by C J Lutton
“How dare I? Think back to how your heart grieved when first you lost your wife. Multiply that by a hundredfold and that is the grief Our Queen has endured. Unlike you, Watson, She is never known any other real companionship or camaraderie. She can never find comfort in the arms of another human being. This woman was raised in isolation, treated as a pawn by Her mother and Sir John Conroy, and purposely isolated from free society. She grew up in the shadow of the Tower, knowing that Her uncles wanted Her to die. She was all that stood between them and the greatest empire ever known to mankind! And then She fell in love with Albert. Not a paragon, but a man, and She gave him all the affection She had been missing in her life. He returned it in kind, over and over again. He was Her husband, Her lover, Her father, and all that She ever hoped for. Then he died, in part due to the carelessness of Her callow oldest son, an odious throwback to Her feckless grandfather.” Holmes spoke with barely controlled fury.
“Since Albert’s death, the world has turned on his Vicki the way a cur turns on its master. No one has allowed that woman the sort of grief She is entitled to. No one. The demands of state have nipped at Her heels. She is lost without Her Albert. Or rather, I should say, She was lost until John Brown prised Her from Her miserable existence, showing Her that true devotion still exists in this heartless world, and that She, of all people, was worthy of undemanding love.”
“That has nothing to do with this man from India!” I shouted back at Holmes. “Surely this Munshi has not stepped into Albert’s shoes!”
“Really? And who are you to judge, John Watson? You who can find another wife? You who can lose yourself in work of your own choosing? What do people say of you behind your back? Do they not suggest you’ve made yourself wealthy by gripping tightly to my coattails? You know they do! People talk; that is what people do. They talk because they cannot think. They talk because they cannot imagine. You might concern yourself with my cloistered lifestyle, as you have aptly called it, but I tell you this, John Watson. When I imagine what it is to have a great love and to lose it, I find the pain so daunting that I have promised myself I shall not ever accede to such a folly. Pity those who love with empty arms. Thank you, but I shall tend to my chemicals. And if the memory of Mary meant as much to you as you profess it does, then have a care for that poor widow all alone in a cold and loveless castle. If a man from India gives Her an iota of relief from the cares that She was born to shoulder, then I bless that fellow. Certainly, I shall not stand in the way of their friendship because I know exactly how much a true friend means to me!”
Fortunately, at that moment Mrs. Hudson arrived with our evening meal. We ate in silence. I don’t remember a time when I’ve been so angry with Holmes as I was that particular evening.
23
What happened next I know only because Holmes was kind enough to report back to me. “If I do not tell you and one day you hope to turn this entire enterprise into one of your popular novels, you will miss such a portion of important investigation that my actions afterward will seem in turn treasonous, ill-considered, and foolhardy. What I propose to do next is none of those. All my actions are grounded in sound logic, as I shall prove by the time this adventure comes to its conclusion,” he said later.
After I had stormed off to my room, and after I had imbibed from a flask I keep in my top drawer, Holmes slipped out of the flat on a mission of some daring and weighty importance. Hailing the first cab that he encountered, Holmes took the transport, directing the driver to drop him off in the mews behind Buckingham Palace. Gliding from one shadow to the next, he approached the tall fence surrounding the palace. Since it was gone two in the morning, the Queen’s beloved Turi, her white Pomeranian, was secured in the chamber of her First Lady of the Bedchamber. Holmes knew this and did not worry that Turi would detect his presence, since even at two in the morning there are those who roam around the palace, doing their jobs in the dead of the night so as to disappear when the sun comes up. They are rather like the fairytale brownies who aid the cobbler in that way, as their efforts are best expended in the night so the results can be admired during the day.
Not the least of these are those who labor in the kitchens, and Holmes was well aware of that, being an astute observer of humanity, no matter what role those people play. Before Big Ben struck three, Holmes spotted a cart pulled by a solitary mule. The letters on the side proclaimed the lowly wagon to belong to a butcher’s boy who reliably delivered haunches of venison to the palace. On this particular morning, Holmes was dressed as a kitchen worker in black trousers, black waistcoat, and starched white shirt. This he had done in preparation for his nighttime excursion. When the driver pulled the handbrake on the cart, Holmes sidled around the palace, taking care not to dirty his clothing, and managed to converge on the space between the butcher’s boy and the entrance to the kitchen. “Stepped out for a bit of fresh air,” Holmes explained in perfect congeniality. “Need any help?”
The tired young man had been driving all night through the bitter cold. Holmes’ offer was received with pleasure. Thus, Holmes easily slipped into the palace without raising any semblance of alarm. Knowing the floor plan of Buckingham, Holmes crept up the grand staircase and found a linen cabinet where he could hide. There he stayed until Big Ben tolled six, the hour when the Queen was awakened each morning and Her breakfast was delivered. Having positioned himself down the hall from Her room, he waited until the final stroke of that old clock that keeps all of London unified. Stepping out of his hiding place, he smoothed his jacket, shirt, and pants. When the footman turned the corner with the breakfast tray on his shoulder, Holmes smoothly intercepted the servant.
“Do you not recognise me?” asked Holmes. “I am Sherlock Holmes, as you can plainly see from this newspaper article here.” At this juncture, Holmes withdrew a copy of The Times with his photo on the front page.
Before the astonished footman could cry out, Holmes hastened to add, “I am here on official business, doing a survey of the palace security. Now if you’ll kindly give me that tray, I’ll see that Her Majesty gets Her breakfast. Oh, and for your trouble, here’s a signed copy of John Watson’s latest book.”
At this point, I could not help myself. “This is preposterous, Holmes. Whatever made you think that footman would care about my scribblings?”
“Ah, Watson, you underestimate me and you underestimate your popularity. As always, I had done my research. I knew that the Queen’s footman was a mad keen fan of your work. Once I had that small detail tacked down, I was able to use my celebrity to my advantage. Why not? We suffer from it. On occasion, we are plagued by it. Do we not find ourselves at the mercy of readers who question my actions and your work after the fact? Indeed we do, so why should I not also profit from our mutual exploits?”
As the happy footman walked away, Holmes carried the tray on his right shoulder, rather than his left. This effectively blocked the view of his face. At the time, it was naught but an insurance policy, as Holmes fully expected to knock on the door to the Queen’s Bedchamber without encountering any resistance. However, to his surprise, outside the door was a man dressed in robes and snoring loudly.
Yes, Holmes had come upon Munshi, the Queen’s own “adopted son.”
“I must tell you, Watson, he sprang up with a dagger drawn and he would have cheerfully disemboweled me if the door did not open to the shocked face of the First Lady of the Bedchamber. She, too, is a fan of your work. One look at me and she shrieked with joy.”
“You are joking, Holmes. Again, I say to you, this is preposterous.”
“Not at all, Watson. You are not familiar with life at court. I am. Mycroft has told me more than I ever hoped to know. As exciting as it might look from the outside, those drawn into the royal orb find it tedious beyond anything they have ever known. Think on it. Their lives revolve around the Queen. They get up before She rises. They cannot go to bed until after She retires. When She is working, they must be at the ready, which is where we get the very descriptive nom
enclature ‘ladies in waiting’ and ‘men in waiting.’ That is what they do. They wait. They cannot entertain themselves. They cannot ask guests to come and visit. They cannot leave unless they are given permission. Their lives are circumscribed in a manner much like those who enter a convent or a monastery. So my unexpected appearance was a delightful surprise to a woman bored silly with tedium. I tell you she was never so happy to see a stranger at the door. Better yet, the fact she recognised me saved my life, as Munshi was poised and ready to vanquish me on the spot.
24
“Sherlock Holmes?” called the quivering voice from the depths of the bedchamber. “Is that he? Don’t just stand there! Fetch my dressing gown and show him in, immediately!”
The Queen’s First Lady of the Bedchamber raced back from whence she had come. For propriety’s sake, Holmes did linger in the hallway, immune to the scowling face of Munshi. The tray he was holding grew heavier by the second, but Holmes decided against asking Munshi for help. “Not when the man kept his dagger pointed at me as he did. I tell you, Watson, he was most unimpressed by my arrival, and if ever there was a more devoted guardian, I am unaware that one exists.”
Holmes’ arms ached with fatigue by the time he was bade entrance into the darkened room. A tiny figure was propped up against a phalanx of lacy pillows. On Her head was a white mob cap that Holmes admits was almost comically askew.
“She had so much lace and so many ruffles around Her throat, that Her face was nearly lost in the froth,” Holmes explained. “A small wicker bed tray was positioned across Her lap, and Her tiny plump hands gripped the sides of it in eager anticipation of Her morning repast. I found centering the silver serving tray on the small wicker one to be rather an interesting challenge, as it occurred to me midst delivery that if I erred in judging the correct placement, all the comestibles would land in that most regal of laps. Once I let loose of the tray handles, She turned Her face up and pouted at me. ‘Pray remove the lids, Mr. Holmes. I cannot enjoy my breakfast if I am not allowed to eat it!’
“Begging your pardon, Your Majesty,” I said.
To that She laughed! “Next time you choose to disguise yourself as a servant, Mr. Holmes, you had better know the duties incumbent on your employment. Otherwise, you might find yourself getting the boot before you achieve your desired results.”
With that, She stuck Her knife into a pot of marmalade and added a generous slather to Her toast. After taking a huge bite, She used the knife as a pointer. Indicating the teapot, She asked Holmes, “Will you be Mother?”
As She gestured towards the teapot, She exposed the ring She’d had crafted as a memento mori of Her beloved Alfred. A miniscule photograph of the man rested under a small crystal. Black onyx pieces were inlaid in the band. The piece looked shockingly heavy, and the bulk promised it would be cumbersome, but Holmes had read that the Queen never took it off.
This telling detail he related as his voice took on a mystical quality. “I poured tea for the Queen,” he said in a manner that betrayed his abiding shock. “A fine Darjeeling by the smell of it. I had no idea what else to do! She, being raised to Her position at such an early age, acted as if this was the most natural event ever. Once I’d filled Her cup with tea, She called out, ‘Munshi? Bring Mr. Holmes a chair so that he might sit beside My bed while I have My breakfast.’”
The chair arrived promptly. Munshi positioned it as the Queen instructed, and Holmes sank down upon it gratefully.
Sipping Her tea, the Queen studied Holmes. Setting down the teacup, She asked, “I suppose there is a reason for this visit? Is My life in some sort of danger? Has Mycroft sent you? I am eager to hear what brings you here like a thief in the night. But before you say a word, may I suggest that next time you send a message first? If you truly do have a great need of meeting with Me, I shall agree to see you. There’s really no need for skulking around the palace like a stray cat that’s found its way into a warm barn.”
Only at that point did Holmes relax his guard somewhat. The near miss with Munshi had been worrisome, and of course, his method of gaining an audience had been entirely unorthodox. However, his cause was just, and Holmes knew he needed to glean that information absolutely necessary while Her Majesty seemed tolerant of his presence.
“Your Majesty, my sources have reported a rumour circulating through the royal household. Normally, such tales would quickly be rebuffed or happily be ignored, but this particular rumour must be put to rest for a variety of reasons, not the least of which is the safeguarding of the monarchy.”
The Queen frowned at Holmes. She picked up Her second piece of toast and this time She jabbed Her knife into the pot of marmalade with such force that it almost flew off the breakfast tray. “Do you think this is the first time a rumour has threatened Me and My Crown? Do I seem so feeble-minded that a rumour will bring Me to My knees? Really, I thought better of you, Mr. Holmes. You dare to disturb My equanimity first thing in the morning by bothering Me with tittle-tattle? I had assumed you were here on a matter of some importance, but no, you are a common gossip like all the rest of those nattering fools.”
Holmes did not let Her finish. “Rest assured this is no ordinary scurrilous story, Your Majesty. Gold is being diverted from your ships sailing out of Australia. Surely you have noticed that in the past month alone, three ships have gone missing!”
“That is not a rumour,” she said, her voice raised to a forceful level. “Nor is that news to Me! I am well aware that pirates are targeting My sailing vessels. I have taken steps to increase security on My ships. I have even gone so far as to authorize subterfuge of the most dangerous kind, requesting that loyal men join the crews and report back to Me. So, explain to Me why you think this has escaped My notice.”
“Yes, yes, you’ve done all you can, except you have not chopped off the poisonous vine at the root. The rumours suggest you yourself are diverting these funds! And even more distressing, they say you do this for the sake of setting up a new kingdom, one where Munshi will be your chosen king!”
Until then, Munshi had stood in the threshold, glaring at Holmes with malicious interest. Now the tall Indian man sprang forwards and knocked Holmes to the ground. His hands grasped the detective by the throat as he choked my friend nearly senseless.
“I vaguely heard the Queen shouting for him to stop,” Holmes told me. “I knew that returning his aggression would only make me seem less trustworthy. It seemed to me at that bleak moment that I was destined to give my life for the Crown, but in a manner so ignominious that I should be a laughingstock even after I was buried.”
Gradually, Holmes was revived by dint of salts waved under his nose, and helped to regain his seat. The First Lady of the Bedchamber offered him a glass of cool water. His throat ached as he swallowed.
“Tell him you are sorry, Munshi,” the Queen instructed Her servant. Her tone and manner was much like a mother chastising a child.
“I beg your pardon, sir,” said the Indian, as he bowed at the waist.
Pausing in his recitation, Holmes explained to me, “I decided not to engage with the fellow, as his actions were so totally unwarranted. Instead I turned my attention back to the Queen.
“I told Her, ‘Your Majesty, I came to you and no one else because as a loyal subject of the Crown, I believe You have every right to do with the Australian gold as you see fit. If You wish to fill the royal coffers, do so. If you want to decorate Brighton Palace, go ahead. If You want to set aside a fund for a servant who has made Your life more pleasant, then I believe You should do exactly that.’”
She leaned forwards as best She could with the tray blocking Her change of position. “You would support Me in this?”
Holmes paused at this point to make an aside to me. “Although I am not myself sentimental or given to emotional responses, Watson, I have trained myself to observe them in others. I can honestly tell you that the woman before me sounded more like a small child than like the Empress of the largest Empire that history has ever seen
. I have heard there are psychologists who theorize that each of us has inside the residual emotions of our younger selves. My recent experience would seem to bear that out. Queen Victoria sounded surprised, relieved, and thankful when I indicated I would not question Her desires. Until I made those utterances, She was ready to do battle. Boudicca was never so fierce as the tiny woman in that huge and lonely bed. She had feared I was yet another voice in the chorus demanding that She give up another one of the very few who loved Her without reserve. How proud I was to prove Her wrong.”
Holmes resumed his story, explaining how he answered the Queen. “I would support You in each and every one of Your desires,” he said in an earnest voice. “That is the point of being our anointed Queen, is it not? I have pledged my skills and my life to Your service. How You use me in that service is of little consequence.”
She seemed to mull this over. Her finger played with the lace trim on the napkin in Her lap. Taking a shuddering breath, She wiped her mouth. “Truly?”
“Truly. You have my word as an Englishman.”
Her eyes filled with unshed tears. “Most of my subjects would disagree with you, Mr. Holmes.”
“It has been said repeatedly that I can be a very disagreeable fellow,” Holmes admitted.
The Queen looked down Her nose at Holmes. “I am not diverting the gold on My ships. My Navy exists to keep Our Nation safe from all who would do her harm. Never would I give an order that would lead to the death of my fine sailors for a cause so at odds with the common good of Our Nation and Our Empire.”
Holmes nodded to let her know he’d heard and absorbed her response, but she seemed too overcome with emotion—or perhaps anger—to continue. When he engaged her attention again, he said, “Then I have the answer I was seeking. That is what I needed to know, and I was loath to believe what was told to me secondhand in a matter of such grave importance. You see, I’ve been asked to find a missing husband, but that, Ma’am, I feel certain is a smoke screen. My quest pointed me to a deadhouse where there lay the body of a sailor in your Royal Navy. A lieutenant, actually. The man had been tortured and forced to swallow an impressive amount of gold. I believe this is why I was asked to find this missing husband. The truth is far more sinister. Someone wanted me to find evidence that supports these terrible claims against You. Now I have my mandate: I shall uncover what is behind all this. We shall see what scoundrels there are out there, plotting to blacken Your name.”