Chapter 12

Since time was of the essence, I hailed a cab and told the driver there was an extra sovereign in it for him if he could get me to the British Museum post-haste. We sped along Marylebone Road and then turned onto Gower Street; in less than a quarter hour, I had arrived at the museum.

I asked the guard if he knew if Dr. Smith were in. After a short phone call, he informed me that he was, and I was on my way to his office before the guard had even begun to give me directions.

“Dr. Watson, this is a surprise,” said Smith as I was led into his office. “Is Mr. Holmes not with you?”

“He is quite occupied at the moment, but he wanted me to examine something in the King’s Library.”

“Has he located the Beowulf manuscript?” asked Smith anxiously.

“I believe he has made significant progress,” I replied.

Seeing the crestfallen look on the scholar’s face, I was tempted to tell him the truth, but I steeled myself and did what I could to alleviate his obvious anxiety. “You know that Mr. Holmes promised he would find the manuscript, and in our long association, I have never known him to break a promise.”

A smile returned to his face as we walked towards the rare book room. Smith nodded to the guard as he admitted us, and when we were inside, he asked, “Is there anything that I can assist you with, Dr. Watson?”

“I wonder if I might have a cup of tea while I work.”

As soon as Smith had left to fetch the tea, I set about the task Holmes had assigned me. While I saw any number of volumes that appeared suitable, given the attributes which Holmes had told me the book must possess; ultimately, I followed his directions and settled on an oversized two-volume edition of Dr. Johnson’s Dictionary. Wrestling the second volume, as he had instructed me to do, from the shelf, I placed it on the closest table and had just finished measuring it when I heard Dr. Smith at the door.

He entered carrying a small tray with two cups, which he placed on the table next to the one on which I had placed the Dictionary.

“No point in taking chances,” said Smith. Then looking at the volume, he inquired, “Dr. Johnson’s Dictionary?”

“It may be relevant to the case, and I am afraid that is all I can say for the moment?”

He nodded and then said, “I am familiar with the methods employed by Mr. Holmes.”

As we enjoyed the tea, we chatted about various things. I asked Smith, “Is this the biggest book in this room?”

He replied, “It depends upon how you define ‘biggest.’ If you mean in terms of size, the dictionary is certainly one of the larger items, if not the largest, in the collection. Taken together, the two volumes weigh more than a stone and a half. However, they may seem small when you consider that the first edition of Samuel Richardson’s Clarissa, or, the History of a Young Lady, has seven volumes with nearly 300 more pages and weighs just slightly more.” With that he pointed to a shelf, where I could see the work in question. Although the books were smaller, they still looked rather formidable.

Having acquired the necessary information, I chatted with Dr. Smith a while longer and then replaced the book, thanking him for his assistance as I did so.

“I am not quite certain that I have done anything to earn your gratitude, but you are always welcome here Dr. Watson—with or without Mr. Holmes.”

I then left the Museum and made my way to the bookstore owned by Madame Cocilovo-Kozzi and her husband. She greeted me at the door and invited me in. “Would you care for some tea?” she asked.

I replied that ordinarily I would but that I had just enjoyed a cup at the museum. Remembering the importance of time, I said, “I understand you have something for me.”

With that she turned and called for her husband, “Jonathan, Dr. Watson is here, and he seems in a bit of a hurry.”

While I was marveling at her deduction, her spouse entered the room, carrying a small bundle that had been wrapped in brown butcher’s paper and secured with heavy twine. I could tell from the shape that it was a book, so I decided to throw caution to the wind. “That’s not the Beowulf manuscript, is it?” I asked excitedly.

They looked at each other and began laughing. When they had regained their composure, Jonathan looked at me and asked, “Do you really think I would treat one of England’s greatest treasures in such a cavalier manner? No, Doctor, this is not the Nowell Codex. This is merely a copy of Samuel Butler’s Erewhon, though why Mr. Holmes has requested such a thing baffles the two of us. However, you may assure Mr. Holmes that it meets all the specifications which he supplied.”

“Samuel Butler? How very odd!”

“I don’t think it is the book that is important to Mr. Holmes, so much as its attributes.”

“Attributes?”

“Indeed. He was very specific in requesting a book of a certain weight and dimensions. He also indicated that a book by Butler would be preferable. Although it took some time, I finally stumbled across this first edition of Erewhon which seems to fit the bill nicely.”

Totally baffled as to what Holmes might have in mind, I nevertheless thanked the couple and then hailed a cab for Cleveland Street, where I planned to rendezvous with Lestrade.

During the ride I reflected on the many twists and turns this case had taken so far. Although we had crossed swords and matched wits with any number of formidable opponents, including the late, unlamented Professor Moriarty, this case seemed far more pressing, especially when one considered the abduction of Mycroft and the possible threat to the very fragile peace in Europe.

I had the driver leave me at the intersection of Cleveland Street and Grafton Way. No sooner had I descended than I spotted Lestrade, leaning against a lamppost, smoking a cigar. Crossing to him, I asked, “Have you heard from Holmes?”

“Not yet,” replied Lestrade. “I was rather hoping you might know what he was planning.”

I looked at my watch and said, “Well, we are on time. Holmes said to be here at five, and it is one minute before the hour.”

At that point, a young costermonger approached us. He was obviously looking to unload some of the fruit he carried in a tray that hung in front of him, supported by a strap that crossed his shoulders in the back. “Care for an apple, sir. They are quite fresh and delicious.”

“No, thank you,” I replied.

“I think you should at least examine them, sir. They were picked just this morning.”

“Listen,” said Lestrade gruffly, “the gentleman said he doesn’t care for one. So why don’t you just move along?”

“They’re free for the police,” replied the lad, and lowering his voice, he added, “and for residents of Baker Street.”

As you might expect I was quite taken aback by the young man’s words. Realizing that he was a messenger from Holmes, I asked, “And which would you suggest?”

He selected two from the tray and placed them in a paper sack. “Be very careful,” he cautioned, “these sacks sometimes rip.” With that he started off down the street, hawking his wares much like any other street vendor.

“Obviously, he was sent by Holmes,” Lestrade offered, “but to what end?”

“I am not quite certain, I replied, “Fancy an apple?”

Lestrade declined, but I was quite hungry, so I reached into the sack and that was when I noticed the drawing. Trying to appear unobtrusive, I studied the diagram that had been drawn in pencil on the sack and soon realized it was a crude map of Fitzroy Square Park. There was a circle which represented the garden in the center of the park, surrounded by a square, which was intended to depict the streets.

I saw an “L” and a “G” on one side of the square and a “W” and an “F” on the other. At the very top of the bag was written “G.L.—5:15.”

Since we were still a block from the park, I said to Lestrade, “I think we’ve received our instructions from Holmes.”

Showing him the map, I indicated the letters and said, “If I am reading this correctly, I am to take up a position near the entrance on Fitzroy Street while you are to assume a similar spot near the gate on Grafton Way.”

“And who are we looking for? And what are we to do when we see the individual in question?”

“The first part is easy. We are to be on the lookout for one Geoffrey Langlois, one of Mycroft’s aides. I then described Langlois to Lestrade. “Well-dressed, rather tall and thin with a beard, you say?” I nodded. “Well, that eliminates about three quarters of the males in London,” he remarked.

Remembering what Wiggins had told me, I added, “He will stop in the park and sit on a bench to smoke and read a newspaper.”

“Well that certainly helps,” replied Lestrade. “But what are we to do once we spot him?”

“We are to watch him and see if he meets with anyone.”

“And when he leaves the park?” asked Lestrade.

“Unless we hear from Holmes, I think we should try to follow him. If he meets with someone, you follow Langlois, and I will tail the other party. I know he has a flat right around here, not too far from Cleveland Street, so, depending upon what happens, you or the two of us can follow him home.”

“Seems like a lot of effort expended for nothing,” said Lestrade.

“You know how mysterious Holmes can be,” I remarked.

“True enough,” observed the Inspector, “and one certainly can’t take issue with his results.”

Looking at my watch, I said, “We need to get to our places. When I see Langlois enter the park, I will take off my hat. The arm I use to remove my hat will indicate the side Langlois is taking around the circle.”

“I will be keeping an eye on you, Dr. Watson.”

With that, we parted company. I walked down Conroy Street, preparing to find a bench near the Fitzroy Street entrance. I purchased a paper from a youngster who was bellowing, “Fire in the East End,” so that I might have something to hide behind should it become necessary. After all, I reasoned, Langlois had seen my face and was aware I was friends with Holmes.

I found a seat on a bench, but before I sat, I made certain that I could see Lestrade at the other end of the park. I was wondering if he would be able to spot my signal when he suddenly lifted his hat, and I understood he could see me as well. Sitting down, I opened the paper and pretended to read, all the while keeping a watch for the approach of Langlois.

Since it was a warm summer evening, the park was somewhat crowded as workers made their way home or met other workers, friends or members of the opposite sex—perhaps for a pint or a light supper. As I was sitting there, I saw an ancient violinist making his way about the park, playing various songs for different people. He had a cup hanging from his neck and was obviously performing in hopes of earning a few coins. I wondered to myself if the musician might be Holmes in disguise, but then I realized that he had but one leg and was assisted by a large wooden crutch which he kept propped under his left arm while playing. I also thought he appeared too short to be Holmes.

I was so preoccupied in watching the musician and marveling at his dexterity that I nearly missed Langlois as he entered the park on my right. I quickly snapped my paper up, and after he had walked past me, I watched him take a seat about midway up on the side of the park. I stood and quickly raised my hat with my left hand, smoothing my hair with my right. When I saw Lestrade return the signal, I was immediately relieved.

From behind my paper, I watched as Langlois snipped the end off a cigar and lit it before snapping open his own paper. He sat there for some five minutes and then he folded up his paper, placed it on the bench and began walking in the direction of Lestrade. As he headed towards the Inspector, I fell in some twenty or thirty feet behind him. As I drew close to the bench where he had been sitting, I saw the paper was still there. I decided to retrieve the newspaper he had left behind. I felt certain its contents would prove invaluable to my old friend. I was about ten feet from the bench and preparing to retrieve the paper, when I heard a woman scream.

Looking back, I saw the violinist laying on the ground, writhing in agony. “Is there a doctor here?” someone yelled.

I was torn: On the one hand, I was determined to help Holmes and possibly free Mycroft, but at the same time, I had sworn an oath. I decided the paper could wait a few minutes while I tended to the stricken musician. Turning back, I loudly announced, “I am a doctor.” I then rushed to the man and examined him. His pulse was strong, although he was apparently unconscious. “Give him air,” I said, waving everyone back.

I could discern no obvious injuries, and was about to rise when I felt a vise-like grip on my right wrist. I almost bellowed out loud, but as I glanced at the weathered face on the ground before me, I thought I saw the man wink at me. At that moment, realization flooded over me, and I felt as though I might have turned crimson with embarrassment—and anger.

I said to those nearby, “He’s coming around now, but he has had a nasty fall.” As he sat up, all those in the vicinity began to place coins in the cup around his neck. As he struggled to rise on his one visible leg, the violinist thanked those around him and said with a heavy Italian accent, “Grazie! Grazie! My crutch, she slip on something, and when I fall, I crack my head,” He then began to play a medley of pieces, at which everyone applauded.

Leaving Holmes in the park, I headed for the bench where I was stunned to discover that the paper was no longer there. Deciding there was little else to be done, I looked about for Lestrade, and not seeing him, decided it might be best if I returned home. I was still furious with Holmes about the deception, but as I walked my anger began to abate, and by the time I had reached the front door of 221B, I was almost in complete control of my emotions.

After placing the copy of Erewhon on his chair, I waited for Holmes to return. After an hour had passed, I dined alone and was glad I had, for it was well past seven when I heard my friend’s tread on the stairs. As he entered, still dressed as the ancient violinist—only now with two legs. I watched in silence as he limped across the room, picked up the book I had left on his cushion and placed it on the floor on top of the larger parcel he had placed there some days earlier, He then threw himself into his favorite chair. Unable to restrain myself any longer, I exclaimed, “My word, it’s a miracle. You can walk!”

“Just barely,” he replied, rubbing his leg.

“How did you manage it? Leg bent at the knee and secured to your thigh?”

“Exactly. Cover everything with oversized pants pinned up on one side and a longer coat and the illusion is complete.”

I then returned to the paper which I hadn’t really been reading. After a few seconds, Holmes laughed and his chuckling only hastened the return of my anger. Then to my surprise, he said, “I cannot blame you for being put out, but it was imperative that things unfold in a very specific manner.”

“With me making a fool of myself in the park?”

“No,” replied Holmes, “with you following Lestrade, who was following Langlois.”

“Well, Lestrade may have tailed him, but I certainly didn’t.”

“Watson, I know you meant well. I should have foreseen you thinking I might have found Langlois’ newspaper useful.”

“Indeed, you have cracked the code. You would have been able to decipher their latest message and perhaps that might have provided some clue as to the whereabouts of your brother.”

Pulling a paper from inside his coat, Holmes smiled and said, “I have already done both those things.”

“But how?” I spluttered.

“The Irregulars. You see I had prepared two papers—The Times and The Telegraph—and as soon as I saw Langlois enter the park, I signaled the lad with the Times. Had you retrieved Langlois’ paper, you would have thrown a spanner in the works for certain, so I had to resort to the histrionics to distract you and allow my copy of The Times to be substituted for the one Langlois had brought.”

“And what did his message say?”

“He reported that the conference is definitely scheduled to begin the day after tomorrow at the Marble Arch at 9 a.m.”

“And what did your message say?”

“Urgent we meet tomorrow, first gallery, St. Paul’s, 9:15.”

“Do you know with whom you will be meeting?”

“Unless I am quite mistaken, it will be with one Otto Kueck, a member of the Ettappendienst der Marine, a sort of German secret service.”

“The Germans always seem to be ahead of us when it comes to spying. From what you say, they appear to have a special branch devoted to it. Certainly, we should pursue a similar course of action.”

Peering at me, Holmes simply remarked, “Perhaps we already do.”

Although I pressed Holmes on that point, he remained adamant, refusing to elaborate in any way. Finally, in an effort to change the subject, he said, “I have to go out tonight. Would you care to accompany me?”

“Where are we going?” I asked, my anger now totally eclipsed by the opportunity to join Holmes in the hunt.

“I think it is about time we rescued Mycroft, don’t you? After all, the peace conference begins the day after tomorrow and I am certain he will need some time to recuperate and prepare.”

“You mean you know where your brother is being held?”

“Not quite yet, but I believe I shall in a very short time. Now, just let me change my clothes and clean up a bit and we shall be on our way.”

“Would it do any good to ask where we are going?”

“Certainly you can figure that out on your own, Watson.” With that parting remark, he vanished into his room, and I was left to my own devices, trying to think as Holmes thought and see what he had seen. As you might expect, I soon found myself woefully out of my depth.