by David Marcum
Soon, I had soloed, while Holmes, the poor chap, was still trying to master the simple art of hopping. It was as if, once he attained his seat in the Wright, all his judgement and reasoning fled. I was starting to feel sorry for the man. Carpenter, once again taking Holmes as his student - much to Grissom’s relief - simply let the man make hops to his heart’s content. I saw no value in allowing Holmes to continue his unsuccessful attempts, as I thought that it would be more humane to simply tell him he had no business trying to fly. However, I later learned that it was Holmes who insisted on this course. Carpenter even offered to refund his tuition in full and waive the costs of repairs. Each time Holmes’s wheels left the ground, however briefly, Carpenter would turn away and shut his eyes, waiting for the inevitable crunch.
Holmes, too, was growing ever more frustrated with each flight attempt. I have come to believe that he was a trifle jealous of my successes. In the evenings, at our lodgings or over an early supper, he appeared distracted and only mumbled when I engaged him in conversation. Each evening, weather permitting, I would take a stroll around the little village. I often asked Holmes to join me. Sometimes he did, but most of the time, he politely refused and retired to his room and buried himself in the lesson books. When I would return from my walk, I would often find him smoking furiously, the room wreathed in a cloud of cigarette smoke like a bluish haze. Then I would open a window, hoping for a gentle breeze, or sometimes a gale, to clear the room. When I retired for the evening, Holmes would still be wrapped up in his books and charts, scribbling furiously. Once or twice, as I fell asleep, I would be startled by an annoyed grunt or his mumbled “... for the bloody birds...”
The day I soloed was dawned sunny and warm. There was barely a cloud in the sky and the air was still. A perfect day for flying. Holmes and I rode our rented bicycles to the aerodrome and presented ourselves for the day’s lessons. Carpenter directed me to help him push Dorothy out of the hangar, while Grissom and Holmes moved Victoria. Brazen Betty was in the back of the hangar, her motor removed and her wings resting on wooden sawhorses. She would not fly for some time.
I climbed into my seat and buckled in. I expected Carpenter to take his seat next to me. Behind us, I could hear Grissom and Holmes in earnest conversation. Carpenter slapped my knee. “Today’s your day, Watson. You’re on your own! I want you to take-off, make four circuits of the field, then four landings and take-offs. Make your final landing and then we’ll top off the petrol.” He gave me thumbs up and went to start the motor. As soon as the motor was running smoothly, he grasped the wingtip and that was my signal to begin my take-off roll.
The following twenty minutes seemed like twenty seconds. I made my circuits and my bumps and rolls, as Carpenter called the fast take-offs and landings (which were later called touch and goes,) and then I taxied up to the hangar. My performance must have been satisfactory, for as Carpenter filled the petrol tank, he chatted amicably about his home in America and what he hoped to do in the future. Then he faced me. With a charming smile, he shouted over the roaring motor, “Now. Off you go. Give me four, no, make that six, figures-of-eight around the field. Keep her above five-hundred feet and keep a sharp eye out for other flyers. Today’s a great day for flying, so there’ll be a lot of people up there with you. Once you complete those maneuvers, and if you still have fuel, stay up for a while, enjoy the flight. Come down when you’re low on fuel.” He tied a long red banner to the trailing struts near the wingtips. I looked at him quizzically. “Something we started doing around here a year ago. They signify a certification flight and warn other pilots to stay clear. So, off you go! Make me proud, Watson!”
I advanced the throttle as my heart leapt into my throat. ‘This is it, John!’ I thought. I raced across the uneven grass, the machine rolling and bouncing. Suddenly, I was airborne! Slowly climbing into the azure sky. Oh, what grandeur to be aloft, the world spread beneath me like an exquisite diorama. How can I describe the sensations? Fear, certainly, knowing that I alone was responsible for my machine and my safety. No one to correct my mistakes. If something dire should occur, it was myself who would triumph or fail. Then - exhilaration to be in control of a majestic machine soaring high above the world! Intense concentration on the controls, the maneuvers. Nudge the rudders, stroke the stick back, touch it to the left, and then correct. No! Too much, ease off! Good. Now the other way. The world whirling about as you turn and dance in the blue. Joy! Ecstasy! The beauty of the countryside below, the glory of being part of the sky. For the entire time I was aloft that day, I felt as though I had become a stranger to the World of Man, watching from my lofty perch as people busied themselves about their myriad tasks, I could scrutinize and study them as an owl would watch a mouse scurrying across a field. What omnipotence, what potential.
All too soon, I completed my maneuvers and played among the birds and it was time to return to the mortal world. Suddenly, I was overcome with terror! What if I misjudged my speed, my altitude? I would crash. I would embarrass Carpenter. I almost froze as I turned into the wind. Suddenly, I was unsure of what to do next! But my hands and feet moved in spite of my fear. The machine glided serenely across the perimeter track, settled towards the grass, Dorothy’s wheels were rumbling across the verge, and slowly I came to a stop.
As I approached the hangar, I couldn’t fail to notice that Holmes was missing. Only Carpenter and Grissom stood before the gaping doors. Victoria stood where she was when I had left. Where did Holmes go? Why wasn’t he here, watching my triumph? I had the sinking feeling that my friend was too upset at my abilities, that I had bested him that he could not bear to see me solo. My success was tempered by this slight.
Carpenter ran up to my still rolling machine, waving his arms, gesticulating and whooping wildly. I climbed down from my seat and immediately Carpenter and Grissom hoisted me onto their shoulders. A quick parade around Dorothy, and then they dumped me unceremoniously onto the soft earth. We laughed uproariously. Carpenter led me to the office where, with a flourish, he presented me with my aviator’s certificate. I was now a licensed aviator
Holmes’s bicycle was not next to mine. When I pedaled back to our hotel, it was not there either. I began to worry that my friendship with Holmes had reached the breaking point. To my relief, his clothes and luggage were still in his room. The proprietor said that he had not seen Holmes since we left together that morning.
Later that evening, Carpenter and Grissom arrived at the hotel and took me out to dinner to celebrate my graduation. Holmes arrived just as we were about to leave. Grissom invited him to join us, but Holmes politely declined, saying that it was my celebration and he did not want to darken the affair. He then claimed that he had some matters to attend to and climbed the stairs. When our celebratory dinner had concluded, we discovered, to our delight, that our bill had been paid in advance. “Plimpton!” Carpenter slurred. “Damned gracious man, but a total wash as a flyer! Seemed so intelligent, too. He’s better off with something safer, eh, Watson?” He nudged me with an elbow. “Hey! I bet I can get him a good deal on one of those Wright bicycles, you think?”
The following day, amid a clinging drizzle that did little for one’s comfort, we boarded the train back to Sussex. I chatted amicably with Holmes for a time, but he soon grew quiet. I had come to recognize his black moods and feared one was in the offing, so I attempted to cheer him by telling some ribald stories Grissom and Carpenter had shared with me. Holmes would occasionally chuckle but continued to stare out our compartment’s grimy window at the passing countryside.
Finally, my curiosity got the better of me and I pressed him for an explanation of his whereabouts on that final night. He deftly deflected my questions until, frustrated, I dropped the matter. To this day, I have no idea where he went. After we had arrived at his Sussex villa, late in the evening, a heavy rain began to fall. Mrs. Hudson delighted us with a sumptuous repast and joined us in a celebratory glass of port afterwards. She was m
ost pleased that I had obtained my aviator’s certificate, but displayed a certain sadness that the great detective had failed to do so. I, being exhausted from the long train journey home, retired to my room. As I walked down the hallway, I could have sworn I heard her remark “‘Tis alright. You’ll have your wings soon enough.”
The next day I was scheduled to leave for London and my snug flat on Queen Anne Street. At breakfast, Holmes was once again himself, and excitedly commenting about an article in the morning paper about “strange men and lights” in a remote Welsh village. As Holmes wished me a safe and pleasant journey, I thought I detected a bit of a wistfulness about him. I was sad to leave and I think that he was sad to see me go. All through that train ride back to London, my thoughts returned to my old friend and I pondered what the future would hold for us both.
I had been bitten by the aviation bug, and soon began subscribing to various magazines. I even considered purchasing an aeroplane of my own. This I did, the following year. The very machine that Carpenter used to teach me, Victoria! My life soon returned to normal, except that I took every opportunity to fly on the weekends that weather permitted.
One day, a month or so after our stay in Hendon, Holmes appeared at my door.
As he strode into my sitting room, he brandished a paper in his hand. He thrust it at me with obvious glee. It was his own aviator’s certificate, in his correct name! “When did you...?” I sputtered.
“A week after you left for London, I returned to Hendon, engaged a different instructor, and three weeks later, I was awarded my certificate!”
“Wonderful, Holmes!” I cried. “We can fly together sometime. What do you say?”
He plopped into my favorite easy chair, crossed his long legs at his ankles and smiled. “I shan’t plan on much of that, Watson. I won my certificate, proved to myself that I need not approach every endeavor with such unwavering scientific determination, and let myself surrender to instinct. Once that was accomplished, I found flying quite easy.”
And with that, my story is told.
Lizzie stared at me across the little table. “Oh, John! That is so delicious! Mr. Sherlock Holmes defeated! How exquisite! So?” she asked, her liquid brown eyes wide with astonishment, “Why haven’t you flown since the War, John?”
“Frankly, my love, there were too many people getting seriously injured or killed in those days. More than few of those eventually became patients of mine, including Grissom. Poor chap, he was later killed, flying for the French. Carpenter returned to America soon after. I used to get a letter every so often, but I haven’t heard from him in years. Besides, after every flight that month, after landing, I suffered from such earaches and sinus congestion. I did win the wager and, I suppose, that was the purpose of the whole affair, wasn’t it?”
She gently returned her teacup to the saucer with a soft clink. “The dinner, John, with Sherlock’s brothers. How did that go?”
I chuckled. “Lizzie, it was possibly the dullest, quietest, most uncomfortable affair I have ever attended. Were it not for my attendance, I fear the three brothers would passed the entire evening in silence. Mycroft gave monosyllabic answers to all my inquiries and Sherrinford appeared not to hear anything said. Both brothers would occasionally glare at Holmes, which contributed much to the unease of the evening.” I gave her a knowing wink and she giggled
I stood from the table and offered Lizzie my hand. “What do you say to my showing you the world from above? I know where we can hire an aeroplane.”
Die Weisse Frau
by Tim Symonds
It was 1916. I was at work at my London surgery, home for a while from my old regiment. An overnight shower had washed away the grime from the maple-like leaves of the London plane trees on Queen Anne Street in Marylebone, leaving them a lush green. Through the window I glimpsed the charlady polishing the brass plate with “Dr. John H. Watson M.D.”, picked out in black.
The Kaiser’s War had been raging for months. Almost within shouting distance of the South Coast, millions of men in trenches faced each other across narrow stretches of no-man’s-land. Each morning as the sun rose, the occasional stray dog caught up in the endless coils of barbed-wire jerked as it was hit by snipers adjusting their rifle sights for the day’s human kill. A combination of entrenchments, machine gun nests, barbed wire, and artillery repeatedly inflicted severe casualties on the attackers and counter-attacking defenders. Gone were the days when battles lasted hardly a day, like Agincourt or the Battle of Hastings. Britain’s expectation that the Boche would collapse before the first Christmas had long since faded into the illusion it had always been.
The war was having a powerful effect on the Home Front too. Almost every one of my patients arrived with a copy of William Le Queux’s lurid tale Spies of The Kaiser in trembling hands, convinced by Spies that a thousand trained German saboteurs were lying low in Britain, waiting for orders to strike. Le Queux encouraged patriotic Britons to follow his personal example: Go out at night, revolver in hand, searching for secret German signals, especially in the wooded countryside of Surrey.
By sunset, the last of my patients, the Rt. Hon. Sir George C., had left. Sir George’s role in His Majesty’s Government gave him privileged knowledge of the state of the war. Barely able to hide his excitement, he told me to ready myself for some good news. A large-scale Allied offensive would soon be launched against the German Front Line astride a major river. The British Army would attack in huge numbers north of the river, the French in the south. Sir George had one reservation: “Let’s hope our Intelligence people have got this one right. Otherwise we could be in for a pasting.”
A repeat of the Battle of Maiwand, I reflected ruefully, where in the long gone days of the Second Afghan War, my Regiment fought Ayub Khan’s tribesmen - and lost.
I was digesting Sir George’s news when a sharp knocking at the tradesman’s entrance heralded the arrival of a telegram.
“Dr. Watson, I presume?” queried the messenger-boy cockily. I handed him a generous sixpence and took the envelope and its contents back into the electric light, courtesy of the Hick Hargreaves reciprocating steam engines at Stowage. Telegrams were usually from my old comrade-in-arms Sherlock Holmes, issuing invitations to his isolated bee-farm on the Sussex Downs, or when he needed help on some matter related to the war effort. To my surprise and equal pleasure, it was a message - though a mysterious one - from Toby McCoy, the young flat racing champion jockey. Only the previous year, he had won the two-thousand Guineas at Newmarket on Pommerne, on which I had placed a five-guinea bet at his urging. Would I find time to meet him with the greatest urgency, “over certain matters of national importance”? Rather than getting together at the Junior United Services Club, as we had on several occasions over the previous three or four years, could we rendezvous the following day at two o’clock near Hyde Park Corner, where the Rotten Row bridleway meets Park Lane? McCoy planned to exercise the King’s horses and would saddle one up for me.
The telegram had a post-script: “You should know we’re selling off some fine cavalry horses deemed redundant in trench warfare.”
I would direct this latter information to my landed-gentry patients. With the increasing density of London’s motorised traffic, the streets were fast becoming no-go areas for horses of any kind. The likelihood of purchasing fine cavalry horses for my personal use was slim. Impressed nevertheless by the sense of urgency thrumming through the telegram, I telephoned the nearby St. Mary’s Hospital to arrange for a locum for the morrow.
The following day, I lunched early and set off on foot for Rotten Row. The name was a corruption of Route du Roi, the fashionable sandy stretch for carriages and horses made famous when the future King Edward VII triumphantly paraded the bewitching actress Lillie Langtry as his prize trophy. The walk through Hyde Park took me through a landscape richly caparisoned in purple and gold from the carpet of crocuses and banks o
f daffodils scenting the damp air.
McCoy was waiting with an impatient air. On catching sight of me, he trotted up with the second horse. With a glance around but hardly a word of greeting, he cantered off, remaining silent until the horses had broken a little sweat.
“Dr. Watson,” he called across, “you must be wondering why all this secrecy!”
I said, “I’m hoping it means you have a hot tip for the St. Leger Stakes.”
“It’s rather more important than that,” came a stern reply.
“More important than the St. Leger Stakes?” I exclaimed. “Surely only matters of war and peace could be more important!”
“As you say, Dr. Watson,” McCoy responded. “It’s very much a matter of war.”
For the next ten minutes, he poured out a story which intrigued and alarmed me in equal measure.
“Since we last met, Doctor, I have moved to an out-of-the-way part of England. My life has always been - and still is - solely concerned with horses. I pay little heed to public affairs - only what I read in the newspapers. Due to censorship, that’s precious little.”
“Whereabouts is this out-of-the-way place?” I asked.
“In Wiltshire. Near Marlborough. It’s called Raffley Park.”
“Raffley Park!” I exclaimed. “Isn’t that the stud farm owned by a brewery magnate, Colonel Somebody-or-other, who believes breeding horses can be influenced by the sun and stars? I’ve heard he’s so obsessed with horoscopes, he has astrological charts drawn up for all the foals he breeds...?”
“That was Colonel Walker, yes, but he’s no longer the owner. Last year, under the greatest secrecy, the land and stables were purchased by the War Office, along with two stallions, broodmares, yearling fillies, and eight horses in training. It’s become an Army Remount Depôt for transforming horses for war work. At first, we only handled the very finest officers’ horses. That came to a halt once trench warfare started. Except in places like Palestine, cavalry charges have become a thing of the past. Mustangs and burros are what’s most needed. They’re pouring in from the American West. Raffley Park’s job is to sort them out by waggon or pack units, and light, heavy, or siege artillery. You would know all about that from your time in the 5th Northumberland Fusiliers.”