Four

Tea with Lord Rowton

Holmes got out his pipe, stuffed it with tobacco, not too tight, not too loose, and lit it. He did not say a word for many minutes, clearly troubled that a solution had yet to present itself. Eventually he turned to me and said, “Disraeli was deeply involved in the Boer conflict and no sooner does it begin than he is out of the House of Commons and into the Lords, only to succumb to a rapid decline in health. This decline means that he is no longer a voice of dissent when the Queen and Gladstone choose to abandon Africa.”

“How do the Czar and the American President fit into this? Surely neither country cared one whit about the war?” I asked.

“Intriguing as a global conspiracy might be, I should think this is a mere distraction from the meat of the matter,” Holmes said. “Instead, we should focus on Disraeli and to do that, I am of the opinion it would be worthwhile examining his medical records.”

I gaped at him, and surely my jaw dropped open at the suggestion. “You cannot be serious?” But he obviously was. “It was one thing getting Wynter’s records—they were easily accessible to a man such as Newkirk. But this is a prime minister we are talking about.” I shook my head.

“The man is dead and I sincerely doubt he would object to such an invasion of his privacy, especially if our examination turns up evidence that he died from something other than natural causes. In fact, I daresay the British people might want to know if a beloved figure was taken from them earlier than nature intended.”

It was an astonishing suggestion. Could Holmes truly believe that Benjamin Disraeli might have been murdered and that our investigation was somehow related? It was absurd, and I said as much.

“As a doctor, I would expect you to want to know the truth and as a British subject I would think that would double your interest.” His tone brooked no argument. This was a line of inquiry he was determined to follow no matter where it led him. “How hard will it be for you, a veteran and a member of the medical community, to find some way for us to inspect those records?”

I had to pause and consider. “Damned near impossible, I should say. I will need to determine who treated Disraeli during his final illness, and the identity of the coroner.” The most obvious way to find the former was to ask my colleagues in the medical community, but I was reluctant to so soon after a similar series of inquiries into Wynter’s records. I did not want to run the risk of having suspicions raised this early in the investigation. After all, my name had been linked to Holmes in the popular press. If it became known that I—and by extension my companion—were trying to lay hands on the former prime minister’s medical records, it would raise more than just an eyebrow in certain quarters.

I stoked the fire, and then spent an hour beside the hearth consulting my army medical notes and appointments book in search of the right man to reacquaint myself with. I daresay things would have gone more quickly had I a proper clerk, or even an organised filing system, but my practice had been rather haphazard since my discharge.

After some time, I came across my notes regarding the treatment of Captain Colin Westfall, with whom I had served in Afghanistan. Suddenly I was alert, searching my memory for a piece of information that I knew lay somewhere in my recollections of that time. A passing comment, made under canvas… I had nursed him through a fever brought on by a tarantula bite, and we had spent several days together, the last of them—once Westfall was over the worst of it—playing cards and talking of our lives at home. He was going on about how close he had come to people of importance while doing nothing of the sort himself.

Clearly, he was feeling low, the ravages of war and all that. It may have been merely a spider’s bite but it occurred while doing Her Majesty’s business far from home. I had inquired about those people he felt were of more importance than himself. He had some sort of connection, but I was confounding myself with not being able to conjure up the exact detail.

Then I had it. Westfall had mentioned a most tenuous connection to the prime minister; he was related to Montagu William Lowry-Corry, who had been Disraeli’s private secretary until the latter’s death.

In his fevered mind, being a soldier was of less import than secretary to the PM. One risked his life, the other merely avoided paper cuts, so in my mind there was no real comparison and I said as much to encourage his spirits. The little talk seemed to help him in some small way. I hoped he would recall me with kindness.

I resolved to get in touch with Westfall as soon as possible. But first, I needed to find out what the official record had deemed to be Disraeli’s cause of death. All I could recall was pneumonia and gout, but I had a vague recollection there was more to it. I left Holmes burning his way through boxes of foreign cigars and filling our rooms with a variety of combative odours.

* * *

I made haste to St. James’s Square and the London Library, glad the unseasonal rain had abated, intending to seek out an old acquaintance: Lomax, the sub-librarian. The structure, by Thomas Carlyle, was always impressive to my eyes, with the sweeping grandeur of knowledge alive within its brick and mortar shell, but I did not pause to admire it that day. Instead, I hurried within and sought out my friend. As usual, he was rushing about, his spectacles askew on his sweaty face, his thinning hair flying every which way as his heels echoed out a tattoo on the cold stone floor that was a music all of its own. His suit jacket was threadbare around the cuffs and needed mending, I noted, but in his world there was never time for such things.

As he placed two thick volumes on a dusty shelf, he caught sight of me and broke into a weary smile. We only ever tended to meet these days when I needed something.

“Dr. Watson, so good to see you again,” he said in a soft voice.

I matched his volume and greeted him in turn, holding out a hand in friendship. He took it, then gestured that I follow him until each book in his care was safely back in its place. Finally, he led me to the tiny desk; at least I think it was a desk. For all I knew, it was merely a surface designed to hold the clutter of papers, journals, and more books in need of attention. There was no place for me to sit so I stood as he took his own small, well-worn wooden chair.

“I assume you need help with some matter of research, and while I am more than happy to avail myself, surely whatever you need would be more easily found at the Royal College? We are just a humble resource here.” Indeed, the Royal College of Physicians was to be my next stop, but I felt the anonymity of the London Library would better suit my needs.

“Indeed, but the subject of my enquiry is rather delicate,” said I. “I need back issues of all the London newspapers that covered the period when Disraeli died—say from the beginning of March until the end of April.” The request earned me a curious look, but when I was not forthcoming he merely nodded and scurried off into the stacks.

Thankfully, it only took him a few minutes to find the relevant periodicals. He returned and placed the thick bundle in my outstretched arms, before leading me to a small cubicle, away from the general traffic of the other patrons. The light from the green-glass banker’s lamp was dim, forcing me to hold the papers closer than was comfortable. With my journal at the ready, I proceeded to relive the final tributes to one of the truly great figures of modern history.

Benjamin Disraeli, it appeared, had long suffered from both gout—as I had recalled—and asthma, which was new information to me. Both were chronic conditions and in March, the latter appeared to develop into a nasty case of bronchitis. He took to his bed and on Easter Sunday he began to decline. He was incoherent by the following Monday, finally slipping into a coma from which he did not wake. There was little detail on his final days; his physicians had refused to comment on their patient’s condition to reporters.

Reading on, I found it interesting that those in charge of his estate had refused a state funeral. Instead, there was a much more modest service held in his estate’s church in Hughenden on 26th April. Despite her grief, Queen Victoria did not attend, sending only primroses, apparently the man’s favourite flower. She also preferred to allow his various titles lapse into oblivion rather than pass them on to his surviving relatives.

All of this struck me as most curious for a beloved popular figure. That got me interested, or perhaps my time with Holmes had made me more suspicious about the world within which I lived.

I leant back in my chair, frustrated at the lack of detail concerning Disraeli’s condition at the end. I felt a growing desire to read the man’s medical files for myself and was now determined to see this through, folly or not. I thanked Lomax in a whisper and hurried out of the London Library. It was time to track down Captain Colin Westfall of the 66th Regiment of Foot.

* * *

Finding my former comrade and patient proved to be one of the easiest tasks of the entire affair. The regiment was stationed in London and I was able to send him a note, inviting him for a drink the following evening and he rapidly accepted.

I was at something of a loose end the morning of our meeting; Holmes was off on some errand, the nature of which he had not divulged, so I was left to my own devices. Rather than sit in our stuffy rooms, I decided to hire a cab and pay Mrs. Wynter a visit. With no newspaper reports of her son’s death, Holmes and I knew little of his life outside the Royal Navy, his friends or even lovers. Perhaps his mother would be able to paint me a picture of her son, the better to aid our inquiries.

Much of Shoreditch was distinctly middle class, but the streets on the periphery had seen better days. The street where Mrs. Wynter lived was ill lit and distinctly down at heel. I felt somewhat uncomfortable calling without an appointment; I hoped that as a woman alone she would be glad of my presence.

I rapped on the door and heard it echo through the house. I knew to be patient, having noticed during our interview that she moved slowly, the result no doubt of arthritis or rheumatism. A minute passed but I waited, hearing movement from within. Finally, the footsteps grew louder and then the door opened. Mrs. Wynter squinted in the daylight but her eyes widened when she recognised me.

“Dear me,” she said. “Have you found Norbert?” She was wearing old, well-worn clothing, dark in hue, clearly not intended for public view. The grey hair remained in a bun, held with some ornate comb. She was without jewellery, her expensive baubles no doubt tucked away until she next needed to impress someone.

“Not as yet,” I replied, with as much confidence as I could muster.

“Oh, do come in,” Mrs. Wynter said. She did well to mask her disappointment. She stepped back, pulling the door with her and I entered the hall, which was cool and full of shadows. It spoke of a once prosperous life, now fallen into disuse, surfaces covered by a thin layer of dust. The old woman beckoned for me to follow her into the sitting room.

“Shall I put on some tea, Doctor?”

“You needn’t bother, ma’am, I daresay I shall not keep you long,” I replied.

“But I do want to hear what you and Mr. Holmes have discovered.” Her voice was eager, making her sound younger than her years. I had to couch my words carefully so as not to offer the widow false hope.

“At present, Mr. Holmes and I are pursuing separate avenues of inquiry, gathering up as many facts as we can ascertain. Once gathered, Mr. Holmes will put his keen mind towards deciphering what it all means.”

She nodded once, the resignation clear in her dull blue eyes now.

I outlined where we had been and what little we had managed to verify. She nodded at each point and took it all in, seemingly satisfied with our efforts to date.

“If you have nothing new to share, may I ask why you made the journey all the way out here?”

“When we first met, we spoke about Norbert’s disappearance as a case but not about Norbert as a person. I would like to know something more about the sort of man he is.” I was very careful to refer to the man in the present tense; I did not want her to think that we thought him dead. Mrs. Wynter deserved our facts not our speculation. Even so a large part of me feared we would never find her son alive.

At my words, she brightened considerably and adjusted herself in her seat. I took out my notebook and pencil, gesturing with them in her direction, silently asking permission to take notes. She nodded and then began.

“As I told you and Mr. Holmes, we had Norbert late in life. That did not deter him from having a robust, playful childhood. My husband liked to sail so Norbert grew up as comfortable at sea as he was on land. It seemed inevitable he would enlist. He was just twelve when his father died. We were fortunate that my husband had left provision for his schooling. Norbert went to the Royal Navy College for cadet training until he was fifteen, then spent a further four years training on the Britannia.”

When she fell silent, I asked her about close friends. She allowed that once he entered Her Majesty’s Royal Navy he was rarely at home and whatever friendships there had been fell into disuse.

“Has he a sweetheart?” I ventured.

Mrs. Wynter smiled at the question and turned to the small table beside her lace-covered chair. She reached for a framed photograph and presented it to me. In the frame was a picture of a young, moustache-less Norbert Wynter, not yet a lieutenant but in a midshipman’s uniform. Standing beside him was a young, slim girl of perhaps twenty. She had long, curled dark hair and was gazing more at her beau than at the photographer. At a glance, I could see she was in love with him.

“Her name?”

“Caroline Burdett.”

I recorded the name, knowing I needed to seek her out to see if she possessed any correspondence from Norbert that might provide us with clues.

“Are they engaged?”

“I know it had been discussed but I do not believe he obtained her father’s blessing before shipping out on the Dido. They would have made a splendid match.” I could see dreams of grandchildren filling her eyes, mixing with the welling tears that were forming.

“Do you remain in contact with Miss Burdett?”

“Not at present,” Mrs. Wynter allowed. “Once we were told he was missing, she has not been to visit.”

“Is there an address where I may find her?”

I was given an address that I knew to be near the Quaker burial grounds and rose to head directly there. In normal circumstances it was a relatively short walk, no more than thirty minutes from Shoreditch to Islington, but because the air was thick with humidity it made it an uncomfortable one.

I knocked twice on the front door and a servant answered, surprising me, since I expected the family to be of similarly modest means as Mrs. Wynter. She was wiping her hands on a cloth, traces of flour on her cuffs and stray hairs sticking out from a white cap.

“Is Miss Caroline Burdett at home?”

“Who should I say is callin’?” she asked in a thick cockney accent.

I gave her my name and card, which she snatched from my outstretched hand, and led me to wait in the hall. The house was in a far better state than Mrs. Wynter’s home and it was clear the Burdett’s fortunes were still on a solid footing. Well-oiled older furniture stood side by side with far newer, more expensive pieces. It was a bright and welcoming place, which began to lift my spirits.

Caroline Burdett came down the hall, looking almost the same as she had in Mrs. Wynter’s photograph, trim and well appointed in a green frock. She was certainly the most attractive woman I had interviewed in quite some time. She extended a hand in a forthright manner, which I took, and then she led us to a sitting room.

“How may I help you, Dr. Watson?” she asked, her voice soft and pleasant. She would be quite the prize for Norbert Wynter, should he have survived this ordeal.

I briefly outlined how Holmes and I had been engaged by Mrs. Wynter, and as I spoke, I saw her brows knit, eyes clouding over. As I completed my report, she nodded.

“And how do you feel I can be of help?”

“You see, miss, while no one piece of information will solve this mystery, the more details we collect about Norbert, the better our chances of finding his whereabouts. I would like to hear, for example, about the sort of man he is. After all, mothers describe their children with more bias than impartiality.”

Miss Burdett laughed knowingly at that and seemed to relax as she settled herself comfortably into her chair. “Norbert was a caring man. He gave most of his pay to his mother and although we had come to an understanding, he could not afford a ring until he was promoted and his salary increased. Being in the navy, he explained, meant I would need plenty of patience.”

I nodded, feeling great pity for her situation. She spoke of Norbert Wynter in the past tense, so clearly she, unlike Mrs. Wynter, had come to a fatalistic conclusion regarding her fiancé’s fate.

“He loved the sea, and the navy. He had the spirit of adventure and I daresay it began to rub off on me.”

“What about his habits?”

She frowned at the question and considered before responding. The servant by then had come in with a small silver tray laden with the makings of a light tea. Miss Burdett poured, clearly stalling to compose her response. I took the proffered cup and saucer and waited her out.

“He was always punctual which I daresay came from his training aboard ship. He knew the bells by heart and was always at the dinner table promptly.” Again her laugh filled the room. “He never kept me waiting, more I him. He was maybe a little too casual about his dress when out of uniform but then again, he never had much to spend on his personal attire. He drank no more or less than any other man and was always the model of decorum with me.”

At that last, her eyes darted from mine so I suspect that may have been a slight exaggeration of the truth but it was also an indiscretion that did not factor into the case. If anything, it implied he was devoted to her and other women were not likely to be found in London or any other port he visited.

“Money was always a concern for him. He wanted to save for our future and he wanted to provide for his mother but I could tell from his correspondence there were problems.”

This was news. Money, or the lack of it, was often the precipitating cause of many of the cases Holmes and I had undertaken. But was it a factor here? Wynter had disappeared while serving, not while on shore leave. Still, I knew that a fact, no matter how seemingly inconsequential, should not be discarded so early in an investigation.

“I knew Norbert was a Navy man through and through,” Caroline Burdett said. “My father is a fisherman and I knew we would be parted for long periods of time. I saw his service on the Dido as a test of our love and one I believe we would have passed had he… had he returned.”

This pronouncement finally caused a break in her composure but she attempted to cover it with a sip of tea.

“What do you think happened to your fiancé?” I asked quietly.

Holding the cup between her pale hands, Miss Burdett shook her head, clearly mystified. She then met my eyes once more and asked, “Do you believe he’s still alive? His mother has heard such ghastly things. I cannot believe he would run, so I am forced to admit, I have given him up for dead.”

“I cannot make a promise,” I began. “I can say that we are doing our utmost to uncover the truth. Dead, wounded, or whole, hero or coward, we will find out which sort of man he truly is or was. Tell me, you mention his correspondence. Did the two of you write one another letters?”

“Of course. It took some time between replies given his ship’s movements, but yes, it was regular.”

“Did you detect anything amiss?”

“No, nothing except his money worries.”

“Did you keep his correspondence?”

“Yes, of course.”

“I don’t suppose you would consent to let me or Mr. Holmes read his letters? Perhaps there’s something of significance that has escaped you.”

Again there was a hesitation and a silence. Finally, she shook her head. “There are… private things in those letters,” she said in a quiet voice.

“I understand,” and I believed I did. “Well, did he mention anyone, any close friend aboard the Dido? Maybe he could help our investigation.”

Miss Burdett gave me several names, which I immediately committed to my notebook. I thanked her, and thought to leave, but paused.

“How are you faring, Miss Burdett? I imagine it has been a terrible strain.”

“I am well enough, Doctor. As I said, I am accustomed to waiting, although the darkest possibility remains the most likely one and makes the waiting harder.”

“Perhaps it is a mercy. You are still young.”

She nodded. “My father keeps saying that. He wants me to think no more of Norbert and find another. But it is… difficult after you have given your heart to another.”

“Indeed it is,” I said softly. “But you do find a way to move forward and welcome new possibilities.” I sipped once at my tea to be polite and then rose, as did she, taking my hands into her own.

“Thank you for helping that sweet woman,” Caroline Burdett said. “She will be destroyed if Norbert proves to be a coward.”

“But you do not believe that to be a possibility?”

Without hesitation, she shook her head and I saw in her eyes conviction. He had given her no reason to think he would have changed from the man she knew. I, however, knew war could change a man.

“I sincerely hope that will not prove to be the case,” I assured her.

I returned to 221B Baker Street to find that Holmes was out once again. There was no message so my time was my own. I spent the afternoon with my notes, a cup of Mrs. Hudson’s tea, and some nagging doubts as to what had become of Lieutenant Norbert Wynter.

* * *

I met Captain Colin Westfall that night at a small pub near his posting.

The man still had the same ruddy complexion I remembered, but he had filled out, adding a good two stone to his already thick frame, as well a bushy moustache that hid his thin lips. He still looked good in the uniform; it suited him. We shook hands, his clammy, and I ordered two pints as we caught up on each other’s doings. He had an easy laugh and found humour in almost everything.

“Any ill effects from that bite?”

Westfall shook his head. “I was fit and ready to fight within days. I daresay I had hoped to find its lair, but I never saw a spider again my entire tour.”

“Mayhap they knew you were looking for them,” I said and we both shared a chuckle at the notion.

By the second pint, I thought it was time to get down to business. As much as we were enjoying our reminiscences, he knew I had not reached out to him simply to rehash our shared past. Carefully, I steered the conversation to Gladstone and the current political strife. “It was certainly different when Disraeli was in charge,” I offered, dangling the carrot.

“God rest his soul,” Westfall said, tipping his glass.

“Indeed,” I agreed. “If I recall, weren’t you the chap who was related to his secretary?”

“That’s right,” said he. “Lord Rowton is my mother’s second cousin or some such. A distant relation.”

“Do you still consider this distant relation of more importance than yourself?”

Westfall gave me a queer look and cocked his head. “What’s all that?” he inquired.

“When I was treating you, you were going on about this distant relation who was more important than you were and I tried to point out that it was you risking your life, not him.”

“Can’t say as I recall any such conversation,” he said.

“Well, it could as easily have been said while under the spider’s influence,” said I. “There’s little surprise in you not recalling things said while ill.”

He finished his glass and eyed me closely. “And this is why we’re talking? Something to do with my family?”

“Yes,” I admitted, but he merely laughed.

“I knew it! No one wants to meet up and talk about Afghanistan. I certainly don’t. I knew you were slowly getting around to your point. I don’t mind even if I have no idea if I really had those thoughts. After all, you pulled me through those days and I survived to come home. So, tell me, what do you want with Cousin Rowton?”

“I am working with a gentleman on something that requires some discretion and I am hoping you might make an introduction for me,” I explained.

“Is this about his lordship or his former employer?”

“The latter, I’m afraid,” I admitted. Westfall’s eyes widened at that.

“The man is dead and buried; what could you possibly want with him? Trying to commune with his spirit?” He broke into a loud peal of laughter at his own weak joke.

“I would really rather not explain in public, but trust me, everything we are doing is with the utmost discretion.”

“Who are you working with?”

“His name is Holmes. He is a consulting detective.”

“Never heard of that title, ‘consulting detective’. Is he with the Yard?”

I shook my head and signalled for a third round of ale. “He is a private citizen, but lends his services to the constabulary, both the City of London Police and the Metropolitan at Scotland Yard. But this is a more private matter as we are trying to locate a missing Royal Navy sailor recently posted to South Africa.”

That seemed to get his attention. There’s a bond between men in uniform, brothers in arms. We try to never leave a man or his body behind. What we hope is done for us someday we try and do for others.

“And a missing seaman is connected to Disraeli’s death? That sounds fishy if you ask me.”

“As well it might be,” I agreed. “But I can assure you, Mr. Holmes and I are working diligently to track down every lead and one of those avenues of investigation leads to Disraeli’s final days, so I am hoping you can vouch for me with Lord Rowton. I would dearly like to hear some details in person.”

He considered for a few moments, let the barmaid put the fresh glasses before us, and then took a long pull.

Finally, he put it down and smiled.

“You’re not going to tell me more, are you?”

I shook my head.

“I can respect that, Doctor. Let me send his lordship a note. I have to say that we haven’t seen one another in at least a year, so I can’t make any promises. He made an appearance when I returned from Afghanistan, though, so he is at least aware of who I am.”

“I will be forever in your debt,” I said, finally taking a taste of the third and final glass of the evening.

“Nonsense, Doctor. You helped me and now you’re helping another man in uniform. That’s good enough for me. The fact you’re keeping mum—that just shows you’re a man of your word.”

We shook hands to affirm our agreement and I relaxed, knowing that I must soon join Holmes in the unpleasant task of waiting for things to happen.

I have never enjoyed waiting.

* * *

The following morning we were both rather irritable. Holmes had exhausted his supply of foreign cigars, although the lingering reek would take several weeks of humid summer air to fade. That would mean enduring more of Mrs. Hudson’s complaints about the odour but there was little to be done about it. His notes were carefully filed away for future use although I suspect he wanted someone to smoke an imported cigar before the case played itself out, just so that the folly might prove useful.

He paced our rooms with an increasing tempo, which began to grate on my nerves. He rejected my suggestion of playing his violin and I found it necessary to caution him from criticising Mrs. Hudson when she tried to bring him some unwanted victuals.

For myself, I had done what I could and now had to wait to see if Westfall delivered on his promise. Even if his message reached Lord Rowton there was no surety the former secretary would consent to a conversation with an unknown doctor about such a delicate matter. In an effort to distract myself, I spent the morning reading more about the Boer conflict from materials left for us by Professor West. It was dry academic stuff in the main, but it made clear that the British military strategy had failed at every turn. If I were in Parliament, I too would have wanted this conflict brought swiftly to a conclusion and brushed under the carpet.

“Confound it, Watson, there must be something else we could be doing?” Holmes said in the strained voice of a man slowly going out of his mind.

This was rather an odd set of circumstances. In the normal course of things, it would be Holmes who was out and about, making inquiries and speaking with his growing connections. Instead, he had been forced to wait for me to use my superior network of connections to find us paths to follow. He is a man of action, so sitting idly by, waiting on the happenstance that Lord Rowton acquiesced to his relation’s request, was more than he could manage.

His ill mood coloured my own, since, as I noted earlier, waiting is not a strength I possess.

“We have gotten nowhere with the Admiralty so we are now studying his last tour of duty,” I said gently, in measured tones. “I am sitting here re-reading about the battles to better understand where young Wynter may have gotten himself. Thankfully, the Dido’s whereabouts are well documented.”

“Which makes the absence of one man all the more curious,” Holmes interjected.

We sat in silence until finally he returned to his feet and reached for his hat. “Carry on with what you are doing; I will use my time more wisely.” I offered a raised eyebrow. “I will be out gathering materials for future experiments,” Holmes explained.

“Ah,” I said. “Very good. But please see that you do not burn down the building should I be out when you return. I am loath to admit it, but I’ve grown very fond of Baker Street in our short time here.”

* * *

That was the last I was to see of Holmes for some time.

After supper I received a card from Westfall, delivered by a young soldier, confirming that Lord Rowton would be willing to see me the following day at the House of Lords library. Apparently, he was visiting from his castle in Shropshire, which was providential as it would save our investigation considerable time. I wished Holmes were present to rejoice in the news but his whereabouts remained a mystery to me.

I did not sleep particularly well that night, worrying in no small part as to where Holmes might be, and convinced he had taken refuge in an opium den rather than face the prospect of being bored. But sleep I did, only to wake far from refreshed.

I fussed all morning with my attire, brushing my suit and shining my shoes. I was about to take tea with a baron, a man who stood in the shadow of greatness and remained a confidant of the Queen. It was not every day one found oneself in the presence of such power.

I ensured promptness by taking a cab, leaving an hour to spare, which meant I had to pace the streets a good while before entering the Palace of Westminster. A smartly attired young aide escorted me to the library, a series of attached rooms, each with its own name. There were wooden shelves neatly stacked with leather-clad volumes from floor to ceiling, most with cracked spines, showing they were actually consulted rather than left to gather dust.

We passed through the Queen’s Room and Brougham Room on our way to the Truro Room, the smallest and least occupied of the spaces. Two red leather chairs of high-backed chesterfield design were to the right of a large fireplace, and there, reading The Times, was Baron Rowton himself. He was not an especially tall man, but his brushed back hair and full, greying beard were immaculately manicured. He was in a suit, complete with waistcoat and bow tie, much as he had appeared when serving Disraeli.

Upon seeing me, he rose and shook hands, placing his left hand around my forearm in a familiar embrace. “A pleasure to make your acquaintance, Doctor. Please, sit.”

I took the proffered chair. The leather was supple and had the ingrained aroma of wax. Being summer, the fireplace was empty, and a nearby window was open. We were alone.

“I am to understand you did my family a service,” Montagu William Lowry-Corry said.

“Just my duty to a fellow soldier,” I said.

“Still, Britain and his mother appreciate your efforts. And now comes the time to repay your service. How may I help you?”

I had been mentally rehearsing the key points I wanted to raise without ruffling his feathers or calling undue attention to the case, but it was difficult to know precisely where to begin. After all, this was a bit of a stretch and on the surface would seem absurd to those with a traditional outlook. I decided to be circumspect at the outset before making what was sure to be seen as an outrageous request. I knew that his lordship had begun his career as a lawyer before his outgoing personality brought him to the attention of influential Conservatives, including a comparatively young Benjamin Disraeli. I would start with flattery.

“First, much as you appreciate my own small service, I have to express my admiration for all that you accomplished, both at the bar and then with Lord Beaconsfield.” I deliberately used his title as opposed to the more familiar name, Disraeli.

“It was a pleasure to serve so great a man,” Lord Rowton said.

“Quite so, and I read how you rushed back from Algiers to be with him in those final hours.”

“It was pell-mell getting there, but it was well worth the effort and I would do it again in a heartbeat. We worked together since 1865, a full year before I was appointed his secretary—can you imagine that, side by side for sixteen years? It would have been wrong not to be with him at the end.”

“Did it not strike you as odd how quickly he failed in the end?” I asked carefully.

He eyed me a moment and then broke into a smile, reminding me of his easy-going cousin. “Of course, as a doctor you would be most curious. I lack the medical training, but yes, those last days seemed to move with terrible swiftness.”

“While bronchitis is nothing unusual, the delirium and comatose state I read about in the press seemed unusual,” I ventured, choosing my words carefully. “Did his personal doctors have any concerns?”

His lordship narrowed his eyes in thought, stroking the length of his fine beard, then shook his head. “Nothing I can recall. If they had concerns, it is safe to say they did not share them with me. Of course, as I intimated, I got there with barely hours to spare and was not much interested in his condition prior to my arrival. All that mattered to me was that I was on hand to say a proper farewell.”

“Understandable, my lord. Your loyalty to him, of course, has been well spoken of. After all, few would take no compensation to remain in his lordship’s employ.” I was referring to the period between the first and second Disraeli administrations. Even now, after his public service was brought to an end with Disraeli’s death, Rowton had continued to serve Her Majesty, and his activities had taken a rather philanthropic turn over the last few months.

“I don’t mind admitting that I find your questions curious, Doctor,” Lord Rowton said. “Is there something about his passing that you wish to learn?”

“Very insightful of you, sir,” I said. “Are you familiar with a man named Sherlock Holmes?”

Another pause as he looked over my shoulder, thinking. There were murmurs in the adjacent room, members of the House arriving. Finally, he returned his gaze to me.

“He’s some sort of detective, am I right? I believe the phrase my cousin used was ‘consulting detective’. A most curious profession.”

“Holmes is a most curious man,” I said. “I’ve never known anyone quite like him.”

“As you might imagine, I made inquiries into him before agreeing to meet and there are more than a few people in Her Majesty’s Government keen on his work.”

“Indeed, sir. Holmes has proven rather useful to the police of late,” I said with some pride.

“And in my own circles, I seem to recall he has proven useful in more private matters,” he added. I nodded. “So let us cease with this beating around the bush. How, pray tell, does this inquiry of yours relate to him?”

I summoned the words to make my request sound as rational as possible. “I have come to assist Mr. Holmes on his investigations and right now we are looking into the disappearance of a sailor who vanished during the Boer conflict.”

“I see.” He waited patiently for me to explain, his expression placid though perhaps a tad curious.

“There appears to be some question as to his actual whereabouts,” I continued. “The Royal Navy has him officially listed as Missing in Action, but we can find no documentation to support that or any witness who can confirm when he was last seen. Admiralty staff have intimated that the MIA designation is an honourable cover for desertion. We are investigating on behalf of the sailor’s mother, who is convinced, as mothers are wont, that her boy could not have abandoned his men.”

“I appreciate your work on behalf of this man’s mother,” his lordship said.

“Clearly something is afoot because we are being physically harassed to cease the investigation,” I said.

That caught Lord Rowton’s attention and his eyes widened. “The Admiralty has been interfering?”

“Not in an overt way, no, sir,” said I. “Out of uniform ruffians attacked Holmes and myself, and their meaning was perfectly clear.”

“I see. But what on earth could this possibly have to do with Lord Beaconsfield?” asked Rowton.

“I realise that the link may not be apparent. I myself cannot see it. But Mr. Holmes is a man of singular vision and thought. He sees connections that beggar the imagination of normal men like us, and he has seen a thread that he believes if pulled will lead from this young man’s disappearance in Africa to the death of the late prime minister.”

“That is a preposterous notion, my good man. Impossible.”

“A most reasonable sentiment, Lord Rowton,” said I. “Holmes suspects the sailor of having been killed in some sort of action that Her Majesty’s Government does not want the general public to know. Surely you harbour a few such secrets.”

He did not articulate his reply but the brief nod of his head gave me all the confirmation I needed.

“Someone is trying to capitalise on Africa’s instability. Holmes believes whoever is behind all this also wanted to blunt Lord Beaconsfield’s voice in the House of Lords during much the same period. Mr. Holmes is attempting to find evidence to connect the two events.”

“That’s quite the assertion, Doctor Watson,” he said. “Yes, there was a question or two about his deterioration but not a living soul in attendance suspected any form of foul play.”

“They are not trained as Holmes is,” said I. “He sees what the rest of us overlook.”

“What is it this Holmes wants to see in relation to this matter?”

“We are hoping you might grant us access to Lord Beaconsfield’s papers.” I took a deep breath and then added, “And perhaps his lordship’s medical records.”

Lord Rowton did not mask his astonishment. “You do realise, Doctor, how genuinely absurd this request sounds? Gladstone was prime minister when this sailor went missing and Lord Beaconsfield was merely the leader of the loyal opposition for a brief period and had nothing to do with military matters.”

His reasoning was perfectly sound and I needed to press my case quickly lest he refuse any assistance. “If you would be so kind, any papers would be useful.”

“It really is quite a preposterous request,” Rowton said, and then stopped himself and leaned in towards me, fearsome intelligence glittering in his old eyes. There was no hint of world-weariness in them. On the contrary, I saw myself across the table from a daunting foe. Now there were merely inches between our faces. “You have my attention, Doctor.”

I shifted uncomfortably in my chair, trying to sound as reasonable as possible. The last thing I wanted was for him to think he was in the company of a delusional fool. “As I said, if you know of Holmes’s reputation, sir, then you no doubt know he is quite exceptional in this field, and while he may not confide all in me, I trust him enough to assure you that if he thinks there may be a connection, then there just may be. I will add, quite frankly, sir, that as a physician, I find the manner of Disraeli’s passing curious. Access to those records would put my mind at ease and if it also provides us with a clue then that is all for the good.”

Lord Rowton sat in contemplative silence and I decided I had made my case, both for Holmes and for myself. I chose to let him consider what had been said and would abide by whatever decision he reached, whether or not Holmes would be satisfied. It was the best that I could do.

“I will admit now that I have had some time to consider those sad days, it does appear to have happened quickly, but excellent physicians and a renowned coroner were at his side both during and after his passing. I cannot believe they were at fault, or that some shadowy assassin’s hand was at play. It is quite unthinkable.” I braced myself for his refusal. “But he was my friend, and if there is even a shadow of doubt concerning his final days I owe it to him to shine a light upon it. Fresh eyes upon those records could be no bad thing, and one military man to another I appreciate what you are doing for that man’s mother. She certainly deserves the truth, whatever it may be.”

I sat still, certain if I moved I would break the spell and he would recant everything he seemingly just offered.

“I do not know if you are aware, Doctor, but his Lordship left me all his papers. They do not include the medical notes of his doctors relating to his last days—for those you must look elsewhere—but you may find something pertinent to your inquiry. They are currently at my home. I will make arrangements to have them brought into the city for your examination should you so wish. Now I think of it, I have a copy of an article by Dr. Kidd that you may find illuminating, which I will include with the papers. But for my own peace of mind, I will keep my man nearby to retrieve them.”

I nodded. “Of course, sir. That is a wise precaution and I thank you so much for your help.”

“Our lot is one of service, Doctor, and I am all too happy to help where I can, knowing that in doing so we may be helping my friend and ultimately, the Crown,” Rowton said, rising to his feet, a clear signal our meeting was at an end.

* * *

Despite being nearly an hour away on foot I chose to walk back to Baker Street. I immediately regretted it given the heat and humidity. Perspiration ran down my neck, irritating my collar, but something also was pricking at my neck. Slowly, I turned my head and had a sense I was being followed. I could not identify my pursuer but I was certain of it. Holmes would no doubt have determined the man by his footfall and likely what he had for breakfast but I had to accept what my senses were warning me of.

I returned to Baker Street, quite unmolested having never spotted the tracker, feeling both dizzied and ecstatic at having obtained the support of so prestigious a figure. That we were being granted access to the Prime Minister’s papers was nothing short of miraculous. In truth I had not allowed myself to contemplate success in this particular endeavour, so as better to avoid the crushing disappointment of failure, but Holmes’s growing reputation was paying unexpected dividends.

Such thoughts were quickly swept from my mind as I entered the building only to be assaulted by the rank odour of charred wood.

My feet propelled me up the seventeen steps, my heart beginning to pound, my mind racing. As I opened the door to our sitting room, the smell grew in intensity.

My emotions were in a flux as I saw Holmes carefully sweeping a pile of ash onto a small glass slide before transferring the still-smoking heap to his scales. I could have killed him, which given my fears of only a heartbeat before was the very definition of ironic.

“What the devil are you doing now?” I asked, doing my best to sound calm. My best really wasn’t all that convincing, I must admit.

“Supper will not be for a while,” Holmes explained, “so I decided to expand my studies from cigars to wood. It is a natural extrapolation after all as arson is one of the many crimes we have to be prepared for.” My companion was a very peculiar man. “In this case, I strolled by a nearby construction project and took some measurements. I then acquired a discarded piece of timber and doused it with alcohol, the most common type of accelerant. It was all done under quite controlled circumstances. As you requested, I have endeavoured not to burn down the building.”

Speechless, I merely took a seat and watched as he measured and then made some notations and computations in a notebook. He appeared satisfied with his experiment and carefully brushed the now useless ash into a basket. If he were half as meticulous with the cleaning of the sitting room we would have had no call for Mrs. Hudson’s tender care.

Finished with his work, Holmes took the seat opposite my own, fixed the makings of a pipe, and lit it, drawing deep on yet another flavour of smoke, before he indicated he was finally ready for my report. Quickly, I outlined my meeting with Lord Rowton, drawing a single nod from Holmes during the entire account. When I concluded, he slowly smiled.

“While the government can be more efficiently run, no doubt, it is good to hear that there are some servants who never stop serving. Lord Rowton will, I hope, provide us with the clues we need to advance this case, for without more information, I fear we may fail Mrs. Wynter.” I could not argue with that. “There’s a good chap, Watson. We shall dine together and then I shall take an evening constitutional and see what may transpire.”

“Speaking of walks, I had the queerest feeling of being followed after my meeting,” I said.

Holmes looked up, his brow already furrowed with concern. “That is most curious as I too was shadowed while out earlier.”

“The bounders from earlier?” I inquired.

“Not the same men, that is to be certain,” he said. “But then again, Hampton must have a large contingent to summon for such extracurricular work.”

“Are we in danger?”

“At present, I should think not. We are being followed, that is all. We have given them no reason to think the people responsible for Wynter’s disappearance are about to be exposed. Indeed, I should think the man following you had no clue as to who you were meeting with or how it might connect to Wynter’s case. No, Watson, I think for now we are merely being observed. However, should we grow closer to an answer, we should be on the alert.”

I slumped in my seat, worried he was being the master of understatement. I would have to keep my wits about me until this matter was resolved. For now, though, we were safe in our rooms and the aroma from supper was blessedly beginning to displace that of the charred wood.

At the time it sounded an innocent enough evening, but in truth it was the beginning of the next phase of the investigation. It did not take long for either of us to realise just how deathly serious this matter was about to become.