by Geri Schear
“Enough!” Mycroft’s hand slammed down on the table and thundered through the room. The Prime Minister jumped and dropped his fountain pen. It bounced on the table and made a low grumbling noise as it rolled across the walnut.
“Do not play me for a fool,” Mycroft said, his voice adding a new layer of chill to the cold room. “There is no question you will be found guilty of treason and will face the hangman before the year ends. However, I may be able to help you if you tell me what you know about the plot against the queen.”
“Your time is over, Mr Mycroft Holmes,” Frobisher hissed, abandoning all pretence. “You and your filthy empire will come tottering down. It’s you that doesn’t have much time left. Even now my friends are putting plans in motion to destroy more monarchs than your stupid old woman.”
“How dare you!” Watson cried. I put a restraining hand on his shoulder without which, I fear, he would have lunged across the table and throttled the wretch.
I said, more calmly than I felt, “If you mean Bradley, Purfroy, Chambers and the others, they are being taken into custody even at this moment. Your new world order will have to wait a while.”
“Take him down, gentlemen,” Mycroft said.
Two of the men pulled him to his feet and all but dragged him to the door. As one of them opened it Frobisher turned suddenly and cried, “Death to you all!” He drew a dagger from inside his jacket and would have hurtled it towards the Prime Minister, I think, but Gillespie, sharper than four men who were less than half his age, knocked it from Frobisher’s hand and held him at the point of a pistol. At that, the traitor began to scream threats and evil predictions. The door closed behind him and his voice grew steadily fainter until at last we could not hear it any more.
“Villain,” Watson said, pocketing the revolver I had not even seen him draw. He was, quite literally, shaking in fury.
“I think we could all use a drink,” the Prime Minister said. “Mr Holmes?”
“I agree,” Mycroft said. He rose and went to a cabinet in the corner and poured a glass for each of us.
“A pity he would not be more forthcoming,” Mycroft said as he sipped his brandy. “Not that I expected it.”
The Prime Minister downed his drink and said, “I must get back. You’ll keep me informed of the evening’s events?”
“Of course.”
Over the next four hours reports came in from all over the kingdom as policemen, magistrates, and public officials were arrested. Two-hundred-and-forty-two arrests were made on charges ranging from corruption to high treason.
On the continent, too, a further twenty-six anarchists and would-be assassins were arrested in Spain, Italy and Germany.
By the end of it, of the leaders only Porlock remained at large.
Poor Watson could hardly sit upright in the cab by the time we reached Baker Street. It was almost midnight and neither of us had slept sufficiently in several days.
“If you want my bed-” he began.
“I thought we’d settled that argument. Go get some sleep, Watson. I shall stay with my wife.”
She did not stir when I went into the bedroom. Her colour was slightly improved, I thought. I sat in the armchair and pulled a rug around me. I had hardly done so when I fell into a deep sleep.
I was awakened to the sound of a muttered “Damn!”
Beatrice was trying to climb out of bed. I hurried to her side.
“What in the world are you doing?” I said.
“I need to go to the bathroom,” she said.
“You must not put any weight on that ankle,” I said. Then I picked her up and carried her to the lavatory.
When I put her back in the bed she said, “What time is it?”
I glanced at the clock on the mantle. “A few minutes before two. Did you want anything else?”
“Some water, please.”
I poured her a glass and handed it to her.
“Why are you sleeping in the chair? Oh, I have your bed. I’m sorry.”
“Hush,” I said. “You have had a dreadful ordeal. You need your rest.”
“I’ve been a wretched nuisance,” she said sharply. “Really, Holmes, how do you put up with me?”
“How do I - ?” Then I realised she was teasing me, and I laughed. But the laughter was bitter. “You might have been killed, Beatrice. Can you ever forgive me?”
“My dear Holmes,” she said. “You entrusted me with a matter of national importance. You gave me an opportunity to serve my country and you let neither my sex nor my station compromise that. You cannot know what an enormous honour you have done me. Please do not blame yourself. The fault is mine for being clumsy. I could have left that study when I saw the Porlocks return and tried again later. But I had heard them speak of leaving the country for Germany and I was anxious not to miss the opportunity. Then the drainpipe collapsed as I was climbing down it... if it had not been for young Billy I am not sure what I would have done. He all but carried me through the park and helped me hide. I found it difficult to put weight on my ankle.”
“I do not wonder. Watson says you broke a bone.”
“Ah, that would explain it then,” she said, “Please do not be so hard on yourself. Really all that matters is that we have the papers. I hope that means you will be able to put an end to that dreadful organisation for once and for all.”
“We have already begun to do so.” I told her about the evening’s activities and the search for Porlocks.
“I was startled,” she said, “to see so many men of influence on that list. And several members of our police forces. It made me reluctant to trust any of them.”
“You were wise to be cautious. But come, you must sleep. Watson has given strict orders.”
“I cannot sleep while you sit in a chair. Come, there is room enough for two. Oh, don’t look so scandalised. We are husband and wife, if a rather unorthodox couple. I dare say we may share a bed without shocking anyone.”
She was determined and I did as she bade. And for the rest of the night, we slept in each other’s arms. As if our marriage was no different from any other couple’s.
27
December 7th, 1897
No word of Porlock. No word of the Albino.
Have I come so far only to fail now?
He cannot have left the country yet. Every port and every vessel is being closely watched. I believe he will be found in either Liverpool or Anglesey. The former is closer and a busier place and the port services ferries to Ireland. On the other hand, Anglesey is much further from the capitol which may make it feel safer. Though it is not as lively as Liverpool, it may be easier for a careful man to keep watch for anyone who may be looking for him. I long to join the hunt but Mycroft wants me to stay in London.
“Other men may not have your wit, Sherlock,” he says. “But they are strong and well-prepared to handle any sort of resistance from our Bavarian prey. I should prefer you focus your attentions on the Albino. As long as he remains at large the queen’s life is in danger.”
“You have seen that all the arrests are being kept quiet? If the Albino gets word that the network has collapsed he may panic. There is no telling what he might do.”
“Not a word has been said. From his standpoint everything appears as it ought. The only possible difficulty will be if the assassin is expecting final instructions from Porlock.”
“No, Porlock is far too clever to risk implicating himself in that way. I think we may safely assume the Albino has been left to his own devices and will not expect to speak with any of that odious organisation until after the queen is dead.” I stood at the window of his office looking down at the Thames. It is such a grey dull day, which perfectly suits my mood. “I do not share your faith in the police authorities, Mycroft. It takes only one man to make a mistake and Porlock will escape.”
“Even you, my dear brother, cannot be in two places at once,” Mycroft said. “You concede finding the Albino is the more urgent problem?”
There are very few people who can best me in an argument, but there’s no denying my brother is one of them.
Back at Baker Street my wife continues to sleep for long periods. She refuses the laudanum Watson offers her for the pain and insists she will mend quicker without it. She wants to return to Wimpole Street, and Watson believes she will be more comfortable in her own bed. Well, tomorrow is soon enough.
I am tired but I cannot slow my mind down enough for rest. I long for the quiet of the syringe but I have given my word. Besides, this case is some way from being over.
At two o’clock Watson urged me to go out. “See if the Irregulars have any news, Holmes,” he said. “Perhaps go to Windsor to check on their security measures. If nothing else, it will ease your mind.”
“And get me out of the way,” I said. Even as I spoke I knew I sounded like a petulant child.
Watson didn’t take the bait. He said, “I shall stay here and look after your wife. I shall send word to the Castle if there is any news on Porlock or if the Irregulars find the Albino.”
I had to admit he had a point. I put on my coat and headed out into an icy fog for the train station.
Bigge was worried. Despite all his protestations, I could see anxiety was carving new lines on his face.
“I confess I had hoped this entire matter would have been resolved by now, Mr Holmes,” he said. “The dinner is just tomorrow evening. You and your good wife are attending, I hope.”
“I shall certainly attend,” I said. “But with the queen’s permission, I shall bring Dr Watson with me. I’m afraid my wife is unwell and confined to bed.”
“Oh, I am sorry to hear it. Her majesty will be disappointed. Still, one must be careful with influenza at this time of year... unless she is confined for a happier reason?”
“No, there is no happy event on the horizon. It’s... something quite different.”
He gave me a quizzical look and said, “Well, I’m sure there will be no difficulty in bringing Dr Watson. Please send Mrs Holmes my warmest wishes of the season. Let me know if there is anything she needs.”
I turned the conversation to the arrangements for tomorrow’s event. Since it is for friends and family only, there would not generally be exceptional measures taken. However, in light of the threat to the queen, Windsor’s staff have been at pains to review every detail.
“Only invited guests will be attending,” Bigge said, handing me the guest list. “It is a small party, as you see.”
“And who is handling the catering?”
“The queen’s own staff, as usual. All the food will be inspected before it is served.”
“What of gifts for the queen?”
“They will be examined by me personally.”
I sighed. “I cannot find a flaw in your arrangements, Sir Arthur. I shall arrive early tomorrow morning and conduct my own examination.”
“That would be an extraordinary task,” Bigge said. “The grounds run to some thirteen acres and the castle itself is 484 thousand square feet.”
“And the meal is to be served in the Gothic private dining room?”
“That’s correct.”
“Well, I shall confine my examination to the Prince of Wales tower.”
For the next four hours I scoured the building, identifying possible weaknesses. I met with staff and checked every entrance. Although the Castle’s Constable and his staff assure me it is impregnable, I have identified three possible means of access. Extra guards shall be placed at each location and yet, and yet...
December 8th, 1897
We have him! A telephone call came from Mycroft just after ten o’clock last night. His agents in Holyhead spotted Porlock and his family in a local hotel. They were presumably waiting until he decided it was safe to travel. He was arrested without difficulty and sent to London on the boat train, flanked by two policemen and a formidable number of army officers. Porlock’s wife insisted on returning to the capital with him. They took the night express and so arrived in Euston by half-eight this morning.
Lestrade and Bradstreet were already on the platform, talking with Mycroft. My brother was determined to see that Porlock would not escape. The three greeted Watson and me with considerable warmth, and shook our hands.
“It is a fine piece of work you have done for this nation, Mr Holmes,” Bradstreet said. “The gaol cells are stuffed to overflowing.”
“They won’t be stuffed for long,” Lestrade said with a sinister smile. “The hangman will thin their numbers right enough. But my friend Inspector Bradstreet is right enough: this case will make your name, Mr Holmes. Not that you need any more acclaim than your cases have already earned you.”
“I cannot take credit for other people’s work, Lestrade-” I began then, remembering the need to preserve my wife’s secret said, “You and your colleagues and many other people have worked as diligently as I. But as for acclaim, the world must never know any of this. What an embarrassment it would be for the queen and her government.”
“It would shake the Empire to its core,” Lestrade agreed.
“The Empire will never hear of it,” I replied. “It is impolitic to make the matter public.”
“Indeed,” Mycroft said. “And I must ask you, Inspector, to keep what you know to yourself. This is a delicate time for us, politically. It would not do if any foreign agents were alerted to our actions. It is a matter of national security.”
Lestrade, puffed with patriotism, replied, “Not a word shall pass my lips, on my honour, Mr Holmes.”
Watson blew into his gloves and hopped from foot to foot. It was exceedingly cold on the platform though at least it was not raining at the moment.
“How long till the train gets in?” he asked.
“About ten minutes,” I said. “If they are on time.”
“They’re on time right enough,” Bradstreet said. “I checked just before you gentlemen arrived.”
And so we stood and we waited while all around us the station bustled with trains arriving and departing; friends and families greeting one another; all of humanity gathering, ebbing and flowing.
“Here she comes,” Watson said as the train came into view.
The passengers alighted from the train and merged into the mass of London’s populace. Only when the crowd had cleared did the military force arrive. They cordoned off the area and, a few moments later, Albrecht Porlock, manacled and scowling, was bundled off the train onto the platform.
“You!” he hissed. “You have more lives than a cat, pestilence-Holmes.”
“Which is more than I can say for you,” I replied. “The noose shall finish you once and for all.”
“Wait!” he cried as the officers put the manacles on him. “Let me say goodbye to my wife and my children.”
“Time enough for that later,” Mycroft said. “You can say your farewells from your cell after the judge has pronounced your verdict.”
He glared at my brother and me. Then, smirking, he said, “A shame my revenge on you was not as thorough as I should like, Mr Holmes. But I have hurt you and I am content with that.”
He was carted away, snarling, and flung into the back of the black Maria. On the pavement, his wife and children stood sobbing. Not for the first time, I wondered at man’s stupidity.
As soon as the vehicle left, Mycroft, Watson and I began the long and weary journey to Windsor.
We met with Bigge and the Windsor Constable, Lord Lorne, and reviewed again the security details. Their attention to detail was commendable.
Watson and I were led around the Queen’s private apartments by Lorne. We examined the queen’s private chapel where she attends services every Sunday. It
is a monstrously gloomy place, dark, with ugly Gothic designs. Decidedly not to my taste. I can’t imagine Her Majesty likes it any better than I; Lorne tells me Sunday service last no more than thirty minutes. Ha! More to the point, however, the chapel is two stories high, with alcoves, a choir loft, and any number of places where a clever man might hide. There is no service today, however, and Lorne was happy to have the chapel locked and sealed.
We spent most of our time reviewing the Gothic-style octagonal dining room. This is a much more pleasant place, painted in a rosy cream and with pilasters decorated with carved gilded oak leaves. The gold plate from George IV is on display and, Lorne tells me, it glitters most delightfully on a sunny day. It being December, however, there was no sun. The gloom seemed to glower inside the castle as much as on the land around it.
There is a heavy chandelier which, I confirmed, is very well secured. Nor is there any way a foe could access the room from the windows.
I am more concerned about the so-called Grand Corridor. It runs some 550 feet and is well-nigh packed with cabinets, corners and heavy drapes, all of which could hide a man.
“This room must be swept by your officers immediately before the queen walks through,” I said. “They should check behind the curtains, examine the larger cabinets, and look behind every corner.”
“I confess, this is an area that has concerned me, too, Mr Holmes. My wife, Princess Louise, tells me that she and her brothers and sisters often played hide and seek here.” He frowned at the expanse of the hallway and added, “It might help, Mr Holmes, if you could tell me something about this man you call the Albino. If we knew who we were looking for...”
“I thought Scotland Yard sent you a photograph of the villain?”
“They did indeed,” he said. “But there is more to a man than his face.”
“True,” I said. “Well, then. He is called The Albino but it is a misnomer. Recent studies suggest true albinism is a result of an absence of pigment in the hair, skin and eyes due to a lack of tyrosinase. However, Archibald Travis is merely extremely pale. His hair was originally brown but turned completely white when he was twelve years old. He has been killing for as long as his hair has been white. He is now twenty-eight, but can look much younger and at least once escaped from a mob by dressing as a schoolboy.