Chapter Three

Too much is written by the men who can’t write about the men who do write.

- Jack London, Martin Eden

Thanks in great part to the directions our individual lives were taking us, Sherlock Holmes and I managed to keep Jack London out of mind for much of the next eight years inclusive. As readers may remember, during that period Holmes retired to his cottage in Sussex, eventually to be joined by Mrs Hudson in her new role as housekeeper. For my part, I remarried and took a house with my new bride in Queen Anne Street. Periodically, a consultation with Scotland Yard officials might call Holmes out of retirement and back to London, but during those years we generally saw each other only on my rare visits to Sussex.

In spite of the numerous distractions, however, one could not avoid hearing of Jack London’s literary achievements. After all, novels like The Call of the Wild, The Sea Wolf, White Fang, The Iron Heel, and Martin Eden helped the man create quite a name for himself in the world of belles lettres; and truth be told, many of our reunions did indeed find Holmes and me commenting on the success of London’s latest publication.

I for one particularly enjoyed his story titled “The Scarlet Plague.” Its depiction of an epidemic that decimates much of the earth’s population put me in mind of Bertie Wells’ tale of a world destroyed by invaders from Mars. And yet London’s vivid imagination regarding relentless death also served to remind me of his belief in the phantom-like Assassination Bureau. However much I might like his fictional offerings, his apparent faith in those political murders made it exceedingly difficult to take seriously his popular writings, let alone his ever-evolving socialist philosophy.

With the low regard I held for Jack London as well as his foolish notions, one can scarcely imagine how shocked I was years later to receive a letter addressed to Holmes and me from the man himself. Like all the post sent to our former Baker Street address, the envelope had been forwarded to my literary agent, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, who then passed it along to me. Though the letter was dated 7 May 1910, the day after His Majesty, Edward VII, had died, I didn’t actually receive the missive until early July, fully two months later. It was, in fact, the death of the King that had prompted London to write.

There is no better way to convey the contents of the four-page, typed epistle than by reproducing it in its entirety. Here is the letter Jack London sent us:

Glen Ellen, Calif.

May 7, 1910.

Mr. Holmes and Dr. Watson: -

Call me foolish, but I think this is a matter of life and death. I couldn’t live with myself if I didn’t let you know about the real danger I believe is confronting a number of important people in the world. I’ve got a lot of other things to attend to right now - I’m in the midst of buying up more properties than I can afford in order to create the home I’ve been dreaming of for as long as I can remember. But as soon as I heard about the death of your King, I decided that I had to express my fears to you.

In retrospect, Dr Watson, I may not have been on my best behavior when we met back in 1902. I realize it’s a little late for an apology, and yet I’m offering you one. Don’t get me wrong. I’m not apologising for the content of my speech, only for my rudeness. I know full well that you never believed in the Assassination Bureau that I told you about all those years ago. In fact, I imagine that once you shared my story with Sherlock Holmes, the two of you probably had quite a chuckle at my expense!

Still, writer that I am, I found myself strangely fascinated by the concept of the Bureau. Even if such a murderous syndicate didn’t actually exist, I thought the mere suggestion of such an outrageous gang possessed a macabre appeal, a twisted allure that readers might be attracted to - which is why, as you may have heard, I recently decided to compose a suspense novel about that very organization. If nothing else, publishing such a story seemed like an excellent way to earn more money, which right now I am very much in need of. I was even naive enough to title the thing, “The Assassination Bureau, Ltd.” The more fool I.

If you’ve read anything at all about the novel, I assume it’s the canard going around that I bought the idea from novelist Sinclair Lewis. “Hal” (as his friends call him) is quite adept at inventing and selling miscellaneous story-lines, and it is true that last March I did in fact pay him $70 for fourteen plots. Let me assure you, however, that a story about the Assassination Bureau was not among them. No - full credit for the dangerous decision to write about the group falls entirely upon me.

In light of my current fears about that decision, however, I’ve been more than happy to let fester the false rumor about Lewis and the origin of the plot. Disassociating myself from the real history of the Assassination Bureau is a way to hedge my bets. That way, if the syndicate actually does exist, its members might not think I’m on to them. Since everybody knows that Hal keeps a trunkful of notes and newspaper stories around, I’m hoping they’ll think that he concocted an outline from some account he’d read in the public press and then simply sold it to me.

Remember the old man, the self-confessed assassin, from whom I first learned about the Bureau? Trust that I too was skeptical when he told me of its devilish intent. Yet now I have reason to take things more seriously. I don’t know if you recall, Doctor, but I haven’t forgotten that you cut me off in mid-speech before I could tell you the names of the additional people I had heard were targets, and it’s bothered me ever since. If you hadn’t stopped me, you would have learned that foremost among the intended targets was your King.

I tell you now that the old man at the Salvation Army barracks said the Bureau not only had Edward in its crosshairs, but also had plans for staging his murder so that it would look like a natural death - and that’s exactly what happened. In fact, I just read that Sir James Reid, the Royal Doctor, announced that Edward died from a series of heart attacks. Remember the germs, Doctor? They can fool the best of medical minds.

Another person mentioned by the old man that day was killed a while ago - “Soapy” Smith - though neither of you would have reason to know of him. A number of years back, he was the crime boss of Denver, Colorado, here in the States. I only remember his name since he ended up in Alaska at the same time I was in the Klondike. But even as far north as I’d gone, there were rumors about the infamous gunfight on the Juneau Wharf in Skaguay.

The shoot-out took place in 1898, and that’s where they killed him. A vigilante group called the Committee of 101 shot Smith dead, and almost immediately people were saying that outsiders had infiltrated the Committee. What’s more, one of the vigilantes was named Frank Reid. Whether or not he was related to King Edward’s Dr. Reid, it’s not too far a stretch to figure that the outsiders who penetrated the Committee were agents of the Assassination Bureau.

I’m one who believes it anyhow. In fact, King Edward’s death has convinced me more than ever that the Assassination Bureau is real. And once I started thinking that the deaths predicted by the old man might be more than coincidence, I began to worry. The syndicate may work slowly, gentlemen, but its results are deadly. That’s why I’m so concerned.

You see, there were four other names the old man mentioned as targets who (at least, so far) remain among the living - here in America, our former President, Theodore Roosevelt, and the famous journalist, David Graham Phillips; in London, a banker named Charles Morton-Watt; and one Mycroft Holmes, who the old man said had connections to the British government. From reading Dr. Watson’s accounts, Mr. Holmes, I know this Mycroft is your brother; and as soon as I heard about the death of your King, I reckoned I shouldn’t be wasting any more time in alerting you.

It’s personal on my side as well. I’ve actually met David Graham Phillips. He was introduced to me a few years ago in New York by Bailey Millard, the editor of Cosmopolitan. Bailey thought Phillips and I would get along since we shared so many of the same political views, but then we didn’t hit it off. Phillips is too high-toned for my taste, and I don’t think he cared much for my working-class clothes - my flannel shirt and dungarees. (I didn’t even wear a waistcoat, and it was the middle of winter!) I was pretty annoyed by the whole business though Bailey thought I’d done Phillips an injustice. In the long run, I suppose Bailey knows what he’s talking about. After all, Phillips stays on the right side of the issues, and there are so few of us with socialistic leanings that we really can’t afford to bicker.

How the two of you respond to all this news is your business, but I can tell you right now that I’m planning to lie low. Even though I’ve written two-thirds of The Assassination Bureau, Ltd., I’m putting it aside. For all I care, somebody else can finish it. The murder of Soapy Smith may not have convinced me, but the death of King Edward most certainly has - it’s not safe or healthy to admit knowing anything about such a group of killers, let alone write a book about them.

Make what you want to of these comments, gentlemen. I’ve been burned once by talking to the police, and I’ve got my own headaches out here in California trying to create a corner of paradise for my wife and me. As I recall saying once before, at least all the worry about the Assassination Bureau is finally off my back.

Sincerely,

Jack London

Two of the so-called targets mentioned by London were personally familiar to us. Holmes’ connection to his brother Mycroft was obvious. (I might add that, however morbid, seeing Mycroft’s name included on a list with a former President of the United States and the late King of England corroborated the importance I have always bestowed upon the man.)

As for David Graham Phillips, Holmes and I had met the pressman back in the middle 90’s when he had come by Baker Street to thank Holmes for helping him with a news story. Touring the Levant in ’93 shortly after his supposed death at the hands of Moriarty, Holmes had managed to get the news of a British naval disaster to Phillips who was then in London. More to the point, Phillips had gained fame in his own country for writing a series of articles accusing the American Senate of treason. No doubt, he had angered a number of important people.

Of the remaining two figures London had mentioned, Theodore Roosevelt was world-famous, well known for his political, military, and peripatetic adventures. The name of Charles Morton-Watt, on the other hand, hovered in the ether as a result of malicious rumour.

A young banker during the Second Boer War, Morton-Watt had supposedly made a lot of money by embezzling funds set aside for weapons. Naïve investors thought they were supporting the British army whilst Morgan-Watt - or so the story runs - diverted the money into guns that ultimately came to be used against our own soldiers.

To separate people from their savings, Morgan-Watt was alleged to have avoided rich investors, appealing instead to the patriotism of the less-sophisticated commoners. Although such treasonous acts were never proved, additional tales of underhanded financial transactions continued to plague him.

It must be remembered, of course, that regurgitating the names of people purportedly threatened with murder confirmed nothing. In spite of Jack London’s newly-formed certainty regarding the Assassination Bureau, the repetition of a list of possible targets recalled by a delusional old man in no way furnished proof as to the existence of the organisation. Nor did claiming that King Edward had been murdered make such a crime any more real. At the very least however, the wild charges encompassed a possible threat to Mycroft Holmes; and as a result I felt compelled by loyalty to convey them to his brother.

No sooner did I finish reading London’s letter, therefore, than I wired Holmes of my intention to call upon him; and the following day, I whirled down to Sussex aboard the morning train. After securing the proper connections in Eastbourne and Fulworth, I ultimately found myself at Holmes’ cottage by the sea.

* * *

“Oh, Dr Watson,” Mrs Hudson greeted me upon my arrival, “how wonderful it is to see you. You must come down more often.”

“Thank you, Mrs Hudson,” said I. “It’s always a pleasure.”

Our former landlady asked after my wife; but she could also observe that at the same time I was answering, I was also searching for my old friend amidst the familiar clutter - the stacks of books, the piles of newspaper cuttings, the used test tubes.

Undaunted, she smoothed down her white apron and waved in the direction of a neatly set table. “You’re just in time for luncheon,” said she, “but we’ll have to wait for Mr Holmes. He’s currently upstairs ridding himself of his beekeeper’s costume. He’s been out among his hives all morning.”

Within minutes, my friend appeared in his favourite mouse-coloured dressing gown; and following a perfunctory exchange of greetings, we sat down at table. Hardly had we settled into our chairs when Mrs Hudson placed before each of us a bowl of steaming tomato bisque.

“Now, Watson,” said Holmes, rubbing his hands together, “pray, tell me what is so urgent that it requires our immediate discussion.”

I could not tell if Holmes’ enthusiasm was based on his desire to hear my news or to sample Mrs Hudson’s soup. But when I produced Jack London’s letter from inside my coat pocket, Holmes put down his spoon and took up the missive.

“Ah hah!” said he after scanning the first few paragraphs, “I see that even after eight years, the fear monger is still at his job.” In spite of such disdain, however, he continued to read.

For my part, I couldn’t help noting a worried Mrs Hudson looking in from the kitchen. Preoccupied with Jack London’s jeremiad, Holmes was prolonging the soup course; and her furrowed brow suggested that she feared overcooking her entrée.

“Bleat!” Holmes ejaculated upon completing the epistle. “Utter bleat!” Tossing the pages on the table, he proceeded to accommodate his housekeeper by consuming the bisque.

Immediately thereafter, Mrs Hudson placed before us an aromatic platter of fillet of sole; and Holmes and I delayed our debate until we had served ourselves.

“Surely, Watson,” said Holmes between bites, “you don’t expect me to approach my brother with the contents expressed in this letter. Such speculation was silly in 1902, and it is equally silly today. Mycroft will laugh me out of Whitehall if I come to him with toothless threats aimed at distinguished Americans like Theodore Roosevelt and David Graham Phillips, let alone himself. These are warnings based on flimsy rumour and silly coincidence. No, Watson, assuming I actually did want to convince my brother that some preposterous organisation was planning to kill him, I would need to be in possession of hard-boiled facts.”

I was put in mind of Dickens’ Mr Grandgrind. “Fact, fact, fact!” the pedagogue would demand though I doubted Sherlock Holmes had ever heard of him.

“Proof!” Holmes went on. “How else to verify the reality of this so-called Assassination Bureau? An agency, I should add, that I myself do not believe exists. Without facts, Mycroft - as well as any others on the purported list - would face needless concern and worry. I’m sorry for your trouble, old fellow, though I do appreciate your taking the train down from London.”

Knowing Holmes’ practical nature as I did, I could not have expected him to react in any other way. But because the threat, real or otherwise, involved his brother, it would have been churlish for me not to have informed him of Jack London’s paranoia. If Mycroft Holmes was not to be told of the alleged threat, let that decision be made by a relation and not by me. I failed to regard my mission as a complete loss, however. At the very least, it had garnered for me one of Mrs Hudson’s coveted meals.