The Revenge of Sherlock Holmes

by Phil Growick

  After that, he told me of the tragic events on Eleuthera, of the health and beauty of little Sidney, but not of the whereabouts of the Grand Duchesses. I was to learn of their subsequent histories only much later; but which I have already put forth for more facile chronology.

  Finally, it was time for Reilly to depart once more. And this time, we both thought we would never see each other again.

  How tragically wrong we were.

  Marie Meets The Admiral

  Marie and William were to be married. Though she, as a Romanov Grand Duchess, was brought up in the strictest of Russian Orthodoxy, she consented, for love of William, to become Anglican.

  That obstacle overcome, William, as with a little boy pleading with his mother for more time to play before dinner, begged Marie to have a wedding in the Royal Navy manner. This would be performed by a Royal Navy chaplain; with William’s closest fellow officers in attendance to provide the swords-crossed arch under which they would pass for good luck. Marie consented, but only if she was to be a June bride. And so the date was set: Saturday, June 24, 1923.

  However, there was one small formality that had not, as yet, been attended. Admiral Yardley had not met Marie; or, rather, Mary. As far as he knew, William was marrying a quite wealthy young woman named Mary Hampton, and that her sister, Anna, was to be her Maid of Honour. Mary’s parents had long ago passed on.

  William introduced Marie to his father over dinner at one of London’s most fashionable restaurants at the time, Frascati’s, on Oxford Street. Admiral Yardley, of course, approved and was especially taken with Marie’s bearing, composure and intelligence.

  “So, Mary, William tells me you met in Grosvenor Square.” This was true, of course, but not chronologically.

  “Why, yes. William was so dashing in his naval uniform that when he touched the bill of his cap in gentlemanly salute, how could I not respond with a smile and a nod of my head?” William looked at her with eyebrows raised and an askew smile in appreciation of her happy fib.

  “And then one thing led to another.” They all laughed.

  “I certainly see,” Admiral Yardley said.

  “And I’m very happy for that,” William said, as he bent towards Marie and kissed her cheek.

  “Admiral,” said Marie, “there’s a question I would like to put to you, one that even William doesn’t know of.”

  William and his father exchanged glances indicating curiosity and the Admiral replied, “Of, course, Mary, anything you would like.”

  “As you know, my parents have passed on,” she was trying to present this in a formal manner as if she were still acting as a Grand Duchess, “it would mean the world to me if you would take the place of my father, and give me away. Would that be possible?”

  The smiles on the faces of the Admiral and William instantly changed to those of serious surprise. Tears fell from the Admiral’s eyes as he took Marie’s hand and said, “Mary, I can’t possibly take the place of your beloved father, but I’ll be honoured to not only give you away, but to take you into our family at the same time.”

  Marie was now crying and even William, seeing Marie and his father so tearfully joyous, felt his cheeks growing moist. So he stopped this moment of sentimentality with a jocular, “Now isn’t that nice? The Lord giveth and taketh away!” They all began laughing as Marie and the Admiral dried their tears.

  It was a truly happy evening and for once, it appeared that nothing could mar the occasion.

  Outside Frascati’s, waiting in his auto, was a man who had learned of the presence in London of Marie and Anastasia. But he had done so in the following Holmesian manner; direct and circuitous in unison.

  Based upon what Reilly had divulged, he surmised that two of the Grand Duchesses had come to London. By carefully examining the passenger lists of all the ocean liners which had docked in England at not-too distant dates preceding Reilly’s arrival, then examining the lists of which ships disembarked from the Bahamas in like interval to New York, then examining those lists for synonymous names of women on both, it was a small matter to discover their new names and then their current addresses.

  The man in the auto was, of course, Holmes. And if Reilly had not said anything to him about the Grand Duchesses’ presence in London, he understood why. He further understood that Marie and Anastasia might need some looking after; which he had certain men assigned to do. They knew nothing other than to keep a watchful on two special friends of Mr. Stash.

  But this night, the first night that he had come to see Marie personally, he was astonished to see William Yardley with her. Then he remembered what happened on Eleuthera and he was pleased.

  He now had an even more felicitous reason to repay young Yardley. And in a way that would have very special meaning for both Yardley and Marie.

  My Growing Fame

  While all the above was unfolding not too distant from my front door, Elizabeth, John and I were going about with our own quiet lives. Nothing out of the ordinary had interrupted our routine: me with patients seeking succor from maladies true and false; Elizabeth with duties as mother and keeper of the Watson residence; and John studying diligently, not unlike his father in that respect.

  He was hoping to become a physician, too, and nothing could have given his mother and me greater joy. It was assumed that he, as had I, would seek his medical training at the University of London when of proper enrollment age.

  Though my income as a physician alone would have given us all a quite comfortable life, I had unwittingly carved out another profession for myself as the chronicler of all things Sherlock Holmes.

  Holmes had already, through my accounts of his adventures, become an important public figure in England. But with his selfless death in service of King and country, he had become a national hero.

  He had become something of a fad. There were other Holmes books by unauthorized authors, of course, but there were Holmes postcards, tea cups, beer mugs, umbrellas, a line of clothing imitating his inimitable fashion statements, or lack thereof, in my opinion; even pet accoutrements.

  Anything that could bear a visage of Holmes or large enough to bear his name, was sure to carry one, the other, or both. There were even Sherlock Holmes motion pictures, for heaven’s sake; but from which I also received a small royalty.

  It was the stipends I received from my endeavors regarding Holmes that formed the basis of our financial security.

  I was feted and celebrated as the man closest to Holmes, almost discounting entirely the existence of his true brother, Mycroft. But Mycroft didn’t seem to mind, at all. In fact, over a long and pleasant dinner heavy with spirits and good will, he said, “Not for me this colossal hoopla, over my brother, Watson. No, better you than me.”

  Besides my accounts of the mysteries Holmes had solved, I was retained to give in-depth lectures about Holmes, as if I were an Etonian professor discoursing on various and sundry members of the Ancient Greek pantheon of mythological beings. Then, I was signed to a contract by one of the nation’s most prominent speaker agencies, the Herbert A. Miles Agency.

  At first, my lectures were limited to London. Then throughout the United Kingdom. Soon enough, I was traveling through a still re-building Europe. But as my ventures into the world became longer, Elizabeth and I decided that with John away at school, it would be happiest for us both if she would travel with me should my speaking schedule demand my absence from home for any great length of time. This we did, though we never did reach the Orient or India; which I longed to revisit.

  Shortly, I was asked by Herbert if I would consider a lengthy lecture series in Canada and the United States. Dare I say that Elizabeth had the bags packed before I could agree?

  The lecture itinerary would be thus: Montreal, Toronto, Winnipeg, Vancouver, San Francisco, Los Angeles, Chicago, Washington D.C. Boston, New York, then back home. We would be gone two
whole months and we would be traveling first class via ocean liner, railway and motorcar all the way; as always part of my fee negotiated by Herbert.

  But the pace would be grueling and had Elizabeth not been by my side for counsel and care, I’m not sure how well I would have held up.

  We set sail on the fabulous RMS Olympic on Saturday, the twenty-fourth of June, 1923. And had we an atom of knowledge of the infamous event we would witness in New York, we never would have gone.

  A Royal Wedding

  The wedding of Marie and William went as happily as anyone would want. The twenty-fourth of June was sunnier than usual, but a bit cooler, too; William’s shipmates provided the drawn-swordsarch, Anastasia served as Maid of Honour, rice was thrown, cheers were loud, lusty and long and anyone could see that the couple loved each other deeply. The Admiral could take solace knowing that this would be a truly happy union.

  The only unmelodic note came from Anastasia. Of late, Marie had noticed that her sister seemed to be even more subdued than usual; more introspective and dour. She couldn’t focus on her duties as Maid of Honour and wasn’t present for the wedding rehearsal. But she apologised when she reappeared and begged forgiveness because of a minor illness.

  Marie was concerned, of course, but with wedding arrangement to be attended, and honeymoon plans to be made, she believed Anastasia was still grieving for Alexei, understood and hoped that Anastasia would soon become her former happy self.

  But during the wedding, when the chaplain asked if anyone there objected to the union, Anastasia had muttered quietly but audibly enough for those close to hear, “Yurovsky”; the name of the commandant of the Ipatiev House in Ekaterinburg, where the Romanovs had been held for execution, until rescued by Holmes, Reilly and me.

  Marie, whose hand was holding William’s, tightened so firmly that he winced in pain. Then Anastasia coughed, which gave verity that the utterance previous was only a cough.

  The ceremony now completed with no further incident, the couple hurried into a celebratory hansom cab and were swiftly trotted off to Marie’s home, which was now William’s, as well. From there, all packed and pleased and plucky, they left for their honeymoon; which would be only one week because William, still on duty, could not take much leave. But it did not matter, so completely happy were the two.

  As they were driven out of sight of their home by a pre-engaged cab, and the domestics had ceased their congratulatory waving of handkerchiefs and returned inside, a man quietly opened the front door so the domestics would not hear, and went no further in than two paces. There, he left a small, exquisitely wrapped box on the table which would normally receive gloves and such.

  He then withdrew as quietly as he had come.

  Anastasia Vanishes

  On Eleuthera, the family was very happy.

  The Tsar found great solace in little Sidney, and with Reilly having returned the May previous, there was a further feeling of safety.

  Adding to the great joy of everyone, on February 7, 1923, a sister was provided for little Sidney, named Alix; a combination of both departed loved ones’ names: Alexandra and Alexei. Olga, Marie and Anastasia were notified in code.

  While Reilly had wanted, at first, to keep the sisters from communicating at all, that had been proved impractical. So with the special communication shack at the compound attended sporadically by still-serving sergeants, Olga and Marie had been able to keep in touch with the family, but not directly with each other; all in code only the family would understand.

  It was in that context that they received a disturbing wire from Marie in July: Anastasia had vanished.

  Red Or White?

  In Paris, there was quite a stir amidst the intellectual and arts community. It seemed that a beautiful young woman had surfaced. Of course, beautiful young women were always surfacing in Paris. But this one was different. This one claimed to be the Grand Duchess Anastasia Nicolayevna Romanova, the youngest daughter of the last Tsar.

  Parisians, as had the world, presumed her to have been killed, along with her entire family, by the Bolsheviks at the Ipatiev House in Ekaterinburg

  Anastasia had Paris jumping through preposterous hoops. The city was divided between pro and anti-Anastasia factions. Street fights were fought. Death oaths were taken. Émigré whites and rabid reds were ready to tear Paris to tatters. Anastasia was having the best time of her life. But in reality, the poor thing had finally and entirely unraveled.

  However, she had, at least, enough common sense to retain funds with which to live; albeit modestly. She rented a small studio at 16Place-du-Tertre, tucked away to the west of Sacre Coeur, in Montmartre. The area was filled with artists and intellectuals who could argue any side of an argument and would do so just for the intellectual and emotional exercise.

  Anastasia provided many such exercises.

  The city was filled with Russian émigrés, refugees of the revolution. There were true nobles and others claiming to have been so. It seemed they all had stories to prove they were high-born aristocrats, but only a few had the funds to live as such. Particularly in Arrondissement de Passy; one of the most expensive and beautiful areas of Paris in which to dwell.

  The ones who claimed that their fortunes had been confiscated by the Bolsheviks, or never had any fortunes to begin with, lived in the more impoverished areas of Paris to the northeast, like Sevran.

  Those of the émigrés who had an artistic bent, flowed to the right bank and Montmartre, right where Anastasia was living.

  It seemed as if all the whites were trying to claim her as their own. They would arrive at her tiny studio either in chauffeur-driven Bugatti Royales, by tram, or foot and invariably it would be the same: “Anastasia! You remember me, don’t you?” Then some event would be named that, of course, should have rung the bell in Anastasia’s mind.

  But no bells rang. In fact, she rarely spoke. She seemed to prefer to listen to the people prattle on, accepting whatever gift they offered, with a vacuous smile; be it valuable or otherwise.

  Then there were the bon vivants and the boulevardiers who came calling on the supposedly beautiful twenty-four-year-old Romanov Grand Duchess. Vultures circling, nothing more. Although, to this day, no romance has ever been attached to Anastasia.

  And though all manner of cognoscenti tried, no one could quite get precise information on just how she had escaped the firing squad nor if any of her family had survived, as well.

  The reds did nothing, really, other than argue with the whites that the Romanovs were dead and buried, that this girl was obviously an escapee from some insane asylum and that bolshevism or communism, or whichever “ism” they chose, would soon conquer the world.

  Yes, Anastasia was a mystery; and in a city like Paris, or any city, for that matter, who does not enjoy a good mystery.

  Until her return from their honeymoon, Marie had tried to banish any thought of Anastasia and what she had said at the wedding. To a degree, because of her happiness with William, she had succeeded.

  But she also vowed that once back from Brighton, where they were spending their honeymoon, she would confront Anastasia and discover what truly troubled her and to see if she could help.

  Upon their arrival home and receipt of more smiles and congratulations from the domestics and as their luggage were being taken to be unpacked, Marie noticed that little box on the entry table.

  “William, there’s a beautiful little box here for you; look. It has a card with your name on it.”

  William took the box. It was wrapped in a most expensive paper, with intricately painted designs adorning. It was tied with fine silk ribbon. He looked at his name and asked Marie if the writing looked familiar. She said “no”.

  “Well, then. It’s not big enough for a bomb, so I guess I’ll just have to open it.” But before he pulled the silk ribbon, he looked at Marie, “Are you sure this isn’t
from you?”

  “No, really, William. I just saw it here this second.” She asked a domestic walking down the hallway if she or anyone knew who the box was from.

  “No, ma’am. Funny, after you and the Captain had just left for your honeymoon, we saw the box there, but none of us knew how it got there. So we just left it there since it has the Captain’s name on it. We figured it was a wedding present. Perhaps a surprise from you for him when you returned.”

  “May I open it now,” William asked, anxiously.

  “Yes, yes, go ahead,” Marie said, playfully pushing him.

  Upon doing so, he untied the ribbon, carefully unfolded the paper, which revealed a small, solid mahogany box with gold leaf around the edges. Then he opened the box and when he removed the delicate contents, Marie fainted.

  Olga And Bugsy

  In New York, Olga had fallen in love with Bemjamin Siegel, and, it seemed, he with her.

  “Ya can’t find a nice Jewish girl?” Lansky asked, hitting Siegel in the head when Siegel told about his feelings.

  “Hey, Meyer. I can’t have kosher all the time, ya know,” Siegel replied.

  “How about a nice Italian girl? What’s wrong with Italian girls?” Luciano needled.

  “They cook so good I’ll blow up like a balloon and look like Masseria. No thank you, Charlie.”

  He knew he was in love with his “shiksa British broad”. She even calmed him down. But only slightly.

  There was no need of Olga to ask questions of Benjamin. She already knew about who he was, what he did, and that added to the thrill. As for Siegel, since he didn’t like questions asked about him or his friends, he didn’t ask anything of Katherine.