Murder, My Dear Watson

by John Lellenberg

  I obliged. “Now what, Holmes?”

  “Add the letters 1 R T, in whatever order seems right to you.”

  Holmes stared at me as I grappled with this unwelcome bit of mental exercise. Suddenly it struck me like a thunderbolt between the eyes, “MORIARTY!” I exclaimed.

  “I do not believe that this is a coincidence, Watson. The man you describe is not Professor James, but his brother. I am in no doubt that your dear brother-in-law was murdered, nor by whom, but I am completely stumped as to why!”

  It was a shocking and horrible return to an evil which had become all too familiar over the years. I struggled to come to terms with what Holmes had just told me. “You are saying that my brother-in-law was poisoned by that half-bottle of port that was given to him?”

  “Quite so, Watson, and our bogus cleric would have been certain that Talbot would not have opened it until later. It is the host’s duty to provide, not the guest’s. He may be a villain, but he knows his manners! It is quite possible that you, too, my good friend, could have been poisoned, but somehow I think he was gambling on you being more abstemious in your drinking.”

  I felt slightly humiliated that I should have proven so predictable. “I know the servants have tidied everything up and thrown away the bottle, but don’t you . . .” Holmes dismissed my suggestion before I could even finish it.

  “The deed is done. The precise details of ‘how’ will not help us understand ‘why.’”

  “Come to think of it, Holmes, this whole business of a holiday for us, paid for by a grateful parishioner, seems rather bogus,” I said, with some embarrassment at my own gullibility.

  “You are right, my friend. And your travel documents being sent to me is no accident. It was to let me know that you were coming here, and perhaps tempt me to come along as well. When I decided that I would not change my plans to go to Switzerland, an event had to be staged that would oblige me to come. Hence, Talbot was murdered— just to get me to this place! It is diabolically cold-blooded, Watson! The stakes must be high to do such a vicious thing—even for Moriarty! I cannot forgive such wanton inflicting of grief upon the totally innocent.” He looked profoundly distressed and even in my own pain I could not help a welling up of pity for him.

  “My dear, dear friend, you must not—cannot blame yourself for Talbot’s death!” I proclaimed, trying to sound convincing, but I knew that Holmes would feel a pang of self-recrimination, whatever I said. “How could you possibly know what evil plan was being hatched?”

  “I should have smelled a rat from the beginning,” he said bitterly.

  “Too late, Holmes. What we must do now is discover why Moriarty wants us here. What is he planning? I cannot see him coming up here just to enjoy the beautiful scenery,” I said. “Just pulling in to Ballater Station, with that extra long platform, for the Royal Train, one gets a sense of. . .”

  “That’s it Watson. You’ve got it!” Holmes jerked his head up.

  “I’ve got it?” I asked.

  “Yes, Watson. The queen is in Balmoral at the moment. Moriarty’s plans have something to do with the queen, I know it.”

  “Do you think he wants to assassinate her?” I ventured.

  “Nothing as straightforward as that, Watson. Moriarty does things for money or power. What could he possibly gain by removing an elderly widow, even if it were Queen Victoria?”

  “But what if it were done right under your nose, Holmes, and he got away with it, think how it would damage your reputation?” I demanded, certain that we were right.

  “You have shed light where there was darkness, Watson, but unfortunately I still do not see the way ahead.”

  “Could we go and warn them at Balmoral?”

  “I think not. They would either dismiss us as cranks, perhaps even lock us up, or just tell us thank you very much and increase their security. That may or may not stop Moriarty’s game. We are in a trap, Watson, and we don’t really know what sort, nor where it will lead. All we can do is follow, and hope that when the time comes, we can outwit this fiend! Our reputations count for little when it is the life of Her Majesty at stake!”

  “What do you suggest we do, Holmes?” I asked.

  “Let us call upon Mr. Shakespeare,” proclaimed Holmes.

  “You’ve lost me there. Do you mean stirring words from Henry V, or soliloquies from Hamlet?” I queried.

  “Nothing to do with the Bard of Avon, my dear friend, but with Mr. Shakespeare, the maker of the finest fishing rods. Tomorrow we are going angling. Do you have a guidebook as to the best places in this area?”

  “Indeed I do, Holmes. Along with the rods, I found this very useful little book entitled Well-Kept Secrets to Fly Fishing in the Scottish Highlands. I keep it in my breast pocket. The author boasts that an infallible spot for really big trout is Loch Loch, which is not far from here.”

  “Then Loch Loch is beckoning us, Watson. Let us make the necessary arrangements with the staff so that we can get there.”

  “What flies do you think we should use?” I asked.

  “Choose the ones that look as though they have been used the most often as they are probably the most successful ones!” Holmes replied with a smile.

  “Now why did I not think of that,” I said rather plaintively.

  “I presume you did not bring your service revolver with you, Watson.”

  “I did not.”

  “Never mind. I noticed a rather rusty old Webley and a few rounds of ammunition back there with the fishing tackle. You had better give it a good clean, as I have a nasty feeling that your shooting prowess will be called for! Now we must get Harriet and Martin to the railway station. Tell them nothing about our suspicions. We will make the excuse that we are staying on to sort out administrative details, documents, and so forth. We will join them in time for the funeral.”

  IT WAS A SAD procession that made its way to the station. The coffin was loaded into the luggage compartment, and Harriet and Martin settled into their first-class seats.

  We bade them farewell and returned to the house to prepare ourselves for whatever the following day might bring. I cleaned and oiled the old Webley meticulously, but all the while I had a sense of dread as to what I might be called upon to do with it. My courage or my willingness, I did not doubt, but would I make a fool of myself, act too quickly or too slowly, or with insufficient skill? I had to trust Holmes— as I always did—but he had decided that we should go fishing! We were in a trap, and all we could do was wait. I had a strong sense of apprehension, and I could see that Holmes was no more at ease than I.

  Supper was a quiet affair. We did not drink any wine with it, but I could not resist a glass of port after it, just to help me sleep.

  “Holmes,” I said, “what if we just packed our bags and went home?”

  “That might foil Moriarty’s plan, Watson, but that means there is no way we can bring Talbot’s murderer to justice.”

  “You are right, Holmes,” I acknowledged sadly. “We must play the game as Moriarty dictates it to us, and hope to beat him at the critical moment.”

  “That’s it exactly, Watson. We will have a very demanding day ahead of us. I think I will go to bed.”

  “I’m off, too, Holmes,” I said, and made my way up the stairs, but I knew that I would sleep little.

  WE HAD AN UNHURRIED breakfast and then packed our fishing gear into the dogcart. With Angus at the reins, we drove to Loch Loch. I could muster little enthusiasm, but I cast again and again in an effort to catch something, and Holmes was having as little luck as I was. The day was warm and my frustration was mounting when I got a bite, and after a brief battle, I landed one small trout. It lifted my spirits a bit, and then Holmes gave a whoop of joy, as he, too, succeeded. We were too engrossed in what we were doing to notice anyone approach.

  “Excuse me, gentlemen, but would I have the pleasure of addressing Mr. Holmes and Dr. Watson?” the man asked. He was in the uniform of an officer in the Household Cavalry, and had left his hor
se alongside our carriage, with Angus. “Allow me to introduce myself. Captain Urquhart, equerry to Her Majesty the Queen. Tales of your exploits had been brought to Her Majesty’s attention, Mr. Holmes, and hearing that you were in the vicinity, she has graciously extended an invitation for you both to join her for a light picnic luncheon. There are not many of us in this entourage, and we are encamped a short distance from here. If you would be so kind as to follow me?”

  “We accept, sir,” Holmes replied. “Would you allow us a few moments to pack our belongings, and then we will accompany you.” Aside to me, he whispered, “The game is afoot, Watson! Are you prepared?”

  “As ready as I will ever be, Holmes,” I said, and tapped my right-hand jacket pocket where I had put the Webley.

  “Good. We must not fail!”

  We climbed into the dogcart and the captain led the way on his horse. As we approached the royal party, we could see that the queen had chosen a charming spot for her luncheon. It was set back off the road slightly, and commanded a spectacular view of a loch, with nearby clumps of trees and heather and gorse in bloom. Her staff had set up tables and chairs and all the carriages and horses were assembled out of the way. In the middle was the diminutive seated figure of Her Majesty, dressed in black, as always, since the untimely death of her dear Albert.

  We were introduced to the queen, first Holmes and then myself. I felt extremely nervous, and that, on top of my strong sense of apprehension, obliterated my memory. I have no idea what she said to me or what I mumbled in reply, but Holmes was splendid. He duly sat down in the seat offered to him on the queen’s left, and I sat on his left, quite happy for him to be in the limelight.

  “We have heard such glowing accounts of your exploits, Mr. Holmes, and how you and Dr. Watson have so ably assisted the police in bringing criminals to justice,” she said graciously. “It was suggested to us that, since you were temporarily residing nearby, you might be invited to join our little picnic. What takes you away from London and brings you to the peace and tranquility of the Highlands?”

  Holmes explained the recent events that had struck my family, without suggesting that poor Talbot had been murdered, of course, and the queen expressed her sincerest condolences. As a widow of many years, she could fully sympathize with my sister. My attention wandered, as I thought to myself, where could the danger be lurking in these beautiful surroundings. Was Holmes making some ghastly mistake that only a man of his supreme intelligence could make, reading into the death of a harmless vicar some sinister machinations of his archenemy, Moriarty? I looked around me and could see trusted ladies in waiting, staff setting out the food, and beyond them, talking to our brave captain from the Household Cavalry, were two strong looking ghillies in full Highland attire—kilts and sporrans, everything—who would no doubt defend Her Majesty to the death. Yet still I felt distinctly uneasy, but did my best to hide it.

  The queen continued to talk with Holmes.

  “The Highland Scots are amongst the most brave and loyal subjects that we could ever have,” she said with deep feeling. “It saddens us that they should have suffered so much in recent years. We are sure that you know of the story of the so-called Massacre at Glen Coe? Mac-Donald was late in pledging his loyalty to the Crown, and the Campbells took this as an excuse to continue their old feud, and rose up at night and attacked them where they slept, killing over ninety of that clan. We do so wish that there could be peace throughout our realm, here and abroad, Mr. Holmes.”

  “Indeed, ma’am,” he agreed.

  “We are told that there are two members of the MacDonald clan who have journeyed all the way from Glen Coe,” she continued, “in order to present us with a tartan rug that they have woven themselves, as a gift of their devotion. The presentation ceremony will take place very soon, and then we can enjoy some refreshments.”

  Half listening as I was, the queen’s last statement had me fully alert, as I watched Captain Urquhart and the two ghillies approach. I could see that Holmes was getting more and more agitated. I slipped my right hand into my jacket pocket and took hold of my revolver. The captain had already introduced the two ghillies, who had bowed most obediently, and one of them was unwrapping a most impressive tartan rug, when Holmes blurted out to me, “Quick, Watson, he has a gun in there!”

  I leapt forwards with my revolver drawn as one of the ghillies drew his revolver out of the rug and pushed Captain Urquhart out of the way with his other hand. I remember firing a shot at the assailant and then a sensation in my chest as if I had been kicked by a mule. I fell flat on my back with tremendous force and after a moment’s darkness, opened my eyes to the sound of women screaming and men shouting as they rushed towards Her Majesty.

  I tried to sit up but I could not get my breath. I rolled over and clambered onto my hands and knees, and the fishing guidebook that Holmes had assured me would come in useful, fell out of my pocket, neatly plugged by a bullet!

  Several yards away one of the ghillies lay motionless on the ground, blood oozing out of his head wound. The second ghillie was locked in mortal combat with Holmes, a wicked blade gleaming in his upraised hand—the sort of knife that the Scot traditionally carries in the top of his sock and called a skian dhu. My cry of alarm froze on my lips. It was no time to distract Holmes, not even for a moment.

  They swayed back and forth. Holmes was lean of build, and far stronger than many would have imagined, but the ghillie was a big broad-chested fellow with an advantage in weight. Even as I watched in horror, barely aware of men hurrying the queen away and crowding protectively around her, Holmes was about to be overpowered by the ghillie. Captain Urquhart had left the queen’s side, and with sword drawn was rushing to Holmes’s defense. Just before he could skewer the ghillie with his blade, a rifle shot rang out from somewhere in the nearby bushes, and the ghillie dropped down dead. The sound of a horse galloping away could be heard in the direction from which the shot had come. Captain Urquhart stopped; he must have realized how far away he was from his own horse, and have come to the conclusion that the assailant would be long gone before he or anyone else could give chase. Besides, his duty was here, with Her Majesty, and who knows what immediate danger she might still be in.

  Holmes shook himself, as if momentarily dazed by the closeness of his escape. Then with that extraordinary recovery that is characteristic of him, he thanked Urquhart, ignored everyone else, and came striding over to me, his face haggard with concern. He fell to one knee beside me. “Watson!” he said urgently, “are you badly wounded? Stay still!”

  I wanted to laugh with relief. I had been every bit as afraid for him, as he now was for me.

  “No! No!” I said shakily. “But that fishing guidebook was even more useful than you supposed.” I felt on the ground for it, and held it out for him to see.

  It was one of those rare moments when he was speechless, but I could read the emotion in his face. Urquhart was coming back towards us, and with Holmes’s help I managed to stand upright and get my wits about me. Captain Urquhart declared heartily that it was the bravest act he had ever seen—outside of the military—and that Her Majesty wished to thank both Holmes and myself, in person. Leaning on Holmes for support. I walked over to the queen’s carriage and attempted a bow.

  “I am indebted to you both beyond words.” She looked very composed, but sad. For all her diminutive stature, she was a woman of infinite dignity.

  “This is the eighth attempt upon my life, and it distresses me that there are subjects of mine who would wish me dead,” she said quietly. “It will only alarm people if they hear that this event took place, and therefore I have decreed that it did not happen. You have the undying gratitude of your sovereign, gentlemen, but I am afraid you will not receive any official recognition. I trust that you will understand.” Her imperious expression permitted no argument whatsoever.

  Holmes merely bowed his head in acknowledgment.

  “Satisfy my curiosity, please, Mr. Holmes. What alerted you to the danger?” sh
e said.

  “Well, ma’am, in the first place, the two ghillies were wearing the tartan of MacDonald of the Isles, and not MacDonald of Glen Coe,” he answered. “Then when the first ghillie started to unwrap the rug, I could see that that was a Campbell tartan. There was no way that a MacDonald would have woven a Campbell tartan to give as a present to Your Majesty!”

  “Your powers of observation are most remarkable,” the Queen said, with a slight smile. “I believe that the stories that I have heard about you, complimentary as they are, do not do you justice, Mr. Holmes! I bid you good day and a safe journey back to London.” With that there was a gentle wave of her small podgy hand in a lace mitten, and she was gone.

  IT OCCURRED TO me that I had every reason to feel elated, and the ache in my chest did not seem so bad after all.

  “Do you realize, Holmes, that we have foiled Moriarty!” I exclaimed. “I feel like the boy who has hit a six off the last ball to give his school cricket team victory! All of a sudden I am ravenously hungry, and a glass or two of wine would not go amiss! Let’s see what is in that food hamper of ours!”

  “You deserve a banquet, my friend,” Holmes said as he smiled at me. “You were brilliant, and you are still alive! I could not have done what you did today.”

  WITHIN FIVE MINUTES of our arrival back at the castle, all the staff had heard from Angus the amazing story of how I had saved the queen’s life. They gathered together at the front and formally asked Holmes to give them the real account, which he did with theatrical reenactment, even using my revolver—unloaded, of course. The maids fussed over us and for a short spell at least, the gloom of the previous tragedy was dispelled.

  Holmes decided that we should leave tomorrow, in time to catch a daytime train to London. Moriarty was still at large and to travel on the night train would present ourselves as easy targets for his revenge. He would not take kindly to being beaten.

  I slept well that night in spite of my grief for Harriet, and awoke the next morning in as good spirits as was possible under the circumstances and caring little about the ache in my chest. We said good-bye to the staff and gave them each a token of our appreciation, and were at Ballater Station in good time. We boarded and were on our way, when ten minutes later the train ground to a halt. The guard came through each carriage announcing that there had been a serious derailment ahead of us, and that we had to wait while it was repaired, which might take hours.