The Mammoth Book of New Sherlock Holmes Adventures - Mike Ashley [218]
“Who, Holmes?”
“Von Holbach himself. He lodges at the Legation. He has no official invitation, of course, for his master’s regrettable severing of friendly relations between his nation and ours at Cowes in ‘ninety-five means that not only can he not cross the Channel, but his eminence grise is not officially welcomed here either.”
“Then when Meyer goes to deliver the letter, we have him.”
“He would be arrested before he pulled the bellrope. No, he will seek some other means.” Holmes picked up his violin and I knew we were in for another long spell of waiting, though the sands of time were running out fast.
My friend’s violin droned on that evening and again on the Sunday morning, the usual sign of great pressure bearing upon him. The hot, stifling air around us in the darkened rooms bore insupportably in upon me. “Holmes,” I cried, “at least play some recognizable tune.”
A screech from the fiddle. “Tune, Watson?” my friend replied icily. “What could my poor violin choose to please you? “God save the Queen” might be appropriate. Or a Sousa march? The Ride of the – Watson!” he exclaimed, “I have not been using the wits God granted me.” In a moment, the violin lay disregarded on the table as his eyes took on the gleam with which I was so familiar.
“I grow dangerously near that practice of which our friend Mr Didier might approve, but I have always distrusted, that of assuming an end as yet unsupported entirely by fact. We have very little time left to us. Logical deduction is our only hope. The Times of yesterday, if you please, Watson, and the Jubilee programme you so kindly purchased for Mrs Hudson.”
When I returned from my errand, having promised to return the booklet to her possession, he snatched the programme from my grasp, and after a few moments’ perusal cried: “Come Watson, you will need your best straw hat, your smartest cane, and that unfortunate blazer you purchased for boating.”
“Where are we bound, Holmes?” I asked eagerly, relieved beyond measure that at last we were taking action. “Shall I have need of my pistol?”
“To take a solitary turn round St James’ Park, Watson?” he jested. “I trust not. Though you go alone, the ducks are not thought to be a hazard.”
My hopes fell. I was in no need of a constitutional walk, but of a resolution of this affair. However, he was in no mood to bandy words; he was set upon my taking this walk.
“Very well, Holmes,” I agreed, albeit reluctantly.
“Good old Watson. And after your stroll, I recommend to your earnest attention the concert advertised to begin at the St James’s Park bandstand at noon.”
“Concert, Holmes? Good heavens, how can I think of music at such a time as this?”
“What more obvious place for us to meet, my dear fellow?”
Relieved that Sherlock Holmes had indeed some plan in mind, I took a cab to the Birdcage Walk entrance to the park and had it not been for the urgency of the dark situation in which we were placed, would have enjoyed my stroll in this delightful park, now crowded with Jubilee visitors. Children bowled hoops in and out of the promenaders round the lake, sweethearts floated in a blissful world of their own, flowers spread a carpet of colour before my eyes, and as I crossed the bridge the sun chose to appear. The weather had been capricious for some time, but nothing could dim the enthusiasm of these crowds.
I obediently took my seat at the bandstand, towards the back of the rows of seats as befitted my cavalier holiday appearance. A travelling ice-cream vendor wheeling his bicycle passed by, as I looked anxiously for Sherlock Holmes. There was no sign of him. The front rows were filled with those of high social standing, amongst whom the ticket-seller was now moving, a rough-looking fellow despite his peaked cap and crumpled navy uniform. The German band, usually resident in Broadstairs in Kent, was already preparing to play by the time the ticket collector reached me; I handed over the