The Mammoth Book of New Sherlock Holmes Adventures - Mike Ashley [281]
Yet the steel grip that had descended on my shoulders was real enough, and so was the asperity with which I was being shaken. “Pull yourself together, doctor. You’re wanted.”
An embossed silver flask had been raised to my lips.
I pushed it away. “Right now, Holmes, that would finish me. And as for being wanted, I believe I am. Far more so than a man with my white hair should be – ”
I stopped because I had been unceremoniously turned so that I could see a spotless whitecoated figure, with a stethoscope in his pocket and a large glistening black bag in his hand, already moving among my sick and wounded. He glanced over at me with grave young eyes and nodded.
“Dr Ostenborough, Watson,” Holmes waved a perfunctory introduction. “I know you too well to think that you would leave without a replacement, and he begged for the opportunity. Now come.”
“Ostenborough,” I repeated stupidly as Holmes pulled me firmly out of the tent. “Wasn’t he with the palace?”
“One of the King’s personal medics, yes. Which should give you some idea of the seriousness of what we’re facing.”
Waiting for us was a British sergeant at the wheel of an old French taxi!
“She’s a right proper bitch,” the sergeant told me cheerfully, “dunno when I’ve driv worse, but she’ll go, sir, she’ll go.”
“I have been getting around by rather unconventional means,” Holmes explained with some of his old light air, “and took what was available. In with you, Watson, and take a pull at this.” He again handed me the silver flask. “There’s nothing we can do until we reach the chancellory. No, no explanations now.”
The brandy was like a liquid memory of luxuries that had never been common in my life. “Did both flask and contents come from the palace too?”
“The monks of France made the brandy, the late Czar sent some bottles from the White Palace to his royal cousin of England, the flask is Bavarian and was given me by Prince Max.”
“So even the Chancellor of Germany is behind you, Holmes.”
“He is, yes. I cannot say the same for all his countrymen. Drink up, Watson, and catch up on some sleep. I fear you will need it before our present mission is over.”
My last sight was of Holmes’s familiar lean figure (Had he lost weight? Probably. Who had not?) settled deep in the corner beside me, his head on his chest, his hands locked on his knees. We could have been just pulling out of Paddington.
Was that world still there, somewhere, the world for which we were fighting?
I remember only fragments of Holmes’s and my journey. I know that we lurched along for some time, more than once getting stuck and being freed by soldiers who were already as mud-coated as the road, and then transferred to first one train, then to another. Somewhere I foggily became aware that my old medical bag was resting between my feet – trust Holmes to remember to bring it – and was comforted by its familiarity.
I came to myself as we climbed on board yet another train, to discover that we were in a decidedly elegant car. Holmes flung open a corner door to reveal the nearly forgotten wonders of a spacious bathroom, with a spruce attendant carefully arranging a complete set of gentleman’s attire.
I emerged a new man, and sat down with Holmes to the kind of breakfast that haunts the dreams of every hungry Englishman.
“These clothes,” I questioned while rapidly spooning up melon balls in orange juice. “They’re a perfect fit.”
“So they should be,” Holmes replied austerely, “I was most specific. All right, Watson, eat and listen. You know the military situation. The last German attempt has failed, our counterstroke has stalled – ”
“Once more American forces arrive,” I began, only to be interrupted in my turn.
“Exactly, and the Germans know that as well as the Allies. The only realistic question now is the terms