The Midwinter Mysteries of Sherlock Holmes: Three Adventures & The Grand Gift of Sherlock (6 page)

“Perhaps we should ask your brother?”
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Holmes shook his head. “I think not, Watson. Do not forget that Mycroft himself might be responsible.”

“What?!?” I exclaimed.

“Of course, Watson. Do not think that there are only foreign agents active in London. For every spy upon our foggy streets there are at least twice as many deployed by Mycroft to block their actions and ensuring that the information any foreign agent gathers is either incomplete or dangerously misleading. No, I don’t like it, Watson. Something is afoot. And it is no game, I fear.”

“But why ransack the apartment of Márquez if they already have the man himself?”

“Clearly whatever documents our unknown adversaries are looking for were not found upon his person.” Holmes was interrupted by a knock upon the sitting-room door. His eyebrows rose suggestively and I rose to open it. When I did so, I was mildly surprised to see the smiling face of Inspector Alec MacDonald, for he was usually a reserved, meticulous man with a somewhat dour nature. He was also the one man in the C.I.D.
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that Holmes appeared to display a more than absolutely necessary tolerance.

“Good to see you again, Doctor Watson,” said he heartedly, in his hard Aberdonian accent. “It’s been since the Birlstone affair, has it not?” His gleaming eyes, deep-set into his large cranium, emitted a sharp astuteness from beneath his bushy eyebrows. And the hand that he offered me from his tall, bony figure had a grip of exceptional physical strength.

“Ah, Mr. Mac,” cried Holmes from his room, “I am glad that you are here.”

“Of course, Mr. Holmes. Everyone at the Yard is mighty proud of you for bringing down Baron Cranborne. We owe you a good turn, for certs.”

“Watson, while you were out, I asked Mrs. Hudson to send a note round to Mr. Mac, for I think we need his assistance. You may be the better story-teller, Watson, but for the sake of brevity, let me bring him up to date on the events of the day.”

When Holmes concluded, the inspector leaned back in his chair. “A gold sovereign, eh, Mr. Holmes? It sounds like a den of counterfeiters to me.”

“No, I think not, Mr. Mac,” said Holmes, shaking his head. “I know how they work,
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and this does not have that ring to it. This is more broad-sweeping in nature, I fear. In addition to the official staff of the various Embassies, any of whom could play a double role, there are numerous independent international spies and secret agents active in London at this time. Most of them are small fry, and not worth your time, but there are half-a-dozen who would potentially be so bold as to contract a broad-daylight abduction from the streets of London. The ones I have in mind are Louis La Rothèire, Eduardo Lucas, Luigi Lucarelli, Gabriel Dukas, Adolph Meyer, and Hugo Oberstein.
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I will provide you with the last known English addresses of the aforementioned men. I need you, Inspector, to put a watch upon each of these men and report back to me immediately if any of them are known to have left England in the last day, or if they cannot be located. Given the theatrical nature of the diversion, I would also suggest that you carefully question Mr. Lucarelli as to his whereabouts for the last forty-eight hours. You will find the gentleman, whose habits I have studied, seated at this present moment in a bamboo chair, a tumbler by his side, and a long manila cigar between his curiously animal teeth.”

“And what am I to do, Holmes?” said I, mildly protesting this annexation of a case which I had come to think of as somewhat falling under my umbrella of responsibility.

“Fear not, Watson,” said Holmes, reassuringly. “Your task may be equally critical. I need you to determine the link of that unusual playing card to the case. It is clearly a historical item, and while it may simply be a peculiar item that Mr. Márquez collected, from your thumb-nail sketch of his poor furnishings, I think that it unlikely. Since you have never failed me, I have little doubt that your skills and astute judgment will quickly determine if this is a valid clue or a red herring.”

Buoyed by that vote of confidence, I accompanied Inspector Macdonald to the door. My destination was evident for I was acquainted with but one man in London whose historical expertise rivaled that of Holmes’ knowledge of crime.
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My old friend from the service, Walter Lomax,
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had settled in to a post well suited for his particular skills and I knew that I would have little difficulty in finding him, for he inhabited the London Library far more often than his own little villa in Richmond. To my great wonderment, however, I was told that Lomax was at that moment doing some research at the British Library, so I instead directed my steps to that august establishment on Great Russell Street.

As I approached the Portland stone-faced Greek Revival façade with its Ionic columns, I thought about the great wealth of information stored inside. Even Holmes’ magnificent mind paled in comparison.
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But the knowledge was fragmented, and only certain specialists had glimmers of every morsel contained within their petite domains. Beneath the massive dome of the Reading Room
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I finally managed to locate my friend. He was much changed in appearance from when I had met him ten years prior. He was now closer to fifty than forty, and the center bald spot had enlarged over the years so that little remained of his shock of uncontrolled brown hair. Even sitting, it was easy to tell that he was short and stout, with much of his former brawn vanished under years of reading, both by choice and also enforced by his terrible war wound. His entire lower right leg had unfortunately required amputation, and had been replaced by a wooden stump.

I had some difficulty inducing Lomax to look up from the dusty tome that he was intently studying. When I eventually did so, his strongly-lined face alit with a mixture of surprise and happiness. “John!” he exclaimed, good humor appearing upon his mobile, smiling lips, which peered out from under bushy brown side whiskers and a moustache. His eyes were an arresting shade of deep blue, and bespoke of an intense inward life, so alert and responsive they were to every question put to him. “To what do I owe the pleasure? You would be fascinated at what I have just discovered,” he said, turning the book towards me and stabbing down upon a particular spot on the page. “Did you know that the monotheism of Akhenaten inspired…”

“I am certain that is very fascinating, Walter, but I am afraid I have something more urgent on hand. This is not simply a social call.”

“Ah, work for Mr. Holmes?” he asked excitedly, for he was always much interested in the adventures of my former flat-mate.

“Indeed. A man’s life may hang in the balance.” I described the events of the day and then pulled out the playing card I had discovered. “Do you happen to know what this is?” I asked, handing it to him.

He studied both sides of it carefully. “Ah, yes, this is quite exquisite, John. I am not certain how many of these still exist, you know. It’s a sad chapter in our history.”

“What is?”

“The Popish Plot,”
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replied Lomax. “These engraved cards tell the story of the plot and show the dire penalties meted out to those Catholic enemies of the state. Playing cards depicting historical events were very popular towards the end of the seventeenth century. They were effective political propaganda.”
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“But what is connection between a plot from two centuries ago and a missing Spanish attaché today?”

Lomax shrugged. “That is an excellent question, John. And I have no idea. But I would suggest that we visit the Registrar General of Births, Marriages, and Deaths at Somerset House. They might be able to shed some light upon the matter.”

“How so?”

“Come, I will explain on the way. Despite years of getting used to this false leg, it takes some time for me to travel anywhere.” The two of us slowly made our way back through the open sky of the Great Court
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and into a passing hansom cab.

Once we had settled in, Lomax explained his reasoning. “The building that you and I know as Somerset House is not the first of that name. The present structure is but a century old, having replaced that of an earlier structure with many historical associations.
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It was first used by the queens consort. Despite the laws of the land forbidding such a thing, the wife of Charles I built a Roman Catholic chapel within its walls. That was but one of many grievances that led to his eventual beheading. During the Protectorate, it was a Parliamentary Army headquarters, and in 1658, the body of Oliver Cromwell lay in state there before his short stay at Westminster Abbey.
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During the Restoration of Charles II it became notorious as a hot-bed of Catholic conspiracy. And it was at Somerset House that the magistrate Sir Edmund Berry Godfrey
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was murdered by person or persons unknown to this day.”

“I once read a book belonging to Holmes about the Godfrey murder.
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The author postulated that he was killed by Philip Herbert, 7th Earl of Pembroke and 4th Earl of Montgomery.”
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“Yes, I suppose that is possible. However, at the time, not one but two different committees unsuccessfully investigated the murder,” Lomax continued. “There was no evidence of a struggle at the spot where the body had been found and Godfrey still had his money and rings. On the other hand, curious people had already trampled the ground when investigators arrived.”

“It’s a good thing that Holmes had not yet been born to witness such a slipshod handling of a crime scene,” said I, smiling wanly.

“Indeed. The body was covered with bruises and a circular mark around Godfrey's neck revealed that he had been strangled with his own cravat and his neck broken. He had been impaled with his own sword, but the wound had not bled, meaning that Godfrey was already dead when he was skewered.”

“Yes, for perhaps four or five days,” I surmised.

“The authorities announced a reward for information about the murderers, but this was never claimed. Titus Oates claimed that he was killed by the Catholic plotters,
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which only served to fan the flames of public hysteria.”

As our hansom drew up to the great U-shaped court before Somerset House, its massive neo-classical façade topped at the center by a verdigris dome, I turned to Lomax. “I still don’t understand what exactly you hope to find here?”

He shrugged. “Call it a hunch. You have three clues so far, Watson. First, the coin from the time of Edward VI, the only legitimate son of Henry VIII. This was the beginning of the great schism of religion in England. The second is the disappearance of a Spanish attaché. The Spanish have long been considered the great bastion of Catholicism in Europe, and thus the natural enemy of Protestant England under the Tudors. Finally, we have a card depicting the later Popish Plot, which for all its fictions sufficed to ensure that England would forever remain free of the Catholic yoke. Everything so far is connected to the great conflict between the Churches of Rome and of England.”

I shook my head sadly. “A terrible thing to contemplate on Christmas Day. He would have been greatly dismayed to learn what terrible deeds had been sowed from his well-intentioned words.”

“Indeed, John,” agreed my friend. “Now let us see if your attaché has ever paid a visit to the archives here.”

Unsurprisingly, we found that the Registrar was closed for the holiday. However, by the bronze statue of George III with the Thames river god, we found the tiny room of a lone watchman, who was heavily bundled against the cold in a greatcoat and muffler. The man was initially reluctant to engage in a bit of conversation, but a few drams of brandy from my travel flask soon loosened his tongue.
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He was an older fellow named Abner Wickham, his grizzled brown hair and lined face placing him nearer sixty than fifty. However, he still possessed a trim and wiry frame, with the vague remnants of a military bearing to his stance. I suspected that he was a long-since retired marine.

When introduced ourselves and explained to him that we wished to see the tome into which visitors were logged, the man shook his head ruefully. “I am very sorry that I can’t let you in, Mr. Lomax, Dr. Watson. You look like fine gents. But I haves my orders from the boss himself. No one inspects the records without direct supervision of an archivist, and seeing how’s they are all snug in their homes, the building is shut up tight.”

Lomax frowned. “Come man, I visit here all of the time. No such rule exists.”

“Mayhaps not a month ago, sir. But new orders are in place after the event.”

“What event, Mr. Wickham?” I inquired.

The man removed his cap and scratched his head. “Can’t say that I know all of the details, not being in the inner circle of Sir Edwin Ainsworth,
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but from what I hears, we had a visitor walk off with an important document.”

Lomax and I glanced at each other, each recognizing the possible significance of this theft.

“Do you know what the document was?” I asked, trying as best as possible to conceal my excitement.

Wickham chucked softly and then blew out his breath, which crystallized in the cold air. “No, siree, Dr. Watson. They don’ts deign to share such information with the likes of me.”

“I see,” said I, disappointedly. “And I suppose the name of Diego Márquez means nothing to you?”