I let the extraordinary idea sink into my mind: throughout her reign, our Queen had required that all public servants – including, indeed especially, her many prime ministers – obey the strictest rules of ceremonial protocol. Foremost among these was the obligation to stand when in her presence, no matter what their age or the terrible pain of their gout or other complaints. Only in recent years had her own increasing age inspired enough sympathy on her part to allow the stiff-legged heads of government a chair, and then only when necessary; and yet now Holmes was telling me that his brother Mycroft, a man who held no ministerial rank, whose main function was to lend his prodigious brain for use as an infallible mortal repository of all official business, and who had been given no title (and but four hundred and fifty pounds a year) in return – this man had been allowed to break the most fundamental rule of royal audiences – and, apparently, he had been doing so for years on end.
‘It’s too fantastic!’ I said, momentarily unaware of the bitter sting of Holmes’s tea. ‘Do you believe him?’
Holmes appeared to take the query as a slight. ‘Do you doubt him?’
I shook my head quickly. ‘No, of course not. It’s only the extremity of the notion—’
His momentary cloud passing, Holmes said, ‘No doubt I should feel the same, Watson – but remember, I have witnessed the scene: brother mine, sitting and chatting with Her Majesty as if the two were fellow members of a whist club!’
I glanced at the telegram again. ‘Then – he is in Scotland because—’
‘Now you begin to concentrate your powers, Watson. Yes, given the time of year and the information I have just related, you can reach only one conclusion – Mycroft has been at Balmoral …’
Once more, I needed to pause and consider the idea. Balmoral Castle, located in the Aberdeenshire Highlands, had been chosen by the Queen and the late Prince Consort as an expression of their mutual and very real love of Scotland: Balmoral was the Queen’s most treasured home after Windsor itself, as well as her informal summer residence, and visits from those outside the royal clique were rare. Yet, apparently, Mycroft had not only been invited in, but had been assigned what appeared to be, if the encoded telegram was any indication, an important role in some sort of an investigation. ‘Should your credulity yet be strained,’ Holmes continued, doubtless reading the expression on my face, ‘there are quite specific clues in the communication to confirm it all.’
I continued to stare at the telegram. ‘But why Aberdeen? Surely there are telegraph offices closer to the royal residence.’
‘Where Mycroft would no doubt be observed going in, and the operators harassed, or worse, upon his departure.’
‘By whom?’
Holmes pointed a long finger at the telegram. ‘“The sun burns too hot, the sky fills with familiar eagles.”’ The finger went upward, and Holmes smiled. ‘A hearty luncheon in Aberdeen, safe from all teetotal eyes at Balmoral, preceded the composition of this message – I would swear to it. Mycroft had certain poetical inclinations as a youth, but it was very fortunately decreed that he should develop his true talents, which were purely intellectual. Yet an unfortunate tendency towards banal verse can still emerge now and again, particularly when he is under the influence of a few glasses of wine and port – or, better still, brandy. If we wade through the phrasing, however, we can see that there has been activity of some intense variety going on in and around the Castle, specifically concerning the summering royal party, and that it has provoked the interest of some of our foreign friends.’
By which phrase, I knew, Holmes meant that despicable class of men and women from around the Continent who practise that lowest of all trades, espionage. ‘But who is in the country at present that would dare follow the Queen herself to Scotland—’
‘Only the cleverest and worst of the breed, Watson. Mycroft refers to “eagles” – no testament to personality traits, I suspect, but rather an indication of national symbols. If I am right, we may number German and Russian agents first among our suspects, with the odd Frenchman not far behind. Although I know of no suitable candidate from that country who is currently at work within our borders – the Austrian government shot the French spy LeFevre just last week, and the act has had a most salutary effect on the rest of France’s operatives throughout the Continent. But among the other indicated nationalities, there are two or three names we may consider as “in play”. All that, however, we can and indeed must discuss on the train.’
‘The train?’ I echoed.
‘Really, Watson – surely, even after a day of absorbing medical minutiae, you can find the meaning in Mycroft’s excessively colourful opening: “Youse done a special one, at No. 8 Pall Mall”? The slang of the New York Bowery, apparently combined with a London address – one located mere steps from Mycroft’s very rooms? Doubtless, we are meant to—’
‘Yes!’ I felt my own features brighten, despite the still-inescapable stench of the bitter tea, which, as Holmes had predicted, seemed at least to be waking my mind from a long day’s mental labour. ‘“Youse done,”’ I said again. ‘Euston – Euston Station; many of the trains for Scotland leave from it!’
Holmes laid hold of the beaker. ‘Allow me to pour you another cup, my dear fellow. If a mere homophone can confound you, even momentarily, then you need it …’
My hand rose instinctively to cover the cup, but too late: The steaming, murderous brew was already on its way in, and not worth stopping at the price of a serious burn. ‘But what does he mean by his next reference: Euston Station – “a special one”?’ It was one of those embarrassing moments when the mind answers a question as soon as it is asked. ‘Never mind, Holmes. I have it. A “special” – an unscheduled train.’
‘Which,’ Holmes agreed with a nod, seeming to take actual and inscrutable delight in another cup of his tea, ‘since it is unlikely that a Bowery hoodlum would take an interest in what transpires along Pall Mall—’
“Eight Pall Mall – eight P.M.! The special will leave Euston at eight P.M., and we are meant to be on it.’
‘Indeed.’
‘All right, Holmes: I now believe that, since you have explained your brother’s thwarted boyhood aspirations to me, I can apprehend the rest of his meaning during the course of our train ride north, without any further assistance.’
‘Bold words,’ Holmes mumbled, again frowning at his pipe, or rather at its contents. ‘I don’t suppose you would care to hazard three days’ supply of tobacco on the outcome?’
‘Why only three days?’
‘I cannot imagine the project requiring a greater amount of time to bring off – particularly if we are to have the services of a special train, and one that travels under royal imprimatur, at that. But surely you will reach the same conclusion,’ he added, with a quick, taunting curl of his mouth (very much like the one that had, I suspected, set off Mrs Hudson’s fit of pique), ‘once you have decoded the entire message. Very well, then – the point of origin of Mycroft’s communication indicates that he is on the move. I suggest that we use what time we have before our train departs to assemble a few indispensable items for the trip – not least our trout and salmon rods.’ I glanced at him, wondering a bit at his tone. ‘Well, Watson, it would be a shame not to enjoy a little recreation on the royal streams, at the end of our labours.’
‘Splendid notion,’ I agreed. ‘But among those “few indispensable items” to be packed, I hope you will allow me to include the evident advantages concerning Mycroft’s message that you yourself have already exploited.’
‘Advantages?’
I pointed in the direction of a small collection of newspapers that lay lightly scattered beyond the sofa and atop the Persian carpet. ‘I assume those are there for a reason, especially as I note several Scottish editions among their number. No doubt you located and purchased them after you had received word from your brother. Indeed, I submit that you returned home with them in such anticipation that you neglected to ascertain whether you had an
ample supply of tobacco to last you through the evening. When you did discover the lack, you were so anxious to delve into the mystery that you did not wish to venture out again, but asked Mrs Hudson to do so for you – and something in the manner of your request has caused her current mood.’
‘Ha!’ came that sudden, piercing thing that was the closest approximation of joyous laughter that Holmes could produce. ‘In all, a triumph, Watson – I really must remember what chemicals were last in this beaker, and advertise their combination with Ceylon and pekoe teas as a brain tonic! And so – we pack!’
‘We do, indeed,’ I said, rising as Holmes began to leave the room; but then, as I picked up the newspapers, two articles that Holmes had evidently clipped – one from the Edinburgh Evening News of almost two weeks ago, the other from the Glasgow Herald of that very day – fluttered from the mass and onto the floor. I picked the pair up, and glanced at their headlines.
The Evening News was, typically, more staid in tone, although the subject matter was grim, indeed:
TERRIBLE ACCIDENT AT
HOLYROODHOUSE:
Royal Official Falls Beneath Farm
Machinery on Palace Grounds
The story beneath the headline told of the horrific fate of Sir Alistair Sinclair, an architect of the historical variety, who had been given the commission of restoring and even redesigning some of the more ancient and dilapidated sections of Holyroodhouse, the official royal residence in Edinburgh (Balmoral being, as said, the informal summer home of the royal family in Scotland). Once an ancient abbey, later a medieval dwelling of Scottish kings, and most famously the preferred home of Mary, Queen of Scots, Holyroodhouse had still later been transformed into a baroque palace by Charles II, following a devastating fire. But during the century between the flight of Bonnie Prince Charlie and the coronation of our own Queen, the palace had fallen onto hard times. In keeping with her genuine passion for Scotland, however, the Queen had soon taken to indulging those Scottish subjects anxious for a glimpse of her by using Holyroodhouse as a convenient stopover lodging on her way to Balmoral. Her Majesty had refurbished the baroque sections of the palace; but the west tower – the last remaining medieval element and, significantly, the only area to survive the fire intact – had not yet received the same care, and Sir Alistair Sinclair had been given the job. The commission had proved a short one, however, for the architect had, according to the newspaper reports, been taking his ease amid some high grass when a new example of steam-tractor-drawn groundskeeping equipment had riddled his body with wounds.
‘I remember a small item concerning the accident in The Times,’ I said, looking over the Evening News version quickly. ‘But, Holmes – you would not have clipped this if you did not suspect that the official explanation is inadequate. What do you propose?’
By way of answer, Holmes only indicated the other notice I was holding. In it, the Glasgow Herald told of a second mishap, displaying the paper’s far different journalistic style – and its city’s attitude towards its eastern rival:
ANOTHER BLOODY DEATH IN
HOLYROODHOUSE!
Dennis McKay, Honest Glasgow Labourer,
Found Brutally Slain in Plain View of
Royal Apartments!
ARE POLICE DOING ALL THEY CAN?
The rest of the account went on in the same vein, giving very few actual details, save that Dennis McKay had been the foreman brought in by Sir Alistair Sinclair to oversee the workforce that the latter intended soon to assemble. His body had been discovered lying among the ruins of the old abbey in the palace grounds, pierced by an unspecified number of wounds. With that, the Herald dispensed with actual reportage, filling the rest of the space it devoted to the story with resentful inferences that McKay had been done in by Edinburgh labourers, who were (supposedly) angry that the foreman intended to bring in most of his workforce from Glasgow.
‘And so you agree with Mycroft that the two deaths are related?’ I ventured.
‘Does Mycroft believe as much?’ Holmes replied.
I tucked the newspaper clippings away and held up the telegram again. ‘“McKay and Sinclair, Collected Works”’ was my reply.
Holmes let another sharp laugh go, and then declared, ‘At your present inspired rate, Watson, you’ll leave us no entertainment for the train. Hurry and pack your things!’
‘Very well,’ I said, tucking the rest of the newspapers – which contained accounts of the two deaths that had appeared in our own London press – under my arm. ‘Oh – but I’ll require one thing more, Holmes.’ He turned once again, his manner increasingly impatient; but I was quite insistent. ‘I must know what it was that you said to Mrs Hudson, so that I can at least try to heal the breach – as I don’t suppose you intend to.’
Holmes made ready to protest, the fever of a case beginning to exercise its full power over him. But seeing that I would not move without an answer, he simply shrugged and sighed. ‘Very well, Watson, very well.’ He returned to the window before which I had found him pacing, and I joined him there. We looked outside to see Baker Street calming after the conclusion of a hectic day. ‘Have you ever wondered, Watson, about that little shop just across and down a few doors from us? The sundries purveyor from the Punjab, I mean.’
‘A decent enough fellow,’ I replied. ‘I’ve purchased the odd item from him, on occasion.’
‘Yet our landlady will not.’
‘True. She says that she cannot understand the man’s accent.’
‘Do you find it incomprehensible?’
‘No – but then, I have some experience of that part of the world. What are you driving at, Holmes?’
‘Only that Mrs Hudson has no more trouble understanding our friend from the subcontinent than do you. Her refusal to patronise the place has another origin altogether …’
‘Well?’
‘The present owner of the shop has held his lease on the property for some thirty-five years. Before that, it stood vacant for another ten – no British native dared set up shop there, despite the obvious volume of business that is offered by the street’s pedestrian traffic.’
‘But why not? And what has any of it to do with Mrs Hudson?’
‘Mrs Hudson was a young bride at the time of which I speak, and new to Baker Street. Apparently, that shop and building were then the home and place of business of a pork butcher and his family. The fellow enjoyed a very favourable reputation – that is, until it was generally noticed that his wife and several children had begun to disappear, one by one. To make short work of a rather fascinating tale, there was some talk of a relationship between their disappearances and the particular quality of the butcher’s product – until a neighbour heard screaming emanating from the place one night, and the police were summoned. The man was discovered in the basement – which, by then, more closely resembled a graveyard.’
‘Good heavens! Was he mad?’
Holmes nodded. ‘The usual mania, in such cases – he believed the world too full of sin for his family, all of whom he loved; and each of whom, in turn, was dispatched to the more loving care and perfect realm of the Almighty.’
I shook my head, staring out at the busy street. ‘Yes – not an uncommon delusion, as you say, for all its wretchedness. But I still don’t see any connection to Mrs Hudson.’
‘Don’t you? Imagine the kind of stories that would have circulated after such a discovery – and their effect on a young woman, a newcomer to the street, who was left alone the greater part of the day. Inevitably, some gossiping acquaintance who lived adjacent to the tragic house began to tell of strange nocturnal noises drifting through her walls: a moaning woman and crying children, as well as the distinct sound of a shovel breaking earth. Still another neighbour, perhaps inspired by a need to outdo her friend, swore that she had seen a young girl in a white nightgown on several evenings, wandering aimlessly and mournfully about the small yard behind the building. The tales multiplied – and to this day, those residents of this part of Baker St
reet who were present when the crimes were uncovered will not enter that shop.’
I felt a reflexive chill enter my bones, despite my best efforts to react rationally. ‘But, Holmes – why have you never told me this before?’
‘It has never come up,’ Holmes said simply. ‘But today, when I discovered my lack of tobacco, I did – as you rightly surmised – ask Mrs Hudson if she would not mind going to the tobacconist’s for a fresh supply of shag. She claimed to be too busy to make that particular pilgrimage, and so I enquired if she wouldn’t at least step across the way and see what our Punjabi friend had in stock. She protested – and I fear I made a rather ghoulish comment concerning her reasoning, one that she interpreted as entirely sarcastic.’
I attempted the most severe tone possible, given the increasingly late hour and our growing need for haste: ‘You might have shown more respect for her beliefs, Holmes, different though they are from your own.’ At that, I hurried off to my bedroom, and began hurriedly packing some few items into a Gladstone.
Holmes’s distinctly puzzled voice drifted in: ‘And what makes you think they are so different, Watson?’
‘All I mean to say,’ I elaborated, going into a closet to fetch my rods and tackle, ‘is that if Mrs Hudson entertains notions about hauntings and ghosts, why go out of your way—’
‘Oh, but I entertain such notions myself, Watson.’
I stood quite still for a moment, waiting for the piercing laugh – and suddenly unnerved when it did not come. ‘Just what are you talking about?’ I asked, returning to the sitting-room.
‘Precisely that: In a manner different from, but just as strong as, our landlady’s, I give entire credence to the power of ghosts. And I must warn you, Watson, that your own views on this subject will likely be tested before this case is over.’ And then it was Holmes’s turn to disappear and begin packing.
‘You’re joking, surely,’ I called out, aware of my own need to believe that he was not serious, and puzzled by its urgency. ‘We’ve worked on a score of cases that were supposed to have involved other-worldly forces, and you have never failed to—’