by Mike Hogan
The young man smoothed his moustache in a most indecorous manner.
“And from the domestic point of view, I must bring them back to Gondal in August, or all sorts of trouble will ensue.”
“Do you have a photograph of the stolen gems?” asked Holmes.
“Yes. I must have several - with me wearing them, I mean.”
“Do you have a court photographer, or are they studio portraits?
“I travel as a gentleman, Mr Holmes, with as few encumbrances as possible. Apart from Kanji and his people, only a dozen or perhaps a score of personal servants attend me: cooks, valets and so on.”
The Thakore lowered his voice as we passed through the lobby. “That Scotland Yard chap, Mr Lestrade, suggested that a society of Italian banditi might be behind the business. He contends that the Carbonari have suborned the Travellers Club staff.”
Holmes led the way back to Carlton Gardens. The alley was more crowded than when we had left it. Lestrade and a uniformed inspector talked with Colonel Delacy. Mycroft and Mr Melas watched the coroner examine the corpse. Churchill sat on his bollard munching an apple.
Holmes excused himself and joined his brother at the trench.
“What do you think of Edinburgh, Doctor?” the Thakore asked.
“Edinburgh is a fine school, Your Highness. Do you intend to specialise in a particular area? Tropical medicine, perhaps?”
“Oh no, I will practise general medicine. I intend to build a great hospital, and then railways, roads and schools: schools for girls as well as boys. I see no reason why, in ten years or so, Gondal should not be a model, modern state. I have a plan for abolishing taxes altogether, once the railways start to earn enough.”
The young man’s enthusiasm was affecting.
“There is another reason that makes this loss a bitter blow,” said Bhagwatsinhji in a low tone. “It is a matter of some delicacy. I should not really speak of it in case I bring on more bad karma.”
His whisper was just audible over the noise of traffic on Pall Mall and Inspector Lestrade’s loud bray.
“My little Gondal may receive a certain elevation, an increase in eminence - in rank. With that increased status I could bear down opposition and push through my railways.”
His voice came down to a low murmur. “Imagine, Doctor, eleven guns. You may think that I am dreadfully full of myself to dream of such an augmentation.”
He blinked earnestly at me.
“If I come back from London a knight, and KCIE, that is well. However, if I cable my guard to meet me as I step out of my carriage, not with the meagre nine-gun salute of the thakore of a third-class state, but with eleven guns of a maharajah of the first class! The effect would be felt in every quarter of Kathiawar, in Gujarat, in the Bombay Presidency itself! Major Perkins, Gondal’s political adviser, would get his longed-for promotion, and an honour. A promotion and a gong might render his memsahib less uncongenial. Your women can be just as awkward as our zenana, Doctor. Our women plot for their children, yours plot for honours for their husbands.”
He laughed, then grew serious. “In our world - and it is not so small, Doctor, I rule a hundred and thirty-thousand people - in our world, status is everything. I mean to drag my state up by its bootstraps, and I need to stand at a higher elevation to get a firm grip, if you follow my imperfect metaphor. Although I make light of it in front of Kanji, this loss of the blessed emeralds is a terrible setback.”
“You are sure of Kanji?” I asked.
“I have not the slightest doubt that Kanji would fling himself in front of a bullet aimed at my breast with the greatest loyalty - I mean Kanji, not the bullet. Oh dear, I would have been beaten for such a sentence at Rajkumar College. Mr Hapley, who taught us English and Physical Culture, was handy with the cane.”
“Can you think of anyone who would wish Your Highness ill?” I asked.
“Oh, yes,” he said cheerfully, recovering his good humour with youthful exuberance. “Dozens and dozens, no hundreds or even thousands, ha, ha. The Muslims hate me for favouring the Hindus. If I do something for the Muslims, the Hindus hate me. I have an auntie who would cheerfully slit my throat for building a school for girls. The local healers cast spells against me when I talk of hospitals. The bullock cart drivers rip up my railway lines and curse me.”
He grinned.
“I am short of many things in my small state, Doctor, but I have a plethora of enemies.”
A hansom cab halted in Pall Mall at the mouth of the alley.
“Ah, here is Limdi,” said the Thakore.
An Indian dressed in a similarly rich style to the Thakore, jumped out and strode up to Bhagwatsinhji. He had a full beard and a moustache tightly curled into points at each end in the Continental fashion.
“I say, hard lines, old chap,” he cried twirling his moustache. “Have they cleaned you out? If you need the res Augusta, I can let you have a draft on the Delhi and London.”
Bhagwatsinhji smiled and shook his head. “Let me introduce His Highness Thakore Sahib Sir Jaswantsinhji Fatehsinhji of the state of Limdi,” he said. “Doctor Watson.”
I shook hands with the prince in the English manner. He was, I thought, in his late twenties or early thirties.
“They took that old green necklace - the emeralds,” said Bhagwatsinhji. “Kanji surprised them and saw them off, the devils.”
“It must be vexing,” the older prince replied. “I stuffed my jewels straight into the hotel safe when I heard the news.”
“How did Your Highness learn of the robbery?” I asked softly.
Jaswantsinhji turned and regarded me. “You must be one of the famous Scotland Yard detectives whose exploits fill the penny illustrated papers.”
He made a remark to Bhagwatsinhji in one of the Indian languages that I did not catch. I have no doubt that it was disparaging. Bhagwatsinhji had the grace to ignore it. His friend was not as easy to like as the young Thakore of Gondal.
Jaswantsinhji grinned. “Am I under suspicion, sir? I admit everything: I stole the jewels and spent the night gloating over them and dreaming seditious thoughts against the Queen-Empress.”
“I am not a colleague of Inspector Lestrade,” I said stiffly. “I am a doctor.”
“I sent messages early this morning,” said Kanji hurrying from the Travellers Club. “I thought that the other Highnesses should be on their guard. I also telegraphed to Major Ross and Major Perkins.
“They struck when I was with Jaswantsinhji and Ross and Perkins,” said Bhagwatsinhji. “They are our political advisers. Major Perkins was in a tricky mood last evening. He wanted to make a night of it, or at least he did not want to go home. Knowing the memsahib, I do not blame him. We dined, and then played cards till late.”
“We third-class states out in Gujarat and Kathiawar get mostly old Reptonians as political agents,” said the older prince. “Reliable chaps who look over our shoulders and ensure that we do not spend too much on dancing girls.” He laughed. “Gondal scooped the pot with his Major Perkins. He not only attended Eton, he was a member of the secret society of Apostles at King’s College. His charming lady wife makes a point of letting everyone know.”
Kanji led the princes back towards the Travellers Club.
“One last question, Your Highness,” I called. Bhagwatsinhji turned.
“You mentioned that you wore the emeralds often, but not last night. Was there any reason for that?”
Kanji gave me a furious look and turned away. The young Thakore looked at his toes.
“Major Perkins wanted to visit a gaming house, Doctor. We gambled. It was not appropriate.”
I nodded. “I see. Thank you.”
The princes entered the Club, and I joined Holmes and Mycroft in the alley.
“I say, Doctor,” said Churchill, jumping off his bollar
d. “Did you notice Colonel Delacy’s carpet? Madame Melas did a wonderful job.”
5. A Laboratory Metal
He was Summoned
“American boots, strong, military-style, thick-soled American boots,” said Mycroft. “They are well looked after, and oiled regularly. That is not his hat. It belongs to the cabby with the white streak in his hair.”
Holmes smiled and handed him the contents of the envelope he had received from Lestrade. Mycroft took the items one by one.
“A steamer ticket envelope, with no ticket inside. A White Star Line receipt for a hundred dollars dated the seventeenth of last month. On the back is his list of expenses:
$25 from Chicago to New York by railway, including meals.
$12 for baggage. That is a significant amount; perhaps he includes gratuities.
$10 for his hotel for the night of the seventeenth. He stayed one night in New York at a reasonable hotel at that price. He boarded his ship to Liverpool on the eighteenth, saloon class and on a crack ship.”
Mycroft unfolded another sheet of paper. “Here we have a note of further expenses on the notepaper of Astor House, a businessman’s hotel on Broadway:
$2.50 expenses for the nights of the twenty-second and twenty-third of last month with no notation for meals. What was he doing at an hotel in New York when his ship had sailed for Liverpool five days previously? And then:
$16 for miscellaneous on-board expenses; a fair sum.”
“The receipts are initialled JW,” Holmes added. “That fits with the name ‘Walsh’ burned into the thick soles of his boots.”
“Yes, I think we have him,” said Mycroft, rubbing his hands together and smiling at his brother. “Mr Walsh was of Irish extraction, from County Mayo in all likelihood. He lived in Chicago, but he did not work in the meat-packing industry for which that city is so famed; he was a fireman.” He glanced across at Holmes. I, and every person within earshot, followed his gaze.
Holmes considered. “The tattoo on his wrist,” he said, after a pause. “I could not make it out at first. Yes, a fireman. That explains the boots and the locker key engraved EC 42-1 on his key ring. He was a senior fireman.”
Mycroft nodded. “The tattoo on his left wrist, although blurred, is conclusively the crest of the Chicago Fire Department. You are right, Sherlock, he was a senior man. His hands are not calloused; the scars are old ones. He has not done heavy work for ten years or more. He was a probably the battalion chief, in charge of Engine Company 42. He was no more than forty; he was therefore either very skilled or very well connected in that most nepotistic of cities and professions. The burn scars on his left cheek are old. Can we allow ourselves to speculate that they date from the Great Chicago Fire of ‘71?”
Holmes coughed.
“Perhaps not,” said Mycroft with a mischievous smile. “It is mere conjecture.”
He waved the envelope and papers. “Our man travelled from Chicago to New York by train, arriving on the seventeenth of last month. He immediately bought a steamer ticket to Britain for a ship leaving the following day. He stayed the night in a pleasant hotel, boarded his ship the following morning and looked forward to a comfortable passage at this time of year.”
Mycroft had a rapt audience; even the police constables that guarded the entrance to the alley had their ears cocked.
“It was not to be,” said Mycroft sententiously. “Two days out from New York -”
“Britannic!” cried Inspector Lestrade. “She collided in fog with the, oh, let me think now: the Celtic, of course, White Star Line. It was in the Illustrated London News. My wife read it to me over breakfast a month or - oh, I do beg your pardon.”
Mycroft looked down his long nose at the Inspector for a lingering moment. “It was not to be. As this loquacious person has said, the Britannic, our fire chief’s ship, collided with an outbound ship of the same line, the Celtic. Both ships were damaged, but able to manoeuvre. The Britannic returned to New York, setting down her passengers on the twenty-second.”
“Less a half-dozen or so dead,” said Holmes.
Mycroft shrugged. “All steerage. Our man was put up at Astor House, a business hotel, by White Star until he was given a berth on another steamer. His expenses were therefore negligible: two dollars and change.”
A closed carriage stopped at the end of the lane. We removed our hats as Lestrade directed two policemen to pick up the body and place it in the back. The Coroner took his place beside the driver and they clattered away.
“He was a stalwart fellow, as you would expect given his occupation and position,” Mycroft continued. “The collision did not deter him from his purpose. He sailed on the next available steamer to Liverpool.”
“The steamer, City of Rome,” said Holmes smugly. “I checked the Shipping News at the Travellers Club. After landing, he took a train to London and reconnoitred Pall Mall for several days. He wore his American-cut suit and homburg, read the New York Times and acted the American visitor here for the Queen’s Jubilee.”
“Was he the man with the costermonger slouch?” Churchill asked with an impertinent grin. “Was he the fellow waiting for the Clapham omnibus?”
The brothers avoided each other’s gaze. “He was in collusion with an unlicensed hansom driver who wore this black bowler low over his brow,” Mycroft continued. “He had a white streak in his hair; it is now dyed black. He carries a non-regulation whip. The cab has recently had its wheel spokes painted dark green and the rims show traces of paint. The cab is in a private mews, probably somewhere nearby. The horse is a fine bay, not a cab horse.”
“Anything else, Mr Holmes, sirs?” asked Lestrade with an attempt at a comic leer.
“No, well one thing; no, two things,” offered Mycroft. “The cab driver is the dead man’s brother. He is Mr P Walsh and he probably lived until recently in France. And our deceased fireman was not by nature a meticulous man.”
“The list of expenses,” I exclaimed. “That surely argues for a punctilious character.”
“On the back of an envelope, Doctor?” Mycroft replied. “I think not. He took pains to note his expenses, because he expected them to be refunded. He did not come to Britain on his own occasions.”
“He came to do an important job, or jobs,” said Holmes. “He was summoned.”
Forty Years in India
“Robbers, dacoits, rooftops, pshaw,” said Colonel Delacy pounding the table and smiling at us.
“There’s more to this than meets the eye, gentlemen; that’s forty years on the sub-continent talking to you now. Look to the zenana: the women of the court.”
Holmes, Mycroft, Churchill and I had adjourned to the Red Lion at the Marlborough Street end of Pall Mall for lunch. To my astonishment, Holmes had invited Colonel Delacy to be one of our party.
“The women have nothing to do but sit around all day and plot,” the Colonel continued. “They used to bring up the royal princes in their quarters, the zenana. They were incensed when we opened Rajkumar College at Rajkot for princes of the Kathiawar and Gujarat. We took the little beggars away from the influence of their mothers, you see. That cut the women off from power and diminished their influence. Oh, they spat and clawed, but we rammed the school through. Before the College opened, the princelings of Kathiawar learned nothing but the feminine vices: perfumes, jewels, extravagance and intrigue. Rajkumar makes little Englishmen of them. The masters teach them to wash behind their ears, play with a straight bat, mangle Homer and Virgil, and above all to know their place.”
“How extensive is the state of Gondal,” I asked.
“Gondal is a third-class state, nine guns, about the size of Dorset: four towns and a hundred and seventy-five villages as I recall. The number varied as villages changed hands in martial spats or were mortgaged to pay gambling debts. We ran it until the young prince reached his majority. He’s done w
ell in the last few years; he’s kept things together.”
Our order of chops and mashed potato arrived with a bottle of Beaune. “Damme,” exclaimed the Colonel. “One bottle of inferior red for three of us, not counting the boy who gulped a pint of sweet sherry last night and wolfed half the Dundee cake. Damn near with the wine, these detective swine.”
Holmes sighed, called over a waiter and ordered another bottle.
“I spent forty years in India in war and peace,” the Colonel continued in a more friendly tone. “I have seen intrigues grafted on deceptions, multiplied by conspiracies, and I know my business: Mr Mycroft Holmes will vouch for that. Something is not right; the plot is absurdly complex for the theft of a half-lakh string of mouldy emeralds.”
“What of the older prince, the Thakore of Limdi? He did not seem particularly concerned at his friend’s loss,” I asked.
“Jaswantsinhji? He is an annoying sprat. Rajkumar College has a reputation for producing the type: as have our public schools for that matter. Jaswantsinhji is jealous of the younger prince and he has reason. Thakore Bhagwatsinhji of Gondal has all the makings of a highflyer. You heard about the horses, Holmes?”
“Yes,” said Mycroft. “An astute move. When the first rumours of trouble between Britain and Russia reached Gondal, Bhagwatsinhji sent the Queen a telegram offering to provide horses for our army: local chargers of very high quality. What is more, he didn’t just promise the horses, he sent them to Bombay with commendable, almost indecent alacrity. That reached the ear of the Queen, along with his plans for medical study in Edinburgh, schools for girls, hospitals, lower taxes and railways galore. Her Majesty was impressed. He got an invitation to the Jubilee, a knighthood and a KC in this new Indian Empire order.
“If he breaks ground on his girls’ schools there is a possibility that Her Majesty might insist on a greater mark of Imperial favour,” Mycroft said, with a knowing look at the Colonel.