6 October 1881

“We must not be recognized,” Dr. Bell said. The professor had secured a natty yachting outfit; cap, blazer, ascot, and white, duck trousers. When we met at a rickety dock on the Neva, Dicky Ferguson provided me with a black, wool cap and fisherman’s garb. This meant that I had to haul on sails, lift the boom, and bail the bilge like a common hired hand.

Within minutes, my once well-manicured physician’s hands were covered with sticky tar. When we entered the bay, the yawl heeled over in a brisk breeze and skipped along over a light chop. We tacked out over clear water and, with quick changes of sails, tacked and dodged between the anchored ships.

“Now, turn back to the German ships!” Dr. Bell shouted.

Dicky brought the tiller around and the yawl spun on her keel, while I desperately hauled in the main sail and pushed it to the other side. The jib sail came over with considerable flapping, and we went off on a course for the moored Germans.

Dr. Bell, to all appearances, looked the part of a casual nautical observer, training his long, brass telescope first on one ship and then another.

“Did you know,” Ferguson shouted, “The entire Russian fleet is in port for the tsar’s review? There...” he pointed. “Carr and McPherson, our countrymen, built those three cruisers, the Ozight, Rasboynik and the Opritchnik here in St. Petersburg.” They were older, three-masted ships with iron hulls and steam engines, mounting Hotchkiss guns on either side.

We were hull down, flying past a great, Russian, armored cruiser, close enough to make out an officer with three golden eagles on his epaulets. “That’s the admiral!” Dicky shouted. “On Sunday, the tsar will review the whole fleet from his flagship, the Nakhimov.” She was a grand four-stacker with a sleek iron hull. There were more ships, gunboats from France and Sweden, and a late model cruiser from Germany.

“Our fleet arrives tomorrow with Her Majesty’s yacht, the Victoria and Albert, just in time for the festivities on Sunday.” Dicky said.

We swept down on the German ships, tacked, and came about. Dr. Bell crouched low behind the coaming, with his telescope trained on the Germans. “Can you stop for a better look?” he asked.

Dicky immediately flung over the tiller. “Doyle, let go the main halyard!” he yelled.

Without knowing one rope from another, I let go of the main sheet. The boom went out and the sail shivered. “No, no, you fool! The main halyard.”

I finally got the idea, un-cleated the right rope, and the main sail came crashing down the mast into a tangled heap. Our boat wallowed on the waves while Dicky and I ran about like maniacs to set things right.

Meanwhile, Dr. Bell, hidden among folds of the heavy canvas sail, trained his telescope on the German cargo ship. “Doyle, focus on the space between the two ships.”

I took the brass instrument and managed a close look at a most peculiar structure. Low in the water, almost invisible, was a black object supporting a wooden platform that appeared to be a landing stage between the two ships. “There is a semi-submerged vessel beneath the wood platform,” I said. “It seems to be similar to what I saw in the hull of the ship that we came here on.”

“Did you note the black pipes extending up from the mystery ship?” Dr. Bell asked.

We set the sails again and rolled down wind back to our dock on the Neva. While we tied up, a grizzled old fellow shouted out to us. “Be you English?” he asked.

“Scottish!” Dicky shouted.

“Close enough. An Englishman rented my skiff and hasn’t returned. I need my skiff,” he said.

Dicky translated for us. “Ask him what the Englishman looked like,” Dr. Bell said.

The description was close enough. Tatum had rented the skiff. We could not help the man further, but assured him that, soon enough, he would be compensated.

As a thanks to Dicky, Dr. Bell offered dinner and drinks at the Hotel Europa. I had a quick change of clothing and enjoyed enough fine food and drink to be a bit tipsy on return to our quarters.

I left Dr. Bell at the door to his sitting room but turned when he spoke. “Come, Doyle, we have a guest,” he said.

Colonel Sir Cameron Beachy-Edwards, pale, slender, and as impressive as ever, sat bolt upright on a straight chair, with both hands folded over the knob of an elegant, ebony walking stick. “Where is Sergeant James O’Grady?” he asked, without so much as a greeting.

“Unfortunately, the sergeant is dead.” Dr. Bell said.

The colonel hunched forward and leaned heavily on his cane. For a moment, he lost his aplomb, but recovered his British stiff upper lip. “No! What was the cause of death?”

“Apparently, he drowned.” Bell said.

“I find that hard to believe. James O’Grady or, as you called him, Tatum, was a strong swimmer.” the colonel said.

“The Russian police have arranged an autopsy for tomorrow morning,” I said.

“This presents us with a most troublesome situation. The sergeant was looking after security for Her Majesty’s yacht, which arrives tomorrow. His dispatches suggested trouble from either the anarchists or the Germans. He was so concerned, I rushed from Paris by rail across all of Europe. We must be especially vigilant because Edward, Prince of Wales, is aboard the yacht. If there is an attack on the tsar while he reviews the fleet, the Prince would also be in danger.” Sir Cameron said.

“O’Grady’s body was in the harbor not far from two rather suspicious German ships. Perhaps he died during an investigation” Dr. Bell replied.

“Indeed. Why do you suspect the German ships?” the colonel asked.

“A cargo ship is moored next to a well-armed German naval vessel and something, perhaps another boat, is hidden between the two.”

“In one of his dispatches, O’Grady said the American ambassador let slip something about a submersible vessel. It is hardly possible that the Americans would have a submarine boat in these waters.”

When Colonel Beachy-Edwards paused, Dr. Bell spoke. “And we thought you should know. The lost English officer, David Campbell, is here with us.”

Colonel Beachy-Edwards brightened. “Indeed, I wish to speak with him.”

“He is suffering from severe lead poisoning as a result of an old bullet wound. His illness explains his rather strange behavior since he left Afghanistan,” Dr. Bell said.

“Poor Campbell was actually quite brave in the war,” The colonel said.

We had placed David Campbell in Mr. Tatum’s room. He was attired in Tatum’s tattered dressing gown, and when we walked in, Marya was spooning gruel into his mouth. Beachy-Edwards took his hand, and for a moment, Campbell’s eyes lit with recognition. “Ah, ah, colonel,” he mumbled. He did indeed show signs of improvement, but then, as quickly as his lucidity had appeared, it slid away...

The colonel, yawning and claiming exhaustion from his arduous train journey, insisted on sleeping on a spare narrow cot in the sitting room.