by Mike Hogan
“What is this Mrs Hudson is babbling about Fenian assassins taking tea and fruit cake with you?” asked Holmes.
“We had a visitor yesterday: you will never guess who,” I said with a sly grin.
“Let me try. Charles Stuart Parnell and his private secretary.”
I must have looked crestfallen.
“I noticed a large envelope on my desk containing a sheaf of Parnell’s correspondence,” Holmes explained. “I gather that he wants me to analyse the writing. Ha, a pretty kettle of fish!”
“Parnell is muddying the waters, Holmes. We cannot think The Times guilty of a fraud!”
“People - well most people - make mistakes.”
“But The Times has been daring Parnell to sue them since early in the year,” I exclaimed. “They must be sure of their evidence or they would be exposing themselves to a tremendous scandal and serious financial repercussions.”
I picked up one of the newspapers Parnell had left. “Look at this headline from April, Holmes, ‘Mr Parnell and the Phoenix Park Murders’. The article contains a facsimile of a highly incriminating letter that suggests that the murdered Secretary Burke got ‘no more than he deserved’. It is signed by Parnell.”
I threw the newspaper down.
“And yet,” Holmes said. “Parnell is universally recognised as an astute man. Would he send such damning letters though the British post? It would be the height of foolhardiness. Passed by special messenger, or even by hand, they would still be liable to interception by the authorities. No, no, the proposition is doubtful in the extreme.”
He set his elbows on the arms of his chair and steepled his fingers.
“I will need to submit Mr Parnell’s correspondence to a most exhaustive examination. Pray you ask him for samples of his envelopes. I will contact the editor of The Times and request to see his originals - we might need the Prime Minister’s support to secure them. And there is one person whose views would be invaluable, Alphonse Bertillon, the foremost French facimilist. I intend to consult him when we go to Paris.”
“Are we going to Paris? I do not have a valid passport. I doubt that Churchill has one.”
“I understand that passports are dispensed with in France, but they amend the rules monthly with each change of government. If necessary, we can procure documents through Mycroft. I will also get letters of introduction from the Fenians here to their colleagues across the Channel.”
“Ha, ha,” I cried. “Ho, ho, I am sure that they would be most accommodating.”
Holmes tapped the dottle from his pipe on the edge of the grate and jumped up. “Come, gentlemen. Our duty to Her Majesty must be our first concern. Let us to Woolwich. It is a fine day for a detonation.”
“Why don’t we take the train?” I suggested. “It would be much more economical.”
Our cab dropped us at the gatehouse of the Arsenal.
A police sergeant and two constables guarding the gate asked our business. Inspector Lestrade was summoned from inside the Works to vouch for us.
“I say, Holmes,” I said softly as we followed the Inspector through a yard lined with field guns. “Those policemen are armed with pistols.”
We passed humming machine shops and heavily built storehouses, and entered a high-walled yard. A large wooden hut stood in the centre. A group of frock-coated and uniformed figures huddled in the scant shade of a short section of concrete wall set thirty feet or so from the hut. Lestrade led us to the group and introduced Holmes to Assistant Commissioner of Police James Monro, his deputy Anderson, three inspectors and various Artillery officers. Churchill and I were not introduced.
Anderson, visibly annoyed, looked first at his watch, then at me, and finally at young Churchill.
“This young man is Alfred Nobel, Junior,” said Holmes. “He is here at the personal behest of his famous father. He speaks Swedish, Moldovan and Lap; I shall interpret as necessary. I took the liberty of asking Doctor Watson to attend with his medical bag. You never know with dynamite.”
He glanced at his watch. “And there is no such thing as being nearly late. Shall we begin?”
One of the officers led us into the wooden hut. A long table stood on a foot-high stage in the centre of the hut. Around it were ranged twelve chairs, each occupied by a full-size tailor’s mannequin.
“This is a simulacrum of the Cabinet Room at 10 Downing Street,” said Assistant Commissioner Monro in a strong Scots accent. He indicated a four-inch high brass device on the table. “In April of ‘84, three hand bombs of American manufacture were carried from New York on the transatlantic steamer, City of Chester. They were intercepted. This one has been deactivated and partially disassembled.”
He picked up the gleaming brass cylinder and passed it to Holmes.
“As you can see, the device is packed with explosives: high-concentrate nitro-glycerine dynamite of the latest type.”
Holmes handed the bomb to Anderson who quickly passed it on. Members of the group examined the device with various degrees of interest and apprehension.
Monro took a glass phial from one of the inspectors. As he held it up to the light, I could see that it had a metal structure inside.
“The detonator is filled with sulphuric acid. Inside the glass tube is a free moving lead weight that will break the glass on impact and set off the dynamite. I shall not pass this around; it is delicate and dangerous.”
Holmes whipped out his magnifying glass and examined the phial closely. “Clever,” he murmured. “It is a sophisticated type of grenade.”
Monro nodded. He returned the phial to his assistant and continued. “I would like you gentlemen to imagine that this hut is the Cabinet Room, or if you prefer, the Chamber of the House of Commons.”
A soldier appeared at the open door of the hut. He carried a brass cylinder identical to the one we had examined.
“Bombardier Hardy is holding a primed bomb loaded with explosives.”
The soldier moved slowly and warily to the table. The group parted and gave him a wide berth. We watched as he attached the device to a loop of string hanging from the roof of the hut. He saluted and left more quickly than he had entered.
“The drop to the table, as you can see, is no more than two feet,” Monro said. “Kindly follow me to a safe shelter.” He walked outside.
We shoved our way out of the door after him. Churchill made as if to approach the table for a closer look, but Holmes hooked a finger through his collar and pulled the boy outside. We followed Monro to the concrete wall.
We watched as the bombardier gently closed the door of the hut and walked backwards towards us, paying out the string.
We clustered behind the wall. Several members of our group, including one or two of the Artillery officers, were grim and pasty faced. That, I thought, was not a good omen. Churchill was bright eyed and bushy tailed, again a worrying phenomenon. He whispered something to the bombardier.
“On my command,” said Monro in a voice that would have intimidated any number of Wahhabi conspirators in Oudh. I noticed that Churchill had the string in his hand and a wild look on his face. I made ready to remonstrate -
“Three, two -”
A bright flash blinded me, a huge bang deafened me, a plume of dust, smoke and debris flew over my head, and the charred remains of a stuffed dummy dropped on top of me. More wreckage smashed against the concrete wall with enormous force. A cloud of acrid smoke enveloped us; we staggered about coughing and spluttering.
Holmes and Churchill patted out the smouldering embers on my hat and the shoulders of my frock coat. I was glad that I wore a stiff bowler. We dusted ourselves off and assembled again in the hut.
The table was gone - disintegrated. The chairs were either destroyed or thrown against the walls in a huddle. Daylight was visible through dozens, scores of holes, large and sma
ll, in the walls of the hut. The bombardier squirted water over the remains of the mannequins with a small pump. The stench was a blend of dust, strong chemicals and burning wool. The dummies representing the Government were slashed to ribbons.
“When the first bomb was tested in ‘84,” Monro said in a quiet tone, “every figure was wounded. The smallest number of wounds was nineteen, the largest forty-nine. Many were, as now, disembowelled or decapitated or both. The target, I would remind you, was Her Majesty’s Prime Minister and Cabinet.”
We shook hands with Mr Monro at the gates of the Arsenal.
“I do not approve of amateur detectives, Mr Holmes,” he said in his strong Scots accent. “I have been ordered to afford you any assistance in my power. I obey orders, but I reserve the right to protest those that waste my men’s time without reasonable hope of result.”
“Then we shall both reserve our judgements,” said Holmes. “Personally, I find amateur theatricals and fireworks displays tedious in the extreme.” He dusted off his frock coat and popped his top hat on his head. “Good day to you.”
“Come, Watson, we have an appointment with Mycroft. Albert, grab that cab!”
A Mediterranean Heart
“Holmes,” I began as the cab cantered off.
“I agree,” said Holmes in a serious tone. “The demonstration was deeply disturbing. The Fenians are further along than I had thought possible. They have the means to mount a devastating attack on their target. The question is, have they the resolve to spill royal blood? If yes, then when, where and who? As you saw from your researches, the waters are murky. Let us see what Mycroft has to say.”
We alighted opposite the Carlton Club. Holmes waved his arm to encompass the street and breathed deeply.
“Oh, bear me to the paths of fair Pall Mall!
Safe are thy pavements, grateful is thy smell.”
Churchill and I exchanged puzzled glances.
“John Gay,” said Holmes. “He was a dreadful person and poor poet. One remembers such odd things from school. It is a stale couplet and I shall endeavour to forget it.”
He checked his watch. “We are early; it is not yet half-past four. Mycroft will not be at the Diogenes Club until a quarter to five. We might stroll along to the Red Lion and have a cool drink, or -”
A loud screech came from a window high in a building on the opposite side of the road. A black haired, bearded, foreign-looking man waved to us furiously from a top-floor window. He hooted and capered in a most indecorous manner.
“Murder?” I said squinting up at him. “Robbery? Should I fetch a constable?”
“Oh, dear,” said Holmes. “It is the Greek interpreter.”
In a few moments, a squat, stout man with an olive complexion and a short black beard appeared at the doorway of the building opposite. He ran across the road without regard for the traffic, ignoring the imprecations of cab and delivery cart drivers.
He stood panting before us, beaming at Holmes. His left eye was slightly swollen and above it was a lurid bruise.
“Mr Melas,” said Holmes. “How good to see you again.”
He shook hands eagerly with Holmes and with me. I introduced Churchill.
“Ah,” said Mr Melas in a cultured English tone. “The son of the great Lord Randolph.”
“Mr Melas,” I explained to Churchill, “is an interpreter. We met last week in a small matter of kidnapping and coercion.”
“A small matter for my benefactors, Mr Holmes and Doctor Watson,” said Mr Melas gravely. “For me, it was a matter of life and death. These gentlemen saved my poor life.”
He beamed again, and looked at his pocket watch.
“I would suppose that you are here to see Mr Mycroft Holmes, sirs. He will arrive at the Diogenes Club behind us in exactly twenty-two minutes. I see him from my window; he is as regular as the mails. May I prevail upon you to take some simple refreshment in my rooms in the building across the road? I cannot allow my saviours to pass my house without extending to them my meagre hospitality. I speak the language of the Bard to some degree, but in my breast burns a Mediterranean heart.”
It would have been churlish to refuse, and although Holmes could be stiff at times, he stared into the distance for a moment, and then acceded to Mr Melas’ request with a smile and a bow.
Mr Melas led us across the road, more cautiously now that his guests’ lives were at stake, and into a large stone building that resembled one of the many gentlemen’s clubs that stood along Pall Mall. We passed through an oval entrance hall with doors on either side. I glimpsed two large, shabby drawing rooms, or perhaps libraries. We followed Mr Melas through to the central stairwell, another oval compartment, from which stairs rose in an elegant single flight to a landing lit by a fine cupola.
The walls were ornamented with marbled columns and bronzed capitals in the Greek taste. Statues of Grecian cupbearers stood in arched wall openings. I could see why Mr Melas might have chosen that building to make his home in London.
A pageboy in a dingy buttons uniform officiously ushered us upstairs. As we ascended the stairs, Mr Melas gave Churchill an account of the case in which he had been involved. He described how a giggling murderer and his accomplice had twice kidnapped him, and finally left him to die in a room filled with poisonous gas. The pageboy rolled his eyes and winked at Churchill. I stared the boys into submission.
Holmes pointed out the rooms of his brother, Mycroft on the first floor. Mr Melas lived in the flat above him. The apartments were disposed in the Continental style, two on each of the first and second floors. It seemed a sensible arrangement that eliminated the need for an internal staircase within each dwelling.
As he showed us into his rooms, he indicated the doors of the flat opposite his, across the stairwell.
“My neighbour is Colonel Delacy, ex-Indian Army. He spends his summers at a boarding house in Torquay. He is a member of the Diogenes Club, and he grows fine petunias in window boxes. We have never spoken, ha, ha. We nod and hold doors open for each other: it is very English.”
I could not see what Mr Melas found singular, much less amusing, in the Colonel’s behaviour. If the two gentlemen had not been introduced, how could they engage in conversation?
Melas’ rooms were decidedly un-English. The drawing room was large, much larger than our poor sitting room at Baker Street. Three sash windows stood open, allowing a pleasant, cooling breeze to bring in the scent of the flowers that grew in profusion in hanging boxes and baskets.
The floor was of polished wood, without a carpet or rugs. A wicker sofa and two chairs with thick, pale-blue cushions stood in front of the fireplace. A vase filled with more summer flowers decorated the grate. A white grand piano was positioned at an angle in the far-right corner opposite the windows.
Everywhere, on every wall, there were paintings. The largest, a huge, unframed scene that hung above the fireplace, depicted a group of street musicians performing outside a taverna. Others showed white painted houses on rocky islands set in azure seas, or Greek warriors with bandannas on their heads waving curved swords at cowering Turks.
“Tea or coffee, gentlemen?” said Mr Melas, ushering us to the sofa and chairs. “Or perhaps something stronger?”
“Tea, thank you,” said Holmes. He strode to the window and stood to one side, looking down at the street.
“In the English manner, of course,” said Mr Melas. “We have some Dundee cake.”
“Could I have -” Churchill began.
“Tea,” I said firmly, “would be very welcome.”
I joined Holmes at the window. “A fine view of Pall Mall,” I said.
He nodded; he seemed lost in thought. “Let me have a page from your notebook, Watson, and your pencil.”
A screech came from somewhere within the apartment, and a female voice let loose a high-pitched
stream of what I had to guess was Greek. A lower, reasoning murmur counterpointed the higher atonic melody; the high notes were in the ascendant.
Melas returned with a discomfited expression. He placed a large folding table in front of the sofa.
Behind him was a short, stout, brown-skinned lady in a black dress and white apron carrying a huge tray. She set out a dozen or more bowls of olives, sliced tomatoes, salad, cold meats and cheeses.
“Mama,” said Mr Melas. He shrugged an un-English shrug. “She insists - it is the custom.”
The lady shook our hands and encouraged us with eloquent gestures to sit and eat. Mr Melas brought out a carafe of chilled white wine, baskets of warm, deliciously aromatic herbed bread and small bowls of vegetable pastes, cream cheeses and olive oil.
Holmes sat and, after wiping his hands on a scented towel, filled his plate from the various bowls. He took a chunk of bread, casually dipped it into a pale-pink paste and popped it into his mouth. Melas’ mother watched him closely.
“Efharistoomay, Madame Melas,” he said. “Pentanostimo.”
She clapped her hands with delight. Melas lost his gloomy expression and passed around glasses of wine. Madame Melas bustled in and out refilling bowls and offering new ones. I sampled all the dishes - my first experience with Greek food - and I was delighted with the freshness and variety of flavours.
Churchill ate avidly. I resolved to acquaint him with the proprieties of eating for the first time in a strange house. Whatever might be the norm at Blenheim, or Buckingham Palace for all I knew, such an obsessive display of appetite, though gratifying to the hostess, was not the gentlemanly thing.
“You are an art collector, Mr Melas,” said Holmes, indicating the pictures above and around him.
Mr Melas shrugged a deprecating shrug. His manners were becoming more relaxed and Mediterranean with the passage of the wine carafe.