Bonnie Macbird - The Devil’s Due

‘Titus Billings thinks the way out of our problems is by militarizing the police. By providing them with ever more brutal crowd control equipment. More deadly batons, handcuffs which break wrists, even guns. Turning them into soldiers, essentially, as if the streets were at war. How do you feel about that, Watson?’

‘Well, I … it is hard to say. Sounds a poor solution. But … bombers are criminals.’

‘Yes, they are, Watson. But should we allow fear to turn our country into a kind of police state? It is a delicate balance.’

‘This is beyond my ken, Holmes.’

Holmes regarded me thoughtfully. ‘Frankly, Watson, it is beyond my own as well. It is more in my brother’s realm. But I will help where I can. As result of this stop at Le Bel Épicier , I know the exact location of a bombing they are planning two days hence.’

‘How?’

‘The men in the back-room.’

‘You overhead them? How could they be so careless?’

‘They were speaking in code, with a great use of argot – French slang, Watson. They assume no Englishmen speak their language to such a degree. However, I do. As Mycroft noted, they are amateurs. But still dangerous.’

My friend was wise to ignore his brother’s admonition. This new information could well save lives.

He sighed. ‘What I do not know is when this bomb is to detonate.’

Our carriage turned south towards Baker Street and we just managed to make it inside as the drizzle turned into a downpour. Holmes scribbled two telegrams regarding the bombings and sent Billy off to the post office with them. As I hung up my wet things and noted the cheerful fire and tea things laid out, I felt a moment of thankfulness that I was not one of the homeless unfortunates huddling under an awning on Charlotte Street, or Tottenham Court Road, or even in the mews near to this very building. Instead I was comfortable and warm, and quite safe.

Of course, that would not remain the case for long.

I settled in again by the fire and cracked open a nautical adventure book I had left behind. Holmes, pacing, checked his watch. ‘Do not get too comfortable, Watson. We must go out again shortly. Crime does not halt for inclement weather. The Goodwin brothers have not been forthcoming with the list they promised. Perhaps it is time to pay them a visit.’

‘It has been less than two hours, Holmes,’ I said. ‘Give them a chance.’

‘It is ridiculous that they did not have the names in their heads.’

‘They are very social. Perhaps between parties and Parliament there are many names to remember.’

‘Yes, yes, Watson,’ said Holmes impatiently.

I nodded and added a shot of brandy to my tea. Holmes waved away the offer of the same and took out his notebook in which the Goodwins had scribbled the names of the few Luminarians they could remember.

‘Oliver Flynn is the odd name on this list. He is the only artistic member. All the rest are industrialists or businessmen. He does not seem to fit. I wonder if something is hidden in the man’s past.’

‘What a talent he is!’ I smiled at the thought of Flynn’s play Mary and I had attended at the Haymarket only last week. It was a trifle, to be sure, but a delicious evening of entertainment. His latest was what critics referred to as a “comedy of manners”, and we had thoroughly enjoyed his skewering of the aristocratic class, although done with a modicum of sympathy. ‘Of course, he is certainly a character,’ I said, ‘Was there not some scandal brewing? Something about his unusual … romantic life.’

Holmes looked up from perusing the articles on the table. ‘Raise your view, Watson,’ he snapped.

I turned back to my book, irritated.

‘Sorry, dear fellow. I should not let slander-by-Zander get under my skin. Flynn engenders more gossip than I do! He hails from Dublin originally, was an orphan who pulled himself up by his own bootstraps. This fact is little known – indeed, he hides it – but he has almost single-handedly funded the orphanage in which he spent his early years.’

‘Fascinating, Holmes. His public persona is so different from that.’

‘Few of us reveal our true selves in public,’ said Holmes, cryptically.

Mrs Hudson appeared with what at less pressured times was the kind of announcement dearest to our hearts. ‘Mr Holmes, a client is here to consult you. A Lady Eleanor Gainsborough.’ Her expression conveyed that the visitor had impressed her, and that Holmes had better respond, and quickly.

‘I am quite busy,’ said he.

‘She was most insistent,’ said Mrs Hudson.

‘Holmes, have you time for this?’ I wondered. ‘You seem to have a rather full plate.’

‘I shall determine that, Watson,’ said he, peeved. ‘Send her up, Mrs Hudson. When it rains, it pours.’

And although indeed it was pouring outside at that moment, in walked a lady as if blown into the room by a summer breeze, so untouched was she by the weather.

She stood just inside the doorway, a graceful woman of about forty-five. Her wealth and breeding were evident by her poised manner and costly raiment. But she also gave the impression, so common among the very rich, that she was wearing some kind of cloak of ethereal matter, protecting her from rain, dirt, and all the minor inconveniences.

She smiled graciously at the two of us. ‘Mr Sherlock Holmes? And the friend – Doctor, er …?’

‘Watson, madam, at your service.’

She smiled faintly and turned to Holmes. ‘I am so pleased to find you here, and willing to receive me, Mr Holmes.’

She held out her hand, palm down, and Holmes crossed to her, kissing it in the manner of a true gallant. ‘Lady Gainsborough! Welcome.’

‘Lady Eleanor, please, Mr Holmes.’

‘As you wish,’ he said.

I nodded deferentially as Holmes guided her to the basket chair which was angled closest to the fire. She placed her reticule on the table, took in the room with its slightly sinister and decidedly chaotic clutter, and then sat, arranging her burgundy velvet skirts around her.

As she did so, I took in the full measure of a born aristocrat, or so I gathered from her gracefully erect posture, her porcelain skin with only the slightest natural blush, her bounteous yet impeccably arranged coiffure of dark brown curls, and the subtle touches of discreet antique jewellery.

Her dress was of the finest quality, with a deep chevron of black lace panels down the front which narrowed into a waist whose tiny size belied her years. She smiled, and it melted any trace of the late autumn chill that lingered in the air and subtracted ten years from my estimation of her age.