The worst of days – Part 6

Harriet:

It was already beginning to get dark when we reached Baker Street. To say I had been surprised to find my husband had a brother, would have been an understatement. Mycroft Holmes looked remotely like Sherlock with his stronger built and being decidedly less agile. He was jovial and talkative – something my husband assured me, was highly unusual for the man. The three of us had spent the afternoon taking a very late lunch and talking about what we had found and now there was only one thing left to do. - Looking up the coat of arms.

When we entered the sitting room, we were greeted by a note from Doctor Watson, telling us he had decided to go down to Devon and see his wife.

"I am glad he is gone to visit her," Sherlock remarked as he pulled a stack of books from the shelf. "I actually recommended him to go. - I don't think he was aware just how much she must miss him. There is a lot that needs settling between those two."

"And so you have turned to matchmaking?" I grinned. My husband was a dear fellow, but he was not exactly versed in advising people in love matters.

He had propped the first stack of books onto our dining table and was still pulling out more volumes, to an extent that I feared the table would bend under their combined weight.

"Don't you have a who is who?" I asked with a raised eyebrow, meaning one of the official books dedicated to our gentry and nobles and all their heritage and folly.

"I had," he admitted, "but I managed to pour some bromine over it during a chemical experiment and it became unreadable."

His rueful grin was impossible to resist. Shaking my head in amusement, I planted a kiss firmly on his lips and his smile widened.

Not in my wildest dreams had I ever imagined, that so many families had aspirations for a coat of arms. Finally, we had a collection of twelve possible emblems, taking into consideration that Mrs Watson might have missed a detail or had subconsciously added one. The most likely candidate, was a shield sporting a pair of crossed swords, much as the lady had described, but with three white roses in each space, instead of the dots or spheres, she had drawn. It belonged to the Brandon – Family of Cornwall. It would have been an easy solution indeed, but as it turned out, the Brandon's had no male member of the family currently residing in England and had not had so for the past six years, as one Reginald Brandon was stationed with his regiment in Cape Town and thus was accounted for – apart from that he was also well over fifty.

"Is there any coat of arms that comes close to one of the arrested men's?" I wondered, stifling a yawn.

While Sherlock had written down more information about Didcot, Mallet, Beaton and so forth, I had mainly put my attention to comparing and sorting the emblems.

"The closest would be the one of the Beaton – Family. Their background is in a greyish blue, with two crossed flails and a bunch of three grain-spikes topping them. We cannot rule it out, of course, but I am not convinced it is what we are looking for."

He held up the picture and I had to agree, it was a far cry from what the lady thought to have seen.

"And I doubt my findings will help at all..." now it was my turn to look rueful. I had made a short report on my findings, while we had eaten but only now I pulled out my notes and spread them across the stacks of books and loose papers cluttering our dining table.

"But this is exactly what I had hoped you to find." my husband seemed more enthralled than I would have thought of the sparse information I had delivered.

"But will it help us?"

"Well, it suggests a man with the initials J. L. got away. - and also at last one other man must have done likewise."

"But how could he know. The paper did not mention any names?"

"That is true, but you know how society works, and particularly in those elevated circles. There is no way, that the ones involved did not know what happened to their fellows. I am sure that each of them knows, where the others are – in short, who got caught and who escaped."

"Well, Thomas Jennings did – escape I mean. Perhaps he was the one to receive this message."

"I doubt it." Sherlock disagreed. "First of all, he got away without any secrecy and secondly, he is doing anything but lying low."

"He might not have read the paper."

My husband smiled in amusement. "Yes, that is, of course, possible, but then, I doubt a man reads The Times one day and leaves it the other. And it does appear as if this paper was their means of communication. I dare say, if you had looked even further into the past, you would have found similar messages once in a while. But either way, Jennings' initials are not F. D.."

That, of course, was a good point.

"Do you want me to go back, looking for them?" I enquired, stretching myself, my back hurting and the corset troubling me after a long day slumped over documents.

"No, at this point that would be a waste of time." My husband leaned back in his chair and his gaze fixed on a spot on our ceiling.

"Well, I think I will go to bed now." I yawned once again. My husband did not seem to notice. Leaving him sitting where he was, I stoked the fire and retreated into the bedroom. Snuggling into our comfortable bed, I felt exhausted and at the same time wound up and sleep just would not come. How was one supposed to sleep, when so many questions were left unanswered? After more than an hour I was, at last, drifting off and into the land of dreams and only subconsciously I registered my husband climbing into bed behind me, carefully sneaking his arm around me, as was his habit.

xxx

The next morning I woke up in a deserted bed, while in the room next door I heard the sound of footsteps walking back and forth. And when I entered the sitting room I could tell from the denseness of the smoke from his pipe, that Sherlock had gotten up hours ago.

Looking at me he halted in his restless wandering, asking apologetically: "I did not wake you up, did I?"

"No, you did not," I answered truthfully, opening one of the windows to let in some fresh air.

"Hm!" And with this monosyllable, he carried on pacing the room.

"Good morning, madam!" Tom beamed at me, carrying a tray with a coffee pot and two cups and saucers as if he had done so a thousand times before.

"Good morning, Tom. I see you are adjusting just fine."

"Oh, that I am!" he exclaimed happily, putting down his heavy load and began lying the table, taking great care to get everything right.

"Is there anything else, you would like me to do for you?" he asked after he had done his work perfectly.

Seeing Sherlock's empty tobacco pouch I sent him to get some more shag. The boy grinned widely and dashed off and out of the house. From the recesses, I could hear Mrs Hudson remind him to make haste as they would leave for church shortly.

"Are you going, too?" my husband suddenly asked, halting once more in his endless pacing, that began to make me nervous.

"No," I answered him and sat down at the table, helping myself to a cup of strong coffee and a biscuit. "It's not as if I need to be seen by anyone," I added sarcastically.

"Did I marry an atheist then?" he teased.

"Do you want me to go?"

"No, I was just wondering. Are you?"

"No, I just prefer the philosophical approach to the religious in general and yet, I am not an atheist. It is more the whole rigmarole and bigotry involved that annoy me, but without making me doubt my actual belief. After all, I prefer to think that going to church while acting badly towards others during the week won't make me a better person, while the other way around at least won't make me a worse."

"No, it certainly won't." Sherlock smiled, sitting down opposite of me.

"I take it you have made some progress." I queried.

"I might have. I was mainly brooding over how to proceed. - Will you join me for a little outing?"

"Where to?"

"Amersham Prison."

"On a Sunday?" I cried out in astonishment.

"It is not as if the people we are going to visit will be out and about..." he pointed out. "So, Sunday is as convenient as any other day."

"I guess you are right," I admitted. "But what do you expect to find out there?"

"I am not sure yet. Perhaps nothing." He got up to put on his boots. "But then again, we might find out everything."

xxx

One and a half hours later, we reached the small market town of Amersham. It was pretty close to London and the trains were regular enough for commuters going into town on a daily basis to return in the evening. On our way there, my husband had explained it's significance as a prison town as well, as I had never heard of a goal there in the first place.

"It is but a small penitentiary," he had told me. "A place where the illustrious and rich go when a general prison might pose a danger for them – or vice versa."

"Vice versa?"

"Yes. Like with these young rakes, wanting to overthrow parliament. To put them in with other criminals might give them an opportunity to recruit the plebs and underworld scum they normally would never meet, due to their elevated status. And despite them thinking themselves elite, I would be very much surprised, if they would have refused some 'infantry' help in their purpose."

"How would they manage to do that in a prison?" I wondered.

"You might be surprised to hear, that there is hardly a place in this country, where more crime is permitted, than in an English prison."

I indeed had not had any idea about that and so, by the time we had reached the small and unassuming penitentiary, I was rather timid to enter. But as usual, my curiosity got the better of me.

It was very fortunate, that Sherlock's name was so well known and we met with little resistance from the officials. The welcome by the prisoners was much less cordial, though. Being led into the room one by one had made them suspicious as to the purpose of our visit and I could all but feel their apathy.

The first of the men that was led into the visitor's room, was the honourable Theodore Moore. He was a stout little man, looking several years younger than he was. - At the tender age of five and twenty. But his clean-shaven, round face with the Cherub cheeks made him look like an oversized baby. - And an ugly one at that. He looked at us in obvious disdain, feeling a superiority that was particularly ridiculous considering that he was facing two people with a pedigree equal to his own, though with decidedly less money at their disposal, but instead with a higher level of education.

"What is it you want?" he asked, without as much as greeting us, and his voice sounded at odds with his appearance, being of a deep baritone.

"Oh, only a little interview about the 24th of June '93, Sir," Sherlock answered in a nonchalant voice, smiling sweetly at the prisoner.

"You can go and..." he thundered, only stopping his rude reply when his eyes settled on me.

"Oh, there is no need for profanity, Mr Moore. And I am actually not interested in the actual assassination attempt, but rather would like to know, if you saw something unusual that day in the park?"

Moore stared at the man across from him as if he had just grown a second head.

"Excuse me?" he at last stammered.

"Oh, you heard me right, Mr Moore." Sherlock still smiled.

"No, I don't think I saw anything extraordinary that day."

"How did you all get to Hyde Park that day?" Sherlock suddenly asked, catching Moore as well as myself completely off hand.

"By carriage, of course!" the baby-faced prisoner exclaimed.

"Whose?"

"Joe – Joseph Lopscombe's," he replied without thinking.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow and from the way his eyes sparkled, I knew he was onto something.

"Joseph Lopscombe?"

The prisoner paled as he realised what he had just said. And then knowing there was no way back, he dashed forward, answering: "Yes, we borrowed it from him. He is the younger brother of Randolph. He had no idea, what we were up to, I am sure about that. He is not one of us."

"You would not know where to find him?"

"No."

"Thank you, that'll be all." Sherlock dismissed him and ringing for the warden, the prisoner was promptly removed from our presence.

Next Sherlock asked to see the man Mallet and as the guard shuffled away to retrieve him, I asked: "Why not Lopscombe?"

"Because I think it might be wisest to question him last. We know they have arrived in a carriage that belonged to his brother, but I doubt he would admit to it quite as easy as the others would. I prefer to have some more data, before confronting him."

That sounded plausible.

xxx

Gregory Mallet was a different cast from his meek and fleshy partner in crime. Tall, muscular and with a Greek profile, he would have looked more human had he been worked in marble. His cold blue eyes stared at us unblinking and only the slightest hint of his contempt broke through his unfathomable features. But though his expression never faltered, his choice of words was so markedly polite, that it was clear just how little he thought of us.

"Good morning, Mr Holmes. - Madam," he bowed his head by a fraction, barely visible. "To what do I owe the pleasure of your visit?"

"To my acute sense of curiosity," Sherlock answered, still smiling cheerfully and at that moment he reminded me of a snake hypnotising the rabbit it was about to devour. - Though a most formidable rabbit this was!

"You, of course, remember the 24th of June 1893…?"

"Of course."

"Good. Was there anything that struck you as out of place? - Other than your own and your friends' actions?"

"Only that a pigeon had soiled Lord Maynard's overcoat and hat. I thought it quite funny." Not even a hint of a smile crossed his features.

"Anything else? A shy horse, perhaps?"

"Only shy ladies." His lip curled almost imperceptibly. "Or rather ladies acting shy."

"Certainly."

"Yes, because all women are acutely aware that acting shy in front of gentlemen will land them a husband..." I interjected without thinking, annoyed by the picture he drew of women, well knowing myself, that most young ladies indeed were rather timid around large crowds due to their secluded upbringing.

"Not every lady is a manly as you are, madam." Mallet smiled – or rather sneered.

I curtsied and a smile, as sweet as that of my husbands before, now spread across my face: "Thank you for your compliment."

"Careful, Mr Mallet, you'll find few men with a brain like hers. If she ever smiles at me like this, I would run. Fast!" His eyes gleamed with suppressed laughter.

"Then I must be a braver man than you seem to be, Mr Holmes."

"No, only less sensible. There are instances, where bravery is misplaced. - Anyway, how did you get to Hyde Park?"

"I live across from the park, it was a nice day. - I walked, of course."

"So you did not arrive with the others in Joseph Lopscombe's equipage?"

"No, I did not. I just said so."

"But the others did? - All of them?"

"Yes, all of them."

"Thank you." Sherlock turned around to call once more for the prison guard.

"That is all?" At long last, Gregory Mallet showed some emotion on his stony features.

"Is there more you would like to tell me after all?"

"No, I just thought..."

"Yes?" my husband had raised an eyebrow expectantly again.

"Why would it interest you, how we arrived at Hyde Park?"

"Why would it not?"

xxx

Richard Beaton, a man so unassuming he blended almost into the background of the grey prison wall, was nonetheless a refined man and his eyes were as warm and friendly as Mallets had been cold and foreboding. They twinkled from behind the gold-rimmed glasses, the man had sitting halfway down his nose as if he had just been reading something when he was called to us. The curious cheerfulness he sported was as out of place as his appearance was in it.

"Mr Holmes, Mrs Holmes, good day, to you!" he greeted heartily and for once it was on us to look taken aback.

"Mr Beaton."

"I hope you had a pleasant journey?"

"Yes, thank you," Sherlock answered warily.

"Very good. So, how may I help you?"

It was extremely difficult to believe, that he was the man who was supposed to throw the grenade. No-one would ever think this refined though unassuming man to be an assassin.

"Tell me about the 24th of June 1893, Mr Beaton." Sherlock requested in equal politeness.

The man, a couple of years older than the other men had been, smiled apologetically.

"What is there I can tell you, that you don't already know, sir?"

"How did you end up with this lot, for example? You don't strike me as one of their fellow students."

Beaton chuckled, taking off his glasses to clean them.

"I met them at the club – the Supremacy, that is - and I got to talk to them and had to agree with their argument. I still do. I am thoroughly convinced, that the House of Commons is unlawful and against the foundations of our country."

"What foundations do you mean? Surely not the laws?"

"The noblest of laws. The Magna Charta, of course. Now, there the Lords were given the power to control the king's actions, so he would never be able to take from them ever again, what he ought not. The House of Commons was installed by a political terrorist, who brought nothing but war and destruction to this land – going so far, as to behead the rightful King and after years of devastation forced the successor to accept commoners to participate in politics. And look at today! They have more say, than the Lords."

"With the historical background in mind, can you be surprised, that common folk – as you call them – refuse to be ruled by the House of Lords alone?" Once more I had felt the need to participate in the conversation.

"A woman, of course, will lack the knowledge necessary to assess the history thoroughly and form an accurate opinion. And politics are, of course, far out of your field," he said, paternally, but yet the insult was obvious.

"I assure you, Mr Beaton, neither is the case, I took my history lessons together with my brother and am well versed in it, and though I might not be particularly interested in politics, I still follow it meticulously."

"Really? Then I suppose you are also for women's rights? Like higher education, the right to vote or allowing them to raise their children after separating from their husbands?"

"Of course, I have a medical degree myself. And I work at an institution that among simple health care, also takes care of 'fallen women'."

"And you first appeared to be such a sensible person. What a shame!" he exclaimed in all earnestness.

I met Sherlock's gaze and could see the laughter in his grey eyes once again. At that moment, I really came to appreciate my husband and the freedom he allowed me. I could indeed not have wished for a better man at my side.

"Then, Mr Beaton, I wish you a wife without brains and a will of her own." I smiled dryly, while my husband added, more towards me than the prisoner: "Personally, I cannot think of anything more tiring." and then looking at Beaton again, resumed his inquiry.

"So, was there anything that struck you as odd then?"

"What I do not understand to this day, is, how the police managed to catch us."

"What do you mean? Did they not catch you red-handed, about to throw the bomb?"

"No, I still had it in my pocket, when they approached me and had me arrested. It was the same with the others. So how could they have known?"

I could see, that Sherlock made a mental note, his brows knitted and his face alert in acute concentration.

"What do you think, Mr Beaton?" he asked, after a moment's contemplation.

"That someone must have grassed on us."

"Any idea who that might be?"

"Perhaps. But you see, if I tell you a name and I am wrong in my suspicion, I would be no better than the one who ratted us out, would I?"

It became more and more clear, that there was a man that was remarkably clever. A man that was the perfect grey eminence from the courts of old – unassuming, observant, sly and very sharp. Just one thing still did not fit. Why would he be the one chosen to be the actual assassin? He did not seem quite able to aim far – or straight.

"Did you also arrive in Joseph Lopscombe's carriage?"

"Never heard of that man. But yes, I came in a carriage, of course. I live in Hampstead, it would be too far to walk. Randolph Lopscombe provided it, if I remember correctly, whether it was his own or his brothers, I don't know."

"Thank you, Mr Beaton, that would be all. You have helped us a great deal."

"Pleasure."

Richard Beaton bowed politely, before himself calling to be brought back to his cell.

"Well, my dear," Sherlock addressed me, as soon as the man had been removed. "That man is clever – but a horrible liar!"

I was puzzled for a moment, before the last sentences Beaton had spoken, came to mind.

"You mean when he claimed not to know a Joseph Lopscombe and yet knew he was Randolph's brother?"

My husband beamed at me proudly: "Exactly!"

"Do you think they were double-crossed?"

"I think it likely, now that I know Beaton was not actually caught with the bomb in his hand."

"Could you draw the police file?"

"I have tried, but it is inaccessible. - That is why we are here, my dear."

Grinning at the silly rhyme, he took my hand and kissed it.