Lloyd George

“There are many things a government does to keep itself in power,” said ‘Mr. Smith’. “Of course, I am only talking about our government, mind you. We have laws. We are free. Without our freedoms, we would be no better than the Kaiser and Krauts we were fighting.

“But, after all, we didn’t get the largest empire the world has ever seen by playing pretty with our enemies and turning the other cheek. That’s for the Kingdom of Heaven, not the British Empire here on earth.

“Now, this war had confused things. Old enemies had become allies and vice versa. And until the Americans came in, we didn’t even know if we could win.

“We were fighting for home and hearth, but we were also fighting to keep the Empire together because without the Empire, there would not be an England. Not the way we know it.

“With the Russians pulling out of the war like they did, the French and the Yanks and Lloyd George and some of his crew saw the blood on the wall. Not only could the Krauts free up a hundred divisions or more for the Western Front, and that’s bad enough, mind you; but what’s going to happen to all our investments in Russia?

“Now, we’re not talking small change, Dr. Watson. We’re talking billions of pounds in bullion, and francs and dollars. What’s going to happen to all that? Whose blood kin in England, whose fat cat corporate heads in the States, whose French franc millionaires are going to bleed red ink? Although we didn’t really give a rat’s tail about the French anyway.

“Now, as I said, Lloyd George had a double problem that soon became a triple problem. One, he’s got to worry about those new Kraut divisions hitting the Western Front. Two, he’s got to worry about all those Lords and Ladies and people so high up you wouldn’t believe, who might be losing the money they invested in Russia. Then along comes number three, the King wants him to save his relatives, the Tsar and bleeding Tsarina.

“If I was Lloyd George, I probably would’ve shoved a pistol in my mouth about that time. But Lloyd George is too cool and cunning a character for that sort of thing. So David, the bleeding Lloyd George, starts thinking. How the bloody hell can he satisfy everyone, with different groups needing different imperatives, and without getting caught at it, without making enemies, or at least as few as possible, and still win the war?”

Mr. Smith was taking his third brandy by this time, but his speech patterns and words were at an even keel and what he was saying was absolutely riveting.

“First things first, Dr. Watson. There are those that are in government, and those that are government, if you understand what I’m trying to say. Believe me, Lloyd George is not going to confide in those merely in government.

“The old school ties, the old blood, that’s who he contacted when he figured out what he was going to do. And it was a true, monumental piece of brainwork, it was. You have to give the old sod, that, you do.” He lifted his glass in salute.

“So he brings in poor Balfour. Why? Because even though Balfour is the bloody Foreign Secretary, Lloyd George kept him out of his War Cabinet. And for someone like Balfour, he’d do anything to get back in to where the people who really matter settle all matters.

“Now, their first problem, above all others, is to win the war. Win the war! They figure the only way they can do that is if Russia gets back into it. And Lloyd George knows he wouldn’t stay Prime Minister for a second if our English boys were getting killed like flies because of all those Germans running around loose.

“So he says to himself, ‘Now what will Comrade Lenin want to jump back into this thing? Obviously the blighter needs money. The Americans have plenty of that. Let the Yanks pay the bills. Or give them credit. Without American and British money there isn’t going to be any new, bloody, Bolshevik utopia anyway.

“‘Acceptability’ The Bolshies need that. The whole goddamned world is heaving its guts at what’s going on in Russia from that bloody revolution. But the Bolshies want to be accepted by the world for what they think they are: saviours of the bleeding masses.

“They also have another little problem; it’s called the Romanovs. If they let the Romanovs go, the Allies and the Whites will join forces to put them back into power and the Reds can kiss their rumps good-bye. If the Romanovs remain captive, the Allies and Whites continue harassing the Bolshies until they let them go. At which time, the Allies and Whites will join forces and the Reds can kiss their rumps good-bye. If they kill the Romanovs, the whole world will tell them to kiss off. The English, and the Americans especially with Mr. Woodrow ‘Morality’ Wilson, would be so sickened by a Romanov bloodbath that the Reds would never get another cent and they could kiss their rumps good-bye.

“Whichever way they turned, the Bolshies had a hell of a lot of rumps to kiss or rumps to lose.

“So Davey says to himself, what if I make a deal with Lenin that’ll solve both our problems?

“‘Lenin,’ Davey says, ‘listen to this proposition I have for you. The King is breathing down my neck to get his damned cousins out of your country: so I’ll arrange to have them rescued and we’ll keep the whole thing a big secret. The King’ll be happy because his cousins are alive. The Romanovs’ll be happy because they’re alive. And you’ll be happy because you’ll get them out of your hair.

“Then Lenin says, ‘But I have no hair.’ ‘Good point,’ says Davey.” Number four and five brandies had come and gone.

“‘How am I to explain their disappearance to my people?’ asks Lenin, ‘My people want them dead. That’s why we made our revolution.’

“‘All right, calm down, Len,’ says Lloyd George, ‘no skin off my nose. We’ll kill ‘em. What’s a few Romanovs, more or less?’

“‘But what about your King, he wants them alive?’ asks Lenny.

“‘Oh, yeah, right,’ says Davey, ‘Okay, I got it. I’ll tell Georgie I’m going to rescue his cousins, I’ll send in some poor fools to try, then we’ll have their boat capsize and they all drown trying to escape, or some such thing. That sort of thing happens all the time. Not your fault, not nobody’s fault. And you can claim you were about to turn them over to the British when this horrible thing happened.”

“‘Yes, Davey,’ says Len, ‘but you have to be sure we Bolshies don’t get blamed. Because if we get blamed, everybody will say we’re monsters and nobody will give us any money. And I can’t stay in power without any money and I certainly won’t come back into the war.’

“‘Don’t worry, Len,’ says Davey, “Deal?’

“‘Deal.’”

I was beginning to feel violently ill.

“Wait, there’s more, doctor. So the deal, again, is this: Lloyd George tells the King he really can’t help because of the law, but he and certain parties will help. Wink, wink.”

“The invisible others,” I interrupted.

“What?”

“Oh, nothing. Though you are leading me into such quicksand as I would never have believed, please, go on.”

“Correct and certain parties will help, but it’s got to be a big, fat, juicy secret. Now he tells Lenin that he’ll have the Romanovs killed and no blame will lay at his door. But he also tells Lenin that the Brits have got to make the rescue attempt look real in order to save face with the King, and to make it look good so the world will buy the story. Lenin says, ‘Great.’

“Now Davey tells Balfour exactly what he wants, and Balfour is to make sure everything goes according to plan.

“‘But, Artie,’ says Lloyd George, ‘I do not want to know who or how. And no matter what happens, I shall know nothing.’

“So Balfour goes to people he knows before birth. Blood ties. Money ties. People who have a lot to gain by not losing Russia.

“The fools were easy. You and Mr. Holmes. What naturals. Lloyd George took care of that himself because that was the part he was supposed to control. The whole bloody world knows the two of you are bloody goody-two-shoes. They’d believe it if you were killed trying to enter hell and baptize the bleeding Devil. Yes, that was easy.

“Balfour now passes word of the rescue to Buchanan, and Buchanan buys the fairy tale because it comes from his boss.

“But Buchanan doesn’t know what’s really going on, so he gets Kolchak involved. If Kolchak helps, the Brits will see to it that Kolchak becomes King Dung in Russia.

“‘Yeah,’ says Kolchak, ‘that’s for me, chaps.’ So another fool joins the fool’s club.

“But Kolchak begins thinking, and he says to himself, ‘These British can’t really be trusted. I go and help them and then they’ll just turn around and put Nicky back on the throne. No, I think I better just kill them off and make sure I’m the only one the British can push. After all, I’m the guy that’s leading all these White armies. The Americans love me for that. And the Americans have all the money.’

“So that, Dr. Watson, is why Kolchak attacked you when you weren’t expecting it. Neither was Lloyd George. Neither was Buchanan or Balfour. This was one case where we were the double-cross-ees instead of the double-cross-ers.”

“Of course,” I said.

“I’ll continue. The fools upset the applecart. Well, one fool really, Mr. Holmes. He brought the rescue off. You were all supposed to die, and he works it so you all live.

“Well, that ended the game for Lloyd Georgie boy. All of a sudden Lenin finds out that some local pinheads pulled the plug on the Romanovs and he’s left with egg on his face and nothing in his pockets. He thinks that Davey played him for a fool; that the whole phoney rescue story was really not phoney. Now Lenin and his mob are going to hear about the executions good and loud.

“Lenny figures the whole world is going to come screaming at him like banshees, which it did, and he and his bleeding Bolshies are going to be pariahs to the decent folk of the world, which they are.

“Now Davey tries to talk his way out of this one to Lenny, but Lenny won’t play the fool twice. ‘You can’t fool Lenny, Comrade Lloyd George; well, not twice, anyway.’

”So Lenny says to Davey, ‘If you think we’re coming back into this war, you’re off your bloody noodle. You’re bloody lucky that we don’t come in on Germany’s side. You lied to me. You cheated me. You made me look bad to the whole friggin’ world. You can kiss my Bolshie behind in Harrods’ window.’ End of conversation.

“So there goes Russia down the tubes for good as far as the war goes. And there goes Russia down the tubes as far as all those lovely pounds and dollars and francs go.

“But Davey is the one that comes out smelling like a rose anyway. Remember, you and Mr. Holmes succeeded. You got the Romanovs out. You saved their bloody hides.

“So Davey takes a secret bow from the King and is secretly rewarded. Balfour is the one who did all the black work and he has to keep his mouth shut which is hard for him since he likes the limelight and hates to lose. He’s got our hooks into Palestine and he isn’t going to let go. It’s part of the British Bleeding Empire now.

“But back over here, he’s got people who think they’ve done what they were supposed to do. Like Buchanan. So Buchanan takes a bow from Balfour.”

“Yes,” I said, “these other people you speak of, the ones who thought they were doing what they were supposed to. If I give you names, can you give me stories?”

“If you pour another brandy, I’ll give you the moon.”

I did, and he did.

“What about Sidney Reilly?”

Mr. Smith laughed. “Oh, Reilly. He had more important things going on in Russia.”

“Yes, he told me. What happened to Reilly? Is he safe? Do you know?”

“Well, yes and no. If Reilly told you what he was about in Petrograd, you know how dangerous it was. Just before he and his men were set to move against the top Bolshies, and we still don’t know by whom or how, they were tipped off. Reilly, true to being Reilly, managed to get out and make his way to Finland.

“That’s where he got new orders from his mates at SIS to go back into Russia for some other business. He would be met by men he had worked with before.”

“What happened?”

“He went back in, all right, but no one has heard one word from him since. And it’s been about a year, now.”

“My Lord. Is he dead? What do you make of it?”

“Dr. Watson, knowing the kind of people Reilly and I work for, my guess is that Lloyd George put the kibosh on him. He was set up. He went back in expecting to meet men he trusted, and he was disposed of. Lloyd George had to cover all his tracks. No loose ends could be left.”

“Is that what happened to Holmes and young Yardley and Preston?”

“Exactly. Sir Michael happened to be at the wrong place at the wrong time and was disposable anyway. He had also found out some things Newsome didn’t like and Newsome told Balfour. I am very sorry about Mr. Holmes. It was Lloyd George. But...” and he shrugged.

I sat there stunned. It was true. It was Lloyd George all the time. He was the true head of the ‘Black Faction’. The swine was all the time playing both ends of the game. And that is what Holmes had finally divined.

I just could not believe that my own government could have been playing so low. Every moral precept I believed England stood for was made mockery in mere minutes. But I still had questions, and though wrung of every last ounce of strength and feeling, they had to be asked.

“Please, what about Thomas Preston?”

“Which one? The real one or the fake one?”

“Both, if you could.”

“The fake one was SIS. He had been sent in at the direct request of Reilly because Reilly was a man who usually covered every foreseeable eventuality, and he couldn’t take a chance on a novice gumming up the rescue attempt. It had to succeed so you all could be killed. If the real Preston was in charge, God knows what would’ve happened. So Reilly had some of his men kidnap the fool and hold him until he could get home on the ship that brought you all in.”

“What about Arthur Thomas?”

“Another true one. He didn’t know Preston, so when he got to Ekaterinburg, of course he believed Preston to be Preston. No, Thomas was on the square. Same goes for Admiral Yardley. Newsome played him for a fool as well and didn’t even blink an eye when Yardley’s son wound up dead. That Newsome should be shot, as well.” I looked at him warily.

“Do you know anything about that German, Von Mirbach?”

“Of course, I do. That was Kolchak. He figured that by killing Von Mirbach, the Kaiser would really put the squeeze on the front, and it would make Kolchak even more important to the Allies. Kolchak was going to come back into the war if he was made Supreme Ruler, or whatever the hell he wanted to be.

“Oh, I tell you, Dr. Watson, Lloyd George had this thing figured out a million ways to Monday; or is it Sunday?”

“Another question, if you please?”

“Another brandy, if you please?”

“General Poole, was he in on any of this?”

“Nope, just following orders. Solid army man - thick.”

“And please, this is the most important of all, is Holmes alive?”

“What are you talking about? He was killed on that ship, wasn’t he?”

“You are asking me?” I then told him about my previous visitors, and I described them to Mr. Smith.

“Yes, I think I know who they are. They are like me. They only work for one person in the end: the Prime Minister. But until this moment, Dr. Watson, I hadn’t heard anything of the like you’ve conveyed.”

“Is there no way of finding out?”

“Sure there is. I can kill one of the bastards if they don’t talk. But they’re like me. They won’t.”

“All this information you have given me this night, how have you come by it?”

“That’s a funny question, doctor. You see, men such as I are always around for the men who employ us. They soon begin to think of us more as pets than people. But the very things we’re needed for keeps our eyes sharp and our ears open and there is much to be learned as we stand in the shadows.

“Have you ever noticed that Dr. Watson? How if you stand in the light and look into a shadow, you can’t see a thing? But if you are placed in a shadow, you can see all that goes on in the light?

“And,” he paused here for a moment, “if you are able to supply succour to certain tastes, at certain levels, there is much to be learned of that which is hidden; if you know what I mean.”

That was all; I had run dry. There was nothing left inside me. I looked at my inebriated friend and felt inordinately close to him. Probably because I knew that here was at least one man who held some of the values I held; although, in a twisted sort of way. He was literally risking his life to repay what he felt was a personal debt. A debt Holmes and I knew nothing about. As into his cups as he was, though, I just had to ask him this one last question.

“Please, pray tell me, in your heart of hearts, then, do you think there is absolutely any chance that Reilly or Holmes may still be alive?”

‘Mr. Smith’ put his glass down, used the arms of his chair to aid him in his quaking attempt at setting himself erect, pulled down the sides and rear of his jacket, looked down at me and said, “I really don’t know. If either of the two were me or you or most of the men in England, I would say ‘no’. But look at who you’re asking me about. I just can’t say.

“And based upon all else you’ve told me, Dr. Watson, I should write the trash they want and have done with them. Consider it insurance. If they do have Mr. Holmes, maybe he’ll be spared. And if they don’t, what have you lost?

“Give them what they want and to hell with them. Somehow, some way, I am absolutely certain you’ll think of something to set the record straight without putting you and yours in jeopardy.”

July 13, 1919

I then guided him to the door and he zigzagged into the street as the first touch of light competed for dominance with London’s lampposts. I wonder if I shall ever see ‘Mr. Smith’ again. I hope I do not, though, for it would be as he said: his debt will have been paid. And he shall no longer exist for me.

Sleep, now, would be foolish and futile. I walked upstairs as if both my legs were tethered to balls and chains; bathed, which brought some vigour to me, then dressed and went back onto the streets.

The idea of reporters at this time was unconscionable, and I needed time to ponder all that had happened in two sparse days; days that for me had taken on the aspect of epochs.

I knew now that I would give Lloyd George what he wanted. I would write a truly fitting end to Holmes’ career. It would satisfy the darkness from above, and with Clay, the darkness below. Although I now began to have my doubts about this man’s true character.

After all my years with Holmes, it suddenly occurred to me I had let his every action colour my own. His triumphs and defeats became mine, his prejudices and likes became mine, his fears and exuberances became mine. I had, in an inextricable way, become an appendage of Sherlock Holmes; but had never truly grasped that fact until I sought to come to grips with the true, complex nature of Clay, of all people.

He could not be all bad because he was, at the moment, engaged in aiding one of his life’s enemies. Either that required an inordinate amount of forgiveness, or the intellectual intensity to make such a gigantic philosophical adjustment. I suspected the latter, wished for the former, and hoped for a combination of the two. And though I do not know what will happen in the future, as I write this journal, Clay has proved a friend in shielding my Elizabeth and John, and in aiding me further in the way I shall now describe and end the detailed accounting of these past year’s events.

As I walked and thought, with absolutely no idea of the direction I was going, and for how long this aimless odyssey continued I am not sure, I was finally accosted by an urchin, not unlike Billy, one of Holmes’ ‘Baker Street Irregulars’, and asked to follow him.

I anticipated my destination, but only in general, as it seemed I was being led through every filth-strewn alleyway in London. Finally, as I had surmised, Clay’s carriage awaited me in the pits of one of these alleys, and I climbed into it with antique familiarity.

“Well, Dr. Watson, this has been a busy night for you.”

“I have had more tranquil.”

“I hope matters have resolved themselves.”

“Resolved? Yes. But only in the most perverted of ways.”

“You know your family is completely safe?”

“I did not even have to ask it, did I?”

I believe those words brought what amounted to as close to a smile form those lips as one could expect. “No, no, you did not, did you? Doctor, since you have not asked my aid concerning Holmes, should I interpret it to mean you have discovered the truth?”

“I am not sure. But I caution even you to keep your distance from those I have dealt with last night. The air they breathe is noxious and it is of their creation. The alleyways your boy has taken me through this morning are infinitely more fragrant.”

“I see that you wrestle with weighty troubles, Dr. Watson. I wish I could be of further assistance, now that the time of my death draws near.”

I would not believe it. Humour from Clay. This was indeed incredible. I nearly chuckled.

“The one last act of assistance you could provide is to determine if Sherlock Holmes is alive or dead. I now believe you are the only one to whom I can turn with sufficient means to discover the truth.”

“Are you serious about this request, doctor?”

I was now drifting off as we spoke, and I believe I answered in the affirmative.

“Then for now, sleep, Dr. Watson. My carriage may be one of the last sanctuaries in London for you. Sleep and I shall give you in unconsciousness a tour of those parts of the city you would never have fathomed in a state of wakefulness.”

And with those words, spoken in such a strangely calming tone, I fell into a much-needed slumber as the carriage rocked like a cradle.

When I awoke, some three hours later, Clay was gone. I was told by the driver he had departed long ago; then he handed me a note from Clay:

Dr. Watson,

Since the removal of my only challenge from my immediate environs, I have felt too listless and uncomfortable. I demand a steady diet of comparable confrontation. Without Holmes, I am not sure where I shall find this again.

To this end, I have decided to honour your last request and am now making arrangements to personally travel to Bermuda to see what I can uncover. Of course, my people here shall do what they can to learn anything that may also help solve our mystery.

Until I contact you again, you have nothing to fear. Should you need anything, you have only to speak with a Mr. Paul Frank of Denholm Street, a solicitor. He shall know who best can serve your needs. I will leave full instructions with him about you.

I anticipate this new challenge with a greater joy than I have known in many a year, doctor, and I thank you for it. Please give my warmest regards to Mrs. Watson, and to your son.

Good fortune, Dr. Watson, to us all.

It was signed, simply, ‘Clay’.

I just stared down at his note, completely disbelieving, yet joyful that perhaps I should learn of Holmes’ fate; although, I knew it would not be for some time.

I then thought of the odd circumstance if Clay were successful and found Holmes alive. I might make them allies in some way I had no way yet of knowing. What a boon to mankind that would be: Holmes and Clay working together.

I put the note into my pocket and asked to be taken back to my house; but as we came around and I finally saw the boisterous crowds of news hounds at my stoop, I lost heart and asked to be taken to the Diogenes Club, where I knew I would find Mycroft Holmes.

After explaining that I could not, as yet, give him full information about his only brother because the government had requested me not to, he said he would wait, and then asked which of Holmes’ possessions I wanted.

I asked for one of his deerstalkers and a few of his pipes. And then I asked for the one item he had always used to destroy my serenity: his infernal fiddle. Why that item, I still do not know. Yet perhaps because of all his possessions, that was the one that married all aspects of his complex character. And discordantly at that, I might add.

Mycroft reminded me that the fiddle was a Stradivarius, understood my choice was not for the monetary value of the item, and said he’d have them sent ‘round presently. We shook hands, and I decided to go home, face the madness that engulfed my street and was sure to make me quite unpopular with my neighbours.

August 12, 1919

It has taken me the better part of a month, now, to complete this journal, and as of yet, I have had absolutely no word from Clay about Holmes. Although I have been in contact with Mr. Frank, there is nothing to report as even Mr. Frank, himself, has had no word about anything. Or so he claims; though I believe him to be telling the truth.

Reilly has not shown himself to be alive, if he is; and, as yet, there is no way I can communicate with the Imperial Family.

Admiral Yardley is on sea duty again, but he and I and Sir Thomas have spent quite a good amount of time together since I introduced them. It is as if the father without a son and the son without a father have replaced the loss with each other. They are such good men.

As for me, Elizabeth and John, we are all well, and the publication of my account of the demise of Clay, entitled “Feet of Clay”, has met with success. In fact, the public is now clamouring for more of Holmes’ cases as yet not chronicled. Including the account of his secret war effort which, I claim, is still secret. These stories are the only way I have of keeping my friend alive.

Oh, yes, between the last page of this journal and the rear cover, you shall find an envelope sealed by Holmes at the beginning of the Great War and given me for safekeeping. It contains his detailed deductions of what he felt would be the course of the war and, he claimed, its eventual outcome. I would open it myself, but the sight of his fowl-like scratching will only serve to upset me needlessly. And knowing Holmes, it will only be another matter in which, of course, he was correct.

I know not what the world will be like seventy-five years hence, nor even seventy-five days hence, but I pray with all my heart for my son John’s sake, and for little Sidney’s sake, and for all the world’s children, that there is no repeat of the insanity of the Great War.

Use the information I have just given you, wisely. I know that you will.

I wish you health, happiness, prosperity and peace.

Farewell.