The Revenge of Sherlock Holmes
Page 1
Title Page
THE REVENGE OF SHERLOCK HOLMES
Phil Growick
Publisher Information
First edition published in 2014 by MX Publishing
335 Princess Park Manor, Royal Drive,
London, N11 3GX
www.mxpublishing.com
Digital edition converted and distributed in 2014 by
Andrews UK Limited
www.andrewsuk.com
© Copyright 2014 Phil Growick
The right of Phil Growick to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1998.
All rights reserved. No reproduction, copy or transmission of this publication may be made without express prior written permission. No paragraph of this publication may be reproduced, copied or transmitted except with express prior written permission or in accordance with the provisions of the Copyright Act 1956 (as amended). Any person who commits any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damage.
All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. The opinions expressed herein are those of the authors and not of MX Publishing.
Cover design by www.staunch.com
Acknowledgements
“Grateful acknowledgment to Conan Doyle Estate Ltd. for permission to use the Sherlock Holmes characters created by the late Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.”
Dedication
This is for Bennett
And Maiju, always Maiju
Author’s Note
Many of the characters in this book are historical personages. In this narrative, as well as in history, all were as described herein. However, I’ve taken certain license with timeframe and characters’ ages.
A note about particular Americans, however, is needed. While most of the world may not be familiar with Lucky Luciano, Meyer Lansky, Bugsy Siegel or Arnold Rothstein, these men, founders of what would become organized crime in America, have, through books, movies and time, achieved the mythos akin to Britain’s Robin Hood.
But these men robbed from rich and poor alike, killed and organized crime on a global scale.
A further word, though this about their unique speech patterns. These men were children of recent European immigrants, or immigrants themselves. They spoke the English of the New York City streets; more harsh and hurried than we might wish.
In their speech, they frequently dropped the “g” at the end of any verb, and seemed to forget that the word “to” had an “o” attached; so that the words would flow as in “I’m goin’ t’ the bar.”; and is written as such.
One advantage of their speech was that more educated individuals might mistake their guttural utterances as a sign of lower intelligence; which, in many instances, was a fatal mistake.
It was not a foreign language they were speaking; just lower East Side Manhattan English, circa 1920. And the ethnic slurs they slung at members of any group other than their own, were the norm of the streets at that time. Bullets and bigotry.
Finally, a certain event, herein, may prove evocative of the motion picture, The Godfather. In this narrative, however, the event and the people involved are portrayed as it actually happened.
Historical Characters
British
Sidney Reilly, SIS (Secret Intelligence Service), Master Spy.
David Lloyd George, Former Prime Minister of England.
Winston Churchill, former First Lord of the Admiralty.
RUSSIAN
The Romanovs, The Imperial Russian Family.
Vladmir Illyich Lenin, Leader of the Bolsheviks.
Leon Trostky, Commander of the Bolshevik Red Army.
Stalin, Enemy of Trotsky and a rising Bolshevik.
AMERICAN
Charles “Lucky” Luciano and Meyer Lansky, The men who organized crime in the United States.
Benjamin “Bugsy” Siegel, The closest mobster associate of Luciano and Lansky.
Al Capone, The gangland boss of Chicago.
Salvatore Maranzano and Guiseppe Masseria, the bosses who started the Castellammarese War in New York City.
Legs Diamond, Dutch Schultz, Kid Twsit Reles, Lepke Buchhalter, young mobsters who helped Luciano, Lansky and Siegel.
Mary Pickford and Douglas Fairbanks, Hollywood royalty.
Preface
Although I introduced myself when The Secret Journal of Dr. Watson, was first published, I thought it best to do it again.
I’m Dr. John Watson, the grandson of the more illustrious bearer of that name; the man who not only chronicled the adventures of Sherlock Holmes, but was his invaluable colleague and dearest friend.
It’s been about a year since The Secret Journal of Dr. Watson was published, back in September of 1994; a year that’s not only changed my and my family’s lives, but has changed history with a venal velocity I wasn’t prepared for.
None of us privy to the contents of that journal, except for my grandfather, its author, were prepared. His warnings to me are right there in that journal.
Unless you’ve been living in a cave or under a rock or out in the outback, I’m not sure that you still wouldn’t have heard the outcry. And if you haven’t read or heard about my grandfather’s secret journal, here’s a very brief synopsis; although it might be wise if you read The Secret Journal of Dr. Watson before beginning this:
In June of 1918, as WWI dragged on and the Russian Revolution wasn’t even one year past, King George V and the serving Prime Minster, David Lloyd George, asked Sherlock Holmes to go into Russia and rescue the Romanovs, the Russian Royal family; close cousins to the King and under orders of execution by the Bolsheviks. This request was made in the most confidential manner, of course.
My grandfather had to accompany Holmes because the Tsarevich Alexi was a haemophiliac and would need constant medical attention. Holmes was told he would be met by special people in Russia, already in place, who would help him with the rescue. The most of important of these special people was Sidney Reilly, SIS, master spy.
But as Holmes and my grandfather soon learned, they were not sure who to trust with their lives, much less that of the Romanovs. All this led to the subsequent death of Holmes by the Germans and the chronicle my grandfather wrote describing Holmes’ heroic last adventure, in service to his King and country.
All epic deceit.
Because of world veneration of Sherlock Holmes and my grandfather, and my grandfather’s revelations in his secret journal about the truth of Holmes’ death and the rescue of the Imperial Romanovs, the British government came under intense global, political attack.
And who could blame the world? Certainly I wouldn’t. I’m the one who gave the journal over for publication, positive that it did not offend The Official Secrets Act of1911. I’m the one who was the first to be so shocked and outraged.
But this is now and that was then and therein lays the continuing problem. Because what happened then, if it’s all true, and which, of course, I believe it wholeheartedly to be, may shape current world events in ways we can’t even imagine.
For instance: if there are legitimate direct royal Romanov claimants to the throne of Russia, given that deflated behemoth’s ongoing internal problems, couldn’t this further destabilize the delicate political and social fabric there, so precarious already?
Then what would happen should Russia fragment further? But I’d rather not
dwell on that here. In fact, I shiver at the thought. Funny, it seems that we need a stable Russia now, just as we did back then. The more things change, etc.
But I have a different story to tell. A continuation of the bizarre events of my grandfather’s secret journal; answers to the questions I put forward at the end of that journal, and that the whole world has been asking me to answer ever since.
My word, is there any among you who have not seen me on the pages of your daily newspapers, or in the magazines, or on the TV chat shows, or heard me on the radio?
I’ve been interviewed and written about by so many people with such varied agendas that I’ve virtually given up my practice and devoted this past year to speaking about my grandfather’s journal.
The monies or stipends received, except for expenses, have all been donated to various recognised charities; as has been attested to by the various and sundry media. If you ask how my wife, Joan, and our sons were to live, I already had money saved as a successful physician and from a comfortable inheritance from Joan’s father’s business; which had been sold upon his death in 1980.
And I most certainly have not uttered one syllable about the answers to the questions the journal raised.
Until now.
Also, for the past year the whole world has also been trying to discover the incognito identity of Sidney Romanov-Reilly. But to no avail. Only I know who he is, although I don’t know where he is, nor how to contact him. He’s always contacted me and I’ve not heard from him since a few days after our first meeting.
In fact, one of the conditions of me learning about what happened to Holmes and the Romanovs and Clay and the others, was that I wouldn’t disclose this information until one year had passed after the journal’s publication. One year for the world to digest the material, acquire acute dyspepsia from it, recover, and then, when things had sorted themselves out, sort of, the final revelations were to be divulged; which would probably start the process all over again.
And this time, with new people added to the mystery; as seemingly disparate and disconnected as Winston Churchill, Babe Ruth, Al Capone and Lenin.
Sidney, Again
I’ll begin on the afternoon of August 11, 1993; after Sidney and I first met early that morning and when he said he would come round to pick me up and to give me all the answers to all the questions.
At precisely two p.m., Joan told me there was a rather large man at the door. He was dressed as a chauffeur and she wanted to know who he was and what he wanted with me.
Please remember that Joan knew nothing of the incredible events of the previous night, when I first read my grandfather’s secret journal, and therefore was only asking a concerned and logical question. I did what any other long-married husband would do with earth-shaking secrets to hide: I played for time and tore the truth.
“Oh, didn’t I tell you? One of my patients has sent him around to fetch me to him because he’s too ill to come in to see me.” I’m sure I was trying to be so matter-of-fact that I didn’t convince her one jot.
“Really? Which patient?”
“Why, uh, Mr. Smith, yes, Mr. Smith.” God, couldn’t I have come up with something a tad more inventive?
“I’ve never heard you mention a Mr. Smith before,” she said, with her right eyebrow arched so high it met her hairline.
Joan had that wife’s intuition about a husband when she perceives there’s a fib floating about. She’s far more intelligent than I and a few years older, which seems to have given her the wisdom of the ages.
“Well, uh, he’s a new patient, a new patient. Very ill, very ill.”
I realized I was repeating everything I said and perspiring at an alarming rate, soaking my clothing for all to see. I raced towards the door.
“What’s wrong with him, John?”
“Uh, Fraggums’s Disease, terrible, terrible. Bye.” I slammed the door behind me, breathed hard and let the chauffeur lead the way.
This time, there was no Rolls, as in the morning. This time, the chauffeur held open the door to a large brown Mercedes limo. There sat Sidney, who gestured me in.
“How many of these things do you own?” I asked as I sat.
“Not important. Merely a conveyance.”
Only on much later reflection did I realize that Sidney’s words were not a direct answer to my question, but rather a mere statement. However, once in and with Sidney greeting me warmly, the car began moving with no instruction from him.
“So how did you sleep?” he asked.
“How do you think?”
He laughed.
“Well, my friend, I’m afraid you’re going to have many more nights akin to the last one. We’ll simply drive, and oh, yes...”
With that, he reached into his right suitjacket pocket and pulled out a black cloth.
“John, you’ll indulge if you don’t mind, but please...”
He gestured for me to put on the blindfold.
“You’re serious?”
“I’m afraid so, John. You see, we’re going to my home and while you may know who I am, but not really, there are few others who do. Therefore I don’t want you to know where I live or how to get there. Perhaps one day.”
“Well why can’t we just go sit at a pub or club and you can continue where you left off.”
“Ah, if it were only that easy. Though these kinds of things never are...”
I wondered what he meant by that.
“John, there’s something I must show you to help move things along. But it’s at my home and much too precious for me to carry with me.”
“Ah,” I thought, “he’s going to show me the Romanov crown jewels.” He held the cloth towards me again. This time, however, his face showed an expression that removed all doubt as to what I must do. So, I did.
“Good, good. No peeking now.” He laughed, again.
“We’ll be there in no time, and if you don’t mind, I’d rather we just keep still until we arrive.” Which we did, but I don’t know how long the ride was because he also removed my watch as I sat there, so I couldn’t get a judge on time. Oh, he was clever all right. The old Sidney Reilly DNA was very alive and well with this Sidney, his son.
In good time our car stopped and, I believe, I was led into the house by the chauffeur or another domestic; but it was Sidney’s voice I heard saying, “There’s a step coming up, be careful, that’s it. Good.”
Then I heard him say, “You may remove the blindfold now;”which I did instantaneously.
The first thing I saw when I removed the cloth was Sidney standing in front of me, smiling. It was the first time I’d actually seen him full length, so-to-speak, and I hadn’t thought about his height before. But he was tall, about six-feet, I’d say, and very trim. And very erect. Well, he was a Romanov. Watered down, perhaps, but nonetheless.
The next thing I noticed was the room in which we stood. It was something out of one of those War and Peace type palaces, but smack in the middle of London. Ornate was an understatement. Gold leaf was everywhere; on the cherubs adorning the crown molding, on the edges of the richly decorated ebony furniture, on the Nubian lamps.
The floors were the most beautifully polished woods I’d ever seen, with intricate geometric inlays. And though I didn’t look up, I saw, from a gilded mirror, that I was standing under the most gigantic gold and crystal chandelier one could imagine. I’d never been to Buckingham Palace, but I’d easily wager this room would not go begging in comparison to any room there.
As we stood and Sidney waited and watched my reactions, he finally spoke.
“Now, it may be difficult, John, but please try to follow me.”
“All right.”
“Good. What you’re about to learn may be even more unbelievable than what you read in your grandfather’s journal last night.”
“What you will now learn was also told to me by my father, who was told by Sherlock Holmes; although both my father and Holmes’ stories intertwined at various times and each needed the other to fill out the complete facts of each other’s stories; but without your grandfather knowing anything about either; except when he and your grandmother were directly involved.”
He must’ve seen the look of utter bewilderment on my face, because what he just said made as much sense as someone speaking colloquial Saturnian.
He laughed.
“Yes, yes; I can see how that might sound confusing, but I assure you, it’ll all make sense shortly.”
“And how is that to happen when I didn’t understand one thing you just said?”
“Very easily. I’ll let your grandfather tell you.”
At that, I’m positive my face must’ve born such an expression of utter astonishment that I literally had to force my mouth shut for fear of trapping flies.
“Yes, quite. Just follow me,” he said.
He was still laughing gently to himself, enjoying his joke immensely, as I followed him to an adjoining room. He opened a double door revealing a magnificent, ancient-oak-lined study. And there, on the most ornately carved mahogany desk you could imagine, sat an exquisitely bound, deep burgundy leather volume, with gold tooling around the edges.
His hand made a circular motion gesturing for me to go round and see what the volume was. This I did immediately while my peripheral vision picked up what I perceived to be Romanov family photos in various silver frames on floor-to-ceiling, overstuffed bookshelves and on bric-a-brac jammed tables throughout the study.
I gazed down on the cover of the volume and stopped where I stood. It had the familiar three letters: JHW.
And then I heard Sidney’s words.
“Prepare yourself, John. What you see before you is your grandfather’s retelling of all he learned subsequent to his penning of his secret journal, based upon what I was trying to explain to you just now. I simply had his pages encased in something beautiful, as they deserved to be. Of course I’ve already read everything; just in case I felt particular events should be excised. One must preserve family secrets; even from you.”