The Wilhelm Conspiracy (A Sherlock Holmes and Lucy James Mystery)

by Charles Veley

  “Well, I wasn’t there to hear him, actually. Harriet told me.”

  “Where is Harriet now?”

  “In Radnar Hall. That’s the house just between the hotel here and Kerren House. She said she wanted to look over some of her father’s papers. By the way, the hotel porter sent your Ulster coat out for cleaning. The draper in St. Margaret’s will have it ready this afternoon.”

  “And why are you out here on the walking path?”

  “Oh, I saw some gypsies down on the beach. From my window at the hotel you can see right up to Kerren House. I saw their wagon, and I saw the smoke coming from a little metal chimney that pokes up out of its roof, and I had a wild surmise.”

  Holmes raised one eyebrow, but his grey eyes, I thought, shone with pride.

  Lucy held his gaze. “So, shall we walk together?”

  14. GYPSY HOSPITALITY

  A few minutes later, Holmes, Lucy, and I had descended the pathway down to the beach. Holmes was in the lead, with Lucy walking by my side, her face wreathed in a smile of perfect happiness and satisfaction. We approached the gypsy caravan. A young gypsy woman sat knitting on the ledge at the back, clad in the colourful garb of her Romany heritage. She stood up as we came near, straightening the floral scarf that framed her strong, tanned features.

  “Away,” she said.

  “I assure you, good lady—” Holmes began.

  “I call my husband and brothers.” She indicated several fishermen in a small rowing boat beyond the incoming waves, about a hundred yards from shore.

  Holmes reached into his jacket pocket and produced a sheaf of bank notes. He handed over several of them, which were swiftly folded and put away. The woman’s manner became decidedly less truculent.

  “The lady say we can fish here,” she said. “The gentile lady.”

  “Which lady?”

  Her dark eyes went to the trail, and then she tilted her head upwards, indicating the top of the cliff.

  “Lady Radnar?” said Holmes.

  The gypsy woman gave a nod of assent.

  “May I introduce myself? I am Sherlock Holmes, and these are my associates, Miss James and Dr. Watson. We are staying in the hotel next to Lady Radnar’s house.”

  “I am called Drina.”

  “Do you cook the fish here as well?” asked Lucy.

  “A good catch, we cook here.”

  “On your stove?”

  She smiled at the question. “We make tea on stove.”

  “Do you cook fish on that?” Holmes pointed to a woven wire mattress support, rusted and blackened in the centre, lashed to the side of the wagon along with some thick metal rods and some squares of a metallic mesh made of a thinner wire. The upper part of a hessian sack of coal tilted precariously over the edge of a brown straw basket that hung alongside.

  The woman nodded. “You like some tea?”

  I caught Lucy’s eye. She shrugged, as if to say, “So much for the idea that they inflated the balloon on this stove.”

  Now that we knew we had followed a false scent, I thought Holmes would decline tea, but he accepted graciously and soon we were each sipping a strong black brew, sweetened with molasses—like coarsely ground sugar. Holmes pointed to the high-water mark on the cliff, where brown remnants of seaweed still clung to the rough white chalk surface. “Where did you go when the storm came?”

  She pointed up the coast to the north-west. “We work on farm.”

  “Near St. Margaret’s?”

  She nodded. “When the lady tell us, we leave. We come back today.”

  “Lady Radnar told you the storm was coming?”

  “Sun was shining, but she said something fall. Glass something.”

  “Did you know what she meant?”

  “We hitch pony”—she indicated the small Shetland standing placidly downwind of the wagon—“go fast.”

  Holmes gave one of his perfunctory smiles. “The storm came in the next day?”

  “We stay on farm. Till today.”

  “And today, if your catch is good, you will cook many fish?”

  She smiled and shrugged.

  Lucy asked, “Did you see the big balloon and its basket a few hours ago?”

  Drina’s eyes widened with excitement. “It turned to fire!”

  Holmes had set down his empty tea mug and strolled aimlessly on the beach gravel, alternating his gaze up to the top of the cliff and then down. Then he came back.

  “I thank you for this very fine cup of tea. It has a very pleasant flavour. Is it imported?”

  “You are welcome,” Drina replied. “It is good tea.”

  “Where do you buy it?”

  “Lady Radnar gave me. She is very kind person.”

  Holmes nodded politely. “Madam Drina, I thank you again for your kind hospitality. I hope your husband and brothers have great success and that over your coal fire tonight you cook many fish.”

  15. AT THE DRAPER’S

  After we had taken our leave of Madam Drina, Lucy began to walk up the beach in the direction the gypsy woman had pointed. “I’m going to St. Margaret’s to pick up your Ulster,” she said to Holmes. “The wind’s not getting any warmer, and it won’t help for you to get chilled. You can come with me or not.”

  With a bemused smile, Holmes handed over his ordnance map. Lucy glanced at it and put her finger on one corner of the paper. “You see? It’s just a cluster of cottages and a chapel. We’ll find the draper’s and then you can do whatever you’ve been planning to do, only you’ll be warmer doing it.”

  Following the map, we soon found the sign proclaiming “Lampert, Draper,” hung on a modest vine-covered brick-and-stone gabled building. The dwelling had been constructed so close to the edge of the narrow dirt road that a passing cart might have struck us as we waited at the doorway. A small grey-haired woman opened the door to usher us inside. She was plump and energetic, though with a worried cast to her wide hazel eyes. Inside, the room smelled of petrol and fuller’s earth. I also caught the scent of boiled beef coming from the kitchen. The interior walls were covered nearly to the ceiling with wide maple shelves, some holding bolts of fabric, but most empty.

  “It’s a blessing you’re here,” she said after we had introduced ourselves. Her name was Mrs. Lampert, and, like the gypsy woman, she did not recognize Holmes’s or my name, which was not surprising, given the remote location and the presumable lack of leisure moments for her to read for pleasure. “I promised the man at Radnar House that I’d have your overcoat ready this afternoon, but I had to soak and scrub at it again and again and the fumes—well, I put it outside to air just before lunch. Let me bring it in and you can judge for yourself.”

  She withdrew to the rear of the little house. We heard the door latch click, and felt a rustle in the air as the door opened. Then we heard her cry out.

  Holmes was at her side in an instant, with Lucy and I just behind. In the doorway Mrs. Lampert stood shivering, her hand to her mouth. On a clothes line directly before her hung Holmes’s Ulster, slashed to tatters.

  “You are not to distress yourself, Mrs. Lampert,” Holmes said when we had brought the remnants of the garment inside and settled the trembling woman on a chair in the room adjacent to the one we had first entered. “This was plainly a bit of theatricality, meant as a message for me. I have had many similar in the past. You are not the target of the message, and once I depart, you will never be troubled again by whoever did this.”

  “How can you be sure?”

  “It is my business, good lady. Have you ever had something like this happen before?”

  “Certainly not!”

  “Is anyone trying to drive your customers away?”

  “To the contrary, we are well liked by all our neighbours. My husband’s grandfather started this shop, and his father and then he, himself, continued the business. And we have great hopes to begin a larger establishment in Dover. Lord Radnar is arranging the capital for us. He is a regular and loyal customer, and he believes that my h
usband has a knack for designs that will please the gentry.”

  “He told you this?”

  “Not me directly, but my husband heard it straight from Lady Radnar. Lovely woman, though I would have thought a bit young for His Lordship. But she is his second wife, you know.”

  “Is she a customer as well?”

  “She had a shawl from us about two months ago and was very pleased with it. She had Stanley make up an entire new suit and waistcoat for Lord Radnar.”

  “She gave the order to your husband?”

  “That was the same time she told him that Lord Radnar was prepared to discuss investing in the expansion of our little business. My husband met her in town and returned tremendously excited. He is with Lord Radnar now.”

  “Travelling in America, pursuing investment capital?”

  “You do know things! Yes, investors need to meet personally with the men they are investing in, my husband says. Lord Radnar will introduce my husband to his clients and help him with the bargaining—although I am not to let that get about. Someone else might try to establish a similar business in Dover. It is a good little port, you know, where fabrics can be shipped in and finished goods shipped out to customers everywhere.”

  “When was the last time you heard from your husband?”

  At Holmes’s question her smile faded and her eyes took on the same worried expression I had noticed on our first arrival in the shop. “Since he sailed for New York a month ago I have had only one postcard.”

  “And you have been troubled by this lack of communication?”

  “I try ever so hard not to let my imagination trouble me. The ships have to travel long distances and that takes a great deal of time. And my Stanley has never been the sort to look at another woman—he has been to Paris, even, on trips to buy new fabrics. I know I have no cause to fret.”

  “Please pardon me, but when we first arrived you appeared somewhat agitated. As though you were expecting disturbing news.”

  “I did not know who you were. For a moment I thought you had come from the government to tell me that my Stanley—well, that he had come to harm. I know it’s foolish, but when I heard about that burned-up body on the beach, I had a dreadful premonition.”

  Holmes leaned forwards and spoke very quietly. “I have been brought in by the military to investigate these matters and have only this morning taken the measurements of the charred body. I can give you certainty as to whether it was your husband’s.”

  Her eyes widened with respect and hope. “I should be ever so grateful, sir. My premonition was bad enough, but this morning the bellman who brought your coat told me about Sergeant Stubbs, and ever since—well, I’m afraid I’ve let my fears get the better of me.”

  “What connection do you have with the unfortunate Sergeant Stubbs?”

  “Oh, he grew up in St. Margaret’s. He still lives—lived—in his parents’ cottage just around the corner. We all know—knew—him. When he was made sergeant, we were all glad to see him moving up in the ranks of the patrol, but he was no better than he should be, if you know what I mean.”

  “Why should his death cause you concern about your husband?”

  She shook her head. “It’s foolishness. Just foolishness.”

  “Please, Mrs. Lampert.”

  “Well, I saw Stubbs in the market the day after Stanley left for New York, and he said he’d seen him.”

  “You mean he saw your husband after the ship had sailed?”

  “No, no—he said he’d seen Stanley getting on the ship. He was on dockside duty that day guarding the boarding line, and he said Stanley had passed right by him to walk up the gangplank.”

  “Why did that cause you concern?”

  “It was his way of saying it. He had this sly look, as if he knew some kind of secret. Though how he could have known about our business with Lord Radnar is beyond me.”

  Holmes stood up. “Mrs. Lampert, can you show me the book where your husband records the measurements of his customers? Doubtless he makes his own garments. I presume his measurements are in the book there as well?”

  “I’ll fetch it,” she replied, getting to her feet and returning moments later with a black ledger. “These are arranged alphabetically. You’ll find Stanley’s measurements in the middle.”

  “What are these?” Holmes held up several sketches of men in military uniforms, though the designs were unlike those of any nation I had ever seen.

  “Oh, Stanley is always making little sketches of all sorts. He is very original that way.”

  Holmes nodded, and then spent a few moments rustling through the ledger and inspecting several of the pages closely. Finally he shut the book. “I am pleased to tell you that Mr. Lampert’s measurements are not even remotely similar to those of the body found on the beach Saturday night.”

  The draper’s wife gave a sigh of relief and a glad smile. “Thank you, Mr.—Is it Shamrock? I must beg pardon, for I am very bad at recollecting names. But you have been most kind, where many would not have been, your fine Ulster coat being so damaged and all. I’m afraid it’s beyond my skill to repair, but possibly when Stanley returns—”

  In the next room, Lucy had been rummaging through the garments hung on a metal rod. She emerged now, bearing a bundle of black fabric in her arms. “A nice tweed Inverness coat and cape,” she said briskly, addressing Holmes and holding it up to his shoulders. “Not as trim as your Ulster, but the cape part is bound to fit you, being a cape, and the coat looks like it’s long enough. It could be let out or taken in, I bet. And the black matches your suit. We can’t have you freezing. I have money in my reticule to pay for it if you don’t.”

  “Your daughter’s right,” said Mrs. Lampert, taking the garment and glancing quickly at the paper tag attached to the hem. “I see she takes good care of you. You must be proud.”

  Holmes ignored the reference to Lucy being his daughter. He said, “Is the garment available for purchase?”

  “Well, it is bespoke, but it’s for a tall gentleman who is abroad at the moment and will not return for it until October. By then I can easily make another for him.”

  He nodded, then tried on the coat and cape and pronounced them both satisfactory. Then he took out a ten-pound note from his billfold.

  “Oh, that’s far too much,” said Mrs. Lampert.

  “But I require a few additions,” Holmes said, placing the note into her hand. He bent and spoke quietly to the draper’s wife for a moment.

  “I can have those done for you in a quarter of an hour,” she said.

  At Holmes’s direction, the three of us waited outside in the late-afternoon sun.

  Lucy asked, “What were the alterations?”

  “Pockets to the cape.”

  “Why did you whisper?”

  “I wished to convey my respect. The poor woman has had a shock, and clearly she is distressed about her husband’s absence.”

  “He is everything to her.”

  “We shall help to ensure his safe return, if we can.”

  “We?”

  “I shall send a telegram to New York when we are away from here.”

  “What do you make of this destruction of your coat?”

  “An attempt to distract or delay us.”

  “We were not followed. I was watching.”

  “As was I.”

  “But the Ulster was hung out to dry well before we arrived. Someone who knew it was coming here to be cleaned could have come here at any time this afternoon.”

  “And that knowledge—”

  “Could only have come from Radnar House.”

  I saw Holmes’s tight smile. I could not tell whether it evidenced his grim anticipation of trouble ahead, or his satisfaction at having led Lucy to the conclusion he was looking for.

  “The damage to your coat puts me in mind of the attack on Lestrade yesterday,” I observed. “A clumsy warning.”

  We could see a carriage approaching on the narrow earthen road. We moved closer to t
he cottage to get out of its path.

  Then the door to the draper’s shop opened and Mrs. Lampert appeared in the doorway. She held the black Inverness coat and cape clutched tightly to her chest. Whereas earlier she had seemed worried as she greeted us, now naked fear shone in her widened eyes.

  Behind her stood a tall, ruddy-faced man, holding a shotgun.

  He said, with an undisguised German accent, “Our carriage draws near, Herr Holmes. You will accompany us. Now, put up your hands.”

  PART TWO

  OF NIGHTS AND DAYS

  16. STRUGGLE

  Holmes turned up his palms and spoke casually, as if facing a loaded shotgun were an everyday occurrence to him. “I am inclined to cooperate,” he said. “Provided that you leave my associates alone.”

  “You are in no position to bargain, Herr Holmes. Now get in the carriage.”

  “May I at least have my coat? I have paid for it and the wind is cold.”

  The German shrugged, watching carefully as Holmes accepted the garment from Mrs. Lampert and turned towards the carriage, putting one arm into a sleeve.

  In the next moment Holmes spun around and flung the coat over the head of the German, blinding him and pinning his arms so that the shotgun pointed downwards. The two struggled momentarily, but soon Holmes kicked the German’s legs from under him, pulled him into the roadway, and threw him to the ground. From beneath the dark folds of fabric the barrel of the shotgun slid into view.

  Holmes pulled at the weapon, trying to gain control, but the fallen man threw the cloak aside and lunged at him. I was about to intervene when I heard the carriage and its horse coming to a stop behind me.

  Turning, I saw the driver, a blond-haired giant of a man who must have been fully seven feet tall, dismounting to aid his confederate.

  I ran at the driver, colliding with his burly frame and crashing into the side of the carriage. We grappled, staggering back and forth. The driver had his huge hands around my neck and was squeezing down hard on my windpipe. Backed against the carriage, I gasped for air, attempting to twist my throat away from the pressure, but his all-encircling grip was powerful and relentless. Then I saw Lucy had pulled her derringer from her reticule and was running towards us. Stopping, she swung the barrel of the little weapon, striking a glancing blow across the bridge of the giant’s nose. He blinked, but his hold on my throat never slackened. Then she pressed the tip of the barrel into his right eye. He grunted in pain and ducked his head away, trying to separate himself from the pistol, but Lucy kept the gun always in contact, holding firm. When he paused for a moment, she spoke directly into his right ear.