Disclaimer: Holmes and Watson belong to ACD; ACD himself is in a fictional setting. Other characters are of my invention. Geography is pretty accurate. The politics probably isn't – but hey, it's a story!

Chapter 5

The cab drew up outside number sixteen, Landport Terrace. The road was a continuation of the road in which Arthur Conan Doyle resided – in fact we had walked past the house a number of times over the past day as we went to and from the Hotel. Like the accommodation on Hampshire Terrace, the houses were handsome, although in these properties nearer the sea the buildings rose to four floors in height.

Doyle paid off the cabbie. We stood in the road for a few moments and then Holmes strode off, with us following, south to the next road junction. Turning left, we proceeded down Kings Road and shortly turned left again into the rear service alley behind the properties fronting onto Landport Terrace. By this means we found ourselves at the rear garden gate of number sixteen. Holmes tried the door latch, and it opened quietly. We proceeded into the garden, and to the back door of the property.

"You may wish to leave us at this point, Doctor Doyle," he whispered to my friend. "What Watson and I are about to do is not strictly – legal."

"No, I am with you, Mr Holmes" replied Doyle. "I am finding your investigation quite invigorating."

Holmes nodded and extracted a bundle of keys from his waistcoat pocket. Within a few moments the back door was open and we were inside the house. I was last in and closed the door quietly behind me.

"Disturb nothing," whispered Holmes, "but we need to be quick. Look for anything that seems out of place or unusual. Touch nothing – call me if you find anything."

We split up and searched the house. After some fifteen minutes we were back where we had started. All was in order; no suspicious papers, no hidden safes. Nothing out of the ordinary at all – just a new family home, recently moved into and therefore not generously furnished. The injustice of the situation burned in me as I knew that this home would now never be enjoyed by that young couple who had come to such an end. I was quite upset, and obviously showed it, for Holmes queried it.

"Why?" I replied, "Well for one thing, because we have found absolutely nothing to take us forward in finding out the motive for yesterday's events."

"On the contrary," said Holmes, coolly. "We have found exactly what I expected."

"Which is ...?"

"Nothing."

"Why are you happy with finding nothing?" asked Doyle.

"Because it means that we can maybe stop further bloodshed and distress. Come, time to go."

Lost as to what Holmes was referring to, we followed him out of the back door, which he locked behind us. Within a few more minutes we had retraced our steps and were back in the drawing room in Doyle's house, looking out through the windows as the sun started to set behind the ramparts. Outside the gas lights were being lit.

I was the first to break the silence. "You are going to have to explain this, Holmes."

"It is quite straightforward," my friend replied. "Look at the similarities. Two young families move into the area at roughly the same time. They work at the same bank. They live at the same house number, albeit on adjoining roads. Their names are similar – what is Francis shortened to?"

I was starting to see where Holmes was going. "Frank. Great heavens, Holmes! So you think that yesterday morning's events were a case of mistaken identity? They thought that they had Franks, when they had Frank … Holloway?"

"I believe Mr Franks to be their target, and he is living but three doors from here." He looked at his watch. "So we must wait until he returns home tonight, and then hopefully, if he will accept us, we can at least warn him of the danger he is in. We may even be able to uncover what it is that the abductors want from him. If he will have us, we may be able to protect him – and his wife. Watson, we may need to be prepared for the worst."

I patted the gun concealed in my waistcoat pocket. "I have brought it just in case."

Mrs Evans served us with tea, and we sat and waited. After a few minutes we heard the door close as she left the house for her regular social with the 'local harpies' as Doyle called them, much to our shameful amusement. Holmes looked at his watch on a number of occasions, and as time went on was obviously starting to get concerned.

"The bank closes at three thirty. Allowing for booking up, I would expect him to be home at six. It is now a quarter past six. Where is he...?"

By half past six Holmes was extremely animated. He paced to and fro around the room, regularly checking the street outside through the curtains. Finally – "At last!" he exclaimed as the object of his concern passed the window. "Come gentlemen, let us make ourselves known, and hopefully start to bring this matter to a conclusion."

We caught up with Franks at his door. On Holmes' calling his name he started, and fumbled to get his key into the door. "Mr Franks!" exclaimed Holmes, "we are for you, Sir!"

Franks opened the door, and tried to close it on us but I had my cane and thrust it into the gap so the door was unable to be closed. Franks flushed with anger, and shouted for his wife, who came running from a back room. To my alarm she was carrying a heavy walking stick which she raised above her head and prepared to strike.

"Madam! Sir!" exclaimed Holmes again. "We are here to save you!"

"What do you mean?" shouted Franks, although there was a note of enquiry in his voice.

"I know what you fear!" replied Holmes.

Franks and his wife stopped struggling. She lowered the stick, and we were allowed into the hallway. Franks closed the door behind him, and leant against it as if to catch his breath.

"You are Mr Sherlock Holmes, of course."

I must have gasped in amazement that Franks knew of Holmes, but Holmes for his part was visibly moved. It was after all the first time in two days that anyone had even heard of him without being prompted.

"Yes, I am. And you are, of course, Reginald Franks – of the Metropolitan Force. I have seen your name on a couple of Lestrade's reports, but I have never been able to put a face to the name, although we did speak briefly yesterday. I thought it would be you when I saw your name on the staff list at the bank."

"Touché, Mr Holmes!" laughed Franks. "Let me introduce Mary Wilcox, who is posing as my wife for the duration."

The woman visibly relaxed and extended her hand to Holmes.

Holmes introduced Doyle and I, and continued his enquiry. "May I ask, for the duration of what, precisely?" asked Holmes. We two were still silent with amazement at this unexpected turn of events, although as usual Holmes was acting as though he had known the couple for years and was merely picking up a previous conversation where it had been left off.

Franks thought for a moment, looking to his companion, who nodded her approval. "Shall we go through to the lounge?"

We walked through the hallway and into the lounge. Its furnishings were minimal, merely a number of small chairs and a table. No carpet was on the floor. The house was obviously a short-term arrangement for whatever activity these two were involved in. We sat down, away from the window, and the gaslight was set low.

"Have you heard of 'White Powder', Mr Holmes?"

Holmes smiled. "A new explosive. A theoretical development, I believe. Reputedly the next step change in warfare. If it can ever be made to work."

"You have done your research well, Mr Holmes," replied Franks. "The weapons we presently use reply on gunpowder for the combustive effect - which of course when ignited gives off a cloud of smoke. This in turn gives away the location of those firing the weapon. Makes returning fire very easy for the opponent – there is no element of surprise once firing starts. Now this 'White Powder' uses a different chemical mix, which is more powerful but gives off little or no smoke – just a puff of clear gas. It is three times more powerful than the gunpowder."

"I had in fact heard more in the order of five times, but such information is unhelpful. It is a theory. It is so unstable it cannot be used."

"The Home Secretary has asked us to investigate reports of a most alarming nature – that the production of stable, usable White Powder has been successfully achieved."

Holmes' face froze. "That would be a most serious development indeed. It could change the balance of power in a conflict. The army using it would have a considerable advantage over its opposition."

"Our concern exactly. Her Majesty's Government has asked that the investigation be made by us rather than the army due to the – sensitive nature of the discovery. And although you are correct in that I used to work with Inspector Lestrade, at this time we ourselves are no longer – exactly – the police."

Holmes leaned forward in the chair, obviously intrigued. "But surely, the difficulty in obtaining the correct chemical mixture makes its production extremely dangerous. There would be as much danger to those using it as to those at its receiving end."

"So we had hoped, Mr Holmes," said Miss Wilcox. "However we have it on good authority that a viable process has indeed been discovered which removes much of the danger in its production. Which brings us to the question you obviously want answered – why we are here."

Holmes laughed. "Please, indulge me! You are here because you believe that this evil substance is here in Portsmouth. Our Government wishes evidence of the substance to be quietly removed without either home or foreign powers knowing of its existence. To the English its use would be ungentlemanly; in the hands of a foreign power its use would provide an overwhelming advantage in battle."

Franks in his turn whistled. "You are everything I have heard of you, Mr Holmes!" he said. Holmes nodded in appreciation, visibly moved. "I will tell you all we know. We have learned that a viable portion of this wicked substance has been produced in France by anarchic conspirators. A crate containing the powder was loaded onto a commercial fishing vessel which sailed from Cherbourg four nights ago, and docked at the Fish Quay here on the 13th. Unfortunately by the time we had received information from our French security colleagues that the shipment had been made, it had been offloaded and we have been unable to trace its whereabouts. We are certain, however, that it has not been moved outside of the town."

I interrupted. "This all sounds well, but why are the police after you, then? If you work for or with the London force, why was an attempt made to kidnap you ..." I looked to Holmes for support as I expounded my interpretation of the events. "For I assume, although you haven't said it in so many words, that is the full story. Poor Holloway was kidnapped - and his wife murdered outright – by people who believed that they in fact had you in their power. They wanted your knowledge – or wanted you silenced. They just got the address of the road wrong – sixteen Landport Terrace instead of sixteen Hampshire Terrace – but they killed them anyway. Be that as it may, they were real policemen, so I ask again – why?"

"It's a good question, and is simple to answer, Doctor Watson," replied Franks gravely. "We believe that the Chief of Police here in Portsmouth is being blackmailed by those same French conspirators regarding some ... unsound meetings he attended whilst in Paris a couple of years ago. Probably set up by them in the first place, no doubt, to trap him and get him in their power. Meetings of an intimate nature. Need I say more? We surmise that he is using one or two of those officers closest to him, being equally unscrupulous, to do that which the blackmailers require of him: namely to silence us, to enable their plan to proceed. All the time we are here, they know that we will be on guard for any suspicious activity and will act to stop it."

"Then why don't you just arrest the Police Chief?" I asked.

"Too public, too obvious," replied Franks. "The use or production of the material has clearly not been officially sanctioned by the French government; in truth I would imagine they would be rather embarrassed were its manufacture to be traced to their soil. The recent history between our nations has only recently been repaired. Any trace of French involvement – however tenuous – would undo the good work that has been done in diplomacy."

"What can we do to help, then?" asked Doyle. I was most impressed with how this general practice doctor was finding his feet in the realm of political intrigue.

"We need to know where the White Powder is," he replied. Mary Wilcox added, "And of course we need evidence. Everything we have told you is true, but there isn't a shred of evidence to prove it in a court of law. Not yet."

"We know we are being watched," continued Franks. "I had to take a circuitous route tonight to shake them off. Two of the local police force. If you were to glimpse though the curtain, you would see them even now at the end of the street. If you wish to help us, we need to throw them off our scent for a little while. Or rather, I need to throw them off my scent." He turned to his colleague. "Mary, it is too dangerous." She nodded. "If I can exchange clothing with one of you gentlemen, then I can leave the premises and continue the investigation without hindrance."

"How do you know we're not being watched as well?" Doyle asked.

"I don't, but I know for sure that I am," Franks replied. "Well, will you help?"

"I will," I replied. "We are about the same build."

"Good," said Franks, and stood up. We heard no shot, but the window shattered in response to the bullet passing through it, and he fell dead at my feet, a single shot through his head.