The worst of days – Part 5

Harriet:

The next morning Sherlock and I left the house together after breakfast and while he dropped me off at the office of The Times, he himself carried on to speak to the man he had mentioned when speaking to the doctor. I have to admit that at entering the building, I was a little timid whether I would find any usable information.

At the time I had read of the incident, of course, but politics rarely interested me, as they only made me angry most of the time. And in this case with the arrest of the men involved, my interest had ceased soon enough.

Sitting down at one of the tables of the public reading room, I asked a clerk for the papers of the months from May to July 1893.

"If you could turn your attention towards the private advertisement section, I would be really grateful," my husband had said when he had helped me out of the carriage.

"Is there anything in particular, you want me to look for?" I had asked.

"Anything that strikes you as odd." had been his pensive answer.

Now I sat there, a stack of almost a hundred papers in front of me and suddenly it seemed a rather daunting task. But as I needed to start somewhere, I began by reading the official reports first and having written down a short abstract of the events I eventually moved on to the advertisements. Between all the lost and founds, only two struck me as significant. Or at least potentially so.

The first one had me almost laugh out loud, as it said:

To all:

Ewe-art destined to lose influence during the public presentation on June 24th by termination it is said.

That was till I realised, that Ewe-art would be pronounced roughly like Ewart and that the edition had been from the 20th of June. Four days before the planned assassination. It was so blatantly obvious when reading it aloud, that I wondered, why they had not just written William Ewart Gladstone etc. pp..

And yet, very few people read advertisements aloud and even then, this one had been tucked away between an advertisement for phosphorous chamber pots that would glow in the dark if one had put them on the window sill during the day and another one for a decidedly undignified looking umbrella that would attach to a man's hat so he could still make use of both his hands for whatever. - Presumably holding on to his hat as the wind got caught underneath the umbrella. In the light of those two hilarious inventions, ewe-art had first appeared to be just another inanity.

The second had been in the papers almost three weeks later on the 12th of July. It was less original:

To F. D.:

24th of June was a disaster, almost got caught. J threatens me. Will need to go under, found position already. Join me at 79 PM tonight, at the back door, keep silent while waiting.

J. L.

Looking at it, only the date might strike one as significant. And yet, it could just as well refer to another incident that had turned into a disaster, who knew?

By the time I had gathered my things together my stomach growled and I realised it was almost tea time. Stepping out of the building and onto the busy street, notes stuffed into a dispatch box, I was just in time to see my husband ascend the stairs I was about to descent. He was so deep in thought, that he almost walked past me, hands deep in his coat pockets, eyes cast towards the ground, only taking in what was absolutely necessary not to stumble. Blocking his way, he, at last, became aware of my feet, the hem of my skirt and at last myself.

"I take it you have found something." I greeted him, smirking. "So your visit to Mr Mycroft was a successful one?"

Glancing over his shoulder I saw the Hansom he had obviously arrived in, held another person, a rather burly man, which I took to be the man he had spoken to.

"Yes, we thought we would pick you up and eat something together. My brother is rather keen on meeting you."

"Your brother?" I gasped, taken aback.

"Yes, Mycroft is my brother. But you look yourself as if you have found something that might help us."

"Perhaps..." I was still shocked by his revelation.

Bending forward he whispered into my ear: "It's a little payback for your not telling me that I have a mother in law." before pecking me on the cheek.

xxx

Sherlock:

It was an odd feeling to drop off my wife to do some research on a case for me. A feeling of pride and concern. Should I drag her into my profession? She was bright and attentive and I had no intention to refuse her help in a case so dear to me. But what after that? I decided that only time would tell and that it was not worth wondering about it just now.

Another odd feeling was the anticipation of meeting my brother and informing him, that his younger sibling now was a married man. I had written to him and was due to meet Mycroft at the Diogenes Club at ten. Climbing up the stairs to the stately but unimposing building I entered into a world of silence. With the club members sitting and walking around the many rooms without uttering a sound apart from the odd cough or sneeze, the club appeared almost ghostly and had it not been for the constant ticking of the large grandfather clock opposite the entrance door, one could easily think to have been trapped inside a painting. Even the butler did not venture to speak and only held out his hand to receive my card, knowing I did not belong to the regular members of this establishment.

Having been informed about my visit, I was led into the visitor's room – the one and only room in the whole of the Diogenes Club, where speaking and taking notice of one another was permitted. An instant later I was joined by my brother.

"You are early, Sherlock." he greeted, looking at his watch.

I was, by a full three minutes…

Laughing I replied: "Good morning to you too, dearest brother."

"Well, I am also your only brother, so that does not say much," he grumbled affectionately.

Stepping forward, Mycroft took my outstretched hand and placed his left on my shoulder.

"You are looking well, Sherlock." he remarked as the butler returned with a tea tray and to take my hat, coat and gloves.

"So, how may I help you? You said you need some information about the attempted Gladstone assassination."

"I do. - Preferably the information that has not been published in the papers."

"So I take it you have read up on it?"

"No, admittedly not. Not yet. But I have some research done. - An overall sketch would be nice, to begin with though. I do remember you have mentioned it in one of your letters, but I cannot recall any details."

"I don't think I have given you any. I was more interested in your findings of the killing of Gordon in Khartoum and there was not much of a mystery with the Gladstone..." he stopped mid-sentence, his gaze fixed on my left hand with which I had just handed him a cup of tea. For a moment his brow creased and then he looked taken aback before he finally looked up and into my eyes.

"I am no longer surprised you look this well..." he teased, raising an eyebrow insinuatingly. "Married life becomes you."

"It does."

"Am I an uncle yet? I don't think it would surprise me very much, after seeing you taken in at long last."

"That, Mycroft, would be impossible, as we only got married last Friday." I grinned.

"I was not aware that a marriage license was needed to be able to reproduce."

"No, you are right. But I only met my wife the day before I wed her."

It was not very often, that I saw my older brother disconcerted. Now though was one of those rare moments.

"You don't look as if you were forced at gunpoint… So why this hurry? Is there reason to think you did misbehave after all? - And had fun with it?"

I often forgot, how straight to the point my brother could be. This was not political Mycroft, but older brother Mycroft – the one who could be blunt to the point of embarrassment. I explained our situation and after a moment of contemplation my brother asked: "Do you love her?"

"Yes. - Harriet is the one woman, in whose company I have felt nothing but comfortable in. She is all I have ever wished for in my wife – she is intelligent, level headed, kind, witty – with an evil streak and on top of that, she is very pretty."

"That, Sherlock sounds almost too good to be true." he laughed – a warm-hearted and honest laugh. "But I can see you mean it and I congratulate you to have found your soul mate. It is very rare, you know. Since Stephen died… - But anyway, let's turn to the problem at hand."

The next few hours we spent in deep conversation about the case and the already well-known facts about the attempted assassination I will only repeat thus far as it will help to revive the memory about the incident but not go into detail.

The autumn of 1892 and the consecutive spring of '93 had brought a general crisis in the economy of our country as the harvest had been plagued by severe weather and a minor crash in the stock market as a new invention abroad had decreased the export of British steel. As their business affairs did not prosper as much as had been anticipated, several major landowners – all of them nobility and also involved in the stock exchange, had decided to increase the prices on their grain by more than double of what was customary. There had also been rumours, that part of the reason was, that the said landowners had wanted to put pressure on the government, which could never be confirmed though.

As a consequence, a lot of grain was now imported on a less expensive price from Ireland. This was quite lucrative for the Irish producers, too, as it was still much more than they could have sold their grain at within their own country. At long last though, this practice led to the necessity of Ireland importing the over-prized English product and at long last, the Prime Minister had been faced with several Irish independent movements who threatened with an uprising, should not the government interfere and make sure the prices on basic foods would get back to an affordable sum.

The speech on the 24th had been in an attempt, to calm all parties involved – which was by now the English landowners, the Irish independent movements, and a group of socialists in England, who fought for the rights of the poorest, who still could not afford their daily bread. It was in the aftermath of a considerable tax reduce the Irish had received, to keep them calm, while the landowners were forced to reduce their prices – but instead were given a considerable tax exemption to appease them likewise. Which left only the third party unsatisfied. Those Marxists had then threatened to eliminate the person they deemed responsible for this injustice, namely William Ewart Gladstone. But, they were caught and ended up in prison and all seemed to be well. - So far the official version. The unofficial one differed in a very significant point – the group of radicals.

"Do you imply, that it was not the socialists who were behind this after all?" I asked my brother after he had given me the same rough overview – though in considerably more words and several more details.

"That is exactly what I am implying, Sherlock," he confirmed. "There is one more group of people who were not very happy about this business."

"I doubt Gladstone would have dabbled with the Irish." I contemplated.

"No, which leaves the gentry."

"But did you not just say that they got a considerable tax exemption in exchange for their lowering their prices again?"

"I did. But there is one crucial point, which I have not yet told you – and which is not widely known to the public. To prevent a similar situation in the future, the government proceeded to pass a law, which would enable them to control the prices of all staple foods, such as grains, potatoes and root vegetables and thus taking a lot of independence from those making a money with it."

"In other words the influential landowners."

"Yes. Gladstone had almost managed to smuggle this new law through the House of Lords. - But not quite. That it was not passed, after all, was a direct consequence of the events of the 24th of June."

"So who was arrested? You said there was no mystery going with this case, so the would-be assassins must have been caught."

"The men that were arrested were a group of elite students and like-minded nobles posing as Marxists. All of them stem from noble families, most of them titled and dabbling in politics."

"And all of them were arrested?" I asked, quite angered at their cowardly behaviour.

"We are not quite sure, whether we got them all. It is a radical circle around Lord Northington's younger son – Thomas Jennings, by name. They have already attempted to denounce public elections as being unlawful, wanting to return to the system before the instalment of the House of Commons. There are several young men belonging to this group, but not all were involved in the planned assassination. - Some even distanced themselves from the radicals and went their own way since then."

"Thomas Jennings, was he among the captured men?"

"He was captured in the aftermath and released only a few hours later. He could not be connected with the crime, as at that time, he had been accompanying his family to the speech in an official manner and he never strayed from his father's side. Whether he had anything to do with the planning could never be established."

"Yet it sounds as if you are convinced he is the instigator of the whole affair." I smiled grimly.

"Yes. And he even admitted as much – but by using his words very carefully, he knew that they could never be used against him in court. - He is a most clever young rascal and I would be very much surprised if you will not meet with him in your line of work one day."

I contemplated on the information while sipping my tea. The Diogenes Club served an excellent blend – as it did with all the creature comforts.

"So, we have covered Lord Northington's son. Who are the others?"

"Less lucky was Richard Beaton Esq., he was caught with the grenade in his hand, about to throw it. Then there is Nigel Didcot, oldest son of Sir Lewis Didcot, M. P. for Cumberland – if that is not ironic, Theodore Moore, Randolph Lopscombe and Gregory Mallet. Though I am convinced that there were some that have actually gotten away."

"So these are just the ones that were imprisoned?"

"And still are – apart from Didcot, who is deceased."

"Was it a natural death?"

"Suicide."

"And those who might have gotten away?"

"No idea. The prisoners are all equally silent on that point. And even though their friends have been checked, it could not be established, that they had anything to do with the attempted crime."

Enjoying the cigar, Mycroft had offered, I leaned back in my armchair, staring into space and trying to sort my thoughts. Just how likely was it, that these two isolated instances were connected? At first glance thoroughly unlikely. And yet, time and place of the Watson's accident bothered me and it was not easily dismissed. And what about the coat of arms, some thought to have seen? All of the men involved were descended from gentry – titled or not. And yet again, so many other families completely uninvolved in the planned assassination had been present also.

Reaching into my inner pocket, I handed the drawing of the coat of arms, that Mrs Watson had drawn, over to my brother.

"You would not happen to know, what family this belongs to?" I asked him, adding the information about the colouring.

"No, I am afraid nothing comes to mind. But then again with these things a small alteration in detail and it could belong to another family altogether. Did you know, that swords are among the most common depictions on coats of arms?"

"Yes."

"And a dark blue is rather ordinary as well."

"Then I will have to dig through my reference books, perhaps something comes up."

Pouring himself some more tea and ignoring my own empty cup, my brother grinned at me: "Perhaps your wife could help you..."

Looking at the clock on the mantelpiece I realised just how late it was and I all but jumped out of my seat.

"Did I say something wrong?" Mycroft now looked concerned, though the amusement did not leave his eyes completely.

"Not at all. You just reminded me, that I should perhaps pick up Harriet. She is currently doing some research for me at the Times archive down in Fleet Street."

Ringing the bell for my hat and coat, I was pacing the room rather impatiently while waiting for the butler to appear. When he did, I was surprised by my brother who ordered his things as well.

"I think I would like to meet this remarkable lady, who has stolen my little brother's heart, and who after only two weeks is already deemed worthy enough to help him in his work," he exclaimed, explaining his actions.

"So, Could I invite the two of you for a late lunch at the Holbourne? It's just around the corner from Fleet Street."

"Well, when my dear brother decides to be sociable once in a while, it is not for me to deny him my company." I laughed.

"And it is not everyday my brother tells me he got married – and admits he is in love! And there I have always thought he was a reasonable man."

Now I laughed. Most times Mycroft was imposing and severe to the extreme and only when one got to know him it became clear he had a heart of gold. Even I on occasion forgot, just how human he could be when he chose to.

Hailing a Hansom, from lack of a four-wheeler, we made our way down Pall Mall. Leaving No. 79 – better known as the Diogenes Club behind us.

As we neared Fleet Street we had to cross a couple of planks that had been laid across a hole in the street surface, where a water pipe had burst and needed repairing. And even though the boards were shaped in a way that they could be easily crossed by the many carriages and carts, still the vehicle swayed as we did. No-one could have missed cutting the kerb and hitting a mother and her child.

Deep in thought, I alighted the cab to see if my wife was still where I had left her, and only when I saw the polished tips of two ladies boots peeping from underneath a plain and unadorned woollen skirt of dark red colour, did I look up and into my Harriet's smiling face.