Mike Ashley - The Mammoth Book of New Sherlock Holmes Adventures

I was leaning wearily against a tent pole, sipping the cooling concoction in my mug, when from behind me seemed to come that never forgotten voice, in words as few and peremptory as always. "Watson, I need you."

I'm hallucinating, I thought, not much surprised: I couldn't remember when I had either slept or eaten. I knew that since the early days of the war Holmes had been immersed in something most secret, and I had heard whispers of his having been occasionally glimpsed in the very private drawing rooms of the mighty of several countries. Wherever he was this night, he would not be in a bloody dressing station on the Western front.

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 of peace. Prince Max agreed to become chancellor for precisely that purpose, and there seemed some hope that he could succeed."

"If ever a man could be trusted by all sides," I agreed, "it is Prince Max."

"With the secret approval of both London and Paris, he has been in covert communication with the President of the United States."

"At last!" I cried, over a mouthful of fresh roll.

"Contain your jubilation, doctor, for Prince Max sent his inquiry about what would be necessary to end the war without the knowledge of the Kaiser, and his Most Foolish Majesty is now adamantly refusing to accept the necessity. Even more worrying, General Ludendorf has regained his nerve and is urging another attack, in which scheme he has the support of the more fanatical officers."

"Suicidal!" I exclaimed. "Murderous!"

"All of that, and yet unfortunately still possible. The Kaiser has once more taken to his private train and is busily rattling about well behind the lines, well away from anyone who would press unwelcome truths upon him. And Prince Max has fallen ill: he is now quite incapable of trying to trace and corner Germany's official leader."

I groaned. "Is the illness serious?"

"I fear so. Even yesterday, when I last saw him, the prince was… not himself. The trouble is that we have so little time. By now the prince will have received the American president's reply, a message that must be answered very soon, or the hounds of war will bay once more."

He was looking at me with a grave significance that I couldn't pretend not to understand. "The prince will certainly have doctors, Holmes. Surely the best that Germany has to offer, and that is saying much."

"Medically, no doubt. Politically and militarily, however, they belong to the Kaiser and to General Ludendorf, all determined to chase the chimera of victory yet once more."

"Even so, Holmes, I doubt that the prince would accept my poor services. Why should he?"

"Because you're English, doctor, and my friend," Holmes replied with unanswerable finality.

We arrived in Berlin in the early hours of the morning, and were met by a chauffeured limousine with curtained windows, Several times I peered out, always to see clusters of people, men and women, drifting restlessly around; some soldiers were also on the streets, even a few officers, but they were doing nothing except to mingle with the strangely moving crowds. I glanced often at Holmes, but he neither looked out nor spoke.

At the Chancellory we were escorted directly to Prince Max's quarters. As we climbed those marble steps and passed through those ornate halls, however, more than one officer turned pointedly away: obviously Holmes had spoken truth and we were not welcome to all here.

As we waited in the anteroom of the prince's suite, the door to the inner chambers was thrown open by a plain black-clothed figure, with short grey hair and honest peasant face now taut with worry, scowling ferociously at a departing visitor. This was

a gentleman of aquiline features, in evening dress, who bowed to Holmes with a deference that was openly mocking.

"Good morning, Mr Holmes," he said in perfect English. "I fear you will find that the prince is no longer capable of attending to business matters. Good day, Hans, be sure to take good care of your master." He smiled unctuously as Hans stiffened with fury, and swaggered away.