The Naval Knaves
A New Sherlock Holmes Mystery
SECOND EDITION
Craig Stephen Copland
Copyright © 2017 by Craig Stephen Copland
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by an information storage and retrieval system – except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review to be printed in a magazine, newspaper, or on the web – without permission in writing from Craig Stephen Copland.
The characters of Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson are no longer under copyright, nor is the original story The Naval Treaty.
Published by:
Conservative Growth
5072 Turtle Pond Place
Vernon, British Columbia, Canada, V1T 9Y5
Cover design by Rita Toews
Dedication
While writing this story, the Canadian media has been full of stories of forest fires in British Columbia and the courageous men and women who are fighting them around the clock. To them I dedicate this book. The story has nothing whatsoever to do with fighting wildfires, except that a few days after it is published, we’re moving to BC. So, I want those brave fire fighters to know how much I appreciate them.
Contents
Chapter One A Diplomatic Problem
Chapter Two Gut-Wrenching Anarchy
Chapter Three The Protective Confession
Chapter Four Down a Slippery Slope
Chapter Five Huguenots and Anarchists
Chapter Six Dazzling Violence
Chapter Seven Not Nothing
Chapter Eight Fuzzy-Wuzzy Wasn’t, Was He?
Chapter Nine The Big Match Day
Chapter Ten A Sinking Feeling
About the Author
More Historical Mysteries
Acknowledgements
All writers of Sherlock Holmes fan fiction or pastiche stories are indebted to the genius of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle or, for the true Sherlockians, to Dr. John Watson, for the creation of the sixty original stories, the Canon, of Sherlock Holmes.
In this story, I also borrow from Henry James. He is not my favorite author but he wrote a great book about a beautiful anarchist.
My dearest and closest friend, Mary Engelking, not only encourages the continued writing of these stories but proofreads, edits, and point out places where I was incoherent.
Several wonderful and invaluable fans of Sherlock Holmes have kindly offered their services as Beta readers and provided exceptionally worthwhile comments, suggestions, and corrections. I extend my gratitude to them yet again.
It has been a while since I acknowledged my high school English teachers at Scarlett Height Collegiate Institute in Toronto — Bill Stratton, Norm Oliver, and Margaret Tough — who inspired me to read and write. I am deeply indebted to them.
Chapter One
A Diplomatic Problem
SEVEN YEARS AGO, in the year of Our Lord 1887, Great Britain and Italy entered into a secret agreement that both countries expected would help them accomplish their colonial ambitions in the Mediterranean and frustrate those of Russia and France. It was that treaty which was stolen from the office of my dear school chum, Percy Phelps, and nearly sold into the wrong foreign hands. Had it not been for the brilliant detective work of Sherlock Holmes, a serious international incident could have arisen and who knows what terrible events might subsequently have taken place. I put an account of these events on paper in the story I called The Naval Treaty, but I withheld publication for a few years until I thought that the possibility of any dangerous repercussions had passed.
How wrong I was.
In the years since that adventure, all sorts of tumultuous international intrigues have occurred. Agreements and promises between nations have been made and broken. Germany entered into a Re-Insurance Treaty with Russia, only to fail to renew it two years later. Italy joined with Germany and Austro-Hungary and formed what would come to be known as the Triple Alliance. Russia and France became quite cozy with each other. The Ottomans, while a mere shadow of the great empire of the past, remained unpredictable and prickly.
Africa, that great dark continent, was the victim of the relentless pursuit of colonial claims upon its people and territories. Great Britain and France led the scramble, but Belgium, Portugal, Germany, Spain, and Italy also grabbed pieces of property. The British had a dream of a great north-south red line of our colonies stretching from the Cape to Cairo. The French envisioned an east-west line of their territories from Senegal to Djibouti. Any school boy with a starter’s knowledge of geometry could predict that those two lines would have to intersect somewhere, sometime, and one of them would have to become intermittent.
Skirmishes and minor conflicts between nations were inevitable. Much more common was the omnipresence of spies and double agents, clandestine skulduggery, and unending machinations, plots, and espionage. Some of these efforts involved the stealing of state secrets. Some involved murder. So, it was only a matter of time before the unique skills of Sherlock Holmes would be called upon yet again to help the individuals caught in the webs of intrigue and, indeed, to help the Empire itself.
This particular intriguing adventure that I am about to recount to you began pleasantly enough on a morning in late August. My dear wife Mary (née Morstan) and I were enjoying a cup of tea and a chat together when the daily post arrived.
“Oh, darling,” she said, “will you look at this?”
“What is it, my love?”
“Quite the official letter from the Admiralty. It’s addressed to both of us. Mind if I open it?”
“Go right ahead, dear. It must be from Percy; we certainly do not know anyone else there.”
Percy Phelps had recovered from the traumatic time when he was under suspicion for the theft of the 1887 treaty and had gone on to do highly commendable work in the Foreign Office. In the fall of 1891, a coveted billet in the Admiralty opened up. With some assistance from his uncle, who was then serving as both the Prime Minister and the Foreign Secretary, Percy won the appointment and became the Senior Assistant to Sir Ughtred Kay-Shuttleworth, the Parliamentary Secretary to the Admiralty. The timing was most fortunate, as the Conservatives narrowly went down to defeat in 1892 and the Liberals came into power. Percy, by dint of his diligence and brilliance, retained his post and proved himself an invaluable aid to the powers that be, regardless of their party. His life appeared to be on a gilded trajectory, and there was talk bruited about that a position in the Cabinet might someday be offered to him.
“Oo la la,” cooed Mary as she read the gilt-edged notice. “We have been invited to a reception for the Secretary of the Navy of La République de France; to be held at the Langham Hotel on the fifteenth of September. Oh, John, darling, you have become such a famous author that we are mingling with the bluebloods.”
I smiled warmly back at her. “That is very kind of you to suggest that our invitation is a result of my stories about Sherlock, but you and I know perfectly well that your dear friend, Annie Phelps, was behind this invitation and the reason is that she has no interest in having to go to yet another swank affair with Percy only to have him abandon her whilst he runs around playing host and major domo.”
“Oh, perhaps that might have had something to do with it, but all those stuffed shirts and feathered ladies love your stories. Do you suppose that Sherlock was sent an invitation as well?”
“I’m quite sure he was.”
“Do you think he will attend?”
“I’m quite sure he will not. He loathes pretension of all types and such behavior will be on display in spades. I feel somewhat the same way myself.”
I could
see immediately in the vanishing of her smile that my comment was not a wise thing to say.
“But John, darling, you look so dashing and handsome when all in formal dress. I love being on the arm of such a famous author and gentleman.”
I sighed inwardly. We were going to the diplomatic event. I thought that all I would have to do would be to chat amiably with Annie Phelps while her husband was occupied with official duties, and grin and bear the rest of the evening.
I had maintained my friendship with Percy, and we met from time to time in his club to reminisce and chat. He was deeply grateful for the help I had given in bringing Sherlock Holmes into his life and was keen to keep up a warm and continuing friendship. Much more than that, however, was the intimate friendship that had formed and grown between his wife, Annie (née Harrison) and Mary. They met at the Phelps-Harrison wedding, to which Holmes and I had been invited. They hit it off and for several years had met regularly for tea when Annie came up from Woking to London.
Mrs. Phelps, in addition to being a good friend to my wife, was wonderfully devoted to her husband and the two of them seemed to be perfectly happy with their lot in life. All in all, the life of Percy Phelps and those in his immediate circle, could not have been going better. He was involved in a hive of activities that had implications for the continuing prosperity of the Empire, and he was loving every minute of it. Truly, these were his halcyon days. Being the decent, good-hearted fellow that he was, he followed the advice to all young men on the rise; be good to those who help you on the way up, because you may meet them again on your way back down. Thus, he brought over to the Admiralty with him Mr. Charles Gorot, the brilliant clerk who now served as his secretary, as well as Mr. and Mrs. Tangay and their daughter to provide service in the suite of offices. All three of the Tangay family were given new, starched uniforms, replete with a few brass buttons and short pieces of gold braid, as was befitting anyone who worked at the Admiralty. They were ferociously loyal to Queen and country, and they could not have been more plumped and proud.
The fifteenth of September began as a pleasant autumn day, sunny and cool, but the rain held off and the temperature in the evening hovered just above the fifty-degree mark. Our primary duty at the reception was to look after Mrs. Phelps whilst Percy was busy. She had no intention of being abandoned and left to fend for herself, a beautiful but common girl from Northumberland amongst the well-coiffed, elegant vipers of Belgravia.
The reception, which began at four o’clock, was in honor of the Naval Minister of France, Monsieur Auguste Alfred Lefèvre. He and his entourage had arrived in England for a series of meetings with his counterparts in the Cabinet and the Admiralty. All sorts of Lord So-and-So and Lady Such-and-Such were present and dressed to the nines. It was expected that a member of the Royal family would make an appearance.
The Langham, one of the very select hotels of London, was elegantly adorned with tri-color bunting and the flags of the two nations hanging side-by-side. The hotel staff were dutifully attentive, constantly offering Champagne or other social lubricants to the over two-hundred guests. The hotel staff were augmented by a few of the service people from the Admiralty, in their starched, buttoned, and gold-braided uniforms. It was one of those splendid affairs where everyone engaged in intimate conversation whilst at the same time looking over the shoulder of the person they were talking to in order to see if someone more important had arrived.
The French, of course, were everywhere. Their Ambassador and his staff, several wealthy French business owners, and no end of dashing gentlemen in military uniforms, with sashes, swords, medals, and epaulettes were strutting and bowing and doing all those things that the French do so well, and make them so annoying, as they seek to establish their superior savoir-faire to the all-too-gauche English.
At just after five o’clock, when the room was filled with guests and all abuzz with bantering inconsequence, the tall, lean Charles Gorot approached the three of us, accompanied by two gentlemen and a young lady.
“Ah, Dr. and Mrs. Watson and Mrs. Phelps,” said Charles, “allow me to introduce our honored guests from the Continent.”
I concluded that Percy had given him orders to bring interesting people to us so that Mrs. Phelps would be entertained and engaged, as there was no other reason that distinguished foreign guests would want to talk to common folk like us.
“Dr. Watson,” Charles continued, “is the famous author of the stories of the great detective, Sherlock Holmes. The Admiralty had invited Mr. Holmes as well, but he was entirely too busy solving a terrible crime to attend.”
Charles gave a sly wink to the three of us and smiled at Annie, who beamed a warm smile back at him.
“Allow me,” Charles said, “to present the lovely Princess Casamassima of the State of Aosta in Italy. She is the guest of Captain François l’Olannais and Captain August Duhaut-Cilly, who I am also honored to introduce to you. They have been visiting us in the Admiralty for the past several months and helping us to prepare for the evening’s announcement of splendid cooperation between our two great nations.”
Being French, they both bowed gallantly. I had to admit that in their full-dress French navy uniforms they were handsome, bordering on breathtaking. They were both tall and broad-shouldered, with wavy, black hair, trim mustaches, and aristocratic faces that could have been sculpted out of marble.
If the young woman’s appearance could be summed up in one word, it would be dazzling. She was fair and slender. Her beauty had a character of perfection; it astonished. Her dark eyes, between blue and gray, were as intoxicating as they were lovely, and there was an extraordinary light nobleness in the way she held her head. Two or three diamond stars glittered in the thick, delicate hair. A radiance of youth and eminence and success shone from her face.
“Princess, this is indeed an honor,” I said as I bowed and accepted the elegant, alabaster, bejeweled hand. “And Captains,” I added and gave a head bob of a bow in their direction. “I do hope that you are not missing the charms of France and Italy too much and that you are enjoying such sights and adventures as we can offer here in England.”
“Why, thank you, doctor,” replied the princess. “we are being very well-treated but, of course, what we have fallen in love with is your glorious English weather.” She smiled a wide, perfect smile.
Her voice had the lilt of coquettish sarcasm, and the entire lot of us broke out into laughter. What surprised me, however, was that she had not a trace of an Italian accent.
“Good heavens!” exclaimed Annie Phelps. “You’re an American.”
Annie was from the far north of England, that county that lies along the border. Beyond it is what most Englishmen call terra incognito but which appears on maps as Scotland. Like a true Northumbrian, she valued plain-speaking highly and diplomatic niceties not at all. For a second, I panicked at the faux pas, but the Princess laughed and graciously replied.
“Well, hey there, honey child, nobody’s perfect. But I will have you know that I am a true blue-blood. Why, I come from the Blue Ridge Mountains.” We all laughed along with her.
Over the next fifteen minutes, we engaged in enjoyable conversation as I questioned our guests concerning their sojourn in England. The French Captains gave several Gallic shrugs and condescending smiles and regretted their need for discretion. They could only say that they were involved in diplomatic discussions that would be of mutual benefit to the navies of both countries.
The beautiful Princess Casamassima was exceptionally composed and explained that she was conducting a study across Europe regarding the condition of the poor and the efforts made for their upliftment by the governments of the European states.
Our chat was ended when an official from the Admiralty called the room to order and requested that we all be seated. Charles, with a warm smile to Annie and Mary, excused himself and ushered the princess and the captains to their reserved seats at the front whilst the three of us found a place to sit near the back of the hall.
/> The formal program began, and we all stood as Prince Alfred, the son of the Queen and the Commander of the Mediterranean Fleet, ascended to the dais. He started into some high-sounding remarks as might be expected on the occasion. He was a fine speaker, but my attention was distracted.
Standing in the doorway of the hall, just behind us, was the unmistakable figure of Inspector Lestrade of Scotland Yard. Surely, I thought, there was no need for additional police presence at this event. The Welsh Guards were stationed throughout, every one of them carrying his sword and several of them bearing real rifles and girdled with full ammunition belts.
Out of the corner of my eye, I watched as Lestrade whispered silently with one of the hotel staff, who pointed him toward Percy Phelps. As unobtrusively as he could, the inspector hunched over and walked up the aisle to where Percy was sitting and tapped him on the shoulder. Percy was obviously not pleased with being so accosted. Doing so in the middle of the Prince’s speech was an appalling violation of protocol. But Lestrade leaned over and whispered in his ear and Percy, looking quite alarmed, got up and walked back down the aisle to the door.
As he was passing, he saw me and gestured urgently that I should join them. I stumbled over several other guests and followed them into the lobby of the hall. Once the door had been closed behind us, Lestrade turned to me.
“Where’s Holmes?”
I checked my watch.
“It is now a quarter to six on a Wednesday. I know he is still in England, and if he has not been called away from London on a case, he will be at home. He usually …”
“Let’s go,” interrupted Lestrade. “There are cabs lined up outside. Mr. Phelps, sir, could you please come with me. Dr. Watson, Forbes will join you.”
“Mind if I let the ladies know what we are up to?” I asked.
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