A Study in Murder (21 page)

‘I am sure you are right.’ Watson took a sip of his tea, not adding that it was feasible that God himself was entirely born of man. ‘The deliberate cutting of the wrists,
though—’

‘It’s an old Greek tradition when you are talking to the shades. Read your Homer. Blood-letting helps summon the dead. There are hungry ghosts out there, so some say.’

‘Isn’t it possible that the blood loss helps make the participants more susceptible to suggestion by the medium?’

‘Ah,’ said Hardie, taking a tug on his cigarette. ‘Now, though, you are assuming all is showmanship and fraud, being the professional cynic. The man of science.’

‘An agnostic. But you sound like you believe.’

‘Believe?’ He gave a croaking cough. ‘Believe in what?’

‘That man can communicate with the dead.’

‘Now, Major Watson, I am someone who has to have faith in the Virgin Birth, in the resurrection of Jesus Christ Our Lord and in the transubstantiation of bread and wine. I am in no
position to start telling other men that there is no link between the worlds or that they are simply being superstitious or gullible. I personally do not believe in a bridge to the afterlife. Not
one we can access from this world. But, again, I could be wrong. I wasn’t always a priest—’

‘You were a shipbuilder. On the Clyde. A welder, I would suppose,’ said Watson.

Hardie tipped his head to one side, as if trying to get a different angle on the major. ‘Ah. I had heard the rumour. That you were
that
Watson.’ He smiled. ‘Is this some
Holmesian witchcraft?’

‘Holmes never dealt in witchcraft, Father. He dealt in facts and observation. The scars on your face and arms. I couldn’t quite place them at first. But now I see you had been
wearing goggles of some description, which is why the area around your eyes has not been burned by the sparks from a welding flame.’

‘Aye, they have better protection now.’ He looked at the back of his wrists. ‘Longer gloves, for one thing.’ He touched his cheek. ‘And full face masks. And I
suppose once you had welding, with my accent, the Clyde is an obvious deduction.’ Watson nodded. ‘Simple when you know how. But, I was saying, I wasn’t always a priest. I lived my
life in the shadow of the devil, drinking and whoring. Until God visited me and gave me a good slap around the back o’ ma heid. Oh, I can’t explain it, given up trying. But I do believe
there are higher forces at work. I think those three men were misguided to try and contact the dead. Just like they were misguided in cutting their wrists and drinking that filth they brew in the
camp. But I’ll no’ condemn them for it, Major. Now, would you tell me why you are so concerned about their immortal souls?’

‘One of them, Archer, came to see me on the day he died. He asked me to go along to the séance. You might recall I was hauled out of line and carted off to Stubby, so I
couldn’t keep the rendezvous.’

‘And you think if you’d gone, you might have prevented the deaths?’

‘I suppose I do,’ admitted Watson.

‘It does not occur to ye that there might have been four bodies instead of three if you had started playing their foolish games?’

‘Not at all. I think I might have stopped them.’

Hardie gave a harrumphing sound that suggested he didn’t believe it. ‘I knew one of the men. Not Archer. Campbell. A Scot. A proddie, but a Scot. And a good man. He was convinced
that they could speak to the dead. And in the end, I gave up trying to persuade him otherwise. Because, as he said, if this war has snuffed out all those young, innocent lives for good, deprived
them all of an extra forty, fifty, sixty years of the one life on this earth . . . millions of them b’now . . . that that would be almost impossible to contemplate, wouldn’t it? So, he
took comfort where he could. Not in my God, but in Archer’s bridge to a better world.’ He drained his tea. ‘Now. Is there anything I can do for you, personally? Because I think we
should let those three dead boys be.’

‘No, thank you, Father.’

The priest stood and held out his hand, his impressive jaw jutting out even further as he spoke. ‘Anytime, Major. Anytime. And God be with you.’

When he was gone Watson lit one of his own cigarettes, swung his feet onto the cot and, right up until the call for
Appell
came, wondered why he hadn’t told Hardie the whole
truth.

Because you want to dig them up, Watson, don’t you?

‘My younger brother is a remarkable man,’ said Mycroft Holmes, filling his pipe. ‘Not as remarkable as he thinks he is. Not as remarkable as me, in my
prime.’ He gave a little cough. ‘Which I will allow you, I no longer am. But when my brother asks for my help with a little subterfuge, he doesn’t actually have to give me a
reason. I am glad to be of assistance.’

‘I heard you were dead,’ said Nathan.

‘You know him?’ Mrs Gregson asked, still fuming from the mistake. ‘You know Mycroft Holmes and you still thought he was Sherlock?’

‘I knew
of
him.
Of
him,’ Nathan snapped at her, irritated at his own misjudgement and at Mrs Gregson’s accusatory tone. ‘Mycroft Holmes was running the
British Secret Service before it was called any such thing. But we heard he had expired.’

‘Retired,’ corrected Mycroft. ‘Although it is much the same thing. I have no power nowadays other than to get my pink gin delivered at exactly twelve o’clock every day at
the Diogenes.’ He stared at Nathan. ‘You are right, I was once at the heart of Empire. Every secret document passed my way. I amended naval treaties and approved submarine trials. But
no longer. It was made clear to me long ago that my tenure was at an end. So, I am here to provide a little support for my brother. Is that a crime?’ He checked his pocket watch. ‘Now,
may I go? I have a luncheon.’

‘Damn your luncheon,’ Mrs Gregson exploded, causing Mycroft Holmes to raise an eyebrow and to cast a glance at Nathan, as if suggesting he should keep the woman on a tighter leash.
‘Do you know what your brother is up to?’

‘Now you listen to me, madam. My brother knew there were men waiting outside the club. Men who wanted to detain him when he was on his way to assist Dr Watson in a most delicate matter. Do
you think I stopped to ask him chapter and verse?’

‘Perhaps you should have,’ said Nathan quietly.

‘Sherlock Holmes is intending to offer himself to the Germans in exchange for Dr Watson, who is currently in a prisoner of war camp in Germany. Or perhaps you knew all this?’

Mycroft shook his head. ‘I am afraid not. I heard Watson had been caught up in the tank affair, along with . . .’ he furrowed his brow, dredging his memory. ‘Are you the woman
involved in that business?’

‘One of them,’ she admitted, thinking of Miss Pillbody. ‘Dr Watson – Major Watson – was captured while trying to apprehend a murderer and schemer. And now the offer
has come for this exchange.’

‘But why would they swap one old man for another?’ Mycroft asked.

‘Perhaps you can tell me. The man orchestrating the whole affair is called Von Bork.’

Mycroft jiggled, as if his nervous system had malfunctioned. ‘Good Lord.’

‘So, I suspect this isn’t about the war effort at all, Mr Holmes. I suspect this is something personal.’

‘Indeed.’ He frowned and looked around the room. ‘I want a telephone. It might not be too late to stop Sherlock.’

Nathan hurried out to try to locate one.

‘You think this Von Bork means Sherlock harm?’ Mrs Gregson asked.

‘Very likely,’ Mycroft replied. ‘But that isn’t what worries me.’

This sounded rather callous to her ears. ‘Really? What else could possibly matter?’

‘Von Bork was a clever spy, very useful to Germany, so we made sure we destroyed him. At least, Sherlock did. He returned to Germany with his reputation in tatters and everything he had
sent them for years made suspect. Of course he wants to do my brother harm.’

‘But?’

Mycroft finally lit his pipe. ‘But Von Bork won’t be doing this alone. He’ll need help from a higher authority. Or at least approval.’

Mrs Gregson was beginning to feel particularly stupid. ‘And?’

Mycroft puffed for a few moments. ‘Let’s say that there was a German Sherlock Holmes. A man famous the world over. Respected. Admired. In terms of public opinion worth fifty or a
hundred Barries, Hardys, Galsworthys or Wellses.’

These were the big guns of the literary world, still being rolled out to exhort the British public to continue the fight ‘to protect the English-speaking races’. Mycroft pointed the
stem of the pipe at her. ‘You know the Government pressed my brother hard, too hard, to join the ranks of the pro-war faction. I, myself, I am ashamed to say, encouraged him. But he refused.
He thought using the celebrity Dr Watson had conferred upon him to political ends was to cheapen his achievements in other fields. My brother can be infuriating.’

‘I know,’ she said.

‘But imagine if you were the Germans and Sherlock Holmes landed in your lap, as it were. Think, madam, think.’

‘Oh my good God,’ she said, as it dawned upon her.

‘The personal quickly becomes the political.’

‘Robert!’ she bellowed in a most unladylike manner. ‘Where is that telephone?’

The
Kaiser Kombinierte Dienstleistungen
Sporting Club occupied a Gothic mansion on Thüringer Allee on the western fringes of the city, next to the grounds of the
Berlin Ice Skating Club. The house had been designed by Karl Friedrich Schinkel, also responsible for the renovation and modernization of the Berlin Palace. He was a theatre designer as much as an
architect, and every area had the feel of a stage set. The dining room, for example, had a ceiling showing the heavenly constellations, as well as rich dark curtains dividing the space, also
adorned with stars. This was the room known as the ‘
Königin der Nacht
’ – the Queen of the Night – and even during the day it was lit by candles, the drapes on
the tall windows being kept drawn.

Von Bork had been in the building before, but not since his fall from grace. He felt himself grow a few centimetres as he strode in, another important step in his rehabilitation. He paused and
took in the marble Corinthian columns of the lobby, veined with gold, and the statues of German and Norse warriors that stood on intricately carved plinths. The walls were adorned with heroic
scenes from Wagnerian operas.

‘Shall we go through?’ asked Admiral Hersch.

Von Bork and Admiral Hersch were taken to the gloom of the Queen of the Night room and shown to a booth that, thanks to the great swathes of material suspended around it, offered first-class
privacy. As they passed through, Hersch nodded to some of the other members. Although it was a sporting club, there was only one sport that qualified an officer in one of the Imperial services for
membership. Even if one didn’t know which particular pursuit that was, thought Von Bork, the visitor would soon be struck by the number and variety of duelling scars on show. Not that
entrance was based on a current pursuit of the sport (although it was said the clearings of the Grunewald nearby sometimes echoed to the sound of steel on steel on misty early mornings) but in
having fought at least three duels at some time in one’s life. And survived, of course.

In the days before the war, the waiters in the room were exclusively male; now there was a smattering of women who, as a sop to the traditionalists, looked like men. The admiral, however, as a
member of long standing – the duelling scar next to his right eye was almost four decades old – was assigned Lachmann, an elderly Jew who was old enough to have served at the Siege of
Paris.

‘Admiral, sir, welcome,’ the old man said, fussing with the table linen as they sat. ‘Shall I fetch a bottle from the admiral’s cellar?’

Hersch nodded. ‘What’s good to eat today?’

‘The peppered beef, sir. Swiss, I believe.’

‘Sounds promising.’

‘Then might I suggest a Württemberg red?’

‘A Lemberger. Perhaps the Bergbauer ’95.’

‘Excellent choice, sir. And for your guest?’

‘I shall share with the admiral,’ said Von Bork.

Lachmann stiffened and pursed his lips. ‘It is the admiral’s custom to have a bottle to himself—’

‘Ach, don’t worry, Max. We’ll open a second if need be.’

‘Very well, Admiral.’ He gave Von Bork a look that made him lose those extra centimetres he had gained on entering the club. ‘So, two of the peppered beef? Excellent. And
perhaps the buttermilk soup to start?’

‘Yes. But bring us two glasses of Sekt and give us fifteen minutes alone before you start serving will you, Max?’

‘Peppered Swiss beef?’ said Von Bork after the snobbish old Jew had departed, his stomach rumbling at the thought. ‘I would wager there aren’t any other establishments in
Berlin serving that today.’

The admiral wagged a finger. ‘Don’t get socialist on me now. There is a streak of hair-shirtedness in you I don’t approve of. And there aren’t too many of those bottles
of ’95 left. But you won’t refuse a glass or two.’

‘If it’s not an inconvenience.’

The admiral laughed. ‘Max is very protective of my stocks, which have dwindled of late. You see, the war affects everyone. We must all make sacrifices. If we don’t finish this
conflict soon, I shall be all out of Chablis. Ah, thank you, Max.’ The waiter put down the two glasses of sparkling wine, gave a small bow and departed. ‘Good health,’ Hersch
said, raising a toast. ‘And I must say, you are looking well. Exercise and fresh air agree with you.’

‘Being back in the game agrees with me.’

‘The game? Ah, yes. And how is your snaring of the great Sherlock Holmes coming along?’

Von Bork took a sip of the Sekt. It was excellent, rich and biscuity, not the acidic muck that was served elsewhere. ‘I do believe that in a few days, he will be on German soil.’

‘Very good. Well, you must give me full details of where and when you plan to bring him over.’

‘Why?’ he asked, although it came out sharper than he intended. ‘Why, sir? This isn’t exactly official. And as you well know, as a rule, the fewer people who know about
an operation . . .’