by C J Lutton
The Queen was eager to hear more. “And can you? Can you discover the person or persons behind all of this? Those rumours are egregious. To say that I would kill members of My own Navy! What sort of leader would I be? Perhaps it is simply a happenstance, an unhappy coincidence that this man was found with gold inside his body and so someone spun a tangled web from the weakest of silk thread. Perhaps knowing about the pirates, those who do not approve of my friendship with Munshi are using this opportunity to force Me to give up My reliance on someone I can trust.” At this, she fiddled with the lace of her bedclothes. “In My life, there have been such a small number who truly care for Me as a person, not as the figurehead for a Country. Why it is incumbent on others to seek to destroy those few friendships that hearten Me, I cannot say. It grieves Me to My very marrow.”
Holmes rose from the chair and bowed at the waist. “I shall do my best to give you relief from such churlish behavior, Ma’am. At the very least, if I cannot quiet their wagging tongues, I shall uncover the proof that exposes them for the liars that they are.”
25
“My word, Holmes,” I said, as I wiped my brow. With a trembling hand, I helped myself to a second cup of hot coffee. “You could have been killed. Or worse. Thrown into the Tower of London and never heard of again. To trespass into the Queen’s bedchamber takes a man with an unlimited portion of bravado—and a miniscule scoop of good sense! If you had written me a note, at the very least, I could have gone to Mycroft and secured your freedom. But as you left it, I should have awakened and not had a clue where you were, what had happened, or how to offer you assistance. Dash it all, that was blasted unkind of you.”
Any anger from the night before had dissipated in the realisation I’d nearly lost my dear friend. Truly, how could I stay angry? Furthermore, the Queen’s actions underscored what he had suggested earlier, that She was a very, very lonely woman who had found a loyal protector.
Sprawling on the sofa, Holmes lit his pipe. He puffed a large smoke ring into the air where it floated like a wrongly coloured halo over his head. He’d gulped down his coffee and passed up breakfast, explaining that he had been escorted back through the royal household by one of Her Majesty’s equerries. That particular servant had been admonished to make sure Holmes was properly fed before being turned out onto the street.
“I chose not to leave a note to protect you, Watson, in case this adventure went pear-shaped. You could honestly claim to know nothing of my plan to gain entry to the Queen’s bedchamber. No matter what they did or how they asked, you would be at a loss to respond.”
That was true enough.
I lay the cause for this squarely where it belongs…at the feet of Bertie, the Prince of Wales. Never was there a more contemptible excuse for a man than our heir apparent. Bertie is self-indulgent, surly, self-aggrandizing, and worst of all, a man whose habit of excess triumphs over any shred of decency when it comes to the fairer sex. Before he married the gentle and long-suffering Alix, I (like many other citizens of the Realm) held out hope that the love of a good woman would persuade Bertie to stay at home and quit prowling the streets of London like a tomcat. Sadly, I was wrong. As each year passes, and his mother moves closer to the grave, Bertie’s bad habits pick up steam. Truly, I fear for our country when I allow myself to speculate on what sort of ruler he will one day be.
“You could have awakened me,” I said, returning to my complaint. “Holmes, even if you did not want me to accompany you, surely alerting me to the possibility you might be hauled away to prison would have been a small but thoughtful gesture.”
“Perhaps,” he said. “Wake me in an hour, please.”
“Why?” I wondered. “Are you planning another gadabout?”
“No,” and he rested the heels of his shoes on the sofa so that the soles did not come in contact with the fabric. “I am planning to go back to the home of Mrs. Morel. I assume that you would like to come, too?”
“Whatever for? She’s gone. We both heard as much.”
Holmes nodded. “So we’ve been told. However, she might have left something behind, a clue to where she has gone. Getting into that house should not be difficult. I have my lock picks in my pocket.”
I did not get the chance to answer before he commenced snoring lightly.
26
True to his word, when I awakened him a half an hour later, Holmes was alert and ready to go. “Hurry, Watson,” he admonished me whilst I was wrapping a scarf around my throat. Glumly, I realised that I should have to do without my warm overcoat and make do with the thin coat Dolly had loaned me. Given the chill in the air, that would make our trip in a cab miserable, indeed.
But I was saved from such discomfort when Mrs. Hudson met us at the bottom of the stairs. “A lad brought this by not more than an hour ago, Doctor. He said to tell you that the lady sends her regards.”
A blush of embarrassment crept up my throat and warmed my face. As she held the coat open for me, I could imagine the landlady’s curious eyes upon my person. I had resolved not to offer her satisfaction when Holmes said, “Dolly did a fine job of cleaning your garment, didn’t she?”
With that, Holmes opened the door wide enough to whistle for a cab. Since we needed to keep watch for our ride, Holmes left the front door unlocked. That way he could espy a hansom as it approached and wave it over to the kerb.
“Dolly?” Mrs. Hudson repeated in a querying tone. “My, my. And you are on a Christian name basis with this woman, Mr. Holmes?”
“Everyone is on a first name basis with Dolly,” Holmes explained. “That’s the sort of woman she is. Even before her husband died, she was a friend to all who came into the pub. Now even more so, as the pub is all that’s left of her married life.”
“I see,” said Mrs. Hudson with a hint of reproach in her voice.
The subject was exhausted, but it might have been dragged out longer by the ever curious Mrs. Hudson, except that a young lad bounded through the unlocked door. Hopping from one foot to the other, the child said, “You’ve got to come. You have to! It’s a matter of life and death, don’t you see? Please, say you will!”
Holmes put a hand on each of the boys’ shoulders to steady the young man. “Stuckey, what are you on about?”
“I’m here for Evans, sir, I is. They’ve gone and taken him. Those brutes, there was five of them, and they knocked him to the ground before they tied his hands and feet. Coo, but they was rough with him. The biggest one dragged poor Evans through the street and then he jumped into a waiting carriage and hoisted poor Evans by his feet into that carriage. I was hiding behind a grocer’s cart but I seen it all, sir. Poor Evans tried to call for help, but they stuffed a cotton hanky into his mouth so he couldn’t cry out.”
“Any idea where they took him? Which way they were headed?” Holmes asked in the tone of voice he reserved for the young.
“That carriage was pointed towards the Thames, sir. I heard the big man yelling as he slammed the door behind him. He said they needed to hurry or they’d have to watch for the tide to come back in.” Stuckey shifted his weight from one leg to the other. His worried manner was contagious.
Thank goodness, Holmes kept his manner calm because Stuckey was on the verge of tears. “Do not fret about this, Stuckey. I shall go and see what has happened. You can count on me to do my utmost to secure Evans’ freedom. But before I dismiss you, I must ask: is there anything else you can tell me? Any other clue we might find unusual? Was the carriage a growler? Or an omnibus? Did the driver wear a top hat? Did you hear anyone call another by name? Anything at all that might help us to identify those who took Evans would be useful.”
A startled look came over the boy’s face. “There was one thing, but beggin’ your pardon, sir, it don’t signify much, but here it is.”
Digging deep in his pants pocket, Evans retrieved a rock about the size of a pea wrapped in a small piece of paper. With a swallow and a wholly regretful look, he dropped the bundle in Holmes’ empty hand. Holmes unwr
apped the paper to reveal one word: Gravesend. There was something else wrapped in the paper.
Stuckey said, “I was going to give it to you, honest, but I happened to forget. It’s ever so pretty, ain’t it?”
There in the middle of Holmes’ outstretched palm, a nugget of gold winked up at us.
“Good lad,” said Holmes. “You shall have this back, Stuckey. When all is said and done, I shall get this back to you, I promise.”
Mollified by Holmes’ pledge, Stuckey cheered up considerably. “That’s very kind of you, sir.”
“Watson? The game’s afoot,” said Holmes. “You do have your revolver, don’t you? Yes, good!” Holmes went charging out of 221B and threw himself into the cab. I followed, moving as fast as humanly possible. I was closing the door behind me when Holmes shouted at the driver, “Take us to Gravesend and hurry!”
In a wildly swaying carriage, the driver prodded the horse with a crack of his whip. His effort sent us hurtling through the streets at nervewracking speeds. With the curtains drawn, I had long since given up the notion of trying to memorize our direction of travel through London. Vaguely, I recalled that Gravesend was at least twenty miles away. By my calculations, we were in for a journey lasting at least four hours. After a time, the horses slowed to an easy canter, and being ignorant as to our exact destination or the identity of our host, I worried as to our fate. But my friend’s relaxed breathing offered me a glimmer of comfort. Shortly, his snoring filled the cabin. He was asleep! I struggled to remain alert, but soon the rocking carriage lulled me off to a dreamless sleep as well.
I was slowly returned to wakefulness by flashes of brightness, then dark, as the light from a lantern crossed my face. On the other end of the lantern was Holmes. He gently shook me.
“Where are we?” I asked, stifling a yawn.
“Gravesend,” came the reply.
“Gravesend? Oh, so that’s the smell. It’s the salty air. I couldn’t place it. But how? Why?” My mind was a tumble, and I couldn’t complete a single thought. Stiffly, I stepped down from the carriage and looking ’round, I saw that we were alone.
“Holmes, I don’t like this. Where is our driver? Where’s everybody gone? This place is deserted!”
Ignoring my questions, Holmes walked to the edge of the wharf and glanced out at the water. I walked over and stood beside him, staring into the cold blackness. Finally Holmes said, “I believe we’re to be picked up by a ship. That’s the only reason the tide would matter.”
“A ship?” I lamented. “There’s nothing out there! It’ll be hours before we’re onboard. I mean, really, Holmes. Just look out there on the horizon. The only thing to be seen is that rotting hulk of a barge. Furthermore, the tide’s not even in. No ship can dock until the water level rises. And who knows when that will be? Something’s not right about this. Where’s Evans? How can we be sure this wasn’t a trick to get us out of the city?”
Holmes didn’t respond to my caterwauling. His silence made me even more irritated. I groused until even I couldn’t stand my own voice. I roamed the dock, angrily kicking at stones and bemoaning our plight. Taking in our surroundings, I groaned, as there wasn’t a light to be seen. Every building was locked up tight. In my meandering, I neared a barrel sitting at the far end. The container gave off the stench of rotting fish. As I drew closer, a scraping sound instantly set me alert. The noise was coming from behind the barrel. I withdrew my revolver from under my coat. “Come out, whoever you are!” I shouted, cocking my pistol. “Come out, or I’ll shoot!”
27
Holmes, hearing my cry, came running up beside me. “What is it?”
“There’s someone behind the barrel! Come out, or I’ll shoot! Stand back, Holmes!”
Without warning, a cat raced by and fled into the night. Feeling like a complete imbecile and wearing an embarrassed smile, I put my pistol away and looked at Holmes. “Sorry,” I muttered. “I thought…”
However, my friend wasn’t paying me any heed. Holmes kept staring intently at the barrel. “You’d best do as Dr. Watson suggests,” Holmes said. “He’s a crack shot, you know.”
I was about to rebuke the great detective. After all, it wasn’t necessary for him to make light of my confusion with the cat. But Holmes’ tone was deadly. Rather than chastise my friend, I raised my revolver once again.
“Come out!” Holmes commanded.
Slowly, two tiny hands appeared in the air, and the smallest man I have ever seen stepped into view from behind the barrel. He was not much more than three feet tall. His hands were held aloft as he walked towards us. I can only describe his gait as that of a child learning to walk. He waddled with his arms outstretched and crooked at the elbows whilst his pudgy hands still pointed towards the sky. The small man’s body swayed to and fro with each jostling step, until finally he stopped and stood before us. Then he smiled sheepishly.
His shabby, ill-fitting clothes suggested a life as a common beggar. And had it not been for the intelligent and mischievous twinkle in his eyes, one would have naturally written him off as nothing but an oddity, suffering through life’s cruel intent and misfortune. But it was plain to see that there was more to him than that.
“Who are you?” I asked, gazing down into his upturned face. His visage could have been pleasing if it had not been planted in a head of odd proportions. His forehead was huge and bulging, making his eyes seem unnaturally small. “I could have shot you. What do you think you were doing? If it hadn’t been for that cat…”
“Ah, the cat,” he responded in a startling stentorian voice. “I could endure anything before but a cat, and now he’s a cat to me.” The dwarf nodded his head in the direction that the furtive feline had fled. “Dr. Watson, I presume? Mr. Holmes? Excuse me while I light this candle.”
The little man pulled a candle stub and a box of matches out of his pocket. With a quick swipe, the match sputtered and caught the wick. The wavering light that the candle emitted was enough for me to examine the face of our strange new acquaintance. His features were not ugly, but the vast size of his head on such a small body was off-putting. His easy grin held a hint of mischief and his eyes sparkled with amusement.
“Tuck your pistol away, Watson,” Holmes spoke, finding his voice. He looked down at the small man. “We’re in the presence of the Bard. I’m honoured, sir.”
“The heavens, through you, increase our wonder, and set up your fame forever,” retorted the little man, bowing with mutual respect. “Please, if you will follow me, gentlemen.”
“Not until you assure me than Evans is all right,” said Holmes.
“Of course he is,” said the small man. “We let Evans out of the carriage once we were out of sight of Baker Street. There was no reason to harm him. Children they are heaven's lieutenants.”
The man turned and hobbled towards the edge of the dock. Glancing back over his shoulder, he stared into the shadowy recesses of the buildings lining the area. Smiling, he bobbed his head up and down. “Dr. Watson, if you would be so kind as to tap on this pipe, three times with your revolver, we shall get under way.”
I glanced over the edge of the dock and saw that the pipe ran down the entire length of the piling and disappeared into the brackish water. My wedding band glowed in the dim light from the Bard’s lantern. Holmes nodded for me to follow the dwarf’s instructions.
With the butt of my pistol, I produced three loud clangs by hitting the pipe. The dwarf craned his neck to look over the side of the dock, and Holmes did the same. Not knowing what to expect, or what I was looking for, I followed their example.
A low whirring of gears emanated from the dilapidated barge. My body tensed, as a sudden sharp clang and the sound of escaping air broke the silence of the deserted waterfront. As the noise died, an unusual red glow pulsed up through the darkness. A dark form moved away from the barge. This shadow in the water slowly coalesced into the shape of a fish. But it wasn’t a fish. It was some sort of sailing vessel! A deck hatch opened a crack. Slowly,
the arms and then the head of a sailor poked out from the aperture. With a squeal of resistance, the hatch cover was thrown open. It slammed against the deck as the sailor waved to the Bard.
The waters churned. The barge strained at its mooring. The black waters below it bubbled and roiled, producing a thick white froth. The noise was deafening!
“There!” cried Holmes, pointing to the sailor who had stuck his head out of the hatch and who was now climbing onto the deck of the vessel.
“Watch him, Watson!” Holmes shouted.
“Welcome to Stratford-upon-Avon, gentlemen,” said the dwarf. Another hatch sprung open, this one on the aft end of the barge. One after another, sailors in navy blue coats and matching trousers climbed out of the red glow and stepped onto the wooden deck. My body trembled from pure excitement! I had never seen such an amazing sight.
The crew waved enthusiastically at us as they drew nearer. When the barge was almost directly below the dock, one of them scurried to grab a metal ladder. This was locked into place and extended within a foot of where we stood. The Bard scrambled to grab the handrails. With startling agility, he scampered down the ladder and into the arms of an awaiting sailor.
One of the sailors called out to us, “The time and tides wait for no man!”