Robert Nathan had never considered himself a man in need of a wife. Harriet, his first, had died, along with her child, soon after they had arrived in India. Since then his needs had been fulfilled by a succession of widows and, on occasion, other men’s wives. But remarriage? It had never occurred to him. Until he met the blasted Mrs Gregson.
He was sitting in one of MI5’s cars, a sleek six-cylinder Napier, which Kell had commissioned directly from the company, claiming priority because they were for ‘the war effort’. Nathan wasn’t entirely sure what he was doing for the war effort sitting opposite the Diogenes Club off the Strand, while Mrs Gregson was engaged in what she called ‘a fundraising mission’ with an editor.
Asked what else she needed to bring her plan to fruition she had smiled and said: ‘This project requires four more things: a magician, a lighter-than-air machine, a dead body and a meeting with Mr Sherlock Holmes.’
It was a queer business, all right, but the woman certainly had the means to bend men to her will. Although he wouldn’t officially sanction anything she did, Vernon Kell had agreed that the country owed Holmes and Watson enough of a debt to lend Mrs Gregson the use of Nathan and Hiram Buller, the young, bucktoothed driver sitting behind the wheel.
Nathan consulted his watch. ‘Why don’t we just go in there and get him, sir?’ Buller asked, nodding at the porticoed entrance to the club, with its fearsome bulldog of a doorman, all jowls and scowls for anyone approaching his precious steps.
‘Apparently, it will bring down the Government,’ said Nathan.
‘What will?’
‘Going in there.’
Buller laughed, suspecting a joke. ‘How’s that, sir?’
‘I don’t know, lad. It’s not like the Overseas or The Empire or The East India. It has its peculiarities, shall we say. If we were to simply barge in, so the Guv’nor says, it would reflect badly on the service.’ And Kell was all about making sure that MI5 ended the war stronger than it had begun it.
‘I see,’ said the driver, his brow furrowed in puzzlement.
‘No, neither do I, Buller. But softly, softly catchee monkey. You see, Mr Holmes has committed no crime, put nobody in danger, except perhaps himself. So we can’t be involving the police and warrants. We have to persuade him to come along.’
‘What if he won’t, sir?’
Nathan patted the Webley Self-Loading pistol in his pocket. ‘Oh, I am sure we can convince him.’ He took it out and checked the action. A lovely little gun, but prone to jamming unless it was kept scrupulously clean, which, of course, he did. But at least it didn’t spoil the hang of a jacket the way a revolver did.
Nathan had been out of the country for much of the Sherlock Holmes fever that had swept the nation. He knew of some of the more famous adventures – the rather silly one about the dog on Dartmoor, which he could scarcely give credence to, and the one involving a speckle-banded snake – equally unlikely – and thought Holmes and Watson must be little more than tall-story merchants. Consulting detective, my eye, he thought. A Jack of Tall Tales more likely. But Kell assured him that Holmes had performed valuable service for both King and Country over the years, right up to August 1914. And of course he had also helped capture the Ilse Brandt woman, who by rights should be lying in an unmarked grave within the confines of the Tower.
‘Is that him, sir?’ asked Buller.
Nathan looked over as a stooped figure slowly descended the steps, aided by the doorman for the last few. He had a Gladstone in one hand and a stout cane in the other, which he leaned on. He was wearing a flap-eared travelling cap, of the sort popular twenty years earlier, and a tweedy paddock coat. As he turned to speak to the doorman, the profile was unmistakable.
‘Wait here,’ Nathan instructed.
He was out of the vehicle and across the street in a series of lengthy strides and was at the man’s side before the doorman could hail the member a cab.
‘Mr Holmes?’ he asked.
The rheumy eyes turned to look at him and he was surprised by the vacancy in there. The greatest mind in Europe seemed to be curiously absent. ‘Yes. I’m sorry, do I know you . . . ?’
‘No, sir, but Mr Vernon Kell sends his compliments.’
‘Does he indeed? And why is that?’
‘I’m afraid I’ll have to ask you to come with us.’
‘And you are?’
‘Robert Nathan. A representative of Mr Kell.’
‘Ah.’ Holmes seemed to slump a little further. ‘How did you . . . ?’
‘Find you? I’m afraid we have the authority to read all telegrams sent from this country.’
‘Ah. That blasted DORA, again?’
‘I am afraid so. We know your intentions, sir, regarding Von Bork and Major Watson, and can’t let you do this, no matter how noble your motives.’
Nathan carefully prised the Gladstone from the bony fingers.
A sparkle came into Holmes’s eyes, like the embers of a dying fire offering one last flare. ‘He’s my friend, you know. Watson. An old friend.’
‘I know, sir. But I think it’s time to leave the adventuring to others, don’t you?’
‘This gentleman bothering you, Mr Holmes?’ asked the doorman, thrusting his chest out in challenge. Nathan discreetly lifted the flap of the pocket containing the Webley, just in case.
‘Oh, no, Henry. Just offering me a lift.’
The doorman didn’t look convinced, but stood down as Nathan guided Holmes across the street to the Napier which, thanks to its electric starter, had burbled into life. Buller was already out from behind the wheel, holding open the rear door and doffing his cap.
‘As a matter of interest, where are you taking me. Mr . . . ?’
‘Nathan. Robert Nathan. Mr Kell keeps a suite at the Connaught for unexpected guests.’ One with barred windows, outside bolts and a boxroom for a guard to sleep in.
‘Splendid,’ said Holmes, with a sly smile. ‘If one is to be imprisoned, one could hardly do better than the Connaught.’