The Man in Black
“What remains here, Mr. Holmes, is very much the provenance of the government of Great Britain, not her subjects,” the man said as he rose from his chair. He turned to direct his attention toward Gregson and added, “You have more than enough work to do, Inspector. First, we will cable South Africa and increase the security of all involved in the execution of the treaty. Now that we know what threats we face, it should be relatively easy to neutralise them.”
He then turned his back on the rest of us and reached for the door handle. As his hand touched the knob Holmes’s walking stick snapped against the wood, just above his knuckles.
“Your turn,” said he.
I held my breath, not sure how the official would react to Holmes’s temerity.
“Inspector Gregson, may I have a private word with Mr. Holmes and Dr. Watson?”
Gregson blinked once then rose and hoisted Frobisher and Haldaine to their feet. He rapped his knuckles once on the door to summon assistance and a moment later the door opened. A constable helped the inspector escort the two once-powerful men out of the room. As it closed, the man in black resumed his seat, seemingly unperturbed by Holmes’s demand.
“You come across like a very proper gentleman,” said Holmes. “But your accent reveals you were raised in Leeds and your mannerisms speak of someone forcing himself to behave in a particular manner, going against your more rough-and-tumble upbringing. The cut of your suit is a season or two out of date indicating you are well paid but do not refresh your wardrobe to remain fashionable. All we are meant to see is a nondescript figure in a black suit, inviting no further scrutiny. I, on the eye, look past that veneer. I see someone rescued from poverty and trained first at Oxford, as noted by your cufflinks, and now working for some arm of Her Majesty’s Government. The occasional flexing of your hands shows you would rather have administered a royal thrashing to these felons, but remain loyal to your masters.”
The unnamed man let out a single laugh and sat back. “Lord, Mycroft has you described to a T,” said he.
I did not recognise the name, but if its mention was meant to get a reaction out of Holmes, it failed, although there was a momentary flash in his eyes which I suspect I was the only one to catch.
“I suppose Her Majesty owes you some form of an explanation,” he continued. “Your family has done much for Queen and country and might need your services in the future so let us consider this the beginning of a dialogue.” He reached across the table to one of the map cases, opened and then unrolled it to reveal a map of the region where the fighting between the British and the Boers had occurred.
“There were four major conflicts in this brief war,” the man said. I nodded, recalling the rushed history lesson we had received only days earlier from Professor West. “That is to say there were four battles that were reported. There were, in fact, five.”
Holmes nodded, but I am sure I gaped at the man. A fifth unknown battle seemed impossible. How could such a conflict have evaded public attention? He continued with his lecture, tapping a finger at a symbol labelled “Majuba Hill”.
“We offered peace on February 21st and the Transvaal independence was guaranteed. Paul Kruger agreed and President Brand of the Orange Free State endorsed the deal. That is the known history. The problem lay in the fact that Major-General Colley was slow to relay the news. The Majuba Hill battle took place, which delayed the peace timetable until March 4th this year, when the negotiations began at O’Neil’s Cottage. That was enough of a black eye to the Crown so when another battle took place, another humiliating defeat I should say, it was kept quiet.
“This fifth battle was joined between Schuinshoogte and Majuba Hill as Colley’s successor in command sought refuge at Mount Prospect. He was without the cavalry, and lacked sufficient ammunition. The ground was too steep, making it impossible for the twelve hundred men to successfully protect their flank. This area became a killing zone as the advancing British infantry were exposed to Boer fire from both the front and right flank. It was ugly, Mr. Holmes. None of our men made it closer than maybe fifty yards from the Boer positions, and they made a rather disorderly withdrawal under intense fire. What followed was a massacre.”
I stared at the man, unable to believe what he was saying.
“Given the location, this event became known as the Sorrow’s Crown Massacre. A small portion of the Naval Brigade that had fought at Majuba, some twenty naval troops from HMS Dido and HMS Boadicea joined their army brethren amongst the dead. There was only one poor man who survived the attack and he was horribly injured. He lasted long enough to make a full report. Once it reached the Admiralty and then Her Majesty, it was determined not to publicise a defeat sustained in a battle that occurred when everyone believed a ceasefire was in place. It would not have looked good for us, needless to say, and might have jeopardised the peace. As a result, the Queen herself insisted the report be classified, never to be revealed. The files of those men lost were ‘adjusted’, erasing any trace of evidence that the battle had ever taken place. The surviving officers are subject to a set of secret laws and should anyone so much as mention the Battle of Sorrow’s Crown, they will be arrested and tried for treason.”
I sat stunned, unable to formulate a proper response to the revelation of such a heinous action. How could this be my country? My mind drifted back to Mrs. Wynter, desperate to believe her son was anything but a deserter. We had the proof of the matter, but could we ever tell her?
“Now, I have a question for you, Mr. Holmes. How did you find that which we had worked so hard to ensure no longer existed?”
“There is always a trail of connections, seen and unseen, sir. One simply needs to know how to interpret the signs. I believe, were one to exhume the graves of Mount Prospect Cemetery near Majuba Hill one would find more bodies than the official records from the February 27th battle could account for. Dr. Watson here interviewed comrades of our missing man, who confirmed that he never returned to the Dido. Inquiries into his whereabouts met with lies and obfuscation. I believe that is where he lies, along with several of his fellows who were likewise listed as deserters.”
“So, you divined a secret battle and an international conspiracy, simply because you were looking for one missing sailor,” the man said. It was not a question.
“Yes,” Holmes agreed. “Now, in the spirit of free and frank exchange, I have a question for you, my unnamed friend. Given your presence here and knowledge of our activities, you clearly represent some covert arm of the government. I desire to know how you became aware of my investigation.”
“Ah, that’s easy enough to answer, Mr. Holmes. We, like the late Mr. Chatterton-Smythe, have ears at the Admiralty. We already knew that a certain Mrs. Wynter had been making inquiries into the disappearance of her son. But you proved far more successful. I began studying you and following your actions from afar. Had you needed help at any point we would have come to your aid, but you seem to have a fondness for younger, and less law-abiding assistance.”
I chuckled out loud at the idea that the government allowed the street urchins to do their dirty work. On the other hand, I was getting quite perturbed at the number of people who had been following our trail. Hampton’s men, Nayar or his kin, the Irregulars, and now it seemed some secret branch of the government. This provoked a chill down my spine.
“Actually, sir,” said I, interrupting the exchange. “A little assistance might have been welcome when Hampton’s men were stalking and attacking us.”
Holmes tightened his lips at that and we eyed the dark-suited man. “Again, you seemed to take it well and those unauthorised attacks occurred early in your investigation. Had they continued, we might have stepped in.”
“What of Hampton? He’s got to pay for sending those blokes after us,” said I.
“I suggest you check Mr. Hampton’s accounts,” said Holmes. “We were informed that Wynter had been paid through July, but if he died in February, who received those funds? I suggest to you that it was arranged as a sort of retainer for Hampton, funds he could use to recruit his men when necessary.”
Ah, yes, I nodded in agreement. It was all getting tidied up now.
“True. Be assured that within a day or two, Mr. Hampton will no longer serve in Her Majesty’s Navy and finding employment should also prove difficult. As for the men, to actually do his bidding they were following orders so I will see that their advancement opportunities are now curtailed.”
I made a noise to indicate my overall dissatisfaction with the plan but saw little else that could be done.
“Let me put it another way: why do you exist?” Holmes asked flatly.
I stared at the man, not at all expecting any sort of a satisfactory answer, but curious to see how he deflected Holmes from his course.
“Great Britain has enemies, Mr. Holmes. Powerful enemies. We are here to serve in our own way.”
There was another lengthy silence as the unspoken prospects filled the air.
“Now, gentlemen, I have work to do, so I need to know, before we open that door, if you will agree to keep every word of what you have discovered, from the true nature of Disraeli’s death to the events at Sorrow’s Crown, a secret? I cannot cut out your tongues, which would solve my problem most expeditiously.” He laughed, although I was not entirely sure he was joking. “But I know more than a little about you both. You are of good character and have done much good work in your own way. As it stands, Her Majesty owes you a debt for exposing the illegal mining and the deeds of those three men, but before I can allow you to leave this room she needs your promise of discretion.”
He paused, letting the words fill the air and settle around us. I knew my own answer, but could not be sure that Holmes would acquiesce.
“Let me speak plainly—we are all men of the world here. If you disagree, or at some later date say something inappropriate, we will have little choice but to destroy you.”
It was a cold threat, but one I knew he could and would keep, which unleashed a chill shiver and set it to running from the nape of my neck all the way down to the base of my spine.
“You owe us a debt,” Holmes said. I closed my eyes, dreading the next words to leave my companion’s mouth. “It is one I am minded to have you pay immediately. Dr. Watson and I will agree to your terms but only on one condition.”
“Name it,” the man in black said.
“As we have said, this all began with the search for the whereabouts of Lieutenant Norbert Wynter, late of the Dido, one of the casualties of Sorrow’s Crown. Someone not only did him the disservice of listing him as Missing in Action, but went so far as to besmirch his name with whispers of desertion.”
“While I have a great many powers, raising the dead is not among them.”
“You may though, possess the ability to bring a measure of peace to his widowed mother,” Holmes countered. “I want his record restored, his reputation burnished, and his mother properly accommodated for not only losing her son, but for her long months of uncertainty and anguish.” The man nodded.
“I will go one better. When you return home, you should find a receipt for your next two months’ rent already paid.”
I gaped at his knowledge of our financial straits but chose to remain silent, lest I jinx our good fortune. A man with that many resources at his disposal was not to be trifled with and I admit knowing he had such easy access to our intimate doings was most disquieting.
The deal was done swiftly and within a heartbeat, the case was closed. Holmes had once more done the seemingly impossible.
The man knocked twice on the door and within moments, two identically dressed men presented themselves. They flanked Holmes and me. Our host said, “Now, Doctor, I would appreciate you turning in your journal. I am afraid I must insist that no published record of any aspects of this case be revealed. While I appreciate that you are a man of your word, and your character is unimpeachable, the Crown would feel more comfortable if it was in safe keeping. This is not a request, Doctor.”
I had rarely felt so menaced in such a calm manner. The mere presence of these men, so close to me, was not comfortable, nor was the dead, cold stare of the man in black for all his mild manners. He walked forward, hand outstretched. I wanted to argue but knew my words would be ignored.
Rather than waste my breath on a futile argument, I reached into my coat and withdrew the journal. The man took it from me, flipped the cover open to verify I was handing over the appropriate volume, and then pocketed it. I thought of the notebook in which I had transcribed the interviews with Wynter’s comrades and Miss Caroline Burdett, no doubt sitting in plain sight in our sitting room in Baker Street, and hoped he would not ask whether I had any other writings the Crown would prefer remain hidden. I did not think I could lie convincingly to this man.
“Thank you, Dr. Watson,” he said. “I truly have enjoyed your stories of Mr. Holmes’s other cases, and genuinely regret that I will not be able to enjoy your account of this adventure.” He nodded once in our direction and then turned on his well-polished heel and strode out of the room with his comrades.
Holmes and I were suddenly alone for the first time in I could not recall how long, and I was feeling a broiling mixture of emotions, uncertain of which one to let out. As their footsteps receded, a feeling of exhaustion came over me and I knew all I wanted was to return to Baker Street and sleep.
“That was underhanded, Holmes,” I finally said.
“Indeed, but all very legal it appears,” he said.
“Are you not bothered by these secrets? Nearly two dozen dead men with wives, parents, siblings, and children all ignorant of what became of them!”
“Of course I am, Watson, but I am sanguine enough to realise there are things we can control, and things that are beyond our purview. I am not at all interested in being engaged in politics and state secrets. We are more useful employed helping people like Mrs. Wynter. The sum of our employment was to find the truth about Norbert Wynter and that we have done, and done admirably well. Strip away everything else we have experienced and learned, and take pride in the fact that we have accomplished what we set out to do. Mrs. Wynter’s son’s reputation and memory will be returned to her.”
He was not wrong, but then he so rarely was.