Sherlock Holmes (29 page)

At that moment, there could be
heard the sounds of voices and heavy boots in the passageway
leading to the chamber. The two Irishman looked at each other, then
at us. The voices grew louder. Liam made for the manhole and was
quickly followed by O’Leary. As he lowered himself into the sewer,
he turned to Holmes saying, “We will meet again, Mr Holmes” and
then disappeared from view.

I looked towards Holmes. His
face was without emotion and I heard him quietly say, “Perhaps…but
not in this life, Mr O’Leary.” Even as Holmes said this, we heard
two fearsome screams from the manhole and then silence.

Turning back to the passageway,
a familiar voice called out, “Hello! What kind of a mess have you
got yourself into here, Mr Holmes? All tied up are we?”

Holmes sighed and looked up to
heaven, saying, “O Lord. It is Lestrade!” I knew that the good
inspector would take a great deal of pleasure in recounting how he
had rescued Sherlock Holmes, the great detective. He also would
revel in how Scotland Yard had foiled a Fenian plot to blow up
Downing Street, Prime Minister and all.

Once released from our bonds, we
made our way back along the tunnel and upwards to fresh air. The
rain had increased and was now a downpour. A four-wheeler passed by
and Holmes hailed it and, taking Pavlin Konsulov by the arm, he
invited him to join us.

After enjoying a good meal, the
three of us sat in our rooms in Baker Street and smoked steadily.
Pavlin Konsulov had bathed and had been lent some dry clothes. He
looked refreshed and was now enjoying one of Holmes’ fine Havana
cigars. Holmes leant forwards, asking our guest, “Tell me Mr
Konsulov, what happened at your shop when your father was shot? Why
were you held captive?”

Pavlin Konsulov’s face fell. In
excellent English he began his tale. “My father and I were
approached by O’Leary to make the mules and waggons. He said they
were to transport important documents securely from one office to
another by underground pipes. As a boy and before his
apprenticeship as a watchmaker, my father had worked in the mines.
He knew the smell of explosives and he smelled it on O’Leary. My
father became suspicious and challenged him. O’Leary became violent
and took out a pistol. My father tried to protect me; he pushed me
before him towards the shop door but I stumbled and fell.”

Pavlin now looked grey but
managed to continue, “O’Leary shot him in the back; the bullet
passed through my father but he managed to run out into the street.
That was the last I saw of him. After that, they bundled me out of
the door. I was needed in case anything went wrong with the mules.
No doubt they would have left me to die in the chamber after the
fuse had been lit.”

Holmes now explained how the
grievously wounded Mihail had been brought to our rooms by a cabbie
and how we had tried in vain to save his life. He also described
how Mihail, in his dying moments, had asked us to find his son. In
truth, whilst it was a sad story, I think Pavlin Konsulov took some
comfort from it.

We sat a little longer but I
could not rest. I had a serious question that I was reluctant to
ask. “Tell me, Mr Konsulov, when we were in the underground
chamber, you indicated to O’Leary that it was safe to go down the
sewer and that it would lead him to freedom. If you hold the memory
of your father to be so sacred, how could you honourably do
that?”

Holmes interrupted at this
point. “It is not a question of honour, Watson. Mr Konsulov acted
most properly and answered truthfully. You clearly do not know the
customs of Bulgaria!” With a wicked smile, he said, “Allow me to
demonstrate. Mr Konsulov, your first name is Pavlin, is it
not?”

I looked across at Pavlin
Konsulov and he shook his head. I was puzzled. Scratching my head,
I said, “Forgive me, Holmes, I still do not understand!”

Holmes was clearly enjoying my
confusion. “Let me try once more. Mr Konsulov, is my name Sherlock
Holmes?” Looking to Konsulov, I saw him again shake his head!

I sat back, totally mystified.
The answers were contrary to everything I knew to be true! “What is
going on, Holmes?”

Holmes was now laughing
heartily. “It is very simple, Watson. The people within the
Principality of Bulgaria have, to us, a most bizarre custom. They
inhabit the only known region of the world where shaking their head
means ‘Yes’ and nodding it means ‘No’.

I sat in total disbelief! “That
is…that is absurd!” I cried. “I… I mean no offence, Mr Konsulov,
but it is unbelievable!”

Konsulov was laughing heartily.
“It is quite true though, Dr Watson. The Irishmen had gagged me as
I had been shouting out to try and attract attention. Once gagged,
the only way I could answer O’Leary was by nodding or shaking my
head. I responded to their questions in a completely truthful way.
Whilst they were holding me captive, I had seen a plan of the
pipework around their lair.” Pavlin Konsulov smiled, “I have an
excellent memory, Dr Watson. It is very useful when you have to
remember where all the parts go inside a clock.” I laughed and
nodded as he continued, “I remembered the location of the pipes
around the chamber. There was indeed a sewer beneath but I realised
that it could not be used as an exit.”

Holmes nodded, saying, “Yes, the
sewer beneath the chamber is an interceptor sewer. Storm water from
many other smaller sewers is collected before it is delivered to a
storage tank. You will recall, Watson, that it had just begun to
rain as we descended to the chamber. As time passed, the flow in
the sewer would have steadily increased, just as tributaries add to
the flow of a river. The slope in the sewer is a gentle one yard
per mile but, after twenty feet, there is a one hundred foot
vertical drop down to the storage tank. The purpose of this
vertical shaft is to prevent tidal water flooding into the sewers
when the Thames surges.”

I nodded but then yawned. It was
now getting late and we all had had an exhausting day. Our ‘good
byes’ were said and once Pavlin Konsulov had left, I needed no
prompting to retire to my room.

The next morning I found Holmes
sitting in his favourite leather armchair reading the front page of
a newspaper. From the occasional loud grunt and shout of “Hah!” I
could tell that he was inflamed by the reporting.

“Watson! It appears we have a
new people’s champion in our midst! Here! Read this, for I can
stomach no more of it!” he exclaimed, tossing the newspaper to me.
I saw immediately the reason for his displeasure. Emblazoned across
the front page was a large photograph of Lestrade smiling broadly
and shaking the hand of the Prime Minister. Above it, the headline
read; ‘Scotland Yard foils Fenian dynamite plot!’

I smiled as I read aloud, “All
Britain is grateful to Inspector Lestrade of Scotland Yard after he
led the daring raid that foiled a plot to blow up 10 Downing
Street. Dynamite was to be placed beneath the Prime Minister’s
residence whilst the Cabinet was in session. Inspector Lestrade
made a statement in which he said, “We had been shadowing this
Fenian gang for some time. Using information from Special Irish
Branch and other sources, we tracked them to their lair. Once in
position, we pounced, seizing a quantity of explosives and freeing
three hostages. It appears that, in an attempt to escape arrest,
the Fenians fell to their deaths.” I had to laugh, saying, “Another
feather in Lestrade’s cap, eh, Holmes?”

Holmes’ only reply was to grunt,
saying, “One can only hope that the Prime Minister serves a decent
glass of sherry, Watson!”

It was a chance remark one
Saturday in August 1900, that was to provide the spark for the
Lymington Affair. In the early days of that month I had taken to
joining the Honourable Peter Croft, an old school friend of mine,
in his hobby of model yacht sailing. This activity taking place on
the Round Pond in Kensington Park. Being part of the 'crew' gave me
some much needed exercise as I ran around the pond, ready to
receive the yacht after its traverse.

I had arranged to meet him at
the pond but as I was preparing to leave, I looked around our rooms
and noticed that Holmes was sitting hunched in his old leather
armchair. This was a sure sign that he had begun to slip into one
of his dark, withdrawn moods. I knew this was due to there being
nothing, of late, that was worthy to challenge his immense
intellect.

In an effort to drag him back
from the brink, I invited Holmes to accompany me. “Holmes, old
fellow. Would you care to join me in a little mental and physical
exercise at the Round Pond?”

Holmes stirred listlessly. I
knew this to be serious as there were not even the usual signs of
frustration from him, the angrily tossed aside newspapers or the
clothes thrown into corners. This being a clear indication of the
ever pacing tiger within his head. “I don't think so, Watson. I
lack the energy for a walk.”

I had to think quickly or lose
the moment. “Ah, but this is something more. I am attempting to
learn the art of sailing but undertaking this in miniature is, I
fear, getting a little beyond me.”

I was heartened by Holmes’
response as he straightened in his chair. “Sailing, you say?”

I nodded, “Yes, an old school
friend, Peter Croft is a member of the London Model Yacht Club and
he sails a yacht of almost three feet in length on the Round
Pond.”

Holmes rose from his chair,
saying, “Then I am the man to assist you!” Seeming to cast aside
all dark thoughts and to be invigorated by the challenge, Holmes
reached for his coat and, in a matter of moments, we were off.

It was but a short ride by cab
to reach Kensington Park and then a stroll to the Round Pond. As it
was a fine day, there were many people taking the air. Couples
strolled arm in arm, some with young children and there were
Nannies, in their black uniforms, fiercely guarding their wards
tucked up in large black perambulators.

Fellow model yachtsmen, like
ourselves, could be seen either singly or in two’s and three’s
around the pond, adjusting their yachts before sending them on
their way. Some had even taken to removing their shoes and
stockings and then rolling up their trouser legs to enter the pond
in order to more effectively launch their craft. This practice was
somewhat precarious as the summer sun had encouraged a prolific
growth of slippery, green algae on the stones of the pond.

It took us a few minutes to
locate the Honourable Peter Croft but his tall, athletic frame made
him stand out a little from the other yachtsmen.

Peter Croft was the only son of
the Earl of Wednesford. He was a sporting fellow and, in his youth,
had been a Rugger blue at Cambridge before joining the army. These
days he was somewhat restricted in his physical activities as he
had been injured in India whilst serving there with his regiment.
As a result, he often resorted to walking with a cane.

Holding up my hand, I shouted,
“Croft!” and waved enthusiastically to attract his attention. He
looked up on hearing his name and, on seeing us, put down his yacht
and waved back. A minute or so later I was introducing Holmes who,
I could see, was clearly admiring his yacht.

“It is a fine yacht, Mr Croft.
Did you make it yourself?”

Peter Croft smiled. “Why
yes...well, actually, I made the hull over the winter. My father
has a large workshop to the side of his house and I spent many
hours in there, forming the body of the yacht. I was lucky in that
our chauffeur is a practical fellow and he was able to sort out the
rigging for me. His wife is an able seamstress and she was able to
create the sails.”

I could see Holmes was in his
element. Soon the two men were discussing the merits of how best to
trim the sails for differing wind conditions and technical matters
of which I, as a novice, had but little knowledge.

This continued for some minutes
until I coughed discreetly and both Holmes and Croft looked towards
me and laughed. Croft took my elbow, saying, “I’m sorry, Watson,
old fellow. Let us involve you a little in doing some sailing. You
may have to be my legs as it takes me a good deal of time to hobble
across to the other side of the pond. I usually have to restrict
myself to sailing a slender arc of the pond.”

I nodded enthusiastically,
saying, “But of course! I'm here to learn.”

With that, he took from his
pocket a small piece of ribbon which he held up in order to better
judge the wind direction. The wind was blowing from behind us and,
from my previous sailing 'lessons' with him, I knew that he would
loosen the main sail and the jib as he was running with the wind.
With this knowledge, he trimmed the sails accordingly and set the
rudder before gently placing the yacht into the water. Using a
bamboo pole equipped with a boat hook, he pushed the yacht a little
further out from the edge of the pond. Almost immediately, the
sails filled and the yacht was underway, heeling gently in the
breeze.

For my part, I had to hasten to
the other side of the pond in order to receive it. I have to say
that it was good exercise. The yacht made steady progress and I had
to walk at a good pace, keeping my eye on it and ensuring that I
was there in time to prevent it crashing into the stone edging of
the pond. I retrieved the yacht, cradling it in my arms whilst I
waited for my two companions to walk around the pond.

It truly was a fine vessel and
the workmanship was first class. On each outing I had learned more
about sailing and I felt that I was now ready to apply my knowledge
to a full sized vessel. Once my boating friend had joined me, I was
eager to ask him where had learned to sail. “Tell me, Croft. Where
did you acquire the sailing skills you now use with your
model?”