Our journey back towards Baker Street was uneventful. As we travelled, Holmes turned to me, saying, “I see that you recognised the King from his photograph, Watson. What did you think of his name when he's amongst the comrades?”
I thought for a moment, before replying, “I imagined it was just an invention.”
Holmes laughed. “Well, yes and no. One of his Christian names is Giovanni which, as you no doubt know, is John in English. The surname is, I have to say, quite inventive. The King's nickname is 'Il Buono' which means 'the good', So, John Good is, I feel, very apt.”
I was still greatly concerned and frowned. “I fear he is playing a very dangerous game Holmes, I was very afraid he was going to be recognised this evening.”
Holmes held his forefinger to his lip. “Yes, it was a close call. However, the King had the charisma and intelligence to pull it off. It is the fellow following him that concerns me, Watson. He may already know the King's true identity and intends him harm but Wiggins will track him to his lair.” The alarm on my face prompted Holmes to pat my knee, saying, “Fear not, Watson. The King will come to no harm this evening. This man seeks an audience and a very public place for his actions.”
The following morning we breakfasted quite early. I determined to return briefly to my medical practice. Holmes, however, packed some items into a Gladstone and rushed out after receiving a message from Wiggins. We did not meet again until the early evening when I found Holmes sitting in his usual armchair, smoking his pipe. He appeared to be lost in his own thoughts, eyes half closed and humming some piece of music to himself.
At my entrance, he opened his eyes. “Ah, Watson. We have an invitation!” He reached down and tossed me an envelope which had been beside his chair. I at once recognised the envelope and, with a smile, I extracted the invitation. “Ha! A Masked Ball! I have not attended one of those since my college days. Splendid!”
The delight of receiving the invitation only seemed to last but a few moments. I had found that the events of the previous evening's events had been preying on my mind. “Where is the King today, Holmes?” I asked.
Holmes passed me the itinerary that the ambassador had given to him. “Ah, yes. Thursday, an unannounced visit to the Observatory at Greenwich.”
Hardly had I said these words when Mrs Hudson rushed into our rooms with the early edition of the evening newspaper.
“Oh Mr Holmes! There has been an explosion at Greenwich Park! An unknown man is dead, sir!”
Holmes leapt from his chair, snatched the newspaper from her hand and quickly scanned it. He frowned as he did so. “It is as I suspected. Thankfully, no-one else was injured.”
I looked at Holmes in some amazement. “What? You knew that this might happen?”
Holmes sat down, his face filled with concern. “I suspected something of the sort, Watson. Let me recount this morning's sequence of events. A message came to me from Wiggins that he had followed the man we saw last night to a lodging house in Fitzroy Street. I collected some things that I thought I might find useful and made my way there. Wiggins had watched the man enter the lodging house and then seen him light the gas and close the curtains in the top front bedroom.”
Holmes paused and I urged him to continue. “It was fortunate that the house had a 'Vacancies' sign in the front window. I approached the landlady, renting a room at the front of the house for ten shillings. Making sure that I knew where the man's room was, I silently ventured out onto the landing. From there, he could be heard moving around. Retiring to my own room and, by leaving my door open a crack, I was able to observe the stairs.” I nodded, eager to hear more.
“After some ten minutes his door opened and he left. I waited five minutes more and then, by using a lock pick which I had brought in the Gladstone, I entered his room. The room was similar to my own with little space to hide anything of substance. However, I noticed the rather threadbare rug next to the bed had been scuffed and, on searching beneath it, saw that one of the floor boards had been recently loosened. Lifting it carefully, I found, in the void below, a brown paper package. After removing the wrappings to allow a closer inspection, I discovered it to be a quite sophisticated bomb.” I gasped and begged Holmes to continue.
“It was quite a small but deadly device. The explosive charge was intended only to kill any persons within a few feet of it. I was fascinated by the intricacy of the timing and detonation mechanism. The timing, I could see, was controlled by a watch movement of French origin. This had already been set for a five minute delay, allowing the bomber sufficient time to escape, after planting the device. Further inspection showed there was also a second setting of a few seconds delay so that the bomb could also be hurled at its victim.”
“Like a grenade!” I shouted.
Holmes nodded. “Quite so, Watson. I took the liberty of carefully altering the connections so that if either setting was selected, the device would explode instantly. It was far from being the perfect solution… but I had little choice. Had I made the device inoperable, the bomber would have thought the device had failed and he would have lived to make another attempt. I wrapped the device as it was before, replaced it, and left the room, locking the door after me.”
It took a few moments for me to consider what Holmes had just said. “So… the person who was killed this afternoon was the anarchist bomber!”
Holmes looked grim. “Exactly, Watson. Be a good fellow and read the newspaper report aloud.”
I took the newspaper from Holmes and began to read. “This afternoon, in Greenwich Park, an explosion occurred on the path leading to the observatory which mortally wounded a young man. Two of the observatory staff, Mr Thackeray and Mr Hollis were entertaining an official visitor in the lower computing room when they were startled by what they described as “a sharp and clear detonation”. On hearing this, they looked out to see the observatory doorkeeper running across the courtyard. They rapidly followed him down the hillside, north of the observatory, where a park warden was running towards a crouched figure on the path.” I paused for breath before continuing,
“According to reports, the observatory staff at first thought the man had shot himself but, as they drew closer, they could see that he had sustained horrific injuries. His left hand was completely missing and they observed a gaping hole in the region of his stomach. It was a miracle that he was still alive. Soon, a doctor was called from the nearby Seaman's Hospital and the young man was taken away by stretcher. It appears that he could still speak but, apparently, would not give his name nor say what had happened. Unfortunately, the extent of his injuries was such that he died within thirty minutes.”
Holmes frowned. “From his position on the path to the observatory, it seems that our friend was on his way to deposit the package. I imagine that he was attempting to set the device for a five minute delay when it exploded.”
I nodded, adding, “Yes, thanks to you Holmes! Otherwise we might be reading of the death of the King of Italy and two staff from the observatory!”
Holmes was still greatly troubled. “My action posed a grave risk to the Public, Watson. It was a decision that I did not take lightly.” Looking to my friend, I could see that this was going to haunt Holmes for some considerable time to come.
Rising from his chair, he turned to me, saying, “We need to try and learn more of this fellow, Watson. I must despatch a telegram to Mycroft so that we are present at the post mortem.” With that, he dashed off a note and rang for Mrs Hudson.
We received the reply within the hour and were soon in a cab on our way to the mortuary at the Seaman's Hospital, Greenwich.
As we travelled, I enquired of Holmes what might be the motive for such an attack. Holmes looked grim, replying with a question, “Apart from their seemingly inherent hatred of the nobility and authority, Watson? You may recall a report last week in ‘The Times’ of the execution, in France, of the notorious anarchist, Auguste Vaillant? He was convicted of the bombing of the Chamber of Deputies in Paris last December. There was, it appears, a futile reprisal for the execution only two days ago when a bomb was detonated in a Paris cafe.”
It was something that I had not considered and was enraged by it. “You think that these occurrences are linked, Holmes?”
Holmes shrugged, saying, “It is a distinct possibility, Watson.”
I sat back, open mouthed, as I considered his reply. “This is monstrous, Holmes! Innocent people killed by these...these animals!”
Holmes raised a finger of caution. “Not animals, Watson! Animals usually find some way to co-exist, they fight when attacked but they are not vengeful.” After this exchange we drove on in silence, each deep in our own thoughts.
Mycroft, we saw, had already arrived at the Seaman's Hospital and, after a brief handshake, we followed him to the mortuary. A pathologist of some note had already begun the post mortem, no doubt retained by Mycroft and working under the provisions of the Official Secrets Act. Holmes was eager to examine the clothes and the contents of the man's pockets. These had been placed on one side and were blood soaked, bearing witness to the terrible wounds the victim had sustained.
Holmes spent some time closely examining these items before turning to Mycroft. “From his clothes, he was clearly a French national. The large amount of French currency he was carrying suggests he was about to return there. I observed that he had a copy of a tram timetable with the times of the trams from Westminster to Greenwich underlined.”
Mycroft nodded. “Yes, I am most grateful to you for supplying us with his address. A thorough search of his room revealed his papers which were hidden within his mattress. His name was Martial Bourdin, a 26 year old Frenchman.”
Mycroft then had a sly look on his face as he said, “You may find this of interest.” Reaching into his coat, he pulled out an oil skin pouch. From this he carefully extracted a blood stained piece of paper. Looking over Holmes’ shoulder, I saw that there had been drawn upon it a crude map showing Greenwich Park and the outline of the observatory.
Holmes took the paper, moved nearer to one of the gas lights and, with his magnifying glass, he examined it closely. Holmes frowned. “It confirms our suspicions of an anarchist sympathiser at the embassy. The paper is clearly from there. Did you notice the discreet letter 'S' at the corner of the paper?”
Mycroft nodded, adding, “Of the inner circle of diplomats, there are but two with a name beginning with 'S', both of whom are trusted completely.”
Holmes considered this for a moment. “I think there is another explanation, Mycroft. These two diplomats are individuals known intimately by His Excellency, drawn from noble Italian families. Neither of them is likely to be the sympathiser and even more unlikely to leave a clue to their identity through a monogram. A much more feasible explanation is an embassy employee who is member of the anarchist group, 'Solidarieta', known to be active here in London.”
Mycroft raised an eyebrow and Holmes continued. “I have good intelligence that the ringleaders of the London anarchists have a great interest in the Sicilian group, the 'Fasci Siciliani'. Indeed, three of them have left London to organise a Sicilian uprising. What an achievement it would be if the King of Italy were to be assassinated by one of their group in London!”
Mycroft looked grim. “Sherlock, your analysis has great virtue, as always. My information is that this Bourdin fellow had been a frequent visitor to the Club Autonomie. I will despatch a telegram to Lestrade at Scotland Yard and arrange for the club to be raided this very evening.”
Further conversation was cut short by the appearance of the pathologist who approached us, drying his hands. He nodded in our direction and I had recognised his face immediately but I stayed silent.
Casting aside the towel, he addressed Mycroft. “It is as you would imagine, Mycroft. The blast was responsible for the gross injuries but he was fatally injured by the components of the device piercing the vital organs in the chest cavity, causing massive bleeding. I have removed most of the fragments, as you can see.” Saying this, he pointed to a kidney bowl of twisted, blood soaked, metal. Reaching for his coat, he continued, “I will send a messenger to your office in the morning with my written report, Mycroft.”
Mycroft nodded. “Thank you, Charles. I will join you later at the Reform Club.”