22 June 1881

I arrived at seven o’clock. Dr. Bell had started on a bottle of good Madeira and a round of cheese when his man, Willum, escorted me into the small study. The professor rose from his desk and took my hand in a firm grip.

“Doyle, good of you to come.” He was as excited as a school boy as he pushed aside the bottle. “On August the sixth, the Servia, a Baltic-American liner, arrives in Liverpool to take on coal and passengers on her way from America to Copenhagen and St. Petersburg. We will have first-class accommodations. This is especially fortuitous in that it coincides nicely with your graduation.”

“Aye, the timing is perfect. I will graduate in a few days and then celebrate with a journey to Russia,” I said. “May I ask, sir... Is Russia still dangerous? It is not so long since the war in Afghanistan and there is still considerable anti-British sentiment there, aye?”

“Doyle, sometimes you can be a right numpty, laddie.” He slashed the air with a stout cane and pressed a hidden button on the silver mounted knob. A wicked steel blade sprung out of the cane. He parried, slashed, then, quicker than my eye could see, he held the point of the blade against my neck. “Be an old stick in the mud, or join me for a bloody good adventure.”

“Sir, I can’t think with that blade at my neck.”

He lowered the cane sword. “So, what do ye say?”

“I have read about the Russian government’s purchase of the new Colt revolvers from America. Your sword cane will not prevail over a six-shooter.”

“Ah yes.” He slid a drawer out of his built-in gun case and selected a Webley .455 calibre army pistol. “This, as you may recall, fits nicely in a corner of my instrument case.”

“Sir, you fired at the notorious Captain Hook with a British Bulldog, a smaller revolver. I don’t believe the Webley will fit in your case.”

“You may be correct. No matter. I shall adjust the case to take the Webley. Now, Doyle, this is the maiden voyage of the Servia. It is built for the comfort of the rich and famous. According to this brochure, first-class passengers are expected to dress for dinner, and in Russia, there will be formal receptions and perhaps a ball or two.”

“First class, sir?”

“Aye, Doyle, we will be traveling in grand style.”

“But I no longer have a formal suit.”

“Angus Duncan gave you a tidy bit of reward money for your part in saving the American President from an early demise. I presume you still have some of it.”

I was deeply embarrassed to admit that most of the money had gone to provide care for my father in the asylum and to my mam for my brothers and sisters. “No. Um, well, actually, I don’t have any left...” I stammered.

“Lad, you need to be more careful with your savings. Here.” He handed me several pounds. “Armstrong’s on Grassmarket Street will tailor a dinner suit for you.”

I was preparing to leave when there was a knock at the door. Willum brought a middle-aged man into the study. “You might remember me as Sergeant O’Grady,” he said.”

I hardly recognized the man with black hair, dressed as a gentleman’s valet, who only vaguely resembled O’Grady. “I am to be Dr. Bell’s personal valet on your trip to Russia,” he said.

“I have no need of a personal valet,” Dr. Bell said.

“I suggest you read this before you decide whether you truly need me or not.” O’Grady took a folded letter from his wallet. “You are to burn it immediately after reading the message.”

I unfolded the paper. The carrier of this letter is a special agent of Her Majesty’s Secret Service. He will accompany you on your journey to Russia. The slashing signature was merely, ‘Roberts’ - none other than General Roberts, hero of the legendary march from Kandahar to Kabul that ended hostilities in the second Anglo-Afghan war.

Clearly, there was more to this humble-appearing sergeant than met the eye. “My apologies, Sergeant O’Grady. I’d be honored to have you as my valet.” Dr. Bell said with a wink.

O’Grady replied with a soft grunt, cleared his throat, and spoke, not as a tough sergeant but as a refined gentleman’s servant. “Hereafter, sir, refer to me as Mr. Lionel Tatum.”

Dr. Bell poured a double measure of single malt whiskey for each of us and fed the letter into the fire. “Tatum, you had better move your things into the house so we can become better acquainted.”

Armstrong’s Men’s Haberdashery on Grassmarket Street was shadowed by the palace. When I stepped through the door a bell tinkled far away in a dim back room. The floor creaked, and it took a moment to become accustomed to the gloom. My mam had stitched or knitted most all of my clothing, and I had been to a haberdashery only once before, when I traveled to America with Dr. Bell. “Kin I help you, sir?” the proprietor asked.

“I am traveling to Russia and need a formal white tie dinner suit,” I said.

Mr. Armstrong, a pallid, old bloke with wire-rimmed glasses, looked me over as if he was an undertaker sizing me for a casket.

“Ah, sir, it will be a pleasure to provide you with suitable attire.” He began with a measuring tape and a mouthful of pins, muttering about the amount of cloth needed to cover the breadth of my shoulders and height of nearly six feet two inches. He also measured me for a bespoke formal shirt and recommended a set of studs.

“Mr. Doyle, the climate is quite warm in Russia at this time of year. May I suggest an additional lightweight suit?”

My only jacket was of heavy tweed and hardly suitable for warm weather. I selected light grey linen for the new suit and left hoping I would have enough dosh to pay the bill.