12. A Fabulous Glittering Gift

Coming it the Lord Nelson

“Good morning, Mycroft,” I said as I climbed the ladder and boarded the Enchantress. “And to you Lieutenant Blake. I am relieved to see you again.”

The launch was plucked from the River; it hung forlornly from davits just behind the casing of our roaring paddle wheels. The engineer smoked a phlegmatic pipe and contemplated the half-chewed-off stern of his command as he told his tale to a group of sailors.

I joined Holmes at the ship’s rail. “Prize-fighters?”

He smiled. “They were part B of my simplest plan, if we had not talked our way aboard: an attack up the gangplank to take the Biarritz by a coup de main.”

“They meant to run us down, Holmes.”

“It seemed so.”

“So much for your restraining hand.”

“It was a desperate act. Did you get the impression that the Russian Captain was the murderous type?”

I considered. “No.”

“Then he may have acted under duress. The thieves may have taken control of the ship.”

“Piracy on the High Seas!” I exclaimed.

“Hardly that, Watson, we have not yet passed Ilford. We have the miscreants for several Thames Conservancy and criminal damage charges, but the police fleet at Wapping is made up of constables in rowing boats with little capacity for ocean pursuit. However, if we suspect piracy, the Navy can act.”

“Can we apprehend her, Holmes? The Biarritz is a well-found, fast ship. The Enchantress is old, is she not? The deck beneath our feet is vibrating noticeably. Shall we move to the front, or prow of the ship, away from the spray of the paddle wheels? We may be able to catch a glimpse of our quarry.”

“Lieutenant Blake is sanguine. I think we may safely leave the chase to the Royal Navy.”

“Yes, of course, I meant no reflection on the Navy, although the Captain is rather young. But, consider, my dear friend, the fiends have made off with a Marlborough!”

The Enchantress picked up speed as we passed the narrows at Tilbury. As we had expected, there was no sign of the Biarritz at Gravesend. Mycroft and Lieutenant Blake, the young commander of the ship, joined us on the foredeck and a naval rating offered bacon sandwiches and mugs of beef tea laced with rum.

“I told you that we can rely on the Navy, Watson,” said Holmes helping himself. “This is a civilised way to pursue villains. I wish more of them would take to the waters. It is as invigorating as standing on the footplate of a speeding railway engine, without the disagreeable smuts in one’s eyes. And the catering is far superior.”

He bowed to the lieutenant and toasted him with his mug.

“We must be running at over ten knots,” I exclaimed. “How the paddles hurl the water skywards; it is a fine sight.”

“Almost twelve knots, Doctor,” said Lieutenant Blake. “The Biarritz is also rated twelve.”

He grinned. “We are short-handed as you will have noticed; a large contingent, including the Captain and most of our officers, are on shore for the Jubilee. The Enchantress is twenty-odd years old, and our quarry is a youngster at nine, but we are not heavy-laden, nor crewed by Russians, and I will be surprised if the Biarritz has our legs.”

He rapped on the wooden railing for luck.

“Ha!” said Holmes. “We shall soon be upon them. They were foolish to run.”

“What an incurable show-off you are, Sherlock,” said Mycroft coming up and taking a mug of beef tea. “You knew they’d run. That’s why you ordered them to Gravesend; you wanted them to elope so that you could pursue them. You are coming it the Lord Nelson as you did so often in the Nursery.”

“Tut, tut, brother,” said Holmes, smiling. “And you claim that you do not have a suspicious mind.”

“What happens when -” Mycroft paused at the Lieutenant’s frown and touched a wooden stanchion for luck. “What happens if we catch the Biarritz?”

“We rescue our people and Kanji,” I said. “We free the Captain - if he is under duress - arrest the culprits and restore the jewels to Her Majesty and to Gondal.”

“How?” asked Mycroft. “She is a large vessel. We cannot detain the ship in the Channel indefinitely while we conduct a search for the gems. There are ten thousand places that they could be hidden - if they are even on the ship. It would take weeks to do a thorough job.”

He tapped his brother on the shoulder. “The diplomatic bag must on no account be violated; no tricks or stratagems, Sherlock, it must be inviolate. You nod, but I do not see your fingers; show me that your fingers are not crossed.”

“We can order the ship back to London and carry out an intensive search,” I suggested.

Holmes and Mycroft exchanged amused looks.

“That could be awkward when the Russian Captain talks of inspections, quarantine and the plague,” said Mycroft.

A sailor in the crow’s nest hailed the Lieutenant. He waved to the bridge, and there was a flurry of movement at the base of the ship’s main mast as a huge White Ensign broke out at the masthead. Lieutenant Blake turned to us with a grin.

“Enemy in sight.”

Holmes, Mycroft and I stood on the bridge of the Enchantress.

In two hours, our quarry had changed from a mere dot on the horizon to a fine ship with a black hull, white upper works, a red funnel and the Russian tricolour on a jack at her stern. She was hull-up and a mile or so ahead as she passed out of the Thames at the Nore. Her paddle wheels spun furiously and her wake was a straight line of turbulence over which gulls circled and swooped. Within half an hour, we had closed to hailing distance and Lieutenant Blake ordered her to stop through a speaking trumpet. There was no reply or change in her course. I could see the Russian Captain on the starboard wing of his bridge staring impassively ahead. Blake hailed again, and then again.

“What now?” I asked.

Holmes shrugged one of his Continental shrugs and beamed at me.

“Faith,” he said. “Rule Britannia.”

Our young commander studied the Biarritz through his telescope for a long moment. He gave a string of orders. I heard the word ‘gun’ with some trepidation.

I watched with astonishment as a field gun was assembled on the deck below us. White clad sailors bustled back and forth with balletic efficiency, joining carriage, wheels and barrel. Ship’s boys took station to one side with wooden boxes of cartridges.

“She is a three-hundred weight Armstrong six-pounder,” the Lieutenant explained with a note of pride. “She was designed as a mountain gun, obviously by a committee; no mule could carry the heavy parts on the flat, much less up a mountain. Weight is no problem for us. Give me a party of seamen and a block and tackle and I will move a mule gun, to mangle Archimedes. We managed to obtain the gun on loan, and she has been lost in the paperwork.”

A piratical gleam appeared in the lieutenant’s eye. “The Captain insists that we practice landing a party on shore and setting up the gun once a month. We have never had a chance to fire her from the ship while under way; it will be a most interesting experience.”

“Our people are aboard the Biarritz,” I reminded him. “One is the nephew of the Duke of Marlborough.”

“Tut, tut,” said Holmes. “Do not fuss; let the Navy do its job. Churchill will not mind a whiff of shrapnel.”

“Fire,” cried the Lieutenant.

A cheery young midshipman on the foredeck repeated the order, and the mule gun flashed and bellowed a loud, sharp crack. A bright-yellow flame shot out of the muzzle followed by a long stream of grey and black smoke. The network of ropes that the sailors had attached to the carriage to stop it recoiling into the sea twanged and thrummed as the gun jumped a clear foot or more off the deck.

I watched for the fall of shot across the bow of the Biarritz. I had been assured that we would fire warnings, but I saw no plume of water. Had we hit the vessel? The gunners went through the choreographed reloading drill. They opened the breech and were wreathed in smoke. The stench of explosives was strong. I was reminded of the demonstration at the Woolwich Arsenal and of 221B on the morning after the bomb outrage.

“Good,” said Holmes. “Well done, Lieutenant.”

The gun team paused in their routine and looked up at the bridge. The midshipman face showed a look of bitter disappointment.

“What?” I asked.

Holmes pointed across the water.

The paddle wheels on the Biarritz were idling. She let off a long mournful blast on her steam whistle as she slowed; the Enchantress answered with a shrill screech.

A naval boarding party assembled under the direction of Lieutenant Blake. A dozen sailors in white dungarees and floppy hats stood in a barefoot grinning line. They were short, lithe men holding heavy cutlasses. A huge and heavily bearded petty officer was to one side with an axe over his shoulder. His pose was stern, but his eyes gleamed with excitement. The gunnery midshipman, a boy of no more than Wiggins’ age, marshalled another group of white uniformed men and checked each man’s rifle and other kit. He wore a blue midshipman’s uniform with a large cutlass on a shoulder belt, a pistol in its holster and a dirk in his belt. His face was smoke-smudged and there was a piratical glint in his eyes.

I put my medical bag down on the deck while I checked the action of my service revolver.

Lieutenant Blake tapped me on the shoulder. “Doctor, as I have told both Mr Holmses, this is a naval operation. As acting-captain, I cannot leave the ship. Midshipman James is the officer in charge of the boarding party, and he must be obeyed. Once control has been established, Mr Mycroft Holmes will conduct affairs in the political sphere. You may take your weapon, but you may only discharge it on the instruction of Mr James, or as a last resort to defend your life. Is that clear, sir?”

“It is, Lieutenant, I have no intention of shooting anybody.”

“The bruisers will remain on Enchantress. I do not trust their discipline. Ah, here are the Indian princes.”

The Thakores of Gondal and Limdi crossed the deck. They wore yellow turbans and white dressing gowns. I envied them their bright-eyed and refreshed look. They had slept; I drooped with fatigue.

“We heard a bang,” said Gondal. He looked across at the Biarritz. “I see that you have the scoundrels. I had no doubt that the Royal Navy would catch them.” He and Limdi shook the lieutenant’s hand and warmly congratulated him. When informed that we were about to board, they ran to the companionway and disappeared below.

I cocked an eyebrow at Holmes, but said nothing. Ducking away when things became hot was a common-enough problem with highbred types. I remembered with affection the loyal mountain men of our Ghurkha regiments, and the tall, ramrod straight lines of the Sikhs. I fervently hoped that we would never have to fight such fine men again.

I was surprised to see that we were required to climb into the long rowing boat before it was lowered; it was in fact a sensible arrangement, much better than climbing down a ladder into a gyrating boat. I sat in the bow between two old salts who instantly pulled out pipes and lit them, smoking with the pipe bowl facing down, in the Navy fashion. I took a fill offered by one fellow who looked to be in his sixties. After one puff, the jerk as the boat hit the water startled me and the glowing tobacco popped out onto the floor of the boat. I jumped as the sailor calmly trod it out with his naked foot. Midshipman James lit a cigarette and had it passed along to me.

The sea, which looked so calm from the deck of the Enchantress, heaved the boat up and down in an alarming motion. We seemed to make little progress, despite the exertions of the rowers, and I was astonished when, at a soft word of command from the midshipman, the sailors pulled in their oars and the boat bumped gently against the side of the Biarritz.

A head peered over the railing of the ship and a rope ladder dropped beside me. I looked up at the tall, black hull with a jolt of fear. Midshipman James stepped carefully over the oars and benches and stood before me.

“Pardon me, Doctor,” he said with a smile. “As senior officer, I must go first.”

“Oh, do not mind me, Mr James, please go ahead.”

He grinned again. “Wait until my men have joined me, sir, and we will find a better way to bring you aboard. We would not want to lose you to the briny deep.”

Two seamen held the rope ladder steady as the midshipman clambered up and hitched himself over the bulwark. The rowers, with cutlasses literally between their teeth, swarmed up after him. The men with rifles slung over their shoulders, Marines I presumed, followed leaving me with two boatmen. I could see no sign of the other boat with Holmes and Mycroft aboard.

There was a cry from the deck above, and a rope was lowered to the boatmen. They sat me on a wooden slat, like a child’s swing, and tightened a loop of rope under my armpits. I clutched my medical case in my lap as I was swung up, over the ship’s side and deposited on the deck amid the grinning seamen.

I stood, dusted myself off and recovered my composure as the contraption was manoeuvred to the other side of the ship where more sailors climbed over the gunwale. I joined Holmes, Midshipman James and the Russian Captain in front of a deckhouse.

“I regret, Doctor,” said Captain Barshai. “My passenger insisted. He had a pistol.”

I shook his proffered hand.

Mycroft swung over the side of the ship in the rope sling looking ruffled and uncomfortable.

“Captain, I require you to muster your crew and passengers here on the foredeck,” said Midshipman James to the Russian.

“We must find Churchill and the others,” I said. “They may be in terrible danger.”

The midshipman turned to me. “I will let you have five men, Doctor, with the bosun in command.”

The heavily bearded man with the axe stepped forward with three marines and two seamen. I drew my pistol and led them down the ladder to the deck below. I could not find my way. It was only when I climbed to the upper deck in the centre of the ship and found the place where I had first boarded, that I could retrace my steps down two decks to the cabin. I was shocked to see that balks of timber had been nailed across the cabin door and that vents in the door and the space under it were filled with rags.

“My God, the brutes aim to suffocate the boy. Open the door this instant. Break it down, I say.”

Sailors sprang to the door, heaved, but could not move it. The huge petty officer with the axe pulled them aside and demolished the planks and the door with naval efficiency. He kicked what was left of it open, and we were confronted with a domestic scene.

District Nurse Levine sat on a bunk, knitting. Mr Melas flicked down a corner of the Illustrated London News, and smiled a greeting. Churchill and Willy looked up from a game of Patience.

“We opened that little round window for a cooling breeze,” said Mr Melas pointing to the scuttle. “It is so refreshing after the heat of London.”

Not a Moment for Levity

We trooped up to the deck to find that the crew and passengers of the Biarritz mustered in front of the deckhouse in the bow.

The Russian sailors were ranged on one side and the passengers on the other. Churchill’s appearance caused a ripple of horror through the ranks of the Russians. They crossed themselves and shrank back to the rail; several screeched in terror and called out to their Captain.

“Doctor,” cried Captain Barshai. “My men represent to me that they much fear from the plague.”

“Churchill,” I ordered, “bare your breast.”

He grinned and took off his sailor jacket and shirt. His skin was pale, but unmarked. He was beginning to show the consequences of Mrs Hudson’s solid fare and lack of exercise. I resolved to prescribe fewer helpings of potato and more time with Holmes’ barbells.

The Captain looked from Churchill to me in blank astonishment.

“The power of prayer,” said Holmes. “The boy is a follower of Mary Baker Eddy and the Christian Science. He had better wait in the lounge with Mrs Levine and Willy. And perhaps the Russians could be corralled elsewhere.”

The Russian officers and sailors marched off under guard.

Midshipman James nodded to a sailor. He jumped up on a bollard and waved a signal to the Enchantress in semaphore. The midshipman saluted Mycroft.

“The engine room and bridge are secured, sir. All officers and crew are accounted for, but two passengers are missing. My men are searching the ship.”

“Thank you, Mr James,” said Mycroft. He turned to the passengers, a score or so of men and women. “I am sorry that we have had to interrupt your voyage, ladies and gentlemen. We will need to examine your identity papers or passports. With your cooperation, this will not take long and you can be on your way.”

There was a low murmur as Mr Melas translated Mycroft’s remarks into Russian and French.

Mycroft nodded to his brother. Two sailors brought a table and chair and placed it where Holmes indicated. Churchill followed them and placed an inkstand and a Russian Bible on the table. He pulled back the chair and Holmes sat and shuffled papers, looking, in his blue uniform and cap, every inch the stern bureaucrat.

With Mr Melas’ help, Holmes dismissed Russian families, businessmen and the couriers accompanying the Russian diplomatic bag. We were left with three men: a middle-aged man with shiny black hair under his homburg, an older, bearded man in a dark coat, and a young man who leaned against the rail smiling. Holmes called forward the man in the coat.

“Mr Katkov, the famous editor of the Moscow Gazette. I hope that you enjoyed your short sojourn in England.”

The man replied with a long speech in French that Mr Melas summarised for me.

“Monsieur Katkov is annoyed,” he said with a shrug.

Holmes smiled. “Mr O’Donnell?”

The middle-aged man wearing the homburg stepped forward. I knew at once that I had seen him before.

“And Mr Walker.” The younger man nodded. He was probably only just in his twenties, clean-shaven, with a pale face and an aloof expression. He wore a smart, grey frock coat in the latest style and he affected a monocle.

“First things first,” said Holmes. “Your pistols, if you please.” Midshipman James stepped across the deck, stood in front of the men and he held out his hand.

Katkov shook his head. The older man shrugged, took a large-calibre pistol from his shoulder holster and handed it to Mr James. He slipped it into his belt with the greatest composure. The other man ignored him.

“Come, sir,” said Holmes. “I would not like to have you stripped and searched.”

The young man gave him a furious look. “I will pass my revolver into the care of an officer, not a boy, and expect that it shall be returned with apologies.”

Midshipman James smiled, leaned forward and murmured something in his ear. The man stiffened and gaped; his monocle dropped on its string. He pulled a pistol from his waistband. I tensed and reached for my gun, but he meekly handed it to the young officer.

“There now,” said Holmes. “Mr O’Donnell, you are an American.”

“That is correct, sir,” said the older man with a slight Irish accent. “I was in England for your wonderful Jubilee celebration. I travel to Russia on business: I am in furs.”

“I thought that you have a thriving fur business in North America,” said Holmes.

“As with the buffalo, the greed of my compatriots has wiped out the supply. And I intend to deal in mink pelts, not beaver.”

Holmes nodded. “And you, Mr Dacre. Your papers say that you too are an American.”

“Are you addressing me, sir? If so, you are mistaken. As you can see from my passport, my name is Walker.”

“Are you also in the fur trade?”

“I do not engage in trade.”

A party of sailors carried a long wooden crate and two leather portmanteaus. Despite the large size of the crate, two sailors handled it with ease.

“That is my baggage,” said the man that Holmes had addressed as Dacre. “It is private property.”

Holmes stood. “My name is Sherlock Holmes. I have been on your trail since the botched theft of the Gondal emeralds. Cigar, Mr Dacre? Do take a seat, sir.”

Churchill brought out another chair from the Saloon.

“You address me? I see that I cannot persuade you of my identity.” Dacre sat, took a cigar from Holmes’ case and cut it. Churchill lit it with a match. “You talk of a botched attempt,” Dacre said. “So these emeralds that you refer to were not stolen.”

“On the contrary, they were. However, in the theft one of the participants was killed. Mr, or should I say Battalion Chief, James Walsh of the Chicago Fire Department.”

“Originally from County Mayo,” said Mycroft, to Holmes’ obvious irritation.

“I contacted your brother’s colleagues in Chicago,” said Holmes addressing the American. “They told me that he was the younger brother of Peter Walsh, who resided in Paris. James brought the aluminium ladder from Chicago. The resemblance to you is clear.”

The man shrugged. “Yes, my true name is Walsh. The aluminium ladder twisted and I almost fell; my brother grabbed me and saved my life, at the cost of his own. He fell into the alley. I could see that he was dead - his neck was broken. We retrieved the ladder and escaped back across the rooftops and down to the street. A policeman stood on the corner near the alley, so I could not go to Jim. I was forced to leave my brother’s body on the ground, and it shames me.”

“Be quiet, you fool,” said Dacre.

“I can assure you that your brother’s remains are being treated with utmost respect,” said Holmes.

Walsh nodded.

“The bomb was a warning?” asked Holmes.

“It was.”

“What of the dray?”

“Him in the barrel with a pistol,” said Walsh with a sneer. “He said he couldn’t get a clear shot.”

Dacre bristled, but said nothing.

“Perhaps sly murder is not your forte, Mr Dacre. I cannot doubt your nerve. You played the Thakore of Gondal at Buckingham Palace: that took bravado at the least. You were burnt-corked to resemble an Indian. You wandered up to the Royal Suite smoking a cigar and with a plate of digestive biscuits in your hand. No, that was cool.”

Dacre could not hide a slight smirk.

“The fake brooch was to give you time,” Holmes continued.

“We planned to take the Boat Train to the Continent in a day or two,” said Walsh. “Dacre panicked and got us on the Biarritz instead.”

“You are a dead man,” said Dacre flatly, tapping out his cigar ash, just as the bosun and a party of sailors came through the door of the saloon dragging two finely dressed Indians in turbans.

He stood them before Midshipman James. “They was hid under the piano in the Smoking Lounge, sir.”

I immediately recognised Kanji, although he sported a fine black eye. The other was a plump, middle-aged man, gorgeously dressed in fine silks. He had thick, greying, mutton-chop whiskers, and on his head was a wide, blue turban.

“That one,” the bosun continued, pointing at Kanji, “made an attempt at me with this.” He threw an ornate dagger on to the table next to Holmes.

“There is blood on the blade, Watson.”

I took up my medical bag and examined the bosun. He had a slash across his chin that dripped blood on to his white shirt.

“He aimed for your jugular,” I said.

Holmes turned to Midshipman James. “Let us get in out of the sun. Even at this time in the morning it’s hot enough to make us all a little tetchy.”

“Certainly, Mr Holmes.”

The plump Indian stiffened. “You are Sherlock Holmes?” he asked.

“I am,” said Holmes. “And you are Maharajah Duleep Singh, late of Norfolk, Paris and Saint Petersburg. Or are you still travelling as Michael Donovan, the dynamite fiend?”

We sat around a long table in the Dining Saloon. I murmured my astonishment that Maharajah Duleep was on the ship.

“Oh, I knew they were on board,” Holmes replied. “The Captain showed me the passenger list as you ministered to Churchill. Monsieurs Katkov and Elveden took first-class cabins from Saint Petersburg to London, conducted their business on the ship, and were returning without ever having stepped ashore. Elveden is the name of the Maharajah’s shooting estate in Norfolk. Mr Donovan and Mr Walker were travelling from London to Saint Petersburg. A cabin was also booked for a Monsieur Kanji.”

I looked at Holmes in utter astonishment. “They booked their prisoner a cabin?”

Holmes smiled and turned to the assembled company. “I think we have it,” he said, rubbing his hands together. “Katkov’s plan to persuade the Tsar to attack India failed when a young fanatic tried to blow His Imperial Majesty to pieces. The Maharajah here was encouraged to take the identity of a known dynamitard and would-be regicide.”

He shook his head in wonder and smiled at the Maharajah Duleep. “I cannot imagine what induced Your Highness to take such a lunatic step.”

Mycroft coughed.

“Yes, yes. The tentacles of the British Secret Services are almost as far-reaching as Monsieur Katkov alleges in his fiery leaders in the Moscow Gazette. The Maharajah hoped, with Fenian and criminal assistance, to present the Tsar first with a fabulous glittering gift, then with the Punjab, and finally with India. He made contact with a professional criminal organisation in England through his Fenian connections in Paris. Was it General Morgan who suggested that you put the matter into the hands of Dacre’s master? Or was it the Donovans? It makes no difference, but I would say Michael Donovan. He engaged an Irish-American Fenian in Paris to watch out for the Maharajah’s interests, and that man, Mr Walsh here, recruited his brother in Chicago.

“Your first target was probably Windsor castle. Then you, Mr Dacre, saw the opportunity that the Jubilee presented for you. The jewel would be out of the safety of its Windsor Castle vaults and in Buckingham Palace, where, with the disruption of the usual routines occasioned by daily Jubilee dinners and receptions, you would find an opportunity to accomplish your theft.

“You needed a means of ingress and egress. The idea of an aluminium ladder was a masterstroke.”

I saw that Dacre could not resist a tiny bow in acknowledgement of the compliment.

“It must have been expensive,” Holmes continued in a wondering tone.

Dacre shrugged.

“You covered your expenses by taking the Gondal emeralds. And you created an opportunity to impersonate the young Thakore.”

Two figures in turbans and brocaded frock coats came into the cabin. They carried long scimitars tucked into sashes around their waists.

“Kanji!” cried the Thakore of Gondal, rushing forward to kneel and grasp the older man’s hand. “You are alive. What have the devils done to you? A brandy here, for Kanji. Have you no brandy?”

“You did not wait,” said his companion, the Thakore of Limdi to Holmes. “We had to get dressed. One cannot tackle dacoits in one’s night attire.”

Holmes stood. “We have been talking over events and we have come to the theft of the Gondal jewels. A certain person approached Maharajah Duleep with a proposition. He would hand over Gondal to the conspiracy with Russia in return for - what I wonder; the throne? That person was aggrieved by his master’s plans for changes in the principality: railways, hospitals, advancement of non-Hindus and schools for girls. Perhaps, as Colonel Delacy suspects, he had support from the zenana.”

Holmes smiled. “Here was a perfect opportunity for the would-be jewel thieves to test their plan and equipment, and then to gain access to Buckingham Palace.”

He turned to the old man being tended by Gondal. “Is that an accurate account, Mr Kanji?”

The Thakore of Gondal stood and staggered to the wall of the cabin. He shook his head in disbelief.

“I am afraid that it is true, Your Highness,” said Holmes. “Kanji was in league with the thieves of the emeralds and of the Koh-i-Noor. He persuaded you to leave the necklace behind when you went out with Limdi and your political advisors; he gave the signal for the theft to take place that evening. Yesterday, he took your court clothes and invitation card with him when he was carried by his servants in a trunk out of the Travellers Club and taken away in Walsh’s hansom.”

Gondal let out a great cry, drew his scimitar and lunged at Kanji. The old man fell against the Maharajah and slid to the deck. Duleep screeched and crouched behind a chair.

“Put up your sword this instant,” said Midshipman James, drawing his cutlass.

“Or the dew will rust it,” Holmes murmured.

Holmes received a fierce look from the midshipman. “I will cut down the next man to offer violence,” he said. “Unauthorised violence, that is.”

The bosun pulled Gondal back and picked Kanji up from the floor. Holmes turned to me with another quip on his lips.

“If you cannot keep Mr Sherlock Holmes quiet, Doctor, I will have him gagged and returned to the ship,” said Midshipman James fiercely. “This is not a moment for levity.”

Mycroft and I exchanged smug looks as Holmes spluttered, then sat quietly and said nothing.

“Quite right, Mr James,” said Mycroft. “Sherlock always was a chatterer.”

“Leave it to the Navy, Holmes,” I muttered.

“This Indian gentleman is dead, sir,” said the bosun.

I Admire Your Pertinacity

A long, shrill whistle came from the Enchantress.

“There is no wound,” I said after examining the body. “I suspect that he had a heart attack, or a seizure of some sort.”

“Perhaps he died of remorse,” Holmes murmured with a tight smile.

A party of sailors carried the corpse to a cabin and I searched Kanji’s clothes. I returned to the Dining Saloon and shook my head at Holmes and Mycroft.

“The gems could be anywhere, Sherlock,” Mycroft muttered. “The lieutenant on Enchantress is getting impatient. We have searched the robbers’ cabins most meticulously and we will seize their baggage, but their persons must remain inviolate. We cannot strip these people and search them on suspicion. If they do not have the stolen jewels, there will be hell to pay. We are on very unstable legal ground.”

“Two men are dead, Mycroft. Are we to let young Dacre walk off with the loot?”

“He held the Captain at gunpoint. He will suffer Russian justice.”

“Not if he arrives in St Petersburg with the Koh-i-Noor.”

Mr Katkov slammed both hands on the table, stood and marched across to us. He poked me in the chest and screamed at me in English that we were acting without warrant, that he was well known in the Court at Saint Petersburg and that he would make the strongest representation to the Tsar. I picked up the insufferable little swine - he was heavier than he looked - and shook him. Katkov reached into his pocket. Holmes clapped his heavy revolver to the man’s brow.

“I will shoot you and throw what is left over the side,” said Holmes. “Jump overboard if you want to be beyond my jurisdiction.”

As the bosun relieved me of Mr Katkov, and Mr Katkov of a pocket pistol, I noticed Churchill murmuring in the ear of the Thakore of Gondal. The boy had an evil little grin on his face that I knew boded trouble. He slipped across to Holmes and spoke softly to him.

“Well,” said Holmes, nodding to Churchill. “We shall have to return to the Enchantress. Could you muster your men, Mr James?”

Walsh stood. “I will return to London with you, Mr Holmes, whatever the consequences. I must see to my brother.”

Holmes shook Captain Barshai by the hand. “Well, Captain. What do you wish to do with Dacre and Kanji?”

The Russian shrugged. “We lock one in his cabin. The other -” He mimed man overboard. Midshipman James gave him the thieves’ pistols.

“We will take possession of Katkov’s, Dacre’s and the Maharajah’s luggage,” said Holmes. “After inspection, the bags will be forwarded on the next Russia-bound ship.”

We assembled on the foredeck. A steward handed out glasses of brandy or vodka, with plates of tiny morsels of black bread heaped with caviar. The sailors lowered the packing case, portmanteaus and cases over the side into the boats, followed by Mr Melas and his household.

“So, Mr Katkov,” said Holmes conversationally. “One last throw of the dice. I admire your pertinacity.”

Katkov made no reply. There was a gleam in his eye that suggested he knew that he had bested us.

Maharajah Duleep was in a fine mood. He confided in me that he missed his estate in Norfolk, especially the pheasant shooting. The Prince of Wales had condescended to visit on several occasions and he had once remarked that the Maharajah was possibly the fourth-best shot in Britain. Duleep smiled a coy smile. Duty, he said, drew him back to the Punjab; it was, after all, his native heath.

Dacre said nothing as his erstwhile partner, Walsh, clambered over the side. Mycroft sidled up to him with a sly expression on his face. He looked like a tiptoeing rhinoceros. “Was this was your first solo outing, Mr Dacre?” he asked with a smile. “If so, you did quite well. Sherlock and I recognised the marks of the tyro, but there were several aspects of your plan that showed promise. I feel sure that your master will forgive your little peccadilloes and give you another chance.”

Dacre flushed with fury, but remained silent.

Of our party, Holmes, Mycroft and I, Churchill, the two princes and Midshipman James, with the bosun and a small group of sailors, remained on the deck of the Biarritz.

Holmes shook the Captain’s hand again and nodded to Gondal and Churchill.

Gondal eased off his turban and handed it to Churchill. Churchill marched across the deck, bowed, reached up and plucked the turban from the head of the astonished Maharajah Duleep, revealing his bald pate. The Maharajah squeaked in outrage as the boy replaced his turban with Gondal’s. It sat lopsidedly on the Maharajah’s head.

Dacre lunged at Churchill; he was stilled by a growl from the bosun.

I watched in amazement as Churchill strode back, bowed and handed the turban to Gondal.

“It is an expression of amity between princes, Doctor,” said Gondal as he took the Maharajah’s turban and placed on his head. “It is an ancient custom.”

“Just like the Quakers,” I said.

Cheese, please, and still.

The Enchantress turned and pointed her prow towards London.

We hooted a farewell to the Biarritz that was returned with a blast of that ship’s mournful whistle.

A party of sailors under the direction of Midshipman James laid a snow-white sail on the deck. The Thakore of Gondal took off the Maharajah’s turban and wrapped his long hair in a piece of yellow cloth handed him by his fellow prince.

Churchill unrolled the Maharajah’s turban on the sail. First to appear was an emerald necklace, then other fine gems, and finally a large diamond. The boy pounced on it and handed it to Holmes. He held the jewel up and it glittered and shimmered in the morning sunlight. He smiled and slid it into his waistcoat pocket.

I was exhausted; I attempted a nap in one of the ship’s cabins, but despite my fatigue, sleep would not come. I joined Holmes on the foredeck of the Enchantress as she carried us back through London along her great river.

“How is Gondal?” I asked.

“Leaping about like a gazelle. He is with Limdi touring the ship and saying kind things about the Royal Navy. His firstborn is down for Eton; the next boy will attend the naval school on HMS Britannia.”

Holmes smiled. “Walsh told me that the Maharajah paid twenty thousand pounds in gold for the Gondal emerald necklace.”

“My God, Holmes. How much would he have paid for the Koh-i-Noor?”

“The thieves’ weight in gold and diamonds; payable in Amritsar after the English had been evicted from the Punjab.”

“The treasonous hounds.”

“Gentlemen,” called Midshipman James. “Cheese, please, and still.” We held our expressions as James instructed a party of sailors to manoeuvre into position a heavy wood and brass camera fixed to its tripod. He focused and ignited the flash powder; there was a bright flash, a muffled whump, and a puff of smoke. James pulled out the exposed plate, inserted a new one, sprinkled flash powder on the rod and directed the sailors to heave the tripod to a new position.

“The pinpricks in the carpet at the Travellers Club, Holmes,” I said. “The flash powder dust in the vault room at Buckingham Palace. Ha! They carried camera equipment with them in their portmanteaus.”

“The guardsman saw flashes,” said Holmes. “They were not electric torches; they were taking photographs of the safe. It carries the Queen’s coat of arms on the door. As with the Gondal emeralds, the thieves wanted evidence of the theft to prove the jewel’s provenance: that it was the real Koh-i-Noor.”

“Who would suspect a photographer of burglary?” I exclaimed. “He carries such heavy equipment. Who would think that he could scale a wall and pull up the ladder after him?”

A sailor appeared with a tray of steaming coffee and we helped ourselves.

“We can leave the thieves’ photographic equipment to the ship, Holmes,” I suggested.

“I should not care to wrest it from Midshipman James. He would dirk us without mercy, as I understand he threatened to do in a tender place with Dacre. It is a spoil of war, lost in the paperwork.”

“What about the aluminium ladder? We will surely not send it on to Dacre in Russia. Perhaps we should donate it to the Enchantress?”

“Lieutenant Blake might have a job explaining a ladder made of precious metal to his captain,” Holmes said with a grin. “And it is defective.”

“We could put it back in its crate and throw it overboard. The Navy gunners might try the mule gun against a target.”

“I regret to say that the ship has no shell or ball ammunition for the canon,” Holmes answered. “They use it with a light charge to fire salutes when dignitaries come aboard. They treble loaded the gun with powder to frighten the Biarritz. It made an impressive bang.”

“They have no shells! You mean that we had no way of stopping the Biarritz?”

“Short of an exchange of small-arms fire, no.”

“She carries ten-thousand rifles and a million of ball ammunition,” I replied, somewhat sharply.

The Enchantress slowed as she passed the workings of the new bridge at the Tower and she slid along the Embankment, close to shore. I saw Mycroft and Lieutenant Blake on the starboard wing of the ship’s bridge, chatting amiably. Mycroft pointed at something ashore and borrowed the lieutenant’s telescope. I followed his gaze and saw a newsboy at a stand on the Embankment waving his newspapers and crying out the news. A blast from Enchantress’ whistle caught his attention; Mycroft gestured at him and he obligingly turned his news boards to the ship.

Mycroft left the bridge and marched towards Holmes on the foredeck, looking cross.

“I was out of the office for half a day and we have annexed Zululand. You see, Sherlock? That’s what comes of all this gadding about in clubs, theatres, and boats when I should be in Whitehall with my fingers on the harp strings of foreign affairs. It will be the Devil’s own job to un-annexe the place.” He pursed his lips and gave Holmes a narrow look. “There is also something about Parnell that I could not quite resolve in the lens; I will see the Prime Minister later today.”

“I passed on Monsieur Bertillon’s opinion of the Parnell letters,” said Holmes. “I endorse his conclusions wholeheartedly. I also consulted a most expert forger; he dismissed the letters emphatically as amateur work, and suggested they bore the paw marks of a Mr -”

Mycroft held up his hand and Holmes smiled.

“Well, then, Brother. I shall say no more. Mr Parnell did not write the dynamite letters. You may warn the Prime Minister that it will be a stormy autumn for The Times.”

And, I thought, for the government.

“What of Walsh?” I asked.

“I very much doubt that any charges will be laid against him,” Holmes answered. “Gondal has his jewels, and the Palace will not want the theft of the Koh-i-Noor made public. What say you, Mycroft?”

“The official view may be that Walsh has suffered enough with the loss of his brother; to lose a sibling is a grievous blow.”

Holmes took his brother’s arm as the Enchantress touched the jetty and stopped. A bugle call rang out, and the crew snapped to attention as the mule gun banged out a nine-gun salute.

We negotiated the gang plank and stood on the crowded jetty. Most of our party were red-eyed and groggy with lack of sleep. We were far too tired for ceremony; we agreed to cut short our thanks and goodbyes and meet again for dinner at the Travellers Club within the week. I had our cab wait as I sent Churchill to the newsboy for the morning papers. Holmes and I leaned against the dock railing.

“Pass me your visiting card, Watson,” Holmes said softly.

I shook a card from my case and handed it to him. He slipped something out of his waistcoat pocket and held it up in front of the card.

I read, “Doctor John Watson - oh my God, Holmes.”

Holmes nodded grimly. He flicked the fake Koh-i-Noor over his shoulder into the Thames.

“My opponent is as evil a man as ever lived, Watson, but he does the game honour. He fooled his minions and he very nearly fooled me.”

Churchill staggered up to us, yawning and already half-asleep. He had a stack of newspapers covering something in his arms.

“I got the papers, Doctor, and a messenger fellow gave me this for Mr Holmes.”

He held out a large cardboard box.

“It is an infernal machine, Holmes!” I exclaimed. “Churchill, fling it instantly into the River!”

The cab lumbered along the Victoria Embankment in heavy traffic. Churchill sat on the seat opposite me, and Holmes sat next to him with the box on his knees.

“The Professor writes my name in a round hand with a sharp nib and best-quality ink,” he said. “There is a slight tremble, this time in the verticals. I do hope that he is not unwell.”

He snipped the string with Churchill’s knife, removed the brown paper wrapping and slowly lifted the lid of the box. There, nestling on a bed of tissue paper, was a glittering brooch with a large oval diamond in the centre.

I shook my head. “I do not understand Holmes. Two men are dead, our home was attacked with an infernal machine, and we were almost run down on the River. Are you saying that all this was a game you played with Professor Moriarty?”

“Ssshh,” said Holmes, putting his finger to his lips. “Naming calls. It was a caper; a test for a cadet. I shall write a note to the Professor with Dacre’s grade.”

Holmes tapped on the roof of the cab. “To Buckingham Palace, if you please, Cabby.”

“Why does he return the brooch? The Koh-i-Noor, Holmes! It is worth a queen’s ransom.”

“My dear friend, the Professor is a fiend in human form, he is the Beelzebub of crime, the Prince of malevolence, and he is something else.”

“What is that, Holmes?”

Holmes smiled. “He is something that is greatly to his credit; Churchill?”

Churchill grinned back at him and sang:

“For he himself has said it,

And it’s greatly to his credit,

That he is an Englishman;

He is an Englishman!”