Sherlock Holmes (11 page)

Holmes smiled. “Thank him for me… but no. If
I were to accept then I would not be able to come and go as I
please nor could I continue with my work here.” With that, Holmes
once again picked up his beloved Stradivarius and became lost in
the strains of Vivaldi.

It was a dark, February evening in 1894 when
Holmes returned tired and wet to our rooms in Baker Street. In
recent weeks, Holmes had solved the case of The Bishop's Tie Pin.
He had also convinced brother Mycroft to exert a little pressure on
the government so that the bishop could discretely retire without
the threat of a scandal.

Homes threw off his Macintosh and slumped
into his favourite chair, drew up his legs and reached for his
Meerschaum and the Persian slipper in which he kept his tobacco. I
did not disturb him during this time, but let him relax. Like all
great minds, he needed time to slowly return to the mundane matter
of simply living. Perhaps, now, he would at least have an appetite.
Mrs Hudson had taken me to one side on several occasions in recent
weeks as Holmes had eaten so little and she was concerned for his
health. She had often taken away her serving tray with Holmes’ meal
untouched.

After several minutes, our sitting room had
become somewhat hazy with tobacco smoke and I could see that a calm
had settled upon Holmes. So much so that he was now using his pipe
stem as a baton to conduct some piece of music which he was playing
in his head.

"You know, Watson, I am forever intrigued by
the intricacies of Vivaldi's work." On saying this, he began to
reach for his beloved Stradivarius. As he reached out, he stopped
as his hand passed over the small silver tray upon which Mrs Hudson
brought up our mail. "Hello, what's this?"

On the tray were a couple of letters which
had lain untouched since the afternoon post arrived at about 2 p.m.
Holmes gathered up the two letters and selected the lower one. His
eyes gleamed as he took in every detail of the envelope, turning it
over, holding it to his nose and then up towards the flickering gas
light by the fireplace. With a twinkle in his eye and a hint of a
smile at the corner of his mouth, he tossed the envelope towards
me. "What do you make of that, Watson?"

I was used to Holmes’ humour and was not at
all offended when he offered me a challenge. I knew it was not him
thumbing his nose at me by showing off his superior powers of
observation and deduction...although...he did get some pleasure
from watching me struggle as I tried to apply his own methods in my
amateurish way.

I caught the envelope and examined it in the
same way as I had seen Holmes do. As I did this, I swear that I
could hear a slight chuckle coming from his direction. "Well, the
envelope seems to be of a quality paper, it has been stamped
correctly and franked in Belgravia. The handwriting is well formed,
neat and precise and written in black ink. The envelope has what I
think to be the faint smell of perfume."

At this, Holmes roared with laughter.
"Capital, Watson! Capital! Anything else?"

I knew I was being teased but it was, as
always, done in a kindly, good humoured way. "No… I think I have
covered everything."

Again a laugh came from Holmes. "Yes, yes,
everything… and yet nothing."

Whilst this I knew was in jest, I still did
not like to have my feathers ruffled so. "You can detect more?" I
asked, a little huffily, as I tossed the letter back to him.

"Well, let's see. The envelope is, as you
say, of good quality but not, I think, English in origin. The
colour of the envelope and the fibres in the paper tend to lead me
more towards central, perhaps southern Europe. The quality of the
envelope and the fact that it was posted in Belgravia lends a
certain weight to this. Belgravia is home to a number of European
embassies and consulates. The hand that wrote this was definitely a
man's and from the weight and power of the strokes, a powerful and
important man. Again my suggestion of European origin is supported
by the form of the figure 'one' in our address of 221b. This figure
'1' has that curious shape which includes the very long serif that
may be mistaken by an Englishman as being the figure seven.”

He paused to recap. “So, we have a letter
from Europe, written by an important, powerful man, possibly
originating from an embassy. Did you feel the embossing on the
enclosure through the envelope?" asked Holmes.

"I fear not, but pray continue if there is
more to be gleaned before opening it." said I, with a little edge
to my voice.

Holmes smiled. "Ah, Watson. It is wrong of me
to tease you so, let us continue. The embossed heading of the
enclosure leads me to believe that it is indeed the emblem of a
nation and what of the smell that you detected? I think it is not
perfume but a little more masculine a fragrance, cologne perhaps?
Now, with which nationalities would you perhaps associate important
gentlemen anointing themselves with cologne? Surely those nations
reputed to be the romantics of Europe."

I thought for a moment. "The French." said
I.

"Possibly, but remember the paper of the
envelope. I believe we might look perhaps a little further south
and east?"

"Italian!" I cried.

"Splendid, Watson. Let us see if we have
deduced correctly." Holmes carefully slid a finger under the gummed
flap and eased it away from the body of the envelope. He unfolded
the single sheet of paper within and quickly scanned the content.
"Ah, we are correct. It is indeed a letter from the Italian
embassy, from the desk of the ambassador himself. He is inviting us
to the embassy tomorrow evening and says that he has taken the
liberty of summoning brother Mycroft.”

I was a little puzzled. "If Mycroft is to be
there, it must be an important affair of state. Why would they want
to involve you, Holmes?"

Holmes gave a thin lipped smile and raised a
finger, saying, "Sometimes, Watson, there are occasions where even
Her Britannic Majesty's most discreet officials cannot be seen to
be involved. We are to travel incognito and enter the embassy
through a private courtyard at the rear. The ambassador is
expecting us at 8 p.m."

Little happened the following day. Holmes
spent the time researching the thoroughfares around the embassy and
also the backgrounds of the diplomats serving at the embassy. I
spent my time catching up on some interesting new articles in 'The
Lancet'. I find my practice to be busy at this time of year and a
day away from my surgery was something not to be wasted.

After dinner, we dressed warmly with heavy
coats and mufflers. We had heeded the request of the ambassador and
were unrecognisable in our winter clothes. There was little traffic
in Baker Street but after a minute or two we were able to hail a
Hansom. Holmes directed the driver to a small side street close to
the embassy. It was a cold evening and, as we descended from the
Hansom, we could see great plumes of condensation from the horse's
nostrils. Holmes tossed the driver a shilling and the cab clattered
away into the night.

Holmes’ time studying the area around the
embassy had been well spent as he seemed to guide us intuitively to
the small courtyard at the rear. A single gas light flickered above
a doorway almost hidden in the corner of the courtyard; Holmes
tapped sharply on the door with his cane. We waited only a few
moments and I was surprised when the door did not open but a small
slot at eye level slid back. All we could see was a pair of eyes, a
broad forehead and a patch of jet black hair. “Si?” was all that
was said by the face behind the door.

 Holmes stood back from the door and
into the pool of light from the gas lamp. “Sherlock Holmes and Dr
Watson to see the Ambassador.” The slot in the door was quickly
shut and the sound of heavy bolts being pulled was clearly heard
before the door swung open.

The brightness of the light that flooded out
from the interior of the building made us blink for a moment before
we took in the form of a burly servant in full livery almost
filling the doorway. The servant bowed slightly, stepped back and
ushered us inside saying in English, with a strong Italian accent,
“Please signori, enter.”

Holmes responded with a quiet, “Grazie.”

The servant replied, “Prego.” before closing
the door quickly behind us and shooting the bolts, saying, “This
way, please.”

We followed him and were led along a
passageway with rooms off to the side. I assumed that this
passageway would normally have been used by tradesmen visiting the
kitchen but after about ten yards, a door was opened and we entered
directly into the embassy proper.

The atrium we
stood in was double height with massive, half fluted white columns
supporting a domed white ceiling with gold and red
stenciled motifs. The floor was of exquisite
Italian marble in different colours which formed intricate
patterns. The servant led us to an equally fine marble staircase
with an intricate wrought iron balustrade and mahogany hand rail.
At the top of the staircase we entered an ante-room and from there
into the office of the ambassador, His Excellency, Count Ernesto
Salvatore Emilio di Cagliari.

The
ambassador's office was superbly decorated with opulent furniture
in the renaissance style and with heavy, embroidered curtains at
the windows. At each corner of the room was a white, half fluted
column topped with gold acanthus leaves which supported a
fine,
stenciled ceiling. The room was
illuminated by a large gilt hexagonal lantern complimented by
ornate gilded gas lamps on the walls. To one side of the office was
a fireplace of carved, white Italian marble. Above it was a large
mirror in a swept gilt frame and in the grate, a hearty log fire
blazed. From behind an ornate, gilt desk near the centre of the end
wall, a tall elegant man with iron grey hair rose and walked
towards us, his hand outstretched. He was dressed in a dark, formal
three piece suit with a diagonal, pale blue, silk sash that reached
from shoulder to waist. On the jacket breast pocket was a large
gold star with enamel work inset with gem stones, a clear sign of
his noble birth and a symbol of his status.

Holmes reached out and took the ambassador's
hand. "Good evening, Excellency."

The ambassador reached out his other hand and
grasped Holmes’ forearm saying, "Oh please, Sherlock. We are old
friends and you must again call me Ernesto." and gave a hearty
laugh. I could see from Holmes’ expression that he was pleased to
renew his acquaintance with the Count. For myself, I was staggered.
Holmes had never mentioned this friendship and I had barely
recovered my senses when I was introduced.

Holmes turned to me, saying, "Let me
introduce my friend and colleague, Dr John Watson."

The ambassador almost leapt forward in his
eagerness to shake my hand. "Ah, Dr Watson! I have heard so many
good things about you from Sherlock. He and I have kept in contact
over the years since we first met in Cagliari. He tells me that he
is always grateful for your help and friendship." I almost blushed
at this praise and mumbled some thanks as I shook the ambassador's
hand.

I was saved from further embarrassment by the
arrival of Mycroft Holmes. Mycroft, of course, already knew the
ambassador through official channels and the introductions were
merely a nod in our direction.

Three chairs had been arranged in an arc in
front of the ambassador's desk. We all waited to sit whilst the
ambassador moved around the desk to take his place and face us. I
could see that the ambassador's demeanour had changed somewhat. It
seemed like the act of sitting down behind his desk was a catalyst
for serious business. After a few moments the ambassador looked
towards us and breathed out heavily, as though mentally searching
for the place from whence to start.

"Gentlemen, at the end of the week we are to
have an official visit from a very important member of the Italian
Royal family. This person is coming here, to the embassy, to be the
guest of honour at a reception I am holding to commemorate his
visit.” The ambassador leant forward in his chair as if to give
more importance to what he was now about to say. “In fact, this
person is already here at the embassy and is visiting London
incognito before any of his official engagements. His Maj...” The
ambassador stopped himself and his face flushed with colour at his
error. “His private visit was to have been a complete secret. Only
a few trusted people knew of it and yet this week our agents in
London have sent a worrying report to police Inspector Frosali here
at the embassy. He has passed the information on to me and a copy
has been sent to the Minister of the Interior in Italy."

The ambassador passed a sheet of paper to
Holmes who read it carefully. Looking up from it, Holmes posed a
question. “Would it be acceptable if I were to translate this and
read the relevant points to Watson and Mycroft?” The ambassador
thought for a moment and then nodded.

Holmes began. “Your Excellency, my agents
have some gravely disturbing intelligence regarding the movements
of UR. They tell me that, on Sunday evening, he dressed as an
artisan and on leaving the embassy by the rear entrance; he met
with a known Irish anarchist who is attached to the Turkish
embassy. Together they went to the Club Autonomie, a known meeting
place for anarchists. At the club he seemed to be fully accepted as
a member. He was introduced to and shook hands with the notorious
female French anarchist, Louise Michel, nicknamed 'The Red
She-Wolf' with whom he had a long and animated conversation. During
the evening, he was seen to listen to several of the 'comrades'
speeches which advocated the uprooting of governments, the blowing
up of the European reining monarchs and the welcoming of a
millennia of chaos.”