Embassy Row

  eventhorizonpg.com

  THERE WAS NO other word for it: Mycroft Holmes’ evening visits to the Diogenes Club were very much a ritual, adhered to with a regularity that delineated his life. Either Mister Holmes himself or his double, Edmund Sutton, crossed the road at fifteen minutes before five every afternoon and returned to his flat at seven-forty in a display of reliability that rivaled Big Ben.

  I had been in the Diogenes Club rather less frequently since I entered Mister Holmes’ employ as his confidential secretary; the place still had the capacity to awe me, and this evening the urgency of my errand served only to make the club more impressive for its silence and its nearly palpable air of undisturbed and profound thought. After explaining the nature of my business to the worthy at the reception desk, I was escorted to the Strangers’ Room and informed that Mister Holmes would be with me directly, which news made me more aware of the immediacy of my task. Left to my own devices, I would have gone through the august, musty chambers in search of my employer. As it was, I was given a pony of superior port to ease my wait. It was twenty minutes past six.

  “Guthrie, dear boy,” said Mycroft Holmes some fifteen minutes later as he came into the Strangers’ Room from the sanctum sanctorum of the Reading Room; his expression was more perplexed than annoyed at this interruption of his evening rite. “Since it is not your inclination to visit me here, I must suppose that what brings you cannot wait for my return.”

  “No, sir,” I said, hearing my own Scots accent grow stronger for embarrassment; my awareness of it did little to lessen the burr. “The message was specific, and the messenger stressed the need for promptness. Tyers advised me to come at once.”

  This invocation of the opinion of his trusted, longtime manservant earned me a curt nod from Mister Holmes. “I have never known Tyers to act in a precipitate manner—nor you, for that matter,” said he, pulling his lower lip as was his habit when ruminating. His profound grey eyes showed the degree of his concern as his heavy brows drew down over them. He shrugged to demonstrate his ignorance. “I had best have the whole, then. Tell me what brings you, Guthrie.”

  I drew a heavy envelope from my inner waistcoat pocket and held it out to him. “This came from the Austro-Hungarian embassy; it demands your instant response, we were told in the most emphatic terms. In German,” I added out of conscientiousness.

  “Always precise,” Holmes approved. He took the envelope, turning it over in his big, lean hands with care. He inspected the wafer sealing it. “At least it is only the Austro-Hungarians,” he exclaimed with a gesture of relief. “Between all the Japanese and the Bulgarians have been doing this last month, I am prepared to run mad. Either one would be aggravating, but with both of them—If they were acting in concert, I would be utterly distracted. I can almost welcome the Austro-Hungarians.”

  A more unlikely alliance than the Bulgarians and the Japanese had not been proposed, and I took advantage of his remark to chuckle. “While I share your sentiments, sir,” I said as Mycroft Holmes broke the seal on the envelope, “you must forgive me if I find such a notion ludicrous. Indeed, it is more likely that the Turks and the Americans should suddenly become allies.”

  He paid no heed to anything I said, putting the whole of his attention on the missive I had brought; my minor witticism was ignored. “You would think,” he mused aloud, “that they would have had this brought straight here. My habits are well enough established that they . . . Odd of them.” He cocked his large, long head.

  “Tyers remarked on that, as well,” I said, recalling how carefully he had perused the envelope before advising me to take it across the road at once.

  “Um,” said Mycroft Holmes, removing the paper the envelope contained.

  “It seems to me,” I went on while he carefully scrutinized the single sheet of heavy parchment, “that this is more irregular than I supposed.” The more I thought about it, the less I liked this whole episode.

  Mycroft Holmes cut into my thoughts. “What is this packet mentioned? Was it given to you along with—” He held out the sheet to finish his sentence.

  “No. There was only the envelope, sir,” I said, feeling increasingly uneasy. I knew I was expected to provide all material he might require. “I can return to your flat to see if anything more has been delivered.”

  At this, Mycroft Holmes’ frown deepened. “I doubt that will be necessary,” he said in a tone of voice that filled me with foreboding.

  “Sir,” I began, only to be brusquely interrupted.

  “You are a veritable prince of secretaries, Guthrie, truly you are. But I implore you to stop your infernal sir-ing,” he complained.

  “Sorry, si—” I said at once, stopping myself in time. “It’s this place. I feel as if I were back in school.” I lowered my eyes and was about to find some appropriate way to lessen the offense I had innocently given when the outer door opened and one of the Diogenes Club’s porters stepped into the Strangers’ Room.

  “Yes, Redfern?” Mycroft Holmes said without giving the man more than passing attention.

  “There is a packet just been delivered for you, Mister Holmes. I think it may be important. The cove that brought it thought it was. Do you want me to bring it here to you?” He was respectful, even diffident, but I noticed the same straight bearing about him that Philip Tyers displayed, and I suspected that Redfern was another man retired from military service.

  “Where is this package?” asked Mycroft Holmes with the attitude of one anticipating risk.

  “At the front desk. The fellow wanted to bring it to you himself but as he would not sign the Strangers’ Book, I would not permit it.” His firmly polite manner did not alter, but I had the distinct impression that Redfern could make such a refusal stick with any but the most belligerent.

  Now Mycroft Holmes swung around in alarm. So abrupt and unexpected was this change in him that I did not perceive the cause. I quickly realized that my employer had some specific hazard in mind, for he surged past me and out into the lobby of his club.

  I was often astonished at the speed and power with which this apparently portly and indolent man could move when he deemed it necessary. He reached the reception desk and pointed to the paper-wrapped parcel set there. “Is this the package? Tell me, man,” he demanded as he reached out for it; I was not far behind him, watching him with increasing apprehension.

  Redfern was next to me. “Yes, sir, Mister Holmes,” he said, and was about to add something more when Mycroft Holmes seized the package and made for the entrance at a steady run.

  “Guthrie!” he shouted to me. “Follow the messenger who brought this!”

  “I did not see him,” I called after him, acutely aware of disturbing the tranquility of the Diogenes Club.

  “Find him!” he ordered as he flung open the door and bolted for the street.

  I glanced at Redfern, who remained unperturbed.

  “An Austrian uniform, as I recollect. Didn’t know the regiment. Parade gear, I think. Forest green and silver.” His report was admirably succinct.

  “It is enough,” I said, more in hope than certainty. But Mycroft Holmes was already into the street by the time I ran out the door of the Diogenes Club; I reached the pavement several strides behind my employer. I paused to look up and down Pall Mall, trying to pierce the gloom of dusk and the crowded traffic of the street for what was probably a forest green Austrian parade uniform. I caught sight of Mycroft Holmes running swiftly toward the corner, the package clutched tightly to his chest. In the next moment he rounded the corner into the alley leading toward the Admiralty.

  Then I noticed a flash of a parade tunic in a dark color that might be green, and I was off in pursuit. I did not yell or attempt to gain the man’s a
ttention: Mycroft Holmes had taught me that such was folly when truly dangerous events are occurring, and serves only to put your adversary on his mettle. I rushed through the crowd, very nearly knocking over an elderly gentleman making his way with the help of his cane. At another time I would have apologized, but I dared not take my eyes from the man in the uniform for an instant.

  It was unfortunate that a sudden, muffled explosion caught the attention of everyone in Pall Mall. The man I supposed must be my target hardly hesitated at the sound, but could not keep from looking back toward the Diogenes Club. In so doing, he noticed me, and surmised my purpose. He began to move more quickly, taking advantage of the sudden confusion on the street. I hastened after him, breaking into a run as the man slipped through the crowd.

  At the corner, the man hesitated, as if uncertain which way to go. I took all advantage I could of his uncertainty, closing the gap between us with a burst of speed that surprised even me. As the man dodged between carriages and bolted in the direction of Regent Street, I kept after him, dashing among the carriages, carts, wagons, and hansoms, earning myself a number of round oaths from drivers and pedestrians alike.

  We were nearing Charles II Street when I became aware of Mycroft Holmes pelting up behind me. “Saint Albans Mews!” he shouted to me. In the fading light I could see his garments were in disarray and the knuckles of his left hand were scraped and bleeding.

  “Sir,” I began; I knew Saint Albans Mews was quite near, but on the east side of Regent Street.

  “Don’t waste breath,” he ordered me. “Saint Albans Mews. We’ll have him there!”

  I knew it was best to comply, and did so as promptly as I could. A dozen strides further on I was secretly pleased to see our quarry stumble. Encouraged, I redoubled my efforts and noticed that Mycroft Holmes did the same; he signaled me to press the man on his left, forcing him to turn east. It would not be easy; though I was fit enough, this sort of chase was taxing for me. Between traffic and poor light, I felt myself at a marked disadvantage.

  Ahead, the man veered into the busy thoroughfare, moving to the east side of Regent Street. I did not allow this minor success to diminish my efforts. I continued to force him on his left, so that he would be inclined to go toward Saint Albans Mews; the narrow street was not far ahead now, and I could sense Mycroft Holmes intensifying the hunt. Somehow I summoned up the strength for a sprint.

  Saint Albans Mews was surprisingly quiet for being in such proximity to Regent Street. I looked up at the high fronts of the buildings, and noticed a small service alley leading between numbers 4 and 5. The man in the forest green tunic made for it, arms Hailing and strides unsteady. I heard Mycroft Holmes come up behind me.

  “Follow him, Guthrie!” he shouted. “Don’t let him get away.”

  I did all that I could to comply, making for the alley at speed, going into the gloom recklessly, and nearly falling over a group of dustbins which the man we were chasing had somehow avoided. I did not like to consider what this might mean, for I was keenly aware that this was an ideal location for an ambush.

  “He could be hiding,” Mycroft Holmes reminded me as he came down the alley to the service yard behind the houses.

  “If he is armed—” I panted.

  “You may be sure he is” was Mycroft Holmes’ grim answer.

  I had already slowed my pace to a steady jog, and I might have faltered at this unwelcome intelligence, but Mycroft Holmes showed no tendency to hesitate and I was determined to maintain his good opinion.

  The service yard was much like all the others in this part of London: It was roughly paved and gave access to the rear of the houses, their stables and kitchens; it was lined with stands of dustbins and similar receptacles. I peered into the dark, trying to detect any movement ahead of us, but could discern none. “I don’t think he can have made it to the next street.”

  “Nor do I,” said Holmes. “Which means he has gone to ground.” He tapped his ear. “Listen well, Guthrie.”

  I did as I was told, making myself breathe through my mouth so that I would not be misled by my own subdued gasping. We walked with caution now, trying to make certain that there was nothing to give our presence away. When we were little more than halfway down the service yard, Mycroft Holmes took hold of my shoulder and pointed to an ajar gate.

  “There,” he whispered, his hand angling up toward the landing of the first floor. On the ground floor no lights could be discerned; the house appeared deserted.

  I could barely detect movement, but I was aware of a shape in the shadows that might have been a man—or a small wardrobe, or a large dog, for that matter. I wanted to make it out before going after it, but Mycroft Holmes was not willing to hesitate. He went to the gate and swung it open silently, then motioned to me to follow him.

  Ashamed at my momentary lack of activity, I hurried to climb the stairs, and was rewarded with what must have been an oath in some tongue I did not recognize. I took heart at this and went up the stairs two at a time. Above me, the man made for the second floor.

  I continued upward, hearing Mycroft Holmes pounding on the ground floor door, demanding admittance to the house in the name of Her Majesty’s government.

  On the second floor, the man I was chasing fell heavily against the landing railing over the service yard. For a moment it seemed he would regain his footing, but then he plummeted downward, landing with a sickening noise of splintering on the high wooden fence. I stood very still, suddenly feeling my muscles turn to jelly. I clung to the banister for the greater part of a minute before I could trust myself to make my way down the stairs.

  Mycroft Holmes was standing by the fence; the dead man’s upper body hung like a bizarre trophy. He had just completed a cursory examination of the body. “This is most unfortunate, Guthrie. Not that I hold you at fault,” he added as I began to offer an apology for my failure to capture the man. “Neither of us could have anticipated this.” He indicated the corpse.

  There was a sudden spill of light as the kitchen door opened and a small, straight-backed woman of middle years looked out, fear in her deep-set eyes.

  “It’s Mycroft Holmes, Missus Moss. If you will be kind enough to bring us a lantern?” He spoke calmly and sensibly, and the woman did as he requested.

  Half a year ago, I might have remarked on Mycroft Holmes knowing the housekeeper here, but I had become accustomed to his encyclopedic range of information and acquaintances; now all I said was, “She is reliable?”

  “Missus Moss? Vastly,” said Mycroft Holmes, putting his attention on the dead man again. “Well, one thing we can be sure of: This fellow was no more Austro-Hungarian than I am.” He made a gesture of disgust. “I had hoped this would not be difficult, not just now.”

  “How can you be certain that the man is not—?” I asked, beginning to recover myself a trifle.

  “The uniform is a theatrical one. Probably from Covent Garden or the Savoy.” He fingered the tunic. “There’s even greasepaint on the collar.”

  I could not conceal my bafflement. “But why would—” I found my own answer. “He was supposed to be identified as being with one of the foreign embassies. Of course. But which one?”

  “It hardly matters. The efforts to identify him would provide a distraction,” said Mycroft Holmes, looking up as Missus Moss came out bearing a lantern with a tall, narrow chimney and a newly trimmed wick shining brightly. “Thank you,” he said as he took the lantern from her. “I am depending on you to keep this incident to yourself. I will tend to this directly.”

  “Very good, Mister Holmes.” She curtsied and withdrew, leaving us with the body.

  Holmes gave the lantern to me, indicating where I should hold it to aid him in his efforts. “This is cursory at best. I will have to arrange for the Admiralty to claim the body. There, you see?” he went on. “Greasepaint. And look at the epaulets. I do not need Edmund Sutton to tell me they are for the stage.”

  I found myself intrigued in spite of my initial revulsion at th
e sight of the man who lay like a broken soldier doll over the fence. “If he intended to escape notice, this was not a good way to do it,” I remarked.

  “True enough,” said Mycroft Holmes. “Therefore his purpose was to have the blame for the bomb placed at the door of one of our European neighbors.” He was inspecting the teeth of the dead man, holding his mouth open with a pencil. “Gold teeth. He was not a peasant, it would appear.”

  “Bomb?” I repeated as the full impact of his words struck me.

  “In the package, dear boy. I was able to get it into one of the mucking barrels behind the Diogenes Club before it exploded. All that it did was spread horse dung from one end of the alley to the next.” He indicated the scrape on his knuckles. “And not a moment too soon.”

  I considered this. “What does this have to do with the Japanese, do you think? Or the Bulgarians?”

  “Perhaps nothing,” said Mycroft Holmes as he put the pencil back in his breast pocket. “I must assume this was intended to distract us, but from what?”

  “Lord knows there are things enough to distract us from,” I said, fighting off a sudden wave of nausea..

  “It may be something from the past, as well. Not everything I have done has been universally approved.” His dry tone was eloquent. He sighed once. “I shall have to send word around to Yvgeny Tschersky. He may have information that will help us.”

  Although I had never met Tschersky, I knew Mycroft Holmes held him in high regard and trusted him as much as he ever trusted a Russian. “Why Tschersky?”

  “He hears things, dear boy. He hears things.” He straightened up. “Now run along to the Admiralty and make sure someone comes to deal with this. Stress the need for secrecy and haste. Until we know more about this man, I do not want news of it to leak out. The Japanese would not like it. And we are meeting with them day after tomorrow. Anything that suggests scandal would make our position much more precarious than it already is. Cecil would not be pleased if all our work with the Japanese came to naught.”