by Mike Hogan
“Good evening, Doctor,” he said with a huge grin.
“Red Shirt,” I cried.
“Could you kindly fetch Colonel Cody, Mr Shirt?” asked Holmes.
A few moments later Cody stopped the coach and appeared at the window.
“I believe I know where we are going, Colonel. Mr White is heading for the River. He may have a steam launch already engaged. He will land at number 75, Narrow Street Limehouse. He knows by now that he has the wrong boy; he will want to negotiate. We could hire a launch, but I fear that he will get there well before us and have time to make his preparations.”
“How far is this Narrow Street, Mr Holmes?” Colonel Cody asked.
“We are close to Charing Cross. I would say about four miles to Limehouse, as the crow flies, with half that much again along our winding streets. At least there is not much traffic at this hour.”
“We will ride then, sir. But we will need a scout: my boys don›t know London.”
Holmes opened the door of the coach. “I am at your service, Colonel. I have an intimate knowledge of London.”
“I›ll get you a horse.” Cody galloped off
“I say, Holmes, is this wise?” I asked.
Holmes grinned. “The Western saddle looks quite rational. It will be an interesting experience.”
Holmes stepped out of the carriage, and a huge man dressed as a cowboy got in and folded himself onto the seat opposite me.
“Hiya, Doctor. I›m Dick Johnson, the Giant Cowboy.”
He held out a leather pouch.
“Would you gents care for a chaw of tobacco?”
The coach lunged forward tipping Billy onto the floor. I grabbed at a strap. The horses› hooves drummed on the road, the wheels hummed and roared and the leather and metal harness groaned and jingled. We built up to a spanking pace as we tore along the Strand and into Fleet Street, the driver cracking his whip and urging the horses on. We swerved and skidded around the newspaper vans that lined up for the early editions, scattering the loaders. I glimpsed Holmes at the head of our column on a gigantic black horse, whooping and waving his top hat as he jumped his mount over a stack of newspapers. Newsboys cheered and hallooed us. Billy and the Giant Cowboy hung out of the windows and cheered back. I waved a friendly handkerchief.
We pounded through the empty streets of the City past St Paul›s on our left and the Tower on our right and galloped along Cable Street to the end of the notorious Ratcliff Highway. Holmes slowed the column as we entered the network of streets and alleys that led to Narrow Street.
I called Holmes to the coach.
“There›s a stable in Shoulder of Mutton Alley. We can leave the stagecoach and the horses there.”
I directed the coachman down a narrow lane. I smelled again the rich mixture of coffee, oil, tobacco, and the aroma and stench of a dozen other commodities. It was early morning, just before dawn, and the lights were lit in the warehouses and packing houses that lined the street.
The stable boys seemed strangely unmoved at the appearance of a dozen or more cowboys and Indians at their establishment. We left them to unharness the coach, and settle and water our mounts.
We left a guard and continued on foot. Narrow Street was much quieter than when I had last visited. The few pedestrians on the street scurried away in alarm when they saw armed men. The Indians melted into the night, treating Limehouse as if it were their native prairie. I indicated the house next to the Grapes, and it was soon surrounded. Billy led three cowboys and, astonishingly, a young cowgirl, into the pub to cover the River from the terrace.
Holmes, Colonel Cody, Red Shirt and I took up positions in a doorway opposite the gates of number 75. We held a council of war.
“Colonel Cody,” said Holmes. “What are your views?”
“I›m not thinking to storm in guns blazing, Mr Holmes, if that›s what you are expecting.” He grinned. “I propose that Red Shirt and his braves get inside, stealthy like, and cut Mr White›s throat neat as you please.”
Running Deer translated and Red Shirt sliced his palm across his neck, grinning broadly. He looked immensely fearsome in his full-feathered headdress, lurid paint, and glittering medallion. I saw not the showman of the Olympia ground, but a highly trained warrior from a strong, warlike race. He reminded me of the valiant Sikhs I was privileged to soldier with in India.
“That would certainly be a solution,” said Holmes with a smile. “But ideally, I would like to talk with Mr White before he is killed. He came here to be talked to. He will want to swop Churchill for his son.”
“And I must warn you, Colonel,” I said. “You would do well to realise that the stealthy assassination you describe would be a capital offence in this country. And that the discharge of firearms in the street is a public nuisance for which a policeman can take you in charge without a warrant.”
“Thank you, Doctor,” said Holmes. “Now, I suggest -”
A low whistling hoot came from the top of the house opposite. A boy in a feather bonnet loped along the edge of the roof terrace. He waved his tomahawk, pointed down, and disappeared behind the balustrade.
A light appeared in the room below as the gas was lit. A window opened. Red Shirt sighted his rifle at the silhouette framed in the window.
“Mr Holmes,” called a slightly tremulous voice. “Would you like to come up?”
I laid my hand on Red Shirt›s arm.
“That is Winston Churchill,” I said. “Let us go across, Holmes.”
Holmes looked at me, saw my determination, and made no objection. We walked together across the road, through the open gates and into the house in which Aaron›s brother had been cruelly murdered.
A Tomahawk at Dawn
A tall, heavily built man in a dingy suit and dusty bowler stood at the bottom of the staircase.
“Barkers, gents,” he said. “On the table, if you please.”
Holmes placed his revolver on a dustsheet-covered table, and I put my service piece beside it.
The man nodded us upstairs.
I poked the man on the chest with my cane. “Understand this, my man, I carried that revolver at Maiwand. If it is missing when I come down, I will look to you.”
He blinked down at me.
Holmes took the lead and I followed him up the stairs to the next floor. The large dining room was empty, its furniture covered, as it had been on my previous visit. The French windows to the terrace stood open. Another heavyset man in shirt and braces with a pistol in his hand and a bandage around his upper arm waved us through and onto the terrace.
The oil lamp on the table and the two wall-mounted gas burners brightly illuminated the terrace. A tall man in evening dress and an opera hat stood on the far side of the table, up against the balustrade. He was in his sixties, dark-complexioned and with a full grey moustache. The man held Churchill by the collar. In his left hand, he held a large calibre revolver.
“Good evening,” he said in a strong Cape accent. “Take a seat, eh.”
“Robert White,” said Holmes, sitting at the table. “You purchased two tickets to New York on the SS Murray Castle under the name of Wilhelm Gunter Wolff and son. She sails on the tenth of this month. I must say that you had more faith in my ability to find Bobby than was justified by events. We stumbled across him by chance. You might have wasted your ticket money if we’d not found him for you by sailing day.”
I sat next to Holmes.
“It is a simple matter,” said White. “I bought several steamer tickets. Give me my son and I will return this arrogant brat. If not -”
He pointed his pistol at Churchill’s head.
I made to jump up, but Holmes hand on my arm restrained me. The boy stared at us wide-eyed and pale. I saw that he had his right hand in his jacket pocket. I was terrified that he might try to use his Derri
nger.
“You killed Joe Long, Aaron’s brother,” said Holmes.
The man shrugged.
“He strung me along. He said that he could persuade Bobby to come to me. I sent him money. He told me that Taylor had brought the boy to England. I followed and I paid Joe to pass messages to Bobby. He cheated me.”
“He blackmailed you and Taylor about Rorke’s Drift.”
“You know about that, eh, Mr Detective? What a canny bugger you are.”
“You lured him to this house.”
“I took lodgings here when I arrived in London and I tried to contact Bobby. When he ran, I moved to a hotel. But I copied the key.”
“You also killed - or had your minions kill - his brother, Aaron.”
White shrugged again. “He knew where Bobby was, but he wouldn’t talk.”
“And you murdered Bobby’s mother, your wife.”
“A Jezebel, and no wife to me: no church wife anyway. She bedded Taylor so I paid her back for it.”
“And your plans for Taylor and Bobby?”
White lifted his eyebrows and smiled grimly. “Kill Taylor and take my son back. I have money. We can make a new life in California. Give me my son. You can have this brat and I’ll pay you well.”
“It’s not as simple as that, White,” Holmes said. “We do not have your son.”
White shook his head and pressed his pistol into Churchill’s temple.
“If you cooperate, we can find Bobby and arrange a meeting between you. You can make your case,” Holmes continued.
“He is a child, Mr Holmes. I am his father; I decide what is best for him. He will come with me to America, and we will start a new life. I’ll marry again to give him a mother. There’s a good life to be made in the West.”
“We last saw Bobby in Baker Street,” Holmes said. “He galloped off after you.”
White blinked and his gun hand wavered.
“I shot at a rider that followed us on a palomino,” he said. “I shot at glimpses of him that I saw through the fog. I hit him, I think.”
Holmes said nothing.
“I hit him. Was that my son? Then, it’s all over, Mr Holmes,” said White. He shook his head as if to try to clear it. “I shot him down. Now there’s nothing left. Why should my son die and this brat live?”
He cocked his pistol.
“Father!” A cry came from below.
White turned and peered over the parapet.
“Down, Churchill,” Holmes yelled, jumping from his seat.
A gunshot split the air. White’s revolver flew off in a spinning arc as Holmes barrelled into him and tipped him over the parapet. White fell into the River with a loud splash.
I saw a movement above Holmes and watched in astonishment as a slim-shouldered Indian boy swung down onto the parapet from the roof terrace above. I recognised Running Deer. He held something in his hand.
“What the devil?” a yell came from behind me. I turned. The bodyguard at the door raised his pistol.
A whirling object swished past me and a tomahawk embedded itself in the man’s neck, handle down. The bodyguard dropped the gun and slumped to his knees.
Running Deer leapt onto the floor, and trotted past us, silent in his soft leather shoes. He kicked the body over, retrieved his tomahawk, and tucked the man’s gun in his belt. He put his fingers to his lips and slipped inside the house through the French windows.
Holmes helped Churchill up. I took his Derringer and checked it. He had somehow contrived to load the pistol while held captive in the carriage, but thank goodness, he had not tried to use it against White and his men.
I looked over the parapet. Two steam launches were moored below, chugging quietly. One was empty. Bobby sat in the other with Wiggins beside him. He waved. Directly below me a group of men dragged White from the River.
I glimpsed a movement on my left, on the tiny terrace of the Grapes. A girl in Western dress waved her rifle.
“I told White who I was,” said Churchill. He was pale, but he was already regaining his self-possession. “I demanded that he drop me at the nearest police station, take me home to Connaught Place, or deliver me to my uncle’s house.”
“Blenheim Palace,” said Holmes with a grin.
“I could have plugged him with my Derringer when his back was turned, but it wouldn’t have been sporting. And there were his associates to think of.”
“You did well,” I said.
Running Deer came back onto the terrace looking disappointed. “Red Shirt got the other one.” He handed Holmes and I our pistols. As I watched aghast, he casually slit the throat of the man he had tomahawked and sliced off a large piece of his scalp.
Churchill joined him for a closer look.
“Great Scott, Holmes,” I cried.
He shrugged. “When in Rome, et cetera.”
“My dear fellow, we are in Middlesex.”
In the hour before dawn, Colonel Cody, Churchill, Holmes, Wiggins, and I sat tight-squeezed on the outside terrace of the Grapes sipping coffee and smoking cigars.
The inside bars were packed with revellers from the Wild West Show, including Bobby, ‘whooping it up’ as they put it.
“I was wrong about Running Deer,” I said. “He behaved admirably, apart from the scalping. Do you have an outline of the action in your mind, Colonel Cody?”
“I do not. Red Shirt and I crashed inside when we heard the gunshot. Red Shirt dealt with the guard in his customary civil fashion. There will be one more feather in his war bonnet by this evening.”
“And one more scalp,” I said stiffly.
“No, he will keep that in his tepee to bring out on special occasions,” said Cody. “The Prince of Wales complimented me on my collection. Red Shirt will put a wisp of hair on a bead and hang it from his necklace.”
“What?” I cried. “But he’s got dozens and dozens of tufts - oh.” Colonel Cody had opened his jacket to reveal a bead-studded waistcoat. Each had strands of hair attached.
There was a strained silence.
“I know you,” Colonel Cody said to Churchill. “You were the boy on the Deadwood tonight. You’re the Duke of Marlborough’s son we chased after?”
Churchill smiled shyly. “He is my uncle.”
“Maybe he’d like a ride on the stage coach. I’ll send you some tickets.”
“I hardly think that would be possible,” I said coldly. “He is a duke of the realm.”
“Last week,” said Cody with a smile, “the Prince of Wales packed four majesties with him in the Deadwood. Let me see: Denmark, Saxony, Greece, and Austria. A couple of them hid under the seats when the Indians got a mite carried away. A good poker hand: four kings and a Royal Joker.”
I was stunned into silence.
“Wiggins, you must have had a good view of things from the water,” said Holmes.
“I saw Mr White’s fall, sir,” he replied, looking down at the table.
“What were you doing in a steam launch?” I asked.
“I was on my way to stir the Irregulars when I thought that Mr White might hole up in his old haunt. I thought he’d want to swop Churchill for Bobby. The Narrow Street house was the obvious place for a meet. If he’d got Bobby, he’d have used another hideout, maybe upstream and handy for a steamer to America.”
“The SS Murray Castle,” said Holmes. “I had Lestrade check the passenger lists of transatlantic steamers. Go on, Wiggins.”
“Westminster Bridge Steps was a likely place for him to moor his launch,” said Wiggins. “I came up to a kerfuffle in the road just before the bridge. A dead horse lay in the road, a palomino. A copper was there already, and a crowd, so I rode on to the steps and found Mr White’s carriage abandoned. I watched White and his men drag Churchill into a launch. They took
off towards the Tower at full speed. Then I saw Bobby holding up a steam launch engineer with his rifle, and demanding that he must follow White’s vessel. I smoothed things over - another receipt, Doctor - and we set off after Churchill.”
The door opened and a head peeked out.
“All right here gents?” said Billy. “There’s bacon and egg all round coming up. Any more orders?”
“What are you doing, Billy?” I asked.
“I’ve been conscripted by the Grapes, Doctor. They need help with the Show folk. They’re short-handed so they offered me half a crown and all I can drink.”
“Go away,” said Holmes. He nodded for Wiggins to continue.
“We saw the house all lit up, and the launch tied to the rail, so we coasted up beside it. Neither Bobby nor me was armed, at least not with live ammunition. I saw the Showgirl sharpshooter take up a position here on this terrace. We heard you and White talking, and him demanding Bobby. We saw him back up to the rail with his gun on Master Churchill. Bobby shouted ‘Father!’ to distract him. White turned and looked down, the girl fired and White’s pistol flew out of his hand and he fell into the River.”
“She hit the pistol in White’s hand from here,” I said with some disbelief. “Remarkable.”
“Annie Oakley can hit a playing card, repeatedly mind, at ninety feet with a .22 rifle,” said Colonel Cody stiffly. “The card is edge on.”
“White fell,” Wiggins said. “Hit or not, I don’t know. I looked up again and I saw that young Indian boy drop to the terrace from the roof. He threw an axe inside and swung himself after it. That was that.”
“And White?” I asked.
“Bobby and me dragged him to the dock. The Colonel and Red Shirt helped pull him out and inside the house. He was dead.”
“Was he shot?” I asked.
Wiggins shook his head. He would not meet my eye. “Drowned, I expect, Doctor. Or hit his head on something.”