by J. R. Trtek
“No,” replied. “I cannot conceive of your work in any field requiring amendment all at.”
“Well,” he said, “I made several novel observations of that colony up in Galloway while searching for Richard Hannay, and they got me to thinking about a few aspects I had neglected to include in the first edition. And so, when not cracking German codes, I made additions to the original text. You see, when I realised that—”
An assistant seller interrupted Holmes’s explanation. “The manager’s compliments, sirs,” he said to us quickly. “He wishes me to tell you that he believes there are some valuable works in just this subject upstairs that might interest you.”
“Of course,” said Holmes, replacing the volume. “Pray, lead us there.”
We followed the man to an upper floor lined with every kind of book imaginable, and with tables littered with maps and engravings.
“This way,” our guide said as he rapped upon the wall and then opened a door concealed by bogus book-backs. We suddenly found ourselves in a small, windowless study, where John S. Blenkiron sat contentedly in an armchair, a cup within his reach upon a table.
The assistant left, closing the hidden door behind him, and Blenkiron rose quickly, seizing in turn Holmes’s hand and then mine. “Mr. Holmes and—now—Major Watson! This is a pleasure after such a long while. I’ve heard good reports of you, Major,” he said to me. “Your Royal Army Medical Corps should be grateful for having you in its ranks. And Mr. Holmes, you are a sight for sore eyes. And a better sight, if I may say, without those chin whiskers and dyed hair.”
“And you seem more hale than before, Mr. Blenkiron,” replied Holmes.
And indeed, though it was still the old Blenkiron, he was immensely changed. His once stout frame was now leaner, as was his face, which previously had been somewhat puffy. Moreover, the man’s pale complexion of three years before was replaced by a rosy glow of health.
Holmes glanced at the contents of the cup. “And I notice you no longer limit yourself to boiled milk.”
“Ah, the dyspepsia is gone, gentlemen,” Blenkiron declared in a booming voice. “Thanks to some doctors in Nebraska, I am a new man. And perhaps, Mr. Holmes, you also deserve some credit for my improved state,” he added with a sly look. “M informs me that it was you who deciphered that recent, amusing German telegram that he arranged to be forwarded to my government.”
Holmes shrugged. “Oh yes, I believe I was the one whose turn it was to read the message on that particular day, the code itself having already been broken,” he said. “I suppose it will raise a bit of a fuss, but how was I to know the Kaiser would suggest to Mexico that it invade your country?”114
“In any case, I have told M that the telegram, combined with Germany’s submarine declaration, makes it inevitable that we will soon be joining you formally as allies,” declared the American. “Personally, I expect that blessed event to occur within three months, if not sooner.”115
“Pardon me,” I said as Blenkiron gestured for us to take seats. “Who is this M you speak of?”
“It is my brother, Mycroft,” said Holmes wearily as he sat in an armchair beside Blenkiron’s. “As his writing of memos increased in frequency during the Hannay incident, he started signing them with his first initial only, and then sometime between Montenegro’s declaration of war on the Ottomans and the first Zeppelin raid on London, he began styling himself so in conversation. I find it an annoying affection, but there’s no stopping him.”
“Well, certainly,” said Blenkiron, “there’s no stopping M as the effective overall head of British Intelligence, is there? And may we all thank God for it.”
“I do not dispute that view,” Holmes agreed as I joined the two of them in a third armchair, leaving a fourth empty. “But never mention that admission to my brother, if you would be so kind.”
“It will be our own secret transatlantic pact, Mr. Holmes. Now then,” he added, nodding toward me. “Has the Major been informed of our plans for him?”
“Not fully,” replied Holmes with an awkward air.
“Ah,” I said. “My return to London was engineered, then?” I turned to Holmes. “You said nothing to that effect upon greeting me.”
“M decreed that I be the one to break the news to you, my dear Major Watson,” declared the American. “And my hope—as well as M’s and Bullivant’s—is that you will be willing to return to the old game.”
“Old game?”
“Espionage, dear boy,” said Holmes. “And you will not find yourself alone, for I will be joining you in the field once more.”
“Has Hannay become lost again?” I asked.
“Hardly,” Blenkiron good-naturedly replied. “If anything, he seems to have found himself. I myself saw the man perform magnificently during the Erzurum business,116 and in the meantime, he’s done quite well in your army, has he not?”
Holmes nodded. “Indeed, he has. The matter at hand, Watson,” he said, “pertains to the remnants of the Black Stone.”
“There are remnants?” I asked. “Other than the plump man who escaped, I thought that spy ring had been completely destroyed, along with Von Bork’s.”
“Von Bork’s group was thoroughly demolished, yes,” said Holmes. “However, I had infiltrated its apparatus and operated within the organisation for more than a year. All its parts were known, and so we were able to dismantle the thing completely, piece by piece, though Von Bork himself escaped to Germany by means of diplomatic pretence.
“On the other hand, we learnt of the Black Stone only through Scudder’s notebook, and while we did round up many from that group in both Kent and Scotland, we were aware that we did not get them all.”
“Oh.”
“Scotland still interests us,” interjected the American. “We know that there was a line of communication north from Galloway, reaching as far as Glasgow and likely farther, to Ireland. I believe that conduit has reopened, with its key southern endpoint no longer Galloway, but instead smack dab in the Cotswolds. 117”
“I see. May I ask, Mr. Blenkiron, how you figure into the picture?” I enquired.
The American agent smiled. “As you’ve been aware since just before the war, Major, the intelligence forces of our two countries have for several years worked in close harmony, quite unbeknownst to the public at large. Indeed, though my nation will only now be joining yours as an avowed ally against the Central Powers, I and my colleagues in ‘the business,’ as it were, have been clandestinely acting as if that alliance had been a fact all along.
“I, in particular, have been studying the movements and actions of a fellow countryman of mine: an individual named Abel Gresson. I am certain he was a part of the original network associated with the Black Stone, and I believe he plays a role in the new version of that spy ring, the revived remnant that Mr. Holmes spoke of a moment ago. In the course of tracking Gresson’s movements, I acquired evidence suggesting that the Cotswolds also figures into the rebuilt Black Stone apparatus. More specifically, we have identified the town of Biggleswick as the likely new southern terminus of that spy network.”
“Biggleswick?” I said. “Never heard of the place.”
“It is a garden city,” Holmes told me.118 “And, in its own way, it is also a thriving centre of local culture, in addition to possible German espionage. It is there that—”
We heard a knock upon the wall and all turned as the hidden door swung open to reveal Sir Walter Bullivant. The spymaster nodded to the bookstore assistant behind him and then stepped into the study, the door closing behind him.
Like John S. Blenkiron, Sir Walter had changed since the war had begun. The Secret Service chief had lost a bit of weight, while his face was etched with several new lines since I had last seen him. Behind the familiar tortoiseshell spectacles, his eyes had altered as well, no longer holding a feisty sparkle but instead conveying the calm reflection of sullen acceptance.
I was well aware of the reason for that transformation, for I had happened
to be in London when Bullivant received news that his son, a spy like the father, had perished while on a mission in Ottoman territory.119
“I apologise for being somewhat late,” Sir Walter said as we all stood. “There was some quick business I had to conduct with M.”
Sherlock Holmes raised his brows and exhaled deeply before sitting down again, while Blenkiron and I regained our seats as Bullivant claimed the fourth armchair. The spymaster leaned forward toward me and took my hand in both of his.
“Very good to see you again, Watson,” he said. “If only we had our fishing poles in hand and the Kennet before us, eh?”
“Perhaps we will find the time,” I replied. “After all this is done, if not before.”
“Yes, if not before.” He squeezed my hand firmly once more before letting go. “And so, where am I entering the conversation?” Bullivant asked in a tired voice as he leaned back in his chair.
“We have informed the major of the Black Stone regrouping,” Blenkiron said. “Gresson and Biggleswick were the last items mentioned.”
Sir Walter nodded, and the American, by his posture, indicated that Sir Walter should now take charge of the meeting.
“Well, yes,” said the spymaster, turning his head to patiently scratch the side of his neck, “we believe the Black Stone has taken root again, Watson, only this time its tendrils reach from Glasgow down to that town of Biggleswick,” he summarised. “To learn more, we must send in forward observers.”
He smiled at me.
“And I am to be that observer?” I ventured.
Sir Walter cocked his head and glanced toward Holmes.
“Yes, Watson,” said the detective cautiously. “You are, however, to be but one of several. I shall be the second.”
“Ah,” I said. “Another adventure as Altamount? Will your goatee reappear?”
“I fear not,” Holmes replied. “I am finished with impersonation, you see. I go forth in the world simply as myself from now on. After all, naked is the best disguise.”120
“But that sentiment aside, will not your open presence in Biggleswick arouse suspicion on the part of the German spies, if there are any?” I suggested.
“Yes, of course it will,” said Bullivant gently. “That is why we need a plausible excuse for Holmes to visit the Cotswolds.”
“You will be that reason, Major,” added Blenkiron.
“Isham military hospital is but two or three miles from Biggleswick,” Sir Walter said. “M has arranged for you become its administrative head.”
I sat silent to the world, but within I made an invisible gesture of exultation.
“Of course, you will be promoted to the rank of colonel, appropriate to your new position,” the spymaster said.
“The plan is that, within a few weeks after your installation there, you will be visited by your good friend—me,” said Holmes. “That I should pay an extended call on my old compatriot ought not to arouse too much suspicion.”
“I see,” was my somewhat subdued reply.
“Mr. Holmes’s arrival will nonetheless likely heighten their guard,” noted Blenkiron. “I refer, of course, to the German agents there, whoever they are.”
“The hope of my brother, Sir Walter, and Mr. Blenkiron is that, while supposedly on holiday, I will perhaps be able to narrow the list of those who might be enemy spies,” said Holmes. “Moreover, we are both likely to take a jaunt north to Glasgow to observe that fellow Gresson as well.”
“And you will have other company,” Bullivant told me. “Company beyond just Holmes here. Magillivray’s Sergeant Scaife has been temporarily inducted into the army to serve as your batman.”
“And I am offering Martha as your housekeeper during the stay in Biggleswick,” said Holmes.
“I shudder to think what the subsequent effect will be in Queen Anne Street,” I replied.
“We will manage,” the detective primly insisted.
“In addition,” said Bullivant, “there is already an agent in Biggleswick who will make contact with you there.”
“I see. Who is he? That fellow Arbuthnot, perhaps?”
“Young Sandy bides his time in a warmer clime these days,” Sir Walter replied cryptically. “No, your contact will be someone else, a person who will be revealed to you when the time is appropriate. That agent has been compiling a list of suspected German spies and will identify those people to you. The individual in question will employ an identifying phrase. That phrase is blueberry tart. Keep it in mind.”
Sherlock Holmes suppressed a chuckle as Blenkiron looked on placidly.
Isham hospital was devoted to the treatment of officers in the throes of shell shock, that ill-defined yet unmistakable state that encompassed everything from enhanced anxiety to sudden, inexplicable panic to complete absence of lucidity. No matter the nature of its manifestation, however, the effects upon those inflicted were horribly real, and the grim charge of the hospital I administered was to make its sufferers whole again, all in the ironic cause of facilitating their return to battle.
Within two weeks of the meeting in Traill’s Bookshop, I assumed command as chief administrator of the facility. I was accompanied to the Cotswolds by Martha and the former police Sergeant Scaife, who was demoted to corporal during his period of service in the military.
Biggleswick, as Bullivant had informed me, lay but two miles to the west of the hospital, and I took up residence in the village itself, moving into a vacant cottage let by a Mr. Sacker, which I learnt much later was but an alias for Mycroft Holmes, who had purchased the residence for the government under that assumed name.
The house was one of perhaps two hundred that encircled a lovely Midland common. Built of warm, grey-coloured stone from regional quarries and topped by a steeply pitched slate roof, its frame was well set, though there were eccentricities: the windows were difficult to open, while the doors rarely stayed shut. However, I found it well-furnished and as clean as an operating table. There was a half-acre plot overgrown with weeds, as well as a ragged herb garden just beyond the kitchen windows. Scaife and Martha immediately set upon the tasks, respectively, of clearing the ground outside and organising the household within.
In the end, my residence there assumed a perfection equal to that of the town and district in which it sat. All the ordinary things that I was to see there—streets full of shoppers on market day, parties of hikers trudging down a wooded path, bicyclists setting out along a distant crest, old men reposing with jackets off and pipes in mouths, ploughs opening furrows in nut-brown fields—gave together a pulse, as of a living, breathing thing, and I yearned to become a part of it.
In the days that followed my arrival, the village received me in a friendly if measured way. My immediate neighbours to the north, the Jimsons, welcomed me within the first hour of my entering the cottage, offering a wonderful if rather small mince pie topped by creamy mash.
The wife, a large florid-faced woman with weather-bleached hair, promised me a bouquet of sunflowers in late summer, should I still be stationed at Isham then, but there was no mention of blueberry tarts. Meanwhile, the husband—a lanky managing clerk for some shipping company—offered to assist with my half-acre plot if I desired, suggesting that it be added to the slightly larger patch that the couple owned, adjacent to mine.
“We will, of course, share the bounty,” Mr. Jimson declared, stroking his skimpy red beard streaked with grey. The man’s blue eyes beheld me behind strong glasses as he added, “Ah, and there is nothing like the good smell of earth and having one’s hands taken by Nature’s own, eh?”
Both of them were good, kindly souls, proud of their village and more than willing to assist me in every way.
“Never take a major road if you can avoid it,” Mr. Jimson would counsel me. “The most winding and wayward journeys are the best, particularly here in the Cotswolds,” he declared. “There’s no disadvantage in going by the back roads, unless you are in a hurry—and if you are in a hurry, perhaps you don’t belong here i
n any case, eh?” he added with a gentle smile.
“I have generally found that the clock conforms to my movements, rather than the other way round,” I replied with a warm grin. “Except when duty calls, which it will the day after tomorrow, when I take the reins at Isham.”
And so, the very next day, taking me up on my claim to be an avid hiker, the Jimsons led me for a walk round the town and beyond, during which I crossed paths with several other residents, including a prominent London publisher and long-time local inhabitant, Frederick Shaw, who had been entertaining three guests from the north by joining them in a round of golf.
While passing by the side of the road, all of us—including Shaw’s three companions—were almost run down by a tall, lean fellow on a bicycle, an incident which caused the publisher to declare that he would never again accept another manuscript on cycling.
Continuing my stroll with the Jimsons, I encountered more than a handful of young men whom I judged ought to have been in France,121 including a pair who approached us in the company of a somewhat badly dressed young woman with untidy hair left uncovered.122 One of these men, a youth named Aronson, was introduced to me by the Jimsons as a great budding novelist, while the other—a slightly older, bristling fellow with a fierce moustache—turned out to be one Letchford, a celebrated reviewer for The Critic, a prominent newspaper. Neither displayed a war-service badge.123 The female, identified as a Miss Lester, was a painter of no small promise, I was told, as well as a close friend and suffragist follower of the Brookhurst women.124
As we strolled on and the Jimsons described for me life in Biggleswick, it became apparent that the town was inhabited by a number of talented individuals from the worlds of art, literature, and music, as well as the sphere of political activity.
“The area has enjoyed the presence of noted artists for decades,” Mr. Jimson declared as we waited for a small herd of cows to pass down the lane. “Perhaps you’ve heard of Morton and Emily Clifford, the potters? Or Gordon Pritchard, the furniture maker?”