by J. R. Trtek
“Tell me,” he said, “have you sent that letter of enquiry to Shaw?”
“The request that he consider publishing my nonexistent novel?” I asked. “The one that is a work of fiction in more ways than one?”
“Yes.”
“Scaife posted it today, as promised. I did not use your title, however, believing it far too sensational.”
“Ha! Our usual roles are reversed in this instance, are they not?”
“In any case, there is no guarantee that my letter will gain me—”
“Us.”
“Will gain us an audience with Mr. Shaw.”
“I believe you underestimate the popularity of your stories among the reading public, Watson.”
“At times, Holmes, I do doubt my own so-called popularity, for another is often perceived as the author.”
My friend shrugged. “That the relationship you have with your literary agent is an admixture of love and hate, I cannot deny, but—”
Holmes broke off suddenly and drew back from the carriage window. “Watson,” he said. “Come, glance through the pane.”
I leaned forward and turned my head to behold Launcelot Wake striding beside the tracks. He passed by our window without catching sight of us and then boarded the carriage trailing ours.
I assumed my previous position and said, “Well, he will be travelling north also, as he had told us yesterday.”
“Yes, and by the look of his shoes, not to mention the ice axe hanging from his knapsack, he does appear intent on hiking and mountaineering as claimed,” added Holmes with a languid smile. “I wish we knew if the hiking and climbing will serve a purpose beyond mere pleasure.”
“Miss Lamington was most insistent that he could not possibly be in league with the Black Stone,” I said quietly.
Holmes nodded.
“She is an intuitive young woman,” he said, “and intuition is not to be discounted. But we must not ignore more objective forms of judgment.”
“One should, however, give her credit for not insisting that her cousin be omitted from consideration.”
“Oh, to be sure, I laud her for that. However, we must keep Wake well within our sights.”
Some time later, we had left Biggleswick behind, riding tracks that took us northwest—through Lancaster, Carnforth, and Kendal. A bit past Carlisle, we continued along the main line into Scotland that led to Glasgow, rather than take the westerly fork passing through Galloway, which had been the centre of our search for Richard Hannay three years before.
“Holmes,” I said as we neared the border. “You do not mind that we will return by way of Dumfries? Haste is not of concern?”
The detective lifted his cap, opened his eyes and raised his chin from his chest. Stretching his legs, he replied, “A leisurely journey back to Biggleswick would lend itself to the appearance of this being a holiday outing, and Dumfries is supposedly our prime destination, after all. We will show ourselves there, yes. It is perhaps a shame you did not bring along your fishing gear.”
“I have an earnest desire to see the place once more—and the people, if some of them remain in the area,” I said.
Holmes nodded and studied the passing scenery. “We should be arriving in Glasgow by mid-afternoon.” He took out his watch and opened it to note the time.
Glancing in his direction, I noticed a small purple-and-white disc affixed to the inside of the watch cover.
“What is that wafer attached to your timepiece?” I asked. “The one with the cross of St. Andrew upon it.”147
Holmes smiled wanly. “It will identify us to the resident agent in Glasgow,” he said.
“You’ve not provided much in the way of detail about that person, or the strategy we will pursue once there, by the way.”
“I have never met the agent in question, Watson, and so I have little in the way of detail about him, other than Bullivant’s description of the man, whose name is Andrew Amos. We will meet the fellow in due course,” he replied. “And as for the strategy we will pursue, if I do not instruct you in its particulars, what do you suppose that strategy is to be?”
“One of improvisation?”
“Just so,” murmured Holmes.
“But you spoke of Shinwell Johnson being there and planting some sort of document with Abel Gresson.”
“Yes,” said the detective. “It is Johnson who has that specific task to accomplish. We will be idle observers.”
“When you observe, you are hardly idle.”
“And that is when I shall improvise.”
“But your improvisations are always well planned.”
Holmes smiled as he leaned back and once more covered his eyes with the cloth cap.
“Well put, Watson,” he murmured. “A good biographer always captures the essence of his subject.”
We entered Glasgow Central Station at half past two o’clock and remained in our carriage for a few moments while Sherlock Holmes discreetly watched for Launcelot Wake to appear.
“There he is,” said Holmes at last, pointing to Wake as the young man strode away from our line of carriages, the ice axe swinging from his knapsack.
“We will make no attempt to follow him?” I asked.
“We are hardly prepared to attempt that,” Holmes replied. “Particularly if he is headed for Skye. Moreover, we have our own plans for the evening.”
“An evening of improvised observation?”
“Yes.”
We took rooms in the Grand Central Hotel and spent the rest of the afternoon refreshing ourselves. Then, as instructed by Holmes, I dressed in a less than elegant fashion and descended to the hotel lobby, where I waited for my friend.
I grew anxious as I sat in an armchair, for my somewhat shabby state attracted silent expressions of rebuke from many passers-by. Then, just the lobby clock struck the hour, Holmes entered, attired in a similarly rough manner. Billycock hat rather than usual homburg in hand, he motioned for me to rise, and the two of us quickly left the hotel.
“Are you prepared for a quick stroll toward the Dumbarton Road?” he asked.
“You have me dressed as if for a stroll through Whitechapel instead,” I replied with more than a little exaggeration.148 “I believe you said you were finished with disguises.”
“This is not disguise,” insisted Holmes. “Rather, consider it mere camouflage.”
“Lead on,” I muttered.
Some minutes later, we found ourselves in a public square. With the weather still brisk and the sky darkening, there were relatively few people about: only a mother and small child, and a grizzled, bespectacled man who stood feeding pigeons from a small sack.
“Shall we take this bench?” suggested Holmes languidly. “The weather has been dry, at least.”
“I suppose cold is preferable to cold and damp,” I said with bitter amusement.
“For King and Empire,” whispered my friend.
“I assume we will meet your resident agent here? Or is it to be Shinwell Johnson?”
“The former,” said Holmes, once more taking out his watch as the man who had been feeding birds slowly ambled over.
“Can ye give us a swatch at that?” the fellow asked. “Ah want the time.”
He was a bit over five feet and broad-shouldered. Between his heavy brows and whiskers—the latter joining from either side under his jaw while leaving an enormous upper lip clean-shaven—the man reminded me of an old-fashioned minister. His eyes were solemn, and I did not observe one sound tooth when he opened his mouth to speak.
“Yes, I have it,” replied Holmes, holding out the watch so that the man could see its dial, as well as the purple-and-white wafer displaying the St. Andrew cross.
“Thank ye,” said the man, reaching into a pocket for his own timepiece. He flipped the case open and looked down at it. “Mine is always fast, as ye can see.” He turned the watch so that we both might view the dial, an action that exposed a wafer identical to Holmes’s pasted onto the inside.
“Fas
t and slow are relative terms,” said Holmes.
“Indeed,” replied the man. “Indeed, they are. Andrew Amos and at your service, Mr. Holmes, for Mr. Holmes was whom Ah was told to expect. Along with,” he added, looking at me, “a Mr. Watson.”
“Yes.” My friend nodded and gestured toward me. “My associate, Dr. Watson.”
“Aye,” said Mr. Amos, stuffing the small sack of bird feed into a coat pocket.
“Sir Walter Bullivant sends his regards,” whispered Holmes.
Amos nodded. “And ye can say Ah was asking for him.”
“However, there is no news for him, I gather?” Holmes said.
“No a peep,” the man replied. “Though, who may ken, after the great rammy happens this night.”
“Mr. Amos is a union leader in the shipyards,” Holmes informed me.
“Well,” said the Glasgow man, “Ah’m no an actual official of the union, and no likely to ever be one. Still, me word carries more weight than most, and Ah fight for the rank and file against office-bearers who have lost the confidence of the working man. Ah’m no socialist, mind ye, Dr. Watson,” he said. “More akin to the old Border radicals.149 Ah’m for individual liberty and equal rights and chances for all. Ah keep me views largely to meself, though, for the younger lads down at the yards are, some of thame, drucken-daft over their wee books about capital and collectivism.
“Keep in mind, Ah’m with them on the matter of wages and dignity. If men like me abandoned that fight, all the rest would be at the mercy of the first balloon150 that started preaching revolution. Ye see, those of us agitating for a rise in pay are not for a coward’s peace. No, sir. We’re fighting for the lads overseas as much as for ourselves. What for should the big man double his profits and the small man be ill set to get his ham and egg on Sabbath morning, eh?”
“And what does an old Border radical think specifically about the war?” I asked idly.
Amos looked at me thoughtfully. “When it started, Dr. Watson,” he said with deliberation, “Ah considered the subject carefully for three days, and then Ah came to a single conclusion: at the end of this conflict, either Ah or the Kaiser would be left standing, but not the both of us.”
“You spoke earlier about someone possibly preaching revolution,” said Holmes. “That will happen tonight, will it not?”
“Undoubtedly, it will,” said Amos. “Ah presume you refer to the gathering where Mr. Gresson will appear.”
“I do.”
The Glasgow man nodded.
“They hope to attract more of the general population this evening, beyond just men from the shipyards.” He looked at both of us. “You two look the type they seek to pull in, Ah think.” He shrugged. “Then, too, don be surprised if some in attendance are there merely to taunt.”
“Do you believe the meeting may become violent?” I asked.
Andrew Amos shrugged. “If the past is any guide, sir, Ah would have to say that may happen, yes.”
“You will not be present, however?” Holmes asked.
Amos frowned. “Ah dunna jump about with the likes of thame. Ah canna stand to listen to their drivel,” he said. “Comrade this and comrade that. Besides, Ah think it best that Ah seem aloof from that bunch. Ah have my ways of watching them for Sir Walter,” the man declared, “and if Ah tried too hard to cosy up to thame, Ah think they might become suspicious of my motives, don ye think?”
Holmes nodded and then conveyed some instructions that Bullivant had requested he pass on to Amos. At length, our meeting concluded, and we rose to take leave of this clandestine observer for His Majesty’s government. We walked on for several minutes and found a humble establishment where we ate a spare, early dinner and then set off in search of Newmilns Street, where the rally was to take place.
It was nearing seven o’clock as we approached the meeting hall, into which a crowd was already streaming. Ominously, some of those entering were soldiers in uniform.
Inside, the place was dingy and ill lit. I followed Holmes to the middle of the hall, where we stood staring at a gathering of leaders conversing among themselves on the dais. Below them, huddled against the platform, clusters of followers seemed to hang on their every word. Unlike the rally I had attended at Brattleburn, this one was comprised primarily of men.
“Shall we join the admiring masses, then?” Holmes asked.
I gestured for my friend to lead the way, and we strode to the edge of a small group that was listening to the idle talk of those on the dais. Holmes remained attentive, and when another person joined the group on the platform, he watched carefully as that individual was introduced to the others.
“And this,” we heard a fierce little rat of a man say, “is our illustrious American comrade, Abel Gresson.”
Holmes and I looked at the newcomer. He was a red-haired man in his thirties, rather sprucely dressed—a flower was stuck in one button hole—and whose small, bright eyes showed great animation. Despite his natty appearance, Gresson appeared to be chewing tobacco. Indeed, he reached into his pocket and bit off a small additional piece in the midst of conversation.
“Aye, we’re coming to the end of the last dogwatch,” I heard him say with a chuckle as he pulled out a timepiece. “And we’ll be raising anchor soon.” He nodded to the others and then stepped away to survey the growing audience. Clasping hands behind his back, he nodded as he strode in a rolling gait across the dais, passing by us so that his waist was at the level of our eyes.
I glanced at Holmes, whose eyes were fixed intently upon Gresson, and I saw him gently lift his chin before turning to me.
“Shall we find seats, old fellow?” he asked.
We claimed two chairs in the front third of the audience but remained standing, passing the time in idle conversation unrelated to our true purpose. All the while, I noticed that Holmes periodically surveyed the filling hall with a slow, sweeping motion of his eyes.
Then, as those on the dais began to organise themselves, he whispered, “Ha,” and sat down.
I remained on my feet for a moment longer, staring in the direction in which Holmes had been looking before taking his chair. I anxiously gazed at the audience and then, with sudden recognition, I espied Shinwell Johnson sitting on the far side of the hall, fanning himself with his hat. Immediately, I sat down beside my friend.
“I presume you finally noticed our associate,” Holmes said quietly.
“Yes.” I leaned back in my chair. “And I assume that further explanation will come later.”
“As always, old fellow, your expectation is on the mark. But halloa,” he said, gesturing toward the dais. “It appears we are about to begin.”
“Gresson cuts quite a figure,” I whispered to Holmes.
“Yes,” agreed my friend as the noise in the hall lessened slightly.
The fierce, diminutive man who had made introductions on the dais earlier appeared to be the chairman of the proceedings, for he stepped forward to call the meeting to order.
“My comrades,” he declaimed, “we have come here tonight from many different parts of the globe, but all with one purpose—”
“Yes: to bugger John Bull, you red prick!” came a loud voice from the back of the hall. As did the rest of the audience, I turned round and saw one of many British soldiers standing at the rear, holding his hands to his mouth. As the man lowered his arms, he looked among his compatriots, who all laughed.151
“I fear the discord is beginning all too early,” whispered Holmes.
“It is John Bull what uses you, Tommy!” the chairman shouted back.152
“Come away!” yelled someone from the seats.
“Bloody lie!” cried another soldier from the far wall. “King and Empire, I say!”
“You’re a pawn of the plutocrats, khaki boy!” barked someone sitting near the front of the hall. “Give imperialism the heave!”
I sat and watched what seemed to be the beginning of an inexorable slide into fisticuffs. But at that moment, as invective escalated on
both sides, Abel Gresson rose from his seat on the dais and gently nudged the chairman aside. As some civilians joined the soldiers in taunting those on the platform and an increasing number of workingmen got to their feet and fired back insults of their own, the American put his hands in the air and gestured as if seeking to place a lid upon the crowd’s restiveness.
“Now boys, please!” he shouted with the smoothness of a practiced speaker. “Let’s calm down some and spend the evening talking sense, shall we?”
“I’ll spend it shoving that flower up your arse, you damp Bolshie Yank!” cried one of the soldiers.153
“If that’s what it will take to get you to listen to reason, then have a go, my lad,” replied Gresson with a hearty smile as he turned halfway round and bent over. “How’s this for a big bahookie, eh?”
The gesture took everyone by surprise, and the hall fell momentarily silent. Then all joined in laughing heartily at the invitation. Gresson himself chuckled before rising again to his full height and turning toward the lectern to once more gesture for calm.
“Now the weather’s been blowing up dirty here tonight,” he said. “We all have our differences, make no doubt about it, and we are pulling right now all this way and that. Hell, boys, we know some of you have bones to pick,” he bellowed, and now there were no taunts from the audience. “But we should tonight dwell on what we have in common, and to accomplish that, let us take a long, hard, and honest look at the aims of this current war.”
He paused, taking an opportunity to look over those in the hall—all of whom, even the soldiers, now appeared willing to give him a fair hearing. Gresson bowed his head, a motion that gave emphasis to his drooping nose, and I saw a subtle smile appear on his face, an expression that vanished as he lifted his chin to continue.
There followed not quite twenty minutes of perhaps the most beguiling public oratory I have ever heard. Beginning from simple observations or self-evident truths that no one could easily dismiss, Gresson wove a clever argument that concluded with a call for peace with Germany, opportunity for all, and universal brotherhood.
As the American ended his speech, most of the audience—shipyard and other workers, largely—stood to applaud in wild abandon, while the sceptics—the soldiers, a few merchants and scattered clerks—remained silent, neither clapping nor shouting down the speaker.