Chapter Eleven: Beneath the Surface
12th June, 1889
London was alive with noise and life. The long midsummer's eve had brought the people out in force, Trafalgar Square fair bursting at the seams as the brass band there played a litany of crowd pleasing favourites, and bringing an almost carnival atmosphere to proceedings. Courting couples, flirting singles, and entire families lazed in the warmth of the golden June evening, and the huge brass lions at the base of Nelson’s Pillar were swarming with little boys, each determined to climb higher than the other as they were egged on by their female counterparts, only to be brought to heel by parents, governesses, or nannies.
With flower sellers, vendors, and newsboys pandering to the crowds, their cries mingling with the brisk Radetzky March the band was playing, the great metropolis had seldom seemed so happy and content. A state of affairs that was mirrored in the passengers who passed them by unseen in the luxurious rented, black landau, which was whisking them through the Square towards the Strand and a double celebration.
Breaking his gaze from the world outside, Watson turned away from the window and back into the privacy of their enclosed carriage, giving his wife’s hand a squeeze, before unwrapping his fingers from hers to slide the same hand around her shoulder, and draw her closer to him. "Just the right sort of evening for it," he murmured, his voice warm and contented. "Couldn't have asked for a better one."
Mary's bright blue eyes gazed up into her husband's, a wide smile permanently etched on her face. "It is a beautiful evening...and I must admit to have been looking forward to this all day," she replied, her voice low but filled with joy.
"It's highly doubtful our dinner companions will be in as good a mood as we...but I hope Holmes remains in as cheerful a mood as he was when I left him. He was exceedingly pleased with himself for some reason. He would not say, but I have a feeling it has something to do with that business of the case he received at the Rose Ball. The business that you didn’t believe existed at the time, I might add!” he teased.
With a sigh and shake of her head, his wife gave him a rueful look. "Yes, well...business or no, Helen took his absence that night much better than I would have," she returned. "I fear she did not have as enjoyable a time as we hoped, my darling."
He took in a deep lungful of summer London air, and exhaled it slowly, thinking back on it. "Oh, I don't know," he ventured. "She seemed very happy when we saw them at supper, and they spent a good deal of time together from that point on. I saw Holmes amusing her with some details about our fellow guests, and going home she seemed positively radiant under those lanterns on the riverboat journey back." He gave a decisive and firm nod as he came to his conclusion. "No, overall I do believe she had a good time."
The blond woman frowned just a little. "Perhaps...I just...well...I suppose it's not important," she stated with another shake of her head, before returning her gaze to the splendour outside.
Looking down at her, Watson inhaled again, squeezing her shoulders. "What is it?" he inquired with a sigh of almost amused resignation. "Out with it...remember our agreement - all worries shared."
She gave him a soft smile, and leaned into him just a little. "It seems silly...I just could have sworn that she looked...sad...no...resigned at times. Sometimes, it was just a feeling. However, I know that sounds foolish."
"Resigned?" His brow furrowed a little as the carriage moved down the Strand, and closed in on their destination. "About what?"
She gave him a light shrug, while patting his leg gently. "I don't know...it's just a feeling. Don't pay it any heed...after all, you did say she looked well later."
"Perhaps...but those feminine instincts that even Holmes puts so much stock in are worryingly refined in you, Mary Watson," he sniffed. "If you feel there is something wrong, you should speak with her, and put your mind at ease. I won't have you worrying over anything," he stated, his firm tone returning.
She regarded him with silent affection for a moment, before finally nodding in ascent. "I will speak to her...if I get the same feeling tonight. And I am fine, John. There is no need to worry yourself over me."
"Ah..." he exclaimed with a chuckle, his moustache twitching slightly, as the carriage slowed on their arrival. "But that is my job! After all what else is a husband good for?"
She arched a slender brow just a little, before looking away to hide the ever widening smile on her face. "Very well...I can most certainly not argue with that point," she agreed with a most amused tone.
Bursting into laughter, Watson took his hat from the far seat, before kissing her cheek quickly. "You really are quite wickedly adorable, Mrs. Watson." With a shake of his head, and composing himself, he opened the carriage door to step out onto the pavement, straightening his eveningwear before reaching up one gloved hand to help his wife down to his side.
Stepping onto the pavement beside him, she smiled happily up into his face, before turning her head to glance around the outside of Simpson's. "Are we early?" she enquired.
Taking out his watch, he checked the time and nodded. "A little...but that's of no great import. We can ensure the wine is well chilled for our companions." His brow creased a little as he looked up at the golden orb of the sun hanging over the city still. "It's a deucedly warm evening." Extending his arm to her, he bowed a little. "Shall we begin your birthday celebrations, madam?" he asked with a smile.
Mary's fan was already at work, as she slipped her hand into his. "That sounds wonderful, my good sir," she replied.
Simpson's Grand Divan Tavern in the Strand at some sixty-one years of age was not only one of his and Holmes's more favoured restaurants, but one of the most celebrated in the city, and just the place Watson wished to wine and dine his wife and his friends as the second part of his gift to Mary - the first being the delicate silver and amber bracelet that adorned his wife's gloved wrist as they entered the famed establishment.
On looking up from his lectern, the Head Waiter smiled, and inclined his head on recognising the customer. "Dr. Watson, delightful to see you again so soon, sir."
"Good evening, Johnson," Watson greeted him, and indicated Mary. "My wife, Mrs. Watson."
Johnson bowed lightly. "Charmed, Madam...and if it is not too forward of me to offer? My best wishes on this celebratory occasion."
"Thank you," Mary replied with a soft smile. "That is most kind and thoughtful of you to say."
"I realise we are a little early, Johnson, but..." Watson began only to be silenced by the gentle raising of the waiter's white gloved hand.
"Your table is quite ready, Doctor," he assured him. "Party of four, I believe?"
"That's correct. Holmes and the young lady that will make up the fourth will be arriving shortly I'm sure," Watson informed him, as the Head Waiter began to lead them into the unique surroundings of Simpson’s.
Decorated in classically British décor, The Grand Divan room with its subduedly lit crystal chandeliers and French-polished dark oak panelled walls was so named for the many booths that surrounded the room. Each one lined with luxurious divans on either side of the table for their customers to sit and relax on. While there were more feminine dining rooms located upstairs, it was The Grand Divan that was clearly favoured by the highest of statesman and the wealthiest of businessman...perhaps because the club-like surroundings lent a relaxed air to proceedings that made dining a more comfortable experience.
"I have taken the liberty," Johnson said, leading them to a far booth, "of placing you near a window, Doctor, taking into account the warmth of the evening and the ladies’ comfort. And I have your wine already chilling, of course."
"Excellent, Johnson." Watson smiled at him, as the man ushered them onto the plush satin covered divan on one side of the booth. "You think of everything! It's no wonder you are Holmes's favourite Maitre..." He stopped, and corrected himself as Johnson arched an eyebrow, "I mean Head Waiter, of course."
"You and Mr. Holmes are too kind, sir," Johnson replied before snapping his fingers, calling another waiter over and taking two leather bound binders from him, one black and one burgundy. "The Bill of Fare for this evening, madam," he continued, handing the burgundy one to Mary. "And for you, Doctor. Would you care for an aperitif while you wait?" he enquired of them, after handing the physician the black binder.
Watson looked to his wife enquiringly. "My dear? A celebratory drink?"
Mary’s face was one of quiet excitement, as she nodded. "Yes, thank you," she agreed. "That would be lovely."
Watson thought on it, before nodding. "Bring out the champagne you've chilled for us, Johnson, and put another bottle of the same on ice straight away. Let us start as we mean to go on, eh?" he announced, tapping the table to emphasise his point.
Johnson inclined his head with a smile. "Certainly, sir," he agreed, before moving quickly away.
Turning back to his wife, Watson gazed at her in satisfaction. "No reason we can't start the party by ourselves."
With a bell like laugh, she nodded in agreement. "Indeed not!" she enthused, taking his hand, as her eyes sparkled up into his. "We have so much to celebrate."
Raising her gloved hand to his lips, he kissed it gently in agreement.
A moment later, they were interrupted by the waiter arriving with the bottle of champagne wrapped in a linen cloth and accompanying bucket full of ice. Setting up with quiet precision on the spacious table, and with a nod of the doctor's head, he popped the cork and poured the couple both a glass. Making sure it was to their satisfaction, he turned to go, only to notice another waiter leading a rather attractive auburn haired woman towards the table.
Turning back to the toasting husband and wife, he inclined his head and coughed lightly into his fist. "Pardon my interruption, sir...madam, but I do believe another member of your party has arrived."
Following the waiter's gaze, Mary nodded in confirmation. "Yes, thank you," she replied. "Helen!" she called up to her affectionately, as the woman reached the table. "You look wonderful this evening."
With a slight bow, the waiters both withdrew, as Watson rose to his feet. "Helen," he greeted her, taking her hand to guide her into the far side of the booth with a smile, his wife's increasingly close friendship making the use of her first name more and more natural and acceptable. "Thank you for coming. And Mary is quite right, that gown is most becoming."
The young woman glanced down at her beaded mauve evening dress that though tasteful and slightly conservative in nature also followed and fit snugly over her generous curves, and gave just enough of a hint of skin to en trance the eye. With a grateful smile, Helen inclined her head to her host. "Thank you, Doc...I mean, John," she replied with an apologetic smile, upon catching the arch of his eyebrow at the slip of his title, as she brushed a stray curl that had escaped her carefully coiffed hair and fallen over her forehead. "You look quite dashing as well...and Mary, you look positively radiant," she enthused.
Watson smiled down at his wife before flicking his dress suit tails behind him, as he resumed his seat. "Yes she does, doesn't she?" he agreed with a chuckle.
The waiter returned with another burgundy folder which he opened and politely handed to Helen before placing another champagne flute on the table. "Champagne, miss?" he enquired.
Lowering herself carefully into her seat, the young woman smiled up at the waiter and nodded. "Yes, thank you," she replied, before opening her menu and glancing at the contents, while the waiter looked at Watson inquisitively, as he filled her glass.
"There is one more yet to join us," the doctor responded to the unasked question. "We’ll peruse the Bill of Fare for now."
With a nod, the waiter moved briskly away, as Mary opened her menu, and began to glance over the fare. "My, they have some very tasty sounding dishes here," she breathed. "I'm quite at a loss how I will decide on just one."
"Once done, refrain...whatever you do," Watson advised, opening his own black folder which denoted the gentleman's Bill of Fare, "from referring to it as the menu when you order."
Helen looked up and blinked. "Why?" she enquired with a rather mystified expression.
Watson gazed at both women, a hint of the storyteller coming into his eye as leaned forward, his voice suitably lowered. "Well…not long before Mr. Simpson, after whom this establishment is named, passed on, he sold the tavern to the current owner Mr. Edmund Cathie, a great connoisseur of wines and cigars," he explained. "Well...Mr. Cathie employed the inestimable British cook Thomas Davey, who was renowned as an absolute demon to work with in the kitchen. You'll note I say cook and not chef? That's because Davey insisted that everything in the restaurant, bar alcohol, be British." He tapped the folder he held. "The Maitre D' became the Head Waiter, and he even had the word 'menu' removed and replaced with 'Bill of Fare’... you'll not get any response if you refer to them in any other way." His chuckle was rueful. "It's a foible, but one that went down very well with a great many of the more patriotic clients and still does."
"Ah!" the young woman breathed, nodding her head in acceptance. "Very well, I shall most certainly keep that in mind...and Mary, you are quite correct...the meals here look absolutely scrumptious!"
"Good English fare should always have a place in one's heart," said Holmes in response, startling them all slightly from where he leaned on the wall of the booth by Watson, a slight smile on his face as he looked down at them. His high collar, blue grey cravat, dove grey waistcoat, and pin stripe trousers with his black frock coat indicated that he had only just now returned from some formal business without time to change into dinner clothes.
Mary, starting to make a comment to her friend about Holmes’s artful ways, watched as Helen's gaze shot up from her menu and took in their newly arrived companion, the way she swallowed slowly, and how her eyes widened just a little, before with a cough, she pulled them away. Her brow furrowed just a little, as she turned her eyes to Holmes and noticed no such eager reactions from him to the presence or appearance of her friend, the worrying feeling in her stomach returning just a little at the exchange. With an inward sigh, she tried to let it go for at least the evening, and smiled up at her husband's dearest friend. "Good evening, Sherlock," she greeted him. "I am so pleased you were able to come."
"Madam, how could I in good conscience have missed such a prominent occasion?" he replied with a smile, moving to the tableside proper and bowing to her a little. "However, I must offer my apologies for my attire. I'm afraid after your husband left me this morning, I had occasion to call upon the Foreign Office. I am only now returning, and so alas...you see me as I am." Turning his attention to the other woman at the table, Holmes bowed. "Good evening, Miss Thurlow, may I?" he enquired, indicating the place beside her on the large divan.
Blinking slightly, and flashing him a friendly smile, the auburn haired woman shifted further down the divan, so as to give him room to sit, as Mary replied, "Oh no, Sherlock, your dress is just fine. Indeed your suit is quite stylish, would you not say, Helen?" Turning her eyes, she caught her friend's cheeks flush, before she too nodded.
"Yes, Mr. Holmes. You look quite dapper this evening," she agreed.
Signalling to the waiter for another glass with a quick gesture of his hand, Holmes turned his eyes to her, his brow creasing slightly. "And you a little flushed. Are you quite well, Miss Thurlow?" he asked solicitously.
Composing herself, she gave him a quick smile and a shake of her head. "Oh, I am quite well, Mr. Holmes," she answered with a touch of an embarrassed tone. "I'm afraid that I spent some time outside this morning in my private garden, and may have gotten a touch of sun."
"You must watch for sunstroke," Watson advised with concern. "It can quite take one unawares. This weather is glorious, but we do flock outside when in fact our English skin and constitutions aren't made for such things. I see more bad burn cases in my surgery from exposure to the sun then I do from fire," he added with a shake of his head.
"I will, John," Helen assured him in the most conciliatory of tones, her smile rueful. "However, after the rains of last week, I rather jumped at the opportunity to do some weeding...and got rather caught up so that I did not notice the sun till my nose was quite pink."
"I'd venture more rose," Holmes opined pithily, taking the Bill of Fare from the waiter, before his glass was filled from the rapidly emptying bottle of Moet et Chandon. Raising it, the detective looked over the rim at the reason for their being there. "Your good health, Mary," he toasted her on her birthday, and was immediately joined by Watson and Helen who echoed him wholeheartedly.
With a pleased smile and inclination of her head to all, she took a sip from her glass. "Thank you all," she replied. "It is good to spend one's special day with the people one cares the most about."
"Yes..." Holmes put down his glass and moved to examine the food on offer that evening. "Especially when the day is so special," he added, glancing up at the couple who had both turned their eyes to him at his tone. "Forgive me. Do go on." And with a wave of his hand, he returned his eyes to the choice of fish course.
Mary gazed at him curiously for a moment, before taking a sip again from her glass. Her husband’s index finger tapped the stem of his champagne flute for a moment, as he weighed his friend’s choice of words regarding his wife's birthday carefully. "All right, Holmes..." he said sitting back. "Let’s have it."
Holmes glanced up with some surprise. "Your pardon, Watson?"
The doctor's index finger now pointed at him accusingly. "You know, don't you?"
"Know?" Holmes response was all innocence. "Know what, my dear fellow?"
Helen gazed at the interplay between the two men with barely masked confusion. "Know?" she queried.
Watson sighed and looked to his wife. "I'm sorry, my dear...he's obviously worked it out. I'm afraid I must have had more tells then I thought when I went to Baker Street this morning."
With an amused expression, she shook her head and gave him a smile as she patted his hand. "It's quite all right, dearest. I suppose we could not keep it hidden for long...though saying something so soon is not wise."
Slapping the table lightly at being thwarted, her husband shook his head, and glared good naturedly at his friend. "I thought I had you in the dark on this one."
The smile that had been tugging on the corner of Holmes's lips, started to grow, while across the table, Helen slowly blinked, as realisation dawned on her face. "Mary!" she squeaked. "You're...you're...oh goodness! This is wonderful!"
The blond woman's cheeks flushed with pleasure, as she nodded, her expression shy but school girlish all at once. "I know!" she breathed. "We only found out yesterday! I wanted to write you straight away...but it really isn’t wise to say something so soon."
Watson's hand closed around his wife's and squeezed it gently. "Perhaps not...but despite our attempts to convince ourselves otherwise, it's doubtful either of us could have kept it from our master detective here." He frowned over at his friend, and huffed lightly, "Just how did you figure it out?"
"From the cut of your trousers, the stain on your shirt, and the trace of paint upon your fingernail," Holmes replied instantly, sitting back against the divan. "All of which were secondary to the barely veiled undercurrent of enthusiasm you met me with this morning, which even by your excitable standards, Watson, was quite extraordinary."
Helen dipped her head to hide her grin, for she had a clear image in her mind’s eye on how enthusiastic the older man must have appeared, and Mary, upon catching her friend's expression, quickly took another sip of champagne to hide her own ever increasing smile.
Watson coughed and shifted in his seat, his brow creasing. "I wasn't unduly enthusiastic. I'm sure I wasn't!" he protested.
"Just as you say, Watson," Holmes agreed solemnly, the slight quirk of his lips undoing the good of it.
Clearing his throat rapidly and repeatedly, Watson huffed, his fingers thrumming the table in front of him. "All right then, what about the rest of these so called clues?"
"The stain upon your collar...was only vaguely perceptible as I sat across from you this morning, but perceptible all the same. Pollen," he elaborated. "Indicating you had bought flowers. You had, I knew, yesterday purchased your wife a large bouquet to take home with you for the eve of her birthday...two dozen red roses, I believe. But the shirt you wore was, quite naturally, fresh this morning and the colour of the pollen not consistent with that breed of rose. No..." He paused for a moment, and with a shake of his head, continued, "A different class...paler...pink or white...indicating that a sudden and celebratory event of notable weight had occurred between your arriving home last night and early this morning when the florists opened before you left for Baker Street. The colour of the flower indicated that the news was of a somewhat less...passionate...more tender emotion than that of your previous floral purchase."
Watson flushed a little, but held his gaze. "Surely that was not enough?"
"Quite so," his friend agreed. "There was the stain upon your left index nail...now long gone. Paint...emerald green. Precisely the shade that Mr. Dawes, the bookshop keeper and our near neighbour, is having his shop front redone in."
Both women arched eyebrows at that. "Bookshop?" Mary queried, cocking her head slightly in askance, as her husband sighed, knowing what was coming next all too well.
Holmes's smile widened. "Mr. Dawes has, just this past while, given that particular side of his window frontage over to the display of books for children.” His eyes glinted mischievously. “Seeing as Watson's taste in literature is well beyond that of an early reader or two, he has no young relatives, nor was he planning a trip to visit you in St. Albans, Miss Thurlow, as well as being mindful that your brothers had already experienced a birthday last April...and yet he paused long enough to be so distracted as to forget about the paint, it was safe to say the interest was keen but still somewhat distant."
Pausing for almost dramatic effect, he placed his glass back on the table. "The final piece of the puzzle was the rather distinctively shaped box in the front right trouser pocket the good Doctor Watson." He brought his two index fingers together in demonstration. "Twin tubes, hard, from the sound of the drumming of his fingers against them on occasion, and long. The tip of which I perceived as being painted grey with a flash of a gold band about it." He gazed about the table to see if either of the ladies would care to hazard a guess.
Helen's face lit up, as both she and Mary exclaimed, "Cigars!"
"Havana Specials..." Holmes nodded with a smile. "Imported at great expense...and not to be purchased lightly. And two of them....with Watson being the generous soul that he is…undoubtedly meant to be shared. Eh, Watson?" His eyes danced a little, as the man in question deflated entirely, and, reached into his trouser pocket, before placing the twin grey wooden tubes with the distinctive gold band bearing the cigar's name on it on the table in front of them.
"It was supposed to be another surprise and a treat for after dinner when we'd told you!" Watson lamented, shaking his head despairingly. "But trying to keep secrets from you is like Mrs. Hudson trying to ensure you eat regularly...a complete waste of time."
Mary found herself laughing at that, and a moment later was joined in by her friend, though she made a valiant effort not to at first. "Oh dear," Helen voiced, attempting to pull herself back together on seeing Watson's face. "Well, if it is any consolation, John...I was very surprised."
Reaching over and picking up the cigar, Holmes broke the seal and popped open the top of the case, drawing one of the thick, fragrant, hand rolled tubes of tobacco out, rolling it between his fingers and passing it under his nose, inhaling deeply, and rather mischievously. "Excellent choice, Watson...excellent."
Shaking his head slowly at his friend, Watson's frown slowly melted, and he began to chuckle. "Holmes, you will be the death of me," he complained good naturedly with a sigh, upon taking his wife's hand again, who squeezed it in reply, her eyes twinkling up into his.
"Oh I hardly think so, Watson," Holmes replied, popping his cigar into his breast pocket. "I'm sure you will outstrip us all and most certainly me! You will be bouncing grandchildren on your knee, and inspiring a legion of doctors to follow in your footsteps. I guarantee it."
Helen's brow furrowed ever so slightly at his pronouncement, before the smile returned to her face, as she watched the happy parents-to-be gazing at each other.
The detective’s gaze, like the woman next to him, could not help but take in the happy couple that would soon become a family. He was, of course, pleased for them. Parenthood was the natural culmination of marriage....but it did not raise his tolerance levels for such devotional behaviour in the slightest, and, reaching out for the bottle of champagne, he lifted it clear of the ice bucket and turned to Helen. "More champagne, Miss Thurlow?" he enquired.
Pouring some more into her glass on her quiet say so, Holmes concentrated on the refilling of their both their glasses under the quietly intense gaze of his companion, who, hiding expertly both the part of her in deep inner turmoil and that part floating in contentment, turned in rapt attention to him as he began to discuss with her the finer points of eating at Simpson's, classical dining...and the myriad of poisons each dish was all too well suited to disguise.
Following one of Simpson’s famous carved roast dinners and sumptuous, if heavy, desserts, the four restrained revellers agreed that upon such an evening it would be a waste indeed if advantage was not taken of the warm weather, and following a short ramble from the Strand, they emerged upon the Embankment, walking towards Westminster by the Thames.
Just as in Trafalgar Square, the riverside was alive with life, the denizens of London strolling, chatting, and relaxing in the balmy summer night. Street performers played to small gatherings of people, and vendors selling ices, drinks, and snacks were plentiful.
"It seems," said Holmes, as they began their walk in earnest, Mary and her husband linking arms and falling in behind Holmes and Helen, "that this place seems to be a focal point in our lives these days."
"Oh?" Watson queried, glancing up from his wife to his friend ahead of him. "How so?"
“Well, the departure for the Rose Ball for one..." the detective noted, before smiling quietly to himself, "and the final resolution of our little foundry case for another, Watson."
The doctor's eyes widened considerably at that. "Holmes! You found it!" he gasped, to which, in front of him, the tall man stopped and spun to face his friend, the glee evident in his eyes. “Good man! But why did you not say so earlier?” Watson cried with a laugh.
“What and take the sheen from your wife’s news?” Holmes shook his head. “Hardly. It deserved pride of place.”
Helen watched the pair closely with an expression of deep puzzlement. "Found?" she enquired as politely as she could, glancing over at her friend, who looked rather confused about what they were discussing as well until light finally dawned in her eyes.
With a short laugh, the detective spun to Helen in turn. "A most unique sneak thief, Miss Thurlow...and a most dangerous one." He leaned towards her for a moment, the enjoyment in his eyes at his victory clear to see, before gesturing for her to walk along beside him. "One...that is closely connected with these quarters," he explained.
"The day...the very day in fact, that Watson and I received our invitations for the Rose Ball, we had undertaken a case that arose out of something I had noted in the paper that morning. To most eyes, it was an innocuous story...barely worth the mention...a simple case of a robbery of some steel plate from an iron foundry on the borders of Wales and England near Liverpool."
Behind him, Watson threw a knowing smile at his wife even as he addressed his friend. "To most eyes," he agreed with a chuckle. "But not to yours, eh, Holmes?"
Ignoring the slight teasing of his friend, Holmes chose to take him at his word. "Precisely as you say, Watson..." he returned, glancing at Helen. "As always, I do not say these things out of bravado, merely fact."
"Of course," the young woman agreed, her eyes and attention fixed raptly on him, masking her feelings for him behind an expression of real curiosity and interest in what was to be revealed.
With a nod to her, he proceeded, "As I said, an innocuous enough robbery. The theft in this case, however, occurred, upon closer inspection, in a specialist foundry, Messrs Lowe & Stone. One that contained a safe holding an amount of gold bullion and other precious metals used for specific purposes and parts. What peaked my interest in the case was firstly - the fact that that safe was untouched and only steel plating taken, and secondly - had anyone being paying as close attention as I, they would have known that this was the fifth such petty theft in some nine months from foundries around the British Isles.
"Of even further intrigue was that Messrs Lowe & Stone was a foundry that provided armour and parts to the Royal Naval Dockyards in Liverpool, where most of Her Majesty's battleships are built. A quick check of my references revealed that, though it was not widely reported in the other cases, each of the other foundries so stricken also undertook some kind of specific naval work, and in each case some marine component or other was taken. Also the fact that though these other foundries had all been located near docksides, this was the first inland one to be penetrated. So clearly," he said to her, "this occurrence was something more than just happenstance.
"While no one had ever been caught for the earlier thefts, this most recent one came to a conclusion of sorts that had left the local constabulary baffled. It was under those unusual circumstances that Watson and I travelled to Wales that evening, and followed the trail of the thieves and their cartload of steel plating. A burdensome haul to be sure, and yet despite this load, they had taken flight hell for leather cross country to where their trail came to an end in a large meadow right beside the River Rhyl, across the border in Wales. There, the police discovered the cart burned to a cinder in a seeming effort to destroy all clues as to the identity of the perpetrators. The horses, later found also to be stolen, were peacefully grazing, but of the thieves or their purloined cargo there was no sign." He turned his head to her, before continuing, "Now considering the meadow bordered the deep and free flowing Rhyl...what would be your conclusion as to their disappearance, Miss Thurlow?"
The young woman's brow furrowed a little as she considered the question. She knew she was being tested, but found it thrilling to not only be the focus of his attention, but well thought of enough for him to be interested in her deductions. "They had confederates that met them at the river? Perhaps they loaded their ill gotten gains onto a boat of some sort and sailed away to make their escape?" she hedged.
"Precisely what one would be inclined to think," he agreed. "However…neither the river watchman downstream near the estuary where the Rhyl runs into the Irish Sea or those dining out along the banks of the river upstream at the scenic Dragon Spur Inn had at any point during that time seen any kind of boat upon the waters."
"True..." Watson added from behind, "and even with lights off, there was no way a boat could slip by either point unseen."
Helen's frown deepened at that. "Did they perhaps cross the river, then? Make their way on land?"
"A secondary explanation, of course,” Holmes replied. "But the time taken to cross back and forth with such a load in a small boat, coupled with a cursory examination of the far bank which showed no recent disturbance, ruled that out. And yet, there was no doubt that it was from this point that they had departed, as both the meadow and the dirt road track outside of it by the river bank, though relatively firm from lack of rain, clearly showed only one set of cart tracks entered, and...from the depth of impression left when it did so…it had already been shorn of its heavy load, simple observation and a grasp of mathematics making it obvious that a cart laden with steel would have left tracks far more pronounced than it did. It is doubtful, unless the men were superhuman, that they could have carried their load across country without secondary transportation."
Pouncing on that, the young woman breathed, "Already shorn of its load? Do you mean they had disposed of it elsewhere?"
"Precisely that. The cargo had already been taken care of...and considering there was no other recent tracks...we were again left again with only one viable mode of transportation of such a load. Namely the river.
"So we had an obvious mode of escape...and yet no obvious method to avail of it," he summarised. "Our trail apparently came to an end there, as it had for the police." Pausing again, he raised a finger to punctuate his next remark. "But one step taken by the thieves before their disappearance intrigued me, going beyond usual methods as is it did." He glanced at her once more to see if she had followed his reasoning.
Helen’s expression was one of deep concentration, her mind clearly ticking through the facts he had so far provided, and nibbling on her lip, she considered the data, before turning back to him with glittering eyes. "They burned the cart! Why on earth would they do that?"
"Brava, Miss Thurlow. Why, indeed? An extraordinary measure to douse a cart in kerosene and set it ablaze like that, especially as it would undoubtedly attract attention. Their confidence in doing so and still departing unseen must have been supreme. Ordinary thieves would merely have secured their belongings and departed. These men were intent on leaving no trace of themselves behind...men therefore with something significant to hide. And such men more often than not in their eagerness to erase all such evidence of there existence forget themselves and make mistakes," he pronounced, swinging his cane somewhat jauntily. "A simple examination of the meadow proved me correct in that surmise."
"Simple!" Watson exclaimed incredulously. "Hardly that, Holmes!" The doctor turned his attention to his wife. "You'll remember I spoke of this to you, my dear. Holmes had the constabulary and every available hand flood the field with virtually every portable light in the vicinity in the middle of the night!" he explained, shaking his head at the recollection. "Every light of every sort was drafted in until the place virtually glowed...and there...in the middle of this meadow, crawling around, his nose in the grass and the remains of a bonfire for three hours till almost daybreak, was Holmes...I've never seen anything quite like it."
The detective affected a tolerant air over his friend’s continued amazement at his patently necessary methods. "Needs must, Watson...and it proved a fruitful search in the end, did it not? For we found what we needed - the extra data to fuel our deductive journey."
"The most grandiose description of a cigarette end I believe I have yet heard," the doctor snorted lightly.
Turning a gimlet eye upon his jocular friend, Holmes received a mild smile in return. "I'm sorry, Holmes," Watson said, his eyes twinkling, as his arm tightened about his wife’s, "but I am in far too good a mood to be the admiring colleague this evening."
Helen found herself chuckling a little at the by-play between the two men. "And what did the cigarette tell you, Mr. Holmes?" she enquired. "Was it a specific type?"
Removing his reproving gaze from his medical friend, Holmes turned back to her, his demeanour mellowing a little. "Exactly so," he told her. "From the moment of its discovery, there was not a shred of doubt in my mind that the cigarette end in question was that of a popular American brand, Richmond Straight Cut No.1, which is scarce if ever found on these shores, and making one of perpetrators either newly returned from the United States or a native of that country.
"It's most probable that the fire was set from the casual flick of the cigarette towards the fuel soaked cart, the flame being more than enough to start the conflagration, but, seemingly unknown to the smoker, the cigarette itself bounced from the cart and smouldered down to its end completely removed from the bonfire it had started. But while the cigarette itself was noteworthy, it was its companion clue that, when put together with the first, was the key. For on their way from the meadow, having taken such care, one of the men trod on a softer piece of ground by the water trough for the cattle near the field's gate.
"The imprint of the boot step bore the faint but unmistakeable letters…B and H…in upper and lowercase respectively, and in a lettering that was singularly curved in style." Moving slightly closer to her, his mood and tone became almost instructional. "Few languages in Europe use Bh at the start of words. The ancient language of Gaelic, however, is one of them; unsullied as it was by the invading Roman Latin alphabet in ancient times. That fact, along with the curved lettering so fondly used in Ireland, tells me that another of our men was of that land." His brow furrowed, as he concluded, "The mix of Irish and American is, of course, given recent violent events in this country, a notable one and led me, along with the other unusual circumstances of this case - the previous unsolved robberies, the lack of interest in gold, the eagerness to leave no trace, and their strange disappearance - to the inexorable conclusion that this theft was the work of the Fenians."
"The Fenians!" Helen repeated, clearly taken aback, and with a quick look at Mary and John, reeled at the discovery of the involvement of the brotherhood of Irish and American revolutionaries bent on securing Irish freedom from English rule. Working from within Ireland and America, and utterly mistrustful of the veracity of the English government who had long withheld Irish sovereignty, they had long since put away any thoughts of parliamentary means to secure Irish freedom. Behind several failed uprisings in Ireland a few years previous, they had terrorised London with a series of violent attacks on police stations and other official targets, causing several deaths.
Their threat had been muted after an apparent plot to kill the Queen had been foiled in her jubilee year, and a number of them had been rounded up in that sweep. But with a strong base in the United States and American money in their coffers, it was not a threat that had remotely disappeared, as was now all too obvious.
"With that," Holmes interrupted her thoughts, and bringing her attention back to him, added, "it was a very simple step to deducing both the reason for their activities and the method of their escape with their weighty haul." A small smile formed on his lips. "Indeed, the method of their escape is not hard to fathom at all."
On hearing this from behind them, Watson gave a half groan half laugh. "My dear chap! Awfully bad wordplay…I thought that was supposed to be my particular vice?" Mary's merry laugh rang out behind them, as Helen arched an eyebrow up at the detective for his pun.
"In your case, Watson, it is," Holmes cast back over his shoulder mischievously. "This particular badinage, however, despite your theatrical groans to the contrary, was quite witty...the clue, quite evident in the comment. After all, if logic tells you there must be a boat by which they made their escape…and yet you cannot see the boat…what is the most obvious explanation?"
The young woman appeared obviously confused at his remarks. "A boat that cannot be seen? Well, there is no such thing as an invisible boat...and impossible too..." She bit her lip and frowned. "If there is nothing to be seen on the water...Fathom. Delve? Below? She turned to the detective, her eyes wide. " A...what is the word...submersival?"
"Submersible," he corrected, his smile widening at his obvious enjoyment of her quick wittedness in focusing on a form of marine vehicle that was still quite rare, and hardly the first thing to leap to someone's consciousness. "Excellent, Miss Thurlow."
The young woman positively glowed under his praise. "Thank you, Mr. Holmes...I have heard of such craft...though I'm afraid that's all I've done." Glancing behind her, she chuckled a little at Mary's enquiring look. "I am in the import and export business...we do a lot of shipping, and sometimes have government contracts for parts from abroad."
Her advisor's look was impressed as he smiled at her. "It seems the business world has expanded your knowledge in many unexpected areas! Perhaps you should start advising me!"
She chuckled, and shook her head. "Oh no, John! If I had also not been reading 20,000 Leagues Under the Sea to the boys as of late as well...I may not have even taken much notice of such contracts. Andrew is fascinated with Captain Nemo."
"Nemo?" Holmes enquired, momentarily distracted from his recounting his own tale to show his lack of awareness of the fictional tales of others. "An unusual name." Shaking his head and pushing it to one side, he carried on, "In any event, the discovery of the nationalities of our thieves, the absence of a more conventional boat, and the depth of the bed of river Rhyl led me to a specific suspicion, and on our return to the Hotel we were staying in, I wired Whitehall, and from there the Foreign Office and our Embassy in the United States was contacted. With a little help from American State Department Officials, I received confirmation of that which I had supposed to be the case. That a privately built and owned submersible with the pointed name of The Fenian Ram, long since in dry dock in New York due to financial and expertise problems, had somehow slipped unseen by Federal agents into action …its problems obviously resolved.
"Evidently, The Ram now sailed our waters, and was proving an excellent method of providing unseen voyaging for its crew in their villainous activities. The first of which was obviously to gather more spare parts for their ship, seeing they were now a long way from the safer shores of America. Now that we knew the who and the how of what had occurred, what remained was for us to turn our attentions to why they had brought this craft into action…and specifically where it now was.
“Unable to do more from Wales, and with matters now in the hands of the alerted Government, Watson and I returned to London where we resumed our other cases; however, I continued, when I could, to study naval charts and shipping manifests sent to me, in an effort to discover just how the submersible had made its way across the Atlantic Ocean - for there is no way it could have travelled here on its own, especially given it is such a small craft. At just over thirty feet long, its strength is speed and guile, not endurance. So finding how it was brought here and where the most likely port of safe harbour for this submarine weapon, given their need for storage and facilities, was the next and most urgent step. Even as I studied, consulted, and pondered its location…it was the why it was here and not the where that first made itself known to me, chiefly thanks to our attendance at the Rose Ball."
Helen, who had been listening carefully, her mind marvelling a little at the unfolding intricacy of the plot, shot a glance at her walking companion at the mention of the event that had not only been the one of the most awkward nights of her life, but also one of the sweetest...and saddest. Holmes had been her escort for the evening, but had disappeared for most of the night much to her consternation...though he had explained later he had been commissioned to a case by the Crown via a note, subtly passed to him by the Queen’s secretary. Her eyes immediately connected again with his. "The note?" she ventured, her voice hesitant if tinged with a small amount of excitement at the idea of furthering his esteem of her.
"Note?" Watson voice called from behind. "What note?"
Her eyes widened and immediately her body language contracted in embarrassment, not aware he had not even told his partner of the contents. "Oh...um..." she stammered.
Holmes calmed her fears of having misspoke herself with the slightest touch on her arm, before he glanced back at his friend. "You will recall I told you I was engaged by the Palace to watch a certain individual present at the Ball?" He paused as Watson nodded in reply. "The method of that engagement was via a note surreptitiously passed to me by Sir Henry Ponsonby, a detail I disclosed to Miss Thurlow when we..." he hesitated at describing the exact scene, and glanced over at her, "spoke alone later." He had not told anyone of their private waltz, and looking back at her, caught her turning her gaze away from him quickly. Watching her closely, his own eyes became suddenly penetrative, as he frowned a little. "She was owed a comprehensive explanation as to my rather elusive presence that night."
Drawing his shoulders back, he turned his eyes from her. "The man I was engaged to watch was named within that note...and while I am not at liberty to reveal his identity, I soon discovered that the man himself was innocent of the suspicions levelled at him. In fact, my investigations and sources revealed that rather than the traitor he was suspected to be, this man had in fact placed himself in extreme mortal peril to uphold his own beliefs in finding a peaceful resolution, going so far undercover to bring men of violence to justice that evidently even many of those in the highest corridors of power knew little of it...including the Palace.
"My discovery of this occurred just shortly before Watson and I made haste to Herefordshire and Boscombe Valley to investigate the singular mystery there...but while gone, I left a few irons heating in the fire at Whitehall and sundry other contacts both here and abroad regarding both our unsung hero who I shall call Mr. X and The Ram. On our return to London after the resolution regarding the death of Mr. Charles McCarthy, I found the irons glowing red hot. Word from America reached me that it was now clear that Mr. X's role in betraying those he had unmasked and helped to capture had finally been discovered...and those remaining were seeking revenge against not only him, but those who had helped to plan it all.
"I soon pieced together the list of who, along with Mr. X, those targets for vengeance might be...and where it was they would be vulnerable to attack by such a craft. The latter, in fact, became blindingly obvious." Stopping by the wall, he raised his cane and to her surprise, slipped an arm around Helen's shoulders, expertly guiding her to look in a specific direction near Westminster Bridge, where a large cruiser bedecked in red, white, and blue was moored near the Houses of Parliament. "This weekend sees certain high level discussions take place aboard The Wellington as it cruises the Thames to Oxford, and the boarding party bears an uncanny resemblance to the list of names in my possession.
"I now knew the who, why, and when...all that still remained to me was the where. The exact location of the weapon and those who intended to use it. Thankfully, another of my slowly heating irons glowed brightly enough to cast a light over this too." His arm closed about her shoulders again, as Holmes turned Helen once more, before leaning down slightly, his attention caught up in his retelling of the final leg of his story.
"There…" he gestured, gazing towards a great black steamer moored down the river at the far quay, "The Maybelle. A merchant ship carrying tea and cotton from North America and European goods on its return…and the ship, on this voyage, which took The Ram with her across the ocean hidden in her hold."
Helen's surprise was nothing compared to what she was feeling now. His breath drifting over her ear, and his body so close to hers, she thought her composure would surely desert her, and she would faint dead away. She wanted to respond to him, to say anything, but her throat felt so incredibly dry, that she was sure if she were to open her mouth nothing but a croak would emerge. She could barely hear, never mind understand what he was saying, due to her heart pounding so forcefully in her ears that it drowned out everything else. As he spoke, his breath tickled her cheek, causing her skin to spark and come to life. It was as if it was suddenly every nerve in her body had become active and so sensitive that she could feel everything. She desired nothing more that to stay there surrounded by arms forever, and yet wanted to flee with every ounce of her being.
His focus utterly on his work, Holmes continued, his eyes alive with a hawkish gleam as they perused the steamer, "A ship that on this voyage, thanks to the secretive payment of copious amounts of American dollars, had never been entered into the arrivals log by the Harbour Master in Liverpool, where The Ram had been unloaded in the dead of night and without intruding customs officials."
He straightened somewhat, and released her with a smile. "A man with a hard drinking habit should never turn to bribery. Alcohol loosens the lips...and his sudden, unexplained influx of cash and his unerring propensity to spend it lavishly on alcohol, not just for himself but his drinking mates as well, always causes ripples which, with the right channels in place, invariably ripple back to people he would rather they did not. An error of judgement I am pleased to say the Harbour Master will have plenty of time to repent upon."
Helen was frankly more than a touch relieved when he moved a little away. Swallowing heavily, she closed her eyes and tried to calm herself, though her belly felt as though a swarm of butterflies had taken residence, and her breath was so quickened she thought she might lose control of it all together. Opening her eyes and fixing them on the object of his tale, she managed a slow nod of agreement.
"With The Maybelle marked as having arrived via Portsmouth with no mention of her stop in Liverpool, we had a direct link to The Ram and its whereabouts...and dressed as a longshoreman complete with a fair Cork accent, I was able to watch the goings on around the dockside, talk with the crew, and observe their movements exceedingly well. What I found was hard to believe, for the sheer audacity quite took my breath away, but there, late last night right under the docks of London herself, I discovered an underwater tunnel had been fashioned over some time. A flooded tunnel which led up in the foundations of an Inn called The Foggy Dew, and there the submersible with all its ill gotten gains was moored.
"Once I had found it, thanks to the comings and goings from the inn above, I found myself trapped there for a good portion of the night until I could slip away unseen. Having done so, I returned home, washed, breakfasted, talked with Watson, and on his departure, dressed thusly," he swept a hand over himself, indicating his morning suit, "and headed for the Home Office to inform them of the craft's location…and once I had them galvanised, we went straight to raid the place. All save two of the crew of miscreants were taken. One dived into the river, and another, a man I discovered during my few days in his company as a docker to be of some perspicacity and invention, spotted me, and had the wit to recognise me and took flight early…a foolish mistake on my part to be so observed." His voice drifted into a quiet murmur, before pronouncing, "Men such as he can prove troublesome." And again he fell into serious thought for a moment before resuming his more victorious air.
"In any event, The Ram and most of her crew are in custody. The former will be shipped back to America so the authorities there can take further action, and the latter will stand trial for conspiracy here. The matter concluded itself just a short time before I was due to arrive for dinner," he finished, before looking over towards Mary with an amused glint in his eyes. "And now you know, madam, why I arrived at your birthday dinner in less than appropriate attire."
Mary's expression was also one of affectionate admiration, as she had listened with great interest to his story. "Indeed...but do not concern yourself, Sherlock. Your attire was not unseemly at all...and after what you have just said, I am amazed you were able to make it this evening," she assured him, shaking her head in awe.
His smile was serene. "I must now publicly admit to being a little fatigued, having been awake for some forty hours or so, but quite apart from your birthday, and considering what I learned from your husband's exuberant state this morning over your pleasant condition, this evening and its revelations were not ones I wished to miss."
"I was not exuberant!" Watson protested at his friends continued description of him.
Holmes chuckled for a moment, the quiet laugh dying off as he noticed the demeanour of the fourth member of their party. "Miss Thurlow? You are exceedingly quiet," he observed of her.
Turning back to the others and taking great care to put a smile on her face, she gave them all an apologetic look. "I am sorry, Mr. Holmes. I was just pondering your remarkable story. It was quite fascinating," she answered with complete sincerity. "You lead quite an exciting life."
"I suppose so," he replied after a moment, his forehead creasing slightly as he regarded her. "Though it is a mere byproduct of the exertion of my intellect. You understand that of course, do you not, Miss Thurlow?" he stated quietly. "That it is not physical or emotional exhilaration I seek...but intellectual."
Her face betrayed nothing of the ache in her heart at those words, as she nodded. "Of course, Mr. Holmes," she agreed, her voice as light as she could force it to be. "I only meant that though your work is exciting to those who hear it, it must have been an enjoyable exercise of your talents to you, and kept your mind contentedly active."
Mary too watched her friend with a carefully disguised evaluating eye. She had not failed to notice Helen's reactions when her husband's partner had stepped close to her, nor was she blind to the careful control the younger woman was using now. With an inward sigh, she made a mental note to discuss this with her husband later. For it seemed that their little endeavours concerning their two friends had produced some fruit; however, instead of bringing the both of them some joy and contentment, it had appeared to do nothing at all for one, and to set the other on the road to certain heartbreak.
Nodding slowly, Holmes gradually drew his eyes from Helen and back to the Watsons. "My congratulations to you both once again," he addressed them. "Yours is by far the most capital news of the day, and it is my sincere wish that the rest of your evening is full of enjoyment, Mary, but I fear the aforementioned fatigue is beginning to settle a little heavier upon me now, no doubt exacerbated by the heat of the day and the excellent if heavy food. I shall take my leave of you all to return to Baker Street, if you have no objections."
"None at all, Holmes," Watson assured his friend with a wide smile. "You've had a long day and it was good of you to stay so long." His eyes turned to their young friend. "We shall see Helen to her hotel and make our own way home soon after."
Releasing her husband's arm, Mary stepped forward, and offered the detective her hand, giving him a soft smile. "Thank you for coming, Sherlock. It was good to see you again."
Taking it, he doffed his hat and bowed over her hand with an appreciative smile. "And you...my thanks again for your kind invitation, and I trust it will not be long till we meet again." As she drew her hand back, he turned to the woman who had been his companion most of the evening, his expression remaining unchanged. "Miss Thurlow, I express the same trust."
She smiled in reply, and held out her hand in farewell. "I am sure we shall see each other soon," she replied, eager for it, though with full comprehension that she was being drawn to him like a moth to a flame it knew was dangerous, but was unable to resist.
Taking her hand, he studiously bowed over it and again doffed his hat. "I shall look forward to it. Your presence and companionship are always agreeable. A goodnight, and a safe trip back to St. Albans." Releasing her hand, he smiled once more at her, and with a nod to Watson, strolled off down the path towards Westminster Bridge, his shadowed figure disappearing into the crowd of people ahead of them.
Authors’ Notes: For clarity and accuracy’s sake we would like to point out that The Fenian Ram portrayed herein was in fact a real submarine, privately built and owned in the U.S at that time, but never used due to the ‘problems’ mentioned in this chapter. Though some licence has been taken with real events involving the Fenian Brotherhood at that time in London.
While this chapter and the case laid out here was conceived and written in advance of the recent and terrible London bombings, we would like to take the opportunity to dedicate this short tale of thwarting such acts to the victims of the bombings and to the city of London. Our hearts go out to all involved and affected by this terrible and heinous occurrence. ~Aeryn (of aerynfire)