The Naval Knaves

by Craig Stephen Copland

  The earnest young woman was as accomplished a public speaker as any man I had ever listened to. She began by telling us how she and her family had lived a peaceful life in the city of Strasbourg. Her father was French and her mother German, a situation that was common in the towns and villages of Alsace. Her father was a tailor and was reasonably prosperous, but when the war took over the province, he was declared an enemy by the advancing German forces and, though unarmed, was killed by the German troops. His execution took place in front of his wife and young daughter.

  Mrs. Lucy went on to tell us how she and her mother had fled to Paris with nothing but the clothes on their back. Her mother was able to earn a few francs as a seamstress, but soon the Prussian army laid siege to the city, and her mother fled again, this time to America. The loss of the husband and father left a great hole in the young woman’s soul and, as she grew and learned, she came to understand that the true enemy of the people was not the Prussian army who won the war, nor the French who lost it, nor the English who could have intervened and stopped the senseless slaughter, but who stood back, watched and did nothing.

  She then explained, to a warmly appreciative audience, how the difficulties of her early life had fostered her political ideology. The foundation of her faith, as she called it, was her education in the facts and data of social science. Her own studies, combined with the teaching she had received from the esteemed communard Louise Michel, had led her to the truth that anarchy must take place before any just society can be established. Whilst I did not agree with her, I felt genuinely sympathetic to her own pilgrim’s progress.

  Then she lost me.

  “We all know,” she admonished, “that you cannot make an omelette without breaking a few eggs,” and she justified the assassination of crowned heads and their family members, or even innocent bystanders as a necessary price to pay in order to achieve justice for the masses. She made reference to a series of actions by anarchists — the bombings in Paris at the Opéra and the Chambre des Députés and the killing of President Sadi Carnot, the assassinations in Russia of the Czar and the Mayor of Moscow, and the Haymarket bombing in Chicago — as examples of how the great cause had been advanced.

  “Before the proletariat can be mobilized to fight against a government, they must lose their trust in the government,” she asserted. “A lazy liberal who expects his government to provide for his needs will still trust his government even when it fails miserably and incompetently to do so. A constipated conservative will still vote for a government that is tainted by yet another scandal. But the fundamental right and expectation of every citizen is that his government will protect him and his family. When a government fails in this most basic of duties, trust is destroyed. Therefore, our most effective weapon is the selective use of violence in a way that leads ordinary citizens to join our cause and overthrow the government.”

  Her logic might have been reasonable, but her moral position, as far as I was concerned, was highly distorted. Ends do not justify means, or at least that is what I believed. Sadly, it appeared that the crowd was much more in agreement with her than with me and she was given a loud round of applause, accompanied by shouts of “Bravo” when she ended her passionate speech.

  “You say,” said Holmes as we walked back to Baker Street, “that the two captains were together with Mrs. Lucy, the Princess Casamassima, at the reception.”

  I affirmed that the three of them had been there together.

  “I am almost persuaded,” admitted Holmes, “to regret that I declined the invitation to attend such an intolerable event. Almost, but not quite. I have some degree of confidence in your observations, and I thank you for them.”

  “And what now are your plans?” I asked.

  “My suspicions have now shifted to this trio of anarchists,” he said. “However, I do not yet have sufficient data on which to form a judgment. I must find a means of learning much more about them.”

  “Will you let slip the Company of Irregulars?” I asked.

  “Under normal circumstances, I would, but there is an impediment in doing so. These Captains, as you have informed me, are here on a diplomatic mission and thus protected by diplomatic immunity. I must proceed with caution else I might unnecessarily create a row between England and France. The French are our good friends, whether we like them or not, and it just would not do to antagonize them.”

  “Yes, so what will you do?”

  Holmes disappeared into his own mind for several minutes as we walked along Marylebone Road.

  “I fear that I must confide in Lestrade and seek some sort of judicial approval before confronting two French diplomats. He will not be in his office tomorrow, as it will be Sunday, but might you be available first thing on Monday to accompany me to meet with him? Your services as my scribe are always appreciated.”

  I assured him that I would be eager to provide such assistance as I could, and we parted at the corner of Marylebone and Baker.

  At eight o’clock on the Monday morning, I rang the bell at 221B. Holmes descended and together we took a cab down to the Embankment and the offices of Scotland Yard. Inspector Lestrade was at his desk in his cluttered, Spartan office and greeted us with a smile that bordered on a smirk.

  “And to what do I owe the honor of meeting with England’s only consulting detective and his Boswell this fine fall morning?”

  We were seated, and Holmes thoroughly and patiently explained the reason for our visit.

  “So, you are telling me you want to investigate these Frenchies, right? Didn’t I tell you that they were who I suspected all along, right?”

  “You did indeed, inspector,” said Holmes.

  “Good, glad you remembered that. Well, as far as I care, you can inspect the two of them all you want. In fact, you can jolly well go ahead and inspect them right down to their privates if you wish.”

  “I beg your pardon, Inspector?”

  “You heard what I said, Holmes. If you want to strip the two boys from the Quai D’Orsay stark naked and inspect whatever you want, go ahead. Fact is, that’s the way you’ll find them right now.”

  Lestrade was now gloating openly.

  “That’s usually,” he said, “what we do to corpses that are brought in here. Your Frenchies are in the morgue. Aussi mort qu'une souris d’glise, like they say in Paarrie.”

  I was too shocked to correct his mangled metaphor. Holmes was likewise surprised but recovered immediately.

  “Would you be so kind as to tell us what happened?” he asked.

  “Oldest story in the book, Holmes. Cherchez la femme,” said Lestrade, and then he paused for dramatic effect.

  “Please, Inspector?” asked Holmes.

  “Not surprising, you know, Holmes, that it was the French who made up that rule, cherchez la femme. Seems those two chasseurs had both gone spoony over the same filly. Seems they were both besotted with a certain Princess and the competition got too heated. So, being French and given to thinking with their little heads instead of their big ones, if you know what I mean, they have a duel over her. Pistols at twenty paces in Hyde Park. Being as they are both military trained, they are good shots and send a slug into each other’s hearts, and both end up dead. Their bodies were brought in early this morning. That’s the French for you, Holmes. So, you can go and interrogate them all you want, but, like they say, dead men tell no tales.”

  “And the woman? This Princess?”

  “She’s here now too. Forbes has her in his office and is cross-questioning her at great length. If you ask me, he’s taking his bloody good time about it seeing as she is a beauty to look at. But if you want to share in the pleasure, you can go and chat with her yourselves.”

  “Thank you, Inspector,” said Holmes. “We will do just that. And I assume that you plan to have a report on this incident, yes?”

  “Of course, I do. I will have a copy sent over to you when it is finished. Now, if you will excuse me, I still have a case to solve concerning who stole all th
ose plans from the Admiralty. I hope you haven’t forgotten about that, have you, Holmes?”

  “Not at all, inspector. Not at all.”

  One of Lestrade’s men, Constable Jerry, led us down the hall to Inspector Forbes’s office. Responding to a respectful knock, Forbes opened the door. Jerry announced us and said that Lestrade’s instructions were that Holmes was to be free to cross-question the woman. Then he turned around and walked away.

  Forbes did not seem at all pleased with being interrupted. Once inside, it was obvious as to why. Sitting inside was the woman we had come to know as either Princess Casamassima, or Lucy Goldman. She was wearing a very tight dress that was slit up the side to permit both movement and the exposure of a perfectly formed calf and lower thigh. Although it was still early in the morning, she was perfectly coiffed, with every hair in place and just enough powder and paint to make her, yet again, dazzling.

  “Oh my,” she said. “I do declare, if it isn’t the Baker Street boys. Lovely to see you again, Dr. Watson, and is this the famous Sherlock Holmes that I have read so much about? Well now, how do you do?”

  She held out her hand to Holmes, who took it and made a very shallow bow toward her.

  “I am honored to make your acquaintance. Do I call you Princess, or is it Mrs. Lucy?”

  “Oh, my. Well now, a famous detective like Sherlock Holmes can call me whatever he wants. Had we met at the Langham, I am sure you would have called me Princess. Mind you, had you bothered, while in your awful disguise, to introduce yourself on Saturday morning at the Club, I am sure that just Lucy would have been fine. And do tell, Mr. Holmes, what did you think of my talk?”

  Holmes was clearly not expecting that question and was momentarily nonplussed.

  The lady continued. “Oh, please, Mr. Holmes. Do you not think it fair that if you have your Baker Street Irregulars spying on us that we should not be able to have agents of our own?” She laughed mischievously with that question, and I could plainly see why men might become so smitten with her that they would duel over the right to her affections.

  “No doubt you are, madam,” said Holmes. “However, I fear I am not interested in discussing the merits of our respective agents.”

  The smile vanished from the Princess’s face.

  “No, Mr. Holmes,” she said softly and dropped her gaze to the floor. “I am sure you did not. Forgive me for trying to make light of a very sad situation. Failing to have a proper sense of decorum in tragic times is one of my besetting sins. Please, forgive me. How may I assist you? I have already told my story to Scotland Yard. Shall I repeat it for you? Would that be useful, Mr. Holmes?”

  “It would be very useful. Kindly do so, and please try not to omit any detail, no matter how seemingly unimportant.”

  The woman spoke in subdued tones and every so often paused to regain her composure.

  “I met François and August several years ago in Paris. I had recently married my husband, the Prince of Aosta, and we were attending a function at the Italian Embassy in Paris. As tends to happen at such events, handsome young men are inevitably introduced to pretty young women. Do not ask me to explain why, I can only assure you that it happens, and I am honest enough to admit that my face is my fortune. I, in turn, introduced them to my husband and the three of them engaged in several business transactions that proved profitable. Again, do not ask me to explain, but mutually profitable business transactions between men inevitably lead them to think of each other as friends, and so the three of them became quite fond of each other.”

  “And the captains became fond of you?” asked Holmes, rather tactlessly.

  “Yes, Mr. Holmes. That was also inevitable. We are speaking here of men, are we not? I can say before God, whoever he or she may be, that my behavior was honorable and I never deliberately led either of them to develop feelings toward me. I am not lacking in that skill when I have wished to use it, but I assure you that, as a happily married woman who had been very generously provided for by a wealthy husband, I had no interest in jeopardizing my fortune by treading on dangerous grounds.

  “Nevertheless, both of them continued to express an interest in me and would send me, through private means, small gifts and flowers from time to time. I did not reciprocate and did my best to discourage their attentions, but they both persisted. Several months ago, it happened, by fate, that they were both posted to London at the same time as I was and, being good friends, we met regularly.”

  “I know why they were here,” said Holmes. “Pray tell, why were you?”

  “Did Dr. Watson not tell you? I am conducting research, paid for most kindly by my husband, into the comparable conditions of the poor in various European countries with the intent, I proudly acknowledge, of finding ways to help them organize themselves and throw off the yoke of capitalist oppression.”

  “A curious goal,” said Holmes, “considering that your husband’s fortune comes from his successful capitalist enterprises.”

  She smiled at him. “One of our writers, Mr. Kropotkin I believe it was, described some people as ‘useful idiots.’ My husband, bless his heart, has served wonderfully in that role.”

  “Has he now? Please, continue.”

  “Looking back, I should have been wiser. But I was alone in London, and they were wonderful and amusing company. We passed many lovely hours together at the theater or having dinners together. They were terribly attentive to me, but I brushed it off. I am used to excessive adoration from men. It was only in the past two weeks that I perceived that they had become quite competitive in seeking my attention. Each began to send me invitations to accompany them somewhere. I had often joined them for tea at their house in Belgravia, and on Wednesday last, while I was sitting in the parlor, I overheard them shouting at each other. They were saying things in French, which I do not speak at all well and could not understand, but I heard my name being uttered several times and I could tell that they were arguing about me.

  “Last night, this note arrived. I was not able to make head nor tail of it then, but now, very sadly, it makes sense.”

  She handed a piece of paper to Holmes who read it and then handed it over to me. It was typewritten and ran:

  By this time tomorrow, as fate will have it, you will have only one of us to choose from.

  “I had no idea what it meant. It made no sense. I wondered if one of them had been called back to Paris, and they were going to flip a coin to decide which one it would be. I still cannot believe that they would fight a duel over me. I know they are French and all that, but it still seems pointless. And now it seems utterly insane. Two brilliant young men are dead, and for what? For a prize they could never receive anyway.”

  Here she appeared to lose her calm composure, lowered her head, and began to weep. When she had regained control of herself, she looked up at Holmes.

  “I do not know what else there is, Mr. Holmes, that I could tell you. I last saw François and Autumn yesterday afternoon. The police came to my door nearly two hours ago now, and I came directly here with them. I have not gone down into the morgue to look at their bodies. I could bear to do that.”

  “Thank you, madam,” said Holmes in a voice that bordered on compassion. “That is quite enough. Please accept my condolences. Their deaths were pointless, but, as you say, they are French, and these passions are in the blood. Good day, madam.”

  He rose and turned for the door. I stopped long enough to place a comforting hand on the shoulder of the princess. She looked up at me and, even with tears streaming down her face, she was radiantly beautiful.

  “Come, Watson,” said Holmes when I had caught up with him. “Let us pay a short visit to the morgue and see if it provides any clues.”

  We descended several flights of stairs into the cool of the police morgue. The fellows who attended to the place silently wheeled out the bodies of the two French captains. Both of them had been stripped of their clothing and their bodies washed.

  “Are their garments available to be inspe
cted?” asked Holmes.

  “Sorry there, sir,” came the answer from one of the attendants. “But a chap from the French embassy came by about forty-five minutes ago and collected up all their clothes, their shoes, watches, and the brace of pistols and the case and took them away.”

  “Without an opportunity to examine the clothing,” said Holmes, “it is impossible to learn much about the distance from which the shots were fired. The wounds indicate that they were both using 52 caliber dueling pistols. The only remarkable thing about the wounds is that both of them were exceptionally accurate and hit the heart like a bull’s eye.”

  “They were,” I observed, “military men and some of those fellows were very good shots. I watched them at Maiwand pick off a nasty native warrior at a far greater distance than duelists stand from each other.”

  “Yes,” said Holmes, “I suppose that is quite possible. If that is the case, then there is really nothing more we can learn here, and the story, for now, of how they came by their fates seems plausible.”

  Chapter Seven

  Not Nothing

  WE PARTED. I took a cab back to my medical practice and Holmes one to who knows where. At about six o’clock I returned to my home near Little Venice and had the opportunity to chat with my dear wife, Mary, about the adventures of the day. As I was telling her about the Princess and the two French captains, her face took on a very odd look.

  “What’s wrong,” I asked, as obviously something was vexing her.