The Revenge of Sherlock Holmes

by Phil Growick

  Clay had used this as a meeting place with his villains, believing that no one would think anyone as highborn as he to be at such a setting; and Holmes was now Clay.

  He settled in.

  The new year of 1920 arrived, but it was the sixteenth of January which meant the most to Holmes and his new-found friends in New York; for Prohibition had gone into effect in America.

  Holmes, as Clay, had completed his criminal suzerainty before that date. All that had been Clay’s was now Holmes’ as Clay. No one knew that Clay no longer existed. All of Holmes’ instructions would be delivered by underlings to other underlings.

  These were not men of superior intellect; a certain criminal cunning, perhaps, but none who could complete a Sunday Times crossword puzzle. Or begin one. Or know what one was.

  The sea-going, alcohol pipeline from Scotland to Long Island, New York had been the first order of business for Holmes and it had gone as smoothly and efficiently as one would expect of any endeavor which Holmes had wrought.

  He would deal with Lloyd George in time, but he must find Yardley, if he were still alive, and discover the truth of what had occurred.

  When Holmes went about personally examining various and sundry nefarious projects, he always went in the particular disguise of the fictional person he created, Clay’s trusted lieutenant, a soullessly efficient Mr. Stash; a rather appropriate name, obviously chosen to evoke, eponymously, exactly that.

  To his minions, Clay was still on his journey and no one knew when he would return.

  The disguise of Holmes’ now ever-increasingly deluded faculties was the same as in New York, but with some additional flourishes. Mr. Stash was a man with full facial hair, russet-brown, a threatening black eye patch over his right eye, and always dressed in a variety of unkempt clothing. He also wielded an oak walking stick, with the head of a werewolf at its tip; which he waved menacingly at any recalcitrant clod.

  But Stash had the power and peril of Clay to back him up. So everyone took orders and obeyed without question.

  Mr. Stash, indeed.

  Tragedy In Eleuthera

  It was quite late into the night and Reilly and Tatiana had long ago put baby Sidney to bed.

  As usual, they had stood for a long period, just looking down at him. This night, Reilly had said, “He should be lying in a crib fit for a member of the Romanov Royal Family. A rather large crib made of exquisitely carved ebony and inlaid with mother-of-pearl and trimmed at the edges in gold.”

  “Oh, dear, much too gaudy. And we can’t have that now, can we?” said Tatiana playfully. “But Sidney lies asleep every night in a beautiful crib carved from one of the trees that fell during that hurricane. The head gardener, Funny Oscar, my favorite, actually, made it for him. He was here before we even arrived.”

  “Oh?”

  They went into their bedroom, adjoining the nursery and Tatiana continued.

  “Yes. Gardeners and house help were here when we arrived. We just assumed they were all from the island, some white, some Negro, and they’ve taken care of us in a most wonderful way. Especially Funny Oscar. I think he said he was originally from Kent.

  “Sidney, sometimes I truly do feel that I’m back at Livadia.”

  “Funny Oscar... oh, yes. The man who’s always smiling, always there to help; and he sleeps in that hammock just outside from time to time, like a guard dog. But I see nothing particularly funny about him. What is it that makes him so funny?” asked Reilly.

  “Nothing that we can see, either. That’s just his name. Funny Oscar.”

  “Well, it’s a funny name to have, if you ask me.”

  “I don’t suppose you were asked, were you?” And she impishly tapped him on the nose with her index finger.

  “No, I don’t suppose I was.” With that, Tatiana closed their bedroom door leading to the hall and they retired for the night.

  All the bedrooms were on the second floor. As you came up the stairs, Reilly’s and Tatiana’s was the first on the right, with baby Sidney’s nursery adjoining through a door to the left.

  Alexei’s room came next on the right with Anastasia’s next on the right after that.

  Marie’s was the first on the left with Olga’s next on the left.

  The Tsar and Tsarina were at the end of the hallway, straight ahead.

  It was about midnight when the door to the solarium, where the Tsarina usually sat, slowly opened. The man who had been watching from outside entered with the silence of a cat. He held a knife in his right hand. Though most lights had been extinguished, night lights had been left on throughout the house, as was usual practice.

  He slowly made his way from the solarium to the next room, which was a large open room, with three corridors leading to other rooms, a hallway directly in front to the front doors, and a graceful staircase to the right, leading upstairs. This he proceeded to negotiate with supreme stealth.

  It was on the third step that he heard footsteps above, but could not see who was making them. Then, suddenly, a young man’s voice yelled out, “Bandit! Thief! Help! Help!”

  In an instant, Alexei, totally ignoring the mortal injury he could cause himself, ran down the stairs and threw himself on top of the intruder.

  Within only a few moments Reilly was rushing down the stairs, as well. He knew he had to separate Alexei from the intruder and what would happen if he handled Alexei too roughly; but Alexei was already being pummeled. He pulled Alexei away from the man, almost throwing him aside.

  Reilly struggled with the man as Funny Oscar, who had heard Alexei screaming from his hammock, hurried to Reilly’s aid. In another moment, it was done. The man was overcome and left on the floor; bound and gagged with large, dirty cloths from Funny Oscar’s back pockets. He was then subjected to some severe kicks to the solar plexus and head by Reilly.

  Breathing heavily, Reilly managed, “Funny Oscar, thank you.”

  It was then that the Romanovs came running down the stairs and the Grand Duchesses started screaming. Reilly turned his head to see Alexei bleeding badly. He had been stabbed when he threw himself upon the intruder.

  Olga told Funny Oscar to run to the doctor who lived on the grounds; this was the young Royal Navy physician, Ensign Lasker, sent after I had sailed home. He knew nothing of the Romanov’s true identity.

  Reilly was trying to staunch the blood flowing so violently, giving way to the Tsar attempts, while the rest of those gathered could do nothing but stand about helplessly. All the women were weeping horribly and the Tsar fought tears as he pressed and pressed on the wound, trying to hold Alexei’s skin together with his fingers.

  “Alexei, Alexei. Don’t leave me, Alexei,” the Tsar kept saying over and over.

  By the time Lasker arrived, it was apparent that Alexei had perished.

  I cannot imagine the horror and grief in that house at that instant. But while the Romanovs wept and the physician tried to soothe them, Reilly had other dark matters with which to contend.

  With the help of Funny Oscar, Reilly brought the intruder down to the lower level of the house, to a type of storage cellar. This was done out of sight of the physician, so busy was he with Alexei and the family.

  The man was sat upright in a wooden straight-backed chair, his arms tied to the back, his feet to the front.

  Then Reilly asked Funny Oscar to go back upstairs and help the family in any way possible. He most certainly did not want any witnesses, either.

  Reilly took hold of Funny Oscar’s arm, looked directly into his eyes and once again said, “Thank you.” This was not only a genuine expression of gratitude, but a silent command to never speak of these terrible events. Funny Oscar understood and nodded.

  More than anything, Reilly wanted to torture this man, but he wanted answers even more. So Reilly held the knife that had just slain Alexei close to the m
an’s right eye, turned the knife this way then that, and whispered, “You may be of more use to me alive.”

  The man was nodding “yes” so fast Reilly thought he might haemorrhage.

  “I need questions answered. You will give me those answers, yes?”

  The man’s head continued its radical movement.

  “But if you don’t answer truthfully, I can assure you that I will cut out your eyes, your balls, slit your throat, shove them all into the hole in your throat, and throw you to the sharks when I’m done.”

  The man’s eyes were as wide as was humanly possible and he had soiled himself, as well.

  “I even have a physician upstairs who I’ll ask to help you with your wounds. Now, you won’t make a sound when I remove the gag. Yes?”

  The man was sweating, crying, but the head nods continued unabated.

  “All right. We’ll try this. But if you utter one sound other than answering the questions I’m about to ask, you know what will happen. Are we understood?”

  A single nod this time.

  Reilly slowly removed the gag.

  “Who are you?”

  The man could hardly speak but spat out, in Russian, “Nicholai Enelkin.”

  “Enelkin, I killed him in Helsinki. How can you be Enelkin?.”

  Though Reilly spoke in English, the man responded in Russian.

  “No, no, you... killed Anatoly Gersikov.”

  “I don’t understand,” Reilly said holding the knife to the man’s right eye.

  “All my men were under orders that if captured or tortured they were to give my name.”

  “Why?”

  “So the others would think I was dead. They would think the head had been cut off, the body would die. I could then go on. If my men didn’t do this, their families will be killed. I have been following you since you left Russia. I watched you kill my men. You and the Finn.”

  “Who sent you?”

  “Stalin. He wants you to work for him. He wants to know what you know. He wants to do away with Trotsky. We were to bring you back. If that did not work we were to kill you.

  “I never heard of you. The Finn did, though.”

  “The Patriots. We are the Patriots. We work for Stalin. We do what he wants.”

  “But you had plenty of chances to kill me. In Finland, England, on the boats. Why didn’t you?”

  “Once I saw you with the Finn, who I know is SIS, I thought there was more than we knew. I decided to follow you to see where you would lead. And am I crazy, are those people the Romanovs? Lenin said they are dead.”

  “No, you’re not crazy. But you are dead.”

  With that, Reilly took the dirty cloth that had been used as the gag, wrapped it around Enelkin’s throat and proceeded to strangle him, using the knife as a lever to slowly and continuously tighten the cloth. There would be no blood for evidence.

  He stood directly in front of Enelkinas he tightened that cloth and said, “I’m standing here as I squeeze the life out of your despicable carcass so I can watch you die the death you deserve. Then I’ll feed you to the sharks.

  “Oh, look at you; your face is turning as red as the Bolshevik flag.”

  Yardley

  With the funds flowing in to Holmes as the scotch flowed out to Luciano, Holmes was ready to embark on the next phase of his plan to exact his revenge.

  However, there had to be an adjustment made. Lloyd George had been ousted as P.M. earlier in the year, so Holmes would not have the personal pleasure of having him toppled and causing his demise, seemingly at his own hand. But he would still have his revenge by making Lloyd George’s name anathema to any Englishman. Simultaneously, he would bring about his death. This will be elaborated upon in good order.

  He had also, in the time intervening, found that Captain Yardley was not only alive, but at the Admiralty in London. He had men follow him closely and report his routine.

  One night, as Yardley stood outside the Admiralty, bidding some of his naval mates goodnight and about to walk home, an old, black limousine stopped at the curb in front of him. Two men jumped from the auto and forced a startled Yardley into the rear. There sat Holmes, but as Mr. Stash.

  The men ran to the front, closed the partition tightly and the limousine drove on.

  Yardley’s first reaction was to scream at this man, demanding to know who he was and what he wanted. But as Yardley examined the man next to him, he thought he knew him. Then, when he thought he recognised him, he was completely befuddled.

  “Holmes?”

  “Your powers of recognition have not diminished.”

  Yardley was elated. “Holmes, you have no idea how often I’ve wondered about you. If you lived or died or where you might be.”

  Holmes cut him short. “I’m touched by your concern. Now, perhaps, you will tell me what happened to me?”

  “Thank heaven you’re alive. I gambled and you won.”

  “I will not ask politely again,” and he pointed to the men in the front seat, “what happened to me?”

  Yardley was still in the grip of the entwined emotions of shock and elation.

  “Holmes, we had orders on that ship that you were not to survive. Under any circumstances you were not be left alive to return to England.”

  “By whose orders?”

  “That I don’t know. But right after we boarded, I was handed an encoded wire that said either I, or someone else on the ship, not named, was to dispense with you. I knew I had to protect you. Do you remember the drinks we had together?” Holmes nodded.

  “I put a drug in there to make you sleep. I figured that whoever the other person on board was, he had no history with you and he would most certainly do away with you. So I thought the only chance you had was if I drugged you and put inside that lifeboat.

  It was night; I knew where watch was and how to avoid them. We were close enough to the American coast and the currents being friendly, I figured they should carry you to shore and you’d survive.”

  “Go on.”

  “In the morning I reported a man overboard. We put out some boats to search, but gave up after a few hours and continued on to England.”

  “You mentioned the lifeboats. Didn’t anyone report one missing?”

  “Of course. I‘m the one who reported it. I had everything figured out.

  “The afternoon previous, I reported trouble with the cables holding No. 3 lifeboat and that I would take care of it. When I reported you gone, I also reported that my seamanship had been lacking and that we had lost the lifeboat. I had also expunged the name of our ship from the lifeboat as an added precaution.

  “The captain just laughed, said the King could afford another one, but that in retribution, he expected a bottle of the finest brandy in his cabin before his next voyage. I happily complied with the request.”

  Holmes had been studying Yardley as if Yardley had been on a slide under his microscope. He concluded that this specimen was benign.

  “What you’re saying, Captain, is that you saved my life.”

  “Yes! Exactly! And I am so damn happy that I did.”

  “No more than I, Captain. No more than I.”

  Holmes knew that Yardley would keep the secret, so there would be no need of caution. Indeed, Holmes now had found someone he could trust completely with his life; as he already had, without even knowing it. And someone who might be called upon if needed again. Holmes also decided to share with Yardley what Reilly had shared with him.

  “Lloyd George? The Prime Minister? I just can’t believe it,” Yardley said, clearly unsettled.

  “William,” Holmes said, “you have no idea of the duplicity reigning supreme throughout the world. You have your ship, your oath, God Save the King and you’re off.”

  Yardley sat there qu
ietly thinking, then, “If I may ask, why are you in this disguise?”

  “You may not.”

  Holmes dropped him in Piccadilly, held the door open from the inside for one lingering moment, smiled, then closed the door and the auto went on its way as Yardley stood there just shaking his head and waving goodbye.

  Holmes knew he would find a way to repay young Yardley. Perhaps it would flow from the immense funds he was accumulating through the sale of spirits to the Americans; and funds from his other, more local, enterprises.

  In any event, his financial power would now be used to acquire equivalent political power.

  Holmes And Dougie And Mary And Winnie

  In our constitutional monarchy, as in any democratic form of government, our elected representatives are not always the altruistic models of rectitude they portray themselves to be. Some are nothing more than hogs at troughs.

  It was those particular individuals that Holmes, as Stash, began to cultivate. Some paltry pounds here, some shiny shillings there, and before you knew it, you might have built yourself a very tidy base of politicians who would not only dance to your tune, but would play the music, as well; discordant as it might be.

  As Holmes easily learned, it was not just in the House of Commons; indeed no. There were those in the House of Lords who needed substantial financial support even more. Whether to help keep up their large estates, or to continue indulging their tastes of notorious variety; it made no matter.

  It was one of those men in the House of Lords who offered to introduce Holmes to another in the House of Lords who might be able to help Holmes further his agenda.

  Because he was to meet this high-born personage near Parliament, Holmes felt that Mr. Stash should attire himself appropriately; which he did. He had one of his men drop him off in very close proximity to his destination.

  As he walked passed Parliament a bit after noon, thinking about the damage he would do to some inside, he heard a commotion behind and turned to see a huge crowd following two people out of the visitors’ entrance by Cromwell Green; two people he knew all too well.