by David Marcum
“Perhaps. Possibly it was someone who read of the oil in the Russian newspaper, some anarchist or anti-Royalist.”
“But here’s the rub - we obtained today’s copy of Iskra, and there is no story in it whatsoever about the oil.”
“Nevertheless. Say the reporter took it for some reason, or mentioned it to an anarchistic acquaintance who involved himself. There are certainly enough of those crawling out of the woodwork of late. As you know, we are also growing them at home now, those who complain - rightly so - about the expense of a coronation event when there are starving people within a mile of the Palace.”
Mycroft frowned. “That is a tangent that I wish to table for the present. Back to the matter at hand. Will you go to Squire’s in Oxford Street to continue the investigation?”
“First, I would rather speak to the man who is organizing the coronation, and was responsible for setting into motion the preparation of the new oil in the first place.”
“Sir Grayling Beade,” responded Mycroft. “A man grown old in the service. Rather a civil servant, I’m afraid, when compared to how one normally imagines a knight. His father lost the family fortune when Sir Grayling was just a young fellow - he inherited the title and the good will of the Royal Family, but little else. It is unfortunate that his labors have not been more rewarded. Just bad luck all the way around.”
“Could he, then, not be the thief?” I asked. “To sell the oil in order to obtain lacking funds?”
“Nonsense,” assured Mycroft.
“But - ”
“Doctor, I assure you that Sir Grayling can be removed from your consideration. He has already been investigated in regard to another matter that need not concern the two of you - without his knowledge, unfortunately. He has a complete bill of health.”
“If Mycroft says so, Watson, then we can cross him off. In any case, even if he were the one to steal it, how would it help him? Who would buy this holy oil?” Holmes smiled. “I’m aware of no fence that traffics in illicit anointing fluids. Although perhaps our thief could get a few pence by repackaging it as scented lamp oil.”
“Enough!” said Mycroft, waving a flipper-like hand toward the door. “Let me know if I can help.” And with that, it seemed that we were dismissed.
Outside, Holmes adjusted his fore-and-aft and questioned whether we would need a cab. “Not at all,” I replied. “The walk will do me good.” In answering, I had neglected to take into account the convoluted plans of my friend, incorrectly predicting that we would stroll west, making our way down through Marlborough Gate, Cleveland Row, or one of the other streets by St. James’s Palace before reaching The Mall. Instead, Holmes turned east, toward Piccadilly Circus, and I hurried to catch up.
His reasoning soon became apparent when we turned at Waterloo Place, pausing halfway down the Duke of York’s steps below the column to look at the building squatting nearby, 9 Carlton House Terrace, responsible for so much mischief in recent years.
“One has to wonder,” Holmes said softly, “whether we’ll find that this theft was instigated by someone inside that edifice, perhaps watching us right now, even as we watch them.”
“The Kaiser would certainly like to disrupt his uncle’s coronation in any way that he can.”
“No doubt. And yet, this doesn’t have the feel of one of his typical little pranks.”
I laughed. “Pranks indeed! If he’s not careful, he’s going to throw us all into a war.” Then I saw the look that crossed Holmes’s face, and my laughter stopped.
“Oh, it will be war, Watson, rest assured. It’s not a question of if, but when. Mycroft has been singing that song for quite some time, and has long since converted me to his way of thinking as well.”
“I fully recall all the times that you - and I to some lesser degree - have been involved in preventing this or that plot, as instigated by the Kaiser and his advisors. But surely, Holmes, it’s all a piece of some grand game, a chess move here or there, a treaty or a whisper to gain influence that will give one side or the other a temporary advantage. Who benefits from such a war?”
“You know that as well as I. The military industrialists on both sides of the conflict. Surely you recall that shadowy game played by Professor Moriarty, in which he tried very much to advance this sort of agenda.”
“I do. But the politicians will figure it out.”
“As they figured out Afghanistan? Or more recently, our affairs with Brother Boer? Do not believe it. The Kaiser’s ambitions, while appearing rather silly to us on the surface, are quite a serious matter to the Germans, I assure you. And with the death of the Queen, followed by the ever-increasing web of alliances, entanglements, treaties, marriages, and very real demands for raw materials and respect, it’s just a matter of time until a spark starts a wildfire.”
“I am horrified.”
“And you should be. But you should not be surprised. It will be a withering east wind, my friend. We are doing all that we can, Mycroft and I, and you as well, to prevent it, or at least mitigate the effects. As you know, Mycroft is pressuring me more and more to abandon my Baker Street practice and devote my full energies completely toward his cause. I must admit that I’m considering it, although the best way in which to do so is still being determined.”
His gaze focused far away for a moment before he pulled himself back. “But sufficient unto the day is the labor before us. Faces west, then, and quick march!”
And so saying, he turned from the base of the steps where we had tarried, finally making our way along The Mall, St. James’s Park to our left and the Palace wavering before us in the distant late-morning haze, coming into focus as we progressed.
Eventually we reached the confluence of the Palace gate, St. James’s, and Green Park, where we presented ourselves for entry. We were apparently expected, and I realized that a telephone call had most likely been made from within the Diogenes Club, announcing our impending arrival. I realized that I was mildly surprised, but shouldn’t have been. Unlikely as it might initially seem, considering the façade that the Diogenes labors to present as simply a haven for unclubable men, and also what is secretly controlled from there by Mycroft Holmes, the presence and necessity of a telephone should really be no surprise at all.
Passing inside the grounds, we were led to a side door away from all the ostentatious bulk, and thence along less traveled hallways to mean little rooms where the real business of managing the Royal Family took place. Soon we were seated in the modest chambers of Sir Grayling Beade. He seemed pained to be serving in such restricted conditions, and to have us observe it. He offered us tea, which Holmes waved away, but I moved to accept a cup to counter the unexpected damp chill within the bowels of the building, even on this warming August day.
“What can I tell you?” asked Sir Grayling.
“My brother informed us that the coronation oil is missing, along with some of the history and mumbo-jumbo superstition behind it - ” I winced, as did Sir Grayling, but Holmes continued, “ - and I need more specifics about the Royal Perfumer, or whomever it is that decants the stuff into the bottle, and how it came to be stolen.”
“Surely you should simply go to the chemist where it’s made. That’s where the robbery occurred.”
“I could, but I’d rather collect some data beforehand instead of marching in half-prepared.”
The tea arrived just then, along with some plain biscuits. I took two, noting that the fine china was apparently reserved for the upper levels of the building. However, these weathered but solid plates and mugs did the job.
Sir Grayling, who had also requested a cup, took a sip and said cautiously, “I don’t suppose you’ll need to speak to the King?” He said it as a question, but with a wary aspect to it as well.
Holmes looked surprised. “Why on Earth would I need to do that? Can he tell us anything about the theft?”
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“Of course not. But you would be surprised how much of my job begins and ends - and it isn’t even a part of my duties, you understand! - with fencing off requests for access to the Sovereign for one reason or another. A request. A favor. Or simply for the pleasure of bragging that one has met him. Naturally, I thought - ”
“You were mistaken,” said Holmes. “I really do want to ask you some questions. In any event, I have met the King. I don’t believe that he feels the need to renew our acquaintance, and I certainly reciprocate the sentiment. Watson!” he barked suddenly, making me start and spill some tea.
“What?”
“Do you need to see the King?”
“Hmm. Oh, not today, I suppose. Not this time.”
“Very well then.” He turned back to Sir Grayling. “About this oil.”
The older man nodded, set down his teacup, and laced his fingers before him. “Right. The oil. Well, it’s made up by Sir Peter Squire, of Squire and Son in Oxford Street. This is the first batch that he personally has made, you understand. He wasn’t even born when Queen Victoria was crowned. It was his father, also Peter Squire, but never knighted, who mixed it on that occasion. The Queen already knew him, you see. Peter, the father, I mean. He had been her chemist when she was still a princess.
“Old Peter - who wasn’t so old then, I suppose, at least not as old as I am now - mixed up some of the oil in ’37, and it was blessed by the Bishop and used, and the excess was stored away. It was assumed, I understand, that it would be good for a long time indeed, and could be used for this coronation as well. It was still blessed from the first time, and that doesn’t go bad, you know. But the oil itself did go bad. Coagulated, I’m told. Rancid. Solid as a rock.
“So Sir Peter, the son of the original Peter, located the recipe, still in his shop. He has a copy, and obviously they keep it all written down at the British Museum as well. Sir Peter will have to tell you what’s in it. I’ve only heard of half of the things that were mentioned. In any case, it was mixed and delivered to the church back in June, taken straight to the Abbey and blessed, and then the King became ill. Everything was put on hold, and if the surgery had failed - well, I hate to think about it. Someone thought of the oil, and it was assumed by us that it would remain stored at the Abbey, but suddenly for some reason they got their backs up, worrying about it and insisting that it be returned to Squire’s. They had some idea that the chemist had a secret method for keeping it fresh, I suppose. And so it was delivered back there. What we didn’t realize was that the chemist shop is apparently even less secure than the Deanery at Westminster.”
“I assume,” said Holmes, turning on a new course, “that Sir Peter is a man above reproach.”
“Oh, absolutely. He isn’t part of the King’s crowd, if you know what I mean.”
I nodded, and Holmes said, “We understand.”
Sir Grayling’s eyes narrowed at some memory, as if he were a man with a toothache. I was sure that he could tell us stories of our sovereign - but then, we could tell a few to him, too.
“We’ll be visiting Squire’s next, but what do you know about the robbery?”
“Not much, I’m afraid. Sir Peter called me this morning when it was discovered that the oil was missing. Thank goodness he didn’t involve the police. Apparently the thieves ignored everything else, and simply took the urn of oil.”
“How much of it is there?”
“Oh, a pint or two, I suppose. I’ve never seen it. With only a few drops to be wiped on the King here and there, it certainly isn’t as if we needed gallons of the stuff.”
“Do you know where it was kept? In a safe perhaps?”
“I don’t believe so. You can ask Sir Peter when you visit. In any case, the fact that it wasn’t kept in a safe is just another way that it made no sense for the Abbey to insist that it be returned there. Certainly, no one would have ever expected that it would be stolen, either. After all, who would benefit from stealing it?”
“Oh, I can imagine that one or two reasons might be found.”
“I bow to your greater experience in the matter. I gather that those one or two uses you imagine are just what your brother is afraid of - somehow discrediting the legitimacy of the coronation, or worse. Personally, I simply need to have it back, or a new batch made up, within the next couple of days so that the ceremony can proceed. These other earth-shaking fears are beyond my concern at present, and I have no more time to devote to it, I’m afraid.”
He rose, unlacing his fingers for the first time since the discussion began. Spreading them on his desk, he leaned closer and asked, “If you’re going to Squire’s next, may I offer you the use of a royal carriage?”
With ready acceptance, we found ourselves a short while later riding up New Bond Street, approaching Oxford Street. I couldn’t help but notice that the occasional pedestrian would pause and look at the royal equipage and try to see who was riding within. Holmes was indifferent; I tried to look the part, with limited success.
The carriage soon stopped in front of 413 Oxford Street, the sanctum of Sir Peter Squire. We stepped to the pavement and our transport pulled around the corner into Duke Street, waiting for us off the main thoroughfare until our business was complete. Holmes propped on his stick before him and looked up at the four-story brick building, restrained in its quiet elegance, and labeled eloquently as Squire and Sons - Chemists and Druggists Upon the Establishment in Ordinary.
Smiling, Holmes said, “How much extra, Doctor, are some of our fellow citizens willing to pay for the simple privilege of having that label on their medications?”
“Likely too much,” I said. “If Sir Peter were dishonest, he could probably give them expensive sugar pills instead of actual medications, and the bragging rights of doing business with the Queen’s chemist would still serve as a most effective placebo.”
“If he were dishonest. The assumption is that he is an upright fellow. I have heard nothing but good things about him over the years.” He raised his stick and gestured me forward. “Let us see, then, what we shall see.”
We entered the shop, one of three in that building, to be met with that faint astringent odor that I had come to recognize over the years. The Squires may have developed and maintained a relationship with the Crown, but their day-to-day bread-and-butter still came from providing to those who toiled for their bread. A friendly looking fellow behind the counter acknowledged us, and even as he was asking if there was any assistance that he could provide, the sound of hurried footsteps approached from the back of the building. The source soon revealed itself to be a tall man, quite formally dressed for an encounter in such a shop. Clearly, this was Sir Peter Squire.
“Mr. Holmes, Dr. Watson. Thank you for coming. This way please.”
He made no offer to shake our hands, a courtesy clearly forgotten as he wrung his own. The friendly fellow behind the counter allowed a worried frown to pass across his face before nodding to us and returning to his post.
As earlier at Buckingham Palace, we were quickly led away from the public face to where things happened behind the scenes - to elaborate upon a thought by Bismarck, where the sausages are made. I looked around at the plain and functional rooms, with no extra expense wasted on paint or decoration. That was saved for the front of the shop. Here were men, as well as a few women, carrying out the routine tasks that they had done the day before, and would do tomorrow and so on. Mixing medications, forming tablets, pills, and pellets, measuring liquids and then diluting them with others, and affixing those ornate square labels to the front of each bottle and packet, proclaiming that this medicine was good enough for royalty, and thus everyone else would be lucky to have it.
We went past several areas of workers, each intent on their tasks, but all glancing toward us beneath lowered brows or cutting their eyes in our direction before turning away. We were only amongst them for a
few seconds, just long enough to reach a larger room at the back of the building, poorly lit by the southern sun feebly streaming through a window and door, both opening onto some kind of court.
In the room was a small man, resembling some medieval alchemist, seated at a worktable. No one else was about, and I wondered why he rated his own separate area. He was an odd-looking fellow, hunched forward, apparently from years of carrying out the same sorts of repetitive tasks. He had several bottles and jars spread before him, all at different clock points around a centrally located mortar and pestle. He had been looking at something in a book beside him, the forefinger of his left hand pressing down upon a page to mark his place. He finished his reading as we entered, looked up, and scowled.
“This is Earnshaw,” said Sir Peter, without another word of introduction. Clearly, we were workmen there to repair a problem, and he was treating us the same as if we were plumbers fixing a pesky leak. “He discovered that the oil was missing this morning. Tell them, Earnshaw.”
The small man remained sitting, straightening as best he could on the stool. As the light shifted on his face, I could see that he was older than I had first thought. He rested his hands loosely on the workbench while he talked, but the right would roll this way and that as if emphasizing some point. I quickly saw, however, that his motions weren’t timed to coincide with any particular statement. Rather, it almost seemed to be some sort of palsy.
“I arrived this morning and found the door broken open,” he said in a rough voice. “I’m the first one here.”
“Earnshaw is our oldest employee,” said Sir Peter. “Worked for my father. He’s the one who made up the oil.”
“I see,” said Holmes, speaking for the first time since we’d entered. “And you noticed that it was gone.”