Several more rounds of whisky were required to extricate us from the pub, and even at that, our exit through the ancient plank-and-iron-band door was delayed by a final question from Will Sadler:
‘By the way, Captain Walker – the barman at the Roxburghe you mentioned – which one was it? So that we can be certain he gets his due.’
I turned along with Holmes to face the questioner; and discovered for the first time, in his features, the cool, cruel gaze of a man capable of the kind of injuries we knew to have been inflicted on the palace victims. A sudden and terrible anxiety gripped me, for the cunning fellow had been shrewd enough to question Holmes – who could have had no idea as to the identity of the barman – rather than myself; or was I being overly suspicious, and was this, for the first time in the entire affair, a simple and genuine coincidence? Whatever the case, I did not waste a moment stepping in:
‘Good God, Walker,’ I came near to shouting, ‘but you held your whisky better on the frontier – the man’s name is Jackson, you know it as well as your own, or you did last evening at this same time!’
Holmes nodded, holding Sadler’s scrutinising gaze: ‘Indeed so, Murray. But then, we were in rather an augmented state of awareness last evening, were we not?’
Sadler nodded once; but I grew only further unnerved by the subsequent speed and ease with which the appealing liveliness of his light eyes and his easy smile returned. I now saw that this was an antagonist humbler in his origins, but every bit as formidable, as some of the worst killers we had ever faced. Relieved was I, therefore, when we finally exited the pub and descended Castle Rock, more intoxicated but no cheerier than we had been when we made our way up, and surrounded by darkened houses and shops that suddenly seemed less asleep than utterly devoid of life.
Once on the streets below, Holmes steered me forcefully in a north-westerly rather than an easterly direction, suggesting that it would be in our interests to at least be seen entering the Roxburghe Hotel:
‘I would count it as given,’ he explained, ‘that some agent of the Sadlers, if not one of the brothers themselves, is following us even now, to verify the story we have told them. We can easily lose the fellow in the crush of so busy a lobby as that at the Roxburghe – and besides, Watson, the cool night air will be beneficial for you, after your performance in the Fife and Drum.’
I nodded, rather glumly. ‘I realise that I must in fact be inebriated, Holmes,’ said I. ‘But I have rarely felt so low-spirited.’
Holmes attempted sympathy. ‘You are disturbed by the possible connivance of British soldiers in this affair?’
‘In part, certainly.’
‘As well as the apparent treachery of this Robert Sadler, who seemed to be Miss Mackenzie’s protector – whom she herself certainly regarded as such – but who was evidently plotting her return home in disgrace, or worse?’
‘Indeed. But there is more. I accept that Rob Sadler assisted his brother in his hideous crimes, if only because those acts required at least two pairs of strong arms and hands for their successful completion. Nor is the motive obscure: Because they were assigned to rehabilitate the west tower of the palace, first Sir Alistair and then McKay must have become aware of the lucrative farce that was being played out there on an almost nightly basis, which would have come to a disastrous end, as would the freedom of the Sadlers, had those two honest men been allowed to tell the Queen of their discoveries. And yet, as I say, there is something more …’
Seeming to grasp my line of thought, Holmes produced his pipe, and began to pack it with shag. ‘There is indeed “something more,”Watson. We have almost all the necessary pieces, but one remains rather pointedly missing.’
‘I know as much, and yet I cannot put my finger on it,’ said I, glad for the chance to exorcise this nagging doubt. ‘I do not, as I say, deny that these men committed these crimes – and yet, why the method, Holmes? Where was the need to so mutilate the bodies? Imagine the families of the poor devils, their wives, their children – how must they feel on being presented with such desecration?’
Holmes arched an eyebrow. ‘An odd choice of words, perhaps, Watson …’
‘I am a doctor, Holmes; thus, not so odd, I think. No, I will stand by it – desecration.’
‘Very well, then – but call it what you will, old friend, it is far from mysterious.’
‘Oh?’
‘Indeed. You may demonstrate it for yourself, if you like: Ask the next ten Scotsmen we meet who is responsible for the murders. The opinions – the official opinions – of the Scottish press aside, I will wager you that at least half those you canvass will tell you that the spirit that is known to haunt the old west tower has been at work. Some may know Rizzio by name, and some, like Miss Mackenzie, may know him only as “the Italian gentleman”; but of those who are aware of the tale – and they are many, in this city and country – most will truly believe that, whatever his name, the ancient spirit is abroad seeking vengeance. And this effect can only have been increased by the added feature of McKay’s body being not only in a spot where no human could seem to have put it, but so thoroughly run through and crushed as to also indicate the work of a supernatural force: What natural power could create such an effect, after all?’
I was rather taken aback. ‘Are you serious, Holmes? Half the population of Scotland believes a murderous ghost is at work?’
‘You think my estimate extreme? I can assure you that, despite the natural scepticism of the Scots, it is not. Among any group of human beings almost anywhere in the world – and I include England, now – you would find roughly the same results; and you would find, furthermore, a desire to view the supposed haunt of the wraith in question, a desire which the murderers doubtless factored into their calculations, as well. We are a species particularly averse to the notion that physical death puts an end to the spirit – how many cases have you and I investigated that prove such an assertion? Thus dread will not be the impulse that makes those you interview give such apparently ignorant or superstitious answers – quite to the contrary, it will be hope. They will wish ‘the Italian gentleman’s ghost’ to be responsible, for it will confirm their fondest desire, at the same time that it frightens them. Even Miss Mackenzie, I suspect, has taken some secret comfort from all that she has been through, terrifying as it has undeniably been.’
‘Then – these two brothers – they relied upon such a reaction, when they re-created the circumstances of Rizzio’s death?’
‘Indeed, Watson. They did so in the first instance, and then even more elaborately when they positioned McKay’s body – a clever bit of embellishment to the legend. And in so doing, they created for themselves a unique power, as the only people who seemed able to come and go from the tower without injury.’
‘Yes, Holmes, and I have been meaning to ask you about their comings and goings. How has the Hamilton family never once—’
‘Not now, old man,’ Holmes warned, as we came upon a group of guests that were assembled, even at that late hour, outside the century-old elegance of the Roxburghe Hotel, just across from the calm, green expanse of Charlotte Square. ‘Such details will explain themselves, in time – but we have our own bit of subterfuge to bring off, just now …’
On entering the lobby of the Roxburghe, Holmes and I determined that we would quickly branch off: himself, to dole out a bribe to the young man at the registration desk (an amount large enough to ensure that anyone enquiring as to whether persons answering to our assumed names were indeed staying in the hotel would receive the desired answer); I, meanwhile, would seek some side or back exit, by way of which I might return separately to the palace grounds. Thus having divided our defensive resources, we would be especially dependent on Hackett’s pledge to keep a sharp lookout for us at the west gate to the palace grounds that night; and when we did finally present ourselves at that rendezvous, mere minutes apart, there indeed the butler was: faithfully at his post, keys in hand and ready to guide us back to our rooms. (How wrong, how
very wrong had I been about the fellow when first we had arrived!)
And in this way was the climax of the case carefully arranged, by the most astute mind that could possibly have undertaken its appointment. And yet, as I made ready to finally clear my head for the next evening’s action by getting a solid night’s sleep, I could not help but wonder if Holmes had in fact told me all. His sudden dissection, during our stroll to the Roxburghe from the Fife and Drum, of the superstitions of humanity regarding ghosts did not sit comfortably alongside his own earlier insistence that he himself believed in the power of phantoms. Once again, as at many similar passes during earlier cases undertaken throughout my years of working alongside Holmes, I was forced to realise that I simply did not possess all the elements necessary for a full understanding of the situation as it stood; and so, despite the considerable consumption of whisky that the evening had required, sleep ultimately proved a long time in coming.
Particularly as I imagined (and it is not an easy thing to confess) that somewhere off in the distance I could detect the slow, inquisitive step that I had first heard earlier that evening: the restless rambling that my rational mind knew must belong to one of the criminal brothers – who was likely preparing the west tower for our visit the next night – but which the superstitious side of my nature told me belonged to ‘the Italian gentleman,’ who might, who must, view our coming invasion of his haunting ground with the greatest disfavour …
‘Poignarder à l’écossais,’ I murmured, as I rose, pulled the Palm-protector from my jacket pocket, and slipped it beneath my pillow. ‘Not if an English bullet has anything to say about it …’
Chapter XI
THE SECRETS OF HOLYROODHOUSE
The following day began with precisely the sort of event that one most dreads after an evening’s overindulgence:
‘Watson!’ It was Holmes’s voice, not any footman’s, and his urgent tone was unmistakably genuine. ‘Rouse yourself, old friend! The game has commenced ahead of schedule – indeed, I fear the rules may have changed altogether!’
‘I certainly hope some such calamity has occurred,’ I muttered sourly, as Holmes fairly tore the curtains from my windows and I forced myself into my clothes. ‘For your sake!’
‘Do forgive me, Watson, but – ah! Here is Mrs Hackett, with your breakfast. Eat quickly, while I reveal this sorry intelligence.’ Holmes waved a telegram through the air once quickly, and I eagerly tucked into another of Mrs Hackett’s first-class Scottish breakfasts. ‘It is from Mycroft—’
‘Holmes,’ I said suddenly, indicating the head housekeeper and temporary cook with my eyes.
‘Oh!’ answered he. ‘Fear not – Mrs Hackett is entirely in our confidence, along with her husband and son. And we shall need their help, it would appear – Mycroft returns alone, or rather I would that he were alone. His intelligence officers have discovered what they consider further evidence of a connection between German imperialists and Scottish nationalists – evidence which, of course, was almost entirely of Mycroft’s manufacture. He has left most of them behind to augment Her Majesty’s safety – he is now aboard the same train that brought us here, in the company of none save that rather dyspeptic young army officer and Lord Francis.’
I shrugged carelessly, allowing the breakfast to perform its characteristic miracle on my exhausted body and abused nervous system. ‘What of it? I grant you that Lord Francis is hardly likely to be of any great use in a crisis – but then, what crisis is Mycroft likely to encounter before he arrives here?’
‘The crisis of Lord Francis himself,’ Holmes answered, stubbing a cigarette out rather pointedly in my small butter tray. ‘And I only wish I had made such more plain to—’
‘Holmes!’ I cried – for I had wanted that good Scots butter. ‘Of all the infernal—’ Suddenly his words burst through the fog that had enshrouded my brain. ‘“Lord Francis himself ”? Holmes, whatever are you talking about?’
‘In part, at least, about this,’ answered he, producing what seemed an ordinary folded handkerchief. I opened it as I continued to dispose of the breakfast (in so far, that is to say, as one may dispose of a breakfast, without butter), and found myself staring at a small collection of hairs, apparently human, the exact colour of which I would have been hard pressed to name, in the glare of the late morning sun that poured through the wall of glass panes across the room. But against the white of the handkerchief, the strands created an overall impression of a particularly bright red – hardly an unusual commodity, in Scotland.
‘I suppose it has some importance?’ asked I.
‘On its own, it has some,’ Holmes replied. ‘In conjunction with this’ – he pulled a second white kerchief from his pocket – ‘it has considerably more.’
Opening the second packet, I discovered the bits of fuse that Holmes had so carefully gathered up from our train compartment the night before. ‘The bomb fuse?’ I asked.
‘Look closer, Watson – in my haste, I swept up more than just the spent fuse …’
And, indeed, he had. Apparently without intending to, Holmes had also gathered up bits of dust and gravel, blown into the car from the bed of the railway line, along with particles of engine cinder—
And hair. Hair of the same peculiar colour as the first few he had shown me. Hair of a colour that I now recognised: ‘The madman from the train!’ I exclaimed. ‘This is his hair, I am sure of it!’
‘Certainly, Watson – but how did I gain the second sample?’
‘I cannot imagine – unless the fellow has been apprehended—’
‘The fellow is far from apprehended. Although he has been closely observed, over the last twenty-four hours – by my own brother.’
‘Mycroft? But Mycroft has been at Balmoral. He would never take a lunatic of such sentiments – nor one, I should hope, of any other sentiments – into the royal presence.’
‘And if the “madman” has been in that presence many times on his own? If he is, indeed, well known to Her Majesty?’
I gave the matter a few minutes’ thought; and then my very active jaw came to a full stop amid a mouthful of egg and Scottish salmon. ‘Good God – you don’t mean to say – but you do. And worst of all, I begin to see it myself, now …’
Holmes carefully refolded his handkerchiefs, looking quite satisfied. ‘I have warned you about this sort of thing before, Watson. I recognised him at our very first meeting outside the palace – he is an amateur, after all, and utterly unacquainted with the science of anthropometry. His sole concern was to disguise his face and head, and he believed that the rather crude theatrical properties from which these hairs are taken – along with the adhesives and astringents that he used to disfigure his face – would fill the bill. But the eyes themselves, his skull, his build – none of these could be concealed so readily.’
‘But – how did he get here? He was back at the palace before we ourselves arrived!’
‘Fast horses, carefully staged, are still speedier than trains, Watson, if the rider is expert and can travel over rough country. And Lord Francis was doubtless bred to the hunt.’
I considered the point. ‘Yes. That is certainly true … But – why? Why would he? And how – where – did you find this second group of hairs?’
Holmes shrugged and lifted his head in Mrs Hackett’s direction. ‘As you know, Watson, it seemed to me from the very start that the great bitterness evidenced by Mrs Hackett’s husband and son was only deflected in our direction, from some secret target. That target, I can now tell you, was and remains Lord Francis.’
‘Indeed, sir,’ Mrs Hackett said, her voice and manner far calmer than they had been just a day before. ‘And, while we are alone, I wonder if you’d mind me asking – what made you believe as much?’
‘A wealth of small points, Mrs Hackett,’ replied Holmes. ‘For instance, shortly after we arrived, your husband made sure to tell us that you had not only turned down our beds but warmed them; a detail, perhaps, but hardly a meaningless one. Had we be
en utterly unwelcome, you could easily have spared yourself that effort, and left us to the cold comfort of unwarmed linens.’
Mrs Hackett blushed and then smiled, in embarrassment, appreciation, and perhaps even a bit of amusement: Clearly, this woman whom I had initially thought the nervous, fairly simple wife of a cruel husband was, in actuality, as perceptive and capable an arranger of complex, dangerous dealings as was Hackett himself, and would prove a reliable ally in whatever difficult events were to come.
‘Oh, he is a wicked, wicked master, Doctor,’ Mrs Hackett pronounced, with as much disdain as fear, ‘but he is a Hamilton – the noble and ancient family charged with Her Majesty’s care in this palace, as well as with that of the palace itself. How could my husband or I ever speak a word to strangers? Lord Francis had made it clear enough what we might expect. But Mr Holmes was good enough to remove him from the house, if only for a day and a night – and that, praise God, was time enough for us to finally do some of the things that had needed doing for so very long. And I began by fetching the hairs that Mr Holmes said he needed—’
My head had been almost spinning during this remarkable revelation, and to stop it I finally dropped my silverware rather forcefully onto the breakfast tray. The resultant noise silenced my two visitors. ‘A moment, if you please, both of you. Now, then – you are saying, Mrs Hackett, that Lord Francis, far from being the amiable host he appears, has been a sinister tormentor of the staff in this house for years on end?’
‘Aye, sir,’ the woman said. ‘That – and far worse. My niece’s honour may have been lost to Likely Will Sadler’s deceiving tongue – but it would have been lost to far worse, as have other serving girls’, had Lord Francis been allowed his way. But from the first, he was made to understand – by one in a position to tell him – that Allie was no’ to be trifled with; and there were lasses enough, for his amusement, to be found among the rest of the staff. Some were even willing, God help them – although Lord Francis preferred them not to be. The evil monster. Yes, he preferred them to resist, so that he could use on them the same crop with which he has often driven his horses to their deaths, the poor beasts—’