“Ah, a very good idea,” I said. “You were, it appears, not as surprised and shocked by your son’s recent past as he claimed to us that you might be.”
She took another sip of her tea and continued.
“I also reminded him that he is his father’s son. Some things are in the blood and we might as well all face up to them.”
“Madam?”
“His father, Mr. Othniel Gorot, who passed away and went on to glory some twelve years ago, spent an entire decade doing the same and much worse. After completing his schooling, he took the Queen’s shilling and joined the BEF. For seven years ran around the world shooting defenseless natives in the name of the Empire; legalized murder as far as our church is concerned. After completing his term in the forces, he gallivanted around the Continent, mostly in Italy, drinking and carousing and devoting his passions to one silly cause after another. For at least three years he even descended to the depths of depravity and became a socialist.”
This final word was uttered in a hushed tone, lest anyone passing by might be listening in.
“His terrible life might have continued in that direction had he not paid a visit back to his family—a fine, upright family from our church who had been faithfully praying for him every day—and agreed, under duress, to attend a Sunday evening church service. There he came under the sound of the gospel, was convicted of his sins by the Holy Spirit, and gave his heart to the Lord. Like the Apostle on the road to Damascus, he immediately turned from darkness toward the light and lived a highly respectable life until the day he died. He worked diligently as a tailor, as is common among we Protestants of French heritage. He established his own business, and we were blessed with prosperity, so much so that enough money had been set aside for me to help Charles and his younger brothers and sisters acquire an excellent education.”
“Did Charles,” my wife asked our guest, “not know about his father’s past?”
The lady took another sip of tea before responding. “In the year before Othniel passed away, he and Charles had many father and son talks together. I had always thought that my husband was imparting the lessons he had learned from his past life to his son, but Charles claims that it was all news to him and he acted terribly shocked and disappointed. He was, however, relieved greatly at the same time and agreed that he would immediately contact the police and recant his false confession. I fully expect that he will do so tomorrow morning, and that he will be released shortly after.”
We chatted on for a few more minutes and then Mrs. Gorot stood up and again thanked me for whatever role I had played in helping her son. I assured her that I would pass on her sentiments to Holmes, whose role far surpassed mine.
As she departed I thought that it was odd that a son could be so far wrong in perceiving his mother’s need for protection that he would be willing to spend a decade in prison quite unnecessarily. But he was still young, and his ability to reason would remain weakened by his hormones for several years to come.
“So, John, my dear,” said my wife after Mrs. Gorot had departed in her cab, “what happens now?”
“I suppose that Holmes and the Yard will have to go back to investigating all the other possible suspects on the list.”
“And you, my dear, will be ready to help him.”
“Perhaps, if he calls me. You never know.”
“Oh, darling, you know he is going to call for you, and you will rush to his side. There is nothing that my wonderful husband enjoys more.”
He did not call for me for the rest of the week, but on Friday afternoon a note arrived. It ran:
Would you be so kind as to drop in on me for a few minutes tomorrow morning? Do offer my excuses to your dear wife for pulling you away from home on a Saturday. Holmes.
I offered my apologies as well as Holmes’s to Mary. She merely laughed merrily.
“Darling, I married you for better or for worse, but not for lunch. Go and enjoy your adventure with Sherlock. Just try to be back home for supper, and do not forget to duck before you get shot.”
The following morning, I was up and out of the house before eight o’clock, arriving at 221B Baker Street soon after.
Holmes took one look at me as I entered the familiar room.
“We will have to work on your appearance,” he said.
“What in heaven’s name for?” I said. I had taken some pains to look relaxed and informal but nevertheless rather smart.
“You would look appropriate were we about to go for a stroll along Regent Street,” said Holmes. “However, we are going to the monthly meeting of all the assorted anarchists in London. You will have to look disheveled, acceptably unfashionable, and impossible for anyone to recognize. Wait here.”
He departed briefly into the bedroom and returned bearing an armful of clothes and shoes and a small cloth sack.
“Here, pull these on,” he said. “In the sack is a wig, a paste-on mustache, some spirit glue, and wig powder to lighten your hair. Please get to work whilst I do the same.”
“Would you mind, Holmes,” I asked, “taking a moment to tell me what we are up to?”
“As might be expected, Lestrade was not at all happy when Master Gorot withdrew his false confession. Scotland Yard now has to get back to their hard-working police work and look into the affairs of every possible suspect on their list. He remains convinced, and I am inclined to agree with him, that the fellow who blew himself up may have conveniently pointed us to a larger plot by the international fraternity of anarchists who now live in London. Thus, I am to infiltrate the Club Autonomie, the gathering place for the entire lot of them.”
“And they meet there, openly?” said I. “On a regular basis? How can that be?”
“Oh, it is really quite clever of the Yard. If they were to close down the club, all they would do would be to disburse the members, force them into secret cells and clandestine meetings, and not be able to keep track of them at all. By letting them meet, they can watch who is coming and going and, when necessary at times, send spies to infiltrate it. This morning is one of those times, and we are the spies.”
“And our identities? Who are we to be? Somehow, I do not think it would be practical to announce ourselves as Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson,” I said.
Holmes chuckled. “Bravo. No, my dear doctor, you are Mr. Barry O’Rouke, and you are a lowly orderly at St. Bart’s. Your family moved to London from County Cork when you were an infant, which explains your lack of an Irish accent. Do you think you can manage that?”
“I’m certain I can, and what about you?”
“I will be an aged, decrepit bookseller.”
“Are you not getting a little tired of that role?” I teased.
“It was either that or a clergyman. Somehow I thought the latter might be somewhat suspect at a gathering of the faithful anarchists.”
“You could go as an ardent pastor of one of the reformist sects?”
He smiled back at me. “I fear I am profoundly unsuited for such an impersonation. Those good people do not permit the use of tobacco.”
At the bottom of the stairs, we encountered Mrs. Hudson. She looked shocked for an instant and then broke into gales of laughter, her entire body shaking. She did not cease laughing at us until she had shooed us out of the door.
It was a short walk across our corner of London to Tottenham Court Road and south to Windmill Street. The club appeared to be no more than a shop front, crammed in amongst other shops along a parade. Other than the name of the club above the door, there was nothing to indicate what it was, but we followed some chaps, who looked much the same as Holmes and me, into the hall beyond the entrance.
“Bonjour, monsieur,” said a tall, somewhat stooped, silver-haired fellow. “I have not met you here before. Bienvenue.”
“Why, thank you,” I replied, and prepared to deliver my well-rehearsed introduction of myself. “It is my first time.”
“Pourquoi, comrade, are you here?”
“I have worked
,” I said, hoping not to sound like a gentleman doctor, “as an orderly. Every day I see the rich receiving excellent care whilst the poor cannot pay for even the most basic medical services. I am angry about it, and I am not going to take it any longer.”
“Mais oui, comrade. And is it not true that all those rich doctors, they think they are God himself, the way they treat the nurses and orderlies? They are too pig-headed to know that it is the working people of the hospital who give the true care to the sick and dying. They are the ones who wash their bodies, who lift and carry them from their beds to the operating tables, who change their bedclothes, who empty their bedpans, who wipe their bottoms, and who comfort them when they are dying. And yet they are paid a pittance of what is paid to a doctor. This is not fair, is it, comrade?”
I was not expecting that line of insights and questions, so I mumbled some form of agreement and changed the topic of the conversation.
“You are French,” I said, stating the obvious.
“Mais oui. But of course. Many members of Le Club Autonomie are French. London is our city of refuge, as it is for the anarchists from Russia, Spain, Germany, Holland, and Italy. Our lives in our own countries, sadly, would be very short, so we are refugees in England.”
“Oh, I did not know that,” I said, honestly.
We took our seats and a rugged, red-faced Welshman called the meeting to order. Then, the entire congregation of well over one hundred of us stood and lustily sang the Internationale, first in English and then in French. Although my French is far from fluent, it struck me that the song was far more powerful in that language:
And then they sang it yet again in Russian. But, as I have no knowledge at all of that tongue, I could not sing along.
Once we had worked through all three versions, the room let out a joyous yell, during which several socialist slogans were shouted from some of the more enthusiastic members. Up to this point, the meeting was not much different than a revival meeting held by the Baptists.
The comrade who had called the meeting order returned to the pulpit.
“Let us stand, our heads unbowed, for a moment of silence, as a tribute to another martyr for the cause of the revolution. As you know, our comrade, Brother Martain Bourdin, sacrificed his young life for the workers of the world. Let his dedication be an example to all of us.”
“Hear, hear,” and other affirmations were heard. My only thought, which I had to stifle, was that blowing your hand off and disemboweling yourself whilst accomplishing nothing was not the most exemplary path to follow. One of the members said something in French, and I glanced across to the far front corner of the room to see who might be expressing the sentiments of La République. I immediately gave an elbow to Holmes.
“Look,” I whispered, “at those two in the front corner. The tall, good-looking chaps.”
“Yes,” he nodded back. “I see them. What of them?”
“They were at the reception at the Langham. They are the French naval captains I told you about.”
Holmes straightened his curved body to get a better view and looked at Captains François and August as closely as he could without becoming conspicuous himself. He then turned and mouthed the words, “Thank you, Watson,” and slumped back into his decrepit bookseller posture.
The chairman of the meeting continued with various announcements regarding the annual fall picnic at Kew, the efforts being made on behalf of imprisoned comrades in various countries on the Continent, and the decision by the Committee for Administrative Concerns regarding a re-organization of the Quartermaster’s functions.
“As you know,” the fellow droned on, “our lawful club was raided by the police following the death of Comrade Bourdin. They came here and in violation of British Law, forced their entry and undertook a fruitless search for dynamite. It was agreed by the Committee that a special commendation should be made to Comrade Ivan Gollanz, our Quartermaster, who has diligently enforced the Club’s ban on having any illegal substances allowed on our premises.”
A round of applause was given for the Quartermaster, after which some chap in near the back shouted out, “Did you say ‘allowed’ or ‘allowed to be found?’’’ His question elicited a round of laughter and applause for the deviously diligent Quartermaster.
Following several other business items that led me to marvel at the traditional organizational skills of a group of anarchists, the chairman called on the first speaker. Up to the pulpit stepped Captain François l’Olannais.
“Bonjour, mes comrades, he began. “It is my honor to deliver a short monograph and by doing so, impart to our friends in London some of the lessons learned from the experience of the Commune in Paris during the eventful year of 1870.”
His English was eloquent, even with a French accent.
“The marvelous experience of the Commune, when, for two glorious months, the proletariat truly were dictators and masters of their own destinies, has been praised in song, poetry, paintings, dance, and music. It stands as an example to the world of what citizens can achieve when we work together to throw off the yoke of the ruling class and the bourgeoisie. Tragically, these golden days did not last long. Previous studies have entirely dealt with the military failure of La Guarde Nationale to defend the citizens against the army. This morning, I shall endeavor to present an alternative understanding and thus enrich our critical intelligence. There was another factor at play, and it was the age-old issue of money. Thus, my monograph is called Lessons from the Commune: The Economic Consequences of the Peace.”
Having introduced his talk, he went carried on, rather brilliantly I thought, to explain the ways and means of paying the expenses of a revolution. It was not only an army that marched on its stomach, it was also the militia, and the local revolutionary committees or what the Russians referred to as a soviet. All of the people who were in the front lines of the struggle still had to be fed and clothed. Their children had to have schools, and their elderly and sick had to be cared for.
The elegant captain made a highly persuasive case and concluded by humbly offering the services of himself and his colleague, Captain Duhaut-Cilly, if assistance was needed by any anarchist movement in England in managing their financial affairs. When he concluded, he was greeted with polite although not particularly thunderous applause.
Following him came several other speakers, each of whom spoke briefly. Two of them, one French and the other Greek, were passionate about their particular subjects. The Scottish chap was, as would be expected, highly practical howbeit rather dull.
The crowd was getting a bit restless. We had been sitting attentively for nearly two hours, and I sensed that they had become impatient for the main event that had been promised. The restlessness changed to a mood of anticipation when the chairman bounded up to the pulpit and, smiling broadly, sought silence from the audience.
“Brothers and sisters, comrades all, we have saved the best until the last. Our honored guest is loved, revered, and respected by all of us and by our fellow revolutionaries in Europe and America. She has, from her own pocket, given money to many revolutionary movements throughout Europe and we are very grateful for her generosity. Comrades, our final speaker is not only the one of the most admired of our movement, she is by far the most attractive. Allow me to introduce, without any further delay, our beloved sister and comrade, Mrs. Lucy Goldman.”
The crowd leapt to their feet and applauded enthusiastically. I joined with them so as not to appear conspicuous. Through the sea of unkempt heads, I could see a figure standing in the front row and walking up to the platform. As she ascended the steps, her long brunette locks swayed back and forth across her shoulders. When she arrived at the pulpit, she turned and faced the crowd.
I stopped clapping, and my mouth opened involuntarily. Standing in the pulpit, dressed in plain clothing, but still dazzling, was the woman I had been introduced to only a short time ago as Princess Casamassima.
Chapter Six
Dazzling Violence
SHE SMILED A PERFECT SMILE and nodded humbly in response to the applause. The adulation eventually subsided, and we resumed our seats.
“Comrades, you are very kind to me” she began in a strong, clear voice and distinctive American accent. “Please, let me assure you that there is only one thing I accomplished that has permitted my ability to help pay for your courageous activities. I married a very rich but rather stupid Italian prince. All I had to do was to be smarter than he was and, I assure you, it was not difficult.”
This admission was met with a round of hearty laughter, followed by more applause. Then she continued, her tone both congenial and authoritative.
“Comrades,” she continued, “my colleague and eloquent Captain François has explained to you the economic lessons of the Commune. It is not my place to argue with his learned research. But my desire today is to bring what I believe to be the greatest lesson of the Commune. I have given to my talk the title of Lessons from Communarde Louise Michel: Education and Violence Can Never Be Separated.”
Here she was interrupted by applause.
“Comrade Louise was a dear member of this Club until she recently returned to her beloved, native France. I have heard from her just last week, and she informs me that she is safe and is already teaching again, while at the same time stirring up the impoverished masses against the cruelties and injustice of government. Over the past several years, it was my honor to sit at her feet and learn from her. I was not worthy to do so, but I had told her my story, and she took me under her wing. Now, allow me to impart my humble story to you, as it will help you to understand the convictions I have embraced in my heart and the conclusions I have reached with respect to the revolutionary actions we must take if we are to have any hope of seeing the dictatorship of the proletariat in our lifetime.”
The Naval Knaves Page 5