Sherlock Holmes and the King's Governess

Once more she paused and looked out of the window.

‘It seemed to be,’ she said, ‘a wonderful opportunity. So much is said and written about Russia by people who have never been there, and so much by people who have their own secret motives for what they say. I was being given the chance to travel the Tzar’s kingdom from end to end and to report on it as freely as I wished. It should have been the chance of a lifetime, and of course I saw it as such and jumped at it.’

She looked back to us, and continued, in what struck me as a reflective tone.

‘I was the first Western woman, if not the first Western journalist, to traverse the whole length of Russia. My articles were a resounding success in the States and in Canada. The company that

commissioned my trip was so pleased that they offered me an editor’s post. I turned them down. You may wonder at that, as you may wonder that I never wrote a book about my experiences in Russia, but I turned down the offer of employment and I never wrote a book about Russia, because there were things which I wished never to recall and things which I had promised never to say.’

She braced her shoulders and a brisker tone entered her voice.

‘Russia,’ she said, ‘was everything I thought it might be and many things which I had not imagined.

Have either of you been there?’

We both nodded.

‘Then, perhaps, you will not need me to tell you of the splendours which the great cities of Russia display. London, Paris, New York, Vienna, all have their fame for the richness and quality of their society and their entertainments, but Moscow and Saint Petersburg are close to their match. I saw performances, I attended receptions, which might have been in any of the world’s great cities. I did not actually meet the then Tzar and Tzarina, but more than once I was at receptions which they attended.

Of the social, artistic and intellectual life of the country I soon had no doubt, but that was not what I had gone to Russia to see.

‘I was there,’ she said, ‘to see as much of the real Russia as I might, for the great cities are no more representative of Russia than London is of all England or New York of all America. Nevertheless, it was in the cities that I began first to see the shadowed side of Russian society. In the manufactories which were already beginning to spread and expand in those days, I saw the way in which men, and women, were forced to toil and the hardships which they had to bear. I am not unworldly, gentlemen. I pride myself that I know more of the realities of life than many of my sex. I know that life in the West End of London is separated from life in the East End by a great social and economic gulf, and I know that this circumstance pertains, on a greater or lesser scale, in every city everywhere in the world.

‘But I was not there to see just their great cities. As we travelled eastwards, I saw more of their smaller cities, their country towns, their villages. Wherever I went I tried to see things as they really were, and not as officials might like me to see them. I was present at feasts and funerals and even a birth. More and more I became aware that poverty and fear are the lot of millions of workers in Russia. In the country, perhaps even more so than in the cities, they live lives which no Briton would stand. In the cities there are signs of unrest, but any association which is deemed to be involved in any kind of politics is put down harshly and its leaders sent to prison or banished to Siberia. In the country they dare not even try. They live in fear of the whim of their landowners, who have absolute power over them.’

‘But I thought the system of serfdom had been abolished?’ I said.

‘So it has, Doctor, so it has. But it makes little difference. If you come of a former serf family, you may not leave your village without the permission of the village council. If you have land and wish to buy more or to improve what you have, you may not borrow money to do so unless the village council is prepared to guarantee your credit, which often they are not prepared to do. Serfdom has been abolished in name only.’

She had become more and more animated as she described the plight of Russia’s people.

‘You seem to have been deeply affected by what you saw,’ I commented.

‘I told you much of my own background - more than I have revealed to others - so that you should understand the impact which my journey through Russia made upon me. I have seen poverty and

misery in many parts of the world, gentlemen, but in most places - even in our snobbish old England - a poor man or woman may keep some pride and some hope. In Russia that is impossible. Its people live like farm animals, kept always under the eye, and often literally under the lash, of their lords.’

‘It sounds like the Middle Ages!’ I exclaimed.

‘That is exactly what it is like,’ she said. ‘Imagine a land as wide as or wider than America or Australia, with all the resources of such a land in agriculture and mineral wealth, with magnificent cities and a glittering upper society, and imagine that such a land has not advanced from medieval thoughts and systems. That is Russia.’

‘And you are sure,’ asked Holmes, ‘that the impression you brought back is the correct one?’

‘It cannot be other, Mr Holmes. It rests not only upon what I saw, but upon what many people

described to me. In addition, I had the assistance of Professor Gregorieff. He was only a student then, but he was already considerably skilled in Russian dialects and several continental languages. He was recommended to me as an interpreter, and he proved invaluable to me, not merely in assisting my journey and in making communication with the natives easier, but he has a very wide knowledge of his own country and was often able to confirm that what I had hoped might be some local aberration was, sadly, a widespread practice. Once he had joined me I found him so useful that I kept him with me all the way to Vladivostok. I could not know what it would mean.’

She gave no explanation of this comment. Instead she went on to describe the cumbersome lethargy of Russian administration and the many small difficulties which she had met on her journey. Like many countries which have a widespread and inefficient bureaucracy, it appears that often the only way to make progress was by bribery, and it appeared that Gregorieff had been adept at knowing exactly whom should be bribed and with how much.

‘I could, I suppose, have taken a carriage on the railway and kept it all the way across to Vladivostok, but it was my intention to discharge my commission properly, so we made many stops, sometimes for a day or two. This necessitated waiting for trains, which were frequently late, not by minutes, but sometimes by hours or even half a day. Mostly we travelled by larger trains, which compare very favourably with those in which I have crossed Australia, America and Canada, but sometimes my agenda or the vagaries of the railroad system necessitated using rackety little trains which shuttled along, stopping at every tiny village.

‘We had, despite these difficulties and our many stops, made a great distance into Russia and must have been nearly halfway across its entire length. Gregori had made clear that the train on which we were then travelling would stop at a number of small towns, virtually indistinguishable from many that we had visited. As a result I was looking forward to a fairly long, uninterrupted passage, during which I might catch up with my writing. We had a large and comfortable apartment on the train, with a sitting room and even its own kitchen, and Gregori told me that he had taken on a Russian woman to see to my comforts, so that I might get the maximum benefit from this part of our journey.’

She drew a long breath before continuing.

‘We had boarded that train in the late morning. All afternoon we traversed wild and lonely country, high moorland and forest. Only very occasionally did I see any sign of habitation near the track.

Gregori’s Russian woman had boarded with us, but kept herself to the kitchen. She served meals in my sitting room, but it appeared that she had no English, and my Russian, though I worked on it at every opportunity, was not sufficient to exchange more than the simplest courtesies with her. Nevertheless, she kept us well fed and, by nightfall, I was enjoying the peace of this interlude in my crowded and erratic progress across Russia.

‘Dark had fallen and Gregori and I were discussing certain items about which I intended to write, when our train came to a sudden and violent halt. After the squeal of the train’s brakes being deployed and above the sound of steam venting, I thought that I detected cries and what sounded like shots from the darkness outside the train. I knew of no banditti in Russia who waylaid trains as they still do in the United States, and I exclaimed in alarm.

‘Gregori jumped from his seat, looking thoroughly alarmed himself. “Stay here,” he said. “I will go and see what this is about. Do not leave your compartment.”

‘ “But who would stop the train?” I asked. “Only the authorities, I think, but I do not know why. Let me go and find out,” he replied and with that he left the compartment.’

Seventeen

An Incident at Night

‘Iwas not, at first, frightened. I think I was more annoyed that our train had been delayed once more. I assured myself that holding up trains is an American habit, not a Russian one, and that the sounds which I took to be shots were probably fired in exuberance.’

She drew another deep breath and stared at the table top.

‘I remained in that state of happy ignorance for a few minutes. Then I heard again what I imagined to be shots from outside. I parted the curtains of my compartment and peered out into the night. At first I could see nothing, because of the light from my compartment, but I lowered the gas lamps and looked again. Close to the railway line there seemed to be a group of mounted men, who were milling about, emitting occasional cries. The sounds which I had taken to be shots were, in fact, the crack of whips.

‘I still did not perceive any real danger. These men seemed to be drunk and noisy, and though I thought that I saw rifles slung at their saddles, there appeared to be no hostile intent.

‘I had watched them for a minute or two, more in curiosity than trepidation, when the compartment door opened and Gregori returned. He was white-faced and evidently deeply disturbed. “What is happening?” I asked him. He was so distressed that he began to answer me in Russian and had to begin again. “It is the local landowner. He has stopped the train.” “Why on earth would he do that?” I asked.

Gregori was so upset that he stammered. “There is - there is - someone - a young woman, a girl, that they think is on the train. She was employed on the estate here and has run away. He has come with his men to take her back. They are searching the train for her. You must give me your passport and travel papers. I will try to stop them searching here.”’

The muscles of our client’s face tightened at the recollection.

‘I was outraged,’ she said. ‘I told Gregori, “But serfdom is ended. Why should she not go if she does not wish to stay?” He looked at me helplessly. “It makes no matter,” he said. “Out here in the country, the landowners own the people as well. You must give me your papers.”

‘He was evidently deeply frightened and worried, so I put my passport and travel permits into his hand and he left the compartment. I seated myself and sat drumming my fingers with rage and frustration. I could almost have wished that Gregori’s attempts to safeguard my privacy might fail, so that I should have the opportunity of meeting this Russian hunter of young women and giving him a piece of my mind. While I sat, I could hear the sounds of disturbance as the search parties moved along the train from each end, nearing the middle where our carriage lay. After a while I could stand the wondering no longer and rose, intending to go and see what was going forward.

‘I had reached the door of my compartment when it burst open and Gregori plunged in, shooing me away and back to my seat. He was clutching my papers and tears were streaming down his face. I fell back into my seat and he took a seat opposite me.

‘ “What is it, Gregori? What is it?” He looked up at me, and his dark eyes were swimming in tears.

“They will find her,” he said. “They will find her.”

‘He had hardly spoken the words when I heard a door flung open near the end of our carriage and a burst of shouting. Above it rang the unmistakable cry of a terrified woman. I could stand no more. I sprang up, fully intending to see what was toward, but Gregori leapt up also and thrust me bodily back into my seat. “You must not, Mrs Fordeland. You must not. I beg you, for your own safety, do not try to intervene.” “But I am a foreign national - a journalist,” I protested. “Surely, they must take note of my presence and my views!”

‘He stared at me like a madman. “You must not,” he repeated. “You are not in America or in Britain now. You are on the steppes of Russia where the law is what the rich say it is. Believe me, madam, if you intervene they will think nothing of killing you.”

‘ “They would not dare,” I said. He shook his head. “There is no dare,” he said. “They take no risk. You are a very long way from any embassy or consulate which might intervene on your behalf. If you stand in their way they will destroy you, and when your embassy enquires, they will be given circumstantial details of a tragic accident, accompanied, no doubt, by affidavits of those who tried to save you.”

‘I stared at him in horror. Despite his pale face and his tears, his words had been spoken in such a matter-of-fact manner that I could not but believe him. Now I was truly frightened. Gregori had made me realize that I was a lone Englishwoman of the nineteenth century caught in a place that might have been the jungles of the Amazon or the Middle Ages. Outside - a few yards away - some tyrant, crazed by wealth and power, was committing some bestiality against another woman and, for the first time in my life, I felt powerless to intervene on the side of right.’

Our guest shook her head slowly from side to side, as though still wondering at the recollection.

‘That scream came again,’ she said. ‘I asked Gregori, “What can we do? There must be something?”

He shook his head and his tears flowed again. I stepped to the window and drew aside the curtain.

Immediately Gregori sprang up and doused the last of the gas lamps. “Come away from the window,”

he urged. “They must not see you watching.”

‘Nothing in Heaven or earth could have pulled me away from that window. I pressed myself against it and peered into the darkness, my vision aided by the total darkness of the carriage. The party of men were still outside, and now they were lighting torches, so that soon I could see clearly that there were about a dozen of them or more. They were big men, dressed in rough, practical clothing and tall boots.

Their horses had been formed into a sort of horseshoe shape, its open end towards the train, virtually opposite our carriage, the arena so formed lit by the flaring torches which they held. Then another man joined them.’

She swallowed, as though repressing a reflex of revulsion.

‘He was evidently in command. Unlike the rough dress of his men, the newcomer wore a tailored uniform, from highly polished top boots which gleamed in the torchlight to a tailored blue tunic, richly frogged in gold and swagged with bullion piquet cords which swung at his shoulder and sparkled in the light. There was no doubting his rank, his wealth and his authority.

‘As he swaggered into the torchlit space, the same agonized shriek split the night, from somewhere close to the train. Two men emerged from the darkness and made their way into the lighted area, dragging someone else between them. When they were illuminated I could see that they were two of the mounted ruffians and that the figure they dragged between them, who twisted and writhed at every step, was that of a slender young woman.

‘They paraded her before their uniformed leader like a beast at auction. He stepped around her, apparently saying something, then gestured to one of the mounted men. Something flashed in the torchlight and a knife buried itself in the soil near his feet. He stooped to pick it up and waved a peremptory hand at the two men holding the girl. His henchmen stepped apart, holding the struggling girl at arm’s length, so that her feet barely touched the ground. Now their master gestured again and stepped towards one of the mounted men, who handed him something.

‘I shall remember to my dying day the scream that the poor girl emitted when the leader of her tormentors uncoiled what was in his hand and she saw that it was a long whip. Two men emerged from the dark and removed her hat, letting her long black hair tumble free, then ripped her upper clothing from her, so that she stood, naked to the waist, her skin pale gold in the torchlight, while the uniformed monster paced about behind her. Suddenly he turned towards her and the whip cracked in the air. As its lash coiled across her naked back she shrieked again.’

Mrs Fordeland stopped and seemed to struggle for self-possession.

‘All this, gentlemen,’ she went on, ‘I watched in mounting horror and revulsion. Every instinct clamoured at me to rush from the train and intervene, but every iota of commonsense told me that Gregori was right, that intervention would, at best, lead me to share the luckless girl’s fate. And so I watched this dreadful scene, swearing silently to myself and the tortured girl out there that I would faithfully report the whole episode once I was away from Russian soil. If I had not made that promise, I should never have been able to bear it. As it was, I nearly collapsed as the whip swung and cracked across her shoulders and her screams rang out in the night.’

Her voice dropped.

‘But it was not the worst. I do not know how many times the lash fell. I know that I wondered that she was not insensible, that she still twisted and shrieked. Then, with a burst of effort, she pulled free from the hold of one of her captors and pulled away from the other. He stumbled, fell, and lost his grip.

Suddenly she was free, and began to stagger towards the train. The uniformed man shouted something and one of the mounted men raised a weapon, sighted and shot her.’

Our client’s hands worked furiously at the clasp of her handbag and her head shook at the memory.

‘For a moment I stared at the dreadful scene beyond the window - the impassive circle of mounted men, the ring of torches, the strutting peacock in his military finery and the pathetic broken body sprawled in the dirt. That the girl was dead I did not doubt, bringing her the only mercy that they had shown her. Then the horror of it all overwhelmed me and I spun away from the window with a cry.

‘Throughout the events I have described, Gregori had sat still, his face covered by his hands. Now he asked, “What has happened?” “They have shot her!” I sobbed. “They have murdered the poor girl!”

‘Outside the window I was aware of the group of men riding away into the darkness, their torches trailing away into little spots of light and finally vanishing. Gregori’s mouth opened silently at first, then he emitted an awful strangled murmur, as terrible in its muffled way as the cries of the murdered girl, and dropped his face again into his hands.

‘When I had composed myself a little, I poured a stiff measure of brandy for myself and thrust a glass into Gregori’s hand. He swallowed it at one gulp, then stared at me, his red-rimmed eyes wide. “She was Katya,” he said. “She was my little sister.” ’

Eighteen

Aftermath of Murder

He stumbled away, out of the compartment, and I continued to sit rigid in my seat. After some little time the train began slowly to move, and I continued to sit motionless, staring out of the window as the empty black landscape passed by. I sat so until the first dawn light began to creep across the plains.

Gregori did not return.‘

Holmes and I had sat almost motionless as our client told her fearful tale. Now Holmes shifted in his chair and indicated to me that I should ring for more tea. I did so, and the interruption provided a welcome respite from the horror of Mrs Fordeland’s tale.

We drank our tea in silence, and I reflected that, in my time with the Army Medical Service and in my civilian practice, as well as in my adventures with Holmes, I had seen a great deal of the cruelty of humankind, but nowhere had I come across an episode such as our client had described.

‘Did you,’ asked Holmes, ‘leave Russia without any repercussions as a result of this episode? It is not, I would have thought, the kind of thing which they would wish to fall under the notice of a foreign journalist.’

‘No direct steps were taken against me,’ she replied. ‘At dawn our train halted at a little town whose complicated name I have forgotten and which was not, in any case, one of our intended stops. Gregori came to me, full of apologies, and pleaded to be released from his obligations to me. His sister’s body had been brought aboard the train on the previous night, and he now wished to see her properly buried.

‘I could not imagine continuing my journey all the way to

Vladivostok without the great assistance of Gregori’s presence, and we made an agreement, that I would remain for his sister’s funeral, so that we might travel on together. My luggage was removed from the train and Gregori found me lodgings at the only tavern in the little town. He had told me that his sister’s body would lie for three days and nights while psalms were read over it, and I stayed there for those days. At one point I visited the home of the Russian Orthodox priest, where Katya’s body lay.

She showed no sign of the monstrous violence from which she had died, the fatal injury being hidden.

She had not been embalmed, merely washed and dressed according to their custom, for anything else would be forbidden by Orthodox practice. In her hands were folded a large white cross and the printed paper that her soul must present to Saint Peter for admission to Paradise, while a strip of paper printed in gold with the pattern of a crown was bound across her brow. She looked like a schoolchild, dressed for a Christmas festival.

‘I went to the burial service, still promising this girl whom I had not known that I should make the manner of her death known to the world. Throughout the ceremony I was aware of the presence of a great black-bearded man in a uniform coat and high-crowned cap who stood and watched Gregori. A truncheon with a spiked iron band hung at his broad belt, a symbol of cruelty and violence in these sacred proceedings. Gregori told me that the man was the town’s police officer.

‘When Katya had been laid to rest, we waited at the station for a train to take us on. Before the train arrived, the same policeman came to the station, escorting what was evidently a more important official. This man took up the stationmaster’s office and, shortly afterwards, we were summoned by the policeman to present ourselves and our travelling papers.

‘In the little office of the stationmaster, the official who had been with the policeman was seated behind the only desk. He waved us imperiously to two wooden chairs and demanded our travel papers. These he spread on the desk and examined carefully. After a long time he looked up at Gregori. “Gregorieff,”

he said, “it says here that you are a student of languages, presently travelling with this lady as an interpreter, and that your contract with her obliges you to accompany her all the way to Vladivostok, where she will leave the country. Is that correct?”

‘Gregori nodded silently. The official eyed him again, then said, “I understand that a sister of yours was killed in a hunting accident recently. You have my sympathy, and I am glad to see that you are continuing with your duties. That is good. You would be well advised not to permit this tragedy to affect your future. I am sure that you understand what I mean.” Gregori nodded again without

speaking.

‘He turned to me. “Mrs Fordeland,” he said. “You are, I see, a correspondent of an American magazine, who wishes to see our country so that you may write about it. It is unfortunate that you were a witness to the death of Gregorieff’s sister, but such things happen in all countries and I am sure that you would not wish to exaggerate the event by reporting it abroad. As I told Gregorieff, these things can affect our future if we do not treat them sensibly and allow them to be a part of the forgotten past.”

‘He took out a cigarette and lit it, blowing the smoke to the side. He stared at me. “I am,” he said, “the provincial official charged with investigating this matter for the record. I am satisfied that an unfortunate and unavoidable accident occurred, made doubly unfortunate by the fact that you were forced to witness it. I hope that the remainder of your time in our country is not spoiled by any further accident and that you will be able to tell your American readers nothing but good about us, Mrs Fordeland.”

‘He stamped our travel papers and thrust them at Gregori, then rose without a further word and strode out of the room, followed by the bearded policeman. We heard their footsteps die away along the wooden platform outside and neither of us said a word until the sound had ended. Then Gregori said,

“We have been warned. We have been told the official lie and we have been warned that we must say nothing else.”

‘We heard the train arriving and went out to board it. The official was nowhere in sight, but the large policeman stood at the end of the platform and watched us board, remaining there until the train pulled away.’

She waved a hand dismissively.

‘You will not wish to hear of the remainder of my journey,’ she said. ‘I had been deeply shocked by the death of Gregori’s sister, but I had taken on a task, and it has always been my way to try and carry out as efficaciously as I may the tasks which I take upon myself. Soon we fell back into the pattern which had persisted before, continuing our journey in short or longer sections, usually by train but sometimes by carriage, visiting towns and villages that lay along or close to our route and, in each one, seeking for people and events to write about for my American readers.

‘Gregori was just as efficient, though he was much quieter. All the time I wondered how the terrible events which I had witnessed had come about, but I saw no delicate way to broach the matter with him.

It was not until we had reached Vladivostok and I was awaiting the vessel on which I would leave Russia, that he spoke at last.

‘We had dined one evening and, as we sat at table, Gregori’s mind was evidently far away. He ceased to talk and his expression showed me that his mind was completely removed from our idle conversation. I have seen that look far too often in people who carry a heavy burden of grief. I reached across the table and touched his hand. “Gregori,” I said. “Nobody can bring your sister back, but I promise you that once I get to America I shall do my best to see that the world comes to know how she was murdered.”

He stared at me for a moment, then shook his head violently. “No,” he said, “you must not! You must not! You will put yourself into terrible danger! You must not do it!”

‘I did not understand his outburst, but gradually he began to tell me the story. It seems that his family came from the area where the incident occurred. They and everybody else for miles were ruled by a landowner called Count Skovinski-Rimkoff, a blood relative of the Tzar with an estate about the size of Wales. Gregori had told me, and my journey had shown me, that many Russian nobles are absolute tyrants on their estates, but this count, he said, was worse than any. The count was insane, driven by lust and a delight in cruelty, and behaved, apparently, like the Frenchman Bluebeard. Gregori’s family had kept clear of the madman, paid their dues, kept their observances and attracted no attention. Then his parents sent him to Moscow to study. His older sister, Anna, accompanied him to keep house for him - quite a usual arrangement. They left at home their younger sister, Katya, a girl just leaving school, to assist their parents. All went well, Gregori’s studies progressed, and then he had a telegram to tell him that his mother was extremely ill. He and Anna hurried home, but they were too late, their mother had died before they arrived. Their old father was prostrated with grief. If all this was not bad enough, the funeral of their mother was hardly over when Katya disappeared. A search was made, but soon the information came that she had been seen being forced by some of the count’s henchmen into a sleigh driven by their master. It seemed she had been taken to his home, and it was well known in the area that girls frequently disappeared that way or returned home after a long time in a state of madness.

‘The news was the last straw for Gregori’s father. An old man, borne down by the death of his wife, the disappearance of his youngest daughter in the hands of a madman was too much for him. He declined and died very shortly. There was nothing left for poor Gregori. He returned to his studies, taking Anna with him again, but he kept in touch with people at home and, eventually, he was able to achieve a secret correspondence with Katya. Painstakingly he created a plan of escape for the girl, found help for her and got funds to her. The final link in his plan was that of accepting the post as my interpreter. By so doing, he could arrange to be on the train by which Katya would make her escape, and he believed that even the mad count might hesitate to interfere with a train carrying a foreign journalist. With this in mind he arranged for Anna to join us on that part of the journey, introducing her as a cook and servant he had taken on.’

She gazed reflectively at her hands for a minute or so. Neither Holmes nor I spoke.

‘What went wrong we will never know. Somehow the count detected her escape and realized that she would have made for the train. He intercepted it and I have told you what followed. When Gregori had finished his narrative I was even more profoundly horrified than I had been that night on the train.

“This story must be told!” I exclaimed. “The world must know what manner of evil is allowed to flourish in Russia.” Gregori shook his head, sadly. “You do not understand,” he said. “You cannot tell the story, even in America, for it will endanger all of us, myself, Anna and not least yourself. If you publish the truth, they will know. They have already decided on their official explanation, and they will continue to lie and will say that you have written an untrue story. Because of my association with you, they will arrest me and say that I have deliberately created lies and fed them to an American journalist to damage my country in the eyes of the world. Maybe they will accuse Anna as well. As for you, you will be in America or Canada, but you will never be safe from them. The Tzar’s spies are spread all over the world. In every city there are men like that swine at the railway station. They watch people who they consider enemies of Russia and they seek any opportunity to do them harm. You cannot risk it, not for all our sakes!”

‘My only justification for not intervening in the torture and murder of Katya Gregorieff had been that I should survive as an independent witness who could carry the truth out of Russia with me, and now Gregori was telling me that I must never tell the story, for his sake, for Anna’s and for my own.

Unknowingly, too, he had made me fearful in a way he could not suspect. As I have told you, I had created a certain version of my background which had been accepted across the world, and through it I had become a voice and a pen for the oppressed and mistreated of the world. If the Tzar’s spies were to reveal my past, then nothing I ever published or said - not just the story of poor Katya - would ever be believed.

‘ “What must I do?” I asked Gregori. “You must promise me, faithfully, that you will never reveal this story to anyone. I make you the same promise. Go home to America and leave us Russians to do what we must with our own country, but never, ever tell the story of my sister.”

‘And so,’ she said, ‘I made him the promise that he asked for.’

Only now, at the end of this long and harrowing tale, did Mrs Fordeland lower her face and weep.

Nineteen

A Warning from Sherlock Holmes

Holmes stood up and went to the gasogene, pouring a large drink for each of us. By the time he had done, our client had recovered her composure and took the glass from him with a steady hand.

‘I am deeply sorry,’ he said, as he regained his seat, ‘to have occasioned you pain by my questions, Mrs Fordeland.’

She shook her head firmly. ‘Not at all, Mr Holmes. It is I who should apologize. When I first consulted you I was, perhaps, misled by some desperate hope that this matter could have nothing to do with events in Russia so long ago. Even when you questioned me about my connections with Russia I

succeeded in convincing myself that whatever was happening here in England had no possible

connection with the warning Gregori Gregorieff gave me in Vladivostok. Perhaps, also, I did not wish to remind myself of my own failure.’

‘Your own failure?’ I asked, genuinely puzzled.

‘If my upbringing lacked in other respects,’ she said, ‘it served to develop in me a strong sense of justice, most particularly where my own sex are involved. I have tried never to allow my frailties as a woman to prevent me from doing or saying what I consider to be my duty. Where poor Katya

Gregorieff was concerned, I failed. I failed at the time because I did not intervene from fear, so I made myself a promise that I would attempt to redeem my cowardice by publishing the story of Count Skovinski-Rimkoff where the world might read it. I failed her in that as well. You may believe me, gentlemen, that there is not a day that passes when I do not remember her. Never do I step on to a lecture platform, never do I take up my pen to write an article, but I remember, and accuse myself for my failure.’

I thought about where this lady had come from and what she had accomplished and I was outraged that she should think herself cowardly.

‘My dear lady,’ I said, ‘I cannot imagine why you should upbraid yourself or regard yourself as having failed in any respect. When I first read your book about your experiences in Mongkuria, I was overwhelmed with admiration for the courage that enabled you to take up the challenge of that largely unknown kingdom thirty years ago. Every word that you have said today has increased my admiration.

I have had the privilege of knowing a number of brave men and women, but I do not hesitate to say that you must rank among the first.’

‘You are exceedingly kind, Doctor, and it may be that I should have found some way of speaking of these things before, but I had given my promise to Gregori. Had I known that he was out of Russia, I might have felt able to speak earlier.’

‘Out of Russia he may be,’ said Holmes, ‘but someone has set the Russian Embassy’s best on his trail.

Someone there evidently fears him, as somebody there fears you, Mrs Fordeland.’

‘But why should they fear me or Gregori, Mr Holmes?’

‘You fear the threat that Professor Gregorieff explained to you - that any exposure of Count Skovinski-Rimkoff may lead to exposure of your own past. That is exactly what the count fears about you, Mrs Fordeland.’

‘If I were to reveal to the world what I witnessed that night in Russia and identify the perpetrator, I cannot see that it would be more than an embarrassment to the Tzar in the eyes of the world. The count would surely never be punished for his actions. Why would he fear me?’

‘Because there is no effective representative government in Russia, because, in the end, everything rests upon the Tzar’s opinions, it is absolutely necessary for anyone who intends to reach the higher echelons of society in that country to take one of two courses - they must ally themselves to the Crown and solicit the Tzar’s goodwill or they must take the risk of joining one of the factions who oppose the Tzar and seeking their goodwill. Count Stepan fell into disfavour with the late Tzar, because of an unseemly episode in London when he allowed his bestial habits to run away with him. The result was an incident which brought him to the notice of Scotland Yard and might, indeed, have resulted in a prosecution. I understand that political pressure was applied and the victim of his excesses was paid off. It was not, I imagine, an episode that earned him any credit with the former Tzar. It may be the reason why he has only recently returned to London for the first time since that affair.’

Holmes took his pipe from his coat pocket and began to fill it as he spoke.

‘You are a well-informed and intelligent woman, Mrs Fordeland. You cannot but be aware that, since the death of the old Tzar and the accession of Nicholas, factionalism among the nobility of Russia has greatly increased. Even now, so soon after the coronation, there is a group who support the Tzar, a group who support the Tzarina, believing that there is a difference of interest between them, a group who support the Tzar’s mother, who, it is rumoured, is against her daughter-in-law, a group who believe that Nicholas is too weak to be a good Tzar and should abdicate in favour of a cousin, and who knows how many other groups.’

He tamped the tobacco into his pipe with his long fingers.

‘In such a climate,’ he continued, ‘the Tzar must seek allies, and such a search will create an opportunity for a man like Count Skovinski-Rimkoff. By becoming a “King’s man” as it were, he can expect advancement and preference from the throne, and he seems to have succeeded inasmuch as he is here in London not as a casual visitor but as one of the official Russian party attending Her Majesty’s Jubilee.’

Holmes lifted his filled pipe, mutely asking permission, and our guest gave him a nod.

‘All of which,’ he continued, when the pipe was well alight, ‘makes you a very apparent threat to the count. He must know that you live the other side of the Atlantic. He certainly knows that you are a woman famous for speaking her mind on the subject of personal freedom. Why then, he will have asked himself, are you in London now - at a time when his past folly in London has been forgotten and he comes as one of his tzar’s representatives? Why else, except to make sure that his past crimes are revealed at this time, when they will become not only a personal humiliation, but also a reproach to his country and a slur upon his royal cousin. I am sure that he fears a fuss in the British press which will result in his recall to Russia and the consequent loss of royal favour.’

Mrs Fordeland stared at my friend. ‘But Mr Holmes,’ she said, ‘you know that this is not true.’

‘Certainly,’ he agreed, ‘but were you or I to assure the count, or Major Kyriloff at their embassy, that your presence in London is entirely connected with your desire to experience the Jubilee festivities and to meet your former pupil, King Chula, they would not believe us. They would assume that these are only excuses to conceal your real purpose.’

‘That is preposterous!’ the lady exclaimed.

‘Entirely,’ agreed Holmes, ‘but it is an unfortunate habit of personalities much less arrogant than the count’s to believe that any incident occurring in their vicinity is related to and aimed at them. Which creates a serious problem for you.’

‘I had understood you to say that I was not in any apparent danger, Mr Holmes.’

‘So I did, Mrs Fordeland, but that was, with respect, before you revealed to me your connection with Count Skovinski-Rimkoff, let alone the fact that a Russian official warned and threatened you before you left that country.’

‘Then you now believe that I am in danger, Mr Holmes?’

‘I regret to say that I think you may well be.’

‘Then what can I do?’

‘The question,’ said Holmes, ‘is not so much what you can do, but what you are willing to do. You have not suffered the obvious attentions of Russian agents in Canada or America, though I have no doubt that they have kept some kind of watch upon you. If you were to retreat across the Atlantic, I am sure that the danger would vanish. It is only here and now, in London at the time of the Jubilee, that the count perceives you as a threat.’

I was sufficiently astute to catch my friend’s use of the word ‘retreat’. I had seen him before use words to persuade a client to continue in a course of action that might expose them to danger so that he could conclude his enquiry, and I have to say that I always disapproved. Our client lifted her chin and I guessed, correctly, at her response.

‘Mr Holmes,’ she said, firmly, ‘I came to London with two principal purposes, to enjoy the Jubilee celebrations and to meet King Chula. I intend to carry out my intentions, and with that in mind I shall be grateful for your advice as to how I may do so without unnecessary risk to myself and my

granddaughter.’

‘If that is your decision,’ said my friend, and perhaps I imagined a hint of satisfaction in his tone, ‘then I suggest that you stay as close as you may to your hotel, that you avoid lonely places and that you never leave your granddaughter alone.’

‘In addition,’ he said, rising and stepping towards his desk, ‘I recommend that you always keep this handy.’ He had been poking about in one of the desk’s drawers and now handed her a small silver object.

‘A whistle?’ she said.

‘Precisely,’ said Holmes. ‘One of the kind carried by every London constable. A sharp blow or two upon it, day or night, will bring every constable within earshot running, and since the capital is more heavily policed this summer than it has ever been, I do not imagine that you will ever be more than yards away from a policeman or two.’

She smiled as she tucked the whistle away.

‘What a very ingenious idea! I really cannot thank you enough, Mr Holmes, and I apologize for misleading you at the outset. Now I must settle your fees.’

My friend raised a peremptory hand. ‘Watson will tell you that my scale of fees varies only when I decide to remit them entirely. Since your problem has presented me with certain singular aspects which it has been challenging to unravel, Mrs Fordeland, pray let me remit them in your case.’

She thanked us profusely and left.

‘Holmes!’ I expostulated, as soon as our door had shut behind her. ‘It is unworthy of you!’

‘Really?’ he replied, blandly. ‘What is unworthy of me?’

‘You have successfully unravelled the matter on which she first consulted us and should have warned her, in the strongest terms, to take herself and her granddaughter away from England. Instead you have encouraged them to remain exposed to danger.’

He stared at me thoughtfully. ‘You seem to have overlooked certain aspects of the matter,’ he said. ‘The first is the involvement of Agatha Wortley-Swan, which remains totally unexplained. The second is the perhaps more important question of how to prevent Professor Gregorieff from attempting to murder Count Skovinski-Rimkoff.’

‘You believe that is his intention?’ I asked, astonished.

‘Very definitely,’ he said. ‘Now, I might inform Scotland Yard and leave it to them, but Kyriloff has already tried to set the Yard on to Gregorieff, without even knowing who he is. I would be loath to take any steps which might put Kyriloff or the count in a position to mistreat the professor, but I do not think that I would be able to persuade Gregorieff away from his intentions. It is a difficult problem, Watson. We have wandered into some very murky waters.’

Twenty

An Unexpected Visitor

‘But you said,’ I recalled, ‘that Professor Gregorieff was not a violent man.’

‘So I did, Watson, nor is he. May I remind you that it was you who pointed out to me my error in dealing with Mrs Fordeland?’

‘Your error?’ I said, for I was genuinely puzzled.

‘My serious error,’ he confirmed. ‘When the lady first consulted us I assessed her as being a person of firmer principle than most, who would not deliberately mislead me. It was you, Watson, who pointed out that a person of impeccable integrity may deem it a part of that integrity to conceal another’s secret or to honour a promise given. But for that insight, we might well not have had this afternoon’s conversation.’

I was pleased at his recollection of my contribution, but I failed to see the relevance.

‘What,’ I said, ‘has that got to do with the murderous intentions of Professor Gregorieff?’

‘It is analogous, Watson. Mrs Fordeland is a person of integrity, which means that she will only deal in untruths or half-truths when there is some principle at stake. Gregori Gregorieff is a man of peace, which means that he will not take to the knife, the pistol or the bomb unless there is some greater reason. He has that greater reason. Two of his family are dead as a result of the loathsome Count Skovinski-Rimkoffs activities, one of them tortured and murdered within yards of the professor while he sat helpless to intervene. That is, I submit, a powerful motive.’

I nodded. ‘But why did he do nothing in Russia, then?’ I asked.

‘Precisely because he is neither emotionally nor intellectually violent, Watson. Were he an emotionally violent individual, he would have rushed out into the night when the count’s men were holding his sister and let himself be shot down as she was. Were he an intellectually violent man, he would have made some attempt on the count’s life in Russia and been executed or ended his days in some Siberian wilderness. Do you not agree, Watson?’

‘I follow your reasoning,’ I said, ‘but having done neither of those things, why should he now decide to kill the count?’

‘He will have wished to kill the count from the moment he learned that his sister had fallen into the maniac’s hands, but he suppressed that wish, He continued to do so, not least, I suspect, because he has to consider the welfare of his other sister, Anna. So, he leaves Russia and establishes himself in London, where, according to old Goldstein, he attends meetings of the Social Democratic Federation and speaks as a voice of reason for democratic, not revolutionary, change in Russia. Then comes the Jubilee and the count appears in London as an honoured representative of the Tzar. Gregorieff must have seen it as an indication that something must be done to finish the man and he must be the one to do it.’

‘I have to say,’ I remarked, ‘that after what Mrs Fordeland has told us about the count, and what we already know of his earlier behaviour in London, his death would not occasion me any qualms.’

‘Oh, I entirely agree with you, Watson. The man is a maniac of a particularly repellent kind and his wealth and position protect him. If it were simply a case of leaving the count to an assassin’s hand I would see no problem. But here we have other considerations.’

‘I do not see them,’ I admitted.

‘Firstly,’ he said, ‘there is the question of Professor Gregorieff. He is not a violent man, but now feels that he must take violent action against the count. Lacking experience, he is likely to be unsuccessful.

That will set both Scotland Yard and Major Kyriloff hunting him in earnest. Even if he is successful, the same result will follow. The Yard will seek him, Kyriloff will seek him. If Kyriloff finds him first, he will have Gregorieff tortured to death to learn who his fellow conspirators were, and that threatens the man’s sister and his friend Poliakoff if no others. If the Yard succeeds, then Kyriloff will eventually learn Gregorieff’s identity. In either case, Kyriloff will discover the old connection between Gregorieff and Mrs Fordeland. Then it will not matter if she is back in Canada. Kyriloff’s colleagues will go after her.’

‘You mean that Mrs Fordeland is in danger unless we can stop Gregorieff going after the count?’

‘Precisely, Watson. Now, perhaps, you see my tactics and my dilemma.’

‘Holmes,’ I said, and I felt thoroughly abashed. ‘I really must apologize. My remarks were

unforgivable.’

‘Not unforgivable, old friend, merely ill-considered and uttered without a proper analysis of the situation. But they sprang from your desire to protect the fair sex, and that is a feature which I admire in you.’

‘Perhaps,’ I suggested, ‘you could convince Lestrade that Gregorieff was really behind an attempt on the count in Hyde Park. That way the professor will be arrested and—’

‘And Kyriloff will learn that Gregorieff was the strangely dressed person who has followed him about and that Mrs Fordeland has a long-standing connection with the professor, dating back to the time of Katya Gregorieff’s death and so on. Do I need to go any further, Watson?’

‘No, no,’ I admitted. ‘It was an ill-thought-out idea and wouldn’t work. But what are you going to do, Holmes?’

‘I wish I knew, old friend. I wish I knew. What is more, there is the question of Miss Wortley-Swan.’

‘I confess that I do not understand her connection with the matter at all, Holmes. Are you sure that she is really connected with it?’

‘Oh, she is really connected with it, Watson. She covers for Gregorieff, she provides him with employment and a place from which he can carry out his activities around our client. After the Hyde Park episode she stated that she believed he had returned to Russia, yet Gregorieff told us that he

“works” for her - not “worked”, Watson, but “works”. The professor’s English is academically correct.

He is not likely to have misused a word. He works for her still and she deflects enquiries about him.’

‘And you can make nothing of the connection?’ I asked.

‘I can make many things of the connection, Watson, but they are blind surmises without data to support them. At least one of them fills me with greater foreboding.’

He poured himself another brandy, a sign that he was more than usually puzzled. Since his return from abroad he had not only eschewed his cocaine solution, but had become notably sparing with spirits.

My friend filled his Meerschaum and set about constructing a pile of cushions upon the couch. I recognized the signs and realized that he might sit all night, puffing his pipe continuously, while his great brain turned over and over the pieces of the problem, ordering and reordering them until an answer emerged. There would be no conversation out of him that night, so I took a book, bade Holmes goodnight and retired early.

I lay late the next morning. I could too easily recall the sitting room after one of my friend’s night-long sittings, and had no wish to venture down until Mrs Hudson had disturbed him, persuaded or driven him away from his throne of cushions, and opened the windows to release the thick, grey cloud of tobacco smoke that would have filled the room.

When eventually I did rise, it was to find Holmes at the breakfast table, fully dressed, though his pallor and his lack of interest in food confirmed that he had been pondering all night.

I served myself with a hearty breakfast and kept conversation to a polite minimum. Holmes toyed with a slice of toast and stared at the window during much of our meal.

I had finished eating and was taking a cup of tea and a glance at the newspapers when Holmes spoke suddenly.

‘I have,’ he said, ‘but it will not do.’

‘Have what?’ I asked, completely startled.

‘I have reached a reasonable solution to Miss Wortley-Swan’s involvement with Professor Gregorieff.

Was that not the question you were not asking?’

‘Holmes!’ I protested. ‘No matter how long I have known you it still unnerves me when you appear to read my mind.’

‘And no matter how many times I explain it,’ he replied, ‘you persist in treating it as mind-reading, when it is, in fact, precisely the opposite. I merely deduce the content of the mind from the actions of my subject. It is good practice.’

I cannot say that being thought of as a subject for practice cheered me, but I let that pass in my desire to hear his conclusions.

‘Since finishing your meal, to which, incidentally, you failed to add your usual dash of Worcestershire Sauce, you have sugared your tea twice and then left it in the cup, and your perusal of the newspapers has been so desultory that you have ignored the sporting pages. That is, I think, fair evidence that you are distracted by some overriding thought, is it not?’

I laid down the paper and raised both hands.

‘I submit,’ I said, ‘on the condition that you will tell me what conclusions you have reached.’

‘I would not call it a conclusion, Watson. I have considered all the possible and reasonable explanations for the lady behaving as she has and for her connection with Gregorieff. One of them, though

frightening, makes a certain amount of sense, but I do not have the data to confirm or reject it.’

‘Why do you say “frightening”?’ I asked.

‘Because, Watson, if I am correct, Miss Wortley-Swan is contemplating something which will result in a threat to our client.’

Before I could reply, Mrs Hudson entered.

‘I’m sorry if you have not finished your tea, Mr Holmes, but there is a gentleman downstairs asking for you. He says that his business is most urgent, and he brought this.’ She handed Holmes a card.

‘This is Mycroft’s card!’ exclaimed Holmes. ‘Dated this morning!’

He pulled out his watch and compared it with our notoriously unreliable mantelpiece clock.

‘I thought that we must have sat late, Watson, but it seems we are no later than usual. On the other hand, brother Mycroft seems to have stirred his stumps much earlier than is his wont. This must be important. You’d best show the gentleman up, Mrs Hudson, and let us have some more tea.’

As the door closed, Holmes looked at me. ‘What do you think has disturbed Mycroft at this hour?’ he asked. I admitted that I had no idea.

Minutes later Mrs Hudson returned with a fresh pot of tea, an extra cup and saucer and our mysterious visitor.

The new arrival was a tall gentleman of military appearance and carriage, though dressed in civilian clothing. He was of middle years and evidently used to command.

‘Mr Holmes?’ he enquired. ‘I am sorry to disturb a man’s breakfast, but I have just come from your brother and he felt that I should communicate with you at once. I am Colonel Henry Wilmshaw.’

‘Henry Wilmshaw,’ repeated Holmes as he shook the man’s hand. ‘Of course! Henry Wilmshaw! I

cannot tell you how delighted I am to see you. Do take the basket chair. You will find it the more comfortable. This is my friend and colleague, Dr Watson. Can I offer you some tea?’

I was completely bewildered.

Twenty-One

A Parisian Occurrence

Sherlock Holmes had evidently sprung from the deepest dismay about the possible outcome of the case to a sudden cheerfulness that usually betokened the recognition of some new data. He settled our visitor in the basket chair and offered him tea, then flung himself back into his own seat.

‘I had thought that you were in Egypt,’ said Holmes, and then the light dawned on me.

‘So I was,’ replied the colonel. ‘So I was, and expecting to stay there a while, but it appears that Her Majesty is dispensing medals at the Jubilee and my name came up. So I’m ordered back to England to collect the medal and await new orders.’

Holmes nodded. ‘And what brought you here, Colonel?’

‘Well, I came into town yesterday, parked my baggage and trotted along to the War Office this morning to see what was what. It appeared that another department had been asking about me urgently, and I was sent along to see Mr Mycroft Holmes.’

‘And what has he told you, Colonel?’

‘Very little, Mr Holmes. Very little. I know he’s your brother, but I have to say he made a great mystery of it all, didn’t really explain anything, but said I should see you as fast as possible and that the matter was of the gravest importance. So, here I am, Mr Holmes.’

Holmes nodded again. ‘You should not blame my brother entirely, Colonel. It is a complicated story and he knows less of it than I do, in addition to which he has the ingrained habit of keeping his cards close to his chest. There is no reason at all why I should not tell you all that I know, but it is a complicated story. At present what matters is that it seems to threaten at least one death and probably an international incident, hence the concern of my diplomatic brother. It may well be that you are the only person who can assist me at present, and I would ask you to do so in the certainty that you will be assisting your country in avoiding an unpleasant incident and maybe saving a number of lives.’

The colonel looked as bewildered as I had been. ‘If that’s the case, then I shall help you in any way that I can, but I cannot imagine what help you require from me, Mr Holmes.’

‘Do you know Agatha Wortley-Swan?’ asked Holmes.

‘Of course I do,’ said Wilmshaw. ‘I was very nearly engaged to her years ago, but Johnny Parkes came up on my blind side and took her off.’

‘So you knew her and Captain Parkes well,’ said Holmes. ‘When were you last in touch with her?’

The colonel looked at the ceiling. ‘A long time ago,’ he said at last. ‘Years and years. Of course, you will know how Johnny Parkes died, just as they were going to tie the knot. I was going to be their best man, you know. I was at that wretched party in Paris.’

He paused, and one could see that his eyes were seeing scenes long gone.

‘If it had been possible, I would have taken her up, after Johnny was killed, but it couldn’t be. I was too much a part of it, Mr Holmes. I would always have been a reminder to her. She shut herself away and I went where the Army sent me. Of course, I heard of her through mutual friends, but all I heard was that she became a recluse for years and then took up some kind of charitable work.’

He sipped his tea, reflectively.

‘It was a damned shame, Mr Holmes, the whole thing. Is that what you wish to ask about?’

‘Why do you think so, Colonel?’

‘Because the job was never done properly at the time. It was all pushed under the carpet because it happened in a foreign capital and there were foreign diplomats involved. So they said poor old Johnny fell in with some French garrotters. I’m sure he did - I saw his body - but there was more to it than that.

Still, nobody wanted to know.’

‘I want to know, Colonel,’ said Holmes. ‘I want to know everything you can tell me about the death of Captain Parkes.’

The colonel looked at Holmes with a thoughtful expression for a while, then he said, ‘I’m extremely glad to hear it, Mr Holmes. Where would you like me to begin?’

‘From whatever you think was the beginning, Colonel.’

‘Well now, I’d better tell you a bit about me and Johnny Parkes. We were old pals. We’d been at school together, took our papers out together, joined the same regiment. We were subalterns together and we made captain together, and I suppose that’s how we both fell for Agatha at the same time. She was a great beauty, you know, pictures in the Graphic and that, you could even buy postcards of her, but Johnny and I were her regular escorts. That’s both of us, I mean. We used to go around as a threesome.

She used to say that it made it obvious that she wasn’t going to make her mind up in a hurry and that two escorts keep the mashers at bay better than one.’

He smiled, reminiscently. ‘We had some good times,’ he recalled. ‘Went everywhere together, balls, picnics, riding, boating, always the three of us. Then Johnny and I were sent over to Paris, attached to the embassy there. I was on duty the night before we left, so Johnny took Agatha out to dinner. I remember when he came back. He looked a bit straight-faced and I chaffed him about it, said

something like, “Been out with the prettiest girl in London and off to gay Paree in the morning and you’ve got a face like a boot!” Well, that was when he told me that he’d proposed to Agatha over dinner and she’d accepted him.’

He shook his head slowly. ‘I suppose that was all my fault. I hadn’t been thinking about marrying, I’d been just getting ahead in the Army and having my fun. Maybe she saw that Johnny was a better bet. I don’t know. Anyway, it was done, so one made the best of it, of course. If Agatha was to be anyone’s but mine then it had to be Johnny. I couldn’t have imagined her tied up with anyone else. So I congratulated him and we had a drink or two and that was alright.’

He sipped his tea. ‘So off we went to Paris, and we were going to be there some months, so Johnny and Agatha were going to tie the knot when we came home and I was to be their best man. Johnny and I had some good times in France. Sometimes I had to remind him he was as good as married, but it was nothing serious. He was Agatha’s all through. Then she wired him that she and her mother were coming over for a few days to buy her trousseau, which bucked Johnny up no end.’

He smiled again. ‘Almost old times it was, the three of us going about Paris, but of course we often had Agatha’s mother in tow. That’s how we ended up at the ball, really. It was at the Hungarian Embassy and I admit they do put on a good show, but Johnny and I had been sent round all the embassies a couple of times already. You know the game - a couple of fresh young men, might pick up an indiscreet remark from somebody’s daughter or wife, that sort of thing. All rubbish really, but that’s how these Intelligence fellows think. So we’d done our bit at that game and as to Agatha, well, she’d been going to balls ever since she came out. We wanted to go to a theatre, but you couldn’t get Agatha’s mother into a French theatre for love nor money, quite convinced it was all too immoral for words. She must go to the Hungarian Ball, so we went along, and I daresay that Johnny didn’t mind showing off his lovely fiancee to the world.

‘So we put on best bib and tucker and went along. It was the usual sort of thing, lots of uniforms, lots of evening dress, lots of ball gowns, plenty of drink, a huge buffet with lots of foreign food you’ve never heard of, everybody being dreadfully friendly and chummy with everybody else, even if they’d been threatening war last week. Well, you learn to make the best of ’em, Mr Holmes, all part of the job when you’re attached to an embassy, so I had a few drinks and a few dances and a poke at the buffet, and that’s where it happened.‘

Colonel Wilmshaw looked about him. Holmes saw the look and stepped to the sideboard, offering our guest a brandy. When we all had a drink the old soldier resumed his tale.

‘I suppose it was about halfway through the evening. I was in the buffet and Johnny came in, going to fetch something for Agatha, I suppose. He came up alongside me and we were chatting when we both heard this fellow standing near make an astoundingly coarse remark. It would have been wretchedly bad form in any case - that sort of nonsense belongs to the barrack room if it has a place - but it was worse than that. The comment was plainly about Agatha. Now, he said it in French, of course, but the very reason Johnny and I had been attached to the embassy was because we were both dab hands at the lingo.’

The colonel sipped his brandy and shook his head. ‘I’d heard the fellow, Johnny had heard him. I thought, “Here’s trouble!” but Johnny was ice-cold. He laid down his plate and napkin and stepped up to the fellow who’d said it and tapped him on the shoulder. He swung round and I could see he was a Russian colonel, though young for the rank. He said, “You interrupt me, Captain,” in French. Johnny said, “Colonel, you have just passed a damnably filthy observation about the lady who I intend to marry. I require you to withdraw your vile comment and apologize.” He said it loudly, in English, and you could hear the whole room go quiet.’

‘The Russian smiled at Johnny, and he says - in English too - “Captain, I shall make whatever observations I choose to my friends, without your permission. If they offend you, you know the remedy. You are at liberty to call me out. I shall be pleased to respond.”’

‘But Captain Parkes could not challenge the Russian,’ I said.

‘Certainly not,’ agreed the colonel, ‘and I was about to remind him of that, but I didn’t have to. I’ve never seen Johnny so angry. He was burning with rage and as white as paper, but he had absolute control of himself. He said, “You must know very well, Colonel, that I am not permitted by the laws of this or my own country, or by the regulations of my service, to call you out. Were it not so, I should welcome the opportunity of killing you.” The Russian laughed aloud. He said, “It is easy to make bold claims when you also claim the protection of the law, Captain. In Russia if we believe that we have been dishonoured we attempt to kill the man who did it. You, it seems, do not.”

‘Johnny took a step forward and I grasped his arm. “You, Colonel, are a filthy-mouthed scoundrel and I demand your apology and withdrawal.” The Russian laughed again. “And you shall not have it. I have offered you satisfaction of a kind which is, it seems, too strong for you. That is all you shall have. If the British Army chooses not to fight, I shall certainly not surrender.” Johnny said, “The British Army exists to kill the enemies of Britain, not to play personal games, but this matter will not end here.” “Oh, I think it will,” said the Russian, and he walked off with his friends, all laughing.

‘I pulled Johnny back, in case he intended to follow. The whole thing had been bad enough as it was. It was going to be the talk of all the embassies in Paris in the morning, and I wanted to make sure that Johnny didn’t suffer for it. So far he’d carried himself very well, but you never know how far a fellow can be pushed. I took him out on the balcony and got him a drink and calmed him down before he went back to Agatha. She, of course, had heard some of it from ladies who had been in the buffet, but we made light of it. The Russian seemed to have made himself scarce, and by the end of the evening it all seemed to have been forgotten, except by Johnny. He was taking Agatha and her mother back to their hotel, and I remember that, as he left me, he said, “I’ll make that filthy scoundrel smart for that, you see if I don’t.”’

Colonel Wilmshaw paused and stared into the past he had awakened. ‘That was the last thing old Johnny ever said to me, you know. I never saw him again. He didn’t come back to our digs that night.

Well, I didn’t worry much about that. I admit I thought he might have found a way of slipping past Agatha’s mother and be enjoying himself at their hotel, but when he didn’t show up the next day I got worried. Then I saw Agatha and she said that they’d said goodnight at the hotel and Johnny was going to stroll back to our place. That’s when I got bothered and reported him missing. It was five days later that the French police took me to a mortuary to identify his body.’

He paused again. ‘I’ve seen a deal of dead men,’ he went on at last. ‘Some of them fellows I’ve messed with and fought alongside. You’ve been in Afghanistan, Doctor. You know the kind of things that happen to a fellow there. Nothing has ever made me feel as bad as seeing poor Johnny’s body, laid out on a table.’

‘He had been beaten and stabbed, I understand,’ said Holmes.

Colonel Wilmshaw nodded. ‘There must have been at least three of them,’ he said, ‘and Johnny had fought like a tiger from the injuries he took.’

‘The French police put it down to boulevard assassins, garrotters. Do you agree?’

Wilmshaw snorted. ‘Garrotters! Rubbish! I grant you Paris is full of street bandits, but they’re not stupid. Why would they take on a young man in uniform, who looked like he could give an account of himself? There are always plenty of old men about late at night to make prey for them.’

‘Would he have been armed in any way?’ Holmes asked.

Wilmshaw smiled. ‘He’d been to a ball, not on manoeuvres, Mr Holmes. You try waltzing with a

sword. No, he was in evening kit with decorations. But there was something else, Mr Holmes.’

‘What was that?’

‘They said it was garrotters, but I remember when I went to the mortuary, the inspector said to me, “We have his watch and his pocketbook. There is very little doubt that it is Captain Parkes, but we require a formal identification.” What do you make of that?’

Holmes’ eyes blazed. ‘They had not robbed him!’ he exclaimed. ‘They attacked a man on the street at night, beat him, stabbed him to death and did not rob him. Then it was not street thieves.’

‘I’m glad to hear you agree, Mr Holmes. I never thought it was, and I tried to make a fuss about the way the French were treating it all. So did Agatha’s father, but it never got anywhere. I got told off by the Ambassador for being a nuisance and a hindrance to diplomacy, and then I got shot off to the East.’

‘If you did not believe the Paris police, Colonel, what theory had you as to Captain Parkes’ death?’

asked Holmes.

Wilmshaw looked at my friend without answering for a moment. Then he took a swallow of brandy.

‘You may tell me that I’m wrong, Mr Holmes - you wouldn’t be the first - but I couldn’t help feeling then and I can’t help feeling now that it had to do with that damned Russian colonel. I poked about a bit when I realized that the police weren’t doing much. It seems the fellow was a member of the Tzar’s family. He had a filthy reputation in Paris. Seems he had pots of money and spent it mainly on women, but his habits were so bad that even the French houses wouldn’t do business with him. There were some very unsavoury tales about him.’

Holmes nodded. ‘Do you, by any chance, recall the Russian officer’s name, Colonel?’

‘Now, there you’ve got me. Never was much good at names and he had one of those complicated

Russian names.’

‘Was it,’ said Holmes, ‘by any chance, Count Stepan Skovinski-Rimkoff?’

‘That’s it!’ exclaimed the colonel. ‘That’s the man!’

Twenty-Two

Danger Threatens

‘How do you know, Mr Holmes? Is his name in the file?’ asked Wilmshaw.

Holmes shook his head. ‘Oh no,’ he said. ‘There is no mention of the count in the official file, nor is there any mention of the incident in the buffet.’

‘I told them, Mr Holmes! I told the French police all about it!’ Wilmshaw burst out.

‘I’m sure you did,’ said Holmes, ‘but all they recorded was the time at which you saw Captain Parkes leave the ball with his fiancee and her mother and the fact that he failed to come home that night.’

The colonel snorted. ‘I knew it!’ he exclaimed. ‘Because the scoundrel’s a Russian nobleman, they covered it up, but you mark my words, Mr Holmes, after his row with Johnny, that man arranged for Johnny to be waylaid and beaten. Whether he intended him to be killed I don’t know, but I’m sure he arranged it.’

‘I am very largely in agreement with you,’ said Holmes, ‘but there are two matters to be considered.

Firstly, Count Skovinski-Rimkoff is presently in London as an official guest at the Jubilee. I suggest that you are at pains to avoid him. Secondly, and more to the point, the man’s presence here poses a danger to Miss Wortley-Swan.’

‘To Agatha!’ exclaimed the colonel. ‘How?’

Holmes raised a hand. ‘I am not, at present, at liberty to reveal the reasons for my fears, but believe me, Colonel, they are genuine. Now, would it be in order for you to visit the lady to apprise her of your return from Egypt?’

‘Well, of course,’ said Wilmshaw. ‘I was intending to do so in any case.’

‘Then do so this afternoon, Colonel. It is most important. See Miss Wortley-Swan and contrive, if you can, to spend as much time in her company as possible over the next few days. Do not, I enjoin you, tell her that you have seen me or my brother, but stay as close to her as you may.’

The colonel cast a puzzled eye on Holmes. ‘Sealed orders, eh? Very well then. If Agatha’s in any kind of danger, you can count on me, Mr Holmes.’

When the door closed behind our visitor I chuckled.

‘I do not know, Watson, what you find amusing in all this,’ said Holmes. ‘This affair becomes darker and more dangerous with every passing day.’

‘I was merely considering,’ I said, ‘that you seem to have turned this agency into a matchmaking business.’

Holmes smiled thinly. ‘I sent the colonel post-haste to the lady’s door in the slender hope that his appearance may distract her from her dangerous purpose.’

‘Which is?’ I asked.

‘Oh, Watson! Colonel Wilmshaw’s narrative has only served to confirm what I have suspected for a long time. Whether the count was really responsible for Captain Parkes’ death, Miss Wortley-Swan believes so. That explains her curious connection with Professor Gregorieff. Both of them believe that they have suffered grievous wrong at the man’s hands and they propose to murder him.’

‘Holmes!’ I exclaimed. ‘You are surely not serious!’

‘I was never more so, Watson. The evidence stares us in the face. Captain Parkes was involved in a public exchange of insults with the count on the night he died. Shortly thereafter he is beaten and stabbed, ostensibly by street banditti who are so inept that, having killed their quarry, they fail to take his watch and pocketbook. Colonel Wilmshaw and Miss Wortley-Swan attempt to press an

investigation into the matter, but no progress is made and the matter is pushed aside, indubitably for diplomatic reasons. The colonel is sent off abroad, but Miss Wortley-Swan has considerable finances available to her, so she bides her time and lays her plans, part of which is the creation of a charity which concerns itself with Russian emigres in London, which enables her to seek out a Russian confederate. Perhaps it was her intention to pursue the count in Russia, but now she is presented with an opportunity - he has returned to London. I have no doubt that she is preparing - in the very near future - to avenge the murder of her fiancé.’

I had to agree with his analysis of the situation, but one point puzzled me.

‘But how did she come into contact with Professor Gregorieff?’ I asked. ‘There are so many refugees from the Tzar in London.’

‘So there are, Watson, and among their own kind they discuss the wrongs that have been done to them.

Gregori Gregorieff speaks at the Workingmen’s Club and is, it seems, well known in his community.

Old Goldstein knew that the professor had some connection with the count. Miss Wortley-Swan would not have had much difficulty in identifying a possible fellow conspirator, and what more natural than her employment of a skilled interpreter?’

I nodded. ‘So what are you going to do to prevent it? You are intending to prevent it, aren’t you?’

‘If I believed that any plot against the count would succeed, Watson, I might well be tempted to ignore what I know about the matter and let it proceed, but it will not. The killing, or attempted killing, of the Tzar’s cousin in Britain will lead Scotland Yard to employ every method to uncover the criminals. They have almost as many spies in the East End as Kyriloff, and it will not take them long to uncover Gregorieff and his lady employer. It must be prevented for their sake, but I confess that I do not know how.’

If I had hoped that the appearance of Colonel Wilmshaw would encourage my friend in his attempts to unravel the matter, I was to be disappointed. Faced with the problem which he had set out, he slumped in an armchair for much of the day, smoking continuously. In the evening he took his violin and began a series of harsh and discordant improvisations which drove me, fairly rapidly, to an early bed.

The following morning was similar to its predecessor, with Holmes breakfasting on toast alone, while answering my pleasantries with monosyllables or not at all. It was plain that he had failed to resolve the conundrum.

Mrs Hudson had cleared our table and we sat sipping tea when we heard some kind of disturbance below. Voices, one of which was our landlady’s, were being raised at the foot of our stairs. Mrs Hudson had long learned to maintain an admirably impassive response to both Holmes and the sometimes unusual characters who visited him, so that she rarely found it necessary to raise her voice.

‘It sounds,’ I observed, ‘as though Mrs Hudson has run into difficulties.’

Before Holmes could respond, we heard a short cry from Mrs Hudson, followed by heavy feet

pounding up the seventeen stairs which led to our door.

‘I hope,’ said Holmes, rising and taking a poker from the fireside, ‘that no lout has been stupid enough to do harm to our landlady,’ and he moved towards the door.

He had barely reached it and was stretching out his hand when the door was flung open from outside, to reveal the enormous figure of Nikolai Poliakoff, dishevelled and breathing heavily. An irate Mrs Hudson rapidly appeared behind him.

‘It is alright, Mrs Hudson,’ said Holmes. ‘This man is known to me.’

Our landlady made an expression of unspoken anger and withdrew. Holmes showed our visitor to the basket chair, which creaked loudly under the Russian’s great weight.

‘You would do well,’ remarked Holmes, ‘not to make an enemy of Mrs Hudson.’

‘I am sorry, Mr Holmes,’ panted the Russian, ‘but Gregori told me to bring you this as quickly as possible.’ He thrust an envelope into Holmes’ hand.

Quickly my friend tore open the envelope and examined the single sheet of paper which it held. As I watched I saw him transformed. The lethargy which had consumed him throughout the previous

evening and at our breakfast disappeared in an instant. His eyes flashed.

‘Watson,’ he commanded, ‘kindly ring for our boots and take your pistol!’

Turning to the large Russian he asked, ‘Are you coming with us, Mr Poliakoff?’

‘I cannot,’ said Poliakoff. ‘Gregori said that I was to bring you his message and then meet him at Miss Wortley-Swan’s house. I must go,’ and he suited action to word and was off.

Once we had dressed, I pocketed my Adams .450 and followed Holmes down the stairs. Although he had a look of grim determination on his face, I could tell that he welcomed the sudden call to action. As he leapt down the steps, two at a time, he called behind to me.

‘Come on, Watson! Come on! The game’s afoot!’

Twenty-Three

The Bear Snarls

We were fortunate in finding a growler rapidly, and were soon travelling at a spanking pace, though I had, as yet, no inkling of our destination.

‘What was the message that Poliakoff brought?’ I asked. Wordlessly Holmes slipped the letter from his pocket and passed it to me. It read:

Mr Holmes,

You were visited yesterday by Colonel Wilmshaw. My contact in the embassy tells me that

Kyriloff knows this. He is afraid that you and Mrs Fordeland are about to make trouble for the count and he proposes to seize the lady in order to prevent you. I dare do nothing, sir. You must help her.

G. Gregorieff

‘Great Heavens!’ I exclaimed. ‘Is it possible that he is right? Would this man Kyriloff attempt to kidnap an English lady in the heart of London?’

Holmes looked at me without an expression. ‘Watson,’ he said, ‘you persist in seeing London as the great city which is the heart of the world’s greatest Empire, and of course it is, but it is exactly for those reasons that it is the easiest place in the world to commit almost any variety of crime.’

‘I’m sure that you are right, Holmes, but to take the lady seems excessive, even for Kyriloff.’

‘Kyriloff,’ said Holmes, ‘knows no excess. If his dreadful masters required it of him, or if he believed that it would serve their purpose, he would not hesitate to kidnap Queen Victoria.

Scotland Yard suspects him of a large number of unsolved killings. I suspect him of more. Both of us believe that he is also responsible for a dozen or so disappearances, including that of the Honourable Hermione Anstruther.‘

‘Great Heavens!’ I repeated. ‘Then Mrs Fordeland is really in danger!’

‘In deadly danger, Watson. Pray that we are in time.’

Suddenly Holmes rapped on the roof of our cab with his stick. ‘Cabbie,’ he said. ‘A whole sovereign for you if you will drop us in front of the hotel, then take the left corner and await us by the gate of the first yard.’

‘Done, sir!’ acknowledged the driver, and in a moment we were jumping out of our conveyance at the foot of the hotel’s steps. Holmes cast a swift glance around, then pointed with his stick.

‘You see,’ he said, ‘those three young men loitering across the way. They are too well dressed for common street loiterers and in the wrong part of town. Those will be three of Kyriloff’s bandits, I’ll be bound. I hope that their presence means that their master has not made his move as yet.’

He strode up the steps and presented his card to the commissionaire. ‘Tell me,’ he asked the man, ‘have those young men been there long?’

‘About a quarter of an hour,’ said the man. ‘I thought they might be waiting for someone, but they haven’t made any enquiry.’

‘Has anyone asked after a guest?’ enquired Holmes.

‘There was a military-looking gent, sir, spoke a bit foreign. He asked after Mrs Fordeland. They told him at the desk as she was in the garden, but he didn’t leave no message.’

‘I am sure he would not,’ said Holmes. ‘Let me warn you, that the military gentleman and the young men across the street mean Mrs Fordeland no good. If they attempt to enter the hotel, do not hesitate to whistle for a constable,’ and he slipped a coin into the commissionaire’s white-gloved hand.

‘It seems we are in time,’ said Holmes as we entered the lobby. ‘Kyriloff will not risk a disturbance in the hotel, but has set his men to watch Mrs Fordeland leave. That is when he will strike. If we are lucky we can forestall him.’

A request for our client at the hotel’s reception desk confirmed that she and her granddaughter were in the garden. A page showed us the way, and we found them taking tea at a garden table.

‘Why, Mr Holmes, Dr Watson,’ she said as we approached. ‘This is an unexpected pleasure. Do you have news?’

‘I fear that it is not a pleasurable errand that brings us here,’ said Holmes. ‘I do have news, but it is not good. For reasons too complicated to explain at present, Major Kyriloff has formed an impression that you and I are conspiring to expose Count Skovinski-Rimkoff and thereby provoke a diplomatic

incident in connection with the Jubilee. His men are watching the hotel’s front and the major himself is in the vicinity. I have every belief that he intends to take you and your granddaughter prisoner.’

The young girl stared at us in astonishment, but her grandmother set her cup down very firmly.

‘That is preposterous!’ she said. ‘What do you wish us to do, Mr Holmes?’

‘It is evident,’ said my friend, ‘that you cannot remain anywhere in London where Kyriloff’s people can find you. If you will be kind enough to make ready, as swiftly as you may, to stay overnight elsewhere, we will leave here and attempt to outwit the major. Once your safety is assured, I can arrange for your luggage to follow you.’

Mrs Fordeland rose. ‘Come, Elizabeth,’ she commanded. ‘We must do as Mr Holmes suggests with all despatch.’

We escorted them to the foot of the main staircase, where they left us to make for their rooms. Holmes detailed me to guard the back entrance to the hotel, and I paced the rear lobby with a hand firmly clasping the pistol in my coat pocket.

It was not many minutes before Holmes joined me, accompanied by Mrs Fordeland and her

granddaughter.

‘Now,’ he said, ‘beyond this door is the hotel’s mews yard, at the bottom of which our cab should await us. If we can reach the vehicle, we can make our way to Scotland Yard, where I will enlist the support of the official police. It is unlikely that they will act directly against Kyriloff, but they dislike his tricks in London and will welcome an opportunity to frustrate him by any means that they can. After which, we shall find a safe lodging for you and your granddaughter.’

He thrust the door open and stepped out into the yard, followed by the ladies, while I brought up the rear with Mrs Fordeland’s bag. We had almost reached the yard’s entrance when a figure in a dark coat stepped in front of us, backed by no fewer than five young men similar to those we had seen at the hotel’s front. It was Major Kyriloff.

‘I am surprised,’ he said, taking a long black cigarette from his mouth, ‘to see a lady like Mrs Fordeland leaving her hotel by the groom’s entrance. I am here to invite you and your pretty

granddaughter to pay a visit to my embassy, where there are matters which the ambassador would like to discuss with you.’

‘I thank you, Major Kyriloff, but you may tell the ambassador that I must refuse his invitation.’

‘But you are a writer and lecturer, Mrs Fordeland. His Excellency is always concerned that the press should receive accurate information about our country. There have been so many calumnies spread in the foreign press that he is at pains to see that there should be no more.’

‘Please assure your ambassador that I have no intention of spreading any calumny about Russia, Major Kyriloff.’

‘You have heard Mrs Fordeland,’ said Holmes. ‘Now please stand out of our way, Major.’

The Russian’s eyes narrowed. ‘Then I must be blunt with both of you. You, Mrs Fordeland, when a guest in our country, were witness to an unfortunate incident which, upon investigation, turned out to be one of those tragic accidents which sometimes occur in the hunting field. That explanation was given to you, in case you had imagined that something else had occurred. I am fully aware that you have not referred to the matter either in print or in your lectures, but now I see you in London associating with a man who is already known to me. You, Mr Holmes, have been at pains in the past to make my work here in London difficult, at the behest, no doubt, of your brother. When, in addition, I know that you have been visited by a certain army officer, it is abundantly clear to me that a plot has been hatched to discredit a member of the Imperial family. It is my duty to prevent such a plot.’

‘Major Kyriloff,’ said Holmes, ‘you appear to suffer from that distortion of the perceptions that drives people to imagine plots where there are none. Watson will confirm that it is called paranoia. Now, kindly stand aside.’

‘I have five young men at my disposal, Mr Holmes. I do not think you will get very far if you try the issue with them.’

‘I warn you, Kyriloff, I am armed,’ said Holmes.

The major smiled again. ‘So, Mr Holmes, are my companions and I. Now, might I suggest that you stand back and permit me to escort the ladies to our embassy?’

Holmes had stood with one hand clenched behind him. Now Mrs Fordeland took something from her reticule and pressed it into his hand.

Holmes swung his hand from behind his back and lifted it. I saw each of Kyriloff’s bodyguards tense and slip a hand into his coat, then pause as they saw what my friend was holding aloft.

‘This,’ said Holmes, ‘is a whistle of the kind carried by every member of the Metropolitan Police force.

I imagine that, at this time of day, there will be three or four constables within earshot, maybe more.

Would you care to repeat your threats, or to offer violence to my client or myself under the eyes of police officers? You know as well as I do that there are officers at Scotland Yard who would be delighted at an excuse to lock you up or to have you deported. If you make a move against my client and the rest of our party, I shall give them that opportunity.’

Kyriloff’s eyes narrowed and he took a long draw on his cigarette. The pause lengthened, then, without another word, he stepped aside and motioned to his men to do the same. We walked past them in silence, to find our cab waiting on the street.

‘Scotland Yard!’ Holmes told the cabby. ‘I shall double that sovereign if you give us all speed.’

Our driver cracked his whip and we were away. As I fell back in the seat, Holmes said, ‘I thank you for recalling the whistle, Mrs Fordeland. It was precisely what was needed.’

‘It certainly seemed to do the trick,’ she agreed.

‘It served for the moment, but Kyriloff will not leave you alone, nor will he be made any the better by being bested. We must still take strong measures for your safety.’

We rounded a corner and, a few yards further on, our cab came to a sudden halt. Holmes leapt up and thrust his head from a window.

‘What is the trouble, cabby?’

‘The street’s blocked, sir. A couple of brewery drays.’

‘Go back!’ commanded Holmes. ‘Go back at once! Go through Little Ayton Street!’

Our vehicle began the cumbersome process of turning in the street and had almost completed the manoeuvre when the cabby exclaimed, ‘It’s behind us as well, sir! There’s a couple more wagons entangled that way.’

Again Holmes sprang to the window and looked. When he turned back his face was solemn.

‘He has trapped us,’ he said. ‘These are not accidents. We have been bottled in by Kyriloff.’

Twenty-Four

A Royal Refuge

‘Can you not use the whistle again?’ I asked. ‘Hardly,’ he said. ‘I grant you that it will be heard by several constables, but the moment they enter this street from either end they will see an entanglement of vehicles. They will assume that they have been summoned for that reason and will attempt to deal with the confusion. Meanwhile, under cover of the mayhem he has created, Kyriloff and his minions will come for us. I do not like it, Watson.’

Holmes thrust his head from the window again, and I heard him instructing the driver. ‘You see that arched gateway, ahead on the left? Take us in there, as fast as you can. Take us right in!’

We started again and soon I saw stone pillars pass the windows as we entered a courtyard of some kind.

At last our vehicle stopped at the far end of the yard and we jumped down.

We were standing in a yard, similar to that of Mrs Fordeland’s hotel. Holmes beckoned us to follow, paid our cabby and strode into a door at the head of the yard. We found ourselves in a dark corridor which smelled of cooking and floor polish, along which Holmes strode with seeming authority.

At last a green baize door opened at Holmes’ hand to reveal a more brightly lit and better-decorated corridor. We followed that until it opened out into a spacious lobby and I realized that we had entered another hotel by its mews entrance.

Holmes stepped immediately to the manager’s desk and presented his card. After a few words he beckoned us to follow him up the staircase that curved out of the lobby. On the first landing, we found the corridor entrance guarded by a desk, at which stood a young man of oriental appearance, though dressed in dark formal clothes. Behind him, on either side of the passage, stood two splendidly costumed guards, each richly caparisoned and each with a sword at his side.

Holmes asked our client for her card and presented it with his to the young man at the desk.

‘You will be pleased to wait here,’ said the young man. ‘I shall have to consult His Majesty’s secretary.’

It was only then that I realized where Holmes’ quick wits and his encyclopaedic knowledge of London had brought us.

In minutes the young man reappeared, accompanied by an older man, whose face was creased into a smile.

‘Mrs Fordeland, Mr Holmes,’ he said, ‘this is an unexpected pleasure, but His Majesty will be happy to see you at once.’

At his gesture we followed him between the guards and along a richly decorated corridor to a pair of double doors at the end. These too were guarded by soldiers. The secretary motioned to them to open the doors and soon we followed him into a large room.

I imagine that, in ordinary circumstances, the room served as a secondary ballroom or reception room for the hotel, but it had now been converted to act as the audience chamber of King Chula of

Mongkuria. Its walls were hung throughout with splendid tapestries in bright colours, great clusters of palms and bright flowers filled each corner and a sumptuous carpet led from the doors to a low dais on which stood a richly carved and gilded chair.

Seated in this chair was a man of middle years with the handsome and even features of the Mongkurian people, and a small oriental moustache. He stood as we approached and I could see that he wore heavily embroidered slippers, trousers of black silk and a resplendent tunic woven with rich and complex designs. As he rose, Mrs Fordeland and her granddaughter curtsied formally and Holmes and I took their lead and bowed deeply. We were evidently in the presence of the King himself.

‘Mrs Fordeland!’ he exclaimed. ‘Such a pleasure to look upon you after so many years.’ He stepped forward from the dais and took both of our client’s hands. ‘I had hoped to see you in two days, but you come by surprise and you bring with you the most eminent detective of the world!’

Mrs Fordeland introduced us and His Majesty was kind enough to assure us that he knew my friend’s reputation through my published accounts.

‘Your Majesty,’ said Holmes, ‘I apologize for our untimely appearance in your suite, but Mrs Fordeland has found herself in no little danger and, in attempting to avoid that danger, I had no recourse but to throw our party on your mercy.’

‘Danger?’ said the King, frowning. ‘How comes it that a lady like Mrs Fordeland is in danger in this city? But you will tell me, Mr Holmes, while we dine. His Majesty has done his diplomatic business for today and it is time for refreshment.’

He beckoned his secretary and spoke quickly to him, then waved us after him with a peremptory gesture. We followed him to another chamber, where a meal had been laid, and we were shown to places at the table.

Once we were seated and being served, I looked about me. The room was smaller than the audience room, but had larger windows and a balcony overlooking the hotel’s garden. Like the principal room, it was profusely decorated with palms and flowers and half of one wall was covered in ornamental birdcages and I could see that their occupants were not native to Britain. Throughout our meal the birds engaged in a quietly cheery chatter with themselves and with each other.

Of the meal itself I recall little, save that it was excellent and that there was almost no dish offered that I had ever sampled before. His Majesty ate sparingly, as seemed to be his habit, while paying grave attention to Holmes’ account of the situation which had brought us to his suite.

When the meal was concluded we withdrew to chairs on the balcony and fruit juices were served. The King was silent for a while, apparently looking over the garden, which seemed to be at its best.

‘There is no problem, Mr Holmes,’ he said, suddenly. ‘Mrs Fordeland has served my country and my family well. It is an honour and a privilege to give her my protection. My entourage occupies two entire floors of this hotel. It will be no difficulty to accommodate all of you for as long as is necessary.’

‘That is extremely kind of you, Your Majesty,’ said our client, ‘but will it not create difficulties for your staff?’

‘I am quite sufficient difficulty to my staff, Mrs Fordeland. Everything else is easy by comparison.

Please, honour me by accepting my offer,’ and he smiled broadly.

‘Then I am pleased and honoured to accept your generous hospitality and your protection for myself and for my granddaughter,’ said Mrs Fordeland.

‘The spirit of my revered father would never have forgiven me if I had done any less,’ said the King.

‘Much as I know you disputed many issues between you, he had the greatest respect for your

intelligence and learning, and much as I know you sometimes angered him, he held great respect for your independence of mind. It was a quality that he valued highly.’

‘He was a man of great kindness, as well as a great king,’ said our client. ‘I have always deemed it a signal honour that he chose me to educate his wives and children and, thereby, allowed me to assist in some little part his ambitions for your country. If I may make so bold as to say so, Your Majesty, you have continued his work as he would have done it, if all I read of Mongkuria is true.’

I will swear that the King blushed. ‘I learned as a boy in your class, Mrs Fordeland, that you do not award praise that is unearned, and I value your words most highly for that reason. I have tried to follow my royal father’s path and to advance the nation and my people. There is still much to be done and, as in my father’s day, there are still far too many people who will offer to do it for us at a price in freedom which we will not pay.’

He reached for a carafe of fruit juice and refilled our glasses to cover his reaction. When he had taken a long draught, he rose and we followed suit. He motioned us to be seated again.

‘I must take a rest,’ he said. ‘My day has been passed, before you came, in listening to engineers from every country in Europe, who want to build me a railway. My secretary will have been making

arrangements for your accommodation and he will see that you are shown to your rooms as soon as possible. I am sure that, after this morning’s events, you too will wish to rest. I look forward to enjoying your company at dinner.’

He was true to his word and it was not long before we were escorted to rooms on the floor above.

Holmes and I were allocated two bedrooms with a small sitting room joining them and, after I had taken a short nap, I joined Holmes there.

‘Ah, Watson!’ he said. ‘I have taken the liberty of sending a message to Mrs Hudson to pack a small bag for each of us. The King’s people will collect them soon.’

‘Thank you,’ I said. ‘You know, I have to hand it to you, Holmes. When we were trapped in the street by Kyriloffs thugs, I thought we were really bottled up and in for trouble, but not only did you find a way out, you landed us as guests of the King of Mongkuria. Very well done!’

‘I am delighted, Watson, that you have not, on this occasion, attributed the result to luck. The fact is that, as soon as Mrs Fordeland made us aware of her connection with the King of Mongkuria, I made it my business to discover where His Majesty was quartered, in case it became of relevance. What got us out of trouble today was that knowledge combined with my knowledge of London’s geography, a basic tool of my practice. It is both foolish and dangerous to attempt a battle, or even to run away from one, unless one has a sound knowledge of the terrain.’

‘Oh, quite,’ I agreed, ‘but you must admit that we have landed rather soft, Holmes.’

‘I agree that the accommodation of a royal suite is a far cry from where we might have ended, and His Majesty’s generous offer removes the urgent danger to our client, but the second urgent aspect of the case remains beyond my control or intervention and I admit that it worries me.’

‘You mean Miss Wortley-Swan?’

‘I do, Watson. I am forced, at present, to trust that Colonel Wilmshaw’s reappearance in England will distract the lady sufficiently to delay any plans she has for the count.’

Before I could comment, a tap at the door brought a royal servant who presented the King’s apologies and asked us to join him in the audience chamber in fifteen minutes.

A quarter of an hour later we made our way to the great room and were shown to chairs alongside the dais. Mrs Fordeland and her granddaughter had been summoned as well, though none of us had an inkling of the reason.

Additional uniformed guards were posted to form a corridor from the main doors to the foot of the dais, and it became evident that a formal visitor was to be received. When all was in place, His Majesty’s secretary called for silence and the King swept in. Looking to neither left nor right he mounted the dais and stood before his chair. He had changed into a dazzling white tunic of European cut, heavily braided with gold and displaying a left breast filled with decorations and medals. An expression of stern irritation was stamped upon his previously placid and amiable features. Lifting his head, he snapped his fingers peremptorily.

The main doors opened and a darkly clothed attendant escorted the visitor between the lines of guards.

As he approached the dais it became possible to see that it was none other than our old friend Kyriloff, now elaborately clad in the uniform of his rank. He stopped at the foot of the dais and bowed deeply to the King. His Majesty acknowledged the bow with a curt dipping of his head.

‘Your Majesty,’ began Kyriloff. ‘Let me begin by saying that I and the country which I have the honour of representing are deeply grateful for your patience and consideration in agreeing to this audience at such short notice.’

He was evidently intending to go on, but the King cut him short. ‘You are here, Major Kyriloff, because I wish to know what it is that you have to say. Please say it.’

Kyriloff bowed again, but it was easy to see that he was not pleased at the King’s attitude.

‘Of course, Your Majesty,’ he said. ‘It has always been the practice of my country to extend the hand of friendship to smaller countries and to offer them any assistance within our power. At this time, when the representatives of so many nations are gathered here in London to honour the long reign of our Tzar’s great-aunt, Her Imperial Majesty Queen Victoria, it would be particularly unfortunate if there were to be any untoward incident here that spoiled the harmony of the event and caused ill will between the participants, even more so if such an incident were to involve a nation whose monarch has no interest in the matters involved.’

The King’s fingers drummed on the arm of his chair and his frown deepened, but he said nothing.

‘I regret that I must report to Your Majesty that information has reached my ambassador within the last few hours that a plot is afoot in London, the purpose of which is to sow discord between my country and Britain and to discredit a member of the Tzar’s own family. That plot is the work of an American reporter, Mrs Fordeland, acting in conjunction with the British secret agent Sherlock Holmes. I had been informed that both of them had sought Your Majesty’s protection when their conspiracy was discovered. I now see that my information was correct.’

King Chula leaned forward and, when he spoke, his voice was low and earnest, but audible across the hall.

‘Major Kyriloff,’ he said. ‘The lady of whom you speak is an old friend of my family and of the people of Mongkuria. For that reason alone it pleases me to offer her my protection. Let me explain to you, Major, what that means. It means that any attempt to inconvenience the lady or to harm her or intervene in her affairs will be seen by me as an interference with myself. Wherever and whenever such

interference might occur, I shall make it my business to see that the consequences are visited upon you personally. Now, I suggest that you take my answer back to your ambassador and tell him that you have come close to being flung down the stairs of this hotel by my guards and booted into the street. Good day to you!’

His Majesty snapped his fingers, stood up and swept from the room, while Kyriloff was escorted out. A glimpse of his face showed that he was seething with the blackest rage.

Once the two participants in the little drama were gone, an excited babble of conversation went round among the small number of observers.

‘By Jove!’ I observed to Holmes. ‘That was worth seeing!’

‘A pretty piece of drama,’ agreed Holmes, ‘and evidence of His Majesty’s commitment to our client, but if Kyriloff was an enemy before, he is ten times more so now. He has been bested by me earlier and now publicly insulted by King Chula. He will seek revenge. For that reason it is vitally important that Miss Wortley-Swan makes no foolish move.’

Twenty-Five

An Empty House

Dinner at His Majesty’s table that night was a fascinating event, though once again the King dined abstemiously and revealed in conversation that, as a young man, he had spent five years in a Buddhist monastery before ascending the throne. Holmes reminisced about his stay in Lhasa some years before as a guest of the Head Lama, and soon those of us present were treated to two powerful minds, one eastern and one western, debating the similarities and differences that appear when the Buddhist belief is compared to the religions of the west, though I have to say that Mrs Fordeland made many a telling point in the discussion.

When at last we retired, Holmes was in a good mood, the opportunity to pit his wits against another superior intelligence having made him positively cheerful. Nevertheless, he warned me that we would have to take steps on the following day to try and stay Miss Wortley-Swan’s designs against the count.

At breakfast he broached the problem with the King. We needed to leave the hotel, yet Kyriloff’s men would undoubtedly be keeping watch on all possible exits and entrances.

King Chula looked thoughtful and pondered the situation for a short time. Then he smiled.

‘Was it not you, Mr Holmes, who commented in the past that the more obvious an event the less real attention will be paid to it?’ and he went on to suggest a stratagem that had all of us laughing aloud at its impertinence.

Later in the morning, Holmes and I made our way to the hotel’s luggage room, where a range of large boxes stood, gaudily labelled with Mongkurian symbols and heavy stencilling in English which showed that they were to be consigned to His Majesty’s palace at Mongkur. A royal clerk explained to us that these contained commercial samples supplied by firms anxious to trade with Mongkuria, as well as personal gifts to His Majesty from other crowned heads. They had been packed ready to be shipped home to Mongkuria.

Soon the crates had been manhandled on to the back of a large carter’s dray which was drawn up at the hotel’s loading bay. Soon they had been stacked securely aboard the wagon, so as to present the appearance that the vehicle was fully loaded. In reality the boxes had been piled so as to conceal a space at the heart of the pile. Into this area Holmes and I climbed before the rear crates were placed and our hiding place sealed from prying eyes. Moments later we heard the sound of the drayman’s whip and felt the horses begin to take the strain as our equipage pulled out of the hotel’s yard.

It was a strange experience, riding through the heart of London, completely concealed among the King’s boxes, which creaked and shifted about us with every step of the horses, but I would dearly love to have been able to see our progress as an observer. His Majesty’s inspired idea had been to provide the dray with a foot escort of eight of his resplendent Mongkurian warriors in their colourful dress, who accompanied the vehicle, four on each side, and from time to time we heard the excited cheers of small boys, their imaginations stirred by our colourful escort. The King was, of course, right. No watcher could have imagined that Holmes and I would leave the hotel in such a very public way.

I rapidly lost all sense of where the cart was taking us, but after a while I caught the unmistakable smell of sea coal and the sound of shunting engines and knew that we must be nearing our destination. The dray made a few more complicated movements then halted. The rear crate was pulled away and the royal clerk stood there.

‘We are at Victoria Station,’ he said, and looked about him. ‘We are in the freight yard and nobody watches us, so you may step down. Once the boxes have been unloaded we shall load up again with empty crates and wait here until you return, Mr Holmes.’

We thanked him and made our way to the passenger ticket office to book to Burriwell.

It was a warm, sunny morning, and the walk from Burriwell Station to the village was a pleasure, but our ring at Miss Wortley-Swan’s doorbell was not answered.

Holmes stroked his chin thoughtfully. ‘Let us look around,’ he said, and we made our way completely around the house. All the doors and windows were closed and, so far as we could see through the windows, there was no sign of any disturbance.

At the kitchen door Holmes paused and stooped, lightly touching the doorstep.

‘There was somebody here earlier today,’ he announced.

‘How on earth can you tell?’ I asked.

‘The milk,’ he said, shortly. ‘When the milkcart came this morning a can was filled at this doorstep and a few drops were spilled. They are still slightly moist, so they must derive from this morning’s delivery, not last evening’s.’

He looked at the kitchen windows, then took a clasp knife from his pocket, slipped its point into one of the window catches and, in an instant, had slipped the lower part of the window upwards.

‘Come, Watson,’ he invited. ‘We have a way in,’ and he levered himself into the opening and slithered into the house like nothing so much as a great dark serpent. I was less agile, but succeeded in following him at a second attempt, so that soon we both stood inside the kitchen.

Holmes stood very still at the centre of the red-tiled floor and looked about him slowly. By pointing his stick he drew my attention to certain things, like the two cups and saucers which stood upside down on the draining board, and a folded paper lying on top of a newspaper on the big deal table.

When he had completed his survey he sat at the table and picked up the paper.

‘It is a note,’ he said when he had scanned it, ‘dated today, from Miss Wortley-Swan to her

housekeeper. She keeps no resident servants, but the housekeeper and a maid arrive daily.

This note tells them that she will be absent all day and that they may take the day off. It also says that, if she has not returned tomorrow, they should await her instructions.‘

‘And there is no indication of where she intended to be?’ I asked.

‘None,’ said Holmes, ‘and her decision to leave was evidently a sudden one.’

‘Why do you say so?’ I said.

‘Consider the evidence, Watson. It seems entirely probable that Miss Wortley-Swan answered her own door to the milkman and took a can of milk, as though she expected herself and her two servants to require milk during the day. Some time after that she changed her mind and pencilled this note to the housekeeper, who had evidently not arrived by then.’

‘Maybe the post brought an urgent summons,’ I suggested.

‘There are no signs of letters here, but there would not be,’ he said. ‘Let us look for her writing desk. If I recall correctly it is in the corner of her sitting room.’

He rose and had reached the kitchen’s internal door when the front doorbell rang.

‘Quickly, Watson!’ he hissed. ‘Anyone walking round will see us.’

He stepped through the door into a dark passage and pulled me after him, shutting the door behind us.

We stood silent while the bell rang twice more. When it ceased I went to move, but Holmes held me back.

‘They may do as we did and look around the outside,’ he pointed out.

We waited again and, after a while, we heard sounds at the kitchen window.

‘You failed to close the window behind you, Watson. Still, there is no harm done. It has served to encourage our visitor to enter.’

He drew his pistol from his pocket and stepped back against the wall of the passage. The noises we could hear indicated that someone was having more difficulty with the kitchen window than I had, but soon we heard boots alighting on the tiled floor. The intruder did not pause in the kitchen, but stepped straight across to the door of the passage.

As he opened the door and stepped into the gloomy passage, Holmes deftly entwined his walking stick in the newcomer’s legs and sent him crashing past me to sprawl on the floor.

Before he could gather his wits, I was standing over him with my pistol. Holmes swung the kitchen door wide to let in more light and both of us recognized our prey simultaneously.

‘Mr Poliakoff!’ exclaimed my friend. ‘We seem fated to meet rather unceremoniously. Might I ask what brings you here?’

‘Mr Holmes!’ said Poliakoff, as he sat up and rubbed an elbow. ‘I was looking for Gregori and Anna.

Do you know where they are?’

‘No,’ said Holmes, ‘nor, before you enquire, do I know where Miss Wortley-Swan has gone. She left her home early this morning.’

The huge Russian nodded his head. ‘She telegraphed to Gregori, at least I think she did. He had a wire and he sent me out and when I came back they were both gone. I did not see the wire, but Miss Wortley-Swan telegraphs Gregori. I think it was from her.’

‘I do not like this,’ said Holmes. ‘If they are up to something rash between them it could all end very badly. We were about to look at the lady’s writing desk, Poliakoff. Come with us.’

We made our way to the sitting room, where, as Holmes had remembered, a writing desk stood in the corner. Its lid was unlocked and the writing surface lowered, but nothing lay on it except a blank notepad. Holmes looked quickly into the waste-paper basket below the desk, but found nothing.

‘There have been no letters,’ he said, and, picking up the notepad, he carried it over to the window.

He had examined the pad for a minute or two when he asked, ‘Watson, do you happen to have a

cigarette about you?’

I had seen him use the technique before and quickly provided him with a cigarette. After a few puffs he tapped the accumulated ash on to the notepad and spread it out very gently with his fingers.

After a moment he said, ‘Ah! You were correct, Mr Poliakoff. The traces revealed by the ash are where her pencil on the sheet above pressed as it wrote her message. It is a telegram to Professor Gregorieff to meet her at Paddington. Unfortunately, the same message has been written twice on two separate sheets and the first one is not so clear that I can distinguish the addressee. Who else has she summoned to join them, I wonder?’

‘At least we now know that she is going to Paddington,’ I remarked.

‘Oh, indeed,’ said Holmes. ‘A convenient mustering point in London, from which they may have gone to Birmingham, Wales or Land’s End, Watson. We have still not found any clue as to why she went or where she is bound, but I fear that the mustering of her supporters indicates her purpose.’

He began to examine the books and documents that were stored in the compartments above the writing surface.

‘Aha!’ he exclaimed, suddenly. ‘Look at this, gentlemen. A scrapbook of newspaper cuttings, all relating to Count Skovinski-Rimkoff. Look!’

We turned the pages and saw that she had filed meticulously every least reference in the press to the count’s movements or doings.

‘There is no reference to today,’ said Holmes as he closed the book. ‘It was not, apparently, a newspaper which set her off.’

‘It may have been,’ I said. ‘There was one on the kitchen table.’

‘Great Heavens! You’re right!’ said Holmes, and plunged away through the house, followed by the Russian and me.

In the kitchen he snatched the paper from the table and skimmed through it rapidly.

‘Curses!’ he snarled. ‘Look at this, Watson. She has cut out an item here.’ He showed me where a few inches of one column had been cut away.

‘It is the sporting page,’ he said. ‘You read the sports news, Watson, I do not. What sort of item might be in that missing space?’

‘It is a sort of miscellany of matters which may interest sportsmen,’ I said, ‘a sort of gossip column, if you like, about who is preparing what horse for a big race, who has changed his trainer and so on.’

‘So it might mention the proposed appearance of the Tzar’s cousin at some sporting event?’ I nodded.

‘What sporting events are there today?’

I went through the paper’s sporting pages. ‘None that I can see,’ I reported.

‘Then it is clear what happened here this morning,’ Holmes said, in tones of intense frustration. ‘Miss Wortley-Swan rose early and took in the milk and the newspapers. In reading her paper she came across an item about the count and promptly decided to act upon the information. She telegraphed the professor and someone else, asking them to gather at Paddington, left a note for her staff that they would not be needed, and set out for London. We know not what it was that she saw in the newspaper, so we cannot follow.’

Twenty-Six

The Missing Piece

We returned to London by the next train. Our last chance was that the little newsagent by Burriwell Station might have a copy of the relevant paper left. But it was too late in the day. The early editions of the evening papers had already arrived.

At Victoria, Poliakoff announced that he was going to Paddington anyway, to see if he could find Miss Wortley-Swan, the professor or Anna.

‘I understand your motives, Mr Poliakoff,’ said Holmes, ‘but I sincerely doubt that you will find any of them at Paddington. If you do, I advise you to be very careful. That they have a plan amongst themselves is plain, but we have no idea how they propose to carry out their intention.’

We shook hands and parted, Holmes and I to the freight warehouse of the station, where our transport awaited us. We were soon concealed among empty crates on the carter’s dray and rattling through the streets back to our hotel.

We arrived without incident, Holmes remaining completely silent all the way. Once inside the hotel he asked the staff for copies of that morning’s papers and we withdrew to our shared sitting room.

When the newspapers were brought up, Holmes fell upon them eagerly, skimming through them in

search of the missing item.

‘I have it!’ he exclaimed suddenly. ‘I was right. The fools have gone in pursuit of the count.’

He showed me the paragraph he had found:

WARWICKSHIRE JUBILEE SALE TODAY

Mr Harry Barnton, the Warwickshire breeder, has decided to take advantage of the numbers of foreign sportsmen who are in England at present for the Jubilee celebrations.

At his Jubilee Sale today he is presenting a fine array of carefully chosen livestock, collected from all over the country and from the continent, in the hope of attracting the best prices.

Among the animals offered is ‘Golden Spirit,’ winner of the Exeter Gold Cup and the Wolverhampton Trophy. This outstanding horse has attracted a lot of interest and bidding is expected to be keen. Among the illustrious guests expected at the ring are the Due d’Errennes, Lord Bazelby (the so-called

“Backwoods Peer” from Canada) and Count Skovinski-Rimkoff, a cousin of the new Tzar and a

bloodstock enthusiast.

‘That must be it,’ I agreed. ‘Miss Wortley-Swan has seen his and set her plan in motion. Can they succeed, Holmes?’

‘I doubt it very much,’ he said. ‘The Russian royal family lave been subject to assassination attempts for years, in their own country. How much more careful will they be abroad, Watson? No, they are making a trap for themselves. The odds re that they will not succeed but will be caught in the attempt.

Vorse - they might strike at the count and fail to get away.’

He shook his head and flung himself into an armchair, Where he sat staring fixedly out of the window.

It was a full half an hour before he spoke again.

‘Watson,’ he said, ‘could it be right?’

‘I don’t know what you mean, Holmes.’

‘It is only a few weeks since Moore Agar warned me against overtaxing my brain. You agreed with him. Both of you told me that, if I failed to take some form of relaxation, I should un the risk of losing my mental powers. Do you think that I nay have done so, Watson?’

I have seen Sherlock Holmes face the most deadly threats vith a sardonic comment, I have seen him apply his great nind to problems that no other intellect has been able to unravel, I have seen him struggle against the most fearful odds and emerge successful, I have seen him wrapped in the blackness of frustration when he could not find a way of solving a mystery, but I had never seen him like this before. Always his outstanding intellect and the methods he has developed of applying it to all manner of problems have been his mainstay. Never before have I known him doubt his own mental processes.

‘Holmes!’ I exclaimed. ‘You are surely not serious?’

‘Why not?’ he said. ‘Why not? Both of you warned me in the direst terms of the risk I ran by

continuing to overwork my brain.’

‘Yes,’ I interrupted, ‘and we were right, but you heeded our advice. We went away to Cornwall, you pursued your language researches. You came back a new man. What on earth makes you think

differently?’

‘This case,’ he said. ‘This wretched case. It has gone badly astray, Watson, and it is my fault.’

‘Hardly,’ I said. ‘You were consulted by Mrs Fordeland. You have painstakingly unravelled the extraordinary history of the connection between her and the Russian count - despite her attempts to conceal it - and, when our client and we were threatened by Kyriloff’s hoodlums, your quick wits found us not only a way out, but a safe stronghold. How on earth can you say that the case has gone badly astray?’

‘I am a creature of reason, Watson. I have worked hard to make myself so - to avoid all traces of sentiment or unreason, all indications of emotion when dealing with a problem. Now I find myself filled with foreboding, coupled with a sense of guilt.’

‘Nonsense!’ I said. ‘You have rightly predicted that Agatha Wortley-Swan and her friends have a plan against the count. You, not unnaturally, fear an outcome which will add to the tragedies already suffered by the lady and by Professor Gregorieff. None of this is sentiment or unreason, Holmes. It is merely that the ordinary workings of your extraordinary mind have suggested to you that a calamity is the most likely outcome. I fear you are right, but I see no reason why you should blame yourself. Miss Wortley-Swan, and the professor, chose to keep their plans secret from you. What more could you have done? I fear, Holmes, that we must merely await the outcome and hope for the best.’

He granted me a wan smile. ‘Hope for the best! Always your motto, eh, Watson? My good old friend, there have been many times in the past quarter of a century when I valued your sturdy optimism at my side, and many times when I was abroad that I have missed it. You are quite right. We must simply hope for the best.’

Despite my distress at seeing my friend so low in his own esteem, his words touched me. I believe that they may have been the longest compliment that he ever paid me.

‘You have done your best, Holmes,’ I asserted stoutly. ‘Nobody could have done any more.’

I had barely spoken when there was a tap at the door, heralding an hotel employee with a newspaper.

‘You asked for the morning papers, Mr Holmes,’ he said. ‘Perhaps you would like the latest evening edition.’

I tipped him and passed the paper to Holmes, in the hope maybe of distracting him from his mood of self-doubt. He gazed at it with lacklustre eyes and began to turn its pages slowly with no show of interest.

‘Great Heavens!’ he ejaculated suddenly. ‘Watson, where is Mrs Fordeland?’

‘I believe that they said she was in the luncheon salon when we came back,’ I said, mystified.

‘Come!’ he commanded, and, rolling the newspaper in his fist, strode out of the room. Delighted to see his sudden recovery of enthusiasm, I followed after him completely mystified.

We found our client and her granddaughter in the luncheon salon, where they were amusing themselves by talking to a Javanese Hill Mynah which had that species’ uncanny ability to mimic human voices and was passing remarks in the solemn tones of King Chula.

‘I suggest that you be seated, ladies,’ said Holmes. ‘I have some astonishing news for you.’

They looked at us wonderingly, but followed his suggestion. When they were seated, Holmes unfolded the newspaper and read aloud: ‘“Fatal Railway Accident at Paddington. Death of a Jubilee Guest. This newspaper was almost ready for press when we had word of a fatal tragedy on the Underground

railway station at Paddington. It appears that a passenger who had arrived from Birmingham via the main line was awaiting an Underground train when he missed his footing and fell from the platform, directly in the face of an arriving train, so that he was instantly killed. We are informed that the victim of this tragedy was none other than a foreign visitor to London, indeed, one of Her Majesty’s guests at her forthcoming celebration, Count Stepan Skovinski-Rimkoff, a distinguished member of the Imperial Court and a cousin of the new Tzar. Inspector Lestrade of Scotland Yard, one of the officers whose especial duty it is to protect Her Majesty’s guests, was summoned to the scene at once. He assures us that the matter was an unforeseeable tragedy, brought about by the crowding of the platform and the large numbers of persons visiting the capital at present.’”

There was a silence after my friend had read the astonishing news, then Mrs Fordeland said, ‘I do not think that I would have wished him dead, for all his evil cruelty. Does this mean that it is all over, Mr Holmes?’

‘I am sure of it,’ said Holmes.

‘But Holmes,’ I objected, ‘surely this will make Kyriloff worse! He will believe that the plot he talked about really existed. Will he not come after Mrs Fordeland again?’

‘He might wish to,’ agreed Holmes, ‘but he is unlikely to have the opportunity. The Tzar’s cousin has been killed in London while under the especial protection of Major Kyriloff. I imagine that the major will soon be summoned to Russia to explain himself, and a pretty poor explanation he has - that he was besieging the King of Mongkuria’s entourage in a hotel because he believed in a non-existent plot to kill the count, while the count was meeting his death elsewhere.’

As so often, events followed Sherlock Holmes’ prediction. By next morning there was no sign of Kyriloff’s roughs about the hotel and Holmes and I were soon able to take our farewells of our client and the King of Mongkuria and return to our accustomed haunts.

We had not been long returned to Baker Street when Lestrade paid us a call.

‘You remember,’ he said, once comfortably ensconced in the basket chair with a brandy and a cheroot,

‘that silly business in Rotten Row, Mr Holmes?’

‘Of course I do,’ said Holmes.

‘It was good of you to help us out there. We might have wasted a deal of time and effort chasing about after imaginary assassins.’

‘I’m sure you would have seen through Major Kyriloff’s ruse eventually,’ said Holmes, without a trace of a smile.

‘I had a nasty moment a couple of days ago, though. I was told that the very same man - that same Russian count - had been killed at Paddington tube station. I had a few unpleasant thoughts, I can tell you. Suppose it had been all proper at Rotten Row and somebody really was trying to nobble him?

There’d have been hell to pay and heads to roll at the Yard, I can tell you!’

‘It was an accident, was it not?’ asked Holmes.

‘So it was, Mr Holmes, and I was never more relieved in my life. I was down there like a whippet, but there was no doubt about it. He was standing in the crowd on the platform and, just as a train came in, he turned about and lost his balance, went straight in front of the train.’

‘You were able to establish this?’ said my friend.

‘Oh, indeed, Mr Holmes. Of course, not many people noticed till it was over. There was a foreign couple right beside him, but they didn’t speak much English, and there was an English lady, but she was hysterical, poor lady. It happened right in front of her and she could barely speak about it. Luckily there was one witness who saw all that happened. There was a soldier there, a Colonel Wilmshaw. He was very useful, gave us a complete account, like a military report.’

‘And you are sure it was an accident?’ persisted Holmes.

‘Oh, definitely. What else might it be?’

‘It occurred to me,’ said Holmes, ‘that, after the spurious incident in Rotten Row, Major Kyriloff might be trying to create the impression that the count was in danger so that he could dispose of him in due course.’

‘I thought of exactly that, Mr Holmes, as soon as I heard. Luckily Colonel Wilmshaw rules that out, but I did check up where Kyriloff was at the time. It seems that he has an interest in the King of Mongkuria and was hanging about the King’s hotel.’

‘Perhaps,’ suggested Holmes, ‘the Tzar intends to invade India by way of Mongkuria, though it would be the long way round.’

‘Perhaps,’ agreed the little policeman. ‘But there’s another aspect of the thing that really intrigues me, Mr Holmes. Do you believe in fate?’

‘I believe that a certain course of action, if persisted in, will lead inevitably to a certain result, if that’s what you mean, Inspector.’

Lestrade shook his head. ‘No, no. I mean that Kyriloff set up his silly joke in Hyde Park as though the count was to be killed and, blow me, days later the count dies by accident! I know you don’t believe in coincidence, Mr Holmes, but isn’t that a bit curious?’

‘You are becoming metaphysical, Lestrade,’ said Holmes. ‘It is not good for a scientist. It will mislead you. Stick to what is proven and to what is reasonable inference from what is proven. People who deal in the unprovable are not scientists - they are mystics. A detective must be a scientist.’

When Lestrade had left us, Holmes shut the door behind us with a thoughtful expression.

‘Wilmshaw!’ he said, quietly. ‘I should have realized that the second telegram went to him. So far from distracting Miss Wortley-Swan from her purpose, I innocently sent her the means. A combination of a peace-loving academic and a lady driven by two decades of grief would be unlikely to achieve a successful assassination, but I added an able professional soldier.’

‘You intend to let matters lie, then?’ I asked.

‘What would you do, Watson? You have the advantage of me. You have been married. At an early age I perceived the effect that women exercised upon me and steeled myself to avoid that response so that I might pursue my rational side. Still, I believe that the death of Skovinski-Rimkoff is not one that requires vengeance. If I were called to my account tonight, Watson, I would like to believe that I have left the world a little better. The law of three countries has failed to punish the count. I see no difficulty in leaving him to the justice of Miss Wortley-Swan.’

Although he often referred afterwards to the case as one of his failures, the knowledge that it was he who had involved Colonel Wilmshaw in the affair seemed to lift the dark blight that had struck Sherlock Holmes when he thought that the conspirators would fail.

Her Majesty’s Diamond Jubilee proceeded, unhindered by the death of the count, and Colonel

Wilmshaw duly received the decoration which had brought him to London. It was some weeks later that Holmes drew a newspaper announcement to my attention.

‘You remarked on one occasion,’ he said, ‘that I was in danger of converting this agency into a matrimonial service. It seems that my first adventure in that direction has been a good deal more successful than my poor efforts at detection.’

It was an announcement of the forthcoming marriage of Miss Agatha Wortley-Swan and Colonel

Wilmshaw.

Author’s Notes

With Sherlock Holmes and the King’s Governess I have done as I have with the previous manuscripts which I have edited, and attempted to find within the text internal proof that this story is indeed by John H.Watson.

This is not easy. I have written in my notes to other manuscripts about the difficulties of having no positively verifiable specimen of Watson’s handwriting, the problems of his carelessness about chronology and the strange mixture of real and invented names for places and people which he used.

When Stephen Kendrick’s Night Watch: A Long Lost Adventure in which Sherlock Holmes meets

Father Brown appeared in 2001 (Berkley Prime Crime, New York) there was brief hope that new and verifiable Watson material had surfaced, inasmuch as Kendrick claimed that the manuscript he

presented had been supplied to him by Watson’s daughter(!) accompanied by a codicil to the Doctor’s will.

Alas, the manuscript does not live up to expectations. On the first page of his introduction, Kendrick misstates the date of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle’s death by three years, leaving the reader cautious as to what may follow. What follows is, indeed, a fascinating story, but cannot be from Watson’s pen. The manuscript is clearly of American origin. Watson would never have written a three-word ‘sentence’

containing no verb, nor would Holmes have spoken of someone as being ‘slightly aghast’, which reminds one of bad jokes about being ‘slightly pregnant’. Holmes cannot have employed ‘momentarily’

in the American sense. In America it means ‘in a moment; in Britain it means ’for a moment‘. Watson is casually addressed as ’Mr‘ by persons who know him to be a doctor and Holmes’ age is misstated (one of the few facts about Holmes’ life that we know from the canon is that he was born in 1854). Not only would Watson not have used the American ’stoop‘ for a doorstep, he would probably not have known what it meant. Finally, though I hesitate to claim one of the manuscripts which I have edited in evidence, if Sherlock Holmes and the Rule of Nine (Severn House, 2003) is authentic, then Holmes and Father Brown had their first meeting in 1895, not 1902.

So, regretfully, the promise of an authentic Watson document fades and, as before, I am forced to research aspects of the narrative in the hope that they will provide proof. The extent to which I have succeeded, like the authenticity of the text, is a matter for individual readers. To assist them in reaching their own conclusions, I append below my notes on some of the avenues which I have pursued.

One

While confusion usually revolves around Watson’s dates and personal names, we appear to be lucky here. There seems no doubt that ‘Mrs Fordeland’ is, in fact, Mrs Anna Leonowens, heroine of Anna and the King of Siam, The King and I and Anna and the King.

The client’s identity serves also to confirm Watson’s date. Mrs Leonowens left Siam in 1868, to visit her daughter who had been left in an English boarding school. During the lady’s absence from Siam, the King died and was succeeded by his eldest son, Anna’s former pupil. As he was then only fifteen, a regency ruled the country and did not invite the lady to return. From England she moved on to the United States and later, when her daughter married a Canadian banker, established herself with her daughter’s family in Nova Scotia. In 1897, when she had been largely forgotten in Britain, she returned for a visit to the Diamond Jubilee and also to meet with her former pupil, the King of Siam, who was in London for the ceremony.

If this story is Watson’s work, one must have a certain sympathy with him in his efforts to conceal and fictionalize the identity of a client who, unknown to him, was going to be world-famous by the time his account was published.

Two

In the latter years of the nineteenth century, the Tzar’s Russia maintained an elaborate network of spies and informers in Britain, many of them based in London’s East End. There is a persistent rumour that the young Joseph Stalin was an informer for this network, cheerfully using it to destroy political opponents.

The reason for the spying was that revolutionary Russians would leave Russia and settle in Western European countries, where they could continue their plots against the Tzar’s regime. One by one the Tzar persuaded European governments to make life unpleasant for these plotters, so they tended to move on to England, where a more liberal regime left them alone as long as they caused no mischief in Britain.

Three

Throughout Watson’s accounts of Holmes’ enquiries there are descriptions of the detective’s

extraordinary ability at disguise and the numbers of times when he fooled his old friend, even at close range. I had always believed that Watson was exaggerating Holmes’ skills, until I discovered that the American film star Danny Kaye (David Kaminski) had similar abilities. It seems that, when shooting was delayed by a technical problem one day, Kaye had the studio make-up artists turn him into an old man and took a taxi to his home. Having told the studio switchboard that all calls from his family were to be met with the statement that Mr Kaye was on the set and could not be disturbed, he presented himself to his own family as an elderly distant relative who had arrived from Russia speaking no word of English. Apparently he drove them crazy for hours before he admitted the imposture. So, maybe Sherlock Holmes was as good as Watson would have us believe.

In A Study in Scarlet, the first of Watson’s published accounts of Holmes’ cases, he tells us that, after taking his medical degree, he took the course for intending army surgeons at the Royal Military Hospital at Netley in Hampshire. There is a long note on this great and strange building in my Sherlock Holmes and the Harvest of Death. Among the facilities it offered was an in-house postcard-printing shop to supply the sick and their visitors with souvenirs. Sadly, only the hospital’s chapel now survives.

Four

Mycroft’s use of the term ‘gay’ is not meant to imply that the girl was a Lesbian. From at least the eighteenth century until comparatively recently the word was used to mean ‘randy, promiscuous or immoral’. As a verb it could mean ‘to copulate’ and ‘gaying stick,’ ‘gaying pole’ or ‘gaying pintle’

referred to the male member. The standard prostitute’s come-on query was ‘Are you gay?’ It was the survival of that expression among American homosexuals, meaning ‘Are you looking for action?’ that brought about the modern use of the term to mean ‘homosexual’, rather than the alleged derivation from ‘Good As You!’

The misbehaviour of royal and diplomatic visitors is always a problem to the host government, no less so today than in the 1890s. As to Russian noblemen misbehaving abroad, one has only to consider that the Russian Crown Prince himself, Nicholas who became the last Tzar, was involved in an incident in Japan in 1891. Nicholas and other assorted royalty were, it seems, sampling the delights of Otsu when, perhaps at the instigation of the homosexual Prince George of Greece, they visited a male brothel.

Prince George mistreated a Japanese youth and the party fled. A Japanese police officer stopped Nicholas, who was returning from a temple by rickshaw, and laid about the future Tzar with his sword, inflicting a severe blow on Nicholas’ head and having to be stopped and tied up by the rickshaw drivers. The whole incident was a grave embarrassment to Japan, though they got their revenge when Nicholas became Tzar by defeating his army and his navy and forcing him to evacuate Manchuria. The injury to the head caused Nicholas headaches for the rest of his life. Who knows what effect it may have had on the future of Russia?

Seven

Watson’s comments on the Khodynka Meadow incident refer to an event which happened three days after the coronation of Nicholas and Alexandra. A public festival for the people of Moscow had been set up by the Tzar’s uncle, the mayor of Moscow. Gifts of sweetmeats, a printed handkerchief and a commemorative tumbler were to be distributed. By early in the day more than 400,000 people had mustered. Rumours spread that there would not be enough gifts to go round. The crowd became

restless, barriers collapsed and thousands were crushed in the panic that followed. Russians never forgot the incident, continuing to blame the Tzar’s German wife. The enamel cup distributed on that dreadful day became known as the ‘Cup of Tears’ and is much sought after by collectors of Royal Commemoratives. The writer recalls seeing one displayed at Bilston Art Gallery in a Jubilee exhibition in 1977. It is a white enamel tumbler, printed with a coat of arms in red, blue and gold, with the cipher of Nicholas and Alexandra and a motto in Russian.

Eight

A ‘growler’ was a four-wheeled, horse-drawn, cab, as opposed to the lighter, two-wheeled, hansom cab.

The growler took its familiar name, I believe, from the characteristic sound of its heavier wheels on the street.

Nine

Watson’s description of Rotten Row in the late nineteenth century is admirably discreet. It was, as he says, the place to ‘see and be seen’ and was also a wonderful place for meeting new people in society or making covert assignations with sexual partners. While the horse riders might include actresses, royalty, soldiers, politicians, sportsmen and almost anyone from the upper middle class upwards, there is no doubt that many of the beautiful and expensively dressed women who rode in the Row were making a very good living there.

Ten

Watson’s initial meeting with Holmes is described in A Study in Scarlet, the first of Watson’s published records of a Sherlock Holmes enquiry. Watson, a military doctor, had been injured in Afghanistan and subsequently contracted fever. His health damaged, he was returned to England and placed on half pay.

He had no family in Britain and soon found himself at a loose end in London, overspending on his half pay in search of company. It was early in 1881 that a friend introduced Watson to Holmes, who was working at the London Hospital, carrying out a series of experiments in post-mortem bruising by beating the cadavers in the dissecting room. Holmes had discovered a set of rooms to rent and required a flatmate. The deal was done and the immortal partnership forged.

Eleven

The three brass balls which hang by tradition outside pawnbrokers’ shops are actually a symbol of three bags of gold in honour of Saint Nicholas.

The saint whom we know better as Santa Claus, Sinter Klaas or Father Christmas, is the patron saint of children, sailors, thieves and pawnbrokers.

Nicholas, who was a bishop of the early Christian Church at Myra in Asia Minor, was orphaned in his childhood but inherited great wealth. Nevertheless, he grew up to be a kindly and concerned young man. A legend tells that Nicholas heard of a poor man with three daughters, bewailing the fact that he had no money to provide his daughters with a dowry. Nicholas sneaked into the man’s house (by the chimney - how else?) and left a bag of gold. So the first daughter was married and Nicholas repeated the trick. After the second girl was married, their father guessed that there might well be a third gift, so he kept watch at night to thank his unknown benefactor. So it was that Nicholas’ kindness was revealed and three bags of gold became the symbol for him as a saint.

The golem is a monster of Jewish legend, supposedly a large crudely humanoid thing made from clay.

The story is usually told about the Great Rabbi Loew of Prague, who became deeply concerned by the hard lives led by his people. Seeking ways to alleviate their hardship he came across an ancient document which described how to make a humanoid creature from the clay of the River Moldavka. The Rabbi made such a creature and recited the chant, ‘Shanti, Shanti, Dahat, Dahat!’ whereupon the creature came to life and would obey the Rabbi’s instructions. Soon the Rabbi realized that the golem would be more useful if he didn’t have to tell it everything, so he taught it to read so that it could learn what it needed to know. Armed with its great strength and newly acquired knowledge, the golem became a kind of Frankenstein’s monster. An American urban legend says that the golem has now mastered the Internet and that American youngsters receive emails from the golem, luring them into dangerous situations.

Twelve

I am reminded by the text that we have never, so far as I know, learned what became of Sherlock Holmes’ Stradivarius violin. It cannot, surely, be one of the ones that hang in various Holmesian museums and displays? Without the connection to the Great Detective the instrument would be hugely valuable. What price would it fetch if the association could be proved? Has it been carelessly destroyed or equally carelessly disposed of, so that somebody somewhere is playing what may be the world’s most valuable violin?

The Irregulars were, of course, the so-called Baker Street Irregulars, a team of street ragamuffins employed by Sherlock Holmes to act as his eyes and ears all over London, to go where he could not go and to carry out errands for him.

Sherlock Holmes, according to Watson, was skilled in a Japanese martial art which Watson calls

‘baritsu’, and here Holmes confirms that his instructor was Japanese. While we tend to think of eastern wrestling as characteristically Japanese, in fact it is believed that many of the techniques involved originated on the Indian continent and passed, via China, to Japan. Over the centuries many different forms and specialities have developed, and it is not impossible that there is (or was) a fighting art called

‘baritsu’, but no one seems to have tracked down any reference to it. The name may, of course, derive from a mishearing by Watson, by his own inability to read his notes or from a printer’s inability to read Watson’s medical handwriting!

Thirteen

Holmes, as we know, was missing from England (and largely from Europe) from the spring of 1891 for three years, the so-called ‘Great Hiatus’. Whether or not it was the disappearance and reported death of Holmes which brought it about, there was an upsurge in acts of violence by alleged anarchists in that period, both on the Continent and in Britain. In France it culminated in the arrest of the murderer Ravachol, a savage multiple killer who had terrified France. We, sadly, are more familiar with the kind of pervert who wraps his bloodlust in politics, piety or both.

In England the situation culminated with the only successful prosecution of alleged anarchist terrorists at Stafford Assizes in April 1892. Ravachol’s dramatic arrest in France was reported in the British press during their trial, which must have helped their chances no end!

The ringleader, to whom Holmes and Watson refer, was a man named Deakin, a booking clerk from Walsall and organizer of a ‘Socialist Club’, which operated in a rented house immediately alongside the town’s police station. His co-accused were workingmen and tradesmen who belonged to the club, and the accusation was that they had used the club as a front for the manufacturing of bombs to be used in Russia.

In December 1891 Walsall’s police chief informed Scotland Yard that he was suspicious of the club’s activities. Secret Department officers (including the redoubtable Inspector Melville, later to become one of MI5’s first spies) were sent to the town, observation was kept on the club and its officers and, early the following year, arrests were made. The arrested men were kept in what was known as the

‘Black Hole’ under Walsall’s Guildhall, so called for the not unreasonable cause that it was a set of cells deep underground and painted black throughout. After weeks in such custody, fed only on bread and water, Deakin was taken from his cell in the small hours and fed whisky, after which he signed a lengthy ‘confession’. When the case came to Stafford, the men were not, by the law of the day, permitted to give evidence in their own defence. Self-appointed, unqualified, ‘experts’ in explosives gave evidence, and a handwriting ’expert‘ whose expertise had been comprehensively trashed in the Parnell Commission Enquiry, costing The Times a third of a million for relying on his wrong opinion.

The Judge knew how Deakin’s ’confession‘ had been obtained, but deemed it good evidence and

Deakin and three others were convicted. Two were acquitted. Those convicted got ten years, apart from Joe Deakin, who got five (presumably because of his susceptibility to alcohol!). He was released in December 1897 and returned to Walsall, where he lived above his sisters’ drapery shop and kept their books. In time he became secretary of Walsall Trades Council. He is remembered by a blue plaque over the shop front of the building at the southern end of Stafford Street where his sisters kept their shop. He lived well into the twentieth century and I have met people who knew him.

It was believed among anarchists and socialists in the 1890s that Deakin and his comrades were the victims of an agent provocateur called Coulon, an alleged professor of languages. It may well have been true. The Autonomic Club was the principal anarchist meeting place in London at the time. See John Quail’s The Slow-Burning Fuse and my own On the Trail of the Walsall Anarchists, Walsall Library, 1992.

Fourteen

If there could be any doubt that Holmes’ client was Mrs Anna Leonowens, this part of the manuscript destroys it. The story she tells Holmes and Watson, of her upbringing and marriage, though not the biography which she invented for herself (and which still appears in modern American editions of The English Governess at the Siamese Court) accords almost exactly with the account of Anna’s life given in Cecilia Holland’s The Story of Anna and the King, Harper Collins 1999. Nevertheless, mysteries remain. Some commentators on Anna’s life say that, while she was born in India, she was sent to a school in England kept by a relative at the age of six, only returning to India at fifteen. Nothing seems to be known of the missionary with whom she travelled, apart from the fact that she lived in his house in India. We do not know whether he was married.

A further mystery revolves around her financial crisis after her husband’s death. Thomas Leon Owens (he welded the two names together, presumably when he acquired his commission) had no private funds, according to Anna. Nevertheless, when he died suddenly, she should have had a reasonable pension and the value of his commission (which he would have bought and which would have cost no small sum). Yet she took to teaching to keep herself and children. One would have thought that she might have kept herself and her family in reasonable comfort on her husband’s pension.

Sixteen, Seventeen, Eighteen

As I have noted above, while modern researches have revealed far more about Anna Leonowens than she ever did herself, there are still some areas of mystery left. If the present manuscript is authentic, then one of the largest must be the question of events in Russia. It is definitely true that she was commissioned by an American magazine to travel the length of Russia and write articles for them. Her articles were a great success and she was, as stated in the text, offered an editorship by the publishers, but rejected it. Since her articles had been so successful, and since she had published two books arising from her experiences in Siam, it might be thought that she would produce a book on her Russian journey, but she never did so, despite being probably the first western woman to cross Russia. What is certain is that she never left any hint of the events described in Chapter Seventeen.

The reference to ‘Bluebeard’ in Chapter Eighteen refers to Gilles de Rais, Marshal of France and mass murderer. De Rais (1406-1440) was a French nobleman of enormous wealth, whose prowess on the

battlefields of the Hundred Years’ War made him Marshal of France (head of her army) in his twenties.

With the appearance of the visionary Joan of Arc, de Rais became her most solid supporter, riding and fighting at her side. He was not part of the treacherous conspiracy of French noblemen who sold Joan to the English to be burned as a witch. On the day of her execution, de Rais was fighting desperately to break through the English line and rescue her.

With the death of Joan and the triumph of his political enemies, de Rais retired to his castles. There he frittered away his great wealth in alchemical experiments. He also embarked upon a career of

perversion and murder, kidnapping children from nearby villages, torturing, raping, sodomizing and murdering them. His political enemies and creditors eventually secured his castles, notably Machecoul in Brittany, where the evidence of his crimes came to light and he was eventually tried by an ecclesiastical court and condemned to die. Nobody has ever been able to determine with any accuracy how many children died at his hands.

He is believed by some people to be the origin of the European and British folktales about a mass murderer called Bluebeard.

Nineteen

The gasogene was a device (French in origin, I believe) which supplied fizzy mixtures for spiritous drinks, an early forerunner of the soda syphon. We know from Watson’s authenticated writings that there was one in the sitting room at Baker Street.

Twenty-One

Captain Parkes was quite right in stating that the British Army forbade duelling. In addition, it was a criminal offence. A colonel had been killed in a duel in 1843 and the Army declared that duelling, proposing a duel, taking part or assisting, or even failing to prevent a duel, were serious offences.

Under civilian law, duelling was, of course, a crime, and participants and seconds could be charged with murder if either party died. Neither the military regulations nor the civil law prevented army officers from working off their ill will in duels. In 1846, what was, I believe, the last criminal prosecution for murder in a duel arose. Lieutenant Hawkey of the Marine Corps took offence at the attentions paid to Mrs Hawkey by Captain Seton of the 11th Dragoons. Seton refused the initial challenge from Hawkey, but accepted after Hawkey kicked him in the backside in public. They fought near Gosport, Seton missing on the first shot and Hawkey’s pistol missing fire. The seconds could have suggested that honour was satisfied, but did not do so. After a reload, Seton missed again and Hawkey shot him through the belly. As Seton lay dying, Hawkey and Pym (his second) fled to France. Seton died and a coroner’s jury returned a verdict of wilful murder. Pym surrendered and was tried as an accessory at Winchester Assizes, where the jury took three minutes to acquit him. Hawkey, apparently encouraged by this, surrendered himself and was tried at the next Winchester Assizes where the jury acquitted him immediately. A cheering crowd applauded the judge as he left the court.

This unclear example did not discourage officers (and others) from duelling. In 1878 the Prince of Wales, later Edward VII, challenged Lord Randolph Churchill to a duel. Lord Randolph replied in an insulting letter that such a duel was impossible, whereupon the Prince exercised his ill will by having Lord Randolph and all his family barred from Court.

The term ‘garrotters’ may mislead. It is the Victorian equivalent of ’muggers’ and came into use in the mid-nineteenth century as a term for street bandits who robbed their prey by flinging something about the neck and strangling them into submission (or death). In cities where the obviously wealthy lived close to the desperately poor, the practice soon became widespread. A refinement of New York

technique involved a dead rat stuffed with lead shot and tied to a length of twine. The operator, a child, would stand at the mouth of some gruesome alley and wait for a likely prospect. The intended victim would see a street child, swinging a revolting homemade toy about its head, and pass on, only to be brought up short when the whirling, weighted rat wrapped firmly about his neck and he was pulled down.

Dublin boasted a unique garrotter known as ‘Billy-in-the-Bowl’. Born with seriously crippled legs, Billy made his way about the city seated in a kind of wooden bowl, which he propelled along by thrusting his hands against the pavement. Sometimes he would be seen sprawling out of his bowl, as though it had tipped over and he could not right it. The kindly and unwary would stoop to assist him, only to find themselves fiercely grappled by Billy’s arms, made strong by pushing himself about. In a moment they would be robbed of cash or watch or both and Billy would scuttle away aboard his bowl, leaving another victim gasping on the pavement. His nickname passed into Dublin usage as a term for clasping anyone in your arms, hence the lines in the folksong ‘The Twang Man’s Revenge’ - ‘He took her down by Sandymount, to watch the waters roll, and he stole the heart of the twang man’s mot playing Billy-in-the-Bowl.’

Twenty-Five

The period of Watson’s narrative is long before the coming of daily deliveries of bottled milk. In well-served areas (as Burriwell obviously was) there would be two deliveries, in the morning and the early evening, partly because the lack of refrigeration and processing techniques made the keeping of milk difficult. A cart carrying churns of milk would call, and the housewife or a servant would take a jug or a tin milk can to the cart and have it filled with whatever quantity she required.

Twenty-Six

Watson’s authenticated records reveal that, in early 1897, Holmes had overtaxed his great strength and was recommended by Watson and by Dr Moore Agar to take a holiday, at the threat of losing his intellectual powers. He travelled to Cornwall, where he pursued his researches into what he conceived to be the ancient Chaldean roots of the Cornish language, until the matter which Watson chronicled as The Adventure of the Devil’s Foot occurred.

Since this is a rare occasion when Holmes’ client can be definitely identified, it may interest readers to know what became of some of the characters in the story. Holmes himself was, of course, completely uninterested in the later history of his clients, who existed entirely to provide him with intellectual puzzles.

Anna Leonowens returned to Canada, where she died early in the Great War, her funeral being an enormous one. There is an art gallery named after her and she remains a heroine of Canadian feminists.

Her book, The English Governess and the Siamese Court, was rediscovered in the 1940s, and Margaret Landon’s Anna and the King of Siam was published. When singing star Gertrude Lawrence saw the film of Landon’s book, she wanted to play Anna in a musical version and nagged at Rodgers and Hammerstein to write her one. When they did, it was a huge success on stage and was Lawrence’s last part. It became an enormously successful film with Deborah Kerr and Yul Brynner. In 1998 Jodie Foster played Anna in Anna and the King, a film which purported to tell the true story and didn’t. All the films and Anna’s book and Landon’s book are banned in modern Thailand (formerly Siam).

King Rama V of Siam, Anna’s former pupil Chulalongkorn, reigned until 23rd October 1910, when he died. His death is commemorated annually on that date and he is revered as one of Thailand’s most loved and admired monarchs.

None of the points discussed above will prove conclusively whether this narrative is an authentic Watson record or a forgery. I can only argue that the manuscript came to me in the same way as other alleged Watson manuscripts which I have edited. Some of those contain clearer evidence of their authenticity and it seems to me that, if they are authentic, so is the present story. In the end readers must reach their own conclusions.

Barrie Roberts