Michael Kurland - Victorian Villainy

“Why, yes,” Hansel agreed. “And quite enough of them to have costumed the full cast of that Gilbert and Sullivan show- Pinafore.”

“And the name you stitched on the caps,” Holmes interjected, “could it have been the Royal Edgar?”

“Indeed it was,” Hansel said, looking startled. “How did you…”

“Much like this one?” Holmes asked, pulling the cap we had found out of his pocket and placing it on the table.

Hansel picked it up, examined it carefully, crumpled the cloth in his hands and sniffed at it. “Why, yes,” he agreed, “this is one of ours.”

“Go on,” I said. “How did you get yourself tied up in that cabin?”

“It was when I asked about the undergarments,” Hansel said. “Count von Kramm seemed to take offense.

“Undergarments?”

Hansel nodded and took a large bite of sausage. “We were asked to supply authentic undergarments, and I went to considerable trouble to comply with his request.”

“Whatever for?” asked Holmes.

Hansel shrugged a wide, expressive shrug. “I did not ask,” he said. “I assumed it was for whatever production he was planning to put on. I acquired the requested undergarments from the Naval Stores at Portsmouth, so their authenticity was assured.”

“You thought it was for a play?” I asked. “Doesn’t that sound like excessive realism?”

Another shrug. “I have heard that when Untermeyer produces a show at the Konigliche Theater he puts loose change in the corners of the couches and stuffed chairs, and all the doors and windows on the set must open and close even if they are not to be used during the performance.”

“Who are we to question theatrical genius?” Holmes agreed. “If Count Kramm’s theatrical sailors are to wear sailors’ undergarments, why then so be it.”

“Indeed,” said Hansel. “But why only five sets?”

Holmes carefully put down his coffee cup. “Five sets only?”

“That’s right.”

“And how many sets of, ah, outer garments?”

“Thirty five complete uniforms. Twelve officers and the rest common sailors.”

“How strange,” I said.

Hansel nodded. “That’s what I said. That’s why I ended up tied up on that chair, or so I suppose.”

Holmes looked at me. “Count von Kramm,” he said, “or as I know him better, Wilhelm Gottsreich Sigismond von Ormstein, Grand Duke of Cassel-Felstein and Hereditary King of Bohemia, dislikes being questioned.”

“I see,” I said.

“Von Kramm is one of his favorite aliases.”

“That man is a king?” Hansel asked, a note of alarm in his voice. “There is no place where one can hide from a king.”

“Do not be alarmed,” Holmes told him. “By now he has forgotten that you ever existed.”

“Ah, yes,” Hansel said. “There is that about kings.”

Holmes stood. “I think we must go to Trieste,” he said. “There is devil’s work afoot.”

“Yes,” I agreed. “I need to send a telegram. I’ll have the reply sent to Trieste.”

“I, I think, must go home,” said Hansel.

“Yes, of course,” Holmes agreed. He took Hansel’s hand. “You have earned the thanks of another royal person, and I shall see that, in the fullness of time, you are suitably rewarded.”

“You are g-going to r-r-reward me?” Hansel stammered. “But your grace, your kingship, I had no idea. I mean…”

Holmes barked out a short laugh. “No, my good man,” he said. “Not I. A gracious lady on whose shoulders rest the weight of the greatest empire in the world.”

“Oh,” said Hansel. “Her.”

The city of Trieste rests on the Gulf of Trieste, which is the northern tip of the Adriatic Sea, and is surrounded by mountains where it isn’t fronting water. The city dates back to Roman times, and its architecture is a potpourri of every period from then to the present. Although it is putatively a part of the Austrian Empire, its citizens mostly speak Italian, and are more concerned with the happenings in Rome and Venice than those in Vienna and Budapest.

The journey took us two days by the most direct route we could find. But we reconciled ourselves with the thought that von Ormstein and his band of pseudo-English sailors couldn’t have arrived much ahead of us.

During the journey we discussed what we had found out and worked out a course of action. It was necessarily vague, as although we now had a pretty good idea of what von Ormstein was planning, we didn’t know what resources we would find available to us to stop him from carrying out his dastardly scheme.

Before we left Lindau Holmes and I had sent a telegram to Mycroft:

SEND NAMES AND LOCATIONS OF ALL DESTROYERS OF ROYAL HENRY CLASS REPLY GENERAL PO TRIESTE SHERLOCK

A reply awaited us when we arrived. We retired to a nearby coffee house and perused it over steaming glasses of espresso:

EIGHT SHIPS IN CLASS ROYAL HENRY ROYAL ELIZABETH AND ROYAL ROBERT WITH ATLANTIC FLEET AT PORTSMOUTH ROYAL STEPHEN IN DRYDOCK BEING REFITTED ROYAL WILLIAM IN BAY OF BENGAL ROYAL EDWARD AND ROYAL EDGAR ON WAY TO AUSTRALIA ROYAL MARY DECOMMISSIONED SOLD TO URUGUAY PRESUMABLY CROSSING ATLANTIC TO MONTEVIDEO WHAT NEWS MYCROFT

I slapped my hand down on the coffee table. “Uruguay!”

Holmes looked at me.

“Uruguay is divided into nineteen departments,” I told him.

“That is the sort of trivia with which I refuse to burden my mind,” he said. “The study of crime and criminals provides enough intellectual…”

“Of which one,” I interrupted, “is Florida.”

He stopped, his mouth open. “Florida?”

“Just so.”

“The letter… ‘The Florida is now ours.’”

“It is common practice to name warships after counties, states, departments, or other subdivisions of a country,” I said. “The British Navy has an Essex, a Sussex, a Kent, and several others, I believe.”

Holmes thought this over. “The conclusion in inescapable,” he said. “The Florida…”

“And the undergarments,” I said.

Holmes nodded. “When you have eliminated the impossible,” he said, “whatever remains, however improbable, stands a good chance of being the truth.”

I shook my head. “And you have called me the Napoleon of crime,” I said. “Compared to this…”

“Ah!” said Holmes. “But this isn’t crime, this is politics. International intrigue. A much rougher game. There is no honor among politicians.”

We walked hurriedly to the British consulate on Avenue San Lucia and identified ourselves to the Consul, a white-haired, impeccably dressed statesman named Aubrey, requesting that he send a coded message to Whitehall.

He looked at us quizzically over his wire-rim glasses. “Certainly, gentlemen,” he said. “To what effect?”

“We are going to ask Her Majesty’s government to supply us with a battleship,” Holmes said, and paused, waiting for the reaction.

It was not what one might have expected. “There are no British battleships visiting the port right now,” Aubrey said, folding his hands over his ample stomach and leaning back in his chair. “Will a cruiser do?”

Holmes leaned over the desk. “We are in earnest,” he said, his intense eyes glowering over his thin, ascetic nose, “and this is not a jest. To the contrairy, it is of the utmost importance and urgency.”

“I have no doubt,” replied Aubrey, looking up mildly. “My offer was sincere. If a cruiser will suffice, I am ready to put one at your disposal. It’s all that’s available. There are some four or five Royal Navy torpedo gunboats working with the Italian Navy engaged in the suppression of smugglers and pirates in the Mediterranean, but I can’t predict when one of them will come to port.”

“But you’re prepared to put a cruiser at, er, our disposal?” I asked