The Earl of Montague’s armoury was housed at the rear of the mansion. It was a large, musty, high-ceilinged room with lead-paned windows, suits of armour, Montague pennants and weapons of all shapes and sizes mounted on the cold, grey stone walls. Four centuries of weaponry were collected here – and all of it had tasted blood on some near or distant battlefield.
Howard, who’d shown interest in the place as soon as Elaina had mentioned it, now studied a pair of overcoat pistols from the time of George III before moving on to a selection of long-barrelled sporting guns and even an old Brown Bess musket from his own country. And the blades – there were swords from Britain and France, sabres from Russia and Austria-Hungary, dirks, cutlasses, spadroons….
Howard whistled. ‘I reckon a feller could fight off a whole army with all this,’ he said, his voice echoing faintly off the cool, rough stone.
A few feet away Elaina watched him with a motherly smile, for he was like a child in a toyshop. ‘According to Rupert, that’s exactly what the Montagues did, on many occasions,’ she replied. ‘Apparently there were Montagues at the battles of Hastings and Stamford Bridge, at Saratoga, Trafalgar, New Orleans … oh, just about everywhere, to hear the way Rupert told it – and of course, they always acquitted themselves with tremendous courage.’
‘Of course,’ he replied, and laughed.
Howard helped himself to a narrow-bladed fencing sabre, which had been hanging from hooks on the facing wall. He gave it a couple of practice swipes. They confirmed his initial impression – that it was the product of a remarkable craftsman.
‘What kind of man was your husband, Ellie? Don’t take this the wrong way, but you make him sound like a blowhard.’
‘He wasn’t,’ she replied after a moment’s thought. ‘Not really. Decent just about sums him up. Though he could certainly be a windbag at times, like most of this country’s ruling class. They all think God’s an Englishman, you know.’
‘Do they also all give left-handed compliments?’
She smiled. ‘No, that’s just Holmes being … well, Holmes. Don’t take it personally, Thomas.’
‘It’s a little too late for that.’
He looked at her suddenly, saw a hunger in her eyes that was the match of his own, and impulsively went to her. He wrapped his free arm around her shoulders, pulled her close and kissed her, full and hard on the mouth. She kissed him back with equal fervour until….
There was a discreet rapping at the door.
For reasons neither of them could have explained, they sprang apart like guilty lovers. Blaming it on the heated passion she felt, Elaina called out in a steady voice: ‘Come.’
The door opened to reveal Fordham. ‘I’m sorry to disturb you, my lady, but Mr Holmes has just returned and asks to see you.’
Howard swore under his breath, but before she could react, Holmes – who had ignored the request to wait in the library and instead had followed the butler through the house to the armoury – entered the room with Watson tagging along behind. Fordham discreetly withdrew, closing the door after him.
The moment was especially awkward for Watson. He could see that they had interrupted what appeared to be an intimate moment, and he looked as if he would rather be anywhere but here.
Not so Holmes. He looked from Elaina to Howard, a thin smile tilting his mouth. ‘Forgive the intrusion,’ he said, clearly not meaning a word of it. ‘But just as we were leaving Watson reminded me that we had not enquired after your, uh, brother, Mr Howard.’
‘My brother?’ Howard said blankly.
‘You remember,’ said Holmes sarcastically. ‘The missing one. It occurred to me that if you would sooner conduct your search for him by yourself, the very least I could do is suggest a few avenues that may make the job somewhat less arduous for you.’
Howard relaxed. ‘Don’t bother. I’ll find him in my own good time.’
‘As you wish,’ Holmes said. For the first time he appeared to notice the fencing sabre in Howard’s grip. ‘Do you favour the steel, Mr Howard?’
‘You mean, can I use one? Sure. After the War, I—’ He caught himself then, and said: ‘How about you?’
‘Like all men of education, I deplore violence.’
Howard’s jaw muscles flexed. ‘That a yes or a no?’
‘If you are suggesting a duel, Mr Howard – I would rather not.’
Howard had been suggesting no such thing, of course, but now that the idea had been proposed he quickly rose to the bait. ‘Why not? Afraid you’ll lose?’
‘On the contrary,’ said Holmes. ‘But as a guest of the countess …’
‘Don’t let that stop you.’
‘Very well,’ Holmes said. He crossed to the wall, took down a matching sabre and slashed the air with it a few times. He then turned back to Howard, who was already removing his coat and shoulder holsters.
‘I don’t think this is a good idea,’ Elaina said hastily.
‘Neither do I,’ said Watson. ‘As much as anything else it’s wildly irresponsible. No matter how careful you try to be, one or both of you is bound to sustain an injury.’
Holmes arched an eyebrow at Howard. ‘What do you say? Shall we call it off?’
‘Not a chance.’ Howard cut the air with his sabre. ‘I’m real curious to see how this pans out.’
‘My sentiments exactly,’ said Holmes. He quickly removed his jacket and passed it to Watson before bringing his blade up to salute his opponent.
‘En garde!’
He and Howard circled each other, sabres extended, steel gleaming like liquid mercury in the gaslights. Watson wet his lips and felt his fingers digging anxiously into the material of Holmes’s jacket.
Then Howard lunged forward, thinking to end the matter quickly and decisively. Holmes back-stepped, parried deftly and with a ring of steel Howard’s blade slipped from his own. Howard himself stumbled forward, off balance, but caught himself quickly and leapt back to avoid a thrust from Holmes. He used his own blade to knock Holmes’s aside, then moved in fast with a series of thrusts and swipes. But he lacked the finesse that Holmes displayed so ably, and as his temper warmed he lost even that small degree of ability and became instead a charging bull.
Holmes parried and countered, matching his opponent move for move, almost as if he knew in advance what Howard intended to do next.
They danced back and forth across the armoury, never losing eye contact. Then Howard lunged forward again and Holmes executed a deceptively simple twisting movement with his blade. It slid along the length of Howard’s sabre and with another flick the American’s sword flew from his grasp to land with a clatter on the flagstone floor.
Elaina gasped. ‘There, it’s done,’ she said. ‘And I declare Holmes the w—’
Neither man paid her any attention. Holmes stood back and indicated that the Missourian should pick the blade up again. Howard did so, this time with murder in his eyes.
Again they faced each other. All of Holmes’s needling had finally brought about the desired effect; Howard’s temper, quick even at the best of times, had at last boiled over, while Holmes appeared to be as cool and collected as ever.
Howard leapt in. Steel clashed against steel. Howard lunged but Holmes sidestepped, eluding the other’s sword. Again and again Howard hacked at Holmes, and in the end Holmes was forced to retreat under such a determined advance.
Elaina quickly stepped forward before Watson could restrain her and yelled: ‘That’s enough, do you hear me?’
But her voice was drowned by the clashing ring of blade on blade. Holmes felt a wall at his back and knew he could retreat no further. Howard saw it as well, and heedless of the consequences brought his blade down in a sweeping overhead blow. Holmes dropped to a crouch before his opponent and the tip of Howard’s blade ripped down the stone wall, splashing sparks from its tip.
Then, abruptly, Howard froze.
The tip of Holmes’s sword was just touching the soft flesh beneath his chin. One thrust and it would be all over for the man from Missouri.
‘Do you concede?’ asked Holmes.
‘Never.’
‘Then must we continue the match until one or the other of us is injured or worse?’
Elaina rushed in close, Watson following. ‘My God, what’re you two fools trying to prove?’
Without taking his eyes off Holmes; Howard said through gritted teeth: ‘Respect has a price.’
‘So does lying,’ said Holmes.
Howard’s anger flared and he backed away from Holmes’s blade. ‘Damn you, mister, you’ve gone too far now! No one calls me a liar!’
‘Then what else does one call a man who was christened with one name and yet goes by another?’
As he straightened up, Sherlock Holmes said: ‘This man is not Thomas Howard. He goes by an altogether more celebrated name – that of the outlaw Jesse James!’