by Caleb Carr
‘Indeed, sir.’
‘A necessary invention, I fear,’ said Mycroft.
‘Ah!’ noised Holmes, smiling and shifting forward in his seat, the better to hear and be heard above the din of the hurtling train. ‘Now we do indeed get at the heart of the thing!’
‘Yes, Sherlock.’ Mycroft, too, seemed quite prepared to let their momentary verbal feud pass. ‘You have rightly surmised that my own presence in this infernally wild and climatically unpredictable country indicates that something far more serious than a mere pair of murders has taken place. And “pair of murders” they were, Doctor, for Sir Alistair’s body – not long dead, but dead, all the same – was quite deliberately placed beneath that piece of farm machinery.’
‘This interests me particularly, Mycroft,’ said Holmes. ‘What was the machine, and what made you select it?’
I was entirely taken aback, and stared in shock at Mycroft. ‘You, sir!’
‘Of course “him,” Watson,’ said Holmes impatiently. ‘He is here, and he has said that the story concerning the accident was a fabrication. Your mind ought to make the immediate connection that it was Mycroft – with the aid of these temporary minions, or of some others that we have yet to meet – who placed the body beneath the machinery, in order to throw the local police completely off the scent.’
The statement was riddled with so many extraordinary assumptions that I could only blurt out, ‘But why? Why should you wish the authorities not to know what had happened, if the man was murdered? And why so deliberately extend the deception to the press and the public, by way of the police?’
‘Because we needed to deceive the press and the public even more than we did the police, Doctor,’ said Mycroft. ‘But allow the facts of the matter to explain it – such is almost always the most efficient use of energy. And do take some brandy: These are not easy things of which to speak. Or hear …’ After first availing himself of its contents, Mycroft Holmes passed his large, leather-skinned flask to me. I took a stiff draft, Holmes refused the same, and then his brother’s account began.
‘I do not suppose that even you, Sherlock, can know the precise number of times that attempts have been made on the life of Her Majesty during her reign.’
Holmes paused, looking up and out of the compartment window, as though he had overlooked something; and watching him, I, too, suddenly realised that in fact we had both overlooked something quite crucial: a phrase in Mycroft’s wire, one that we had passed over almost blithely in order to attend to what we had considered the second and more important half of the statement. Holmes turned to me as he spoke it softly: ‘“The sun burns too hot …”’
‘“The sky fills with familiar eagles,”’ I replied, repeating the section of the phrase that we had already interpreted; but now, with this new subject of the Queen’s safety broached, it seemed obvious that the ‘sun’ burning ‘too hot’ implied that Her Majesty was actually attracting the ‘familiar eagles.’
Holmes turned to his brother. ‘I know that there have been several such attempts, at the very least,’ he said.
‘There have in fact been nine,’ replied Mycroft.
‘So many!’ said I, in renewed astonishment. ‘Is it possible?’
‘We are fortunate that there have not been more,’ answered Mycroft. ‘That is my own opinion, as well as the royal family’s. You see, they are a peculiar collection of crimes: All were perpetrated by quite young men – mere youths, really. All used pistols as their weapons of choice; yet in every case save the first and the penultimate, the pistols were charged but loaded only with wadded newsprint.’
Holmes’s every muscle seemed to grow tense at these words – but he made no move. ‘That was not mentioned in the accounts given to the newspapers,’ he said quietly.
Mycroft shook his massive head slowly. ‘No, Sherlock. It was not.’
Holmes’s strangely still demeanour at that instant might have confused me, years earlier; but I could now calculate that it was one of his eerie calms, which would shortly be followed by the intellectual and verbal approximation of a breaking tempest. Mycroft seemed also to be anticipating something along these lines: We were both surprised, therefore, when our companion said only, ‘I suppose that all of them received the punishment of the few that I remember: “not guilty by reason of insanity,” with either a term in a lunatic asylum or transportation to the colonies as the condition.’
Mycroft Holmes nodded. ‘Again, much to the displeasure of the royal household, particularly when the Prince Consort was still alive. It was only through Albert’s influence, following the first incident, that brandishing a deadly weapon in the Queen’s direction – regardless of whether that weapon was loaded or did any harm – was made a crime; and even at that, such behaviour was declared only a misdemeanour. The prince also came close to having that first offender declared sane and convicted of high treason; but the youth had not actually fired his pistol – a young Eton lad had subdued him, before he was able to – and so that harsher judgement was perforce set aside, despite the seriousness of the matter. An additional punishment of multiple public canings was eventually added to transportation to the colonies for even those offenders judged mad, to be exercised at the discretion of the jury. But the simple fact was that, because the young men all appeared to be so deranged, no decent English jury could ever be made to bring the full force of the law down upon their heads.’
The cloudburst was late, but it did arrive: ‘This really is too much!’ Holmes declared, dismissing some invisible judge or jury with a wave of his hand. ‘Was a firearms expert never consulted?’
‘Well done, Sherlock,’ replied his brother. ‘The essence of the matter, economically stated. Alas, however, no. No such expert was ever called to testify, remarkable as the fact seems.’
‘But that is an error of a rather unbelievable magnitude,’ said I – for the ‘essence of the matter’ had not escaped me, either. How many times had I treated wounds inflicted when cap-and-ball weapons were charged with powder, then the powder packed with a bit of wadding – and finally the user, considering the weapon no more than a toy or an instrument of fright, went on to play some prank that resulted in an injury, occasionally a serious one. Indeed, when a full charge of wadded powder is fired from near enough, it can create heat sufficient to inflict serious burns, along with a concussive force that can make a weapon out of air alone. Add any stoutly packed, apparently innocent material – even newsprint – in place of the usual projectile, and one would certainly be in a position to inflict a grim and even fatal wound, particularly if the victim was already weakened by youth, infirmity, or age; and provided, again, that one fired from a close enough distance, as all of these would-be regicides had at least tried to manage. From Jezail rifles in Afghanistan to antiques kept in some of the great country houses of England – education concerning the many ways in which firearms can be deadly has perpetually been among the rarest forms of human knowledge.
‘Most of the youths did not seem to understand firearms well enough to know that they were placing Her Majesty’s life in any danger,’ said Mycroft. ‘Their apparent goal was nothing more than a sort of perverse notoriety; yet there were a few among the mix who were not thus afflicted, who seemed quite aware of the seriousness of their actions, but who at the same time knew with certainty that the police and the press would consider their weapons “unloaded”. And, of course, the juries they faced – never having been told any other interpretation – arrived at the same verdict again and again: not guilty by reason of insanity, with a recommendation against caning and in favour of either hospitalisation or transportation. And it is here that the matter takes on a feature of additional interest.’
‘Indeed, Mycroft,’ Holmes said. ‘I believe that I divine your next statement as clearly as I would see this train, were I standing miles ahead of it and upon a flat line.’ Mycroft Holmes again looked momentarily annoyed, but Holmes smiled quickly and moved to mollify him: ‘How fortunate that we are
on the same side in this matter, brother!’ For all their occasional rivalries over petty matters, the two Holmes brothers were as generous in acknowledging each other’s achievements in important concerns as any two closely related geniuses could ever, I suspect, be.
‘Well, I shouldn’t mind being brought out of the dark, sir,’ I said to Mycroft. But it was Holmes who replied.
‘If I am not mistaken, Watson, Mycroft is about to announce that at least one of the would-be assassins, after embarking on his transportation, never reached his port of destination.’
Mycroft Holmes nodded slowly. ‘Yes, Sherlock. I am.’
‘And yet your presence here,’ Holmes went on, ‘as well as our own, indicates that you have been able, perhaps after a period of some time, to discover just where he did debark?’
‘You are correct again,’ replied Mycroft. ‘The youth in question, the worst of the lot, was also the last of them: The incident occurred only six months ago, and we were able to keep it from becoming public knowledge because of the circumstances. It occurred, you see – and I realise that you must find this shocking – within the grounds of Buckingham Palace.’
I accepted Mycroft Holmes’s flask, which I noticed had grown considerably less weighty since his tale had begun. ‘But what explanation can there be for such a failure of her own bodyguards?’
Mycroft shrugged. ‘The Queen herself is the explanation, Doctor. For it is the great personal irony of her reign that, although she has survived more attempts on her person than any other occupant of the throne in memory – and perhaps since Elizabeth – she has systematically dismantled nearly every organisation put in place over a span of generations to guard the royal person. In this, as in all things, she prefers to rely on a few trusted servants: Scots ghillies, for the most part, little more than game-keepers, though some of them have been valiant and exceptional men. The public has learned only a few of their names – John Brown was, of course, the most famous among them – which is just as well, for if it were widely known how vulnerable she truly is … I myself have been persuaded by both the War Department and the Admiralty to allow some few men to be detailed to the job of royal security during this crisis, but they are able to fulfil it only because I have insisted that their presence, to say nothing of their names, should be unknown to Her Majesty – and indeed to all others, as you yourselves have experienced.
‘The caution is more than an indulgence in elementary secrecy. If the Queen were to discover that these men were about, or were to learn even of such systems of ad hoc intelligence and protection as have been mustered in the last several weeks, she would certainly put a stop to it all. She considers such activities quite beneath the dignity of the British state. And, while I agree with her, as I am sure you both do, a crisis is indeed a crisis, and principles must occasionally be – temporarily adjusted. Then, too, the Queen is, as she reminds me during every one of my audiences, related – either by blood or by marriage – to nearly every royal family on the Continent, and communicates with them all regularly. Were any plot to assassinate her that involved more than simply a deluded youth ever put into place, she insists that she would know of it beforehand. I mean no fundamental disrespect, Sherlock, but your presence here, along with Dr Watson’s and that of the intelligence officers, is an indication of how reliable I consider that contention.’
Holmes nodded, taking it all in and finally saying, in that somewhat muted, measured tone that in his case passed for tact, ‘One is tempted to ask, Mycroft, whence the authority and the imperative for these activities has come, if not from Her Majesty …?’
Mycroft nodded, as if he had expected the query. ‘From the next greatest power in the land, and the steadiest head to hold his office since Melbourne.’
‘Lord Salisbury?’ I asked. ‘The Prime Minister himself?’
‘Indeed, Doctor. Although I bend one of our club’s rules slightly in revealing as much, I may say that he was himself once a member of the Diogenes, before his great notoriety forced him to resign. You may know of his recreational habits of solitary scientific experimentation – these were much admired at the club. He and I grew acquainted during that time. He summoned me several weeks ago, to inform me of what he had in mind and to request that I co-ordinate my own efforts with those of the various and anonymous men that he intended to put into place, as well as take overall charge of the operation. The Prince of Wales was with him – apparently he knows and approves of all. Well, faced with such men and such a request – what could I say?’
‘Truly,’ I replied. ‘And what can we?’
Even Holmes seemed satisfied, at that: He nodded, and smiled once more. ‘And so, brother – reveal your tale! What of this last attacker?’
‘His name’ – Mycroft drew closer to us, as if there might be prying ears concealed inside the very walls of the compartment – ‘was Alec Morton, a lad of but twenty. I had hoped that he might not be connected to any larger plots, in which case his identity would be unimportant. But, although I continue to consider him a largely unwitting pawn within any such plot, it is no longer possible to rule the plot itself out. For, you see, early in the course of his transportation to South Africa, Morton slipped his guards with the help of certain foreign agents. He left his ship, we assume in the company of said agents, and subsequently disappeared – in the port of Bremen …’
A silent and seemingly long interval followed, before I almost whispered, ‘The Germans? But surely you don’t believe that they have been trying to do away with Her Majesty for so many years?’
‘Not for “so many” years, Doctor,’ said Mycroft. ‘But so far as the last several years are concerned … I cannot state the matter with any certainty. For most of Her Majesty’s reign we have been blissfully able to maintain an amiable rivalry, rather than enmity, with Prussia and the various other German states that Chancellor Bismarck incorporated into their Empire. The Queen herself counts as many Germans among her ancestors as Englishmen, a connection that has been made even tighter, as I have mentioned, by those of her children and grandchildren who hold key positions in the German as well as the larger Continental aristocracy. It is not without cause that our monarch is known as “the grandmother of Europe”.’
‘Is not the current German Emperor himself her grandchild?’ I asked; but when I looked at both of my companions, I found that, although each had nodded in the affirmative, neither seemed very much relieved by the fact.
‘Yes, Her Majesty holds that dubious honour, Doctor,’ said Mycroft, ‘and has generally used it to our nation’s advantage. This is a queen, after all, who was not too proud, as an ageing widow, to be tutored in statecraft by Disraeli himself, as well as by Bismarck, and to come away ready to follow that wise Prussian’s policy for keeping Britain and Germany on good terms – this, despite the fact that she personally loathed the man, every bit as much as she loved Disraeli. As things turned out, however, she had cause to regret the retirement and eventual death of the “Iron Chancellor” – for, despite her firm belief that she can control the grandchild who now holds uncontested power in the German Empire, facts have often demonstrated that his behaviour lies quite outside the control of any fellow human, whether indulgent grandmother, talented statesman – or qualified mental specialist …’
The subject of the Kaiser’s mental instability caused Sherlock Holmes to sigh disdainfully. ‘Would that you overstated the case, Mycroft. But are you now telling us this Alec Morton was in the employ of so deranged a ruler? The Kaiser might well attempt to thus cut the grandmotherly apron-string which, inadequate as it may be, serves as the sole brake on his behaviour.’
‘The matter is not so blissfully simple,’ answered Mycroft. ‘If it were, we should have only to present to Her Majesty our evidence, and within days, Germany would be as isolated and pariah a nation as one could imagine – the Kaiser’s friends the Turks might still do business with him, but no one else would dare. No, what I have to tell you is far more confusing, and worrying: We have be
en unable to turn up any evidence of just who Morton’s German friends are. We cannot say with any certainty that he has not acted, and does not continue to act, at the behest of the Kaiser or someone connected with the German imperial circle – nor can we say absolutely that his orders do come from that quarter.’
Holmes turned round, a rare look of surprise upon his face as he enquired, ‘But surely there is more that you do know? Why else gather us together in this extraordinary manner?’
Mycroft arched his brows, shifting in his seat uneasily. ‘Morton comes from a family of skilled labourers – plasterers, in the main – in Glasgow. About eighteen months ago, he began to turn up at the German consulate in that city – we have had discussions with its staff, about which both Her Majesty and the German embassy have been made aware. Morton wished to know what steps he would have had to take in order to make a prolonged journey to Bremen to visit a sickly grandmother. There being only one difficulty, as our own consular office in that city has now confirmed.’
‘Morton has no German grandmother?’ I hazarded.
‘Precisely, Doctor. No German relations of any variety. Yet the Germans themselves, although they must have been aware of this fact, chose not to alert us to the man’s misrepresentations.’
‘Did he visit Germany prior to the attempt on Her Majesty’s life?’ Holmes enquired.
‘If he did, we cannot prove as much. But in the months since that attempt, we have learned certain seemingly unconnected yet interesting facts. About Morton’s family, for instance: various of its members, including his own father and brother, have at one time or another worked as plasterers on labouring teams that were led by none other than Dennis McKay – the man found murdered at Holyroodhouse yesterday. Nor is that all: McKay was known by the police to have been a secret but important official of the Scots Nationalist Party.’
‘“Have a taste of what ye gave Denny McKay,”’ Holmes said, in an excellent approximation of our assailant’s brogue.