The Secret Journal of Doctor Watson

Author’s Note

Many of the characters in this book are historical personages. In this narrative, as well as in history, all were at their posts as described herein.

Preface

My name is Dr. John Watson. The grandson and namesake of the Dr. John H. Watson who wrote the remarkable stories about his adventures with Sherlock Holmes.

My practice is at 43 Dover Street, Kensington. I’m affiliated with St. Bartholomew’s Hospital. I was born on December 28, 1954 in London; my wife, Joan, was born here, as well. We have two sons: Jeffrey, age twenty, and James, age nineteen.

I never knew my grandfather as he died before I was born, but in 1993, he spoke to me. Across seventy-five years of history, his voice came through as clear as if he spoke to me directly.

I came into possession of a journal kept secret as per his instructions. What he wrote will irrevocably change a major piece of world history; that is, if you wish to believe him. I, of course, absolutely do.

My grandfather, from everything my family told me, and from everything I’ve ever heard or read about him, was an extraordinarily decent, loyal, loving and truthful individual. That he cared about people is evident from the fact that he was a physician. And if he wasn’t such a damned good one, my father wouldn’t have followed in his footsteps.

The whole world knows the care and love that my grandfather put into his stories about Holmes. The love he had for that man is palpable in every word, every syllable and every punctuation mark. Everyone knows the pains my grandfather went to in order to make sure that the truth of each adventure was recounted faithfully.

From every bit of evidence available, it seems that my grandfather was incapable of telling a lie. In fact, the one person in the world who knew that better than anyone else, my grandmother Elizabeth, used to laugh as she told me stories of how grandfather would jumble his words, head down, trying not to lie about some horrible new crime to which Holmes had made him privy. She said she’d purposely ask him about the more grisly details just to see how boyish his discomfort would make him; and that she’d finally release the poor man from his torment with what she called “a private laugh heard only by him.”

I still miss her. She’s been gone now over thirty years, but she made my grandfather seem as alive as she was. So even though I never knew him, I knew him better than most.

Therefore, what my grandfather wrote to me is no lie. Yet it’s so absolutely incredible, that even my solicitor advises against its retelling. Which is why I haven’t gone public before today.

However, my grandfather left that decision entirely to me, and I’ve made it. After a brief description of how I came into possession of my grandfather’s secret journal, I’ll simply let the words of his journal speak to you as his words have spoken the truth to unimaginable millions since his first published adventure with Sherlock Holmes.

On the afternoon of August 10, 1993, while I was still in my Kensington office, I received a telephone call from Wyatt & Stevens, the solicitors who had handled my grandfather’s affairs, and who, like a family heirloom, were passed down to my father, and then to me. I’m personally represented by Christopher Wyatt, the grandson of Alistair Wyatt, the man who directly represented my grandfather. And like our fathers before us, Chris and I have been friends since very early childhood.

In this day and age, that two families should share such continuity, and that two grandsons should maintain the same business relationship is probably without equal. Be that as it may, that tight family bond has served me very well.

After the usual pleasantries, Chris told me to be at his offices at five minutes to midnight, August 12. At first I thought he was playing with me.

“Chris, you’re joking. What are you talking about?”

“John, I have a sealed package here from your grandfather. It was sealed in 1920 and my grandfather was told that it was to be opened by Dr. Watson’s eldest surviving descendent at one minute after midnight on August 13, 1993. I haven’t the faintest idea what’s inside because we weren’t made privy to its contents. But my father told me he hoped your father had lived long enough to open the package.”

“Why didn’t my father tell me about this?” I asked.

“Because he didn’t know. Had he lived, I would be contacting him now and not you. In fact, from what I know, not even your grandmother was aware of this package. From the day your grandfather passed it into the possession of my grandfather, no one ever spoke of it again. Since your grandfather wasn’t the cloak-and-dagger type, whatever’s inside must be exceedingly important.”

We both laughed at that one because of my grandfather’s relationship with Sherlock Holmes. But I knew what Chris meant. My grandfather was not a secretive man.

I thanked Chris, hung up, and though I had patients piling up in my waiting room, I sat in my chair for the longest time trying to puzzle this out.

My wife, of course, expected exotic treasure hidden away from some extravagant Holmes sojourn. But I sensed something else. I didn’t know what, but I just didn’t think I was going to uncover the Kohinoor’s equivalent.

Anyway, I awaited the date as anxiously as the birth of both my boys. Here was a mystery of my grandfather’s making. I reported to Chris’ offices an hour before time.

Chris was there alone to greet me, laughing at my early arrival, but refusing to let me open my present before my birthday, so to speak.

What he did do, though, after handing me a much needed whiskey and soda, and I’m not sure if he did this to calm me or to torture me further, was to seat me in his private office, in his personal chair, and set the package down on his desk right in front of me.

It wasn’t a fancy-wrapped package or any of the sort like that, but rather a fairly flat package, wrapped in thick, plain paper with the texture of burlap, and wax-sealed with my grandfather’s personal stamp: a solemn “JHW” in the middle of the Hippocratic insignia. And when I first placed my hands on it to feel it, I knew instantly it was a book or journal of some kind.

Until exactly one minute passed midnight, Chris stood there watching me intently watching my package. Then with a happily taunting, “Good luck, John,” he closed the door behind him.

The second he left, I split the seal and slipped the contents from the wrapping. I was thrilled and disappointed. I guess that some part of me did wish for fabulous wealth, which at a glance wasn’t there.

But from the moment I opened the journal and read the first words, I knew I had something that paled the wealth of the Punjab. For there, in the unmistakable, erratic scrawl of the physician, was easily the most sensational Dr. Watson and Sherlock Holmes adventure of all.

My Secret Journal

My dear descendent, first, please do forgive me for so concise a salutation, but I know not who you are, what you are, or even if you are. For as I write this journal in the midst of a winter less harsh than the Great War it is immediately following, not only are you not as yet born, but my son John is a happy boy of only twelve. Would that the events I shall shortly convey be half so happy.

Secondly, I again beg your forgiveness for the lateness of the hour at which you were asked to appear, but as you read on, you will learn that I desired this information to be yours at the literal moment it could be yours.

What I am about to reveal to you could not be revealed until now. The Official Secrets Act forbids the divulgence of information considered a state secret, or of vital importance to the state, or of detrimental nature to the state for a period of seventy-five years after the fact. And the information I reveal is not only all of those, but considerably more. For what you shall now learn runs contrary to every history book in every country, contradicts everything you have learned as a good subject of the Crown, and would, if made public, bring the wrath and condemnation of the world down upon England’s ears. And since I know that you will be seated safely in my solicitor’s office as you read this, I have no fear that you will fall over from the shock you are about to receive.

The world has been taught that on the night of July 16, 1918, in the Ipatiev House in Ekaterinburg, Siberian Russia, Tsar Nicholas II, the Tsarina Alexandra, and their children, the Tsarevich Alexei, and the four Grand Duchesses, Olga, Marie, Tatiana and Anastasia, were brutally executed by the local Bolsheviks.

It is a lie. A damnable, perfidious, perversion of the truth. Of paramount importance that it be believed at the time, it became sire to a family of lies so hideous, so twisted, so cynical, that I cursed my heritage as Englishman.

How do I know this? Because it was Mr. Sherlock Holmes, and me, who were sent to effect the Romanovs’ rescue. And you shall learn later from this journal the events as they truly transpired.

And though I wrote of Holmes’ quiet retirement to Sussex in 1903, he lost his life many years later in the midst of rendering the greatest of services to a beloved Sovereign.

Now then, the truth about that searing, Siberian summer, when the Russian world was Red or White, and millions were dying to decide the fate of seven miserable people. The Romanovs.

June 13, 1918

Early this morning, so early the sun had not yet risen, while my wife and I slept quietly at our home in Queen Anne Street, contentedly unaware of the conscious world, someone pounding against our door awakened us, sending my wife into an extremely anxious state and me into a headlong race down the stairs, shouting as I ran, for the pounder to cease.

You can imagine my utter amazement at opening the door and finding none other than Mr. Sherlock Holmes. Somewhat stunned I opened the door wider and he swept passed me and into my home.

“Watson, Watson, Watson...” was all he could manage while his frenzied dance continued unabated.

From upstairs Elizabeth called down, “John, are you all right? Who was it?”

“Holmes, my dear. It is only Holmes.”

“Mr. Holmes? At this hour? What ever is the matter?”

“I don’t know yet, my dear. Holmes is behaving rather peculiarly; even for Holmes.”

“Are you all right, then?”

“Quite, quite. Please return to bed. Everything will be explained presently, I’m sure.”

“All right, John. Give Mr. Holmes my regards.”

I conveyed my wife’s greeting to Holmes and asked him to sit. He did so, taking a seat by the fire while I took the one opposite.

Holmes’ face showed the shared, yet contradictory, emotions of exultation and dread uncertainty. I’d never seen such a look on Holmes, nor on any other human being. It startled and frightened me, and kept me silent until Holmes spoke again.

“Watson, without a word of explanation from me, if I were to ask you to accompany me on a journey so secret that you cannot even confide in Mrs. Watson, and so dangerous that our lives would certainly be imperilled, would you agree?”

I surprised myself at my own answer, for it came like an involuntary reflex, or the at-attention response to the command of a superior officer in the field, “Yes, sir.”

Holmes openly laughed, “Sir?”

Though embarrassed, I was full of curiosity, “Holmes, what is this all about? What is so perilous that it requires that you assault my door?”

“My friend, we are about to begin a task that might even have daunted Hercules.”

“Hercules did not have your brain, Holmes.”

He laughed, “And at my age now, I have not his strength.”

It seemed an odd remark for Holmes to make since he had always held brain in much greater regard than brawn. Nor had he ever confided a question of age; though both he and I were no longer the young men of our early adventures. And since I then intently studied his face for signs of physical strain or ill-being, and found none, it was something else that worried me.

For the first time since I’d known him, Holmes seemed to be struggling with a restless doubt.

Then, so quietly as to be almost a whisper, he said, “Watson, we are going into Russia.”

“Russia?” I shot upright, “Russia?”

Holmes’ eyes widened at my response. But again, and with a small nod, he said resignedly, “Russia.”

“But why Russia? There’s a civil war on that makes our war against Germany look like croquet! They’re slaughtering themselves with such gleeful insouciance as to make Attila envious. They’re barbarous, Holmes, barbarous! I know that I said I’d follow you, but this is suicidal recklessness.”

I was quite agitated now, and Holmes, knowing me as well as I thought I knew him, waited until I calmed down.

“But why, Holmes, why? Why Russia?”

And then, with the most calm, measured and determined of tones, with placid eyes to match, Holmes looked at me and said, “Because that is where we are needed, my friend. That is where we are needed.”

Holmes’ Astonishing Tale

Holmes then set about recounting the unbelievable events of the previous night. Had this tale been told by any other, I would have immediately sought the man a room in an asylum.

Holmes told me that at precisely twenty-two minutes past nine on the previous night, as he pensively fiddled in the study of his quiet villa that he claimed commanded a great view of the channel, he was shaken to see a rather large man with a deathly serious look on his face suddenly appear in the room. This man was in the company of a man even larger than he, and with equally grey a visage.

Holmes realised that he had no immediate fear of the duo since had they been intent on doing him any degree of harm, they would already have done so. Indeed, Holmes was now utterly intrigued.

“Yes, what do you want?”

“You are to dress, Mr. Holmes, and come with us!”

“I am, am I? Just who are you, and to where am I to accompany you?”

The larger of the two took a step towards Holmes.

“Get dressed, sir. We have our orders.”

“I must say, gentlemen, for two such hulking individuals, you caught me quite unawares in my meditations. If I did not suspect your true profession, I might profess the both of you to be involved with ballet, so ginger were your movements.”

Holmes said that the remark quite passed over their heads, which was probably just as well, considering the size and sheer density of the two.

Holmes asked the two if they would wait while he dressed in his bedroom, assuring them that he had no intention of making an escape, so keenly had they piqued his curiosity. But it was to no avail. They followed him upstairs and waited as he dressed himself.

As Holmes proceeded, he asked in half-jest if there was a particular manner in which he should dress; formally, for hunting, morning coat, etc. And he was quite surprised when a serious answer came back.

“Dress so as not to embarrass yourself before your betters.”

As soon as he had dressed, the two took Holmes bodily, each holding an arm, down the stairs and into a large, black motor car with drawn curtains sides and rear.

The motor car was then driven to Eastbourne Station where a train was waiting. Homes noted just a locomotive and one passenger car with all the curtains drawn.

Holmes turned to the smaller of the two and said “Well, well, what a lovely idea; a train ride in the middle of the night. Charming. But you should have told me, so I could have packed. Will this be a long journey?”

The two men said nothing, physically escorted Holmes aboard, sat him down, one on either side, didn’t say a word and stared straight ahead.

“And I don’t suppose you would be so good as to tell me where this train might be taking me?”

The larger one then said “Home, Holmes” and laughed. The other just smirked.

“Very humorous, indeed,” Holmes said.

The length of the journey was approximately one and one-half hours, and, as he had suspected from the moment he saw the train, he was now at Victoria Station. He and his unwanted companions made their way outside where another black motor car was waiting.

From the direction in which they seemed to be going, and the time quickly elapsing, he was convinced that he was heading towards a rather unexpected destination.

After driving for precisely twelve minutes in the middle of the night, in the middle of the capital of a nation at war, the motor car stopped. And as Holmes alighted, held again by “his nannies,” as he later called them, he was happy to find himself in front of perhaps the most celebrated address in all England, save for Buckingham Palace, 10 Downing Street.

Holmes wasn’t precisely sure if he was delighted to be at 10 Downing Street because it confirmed his sense of direction or deduction, or because he now knew for certain that he was in no danger.

The door opened before the trio as if triggered by their movements, and Holmes was brought through the hallway and led into the office of no less a personage than the Prime Minister, David Lloyd George, who stood there, obviously awaiting their arrival.

It was now a few minutes past midnight.

The moment Holmes and “his nannies” entered the room, he was released from their grips and the two closed the door behind them.

“Prime Minister.”

Lloyd George, all nervous business, did not return the courtesy, and though Holmes was not overly surprised to find the Prime Minister at the end of his midnight journey, the reasons for it still intrigued him, and what happened next most assuredly did surprise Holmes.

Lloyd George, still without a word, opened a door to an adjoining chamber, and with the greatest conservation of gesture, bade Holmes enter that chamber.

In the darkened room, only two objects made themselves immediately discernible to Holmes. The first, a fireplace with intricately carved mahogany gargoyles framing a fire too large even for this uncommonly cool June night.

The second, and the most arresting, was a rather oversized wing chair facing the fire, hiding almost entirely its occupant; except for a perfectly manicured right hand grasping the arm of the chair so rigidly as to turn the tightened appendages almost white.

Holmes noticed the solitary ring on the hand, but before even his lightning mind could grasp its significance, the figure rose awkwardly.

Sherlock Holmes, the king of consulting detectives, now stood face to face with none other than His Imperial Majesty, George V.

“Mr. Holmes, so very good of you to come.”

“Your Majesty, under the circumstances, I had very little choice.”

“Yes, quite so. I do apologize for any inconvenience or disturbance you have been put through. Please sit down.”

Holmes waited for His Majesty to seat himself, and when he did not, neither did Holmes, a fact not even noticed by the King, so deep was His Majesty’s pondering.

“Mr. Holmes, what I am now about to ask of you must be asked by me and me alone. My government can have no official knowledge of this request, and you should know that it was I personally who asked the Prime Minister to summon you to me. Mr. Holmes, I want you to solve perhaps the greatest riddle of your life, and, quite possibly, prevent the greatest crime in history...”

“I understand perfectly,” said Holmes calmly, “you want me to rescue the Tsar and his family!”

King George stared at Holmes in amazement.

“But Mr. Holmes, how did you, how could you...”

“Your Majesty, it is not a feat of Olympian magic, I assure you, but simple logic.

“To be summoned to 10 Downing Street in the middle of the night, I need not have been of significant intelligence to deduce that whatever the government wanted of me, had to be kept in the strictest confidence. And upon meeting with Mr. Lloyd George personally, I, of course, knew that whatever the matter, it was of utmost national importance.

“Upon seeing your fingers so powerfully dug into your chair, I immediately knew that whoever you were, you were deeply disturbed and desperately groping for a seemingly unreachable solution to the matter aforementioned or you would not be here in this room.

“I would have to be an imbecile to be ignorant of your extremely close, familial and personal relationship with His Imperial Majesty, the Tsar, and an oaf to be unaware of the threat to not only his life, but to that of his family, as well.

“As soon as you mentioned a riddle and the prevention of a monstrous crime, it was not so great a leap to deduce the predicament.”

It was at this point that His Majesty broke his tone to whisper to himself, “Alexei, Alexei, poor little Alexei.” There was a brief and uncomfortable moment before the King again spoke.

“Mr. Holmes, because of who I am and what England stands for, I cannot officially ask my government to aid the Tsar and his family.” Here, the King’s anger began to rise with every reason he set forth to Holmes.

“I am reminded, by the Prime Minister, that I am a constitutional monarch, that we are still in the midst of the worst war our nation has ever endured, that the British people are happy at my cousin’s misfortune, that there is, and will be more, violent social unrest here at home, and that because of these things, the government cannot be placed in the position of being a tyrant’s saviour. That my own first cousin and his family should perish rather than reach safety on English soil. Does my own government not know that I am aware of these things? Do they suspect of me a limited intelligence, happily to limit myself to mere functions of ceremony? By God, Mr. Holmes, no subject ever felt chains as biting as mine at this moment.”

The King had now turned to face Holmes directly, his eyes fixed fiercely on Holmes’, a look, Holmes later said, “of commanding Majesty.”

Perhaps for the only time in his life, Sherlock Holmes was held mesmerized.

“Mr. Holmes, I am fully aware of the great service you rendered unto your country in what your Dr. Watson called ‘The Naval Treaty’; and that alone has given you valuable grounding in the delicate and arcane realm of international diplomacy. But you have remained outside of government, retired, untainted, and there would be no reason to suppose another involvement at this time.

“I shall not appeal to your patriotism. I shall not appeal to your loyalty as my subject. But I shall appeal to your sense of humanity and ask you to believe me when I say that in all the Empire, it is you alone who can accomplish this miracle.”

His Majesty finished speaking and took a small, gentle step towards Holmes, his eyes still holding Holmes as fixed as a fly in a web. Then he upturned both hands towards Holmes.

“Will you help me, Mr. Holmes?”

The question was a command; quiet and calm, yet a command nonetheless.

“I will, sir.”

The Bargain

As Holmes walked back out into Lloyd George’s private office, the Prime Minister seemed as nervous as ever. And this time, he spoke.

“Well, Mr. Holmes, quite a lot for one evening, I surmise.”

“Indeed, Prime Minister.”

“Mr. Holmes, when you helped the government with that nasty naval business, I was not yet Prime Minister, as you know. My philosophy on certain delicate, international matters differs much from that of my predecessor. We’ve been in this damnable war since 1914 and now we have some end in sight. The Americans are hot and heavy in the breach and they’re turning the tide. We need their guns and butter, so to speak, and our people especially need the butter.

“The American President, Mr. Wilson, is still a naif, as far as I’m concerned, and for all his sermonizing, he just doesn’t grasp the realities of geography nor the concept of empire.”

“Perhaps he does; all too well.”

Lloyd George looked at Holmes harshly.

“I don’t need your editorializing at this hour, nor at any other, Mr. Holmes...” Holmes cut him off.

“Then with all respect, Prime Minister, I need not a parochial Sunday school lesson on world politics.”

The Prime Minister’s expression changed to that of one who knows he’s in for a battle of wits, and who now fiercely suspects that he may be the loser.

“Quite. Then, Mr. Holmes, I shall come to the point. My government cannot upend the political or martial boat. Yet I, in all good conscience, cannot refuse my Sovereign his request without going to my end heaping calumny upon my soul. And there are others, invisible others, who share my sentiment entirely.

“However, there are those who would use the knowledge of this night to further some ulterior, republican motive. There are enemies who would use this against us in the arena of world and internal politics. And there are those, simply in opposition to my government, who would use this to try to oust me in the middle of this war.

“Mr. Holmes, we already have men in place in Russia; put there before the hostilities commenced in August 1914, put there before the century was born. These and others have supplied life’s blood information to our intelligence services, and a special, trusted few have matters in the ready.

“I cannot and will not tell you more at this juncture, only that you will be afforded every aid it is possible to provide. All that will become known to you as you need it.

“Now it is imperative that you leave as soon as possible, because you are going into Russia as an infinitesimal portion of a force of invasion.”

“An invasion? Ah, Archangel,” and Holmes waited smugly for the inevitable reaction of the Prime Minister.

“Good God, man! How did you know? Are there lips flapping like sails again in the Admiralty?”

“Calm yourself, Prime Minister. I have not obtained this information from some careless officer. On the contrary, all men in service whom I’ve met have been most circumspect.”

“But how then?”

“Sir, it is no geographical conundrum that once the English held Murmansk...” here Lloyd George instantly interrupted.

“At the Bolsheviks’ request, mind you. At their request.”

“Yes, of course; the logical port large and close enough to hold an invasion force would be Archangel. And since the civil war has been especially heavy in that unfortunate part of Russia, I should naturally suspect that the Allies would want to secure that area for themselves.”

“You mean to ensure neutrality, don’t you?”

Holmes’ eyes narrowed slightly, “Of course, by all means, neutrality.”

For the first time, Lloyd George seemed to actually exhale.

“You know, Mr. Holmes, I have often read of your exploits and unique deductive powers, but until this moment, I had no personal appreciation of them.”

“Ah, yes, well, this was merely one of the more simple paradoxes.”

“Really, well perhaps you might like to predict the outcome of the war, as well. I mean the precise outcome, since it is already evident that we shall win this war at any time now.”

“Prime Minister, the day the war began, I wrote the war’s virtual history, which I then sealed and placed in the care of Dr. Watson, with specific instructions that it not be opened until the war was over.”

“Did you, now? And what had you predicted?”

“Deduced, Prime Minister, deduced. And since I no longer have my history in my possession, and have given such specific instructions to Dr. Watson, I would rather not make mockery of my loyal friend’s diligence by despoiling my own dictum.”

It was clear to Holmes that he and Lloyd George were not getting on, at all. And as Holmes later said to me in the utmost of confidence, he had the distinct feeling that had he not been needed for this particular task so urgently, Lloyd George could easily have dispensed with him.

I asked Holmes what he meant by that remark, and looking straight and intently into my eyes, as if he were trying to physically send his answer to me through the sheer power of his will, he said, “Fair is foul and foul is fair: Hover through the fog and filthy air.”

Based upon the events that were to grimly unfold over the next several months, and furtive hints from Holmes along the way, I could not but help to wonder if Holmes in fact did have some premonition as to an undeserved end. That he had instantly grasped that fact upon speaking with the King: once his necessity was ended, he could, and must, be dispensed with.

The conversation continued between Holmes and Lloyd George.

“Very well, Mr. Holmes, keep your prognostications to yourself. While Rome burns, you fiddle. Have it as you will. But I hope I make myself clear: you and I have never met. You have never been here. The person with whom you spoke in the other room does not exist. Not even this room exists. This all could be nothing more than a cocaine-induced hallucination; something with which, I understand, you are more than familiar.”

Holmes bridled, but chose not to give the Prime Minister the satisfaction of a reaction.

The Prime Minister continued to bore into the wound.

“You will pack what you need and leave immediately. The two gentlemen who fetched you to me will see you safely home and then onto your place of embarkation. You will say nothing to anyone you should encounter until you are with those who will accompany you on this task. Do I make myself absolutely clear, Mr. Holmes?”

“As clear as your explanation during The Marconi Scandal,” said Holmes, referring to the scandal which led to an investigation in the House of Commons in 1913. A shady matter, indeed.

“But you now understand me. From the moment of illumination as to this task from the gentleman who does not exist, I comprehended completely its implications and I accept all save one: I shall need the assistance of one without whom, I fully believe this undertaking shall lead to failure.”

“And who may that be, pray tell?”

“Dr. Watson.”

“Dr. Watson? Your chronicler? Out of the question.”

Holmes smiled.

“To what does Dr. Watson owe this casual dismissal?”

“From what I have been told, your Dr. Watson is a mere tail of the dog,” Holmes’ smile faded slightly, “an errand boy with a minor literary talent for turning your aid to Scotland Yard into stories for the masses.”

“Given the circulation of The Strand Magazine, Prime Minister, I think it is clear that Dr Watson’s literary talent is a little more than that.”

Lloyd George was unmoved.

“Dr. Watson, as shall all of your intimates, remain innocent of this evening’s events.”

“On the contrary, Prime Minister, Dr. Watson shall accompany me or you shall be forced to seek aid elsewhere.”

“How dare you say this to me? How dare you?”

Lloyd George’s voice raised to such levels that Holmes’ two nannies burst into the room. Lloyd George waved them out vigorously.

“Who do you think you are, Mr. Holmes?”

“The man that you need.”

“Arrogance as well as disloyalty?”

“Disloyalty! You call me disloyal! Have I not already agreed to undertake this task knowing more than well the many dangers to my very existence? Disloyal, for demanding the aid of the one man whom I believe with all my being to be indispensable to the success of that task? Retract your words, sir, now, or I swear that I shall re-enter that room so that the gentleman who does not exist shall learn of your words.”

Lloyd George was in absolute, yet silent, fury. Holmes, ever equitable, reported that not only did Lloyd George fight to contain that fury quite admirably, but that as he did so, his boar’s bristle moustache stood so virtually on end that Holmes suspected he had been hiding tusks.

Finally Lloyd George calmed himself, sat in his chair, clasped his hands together on his desk, pointed at Holmes, yet did not look at him, and almost inaudibly asked, “Just why is this Dr. Watson so indispensable to you, Mr. Holmes?”

The smile had returned to Holmes’ face.

“Sir, I am a complex individual and take quite a time to be gotten used to. Not only has Dr. Watson succeeded in that unenviable task, but through the years and countless cases in which he has aided me, we have established a symbiosis of sorts that has become second nature to us both.

He has not only chronicled my cases, as you have stated, but he has been part of the very fabric of each and every one. He has provided succour when it was needed, a firm hand upon my psyche when called for, and unending trust through all. No man could ask for a better friend nor brother, for that is what he has become to me. Even my own blood, Mycroft, has not meant to me what Watson has.

“Further, Dr. Watson, as his title states, is a physician. And if memory serves, a particularly important member in this undertaking of mine has constant need of a physician, has he not? I believe he is a haemophiliac?”

“You have made your point, Mr. Holmes.”

Lloyd George looked at Holmes with all the bitter vengeance of the supplicant. Holmes sat opposite, his very proximity demanding a response from the P.M.

“Mr. Holmes, the more people who are involved in your task, the more opportunity for mistake. We cannot afford mistakes. We have had too many in recent years.”

“There shan’t be any on this occasion.”

“What guarantee have you?”

“Why I should have thought that quite plain, sir. My life.”

“That is no guarantee at all. You can be struck by a hansom cab crossing Piccadilly,” Lloyd George spat.

Was this a threat? A warning of some sort?

“Where I am off to, there are no hansom cabs.”

Lloyd George unclasped his hands, stood, crossed the room to the door and opened it. As Holmes rose and moved to leave, the Prime Minister took hold of his left arm.

“You shall have your Dr. Watson. But remember this: his fate is in your hands. Should you fail, the consequences will not only crush a certain person, but will most certainly, and quite literally, crush those who failed.”

Holmes pulled his arm free.

“And does that not include you, Prime Minister?”

“You forget, Mr. Holmes, this night never happened.”

And with that, Lloyd George shut his door and Holmes went back into the black morning; a reluctant charge still, of his two Neanderthal nannies.

At this point, Holmes was brought straight to my home where he proceeded to rouse the household with his pounding on my unfortunate front door.

I now knew all, or thought I did, and understood completely why we had to go into Russia. But what, I thought to myself, what will I ever tell Elizabeth?

And as if he had read my mind, Holmes said, “Leave Mrs. Watson to me, my friend. You shan’t have to dissemble on my account.”

Holmes suggested that he leave immediately to gather what clothing and equipment he would need from acquaintances in London who could help. This would give me time to begin my own packing. As for my wife, he would attend to her questions upon his return; which he felt, would be no more than a few hours hence.

With that all agreed, I accompanied Holmes to the door, and there, waiting next to the large, black motor car, I saw for the first time, the nannies of whom Holmes spoke. When Holmes walked down the stairs and paused for a moment at the vehicle’s side, I saw precisely how large they were.

Holmes got into the vehicle, with the larger of the two right behind. Although, I was not sure, I thought the smaller gave me a tiny, knowing nod, as if to say, “Don’t worry.” With that, he, too, hopped inside, and the motor car, still with its curtains drawn, sped off into a city receiving its first morning light.

We’re Off

In three hours Holmes was back, and he hadn’t been so excited or happy since his successful solution of the mystery I came to call “The Adventure of the Second Stain.”

Holmes was buoyant, and knowing full well the daunting task that lay ahead, I thought his actions incongruous, to say the least.

“What is it, Holmes,” I asked, “that makes you flit about so?

“I am merely smacking my lips at the challenges ahead and of how I shall overcome them.”

“But Holmes, our burdens are behemoth. They should weigh one down, not buoy one up.”

“No, no, Watson. The burdens, or challenges to which you refer, are quite separate from mine.”

I shook my head in absolute puzzlement at this newest, inscrutable Holmes remark. What challenge ahead could be separate from his? And it is only through time that I dare to suppose that what Holmes had been referring to was linked somehow to David Lloyd George. To some hidden, yet mutually understood, contest of the two. But what was it? Did it pertain to the unseemly words spoken at their clandestine meeting? Or was it something more visceral between the two?

You shall learn of this later; because even though I shall have to reveal to you what all this meant, and must do so in utmost sorrow, I have this compulsion to keep its meaning cryptic at this point in my journal, hoping that you shall unravel the meaning yourself, before it is divulged to you.

And should you wonder why this completely illogical compulsion on my part, perhaps it is some deep, inner longing to find in you, strong traces of me. No, that is not it. I long for you to find in yourself, Holmes. Such irrationality on the part of a physician, no doubt, comes as a shock. But I feel that you may need the test. Tests to which I found myself continually subjected by Holmes.

Holmes suggested that perhaps now was the proper time for him to speak with Mrs. Watson. I wholeheartedly agreed as I had, with tremendous difficulty, remained silent through her questioning, more thorough and sustained than any given by Mr. Sherlock Holmes and the whole of Scotland Yard combined.

Elizabeth and I had married in 1903. Holmes was later to complain that my absence had forced him to record his own account of the case he later entitled “The Blanched Soldier”. He did however admit that it had demonstrated to him that writing up his cases for a literary audience was harder than he had at first supposed.

Mrs. Watson was seated nervously in our solarium, waiting for Holmes, who repeated to me on our journey, verbatim he claimed, the extent of their conversation; although, I learned later that he had lied.

“Well, Mr. Holmes, after all this time, where are you dragging our John now?”

“Dragging, Mrs. Watson? Do you see a rope around Watson’s waist and I pulling maniacally at the other end?”

“Do not play your word games with me, Mr. Holmes, for we both love John, do we not?”

“That is so. And that is why I can tell you, with utmost truth, that I would perish myself rather than cause him even a scratch.”

“I know that, too, Mr. Holmes. There is no finer friend to John than you. Yet I feel that there is something very different about this particular matter. Just my feminine feeling if you will, but I am as certain of this as I am of the sun rising tomorrow morning.”

“Mrs. Watson, because of what your husband and I have been through together, much of which you have read or heard about, you know full well that there are sensitive things of which we may not speak.”

“I am fully aware of that, Mr. Holmes. But this matter, as I have said, seems eerily different and frighteningly dangerous.”

“Has Watson communicated to you any hint of danger?”

“Mr. Holmes, don’t be foolish. You know as well as I that John is as a sphinx where you are concerned. No, it is because of what he has not said that I fear so.”

“Then listen to this, please, madam. It is true, where Watson and I go there is more danger than he has faced since Afghanistan. But his service to his country in that awful place has been one of the shining points of his life. He bears his scars for England nobly. Remember this as well, young John is much to live for. By the way, where is he? I’ve not seen him about.”

“He is away for a visit with my parents in Yorkshire for the blooming of spring, one of my fondest memories of childhood; and something that John and I wish him to experience likewise each year. But please don’t change the subject, Mr. Holmes.”

“Mrs. Watson, your husband loves you and your son above all else in this world. But there are other husbands and fathers who are serving their nation at this time of travail who have not been as fortunate. Watson knows this. At the time when fate has finally chosen to ask a favour of him, he knows that he must grant it. He would not be who he is if he stayed behind. He would not be the man you love so devotedly. He would not be the brother I have taken by choice.”

“Then take him, Mr. Holmes. I place his soul and his safety in your hands. And I know that you will return him to me. And Mr. Holmes, God bless you. For through John, I have come to cherish you, as well.” With that, Elizabeth had embraced Holmes, probably causing him some discomfort, and bidden him send me to her.

I went to her more reluctantly than I had ever done anything before. Facing wild Afghanis seemed infinitely more inviting at the moment, and I approached her with some considerable hesitation.

“You wanted to see me, dear?”

“Yes, John, of course I want to see you. I want to see you every moment of every day. I want to see your eyes laugh when looking at John. I want to see the way they sadden when you cannot help some poor patient. I want to see you sleeping at night, in almost the same repose as your son. I want to see you silently smiling at me when we’re alone in the privacy of our night.

“But for a time, and I don’t know how long, I am resigned to not seeing you at all. I shall tell John that you and Mr. Holmes are off on another one of your famous adventures; I know that will please him as it always does. I shall tell myself that you are off on nothing more eventful than a carriage ride in the country. I shall lie to myself so that you shall not have to.

“I shall go to bed each night knowing for certain that you shall return to us in the morning. And arise each morning knowing for certain that you shall return to us that night.

“I love you, John. And I pray you return swiftly.”

My wife then kissed me more tenderly than I ever remembered, and with tears in our eyes, I turned to join the waiting Holmes, totally unaware that I would not see my wife and son again for over one year.

Harwich

Holmes’ nannies put my baggage into the motor car and we were on our way; the nannies in front with the driver, Holmes and I in the rear.

Since the nannies said nothing, I asked Holmes if they still possessed the power of speech, to which he laughed and nodded. Yet throughout our entire ride, for a period of close to three hours, not one word was exchanged between them and us. Indeed, they did not once turn their heads towards us nor towards each other.

Of course at this juncture I had absolutely no idea where we were headed, and after what I thought a reasonable lapse of time, inquired of Holmes just where he believed we were going.

“A most pertinent question, indeed, Watson; and if my bearings hold true, I believe we are headed for Harwich.”

Harwich, during the Great War, was a most important naval base, and since Holmes’ travel sense was as keen as ever, he gleaned that although Chatham, another naval base, lay closer, it lay southeast. Since we were aimed northeast, the only logical destination was Harwich, a distance of some seventy-nine miles.

I had never been to a naval station during the war, closeted as I was as a civilian in the heart of London, and I was immediately impressed with my first contact, smart sailors in full battle dress barring our entry at the gates.

They reacted sharply to the papers shown by the smaller nanny, and the sailor in charge pointed off towards the right as he and said nanny exchanged words I could not hear.

“It shan’t be long now, Watson. In a few moments we shall meet the intelligence officer who is to guide us to our ship and perhaps even impart some new information.”

Holmes was quite correct. For no more than four minutes evaporated before the motor car stopped in front of a small and evidently temporary building. The smaller nanny went inside, and after a few moments, reappeared and gestured us to join him.

As we went, I noticed sailors already taking charge of our baggage. The larger nanny stayed inside the vehicle, not glancing at us at all. Yet as Holmes and I passed the smaller one who indicated the room we were to enter, he spoke.

“Mr. Holmes, Dr. Watson, I have seen you both safely to your destination; those are the extent of my instructions. But,” and here he hesitated, “good luck, gentlemen, whatever your task.”

And with those unexpected words, he let the door close and joined his compatriot in the black vehicle which cautiously moved away from us, sinister no longer.

I looked at Holmes, “What do you make of that, Holmes?”

“Rather more than I expected, Watson,” said Holmes as he moved down the hallway and I followed hard behind.

As we walked on I was surprised to see a quite young officer, who, in these surroundings, looked wet behind the years. He advanced with an endearing smile to greet us.

“Why, Mr. Holmes,” his hand stiffly outstretched, “this is more than I had hoped for.”

“Ah, you give yourself away, Commander. You were told to expect a V.I.P., but you were not sufficiently entrusted with precisely who to expect.”

“Sir?” the officer was sandwiched between awe and evaluating a Holmesian deduction, and a coherent response appeared beyond him.

“And that, Watson,” Holmes said to me so that only I could hear, “means that we shall be passed between many links on our chain, each link unaware of the strengths or weaknesses of that adjoining; and perhaps not prepared for the chain to break.”

I was about to comment on that, but the officer was now holding out his hand to me.

“And this is Dr. Watson, Commander,” said Holmes.

“An equal pleasure, doctor, I’m sure.”

“Thank you, Commander,” I said. After the handshakes and smiles, our young officer asked us to sit.

“Forgive me, gentlemen, in my excitement it seems that I have omitted to introduce myself. I am Commander William Yardley, and I shall be your liaison at Harwich. I will escort you to your ship just before boarding,” he stared at the clock on his desk, “which should be only a very short time now, indeed.”

The young commander reminded me greatly of someone, and until Holmes and I exchanged that glance it hadn’t come to me. Then, immediately, it did. The commander looked like a young Holmes. I don’t know if Holmes noticed this, although there was not much that Holmes did not notice. But when it came to his own appearance and dress, Holmes seemed to be continually lost, or profoundly disinterested. And because of this resemblance, I felt very at ease with the young commander.

“Tell me, Commander,” said Holmes, “might you happen to know where Dr. Watson and I are going?”

“I’m afraid not, sir. That information, I suspect, is most secret. In any case, and I do not mean this in an ill way, it has nothing to do with me. My orders are to see to your comfort and security while you are at Harwich, and to see you both safely aboard the ship now making ready.”

“Commander, might you at least tell us its name?”

“Uh, I think so, sir. Yes, I do believe that would be within limits. You will be boarding HMS Attentive, a light cruiser. The captain is a splendid fellow; in fact, by coincidence, an old friend of the family. His name is David. Captain Joshua David.”

“Splendid, Commander,” said Holmes, “all those superlative biblical associations reassure me greatly.” We all laughed.

“Gentlemen, may I offer you some lunch, or perhaps a drink?” asked the commander.

I spoke up readily, since I had not eaten since a pre-dawn breakfast brought about by Holmes’ incessant excitement.

“Lunch would be welcome, Commander, very welcome.”

“And you, Mr. Holmes?”

“Don’t put yourself out on our behalf, Commander.”

“Of course he should, Holmes, that is what he is here for, remember?”

“No bother at all, Mr. Holmes. Of course the fare is most assuredly not what you may be used to, but we do nicely here, even with the war on.”

“Whatever is convenient, Commander,” said Holmes, as he lit a cigarette.

The commander stepped out for a moment and then rather unsettled, returned.

“Gentlemen,” said he, most unhappily, “I’ve just been informed that you are to report aboard the Attentive immediately. I’m sorry for the inconvenience and change of plans.”

“Nonsense, Commander, plans change, you know,” I said, remembering my own days on active service.

“Your bags have already been taken aboard, so if you’ll both just follow me.” He held open the door, followed us out into the hallway, and led the way towards our vessel.

Holmes’ eyes seemed to survey each square inch of the station as Commander Yardley escorted us. I chuckled to myself as multitudes of sailors scurried to every discernible compass point; each attending, no doubt, to a mission that would quickly end the war.

Presently we approached our vessel and the commander made it official with an envious sweep of his arms.

“Here she is, gentlemen, HMS Attentive. And I shan’t mislead you at all by confirming her as sweet and swift a vessel as I have ever encountered.”

The Commander then paused at the gangway and again extended his hand to Holmes.

“I know not what adventure you are off to now, Mr. Holmes, but I wish I was going with you. Good luck, sir.”

“Thank you, Commander. I hope we shall meet again when the war is over. But...” Holmes’ words trailed off as he began upwards.

“Watch after him, Dr. Watson. We need men like that in England.”

“Watch after him: Who’ll watch after me? Don’t we need men like me in England, as well?” Of course, I was just having sport of the officer, but by the dark look on his face, I instantly saw that I had truly wounded his sensitivities.

“No, Commander, I was only jesting,” I said.

“Thank you, sir. I meant nothing untoward, I assure you.”

“Nothing of the sort, lad. Good luck, Commander.”

We shook hands, and as I stopped for a moment’s look back in the midst of my climb, I saw the commander standing at attention, looking in our direction, and saluting. It was one of the most touching sights in my long memory.

Holmes and I were piped aboard in very fine style, shown to our quarters, which seemed cramped even for a small ship of war, found our baggage already there, and were then brought to the captain’s cabin where he was waiting to greet us.

“Ah, gentlemen, do come in and sit down. It is a great pleasure, Mr. Holmes,” he said, shaking Holmes’ hand with both of his own, “a singular honour, Dr. Watson,” and he then shook mine; but with only one hand. “I am Captain Joshua David.”

The captain was a man in his mid-fifties, I would say, not wanting more girth at this stage of life, with thick dark hair that I suspected he coloured. He moved about as would one walking on eggshells, with his hands clasped behind his back. Other than this entirely unique gait, I saw nothing extraordinary about him.

“Well,” said Holmes upon sitting, “I see that you were more informed than your young commander. He didn’t know who to expect.”

“Really? I wasn’t aware that you were not brought directly to me. Which young commander are you speaking of? We have a surfeit of young commanders these days, you know. Were you inconvenienced in any way?”

“Not at all,” I said, “it’s just that we were about to partake of a light luncheon when we were summoned.”

“Oh, I do beg your pardon. I shall see to your comfort post haste.” He then ordered his steward to have luncheon brought up to his cabin.

“The Commander’s name is Yardley, Captain. William Yardley.”

The captain took on the typical “rub the chin, scratch the head” gestures of someone trying to appear in the act of taxing his brain.

“Yardley...Yardley, no, not familiar, at all,” said the captain.

“But,” and before I could say one syllable more, Holmes had jumped into the conversation.

“It is of no consequence, Captain. Tell me, if you will though,” Holmes had risen and walked to a large map on the far wall of the cabin, “where are we bound? This map should show our destination.”

“And that it does, Mr. Holmes. But until I receive orders, I’m afraid that I am as much a part of this mystery as are the both of you.”

“You mean that you shall receive your final orders at sea?”

“That is exactly what I mean, Mr. Holmes.”

“Well, then, can you tell us when we are to sail?”

“I can and I shall. We shall be underway presently. If we are not clear of Harwich within the half-hour, I will be very much surprised.”

Lunch was brought to us, tepid in flavour as well as in temperature, but I was happy regardless and ate heartily. Holmes spoke little during the meal, so I regaled our nautical host with tales of the army; perhaps not the most intelligent of subjects to choose while in the power of the navy; but, we were all fighting the same war, were we not?

Once back in our quarters, Holmes checked the corridor to see if there was anyone about. When he was sure there was not, he sat, and I could see his mind adding, subtracting, dividing and sorting information at a furious rate.

“Well, Watson, what make you of all this?”

“Do you mean about David supposedly not knowing Yardley?”

“Or is it Yardley supposedly knowing David? Yes, that’s part of it. But even before that, did you find anything curious about Harwich?”

“How do you mean?”

“Remember that we were supposed to be part of an invasion force? To Archangel?”

“Yes, and it seems that we are, with all these ships. Are we not?”

“Not in the slightest, Watson. First of all, if this were the staging point for an important invasion force, tell me this: how many soldiers did you see?”

“Soldiers? Why, of course,” embarrassment had no greater offspring at that moment.

“Precisely. There weren’t any. It was all naval personnel at Harwich. Not one troop ship. And I don’t seem to recall a successful invasion without an army with which to invade. Furthermore, since when in all of British naval history, has its captains set forth on some great undertaking without specific instructions as to where and when? It knots my mind, Watson, to think them so contemptuous of my powers that I would believe this Captain David!”

“I don’t understand, Holmes. Lloyd George told you himself of this invasion, did he not?”

“No, I told him. He only play-acted; brilliantly, too. Making me believe that I had deduced some deep military secret.”

“I still am not following.”

“Watson, you and I both know what our task is in Russia. But what if we are the only two, besides Lloyd George and his minute, inner circle of invisible others, who know it?”

“You’ve completely lost me now, Holmes.”

“I am saying this: what if each of the links I had mentioned to you onshore, is not only unaware of each other, but unaware of what our goal is, as well? If they have been given only enough instructions, as say, to take us from A to B and no more, then who is to say what we are really about? For all intents and purposes, we could be on a secret mission to gather pollen!

“Watson, it is quite obvious by now that Lloyd George has led me as a trainer leads a reluctant thoroughbred into an unwelcome arena. Is it not then also possible that he has obfuscated completely? And if that is the case, then anything is possible - absolutely anything.”

“But what about His Majesty, Holmes? Did not the King himself say that he had chosen you for this enterprise?”

“Indeed. And that is one part of this puzzle that does not fit.”

“Well, if we are not headed for Russia, Holmes, where are we headed?”

“I still believe that we are being led to attempt the successful completion of our task. And if that is so, then we must still be headed for Russia. Indeed, most certainly then for Kronstadt.”

“Kronstadt?”

“Yes, it is the naval base nearest St. Petersburg, approximately forty miles. It guards the way to the capital. If the Bolsheviks were politically practiced enough to invite such unwelcome guests as the English into Murmansk, to guard the capital from flank assault by the Germans and Finns, I am willing to wager there is another game afoot in Petersburg. A much more intricate game than I was led to believe I would be playing.

“I thought it a simple question of Red or White, rather like which wine to choose for dinner, but this is deep, Watson, deep. As yet I cannot fathom the intent, but whatever it may be, I believe that for our direct entry into Kronstadt, the waters will be made calm. And should the German navy act as spoiler, it makes it the more interesting.”

With that, Holmes lay himself down in his bunk; and for the first time in what appeared to be two days or more, he slept. I, in no shallow attempt at imitation, did likewise.

When next I awakened, some four hours later, I found that we were long into the North Sea, indeed far from Harwich, but only slightly closer to the solution for which Holmes was searching.

Later that evening at dinner in the officers’ mess, we met the ship’s elite. The officers had been briefed that we were special envoys to the new government in St. Petersburg, summoned at their request, to help them recover invaluable Romanov jewellery, which, when sold to rich capitalists, would be used to benefit the Russian people.

Throughout the meal Holmes said little, so intently was he dissecting Captain David. After but one sip of brandy at dinner’s completion, David rose and began his arresting walk around the table.

“I trust you slept well, Dr. Watson?”

“To be perfectly honest, Captain, I would have napped well even perched atop the Great Pyramid.” This brought laughter from all.

“I take it then that you are not fond of our arrangements?”

“Not so. It’s just that I am a landlubber, many generations bred, and my body was greatly confused by an unsuspected turmoil, when it is used to terrain remaining stationary and happy to be so.” More, and heartier laughter ensued.

The captain waited for the laughter to dissipate, and then, with great earnest, he addressed us all.

“Mr. Holmes, Dr. Watson, men, I understand that many of you have taken to guessing about our destination based upon the headings I ordered. Well, you can stop your calculations as I tell you what that destination is.”

With all men, including myself and Holmes, physically bent forward, as you would expect from a crowd at a close horse race, the captain proceeded to pull down a large map of Europe; and then commenced his briefing in the style of a geography tutor.

“Men, as to our direction, Bremerhaven is portside. In about eleven hours time we shall be passing Jutland,” at the mention of which, the men tapped the table, “then up and around Skaggerak, down through Kattegat Channel hard by Laesö Island, then down through Oresund, taking us into close enough proximity to Kiel to perhaps have the Huns salivating in wait. However, should we still be afloat, we then proceed northeast through the Baltic to Kronstadt.”

Subdued comments from the officers indicated that they expected and hoped for some action.

I looked at Holmes as I always did when one of his theories had been proved true, but Holmes was studying the map.

“Pardon me, captain,” I interrupted, “but what, precisely is the importance of Laesö Island?”

“Come Dr. Watson, do you mean that an old military man such as yourself is unfamiliar with that island?”

“Captain,” I retorted, “I should like you to find the position of the Isles of Langerhans on your first autopsy!”

“Enough, sir,” laughed the captain, “show mercy and I shall haul down my flag.”

“Granted, captain,” I said, “but in all seriousness, what truly is the significance of Laesö Island?”

The laughter was gone now as Captain David, with the composure of command, slowly looked around the room till he came again to me.

“It means simply this: that we are forced to penetrate the neutral waters of both Denmark and Sweden in an attempt to evade any confrontation with the enemy. And that in waters so narrow, there is no way of knowing if we shall be successful.”

“Sir,” it was Lt. Leicester, perhaps the youngest of the officers present, “do you think we shall be engaged?”

“Well, Lieutenant, according to Newsome, the enemy should be all over the place. Both on the surface and under. If you ask me, they should be called ‘rat packs’ instead of ‘wolf packs.’”

At this, the men laughed and concurred.

I studied the faces of all the officers, and to a man, they were now sullenly pensive.

Holmes shot up as if propelled by a giant spring.

“Captain, gentlemen, thank you for a meal of such illumination. If we may, I believe that Dr. Watson would like to join me in a stroll around your deck.”

“Well, Mr. Holmes, this is not a pleasure ship with decks for promenade, but on a night as beautiful as this, I believe that the rules of war will not be irreparably broken if you have your stroll.”

“Thank you, Captain, gentlemen”, he gestured for me to rise and do likewise.

“Indeed. Captain, gentlemen.”

The officers wished us good evening, Holmes and I left them there, now gathered at the map, and proceeded down to the deck.

“Well, Holmes, what was it that shot you from an invisible cannon?”

“Newsome, Watson, Newsome.”

“Yes...?”

“A name thrown out so casually suggests frequent and informal conversations. In other words, a long acquaintance or friendship.”

“So what great import does this Newsome hold for us?”

“Not only for us, Watson, but for all of England. For I heavily suspect that the Newsome to whom Captain David so innocently referred, is none other than Sir Randolph Newsome, the Deputy Director of Naval Intelligence.

“And since when does a Deputy Director of Naval Intelligence personally inform a mere captain of a cruiser, and a light one at that, about the chances of hostile encounter; especially when that data is usually laid out by some junior statistical actuary.”

“I see. So you suspect that Newsome is in on it.”

“Perhaps yes, perhaps no. One thing I do know, this ship is, supposedly, assigned to the singular task of delivering us to Kronstadt in one piece. And not even persons high in government, including prime ministers, can play loose with such a prize as this vessel in time of war.

“No, Watson, it seems as if we are being given every opportunity to rescue the Russian family. But I, like a donkey, must perform with a carrot continuously held in front of my eyes.”

With that remark, Holmes turned away from me and disappeared into the black that enveloped the ship’s bow.

I succoured myself with sleep, but was so suddenly and violently awakened that I smashed my head into the rear wall of my bunk. After rubbing vigorously, I noticed that Holmes was absent.

I became aware of a bleating sound and immediately understood its meaning. After jumping into trousers and grabbing my coat and life vest, I opened the door to find sailors running right and left as if bereft of direction.

As I stepped out into this madness, a tow-headed sailor came running up to me.

“Dr. Watson, you are to follow me, sir!”

“Lead on,” I said and he started off. In fact he did so with so much coltish proficiency that he had to stop briefly twice to be sure I was still behind.

Upon reaching our battle stations, I was told that a periscope had been seen and that we were to stand to. Still no Holmes.

As I waited there virtually motionless, with everyone else in perpetual motion around me, I asked myself, for the first time on this journey, just what was I doing here?

Out of the fog, I heard Holmes saying behind me, “Lovely night for a swim, eh, Watson?”

“Very amusing, I’m sure, Holmes. Why didn’t you awaken me when you bolted from our cabin?”

“Come, come, Watson, you should know me better than that. I wasn’t even in our cabin when this ruckus began.”

“I suspected as much. Where were you?”

“Enjoying this beautiful night, Watson. Enjoying this beautiful night.”

“Well, it shan’t stay beautiful if we’re dumped into the sea.”

“I strongly doubt that, my dear fellow. After all, that is what life boats are for. Anyway, all we can do is hold onto this rail and wait.”

And wait we did. After a few moments, all seemed as silent as a sepulchre. The sailors were all at their stations, heads moving in every direction, eyes trying desperately in the dark to make out an enemy movement or shape.

I sweated in spite of the crisp North Sea air, and was happy to see the same dew on the foreheads and faces of those in close proximity.

Suddenly the ship lurched up with an awful roll to starboard that rent me free of my grasp of the rail. It was Holmes who grabbed me as I began to fall past.

“I’ve got you, Watson.”

“Thank you. Were we hit?”

“I don’t think so, there wasn’t any explosion. I think it was just a sharp, evasive move.”

We then waited for what seemed some considerable time, but nothing more happened. Finally, the all-clear was sounded and Holmes and I permitted ourselves to exhale. Nervous laughter followed, mixed with quiet verbal exchanges and the omnipresent gesture of crossing the body.

Holmes and I, while making our way back to our cabin, passed young Lt. Leicester.

“Well,” he said with a big, boyish smile, “you certainly can’t fault us for not providing after-dinner entertainment.”

We bade him good night again, fell into our bunks fully clothed, and this time, slept uninterrupted.

June 14, 1918

Upon waking next morning, mid-morning, in reality, I once again found Holmes missing. It never ceased to amaze me how little sleep Holmes required. As a medical man I had read case histories where people required as little as twenty minutes of sleep a night. I required the usual dose in order to function.

I renewed my practice of dressing and shaving with the seductive sway of a ship, and after a few, literally close shaves, my hand and eye became adjusted to the yaw. I believe I performed admirably; as well, perhaps, as if I had a scalpel in hand during an operation, in the midst of a bitter engagement with some wild Afghani hill tribe.

I made my way back up to the officer’s mess where I partook of a very late breakfast and was informed that the action of the night preceding had been nothing more than a false alarm, and that we would shortly be passing Jutland.

I went topside and saw Holmes at starboard, looking, I surmised, in the direction of that hallowed place of battle. But before I could walk to him, I again chanced upon Lt. Leicester.

“So, Dr. Watson, I hope things are going well for you?”

“Yes, quite. Thank you.”

We had reached Holmes by this time, and after hearty good mornings all around, Lt. Leicester took on a mock, conspiratorial tone.

“Gentlemen, you should feel honoured.”

“Honoured?” Holmes asked. “How so?”

“Well, that was quite a show the old man put on for us last night. I guess he was just trying to impress us, him being new to the ship, and all.”

“New to the ship, you say?”

“Why yes, Mr. Holmes. Capt. David only joined us about five days ago. Our regular skipper, Capt. Stanley, was promoted to a staff job of some sort at the Admiralty. And you won’t blame me for saying that the crew still miss him quite a bit.

“This new captain is an all right sort, I guess, but we can’t seem to find out too much about the man. Only that he was supposed to have been in at Jutland commanding another light cruiser, the HMS Pegasus. And that’s the strange part about this. You see, I have a good friend who was an officer aboard a destroyer there, and he seems to remember that the Pegasus had been commanded by a Capt. Bartholomew.

“Oh, well, I guess it’s all just some misunderstanding. Anyway, I must be off before the crew mutinies. I hope to see you later.”

He saluted smartly and strode briskly away, a young man happy with his calling, proud of his ability, and looking forward to the future.

“Well, Watson, whether or not our good captain commanded the Pegasus, he’s certainly an old sea dog from his ease of command and demeanour around the ship. But I do not think at this stage we shall accomplish an unmasking. Capt. David is now confirmed as merely the second link, although a much more important and formidable link than the first.”

Within the hour, we were passing Jutland, rather larger than I had anticipated, and Holmes and I watched quietly as the officers and men came to a brief attention and then saluted.

Three days later, we were through the Oresund Narrows, and were about to enter decidedly German waters.

Battle

It was exactly eleven-seventeen A.M. when Holmes and I, and the men of Attentive, saw that which we secretly wished never to see: an enemy ship. A very large enemy ship.

Battle positions were sounded and we were told later that the German ship was a prowling destroyer; by no means the most potent warship in the enemy’s arsenal, but potent enough for a peaceable doctor. Holmes and I were sent below.

I think that Holmes and I both shared the same feeling during the brief engagement: impotence. We could not fight back. We could not contribute martially. But I could contribute as a doctor and Holmes, with his knowledge of human anatomy, could certainly help. From what we were told after the battle, this is what happened.

Our crew saw them before they saw us. Our captain immediately called all to battle positions and made ready for a run, knowing that we could not possibly out gun a destroyer. Not only did the Germans have ten-inch guns to our sixes, but the Attentive, like all her sister light cruisers, was built for speed and scouting, for escort and raid. Therefore, she was more lightly armoured and armed than our larger and more predatory ships of the line. So Capt. David was counting on speed and luck. He received both in moderate measure.

We were about ten miles distant when the Germans fired their first shots. They missed and our men gave a loud cheer.

But some of their second salvo found their mark and we were hit amidships. The two-hundred-pound high-explosive shell landed amongst the ready-use lockers of the rockets, causing those already loaded to explode. And from this one direct hit, all our casualties sprung, for there were no more hits. We managed to outrun the Germans who gave up the shelling only after night; though our ship burned and glowed in that night like a beacon.

There was fire and smoke throughout amidships and scalding debris hailing down thick and fast. As misfortune would have it, Holmes and I were below the explosion and saw much horror at first hand.

Sailors turned into torches of pitch. Limbs severed or torn by massive steel splinters shooting about like arrows. Terrible cries for help lost amongst even more terrible cries. And the stench of roasting human flesh everywhere.

After the fires had been brought under control and it seemed as if there were no more wounded for us to treat, Holmes and I began a terrible tour around decks. After a short while, we came across young Lt. Leicester.

He was sitting upright against a wall, waiting for his turn to be treated by the doctors. Only his head was bandaged, and I could make out no other injuries. I looked into his eyes to determine pupil dilation when he recognized me.

“You see, Dr. Watson, we always provide entertainment.”

And with that, he ceased living. I tried to revive him, but Holmes knew it was hopeless; and after a sufficient time, Holmes gently steered me away, back to our cabin, back from the hell we had just shared with five hundred men.

It was now the stillest part of night. But on that ship, we were part of nature no longer. We had just journeyed through a dimension known only to demons, and many of us would not come back easily.

But HMS Atttentive proved, as Commander Yardley had said, sweet and swift, and the crew were British through and through. Damage was controlled and repaired, our speed was maintained, and we sailed quickly on. And as Holmes had said, whoever Capt. David was, he was truly an old sea dog.

Towards evening, all hands turned out for the solemn burial at sea. Sixteen souls sailed downward; and as each released from its Union Jack slipped away, I wondered which was Lt. Leicester.

We were now well into the Baltic, nearer the end of our journey than the beginning, and I pondered mightily on just who and what awaited us in Russia.

June 18, 1918

This day passed, thankfully, with nothing to jar routine. The wounded men rested and healed, but the wounded ship did not rest. It pushed onward.

June 19, 1918 Kronstadt

The captain sent for us this morning and told us to prepare. We would be on the island-base of Kronstadt before the end of day - if all went well.

We made ready, the Attentive arrived late afternoon, and by early evening, the captain came on deck to see us off.

“Gentlemen,” he said, “your trip has not been a happy one. I wish you better fortune here.”

We thanked him and then Holmes said, “Captain David, you have shown us your worth and wits in battle. It is we who wish you good fortune on your journey home.”

“Ah, yes. Well, we shall be here for a while for more permanent repair, then we must be home rather quickly. I greatly suspect that Kaiser Willy will try to make our voyage home even more eventful. There is more to this business, you know.”

He saluted as we went aboard the packet boat, and as we chugged into Kronstadt, Holmes and I saw what was left of the Russian North Fleet; battered so harshly by German guns and seamanship. Searchlights only served to heighten the damp air of death and doom that clung so tenaciously to that melancholy place.

Since March 3rd, when the treaty of Brest-Litovsk had been signed and took the Russians actively out of the war, a kind of limbo had engulfed all here, men and ships alike. They were thrust into a very personal purgatory.

As we neared the dock, Holmes and I focused on a large, black motor car with what looked like a military escort in front and behind. It was flying red flags of revolution.

As we stepped ashore, a Russian soldier opened a rear door for his officer who emerged and then strolled casually towards us. He stopped quite close, looked intently at both of our faces, took a deep breath and then, in a perfect English accent, said, “Welcome, comrades, I am Colonel Relinsky.”

Reilly

Relinsky, as we found out later, was Sidney Reilly, about forty, wiry, with a chiselled face as hard as that of a statue, and eyes of such sharp intelligence, that, as Holmes told me later, he immediately sensed an intellect of the first order.

When Reilly removed his cap in the auto, he revealed coal black hair combed severely straight back; an indication of how this man kept his own persona so rigidly in check. And though, at the time, neither Holmes nor I had any idea of who this man really was, I found out much later how singularly important he was not only to our task and to Britain - but to the entire Allied cause.

In fact, in the complete history of my human contact, Sidney Reilly ranks as the only man who I truly believe was as extraordinary as Sherlock Holmes.

There were, however, many differences: while Holmes was brought up on the inside of society, Reilly was shunted to the outside (he had been born in Russia, the son of an Irish sea captain and a Russian woman of Odessa); Holmes, though born with a superlative mind, cultivated it through learning and books until he had gained more practical experience, while Reilly it seems, almost from the beginning, was thrust into enough practical experiences to last many lifetimes; Holmes used his knowledge and powers solely for good and aid to his fellow man, while Reilly used his, including a startling fluency in seven languages, complete with sub-dialects, not entirely for the betterment of his adopted country of England, but most certainly for the betterment of Sidney Reilly.

Yet he was so important an asset to Britain and the Allies that he could virtually name his price. Permit me to give you just three instances of the powers and incomparable exploits of this man Reilly, as I would learn later.

First, before the war, the Admiralty needed knowledge of Germany’s submarine construction plans. It was Reilly who conceived of the method to obtain these plans completely shunning the usual cloak and dagger. He simply secured the post of naval armaments purchasing agent for a very important Russian boat-building firm. As such, he was feted at the Hamburg shipyards by the company of Bluhm and Voss, who, wanting to secure a rich, Russian contract, willingly gave Reilly all the plans England sought.

The second instance found Reilly entering Germany through Switzerland at the height of the war in 1916, gaining entry to the German Imperial Admiralty by posing as a naval officer, and making off with the entire German Naval Intelligence Code.

The third, and most incredible instance, involved Reilly being put into revolutionary Russia by the British. Reilly became Comrade Relinsky of the Cheka, heirs to the Tsar’s Okhrana, the secret police, and rose so high so quickly, that an organized plot of his almost put him into supreme power. Lenin would have been dispensed with.

Such were the abilities of the man who now stood before us and continued his address.

“We heard of your near miss. I hope you weren’t scathed.”

“Only our souls,” I said.

“Tell me,” said Holmes, “if you may, just how does an officer in the Red Army...”

Reilly cut him off, “Not the Red Army comrade, the Cheka.”

Holmes and I both knew of the infamy of that sinister organization, and wondered into what situation we had walked.

“Are we under arrest then?” asked Holmes.

Reilly laughed. “On the contrary, Mr. Holmes, you are under my very special protection.”

“And how come we, British subjects, to be under the special protection of the Bolshevik Cheka?”

“By the same humour of the fates that has brought all this madness about.”

He was answering in riddles. Was he talking about the task Holmes and I had to perform, about the revolution, or about the Russian Civil War? Holmes pressed on.

“Well, then, how do you come by such perfect, Etonian English?”

“Ah, your ear is quite practiced, sir, and the answer is simple. I am half English, well Irish, to be exact, and I spent many formative years in the vicinity of very proper Englishmen.”

These were clearly half-truths and evasions, so Holmes pressed him further.

“Then perhaps you may tell us this, are you working for us, or for them?”

At this, Reilly really laughed. “I say, Mr. Holmes, you are certainly not a man to lay soft with words, are you?”

“When the lives of two people are at stake, namely mine and Dr. Watson, I have no time for courtesies.”

Reilly then looked hard and cold at Holmes. “Only two lives, Mr. Holmes?”

There was a long pause at that, until Holmes again spoke.

“Where are you taking us, Colonel Relinsky?”

Mockingly, I believe, Reilly said, “Comrade, if you please. We are all comrades here. And I am Comrade Relinsky.”

“Well, I’m not your comrade,” I said huffily.

“Oh yes you are, Dr. Watson. And indeed you will be. Gentlemen, you have nothing to fear from me or my men. They are true Russians and speak no English. But they do speak fluent Relinsky.”

“Why I am a high ranking officer of the Cheka, and who exactly I am, is of no concern to you. What is your concern is that I will be your compatriot on every foot of your journey in Russia. There are many still in Russia who feel, as do some of my men, loyalty to the former government of this country. They are Whites. They wish for the return of the old order, or at least some noble to their liking. Privilege and power are hard commodities to accrue, and infinitely more difficult to accept the loss of. That is why a civil war rages in this land. It is barbarism run rampant and is all for power and privilege. The rest is but rhetoric.

“I know why you are here, and I am placated that I will be aiding such men as yourselves in accomplishment of your task.

“Things are not always run as they should be by our comrades in England. But this time, it seems that someone has found some common sense. A marginal attribute of many, I have found.

“Now, to answer your question, Mr. Holmes, I am taking you to a safe place where you will both rest until you’re visited by someone who has been instructed to meet with you. He is very important to our mutual endeavour, for he holds much power at this precise time. However, that power, which is implied, may vanish at any instant, based upon the prevailing political winds of the moment. On this topic I shall not say more. You will know as much as needed when the time is right.

Now we must board a small vessel to take us to the mainland, where we have quite comfortable lodgings for you; what in Petrograd is now considered a feast, and you will be as safe as if you sat in Parliament itself. The only other words I can give you at present are these: trust no one who is Russian, trust one tenth those who are British. As for myself then, by law of percentages, you should be able to trust me only one time in twenty.” Reilly chuckled to himself on that.

We made the next stage of our journey without incident. Presently, with our guards front and rear, we stopped at what had once been a house of much means. There were discernible scars of battle about the house and its immediate environs, and other guards waited at the ready.

We followed Reilly in and found that the feast to which he referred was potatoes, onions, and some meat. Reilly watched as we ate, asking if the fare was to our liking, and remarking on how the room in which we dined, which I thought must once have been spectacular, but now was greasy and bullet marked, had recently been used as a makeshift morgue.

For all intents and purposes, our meal ceased upon that disclosure. And since it was now rather late, Reilly asked if we might not like a nightcap before retiring. I was amenable, and Holmes needed no coaxing at all, so fascinated was he, as was I, with our new companion.

Though the immediate soldiers about were, and acted, as his junior in rank, we sensed an unspoken compact between them that seemed welded as steel. Holmes said later that for all we knew, they might all be British agents; although, we both doubted that strenuously. We also dismissed the idea of mercenaries. Holmes felt that at times such as these, men with strong beliefs on both sides had, perhaps, even stronger hidden motives for their actions. Whatever they might be, we would have to trust in Reilly’s control of his men and of the situation.

After pouring what Reilly assured us was one of the last bottles of Napoleon brandy in all Petrograd, and with some of his guards moving about quite freely, Holmes continued the conversation.

“Tell me, Comrade Relinsky, what is your exact rank?”

“I already told you, a mere Comrade Colonel.”

“Come, come, now,” prodded Holmes, “there is nothing mere in that, at all.”

Reilly laughed again. “True, you are absolutely correct. How I shall enjoy our precious time together, comrades. I have not lately had my wits sharpened verbally by so skilled a rhetorician.”

“Well, perhaps it’s just the company you keep,” said Holmes. We all laughed. The brandy was relaxing us all.

“I tell you, comrades, these are interesting times. My men are completely devoted to the work I do; although none are completely aware of precisely what work it is. Within my cadre of cut-throats, there are those I must trust with my life. And on any number of occasions, I have.

“The rather small man in back of me with the clean-shaven head is Stravitski. I knew I could trust him from the beginning because he had killed his own father.”

“What?” I gasped incredulously, almost spitting the precious brandy into oblivion.

“Oh, it was all very political and perfectly acceptable. The only other man who has saved my life, but only once mind you, so he still has a way to go before he’s trusted only that much,” he held up his index finger and thumb so that the distance between them would not permit paper through, “is the man standing behind the both of you right now with a revolver in his hand.”

Holmes moved not a muscle and sat perfectly still watching Reilly. But I quickly turned to see this menace, an imposing brute with prematurely white, curly hair, a typical peasant-type, down-turned moustache, but who gave off not one vibration of malice. He indeed held a revolver, but it was pointed downward. He looked at me looking at him as if I were a naked bushman who had wandered into a royal cotillion.

“His name is Sergei Alexandrovich Obolov.”

“And what is his crime?” asked Holmes.

“None that you or I would consider a crime, Mr. Holmes. But when the Bolsheviks, in their turn, overthrew Kerensky, Obolov here, called a comrade major a pig. So his tongue was ripped out.”

“You mean?” I spoke no more, yet continued looking at this man.

“He is dumb. But highly intelligent.”

“So even though these two fine specimens of Russian manhood have saved your life before, they are in no way to be trusted, even though you jest that you do?” asked Holmes.

“Absolutely not,” said Reilly, “after all, what you do today is no guarantee of what you will do tomorrow.”

“Life here must be very constricting,” I said.

“That is one word. I prefer the term ‘magnificently precarious,’” said Reilly.

We were now growing weary from our trip and our sips, and Holmes suggested that we make our way to our chambers. Reilly concurred, and as he personally led us up a magnificent, circular stairwell of marble, with Stravitski and Obolov bringing up the rear, he said to both of us, over his shoulder, “But pray tell, comrades, what do you think of Mother Russia so far?”

“So far?” I said. “So far we have met nothing but soldiers, killers and martyrs.”

Reilly stopped, turned, and after a laugh that tilted his head to the rooftops, looked down at me with eyes stretched wide and said, “But Dr. Watson, those are the only manner of beings who inhabit this nation.”

Holmes and I had adjacent rooms, and I slept quite well that night in spite of the mid-summer phenomena when the sun refuses to hide itself in night. I also think that at some time the door to my room was opened for an instant while eyes peered to examine the state of affairs within.

June 20, 1918

Upon making my way downstairs in morning, I found Holmes and Reilly in animated conversation over coffee, tea, and some black Russian bread.

Both bid me good morning and I do believe that the omnipresent Obolov nodded. I sat and poured some tea while Reilly explained the day’s agenda.

“I was just informing Mr. Holmes that your visitor should be here in approximately,” he glanced at a most magnificent watch he kept in his tunic pocket, “one hour. In the interim, whatever questions I am permitted to answer, I will happily do so.”

I turned to Holmes, “Well, what have you dug out of our comrade, so far?”

“Not much, I’m afraid. Comrade Relinsky is blessed with occupational lockjaw.”

“Now, Mr. Holmes, from what I know of you, your mandible would prove as immobile as mine.”

“Touché,” said Holmes, “humour aside, you will not tell us more of yourself or your connection with our government, which, of course, Dr. Watson and I are at liberty to surmise. Allow me, from my own humble knowledge of the situation to put our positions to you for your own expert assessment.”

“So you wish to attempt an analysis of the current political climate here?” asked Reilly.

“That is easy enough, and difficult enough,” said Holmes, “since currents here, I understand, alter course with alarming frequency.”

Reilly returned to our table, and Holmes, in a spellbinding mixture of satire, sincerity and suspense, laid out all of Russia on our table for our digestion.

“For Russia at the moment, to paraphrase Dickens, this is the best of times and the worst of times. Russia stands at the epicentre of its destiny. A move to the left, liberty; a move to the right, repression.

“The Supreme Soviet has moved the government to Moscow where it is desperately trying to keep power over, and order in, the whole of the Russian Empire. It is a virtually impossible task. Russia is not England, nor the British Empire.

“On one side, you have the Reds, the revolutionaries; wanting a new world for the people, and telling the people what this new world will be. Make no mistake, they would achieve their new world even if they had to kill every Russian, including themselves, to do it.

“On the other side, you have the Whites, the would-be restorers of the old order, supposedly made up of nobles and those loyal to the Romanovs and Christ; not necessarily in that order. In fact, while there are some of the aforementioned, many more are renegades, soldiers of fortune, and misguided opportunists believing that aristocratic titles lie in the crimson snow, ripe for the snatching.

“Between the two groups, Russia is being ripped to shreds. But there is more. Within the Reds and the Whites there are factions pulling centrifugally. Imagine, if you will, Russia as a giant carousel spinning so wildly out of control, that the Reds and Whites are flying straight outward, fully extended, and are holding on with only one hand; the other being used to flail about at the closest enemy.

“The Supreme Soviet in Moscow issues orders to the regional

Soviets thousands of miles away, and if the regional or local Soviet agrees with the order, all well and good. If they do not, the lines go suddenly dead. Communication is cut for a time, until more satisfactory orders may be received. These local Soviets are fiefdoms in themselves.

“The same holds true for the Whites, basically, except that they have all the power and money of the combined Allies behind them. And therein lays the other mortal danger.

“The United States, Great Britain and France would have supported the devil in this war against Germany. So you had the three greatest champions of liberty in the world allied with its single greatest tyrant. The axiom about politics making strange bedfellows found no greater conundrum in all of human history to prove its truth. Although, of course, it really isn’t a conundrum, is it? The enemy of my enemy is my friend, and so on.

“But here come along the Bolsheviks and dissolve that alliance. They make peace with the Germans, releasing a hundred hardened divisions to the Western Front to kill the boys of freedom. Even worse, the Bolsheviks are a capitalist’s philosophical anti-Christ.

“So suddenly Russia no longer has any allies, which means she no longer has any money. This also means she no longer has any credence with anyone about anything, except, of course, with the people in power, and the people the people in power have their boots upon.

“Now, not only has Russia lost its allies, but those allies may quickly become enemies. Because as I’ve said, the allies are capitalists, and what could be better to capitalize on than the wealth of the Russian Empire with no hand upon its purse? What self-respecting capitalist could refuse such an opportunity? Certainly not England, the founder of the philosophy; nor America, its most ardent adherent in the world.

“So in summation, the very civil strife that renders this nation prostrate, that starves its population and robs much of its next generation of its very life, is our friend. It shall shield us and hide us in very plain sight. And if luck were a tangible commodity, we should require but a thimble full to complete our endeavour with success.”

I sat almost slack-jawed at perhaps the greatest single piece of analytical oratory I had ever heard. While Reilly, whom I suspected to be extremely knowledgeable of politics in the extreme, simply looked at Holmes and quietly said, “Bravo.”

Reilly was as good as his word; for within the hour, our visitor arrived. As Holmes and I watched from a window, a Rolls Royce pulled up to the house, ostentatiously flying the Union Flag. The motor car was saluted by the guards and its passenger emerged stiff and formal, and strode in. He was none other than the British Ambassador to Russia, Sir George Buchanan.

Holmes knew of Sir George through one of the many acquaintances one makes in Holmes’ line of work, and later confirmed my feelings about the man that I derived solely from our meeting: that he was ramrod Raj, a certain term of disparagement we used in the army to describe martinet officers; that he was cold, calculating and cautious; and that he knew his business hands down.

Of his appearance, it bespoke the man: fair, greying parted hair, a generous, upturned, Edwardian moustache, perpetually pursed lips, eminently formal attire, even for an Ambassador of the Empire, and a slim, hard physique on a moderately tall frame. His eyes were ice grey, the colour of the Arctic.

After a very brief talk with Reilly, Sir George was brought to us.

“Mr. Holmes, Dr. Watson, may I have the honour to introduce, His Excellency, the British Ambassador to Russia, Sir George Buchanan.”

We received firm, curt and correct handshakes and then Reilly bade us sit. Sir George spoke immediately and succinctly with not a word wasted.

“Gentlemen, your roles as envoys in this forbidding hour are much needed. Of course I know of your true intent and extend my personal thanks for what must best be termed a great humanitarian mission. I have been in contact with our consul in the Urals capital of Ekaterinburg, Thomas Preston, and he has been informed of your expected arrival between now and July 1, some ten days hence, barring any unforeseen problems.

“Colonel Relinsky and a small cadre of his men will be with you on your undertaking; and you shall be guided by a plan devised by Colonel Relinsky himself. After all, it is the Colonel who knows the Russians better than we do; and he has had some experience in these matters. I have not given him permission to divulge his plan to you, but will shortly do so.

“Upon successful completion of your task and your arrival at Archangel, you shall board a waiting ship which will take you all to safety out of this God-forsaken country.”

He then abruptly stopped talking and with the swiftest of turns of the head to Reilly, and then back to us, as a gesture of indication, said, “Your plan.”

Reilly nodded an acknowledgement.

“Yes, well it’s as simple as a machine with only a few moving parts. The fewer the parts, the less chance of a breakdown.

“The particulars of the plan will be discussed on the train to Ekaterinburg. But the idea is simply this: we arrive as the Supreme Soviet’s special detachment of the Cheka. We are to remove the Romanovs from Ekaterinburg because the Whites are coming too close and the Supreme Soviet has decided to put them on trial for the entire world to see. If the local Bolsheviks at Ekaterinburg refuse to turn over the Romanovs, they shall be told that they then will have to deal with a large contingent of regular Red Army troops being sent south to counter the Whites’ advance north. It will not seem a happy prospect.

“Since my men and I are already Cheka, we should be convincing. If the locals wish to telegraph the Urals Soviet for affirmation, they will find that the lines have been cut. This will be blamed on White partisans, of course.

“Our information says the men guarding the Romanovs are mere jailers, not first-rate troops or first-rate minds. And, as Mr. Holmes has so eloquently expressed it, with just a thimble full of luck, we shall carry the day.

“As to the chase, should there be one, that is part of the specifics you will be informed of later.” After a moment’s pause and that unique Reilly grin, he asked, “Any questions?”

Holmes said nothing and I followed suit, suspecting that he had reasons for his silence.

“Good, well, there’s more I should impart, gentlemen,” said Sir George to Holmes and me. “I am sure that this is the most significant and urgent assignment of your lives. It comes from the highest authority and carries the fullest weight imaginable. It has been kept in the strictest of secrecy and there are but few in the entire Empire who know of its particulars. We are all counting on you and you must count on the Colonel and his men, with your very lives. I trust them implicitly.”

Sir George rose. “I shall take my leave of you now. I must return to Vologda before Comrades Lenin and Trotsky. There will be much to do then.” He shook hands with us all, and was gone. I looked at Holmes, he looked at me, and then we both looked at Reilly.

“Well, Comrades, so what did you think of the British

Ambastardor?”

Holmes needed to think and made his excuses. He headed outside and into the gardens at the rear of the mansion. As he did so he beckoned me to follow,

Once outside I spoke. “Well, Holmes, what do you make of all this? Especially Relinsky’s remark about Buchanan?”

Holmes furrowed his brow and said, “Watson, I am now certain that Buchanan is one of Lloyd George’s invisible others; as was Captain David. And though, as yet, I have not made the connection between them all, they are all in it.”

“Together?” I asked.

“My dear fellow, I am afraid that ‘together’ may be the domino that sets all the others to fall into place. For while they are all most assuredly in this thing, are they all in it, literally, together? I am convinced that Relinsky knows much, but not all. I feel that he may well be the single most important link in our chain. And that deduction is not the most pleasant, by any means.

“Furthermore, I suspect that Relinsky knows there is something interesting afoot here, and that he will follow his orders, if orders there are, to see if the true meaning of this poison can be extracted.”

“Holmes, I still cannot see it. I do not understand how the King is involved in this ‘poison,’ as you call it, whatever it is.”

Holmes froze and smiled.

“That’s it, Watson! Why, of course, that’s it! The King is not at all in on it! I have foolishly allowed my mind to wander down an alley without an exit. Oh, the time I wasted trying to decrypt the King’s direct role, and now the simple answer is there is no direct role. I am absolutely now positive that the King knows nothing of what is unfolding here before us.

“Of course, he cannot know because he should not know, but he does not know! And that is the important thing here.”

“Holmes, please explain yourself.”

“It’s perfectly simple, Watson. The King, being the King, should never know of any arcane government activity that may endanger, or even embarrass, the throne. He is supposed to be above it. Therefore, since he should not know, it is believed, through constitutional law and tradition that he cannot know; although, in fact, he may indeed know. It is a charade that governments play at and sincerely believe when addressing the public.

“But in our case, he truly is ignorant of events, officially and unofficially.”

“Holmes, once again you are being opaque.” We both smiled. I was at least assured the King was not involved in any underhand plot.

Holmes too seemed pleased. He produced his old, black pipe, filled and lit it and then resumed his walk around the gardens.

According to Reilly, we were free to tour Petrograd for a few hours, and we would have a small guard with us to be sure there would be no problems. He reminded us, as if he had to, that as yet, there was no great influx of British tourists into Petrograd, and that without the proper protection, we might be taken for something other than what we truly were; which, of course, was backwards since what we would have been taken for, should we have been taken for anything other than Sherlock Holmes and Dr. John Watson, was what we now truly were: British agents.

Reilly informed us further that after our tour that day, there would be one more person for us to meet. He would probably be waiting for us upon our return.

We drew Stravitski as the man in charge of our guards, and for the next several hours, Holmes and I were treated, if that is the right word, to the still-living history of the Tsars; and the signs of torment attesting to the Bolshevik Revolution and the birth of their new world order.

Our first stop was the Winter Palace, the Romanov official residence in the capital, built by Peter the Great. Compared to this incredible edifice, Holmes and I were forced to admit, Buckingham Palace seemed nothing more than a cosy, aristocratic cottage. However we were pleased this was so, because as Englishmen, we felt that such ostentation and indulgent opulence was totally inappropriate. It suited the tastes and requisites of slothful, oriental potentates swathed in silks; not the vigorous dynasty of the Windsors.

It seemed as if gold covered all, including the exterior of that monument to megalomania; the ceilings, the doors, the walls, the very air itself. Where gold was not visible, there were the most precious examples of marble, onyx, gems, and inlaid woods. There were objects of art everywhere, masterpieces covered the ceilings, and the Winter Palace housed the largest collection of Rembrandts in the world; this thanks to Peter, a contemporary of that incomparable Dutch genius, who he had become acquainted with while studying shipbuilding in Holland.

We were later told by Reilly that the gold would be stripped from all surfaces for the good of the people, and anything of any value would be sold or traded to keep the Revolution alive. Yet his words seemed as rote. They lacked spark or conviction, and were recited as perfunctorily as a schoolmaster giving a lesson for the thousandth time. Surely this was not the way of a fiery Red.

The tour continued through what seemed like countless numbers of rooms, until at last we stood in the very heart of the palace itself, the throne room. Here, indeed, was a throne for an emperor - or a god.

Peter had been nearly seven feet tall, and the throne, and room, were as immense as any Roman or Greek temple. I can easily see how the first instinct of any being, not free-born, would have been to fall on one’s knees in abject supplication to the Tsar. This place would easily dwarf any to follow Peter who could not make up for want of gargantuan size with will or intellect; the former being no guarantor of the latter.

We knew from pictures that Nicholas II was a man of somewhat less than medium height; indeed, he was about the same height as our Sovereign; and when younger, the two were almost as identical twins. From the history of his rule, he seemed a man with distinct lack of judgment or even basic common sense.

That he was the autocratic Tsar of All the Russias was as undisputed a fact as that of George V of England being a constitutional King-Emperor. But what of the real man and his wife, the Tsarina? Were the stories true? Were the press reports accurate? Was he truly “Bloody Nicholas?” Had she been the dupe, or worse, of that blackguard Rasputin? How did they really fit into this Victoria Station of a throne room? Did they fill it with all the mystical pomp of imperial majesty? Or were they humbled by being void of true majesty from within?

We knew that we must leave these questions unanswered until we met the Tsar and Tsarina. This, of course, depended on whether we lived long enough for that to actually happen.

We slowly made our way back to our guarded motor car, and as we thought of what we had seen, Stravitski watched us intently, as if he were trying to gauge our thoughts. Whether this was for himself or for his master, Reilly, I did not know. But what we had seen deeply affected both Holmes and me. For all that unearthly wealth had been stripped from Tsar Nicholas and his family, and now, like countless millions of Russian peasants, they were reduced to helplessly waiting for their fates; in their case, death.

I thought about the regicides of Louis XVI and Marie Antoinette and the parallels between them and the Romanovs. I recall feeling decidedly pessimistic about their future given such precedents.

We were next shown the cruiser Aurora whose Bolshevik guns had honed in on Kerensky and his government and made them finally realise that their noble democratic experiment was soon to be a victim of infanticide. Holmes indicated to Stravitski he had no desire to stop; indeed, he wished to return to our base. He was no longer in the mood for a tour.

The inactivity coupled with our conundrum was taking its toll on Holmes. He needed to feel physical movement of some sort to replace real progress in our task. Perhaps the train would be ready to take us way from this bacillus of a capital. Holmes would then gain the movement he required. He could feel the velocity and hear the clatter of track. He could feel that he was speeding towards his destiny; whatever that may be.

Stravitski did immediately as indicated and we were shortly back at the mansion, now a virtual armed camp. There were Red Guards and regular Red Army soldiers everywhere. Reilly was waiting for us at the door when we arrived. He came forward to greet us and before Holmes or I could ask anything, Reilly said we had a visitor; and that he was waiting, most anxiously to see us in what had once been the library. I shrugged at Holmes and we both followed Reilly.

The door was blocked by eight armed guards who came to attention upon seeing our Cheka Colonel; one opened the door. Reilly gestured us in, then came after.

As we entered and the door closed behind us, a small, bald man, with a short, pointed beard, and a fringe of red hair about his egg-shaped head, looked up from a book and with a big smile rushed toward us; one hand outstretched to Holmes, the other waving the book. He looked like one of those crazed, star fanciers you avoid at Covent Garden or the more fashionable music halls.

Reilly stepped to one side, and trying to compose himself said, “Mr. Holmes, Dr. Watson, I have the honour to introduce Comrade Lenin.”

Lenin

For what seemed for a long time, but was probably no more than an eye-blink, Holmes and I did nothing except perfunctorily extend our hands to Comrade Lenin.

There before us stood the Russian Revolution and none too high, at that. The man was five-foot-four, give or take a little. Not that I am mocking the man, I am a physician and do not make just of another human’s stature. Holmes and I were astounded to learn, through Reilly acting as interpreter, that Lenin was a huge admirer of ours.

It appeared that while in exile in Switzerland, he had consumed all of my works on Holmes, and seemed to regard Holmes as a kindred spirit of sorts. He had preached to his wife and to Trotsky that we were the type of men the Revolution needed: Holmes for his logical, unemotional mind, me for the loyal chronicling of Holmes’ adventures; a trait Lenin ranked high in his need for a Russian version of myself. That is, someone to chronicle the Revolution for posterity and in Lenin’s favour.

He bid us sit, which we did, and through Reilly, began to ask Holmes all sorts of questions about his methods of deduction and his opinion of Scotland Yard. Holmes was forthcoming, and even seemed flattered at Lenin’s attention. But I personally got an uncomfortable feeling about Lenin’s questions concerning our police methods. I could see, in my mind’s eye, a monolith in the middle of Moscow with the attendant sign: Siberia Yard. The whole scene had too strong an air of absurdity.

After about an hour of fawning questions to Holmes and me, Lenin said that he had to leave to meet Trotsky, and then gave us the biggest surprise of all. He held out the book in his hand to Holmes, which turned out to be a Russian edition of my works, and asked both Holmes and me to autograph it; which, of course, we did. Holmes with an audacious flourish I had not seen before.

He looked at the autographed page as I remembered my boy John looking at a bright, red wagon my wife and I had given him for Christmas when he was only five. Then, gently closing the edition, he shook hands, straightened, became the Revolution again, and was gone.

Reilly looked at Holmes and me, drew a paper and pen from his tunic pocket, and asked, “Oh, can I please have your autographs?”

I asked Reilly how he could mock Lenin so if he were one of Lenin’s minions. Reilly said that in reality, Lenin was a bourgeois at heart, and for all his rhetoric, was not one tenth the stone wall that Stalin was. Neither Holmes nor I had heard of this Stalin, and were told by Reilly that Stalin was from Georgia, he was not a true Russian. His mind was oriental in its quiet subtlety, and his only thought was of power. We were further told that Stalin had already gauged Reilly’s potential as a powerful, future opponent, and that if Reilly didn’t eliminate Stalin, Stalin would surely eliminate Reilly.

There were many questions Holmes wanted answered about Lenin, Trotsky, Stalin and the rest, but because now all was at the ready, and we would be leaving shortly, Reilly would only answer one question.

“Very well, then,” said Holmes, “what did you tell Comrade Lenin we were doing here?”

“Comrade Lenin is an admirer, as you saw. He was told you were travelling incognito to catch a jewel thief here. He loves the cloak and dagger aspect, you see.”

“You mean that he thinks we’re on a case?” asked Holmes incredulously.

“Why Mr. Holmes, what else would the two of you be doing in Russia?” countered Reilly.

Events started to now get underway. Reilly said there was a train going out to Perm, and from there we would board another to Ekaterinburg. We would have a private railway car befitting the status of a high-ranking Cheka officer. It would also serve as the Imperial Family’s on our return trip. If there was such a trip.

For one thing I was very grateful, we were assured that we would be left entirely alone. We would have time to rest and ruminate.

Yet what I had thought would be adventure, turned almost immediately into overwhelming anxiety for the masses of skeletal Russian children, women and men assailing the Petrograd main station; a place of slovenly Red Guards, debris of battle and debris of humanity; a slum of a place ripped straight from the pages of “Oliver Twist.” Decay ate the living, and no battlefield was more horrific, for there are no children in battle.

Though our motor car, with heavily armed guards front and rear, moved as a sabre-toothed saw through this human forest and brought us directly to our train car, Holmes and I looked towards the freight carriages into which humans were being stuffed, locked like livestock, paltry possessions held fast against the dangers of the journey.

The starving children were the worst to see, confused and terrified, holding desperately onto their parents’ hands, or carried more tightly than gold by their mothers or fathers when too small or infirm to walk. The Red Guards pushed and kicked and rifle-butted these people into the cars; and when the guards thought the cars full as possible, they slammed the wooden doors shut to prevent more from entering, and any from leaving. Coffins on wheels, I thought.

These were the refugees of the Revolution. Those who could not live longer in a capital of carnage, who could not find food for their families, who refused to watch as their loved ones became strangers and died. They were going to the country, where they thought there was food. Where they could once more literally breathe air not infected by hate or death. They would make their escape to places of quiet nature, where this new world order destroying their souls would take time to reach them again; time they would use to live and wait and choose by whose hand they would find eternal peace.

Holmes’ eyes collected all evidence of this tragedy, to be filed in his darkest sub-conscious, his face betraying not one speck of emotion. Yet as I turned my eyes away from Holmes’ face, I noticed that both his hands were clenched into fists as they grasped his jacket, creating two, crumpled balls on the bottom. No spoken word could have been more telling.

Then, as our guards made way for us to our railway car, Holmes suddenly broke from our ranks and moved as rapidly as he could towards the nearest freight car. It all happened so quickly that I could not even react; but Reilly and Obolov did.

Holmes had been watching as one particularly frail family was pushed onto the train. The youngest had been torn from his father’s arms and the Red Guards were shutting the door. Holmes bolted to the guard holding the baby and grabbed it, and in the process, knocking the guard to the ground. Now Holmes was holding the infant up for the father to take before the door was sealed. All this happened as one seamless movement.

The guard on the ground was already retaking his rifle, and some of his comrades closest were running to his aid. But Reilly and Obolov were already there, Obolov pointing his rifle at the running Red Guards, which stopped them instantly, and Reilly pushing his pistol into the mouth of the guard on the ground.

Reilly literally raised that guard to his feet by simply moving his pistol upward; the guard, now crying and terrified, in unison with the movement of Reilly’s pistol. By this time, Holmes had handed the infant to its father and turned to witness the events behind.

There was a grin on Reilly’s face, but it was as cold as a corpse. He told us later that he had said: “Don’t worry, comrade, I shan’t shoot you. Your blood and brains, if you have any, would stain my uniform. But I know you now. And I never forget a face - even one as unfortunate as yours.”

Reilly took the gun from the guard’s mouth and the guard soiled himself, fell to the ground on his knees and shook uncontrollably. Obolov gestured with his rifle to the other Red Guards to lift the man and take him away, which they did immediately and silently; looking back as they retreated.

Reilly turned to Holmes.

“Don’t ever play the hero again unless it’s what you were sent for. Above all others, you should be able to keep compassion in check. Save it for Ekaterinburg.” Reilly holstered his pistol, Obolov behind again, and all three came back to where Stravitski, the other Cheka guards and I had remained.

Finally, as we boarded the train, Holmes said to me, “It is now almost all before me, Watson. Answer this, if you can, for this is the question of questions: while we now begin a most crucial phase of our task, played out against this incomprehension,” he made a damning sweep of his arm at the station, “and with Relinsky as saviour, just why, Watson, are you and I even here?”

“What do you mean by ‘why are you and I even here?’ I should have thought that obvious and basic. It seems so to me.”

“But I am not you, Watson. Put aside, if you will, your thoughts and confusion about the King, and let your mind open to these questions. If, as Sir George stated, Relinsky has direct experience in these matters, and whatever he may be, is in a position to take advantage of his rank and power, as he has just given ample demonstration, why am I here? Second, and I mean this as no questioning of your considerable abilities, there are physicians in Russia. Why import one even at my urging? Which leads to the overall question, why take the time and trouble, especially when time is so desperately precious, to send you and me on our task?

I sat back. Holmes had sired some most savage questions. I had not one hint of explanation. And could only sit there, mute.

“You know that I refuse to come to a conclusion until I have all the facts in a case,” continued Holmes, “but this is most certainly not our usual case. It is not a case, at all. And while there may be no new facts, per se, there is certainly an ever-expanding cast of characters. I shan’t confide further until I know more. What I see in this miserable country is scraping away at my soul. Layers are being sliced away at regular intervals, with each breath. Were it not for a certain seven lives, I would quit this nation right now.”

It was much for me to absorb. Not only any personal postulations on my part about Holmes’ questions, but Holmes’ remarks on Russia. The sights of the day, and the events we’d now just witnessed had also made marked inroads into my usually happy disposition. Usually it would be I who would be the one to display emotion, so for Holmes to comment as he did upon our surroundings, meant something profound was happening to him.

Holmes and I sat in our private compartment in Reilly’s private car, the train painfully moving out of its charnel house. It flew two large red flags, front and rear, with our car positioned where normally rode the caboose. Our compartment was towards the front of the car, with the bulk of Reilly’s guards riding the roof and positioned at the only two points of egress and entry. Reilly was to our right, Stravitski and Obolov together to our left. Holmes confined himself to saying something about Scylla and Charybdis.

As we pulled free from the station and started east on the main line of the Trans-Siberian Railway, Holmes and I were given the views of Petrograd we had been too dismayed to see earlier that day, and that I shan’t recount now; for they are, even at this distance of time, and upon the scenes I have just described, too despairing and melancholy to relive or impart. Yet there was more of that infamy to lie ahead; always, it seemed, directly on the pathway of our train.

It was quite late now; the white nights, like so many Venus Flytraps, luring us into folly of physical exhaustion. It was only then that I fully noticed our compartment; it was sumptuous in the extreme. In fact, as later related by Reilly, the car had been the private travelling coach of a man who owned a conglomerate of mines. When the Revolution began, Reilly said, “His miners had the courtesy to show the man the bottom of one. And since they believed the man to be enjoying the experience, they agreed to leave him, chained to a beam, amidst his blackened joys.”

I looked down at Holmes in his berth, and was surprised to see him already in the embrace of Morpheus. I wondered to what torment his unconscious mind would consign him this night.

Through all the years we had been together, and the years before which Holmes had detailed, I knew that Holmes had rarely experienced anything the likes of which we were now witnessing. Perhaps, luckily for me, I had the experience and shock of war as a point of association. But Holmes had not experienced war. His life had been, at times, nothing more than periods of deduction, broken only by intervals of action. And though that action had involved the most base criminals in England, there had been little to prepare the singular and delicate mind of Holmes for the horrors it was now witnessing.

Yes, Holmes could accept individual crimes of passion as routine, based upon his chosen profession and the profusion of literature on that melodramatic topic. But this was something new and infinitely more sinister. To me it seemed to be a form of genocide; something to which a prodigiously logical mind like Holmes’ had absolutely no direct, previous reference.

I cursed the Bolsheviks along with Lenin, Trotsky and Stalin and shut my eyes.

June 21, 1918

As usual, upon awakening, I found Holmes gone.

I dressed to the shaking of the train, looked out the window to find we were well into the country somewhere, then went into the hallway and made my way to the rear, where I found the salon area.

Stravitski and Obolov were seated at a beautiful table of ebony, they raised their heads in recognition, and went about their breakfasts. It was Obolov who gestured with his fork to the door. I walked over, opened it, felt a swift, warm breeze envelope me, then saw Holmes and Reilly in deep discussion.

“Good morning, comrade,” said Reilly. Holmes just nodded.

“We have just passed through Volkhov, Dr. Watson. A place of no renown and even less substance,” said Reilly.

“Well forgive me for sounding rude,” I said, “but I would like to have my breakfast now, after which, your travelogue would be received with greater enthusiasm.” Reilly laughed and waved me back in. He and Holmes stayed out on the platform rear.

As I finished breakfast, Reilly came in. He nodded, passed me by, and Stravitski and Obolov followed him back to his compartment. I immediately joined Holmes outside.

“Well, Holmes, what is happening?”

“A fascinating fellow. I envy the ease with which he dissembles and speaks true; marrying the two so that they cannot be put asunder. He is like an eel: fast, fascinating and repellent at the same time. He is also disconcerting. To us he speaks in English, to his men in Russian; how do we know what the man is saying? He could tell them to slit our throats at any moment.”

“But Holmes, that seems so far fetched. Why would he want us dead? And if he did, why wait until now?”

“Good questions, Watson, but questions without answers - for now,” For a moment Holmes disappeared into thought, “if I did not know better, I might suspect a tight, blood relationship between our good comrade and the late Professor Moriarty.”

“What?” I laughed out loudly in spite of myself. “Relinsky and Moriarty! I appreciate the analogy but doubt its veracity.”

“Yes, the thought is amusing. But Watson, I tell you this now, I would not be unsettled to learn we are dealing with a mind and a will and a power as formidable as Moriarty’s had been.” Holmes’ half laugh dissipated quickly with these words, and likewise did mine as he added three, small words, “Or even greater.” These words, and the implication within them, chilled me right through; even on this warm June morning.

I managed to bring forth further questions.

“And what of his plan? Has he told you of it?”

“No, Watson, nothing. Through all my verbal tricks, he parried and thrust like a fencing master. Finally, as a last resort, I came out straight and asked him for the plan.”

“And?”

“He smiled and said there was much time, and perhaps we could make a game of his plan.”

“What? A game, you say?”

“Indeed.” Holmes’ stiff body slackened markedly as he leant against the wall and recounted Reilly’s challenge with too casual nonchalance.

“He said that since I was Sherlock Holmes, perhaps I could deduce the details myself. That it would give my restless mind something to do and would keep me out of trouble during, what he expects to be, a long and boring train ride.”

“And what did you say?”

“Why, Watson, what would you expect? Have you ever known me to lose at a game?”

June 23, 1918

The next few days were indeed dull, for the train rolled on relentlessly, the countryside and villages little more than blurs and the train stopping infrequently for fuel or water. The freight car doors were opened on those occasions, their human cargo pouring forth as freely as the waste from the slop cauldrons; fresh, unusually warm air for the month, filling filthy lungs and sweetening the stench of railway steerage.

On the second day we passed through the city of Vologda, the cross-junction for the all-important railway running north to Archangel. Holmes said that we must return to Vologda, from whence we would continue up to Archangel for our exit rendezvous with whatever ship our navy would have waiting.

On we travelled, listening to the strangely high-pitched women’s singing voices coming from the freight cars up front or Reilly’s guards atop our roof; the occasional spell on our rear platform for flowing fresh air and closer study of the landscape and peasant farmers not bothering to look up from their toil.

It was on the last leg of our trip to Perm, that Holmes announced to me the completion of his “Relinsky Theory,” as he termed it. This time, it was Holmes with the Cheshire cat grin as he, Reilly, Stravitski. Obolov and I gathered in the salon for Holmes to do what I’d seen him do so many dozens of times before: present all the facts in a case like so many dead fish laid out to dry.

Since Stravitski and Obolov supposedly spoke no English, we thought them there merely as appendages of Reilly; it was to Reilly that Holmes directed most of his speech.

“My dear Comrade Colonel,” began Holmes, with the air of master addressing his pupil; although, I knew in my heart this was not the case in this instance, “I believe your plans for our rescue of the Romanovs and our eventual escape, shall proceed as follows:

“As both you and Sir George have already stated, Thomas Preston, your consul in Ekaterinburg, is waiting for us. No, I should clarify that remark, he is not merely waiting, he has all at the ready. Quite frankly, Comrade Relinsky, I believe there is more to this venture than merely ‘brazening it out.’ Even though the Romanovs’ guards may be mere jailers, as you suspect, I have a strong feeling that the Urals Soviet would not leave so delicate a task of indelicate murder to a mere jailer. It would take someone with guile, ferocity, and a keen sense of the politics involved here.

“To continue, whomever that man may be, he will most certainly question your authority, Comrade, he will not be deterred by cut lines, he will order you to wait until he has specific written instructions from his superiors, and if you object or make trouble in any way, he will put you all under arrest or order his men, which, I am sure, will greatly outnumber your tiny band here, to open fire on you.

“Therefore, I am also sure that you have already devised an alternative scheme with Mr. Preston, who, undoubtedly, has a fair amount of men in British pay or with White sympathies. That scheme, however, can take a myriad of shapes and sizes, and since I have not diagrams, nor plans, nor detailed information regarding the Romanovs’ place of confinement, nor of Ekaterinburg itself, I shall not venture any further theories.

“This whole exercise has been a game, but one with you sir, holding the advantage.”

Now Holmes turned sharply on Reilly, uncompromising grey eyes holding Reilly’s as a magnet a piece of metal. Reilly’s grin returned while Holmes’ grin vanished as he continued.

“You thought this not merely a jest, but a test, comrade. You thought to find me exploring vast deserts of possibilities, my mind inexorably moving towards a non-existent, mental oasis, with the outcome a victory for you in either of three ways.

“The first, that I would lose myself in those burying sands of cerebral solitude, too occupied or disheartened to worry you further. The second, that I would go blithely over the precipice of your challenge, postulating a solution that would be as ludicrous as it would be contemptuous. With either outcome, you would have gained over me the superiority you carry with the derision of a matador flaunting his cape.”

“And what about the third victory of which you speak, Mr. Holmes? What would that be?” asked Reilly.

“Why nothing more than you have just witnessed. You now know, without reservation, that you cannot underestimate me. That I shall not be fooled. You know now that you, as well as I, must be on eternal guard. In short, you now have the true measure of this opponent.

“Perhaps I should have given you wild theories and left you to think of me as a mere fabrication of Dr. Watson’s writings. A pleasing product of public relations with no more incisive capacity than your average Scotland Yard functionary.

“But I have no time for such sport now that our time grows truly meagre and the sport for which we came is about to begin. I have only one question to ask, comrade, why are Watson and I here?”

At that question, the grin was gone from Reilly’s face and he stood to confront Holmes, almost eye to eye. Stravitski and Obolov were caught off-guard and they looked at me as if to inquire, “What is happening?”

Then, after Reilly and Holmes used their eyes as microscopes to fathom the very atoms of each other, Reilly said, “So, Mr. Holmes, you have divined the true game.”

And with that, he turned and walked away.

June 30, 1918

Our train pulled into Perm, the closest real city before the Urals, situated on the Kama River, a Red enclave soon to be beleaguered by Whites. Reilly and Stravitski spent some time at the Cheka headquarters at the crossing of Petropavlovskaya and Obvinskaya Streets.

Upon their return, about one hour later, Reilly bade Holmes and I attend him, as once again, there was someone who would be waiting to meet us. Since Holmes and I had no choice, we accepted the invitation.

We left the station to find two motor cars waiting for us, with Reilly’s men in the first car, and our immediate ‘family’, including Stravitski and Obolov, in the second.

From what little we saw of Perm, it consisted of double-storied, and squat, uninspired stone buildings hard by the river fanning outward in no logical pattern. The Urals were faintly discernible to the East.

After a brief ride, we stopped at what looked like a building for bureaucrats. Only the five of us entered, and I was immediately aware that the entire building must be empty, so harsh were the echoes of our footsteps.

Reilly led us to the middle office, opened the door, walked in, and we followed. Inside were rows of records sailing off to infinity, with an old, small, wooden desk in the centre; a pack of cigarettes, almost empty, and an ashtray almost full, the only objects on that desk.

Seated at the desk was a man in his mid-forties, with a long, sharp, straight nose, and very short dark hair. He was dressed in drab peasant garb; short, olive green shirt and loose, black trousers. Solely from the intense concentration on his face, I knew this man was no simple peasant. He rose as we walked towards him, but made no move to meet us. I noticed Holmes’ eyes looking under the desk.

It was then that Reilly tried to make another of his startling introductions.

“Mr. Holmes, Dr. Watson...” and before he could get in another syllable, Holmes finished the sentence for him.

“Admiral Vaslevich Kolchak, the Supreme Commander of all the White Armies in Russia.”

I saw Reilly’s head move backward almost imperceptibly, and I am sure that I was the only one to notice it.

The Admiral was angry and expressed that anger immediately to Reilly; surprisingly, in English.

“I thought you said these men were not told who I was.”

Reilly looked as if he weren’t sure whether to laugh or lie.

“Admiral, they were not told.”

“Then how does this man know who I am?”

“Rather simply, Admiral,” said Holmes. “First of all, upon entering, you were seated so erectly in your chair that I immediately knew you were someone used to command and power. While your dress is purposely peasant garb, your boots are shined to the gloss of only a very important officer.” The admiral, and Reilly, looked downwards in unison. Holmes continued.

“I would suggest you immediately scuff those boots or rub soil onto them.

“Next, the brand of cigarette you are smoking is of Turkish origin, and, please correct me if I am mistaken, but one of your more famous exploits in this war was your routing of the Ottoman fleet in the Black Sea, and your subsequent occupation of large tracts of Ottoman territory, where, no doubt, you acquired your fondness for that particular Turkish tobacco.

“Your fingernails, from constant manicure care, are almost as glossy as your boots; your face bears the ruddiness and attendant white creases around the eyes that come only from long periods, squinting at the sea; and your hair is cut in the sparse, precise manner of the Imperial Russian Navy.

“There is a tiny scar, from the kiss of a badly aimed scimitar, directly under your right ear that I remember reading you received in gallant action while still an ensign, again fighting the Turks.

“As inconceivable as it first seemed to me that you, the Supreme White Commander, could possibly be here in this Red bastion, knowing Comrade Relinsky and all the magic he has managed to conjure for us since our arrival in your country, plus all the facts I have just recounted, I was led to your identity.”

I was as amazed as Reilly and Admiral Kolchak. Not only at Holmes’ utterly brilliant deductions, but that we were there in harmonious company with a presumably double agent Cheka Colonel and, most assuredly, the Bolsheviks’ most wanted man.

Admiral Kolchak was still disturbed. He was no longer angry, that due to Holmes’ bravura performance, but he was still uneasy. Holmes spoke again.

“Admiral, please be at ease. This mundane act of deduction set before you is merely what I do, if you will, for a living. It is nothing about which to be uncomfortable. You have come here, at incredible risk to your life, to speak directly with Dr. Watson and me. Pray, tell us why you’ve come.”

With those remarks, the admiral seemed to calm himself. He sat behind the desk, and we then sat in the chairs before it.

“Gentlemen, I have seen much in my years that would flay the eyes of most ordinary men. But those were things of horror and battle. I am used to military feats. Not mental feats. That is why I have been so taken aback.”

He turned to Reilly and said, “This, Mr. Holmes, is even more than I had expected. Our friends shall be in trustworthy hands, I can see that. Yes, I can see that. Mr. Holmes, Dr. Watson, that is why I have really come - to see the two of you for myself. If all goes well, you shall shortly be holding the most precious jewels in the world, and I could trust no one’s judgment of you but my own.

“In fact, had I thought the two of you unworthy, I may have even withdrawn my support from this entire venture. However, I am now here specifically to give you our plan and route of escape once you have left Ekaterinburg.” Holmes bent his body closer to the desk.

“Even the Colonel here, knows nothing of this plan. Gentlemen, my men are too far to be of use upon your initial stage of rescue; but upon your return through the mountains and back through Perm, we shall make a lightning strike at your train near the village of Viatka using White irregulars comprised of Russians and Czechs. Once Colonel Relinsky has surrendered and his men have been dealt with,” he smiled to himself as he said those words, “we shall continue northwest towards our main concentration of forces. Once among them, you will be escorted in the greatest of safety and comfort to Archangel. Until our direct attack at Viatka, I have given orders to all regular units not to advance anywhere near the rail lines. Do you have any questions for me, gentlemen?”

The admiral’s tone was almost seductive now. Again, there was such a remarkable dissimilarity between his voice and his face that even to this day I wonder at it. It was at this point that I expected Holmes to ask the same question he had put to me and to Reilly; just why were we there? But Holmes did not ask the question, so, of course, neither did I.

What Holmes did ask, however, was a startling as had been his deductions.

“Sir, what if you fail?”

I saw Reilly wince.

“I do not understand you, Mr. Holmes. Please repeat yourself.”

“I mean, sir, just what I asked. What if Relinsky’s men revolt? Soldiers in revolt should be no novel notion here. What if our train breaks through? We shall be deep in Red territory, caught red-handed, so to speak.”

Reilly remained still, as did I, as Holmes and Kolchak stared at each other.

“Mr. Holmes, my men shall not fail.” The admiral’s tone was quiet, even, and forceful; a loving father reprimanding his son.

“But if they do?” pressed Holmes.

“Then, Mr. Holmes, look here to Colonel Relinsky; for neither God nor the devil, in that circumstance, shall be able to do more for you than he.”

We left Kolchak in his bureaucratic mortuary and joined our waiting guards. Until this point, I had suspected them to be Reilly’s men, on our side. But Kolchak’s words led me to believe that aside from Stravitski and Obolov, these other men were, in fact, real Red Guards on a mission with their Colonel. They knew nothing of who we just met. They knew nothing of the plans for their death. They were goats to the slaughter, with Reilly, Holmes and I as Judas goats. I shuddered to myself as now familiar men smiled at me as we got into our motor car. For the first time I understood what it meant to be what Reilly was; what it felt like to be friends with men you would knowingly lead to their death.

Upon our quick journey back to the station, we found two of Reilly’s men in a high state of agitation. One handed a slip of paper to Reilly that turned out to be a telegram. Reilly came to us.

He looked at Holmes and me and said, “Well, our friend may have given orders to his regulars to stay away from the rail lines, but those orders seem to have eluded some highly motivated soldiers - breakaways from the Czech Brigade.”

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“It means, Watson,” said Holmes, “that a band of Czech partisans has disrupted the track between here and Ekaterinburg. We are stuck.”

“Quite,” said Reilly.

We were so near, and yet so far.

We were now only a day or so away from Ekaterinburg when the Czechs did their mischief. With the day getting brighter by the minute, the Urals seemed as if one could touch them with a walking stick. Now, it appeared that some of the very people fighting for the Romanovs were inadvertently preventing their rescue.

Since the day was growing unseasonably warm, Holmes and I, as well as Reilly’s men, remained outside, simply waiting for instructions at the station. The refugees were out now, as well. Their ranks thinned by the numbers who had stayed in village stops along the way, and by those who had died en route.

It was then that the family Holmes helped in Petrograd came towards us. Holding their bundles, it was obvious they would be leaving us here in Perm, and the mother dropped to her feet in front of Holmes and grabbed his ankles in fealty. The father was holding the baby. Holmes lifted the mother, looked down into her eyes and said, “Nyet, Matushka. Charoshe schast”, which he later explained was Russian for “No, Mother. Good luck.”

The woman kissed Holmes’ hands and her husband’s eyes said everything that could be said of thanks. They turned, and walked off into the city. I hope to God they survived.

“Since when have you begun speaking Russian?” I asked Holmes.

“Why, Watson, one cannot help but pick up the odd word here and there.”

“I haven’t,” I said.

“Well, you haven’t been listening, then.”

“I have, but I can’t make anything out other than ‘da’ or ‘nyet.’ And that infernal alphabet of theirs is confounding.”

“No, it isn’t, my friend. It is just that you are set in your ways and do not wish to trouble your complacent cranium.” Holmes laughed.

“Watson, had I a more profound knowledge of this language, I would, as I have so often done in London, become another and vanish into the multitude, returning when that which I seek has been found.”

“But Holmes, that is sheer insanity. Strike it from your thoughts. In this place you are no more powerful than that babe you saved. It is an absurd notion. I shan’t permit you to even consider such a foolish act.”

I was becoming so agitated that Holmes quieted and assured me he would not go off seeking some solitary adventure. I was about to rest on a barrel when Reilly, Stravitski and Obolov appeared out of the station house and came towards us.

“Well, my friends. It seems that my men and I are about to attend afternoon tea.”

Of course, he was referring to a military engagement.

“We’re to set out with regular elements of the army, and bless me, a detachment of local Cheka under the command of a Colonel Mikoyan. Virtually all available men and units are to be used. We shall return when we return. Oddly enough, the lines have not been cut, so a message has been put through to Preston that his package will be delayed. How long, who knows? But that track must be repaired. We have no time to lose. Every moment of delay takes our friends nearer death. I’m leaving Obolov with you. I don’t think you’ll need more than one baby-sitter.”

There was nothing Holmes nor I could do but wish him well and wait. Within two hours, the various units were assembled and the cavalry rode out at full gallop. Motorized units of the Red Army followed, Reilly and his group came next with a small contingent of cavalry to the rear.

We watched them all, hundreds in number, evaporate into huge screens of dust.

July 2, 1918

Two days passed. The lines had finally gone dead about two hours after Reilly had set out. We did not receive any word until late on the second day.

Obolov ordered an English teacher he had found in Perm to give us the news, which was read to us in the manner of any good Red automaton: ‘A resounding victory for the ever-victorious Red Army. The criminal Whites and their stooges, the Czechs, were easily beaten; some few survivors cowardly escaping into mountain passes. The glorious soldiers of The Revolution will be returning tomorrow. The wounded have been sent ahead.’

July 3, 1918

The next morning the wounded began coming in and by late night most of the remaining forces had returned.

Reilly and his men met us at our railway car around six. Stravitski was not with them.

Obolov was extremely saddened by the loss of Stravitski. Reilly was rather matter-of-fact about it. He sat in our railway car’s salon, vodka his refreshment, his uniform bearing the filth and residue of battle.

After a few minutes, he began to tell us what really happened.

“On the second day out, we approached the village of Kungur, right at the foot of the Urals. The Czechs were waiting. And the Czechs had artillery. We did not. They weren’t free-booting irregulars, they were highly disciplined troops.

“They waited until the cavalry came in range and opened fire. We had to move up very slowly, but move up we did. The cavalry hit them on the flanks. We had more troops than the Czechs. Why such a small group of men had artillery is beyond me. I am not a military man.” He laughed to himself.

“I recount in brief what was, in fact, either a patriotic embellishment or calumny for more idiotic slaughter. But I am not a patriot. I am what I am.

“There were only about a hundred of them but they held on. When we got into Kungur, we learned it had been burning overnight. Most of the people of the village had been killed. Whatever villagers were left alive, our local Red Guards killed as White sympathizers. The Reds lost considerable numbers. That will be good for us on the return. They’ll still be regrouping, and their wounded will not, as yet, have been replaced. The losses to my men were slight.

“We left men behind to repair the track and men to guard the men. It should take another day or so.”

I interrupted. “What happened to Stravitski?”

“He never made it into Kungur, poor bastard. Oh well, one day you kill your father, the next day it’s your turn. Gentlemen, I’m tired. I think I’ll sleep for a while.”

With that, he stood up, one hand holding his glass, the other his bottle, which he used to salute us, and he slumped his way to his compartment. Obolov sat with his back to us, his head down, his shoulders heaving. Holmes and I went outside.

“What do you make of his reaction, Holmes?”

“Even in such straits he remains sphinx-like. But he is obviously still much fatigued and vexed from the battle. It is not something he expected. Our Comrade Relinsky is quite fallible, after all.”

July 4, 1918

In the morning, Holmes waxed philosophical about the day being America’s Independence Day while we were in the midst of another revolution.

“But,” Holmes said, “I sincerely doubt this country’s revolution shall have the same effect on its people.” I nodded in affirmation.

The greater part of the day was spent on my own, with Holmes having gone off somewhere alone, in direct negation of his promise to me, and it proved to be the cause of great concern for Reilly once he became aware of Holmes’ disappearance.

Reilly sent Obolov with some men into Perm to find him. Obolov returned that evening, and in his special form of communication with Reilly, made it known that Holmes was nowhere to be found. Reilly was clearly annoyed and demonstrated this by glaring at me and everyone else around him.

After more talk with some of his other men, Reilly came towards me, through the ranks of refugees on the platform, his men pushing aside the occasional wretch, male or female, who was in their way. One filthy soul, poor man, just could not seem to find his way safely out of the guards’ path. If he was shoved to the right, other guards would shove him to the left, and so forth. I was about to intervene on the man’s behalf when he was finally pushed clear of he advancing guards. In fact, he was pushed so forcefully, that he virtually landed at my feet. I would have made a move to help the man up, but he reeked of waste and his clothes were so stained and shredded that my concerns for personal sanitation gained the upper hand.

Reilly’s men surrounded me as he put his hands on my shoulders, moved me further from the stench of the peasant on the platform, and very slowly asked, “Dr. Watson, are you quite positive you have no idea where your friend has run off to?”

“I assure you, Comrade Relinsky, I am as puzzled and worried as yourself. Holmes swore he would not do this kind of thing in such a hostile environment.”

“Blast the man,” said Reilly, “just who the hell does he think he is?”

Suddenly we heard a loud laugh followed immediately by, “That depends on the circumstances.”

We all turned towards the words which came from the direction of the stench. The peasant was standing there smiling broadly.

It was Holmes.

Once he had washed and changed back into his own clothing, Holmes joined Reilly, Obolov and me in our railway car’s salon. He was still smiling broadly.

“Well,” he said, “it is nice to know when one is missed.”

Reilly exploded as he leapt to his feet.

“How dare you? Are you totally insane? This is the second time you have done something so foolhardy, and I promise you this: should you try something like this again, I shall have you shot! Shot! I may do it myself! Do you understand me?”

Holmes was not concerned.

“And disappoint all who have given you instructions?”

Reilly advanced on Holmes.

“You are not in London, Mr. Holmes. You are in my territory.” Reilly was now shouting at Holmes. “You could not last the day here without me or my men. Nor could Dr. Watson.”

At that, Holmes’ smile vanished into strong words also.

“Is that a threat against Dr. Watson?”

“A threat, yes. A promise, no. My only promise to you is what I have said. You shall not cause me distress again without paying a high price for your entertainment.”

And before Holmes could say another word, Reilly turned to Obolov and said, “These men are not to leave this car until I personally give you further orders. Is that understood, Sergei Alexandrovich?” Obolov nodded in the affirmative.

Reilly turned back to us. “Consider yourselves prisoners, consider yourselves what you will, but you shall not leave this car again until we are in Ekaterinburg!” And with that, he strode out of the car.

Holmes turned to me and said, “Do you think I upset him?”

“Good God, Holmes, have you gone completely mad? You swore to me that you would not attempt so rash and ignorant an act.”

“Rash? Ignorant? Why, Watson, you astound me! In all the years you have been in my company, have you ever known me to act without first weighing all evidence or facts?”

“Well, no.”

“And ignorant? Think on this, who is ignorant here, when you who knows me perhaps better than any living soul cannot even see beyond my mask? And Relinsky, perhaps the only man other than our departed Moriarty who I feel can test me to the fullest, cannot uncover me right before his eyes? And you call me ignorant?”

“All right, all right. Then what was the point of all that?”

“Precisely what I said to you earlier, to find that which I am seeking. And that, I have done.”

“How?”

“I now know, with some fair degree of certainty, that as in London, I may go about in disguise unremarked. Furthermore I have learned that my modest Russian vocabulary should be more than sufficient for my purposes.”

“Which are?”

“Having to vanish again when the time is right, or circumstance dictates.”

“But Holmes, you heard Relinsky. He does not bluff. He will shoot you, and me, if he must.”

“Calm yourself, my dear fellow. He said that we are to remain in this car until Ekaterinburg; and so we shall. He has said nothing about that which shall happen afterwards.”

“Oh, I say, you are quite right.”

“Of course. No, I shan’t give our Comrade Colonel any more cause for alarm now. But I now have at least one card up my sleeve to offset Relinsky’s stacked deck.”

We left it at that and retired for the night after an extremely modest meal meant specially to show Reilly’s disfavour.

July 5, 1918

In the morning, we were told the track had been repaired ahead of schedule, and we pulled into Kungur late in the day. Holmes and I, with Obolov beside us, went onto the platform to see the town for ourselves.

It was as Reilly had said. Burnt out buildings, animal and human carcasses already decomposing in the summer sun, burial parties at work - apparently since the earlier hours. It seemed unnaturally quiet until I realized that Kungur was nothing more than a mass graveyard.

As the train started again, the three of us grasped onto the various rails or hand holds fixed on the car’s wall. We all knew that barring any more interruptions, our next stop would be Ekaterinburg.

July 6, 1918 Ekaterinburg

I spent a rather restless night; although, Holmes said he slept rather well. It did not matter, though, we were both anxious.

At fifteen minutes past ten, our train pulled into the station at Ekaterinburg. Our railway car was disconnected and then connected to another locomotive; ours being the only car, except for one more added to the rear for the bulk of Reilly’s men, which were down to no more than a dozen since the battle at Kungur.

Before Reilly left to go into the town, he reminded us that if all went per Kolchak’s plan, the lines between Kungur and Ekaterinburg would be cut later that day. This, for some reason, produced an uncomfortable sensation in my stomach.

Reilly beckoned Holmes and me out onto the station platform.

“Well, gentlemen, we are here at last. Everything that has gone before means nothing and I can now show you this.” Reilly pulled some documents from his tunic, opened one letter, and showed us the signature of none other than Lenin.

“What is it?” I asked.

“It is your paper of safe transport. Comrade Lenin could not bear the thought of two of his favourites travelling without at least his signature to shield them. The other papers are mine. In brief, they tell whomever I give them to, to give me anything, or anyone, I want.”

Reilly took great pleasure in the looks on our faces.

Our car was at Station Number 2, only ten minutes northwest of the British Consulate, which, we found, was virtually across the street from the Ipatiev House; the house where the Romanovs were held.

A motor car waited for us, and we went with only Reilly and Obolov down Glavnaya Street, between two lakes. Reilly left specific instructions with his only other officer, Lt. Zimin, that if regular Red Army or local Red Guards showed up, they were to direct them to the British Consulate where they would be told Colonel Relinsky was escorting two important British diplomats.

I now include a map of Ekaterinburg so you will better understand relationships of distance, structures and places of import upon our arrival and after we left.

1.jpg

The entrance to the British Consulate was on Voznesensky Avenue, the same as the entrance to the Ipatiev House. Reilly told the driver to go by the Romanovs’ place of imprisonment, and as we passed, we saw workers busily constructing what was a wooden palisade in front of another not as high. It seemed about twelve to fifteen feet tall.

Presently, we were at the consulate. As we pulled up, we heard artillery in the distance. The Whites were drawing closer already.

As we alighted from the car, a man in his mid-thirties came out to us. He was slim, had a very warm smile, dark hair, wore wire-rimmed glasses and introduced himself to Reilly as Thomas Preston, the British Consul. A moment later another young man came out, a bit more stout, in his early thirties, with thick, blond hair and large, blue eyes. This was Arthur Thomas, the British Vice-Consul. As the introductions were concluded, and hands shaken vigorously, Preston gestured us inside, and into his personal study.

He bade us all sit, offered us a drink, then questioning began from both sides.

“Tell me,” he said, “what is really going on at Kungur and Perm?” Reilly told him everything. Preston sat back in his chair, his hands forming a steeple in front of his face.

“As you hear, the Whites are fairly close. They’re getting closer every day, and the Bolsheviks are getting more nervous with every mile. If you do not try an immediate release, all may be for nothing.”

“Then tell us,” said Reilly, “what’s the situation with our friends here? How many guards? Who are they? Who is in charge? Have you seen our friends?” The questions were many and logical, the same that you yourself would ask in like circumstance. Preston answered them all, giving us a chilling account of the Romanovs’ lives at the Ipatiev House. He pulled out a more detailed map than my effort, with diagrams showing the interior of the building, as well.

He was animated as he showed us the salient points of the map, and Holmes later confided that he suspected a prior knowledge of the military.

“In case you are not aware, gentlemen, Ekaterinburg was once a very wealthy mining capital. Metals, gems, fortunes were made and lost every day. It was like those American gold-rush and mining towns of their West, one hears so much about. The Ipatiev House, the place of the Romanovs’ confinement, was the home of a mining magnate.

“The Romanovs were brought here on April 30th. There are approximately fifty guards, some at various sentry boxes at the entrances, some stationed in the courtyard or garden, some remain inside, near the Romanovs’ rooms. There are machine guns at the attic windows and new emplacements downstairs.” Reilly and Obolov studied all this with great care, as did Holmes.

“The house is built on a slight hill, so on one side of the house there is a basement, though it is quite small. Beyond that stone archway is a courtyard where the Romanovs exercise. Beyond that is a garden.

“Upstairs, there are six rooms. The four girls share one room, the Tsar, Tsarina, and the boy another, he is quite ill now, but recovering.”

“What happened?” I asked.

“One of the guards saw a gold crucifix the boy had and beat him trying to grab it away. The boy’s nurse and bodyguard, a sailor named Derevenko hit the guard. It stopped the robbery and beating, but it cost Derevenko his life. Now the Tsar carries the boy personally.”

“The blackguards,” I said. Preston continued.

“Even with all this heat, the windows have been ordered to remain shut, and they have also been whitewashed so no one can look in or out. There is only one entrance, here, to their rooms, and another sentry as well.

“To get to the lavatory, the family must leave their rooms and pass before the guards on duty. Some of the guards had drawn obscene pictures of the Tsarina and Rasputin on the lavatory walls, and others continuously taunted the girls and the Tsarina whenever they passed by.

“I am constantly besieged by those formerly in the Tsar’s party to inquire as to the family’s health and safety, and Arthur and I do all we can. We claim to be inquiring on behalf of the British government, which we are, of course, to keep the pressure on the local Bolshies to let up. But I don’t believe they do. Yes, they claim all is well, but we know it’s not.

“There is a priest here, Russian Orthodox, named Father Storozhev. Back in June the Reds let him in to say mass for the family in the basement. It’s the only eye-witness account I have of the family since they were put into captivity here.

“The Father said the Tsar was sombre but warm, wearing a simple khaki tunic and trousers. The girls seemed in good spirits, but their hair had been cut short, and they were all in dark skirts and faded white blouses. The Tsarina looked very much older than her years, she turned forty-six here. Father Storzhev said she had deep lines in her face now and seemed very apathetic. She’s always been of a mystic bent, just remember Rasputin, and the Father believes the Tsarina is just waiting to die.

Alexei is another matter altogether. He is almost totally crippled since the beating incident, and he relies on his father for all mobility. But the boy has pluck. He hasn’t the strength to lift himself from his cot but his eyes are alive with forgiveness and compassion. The Father cries when he recounts these tales to those who ask.

“But they’ve been treated worse than they’re treated now. When they first arrived, the Red Guard commander was a pig named Avdeyev. He would invite his drunken friends in to gawk at the family and would grab food from the Romanovs’ table. One time he even struck the Tsar in the face.

“Things are getting a bit strange. Events are happening of which I have not been informed.”

“Like what?” asked Reilly.

“Last month there were all sorts of rumours and stories in the press that the Tsar had already been shot. Somehow, a French intelligence officer got in and out of Ekaterinburg with the truth; the Tsar was still alive. Now how the hell are the French involved in all this?”

“I haven’t the faintest idea,” said Reilly, “as far as we all know, this is strictly a British operation.”

“Perhaps that is the key,” said Holmes, “as far as we all know.” Reilly, Preston, and Thomas looked at Holmes warily. Preston then continued.

“Anyway, Avdeyev became more drunk, more crude and so did his men. Almost everything of value that belonged to the Romanovs had been stolen. The Chairman of the Urals Soviet, Alexander Beleborodov, once showed up and found Avdeyev passed out cold on the floor.

“Just two days ago, the bastard was arrested. So was his assistant Moshkin. And the guards have already been changed. I’d be surprised if the whole lot hasn’t already been shot. Beleborodov and his group are terrified of Moscow. With the Whites so damned close, and the Red Army under Trotsky coming to meet them, Beleborodov and his council members don’t know exactly what to do. Everyone wants the Romanovs, it seems. But dead or alive, that’s my question?”

At that remark, I noticed a certain look on Holmes’ face. It was a look that he only adopted when some profound idea had taken hold. I also noticed his entire body relax. It seemed that whatever idea had captured his imagination, it had freed his body of its terrible tension.

When my concentration returned to Preston, he was in mid-sentence.

“...all new. The commander is Yakov Yurovsky. He’s the Regional Commissar for Justice. That’s a joke. I met him yesterday for the first time. He’s about forty, and you’ll appreciate this Dr. Watson, he attended the Imperial Army Medical College during the war. In fact, on a visit to the Ipatiev House before he became commander, he suggested that a swelling on the Tsarevich’s leg might go down if the leg were put in plaster. Supposedly, it worked.”

Preston continued: “It bothers me that I can’t get a handle on the man. He’s obviously educated and he’s already shown concern for the boy. He told me his hand-picked men were moral and disciplined. In fact, most are not even Russians. They’re Letts. Where the hell he dug up those men is something else again. But he also promised that the stealing would stop, although, there’s nothing left to steal, and the family would fare much better now that he was in charge. He seems to be truly concerned about British opinion, and if not a charade, it means that he himself is under intense pressure from Moscow to keep the Romanovs in hand and keep them away from the Whites in any way he deems best.

“There are nuns that bring in fresh produce and vegetables for the Romanovs, and he’s got security so tight that the nuns have to explain who authorized their visits and where they’re from. Furthermore, he’s increased the number of guard posts, and put more sentries in the back yard.

“So this Yurovsky is like a goose that’s been unevenly cooked: tough and tender at the same time.” Preston turned to Reilly.

“Now this will concern you greatly, Colonel Relinsky. Yurovsky and his men are all local Cheka. The big joke is that the Ekaterinburg Cheka headquarters are in the Hotel America, of all places. He meets there with all the big Urals Soviet heavyweights: Beleborodov, his deputy Chutskayev, the man that usually deals with my inquiries, and the Urals Commissar for War, Goloshchokin. That’s the group that makes the decisions around here.

“What they can’t decide themselves is whether to kill the Romanovs or keep them alive. It appears that Moscow will have to live with whatever they decide. This area is theirs; that is until the Whites take it, or the Red Army moves in in strength.”

“So with the Whites getting so close, they can’t risk the Romanovs falling into White hands?” asked Holmes.

“I suppose so,” said Preston lethargically. He was obviously running out of steam.

“There is one thing that haunts me continuously though, day and night. One note that strikes discordantly.”

“And what is that, pray tell?” I asked.

“Once the Romanovs were put into the Ipatiev House, the local Bolsheviks, and even the peasants, began calling it ‘The House of Special Purpose.’”

We were interrupted by Preston’s housekeeper. She had come to inform us that Comrade Commissar Yurovsky and some men were there to see us. We all looked at each other. Yurovsky, she said, was waiting for us in the consulate’s official receiving room. Preston and Thomas made their way to see the unexpected visitors, with Reilly and Obolov accompanying them. Holmes and I were requested by Preston to remain in his study until he determined what Yurovsky wanted.

Only about ten minutes passed before Preston returned.

“It seems that immediately upon your arrival, Yurovsky was informed, sent men to the station, was told you were all here, so here he came.

“He was quite curious about Colonel Relinsky and his men, and about the two British subjects they were guarding. Relinsky gave a cover story about the two of you being on a fact-finding mission for the British government, and Yurovsky seemed to buy it based upon the voluminous inquiries Arthur and I make.

“But he sensed something more, so Relinsky took the upper hand by suggesting that all other Soviet business be discussed at Cheka headquarters where such discussion would be appropriate. Yurovsky cautiously agreed, and that is where I assume them to be headed now.”

Holmes looked at me and said, “Well, it shan’t be long now, Watson. Knowing Reilly, he will probably get to the heart of the matter forthwith.”

Again there was an interruption. This time it was Father Storozhev. Since his church was located directly across from the consulate, he had seen our party arrive, and then saw Yurovsky and his men enter and leave with Reilly. He sensed something was happening and he wanted to know what.

Father Storozhev looked like everyone’s image of Father Christmas, except that he was thin. His beard was pure white and flowing. His eyes were bright and happy and peaceful, and when you looked into them, even briefly, you believed he was a vessel of the Lord. His walk was erect for a man of his advanced years -- and his voice, despite conveying authority, was soft. He came in and sat down, as did we. Thomas acted as interpreter for us.

“So what does this all mean, Your Excellency?” he asked Preston.

“Father Storozhev, these are the men the Cheka Colonel brought from Petrograd. They are special emissaries from my government, here to see firsthand what is happening. This is Mr. Holmes, this is Dr. Watson.”

The Father made an attempt to rise, but Holmes motioned him not to. Father Storozhev smiled and we all shook hands.

“So, my sons,” continued the Father, “you are here to possibly help the Imperial Family?”

“Not really, Father,” said Holmes. “We are here only to observe and to make it absolutely clear to the local Soviet that the British government’s concern for the safety and comfort of the Imperial Family is paramount.”

The Father seemed disappointed. “Oh, you are here only to see, not to do.” The way he cut to the heart of Holmes’ statement left us all feeling ashamed.

“I have prayed, I do not know how many times, every day, for a saviour to appear: a man, or men, who would rescue my unfortunate children. I was hoping you would be those men.”

Holmes looked saddened. “I am sorry, Father, but we are not those for whom you prayed.”

Father Storozhev looked carefully at Holmes as he spoke those words and his right hand went to the Russian Orthodox cross hanging from his neck. I got the feeling that the good Father did not believe Holmes.

“It is a pity, Mr. Holmes. It is a pity.” With that, he lifted himself from the chair and said to Preston, “Did you know, Your Excellency, that the whole town of Ekaterinburg is built upon now abandoned mines?”

“Well, I really hadn’t given it much thought, Father.”

“It is just tourist information for you and your friends,” he said, bidding us all good day.

“Strange sort of tourist information,” I said.

“Yes, isn’t it, Watson? A most remarkable presence,” said Holmes.

“Yes, indeed,” agreed Preston. “The man is a saint, if a man can be a saint in the midst of this hell. However, we must continue our discussion. Shall we go back into my study?” We followed Preston, Arthur Thomas did not come with us.

“Gentlemen, we did not expect Yurovsky to be so punctual. We had planned on a bit more time before Relinsky would present himself. So things are moving more rapidly than we expected. You must prepare yourselves. I know briefly of Relinsky’s plan, but I am not sure Yurovsky will so easily go along with it.

“You have all been out of touch for too long. Just the last few days has seen the total change at the Ipatiev House. Were Avdeyev still here, chances are the drunk would go along with Relinsky’s orders. But Yurovsky is a cool character. He is by no means a fool.

“As per the plan, he most certainly will try to receive direct orders from above. I only hope the lines will be cut.”

“Oh, I believe they will,” said Holmes.

“Yes, when we met Kol...” Holmes cut me off in mid-sentence.

“Yes, when we met Kolvotsev in Perm, he seemed most emphatic on that point.” I looked at Holmes.

“Kolvotsev? Who is Kolvotsev?” asked Preston. I was curious myself.

“Oh, I thought you knew,” said Holmes, “a White agent who met us in Perm.”

“I knew nothing of any White agent sent to meet you.” He stood, thrust his hands into his pockets and turned angrily to his window. “Damn this, gentlemen, I said something strange was going on. What the hell is it?”

At that moment, Thomas came into the study with a telegram. He handed it to Preston who read it, and then leaned back against his wall.

“Well, gentlemen, something very strange is going on. This telegram, which was stopped in mid-transmission, says that earlier today, in Moscow, Count Wilhelm Mirbach, the German Ambassador, was assassinated.”

“Assassinated,” I repeated. “Why?”

“It does not say. Transmission stopped after the phrase ‘by radical, reactionary elements’; which means the Reds are trying to pin it on the Whites. I don’t think it’ll wash.

“Just what does this all mean? What the hell is going on here? Do any of you have any idea?”

“We wish we did,” said Holmes.

Holmes and I went out to the consulate’s courtyard for some air and for some confidential conversation.

“This assassination is not some coincidence, Watson. And since it was obvious that Preston and Thomas are not aware of all the players in this game, I did not want you to give the man apoplexy with your Kolchak revelation.”

“It’s all right, Holmes. I quite understand. But I do not understand what this assassination of the German Ambassador has to do with us.”

“Neither do I, Watson, as yet. But it is obvious there is even more happening than I would have ever dreamt. But let me take your mind away from that puzzle for a moment and return it to an off-hand remark made by Father Storozhev.”

“Are you referring to his tourist information?”

“Very good, Watson, precisely. What do you make of it?”

“Well, I don’t know, actually. I hadn’t given it much thought.”

“Then permit me to guide you. I believe it was a very crafty order of aid that Preston completely missed.”

“How so?”

“Mine shafts, Watson. Tunnels. I believe Father Storozhev was letting us know about some secret tunnel of which he has specific knowledge.”

“I say, Holmes, do you think so?”

“I do, Watson. I further believe that the Father suspects our mission here to be more than mere inquiry. How he has divined it is not our concern. But I believe if Relinsky’s plan should go awry, Father Storozhev shall prove to be an invaluable ally.”

Our calm reverie was soon assaulted by the sounds of Reilly’s obvious return.

“Ah,” said Holmes, “Yurovsky is with Relinsky.”

“How do you know that?” I asked.

“Because there are the sounds of more than one car, and Relinsky and Obolov would not need more than one unless there was an escort in attendance.”

Thomas appeared at the entrance to the courtyard and signalled us back in. Reilly and Yurovsky were already with Preston in the receiving room. Preston was very correct in his introductions.

“Mr. Holmes, Dr. Watson, I have the pleasure to introduce the Regional Commissar for Justice of the Urals Soviet, Comrade Yakov Yurovsky.”

We shook hands and Yurovsky questioned us through Reilly.

“I understand, gentlemen, that you are here to inquire as to the disposition of Citizen Romanov and his family?”

“That is quite correct,” said Holmes.

“Tell me,” asked Yurovsky, “doesn’t your government take the obviously honest word of their own consul in Ekaterinburg?”

“That they do, Comrade Commissar,” said Holmes, “but in a matter of such international delicacy, our superiors supposed our four meagre eyes and ears would bring perhaps fresh, new perspective on Consul Preston’s reports.”

“I see,” said Yurovsky continuing, “and I mean no disrespect in this whatsoever, they have sent new watchdogs to augment the old ones.”

“An interesting turn of phrase, Comrade Commissar,” said Holmes, “no insult taken. But permit me one question now, the only question in which my government is interested. How is the Imperial Family?’”

“Citizen Romanov and his family are in fine health, except for the boy. He is still recuperating from a most unfortunate event. No doubt, you have already been informed of the incident.”

“Then you will not have any objection to our seeing the Imperial Family,” Holmes asked.

“I am afraid that I do have an objection. Our Regional Soviet has requested that Citizen Romanov and his family not be unduly disturbed by outside influences. We have provided for their every need, and as I am sure Consul Preston has told you, I am personally responsible for their well being.

“I have already made measurable changes in the way the family is treated, and in a general tightening of security against the reactionary forces in the country who might wish to do harm to the family.”

“I am afraid I must insist on my personal interview with the Imperial Family. Those are my instructions,” said Holmes.

“And I must deny you that interview for now. Those are my instructions. The Comrade Colonel has already presented his orders to me which seem most striking on the surface. But there is an old Russian saying, ‘Our troubles are here, and the Tsar is far away.’ In other words, Moscow is far away and I need additional proof that the Comrade Colonel’s papers are in order; which, of course, I am sure they are.

“However, we are having a bit of trouble with communications at the moment. It seems that our lines have been cut once again, and I have already dispatched a force to repair them and drive off the bandits who pester us in such manner.”

Yurovsky turned and addressed Reilly. For a few moments Reilly said nothing, then translated for us.

“He says he has seen to the comfort of my men at the train. Since he was sure they must be tired after their long journey, and certainly in no mood to guard our train, he has ordered food and drink be brought to them. In addition, so they can be relieved of guard duty, his men have surrounded our train for our protection.’”

“He has done well,” said Holmes.

“Quite,” said Reilly. Preston shifted in his chair and pulled at his starched collar which seemed to be losing its stiffness with Yurovsky’s every utterance. Yurovsky rose. Reilly continued to translate.

“As soon as I have confirmation, gentlemen, I shall be happy to turn over my charges to your care. I assure you, it shall be one responsibility I shall sleep more lightly without. Until then, please feel free to enjoy our lovely town. Consul Preston can show you the high points, I am sure.

“Comrade Colonel Relinsky shall be returning with me to Cheka headquarters, along with his aide, Obolov. There is much more we have to discuss. Renegade White pirates and the like are high on the agenda. I have also never met anyone who has personally spoken with Comrade Lenin. That shall be a treat for me, indeed. I look forward to the time we shall be spending together, Comrade Colonel Relinsky. Of course, he is not under arrest, gentlemen. Good day.”

He saluted and left us there with Preston, Reilly making brief eye contact with Holmes and shrugging, before he walked out with Yurovsky.

“Wonderful,” said Preston, “just what we needed.”

“But surely you have contingent plans,” said Holmes.

“Well, yes and no,” said Preston.

“It cannot be both, Mr. Preston. It must be one or the other.”

“Not in all cases, Mr. Holmes. Look here: until Yurovsky took over, I had men in place, not many, who would have augmented your small band; disciplined men who would have overcome Avdeyev’s lot with no great difficulty.

“But now there are disciplined troops on duty. More machine guns than before, and a commander who is shrewd, intelligent and who will not hesitate to use his local power; as he has just so amply and professionally demonstrated.”

“Yes, I see what you mean,” said Holmes. “This Yurovsky does deserve respect. In one motion he has even temporarily outwitted Relinsky.

“But I assure you, Mr. Preston, there is still room for manoeuvre. Once those lines are up again, Relinsky and his men are done for. Watson and I have been presented as diplomats, and Yurovsky is far too schooled to do us any harm.”

“I believe you may have twenty-four hours at the most,” said Preston. “I have been told that a small White task force would be left behind to guard the break in the line and prevent its repair. But I was not told the size or tenacity of that force. For all we know, they might be gone even now.”

“It is not a comforting thought,” said Holmes.

“So tell me, Mr. Holmes, to where do we turn now?”

“Why to heaven, Mr. Preston. We turn to heaven.”