The Stone of Destiny

by Richard T Ryan

  Plucking two strands of long, blonde hair, one from each of George’s shoulders, Holmes continued, “And unless I am greatly mistaken, these belong to that rather attractive young woman over there, who I can only assume has been comforting you.”

  “What am I to do, Mr. Holmes?” asked George.

  “For matters of the heart, I suggest you consult Dr. Watson. As for me, I should like very much to speak with your Mr. McCormick if he is available.”

  “I’ll fetch him immediately,” said George, who returned a moment later with a young man of about thirty in tow.

  After George had introduced us, he said, “If you should like to speak in private, please use my office, Mr. Holmes.”

  “Thank you,” said Holmes, “and while I am chatting with Mr. McCormick here, Watson, why don’t you and George enjoy some tea and engage in a bit of soul-searching at that little shop just outside the other entrance, on Albemarle Street. I will join you as soon as I am finished.”

  Although I would have preferred to stay with Holmes, I soldiered on and listened to George’s tale of infatuation and woe.

  When he had finished, I said, “I have but one question: Do you still love your wife?”

  When he nodded, I said, “Then you know what you must do. You must make a clean break of it. Give the young lady a glowing letter of recommendation, a generous severance and make certain that she has a new position. If you do that, you will find yourself a happier man.”

  At that moment, Holmes joined us. “I trust Dr. Watson has been able to assist you,” said my friend, “and I should like to say that young McCormick has a bright future, but I don’t think you are making full use of his abilities.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Holmes,” exclaimed George. “And thank you, Dr. Watson.”

  “I’m glad to see that you were able to help George,” Holmes said, smiling at me. “Somehow, I knew you would be up to the task.”

  “How did your interview with Mister McCormick go?” I asked.

  “Quite well. He is a very sharp young man, who may one day replace George, if your friend fails to get his affairs in order.

  “And now, let us pay a call at Madame Tussaud’s, where I am sure we will be warmly received by John Theodore, and I can only hope that we shall find Kathleen McMahon in her workshop.”

  Chapter 9 – Southern Ireland, Feb. 3–4

  During most of the voyage, young Michael sat spellbound as Lyons told him again of the Irish kings and the various legends surrounding both the Lia Fail or Irish Stone of Destiny and the Stone of Scone or Scottish Stone of Destiny.

  Finally, Lyons told Michael to go the cabin and get some sleep. The youngster reluctantly agreed.

  When the Tynwald finally arrived in Cobh, near Cork, Michael had to be awakened, but none of the men teased him about falling asleep, for despite his age, they all respected him, and they all believed that Michael Collins had a bright future in front of him in the Irish Republican Brotherhood.

  After the boat had docked, the men carried the coffin to a wagon. As they set out along Spy Hill past the Old Church, Lyons told Michael that when he arrived home he was to swear his family to secrecy and then tell them how his tears had helped save the day and aided in the struggle to make Ireland free.

  When they arrived in Clonakilty, several hours later, they stopped by Michael’s house. As the youngster stepped down, Lyons said, “I shall see you tomorrow. Right now, I have some serious work to do, and for your own good, lad, I’m keeping you in the dark.”

  Michael knew his protests would fall on deaf ears, so he went into the house where he found his mother and all his brothers and sisters waiting for him.

  As he told them of his adventure in London and the theft of the Coronation Stone, they sat rapt. Finally, when he had finished, his sister, Helena, said, “Michael, we are all so very proud of you, but you are going to confess to Father Malachi that you helped steal the stone, are you not?”

  At that they all laughed, and Michael promised his sister, who was bent on becoming a nun, that come Saturday he would be properly shriven.

  ***

  After dropping the boy off, Lyons and his men headed north to Beal na Blath where they started west to Macroon. When they arrived at Balleyvourney, it was the middle of the night and almost no one was stirring, but a member of the Brotherhood was waiting for them with fresh horses.

  After they had crossed into County Kerry, Santry broke the prolonged silence by asking, “How on Earth did you ever think of this place?”

  “I was raised near Muckross and educated by Franciscans. They would always talk of the abbey and its importance in the history of Killarney and Ireland. Best of all for our purposes, it is distant enough from Clonakilty yet still accessible. Moreover, I do not think any agents of the Crown are apt to be looking where we’re going to be hiding it,” said Lyons.

  “And where would that be?” asked O’Brien.

  “All in due time,” replied Lyons.

  Eventually they passed Loo Bridge and the sight of the train tracks prompted Nesbitt to inquire, “Why didn’t we take the train here? Surely, it would’ve been much easier and faster.”

  “True enough,” said Lyons, “but I am known here. If anyone were to see me with a coffin, I would certainly have some explaining to do. And if the police should ever tumble to how we got the stone out of England, don’t you think they’d be questioning every porter in Eire? And while there are some that we can trust, there are just as many, if not more, would turn us in for some British sovereigns.”

  After another 30 minutes, they arrived at the churchyard of Muckross Abbey.

  “Don’t you think it is fitting?” asked Lyons, “We take the stone from their abbey and place it in ours. I find a certain poetic justice in that.”

  They had stopped in a large courtyard. It was a clear night and in the moonlight, the ruins of the abbey were easy to make out as was a large yew tree that towered over the surrounding landscape.

  “Now what?” asked O’Brien. “Do we just leave it here?”

  “Of course not,” said Lyons, “Where do coffins usually go?”

  “In the ground?” ventured Nesbitt.

  “In the ground,” repeated Lyons. “Just over there is Muckross Cemetery. It is still active today, and if you believe in legends, it is the burial site of many of the O’Donoghue chieftains.”

  He added, “In this instance, I don’t think they will mind an interloper.”

  They drove across the courtyard to a remote corner of the cemetery, and then they all took shovels and lanterns from the wagon.

  “Try to be careful with the sod,” Lyons told them. “We must replace it so that this looks as undisturbed as is possible. After all, it wouldn’t do to have a freshly dug grave in an old section of a cemetery like this. Especially when you see what I have planned for it.”

  “And what is that?” asked Nesbitt.

  “And spoil the surprise?” asked Lyons. “You’ll find out soon enough.”

  And so they set to their task. The earth was cold and hard and the digging difficult. When they had made the hole about four feet deep, they carried the coffin from the wagon to the grave and lowered it in using ropes. Then, they covered it over with the dirt they had removed and carefully replaced the sod.

  “In a week, you’d never know it had been dug up,” said Lyons. “Now for the finishing touch. “Come with me, boys.”

  They clambered onto the wagon and drove back across the courtyard. Climbing down, they followed Lyons into a corner of the ruined cloister, where he started moving some bales of hay that had been scattered there. Hidden underneath the hay was a tarpaulin, and when Lyons pulled it back, he smiled at them and said, “The piece de resistance!”

  Chapter 10 – London, Feb. 4

  When I first moved t
o Baker Street in 1881, Madame Tussaud’s was already a popular attraction. It was located in the Baker Street Bazaar, near Dorset Street, just a short walk from our lodgings. The founder, Madam Marie Tussaud, had died in 1850, leaving the museum to her sons. In 1883, they moved it to nearby Marylebone Road.

  Family squabbles over finances caused the business to be sold in February of 1889. That was the year that Holmes and I had first met John Theodore Tussaud, Madame Tussaud’s grandson, who had been retained to manage the business.

  Shortly after it was sold, one of the artists who had been employed there, Edward White, was accused of sending a parcel bomb to John Theodore. Holmes was involved in the case, though he has always remained rather close-mouthed about exactly what role he played in the affair.

  At any rate, I knew that we would be warmly received. And as we stepped inside, it was John Theodore himself who greeted us.

  “Mr. Holmes, Dr. Watson, it has been too long. To what do I owe the honor?”

  “John Theodore, how are you?” asked Holmes.

  “I am well,” he replied, “but unless I miss my guess, this is not a social call, is it gentlemen?”

  “Would that it were,” replied Holmes.

  “Shall we talk in my office?” asked John Theodore.

  “That would be splendid,” said Holmes, and we followed our host past Lord Nelson and Sir Walter Scott as well as a number of scenes from the French Revolution.

  When we had settled ourselves in his office, he rang and told the young woman who answered that he would like tea for three.

  Turning his attention to us, he asked, “Now Mr. Holmes, how may I be of service?”

  “You have a young woman in your employ by the name of Kathleen McMahon, do you not?” said Holmes.

  “Yes, she is one of my best artists,” replied John Theodore.

  “Does she create the statues?” asked Holmes.

  “No, Mr. Holmes,” he answered, “she works in papier-mâché, and to say she is an artist is far from doing her justice.”

  “What exactly does she do?” asked Holmes.

  “She creates the weapons that some of the figures hold as well as the backdrops against which they are posed and various other props. Wax has its limits, Mr. Holmes; even the strongest wax will soon show signs of fatigue if it is required to hold up a six-pound battle-axe all year round. However, if the axe weighs but a pound, the strain is greatly reduced and the wax will last that much longer.”

  “And the set pieces that she designs?”

  “She has created the most realistic trees and bushes. You would swear they were real,” said John Theodore.

  “Anything else?” prodded Holmes.

  “A great many things,” replied John Theodore. “Is there something in particular you would like to know about?”

  “If I needed a boulder or a large rock, could she fashion one of those?”

  “I’ve no doubt that she could,” he replied. “I say that because she has fashioned a few such stones for one of the displays.”

  Holmes gave me a knowing glance, and just then the woman returned with our tea.

  As John Theodore served, Holmes deftly switched the topic. We made small talk about his business, and he described for us the difficulties of maintaining an audience, and dismissed as a novelty the new moving pictures that were starting to proliferate.

  “Fads may come and go, but Madame Tussaud’s will persevere. These moving pictures, they are but a moment long, and then they are gone. Our statues are eternal,” he informed us proudly.

  After we had finished, Holmes asked if we might meet with Miss McMahon. John Theodore said that he believed she was in her studio and that he would take us to her.

  He led us down a darkened hall and when had he reached the end, he pulled back a deep purple curtain to reveal a door. After he had knocked, a woman’s voice said, “Come in.”

  As we entered, I saw one of the most striking creatures I have ever encountered. I know that Holmes considers himself immune to the charms of the fairer sex; however, I am not so fortunate.

  Tall and slender, Kathleen McMahon had long auburn hair, sparkling green eyes and a dazzling smile. She was standing at a workbench, painting what appeared to be a large wooden stake. Her appearance at that moment was far from flattering, as she was wearing an apron that was bespattered with daubs of various colored paint, which had also made its way onto her face and hands, Still, there was no denying the woman’s obvious beauty.

  “Miss McMahon, I should like to introduce Mr. Sherlock Holmes, the famous detective, and Dr. John Watson, his chronicler,” said John Theodore. “Now, if you will excuse me, I have to attend to a few things elsewhere.”

  “I know who you are gentlemen,” she replied with a slight brogue.

  “You do?” I exclaimed.

  “Of course,” she replied.

  Appraising us carefully, she said, “Two men – one quite tall with an aquiline profile and a stoic demeanor with readily apparent chemical stains on three of his fingers, who is accompanied by an obvious medical man who appears to have an injured left arm that he seems to favor slightly, I can only conclude that they must be the great detective and his Boswell.”

  “Well-played,” said Holmes.

  “Besides,” she added, “I used to see you occasionally while I was out shopping, and one day I asked John Theodore, who was with me, who you might be.” At that, we all laughed, and she said, “How may I help you gentlemen?”

  Given a moment, I was able to survey my surroundings and looking about the room, I was stunned to see all manner of weapons – knives and swords and axes as well as shields and armor, bowls and other strange objects. Looking to my left, I saw various torture devices, including a pillory, an iron maiden and a scavenger’s daughter.

  “Did you create all of these?” I asked in wonderment.

  “Not all, but most,” she replied.

  “And how long does it take you to create something like, say, a stake?” asked Holmes.

  “Smaller pieces can be done in three or four days while a larger piece may require several days or more,” she replied. “One has to fashion the framework from wire or wood. Then you create a mix of glue and water, although I prefer to use the paste that is employed by wallpaper hangers. It lasts much longer.”

  “Could you explain the process in detail?” my friend asked. “I fear it may have some bearing on a case with which I find myself involved.”

  “Certainly,” she replied, totally unruffled. While she was speaking, Holmes busied himself prowling about the room examining her various creations. I half expected him to pull out his lens at any moment.

  When she had finished a few minutes later, Holmes thanked her and said, “You have been most informative, Miss McMahon. I cannot express my gratitude.”

  “I’m glad I could help,” she said.

  “Just one more question if I may?” asked Holmes.

  “Certainly,” she replied.

  “What part of Ireland are you from?”

  “I was born and raised in the north, in Donegal,” she replied.

  “I thought so,” replied Holmes. “I have an uncanny ear for accents. Now, let me thank you again. We will see ourselves out,” Holmes said. “And please give my best to John Theodore.”

  “I certainly shall,” she replied.

  “As we left Madame Tussaud’s and walked toward our lodgings, I said to Holmes, “What an absolutely captivating creature.”

  “That she is, Watson. However, if you are smitten, as I fear you may well be, let me caution you that Miss McMahon may find herself behind bars before this is all over, and I can’t help but think that a prison sentence must certainly impede the course of true love.”

  Before I could say anything, Holmes said, “I am starving. Are you
hungry, old man?”

  Chapter 11 – Killarney, Feb. 4–5

  “Where in heaven’s name did you get that?” asked O’Brien.

  “Remember when Santry and I went to Dublin a few weeks back? We met some of our brothers from the north – County Armagh, to be exact. On the president’s orders, they had ‘borrowed’ this beauty from an obscure little cemetery near Greencastle.”

  “They transferred it from it from their wagon to ours, and here it is,” Lyons explained.

  “But won’t it be missed?” asked Nesbitt.

  “I rather doubt it,” said Lyons. “Even if it is, can you imagine how many Michael Kellys must be buried in Ireland?

  And what better place to hide a tombstone than in a cemetery?

  “Now, get those ropes and lift it carefully. It weighs about 400 pounds, Santry and I got it off the wagon with a hell of a struggle, so I think the four of us should be able to manage it without too much trouble.”

  And so they hoisted it into the wagon, drove back across the courtyard to the cemetery and after some exertion, managed to place it atop the grave they had just dug.

  “If the English can find it here, they deserve to get it back it,” said Lyons, “but I’m guessing that our secret will stay buried as long as we want it to.”

  “But will it not be noticed?” asked Nesbitt.

  “I don’t think so,” said Lyons, “I told the boys the approximate date range we needed, and I told them it had to be a high cross with a common name. In other words, I have taken great pains to make certain that it fits in with its surroundings quite nicely. And as we have installed it in an older section of the cemetery, I rather doubt even the locals will notice the sudden addition.”

  Pausing, he looked at the men and asked, “Have I overlooked anything?”

  “Not that I can think of,” said Santry. “The stone blends right in and there’s nothing even remotely memorable about it.”