Authors: Robert Ryan
‘I see,’ said the driver, his brow furrowed in puzzlement.
‘No, neither do I, Buller. But softly, softly catchee monkey. You see, Mr Holmes has committed no crime, put nobody in danger, except perhaps himself. So we can’t be involving the
police and warrants. We have to persuade him to come along.’
‘What if he won’t, sir?’
Nathan patted the Webley Self-Loading pistol in his pocket. ‘Oh, I am sure we can convince him.’ He took it out and checked the action. A lovely little gun, but prone to jamming
unless it was kept scrupulously clean, which, of course, he did. But at least it didn’t spoil the hang of a jacket the way a revolver did.
Nathan had been out of the country for much of the Sherlock Holmes fever that had swept the nation. He knew of some of the more famous adventures – the rather silly one about the dog on
Dartmoor, which he could scarcely give credence to, and the one involving a speckle-banded snake – equally unlikely – and thought Holmes and Watson must be little more than tall-story
merchants. Consulting detective, my eye, he thought. A Jack of Tall Tales more likely. But Kell assured him that Holmes had performed valuable service for both King and Country over the years,
right up to August 1914. And of course he had also helped capture the Ilse Brandt woman, who by rights should be lying in an unmarked grave within the confines of the Tower.
‘Is that him, sir?’ asked Buller.
Nathan looked over as a stooped figure slowly descended the steps, aided by the doorman for the last few. He had a Gladstone in one hand and a stout cane in the other, which he leaned on. He was
wearing a flap-eared travelling cap, of the sort popular twenty years earlier, and a tweedy paddock coat. As he turned to speak to the doorman, the profile was unmistakable.
‘Wait here,’ Nathan instructed.
He was out of the vehicle and across the street in a series of lengthy strides and was at the man’s side before the doorman could hail the member a cab.
‘Mr Holmes?’ he asked.
The rheumy eyes turned to look at him and he was surprised by the vacancy in there. The greatest mind in Europe seemed to be curiously absent. ‘Yes. I’m sorry, do I know you . . .
?’
‘No, sir, but Mr Vernon Kell sends his compliments.’
‘Does he indeed? And why is that?’
‘I’m afraid I’ll have to ask you to come with us.’
‘And you are?’
‘Robert Nathan. A representative of Mr Kell.’
‘Ah.’ Holmes seemed to slump a little further. ‘How did you . . . ?’
‘Find you? I’m afraid we have the authority to read all telegrams sent from this country.’
‘Ah. That blasted DORA, again?’
‘I am afraid so. We know your intentions, sir, regarding Von Bork and Major Watson, and can’t let you do this, no matter how noble your motives.’
Nathan carefully prised the Gladstone from the bony fingers.
A sparkle came into Holmes’s eyes, like the embers of a dying fire offering one last flare. ‘He’s my friend, you know. Watson. An old friend.’
‘I know, sir. But I think it’s time to leave the adventuring to others, don’t you?’
‘This gentleman bothering you, Mr Holmes?’ asked the doorman, thrusting his chest out in challenge. Nathan discreetly lifted the flap of the pocket containing the Webley, just in
case.
‘Oh, no, Henry. Just offering me a lift.’
The doorman didn’t look convinced, but stood down as Nathan guided Holmes across the street to the Napier which, thanks to its electric starter, had burbled into life. Buller was already
out from behind the wheel, holding open the rear door and doffing his cap.
‘As a matter of interest, where are you taking me. Mr . . . ?’
‘Nathan. Robert Nathan. Mr Kell keeps a suite at the Connaught for unexpected guests.’ One with barred windows, outside bolts and a boxroom for a guard to sleep in.
‘Splendid,’ said Holmes, with a sly smile. ‘If one is to be imprisoned, one could hardly do better than the Connaught.’
‘Mad Bill’ Kügel didn’t look particularly mad. ‘Well-Fed Bill’ might have been a better name for him. He was the first man with a healthy
glow to his cheeks Watson had seen in many a month – Captain Peacock excepted – and he had the moon face and the girth to match. At least someone was having a good war, he thought as he
walked slowly across the ruby-red carpet to where the commandant stood, gazing out of the French windows that opened on to the terrace overlooking the camp.
The room was triple height, with an ornately plastered ceiling, lined with bookshelves that held leather-bound volumes in complete sets, arranged by author. Only for a moment did a flash of
vanity make Watson wonder if one of his own were there: before the war he had enjoyed a happy relationship with a German publisher. But he kept his eyes from the ‘W’s.
An imposing table of polished walnut dominated the centre of the room; along its spine was a series of silver platters, the contents hidden under cloches. A trio of decanters stood at one end,
the spirits within ranging from a light straw colour to a deep, syrupy brown. A marble fireplace directly opposite the French windows held a flickering log fire, although the amount of smoke
puffing into the room suggested it was burning green damp wood and that the chimney might be in need of a good sweep. No matter, it was warm and welcoming, and as he made a slow, but he hoped
stately progress, across the carpet, Watson allowed himself to revel in it for a few moments.
Despite the cotton sheets, the bath and the clean, deloused uniform, Watson could feel the effects of his confinement. His old bullet wound throbbed with a rhythmic precision – a lack of
fresh fruit could cause old wounds to reopen, he knew – as did, strangely, one of his Achilles tendons. His knees felt a trifle more fragile than they had, with even more clicking and
crunching if he kneeled. His back, too, had suffered from the hard surface. He had often railed against the march of time, but he now knew he had been premature. This was what old age truly felt
like. He could only hope it was a temporary preview.
He looked at himself in the gilt-framed mirror – in need of resilvering – over the mantelpiece. Had the frail figure been a patient, he would have sent him to bed with copious
quantities of beef tea and Mrs Hudson’s steak puddings.
There was a very unseemly crack splaying out from behind the mirror and, he noticed, another fissure zigzagging across the ceiling mouldings. It couldn’t be shell or bomb damage this far
from the front. The building was collapsing like a tired soufflé. He felt some sympathy – physically, Watson felt in a similar condition.
‘When I was a boy, a very young boy,’ said the commandant in his strange drawl, ‘my father took me hunting for boar in those forests.’ He pointed to the naked hillsides.
‘The ones that aren’t there any longer.’
He turned to face Watson.
‘Shocking. I’ve seen it in America, of course, strip-mining coal until all that is left is a black desert. Out there it was gold. Gold extraction ravages the land, poisons the water,
you know. At least coal and iron and copper benefit mankind. But gold? Baubles and teeth, baubles and teeth. Sit down, Major Watson.’
He would have preferred to stand, but his weary body accepted before his brain could object and he sank into one of the cushioned chairs at the table. His nostrils caught the piquant scent of
food from the salvers. Kügel walked over and indicated the decanters. ‘I have whiskey, brandy and a navy rum.’
‘Rum,’ Watson said.
‘I’d like to apologize for your treatment of late. Apparently, I was misinformed. Instead of a dangerous enemy of the State, you are something of a hero. Such is war.’
Kügel handed Watson the glass with a good inch of liquid in the bottom. Watson sniffed and inhaled a thick coil of molasses. ‘Such is politics.’
Watson drank and all but shuddered with pleasure.
‘You know how the British Navy knew it was the good stuff? They’d mix it with gunpowder and see if it burned true. Because the rum was kept below decks with the gunpowder, should the
two mix, they had to be sure the powder would still work.’
Watson had heard this before and was fairly certain it was hokum. But he didn’t want to get into a discussion on the mythology of the high seas. ‘What is this all about,
Commandant?’
Kügel helped himself to some whiskey. ‘A bourbon,’ he explained, even though Watson couldn’t have cared less. ‘I got the taste in America. You don’t much
approve of me, do you, Major Watson?’
‘It is exceedingly difficult to approve of anyone who operates a camp as you do. For personal gain.’
Kügel sipped and smiled at the taste. ‘Takes me right back. Right back to the Appalachians. I am sure you’ve heard that I travelled in ladies’ underwear? Yes? That’s
just a rather poor example of the British sense of humour. I travelled, true, but in machine tools. German machine tools. Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, Virginia, West Virginia, Texas, California.
Anywhere men were cutting, digging or drilling. I loved America. For its ambition, its scale, its sense that anything is possible. What I am doing here isn’t much different to what the
Vanderbilts, the Astors, the Rockefellers did in the United States. I am a capitalist. I know, as they say over there, how to turn a buck. Is that a crime?’
‘It is when men suffer while you turn your buck.’
Kügel frowned. ‘You do understand the principles of capitalism, don’t you, Major? Someone always suffers. The Chinese who built Huntington’s and Vanderbilt’s
railroads. The blacks picking Duke’s tobacco, the miners in Osgood’s pits, the labourers in Carnegie’s steel mills. It’s the traditional way of capitalism.’
‘The tradition of fleecing those weaker than yourself.’
Kügel shook his head. ‘You are a naïve man, Major. And I’m inclined to throw you back in your filthy cell. But I have my orders.’
‘Which are?’
‘To look after you.’
Watson felt a creeping sense of unease. The order to improve his treatment could only have come from on high. From Von Bork. And what possible motives would he have for such a volte-face?
Kügel reached over and lifted one of the silver cloches. ‘Sausages,’ he said. ‘Without a trace of sawdust. We have kidneys, too. And dumplings.’
Watson wanted to say that he couldn’t eat in such company, but his stomach shouted him down as it contracted in anticipation. He despised himself for the groan that squeezed from his lips.
‘There is something I want to ask you before we eat.’
‘Go ahead,’ Kügel said, a hint of suspicion in his voice.
‘Your man Steigler, the doctor, tells me three men died in the camp while I was incarcerated.’
‘That is true,’ admitted Kügel. ‘Most unfortunate. I am opposed to any death. For me, each one means one less sheep to shear.’ There was a twinkle of humour in his
eyes.
‘Your doctor insists they died of supernatural causes.’
‘Steigler has a vivid imagination. It was suicide. Of a sort, anyway.’ He mimed the slashing of wrists.
Watson thought of the marks on Archer’s arms. ‘Suicide? When was this?’
‘Several days ago.’
‘The day you had me put in Stubby?’
Kügel thought for a few moments. ‘I guess it would have been, yes.’
The night Archer asked Watson to meet him. He could easily have been with him that night. Would he, too, have committed “suicide”?’
‘How did it happen?’ Watson asked.
‘Apparently they were taking part in a séance.’
As he had thought.
The Dead speak to me
. But he played dumb. ‘A séance?’
‘To contact the dead. Have you ever been to one?’
Watson had. He, Holmes and the magician Maskelyne had exposed some of the most notorious charlatans in London. He had nothing but contempt for characters such as the Davenport Brothers, who
prayed on the bereaved and the bereft. It was, so he had heard, a booming and fraudulent industry back in Britain, now that so many had lost sons, lovers and fathers and were looking for
comfort.
‘The aim of a séance is to contact the dead,’ said Watson. ‘Not join them.’
‘Do you believe that they can contact the dead?’ Kügel asked.
Watson shook his head. ‘I have never seen anything either in person or in photographs that could not be explained by science and trickery.’
‘I agree,’ said Kügel with some relief. ‘The notion of an afterlife where we pay for our sins . . . well, let’s just say I don’t buy it.’
‘And you certainly must hope you are right. Given the magnitude of your sins.’
Kügel’s mouth twitched with displeasure. ‘My sins are between me and my conscience.’
‘Quite. Tell me about the suicides. Wrists were slit?’
‘So they say. I didn’t examine the bodies myself.’
‘Really,’ said Watson loftily, enjoying the annoyance on Kügel’s face. ‘You surprise me. What blade was used?’
‘An open razor was found at the scene.’
‘Just one?’
‘Yes.’
‘So they would have taken it in turns?’
Kügel clearly hadn’t thought of this. ‘I reckon.’
‘It’s unusual that one of them didn’t lose his nerve while the others were carving.’
‘Perhaps. But the men had also been drinking, to make them more “receptive” to the spirits.’
‘Drinking? Drinking what?’
‘What we called in Virginia, white dog. Moonshine.’
‘Made from what? The inhabitants of your camp hardly have any ingredients to spare for distillation.’
Kügel shrugged. ‘The ingenuity of man in pursuit of intoxication knows no bounds. Whatever it was, Steigler found a jar of it next to the table. The thing is, as I know from
experience, the stuff fries a man’s brains, like tossing them into a skillet of hot fat.’
‘Dutch courage, you think? Maybe so,’ said Watson. ‘Although it could be the drink that killed them, not the cuts. If the batch contained enough methanol, for
instance.’
Kügel shrugged. ‘Does it matter? Whether they were playing with the supernatural or with some home-produced poison? They are dead. They aren’t coming back. Not unless you want
to set up a séance, Major, and ask them what happened.’
‘Have they been buried yet?’
‘I’m not certain. You’d have to ask the camp chaplain. We only have a Roman Catholic one, so he might have a view on what kind of burial is appropriate. Shall we
eat?’