Sherlock Holmes

by Dick Gillman

  The ambassador passed a sheet of paper to Holmes who read it carefully. Looking up from it, Holmes posed a question. “Would it be acceptable if I were to translate this and read the relevant points to Watson and Mycroft?” The ambassador thought for a moment and then nodded.

  Holmes began. “Your Excellency, my agents have some gravely disturbing intelligence regarding the movements of UR. They tell me that, on Sunday evening, he dressed as an artisan and on leaving the embassy by the rear entrance; he met with a known Irish anarchist who is attached to the Turkish embassy. Together they went to the Club Autonomie, a known meeting place for anarchists. At the club he seemed to be fully accepted as a member. He was introduced to and shook hands with the notorious female French anarchist, Louise Michel, nicknamed 'The Red She-Wolf' with whom he had a long and animated conversation. During the evening, he was seen to listen to several of the 'comrades' speeches which advocated the uprooting of governments, the blowing up of the European reining monarchs and the welcoming of a millennia of chaos.”

  Holmes returned the report to the ambassador and, for a few moments, we sat in total silence as we digested its content. I was so shocked that I blurted out, “How can this royal personage put himself, and therefore his country, at risk so?”

  The ambassador's face bore a thin smile and he simply said, “Curiosity, Dr Watson...and an amazing disregard for danger. You will no doubt appreciate how difficult it is to try to restrict the movements of such an important person.”

  Up to his point Mycroft had said nothing. “Anarchist...an interesting word. It comes from the Greek meaning, 'without ruler'. You see now, Sherlock, why you have been invited here tonight. It is of vital importance that we protect this person and make him aware of the very real risk he runs of being recognised and killed out of hand. Her Majesty's government cannot be seen to interfere openly in this matter and neither can the Italian government be seen to be restricting the movements of its Royal family. His Excellency is acting at the direct request of senior members of the Italian Royal household in an effort to ensure that this cavalier behaviour does not end in tragedy.”

  Holmes sat for a moment, his fingers held steepled in front of his lips whilst his formidable brain reflected on the facts. “Ernesto, it is imperative that I have a list of his formal engagements for the week and I must follow the royal person next time he goes out incognito. It would appear that he restricts his visits to these clubs to the evenings.” He paused, adding, “I may have to retain the services of some of my more 'unofficial' observers to watch the embassy.” It was clear that the ambassador was about to question this but Holmes held up a finger, saying, “Have no fear, Ernesto. My spies are invisible and completely reliable. They will bring me the information speedily and follow discreetly until I can take up the scent.” The ambassador nodded.

  In response to Holmes’ request, the ambassador reached into a drawer of his desk and produced a list of engagements. This he then passed to Holmes. I knew from what Holmes had said that he intended to enlist the services of the Baker Street Irregulars. These being a group of street urchins who were fiercely loyal to Holmes and who had, on several occasions, been his eyes and ears on the streets of London. Holmes smiled and rose from his chair, a clear signal that nothing further could be gained from the meeting.

  “I will be in touch, Ernesto, as soon as I have something to report. In the meantime, please call off your dogs. We do not want them to precipitate our friend being recognised by association.”

  The ambassador nodded. “I will see to it personally...and thank you, Sherlock.”

  Chapter 3 - The Anarchist Club.

  After saying our farewells we left the embassy by the back door. Holmes led me again through some back alleys and, on hailing a cab, we returned to Baker Street.

  Sitting in our rooms, having a final pipe of tobacco before retiring, Holmes turned to me, asking, “What did you make of this evening's visit, Watson?”

  I paused for a moment before responding. “Well, I found out that you were an old friend of the Italian Ambassador and that a member of the Italian Royal family has too much curiosity for his own good!”

  Holmes laughed heartily. “Bravo, Watson! You have it in a nutshell! I found it intriguing that nobody actually spoke the name of the royal person. Even the report by Inspector Frosali to the ambassador didn't name him but used the letters 'UR'. No doubt a cipher for Umberto Rex or King Umberto, as we know him.”

  I nodded and smiled. “Yes, the ambassador almost let the cat out of the bag...but not quite.”

  Holmes rubbed his chin, asking, “But why so cautious… even within the confines of the embassy? Perhaps, Watson, they suspect that there is someone there who cannot be trusted. We shall see.”

  The following morning Holmes was busy looking through our scrap book where newspaper clippings of interest were filed. “Ah, here we are! A photograph of King Umberto. Capital!”

  At that moment there was a knock at our door and Mrs Hudson appeared and, beside her, a dirt streaked urchin. “Mr Holmes, I really do object to you having these 'persons' in your rooms. Is this the one you wanted?”

  Holmes smiled as he looked up. “Why yes! Come in Wiggins”

  The lad gave Mrs Hudson a scowl and sauntered into our rooms. “Watcha, Mr Holmes. What do you want?”

  Before us stood the figure of a lad of about 12 or 13 years, dressed in clothes that were torn and ill fitting. Unkempt hair was sticking out from beneath an equally tatty cap which he wore at a jaunty angle. His trousers were torn at the knee and held up by a piece of string tied at the waist. Looking at his boots I could see that they were terribly scuffed with the sole of one beginning to become unstitched.

  Holmes’ voice became more serious. “Now, Wiggins. I have a job for you. Do you know the Italian embassy in Belgravia?”

  Wiggins nodded. “Yeah. Me and my Dad was nearly done for peddling near there. We had to dodge into the back alleys and scarper.”

  Holmes picked up the newspaper clipping showing the photograph of King Umberto in dress uniform and held it up. “Excellent. I want you to watch the rear entrance of the embassy and as soon as you see this man, you must get word to me immediately and follow him. Got it?”

  Wiggins peered at the photograph. “He ain’t gonna be dressed like that, is he?”

  Holmes laughed. “No, he will be dressed like a workman.”

  Wiggins nodded. “Usual rates, Mr Holmes?”

  Again Holmes smiled. “Yes, a shilling a day and when you send word and have followed him, I shall give you a guinea.”

  Wiggins beamed. Holmes reached into his trouser pocket. “Here's a shilling. Start tonight from six o'clock until ten o'clock.”

  Wiggins touched his cap, saying, “I'll be there Mr Holmes.” and with that he skipped down the stairs.

  We didn't expect to hear anything the first evening but about a quarter to seven we heard the bell ring frantically downstairs followed by the racing of feet on the stairs. Our door burst open and in flew little Alfie, the smallest of the Baker Street Irregulars, closely followed by a panting Mrs Hudson.

  “Quick, Mr Holmes! Wiggins says that your man has taken a cab to the Kingsland Road.”

  Mrs Hudson grasped Alfie by the scruff of the neck, saying, “I tried to stop him, Mr Holmes.”

  Holmes held up a hand, saying, “It's alright, Mrs Hudson, I was expecting Alfie.”

  Mrs Hudson looked down at the squirming ruffian in her grasp and let him go, saying, in a doubtful voice, “If you are sure, sir.”

  Tossing Alfie a sixpence, Holmes gathered his coat and muffler from the stand by the door and ran down the stairs. I was quick to follow and soon we were both in a cab heading for Kingsland Road.

  “Do you know where he is going?” I asked.

  Holmes nodded. “He is almost certainly going to the aptly titled, 'Anarchist Club.' A notorious meeting place for anarchists from all over Europe. Here, Watson, take this. You will need it to gain entry to the club.” Ho
lmes took from his coat pocket a newspaper and he thrust it in my direction. I held it close to the lamp of the cab and could see that it was a copy of 'Liberty' which seemingly was an anarchist publication. I pushed it into my coat pocket next to where my trusty service revolver lay nestled. I had taken to carrying my revolver as soon as the word 'anarchist' had been mentioned!

  After a few minutes ride in the cab we arrived at Kingsland Road. The area was a mixture of housing for the well to do with much poorer housing in the back streets. As we walked along, a slight, shadowy figure came up alongside Holmes. I recognised the voice of Wiggins, even though he spoke in a stage whisper. “He went in there, Mr Holmes, with another geezer.” pointing to an alleyway at the side of one of the shops.

  “Excellent work, Wiggins. Here’s your guinea.” Holmes passed the gold coin to the boy who swiftly pocketed it.

  “And another thing, Mr Holmes. There was a bloke following them. He went in there too.”

  Holmes was immediately alert, asking, “Did you get a look at him?”

  “Nah, he was wearing a dark coat and muffler but he was smoking and he dropped this just before he went in. I picked up the stub for you.”

  Wiggins rummaged in his jacket pocket and pulled from it a short cigarette stub. It was too dark to examine it closely but Holmes held it to his nose. “Ah, undoubtedly French. We might yet find him!” I had briefly forgotten Holmes’ encyclopaedic knowledge of tobacco and was cheered by his optimism.

  Holmes led the way and we were soon at the dim alley. A few yards in were two doors about six feet apart. Holmes stopped at the first and knocked, a slot in the door opened and we could see a pair of eyes examining us. The eyes flicked from Holmes to me and then a gruff voice said, “Who's this?”

  Holmes immediately replied, “A new comrade.” I fumbled in my coat pocket and produced the copy of 'Liberty' that Holmes had given me. On seeing this, the figure behind the door grunted. There was a metallic 'click' and the second door swung open. This door was independent of the first and controlled by the gruff man pulling on a wire which passed through an adjoining wall. As we passed through the second door, I observed that it had a drop down iron bar that could be swiftly put in place in an emergency to resist attempts at entry from the outside.

  I did not know what to expect at this club. As I looked around, my hand in my coat pocket was nervously touching my service revolver. Holmes turned slightly towards me, saying, “You won't need that in here, Watson. It would cause more harm than good.” I mumbled an apology and we moved from the doorway into the club proper.

  Taking stock of my surroundings, I was amazed at what I saw! I had expected some kind of dingy, bomb factory but here was a small stage and a piano forte, a corner set aside as a library with shelves of books, tables with men sitting playing cards and even chess! Quite the antithesis of what I had imagined.

  Holmes found a table in a corner and we sat down, I opened the copy of 'Liberty' and pretended to read. Holmes took out his pipe and slowly filled it, he looked relaxed but his eyes swept the room, taking in every detail. After a few moments he briefly touched my arm and following where he was looking, I casually turned my head in that direction. Sitting at a table, a few yards away and in deep conversation, were two men who seemed complete opposites. One was middle aged, well built, clean shaven and dressed quite smartly. His flat cap covering a mop of dark curls. The other was much older and was quite diminutive. His hair was completely grey and he sported a fine, in fact, grandiose, moustache. He was dressed as an artisan but on closer inspection, his bearing did not seem to quite fit with his clothes.

  As we sat, we were approached by what appeared to be the barman-cum-waiter. “Good evening, comrades. Your membership cards?”

  I was a little concerned but Holmes produced a well-worn card from his waistcoat pocket, showed it and pointed to me with his pipe stem, saying, “This is a colleague of mine who is sympathetic to our cause. He is my guest here this evening.”

  The barman proffered his hand, asking, “It's always good to meet new comrades, what can I get you?”

  Holmes ordered two whiskies which arrived promptly and we sat and sipped them. In a low voice, I asked Holmes about his membership at the Anarchists Club. With a grim smile, he replied, “It always pays to know in advance what the other team is planning and who the players are.” Still smiling, he puffed steadily on his pipe.

  After some five minutes or so, there was a loud tapping from the bar in order to get the comrade's attention. A burly man stepped forward and addressed the assembled members. “Comrades! Tonight we have a new member in our midst. One who has shaken the hand of our illustrious comrade, Louise Michel. It is my great pleasure to introduce to you, Comrade John Good.”

  I was just taking a sip of whisky as I saw, in disbelief, the diminutive figure I knew to be the King of Italy, stand up and raise his hand in salute to the gathered comrades. Indeed, in perfect English he addressed the membership. “Comrades! Thank you for your welcome. I am so happy to be amongst you and to witness your support for our struggle against oppression. Let us raise our glasses in a toast to victory!”

  As one, the comrades raised their glasses and shouted “To victory!” I clasped my muffler to my mouth as I choked and it required a couple of sound slaps on the back from Holmes to help me breathe again. Fortunately, my choking had been masked by the rousing cheer from the assembled members.

  Several of the members went over to shake Comrade Good's hand. Holmes went forward and I followed but, as we approached, another fellow tapped sharply on the bar.

  “Comrades, I would also like to welcome our new comrade. As a souvenir of his visit, I would like to present him with this cartoon that I have drawn. It shows how our movement will deal with these tyrants!”

  Again a cheer went up as the artist presented Comrade Good with the cartoon. I leant forwards and could see that the cartoon had been quite skillfully drawn. It showed an explosion representing anarchists freeing the working masses with cartoon head likenesses of all the rulers in Europe, flying off into the air like cannon balls. Again I almost choked and I felt for my revolver as the artist pointed to his work, saying, “Look comrade! How similar you are to this fellow!” pointing to the head of the King of Italy which was flying skyward.

  The King looked closely at the cartoon and said, “Why, yes! So I am!” and laughed heartily, slapping the artist on the back.

  Holmes again touched my sleeve and we returned to our seats. A few minutes later, Comrade Good and his companion made to leave. I started to rise but was stopped by a quiet word from Holmes. “Not yet, Watson. Let us wait a moment.”

  As we sat and watched, a figure stood and put on his coat. He was a young man in his early twenties, of slight build and with an oval face with a somewhat drooping moustache. His hair had been parted in the centre and, upon his nose, he wore a gold pince-nez which made him look like an academic. As he passed our table I could clearly detect the distinctive smell of a French cigarette.

  Once the man trailing the King had left, we swiftly followed. At the end of the alley, Holmes nodded and pointed towards the retreating figure. From the shadows emerged Wiggins who gave Holmes a mock salute and set off in pursuit.

  Chapter 4 - Greenwich Park.

  Our journey back towards Baker Street was uneventful. As we travelled, Holmes turned to me, saying, “I see that you recognised the King from his photograph, Watson. What did you think of his name when he's amongst the comrades?”

  I thought for a moment, before replying, “I imagined it was just an invention.”

  Holmes laughed. “Well, yes and no. One of his Christian names is Giovanni which, as you no doubt know, is John in English. The surname is, I have to say, quite inventive. The King's nickname is 'Il Buono' which means 'the good', So, John Good is, I feel, very apt.”

  I was still greatly concerned and frowned. “I fear he is playing a very dangerous game Holmes, I was very afraid he was going to be recognised this evening.”<
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  Holmes held his forefinger to his lip. “Yes, it was a close call. However, the King had the charisma and intelligence to pull it off. It is the fellow following him that concerns me, Watson. He may already know the King's true identity and intends him harm but Wiggins will track him to his lair.” The alarm on my face prompted Holmes to pat my knee, saying, “Fear not, Watson. The King will come to no harm this evening. This man seeks an audience and a very public place for his actions.”

  The following morning we breakfasted quite early. I determined to return briefly to my medical practice. Holmes, however, packed some items into a Gladstone and rushed out after receiving a message from Wiggins. We did not meet again until the early evening when I found Holmes sitting in his usual armchair, smoking his pipe. He appeared to be lost in his own thoughts, eyes half closed and humming some piece of music to himself.

  At my entrance, he opened his eyes. “Ah, Watson. We have an invitation!” He reached down and tossed me an envelope which had been beside his chair. I at once recognised the envelope and, with a smile, I extracted the invitation. “Ha! A Masked Ball! I have not attended one of those since my college days. Splendid!”

  The delight of receiving the invitation only seemed to last but a few moments. I had found that the events of the previous evening's events had been preying on my mind. “Where is the King today, Holmes?” I asked.