The Calling

by Philip Caveney

  ‘Because I’m English. He’s not very fond of the English.’

  ‘Oh, why not?’

  Sherlock gave a thin smile. ‘It’s hard to say exactly. It could be because we murdered his wife and child… that would definitely have irked him. Or…’

  ‘Or what?’

  ‘It could be because we had him half strangled, then eviscerated…’

  ‘E-what?’

  ‘We pulled his insides out,’ added Sherlock. ‘While he was still alive. Then we burnt the guts in front of him, beheaded him and stuck his head up on a spike at the Gates of London. Let’s face it, that’s not going to endear you to anybody.’

  Ed pulled a face. ‘Eww! Why did we do all

  that to him?’

  ‘He was a Scottish rebel leader,’ explained Sherlock. ‘This was back in the 1200s when Scotland was still under English rule. He won a few big battles to start with but… well, in the end, he lost and had to

  go on the run. Eventually, they caught him, put him on trial and… executed him in the most barbaric fashion. He’s never really got over it. Now, he goes around looking for excuses to start trouble with anyone he doesn’t feel is properly Scottish. Like me and you.’ He shook his head. ‘Like half the people in Edinburgh, to be honest.’

  Ed frowned. ‘Is there… was there some kind of film about him? Only, I’m getting this picture in my head of a man with a blue face…’

  ‘Oh, never mention that to him!’ said Sherlock. ‘One year, his only friend, Robert the Bruce, took him to see that, thinking it might cheer him up. It just happened to be on at one of the cinemas on the night of the Calling. I’m afraid he was not impressed. Apparently it wasn’t very accurate. And also, the actor who played him was…’

  ‘What?’ asked Ed.

  ‘An Australian,’ murmured Sherlock as though it was something shameful. ‘You can imagine how delighted he was by that!’

  ‘I’ve got a feeling I might have seen that film,’ murmured Ed. ‘Maybe on TV? Was there… was there a man with a blue face?’

  ‘I really wouldn’t know,’ said Sherlock. ‘I tend to avoid that kind of thing.’

  ‘But there are films about you, aren’t there? And

  TV programmes. Surely you must be interested to see how they’ve… done you?’

  Sherlock made a face. ‘I shudder to think what they’ve done,’ he said. ‘Of course, I’ve read about the various incarnations of me over the years, but I draw the line at actually watching the films. You know, somebody I spoke to told me about a series where I’m played by an American, and I go around fighting all the time! I mean, I’m not opposed to a bit of boxing but this fellow is a master of oriental martial arts or some such nonsense. If I knew how to do that, perhaps I would have stepped out of that doorway and taken on Mad Willy.’

  ‘He did have a great big sword,’ Ed reminded him.

  ‘Yes, and I wouldn’t doubt for a moment that he’d use it, if he felt like it.’ Sherlock shook his head. ‘He’s bad enough on his own but when he and Robbie Bruce get together, the two of them are unbearable. It’s just lucky they’re not able to drink alcohol, otherwise who knows what might happen?’

  Sherlock came to a halt and gazed across the road. ‘Ah, good, she hasn’t gone very far,’ he murmured. Ed followed his gaze. He could see that they had come to a sort of junction and across the way there was a large wedge-shaped plaza in front of a shopping precinct. To the left of the flagged area, a tall metal spike was sticking up from the pavement with the words New Kirkgate emblazoned on them. To the right there was a large stone plinth, surrounded by railings. This was empty, but the bronze statue of a horse was tied to the railings by its reins. Off to one side of the plinth, a large wooden table had been set out on the stone flags and two bronze statues were seated at it, side-by-side. Around them, a series of much smaller statues were moving to and fro, carrying trays of what looked like food and drink, as though waiting on them.

  ‘Come along,’ said Sherlock and he began to lead the way across the road, but he paused when he noticed that Bobby was following them. ‘Stay here,’ he said, pointing to the pavement and Bobby dropped obediently into a sitting position, his ears down, a pleading expression on his face. ‘Stay,’ Sherlock repeated, just to be sure there was no mistake. Then he led the way across the road. As they drew nearer, Ed could see that one of the seated statues was a woman, and it occurred to him that this was surely the only female statue he’d seen since he’d arrived in Edinburgh. Beside her sat the statue of a man. He had pleasant features, with a neatly trimmed moustache and long sideburns that came right down to his jawline but Ed couldn’t help noticing that he was a strange shade of pale green from head to foot. As Ed drew closer still, he saw that the woman was wearing a crown. The man was talking and she was listening to him intently, an enraptured smile on her face.

  As Sherlock and Ed reached the far pavement, one of the other statues turned away from the table and hurried over to intercept them. Ed saw instantly that it was a Gormley, but this one looked somewhat different to the two that Ed had seen in Parliament Square. He was wearing a pair of red boxer shorts and an ill-fitting blue hoodie advertising the Edinburgh Fringe – whatever that was. The Gormley held up a hand and said, in a strange nasal voice. ‘‘Ow do? Kindly state yer business ‘ere!’ It was, Ed thought, a Yorkshire accent.

  Sherlock smiled. ‘Please tell Her Majesty that Mr Holmes is asking for permission to speak to her,’ he said.

  ‘Mr ‘oo?’

  Sherlock smiled politely. ‘Sherlock Holmes… the famous detective?’

  The Gormley grunted. He didn’t have much in the way of features, just a series of bumps and angles where a face ought to be so it was hard to tell how he felt about the situation, but he turned obediently away and trotted off towards the table.

  ‘Why’s he wearing underpants?’ whispered Ed.

  Sherlock looked down at him. ‘It’s simply for the sake of decency,’ he said. ‘Well, he can hardly walk around stark naked in front of Queen Victoria, can he?’

  Twelve

  By Royal Appointment

  Ed stared at the seated statue. ‘That’s Queen Victoria?’ he said. ‘I didn’t… I didn’t think she looked like that!’ He wasn’t sure what had made him say this. For some reason the mention of her name had made him picture a little old lady with white hair. But this woman looked to be in her twenties or thirties.

  ‘You’re probably used to seeing her older,’

  murmured Sherlock. ‘Most of her surviving photographs were taken much later on, when she was a widow. That statue depicts her as she was in 1842, when she first visited Scotland.’

  ‘I see. So… does that mean…?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Well, does she only know stuff that Victoria knew up to 1842… or does she know stuff from later on as well?’

  ‘The statue was made after her death,’ said Sherlock. ‘So of course, she knows everything that Victoria knew in her entire lifetime.’ He gave Ed a withering look. ‘Try and keep up,’ he said.

  Ed studied what was going on at the table. Several smaller bronze statues were carrying trays of food and drink backwards and forwards between the big table and a smaller one standing a short distance away.

  ‘I didn’t think statues could eat,’ murmured Ed.

  ‘They can’t. But those servant types just cannot help themselves. They’re usually clustered around the base of Albert’s plinth, gazing lovingly up at him, and naturally they follow him wherever he goes. They’re simply trying to give the impression that there’s a big feast going on.’

  Ed quickly saw that this was correct. The waiters kept rearranging the items, carrying them to and fro, between the two tables. The two larger statues were taking absolutely no notice of their antics.

  ‘Who’s the bloke sitting beside Victoria?’ asked Ed. ‘Is it her dad?’

/>   ‘No, that’s her husband, Prince Albert. They were actually the same age but of course, his statue depicts him much later in life. It can be a little confusing.’ Sherlock pointed to the tethered horse. ‘He’s ridden over from Charlotte Square. It’s always the first thing he does when the clock strikes twelve. The Calling is a very special event for both of them. Albert died in 1861, you see, and Victoria lived until 1901. She mourned him all the rest of her life. This is the one time in the entire year when they can actually be together again.’

  ‘I see. Why’s he all green?’

  ‘Oh, that’s just verdigris.’

  ‘It’s what?’

  ‘It’s caused by oxidisation… exposure to the elements.’

  ‘I don’t really understand.’

  ‘Well, it’s like rust. It’s simply the way bronze rusts.’

  ‘But… you’re made of bronze, aren’t you? And you’re not that colour.’

  ‘Well, I haven’t been around as long as he has.’

  ‘The Colonel’s bronze and he…’

  ‘Some statues are regularly treated with a clear varnish to prevent the oxidisation from happening.’

  ‘So why doesn’t somebody…?’

  ‘Has anybody ever told you you ask an awful lot of questions?’ snapped Sherlock irritably. ‘Now hush for a moment.’

  The Gormley was leaning politely forward to speak to the Queen. She lifted her head and looked in Sherlock’s direction. At first she smiled, but when she spotted Ed, the smile quickly faded. However, she nodded and the Gormley turned back and gestured for Sherlock and Ed to approach, before stepping politely aside.

  ‘My dear Mr Holmes,’ said Victoria, as they reached the table. ‘How lovely to see you again. To what do I owe this rare pleasure?’

  Sherlock bowed politely. ‘Your Majesty, please forgive the interruption.’ He turned slightly and bowed to Prince Albert. ‘I know how precious your time together is. But as you can see…’ He waved a hand at Ed. ‘… I have a bit of a problem on my hands.’

  ‘A sovv-dy,’ said Prince Albert, in a strange Germanic accent. ‘A leedle human poy. And nod azleep. How very peculiar!’

  ‘Indeed,’ agreed Sherlock. ‘I shan’t bore you with the details of how he came to be here. I will only mention that he is suffering from amnesia and knows very little about who he is or where he’s from. I have been charged with the task of finding out all about him and returning him to his home.’

  ‘Charged by whom?’ asked Victoria, disdainfully. ‘No, no, let me guess. By Charles, of course, who else?’

  ‘Umm… yes, I’m afraid so.’ Sherlock looked apologetic. ‘I can assure you, Your Majesty, in my opinion there’s only one person who has the right to govern us statues, and that is you, but I fear the majority has chosen him. He gave me the order and I had little option but to obey him.’

  ‘Zat man,’ growled Albert. ‘How I vud like to punch him! Ride on de noze!’

  ‘No Bertie, that would be most uncivilized,’ said Victoria primly. ‘We shan’t descend to that level. As long as he stays away from Leith Walk, he’s welcome to call himself whatever he wishes. King of Edinburgh… Emperor of Siam, it’s of no consequence to me.’ She focused her attention on Ed. ‘So, boy, you have certainly stumbled onto something unusual, haven’t you? How does it feel to be the first softie ever to witness this incredible event?’

  Ed tried to smile. ‘It… feels really weird,’ he said. ‘Er… Your Majesty. I’m… still like… y’know, trying to get my head round it.’

  Victoria seemed puzzled by the answer. She looked at Sherlock as though seeking a translation.

  ‘He says, Your Majesty, that he’s somewhat discombobulated by the situation and is struggling to come to terms with it,’ added Sherlock.

  ‘Ah. I understand.’ Victoria smiled sympathetically at Ed, as though she really did know exactly how he felt. She returned her gaze to Sherlock. ‘And how may I assist you with this matter, Mr Holmes?’

  ‘Well, Your Majesty, this is an unusual situation, which I feel requires unusual measures in order to resolve it. I would therefore respectfully request your permission to undertake a secret mission. I wish to leave Edinburgh for a while, in order to solve the case.’

  Victoria and Albert exchanged puzzled looks.

  ‘Such a sing is possible?’ gasped Albert. ‘Surely not?’

  ‘I believe it is, sir. It’s never been attempted, of course, indeed it’s strictly forbidden, but over the past couple of years, I have been working with Dr Clerk Maxwell on an apparatus that should allow me to do exactly that.’

  Albert looked puzzled. ‘Clerk Maxvell?’ he muttered.

  ‘Yes, you know, dear, the scientist chappie,’ explained Victoria. ‘The one who was supposed to have inspired Einstein?’

  Albert grunted. ‘Science!’ he muttered. ‘Who can get inderested in zat?’

  ‘He also invented colour photography,’ added Victoria. ‘I seem to remember reading the article to you when you were on your sickbed. You… you were very interested, at the time. Terribly ill, of course, but still interested…’

  She looked suddenly very sad and so did Albert.

  ‘My poor dollink,’ he murmured.

  ‘Oh, Bertie…’ The two of them sat staring into each other’s eyes and Ed felt suddenly as though he ought to be somewhere else. Sherlock gave a polite cough and Victoria managed to drag her gaze away from that of her husband. ‘This… apparatus of yours, Mr Holmes?’ she asked. ‘It has been tested?’

  ‘No, not yet, Your Majesty. But at last year’s

  Calling, Dr Clerk Maxwell and I discussed the possibility of actually trying it out. This would seem to be an ideal opportunity.’ Sherlock frowned. ‘Of course, such a thing would be considered highly improper by King Charles. He’s very… old fashioned in his views. He’d doubtless consider our method a form of witchcraft. Hopefully, if the technique works, I’ll be there and back within a few hours and nobody will be any the wiser… but… if for any reason my plan should be discovered…’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘It would be very helpful if I could claim that the mission was sanctioned by Queen Victoria herself.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘The king wouldn’t dare go against you, Your Majesty. He knows only too well that there’s already a strong faction of statues who would prefer to see you as our rightful monarch.’

  Victoria frowned. She looked at her husband. ‘What do you think, Bertie?’

  ‘I sink anysing zat puts that bully’s nose out of joint is fine vis me,’ said Albert. ‘I zay go for it!’

  ‘Very well, my dear. I shall, of course, follow your excellent advice.’ Victoria gestured to the Gormley. ‘You, there! Fetch me a pen and paper. I shall put it in writing.’

  The Gormley stood for a moment, looking vaguely confused. Then he stumbled off towards the shopping mall, pulling a bunch of keys from the pocket of his hoodie as he did so. Victoria rolled her eyes. ‘One simply cannot get the staff these days,’ she observed. She returned her attention to Sherlock. ‘So, Mr Holmes, when will you attempt this ground-breaking plan?’

  ‘Just as soon as it can be organised, your Majesty. We have, after all, a window of less than twenty-four hours.’

  ‘Well, I’m sure you’re no stranger to action and adventure,’ said Victoria. ‘I was such a fan of your short stories. I used to read them in the Strand Magazine. After Bertie left me, they were one of my few consolations. They helped me pass the lonely and fretful hours.’ She and Albert looked at each other once again.

  ‘My dollink!’ he said.

  ‘Oh, Bertie!’ she replied.

  Once again, Ed felt vaguely embarrassed by their evident affection for each other. He decided to try and make some conversation, if only to break the awful silence.

  ‘Er… excuse me your… Your Majesty.’<
br />
  Victoria turned to look at him, a disapproving expression on her face. ‘Yes, boy?’ she said.

  ‘I… I was just wondering… I’ve seen so many statues since I got here. There must have been like hundreds of them in Parliament Square. But… well, you’re the only woman I’ve seen. Why’s that?’

  Victoria looked decidedly irked by this comment. ‘Because history has always been in the grip of the men of the world,’ she said grumpily. ‘No matter that there have been hundreds of prominent females deserving of commemoration, they have been repeatedly overlooked. Where, pray, is the statue of Flora McDonald? Hmm? Or Mary Queen of Scots? Or Catriona McCallum?’

  Ed could only shrug. He’d never heard of any of them, but he supposed they must be famous for something. ‘I… I really don’t know,’ he said.

  ‘Well, they’re certainly not to be found in Edinburgh! And why, please tell me, does Charles have pride of place in Parliament Square, while I, a Queen for more than fifty years, have to be content with this wretched spot in front of a… a shopping arcade? Does that strike you as fair?’

  ‘I… I suppose not,’ muttered Ed. ‘So… you really are the only one?’

  ‘Well, there’s me, and there’s some poor unnamed South African woman with a weeping child up on Fountainbridge. That’s the kind of esteem in which womankind is held in this city, young man. But what can you expect when all the sculptors are male? When the businessmen who paid for the monuments are male? When the people who write the history books are male?’

  ‘Well, I…’

  ‘Mind you, I sometimes wonder if it’s a conspiracy against me. Why is it, I ask myself, that Charles stands there in Parliament Square, the same colour as the day when he was first placed upon that podium?’

  ‘Oh, I think it’s because he’s made of…’

  ‘And yet, my dear beloved husband… my Bertie… well, look at him! He’s the colour of a ripe cucumber!’

  ‘Now, now, dollink,’ said Albert, sympathetically. ‘Don’t go getting yourself all virked up!’

  ‘I can’t help it, Bertie. It’s really not fair. It’s not good for you. Your poor joints, you can hardly move these days. You said yourself, every step is agony. How long before you seize up altogether? How long before…?’