Diamond Jubilee

D. Schullery Paul

Description

It is June, 1897, the eve of the greatest celebration in the history of London-the Diamond Jubilee of Her Royal Highness Victoria, Queen of the United Kingdom and Empress of India. At 221B Baker Street, happy anticipation of the event is shattered when an alarmed Samuel Clemens bursts in and informs Holmes and Watson that his life is threatened by a bizarre international conspiracy. Holmes, Watson, and Clemens spend the frantic final days before the Jubilee discovering that the conspiracy is much worse than Clemens imagined. The very fate of the Empire is at stake. Replete with the trademark Holmesian insights and London underworld adventuring, Diamond Jubilee features a host of London characters, including a brilliant London "crime queen," Prime Minister Robert Gascoyne-Cecil, Mycroft Holmes, Scotland Yard's best and worst, the Baker Street Irregulars (themselves infiltrated by unknown sinister elements), and thousands of the most appalling rats.

Informations

• Publié par: Andrews UK
• Date de parution: 12 septembre 2018
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781787053687
• Langue: English

Extrait

Diamond Jubilee
Sherlock Holmes, Mark Twain, and the Peril of the Empire
Paul Schullery




2018 digital version converted and published by
Andrews UK Limited
www.andrewsuk.com
Copyright © 2016, 2018 Paul Schullery
The right of Paul Schullery to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1998.
All rights reserved. No reproduction, copy or transmission of this publication may be made without express prior written permission. No paragraph of this publication may be reproduced, copied or transmitted except with express prior written permission or in accordance with the provisions of the Copyright Act 1956 (as amended). Any person who commits any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damage.
All characters appearing in this work are fictitious or used fictitiously. Except for certain historical personages, any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. Any opinions expressed herein are those of the authors and do not necessarily represent those of MX Publishing.
MX Publishing
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Cover design by Brian Belanger
Cover art by Marsha Karle




for Rick Balkin




As the Queen was returning to Buckingham Palace yesterday afternoon, she witnessed an accident in St. James Park. Two men had climbed a tree to witness the passage of the Procession along the Mall, and just as the Queen’s carriage was opposite the tree the two men fell. The Queen did not stop at the time, and thus delay the Procession, but as soon as she reached the Palace she directed an officer to inquire and report as to the nature of the accident. Her Majesty was subsequently informed, through the medium of Sir Arthur Bigge, that one of the men had been rather badly hurt and had been taken to St. George’s Hospital.
The Standard [London], June 23, 1897



1. The Other Distinguished Guest
“Watson,” Holmes said, looking up from the pile of newspaper cuttings on his lap, “Your fidgeting is unseemly for such a fine day.”
I stopped pacing and turned to the window. “I suppose it’s the weather,” I said nonsensically, looking out on a perfectly splendid June day. The only clouds I could see above the houses down our row were of the least threatening sort, gold-rimmed and glowing in the late afternoon sun.
“Ah, you have enlisted in the legions of worriers, then,” he said, and returned to his sorting.
I had, indeed, become one of those vexed souls. Spread in our thousands, if not millions, across the land - but particularly across the city - we intended through sheer force of Christian will to reshape the barometrical isobars of the North Atlantic and ensure that Tuesday next be not merely free of rain, but of such surpassing meteorological glory that jubilation would suffuse the very air. Our Queen deserved no less.
“And in the midst of these meditations have you found the leisure to secure our places?” He asked this through teeth clamped around the stem of a cold and undistinguished clay pipe, his recent favorite.
“My editor has things all arranged. I would have preferred St. Paul’s, but he guarantees us the best of vantage points in the Strand. Somewhere near Somerset House, though on the north side. He assures me there is nothing to worry about in the construction of our grandstand.”
“It had not occurred to me to worry about that,” Holmes said. “Is it too late, or should I begin now?”
“Oh, there’s been some stew in the papers over public safety. Throwing up all these rickety wooden stands along the procession route, and stacking hundreds of people on them, you know. Makes the old maids nervous. Temporary workmanship and all that. The prospect of a tier of citizens pitching over into smoking rubble just as the Queen passes by has the alarmists in its grip.” Holmes gave me a raised eyebrow, as if to congratulate me on my much more sensible and productive fretting over the weather, but said nothing. “But it appears that the construction of our stand is being overseen by the most prudent of contractors.”
I hesitated before continuing, not sure how Holmes would respond to this next. “However, what with all that flammable bunting and raw wood, there is some talk of banning smoking entirely.”
“Is there?” He seemed unperturbed. “Well, I suppose heroic measures are called for.”
It was a small remark, but along with several other quiet signs over the past fortnight - including his easy sarcasm - it reassured me greatly. Sherlock Holmes had gone into the previous winter with his reserves depleted, and his pace had been grueling ever since. He fancied that he flourished on overwork, but eventually the toll was too great even for his extraordinary constitution. That beastly business in Mullion Cove in March was followed by an unrelenting succession of exhausting and not terribly satisfying little problems. Except for the matter of the Tibetan entomologist, none of his recent cases had done more than annoy him with their tedious hours and transparent solutions. Knowing Holmes’ apolitical disposition, I had little hope that the Queen’s Jubilee, just now filling the papers and engaging the nation with its anticipatory excitement and impending pageantry, would distract him, so I was delighted to see that he was pulling himself out of his distracted fatigue.
I was about to elaborate on the arrangements for our seats when a hansom separated itself from the thinning flow of traffic and scraped to a stop against the kerb.
“Holmes,” I announced, as I watched a most singular figure alight from the cab, “We are about to receive a distinguished guest.” I could not keep a bit of thrill from my voice.
“What? Now?” Holmes frowned at the clock in surprise. “She’s two hours early.”
“It’s not a woman, Holmes. It’s a man. A very famous man.”
“Ah! That explains it, then,” he said, setting aside his pipe and newspaper slips and rising to face the door.
I had no time to press Holmes for an explanation of “it” before there was a series of sharp raps on the door. Without a pause, it burst open to reveal Mrs. Hudson attempting to usher an older and very agitated man into the room.
But he was unusherable. Without waiting for Mrs. Hudson’s introduction, he rushed across the room, hand extended toward my companion. “Mr. Sherlock Holmes, my name is Sam Clemens, and I need your help.”



2. Sam Clemens Dithers
“Welcome, Mr. Clemens,” said Holmes, extending his own hand. As they shook, their eyes met fully. During my years in close company with the great man, I had learned a little about his incredible capacity for concealing his true feelings; he was a master of what Americans call the “poker face.” But just for an instant when their eyes first met, too briefly for even Clemens to notice, Holmes’ face involuntarily revealed something very like shock. At first I thought I had seen sorrow, but then realised that it was more like awe. I wondered if perhaps it was the result of belated recognition of our guest, who was at that time the most celebrated writer - indeed, the most beloved person - in the English-speaking world. But I also knew that Holmes was of all people the least impressed with celebrity.
“This is my friend and colleague Dr. Watson,” Holmes continued in his most cordial manner, turning Clemens toward me as he released his hand.
“Yes, I expect so. I have read your books,” Clemens said as he dutifully shook my hand. He gave the impression right then of someone speaking in great haste, but in fact his words came out rather slowly. His expression as he spoke to me was noncommittal, almost disinterested. His grip was firm and warm, but quite briefly held, as one might expect from someone who must have dispensed many thousands of handshakes to long lines of admirers over the years.
“And I yours, Mr. Clemens,” I replied, “It is a great honor to meet you.” At this his expression warmed slightly, though I was just then realising that by announcing that he had read my books he was not necessarily intending to compliment me on them.
Holmes, noticing my excitement, directed Clemens toward a chair. “I surmise that Mrs. Hudson was preparing tea when you arrived. Won’t you join us?” He nodded reassuringly at the somewhat flustered Mrs. Hudson, who turned to leave.
“Yes, thank you. That would be nice,” he said to us. Then, to himself, in a distracted undertone, “Tea,” and he fell heavily into the chair. At the sound of the chair’s creaking objection to this sudden hostility, Mrs. Hudson’s questioning face reappeared for a moment at the door, but then with the slightest shake of her head she hurried off.
As we settled in our own chairs, I had my first moment to study our guest in relative repose (though even sitting still he gave a great impression of anxious, almost strenuous activity). Thanks to my long association with Sherlock Holmes, I have met many of the great men and women of our day, and I long ago recognised the effects that reputation and fame have on first impressions. One is almost irresistibly predisposed in these meetings to be impressed and even intimidated. Whatever belittling things we mortals may say among ourselves about our politicians and social leaders - as we pontificate over our pints and our dinners - it is a heady business, this coming face to face with the world’s mighty.
Despite my supposed worldliness in this line, I was quite simply starstruck. Samuel Clemens was, to my mind, possessed of the most remarkable combination of dignity and animation imaginable. Though actually slight, his bearing made him seem somehow robust.