by Mike Hogan
Holmes smiled. “Here was a perfect opportunity for the would-be jewel thieves to test their plan and equipment, and then to gain access to Buckingham Palace.”
He turned to the old man being tended by Gondal. “Is that an accurate account, Mr Kanji?”
The Thakore of Gondal stood and staggered to the wall of the cabin. He shook his head in disbelief.
“I am afraid that it is true, Your Highness,” said Holmes. “Kanji was in league with the thieves of the emeralds and of the Koh-i-Noor. He persuaded you to leave the necklace behind when you went out with Limdi and your political advisors; he gave the signal for the theft to take place that evening. Yesterday, he took your court clothes and invitation card with him when he was carried by his servants in a trunk out of the Travellers Club and taken away in Walsh’s hansom.”
Gondal let out a great cry, drew his scimitar and lunged at Kanji. The old man fell against the Maharajah and slid to the deck. Duleep screeched and crouched behind a chair.
“Put up your sword this instant,” said Midshipman James, drawing his cutlass.
“Or the dew will rust it,” Holmes murmured.
Holmes received a fierce look from the midshipman. “I will cut down the next man to offer violence,” he said. “Unauthorised violence, that is.”
The bosun pulled Gondal back and picked Kanji up from the floor. Holmes turned to me with another quip on his lips.
“If you cannot keep Mr Sherlock Holmes quiet, Doctor, I will have him gagged and returned to the ship,” said Midshipman James fiercely. “This is not a moment for levity.”
Mycroft and I exchanged smug looks as Holmes spluttered, then sat quietly and said nothing.
“Quite right, Mr James,” said Mycroft. “Sherlock always was a chatterer.”
“Leave it to the Navy, Holmes,” I muttered.
“This Indian gentleman is dead, sir,” said the bosun.
I Admire Your Pertinacity
A long, shrill whistle came from the Enchantress.
“There is no wound,” I said after examining the body. “I suspect that he had a heart attack, or a seizure of some sort.”
“Perhaps he died of remorse,” Holmes murmured with a tight smile.
A party of sailors carried the corpse to a cabin and I searched Kanji’s clothes. I returned to the Dining Saloon and shook my head at Holmes and Mycroft.
“The gems could be anywhere, Sherlock,” Mycroft muttered. “The lieutenant on Enchantress is getting impatient. We have searched the robbers’ cabins most meticulously and we will seize their baggage, but their persons must remain inviolate. We cannot strip these people and search them on suspicion. If they do not have the stolen jewels, there will be hell to pay. We are on very unstable legal ground.”
“Two men are dead, Mycroft. Are we to let young Dacre walk off with the loot?”
“He held the Captain at gunpoint. He will suffer Russian justice.”
“Not if he arrives in St Petersburg with the Koh-i-Noor.”
Mr Katkov slammed both hands on the table, stood and marched across to us. He poked me in the chest and screamed at me in English that we were acting without warrant, that he was well known in the Court at Saint Petersburg and that he would make the strongest representation to the Tsar. I picked up the insufferable little swine - he was heavier than he looked - and shook him. Katkov reached into his pocket. Holmes clapped his heavy revolver to the man’s brow.
“I will shoot you and throw what is left over the side,” said Holmes. “Jump overboard if you want to be beyond my jurisdiction.”
As the bosun relieved me of Mr Katkov, and Mr Katkov of a pocket pistol, I noticed Churchill murmuring in the ear of the Thakore of Gondal. The boy had an evil little grin on his face that I knew boded trouble. He slipped across to Holmes and spoke softly to him.
“Well,” said Holmes, nodding to Churchill. “We shall have to return to the Enchantress. Could you muster your men, Mr James?”
Walsh stood. “I will return to London with you, Mr Holmes, whatever the consequences. I must see to my brother.”
Holmes shook Captain Barshai by the hand. “Well, Captain. What do you wish to do with Dacre and Kanji?”
The Russian shrugged. “We lock one in his cabin. The other -” He mimed man overboard. Midshipman James gave him the thieves’ pistols.
“We will take possession of Katkov’s, Dacre’s and the Maharajah’s luggage,” said Holmes. “After inspection, the bags will be forwarded on the next Russia-bound ship.”
We assembled on the foredeck. A steward handed out glasses of brandy or vodka, with plates of tiny morsels of black bread heaped with caviar. The sailors lowered the packing case, portmanteaus and cases over the side into the boats, followed by Mr Melas and his household.
“So, Mr Katkov,” said Holmes conversationally. “One last throw of the dice. I admire your pertinacity.”
Katkov made no reply. There was a gleam in his eye that suggested he knew that he had bested us.
Maharajah Duleep was in a fine mood. He confided in me that he missed his estate in Norfolk, especially the pheasant shooting. The Prince of Wales had condescended to visit on several occasions and he had once remarked that the Maharajah was possibly the fourth-best shot in Britain. Duleep smiled a coy smile. Duty, he said, drew him back to the Punjab; it was, after all, his native heath.
Dacre said nothing as his erstwhile partner, Walsh, clambered over the side. Mycroft sidled up to him with a sly expression on his face. He looked like a tiptoeing rhinoceros. “Was this was your first solo outing, Mr Dacre?” he asked with a smile. “If so, you did quite well. Sherlock and I recognised the marks of the tyro, but there were several aspects of your plan that showed promise. I feel sure that your master will forgive your little peccadilloes and give you another chance.”
Dacre flushed with fury, but remained silent.
Of our party, Holmes, Mycroft and I, Churchill, the two princes and Midshipman James, with the bosun and a small group of sailors, remained on the deck of the Biarritz.
Holmes shook the Captain’s hand again and nodded to Gondal and Churchill.
Gondal eased off his turban and handed it to Churchill. Churchill marched across the deck, bowed, reached up and plucked the turban from the head of the astonished Maharajah Duleep, revealing his bald pate. The Maharajah squeaked in outrage as the boy replaced his turban with Gondal’s. It sat lopsidedly on the Maharajah’s head.
Dacre lunged at Churchill; he was stilled by a growl from the bosun.
I watched in amazement as Churchill strode back, bowed and handed the turban to Gondal.
“It is an expression of amity between princes, Doctor,” said Gondal as he took the Maharajah’s turban and placed on his head. “It is an ancient custom.”
“Just like the Quakers,” I said.
Cheese, please, and still.
The Enchantress turned and pointed her prow towards London.
We hooted a farewell to the Biarritz that was returned with a blast of that ship’s mournful whistle.
A party of sailors under the direction of Midshipman James laid a snow-white sail on the deck. The Thakore of Gondal took off the Maharajah’s turban and wrapped his long hair in a piece of yellow cloth handed him by his fellow prince.
Churchill unrolled the Maharajah’s turban on the sail. First to appear was an emerald necklace, then other fine gems, and finally a large diamond. The boy pounced on it and handed it to Holmes. He held the jewel up and it glittered and shimmered in the morning sunlight. He smiled and slid it into his waistcoat pocket.
I was exhausted; I attempted a nap in one of the ship’s cabins, but despite my fatigue, sleep would not come. I joined Holmes on the foredeck of the Enchantress as she carried us back through London along her great river.
“How is Gondal?” I aske
d.
“Leaping about like a gazelle. He is with Limdi touring the ship and saying kind things about the Royal Navy. His firstborn is down for Eton; the next boy will attend the naval school on HMS Britannia.”
Holmes smiled. “Walsh told me that the Maharajah paid twenty thousand pounds in gold for the Gondal emerald necklace.”
“My God, Holmes. How much would he have paid for the Koh-i-Noor?”
“The thieves’ weight in gold and diamonds; payable in Amritsar after the English had been evicted from the Punjab.”
“The treasonous hounds.”
“Gentlemen,” called Midshipman James. “Cheese, please, and still.” We held our expressions as James instructed a party of sailors to manoeuvre into position a heavy wood and brass camera fixed to its tripod. He focused and ignited the flash powder; there was a bright flash, a muffled whump, and a puff of smoke. James pulled out the exposed plate, inserted a new one, sprinkled flash powder on the rod and directed the sailors to heave the tripod to a new position.
“The pinpricks in the carpet at the Travellers Club, Holmes,” I said. “The flash powder dust in the vault room at Buckingham Palace. Ha! They carried camera equipment with them in their portmanteaus.”
“The guardsman saw flashes,” said Holmes. “They were not electric torches; they were taking photographs of the safe. It carries the Queen’s coat of arms on the door. As with the Gondal emeralds, the thieves wanted evidence of the theft to prove the jewel’s provenance: that it was the real Koh-i-Noor.”
“Who would suspect a photographer of burglary?” I exclaimed. “He carries such heavy equipment. Who would think that he could scale a wall and pull up the ladder after him?”
A sailor appeared with a tray of steaming coffee and we helped ourselves.
“We can leave the thieves’ photographic equipment to the ship, Holmes,” I suggested.
“I should not care to wrest it from Midshipman James. He would dirk us without mercy, as I understand he threatened to do in a tender place with Dacre. It is a spoil of war, lost in the paperwork.”
“What about the aluminium ladder? We will surely not send it on to Dacre in Russia. Perhaps we should donate it to the Enchantress?”
“Lieutenant Blake might have a job explaining a ladder made of precious metal to his captain,” Holmes said with a grin. “And it is defective.”
“We could put it back in its crate and throw it overboard. The Navy gunners might try the mule gun against a target.”
“I regret to say that the ship has no shell or ball ammunition for the canon,” Holmes answered. “They use it with a light charge to fire salutes when dignitaries come aboard. They treble loaded the gun with powder to frighten the Biarritz. It made an impressive bang.”
“They have no shells! You mean that we had no way of stopping the Biarritz?”
“Short of an exchange of small-arms fire, no.”
“She carries ten-thousand rifles and a million of ball ammunition,” I replied, somewhat sharply.
The Enchantress slowed as she passed the workings of the new bridge at the Tower and she slid along the Embankment, close to shore. I saw Mycroft and Lieutenant Blake on the starboard wing of the ship’s bridge, chatting amiably. Mycroft pointed at something ashore and borrowed the lieutenant’s telescope. I followed his gaze and saw a newsboy at a stand on the Embankment waving his newspapers and crying out the news. A blast from Enchantress’ whistle caught his attention; Mycroft gestured at him and he obligingly turned his news boards to the ship.
Mycroft left the bridge and marched towards Holmes on the foredeck, looking cross.
“I was out of the office for half a day and we have annexed Zululand. You see, Sherlock? That’s what comes of all this gadding about in clubs, theatres, and boats when I should be in Whitehall with my fingers on the harp strings of foreign affairs. It will be the Devil’s own job to un-annexe the place.” He pursed his lips and gave Holmes a narrow look. “There is also something about Parnell that I could not quite resolve in the lens; I will see the Prime Minister later today.”
“I passed on Monsieur Bertillon’s opinion of the Parnell letters,” said Holmes. “I endorse his conclusions wholeheartedly. I also consulted a most expert forger; he dismissed the letters emphatically as amateur work, and suggested they bore the paw marks of a Mr -”
Mycroft held up his hand and Holmes smiled.
“Well, then, Brother. I shall say no more. Mr Parnell did not write the dynamite letters. You may warn the Prime Minister that it will be a stormy autumn for The Times.”
And, I thought, for the government.
“What of Walsh?” I asked.
“I very much doubt that any charges will be laid against him,” Holmes answered. “Gondal has his jewels, and the Palace will not want the theft of the Koh-i-Noor made public. What say you, Mycroft?”
“The official view may be that Walsh has suffered enough with the loss of his brother; to lose a sibling is a grievous blow.”
Holmes took his brother’s arm as the Enchantress touched the jetty and stopped. A bugle call rang out, and the crew snapped to attention as the mule gun banged out a nine-gun salute.
We negotiated the gang plank and stood on the crowded jetty. Most of our party were red-eyed and groggy with lack of sleep. We were far too tired for ceremony; we agreed to cut short our thanks and goodbyes and meet again for dinner at the Travellers Club within the week. I had our cab wait as I sent Churchill to the newsboy for the morning papers. Holmes and I leaned against the dock railing.
“Pass me your visiting card, Watson,” Holmes said softly.
I shook a card from my case and handed it to him. He slipped something out of his waistcoat pocket and held it up in front of the card.
I read, “Doctor John Watson - oh my God, Holmes.”
Holmes nodded grimly. He flicked the fake Koh-i-Noor over his shoulder into the Thames.
“My opponent is as evil a man as ever lived, Watson, but he does the game honour. He fooled his minions and he very nearly fooled me.”
Churchill staggered up to us, yawning and already half-asleep. He had a stack of newspapers covering something in his arms.
“I got the papers, Doctor, and a messenger fellow gave me this for Mr Holmes.”
He held out a large cardboard box.
“It is an infernal machine, Holmes!” I exclaimed. “Churchill, fling it instantly into the River!”
The cab lumbered along the Victoria Embankment in heavy traffic. Churchill sat on the seat opposite me, and Holmes sat next to him with the box on his knees.
“The Professor writes my name in a round hand with a sharp nib and best-quality ink,” he said. “There is a slight tremble, this time in the verticals. I do hope that he is not unwell.”
He snipped the string with Churchill’s knife, removed the brown paper wrapping and slowly lifted the lid of the box. There, nestling on a bed of tissue paper, was a glittering brooch with a large oval diamond in the centre.
I shook my head. “I do not understand Holmes. Two men are dead, our home was attacked with an infernal machine, and we were almost run down on the River. Are you saying that all this was a game you played with Professor Moriarty?”
“Ssshh,” said Holmes, putting his finger to his lips. “Naming calls. It was a caper; a test for a cadet. I shall write a note to the Professor with Dacre’s grade.”
Holmes tapped on the roof of the cab. “To Buckingham Palace, if you please, Cabby.”
“Why does he return the brooch? The Koh-i-Noor, Holmes! It is worth a queen’s ransom.”
“My dear friend, the Professor is a fiend in human form, he is the Beelzebub of crime, the Prince of malevolence, and he is something else.”
“What is that, Holmes?”
Holmes smiled. “He is something that is great
ly to his credit; Churchill?”
Churchill grinned back at him and sang:
“For he himself has said it,
And it’s greatly to his credit,
That he is an Englishman;
He is an Englishman!”
Author’s Note
Although some names have been changed, and some characters are fictitious, the basic fabric of the Jubilee Plot of 1887 is factual.
It could be fairly argued that many, if not most of the dynamite and assassination plots that featured in the newspapers in the 1880s originated in the British Home Office, Foreign Office and Scotland Yard. The ‘blood-soaked fiends’ who planned many of these fictitious outrages were paid agents of the Government.
For a very detailed account of the affair - including Maharajah Duleep’s bizarre impersonation of an Irish dynamitard - see Christy Campbell’s excellent Fenian Fire (2002).
I hope that you enjoyed reading this book, the second in the Sherlock Holmes and Young Winston series. The third book in the series, set during the Christmas 1887 holidays, sees Holmes, Watson and Winston facing Moriarty’s henchmen in the matter of the Giant Moles of Hereford.
For sample chapters of these and other books please visit my website at: http://mikehoganbooks.co.uk or contact me online at [email protected] or visit the series’ Facebook page: http://www.facebook.com/sherlockholmesandyoungwinston
Quotes
Chapter 6: “We are such ...” The Tempest (IV.i.) William Shakespeare
Chapter 11: “Cry God for... Henry V (III.i.) William Shakespeare
Chapter 12: “For he himself...” HMS Pinafore, (II) Gilbert and Sullivan