Chapter 15

It was just about half past six, when I thought I detected Holmes’ tread on the stairs. Looking at my watch, I realized he had been gone less than an hour. A few seconds later, he entered the sitting room. After hanging up his coat and hat, he turned and asked, “Have there been any messages for me?”

“Not that I know of. I don’t recall hearing the bell ring either, although you may check with Mrs. Hudson if you like.”

“No, no. I am certain she would have shared any communiqués with you.”

“Something important?” I asked.

“Just some information I had hoped to ascertain, in the event that it should come into play this evening.”

“Holmes, I do hope you realize the enormous stakes involved. This is quite unlike any of our other adventures. They have attempted to distract you by throwing multiple cases in your way all the while carrying out a most diabolical scheme—but to what end?”

“To make certain that Mycroft would be unable to oversee the peace conference and to hamper my efforts to locate my brother. We are dealing here with highly trained professionals. Men—and perhaps women, as well—whose first allegiance is to their country, and if their interests happen to conflict with England’s, well then so much the worse for His Majesty.”

Just at that moment, I heard the bell ring, and a few seconds later I detected the patter of young feet ascending the stairs. That was followed by a full-fledged knock on our door and a young voice bellowing, “Mr. ’Olmes! Mr. ’Olmes!”

My friend raced to the door and threw it open. Standing there was a lad of no more than eight or nine who was desperately trying to catch his breath. Holding out a note, he said, “Mr. Wiggins said to get this to you as soon as possible, so I run all the way.”

Holmes took the note and read it. He looked at the youngster and said, “You have done incredibly well! And you ran all the way you said?”

“Yes sir, Mr. ’Olmes”

My friend then gave the boy some coins and said, “Go downstairs and tell Mrs. Hudson that I said she is to give you my dinner.”

The child’s eyes had grown large when Holmes had handed him the coins, and they now grew larger still—if that were possible.

Turning to me, Holmes said, “Watson, I shall do my best to be there at eight, but if I am delayed, tell Sir Henry that he must hold down the fort until my arrival. Assure him that reinforcements are on the way.”

With that he donned his coat and hat and was out the door. I was so taken aback that I found myself speechless. It was only after he had departed that I spied the note the boy had delivered sitting on the table. Holmes must have placed it there while putting on his coat and forgot to retrieve it. Wondering what vital piece of information it might contain, I picked it up and there in the scrawl that I had come to recognize as Wiggins’ handwriting, I saw only the word: “Hackney.”

As I bolted down a solitary dinner, so conscious was I of the time, the one-word message for Holmes kept reverberating in my mind. Hackney, I knew, had several possible definitions. It was the name of a borough in London and a theatre therein, as well as a village in Derbyshire near Matlock and a town in Australia. I believed I had also read at one point of a Hackney in the United States, perhaps in Kansas or Missouri. Complicating matters further, Hackney was also a breed of horse and pony as well the name for a common type of horse-drawn carriage. Despite my best efforts, I could not see through the veil that hid the word’s significance as Holmes apparently had.

So finally at about a quarter to eight, I donned my coat and, since it was quite a pleasant evening, I set out on foot for Mycroft’s office in Whitehall. I was really rather hoping Holmes would not be late as I had no idea how long Sir Henry and I would be able to stall should my friend prove tardy in the extreme.

As I entered the building that housed Mycroft’s office, I confess that I had no idea what I was going to say or do. The porter showed me to Mycroft’s office and there I found Diedrich Bern, Deniz Cenk and Alexander Dennison occupying the same seats they had on my earlier visit. While Geoffrey Langlois’ seat was conspicuously empty, the chair at the head of the table, where Mycroft would normally sit, had been filled by Sir Henry Campbell-Bannerman.

Rising, he greeted me, “Ah, Doctor Watson, right on time.” Looking about, he then noticed that I was alone. Before he could say anything, I said, “A word, Sir Henry, if you please.”

We then walked to the far side of the room where I informed him in hushed tones of Holmes’ sudden departure from Baker Street and his parting instructions to me.

“Between the two of us, I think we can manage to keep these young men at bay for some time, don’t you?”

He then strode to the other side of the room and, after motioning me to a chair at the table, began to speak. “Gentlemen, I know you are familiar with Dr. Watson and I have asked him to join us because he brings a unique perspective on foreign affairs, having served in Afghanistan as well as having advised Mr. Sherlock Holmes on any number of matters involving the heads of foreign states—all of which required a great deal of tact and diplomacy.”

“Will Mister Holmes be joining us as well?” asked Bern.

“He is expected,” I replied, “although he is quite preoccupied on another case and his attendance this evening might best be described as uncertain.”

“With all due respect, Sir Henry,” said Dennison, “this conference is now about securing alliances and planning for the worst in the event Europe should suddenly disintegrate into war. While I certainly respect Dr. Watson and Mister Holmes, I would have to question their supposed ‘perspective’ on foreign affairs, especially as it relates to present circumstances, which you claim they possesses.”

“Would you care to elaborate?” replied the Prime Minister.

“We need someone with the unique breadth of knowledge that Mycroft Holmes possesses. While peace remains our primary objective, should conflict break out, we must have plans in place for deploying our army and navy, for reinforcing our troops, not to mention setting up supply lines and field hospitals.”

“Well put Mr. Dennison. Have you anything to add Mr. Bern or Mr. Cenk?”

After pausing to gather his thoughts, Bern began to speak, “I agree with my colleague that we need the seeming omniscience which Mycroft Holmes appears to bring to bear on such matters. In his absence, I believe we have but one option: We must postpone the conference until Mr. Holmes has been located.”

“I fear that would make us look weak to our allies,” interjected Cenk. “We call for a top-secret conference, put everything into play and then suddenly cancel the conference the day it is to begin. I can only imagine the conversations between the French emissaries as they return to Paris, and I fear those would pale in comparison to what the Russians might be thinking. No, Prime Minister, somehow, some way, we must get through this conference, and hopefully when he returns, Mr. Holmes will be able to rectify any mistakes that we might make.”

“I would second that opinion,” offered Dennison.

The four of them kept the debate going for another hour at least, and I thought Sir Henry was doing an admirable job of buying time.

Eventually, the Prime Minister decided that Bern—given his intimate knowledge of the German Empire—would act as an interim lead negotiator, barring the sudden reappearance of Mycroft. The resolution did not appear to sit well with Dennison; nevertheless, he remained silent, keeping whatever misgivings he might harbor to himself.

Shortly before nine, I excused myself and stepped outside to tell Lestrade his presence would not be required unless Holmes made an appearance.’

“Whatever you say, Doctor,” he replied.

I returned to find that they had taken a short break. While we were enjoying a cup of coffee, Sir Henry pulled me aside, “I know you said to stall, Watson, but where the deuce is Holmes? We have been at this for well over an hour. I don’t see how I can protract this discussion for much longer.”

When we returned to the table, they began to address the agenda for the conference. The reception was to take place the following night and the first official meeting was to convene at 9 a.m. the day after that in the Marble Arch.

After we had gone over all the particulars two more times, Sir Henry looked at me, and when I shrugged, he said, “Gentlemen, it is drawing late. I shall see you tomorrow night at eight, prior to the reception.”

After Bern, Cenk and Dennison had departed, Sir Henry said, “Unless he has been gravely injured, I fear your Mister Holmes has some explaining to do.”

“I shall convey your message to him when I see him,” I promised.

After apologizing to Lestrade, who had remained outside, and telling him I would be in touch, I took a cab to Baker Street and when I alighted, I saw that our rooms were in almost total darkness. Since it was not yet 10 p.m., I rather doubted Holmes had gone to bed. And truth be told, although my friend was often totally unpredictable in his ways, I must confess that I was beginning to worry.

As I entered the sitting room, I saw that the fire had died down, but the embers were still giving off a soft glow. I was just about to turn on the lights when I heard Holmes’ voice say, “Please Watson, if you don’t mind, I would much prefer a darkened room right now. I find the absence of all distractions, including light, both soothing and invigorating.”

“Holmes, I believe you have some explaining to do, and I also think that you owe Sir Henry an apology.”

“Yes, yes. I am certain that you are correct on both counts, but my absence from that meeting was unavoidable. In fact, I might even go so far as to say that it was imperative that I not be in attendance.”

“Nevertheless, you were the one who promised Sir Henry you would be there. You were the one who instructed me to have Sir Henry stall until you arrived, and now I return home to find you sitting in a darkened room. I have no idea how long you have been here, but judging by the aroma of tobacco, I would hazard a guess that you have been sitting here for at least two pipes—possibly three.”

“You outdo yourself, Watson. Yes, I have just finished my second pipe. And you are quite correct, I do owe you an explanation and Sir Henry an apology but now is not the time for either.”

“But Holmes . . .”

He cut me off before I could offer any further protest. “I know it is difficult, Watson. And I am well aware of how things must appear. Unfortunately, all I can do at present is to ask your continued forgiveness and to beg your further indulgence.”

While Holmes and I had been friends for decades, I must admit I found it hard to accept his apology without any hint of an explanation. Thinking I might feel differently in the morning, I replied, “If that is the way it must be, then so be it.” Heading towards my bedroom, I said simply, “Good night, Holmes.”

To this day, I cannot swear whether I actually heard it or my overwrought imagination simply wanted to hear it, but I thought I heard Holmes utter the words, “Good night, old friend,” followed by, “I would not burden you with any more of this.”

I thought about asking Holmes if he had spoken and then decided against it. Had he wanted me to hear his remark, he would have said it in such a way that I would not question my own sanity.

Feeling totally agitated and adrift on a sea of wild speculation, I found sleep difficult to come by that night.