The Midwinter Mysteries of Sherlock Holmes: Three Adventures & The Grand Gift of Sherlock (7 page)

“That’s a true statement, Doctor,” Wickham replied.

Disappointed, I thanked the man, and Lomax and I turned away. We began our slow trudge back to the street, where no further clues pointed to a next destination. The investigation had hit a solid wall. However, we had barely gone five yards when Wickham suddenly called out. “You know, Doctor, you are the second person to ask me that question this week.”

“What!” I exclaimed, hurrying back to the man. “Who was the first?”

“What was his name?” asked Lomax simultaneously.

Wickham shrank under our excessively exuberant questioning. “I honestly cannot recall, gentlemen.”

“Can you describe him?”

Wickham scratched his head again and shut his eyes, plainly trying to summon a mental image of the man. “Well, he was about forty years of age, give or take a few, with dark, almost black hair and deep brown eyes. He was rather thin, with a sharp nose and chin, but with a vigor to his bearing. His dress was neat, but rather plain. Nothing flashy about him, that’s for certs.”

Lomax sagged in disappointment. “That could be half the men in London.”

While I too was tempted to admit defeat, I stared at the man for a moment. He was not purposefully withholding information, of that I was certain. But could he still possess a clue of which he failed to realize the importance? I asked myself what Holmes would do if faced with this situation. And then I had it. The man was naturally taciturn. Some gesture of goodwill was required to induce him to verbosity.

“Mr. Wickham, did this man happen to share any warming spirits with you?”

He shook his head. “No, only you were so kind, Dr. Watson.”

“And what about a cigar?” I persisted.

He pursed his lips and then nodded slowly. “Now that you mention it, he did share with me a cheroot.”
[107]

A thrill of excitement ran through me. Although I had not a whit of Holmes’ skills in these matters, if only I could acquire some ashes to bring back to Baker Street, I knew my friend could identify them.
[108]
“Was there anything unusual about the cigar, Mr. Wickham? A rare blend of tobacco, perhaps? Do you still possess the stub?”

He shook his head at each of these questions. “‘Fraid not, Dr. Watson. It was just a typical two-penny cigar you can get from any corner stand. Nothing to remark upon. And my tray was emptied by the char-woman yesterday. But I do still have the vestas
[109]
that he gave me to light it.”

My eyes grew wide as he fished a battered matchbook from his breast pocket. He held it out for my inspection. The book had markings upon its face, clearly intended to promote the domicile from which it originated, the Black Horse Inn in the town of Burford.
[110]

“This is most helpful, Mr. Wickham,” said I, smiling. “If it is not too much of a bother, I would like to keep this little book, but a man who has to work on the holidays should not be left wanting. Here’s a sovereign for your trouble. My compliments of the season to you.”

Wickham was clearly pleased by this trade, and retreated to his small booth in jovial spirits. As Lomax and I returned to the street, I clapped my friend upon the shoulder. “You are a genius, Walter. Somerset House was absolutely the correct place to go looking for the missing Señor Márquez. Holmes himself could not have done better.”

“Then to Burford next, John?” he asked, clearly pleased by the compliment.

“No, no,” I shook my head. “Your task is done, Walter. You have pointed me to the next clue, and any further steps carry with them an element of danger. You have already done your bit for Queen and Country,” I concluded, motioning to his leg.

“So have you, John. If I recall correctly, you still have some Jezail lead in your shoulder.”

“Ah, but I am not doing this for the Queen. I am doing this for my friend.”

He nodded. “I understand. But don’t hesitate to call upon me if you are ever in need of assistance in the future.”
[111]

Lomax climbed into the first hansom that we could hail, heading home to Richmond, while I directed the second driver to take me to Baker Street. I wanted to update Holmes on my progress before heading for Kings Cross Station. For some minutes I was lost in my thoughts, until I suddenly realized that the route that the brougham was taking was not in the direction of Baker Street. I panicked, wondering if the driver was in the employ of our mysterious adversary. Who had ransacked Márquez’s chambers, and how had they discovered that I was on their tail, I wondered? Had they been following me this entire time? I cursed my lack of aptitude with disguises, for surely Holmes’ would have not gone about without some clever cloak thrown over his true identity. Fortunately, due to Holmes’ advice I was not without some method of defense. I drew the Webley from my pocket and silently vowed that they would not take me without a fight.

However, when the brougham stopped shortly thereafter, it was not apparent who exactly I should be pointing the gun at. We were paused in front of a three-story building of polished white marble, every arched window elaborately flanked by a pair of Corinthian columns. I recognized it as the home of the Foreign Office on Whitehall.

A uniformed guardsman held open the door of the carriage, while another stood by the inconspicuous doorway. As I alighted from my seat, this second man threw open this door for me and silently invited me to enter. With no evident threat, I hurriedly stuffed the Webley back into my pocket, feeling somewhat foolish for having waved it about. I shrugged and entered the passageway behind the door, which eventually led to an unmarked office. Knocking once, a voice bade me enter. To my surprise, inside I found no other than Holmes’ brother, Mycroft, seated in a plain office. It was without hint of personal effects or holiday decorations.

“Hello, Doctor, how are you today?” he said amiably, but not bothering to rise or hold out a hand. He was stoutly built and massive, with a suggestion of corpulence due to some inertia in his figure. Although I had seen his face, which shared so many of my friend’s features, albeit in an elder form,
[112]
in happier moments, today it was grim. His overriding brow presided over steel-gray, deep-set eyes, whose look alternated between piercing alertness and far-away introspection, both of which I suspected were required in order to balance the immense and convoluted workings of the British Empire.

“I am well, thank you, Mycroft,” I replied, hesitantly. “I say, whatever am I doing here?”

“I could ask you the same question, Doctor. I have reason to believe that you have stumbled into an international incident.”

“The missing attaché?” I asked. “Is he the son of some dignitary?”

Mycroft waved his hand. “Señor Márquez is himself of no consequence. What matters is what he stole from the Registrar at Somerset House.”

“What exactly did he steal?”

Mycroft sighed. “That is just the problem, Doctor. We don’t know exactly. It might surprise you, but we do not have a full catalogue of everything that exists in our archives. Our nation’s history is long and tumultuous, and there are many best-forgotten secrets which have yet to be unearthed.”

“I don’t understand. If you don’t know what he took, then why are you concerned?”

“It is an excellent question, Doctor, and the answer is not a simple one. You have heard of the Sick Old Man of Europe?”

“The Ottoman Empire?”
[113]

“Indeed. Although no one has termed it as such, there is also a ‘Sick Man’ of the Americas. The once proud Spanish are desperately grasping the last tendrils of their Empire, which has steadily withered after the near-fatal blows dealt to it by Nelson and Napoleon.
[114]
Most of their colonies slipped through their fingers over fifty years ago, but a handful remain. And there are those who, like vultures, are circling the carcass of the Spanish Empire, eager to feed upon its remains.”

“Are the Spanish in such a sorry state as that?”

“Oh, yes, Doctor. They have had a century of political instability marked by the three Carlist Civil Wars. After the fall of the First Republic, the Bourbon Restoration has been in place for less than a score of years.
[115]
The four year-old Alfonso XIII sits on a rickety throne, propped up by his Austrian mother and regent. But dangers, both internal and external lurk everywhere for him and his country.” Mycroft sighed heavily. “Tell me, Doctor, do you recall the Virginius Affair?”

I shook my head. “Only the vaguest details.”

“Then let me remind you. It was October 1873. I was just up to London from school when this great diplomatic incident threatened to drag us into a war. The
Virginius
was an American blockade runner, manned by a mixed American and British crew. It was carrying munitions to insurrectionists in Cuba that were attempting to overthrow the Spanish government upon that isle. The Spanish fleet captured it and put the entire crew on trial as pirates. Despite the protest of the American vice-consul, they were all sentenced to death by firing squad. The British vice-consul requested that our navy intervene to stop this madness, but fifty-three men had already been executed, their corpses decapitated and their bodies trampled with horses, before the HMS
Niobe
could arrive. Captain Sir Lambton Lorraine threatened to bombard the city of Santiago if the executions were not halted and the local commander finally agreed. For their part, the United States threatened to declare war. However, lengthy negotiations eventually led to the Spanish government paying a small fortune in reparations to the families of the murdered men. The incident is most remarkable that wise use of international diplomacy was able to find a path to peace rather than allowing these deplorable actions to be turned into a justification for a war.”

“So you suspect that whatever Señor Márquez was carrying could be sufficient to provoke a war between us and Spain?”

“That is only the beginning of my concerns. Spain is tottering, and if pressed, we could win a war against it with ease. But would Spain fight alone? Europe is an armed camp, and at the center of that camp sits a powder keg waiting to explode. The ramifications of a war against Spain are too terrible to contemplate. Those of us that work in this building dedicate the vast bulk of our waking hours to ensuring that such a horror never comes to pass.”
[116]

I thought about the implications of Mycroft’s words for a moment. “Could the Americans have kidnapped Señor Márquez? They have had a generation to recover from the scars of their civil war, and I have heard rumblings that yellow journalists are agitating for a war by publishing anti-Spanish propaganda.
[117]
They might be trying to drag Great Britain into their own squabble, not recognizing the dangers to Europe at large.”
[118]

Mycroft shook his massive head. “I doubt it, Doctor.”

“Why?”

“Only because I know the reputation of the man who serves as their Envoy Extraordinary and Minister Plenipotentiary to the Court of St. James. He is a man of peace.
[119]
He would never order an action of espionage that was designed to precipitate a war.”
[120]

“So what I am to do?” I asked.

“I cannot say for certain, Doctor. Only that you must tread carefully. I wish that my brother was healthy enough to accompany you. Or that my years of inactivity had not taken such a toll on my frame so as to prevent me from doing the same. For this is a task of great delicacy.”

My spine stiffened at this mild disparagement of my abilities. “I expect that I will do my duty, sir.”

A great smile spread across Mycroft’s face. “I am sorry that I insulted you, Doctor. As you must know by now, it is a family trait to sometimes speak overly bluntly and to fail to consider the feelings of our companions. But my brother has always spoken very highly of you and your abilities, and praise is not something that often passes his lips. I have no doubt that, like Nelson before you off the coast of Spain, your mission will be successful and you will ensure that the document of Señor Márquez is safely returned before it can provoke any mischief. I hope, however, for the sake of your wife, that your mission has a happier ending than that of Nelson’s.”
[121]

My spirit lifted by the report of Holmes’ commendation, I patted the Webley in my pocket. “I have come prepared.”

“Good,” said Mycroft, smiling. “Then you best be on your way.”

I glanced at my pocket watch. “I had hoped to stop in at Baker Street and inform Holmes about what I had discovered so far, but the hour is drawing late. I fear that I should be on my way to Burford.”

Mycroft waved his hand. “Do not worry, Doctor. I will keep dear Sherlock up to date on your proceedings.”

On that note, I took my leave of the enigmatic elder Holmes and made my way back to the street. A short ride found me at Kings Cross Station, where I found a train leaving within the hour. I spent the initial leg of the journey pondering the vast mystery that I had found myself embroiled in, but ultimately abandoned this effort for lack of sufficient data, as Holmes would say. Regretting that I had not come prepared with some yellow-baked novel, I finally succumbed to the rocking motion of the rails and nodded off for a quick restorative.

When the train arrived in Burford,
[122]
it was not difficult to locate the Black Horse Inn,
[123]
for the town was quite compact. However, I was most surprised to find the place closed up tight. Even on Christmas, it was very unusual for a British public house to shut its doors so early. And then I realized that I had not seen anyone else on the streets of Burford, nor any lights burning in the houses that I had passed. Surely something was amiss.