Peter Tremayne - An Ensuing Evil and Others

“Did you send a telegraph to me?” Holmes said, ignoring his question.

“Never thought of it, old boy-couldn’t even if I had. Mycroft said he had a younger brother in London somewhere, but I had no way of knowing your address.” He suddenly glanced at his pocket watch. “Sorry, have to dash. Lots to do today. The new Lord Lieutenant and Chief Secretary are arriving to take over the administration. Must be at the Castle and spruced up. Have to act as the Viceroy’s ADC at the Viceregal Lodge tonight. Don’t worry, old boy. G Division will sort things out. I saw Mallon of the DMP arrive a short while ago. You’re in safe hands.”

With a flourish of his hat, the young man passed on his way.

I saw that Holmes’s face was glum. “Perhaps we’d better have a wash and brush up,” I ventured. “It wasn’t an easy overnight journey on the train and boat. We will do no good if we are in a state of fatigue.”

Holmes agreed. We were about to leave the house when Superintendent Mallon came out of Mycroft’s rooms. He seemed surprised to find us still in the house. “I’ll walk with you to Kildare Street, gentlemen,” he offered as he opened the door.

I was sure Holmes was going to refuse and was surprised when he accepted. “That is good of you, Superintendent.”

“The old city is in a fine state with the arrival of the new Lord Lieutenant,” said Mallon obliviously as we left the house. “They say that Gladstone has taken leave of his senses and done a deal with the Republicans. He’s let the leaders out of jail. Given them their cherished land reforms. The next thing we’ll see is a parliament back here in Dublin. Give these Fenians an inch, and they’ll take a mile. They say that’s the purpose for which Lord Cavendish has just replaced Lord Cowper as Viceroy.”

I did not follow Irish politics, although I knew something about the recent land war against the big landowners-a reaction to the worsening conditions experienced by Irish tenant farmers. There had been the famous case of Captain Boycott, Lord Erne’s estate manager, who had been ostracized by his workers and the local community. The campaign had been led by members of the Land League and Irish Party, who also wanted selfgovernment for Ireland.

“There’ll be trouble, mark my words, if Cavendish does start to give the Fenians more concessions,” went on Mallon. “And you don’t have to stretch the imagination to see the connections between them. I hear Cavendish is even related to ParnelPs wife. Parnell, Davitt, Sexton, and Dillon-the Fenian leaders-are already on their way to London to discuss matters with Gladstone, while Cavendish and his new Chief Secretary Burke arrive here.”

I subsequently learned that Mallon used the term Fenian to describe anyone who supported any form of devolved government and not merely Irish Republicans. His voice droned a bit. I was sure that poor Holmes, distracted as he was about his brothers disappearance and the mysterious faked telegraph he had received, was totally uninterested in the superintendents political musings.

When Mallon left us, I asked why Holmes had been so enthusiastic for him to accompany us to Kildare Street.

“Didn’t you see the caleche drawn up across the street, Watson?” he asked in surprise. “A black carriage with a white scallop shell emblem on its doors?”

The Kildare Street Club was housed in an opulent red brick Gothicstyle building at the end of the street that bore its name. The club, as Holmes informed me, was exclusive to the most important families in Ireland. No Catholics were allowed in membership, nor anyone who was known to support Irish efforts to secure “home rule.” In fact, no army officer below the rank of major, nor naval officer below a lieutenantcommander, was even allowed within its portals. It turned out that Mycroft Holmes was an honored member. Sherlock Holmes was welcomed in his brother’s name.

We spent the morning at the great General Post Office in Sackville Street, opposite an edifice called Nelson’s Pillar, which seemed a pale imitation of the monument in London’s Trafalgar Square. I kept a wary eye on all carriages, but there was no sign of the black one with a white scallop shell emblem. We also made inquiries about the emblem and were told that it was the emblem of no less a person than Lord Maynooth, a leading spokesman of the Liberal Government. I pointed out that such a man could not possibly be involved in kidnapping and that O’Keeffe must have mistaken the emblem.

Holmes, however, felt that we should pay a call on the noble lord later in the day. Our inquiries about the mysterious telegraph proved fruitless, and eventually we returned to the Kildare Street Club for a late luncheon, greatly despondent at our lack of success.

After lunch, a drowsiness overtook me. It was Thursday night since I had slept, and here we were on Saturday afternoon. Holmes noticed my eyelids drooping and advised me to take an hours nap.

“Nonsense, old fellow,” I protested. “If you are off to see our titled friend, then I shall come with you.”

He shook his head. “I am going to rest for an hour or so, as well, Watson. Well go to see Lord Maynooth this evening.”

I went to my room but not before I had made Holmes swear that he would make no move without me. I then collapsed onto my bed. It seemed that only moments had passed before I was being shaken awake. Holmes was bending over me.

“Come on, Watson,” he hissed. “The game’s afoot!”

I blinked and struggled up. “So soon? What?…”

“It’s early evening, old fellow. You’ve been asleep for nearly four hours,” he admonished.

I leaped from the bed with a curse. “Why didn’t you awaken me earlier?”

Holmes shrugged. “No cause. It was only a short while ago that our mystery friend made contact again. Here…”

He shoved a plain piece of paper into my hand. It was addressed simply to Mr. S. Holmes. It read: Sorry I missed you at Merrion Square this morning. Be at the corner of Dawson Street and the north side of St. Stephen’s Green at 7 P.M. You may bring your friend with you .

I looked at Holmes, aghast. “But it is a quarter to,” I cried, catching sight of the clock on the mantelshelf.

“Have no concern. The place is but a minute from here. Come on. And don’t forget that revolver of yours.”

We arrived punctually at 7 P.M. at the allotted place. Almost at once a black covered carriage, drawn by two black nags, pulled away from the curb on the opposite side of the road by the fenced park and turned a semicircle across the thoroughfare to come to a rest where we stood. Holmes grabbed my sleeve and indicated the door. There was a white scallop shell emblem on it. There were very few people about, most having already dispersed for their evening meals. I placed my hand on the butt of my pistol inside my coat pocket.

The door of the carriage opened, and a soft Irish voice called, “Would you be so good as to step inside the carriage, Mr. Holmes? Doctor Watson, as well.”

“Who are you?” demanded Holmes. “Are you holding my brother for ransom?”

“Your questions will be answered if you step inside,” went on the voice in good humor. “And advise your friend not to do anything rash with the revolver he is handling in his pocket. He is covered at this moment and would be illadvised to attempt any indiscretion, as it would certainly prove fatal.”

Holmes glanced at me in resignation. “Best do as he says, Watson.”

He climbed into the carriage, and I followed. We sat with our backs to the driver. Two shadowy figures were seated before us. The vehicle started with a jerk, throwing both of us forward. Before I had time to recover, one of the men had leaned forward and expertly searched me, removing my revolver. A moment later, Holmes also suffered a similar scrutiny.