A Study in Murder (20 page)

Robert Nathan had told her about an intercepted telegram, an invitation from Germany to Mexico to invade the USA, with a promise of German money and arms in support. The idea was for Mexico to
reclaim lands such as Texas and parts of California. The intent was to distract America from Europe. The British had decoded the telegram and were about to reveal its contents to the Americans.
Nathan was sure it would tip the Americans into entering the conflict on the Allies’ side.

Nathan, of course, shouldn’t have told her any of this. She was fully aware that he was trying to win her favour with such confidences. She rather liked him, a no-nonsense man who was used
to getting his own way. But that certainly included women. A courtship gave little indication of what lay ahead in an engagement or marriage. She suspected that, once the war was over, Nathan would
become bored with grey old England and itch to return to India or perhaps apply for a new posting in Africa. She would be a memsahib, or whatever the equivalent was in Kenya or Egypt or Rhodesia.
And that didn’t appeal one jot.

So, yes, she was toying with him but without Nathan she would never have been able to secure the telegram traffic from the Post Offices around Holmes’s house, which led her to the one he
had sent to Venlo.

But you didn’t need to be Sherlock to work out what was being planned at or near Venlo. Or where he might base himself in London to tidy his affairs, now Baker Street was
no longer available. Which is what made the intercept of the detective at the Diogenes so straightforward.

And what of Devant? Was she simply using that great magician’s talents and goodwill too? Well, he was in no fit state to take too active a part in her enterprise, but his thoughts on the
matter were inspired, if suitably bizarre. The man was a showman, after all, someone who had introduced the theatreograph to the West End. A man who lived for the limelight. Engaging his mind could
– no matter what her motives – only be to the good. He had certainly seemed a darn sight more sprightly when she had explained what she had in mind than when she had arrived. ‘A
show!’ he had exclaimed.

But would it work? She had to believe so.

Meanwhile there was Holmes to interrogate. She needed to know as much about this Von Bork as possible, to see if the second part of the ruse would fly. She was sure the old detective would be
furious with her, but he would have to see that she had both Watson and Holmes’s interests at heart. Much as she wanted Watson home, she couldn’t sacrifice his old friend to do that. It
would, for one thing, destroy Watson if Holmes offered himself as a sacrifice to save him, which is what he fully intended to do. Watson, on the other hand, would rather they perished together than
he survive at the expense of his companion. He had demonstrated that out on the Black Sands off Foulness.

A cascade of gloom washed over her and she could hear her mother’s voice, chiding her.
What are you doing meddling in the affairs of men? You are attempting to undermine the play of
nations. All for a pointless infatuation. Go back to packing parcels.

‘We are here, ma’am,’ said the cabby, interrupting her thoughts. ‘The Connaught.’

She shook herself, like a dog emerging from a pond, flinging off the negative voices. She paid the fare and entered the hotel, taking the lift up to the fifth floor, where Kell’s
comfortable prison was located. At the end of the corridor was a bowler-hatted man, reading the weekly
Herald
. Mrs Gregson recognized him as one of Nathan’s colleagues.

‘Turning pacifist on us, Mr Cusack?’ she asked, for the
Herald
was violently anti-war and had opposed conscription. ‘You’ll have the Shameladies on you.’

Cusack smiled beneath his moustache. He was an ex-army man, a fervent patriot and admirer of General Haig. Only his limp, caused by a bullet through his pelvis, had kept him away from the front
line. ‘Just keeping abreast of what the other side are up to, ma’am. Know thine enemy, especially when they publish their own newspaper. Mr Nathan is inside, if you wish to go
through.’

‘And how is our guest?’

Cusack grimaced. ‘Demanding.’

She nodded. ‘That’s not unexpected.’

Cusack unbolted the weighty black door and swung it open. She was immediately aware of raised voices.

‘You do not believe me? In a word, then, there was a famous trial in Paris, in the year 1890, in connection with a monstrous scandal in politics and finance. How monstrous that scandal was
can never be known, save by such confidential agents as myself. The honour and careers of many of the chief men in France were at stake. You have seen a group of ninepins standing, all so rigid,
and prim, and unbending. Then there comes the ball from far away and pop, pop, pop – there are your ninepins on the floor. Well, imagine some of the greatest men in France as these ninepins
and that this Monsieur Caratal, who was on the train, was the ball which could be seen coming from far away. If he arrived, then it was pop, pop, pop for all of them. It was determined that he
should not arrive.’

As she entered the room she took in the scene. Nathan was sitting on the sofa, smoking. At the window stood Holmes, far more substantial than when she had last seen him. There was an impression
of bulk and, in his movements and speech, an undercurrent of impatience.

Nathan leaped to his feet, ever the eager puppy. ‘Mrs Gregson, there you are. Come in. Mr Holmes is just telling me a fantastical story about a lost special. A train. Apparently it was all
a French Government plot to make sure a certain Frenchman never arrived in Paris.’ He turned back to Holmes. ‘And you say this train lies buried in a mine? A whole train?’

‘I do. Minus most of the innocent passengers, who were forced off at gunpoint. I can give you the precise location. I know the French are our allies, but it demonstrates their duplicity as
a nation.’

Mrs Gregson knew all about that duplicity from a certain Levass, who was, indirectly, responsible for Watson’s capture by the Germans. ‘I hardly think we need—’ Mrs
Gregson hesitated as Holmes turned from the window, his great head enveloped in smoke. ‘Mr Holmes?’

‘Yes?’

Mrs Gregson felt as though she were in a lift in which the cable had snapped, plunging down floor after floor. She dropped her bag and took two steps forward. Now she knew she had been made a
fool of. ‘Mr Mycroft Holmes?’

‘At your service.’

She spun towards a slack-jawed Nathan, all the anger she felt against her own stupidity coming out with a venomous hiss. ‘Nathan, you damned fool. You’ve got the wrong
Holmes.’

The applause took Watson by complete surprise. Of all the welcomes he was expecting back in Hut 7, a chorus of ‘For He’s a Jolly Good Fellow’ would have been
some considerable distance down the list, along with backslapping, the offer of cigarettes and a tot of real, genuine brandy. The men crowded around him, firing a battery of questions that
coalesced into a single inquisitive howl.

‘Gentlemen, please!’ he managed to yell over the hubbub. ‘One at a time. What on earth has caused this change of heart?’

‘We owe you an apology, sir,’ said one.

‘Slice of tongue, sir?’ offered Hugh Peacock.

Watson took it, as some recompense for the feast he had been denied. ‘Thank you.’

It was sharp and salty and he relished it. Peacock had pushed to the front. ‘You’ll have to forgive us for our previous behaviour. Jungle drums get it wrong now and
then—’

‘When Brünning told us who you were—’ started one of the men.

Another chimed in, ‘—you could have knocked us down with a feather.’

‘Dr bloody Watson. Here, with us. Well, we knew then that all that stuff about you being a chat had to be a load of—’

‘The thing is,’ said Peacock, his rich, plummy voice drowning out all the others, ‘every man jack in here has read
A Study in Scarlet
and
The Hound of the
doo-dahs
.’

‘Because they were the only books in English we had to begin with,’ a voice piped up.

‘Quiet,’ said Peacock. ‘It’s true other volumes were in short supply. But the truth is that those two copies fell apart from so much reading.’

‘I’m gratified,’ said Watson, ‘if they helped pass some time. Look, if you don’t mind, I’d just like to have a lie-down. I feel a little
light-headed.’

‘Of course,’ said Peacock. ‘Thoughtless of us. A few days in Stubby knocks the stuffing out of any man. Move aside, let the major through to his billet. Come on, we can talk
about Holmes at a later date.’

Watson groaned inwardly. If they had studied his texts in such detail they were bound to be picky about the odd lapse in dates. He hoped they hadn’t got hold of a copy of ‘The Man
with the Twisted Lip’ – the typographical error from the printer that had Mary call him ‘James’ had caused him plenty of grief over the years. He really must get that
altered. As well as stressing he had two war wounds, although only one of them was made by a jezail bullet.

Peacock led him through to the end of the hut and pulled back the curtain to reveal a most remarkable sight.

There was a young private sitting on his bed, a man in his late twenties, a cheeky smile on his face. But that wasn’t the shock. In his hand he held a brush and he was using it to bring a
shine to a pair of Trenchmasters. Watson’s Trenchmasters. Watson gave a small gasp of pleasure.

‘Well,’ said Peacock, ‘I’ll leave you two to get reacquainted, sir. I’ll send some tea through.’

‘Splendid,’ said Watson, absentmindedly.

The orderly stood. ‘Hello, Dr Watson.’

‘Hello . . .er . . .’

‘Kemp, sir. Harry Kemp.’

‘Well, Private Kemp, thank you for my boots. They are a truly comforting sight. But how . . . ?’

‘Well, I was told to tell you there had been a misunderstanding. Which the gentleman in question understood at once, as soon as I pointed it out to him.’

‘You went and got them back for me?’ asked Watson. ‘From Lincoln-Chance?’

Kemp nodded. ‘In a manner of speaking. You don’t remember me, do you, Doctor?’

Watson peered at the face, but no recognition came. ‘I’m afraid . . .’

‘I was a Boots at Baker Street. Not long after you promoted Billy to Buttons. And before Mr Holmes’s long absence.’

Watson recalled the promotion of Billy and that several other lads had filled the lower position over the years. He and Holmes had the rather reprehensible habit of calling every boy, Boots and
Buttons, ‘Billy’, as if they were all interchangeable, something he would never countenance now. ‘And what happened when Holmes disappeared for all those years, presumed
dead?’

‘Well, Mrs Hudson helped me move on. To groom, eventually, for a most respectable firm of lawyers. I was only twelve when I came to you, sir. I’m not surprised you don’t
remember clearly. It was not long after the murder of Charles Augustus Milverton, the one that seemed to excite Mr Holmes so much.’

‘Quite so. Well, I’m glad to hear you got on in life, Harry, although I am dismayed to see you here.’

‘Well, I feel exactly the same, Dr Watson. Exactly the same. I’ve asked to be transferred here as your servant, on top of me other duties. I hope you don’t mind.’

‘Not at all. Someone who recalls the old days would be quite welcome.’

‘That’s settled then,’ Kemp said. ‘And I haven’t forgotten how to shine a boot.’

‘I can tell. I can see my face in those toe caps.’

Harry Kemp smiled and Watson had the sudden image of a much younger version offering the same broad grin after a nugget of praise. ‘I’ll go and fetch that tea. Anything else you
need? See if I can get you a biscuit from Captain Peacock? Got a locker full of ’em, he has.’

‘No, Harry, thank you. Oh, there is one thing,’ he said, just as the lad had pulled the curtain back. ‘If you can manage it before
Appell
.’

‘What’s that, sir?’

‘Fetch me the chaplain.’

The lad looked alarmed.

‘Don’t worry, it’s not about my immortal soul.’

Father Hardie was the least likely chaplain he had ever seen. He had a crown of jet-black curly hair, a nose that had seen its fair share of blows, and hands like nicotine-stained steam shovels.
When he spoke Watson saw teeth the shape of tombstones and spaced as far apart. Watson noticed a pattern of scarring across his nose and cheeks, like smallpox, but tiny, shiny dots rather than
pits. There were similar ones on his wrists.

‘Thank you for coming, Father. Harry, can you fetch some more tea?’ Watson pointed to the solitary seat and he took the bed.

‘How can I help you? Are y’troubled in some way?’ Hardie asked in a broad Scottish accent. Before Watson could answer, the priest asked: ‘Do you mind if I
smoke?’

‘Not at all. I’ll join you, if I may.’

Soon the room was hazed with fumes. ‘Some people think I’m not paying attention if I have a ciggie in my hand. Or that it is somehow disrespectful to God. Whereas I find it enhances
my ability to concentrate on spiritual matters.’

Watson waited until the tea had been delivered and Harry departed before he got to the crux of his enquiry. ‘The three men who died a few days ago. Have they been buried yet?’

‘They have. No point in delaying.’

‘You conducted a service?’ Watson asked.

‘Aye. I said a few words.’

‘And you had no problem with that?’

Hardie looked puzzled. ‘It’s my job.’

‘They were suicides, so I was told.’

‘Suicides?’

‘Well, perhaps not deliberately so,’ said Watson. ‘It is possible that it was blood-letting during a séance leading to accidental death. But I thought there was enough
there to give a man of your persuasion some qualms about them having a Christian burial?’

‘Me being a Roman Catholic, you mean?’

‘I do,’ said Watson.

The priest carefully lit a second cigarette from the first. ‘You know, if God was ever fussy about how a man met his end, I would imagine this war has cured Him of that. I can’t be
certain. For all I know, on Judgment Day, He will haul me up by my hair and say, well Hardie, a fine dobber you are. Burying Methodists and Presbyterians, Quakers and Anglicans. Aye, and
ministering to the living of all those congregations and more. However, I suspect He will be more forgiving. There is but one God. I think the distinctions we fret and fight about are
man-made.’