From his table in the front corner of the working men’s café, Sherlock Holmes had a perfect view of the Knok bridge that spanned the Meuse. All he had to do was casually wipe away the steam on the windowpane with his sleeve and there it was. The crossing was an ugly beast, he thought, practical but unlovely, with irregular and unharmonious metalwork, hinged in the middle, supported by a four-square, plain slab of concrete that rose from mid-stream. Nobody had put any care or affection into it; he doubted those who had constructed it were particularly proud of their handiwork or gave it a second thought.
During his coffee-fuelled shift in the café, Holmes had seen bankside activity on both sides of the span. A film crew checking angles and the light on the German side. Mrs Gregson striding about, trying to look nonchalant and disinterested, yet clearly taking the measure of the location. With her a man he couldn’t place, but when he got out of the car to open the door, he got a good look at him. Military, colonial, but not in uniform. One of Kell’s? What was that about? Mrs Gregson’s loyalties and affections were clear. But the man? A lover? No, they were not familiar enough with each other. A suitor? Ah, now possibly. Was Mrs Gregson using her feminine charms on him? Shame on her! He laughed to himself, imagining her bluster when he accused her of undermining her suffragette principles.
And what was he to make of the others who drove by three times in an hour in a Ford? Three men, one slouched in the rear as if trying to hide. Not Dutch, judging by the clothes. English, or at least British. Civilians, but he could tell the pair in the front were servicemen in mufti, one a senior officer to the other, judging by the interactions he had witnessed.
And then there was the little tug that scooted up and down the German side of the river, back and forth, back and forth, never with a load in tow. What to make of its mindless wanderings? Or was conjecture on that a step too far? Perhaps it had simply been a tug.
Where was Mycroft in all that activity? He was sure he would be in there somewhere. Because he would have found out that his brother had been less than forthright with him. And when he discovered what he was planning, surely Mycroft would try to stop him sacrificing himself for his friend.
Is that what he was doing? After a fashion, he supposed. Von Bork and others would try to break him, that much was certain. But he doubted it would be purely physical coercion. That would be counterproductive. Parading a broken, abused Holmes before the world, slack-jawed and dead-eyed, would have no currency whatsoever. They had to be cleverer than that. Which meant they had to be cleverer than he.
Was this hubris? There was a time when he would have wagered his intellect against any man, saving perhaps Mycroft in his pomp. But he was well aware that his faculties had faded, although they were sharper than they had been in those months of despair before Watson had diagnosed that there was a physical cause to his decline.
No, he was confident, but not over-confident, that he could if not best the Germans, then thwart them. And if not? He was prepared for that. Secreted about his body, in a manner that would fool even the most fastidious of searchers, was the poison. To the casual observer it looked as if the toenails on his feet had coarsened, thickened, ridged and yellowed with age. But the nails of both big toes were false, the cement holding them on impregnated with the poison itself. It would be like licking a stamp, albeit a rather unsavoury one, perhaps, but it would be quick and Hua, the Chinese doctor and herbalist in Limehouse he met around the time of the ‘Twisted Lip’ adventure, had assured him it would be relatively painless. Although, as Hua admitted, he could hardly guarantee that, and Holmes would be in no position to ask for a refund. He rather liked Hua’s sense of humour.
So, all was set. He had even clapped eyes on Von Bork, although as he had intended, the German had not recognized him. The man had filled out from the well-toned sportsman Holmes had known. But his eyes were bright, alert and hungry. Hungry, Holmes appreciated, for revenge.
There was just one thing in this complex intermeshing of scenarios that puzzled him. One piece missing that was skewing the balance, the one that was at the very heart of all this activity. Where on earth was Watson?