The Revenge of Sherlock Holmes

by Phil Growick

  He tried to speed his pace but it was too late as he heard, “Hey, Johnny! John! How the hell are ya?”

  Holmes turned to see Fairbanks coming at him full bore with outstretched hand and the other pulling Pickford along like a toy on a string. The crowd ran after them.

  “Here, quick, get into our limo,” Fairbanks said as a gigantic Rolls-Royce stopped and he pushed Pickford in first, then Holmes, then jumped in and closed the door as he yelled to the driver, “Gun it, pal!”

  Holmes had only heard about the ability of a Rolls-Royce of this size to attain such high velocity so quickly; and had it not been for the unfortunate fact of being inside one with Fairbanks and Pickford, the experience would have seemed much more agreeable.

  “Hiya, Johnny,” slurred Pickford as she kissed Holmes’ cheek than reached for the flask inside her purse. “How the hell you been?”

  “Boy, oh, boy am I happy to see you,” Fairbanks said. “It’s been, what, two years? Now I’ll be able to show you how I repay a debt. Driver, take us back to our hotel.”

  “Really, there’s no reason for any debt repayment. I was happy to help.”

  “Nonsense, Johnny, you’re gonna have the biggest steak and a bottle of the best champagne in the world with Mary and me.”

  “No, really, that’s totally unnecessary. And I have only recently eaten lunch.”

  “But we haven’t. I’m starved.”

  “Me, too,” Pickford said as she took another sip from a flask that now seemed alarmingly empty. She turned it upside down, shook it and asked, “Who the hell’s been drinking my booze?”

  “You have, Mary. Only you,” Fairbanks said with great frustration; but it seemed to calm her down and she sat quietly till they reached the Savoy; where they had honeymooned.

  As usual, Fairbanks helped Pickford from the auto, and Holmes once again tried to free himself from this ridiculous bondage, but to no avail. Fairbanks grabbed Pickford by one elbow, Holmes the other, and pushed them through the doors and then to the sumptuous dining hall; where they were greeted as royalty and shown to their special table.

  “Bring us a bottle of your best bubbly,” Pickford said, literally licking her lips. Fairbanks ordered “the biggest steaks in England and pronto.”

  The champagne appeared almost instantaneously; perhaps because they had already anticipated Pickford’s penchant for champagne; or any alcohol, for that matter. The sommelier filled their glasses with most a choice champagne, Veuve Cliquot.

  “I propose a toast,” Fairbanks said, raising his glass, “to friendship.”

  “Bravo,” said Pickford as she downed her first glass before Fairbanks and Holmes had taken their first sip.

  “So, John, I guess you’re wondering what the hell we’re doing back here, huh?”

  “The question hadn’t crossed my mind.”

  “Well, we’re here for the premiere of my latest picture.”

  “Doug is just great in it; aren’t you, Dougie?” Pickford asked, tousling his hair with her left hand as she sipped her second glass of champagne with her right.

  “You bet! And you’re never gonna guess who I’m playing,” Fairbanks said. “Go ahead, guess, Johnny.”

  “Marie Antoinette,” said Holmes.

  After an appropriate double-take from Fairbanks and Pickford spitting her champagne all over the table, Fairbanks started laughing uproariously while Pickford seemed piqued at the waste of a perfectly good glass of champagne. The sommelier refilled her glass.

  When Fairbanks stopped laughing and slapping the table, he said, “No, no. I’ll give you a hint: the name of the movie is The Mystery of the Leaping Fish.”

  “You’re playing Moby Dick,” Holmes said.

  Another spray of Veuve Cliquot across the table. The same reaction from Fairbanks and Pickford; but this time, she grabbed Holmes’ arm and said, “Johnny, would you please not answer again until I’ve finished drinking my champagne?” The sommelier repeated his task.

  “No, John. I play that famous detective of yours over here, that Holmes fella.”

  This time it was Holmes who gasped, a touch of champagne escaping his mouth and falling on the table.

  “Hey, it must be catching,” said Pickford, feeling her forehead with the back of her hand to see if she had a fever.

  “But how is that possible, Douglas? Did you receive Mr. Holmes’ permission?” Holmes asked.

  “Didn’t need to because we don’t use his name. Patent infringement laws. The guy’s name in the movie is Coke Ennyday, get it? And let me tell you, the guy’s a real coke addict, poor slob. But the movie is a rip-roaring comedy. You’ll piss your pants, it’s so funny.”

  Holmes just sat there in silence. His seven percent solution had, of course, been chronicled by me, but he was sensitive to his use of the drug and here Fairbanks was telling him that he would be made mockery of the world over. He stood.

  “You’ll forgive me, but I must really be off.”

  “What’s the matter, John? The steaks aren’t even here yet.”

  “I understand that, but when you kidnapped me, I was on my way to meet with a gentleman who was to give me an introduction to another gentleman I need to speak with about a certain business matter.”

  “C’mon, sit down. I know everybody who’s anybody anyplace. I can introduce you to anyone you want.”

  Holmes still stood. “Douglas, I cannot offend the man who, I believe, is waiting for me.”

  “Sure you can. Don’t you worry,” Fairbanks said as he grabbed Holmes’ arm and pulled him back into his seat; just as the steaks were arriving.

  “I have a great idea, John. I don’t know what kind of business you’re in, and I shoulda asked on the ship, but you see that guy at that table over there?” Fairbanks was pointing at a man Holmes knew had once been high in Lloyd George’s government. “Is he someone you might want to meet?” Holmes nodded affirmatively.

  “Then you just sit here and wait,” Fairbanks said and he walked over to the man who rose to greet Fairbanks with a hearty handshake and the taps on the shoulder of friends.

  Holmes watched as Fairbanks pointed to him as he spoke to the man. The man looked over, nodded to Holmes, put his cigar down, wrote something on a matchbook and gave it to Fairbanks. The man sat again and Fairbanks returned.

  “Here, you’re gonna meet him there later; wherever that is. I told you I could introduce you to anyone.”

  “Thank you, Douglas. Yes, I think your friend might do very nicely, indeed.”

  The man who Fairbanks had arranged to meet Holmes that evening had been the First Lord of the Admiralty in the Great War, was not in a position of any great authority at the moment; but would like to be, once again.

  Holmes was to meet him at the Carlton Club, an exclusive club for members of the Conservative Party at 94 Pall Mall; so old that its establishment predated the coronation of Queen Victoria by five years.

  The man was Winston Churchill.

  A grandson of the 7th Duke of Marlborough; yet he had no title of nobility; a very perplexing political mixture.

  Churchill was already financially comfortable, so he could not be bribed. His intellect was of the first order so he could not be duped. He loved his wife and five children so he could not be blackmailed. But as with any politician, he was not above a harmless quid pro quo. And Holmes believed he had such an exchange that Churchill would easily accept.

  “Sir Winston,” Holmes began, as he and Churchill raised a whiskey towards each other, “I have heard so many good things about you from our mutual acquaintances.”

  “Quite,” said Churchill briskly as he took another puff of his ubiquitous cigar. “And I have inquired about you and have heard some interesting things, myself,

  Mr. Clay or Mr. Stash or whomever you may choose to call yourself
.”

  Holmes had been forewarned that this man was not one who appreciated idle banter or casual social pleasantries; unless he was the instigator of them. And he had just proven his connections to unnamed investigative authorities.

  “Then I shall get right to point,” said Holmes. “I believe that you might enjoy an important post within Mr. Baldwin’s government.” Stanley Baldwin was our new P.M.

  “That is no secret, sir. If you have anything to put to me, please do so,” and he took another sip of whiskey.

  “At once. You see, it seems that one of Mr. Baldwin’s most trusted political allies, a man of the highest aristocracy, but of basest tastes, is about to be appointed to a rather senior position within the cabinet, the Chancellor of the Exchequer.”

  Holmes saw that he now had the fullest attention of Churchill. He continued.

  “This man had been having certain fetishes catered to by one of his herdsman, a man who shared like interests.” Churchill leaned in towards Holmes, he loved political gossip; the more vile, the better.

  “Mr. Baldwin would be made aware that should he not appoint you to this position instead of the aforementioned individual, well, then who’s to tell how certain stories may suddenly appear in the Sunday Times...” Holmes leaned back in his chair and shrugged his shoulders.

  “I see, Mr. Clay, I most certainly do see,” Chruchill said as he sipped his whiskey, took another puff and likewise leaned back; this time with a satisfied grin. After a meditative moment he spoke again. “And just what, Mr. Clay, might be expected from a Chancellor?”

  “This is a post from which one so high can see so much going on below; if he’s looking in the right direction. Or not see something if he might be looking in another.”

  “Am I to understand that the Chancellor might be given a nod in which direction to look or not, and when?”

  “That might be expected, yes.”

  “Of course, it would have to be noted that the Chancellor would never look, or not look, in a particular direction if he thought it would, in any way, harm Great Britain, the Empire or any of its people,” Churchill said firmly. “There would be no underpinnings of the underworld. That should be thoroughly understood.”

  “That would be most certainly noted,” replied Holmes.

  “Then, I believe, Mr. Baldwin should be expecting some much unexpected news shortly?” Churchill asked.

  “I do believe so,” Holmes replied.

  The men clinked glasses. And Holmes noticed that the smoke streaming from Churchill’s cigar was encircling his head like a halo.

  The Grand Duchesses Disperse

  Reilly had left Enelkin’s body in the corner of that storage room and had gone back to Tatiana and the family to console them as much as possible. But also, and to him, of paramount importance, to command each to say nothing of the man who had killed Alexei. Reilly would speak with Lasker about cause of death.

  The next night, thankfully, shed enough light for him to see. As the Romanovs slept, he went back downstairs, shoved the body into a burlap sack and labouriously pulled the body up, then across the lawn to the dock. He then kicked the body into a rowboat.

  Funny Oscar watched silently from under a palm tree.

  Large rocks were stuffed in the sack, Reilly carrying each, one by one because of their weight. He then tied the sack shut and rowed out a fair enough distance which he judged to be sufficiently far enough that the chances of discovery would be minimal.

  Enelkin was then thrown overboard and Reilly rowed back, Enelkin sinking quickly.

  Lasker did what he was empowered to do, and pronounced Alexei dead due to his hemophiliaon February 12, 1922; two days after his actual death. He would deal with the local officials so there would be no disturbing inquiries.

  He had also attended to the Romanov’s understandable hysteria and administered sedatives to all, except the Tsarina, who had slept through the turmoil and did not seem aware of the sadness surrounding her, nor of anything else, for that matter.

  While the family grieved inconsolably, it was Anastasia, the closest in age to Alexei who took it most severely. The fun-loving, irrepressible girl had suddenly begun to become, like her mother, withdrawn, quiet, and morose. Perhaps she was still in shock, Lasker thought, and did everything he could to bring her around; but was without success.

  Since there were no Russian Orthodox clergy on the island, it was agreed that the doctor, since he represented His Majesty’s government, even so tenuously, would officiate at Alexei’s funeral.

  It was further agreed that the burial site would be on the compound, but would remain unmarked. It would be left to nature to provide the cover for Alexei’s final resting place. Only the family would attend, and Funny Oscar; because the night before the service, it was he who dug Alexei’s grave at the spot selected and wept no less than the Romanovs.

  “Emerald green grass and beautiful wild flowers will keep him even warmer in the Eleutheran sun,” said Anastasia, aloud.

  The Tsar was inconsolable. Besides losing his only beloved son, he also knew that his direct Romanov line had just been truly extinguished. Should there be a restoration of his rule, however unlikely that may be, the throne would pass to his brother, Michael, and not to any of his issue. Even baby Sidney could not be considered because Reilly was a commoner. But those thoughts were kept to himself and only intuited by Reilly.

  If the burden of Alexei’s death were not enough, Lasker was grieved to report to the family that, “The Tsarina has slipped so far into her world that she has completely left ours.” And within the week, the Tsarina passed, too. Perhaps into the world she had already inhabited for the longest time.

  “I have lost the essence of my essence. My Sonny has gone to be with Alexei,” said the Tsar. The Tsarina was laid to rest beside Alexei.

  Tatiana, of course, had Reilly and baby Sidney for love and consolation, but with the other Grand Duchesses, it was a final ephemeral bond severed.

  After a proper time of grieving as prescribed by their faith, Tatiana, Marie, Olga and Anastasia gathered to discuss what they would do now. They were all young women, vibrant, intelligent and now free to explore the world from which they had been so long sequestered.

  Olga was twenty-five, Marie was twenty-one and Anastasia was only nineteen.

  It was agreed that Tatiana would remain on Eleuthera with the Tsar so that he would have, at least, one loving daughter to look after him; and baby Sidney would be there, as well, of course. The other Grand Duchesses were to lead lives of their own.

  They had long before been supplied with new identities and British passports, so there would be no trouble in their emigration from the island. There would also be no trouble in securing the finances needed to establish new lives, since the Romanovs had established healthy secret accounts in Switzerland which could now be reclaimed. These would be more than sufficient to begin their new lives anywhere in the world they would so choose.

  After much introspection and debate, they decided to travel to disparate destinations. Olga would be going to the United States, to New York. Marie and Anastasia would be going to England, to London.

  These were mammoth cities within which one would easily lose oneself. And because each spoke English fluently with a proper, upper-class British accent, through years of tutorials by proper British tutors, it would be quite easy for Marie and Anastasia to blend in, in London. For Olga in New York, her accent would only enhance her appeal.

  It’s a rather likeable trait of the Americans to believe that anyone with a British accent is more intelligent, more refined, more cultured, and, in every way, superior to them. Which, while not necessarily true in every instance, is, overall, a correct attitude for them to have.

  In addition, Reilly could not stress one point more forcefully to Marie and Anastasia: while they would reside in London,
no matter how strong the desire, no contact was to be made with me to insure my safety and that of my family. To this, both agreed most wholeheartedly. Neither would want to bring harm to me or my family.

  To keep security to a maximum, they turned to Reilly. As difficult as this would be for them to accept, but to insure the success and safety of their new lives, he alone would make all arrangements. He would leave the island to make these arrangements in Nassau and for the time being, he alone would know where each would reside.

  At the start, each would have a temporary residence in which to live and from which they would explore their new city and decide on a permanent residence; which would be purchased for them with the Romanov funds.

  Then, when each of the Grand Duchesses had established their new residences and deemed it a safe interval, they would post their addresses, in a code devised by Reilly, to Tatiana, who would then send them on to the others. No one outside of the family would know anything of their new identities or destinations. No one.

  Reilly also cautioned them that contact between them should only be made because of a most dire development. Their very lives depended on their complete circumspection.

  Once again, Reilly called on Funny Oscar to help with the packing, indeed, for all preparations for the Grand Duchesses’ departures; which he did with great sadness. The Grand Duchesses had become as family to him. He had lost Alexei, the Tsarina, and now these young ladies who had been so gracious and kind to him and those who worked with him at Winding Bay.

  It was further decided that each would leave individually, at intervals of two weeks, to reduce any ambient suspicion of the ladies’ departures. Olga would leave first, then Marie, then, finally, Anastasia; who at last was, if not herself, at least somewhat out of the depression in which she had been since Alexei’s death.

  And, as with all children leaving their parents’ care to make their way in the world, they experienced the seemingly incompatible emotions of exuberant exhilaration and dreadful trepidation. But even Grand Duchesses are human, after all.