a mate of mine.”
Dietrich burst into a Teutonic curse that no one could understand, then told Si el Aziz, “Tell Abd and Rais to kill the heretics!”
Then Rais spoke—
“I’m sorry, Herr Dietrich,” he said in heavily French-accented English. He sheathed his sword and bowed to us. “Jean Armand Joyeuse of the Ministry of War. If Been-key is playing it that way, I cannot do otherwise,” he added with a smirk.
Binky groaned.
Dietrich looked mad enough to bite the barrel of his gun. With the sword still poised at his throat, he couldn’t rant too hard, but instead eyed the third man.
He shrugged. “I am still Abd Ghailan,” he said. “But Spanish military.”
Mycroft said, “I could almost feel sorry for you, Dietrich. You went to great trouble to build a mine underneath the throne of Morocco. Wormed yourself in, secretly ran guns, flattered, bribed, and recruited your allies. Your dreams of a fine coup fizzled because you couldn’t tell a native Moroccan from a European in cork and greasepaint.”
Dietrich recovered himself well, though. He stood ramrod-straight and defied everyone. He glared at Binky with disdain. “Know that I go to my death a Prussian soldier.”
“Oh, don’t be like that, Herr Dietrich,” he took the Prussian’s gun and stuck it in his waistband. “This inning is over. You’ll have your revenge on another field.” His friends chimed in with their support as well. You’d think they were commiserating with a rival on the cricket field, which stirred Dietrich’s hash. His face darkened like a thundercloud, and he shivered like a boiler nearing eruption.
Then he exploded. “You have won this time, but I assure you that we will learn from this! England will not dominate us forever! We will—”
His steam was up and he was building into a fine flow of invective, but he was drowned out by shouting from the street. A drumbeat of hooves rose in volume, accompanied by a chorus of cries in Arabic.
Binky said, “Monsieur Joyeuse, please to look out off the window and tell us what you see.”
“There is much turmoil in the streets. A troop of the emperor’s guards approach. It is time for us to fade into the crowds.”
As if to confirm his statement, the door flew open. The rest of the crew, true Moroccans this time, stormed in to cry the news.
Binky sheathed his sword. “We must go,” he told his fellow spies. He hastily shook Mycroft’s hand. “I’m a member of White’s. Stop by for a drink? Come on, lads, time to evict, stage right, pursued by a bear.”
Dietrich was gibbering by this time, stamping his feet and shouting, but he was drowned out by cries of the villains and the storming for the doors.
I patted his shoulder and said, “you’d best run. The Emperor of Morocco is not going to reward you for your work among the heathens.”
He stiffened, and I thought for a moment that he would strike me. But the shots fired outside reminded him of the danger he was in.
“General Sherman, you and your friend must come to Germany, so you may receive the hospitality you deserve.” He fled.
More gunshots could be heard outside, but it didn’t sound like there was much anger behind it. The uproar quieted, replaced by the rapid-fire volley of marching feet coming down the hall. Into the room came a brash young man in a tan suit and white pith helmet. Pale sandy hair, sun-blistered nose, handsome face. I didn’t need Mycroft to tell me he was an American. I didn’t know at the time, but I was seeing the grown-up Tom Sawyer.
Behind him stomped two members of the Emperor’s Guard, spears at the ready. Tom’s eager blue eyes shifted among us and he piped out: “Are you the captives?”
* * * * *
I didn’t speak to Mycroft again until we were on the boat back to Cadiz. There was no opportunity. We were taken to the American consul, while Tom and Mycroft went to John Drummond Hay, the long-time British consul who had great influence with the emperor. Everything was smoothed over, but by the time the bloodhounds were sent after Dietrich, he had disappeared.
When all of that was done, we were aboard the small steamer, chugging across the Mediterranean. Tangier was fading away on our stern, the low buildings radiating a dull reddish-gold. To the west the sun was beginning to set beyond the Pillars of Hercules, a brilliant yellow light fading to a corona of gold-brown before darkening to eternal night. Above the stars were gleaming like pinpricks of diamonds. I was using the last of the light to get a few more impressions into my notebook.
A hand reached around me and grabbed my notebook. Mycroft paged through it, ripped out the relevant notes, and cast them to the wind. I expressed my opinion of his act in the most vigorous language. I tore my slouch hat off and stamped on it. Arabs within earshot kneeled to pray and beseech Allah to spare the vessel from God’s wrath.
“You cannot tell anyone what happened,” he handed back my notebook after I stopped ranting. “As a representative of Her Majesty’s government, I should warn you that she will remember how she is treated in the press.”
“Especially when they’re the ones doing the fooling? Disguising themselves as natives? Plotting to bring down a king? Oh, that’s a grand joke.”
“It had its amusing aspects, but thanks to our intervention we prevented that from happening. It won’t help anyone to write about this, especially you.”
He looked too young to be Queen Victoria’s agent, but he spoke with a monumental cock-assuredness. I decided it would not do to set her nose out of joint. The sun was nearly out, leaving behind brilliant blood-gold bands. It’ll be pitch
-black soon. I put my notebook away.
“No,” I told Mycroft. “I won’t tell it. It wouldn’t suit the tone. This is a travel book, not a damned dime novel. Not like anyone’d believe it anyway.”
He nodded. “Well done. As for myself, I am determined to stay put from now on. London is my home. Let the adventurers go out into the world. My talents lay there.” He gazed not at the sunset, but northwards to England. “You must come and visit.”
“Not if I can help it,” I said bitterly.
About the Editor
Bill Peschel is a former journalist who shares a Pulitzer Prize with the staff of The Patriot-News in Harrisburg, Pa. He also is a mystery fan who runs the Wimsey Annotations at Planetpeschel.com.
The author of Writers Gone Wild (Penguin), he publishes through Peschel Press the 223B Casebook Series of Sherlockian parodies and pastiches and annotated editions of Dorothy L. Sayers’ Whose Body? and Agatha Christie’s The Mysterious Affair at Styles and The Secret Adversary. An interest in Victorian crime led to the republication of three books on the William Palmer poisoning case.
Peschel was born in Warren, Ohio, grew up in Charlotte, N.C., and graduated from the University of North Carolina in Chapel Hill. He lives with his family and animal menagerie in Hershey, where the air really does smell like chocolate.
Visit with Bill at Peschel Press where you can sign up for his newsletter, or his personal website at Planet Peschel. He can be reached at [email protected] or write to him at Peschel Press, P.O. Box 132, Hershey, PA 17033.
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Bibliography
Anonymous. “1900-2000: Changes in Life Expectancy in the United States.” Elderweb. https://www.elderweb.com/book/appendix/1900-2000-changes-life-expectancy-united-states/, accessed Sept. 13, 2017.
Anonymous. “Maurice Baring: The Forgotten Giant of English Letters.” John J. Burns Library’s Blog, https://johnjburnslibrary.wordpress.com/2016/06/06/maurice-baring-the-forgotten-giant-of-english-letters/, accessed July 22, 2017.
Anonymous. “Veronal Poison Mystery,” Auckland Star, https://paperspast.natlib.govt.nz/newspapers/AS19130405.2.123, accessed June 15, 2017.
Anonymous. “White Girl Given Awful ‘Third Degree’ While Kneeling Before Body of Her Chinese Husband.” Tacoma Times, Sept. 12, 1913.
Bible references are from the King James Version at Biblegateway.com.
Cassady, Harry E., “The Soda Fountain,” The Bulletin of Pharmacy, Vol. 31, https://books.google.com/books?id=Q0lAAQAAMAAJ&pg=PA217, accessed Sept. 22, 2017.
Cullen, Frank, and Florence Hackman and Donald McNeilly. Vaudeville Old & New: An Encyclopedia of Variety Performances in America. New York: Routledge, 2007.
Davis, Hartley, “The Business Side of Vaudeville,” Everybody’s Magazine, https://books.google.com/books?id=tkQ5AQAAMAAJ&pg=PA527, accessed Sept. 29, 2017.
Dirda, Michael. On Conan Doyle, Or, the Whole Art of Storytelling. Princeton, N.J.: Princeton University Press, 2012.
Eldridge, C.W. “Sutherland Macdonald.” Tattoo History A-Z, https://www.tattooarchive.com/history/macdonald_sutherland.php, accessed June 12, 2017.
Emmer, Jennifer. “The Wellesley Inn ~ The Original,” Beautiful Buildings, https://beautifulbuildings.wordpress.com/2009/01/22/the-wellesley-inn-the-original/, accessed March 7, 2017.
“Exchange.” “American Methods Win Out in London.” Shoe Retailer and Boots and Shoes Weekly, Vol. 73 (Oct. 16, 1909).
Green, Jonathan, editor. Cassell’s Dictionary of Slang. London: Sterling Publishing Co., 2005.
Helms, Bari L. “Reel Librarians: The Stereotype and Technology.” https://ils.unc.edu/MSpapers/3168.pdf, accessed July 10, 2017.
Holland, Evangeline. “Mourning in Edwardian and Post-War England,” http://www.edwardianpromenade.com/etiquette/mourning-in-edwardian-and-post-war-england/, accessed Aug. 30, 2017.
Lellenberg, Jon, Daniel Stashower, and Charles Foley. Arthur Conan Doyle: A Life in Letters. New York: Penguin Press, 2007.
Lycett, Andrew. The Man Who Created Sherlock Holmes. New York: Free Press, 2007.
Mager, Gus. Sherlocko the Monk: 1910-1912. Westport, Conn.: Hyperion Press, 1977.
McKuras, Julie. “100 Years Ago,” Sherlock Holmes Collections, Vol. 14, No. 1 (March 2010), University of Minnesota.
McKuras, Julie. “100 Years Ago,” Sherlock Holmes Collections, Vol. 14, No. 4 (December 2010), University of Minnesota.
Millingen, J.G. Curiosities of Medical Experience. Philadelphia: Haswell, Barrington, and Haswell, 1838.
Pugh, Brian W. A Chronology of the Life of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. London: MX Publishing, Ltd., 2014.
Read, Piers Paul. “What’s Become of Baring?” The Spectator, https://www.spectator.co.uk/2007/10/whats-become-of-baring/, accessed July 22, 2017.
Schoch, Richard W. Not Shakespeare: Bardolatry and Burlesque in the Nineteenth Century. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2002.
Stashower, Daniel. Teller of Tales: The Life of Arthur Conan Doyle. New York: Henry Holt and Company, 1999.
Sullivan, Jack. “The Goldsboroughs: Blue Bloods of Baltimore Booze.” Those Pre-Pro Whiskey Men! http://pre-prowhiskeymen.blogspot.com/2013/01/the-goldsboroughs-blue-bloods-of.html, accessed July 13, 2017.
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“Our Man in Tangier” Bibliography
Farr, Martin, and Xavier Guegan. The British Abroad Since the Eighteenth Century. New York: Palgrave Macmillan, 2013.
Macnab, Frances. A Ride in Morocco Among Believers and Traders.
Mayo, William Starbuck. The Berber; or the Mountaineer of the Atlas. New York, G.P. Putnam, 1850.
Meakin, Budgett. Life in Morocco and Glimpses Beyond. New York: E.P. Dutton, Co., 1903.
Rohlfs, Gerhard. Adventures in Morocco. London : Sampson Low, Marston, Low & Searle, 1874.
Strang, Herbert. King of the Air: Or, To Morocco on an Aeroplane. New York: Bobbs-Merrill Co., 1907.
Wharton, Edith. In Morocco. Hopewell, N.J. : Ecco Press, 1996.
Footnotes
Riding in automobiles: In 1908, Henry Ford (1863-1947) had introduced the Model T, the first car affordable to the middle class. By the beginning of 1910, he had sold only about 25,000 cars. The auto was still seen as a rich man’s toy, but at least one magazine article was already predicting that “the passing of our friend the horse is only a question of time.” By 1914, production was up to more than 300,000 cars—more than all other automakers combined.
Automobile coat: A long coat, usually of lightweight material, worn while driving or riding in an automobile. They were developed at a time when cars were open to the elements and the majority of roads were unpaved and dusty. Even a journey of a few miles would leave a residue of dirt on the clothes. The popularity of automobile coats and dusters faded during the 1920s as manufacturers added doors and window glass and more roads were paved.
Asphodel: A flower from the lily family. In Greek legend it was associated with the underworld and the dead, due to its grayish leaves and yellowish flowers. Many notable poets played on the connection, such as Alfred Lord Tennyson (1809-1892) in “The Lotus Eaters”: “Others in Elysian valleys dwell, Resting weary limbs at last on beds of asphodel.”
Wellesley Inn: A massive plantation-style inn built in 1860. It was used by Boston lawyer Henry Fowle Durant as a summer home for his wife and young son. When his son died a few years later of diphtheria, he abandoned his practice, became an evangelist, and in 1870 founded Wellesley Female Seminary, later Wellesley College. The building was turned into an inn, boasting of a reception hall, living room, and dining room with Flemish oak paneling and large palm trees. Over the years, it was resold, expanded, and renovated, until it was torn down in 2006 for a condominium project.
College grounds: Wellesley College is a liberal arts college for women founded in 1870. It should be said that the women at the college were far more socially and politically active than in this story. The year this story appeared, a woman’s rights club was formed with the intention to get women the right to vote. The college faculty also banned photographing women students if they were wearing trousers while acting in a school play.
Borders of the lake: A reference to Lake Waban, situated on campus and featuring a two-mile walk around its shores.
Kick of the soil: In “The Arrowhead,” essayist and naturalist Henry David Thoreau (1817-1862) tells the story of the time when he and a friend were searching for Indian relics. With their heads “full of the past and its remains,” they reached a hill overlooking what is now the Musketaquid River, and Thoreau was inspired to deliver a eulogy “on those savage times, using most violent gesticulations by way of illustration.” He pointed out where the Musketaquid tribe, led by their chief, Tahatawan, built their lodge, and where they feasted. The hill they stood on must have been where they stood “and pondered the day’s success and the morrow’s prospects, or communed with the spirit of their fathers gone before them to the land of shades!”