9. In This Small Corner of the Empire

Processional

Few cabs were on the streets early the next morning, but Billy managed to find a private one at double fare and I packed Churchill off home to Connaught Place.

He carried with him a brace of Jubilee Champagne bottles and a tin of unadulterated Dundee cake for his parents and packets of chocolate guardsmen for his brother and nanny.

People were moving out in family groups towards Baker Street Station and the omnibus stands. All carried flags, fans and baskets of food and drink. The mood was festive and the children danced and sang.

Inspector Lestrade arrived at six o’clock in a police carriage with two constables. He was in the full glory of his inspector’s uniform and cap. He joined us for breakfast.

“Have you seen the papers, gentlemen? The penny illustrated papers scream of dynamite plots, death and destruction on half the pages, and cry glory and majesty on the others.”

He laid a stack of the early editions on the table.

“I must say that I am happier in my mind that the thieves that stole the Gondal emeralds are behind the bombing here,” I said. “At least the attack was not from a Fenian group.”

Holmes pursed his lips and said nothing.

“Davitt and Egan stayed quietly at home all week,” said Lestrade. “There is no news of landings by blood-oath Irish assassins with air sticks. Morgan and the Donovan brothers have made no move. General Trent-Hall was last seen carousing in the Irish-American Bar in Paris. He is closely watched by the French.”

He helped himself to coffee. “We are spread thin, sir.”

“I know it,” said Holmes. “That is what is so absurd about the situation - ha. Let us get dressed in all our finery, Watson. We must not look too out of place in the Abbey.”

“The Abbey, Holmes? We do not have entrance tickets.”

“You are forgetting Assistant Commissioner Monro’s daughters. He does not want them exposed to danger and so there are two spare seats.”

Lestrade held up two elaborately printed tickets.

“Monro has gracefully -”

Lestrade coughed.

“Or perhaps not so gracefully, agreed to let us have them. Not front row, but right at the centre of any explosive activity that may occur. Lord Fortescue has written to The Times expressing a certain conviction that the Abbey does not contain enough oxygen to sustain the mass of people who have been invited to the Service; he expects that we will be suffocated in our pews. So, Watson, we will have the satisfaction of expiring amid the flower of British and foreign nobility. What do you say, old friend. Are you game?”

“No,” I said. “I am not game. What do I wear?”

“Have you no courtier’s dress?” Holmes called back as he disappeared into his room. “Have you no gold-embroidered jacket and breeches? Wear your sword and medals.”

I presented myself downstairs some fifteen minutes later. I was relieved to see that Holmes was also in his best black frockcoat and holding a lucent top hat.

“In the uniform of an English gentleman one can never be out of place,” he said. “I see you are wearing your Afghan War medal, with two clasps.”

“I’m not sure that it is appropriate,” I answered.

Lestrade reached into the pocket of his uniform and shyly pulled out a line of three medals. I helped him pin them to his breast.

“Let me see: Jubilee medal, distinguished service, and what is the first medal, Inspector?”

“Bravery,” he murmured, as he flushed a bright pink.

“I feel quite naked,” said Holmes. “Perhaps I should have accepted the diamond chelengk that the Turkish - what is that stink?”

I sniffed. “Mrs Hudson and Bessie may be wearing the perfumes that I brought them from Boulogne-sur-Mer. I bought Billy and Churchill pocketknives. The presents were suggested by the woman in the kiosk at the station, and they were well received. Mrs Hudson is going to try for a place on the Embankment to watch the procession. Billy left at four to stake a claim for them. Oh, I say, the house will be deserted.”

“I will have a man outside the door,” said Lestrade. “And one in this room, at the window. Good, steady, married men, sir - armed.”

We watched the two constables climb down from the open police carriage and receive their instructions from Lestrade, I took Mrs Hudson aside. “It might be wise to lock the spirits tantalus,” I suggested.

We trotted in the police carriage through streets that would usually have been thronged with commuters. They were packed instead with pedestrians streaming slowly towards the route of the procession. The area around the Abbey and the centre of London were closed to wheeled traffic unconnected with the Thanksgiving Service.

“The Queen has insisted on a circuitous route, sirs,” said Lestrade in a lugubrious tone. “She wants as many of her subjects as possible to see her. She passes out of Buckingham Palace and proceeds up Constitution Hill -”

“That is where several previous assassination attempts were made,” I said.

“Eh?”

“Historically speaking,” said Holmes patting him on the back. “I trust that she is not venturing south of the River.”

“No, sir,” he said with a chuckle. “There’s no-one there today; the streets are empty.”

He leaned forward across the carriage. “The Duke of Cambridge is concerned that reduced police presence in the south of London might induce the lower orders to make an attempt at the West End. He doesn’t want a repeat of last year’s Hyde Park riots. He offered the police commissioner two regiments of dragoons to guard the bridges across the Thames. The Horse Artillery is on alert at the Tower to seal the City if Whitechapel makes a threatening move.”

He sat back again. “I don’t expect trouble. We’ve made it clear through our contacts with the underworld that anything going down today will be met with a most ferocious response from the Yard. The Met and City Police and have done the same. Your average English criminal is highly respectful towards Her Majesty. The Italians are a monarchistical lot too. The Chief Commissioner got a nice note from the Carbonari extortion clubs promising all quiet in the Italian section of Saffron Hill for the duration of the Jubilee, and wishing Her Majesty all the best in Italian. No, if I had time to worry about anything other than the Queen’s safety, I’d look for trouble from the occupants of the rookeries that don’t know we have a queen or what country they live in.”

We stopped at a control point. Lestrade showed his credentials, and Holmes and I showed our tickets to an officious police sergeant. He let us through on to the Mall.

The grand avenue swarmed with columns of marching men and troops of cavalry. Companies of guardsmen in red coats and bearskins, and squads of infantrymen in their helmets assembled beneath the shade trees before marching to their places along the route. Regimental bands played a mixture of patriotic songs and hymns.

“We’ve had police patrolling the route since dawn,” said Lestrade in a gloomy voice. “People were already taking up places. No report of trouble yet, just squabbles over the prime viewing sites.”

We rode up the Mall to Buckingham Palace and the start of the processional route. A large troop of Household Cavalry in glinting armour stood before the palace gates, and scores of carriages were parked in the front yard. We continued up Constitution Hill to Hyde Park Corner. Both sides of every street were crowded with onlookers. Guardsmen with rifles and fixed bayonets lined the route shoulder-to-shoulder, and policemen were stationed at intervals of a yard or two.

“We have men on every rooftop,” said Lestrade noticing Holmes’ grave look.

“But not at every window,” said Holmes. “A fanatic with no thought for his survival would be able to throw a grenade at the procession with ease. Nothing you or I could do would stop him.”

Lestrade’s already lugubrious expression fell further into despondency.

“Never mind,” said Holmes brightly. “If I were the fanatic, I would ignore the procession and target the Abbey.” He doffed his hat to a group of Chelsea Pensioners and received a cheer. I felt obliged to copy his salute, feeling embarrassed and foolish.

We turned on to the Victoria Embankment. I looked for Billy, but did not spot him. We continued up Bridge Street and into Parliament Square and the West Door of Westminster Abbey.

The area in front of that great entranceway was a place of peace in a sea of organised chaos. Police and Abbey attendants directed carriages to the North and other entrances; the West Entrance was kept clear for Her Majesty.

Inspector Lestrade looked at his watch. “We aim to have all the lords and bishops and ambassadors and princes and what-have-you in their seats in sixty minutes exactly. At ten the doors close, and we wait for Her Majesty.”

“Slowly suffocating,” I said to lighten the mood.

Versailles

Lestrade led us through the West Door and past a knot of high clergy in their bright silk plumage.

They cast disapproving glances at Holmes and I in our plain frockcoats. We found Assistant Commissioner Monro standing in the aisle chatting with the Home Secretary, Mr Matthews. Both wore glittering court uniforms, and both looked pale and drawn. Monro introduced me to Mr Matthews just as the organ began a loud and complicated piece of music; we smiled and nodded. Mr Matthews evidently knew Holmes, and he brightened as they shook hands. I heard snatches of their conversation over the organ music. It concerned a case a month or so earlier in which a police officer had arrested a young lady for soliciting. The aftermath might have been embarrassing for the Government, had Holmes not quietly discovered the truth, to the satisfaction of all parties involved.

Monro was not in the mood for conversation. I contented myself with watching the ushers quietly and calmly seeing people to their seats. It was remarkable that these lords and ladies, drawn from the highest in the Land, and used to commanding others rather than being commanded, meekly followed the instructions of the Abbey servants so as to cause the least interruption to the august proceedings. No other nation in the world, I thought, could carry out such a complex proceeding with such cultured and well-mannered ease. The English -

“Will you gentlemen kindly take your seats and stop cluttering the aisle,” cried a young voice behind me. I turned to face a furious clergyman or servitor of no more than twenty. I drew myself up and was about to remonstrate at his tone, when I noticed that the Home Secretary had hurried away and that Holmes and Monro were already in their seats in the centre of a row.

I settled next to Holmes in the seat of one the absent Monro daughters.

Holmes turned to Monro. “May I ask you a question, sir?”

Monro gave him a long look, and nodded.

“Would the Irish suspect that you might plant evidence on them?”

Monro squirmed in his seat. “No, they would not,” he said in his strong Scots accent. “They may, with truth, suspect us of using agents provocateurs, if you are hinting at that, Mr Holmes. We have done so, mostly with ludicrous results. The problem is, with enough drink taken, an Irishman will cheerfully agree to any scheme you may propose, short of attacking the Pope.”

He smiled a grim smile. “There’s an old saying, ‘Keep your friends close, and keep your enemies closer’.”

“Sun Tzu,” said Holmes nodding.

Monro made no reply.

The seats around us filled rapidly. Big Ben struck the half-hour. I was puzzled by another sound, a strange rustling sound that I could hear above the muttering and coughing of the congregation. I gave Holmes an enquiring look.

“It is the susurration of silks from the ladies’ dresses and headdresses; the buzz at a slightly lower frequency is caused by the flapping of a myriad fans.”

A large group of clergy in glorious gold, scarlet and green silken robes hurried by us, attended by harassed-looking servitors.

“Not only ladies’ dresses,” said Holmes with a smile.

I turned to watch the priests go past and stiffened. Holmes twisted in his seat to follow my stare. A fat, bareheaded policeman crept down the aisle from the West Door holding a brown envelope in his hand. His efforts to be invisible reminded me, and some other members of the congregation to judge by the cackling and tittering, of the comic policemen in the Gilbert and Sullivan operetta, Pinafore. He stopped at our row and the envelope passed from hand to hand to Monro. He read it and stood.

“Would you mind coming with me for a moment?” he asked with a fixed smile. We followed him along the row to ‘tuts’ and stronger expressions of disapprobation from the worthies seated there.

We stopped at the entrance arch of the Abbey. A group of magnificently coped and caped clergy stood on either side of the aisle twittering to each other like a flock of anxious peacocks. The Abbey organ stilled the chatter with a tremendous chord.

Monro turned to us. “Confirmation from sources in America,” he said in a loud, cracked voice. “There is a huge bomb in the crypt.”

“Oh,” I said, looking over his shoulder. I pulled Monro aside and we hid behind a line of Beefeaters as Her Majesty, Queen-Empress Victoria walked slowly past us, followed by her ladies-in-waiting and pages. I was amazed to see Holmes, on the other side of the aisle, the only figure in plain black amid the gaudy gold, silver and rainbow hues of the archbishops and deans, make an elegant, sweeping bow that was acknowledged by the Queen with a demure nod and a bright smile.

Holmes and I followed Monro down several stone staircases.

“My goodness Holmes,” I said. “Where did you learn to bow like that - Versailles?”

We arrived at the bottom of the steps. To my astonishment, the crypt in front of us was illuminated as brightly as a butcher’s shop. A tall, white-whiskered man in a flat cap, an old wrinkled suit and heavy boots approached us. Monro introduced us to Colonel Majendie, the famous explosives expert. He noticed me blinking in the bright light.

“We have seven movable arc lamps from the Brush Electric Company in America. These crypts have never been so well lit since their ceilings were built. We have found early graffiti, mostly very rude. Come and have a look.”

A huge dog raced across our path.

“Bloodhounds?” said Holmes. “What are they seeking?”

“I have not the faintest idea: each other probably,” said Colonel Majendie. “They are the province of another department. They are supposed to flush out Fenian rats. They are having a wonderful time playing hide-and-seek. You have no idea how many departments want to put their oar into this crypt.”

He chuckled and patted a massive ribbed vault. “I doubt that a bomb of the size I have been instructed to find would do much to this building. Anyway, I guarantee you that there are no bombs here.”

“You defused the Fenian bombs in Victoria,” I said.

“Victoria station? Well, I didn’t do much. A cloakroom clerk became suspicious of a portmanteau and opened it with a duplicate key. Inside were twenty pounds of dynamite and a small japanned tin box that contained a clock of American manufacture. A small pistol was arranged behind it to explode a cap. The clockwork had let off the pistol, but the cap had missed fire. I removed the tin box and got my name in the penny shockers.”

He delved into a leather satchel and pulled out a large packet wrapped in a cotton napkin. “I heard that you suffered an outrage, Mr Holmes,” he said as he undid the knot.

“A warning,” said Holmes. “A pound or two of black powder in a cake box.”

The Colonel nodded as he opened his packet. “Keep off the grass. Would anyone care for a cheese sandwich?”

We left him propped against a vault, eating his sandwiches.

“Let us get up into the fresh air,” said Monro. “There is nothing we can do here.”

“Have you met Mr Davitt and Doctor Egan, Mr Monro?” Holmes asked as we ascended the stairs.

“I have not. I read the report of your meeting with them: it seemed inconclusive. What of Boulogne and Paris?”

The people I met in France, sir, followed the ways of pleasure rather than those of God.”

“Timothy 2, 3:4,” Monro replied instantly. “Traitors, headstrong, puffed up, lovers of pleasure rather than lovers of God.” We reached the top of the steps and paused at the entrance.

A mounted policeman galloped up to Monro and handed him a telegram. He grunted as he read it. “General Morgan is still at his hotel in Boulogne. He has packed his bags and paid his bill. According to Williamson, he is sitting in the lobby in a high state of excitement, looking up as any messengers or telegraph boys come to the hotel. He is waiting for news.”

He turned to Holmes with a grim expression. “There is a Scots proverb, Mr Holmes: ‘False friends are worse than bitter enemies’.”

“You will continue your attempts to extradite Morgan, the Donovans and Trent-Hall?”

“That is my job, Mr Holmes. I can think of no power that will turn me from that purpose.” He bowed. “I wish you good day, sirs.”

Holmes watched him go. “If I were the Prime Minister, I would not sleep easy with my guilty conscience while Assistant Commissioner straight-bat Monro is on the job. I expect a most tremendous explosion - of scandal!”

He turned to me “Shall we go back in, Watson? Or shall we pop around the corner and sneak a cigar behind a flying buttress?”

We relaxed in the shade listening to the muffled strains of the organ. Churchill peeked around our buttress.

“I saw you slip out with Mr Monro,” he said with a bright smile.

The boy looked splendid in a gold and silver pageboy’s uniform. I congratulated him on it.

“I borrowed the costume from Cresswell Minor, a boy at my school. His father is a High Court judge and would have been here, but he’s visiting Cape Town. We’re about the same size. He often borrows my things, usually without asking.”

He waved his feathered hat like a fan.

“How are your parents?” I asked

“Mother is beautiful. My father is with some gentlemen at Poet’s Corner, smoking and forming a group to sue those boarding schools that do not return to parents a portion of the meal and accommodation expense they saved with the extension of the school holidays for the Jubilee. I got an extra fortnight off.”

“He is perfectly correct,” I said. “I have not followed the correspondence in The Times, but I see that the topic has attracted a vigorous debate.”

“Mycroft exhibits far too sanguine a view,” said Holmes, waking out of a brown study. “He did not stamp on the dying embers of the conspiracy. What does he expect Duleep to do? Where is he to find shelter? The Maharajah still has symbolic value. What will happen if the Tsar is presented with a fait accompli? What if the Punjab erupts and requests his aid? Or if Alexander is assassinated? Mycroft’s little farce with Duleep will take on an altogether darker hue. Oh, Churchill, you look very fine.”

“Thank you, sir. I had best get back.”

He ran off.

“I saw in The Times that Lord Randolph was in Trowbridge yesterday preaching Primrose League, down with Irish Home Rule and to the Devil with Gladstone,” I remarked. “He does like to fan the flames.”

Holmes and I watched the Royal Procession form up for the return journey to Buckingham Palace. The Queen’s carriage, drawn by four magnificent bays, was walked to the West Door. A large group of brightly uniformed, and heavily bemedalled kings and princes poured out of the Abbey. They made heavy going in their riding boots and swords to where sweating servants held their horses.

The monarchs mounted their hot, over-excited and capering chargers with less difficulty than I would have expected, given the girth and advanced years of many. One old gentleman used up so much of his breath heaving himself up on a spirited black stallion that he went quite purple. I moved forward to administer medical aid, but Holmes held me back. I noted that the German Crown Prince needed no assistance to mount his tall and imposing horse, despite his withered arm.

The two Indian Thakores that we had met at the Travellers Club were in a group of other Indian princes glittering in their jewels and silks. Limdi recognised Holmes and I, but he rightly took no notice of us.

A troop of turbaned Indian lancers formed up with the Life Guards at the West Door. The Abbey organ played a suitably majestic tune as the Queen emerged into the sunlight and, after a Royal Salute from her guards, took her place in the open carriage. She wore no crown, just a simple bonnet. I felt a catch in my throat as I saw this tiny woman at the centre of the panoply of Empire. The carriage and lancers led off the procession and dozens of kings, princes, and lesser mortals followed them on horseback and in a long line of carriages.

Lestrade appeared beside us.

“Those Indian lancers are magnificent specimens,” I said. “I feel happy that the Queen is under their protection.”

“She is not in the slightest danger,” said Holmes. “I have the strongest assurances from the mother of Mr Melas.”

Amity Between Nations

“What does Madame know of the business?” I asked.

“It seems she occasionally drags her son to an inspirational man in the Charing Cross Road. She requires assurances as to Mr Melas’ marriage prospects. She has several suitable brides in mind, all of Greek extraction of course, but her son is showing a worrying interest in meeting English ladies. His mother is persistent in the matter of marriage, but she has naturally drawn the line there.”

“I suggested that he take up tricycling, Holmes.”

“The Seer of Charing Cross not only gave her the assurances she requested, he also made a prediction with regard to the Jubilee, gratis. He said that Jupiter, who rules Her Majesty, is in his full dignity in the heavens and no sinister event could possibly occur. He said that a misfortune might befall someone connected with a royal house and a horse.”

“With so many mounted royals that does not require much astrology to predict,” I said with a chuckle.

“The Marquis of Lorne was thrown from his horse this very morning, sir,” said Lestrade in a wondering tone. “In the Park it was. He had to cry off joining the procession. Lord love us.” He laughed aloud. “What nonsense people do believe.”

I passed him a cigar from my case. Carriages streamed past us. Men in court dress loosened their collars, put their plumed hats under their arms and reached for cigarettes or cigars. Ladies opened parasols against the fierce heat of the sun, and servants struggled to get excited, thirsty, and overheated horses under control.

“A magnificent service, Mr Holmes,” said Lestrade with a huge and uncharacteristic grin. “Everything went like clockwork!”

He looked as if he would cut a caper of his own for us, given half a chance. “I made arrangements for us to know when the Queen reaches the safety of the Palace. There are sailors on the roof of the Houses of Parliament; they are expert chaps with a system of communication using coloured flags. Oh, talking of sailors, I spoke to Captain Shaw a few moments ago. He is on duty with his firemen, sweating it out in a quiet street around the corner. The Captain said that the heat is so intense he almost gave his men permission to loosen their collars. He sends his regards, and good wishes on your bomb outrage.”

“Sailors? What has the chief of the Metropolitan Fire Brigade to do with sailors?” I asked.

“Captain Shaw will entertain no other recruits. He will take only men with nautical experience. I wish we had the same policy for policemen; we get a rum lot from the recruiters, very rum.”

A walrus-moustached police constable marched up to Lestrade and handed him a slip of paper. He scanned it and turned to Holmes.

“A gentleman was arrested on the roof of a house in Pall Mall. He brandished a large-bore elephant gun as the Queen’s carriage passed below. He claims to be a retired colonel of Indian infantry and that he was patrolling the rooftops against Fenian dynamite throwers and Wahhabi dacoits.”

Lestrade produced a pencil from his pocket, licked the tip and chuckled as he wrote a reply to the note using the sweating constable’s back as a damp writing desk.

Lestrade sent the constable off just as a maroon banged out from the roof of the Houses of Parliament; a pair of white rockets screeched up from the same place and exploded in a shower of stars.

“Her Majesty is safely within the gates of Buckingham Palace,” Lestrade said with a sigh of relief.

He looked down at his gleaming boots and then at Holmes and I, blinking in embarrassment. “If you do not have another call on your time, gentlemen, I wonder if you would condescend to accompany me across the road to the Red Lion public house for a quiet glass of something refreshing to signify a job well done. It is a polite house, much frequented by Members of Parliament and peers of the Realm.”

I looked at Holmes.

“I would say that our work for Lord Salisbury is done, wouldn’t you, Watson? The Queen is safely in her palace, and all is well in this small corner of the Empire. I would be honoured to be your guest, Inspector.”

“And I,” I said, wringing his hand.

“Long live the Queen,” I cried, too loudly and in one of those moments when the general hubbub of sound produced by a milling crowd diminishes for some reason. My cry was taken up, not only by my friends, but also by those policemen, soldiers and church officials around us. I had the gratification of hearing it echo through the crowds thronging Westminster Bridge, and travel across the River towards the dark lanes of Lambeth. People in Parliament Square carried the cry in the opposite direction towards the public offices in Whitehall, and east through teeming multitudes towards Victoria. A regimental band in front of Parliament started the National Anthem. Lestrade saluted and Holmes and I stood to attention, bareheaded. It was one of the proudest moments of my life.

“I booked a private dining room at the Cafe Royal for dinner this evening,” Holmes murmured as we sat at a reserved table in the Red Lion and Lestrade fought through the crowd to the bar counter to get our drinks.

“My goodness, Holmes, private rooms are like - like aluminium. Is it not beyond our budget?”

“No, no, Watson. Think what we will save in cab fares this year as we glide through London on your Humber.”

I could not tell from his inscrutable expression whether he spoke in earnest or in jest.

“I took the precaution of booking a room for a party of twelve several months ago,” Holmes explained. “I have invited Colonel Cody and Red Shirt from the Wild West Show, Churchill, Mycroft and Melas. If Colonel Delacy is not incarcerated in the Tower, I hope that he will join us. Monsieur Bertillon and Inspector Dubugue are on their way from France. Ours is a purely bachelor affair, else we could not induce Delacy and Mycroft, let alone Bertillon, to attend. With you and I, and Red Shirt’s young interpreter, that makes eleven. What do you say to asking Inspector Lestrade to make up our party, if he is free?”

“With all my heart, Holmes. Ah, here are our drinks.”

Holmes, Lestrade and I gulped our beer and nodded to one another in quiet satisfaction. Never was a glass of our national brew more welcome.

“Come, Watson,” said Holmes. “You must help me with the menu card for our dinner this evening. You will join us, I hope, Inspector. It is a little surprise that I have just sprung on Watson: dinner tonight at the Cafe Royal. We shall sit down early to allow Colonel Cody and Red Shirt to appear in the last Wild West Show of the evening at Olympia.

Lestrade grinned his assent.

“You will? Excellent. If I get this card to the Cafe Royal by five, they will have it printed as a souvenir of the occasion. Let me see, the heading is fine:

A Gala Dinner given by Mr Sherlock Holmes and Doctor John Watson on the occasion of the Golden Jubilee of our Most Gracious Sovereign, Queen-Empress of India, Queen Victoria, etc.

“I ordered a couple of potages: Printanier and la Reine, then saumon and whitebait. I cannot recall the French for whitebait. Then des Cailles en Chaudfroid (quail in aspic) and calf sweetbreads à la Buffalo Bill. Let me see, there’s saddle of mutton, roast goose, lobster à la Jubilé, a macedoine de fruits and gelées. I will rely on the Cafe Royal to provide cold cuts, vegetables and the side dishes. The wine list was approved by Inspector Dubugue.”

Holmes, Churchill and I arrived at the Cafe Royal in a private cab, just as Buffalo Bill, Chief Red Shirt, and the chief’s young follower, Running Deer dismounted from their horses.

The doorway and canopy were covered with bunting and flowers in patriotic colours. Passers-by gave the Colonel and the Indians a hearty welcome with applause and cheers. Colonel Cody had the good grace to return the greeting with a cry of “God save the Queen”.

A fine, strong murmur of masculine conversation followed our introductions, and no reserve due to differences of class or national character was exhibited during our dinner. Indeed, our convivial chatter was regularly pierced by manly laughter and much interrupted by gracious salutes and toasts. I sat between Colonel Cody and Red Shirt and we managed a congenial exchange, with occasional translation by the Colonel, on the eating habits of mankind: knives and forks, fingers, spoons and chop-sticks. We moved on to a stimulating and informative discussion of differences in funeral rites.

Holmes sat between Inspector Dubugue and Monsieur Bertillon, opposite Mr Melas. He refereed a spirited conversation in French on a subject that eluded me. Colonel Delacy, Churchill and the young Indian boy engaged in a heated debate on the old chestnut, the mounted lancer versus the infantryman with the bayonet. Judging by their sweeping gestures, the Colonel espoused the lance, Churchill the bayonet and Running Deer, Red Shirt’s young translator, was a proponent of the tomahawk.

Across the table from me, Mycroft and Lestrade murmured conspiratorially together on what I was sure was police or government business. I saluted them with my glass of wine, and received warm smiles and lifted glasses in return.

Our waiters served a last course of savouries and cleared the table. Colonel Cody rose and proposed the Queen. Holmes stood and replied on her behalf with The United States of America. I offered La France. Dubugue replied with England, St George, the British Police and Scotland Yard in particular. Lestrade jumped up and proposed the Sûreté, and Bertillon, followed with Amity between Nations. Holmes diverted Colonel Delacy from proposing Waterloo by substituting Sebastopol. Red Shirt had not eaten much, but he had drunk a great deal, and although he was perfectly willing to propose a toast, he stood, and immediately slid under the table. Running Deer supervised as a pair of phlegmatic French waiters laid him out on the carpet next to the skirting board.

“May I say, gentlemen,” said Holmes, “as co-chairman on this festive occasion, and without any disloyalty to the Crown, that we have eaten as well as the fifty kings and crown-princes that dined yesterday with the Queen at Buckingham Palace?”

He was greeted with roar of approval and applause.

Churchill stood with his thumbs in his waistcoat pockets and his elbows akimbo. He proposed a vote of thanks to the chairmen, then trumped us all with a toast to Her Majesty’s Diamond Jubilee, and the hope that our band of brothers might meet again on that occasion. I caught Holmes’ eye and saw that he agreed with me that the boy was coming along well. His interrogation of the night watchman at Carlton Gardens had provided confirmation of Holmes’ deductions - which seemed to annoy him for some reason - and the discovery of the lump of aluminium had opened a new line of enquiry that could prove most fruitful.

I saw the boy reach for another glass of red wine and I gave a discreet signal to the waiters. The wine bottles were instantly whisked away and replaced by pots of steaming coffee.