Disclaimer: as usual, Holmes and Watson belong to ACD, and ACD is a real person in a fictional setting. Other characters are mine. Geography is correct but history has been 'tweaked' to fit the story.

Chapter 7

Some of us did not sleep well. For all the cold air outside, it was hot in my room, which we three gentlemen now shared. Miss Wilcox had the luxury of Holmes' room, which he had gallantly vacated for her to use in privacy. We heard her sobbing late into the night. But for us, the excitement was palpable in the air as we lay, open-eyed, working out the various possibilities which the daylight would bring. At least, Doyle and I lay open eyed – Holmes slept soundly.

The next morning saw us all washed and dressed before dawn. We decided to forego all but the most meagre of refreshment so that we could leave early enough to reach our goal. Even after the grief she had experienced in the past few hours I remarked to myself what a strikingly beautiful woman Miss Wilcox was. Doyle had also clearly noticed, and as she joined us the look on his face revealed the thoughts he was trying so hard to hide.

We stole quietly from the Hotel before it was light and made our way, on foot, towards the Dockyard main gate. Our progress in the dark streets was slow. I was thankful that Doyle knew the streets of Southsea and Portsmouth so well, since he led us by a most indirect route which seemed to include a good deal of doubling back. At every street corner Holmes stopped us and checked that we were not being watched or followed. Any time a cab approached we slipped into the nearest garden and hid behind a wall until it had passed. We spent a good ten minutes thus hiding at one point as the wickman did his rounds, extinguishing the gas streetlights as the first rays of dawn broke in the eastern sky. I thought afterwards that, had the police wished to apprehend us, we were giving them every occasion to do so, as we had done the previous evening as well, with our quite frankly extremely suspicious behaviour.

However, travelling indirectly through the back ways and byways, we were able to make our way without interruption, and after what seemed like longer but was in reality only an hour, we drew close to our destination. The nature of the housing had grown steadily poorer as we neared the Dockyard, with a marked increase in the number of public houses. The streets grew narrower and the houses crowded in on us, becoming dirty and untidy. There were no gardens or greenery to be seen. The smell grew gradually worse as well, and on a number of occasions I realised that raw sewage was running in the street gutter. We had reached the slums which drew together closely upon the huge expanse of the naval base.

Shortly after a quarter to eight, we at last saw our objective, the Main Gate of the Dockyard. We slipped around the south side of St George's Church - recently rebuilt and looking quite out of place amongst the surrounding residential squalor – and crossed its cramped grounds. We peered at the mighty edifice from behind the Church's neatly trimmed hedge.

What I saw disheartened me. No doubt in deference to the day's planned events, a large contingent of soldiers was on guard at the heavily gated entrance. Even as the great rush of workers started to arrive for their day's employment, it became clear to us that there was going to be no way into the Yard for us that way. We watched as a large crowd quickly formed as the workers' progress into the Dockyard was impeded by the checking of their documents. Each man's credentials were thoroughly checked at a line of tables, each garrisoned by a soldier and a policeman.

"It's too heavily guarded," breathed Doyle as we watched the soldiery checking and searching everyone who presented themselves at the gate.

"We're so near, so close," muttered Miss Wilcox. "I thought they might do something like this. They've made everyone have some sort of pass to get into the Dockyard. We've got to get to that ship. It doesn't bear thinking of if we fail. What can we do?"

"I can't see there's anything we can do," replied Doyle with a note of desperation in his voice. "We only have an hour. We will have to raise the alert after all, Miss Wilcox, and your organisation will just have to manage the consequences of us so doing. Perhaps, Mr Holmes, if we do so with the naval officers?"

Holmes was quietly watching the people entering the gate, and seemed to ignore Doyle's comments. "Indeed, they all have specially issued papers for the day," he observed, and looked to Miss Wilcox. "That would be expected on a day such as this. There is only going to be one other way to get close to the ship. I think you know of what I am thinking?"

Mary Wilcox met his gaze and nodded. "By water. We can get alongside in a boat, and find a way aboard the ship that way."

"Yes," said Holmes, with a strange note in his voice that I recognised as meaning that he was in some deep consideration. "We need to obtain the services of a launch – steam if we can, sail if we have to, although the wind is fallen quite light, but at a push these good gentlemen here could row us out. However, getting the services of either will be difficult – nigh on impossible - on a day such as this. Any seaworthy vessel will be already engaged in either ferrying officers to and from their own ships, or giving seaborne views of the day's events for fare paying passengers. Many will make their fortune this day. But we are against the clock and this matter must be brought to a satisfactory conclusion."

"We cannot fail now, Holmes!" I whispered, mindful of a group of soldiers passing us nearby. I ventured a look at the boats drawn up on the shore – every one spoken for, with excited passengers boarding to get the best view of the day's celebrations, and others milling around hoping vainly for a space. Even as I watched, a fight broke out between two groups trying to board the same small dinghy. "It's impossible! We've got to get hold of something that floats!"

"But how?" Doyle asked me, clearly exasperated. "If we can't get anywhere near the Dreadnought by land, and there are no boats to be had by sea, how are we to foil the plotters whilst preserving the anonymity of Miss Wilcox's organisation? Surely Mr Holmes, time has run out, we have to act. We must prioritise. It's more important to stop a war than to maintain the secrecy of an organisation."

"Actually, there is another option," said Miss Wilcox. "The best place to find aid today will be at the Camber. If nothing else there will be fishing vessels there and perhaps one can be hired – for the right price."

I glanced at my watch. "How far is it?"

"Half an hour or so's brisk walk," replied Doyle. "I know it well. We could have done it in fifteen minutes had we gone directly there from the Hotel."

"No matter now!" said Holmes, seeming to make his mind up. "Let us be off!"

Thinking it best to avoid any further suspicious activity, we walked as quickly as seemed appropriate along the Common Hard, under the new railway bridge and past the Harbour Station. The road followed the wall of the Dockyard southwards, then after some ten minutes turned somewhat to the west, passing the site of the enormous power station being built to supply the town with its new electricity supply. It was desperately slow work, since we were blocked at every step by the expectant and excited crowds making their way in the opposite direction to us, towards the spectacle at The Hard and the waterfront. On one occasion I had the feeling we were being followed, but looking behind me I could see nothing to support this perception in the crowded street.

Time was against us, and much to my horror almost a full hour had passed before we reached our destination, and were standing on the quayside at the Camber. The oldest part of Portsmouth faced us across the calm water. For all the autumn air we were hot and tense.

The basin was full of various commercial vessels, small and large. Some were indeed fishing vessels, others were obviously used for short trips along the coast from port to port, carrying various goods no doubt. The area was a hive of activity, surrounded with old, weather boarded houses and warehouses in various states of repair, and every space filled with the milling throngs trying to get a good view at the waterside. Cranes and derricks hung over the still water, some having been climbed by people eager to get a better view than they could expect from the press on the quayside. On the far side of the basin, across an old wooden bridge only wide enough for foot traffic, were a number of inns and public houses. Soldiers guarded the bridge, and others were moving amongst the crowds.

"Blocked at every turn!" exclaimed Miss Wilcox under her breath. "And we've come all this way! There's no time to try anything else now."

"I have an idea. Leave this to me," said Doyle, and led us towards the bridge. As we were challenged, he showed his card and told them that we were his cousins from London come to view the events. He introduced Miss Wilcox as his sister. The soldiers, no doubt content that we were an innocent family group in the care of such an august professional, allowed us to pass.

"Well done, Doctor," smiled Miss Wilcox after we had gone some way past the guard. "It is as well you are with us. Although please don't get me wrong – I'm still not sure whether I completely trust you all." She sighed slightly. "Unfortunately it comes with the job, I suspect. So much has happened in the past couple of days." She looked into Doyle's face. "We are always told to trust no-one. But, perhaps, I can learn to trust again."

We made our way quickly across the bridge. Doyle was left standing still for a moment and I had to cuff him gently to bring him back to his senses. "There may be time enough for that later," I said, trying not to be too melodramatic. "But not yet. We have a war to prevent."

Splitting up we started making enquiries of the vessel masters moored alongside. I was uncomfortably aware of time passing but Holmes seemed almost unnaturally controlled. My watch showed that we were fast approaching nine o'clock – only a few minutes remained before HMS Dreadnought cast off.

I was just about to suggest whether we ought to forcibly take control of a vessel when Miss Wilcox called over to us. She introduced us to the Master of the Olive, a small steam launch recently returned from fishing in waters south of the Isle of Wight. His name was Newman, and he was an unkempt, swarthy fellow, who I thought could have done nothing better than to have immediately had a wash.

"Master Newman will be able to assist us," stated Miss Wilcox firmly, "upon payment of twenty guineas." She said the last few words forcefully, as if she were angry, and looked pleadingly at us. "I do not have twenty guineas to hand."

"Let me," I said, and we soon found ourselves boarded upon the rather haphazardly organised vessel. Its catch was evidently still not unloaded, since the vessel sat low in the water and the hatches to the hold were locked down. It towed a small dinghy behind it as we cast off. Holmes walked ahead of us to the prow of the ship and looked out across the Camber. He stretched both arms above his head, catlike, and then smiled broadly as Doyle and I joined him.

"Ah, that sea air. It is, Watson, most bracing." He stretched again and yawned loudly. "You know," he said, continuing quietly to me alone, "I may have to concede that it is good for me. I have not felt the need for 'it' this last day. It is doing me the power of good."

"I am glad to hear it, Holmes," I smiled. "You know I do not support your use of such substances, whatever effect you may try and tell me they have on you. Clean air as provided by the good Lord Himself is plentiful stimulation."

"Why haven't we moved?" asked Miss Wilcox, joining us at the prow. "He's taking long enough. Twenty guineas ought to at least encourage him to assist us." She then saw the crowd of vessels on the waters ahead of us, and like us understood – everyone was trying to leave at the same time and a logjam had developed.

I looked at my watch again. "Nine o'clock. The Dreadnought will be slipping anchor now," I said, "and we need to be clear of this jam as soon as possible." Miss Wilcox went back down towards Newman, muttering something about encouraging him to greater endeavour by adroit use of his superior motive power. Doyle watched her go, and the look of admiration in his eyes was now unmistakable.

"She's a fine woman, Mr Holmes, wouldn't you say?" he ventured.

Holmes considered the retreating form of Miss Wilcox. "I think the lady has certain hidden depths, yes," replied my friend, flashing a smile in my direction. "You sound like Watson sometimes. It does not stretch my intellect to surmise you are referring to affairs of the heart, perchance?"

"She seems so accomplished, so brave," Doyle continued. "Her unquestioning devotion to Franks is remarkable. Her commitment to finishing what he started is amazing. They must have made a formidable partnership. Look at how she has kept faith with their mission. I wonder if she will be able to ever give such devotion to another…?"

"At last!" I exclaimed, and not before time, I thought. "We're moving."

True enough, the jam was starting to clear itself. There was still much jostling and bumping of fenders, and at least one vessel's dinghy was crushed and sunk. We had to hold tight to the handrail as the Olive herself was jolted heavily a couple of times. To accompany all this activity there was considerable use of colourful language from one ship's master to another, in which sport Newman seemed to excel, reacting with blazing anger every time the Olive was in collision with another vessel.

It was slow to begin with, but we gradually made progress. Within a few minutes there seemed to be a sudden rush as the various vessels found themselves released from the confines of the Camber and spread out, almost like corks being popped from a bottle, into the open waters of the lower Harbour. There we joined an armada of other small boats and craft already plying the congested waters.

"There!" shouted Miss Wilcox from her position alongside Newman on the small bridge of the Olive. "The Dreadnought!"

True enough, having cast off from her jetty within the Dockyard, the vast bulk of Her Majesty's Navy's most potent battleship was even now slowly making her way down water towards us to join the ships of the Review. The smaller boats were scattering from her regal progress like flies around an elephant, creating a pathway through the massed vessels through which she made her stately way. The size of the ship was astounding – I am not sure whether I had ever seen such a vessel of that bulk before that day. The sound of her horn repeatedly thundered across the water as we started to approach her.

"Now what do we do?" Doyle asked. He too seemed awed by the size of the vessel. "I suppose we have to try to get alongside, and then to make our way on board! But how on earth do you even start to get aboard a vessel such as that, on a day like today, from a boat like this? And then prevent the deed without being arrested on the spot? It's impossible! We've failed at the last!" These last words he spoke with an air of defeat.

"Oh, I don't think we have failed. I think the plan has only ever been to get alongside," replied Holmes calmly. "But not, I fear, for the reason you may have been expecting."

He nodded towards the cabin of the Olive, and as I turned my gaze from the Dreadnought to where he was indicating I saw that both Newman and Miss Wilcox were aiming revolvers at the three of us.