The Captain in the Duke Of Wellington’s Regiment

by Tim Symonds

I awoke to the first rays of the morning sun pouring through the bedroom window at 221b, Baker Street, my London lodgings. It was Tuesday, 22nd June, 1897. Celebrations for Queen Victoria’s Diamond Jubilee were about to begin. A convoy carrying envoys and ambassadors and assorted European Royal Families would set off from Buckingham Palace at exactly 11:15, heralded by the firing of a cannon in Hyde Park. My old regiments, the 5th Northumberland Fusiliers and the 66th Berkshire Regiment of Foot, would be marching in the procession alongside Bengal Lancers and officers of the Indian Imperial Service in kirtas with gold sashes.

To catch a glimpse of Her Imperial Majesty meant that my comrade Sherlock Holmes and I would need to get into position early on. The clinking of test-tubes, pipettes, beakers, and Florence flasks and a malodorous stench seeping from Holmes’s chemical bench told me that he was already up. I dressed quickly and hurried downstairs to the sitting room. Our landlady, Mrs. Hudson, had laid a fortifying breakfast on the table, together with her treasured pair of music hall glasses in brass with inlaid panels in tortoiseshell. I adjusted the lenses to my eye, picking out the patriotic ‘VR’ for Victoria Regina in bullet-pocks on our wall, a decorative bit of shooting practice by my fellow lodger in one of his periods of boredom. None of us could know that the binoculars were about to be critical in a case which would culminate with a more startling twist in the tail than any Holmes and I had ever encountered. It would bring back with a vengeance Holmes’s remark that “life is infinitely stranger than anything which the mind of man can invent... If we could fly out of that window... peep in at the odd things which are going on, the strange coincidences, the plannings, the cross-purposes, the wonderful chains of events... it would make all fiction, with its conventionalities and foreseen conclusions, most stale and unprofitable.”

We left Baker Street in good time to take command of a few square feet near Hyde Park Corner, at the foot of a great equestrian statue commemorating Field Marshall Wellesley’s defeat of Napoleon at Waterloo. Behind us stood Apsley House, a record in honey-coloured limestone of Wellesley’s power and social prominence on becoming the first Duke of Wellington. A ceremonial half-guard composed of six or seven men in the uniform of the Duke’s Regiment was forming on the mansion’s terrace, each soldier glancing through the barrel of his rifle to check for cleanliness. I turned the opera glasses on them. A tall, athletic man in captain’s uniform came into focus. For a moment he looked my way. I gave an involuntary gasp. “Holmes,” I exclaimed in stupefaction, “that soldier up there, the flaxen-haired man with the sunburned face in a captain’s uniform. Isn’t he remarkably like Giles Gilchrist, the student at the College of St. Luke’s who tried to cheat his way to a scholarship?”

Before Holmes could take the glasses, a shout of “Fire!” came from Hyde Park, followed instantly by the roar of a cannon and a hundred-thousand throats. As one, we turned towards Constitution Hill to catch the first glimpse of Her Majesty rounding the corner. Moments later, the open royal coach with its diminutive figure dressed in black passed by. I swung the binoculars back to Apsley House. Like Banquo’s ghost, the foot-soldiers and the captain with his Mark IV Martini-Henry rifle had gone.

My stupefaction at the chance sighting through Mrs. Hudson’s binoculars derived from a case some two years earlier. I planned to publish it someday under the title ‘The Adventure of the Three Students’. Holmes and I were on a visit to one of England’s great university towns. Soon after settling into our lodgings we received an unexpected visit from a Mr. Hilton Soames, tutor and lecturer at St. Luke’s College. He was in a state of uncontrollable agitation. He told us the morrow was the opening day of the examination for the Fortescue Scholarship. Great care had been taken to keep the questions secret. “I am one of the examiners,” our visitor explained. “Three students are scheduled to take the examination: Gilchrist, an excellent student and athlete, together with a serious and peaceful Indian fellow, and a Scot, brilliant but lazy and dissipated. Each has rooms above my quarters.

“Yesterday afternoon,” he continued, “when I came back to my study I came across the galley proofs scattered across the floor. One of the students must have found a way to enter my rooms and make a hurried transcription of the questions. Mr. Holmes,” the tutor cried piteously. “A hideous scandal will ensue unless I find which of the three it was.”

“Then you must call in the police, sir,” I informed him.

“That I cannot do, Dr. Watson!” came the sharp reply. “When the law is evoked, it cannot be stayed. This is one of those cases where, for the credit of the college, it is most essential to avoid dishonour.”

My comrade threw me a rueful glance and pushed himself up from the chair. The tutor led us the half-mile to the scene of the crime. Holmes set to work. “Ah-ha, Watson!” my comrade murmured. “We are getting a few cards in our hand.”

A visit to the college athletic grounds confirmed his case. Gilchrist was the only one of the three students who could have been the culprit. Confronted the next morning by the three of us, the guilty student burst out to Soames, “I have a letter here which I wrote before I knew that my sin had found me out. Here it is, sir. You’ll see that I have written, ‘I have determined not to go in for the examination’. I was recently offered a commission in the Colonial Police on a seven-year contract. If you agree to overlook my transgression, I shall go out to Rhodesia on the next available berth and remain for the full term without once stepping foot back on these shores.”

The plea was met by reluctant, if relieved, assent from Soames, whereupon Gilchrist insisted on shaking hands all round. At the door he halted for a last, melancholy look. He pointed at the tutor’s bookshelves. “I shall miss Thucydides and the Melian Dialogue,” he said. With a semblance of a smile, he added, “But most of all, I shall miss the Midsummer Carnival. I was credited by the girls with cutting a fine figure around the Maypole.”

Confirmation of Gilchrist’s departure for foreign shores came via the arrival of a postal card picturing a Castle Mail packet. It was franked in Suakin, a town on the Red Sea. The message struck a cheery note:

Dear Mr. Holmes,

Thanks to you and Dr. Watson, I am enjoying my very first trip on an ocean liner. The passage through the Suez Canal is proving especially enjoyable, accompanied as it is by reading a rollicking good Holmes-and-Watson tale in an old Strand Magazine I came across in the ship’s Library. It involves a fascinating adventuress. No need to tell you the adventure was ‘A Scandal in Bohemia’.

Recalling this, it seemed highly unlikely Gilchrist could be the man in the uniform of an officer of the Duke of Wellingtons Regiment on the terrace at Apsley House. It must be a case of mistaken identity. I decided to put the matter out of my mind.

The days following the pomp and elation of the Diamond Jubilee were anticlimactic. Holmes spent the entire time in the sitting room. It was clear he was in urgent need of a new case. He hardly moved a muscle from morning to night, rousing himself now and then to fill the oldest and foulest of his pipes, only minutes later to tap out the lightly-singed tobacco and reach for a cigarette. Once in a while, as with a dog glancing at a well-gnawed bone, he would stare around at the familiar landmarks of our sitting room, the chemical corner and the acid-stained, deal-topped table, the row of formidable scrapbooks and books of reference, all the while making no effort to raise himself from the armchair into which he had sunk, even for meals.

Worse, the weather turned. The Tuesday sunshine gave way to a lowering Wednesday, to be repeated on the Thursday and Friday. With the return of fine weather on the Saturday, I could bear the air of torpor no longer. I reached for my bowler cap and cane. “Holmes,” I called back from the landing, “I’m wandering down to W. H. Smith’s to purchase a copy of the newspaper.”

“And the Police Gazette if you will, Watson,” came the languid response.

I left the news agent and strolled through Regents Park, dressed in its finest summer clothes, the various gardens awash with nannies pushing coach-built baby carriages among the delphiniums and begonias. I took possession of a bench overlooking the lake and turned to the lengthy description of Tuesday’s events in The Illustrated London News. It began in portentous fashion:

Before the seventeen-carriage convoy carrying the royal family and leaders of Britain’s dominions departed Buckingham Palace, Queen Victoria, with a touch of a button, sent an electronic message to her vast Empire: “From my heart I thank my beloved people. May God bless them. V.R. & I.” At exactly 11:15 a.m., a cannon fired in Hyde Park to announce the monarch’s departure from the Palace. The roar of the cannon must have forced the clouds into retreat as the sun suddenly began to splash the streets of London. Eight cream horses pulled the Queen and Princess Christian of Schleswig-Holstein in an open carriage. Vendors hawked souvenir jubilee flags, mugs, and programmes. One lively group held up a banner declaring “Victoria - Queen of Earthly Queens”.

A human fence of soldiers, their bayonets protruding like pickets, walled off the course of the six-mile procession. Despite the festive occasion, Victoria - in perpetual mourning for her beloved husband, Albert, and two of her children - was dressed in black. The colourful dress uniforms of the colonial forces, however, more than compensated for the monochrome monarch. The procession, which included representatives of all Empire nations, swept through Hyde Park Corner and onward to London’s world-famous landmarks, such as Trafalgar Square, the National Gallery, London Bridge, and Big Ben. Safeguarded by a Metropolitan Police Special Branch Superintendent, Her Majesty returned to Windsor Castle, where she was greeted by dignitaries from the county of Buckingham and Slough.

I was about to turn to the Police Gazette when a dispatch headed ‘Spectator Struck by Bullet’ caught my eye. It went on-

A most unfortunate event occurred near Hyde Park Corner at the commencement of the Jubilee procession when a member of the public was killed by a bullet in the head. His body was found in a carriage by the side of the route. The shot must have occurred at the exact moment the cannon went off nearby. This would explain why no-one in the vicinity appeared to take note. The trajectory may have been the result of a ricochet from a salute of rifles through the inadvertent use of live ammunition. According to identity papers found on him, the deceased was a member of a special unit of the North-Eastern Rhodesia Police concerned with wild-life preservation. Inspector G. Lestrade of Scotland Yard is investigating. The Inspector is renowned for his success in numerous cases. An explanation is expected soon.

Even before reaching the end of the account, I was on my feet. “My Heavens!” I cried out, “A member of a special unit of the North-Eastern Rhodesia Police.” - the very Force Gilchrist had gone out to join. My mind flashed back to Apsley House and the figure of the captain in the Duke of Wellington’s Regiment. The Ceremonial half-guard would have had a clear line of sight from the top of the building to a stationary carriage at Hyde Park Corner.

I set off, my pace quickening until I was positively running. I was perplexed. If the apparition truly was Gilchrist, why was he dressed in a military uniform and not the Dress uniform of a Colonial policeman? Why would he order anyone to shoot someone from the very same police force he had gone to Africa to join? In any case, it would take great skill to hit a man in the head at such a distance.

I left the Park and hailed a brougham. “Cabbie,” I shouted, “Apsley House, if you please, at the double!” A moment later I called out, “First, take me to 221, Baker Street.” I would change into my old Medical officer’s uniform brought back from Afghanistan, replete with indelible stains of blood from the fatal battle of Maiwand. On previous occasions my army uniform proved a useful entrée when brother officers were around.

There was no sign of Holmes. I dropped the Police Gazette on his chair, changed clothes, and returned to the waiting cabbie.

I left the cab on Park Lane and approached Apsley House from the side. A solitary guard in the uniform of the Duke of Wellington’s Regiment stood at the Tradesmen’s entrance. He gave a nod of recognition at my former rank and was happy to answer my questions, “Yes, sir,” he replied, “I was one of the ceremonial guard on the roof. Six of us and the Captain.”

I asked, “You were there from the start?”

“From about half-an-hour before the cannon went off.”

“Then what?”

“Then we stood down.”

“The Captain,” I pursued. “Has he been your commanding officer long?”

The soldier shook his head. “No, sir. Our regular commanding officer’s on furlough. This captain appeared from nowhere. And we haven’t seen him since. He told us he spent the last two years in Africa helping the Mashonaland Field Force. They’d been hard against it, putting down a native rebellion.”

The soldier pointed at his rifle. “It explained why he had a Martini-Henry with him while the rest of the Regiment has these Mark 1 Magazine Lee-Enfields and cordite cartridges.”

“Continue,” I urged.

“Not much more to it, sir. He gave orders to bring blank cartridges and form a sort of make-shift Honour Guard on the roof eleven o’clock sharp.”

“So all of you were issued with blanks, are you sure?”

“Yes, sir. Why would we want live ammo?”

“No one hesitated at carrying out his orders?”

“Of course not, sir. We could see he was an officer.”

“So by eleven o’clock, you’ve formed up on the roof-”

“That’s right, sir. The cannon in Hyde Park was to go off at 11:15 precisely. We were to pull the trigger the very second it went off. I can tell you, it wasn’t the cannon going off which didn’t ’arf give me a fright. It was the Captain firing off that Martini-Henry right behind me. A ruddy great cloud of black soot came swirling around my legs. You see, he wasn’t standing in the line-up. He took up a position behind us.”

On my return Mrs. Hudson was waiting for me at the foot of the stairs with a letter from the last delivery of the day. It was from Hilton Soames at St. Luke’s, the very person who had first brought us into contact with Giles Gilchrist. Holmes had returned. I read the letter to him, emphasising the underlinings.

Dear Dr. Watson,

I am in a state of great agitation. I hope you will intervene with Mr. Holmes on my behalf. I spied Gilchrist here yesterday. He was dressed in the uniform of an officer in a British regiment. Yes, I know, it does seem fanciful. However, I have an excellent eye for faces and I am sure it was he. If so, the rascal has broken his word to stay out of England for the length of his commission. Given his unpalatable behaviour two years ago and the present use of a uniform to which he is almost certainly not entitled, I worry he may be up to no good.

To confirm that I was not mistaken, I ordered one of my students to follow the man in question to his hotel. The student heard him tell the other guests he planned to “have a go” for a stuffed toy at the shooting gallery tomorrow afternoon - the Midsummer Carnival commences then. He signed the register with the name ‘Douglas Stanyon’. If it is Gilchrist, the resort to an alias clearly indicates he wishes to disguise his presence, either because of the dishonour he very nearly brought to St. Luke’s good name, or because he’s up to no good. I am nervous for my well-being. He may well hold a grudge against me. I implore you and Mr. Holmes to take the early morning express. In that hope, I shall be on the platform to greet you.

I remain, yours very sincerely,

H. Soames.

P.S. Come with fishing tackle. I understand you are enthusiastic fly fishermen. The Windrush at Witney holds a big head of wild Brown Trout. College anglers tell me an eight-foot rod for a four or five-weight floating line is ideal.

The letter galvanised my comrade. He sprang from the armchair in which he had spent much of the previous four days. “There’s an inducement, Watson - trout for supper - but first we must be there when this ‘Captain Stanyon’ pays a visit to the Carnival shooting gallery. If the man in the carriage was killed from atop Apsley House, whoever pulled the trigger would need to be a very good shot indeed. I recall a breeze from the north. The wind would have moved the bullet almost three inches to the left at two-hundred yards.”

We boarded a first-class carriage on the morning express, a formidable litter of rods, reels, and baskets perched on the rack above us. Soames was awaiting our arrival with a brougham at the ready. It took us to the Carnival. It was, the tutor told us, the six hundred and eighty sixth mid-summer carnival to be held without interruption since the reign of King John. He led us to the shooting gallery. A tall, bronzed figure in the day dress of a Colonial Police force officer was being handed a rifle by the woman in charge. Rows of small metal ducks trundled at a good pace from one side to the other, alternating rows revolving in opposite directions. Slightly to the rear a wheel rotated clay pipes at around twenty revolutions per minute. On one side an exotic Tibetan Rising Gong dangled from an ebony stand for atmosphere.

Duck after duck was knocked over by the Winchester Model 1890 in the shooter’s hand until the magazine’s fifteen cartridges were spent. “Good Lord, Holmes,” I muttered sotto voce, deeply impressed, “if that’s Gilchrist - and we can now see it can’t be anyone else - he’s certainly learnt to shoot.”

“As you say,” Holmes returned, “but we must push him a little further.”

My companion stepped forward. Gilchrist greeted him, beckoning the woman to reload the Winchester and bring another rifle for Holmes.

“So not unexpectedly we meet again, Mr. Holmes,” he said in a somewhat guarded tone. “I should have guessed Dr. Watson spotted me. He kept the glasses on me a second too long. I was also pretty certain Soames was behind the fellow checking the register at The Randolph Hotel.”

Like a Roman orator, he turned to address the gaggle of onlookers: “Dear friends and countrymen! You may have heard of this person standing next to me. His name is Mr. Sherlock Holmes. They say he’s as skilled with a rifle as the famous White Hunter Alan Black, author of Hunting in Somaliland with the 3rd Baron Delamere, but we must put that to the test, must we not?” A small cheer went up.

The woman held out the two loaded rifles, a Colt Lightning alongside the Winchester. Gilchrist waved a hand.

“As my guest, Mr. Holmes, you may take first pick.”

Holmes gave a quizzical look. He asked, “You have no preference between the two makes?”

“No,” came Gilchrist’s reply, “but if it’s all the same to you, I’ll stick with the rifle I’ve just been using.”

He took the Winchester, touched his tongue with a forefinger and placed a bead of saliva on the front sight. “Ready, steady, go!” Gilchrist called out to the gallery attendant. The ducks began to whirl. “Faster!” Gilchrist ordered. The woman increased the speed. Even though the ducks were now whizzing round in a blur neither shooter missed his target. Nine shots in, Gilchrist and Holmes turned their sights on the revolving clay pipes. Each knocked over six with six shots. The shooting display was all over in twenty seconds. Gilchrist started to lower the Winchester. With a sudden sharp movement Holmes swung the Colt towards the Tibetan Gong and fired. The bullet smacked into the metal, like a musical punctuation mark. The gaggle of spectators gave a sharp clap of hands.

“Know your guns, sir,” Holmes advised the astonished Gilchrist. “The Winchester Model 1890 in your hand fires fifteen cartridges. The Colt Lightning carbine fires sixteen.”

A chastened Gilchrist replied, “Mr. Holmes, you are indeed remarkably knowledgeable on such weaponry.”

At which Holmes returned, “In turn, I can vouch for your shooting skills, Gilchrist - to be able to collar a man at two-hundred yards with a Mark IV Martini-Henry from the roof of Number One, London. The question is why?”

The whizzing lines of ducks came to an abrupt stop. The woman picked up the rifles. “Sorry, gentlemen,” she said with a shrug. “You’ve burnt out the electric motor.”

She handed each of the two men a silky Mohair stuffed elephant.

We left the Midsummer Carnival and repaired to a quiet corner in Gilchrist’s hotel. His elephant sat by his side. “Cigarette, gentlemen?” Gilchrist exclaimed, extending a gold cigarette case first to Holmes, then to me, and finally to Soames.

I confronted him with my belief he had murdered a fellow member of the North-Eastern Rhodesian Police force. Though appearing to accept the charge against him, Gilchrist seemed intent on testing it. “Dr. Watson,” he continued, “every bit of what you say is circumstantial. You spotted someone looking extraordinarily like me on a terrace at Apsley House, dressed in a captain’s uniform. Goodness me! London is the stamping-ground of the entire Duke of Wellington’s Regiment. You say this fellow was holding a Mark IV Martini-Henry rifle? That model has been in service almost ten years to the day. There are thousands of them out there, somewhere or other.” His expression turned derisive. “Such testimony would hardly be permitted in a Court of Law, especially for a capital offence!” He pointed at Hilton Soames. “As to my former tutor’s poor opinion of my character...”

Holmes intervened. “Gilchrist - or Captain Stanyon, whichever you prefer - I spend a great deal of time at the Old Bailey. Yes, testimony regarding your character might be deemed inadmissible. Evidence in the form of eyewitnesses or documents carries the greater authority, as you imply, but not all secondary evidence will be dismissed. You would be wise not to underestimate the body of facts Dr. Watson has assembled.”

The young man shifted uneasily.

“Go on, Mr. Holmes,” he said. “You get more and more interesting.”

Holmes continued, “The quality of such evidence goes only to weight and not to admissibility. Dr. Watson and I plan a return to Apsley House. The soldier Dr. Watson spoke to from the ceremonial guard will identify you. The same soldier will confirm you were armed with a Martini-Henry, the Mark IV, and it was fired by you from behind him - his ears took a day to stop ringing. The blast of black smoke didn’t go up into the air at a forty-five degree angle as you might expect. It went past the soldier’s legs on a trajectory which would take a bullet straight at the carriage where the body of your colleague was found.”

Holmes pointed up at the ceiling. “You may claim such evidence would not be admissible in a Court of Law. I beg to differ. Even as we speak, your rooms are being searched by the management. No-one with your attachment to the Martini-Henry would throw it into the Serpentine River. I’m sure the rifle will be found, perhaps under a convenient loose floor-board, the Randolph being an ancient hotel.”

Gilchrist watched us in silence. The seconds ticked past. “Heavens, he’s going to make a run for it!” I thought. Finally, to general astonishment, he broke into a genial smile and said, “Well, I see no alternative - I confess! Murder was my reason for being on the terrace. Yes, the Martini-Henry is tucked away in my room. It was I who fired at the wretched fellow in the carriage. And if you like, gentlemen, I shall tell you why!”

The young man regaled us with a most extraordinary tale. Soon after he took up his post with the North-Eastern Rhodesia Police he had been assigned to a remote area to get experience of the testing life of the Bush. He came across an elderly White Hunter named Bill Powys, hot on the trail of an especially big tusker. Gilchrist realised the man was hunting Big Game without permission.

“In short, he was an ivory poacher,” Gilchrist explained, “and making a fortune at it.”

To avoid arrest, the hunter invited Gilchrist to join in the hunt. The offer was accepted.

“We bagged that old tusker and a couple more besides,” Gilchrist related. “From then on, I spent all my spare hours with the old timer. Sometimes we would shoot four or five elephants at a go.”

It was not long before Gilchrist’s skill with a heavy rifle equalled and surpassed that of his companion.

“Then one day something happened - a terrible thing at the time,” our narrator continued. “Old Bill got himself killed. We were too close to a cow-herd. The wind turned and they charged. Some people think elephants can remember ivory poachers. Whether they could or not, they certainly exacted revenge. Bill’s old legs must have given away. He stumbled. The herd trampled him into the earth.”

Gilchrist continued to poach ivory. He hired three or four natives to remove the tusks. “Better them than me. Damnable hard work in the heat. You see, a third of the tusk is below the gum line. To get at it you have to cut open the skull.”

The demand for ivory was ceaseless. Soon he assembled a whole gang, ready to take his orders. “We expanded into shooting rhino for their horn. Chappies in the Far East can’t get enough of the stuff. Meant to be an aphrodisiac of some sort. Make tea out of it, I’m told. For months things went along perfectly well until a boykie by the name of Behari Das joined the Force. They let him in because he said he’d been in the police in India. As it turned out, he became a perfect nuisance. He took it upon himself to bring the poaching to an end - as assiduous about it as those missionaries out there to save souls.

“The fellow kept on about the Hindu god Ganesh having the head of an elephant,” Gilchrist continued. “I evaded him by shifting constantly from one part of the Bush to another. I even crossed the border into South Zambezia. Then, a few months ago something put the wind up me. Behari Das walked into my office, looked me straight in the eye and said, “You know, Assistant Inspector Gilchrist, I think we’re barking up the wrong gum-tree.”

“Are we?” I enquired as casually as possible.

“Yes,” he replied. “All this time I’ve been on the look-out for a local leading the gang of ivory poachers, an African.”

“And now?” I asked.

“I am sure it’s a white man”.”

Gilchrist burst into sardonic laughter. “It was at that second, my dear audience, that the boykie awoke the Grim Reaper. I wasn’t going to have someone do me out of my fun, to say nothing of the fortune I’ve been accruing. A few days later I learnt the fellow was coming to London, but he was incredibly secretive as to why. Wouldn’t tell anyone. I put two and two together and decided he was planning to go over the heads of his superiors in the North-Eastern Rhodesia Police to report me to the Colonial Office itself. I knew at once what I had to do. I couldn’t take any chances. I would follow him and dispatch him.”

He bowed his head, staring at the floor. Then, as though accepting his fate, he addressed my comrade. “Mr. Holmes, surely I warrant more than the ministrations of a local bobby! I came across the name of a Scotland Yard detective in The Illustrated London News-Inspector Lestrade. Why not contact him right away? If you and Dr. Watson and Mr. Soames are content to leave me here in the comfort of The Randolph, you have my word I won’t move an inch until he arrives to effect my arrest. What’s more, I shall use the time to write out a full confession. Is it a deal?”

A slight smile flickered around Holmes’s lips at the young man’s effrontery. “Watson,” he said, turning to me, “I see no reason why not. Lestrade would appreciate the credit, and an airing away from the fog will do him good. We’ll take our friend here at his word, though with a caveat that within the hour Dr. Watson will telegraph a Hue and Cry Notice to every port in Britain asking the Docks police to be on the qui vive for a man of your description, known to personate an officer in the Duke of Wellington’s Regiment. If you are spotted trying to escape your just desserts, they are to hold you come what may.”

I looked over at Hilton Soames. He stared at his former student for several moments before shrugging his shoulders in nervous acquiescence.

Over dinner, I watched Holmes picking at his plate. “You know, Watson,” he said, “I’m feeling rather sorry for the lad. Two years ago Nemesis in the shape of Sherlock Holmes forced a college student to abandon his hope of becoming a great Classics professor. Disgraced, the student set off like Conrad’s Marlow into the blank spaces of Darkest Africa. Little did he know that in distant India, Nemesis was again stirring her loins in the shape of Behari Das. Gilchrist’s fresh start and financial well-being as an elephant hunter - even his liberty - was under threat when Behari Das turned up in Rhodesia.”

We departed from the university town to spend two enjoyable days on the Windrush between Witney and Burford. Without waders at our disposal, we cast our lines upstream from a position on the bank. The two of us returned to Baker Street with the basket filled to the brim with Brown Trout and half-a-dozen Grayling with brilliantly coloured dorsal fins.

It was after one of Mrs. Hudson’s famed afternoon teas of oat cakes with chunks of hearty cheese, smoked salmon, and homemade chutney when my attention was caught by a man on the opposite pavement. I had taken up a familiar position, cigarette in hand, staring out of the spacious window at the rush-and-tumble of Baker Street below.

“Holmes,” I called back into the room, “there’s someone lurking in front of the haberdasher’s shop-window. He has his back to us, but I’m sure it’s Inspector Lestrade.”

Holmes crossed to my side. “Our friend looks even more furtive than usual,” he agreed. “What’s more absurd, he’s disguising himself in a waterproof coat with a detachable cape more suited to the depth of winter than high summer.”

The man’s assumed nonchalance was being put at risk by the derision of the Baker Street Irregulars, a group of street-urchins in newsboy caps employed once-in-a-while by Holmes at a shilling a day (plus expenses) to gather information. A set of sharp cuffs from the object of their attention sent them scattering.

“What do you suppose Lestrade’s doing here on Baker Street?” I asked. “It seems a long way to come from Scotland Yard’s premises to buy a handkerchief or a pair of green suspenders!”

“I doubt if he’s eyeing the goods on display, Watson,” Holmes replied. “I myself have made use of the reflection in that same shop window to keep an eye on this side of the street, specifically our own front door.”

“Why would he do that?” I asked. “Why not knock and get shown up as usual by Mrs. Hudson?”

Holmes held up his briar. “I have enough tobacco in this pipe for another fifteen minutes. I wager we’ll have the answer before it runs out - I suspect he’s waiting to see if we have a visitor.”

Our vigil was short. Well before the quarter-hour, the sharp sound of equid hooves came through the open window. Wheels grated against the curb, followed by a pull at the bell. A quick glance showed Lestrade was still across the street, though he had now turned full-face. Moments later, a flushed Hilton Soames was ushered into our front room. He threw himself forward, holding out a piece of paper torn from a note-book.

“Mr. Holmes, I received this message! It came this morning. I haven’t the faintest idea what it means. Once more, I beg for your help.”

After the briefest glance at the note my comrade passed it to me with “Watson, what do you make of that?” A curious, almost satisfied look had come into the deep-set grey eyes.

The writing was hurried but legible, the punctuation flowery, the grammar punctilious:

To WHOMSOEVER steams this open: I hope you are as edified at the accompanying letter as I am over having to write it!!

The size of individual letters, the degree and regularity of slanting, angularity, ornamentation, and curvature were identical to the writing on the postal card sent by Giles Gilchrist from the Egyptian Sudan two years earlier.

Holmes held out a hand to the tutor. “And the letter he mentions, please.”

“That’s the very reason I’m here,” Soames replied excitably. “I don’t have it!” He dipped a hand into a pocket and drew out an envelope. “I only have the note and this. As you can see, it was delivered to the College addressed to me. I am certain the writing’s Gilchrist’s.” He paused. “Oh, hello, Dr. Watson - I’m sorry to barge in on you, but it’s the most damnable thing - there was nothing else in the envelope except that slip of paper.”

“Show me the envelope,” Holmes ordered. After a single glance he muttered, “Postmarked ‘Holborn and St. Pancras’. A significant clue to the sender’s travel plans, don’t you agree, Watson?” He passed the envelope back to Soames. “The author of the note anticipated correctly. This envelope has indeed been steamed open. Although addressed to you, someone else got there first.”

Holmes seemed to be sniffing a scent, like a trained bloodhound.

“What do you make of it?” I asked.

He pointed at the window. “Five guineas to your one we’ll not have to wait long before the present beneficiary of the letter reveals himself.”

Even as he spoke, we heard an authoritative rap on the front door, followed by the firm, rapid step of one who knew well the ground upon which he walked. Our door was flung open.

“Mr. Soames,” Holmes called out, “may I introduce Inspector Lestrade of the Yard. I have no doubt it was he who arranged for the letter to be purloined.”

Holmes turned to address the newcomer. “Inspector, if I’m not mistaken, you knew that Mr. Soames was on his way here and - knowing when his train was due to arrive - you waited across the street before joining us.

Lestrade scowled but nodded, and Holmes continued. “Are you here to bring us up to date on the life and times of young Gilchrist, starting with the stolen letter?”

“‘Stolen’ is a little harsh, Mr. Holmes,” the inspector chortled. “The beadle at St Luke’s... (he paused, looking with some embarrassment at Soames)... intercepted it. On my authority,” he added hurriedly. “We suspected that Mr. Gilchrist might be in touch.”

As Lestrade spoke, his hand went into a pocket. It reappeared holding a letter some three pages in length. With a sense of ceremony kindled by our keen attention, he began reading aloud:

The Randolph, June 30. Midnight

My dear Soames,

You and the others have gone. As I compose this letter, Inspector Lestrade must be on his way from the Yard. Unfortunately I shall not be here to greet him. Yes, my dear former Tutor and Lecturer, I know. My Scottish grandfather used to say “O kingis word shuld be o kingis bonde”, and like the kings I did give my word, but I must be clear - my word is my bond except when it becomes a necessary tool to free myself from uncomfortable situations. I was brought up to be charming, not sincere. It’s easy for you or others to preach. One cannot see all one’s hopes, all one’s plans, about to be shattered for a second time in as many years and make no effort to save them. What was it the versifier Kipling wrote - ‘If you can dream - and not make dreams your master; If you can think - and not make thoughts your aim; If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster, And treat those two impostors just the same...’.

Well, I can’t treat those twin imposters just the same. I think you would agree being arrested for murder can be deemed uncomfortable, at least equal to the anathema of being cast out of St. Luke’s for cheating. If my student peccadilloes mean I can never have a seat at the High Table of a famous College, isn’t that punishment enough for one life-time? Facing a sudden and ignominious end to an adventurous life in the heart of Africa was too much. You heard Mr. Holmes make mock of my predicament. He warned me that within the hour Dr. Watson would telegraph a Hue and Cry poster to every sea-port with details of my appearance - height, posture, eye-colour, name, and pseudonym. It was a challenge that - even as I write - I am preparing to meet! By the time you receive this letter, I shall again have demonstrated the power of dress to obscure purpose, which I discovered so happily at Apsley House as a captain in the fabled Duke of Wellington’s. You ask, if I escape every clutch, where shall I go? I shall tell you. The Far East emits her siren calls. A year or two in the Lesser Sunda Islands among yellow-tongued dragons more than ten feet long tickles my fancy.

With all the possibilities inherent in life, I Am,

Yours etc., etc.

G. Gilchrist.

P.S. I shall miss my confiscated Martini-Henry. Please let Mr. Sherlock Holmes know that ‘Captain Stanyon’ will be replacing it with a Colt Large Frame Lightning taking the .50-95 Express. And let him know he is welcome to my spanking new captain’s uniform. I am leaving it for him here at The Randolph Hotel.

Soames let out a screech. “He speaks of ‘Peccadilloes’! Peccadilloes is hardly the description I would use!” he gasped.

“So, Lestrade,” I said, “the man fled. Did my Hue and Cry Notice have any result at all? Has Gilchrist been apprehended? If so, shall we be needed at his trial?”

A watchful tone crept into the inspector’s reply. “Thanks to your Hue and Cry, and some further valuable assistance from Mr. Holmes here, our men had no trouble apprehending Gilchrist - at the Albert Docks. As to a trial...”

Soames jumped back in. “Then you have apprehended Gilchrist! Wonderful! Wonderful! Does the wretch lie rotting in one of Her Majesty’s gaols? Is he waiting to be hanged at Newgate? Will his body be buried in an unmarked grave within the walls?”

Lestrade tried to hide a guffaw by a solemn shake of the head. “No, no, and no to your questions, Mr. Soames, I’m sorry to say,” he declared. “Gentlemen, I must make something plain. Gilchrist was apprehended but he was not held. He is no longer in custody. What’s more, he’ll get away scatheless. There will never be a trial. He was - deliberately - allowed to board a liner to the South Pacific.”

“How is that possible?” I exclaimed. “After all, he confessed to cold-blooded murder!”

“He did, Dr. Watson, yes,” came the discomfited reply, “but I repeat, he will never be brought to trial.”

“Now listen, Lestrade,” I remonstrated angrily, “a Colonial Police officer is killed in broad daylight right here in our capital city. You had the perpetrator in your clutches and you released him. What of justice! What of Behari Das’s grieving family?”

The police inspector’s gaze went from one to other of us before settling back on Holmes. “I accept that all in this room deserve an explanation. Mr. Holmes is the one to provide it, since he’s the man who worked out how to put together all the pieces. The plot can be revealed on the strictest terms but you must each give your sworn word you will not publish an account of a case which involves the attempted assassination of our Imperial Majesty until she herself passes into the Great Beyond.”

Soames and I gawped. “The attempted assassination of our Queen?” we chorused.

Lestrade inclined his head. “Yes. Didn’t I mention the heavy parcel in Behari Das’s hands when his body was found?”

“You did not, Inspector,” I informed him.

“Over to you, Mr. Holmes,” said Lestrade.

My friend settled back in his chair. “Mr. Soames, I have an elder brother, Mycroft, a veritable spider at the beating heart of the British Government. The moment we began our investigation into the shooting, I informed Mycroft and thanks to my bother the India Office made Scotland Yard privy to confidential information about Behari Ras.”

“That information being?” Soames asked.

“First, let me deal with your former student,” Holmes said. “He followed Behari Das to London, believing that he was about to tell a tale of illicit ivory poaching activities to the Colonial Secretary. To Gilchrist, it would mean being kicked out of the North-Eastern Rhodesian Police and suffering the loss of a very considerable income from tusks and horns, and possibly enduring a large fine and a year or two in Fort Jameson’s mosquito-ridden gaol. As it turns out, Behari Das came to London for an entirely different reason.”

I opened my mouth to speak but Holmes’s hand went up quickly. “Patience, Watson! I assure you I shall get to that. But first, on June 27th, a corpse was discovered near Hyde Park Corner. A heavy bullet had taken away the back of his head. This is when Scotland Yard came into the picture. Watson, I passed on your report of seeing Gilchrist on the terrace. They too realised the perfect spot for a shooter was the terrace of Apsley House although it lay a good two-hundred yards away.”

“Until then,” added Lestrade, “we had no idea who might have pulled the trigger, nor a motive. I immediately got in touch with the British Colonial Administrator out in Africa, a man by the name of Codrington. I asked whether Gilchrist could have put a bullet into a man’s forehead at that distance. If not, your suspicions, Doctor, would fall apart.”

Lestrade reached into a pocket and held up a telegram.

“You’ll be impressed with Codrington’s reply. Two months ago, a competition was held in Chirisa, in the north of the country. A coterie of shooters paid fifty pounds for a single-day licence to kill Big Game and a chance to win a silver cup the size of an elephant egg. Each could decide for himself which of the ‘Big Five’ to kill - elephant, lion, rhino, leopard and, most dangerous of all, Cape buffalo. There was an important stipulation - each hunter was limited to five cartridges. Some returned with an elephant and a lion or two. Only one hunter returned having bagged all five targets.” The inspector asked rhetorically, “Well, gentlemen, any guesses as to...?”

Impatient, I interrupted, “Holmes, you said that it turns out Behari Das came to England for an entirely different reason. Are you telling us the dead man was not in London to spill the beans on Gilchrist?”

“Correct, Watson. He was not,” came the reply.

“So he was here simply to celebrate Her Majesty’s Diamond Jubilee?”

Holmes gave an odd smile. “Not quite,” he answered. “This brings us to the parcel. Why had he kept such a heavy package so close to him - on his lap - merely to sit waiting for Her Majesty’s coach to pass by? Why not leave it at his hotel with the rest of his possessions - clothing and shoes, etcetera? Before the authorities opened the package, they noticed a few unusual features about it. The string was secured by three knots. In India this symbolises three aspects of commitment - manasa, vachaar, and karmana: ‘Believing it’, ‘Saying it’, and ‘Executing it’. And there was the matter of the parcel’s weight.”

Unable to restrain myself I burst out, “Surely you’re not telling us it was-”

“-a bomb? Yes, Doctor. Behari Das planned to hurl a powerful explosive at Her Majesty. A half-pound of gelignite, with a fuse designed to detonate on impact.”

At my side, Soames piped up, “But why would anyone want to kill Queen Victoria?”

Lestrade reached into a trouser pocket and brought out a florin. After a brief glance at the coin he flicked it to the tutor.

“Why are you giving me this?” Soames asked.

“You’re a tutor in the Classics,” came Lestrade’s reply. “Take a look at the Latin inscription on the obverse side.”

“Victoria d.g. Britt. Reg. f.d.,” Soames read aloud. He looked up at the inspector. “So?” he asked.

Lestrade glanced at Holmes, who asked, “The date of the coin, Soames?”

Soames turned it this way and that. “MDCCCLXX11,” he replied. “1872.”

Again Lestrade dipped a hand in his pocket. He withdrew a second florin, checking it before sending it sailing through the air.

“And the Latin abbreviations on that second florin, Mr. Soames?”

“Victoria Dei Gra. Britt. Regina Fid. Def. Ind. Imp,” the tutor read out.

“And the date?” Lestrade asked.

“MDCCCXCIII. 1893,” the Classics Tutor replied.

“Twenty-one years later than the first florin. That ‘Ind. Imp’ wasn’t on the earlier coin,” Lestrade pointed out. “Our Queen became Empress of India in 1877. Our deceased Indian friend might not quibble so much with ‘Victoria by the Grace of God, Queen of the British territories, Defender of the Faith’. He would react violently to ‘Ind. Imp’ - ‘Empress of India’. When I informed Mr. Holmes about the bomb, he consulted his elder brother Mycroft. That did the trick. Both Messrs. Holmes realised the name used by the assassin-to-be - Behari Ras - was a pseudonym. Enquiries revealed his real name was Bankim Bharathy Ramakrishna, a sergeant in the Bengal Police until he became implicated in an attempt to assassinate the British Political Agent. He changed his name and fled to Central Africa. While still Bharathy Ramakrishna, he became a follower of Bal Gangadhar Tilak, the man known to the Raj as ‘the father of Indian unrest’.

“Tilak preaches Swaraj,” continued Holmes. “It espouses independence from British rule - Independence, and at any cost. According to the Hindu scripture Bhagavad Gita no blame can be attached if you kill an oppressor without thought of reward - regicide included. In short, Behari Das was not in London to expose Gilchrist as an ivory poacher, nor to be one of a hundred thousand ordinary spectators at the Royal procession. He was here to fulfil a destiny - to help Mother India break loose from British rule.”

Did Scotland Yard knew anything of the man’s intentions before he arrived in England? I asked Lestrade.

“Not a thing,” the Inspector replied. “The day before the Jubilee procession, completely by chance, a Special Branch Superintendent assigned to the Royal Family by the name of Melville was on the look-out for a band of French and Russian anarchists. He spotted our Indian friend leaving a side-entrance of the Autonomie Club, a favourite meeting place of Continental conspirators, some of them expert bomb-makers. The man had a parcel on his shoulder. He looked furtive. Melville was perfectly aware that assassins do not come solely from Ireland or the Continent. They also exist in large numbers throughout the Indian sub-Continent.

“Regrettably, the superintendent was given the slip. By contrast, Gilchrist was not to be shaken off - all that stalking after tigers no doubt. As he told you at The Randolph, he observed his quarry hiring a carriage and followed him to Hyde Park Corner. Gilchrist cast an eye around. He spotted Apsley House.”

“All the while,” explained Holmes, “like a trap-door spider, Behari Das was lying in wait for Her Majesty. The police found a sketch in a hidden pocket, showing the sons of the Maharajahs of Kuch and Behar, the Minister of Hyderabad, and the Prince of Gondal in the coach immediately preceding the Queen’s. That coach was to be the signal for Behari Das to leap out, plunge through the line of soldiers, and fling the bomb into Her Majesty’s lap. As it happened, he never got the chance.”

“Do we know how Gilchrist got hold of the officer’s uniform at such short notice?” I asked.

“Dege and Skinner on Savile Row,” explained the inspector, “and very pricey too. Gilchrist must have bumped into the Duke of Wellington’s Regiment in Central Africa. He told the tailors he’d returned from a hardship post to take part in the Jubilee procession, losing his uniform when a fire broke out in the ship’s baggage hold. They worked through the night for such a patriotic young officer.”

Soames burst out, “Then if Gilchrist hadn’t shot the assassin dead, Her Majesty would have been blown to pieces less than ten minutes later!”

“Lucky for Special Branch, wasn’t it!” Holmes responded drily. “They had charge of Her Majesty’s safety.”

“Nevertheless, Lestrade,” I exclaimed, “we still haven’t heard why you had Gilchrist in cuffs and then let him go!”

“Dr. Watson,” came the rueful reply, “look at it from Special Branch’s perspective. How could they let it go to trial in open court? The Queen’s life had been put at serious risk. If it became public knowledge Superintendent Melville had the man in his sights yet was given the slip, he would become the laughing stock of the nation. It would mean an end to a meritorious career, even to Special Branch itself. That would free the Irish Fenian Brotherhood to try their hand at will.

“No, gentlemen,” Lestrade ended, looking pointedly at the VR outlined in bullet-pocks on our wall, “after the Home Secretary spoke to a certain personage at a certain Norman castle in the county of Berkshire, we humble mortals at Scotland Yard were ordered in no uncertain terms to let Gilchrist go scot-free on giving his word he would once more quit England. A word one of my best officers is enforcing by accompanying him until the ship leaves Cape Town for its destination the other side of the world.”

“Lestrade,” I returned, “I take your point about manasa, vachaar, and karmana, and so on, but you also said the weight of the parcel was a give-away. Two four-ounce sticks of gelignite could hardly be called heavy, any more than half-a-pound of sausages or eight ounces of goose-feathers.”

“Depends if the sausages or goose-feathers were wrapped in nuts, bolts, and ball bearings to inflict greater casualties than the blast by itself,” came the reply.

We walked our guests to the top of the stairs and bid them adieu. In a voice breaking with emotion, Soames told Holmes, “Two years ago you came to my aid like dikē, the Greek goddess of moral justice. In view of the present events, but for your chance presence at the time of the Fortescue Scholarship affair, I wonder if I would still be here. Would I have met the terrible fate Gilchrist meted out to Behari Das?”

In a moment, I heard the front door bang behind them. I returned to the open window. Lestrade’s hand was held out to Soames for the return of the two florins. Together the pair turned towards the Underground station and disappeared from our line of sight.

I looked back into the sitting room. “Holmes,” I said, “I have a question. Lestrade gave you credit for Gilchrist’s apprehension at the Albert Docks.”

“I did make a small suggestion, yes,” came a reply, the words muffled by a fresh pipe clenched in his teeth.

“May I know what?”

My comrade crossed to a line of books. Between The Origin of Tree Worship and my Handy Guide to the Turf he came to a compilation of twelve of our previous cases. Long, bony fingers flicked through the pages. “Ah, here, Watson, in your very own words:

Holmes disappeared into his bedroom and returned in a few minutes in the character of an amiable and simple-minded Nonconformist clergyman. His broad black hat, his baggy trousers, his white tie, his sympathetic smile, and general look of peering and benevolent curiosity were such as the great actor Mr. John Hare alone could have equalled.

“Of course!” I shouted. “The postal card Gilchrist sent us. He was reading ‘A Scandal in Bohemia’ while his ship sailed through the Suez Canal. You must have pointed that out to Lestrade!”

Holmes chuckled. “A scriptural habit is a fine disguise until it turns out every police force in the country is looking for someone dressed like that. Nevertheless, England is mother to a myriad sea-ports. The Albert Docks are but one. Lestrade’s men had to arrive at the docks in very short time.”

“How do you suppose they managed that?” I asked.

“From the postmark on the envelope.”

“‘Holborn and St. Pancras’?” I queried. “What did that tell them?”

“It told me that Gilchrist posted the letter within spitting distance of Euston Station. And where would trains from Euston take you? To Northampton, Coventry, Birmingham, Wolverhampton, Stoke-on-Trent, Macclesfield, Stockport, Manchester, Runcorn... and Liverpool, the site of the Albert Docks. If you want to escape unnoticed, which better port than one from which a hundred emigrant packets a month sail to every quarter of the Earth?”

I checked my watch. Six o’clock. The excitement had sharpened my appetite. “My old friend,” I said, “another case resolved, even if the outcome was not the one we expected. Shall we dine at Simpson’s to celebrate the survival of our Great Queen, still and forever Ind. Imp?” adding with heavy irony, “and drink a toast to our absent friend Giles Gilchrist and his tracking skills for her survival.”

Holmes reached for his ear flapped cap. “The Grand Cigar Divan it is!” he confirmed.

The Maître d’hôtel greeted Holmes with the respect more accorded to a Prime Minister. We threaded our way to a table with a fine view overlooking the bustling Strand. The Chef appeared, walking alongside a lesser mortal propelling a silver dinner wagon. Holmes ordered slices of beef carved from large joints, with a portion of fat. I chose the smoked salmon, at a price well beyond my usual range.

I was on the last spoonful of the Divan’s famous treacle sponge dressed with Madagascan vanilla custard when Holmes asked, “Watson, the Old Sheffield plated Entrée dish at the back of your elbow. How did it get there?”

I lifted my arm. “I’ve no idea,” I replied, staring at it. I summoned the waiter. He shook his head.

“Messieurs, I do not know,” he replied. He reached for our empty dessert plates. As he turned away, he said in a plaintive tone, “Why would I serve an entrée dish at the completion of your meal?”

“Go ahead, Watson,” Holmes ordered. “Lift the lid.”

I did so to reveal a page torn from a notebook. On it was scribbled: “As to Philip, do not imagine that his empire is everlastingly secured to him as a god.”

“Gilchrist’s handwriting,” I exclaimed, “but what on Earth does it mean?”

“Demosthenes,” Holmes replied, looking around the crowded restaurant. “From the First Philippic. I baited him too far. This singular episode has not reached its conclusion. He thirsts for revenge. This note tells us one thing for sure - he’s not under guard a quarter-way to the Lesser Sunda Islands after all. He’s escaped the clutches of the police.”

“You suggest he’s...?”

“...right here. Perhaps a waiter. Or what about the marquis behind us with the monocle? The only giant yellow-tongued lizards he’s after are Holmes and Watson. And the .50-95 Express is a very heavy cartridge indeed!”

The End

© Tim Symonds and Lesley Abdela 2018