“That will be up to the Special Branch,” Holmes replied, almost in a dismissive fashion. “I fear, however, that they will not have much success. I suspect those who were involved in this matter are already out of the country by now.”
“Why did Hogan remain?”
“I presume that he thought himself safe or that he remained to report firsthand on the effects of the plot.”
Glassford crossed to Holmes with an outstretched hand.
“My dear sir,” he said, “my dear, dear sir. I… the country… owe you a great debt.”
Holmes’s deprecating manner was quite nauseating. Gallagher told me that he found his false modesty was truly revolting.
It is true that when the government released the facts of the plot, as Holmes had given it to them, the case of the death of Cardinal Tosca became a cause celebre. Holmes was even offered a small pension by the government, and he refused, perhaps more on account of its smallness than any modesty on his part. He even declined a papal knighthood from the grateful Bishop of Rome.
Sickening, my dear “Wolf Shield.” It was all quite sickening.
But, as you well know, the truth was that Holmes did not come near to resolving this matter. Oh, I grant you that he was able to work out the method by which I killed Cardinal Tosca. I admit that I had thought it rather an ingenious method. I had stumbled on it while attending a lecture in my youth at Trinity College. It was given by Dr. Robert MacDonnell, who had begun the first blood transfusions in 1865. MacDonnell had given up the use of the syringe because of the dangers of embolism or the air bubble which causes fatality when introduced into the bloodstream. My method in the dispatch of the cardinal was simple, first a whiff of chloroform to prevent struggle and then the injection.
My men were waiting, and we transferred the body in the method Holmes described. Yes, I’ll give him credit as to method and means. He forced Hogan to disclose himself. Hogan was one of my best agents. He met his death bravely. But Holmes achieved little else…. We know the reason, my dear “Wolf Shield,” don’t we?
Well, now that Holmes has gone to his death over the Reichenbach Falls, I would imagine that you might think that there is little chance of the truth emerging? I have thought a great deal about that. Indeed, this is why I am writing this full account in the form of this letter to you. The original I shall deposit in a safe place. You see, I need some insurance to prevent any misfortune befalling me. As well you know, it would be scandalous should the real truth be known of who was behind the death of Cardinal Tosca and why it was done.
With that bumptious irritant Sherlock Holmes out of the way, I hope to lead a healthy and long life. Believe me-
Sebastian Moran (Colonel)
Having read this extraordinary document I questioned Holmes about whether he had any doubts as to its authenticity.
“Oh, there is no doubt that it is in Moran’s hand and in his style of writing. You observe that I still have two of his books on my shelves? Heavy Game of the Western Himalayas and Three Months in the Jungle.”
I remembered that Holmes had purchased these volumes soon after the affair of “The Empty House.”
“Moran was many things, but he was no coward. He might even have been a patriot in a peculiar and perverted way. His family came from Conamara and had become Anglicans after the Williamite Conquest of Ireland. His father was, in fact, Sir Augustus Moran, Commander of the Bath, once British Minister to Persia. Young Moran went through Eton, Trinity College, Dublin, and Oxford. The family estate was at Derrynacleigh. All this you knew about him at the time of our encounter in the affair of ‘The Empty House.’ I did not mean to imply that he was without faults when I said Moran was no coward and a type of patriot. He had a criminal mind. He was a rather impecunious young man, given to gambling, womanizing, petty crime, and the good life.
“He bought himself a commission in the India Army and served in the First Bengalore Pioneers. He fought in several campaigns and was mentioned in dispatches. He spent most of his army career in India, and I understand that he had quite a reputation as a big-game hunter. I recall that there was a Bengal tiger mounted in the hall of the Kildare Street Club, before he was expelled from it, which he killed. The story was that he crawled down a drain after it when he had wounded it. That takes iron nerve.”
I shook my head in bewilderment. “You call him a patriot? Do you mean he was working for the Irish Republicans?”
Holmes smiled. “He was a patriot. I said that Moran had criminal tendencies but was no coward. Unfortunately the talents of such people are often used by the State to further its own ends. You have observed that Moran admits that Inspector Gallagher kept him informed of our every move in the case. Unfortunately Gallagher was killed in the course of duty not long after these events, so we are not able to get confirmation from him. I think we may believe Moran, though. So why was Moran kept informed? Colonel Moran was working for the Secret Service.”
I was aghast. “You don’t mean to say that he worked for our own Secret Service? Good Lord, Holmes, this is amazing. Do you mean that our own Secret Service ordered the cardinal to be killed? That’s preposterous. Immoral. Our government would not stand for it.”
“If, indeed, the government knew anything about it. Unfortunately, when you have a Secret Service, then it becomes answerable to no one. I believe that even behind the Secret Service there was another organization with which Moran became involved.”
“I don’t follow, Holmes.”
“I believe that Moran and those who ordered him to do this thing were members of some extreme Orange faction.”
“Orange faction? I don’t understand.” I threw up my hands in mystification.
“The Orange Order was formed in 1796 to maintain the position of the Anglican Ascendancy in Ireland and prevent the union of the Dublin colonial parliament with the parliament of Great Britain. However, the Union took place in 1801, and the Orange Order then lost support. Its patrons, including royal dukes and titled landowners, quickly accepted the new status quo, being either paid off with new titles or financial bribes. The remaining aristocratic support was withdrawn when the Order was involved in a conspiracy to prevent Victoria inheriting the throne and attempting to place its Imperial Grand Master, His Royal Highness, the Duke of Cumberland, on the throne instead. The failure of the coup, Catholic Emancipation 1829, the removal of many of the restrictions placed on members of that religion, as well as the Reform Acts, extending more civil rights to people, all but caused the Orange Order to disappear.
“Those struggling to keep the sectarian movement alive realized it needed to be a more broad-based movement, and it opened its membership to all Dissenting Protestants, so that soon its ranks were flooded by Ulster Presbyterians who had previously been excluded from it. Threatened by the idea that in a self-governing Ireland the majority would be Catholic, these Dissenters became more bigoted and extreme.
“The attempt to destroy the Irish Party seeking Home Rule, which is now supported by the Liberals, was addressed by diehard Unionists in the Tory Party like Lord Randolph Churchill, who advised the party to ‘play the Orange Card.’ The support of Churchill and the Tories made the Orange Order respectable again, and Ascendancy aristocrats and leading Tories, who had previously disassociated themselves from the Order, now felt able to rejoin it. The Earl of Enniskillen was installed as Grand Master of the Order two years before these events and, with the aid of the Tories, continued to dedicate the Order to the Union and Protestant supremacy.”
“But why would they plan this elaborate charade?” I asked.
“Remember what had happened in that November of 1890? The rift in the Irish Party was healing, and Parnell had been re-elected its leader. Once more they were going to present a united front in Parliament, and Lord Salisbury was faced with going to the country soon. Something needed to be done to discredit the moderates within Salisbury’s Cabinet to bring them back ‘on side’ with the Unionists against any plans to give Ireland Home Rule
to help them remain in power.”
“But to kill a cardinal-”
“-having enticed him from Paris to this country thinking he was going to meet with members of the Irish Nationalists,” interposed Holmes.
“-to deliberately kill a cardinal to cause such alarms and… why, Holmes, it is diabolical.”
“Unfortunately, my dear Watson, this becomes the nature of governments who maintain secret organizations that are not accountable to anyone. I was tried and found wanting, Watson. This case was my biggest single failure.”
“Oh come, Holmes, you could not have known….”
Holmes gave me a pitying look.
“You must take Morans gibes and insults from whence they came. You could do no more,” I assured him.
He looked at me with steely eyes. “Oh yes, I could. I told you about how important it is to pay attention to detail. From the start I committed the most inexcusable inattention to detail. Had I been more vigilant, I could have laid this crime at the right door. It is there in Morans text, a fact made known to me right from the start and which I ignored.”
I pondered over the text but could find no enlightenment.
“The visitors cards, Watson. The mistake over the visitor’s cards presented by the mysterious caller to the cardinal.”
“Mistake? Oh, you mean the name being T W Tone, the name of someone long dead? I didn’t realize that it was a false name.”
“The name was merely to confirm the notion that we were supposed to be dealing with Irish Republicans. No, it was not that. It was the harp device, which was also meant to lead us into thinking that it was presented by an Irish nationalist, being the Irish national symbol. The fact was that the harp was surmounted by a crown-that is the symbol of our colonial administration in Ireland. No nationalist could bear the sight of a crown above the harp. I should have realized it.”
Holmes sat shaking his head for a while, and then he continued:
“Place the case of Cardinal Tosca in your trunk, Watson. I don’t want to hear about it ever again.”
Even then I hesitated.
“Granted that Moran worked for some superior-have you, in retrospect, come to any conclusion as to who Moran’s superior was? Who was the man who gave him the order and to whom he was writing his letter?”
Holmes was very serious as he glanced back at me. “Yes, I know who he was. He died in the same year that Moran was arrested for the murder of Lord Maynooth’s son. You recall that Moran died in police custody after his arrest? It was supposed to be a suicide. I realized that should have been questioned. But then I heard of the death of…” He paused and sighed. “Morans superior was a brilliant politician but a ruthless one. He, more than most, reawakened the Orange hatreds against the Catholic Irish in order to maintain the Union.”
“He was a member of the government?” I cried, aghast.
“He had been until just prior to this event, but he was still influential.”
“And this code name ‘Wolf Shield’? You were able to tell who it was by that?”
“That part was simple. The name, sounding so Anglo-Saxon, I simply translated ‘Wolf Shield’ back into Anglo-Saxon, and the man’s name became immediately recognizable. But let him now rest where his prejudices cannot lacerate his judgment any more.”
In deference to my old friend’s wishes, I have kept these papers safely, appending this brief note of how they fell into my hands. It was Holmes, with his biting sense of humor, who suggested I file it as “A Study in Orange,” being his way of gentle rebuke for what he deemed as my melodramatic title of the first case of his with which I was involved. With this note, I have placed Moran’s manuscript into my traveling box, which is now deposited in my bank at Charing Cross. I have agreed with Holmes’s instructions that my executors should not open it until at least fifty years have passed from the dates of our demise.
The one thing that I have not placed here is the name of Moran’s superior, but that anyone with knowledge of Anglo-Saxon personal names could reveal.
THE EYE OF SHIVA
The harsh monsoon winds were rattling fiercely at the closed shutters of the British Residency building. The Residency itself stood on an exposed hillock, a little way above the crumbling banks of the now turbulent Viswamitri River as it frothed and plunged its way through the city of Baroda to empty into the broad Gulf of Khambhat. The building had been secured from the moaning wind and rain by the servants; the lamps were lit, and the male guests still lounged in the dining room, unperturbed by the rising noise of the storm outside.
The ladies had withdrawn, shepherded away by Lady Chetwynd Miller, the wife of the Resident, while the decanter of port began to pass sun-wise around the eight remaining men. The pungent odor of cigar smoke began to permeate the room.
“Well,” demanded Royston, a professional big-game hunter who was staying a few days in Baroda before pushing east to the Satpura mountains to hunt the large cats that stalked the ravines and darkened crevices there. “Well,” he repeated, “I think the time has come to stop teasing us, Your Excellency. We all know that you brought us here to see it. So where is it?”
There was a murmur of enthusiastic assent from the others gathered before the remnants of the evening meal.
Lord Chetwynd Miller raised a hand and smiled broadly. He was a sprightly sixty-year-old; a man who had spent his life in the service of the British Government of India and who now occupied the post of Resident in the Gujarat state of Baroda. He had been Resident in Baroda ever since the overthrow of the previous despotic Gaekwar or ruler. Baroda was still ruled by native princes who acknowledged the suzerain authority of the British Government in India but who had independence in all internal matters affecting their principality.
Five years previously a new Gaekwar, Savaji Rao III, had come to power. If the truth were known, he had deposed his predecessor with British advice and aid, for the previous Gaekwar had not been approved of by the civil servants of Delhi. Indeed, he had the temerity to go so far as to murder the former Resident, Colonel Phayre. But the British Raj had not wanted it to appear as though they were interfering directly in the affairs of Baroda. The state was to remain independent of the British Government of India. Indeed, the secret of the success of the British Raj in India was not in its direct rule of that vast subcontinent, with its teeming masses, but in its persuasion of some six hundred ruling princes to accept the British imperial suzerainty. Thus much of the government of India was in the hands of native hereditary princes who ruled half the land mass and one quarter of the population under the “approving” eye of the British Raj.
Baroda, since Savaji Rao III had taken power, was a peaceful city of beautiful buildings, of palaces, ornate gates, parks and avenues, standing as a great administrative center at the edge of cotton-rich plains and a thriving textile-producing industry. A port with access to the major sea lanes and a railway center with its steel railroads connecting it to all parts of the subcontinent.
After the establishment of the new regime in Baroda, the British Raj felt they needed a man who was able to keep firm control on British interests there. Lord Chetwynd Miller was chosen, for he had been many years in service in India. Indeed, it was going to be his last appointment in India. He had already decided that the time had come for retirement. He was preparing for the return to his estates near Shrewsbury close to the Welsh border before the year was out.
“Come on, Chetwynd,” urged Major Bill Foran, of the Eighth Bombay Infantry, whose task it was to protect the interests of the British Residency and the community of British traders who lived in Baroda. He was an old friend of the Resident. “Enough of this game of cat and mouse. You are dying to show it to us just as much as we are dying to see it.”
Lord Chetwynd Miller grinned. It was a boyish grin. He spread his hands in a deprecating gesture. It was true that he had been leading his guests on. He had invited them to see the Eye of Shiva and kept them waiting long enough.
He gazed around at them.
Apart from Bill Foran, it could not be said that he really knew the other guests. It was one of those typical Residency dinner parties, whereby it was his duty to dine with any British dignitaries passing through Baroda. Lieutenant Tompkins, his ADC, had compiled this evening’s guest list.
Royston he knew by reputation. There was Father Cassian, a swarthy, secretive-looking Catholic priest who seemed totally unlike a missionary. He had learned that Cassian was a man of many interests-not the least of which was an interest in Hindu religion and mythology. There was Sir Rupert Harvey. A bluff, arrogant man, handsome in a sort of dissolute way. He had just arrived in Baroda and seemed to dabble in various forms of business. Then there was the tall languid Scotsman, James Gregg. Silent, taciturn and a curious way of staring at one as if gazing right through them. He was, according to the list, a mining engineer. For a mere mining engineer, Tompkins had observed earlier, Gregg could afford to stay at the best hotel in Baroda and did not seem to lack money.
The last guest sat at the bottom of the table, slightly apart from the others. It was Lord Chetwynd Millers solitary Indian guest, Inspector Ram Jayram, who, in spite of being a Bengali by birth, was employed by the Government of Baroda as its chief of detectives. Ram Jayram had a dry wit and a fund of fascinating stories, which made him a welcome guest to pass away the tedium of many soirees. That evening, however, he had been invited especially.
Word had come to Jayram’s office that an attempt was going to be made to rob the Residency that night, and Lord Chetwynd Miller had accepted Jayram’s request that he attend as a dinner guest so that he might keep a close eye on events. It was Jayram who suggested to the Resident that the potential thief might be found among the guests themselves. A suggestion that the Resident utterly discounted.
But the news of the Residents possession of the fabulous ruby-the Eye of Shiva-was the cause of much talk and speculation in the city. The Resident was not above such vanity that he did not want to display it to his guests on the one evening in which the ruby was his.
An Ensuing Evil and Others Page 27