by Anna Elliott
“Separately, I think,” Holmes said. “If you will wait three minutes before going into the reading room yourself, that ought to be adequate.”
“Very well.”
I watched as Holmes mounted the museum steps, marking off the time in my head. Somewhere beyond the white marble entrance was a packet that could, quite literally, put an end to Britain as we knew it.
I glanced at Flynn. “Perhaps you ought to go back to Baker Street.”
“And miss seeing the excitement?”
Flynn scoffed. “No fear. Besides, Mr. Holmes has given me a job to do. He said I’m to wait here and be ready.”
He didn’t say ready for what; likely enough, Holmes hadn’t told him, but I gave up arguing and mounted the museum steps.
My nerves were on edge enough that I wouldn’t have been surprised to walk into a war zone. But instead, the stately quiet of the reading room was almost shocking. Sunlight streamed in through the grand domed ceiling, while readers and scholars bent over their books below.
My eye picked out Jack almost at once. He was sitting at a table near to the central catalogue desk, and looked up as I entered. His eyes met mine briefly, then flicked momentarily sideways, to where Adolph Meyer sat in a chair three tables over, his fat fingers clasped on the tabletop in front of him, his huge body rigid with barely concealed impatience.
I nodded, and Jack returned to his apparent study of the book he held.
As I stood in the doorway a moment, hesitating, a low voice spoke at my elbow.
“The fourth table to your right. Three chairs from the centre.”
Holmes, in elderly scholar’s garb and bent nearly double over a cane, was inching by me with the slow, laboured walk of the profoundly arthritic.
I looked at the individual he had pointed out: a man of medium height and build, dressed in a dark suit and with an enormously bushy white beard covering the entire lower half of his face.
“That’s our man?” I murmured back. “He ought to take lessons from you in the art of disguise. That must be the least convincing false beard I’ve ever seen.”
“Indeed.”
Holmes continued his slow shuffle past me. I took rapid stock of the room, then dropped into the closest chair. From here, I was positioned not only to keep an eye on the white-bearded scholar and Meyer, but also to be within easy reach of the room’s only entrance.
I hadn’t until now spotted Eric Brown, but as I watched, he approached the desk of the white-bearded man, bending over to take his order.
The moments inched by with almost interminable slowness as they exchanged a few words. Then Eric—very pale and moving almost as gingerly as Holmes, and with his arm in a sling just as Flynn had reported—went off to fetch whatever book the ‘scholar’ had requested.
“But Meyer’s right there,” a voice behind me growled.
Glancing back, I saw that Lestrade had joined Holmes at the end of our table—and beneath the spectacles and bushy brown wig that made up his own disguise, he did, as Flynn had said, look as though he would have preferred to chew on broken bottles than wait a moment more.
“And you will lose all hope of securing evidence against him if you move too soon,” Holmes murmured.
Eric Brown had delivered a heavy, leather-bound volume to the white-bearded scholar, and now moved off to take an order from Meyer.
“Ah.” Behind me, I heard Lestrade suck in a sharp breath.
“Not yet,” Holmes’s voice was low, but the words still held the power of a whip-crack. “As you value your career and your life, Lestrade, not yet.”
CHAPTER 17: WATSON
Whenever I found myself in the Reading Room at the British Museum, the light streaming down from the great circular glass skylight seemed to compel my attention. Even now as I sat, scholar-like, at the outer ring of reading tables, I felt my gaze drawn upwards, to the apex of the enormous dome more than a hundred feet above me.
All London had praised the Reading Room as an architectural marvel. Its ventilation system supplied fresh air throughout, enabling scholars to work for more sustained periods of time. Around and above me, attendants walked on three tiers of platforms along the huge curving walls, fetching the books that had been requested, stacking them onto small wheeled trolleys, and then descending in the electric lift to make deliveries to the scholars waiting at their reading desks. The prompt service made the room truly a scholar’s paradise, well worth the trouble required to obtain the certificate of admission that enabled access.
The only drawback, one that I had encountered during my own visits, was that the use of tobacco was forbidden. Signs at the entry proclaimed that no smoking and no open flames of any kind were permitted within the museum. I considered this a minor inconvenience, however. The prohibition was readily understandable when one considered the obviously catastrophic effects of any fire upon so many priceless artifacts of highly combustible paper and vellum. And a smoking area was available close by, outside beneath the shelter of the great entry portico. A direct passage was provided, and the attendants on duty, each of whom had a good recall for faces, would let the smoker pass unchallenged to where he might indulge his habit in safety and then return.
Yet I knew I could not afford to be distracted by the grand visions of inspirational architecture, or by the activity above and around me. My assignment, given by Holmes, was to keep watch over him, and Jack, and Lucy, and the gargantuan spymaster Adolph Meyer. All of them were at various partitioned reading desks near me. The desks radiated like spokes from a central collection station. I could see each one if I but stood and pretended to stretch my legs for a moment before resuming my pretended scholarly task, which was the examination of the volume of Shakespeare’s plays that I had brought with me for the purpose. I was ready to take action as needed.
I was focusing on Meyer. He was impossible to overlook. I had seen his photographs in Holmes’s file, but a knowledge of his facial features—high forehead, curly black hair, piercing, close-set dark eyes—was really not required. His massive body made him stand out. There was no other man of his size among the fifty-odd readers at the various tables. His weight, I had been told, was more than three hundred pounds and he stood more than six and a half feet tall. Beside him, even Mycroft would have appeared small by comparison, and not nearly as physically formidable. This Meyer, in fact, put me in mind of Sonnebourne, the criminal giant whom I had encountered on several unforgettable occasions and knew to be our most dangerous enemy. I wondered if the two men were connected.
Meyer sat impassive, waiting as a young dark-haired attendant with one arm in a sling approached, pushing a small trolley filled with books. The young man stopped alongside Meyer. Somewhat awkwardly, because he was only using his free hand, the attendant handed over one of the books, a large thick leather-bound antique volume, folio-sized, with a white paper request slip protruding from the closed pages. As Meyer took out the request slip and examined it, the attendant moved away along his route to another scholar.
I watched. Meyer hunched forward, apparently comparing the pages inside the volume with some papers and a notebook that were on his desk. Then he shook his head, as though the book were not satisfactory for some reason. He caught the attention of the attendant, who returned to him immediately.
Meyer pointed at the title of the book and then at the white paper request slip. The attendant nodded and shrugged his shoulders as if in apology. Meyer helped him place the book atop the stack of others on his small trolley.
Then Meyer stood up. He appeared to be gathering his notebook and papers and placing them in a tan leather valise. At the same time, I noticed, Meyer seemed to be keeping an eye on the attendant with the disabled arm. My gaze followed the attendant.
The young man stopped beside the desk occupied by a scholar with a flowing white beard. The bearded man handed him a request slip. The attendant glanced at it, nodded, and then, still manoeuvring somewhat clumsily due to his injured arm, moved the topmost book on the sta
ck towards the bearded scholar. The scholar took the book, opened it, and sat quietly. The young attendant continued on his round, pushing his trolley of books.
As the young man continued with his cart, several things happened. The white-bearded man removed something from the book and placed it into his coat pocket. Meyer stood up, his tall frame towering over his reading desk. Then he walked casually towards the entrance, swinging his tan briefcase as though out for a pleasant stroll.
Holmes, in his elderly-scholar’s garb, stood and took a few hobbling steps towards Meyer, his gaze on the briefcase.
Meyer seemed to sense the approach, for he turned slightly. He saw Holmes. His face changed from pretended indifference to hard determination. He whirled around and strode rapidly towards the entrance. Lestrade, flinging aside a brown wig and spectacles, stepped into the aisle leading to the front lobby. He held up his hand, indicating Meyer was to stop. Absurdly, both men said nothing, seemingly careful to observe the rules against conversational noise in the reading room.
Lestrade stood his ground as Meyer approached, but at the last moment Meyer swung the briefcase, striking Lestrade on the head and shoulder with enough force to knock the little inspector to his knees. Holmes leaped for the briefcase, but Meyer was too quick for even Holmes, who had the disadvantage of starting from several paces behind.
Meyer ran for the narrow metal staircase that the attendants used to reach the platforms of the upper levels. Surprisingly quick for a big man, he took the steps three at a time, while Holmes followed. I glanced to my side and in a flash saw Lucy and Jack.
Lucy had tackled the young attendant, who lay helpless, with Lucy mercilessly leaning on his bad arm.
Jack knelt over the white-bearded scholar and tore away his false beard. I felt a moment’s surprise as I recognised the face of Hobbes, the Queen’s courier.
But I needed to help Holmes.
I took a step towards the staircase, but Holmes was ahead of me and the giant Meyer had already reached the first of the three upper platforms. I had another idea. A few steps in the other direction brought me to the electric lift. I stood within it, pulled upwards on the lever handle, and rose, borne upwards by the machine. Through the brass grille of the lift I kept watch on Meyer all the while. He had not paused at the first landing. I rode on, and, seeing Meyer pass the second landing as well, continued rising to the very top.
Meyer came out onto the platform with Holmes on the stairs just behind him. Meyer had the high ground.
I hesitated only a moment.
Then I rushed towards Meyer. I wanted to knock him out of the way so that Holmes could reach the platform unopposed. But at the last instant Meyer seemed to sense my approach. He spun slightly to one side, and though staggering a few paces away from the staircase, remained firmly on his feet.
He swept me aside with one of his massive arms. I fell along the narrow platform pathway, landing hard, and nearly toppled over the edge. Meyer’s attention immediately went back to Holmes, who by now had reached the top of the steps, several yards away.
Meyer was opening the briefcase. He removed a white canvas folder, which I realised was the stolen diplomatic packet. He flung the briefcase at Holmes. My friend dodged adroitly. The briefcase clattered to the floor of the platform.
Meyer had the packet open. From a white paper envelope, he plucked out a corked glass phial about six inches long.
He brandished the phial at Holmes.
He spoke for the first time. In a low, rasping voice fraught with strain, and yet anger and determination as well. “You know what will happen when I throw this powder into the air.”
I gave an involuntary shudder. The ventilation system would carry the deadly spores throughout the great facility, contaminating every one of the books, making each a dangerous weapon, while also infecting all those below in the reading room, dooming each to a hideous and painful death.
“Yes, Meyer, I know. You will die.”
“You will give me safe passage from here or we all will. Do not doubt my word. I have nothing to lose.”
“Meyer, be reasonable,” Holmes said, taking a few steps closer.
In response, Meyer held the phial outward, extending his arm, as if prepared to fling it downward to shatter on the floor below.
“Meyer. Please.” Holmes’s voice had taken on an imploring, cajoling tone.
But his glittering grey eyes were locked onto Meyer’s like a snake’s upon its prey. I realised what Holmes was attempting to do. He could not hope to wrest the phial from Meyer’s grip in a frontal assault.
But he knew that, attacking from the rear, I might have a chance.
I took it. With two running steps, I leaped, both my hands clawing at the wrist of the hulking criminal.
Meyer tried to jerk away, but my grip connected and held. I fastened both hands on the phial, tore it out of Meyer’s hand, and fell to the platform floor, clutching the phial to my chest as I rolled past. Now Holmes stood between me and the giant.
With a roar of rage, Meyer charged at Holmes to get at me.
Holmes crouched, and in an instant, in a quick move that must have come from his baritsu training, he grasped Meyer’s arm and pulled downward, simultaneously kicking at Meyer’s front leg and twisting the giant off balance.
The big man staggered to right himself, but then his body struck the edge of the low railing at the wrong angle. His momentum carried him past the tipping-point and he toppled over the edge. He cried out, but for only a split second, until his three-hundred-pound frame hit the reading desk directly below, crushing it with a horrible crash.
Clutching the railing, I scrambled to my feet. Thirty feet below me the giant lay motionless, his neck twisted at a grotesque angle, blood beginning to issue from his smashed cranium.
Holmes was beside me, with the envelope and the packet in his hand. “Thank you, old friend,” he said. He held out his hand for the phial and placed it carefully into the envelope.
A moment later Holmes was clattering down the steep metal staircase. I picked up Meyer’s tan leather briefcase and followed.
I kept him in sight as he entered the corridor leading towards the entry hall and Great Russell Street. Once outside, I saw Holmes, with young Flynn, crouching between two of the huge columns just above the wide granite steps.
A moment later, a spiral of smoke rose between them, and then a flickering glow of yellow fire. The glow increased, and I saw the blaze. Holmes and Flynn stepped back. I caught the scent of kerosene and burning India-rubber as I watched the packet become engulfed in flames, along with a sheaf of papers and the phial with its deadly contents.
“Stay back, old friend,” Holmes said. “We want to be certain.”
From behind me, I heard Mycroft’s voice. “Why, Sherlock?”
We all stared at the dwindling fire. Mycroft’s question hung in the air for a long moment.
Then Holmes said, “So the Germans will not have it, and England will not have it.”
“But the prime minister opposes such evil weapons.”
“Prime ministers can change.”
CHAPTER 18: LUCY
“Eric Brown was running what in the parlance of espionage is known as a live drop,” Holmes said. “He was recruited as an agent of the Kaiser and put up to it by Meyer, and I have no doubt orchestrated many exchanges similar to the one we witnessed tonight.”
It was evening, and Jack, Watson, Holmes, and I were gathered in the Baker Street sitting room. Flynn and Becky were in the kitchen downstairs.
And Lestrade, exultant at the demise of one of London’s most notorious espionage agents, had departed to begin the process that would release Phineas Lovejoy from jail.
“And Hobbes?” Watson asked. “How did you know that he was in fact the true thief?”
“It was always difficult to believe that an experienced courier such as Hobbes would have allowed himself to be taken. From the first, the hypothesis that Hobbes had overpowered or bribed the coachman appear
ed to me much more likely than the improbable story of being attacked and chloroformed. Then when he was here last night, he gave himself away. He was unable to say for certain whether the dead man was one of his attackers. And yet he reputed with absolute certainty the suggestion that Mr. Brown or Mr. Richt could have been involved. That looked as though he knew one of them was guilty, and was desperate to divert our attention away from him. Lucy’s observation about his probable domestic troubles”—Holmes gave a nod in my direction—“suggested a possible reason for his having need of ready cash. So I assigned Flynn to keep watch outside Mr. Hobbes’s home and follow him when he went out—as of course he did, straight to the British Museum and the arranged meeting with Mr. Brown and Meyer. I knew then that we had found our man.”
“All doubt was eliminated when we found Hobbes with an envelope from Meyer in his pocket at the Reading room,” Jack said.
“Only an envelope?” Holmes asked.
“There may have been something inside. But the envelope is identical to others we found in a box of Meyer’s stationery. It will be evidence of conspiracy against both Hobbes and Brown if needed at trial.”
Holmes gave a long look at Jack.
“What about Günter?” I asked. “And Clarissa?”
The calm of Holmes’s manner was already enough to show that he didn’t think she was in any danger, but under questioning, Eric had strenuously denied having anything to do with her abduction and had professed himself baffled as to where she was to be found.
“I believe—” Holmes began, then stopped and tilted his head, listening. “If I am not much mistaken, that is Miss Lovejoy now. I imagined that she would be arriving shortly, since the news of Mr. Brown’s arrest was broadcast in all the evening papers.”
He opened the door, and Clarissa entered. Her eyelids were reddened as though she had recently been crying, but otherwise she appeared to be entirely unharmed, dressed in a neat blue jacket trimmed with black braid and matching skirt.