Courage Calls

“Courage calls to courage everywhere, and its voice cannot be denied.”

—Millicent Fawcett.

He returned with a signed photograph for his wall: “le grand Sherlock Holmes d’Alphonse Bertillon.” Both men were in the picture. I was very glad to see him. He gifted me with the journal he had drawn up on the train and demanded I bury it in my pile.

The next afternoon, Holmes and I escorted Miss Rachel to the Dorothy Restaurant on Mortimer Street West. It was one of the exclusive establishments for the “New Woman.”

“I don’t know if Alfie Davis will even be here, sir. But it might be my only chance to catch her.”

“The Irregulars information is reliable. Go up Rachel, take a carriage home and we will meet there.”

“Watson, there is every possibility this event will clear our door.”

“Either that, or we will have to leave town, my friend!” I said.

Miss Hannah and Miss Rachel met at a window table to work out the details of the event.

“Rachel is that Doctor Watson and Mr. Holmes downstairs?”

“Yes, my father’s a bit overprotective. But you can’t blame him. He is the master of London’s underworld.”

Madam Davis happily agreed to speak at the event but required some clarification. Miss Rachel told us, “Papa, hearing that you and Mrs. Stanton were great friends sealed the deal.”

Monday the fourth of June, our day began with the shouts of newsboys on every street corner: “Sherlock Holmes and Alfie Davis to speak at St. James’s tonight!” I pushed past the throng outside our door to buy a paper. It was becoming impossible to enter or exit. But today the loungers parted each time a prize-fighter or tough approached.

The Baker Street Irregulars were assigned to keep tabs on Scotland Yard, they reported to us every quarter hour. Susannah’s baritsu class secured the inside of the Hall. A fool proof escape route was laid out for Madam Davis’ safety, with a fresh horse and a fast carriage waiting at the stage door.

Sherlock Holmes would have made a great actor-manager. There was the time he hired all the out-of-work actors in London just to arrange for a surreptitious entrance. He engineered it all and carried out what seemed chaos to me, with clockwork perfection.

Miss Rachel and Miss Hannah brought in their auction materials. She had been focused on the heavy boxes she was carrying into the Hall and now stood gasping from the St. James’s Hall stage.

“Hannah, this is an amazing fantastic place! The vaulted ceiling is honeycombed like the Crystal Palace!”

“Yes, and the decorations and arches are copied from the great Moorish Palace of the Alhambra.”

“What’s that? I’ll look it up next time I’m at the British Museum.” She whirled around. “But it’s like a fairyland! There must be hundreds of gas lit stars suspended from that ceiling!”

“It looks like we’ll fill all the seats. The more the merrier for our auction!”

Constables, captained by Inspector Das, were stationed at the Regent’s Quadrant entrance. Underworld toughs secured this doorway. The imposing boxers, Battling Lewis and Queensland Sam, guarded the Gothic Piccadilly entrance.

Amid the opulence of the surroundings Madam Davis, the working class representative of this women’s revolt, was introduced by Mr. Sherlock Holmes, the bohemian son of an English Squire.

Alfie Davis’ clear and expressive voice quoted Millicent Fawcett in her comments:

“The evil state of the law, the evil state of the general tone of public opinion in regard to morals, is an outcome of the subjection of women, of the notion that women are possessions or chattels, with whom men are freely justified in dealing as they please.

“Peaceful approaches will triumph over this evil. I cannot support actions that bring more destruction to the world, nor do I think violence, “really helps to convince people that women ought to be enfranchised.”

Her focus was a welcome one to her audience. She was a woman of medium height, short tawny hair, slight, and graceful. She had my attention all night as I made security checks. Gratefully, we had a five minute head start as Lestrade and his boys crashed through the entrance. Cheers rang through the hall’s perfect acoustics and we escaped through the stage door to our George Court carriage. Once the police realized a peaceful and spirited auction was in progress, they sent the growlers away and focused on Madam Davis.

I took the reins as they gave chase from the other side of the theatre through busy Regent’s Quadrant. Our head start brought us speedily through the alleyway to Piccadilly and we moved along our planned route crossing into Eagle Place.

They followed at Jermyn Street, around the St. James’s Square. At Pall Mall we disappeared behind the Diogenes Club and they continued on. We reappeared to trot round the shortest end of the park. They caught up with us there, but we were well ahead and onto Westminster Bridge in minutes. A considerable risk, as Scotland Yard was located just west of the bridge.

We were closely followed by a single black carriage. I was elated that most of the force had been outpaced and the race was now on equal footing.

Madam Davis knocked on the roof, “Doctor, there are no Metropolitan Police Force emblems on that cab!”

Off the bridge I turned down the embankment where I whipped up the horse. But the mysterious vehicle overtook us at the park. They moved in and swiped our carriage. It rocked perilously, the animal whinnied loudly, and Madam Davis moved to the opposite side. The driver came again, thundering down upon us, and knocked into the frightened horse. It bolted in fear and led us through the park in a ride we would not soon forget. I sawed the reins and successfully encouraged our horse towards the pond. There it would have to stop and give us the chance to leap to safety.

Madam Davis then soothed the horse and with calm tones she stroked its muzzle. I gave it its head so it could drink, and we used rugs to dry its flanks. Between us we quieted our mare enough to be able to continue onward. I knew we would shortly require another means, as I dared not use the whip. We crossed the park, came out of the shadows, and onto Upper Kennington Lane.

Our pursuers reappeared at Wandsworth where they chased us all the way to the station. I knew our mare would not accept another encounter and we ducked into an alleyway at St. Paul’s through to the graveyard onto Rectory Grove. We disembarked at the Lydon Road Stables and left the horse. Quickly we advanced on foot. Madam Davis and I moved through shadowy backyards to Orlando Road, at The Rectory, crossed Macauley and The Chase. Into dark and quiet gardens, courtyards, and alleyways past the Tennis Ground, and finally into The Cedars through the Mews and to her borrowed flat. The parkside streets were empty, the foul cab gone. We said our farewells.

I found a hansom up to the Strand. One thought on my mind. Was Alfie Davis now a target of these killers? When I arrived at Simpson’s a quarter of an hour later, Holmes and Doctor Robertson had introduced themselves. They were chatting like old friends over drinks when I appeared rather the worse for wear.

“Holmes, they attacked us, our horse bolted!”

“Scotland Yard?”

“It wasn’t Scotland Yard. Holmes, could our murderers now be focusing on suffragist leaders!”

“She is unhurt? And you are shaken but well. You say the cab wasn’t Lestrade’s men? It met up with you in the St. James’s Park? They must have shadowed our event at the Hall. You are sure they didn’t follow her to her flat? Of course, you are, old chap. We can’t very well request a Scotland Yard guard at her door. We are, as usual, the Irregulars, Watson. I will send some of Wiggins’ boys to stand watch for us.”

“I am sorry Holmes. I did not identify these men. My first thought was for her safety.”

“As it should be, my friend, and I am sure your heroics were formidable.”

“She is a courageous lady.”

“Order a whisky and soda. The chops look good tonight. Then you can regale us with your adventure.”

The Baker Street Irregulars had been invited in by Mrs. Hudson for a meal and an extra shilling. Holmes telephoned from Simpson’s and Wiggins was dispatched to Clapham Commons. The last of the loungers disappeared from our doorway, and clients returned again to our Baker Street consulting detective practice.