A Biased Judgement

by Geri Schear

  “Despite this apparent youth, he kills with ruthless efficiency. Poison, firearms, the garrotte: he will select his weapon based on the circumstance. His preference, however, is the blade. One of his intended victims, the only survivor, reported that after stabbing him, Travis licked his blood from the blade and said he liked being close enough to inhale his victim’s last breath.”

  Lorne stared at me in horror. “Good God!” he cried. “And this is the villain who means to make an attempt against the queen?”

  Watson said, “But Holmes won’t let it happen, Lord Lorne.”

  Later, as we walked down the Grand Corridor, the queen said, “I was sorry to hear of your wife’s illness, Mr Holmes. Please convey my best wishes for her recovery and for a most pleasant holiday season.”

  “Thank you, Ma’am,” I said. “I shall certainly do so.”

  “Dr Watson, I have been enjoying your tales of Mr Holmes’s adventures for many years now,” she said. She was leaning on his arm as we walked to the dining room. I swear I have never seen my friend more proud than he was at that moment.

  “You are very kind, Your Majesty,” he replied.

  The Queen nodded towards the guards who flanked the hallway at regular intervals. “I seems unusually secure this evening, Mr Holmes,” she said. “And having you and Dr Watson escort me in also quite out of the ordinary.”

  “We are merely being overly cautious, Ma’am.”

  She gave me a look such as a governess might bestow upon a naughty child, but said no more. We entered the Gothic dining room and took our seats.

  For an hour we dined in regimented fashion. Every course was served at precisely the right moment. Oh how wearying it was. Watson, I could see, was bitterly disappointed in the food. I myself did not eat more than a mouthful, but I knew from past experience that the taste, temperature and quantities of the meal would be unsatisfying in every respect.

  We had just finished the fish course when a cry came up that there was a fire in St George’s chapel.

  “I ordered the chapel locked,” Lorne cried. He sprang to his feet and belatedly apologised to the queen.

  “Go at once,” the queen said. “The chapel must be preserved at all costs.”

  Half the room emptied. Mycroft stayed where he was, as did Watson and I.

  “You know something about this business, Mr Holmes,” the queen said. “Perhaps it is time you shared your information with me.”

  My brother said, “Please do not be alarmed, Ma’am, but we have information that there might be an attempt made against your life this evening.”

  The ladies, lords and princes who remained at the table all began to talk at once. The queen chinked her water glass with her fork, and silence fell.

  “This fire is an attempt to divert attention from the dining room,” I said. “The idea is that the would-be assassin will be able to slip in and out without being noticed.”

  There were more squeal and shouts from the assembled guests.

  “Perhaps we should dismiss our guests?” the queen said.

  “No, ma’am,” I replied. “If you will forgive me, that is precisely what the killer is hoping for. Better to continue with the meal, surrounded by people you know and trust. The army and Lord Lorne’s men can handle the fire. Dr Watson and I will speak to your safety. As will my brother,” I added, as an afterthought. Mycroft gave me a somewhat peevish look, but there was no malice in it.

  And so we sat and forced ourselves to dine upon an indifferent meal in the company of cranky and frightened guests.

  Watson asked the queen about the sapphire brooch she wore. “It was a gift from your late husband, was it not?” he said.

  “Yes, a wedding gift,” the queen replied, touching the large oval stone. “My dear Albert gave it to me the day before our wedding. I wore it on my wedding gown.”

  She and my friend went on to discuss the day of her wedding and I was pleased to see the queen distracted from the anxiety of the moment. There is no doubt she remained distressed but I flatter myself she had faith in my ability to protect her.

  By the time the dessert was brought in the atmosphere in the room had calmed slightly. The queen was still talking about the late Prince Consort and Watson continued to distract her with his questions observations.

  “You would have liked him very much, Doctor,” the queen said. “He was the wisest, kindest, and most devoted of husbands. You know, you rather remind me of him.”

  The footmen stepped forward to serve the dessert to each guest. They were as precise as an army. The young man who leaned forward to serve the queen was, I noticed, two inches shorter than he had been. And just behind his left ear I observed a brown splodge.

  I leaped to my feet and grabbed his wrists.

  “Watson,” I cried. “Search him for a blade.”

  It was in his sleeve. A stiletto so thin as to be hardly more than a barber’s razor, but twice as sharp. If he had plunged that into the queen’s side she might not even have noticed it at once, and he could be out of the room and gone long before the fatal hurt was realised.

  The dining room was a riot of screams and confusion.

  “Sit down and be silent!” Mycroft roared. They instantly obeyed him.

  Lord Lorne came flying into the room and stood in bewilderment.

  “Is this the man?” he said. “But you said his hair was white, Mr Holmes...”

  “And so it is. Hair dye, you see? That spot on your ear was enough to give you away, Travis.”

  “Sherlock Holmes,” the Albino hissed. “How did you know I’d be here?”

  “You can thank your friend Albrecht Porlock,” I said. “He and the rest of his rabble are under arrest. You shall all keep the hangman very busy for the next month or so, I think.”

  “This job was a bad lot from the start,” he said. “I told Porlock, but he said if Germany is to ascend England must fall. But things went badly almost at once. This job was never even meant for me. Some blasted Englishman was meant to poison a dish of cherries...I was only supposed to act if his nerve failed. Englishmen do not do assassination well, Mr Holmes. I mean no offense.”

  Watson snorted.

  28

  December 12th, 1897

  I have been fairly exhausted after the events of the past few months and Watson confined me to my bed. Secure in the knowledge that the Queen and the Empire are safe, for now, anyway, I slept, and then I slept some more. Now and then I woke and took some food and drink or tobacco. Each time I woke my eye fell on the gem upon my dresser: a diamond ring, a gift from a grateful monarch.

  “We are fortunate to have so remarkable a man as you in our service, Mr Holmes,” the queen said when she gave it to me.

  “I did not work alone, ma’am,” I said. “There are others who deserve your commendation far more than I.”

  “What, has married life made you humble, Holmes?” said the Prince of Wales. “All down to the power of love, eh, eh?”

  Watson was given a fine set of sapphire cufflinks. “A reminder of our conversation about dear Albert,” the queen said. For one ghastly moment I thought my friend was about to weep. He held himself together in proper military style, however, and merely bowed and said thank you.

  He has worn them every day since. They flashed in the light this morning when he shook me awake.

  “Watson? What is it? Am I needed?”

  “Your wife just arrived, Holmes,” he said. “It’s bad news, I’m afraid.”

  I flung on my dressing gown and hurried into the living room. Beatrice stood at the window leaning on a cane. She did not look at me but simply handed me a letter.

  Dear Madam, it read,

  I regret to inform you of the deaths of your aunt, Lady Summerville, her husband and his brother. Their bodies were discovered this morning b
y the agent who was sent to follow up on the non-payment of the rent on their cottage where they were staying. All three had died of a gunshot wound to the head. The lady was, alas, about five months pregnant. The victims had been dead at least two weeks.

  Please let me know what disposition you wish us to make for the remains. Sincerely, Marcel du Place, Royal Canadian Police.

  “Porlock,” I said. “He told me he was glad he had hurt me... I can only imagine this is what he meant. Perrot is behind this, I’ll warrant. I shall cable the Canadian authorities...”

  Watson shook his head at me and I realised I should not burden my wife with such things.

  “What sort of a monster murders a pregnant woman?” Watson said.

  Beatrice shook her head. She was still pale and, I thought, suffering from her recent wounds. I urged her to sit down and she sank into the armchair in a state of utter dejection. There were no tears, however. She has remarkable strength. Her only concession to grief was to hold my hand tightly.

  December 25th, 1897

  Watson and I spent Christmas with Beatrice at Wimpole Street. She invited Mycroft too and, to my very great surprise, he accepted and arrived a few minutes before dinner was served.

  Stevens and Daisy served at the table, for what must be almost the last time. At the beginning of the year he starts his new career with the Metropolitan Police. Daisy will be moving into the Green Thistle Inn to work for Miss Simms and Mr Davenport after they are married, at least until she is married herself.

  That is two weddings I shall be obliged to attend in the next few months.

  Beatrice has been at pains to see that the Rillington Manor staff are paid up to date and have been given references, all except Reynolds who seems to have vanished.

  After an excellent meal - Mycroft said, with some justification, that we dined far better than royalty - Beatrice played Mozart on the pianoforte.

  I was pleased to see my brother and friend were as impressed by my wife’s talent as I. Though I can think of no reason why they should not have been, nor why it should matter to me in the slightest.

  “That is a splendid set of cufflinks, Doctor,” Mycroft said. “The queen was well taken with you. She has spoken since about how her husband would have enjoyed your stories of my brother’s exploits.”

  “Exploits!” I scoffed.

  “You must forgive your husband, my dear sister,” Mycroft said. “I fear he is still vexed that the queen honoured him and not you.”

  “Poor Sherlock,” my wife said, laughing. “To have all the glory and none of the notoriety. But see what an exquisite ring he has given me.” The gem sparked rainbow colours in the candlelight.

  “I never before appreciated how vexing a thing it is to be a woman,” I said. “Were you a man, you would have been given the honours that are properly yours.”

  “A wife is an extension of her husband, is she not?” she teased. “Therefore all honour that comes to you comes to me as well.”

  Oh how well she knows how to mock me.

  Stevens brought around the carriage. While Watson and Mycroft waited, I said goodnight to my wife.

  “I am thinking of going to Italy,” I said. ‘Now the last of that gang has faced the noose. A month wandering around the art galleries, attending the symphony, perhaps a visit with the pope... it is a splendid cure for these dark winter nights.”

  She said, “It sounds splendid. When will you go?”

  “We,” I said. “I thought you might come with me. A honeymoon, if you will. It is the custom, is it not? To take honeymoons.”

  “Well, not in the plural as a rule,” she said. “But Italy... I’ve never been and I’ve always wanted to see it.”

  “I know. You told me once.”

  “Really? You don’t mind there being just the two of us?”

  “I realise such things are not in our contract,” I said, smiling. “But perhaps we might...”

  “Try something new?” She gently rested her fingers against my cheek. “I would like that, Sherlock.”

  I brought her hand to my lips and said, “To something new.”

  Epilogue

  Jack closed the journal, stretched, and drew back the curtains. They blinked in the sharp daylight.

  “Everyone still awake? Everyone still alive?”

  “If that’s a crack about my age, young man, you’re not too old for a spanking,” John said.

  “It’s incredible,” Harry said. “What a find. Thank you, Lucy.”

  Jack coughed.

  “Thank you too, son,” Harry said, rolling his eyes.

  “We have our work cut out for us, getting through those documents,” John said. “There must be a hundred journals in there...”

  “Not to mention letters, photographs and other memorabilia,” Arthur said. “Mother’s diaries are there, too. I spotted her handwriting.”

  “They’re a national treasure,” Lucy said. She yawned and eased herself up off the floor. “Can you imagine the reaction when people discover Sherlock Holmes really lived?”

  “We’ve kept him, his notoriety, a secret all this time,” Arthur said. “I’m inclined to let it stay that way.”

  “He was never a man to look for fame,” John said. “But I think we should see what we have before we make any decisions. This is your legacy, Jack. Ultimately, it will be your decision.”

  “I’ll go and make breakfast,” Lucy said. With her hand on the door she stopped and said, “There’s only one thing I really want to know. Were they happy?”

  John and Arthur exchanged a look and smiled. They said, “Exquisitely.”

  Also Available

  Links

  MX Publishing are proud to support the Save Undershaw campaign - the campaign to save and restore Sir Arthur Conan Doyle’s former home. Undershaw is where he brought Sherlock Holmes back to life, and should be preserved for future generations of Holmes fans.

  SaveUndershaw

  www.saveundershaw.com

  Sherlockology

  www.sherlockology.com

  You can read more about Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and Undershaw in Alistair Duncan’s book An Entirely New Country and in the amazing compilations Sherlock’s Home - The Empty House and the new book Two, To One, Be.