Queen Anne Street, April, 1918
Watson was startled out of his reverie when the doorbell chimed, for no one in London knew he was back. He had deliberately not announced his return and even the tradesmen and suppliers weren’t aware that he was home.
He answered the door curiously and found Sherlock Holmes standing upon his doorstep, leaning heavily on a handsome walking stick.
“Watson, my old friend. You don’t think you can possibly slink back into London without my knowing about it, do you?”
“I should know better, I suppose,” Watson said slowly, still dazed and puzzled. “Holmes…what on earth are you doing here? And where have you been? You’ve been knocked about a bit, I see.”
“It’s quite a tale and one you deserve to share. I have a car waiting and a small adventure to finish. It’s only the dénouement, I’m afraid, Watson but would you like to be in on it? I can bring you up to date on the way.”
Watson felt a small flare of enthusiasm, the first spark of a positive emotion he had felt in many long weeks. “I wouldn’t miss it for the world,” he said simply and reached for his coat.
“Bring your revolver, Watson!” Holmes shouted, already several yards along the pavement.
* * * * *
Watson was startled to find Chief Inspector Tobias Gregson sitting next to the driver in the luxurious vehicle Holmes led him to.
“Good grief,” he muttered and held out his hand. “Gregson, you haven’t changed.”
“Good to see you, Watson and I wish I could say the same for you. You look ill-used, old man.”
“Yes, yes, there have been some trying times,” Watson agreed awkwardly and turned eagerly to Holmes as he settled beside him, the stiff leg jutting awkwardly. “Where are we off to?”
Gregson murmured directions to the driver, who got the car under way.
“I’ve only just returned to London myself,” Holmes replied. “I have to report in to my superiors.”
“That would be Mycroft, then?”
There was a small silence.
“I see I shall have to start at the very beginning,” Holmes said and proceeded to tell Watson of Mycroft’s assault and the events that propelled him aboard a boat for the Middle East.
Watson listened to the narrative with growing wonder.
“Is Mycroft still alive?” he asked hesitantly.
“I saw him myself, late last night and they say he is doing well.”
“Did you discover who was responsible for this assault?” Watson demanded.
“I did,” Holmes assured him.
“Who?”
“Ah…well, you must indulge me for a while, Watson. I’d like to play this one out. Besides, I have yet to report to Lord Stainsbury and the tale is a long one. I’d rather not weary myself with telling it twice over.”
“The Holmes of old,” Watson observed wryly. “I have missed these little dramas of yours.”
“Yes, the Holmes of old is back,” he answered. “Ah, here we are!”
The motor car pulled to the curb and they exited, Holmes using the walking stick and taking the weight off his injured leg almost completely.
Watson observed this and cleared his throat. “I’d like to look at that when you have time, Holmes. It doesn’t look good.”
“I’ve been using it too much, I’ve been told,” Holmes said cheerfully, “so I have been favoring it as much as I can, when I can. But later, Watson.”
Watson contented himself with Holmes’ implied promise and followed him into the smart, modern commercial building, with Gregson behind him.
In the foyer a clerk came forward and asked their business.
“Lord Stainsbury is expecting me,” Holmes declared. “Tell him Sherlock Holmes is here.”
The clerk hurried away and shortly afterward, a man taller than Holmes himself appeared. He came toward them, his hand outstretched. “Holmes, it’s good to see you. I must say that after months of silence I’m astonished you’re here. I had expected you to send regular reports.”
“They would have defeated the purpose of my going out there in the first place,” Holmes said dryly. “How should I have sent the reports back to you?”
“Through the normal channels…ah! I see your point. The normal channels were already compromised.” Stainsbury shook his head ruefully. “Forgive me, it is anxiety that forces me to such lack of thought.” He looked past Holmes. “Gregson.” A nod.
Holmes turned a little. “And this is…my doctor, Watson, just lately returned from the Western front himself.”
Again, the nod, then Stainsbury glanced at the cane in Holmes’ hand. “Trouble?”
“Much of it, my lord,” Holmes said with a smile. “But let’s not stand about in the entry hall discussing king’s business.”
“No, of course not,” Stainsbury agreed and led them down a wide corridor to a large office with mahogany furniture that glowed with care and polish. A deep button-back leather couch provided seating for Gregson and Watson, while Stainsbury settled himself against the front of his desk.
Holmes pulled both visitors’ hard chairs out and rearranged them to his satisfaction before lowering himself to one of them, then carefully lifting his splinted leg to the other. The cane he rested against his hip.
“I am naturally agog,” Stainsbury said. “Your assignment was successful?”
“I have discovered the turncoat and dealt with him.”
“Good. It is as Mycroft thought? The anonymous donor was the blackguard?”
“Not at all. It was the coordinator of the group who was to blame.”
“The Turk! I find that hard to believe. I met the fellow when he was here. Young, retiring, eager to please.”
“He was quite genuine when you met him, my lord. The Germans got their hands on him not long after that and I believe they bought his loyalty. Even in the short time I had dealings with him I noticed Zeki’s fondness for the luxuries of life.” Holmes pursed his lips. “I shall tell the tale as it occurred so that you understand my every deduction and conclusion.”
And so he did. Watson listened, fascinated, as Holmes described his journey to the Orient and his return to Constantinople. The unraveling of the clues astounded him and very discreetly, Watson withdrew a notebook from an inner pocket of his coat and began to make notes, the habit asserting itself almost unconsciously.
Lord Stainsbury interrupted. “After Zeki’s confession that he was Armenian, you were completely happy that he was genuine?”
“Certainly,” Holmes responded.
“Then you had no reason to question his loyalty again and certainly nothing to justify your assumption that he was actually working for the Germans.”
“On the contrary,” Holmes said. “The events that occurred shortly after that proved conclusively Zeki was a German agent. After establishing the connection between Hadiya and the Divine Wind, I set out the very next morning to search for the Divine Wind and when I found him, ten days later, the Germans attacked the camp. By that time I had confirmed that Hadiya and the Divine Wind were the same man.”
“You spoke to him?” Gregson interjected, surprised.
“Certainly. He was at the camp of the Bedouins. He was enraged that I had bought Germans upon them when the Germans to that point had failed to find them despite constant hunting, and he was correct. I did bring the Germans upon them. I was shot and captured during that raid and on the long trip back to Constantinople, I had time to think it through. I must have been followed from Ankara.”
“That was careless of you, was it not?” Stainsbury remarked.
“I took precautions against being followed,” Holmes returned. “But I believed at the time that the chances of having someone upon my trail were so remote only cursory preventions were necessary. The Germans were clever enough to work around them and find me again. They followed me into the heart of Anatolia, although I naturally never saw a sign of them. Again, I was lax in my precautions out there. I had told no one but Zeki where I was going and he had proved he was worthy of my trust. I was completely convinced by his tale, because it was true. I’m quite sure that if you were to investigate, you would find that Zeki’s family was part of the forced Armenian relocation. The horror Zeki suffered is genuine but his love of money proved superior.
“When I was outlining my plans to find the Divine Wind, Zeki explained he must stay in the city to help Fairuza, the agent who had been taken while we watched. I believe he was either Fairuza’s friend, or possibly her lover. That is how Von Stein found out about Zeki. Fairuza never spoke a word while in captivity but her background would have been investigated and Zeki’s name would have emerged. His shock and distress over her capture were quite genuine. It was that authenticity that convinced me he wanted to stay in the city for altruistic reasons and I let him stay.”
“But how could he be genuinely shocked?” Stainsbury asked. “He must have turned her in to the Germans.”
“Oh, they knew about her long before that. Zeki’s entire network had been compromised from the beginning and had been turned against us. It was only Hadiya’s dissenting reports that tipped Mycroft off. Zeki reported to his superior, who either was part of the high command in Berlin, or else was closely associated with the high command and it was Berlin that passed the information onto Von Stein when they were ready for Fairuza to come in.
“They timed it beautifully. As soon as I drew close enough to be a genuine menace, they pulled her in. They knew I could never be allowed to speak to Zeki’s agents and start putting together the entire picture. They would have dealt with the last remaining agent in the same way, had he not seen to the task himself.”
“But this is appalling,” Stainsbury remarked. “The intelligence network out there was obviously a complete waste of time and resources.”
“Not for the Germans. They could feed us any information they wanted us to know via our own network. It was a perfect situation for them. A direct conduit to the English ear, as good as a telephone and far more trusted by both sides.” Holmes dismissed the objection with a wave of his hand.
“The day I set out for Ankara on the weekly train, Zeki must have sent up the red flags and Berlin shot into action. Von Stein was given his orders and he obeyed immediately. Before I had even left Ankara, I must have had a tail. Zeki is the only one I told where I was going. It was he who betrayed me. He betrayed all of us.”
“It’s a slim thread upon which to hang a man,” Gregson pointed out.
“Ah, the legal necessities of proof,” Holmes uttered. “You have a legitimate professional concern there, Gregson, and it is a concern I held myself. But Zeki’s later actions were proof enough. Hadiya observed him chatting with Von Stein immediately after his ‘arrest’ and Von Stein told Hadiya Zeki had given him my real name. That would have been enough for any mortal man but Hadiya pointed out that Zeki may have been desperate to preserve himself and offered the information as a means of holding the Germans at bay.
“So I tested him. I had Heinz, Von Stein’s assistant, ask him directly if he worked for Germans, or the English. Zeki confirmed he worked for the Germans only and the manner of his answer must have utterly convinced Heinz, for when he walked him across the square shortly after that I was watching through the sights of a rifle and saw Heinz offer Zeki a cigarette. It was the signal Heinz and I had previously arranged and when I saw it, I acted upon it.”
“‘Acted’?” Stainsbury queried.
“I shot him,” Holmes returned.
Watson found his pencil had paused. He looked up, shocked.
The silence in the room was profound but it did not seem to ruffle Holmes. He stared back at Stainsbury with no hint of guilt or discomfort.
“You executed a man based on the word of a German?” Stainsbury said.
“On the word of a man who hated duplicity and wanted only to go home and escape the awful necessities of a war not of his choosing. Double agents are not to be trusted. Heinz knew that and gave the signal to me for the sake of his country.”
“I suppose, given the circumstances, it was appropriate,” Stainsbury said slowly.
“Zeki was a spy,” Holmes said harshly, “and knew very well what he risked with his deceptions. The Germans had no compunction about executing Fairuza as soon as her use had expired. I merely returned the favor.”
Stainsbury cleared his throat. “You appear to have been very efficient in the clearing up of this mess, Holmes. You’ve found the man responsible for Mycroft’s condition and managed to sweep the board clean of black pieces at the same time. This Hadiya…he will continue to report as he has been?”
“Hadiya’s time in the city has come to an end. He’s a known factor now. He has returned to the Bedouins and taken up his role as the Divine Wind on a permanent basis.”
“I hope you thanked the man—he’s literally saved your life and saved England from further embarrassment. As you say, it was his independent reports that alerted us to foul play out there.”
“Yet you were convinced it was Hadiya who was the turncoat,” Holmes pointed out.
Stainsbury smiled. “Yes, that was rather foolish of me upon reflection, wasn’t it?” He stood up. “I must see to something rather urgent,” he said. “It won’t take a moment, if you don’t mind,” and he moved toward the door.
But Holmes, with his leg across two chairs, was neatly blocking the direct path to the door.
Stainsbury went to step around him, to move through the narrow passage between Holmes’ chair and the wall. Holmes’ walking cane came whistling down in front of him. The end thumped against the wall.
“Actually, I do mind. Considerably so,” Holmes said quietly. “I’d much rather you didn’t tell Germany everything I have just revealed to you.”
“What on earth… What is this?” Stainsbury declared, showing mild irritation.
“It is a curious omission you have made, my lord. You very carefully didn’t ask me who Zeki’s superior was or where he got his orders from.”
“Holmes, I demand you let me through at once,” Stainsbury demanded.
“Watson?” Holmes said, not turning his gaze away from the lord who towered over him.
Watson pulled his revolver out of his pocket and obediently cocked and aimed it at Stainsbury.
“Holmes, have you gone out of your mind?” Gregson spluttered.
“You should be examining Stainsbury, Gregson. He has avoided my very direct question.”
“Zeki’s superior? You said Berlin was directing him,” Stainsbury said impatiently.
“I didn’t say that at all. Watson, I’m quite sure you have your notebook out by now. Did you record what I said?”
“I think so, Holmes. One moment.” He turned back a page, then another, then grunted with satisfaction. “Here it is, Holmes. You said Zeki reported to someone who either was part of the high command in Berlin, or else was closely associated with the high command.”
Gregson stood. “Holmes, you can’t accuse a member of the House of Lords and a hard-working part of the war office of…of…”
“Treason,” Watson supplied helpfully.
“Yes, treason!” Gregson finished.
“That is exactly what I am doing,” Holmes replied, his voice low and intense. “I have proof that Zeki’s superior was none other than you, Stainsbury. I suggest you sit down and listen.”
Stainsbury’s face had grown red with rage and he did not step away from Holmes, nor did his gaze move.
Watson stood too. “If you please, Lord Stainsbury.”
The man glanced at the gun in Watson’s hand, then returned to the chair behind his desk.
“You’d better make sure he doesn’t have a revolver or two tucked within easy reach of his chair, Watson,” Holmes suggested.
Watson searched the desk drawers and withdrew a gun from the drawer, which he handed to Holmes, who glanced at Gregson, who still stood, his eyes wide. “Do you find it strange a man such as Stainsbury should have a gun in his desk?”
“It’s wartime, Holmes. Don’t be ridiculous,” Stainsbury said cynically.
“This is London,” Gregson said quietly. “The war is not being held on English streets. Even I do not keep a gun in my desk drawer.” He sat down again.
“He does underline an uncertainty, though,” Holmes agreed. “So let me prove my point quickly and close the case. It has taken me much thought to put this together from the few tiny clues available. Stainsbury has been very good at hiding and made very few mistakes. Each mistake was miniscule but it is enough to leave me with no doubt.
“Stainsbury had much to do with Zeki’s original recruitment. He told me that himself, before I left London. It was, he said, the reason why he was sure Hadiya was the bad agent. I’m certain that during Zeki’s orientation here in London, Stainsbury quietly bribed him into doing double duty while in Constantinople. It was a perfect system. Zeki would occasionally send a courier with actual messages and documents for Mycroft. Stainsbury would meet the courier privately and give him orders for Zeki and the courier would faithfully return them to Zeki, believing he was passing along English orders, when they were actually German.”
“I’ve heard nothing that resembles proof,” Stainsbury growled.
“The night of Mycroft’s assault, the courier from Zeki was also murdered. There was only one possible reason to ensure the courier’s silence—to prevent him revealing that it was not he who shot Mycroft. He became a handy scapegoat that pointed the way to Constantinople and ensured I got on that ship. But the courier’s death also told me there was another agent in London.”
“But why would he want you on the ship to Constantinople?” Gregson asked. “It doesn’t make sense to send someone out there to examine a situation you’d rather left hidden.”
“Because there was a rogue agent out there, spoiling things for him. Hadiya was independent and outside Zeki’s influence. Neither Zeki nor Stainsbury could control the information Hadiya was sending back to Mycroft and naturally, Mycroft soon noticed the discrepancies. Because Hadiya was the lone, off-kilter voice amongst a chorus, Stainsbury had no trouble convincing Mycroft that Hadiya must be the bad seed. That’s when Mycroft brought me in and he told me he’d asked me because Stainsbury had suggested it.”
“But why?” Gregson asked.
“Because Stainsbury wanted to use me like a hunting dog. Hadiya was causing him problems. If he could point me toward Hadiya, he had no doubt I would flush him out. Zeki could then deal with him and their problems would be over, for every other agent in the city was under Zeki’s control.
“It must have disconcerted you when I refused the investigation, Stainsbury,” Holmes added. He sighed. “My refusal led directly to Mycroft’s attack. It is a heavy fact that I will carry for the rest of my days. Stainsbury wanted me in Constantinople. Mycroft must have told him the circumstances that prompted my first refusal and he reasoned—correctly—that the death or near-death of my brother would overcome my reluctance.
“So Stainsbury cold-bloodedly came into Mycroft’s office while he was absent, took the gun from the locked drawer as he would have known where Mycroft kept the key, then calmly visited Mycroft upon his return. He engaged him in conversation, wandering around the room as they spoke. Then, when he was behind Mycroft and Mycroft’s attention was not upon him, he took out the gun and shot him, using the cushion from the divan to muffle the noise.”
“Good lord.” Gregson murmured.
“That wasn’t the end of it,” Holmes added. “He locked the office behind him, then pretended that Mycroft was busy, meeting with the courier from Constantinople—the courier which Stainsbury hurried to the docks to kill too.”
The silence in the room was complete.
“Speculation,” Stainsbury said quietly.
“Deduction,” Holmes said flatly. “Even on my way to London that night, I was handed the clues. Gregson told me Mycroft had been shot from behind with his own gun. Mycroft’s blood on the desk clearly indicated he had fallen forward onto the desk, which meant he was sitting behind it at the time of the shot. How could the attacker have reached the gun if Mycroft was in front of the locked drawer? He could not have got the gun while Mycroft was sitting there. It couldn’t have been the courier as Mycroft would never have allowed a courier free access to his office. It had to be someone who could gain access to Mycroft’s desk drawer without his knowledge. I suspected it was you, Stainsbury, before I left London.”
“And you still left? Holmes, how could you?” Watson cried.
“I had to play out the game. Stainsbury so badly wanted me in Constantinople he would shoot my brother to get me there. Very well, I would go to Constantinople and find out why. Mycroft was safe as long as I did not go near him and you may have noticed, Gregson, that I did not suggest visiting him in the last rushed hours before I got on the train.”
“Yes, I did notice,” Gregson admitted. “But I assumed you were bent upon finding his attacker, instead. Family can be that way.”
“Although I am certain that Stainsbury has been hovering by Mycroft’s bedside every day since I have been gone, acting the concerned superior, while actually monitoring him to see if he would recover and reveal Stainsbury’s secret.”
“He has been,” Gregson agreed. “I have seen him on both occasions I have been by to see Mycroft, myself.” Gregson licked his lips. “After you explained to me that you had to go to Constantinople because the killer might try to finish off the job on Mycroft, I had two guards put on his bedside, around the clock.”
“I knew you would,” Holmes replied. “It meant all Stainsbury could do was watch to see if Mycroft recovered or died. He would have been forced to attempt something if Mycroft had recovered but that dilemma didn’t arise.”
“While Stainsbury hovered, I rushed off to Constantinople to deal with the rogue agent he had primed me to find. With Zeki’s help I did find him. By sheer good fortune I learned that Hadiya was not the enemy and Zeki was. You already know how I dealt with that.”
Holmes lowered his leg to the ground and stood up, facing Stainsbury. “That leaves only you to deal with.”
“You have no proof of any of this,” Stainsbury protested. “It is all circumstantial. Guesswork.”
“Deduction from facts. Logic,” Holmes countered.
“It isn’t proof.”
Holmes seemed to draw himself upright, challenging even Stainsbury’s height. “My lord, when I realized you were what you are, I knew I was dealing with an extremely clever man, possibly one of the most audacious and cunning men I have come across in my career. Did you think I would confront you with mere logic and extrapolation as my shield?”
For the first time Stainsbury showed an emotion other than indignation. A tiny flicker of doubt shadowed his eyes, narrowed them. “This whole fairy tale is based on nothing but erroneous extrapolation,” he said slowly, as if he were feeling his way.
“That is all I have presented you with until now,” Holmes agreed. “Erroneous, however…that remains to be seen. If that was all I was offering then all of you would be right to doubt me. But I offer incontrovertible proof.”
“Then offer it!” Stainsbury demanded.
Holmes smiled. “Verily, a witness!” he declared.
There was a small silence, a surprised one. “Impossible,” Stainsbury declared. “If this deed I was supposed to have committed took place in Mycroft’s chamber then there could have been no witnesses.”
“Ah, but there was!” Holmes exclaimed. “You overlook the one other person in the room beside yourself.”
Watson felt his jaw loosening and caught it up. “Holmes, you can’t mean Mycroft, surely?”
“Yes, I do mean Mycroft,” Holmes answered. “Stainsbury, surely you did not think that Mycroft would remain unconscious all these weeks? Did you not wonder at all?”
“You mean, he was pretending?” Stainsbury spluttered.
“Mycroft was too weak to defend himself and he would have known without being told and with absolute certainty that I was searching for the proof needed to condemn you. All he was required to do was continue to let you think he was unconscious and unable to identify you as his attacker, which he did with spectacular success.”
Stainsbury’s face turned the sickly color of whey. He remained speechless.
“Last night when my train arrived in London,” Holmes continued, “I slipped into Saint Thomas’ in the small hours of the morning and spoke to Mycroft. He confirmed that it was you who shot him. He also confirmed it was you who insisted he have me sent to Constantinople.”
“Good God!” Gregson muttered to himself.
The silence stretched for long moments. Stainsbury seemed incapable of a response but by the terrible, haunted expression on his face, a response was not necessary.
Holmes spread his hand a little, as one who was being completely candid. “I have recently been accused of depending on an outdated viewpoint in a world that no longer works that way, but some of those gentlemen’s attitudes were useful.” He picked up the gun that had been retrieved from Stainsbury’s desk and broke it open to check the load. He removed all but one bullet, snapped it shut and tossed it to Stainsbury, who caught it by reflex.
“You know what to do with that,” Holmes said coldly.
“Holmes…!” Watson murmured, alarmed, but Holmes lifted an imperious hand in the air toward him, silencing him. He did not shift his gaze from Stainsbury, who was staring at the gun with bewildered fascination.
Finally, Stainsbury stirred and looked at all of them. “If you will excuse me?” he murmured.
Nobody responded.
Stainsbury turned and walked to the narrow door behind his desk and opened it, revealing a small, private sitting room beyond. He shut it behind him.
The three remaining occupants of the room remained motionless and completely silent.
A few moments later there was the sound of gunfire from the sitting room.
Sherlock Holmes sank onto his chair, with a long deep sigh and his chin fell to his chest, his eyes closed.
Gregson silently made his way into the sitting room, then reemerged a few moments later and picked up the telephone on Stainsbury’s desk. “Holmes, Watson, I suggest you leave. This is going to be an overnight sensation—a lord of the realm a German agent! There will be bobbies all over the place very soon and the reporters will follow.”
“It will be suppressed,” Holmes answered, lifting his chin. “Stainsbury’s peers will see to that. Perhaps it is just as well. Britain doesn’t need this sort of blow to its self-esteem just now.”
Watson tugged on Holmes’ sleeve. “We’d best be leaving anyway, Holmes.”
Holmes seemed to be stirring from the black mood he had fallen into. “Yes, yes,” he murmured. Then he stood, leaning on the walking stick once more and appeared to see Watson for the first time. “Watson! I am famished. Let’s find a suitable eating establishment and dine together, just like old times.” He limped to the door and opened it and as Watson passed by he added in a murmur, “Besides, I have something to confess to you.”