Disclaimer: as usual, Holmes and Watson are ACD's invention. ACD himself is a real person in a fictional setting. Geography is pretty accurate but history, for the purpose of the story, is not.
Chapter 8
"What the …?!" I exclaimed. "Stop this madness! We are on your side! You know you can trust us!"
"That's enough, gentlemen, please," ordered Miss Wilcox. She motioned to us to stand still, for both Doyle and I had started towards them. "Sorry; I trust no-one, and I have need to work quickly."
"But …. what is going on? Why are you doing this? We're trying to help," asked Doyle.
"May I perhaps explain to my colleagues?" asked Holmes of her, a model of calmness.
"Why not?" replied Miss Wilcox. "It will be the last thing you do."
"There never was a conspiracy in France."
She thought for a moment, as if unsure as to whether to admit what was starting to become clear to us. Then - "Correct."
Holmes addressed us. "All along, the conspiracy has been here in Britain, although admittedly organised by a group of anarchists, and indeed using White Powder, which they have been able to successfully produce in commercial quantities. And the aim of the conspirators has indeed been to create a state of war between Britain and France, and their respective allies, and into that state introduce the marketing of White Powder to the highest bidder, prolonging it for as long as possible. In this way they hope to both line their own pockets and to cripple the economies of the warring nations. So not quite the normal behaviour one might expect of anarchists, but inventive nonetheless. And Miss Wilcox here is, I regret, one of their number."
"What?" Doyle interjected. He was obviously struggling with the turn of events – that the recent object of his admiration had turned out to be less than trustworthy.
"You are very astute Mr Holmes," replied Miss Wilcox. "The natural choice seemed to be Britain and France as being the nations with the oldest and greatest distrust between them."
Doyle's face was a picture. "Mr Holmes, are you saying that SHE is one of the conspirators? But what about Franks? How did she keep her identity from him and the other members of his organisation so successfully?"
Miss Wilcox laughed – a cold cruel laugh. "I'm sure even the great Mr Holmes would be surprised…"
"On the contrary," replied Holmes. "Doctor Doyle, you need to take a step back as it were – to clear the lumber from your mind, as I so often remind Watson to do, and to ignore what has been told you. Concentrate on what you know." He looked calmly into Miss Wilcox's eyes. "Franks was as much a conspirator as you are, Miss Wilcox. As, indeed, were Holloway and his wife. The four of you have a base in London, and when the time was right you all moved here to put your scheme into practice."
Miss Wilcox looked wide eyed at Holmes, with a fleeting trace of respect. "Oh, very well done, Mr Holmes. Yes, our factory for making White Powder is indeed in Fenchurch Street, and it is to there that I and Newman – who is of course the fifth and final member of our conspiracy – will return to bring our plans to fruition. Yes, well done, Mr Holmes. How did you know?"
"I sent telegrams to Gregson, and Percival Agar at the Port of London, yesterday after our interview with Mr Steel at the bank," he replied. "As soon as I saw Franks' name on the staff board I knew that all was not as it seemed on the surface, since I knew he had a connection with the Force. All this talk of secret organisations was too convenient, and clearly aimed at stopping our checking the basic facts. To your undoing, Miss Wilcox; that is one error into which I resolutely refuse to fall. The telegrams which were waiting for me at the Hotel yesterday evening told me all I needed to know – that Franks was a most unreliable character, and had been quietly discharged from the Metropolitan Force after an act of insubordination with Lestrade. Gregson was quite pleased to tell me all the sordid detail, as you can imagine – he and Lestrade have something of an air of competition between them. Agar's telegram on the other hand revealed, in answer to my question, that a young woman named Mary Franks had purchased a steam launch five weeks ago at the Royal Dock." He sighed. "Franks was obviously the first name that came into your head. You really must think of better pseudonyms, my dear lady, if you are to succeed in your chosen career. Do not choose the name of your lover, nor presuppose your marital state."
I could tell that Doyle was still struggling to comprehend the sudden change in circumstances. "So, when Mrs Holloway spoke of 'the order' ….."
"She was no doubt referring to the order, from me, to put into effect the final stages of our plan," spat Miss Wilcox defiantly. "I can see that you know a great deal, Mr Holmes. We completed the preparation of the White Powder and then made our way to Portsmouth a month ago. Newman here loaded the Olive on the 11th and sailed her round to the Camber, arriving in the early morning of the 13th. Once I had been telegraphed about his safe arrival I advised the others to start bringing matters to a close. Holloway resigned his job at the bank, as did Franks yesterday – that was why he was so late returning." She paused for a moment and smiled coldly. "I can just imagine the scene at the bank, old Steel wondering what had hit him, two of his best men resigning within days of each other. You see, amazing as it will appear to you gentlemen – even the doe-eyed Doctor Doyle - I am the leader of this 'conspiracy' as you call it – even old Newman here does as I say, don't you?" She glared acidly at him. "But the authorities have somehow got wind of the scheme – we are being followed, and picked off one by one."
We were now approaching the Dreadnought, and I was wondering what Holmes was planning. Vessels of all shapes and sizes continued to jostle around us. It seemed to me that our outlook was hopeless, as hopeless as any situation I had ever been in, and yet he calmly maintained his conversation with Miss Wilcox.
"Yes, you were being trailed and despatched by the real – how shall we describe them – 'secret service'," replied Holmes. He must have seen the look on my face, and Doyle looked lost as well. "Come gentlemen; understand the game she has been playing. Put yourself in her shoes. Her co-conspirators are being tracked down and incapacitated by the forces of Law and Order, one by one. The numbers in her conspiratorial circle are dwindling, but certain tasks need to be completed. If nothing else, she knows that there will be no way into the Dockyard, and in truth of course that was never her intention. Rather, her whole intent was to get herself onto the Olive and to do that she needed a means of getting past the guards – this being impossible once she was unable to play the loving married couple with Franks. So she gets assistance from some unsuspecting and well-meaning third parties, and tries to divert us from the truth with a tale of Government secrecy and derring-do – pretending that she and her companion are members of those very forces which have in truth been sent to apprehend them. The need for secrecy means she supposes we will not go to the authorities, since we will think they are implicated in the conspiracy." He turned to her. "It is very well done, Miss Wilcox. It would have succeeded had I not been amongst those you tried to fool."
She smiled coldly. "Thank you Mr Holmes. I will take that as a compliment. But I have succeeded anyway."
"But why did Mrs Holloway come to my door that fateful night?" asked Doyle angrily.
"I can answer that," replied Holmes. "In her pain and distress she was trying to warn you, wasn't she, Miss Wilcox? But in the half light and almost incapacitated in her pain and distress, she mistook number ten for number sixteen – the number plate alongside your door, Miss Wilcox, is rather chipped and the six does look somewhat like a zero…"
"Emily was willing to sacrifice herself to warn me," she retorted. "We had been successful in secreting ourselves thus far, but those Government agents caught up with them at the last! No doubt Francis put up such resistance that by the time they subdued him Emily had made away, although wounded, to confirm to us that my orders had been carried out. I salute her commitment to the cause. But, enough! I think it's time to complete the plan, don't you, Newman?" He nodded, walked forward and clamped us to the metal handrail running at waist height along the length of the Olive using pairs of handcuffs – police issue, I noted.
"Is this true? What is your plan, you evil, heartless woman?" Doyle was getting quite worked up. Even in our extreme situation I couldn't help a wry smile. Unrequited love, indeed!
"To sink the Dreadnought," she said, levelly, as though discussing cookery. "To sink this ship in the middle of the main entrance to Portsmouth Harbour. To use the weakness of the Admiralty against itself. 'Let's make a real statement,' I dare say they thought, 'and let us build something as big as we can, as a testament to our power'. Except of course it's so big that when it sinks it will block the Harbour entrance and render the Dockyard inoperable. Word will be put around that it's a French plot and – lo and behold – the world is at war, with half the Royal Navy trapped in port. That should adjust the balance of power somewhat."
"Is there no depth to which you will not sink, woman?" I shouted.
Newman muttered something in Miss Wilcox's ear. "It's you that's going to do the sinking, gentlemen," she replied with a smile. "This vessel holds our entire stock of White Powder – that's why she's so low in the water. You're standing on my bomb." She looked up at the Dreadnought, now only perhaps fifty yards away from us, and already looming over us so that we were almost in half-light, such was the deep shadow she cast over all around her. "Newman and I will tie up alongside Dreadnought in a few moments, then bid you goodbye – well, actually, it will be rather earlier than that – the fireworks start in a few moments, and once they do, no-one will notice us shoot you. The White Powder will blow a hole in the side of the ship large enough to kill most on board, and drown those who don't die in the explosion. We will be away in the dinghy by the time the Dreadnought is sent to the bottom of the Harbour. We go back to London, step up production, sit back and enjoy our riches."
I looked to Holmes. He was still quite clam, fixing her with a steely glare. Even in our desperate situation I felt hope. But what hope could there be, so far from our home territory, alone and bound? His next words however took me by surprise.
"You don't have to do this. You have a choice."
"Oh, really?" she spat her words at him, the vitriol in her voice unmistakable. "All my life I've watched the Empire being built on the backs of oppressed people. Look at them, even now…" She waved towards the crowds lining the shore, cheering at the looming battleship, and on the hundreds of vessels crowding around us. "So excited – but about what? If they knew… They don't know on what their Empire stands. They don't care. Enough is enough. We have to make a stand."
"But you have a choice. You always have a choice. You don't have to go through with it. Even now it's not too late. Think of the lives you will save."
For a moment it was almost as though time stood still, her eyes locked with his. Boats continued to jostle about us, getting closer again as the mighty battleship moved southwards into the narrow entrance of the Harbour. We were only perhaps ten yards from the Dreadnought. Then came her answer – cold and inhuman, as though from a machine. "No, Mr Holmes, there is too much at stake." She nodded to Newman, who passed her his revolver, produced and struck a match, and lit a cordite fuse tied to the ship's hatch. Sparks flew from it as it started to burn down quickly. Newman took back his gun. "This five minute fuse will see us clear," she said. "And now I think it is time to die, Mr Holmes, gentlemen."
"Indeed it is," he replied, with a note of sadness that filled me with fear.
The boats were crowding around us again as an enormous blast on the Dreadnought's horn heralded the start of the firework exhibition. We jumped as loud cracks and whistles echoed over the still autumn water. The flotilla of small craft responded with their own horns, bells and whistles. I looked down the barrel of the gun in Newman's hand, and, I have to admit, said my prayers. I looked to Holmes, who turned away from Miss Wilcox and Newman, and ran his free hand through his hair.
Newman and Miss Wilcox fell to the deck of the ship, incapacitated by the bullets that hit them from the boat alongside. In shock I looked across, straight into the eyes of Lestrade, and at last understood. Holmes had given the final signal to convey that his attempt to reason with Miss Wilcox had failed, and the police agents in the launch now mooring up against the Olive had despatched their prey with clinical efficiency.
"Good morning, Lestrade!" Holmes shouted to our rescuer. "I think you will find there is a burning fuse to be extinguished in double quick time, please! And then if you would be so kind as to deal with these handcuffs, we would be most grateful."
Within moments the fuse had been made safe and we had been freed. Doyle and I checked the bodies – Newman was dead, and Miss Wilcox seemed to be not long for this world.
And then, in a most unBritish display of relief and emotion, I hugged Doyle and Holmes. Holmes for his part tried to resist, but as the firework exhibition continued and the Dreadnought continued on her way, I was only intent on celebrating the fact that we had been saved from certain death by the brilliance of Mr Sherlock Holmes.