The Seventh Bullet (24 page)

“To Beveridge and me, he even mentioned a third party.”

“You see, Watson. Which is why Mr. Buchanan is on his way home—where he believes he will be safe. I think we can be sure of that.”

Having come this far only to lose him seemed unfair. Yet we still had a chance, I knew, despite my antipathy to the motor car. As little as I wanted to admit it, this Renault, prototype of twentieth-century scientific knowledge, would enable us to get our man, a myopic wrongdoer relying on old-fashioned steam to outrun us—or so I tried to convince myself—and once the familiar brick buildings heralded our approach to Woking, I did feel more at ease, for soon we would be at Basingstoke and starting the long final stretch downward toward the sea.

Indeed, once we began descending, the landscape seemed to
race past even faster; and, noting the squat tower of Winchester Cathedral in the distance, Holmes consulted his pocket-watch, from whose chain dangled the gold sovereign given to him by Irene Adler for witnessing her wedding.

“Eleven-fifteen, Watson. There’s still time.”

As we motored into the city itself, however, the Renault slowed its pace, and Holmes and I exchanged distressed glances.

“Petrol!” the driver snuffled.

“What?” Holmes demanded, hitting the seat with his fist in raging disbelief.

“Petrol, guv. We can’t continue without it. I tried to warn you earlier, but you seemed in such a hurry.” Once more he wiped his nose on his sleeve.

The next valuable minutes were spent searching for a garage at which to purchase fuel. There were no further displays of temper, but I had never seen Holmes so furious. He simply sat. Only when we were back on the roadway did he even look at his watch again, and then he hissed from between clenched teeth, “It’s doubtful now, Watson.”

Hurtling down the uneven carriageway, we sped past horse-drawn wagons whose drivers were forced to pull their conveyances to the side of the road to prevent their animals from bolting at the roar of our machine. When at last we discerned the Itchen, Holmes edged to the front of his seat. When we saw the houses marking the outskirts of Southampton, he again looked at his watch; it was now 11:45; but even as he checked the time, we clearly heard the sharp blast of sirens announcing the ship’s imminent departure.

Beyond the low buildings before us, we could see the four great funnels towering above her decks; but much closer at hand,
we also observed a great congestion of motor cars and hansoms blocking our way. The Renault was forced to stop again.

Holmes tossed more money on the front seat and swung open the door. Immediately we were struck by the roar of cheering throngs. “Wait here!” Holmes commanded the driver; to me he cried, “Hurry, Watson!”

A second siren blast, however, told us that we were too late.

Even if the grand ship had not started to move just then, the thick wall of humanity on the White Star Dock would have prevented our reaching Berth 44 and the mountainous steamer whose dark bows loomed so high above us. Hundreds—no, thousands—of people had come to see her off. They crowded the thoroughfares; they filled the decks of neighbouring boats. Amidst the din of shouting and clamouring and from behind a chequered field of waving black hats and fluttering white handkerchiefs, all Holmes and I could do was stand by and watch, relegated from our role of missionaries of justice to one of mere spectators.

We could actually distinguish the Blue Peter being run up the fore yardarm in addition to the houseflag, a red swallowtail pennon with the famous white star at its centre, already hanging from the main mast; and the red, white, and blue of the French Tricolour dangling from her foremast since her immediate port of call was Cherbourg. We could easily have counted the white lifeboats suspended from their davits above the sundeck that ran fully two-thirds of the ship’s great length. There were people on the quay who ran alongside her for a while, the band of gold that girdled her paralleling the extended pier below.

“If I have anything to say about it,” Holmes said in exasperation, “awaiting Buchanan in New York at the end of his week’s voyage
will be a telegram to detain him signed by Chief Inspector Hopkins of the C.I.D. With references to the second bullet hole at Van den Acker’s, the first edition of the Viereck book planted at the murder scene, and the
Post
story on Buchanan and Goldsborough, we can at least hope that such a message will present a significant legal obstacle for the senator until more facts about Altamont’s criminal connection to Buchanan are revealed.”

“I hope you’re right, Holmes,” I said. “But Hopkins won’t be easily convinced to send such a wire.”

“A little bit more time to build the case is all I need.”

“I hope you’re right,” I repeated, watching with resignation as our quarry fled from English soil.

In the same instant, a choir of triple-valved whistles drowned out the cheering populace.

“The tugs of the Red Funnel Line,” Holmes observed as he pointed to the small boats manoeuvring the ship down the River Test. “It would appear that even the gods are against us, eh, Watson?”

Only after reading the names of the little boats did I perceive his meaning:
Neptune
and
Vulcan
took the lead, followed by
Ajax, Hector,
and
Hercules.

Just then, however, pandemonium erupted. Amidst a rapid series of explosive reports, the crowd surged towards the railing of the quay.

“Watson!” Holmes shouted. “That ship has snapped her ropes! She’s heading straight for Buchanan’s! The day may yet be ours.”

The
New York,
a smaller steamship moored nearby in Berth 38 of the Test Quay, had indeed wrenched free. The water displaced by the larger ship that was passing had forced the former to bob
and then to break the bonds to a third ship to which she herself was tied in tandem. As a result, after sending her thick cables arcing high into the blue sky, the
New York
began to swing out her stern, closing the distance between herself and Buchanan’s ship steaming by.

The spectators pressed forward, silent now in anxious anticipation. My heart too was racing since for all the world a collision between the two ships seemed imminent. It was, I feared, the
Camperdown
and the
Victoria
all over again.

“God knows, I wish no harm to the innocent,” Holmes said, “but even the most minor contact would require a return to port for inspection.”

In the briefest of moments that it took for the scenario to unfold, however, the tugboat
Vulcan
was hooking her thick ropes around the
New York’s
stern and slowing her down. The larger ship also co-operated, ponderously reversing her direction. With the help of the remaining tugs, the
New York
was towed around Dock Head where she slid safely into an Itchen berth.

Although disaster had been avoided by mere inches, Holmes shook his fist in the air.

“Blast!” he ejaculated. “Nothing short of blind luck prevented that impact, Watson. And to what end, I cannot fathom.”

Once more on course, Buchanan’s ship now steamed slowly and almost silently down Southampton Water at half speed, past the docks and hospital on one side, past the beaches on the other, ready to make the turn into the S-shaped channel leading out to sea.

Amidst the raucous and almost disastrous send-off, the tooting of the tugboats’ whistles, and four blasts of the great ship’s sirens, we could only stand and watch this gargantuan ocean liner, a
city unto itself, greater in length than the Singer building in New York stood tall, ease gracefully towards open water. Holmes and I, feeling quite dwarfed, remained speechless as we viewed the four proud funnels disappearing in the distance.

As I sit now and pen this narrative some ten years after the event, it is ironic to recall how, during the frenzy of that near accident, I regretted the absence of a writer like David Graham Phillips to record the impending collision as he had that of the
Victoria
and
Camperdown;
but since in fact the two ships before us had so miraculously avoided each other, I could only assume that the rest of Buchanan’s journey would be uneventful and would therefore go unreported. Unreported indeed! Not able to foretell the future, Holmes and I had stood mute on the crowded dock, witnessing R.M.S.
Titanic
sail off on what the world knows now was her maiden voyage to oblivion.

“Truly, never is the human race so delightfully, so unconsciously amusing as when it discusses right and wrong.”

—David Graham Phillips,
Susan Lenox

“M
y Dear Mrs. Frevert,” Holmes read aloud to me over afternoon tea a fortnight later when I was visiting him once again in Sussex. “The secrets surrounding your brother’s death went down with his murderer aboard the
Titanic.
Dr. Watson and I ascertained, just as you had divined, that a conspiracy to assassinate your brother did in fact take place and that Senator Millard Pankhurst Buchanan was at its head. He admitted to his complicity when I confronted him here in London upon our return to England. That a circumstantial case against him could be constructed I have no doubt; that such a case could be adjudicated in our favour I have grave misgivings. With the death of Buchanan’s secretary Altamont, there seem no leads available to confirm Buchanan’s treachery. Besides, with Buchanan himself
drowned, there seems little point in pursuing his culpability. After all, justice has been served. The murderer of your brother has been brought before a greater court than any you could ever hope to find in America or in England, and if there is a God in heaven, the assassin must stand guilty as charged. You have done honour to the memory of your brother, and your nation should be much cheered to have courageous souls such as yourself residing within her borders; but in the name of common sense, let me implore you to keep your celebrations as private as possible, for there are many police authorities who would not look kindly upon the carelessness—intentional or otherwise—of their own investigations being made public. Buchanan has found a watery grave; justice, as well as the waves, has brought him low.

“Think no more of fees. To help clear up so heinous a blow at freedom is payment in full.

Yours sincerely,
Sherlock Holmes

“Well, Watson, what do you think?” Holmes asked as he peered over the sheet of foolscap he was holding.

“Surely you’re not going to post such a letter?” I responded. “Despite your caveats, Mrs. Frevert could easily take it to the police as some type of evidence and demand public justice. She might even present it to an unscrupulous newspaper. Mr. Hearst would love to get hold of such a story. Unable to prove the facts, you could become a laughing stock.”

“You are a faithful friend, Watson,” Holmes said with a broad smile. “Always trying to protect me. But rest assured. I wrote the letter and then decided, just as you did, that it revealed too much
that couldn’t be substantiated with Altamont dead and Buchanan presumed so. Instead, I sent Mrs. Frevert a telegram. Read this. Holmes leaned across the table and handed me a copy of the wire he had dispatched.
Mrs. Frevert
[it read simply].
Rest assured. Justice has been served. Case closed.
It was signed
Holmes.

“Much improved,” I agreed. “Besides, your letter really didn’t explain all that we have come to know.”

“Ah, my good fellow,” Holmes said between bites of one of Mrs. Hudson’s biscuits, “ever the detective. And just what do you detect that I have disregarded?”

“Why, only the link between himself and so many other members of the United States Senate to which Buchanan admitted,” I said.

“And if I had posted the letter, Watson, what good do you think implicating others of that institution would have accomplished?”

I thought for a few moments. It was a weighty question requiring a considered reply. “Surely, Holmes,” I said at last, “a murder conspiracy involving members of the United States Senate deserves to be uncovered. After all, we have a dedication to finding out the Truth. That is why we have aided so many unfortunates in the past, is it not? Justice demands it.”

Holmes smiled. “You know I detest sentimentality, Watson. Still, to your former observation, I assent. But not to the precept that the Truth must always be made public. Sometimes in the affairs of state, individual matters need to remain concealed to allow for the greater good. David Graham Phillips understood that obligation. He might not have liked it, but at least he understood. I believe it was Miss Emily Dickinson, the celebrated American poetess, who wrote, ‘Tell all the truth but tell it slant, success in circuit lies.’
Not even Phillips himself advertised the large sum he was paid by Hearst for attacking the hypocrisy of the Senate.

“But more to the point, Watson, what do you think might be the international consequences—the damage to the relationship between our two mighty nations, America and England—if a British consulting detective and his compatriot successfully revealed to the American people that a prominent journalist had been killed at the behest of many in—and at the instigation of at least one member of—their most distinguished governmental brotherhood? Might England herself suffer not unlike the messenger in Caesar’s time who was killed for delivering unhappy tidings? After all, look how Phillips was vilified for attacking the Senate. No, as I trust I have implied in my laconic wire to Mrs. Frevert, necessity suggests that we too put this case to rest.”