CHAPTER ONEAn Unforgettable Date
It was as if the Great War, now raging on the Continent, had driven London’s criminal element even deeper into the underworld. Only the most trivial of crimes were being reported, and those were usually buried in the midsection of the daily newspapers. A prime example was the recent attempted robbery of a jewelry shop on Bond Street in which a clumsy thief tripped over a leashed poodle as he made a hasty exit with a diamond brooch in hand.
“A failed snatch-and-grab,” my father described, placing the morning edition of the Daily Telegraph onto his lap. “Hardly worth the attention of the daughter of Sherlock Holmes.”
“His daughter would find a tidbit or two of interest in this case,” said Joanna, who was stationed at the window overlooking Baker Street.
“Pray tell what catches your eye but escapes mine.”
“The omissions, my dear Watson, the omissions.”
I, John Watson, Jr., M.D., the husband of the famous daughter, leaned forward in my overstuffed chair and pricked my ears for the interchange which was about to occur. How many times, I wondered, had my father carried on a similar conversation with his long-dead colleague and friend, Sherlock Holmes? For the senior John Watson, who had been the sounding board over the years for the Great Detective, now served a similar role for the daughter whose adventures I had the privilege of chronicling.
My father carefully reread the article before pronouncing, “I see no omissions.”
“Describe the gentleman holding the leash on the poodle,” Joanna prompted.
“None was given.”
“Yet he unintentionally or intentionally thwarted the robbery. Surely, this hero-by-chance merits some description which would be of interest to the reader.”
“Perhaps he chose to remain anonymous.”
“He would have been seen by others or in the company of a constable who no doubt would have questioned him.”
My father gave the matter further thought. “Are you implying he simply disappeared?”
“Which brings us to the second omission,” Joanna went on. “What of the diamond brooch?”
“It was not recovered.”
“And I would wager a guinea it disappeared in the hands of the man who vanished along with his leashed poodle.”
“I cannot believe this apparent gentleman was involved in the robbery itself.”
“I am of that opinion as well, but there is the distinct possibility he took advantage of the situation.”
“So the gentleman walking his poodle, who was the unlikeliest of suspects, appears to be the thief.”
Joanna nodded slowly. “These are desperate times, Watson, which tend to bring out the best and worst in people.”
“But should not desperate times bring out more crimes rather than the lull we are currently experiencing?”
“Oh, the crimes are being committed, but these are of little consequence, and thus do not warrant publication,” Joanna replied. “No one wishes to read of arson in Whitechapel or an assault in Limehouse, but an attempted robbery on Bond Street is of interest because it is upscale and involves an item of considerable value.”
“But what of murder?” my father queried. “I very much doubt those have diminished in number.”
“I suspect you are correct, but murder is of small matter unless it is attached to wealth, sex, or the aristocracy. Moreover, a single death or two is unlikely to draw the reader’s attention, whilst there are thousands being killed daily on the Western Front.”
“One would think that stolen masterpieces would still be in demand,” I interjected. “Surely, there remains a market for a stolen Rembrandt or Caravaggio even during wartime.”
“Not with the outcome of the war undecided,” Joanna reasoned. “Buyers here and on the Continent would be skittish when it comes to parting with large sums of money for famous works of art. They would take into account that the Huns might triumph over the Allies and, with that being the case, who knows what the victors would choose to confiscate for their museums and private collections.”
“So the lull persists whilst we sit and wait.”
“I am afraid so.”
A sudden, deafening explosion rang in our ears and violently shook the walls and ceiling at 221b Baker Street. In an instant, Joanna grasped and closed the thick, dark curtains as the windowpanes behind them cracked and shattered, causing large slivers of glass to fall at her feet. We waited in stunned silence for the vibrations to cease, whilst the chandelier above our dining table continued to sway in a wide arc.
“To Miss Hudson’s kitchen!” I shouted, then helped my father to his feet for the journey down the stairs to the kitchen where our landlady had recently installed large timbers to brace against exploding German bombs.
“Hold!” Joanna commanded as we reached the door which led to the hallway.
An eerie quiet hung in the air, with no further explosions or vibrations. The chandelier became stationary in the dim light.
“There may be more bombs on the way,” I cautioned. “We should hurry to the safe space.”
My wife hesitated at length before shaking her head and guiding us back into the parlor. “It is near noon and the Germans never bomb in open daylight when their chances of being shot down are greatest. Furthermore, we did not hear the drone of overhead bombers nor the shrill whistle of a constable warning of an oncoming raid, which occurs without fail. And finally, there was only a single explosion. The Huns always drop their bombs in clusters.”
“What caused the blast, then?”
“Most likely a delayed detonation of a bomb from last evening’s raid,” she surmised, and led the way back to the tightly closed curtains that allow no light out from the inside, which at night could provide a target for German bombers. “Whether the delay was done intentionally by the Huns is open to question.”
“I saw a similar device during my service in the Second Afghan War,” my father recalled. “Such bombs were left behind by the treacherous Afghans, which inflicted devastating misery on the advancing British troops.”
Joanna parted the curtains to reveal multiple cracked windows which were badly shattered in places. Glancing over her shoulder, we could see a billow of black smoke arising into the air from a westward location no more than a block away. No flames were visible, although they were surely present. Below, ambulances and other emergency vehicles began racing by with their bells clanging loudly. Across the way red bricks from the façade of a dress shop were falling onto the footpath and causing passersby to scamper away from the danger.
“The war draws nearer and nearer, and is now at our very doorstep,” said I as the dense, black cloud of smoke drifted toward us.
“But at least our Johnny is safely tucked away at Eton,” my father noted.
“Yet I worry for my son,” Joanna said, the concern obvious in her voice. “Keep in mind that Eton is just across the Thames from Windsor Castle which would make a very tempting target for German bombers. Can you begin to imagine the depressing effect a Windsor in flames would have on the British people?”
“There is a rumor that the Kaiser has given orders not to bomb Windsor Castle, for that is where he plans to reside once a German victory is secured.”
“And you believe that rumor?”
“He is pompous enough to have said it.”
“And dangerous enough to ignore it,” Joanna retorted. “Take the word of a Teuton at your own risk.”
Quiet once again returned to our nicely warmed parlor, but it was soon broken by the loud ring of our telephone. Our collective eyes and minds went to the phone, all hoping that London’s lull in criminal activity was about to come to an end. But the call was to be that and much, much more. It was of such great importance that the precise time and date it reached us will forever be fixed in our minds. Big Ben was tolling the noon hour on May 21, 1918 when my father lifted the receiver and heard the voice of none other than Sir Charles Bradberry, the commissioner of Scotland Yard, who requested our immediate presence at 10 Downing Street. A motor vehicle would shortly be at our doorstep to transport us to one of the most famous addresses in all England. No further information was given.
After hurriedly changing into attire more appropriate for a visit to the seat of the British government, we dashed down the stairs, passing a startled Miss Hudson who was carrying a tray laden with tea settings.
“Will you be returning for lunch?” she called out.
“Unlikely,” Joanna replied.
“And dinner?”
“Perhaps.”
A black, chauffeured limousine awaited us as we exited the front entrance. The driver opened the rear door of the motor vehicle, giving us the slightest of bows. His dark suit was well fitted, but there was a noticeable bulge on the left side of his jacket. He gave no greeting.
We traveled through the Marylebone district of West London at a reduced speed, slowed by the ice-covered roads and intermittent swirls of falling snow. In addition, the wider avenues had been badly damaged by the recent attacks of German bombers. There was one bowl-shaped crater after another which interfered with our drive, and off to the side were adjacent homes reduced to smoldering rubble. The last air raid two days earlier had been so massive it resulted in forty-nine killed and a hundred and seventeen injured, with damages amounting to well over 100,000 pounds. And adding to the misery of many, there were shortages and rationing of bread, meat, and sugar, which were becoming more severe. Surely, our urgent summons to the prime minister’s office had to involve some aspect of the dreadful war. But what?
My dear wife, Joanna, studied my face at length before commenting, “It is hopeless.”
“What is?” I asked, coming out of my reverie.
“Attempting to decipher the reason for our call to 10 Downing Street,” said she. “We have neither the information nor clues to guide us. As my father would have told you, we cannot make bricks without straw, and we have no straw.”
“May I inquire how you were aware of my inner thoughts?”
“Your actions revealed all,” Joanna deduced. “First, you stared at the ruins caused by the German bombers, prompting your jaw to tighten and your expression to turn grim. Next, you removed a piece of lint from your lapel and straightened your tie, indicating your thoughts had shifted to your appearance on entering 10 Downing Street. Connecting the two observations, you assumed the prime minister wished to see us regarding some aspect of the Great War, but could not fathom what services we might render.”
“Entirely reasonable logic, I would think,” my father interjected. “I would suggest there might be more espionage afoot, or, Heaven forbid, yet another traitor in our midst.”
“Possibilities, but unlikely.”
“Why so, pray tell?”
Joanna smiled briefly at my father, keen to present her reasoning for his consideration. “There is a history to be considered here, Watson. Think back to the other cases of spying we have been called upon to solve.”
“Are you referring to A Study in Treason and The Disappearance of Alistair Ainsworth?”
Joanna nodded, then reached for one of her Turkish cigarettes and lighted it carefully before continuing. “And what was the common denominator in these cases?”
“Acts of treason,” my father replied at once.
“The highest and most treacherous of offenses, you would agree.”
“Beyond question.”
“And in both cases we were called upon at 221b Baker Street,” she went on. “Yet, now we are asked to appear at the prime minister of England’s office. What do you make of that, my dear Watson?”
“It must go beyond treason or espionage,” he responded.
“It must, for there can be no other answer.”
“Beyond what, then?”
“A serious threat to the Crown that could do irreparable harm,” Joanna replied in a most somber tone. As we approached Westminster, she tossed her cigarette through the window and added, “We shall shortly be able to gauge for ourselves the true gravity of the situation.”
“How so?” asked I.
“By the manner in which we enter our destination.”
“I am not certain I follow you.”
“Be patient, dear heart.”
Her words proved to be prophetic. I expected that like most visitors to Downing Street we would come through the security gate at Whitehall and gain entrance to number ten via the iconic black door, which would be watched over by two uniformed constables. But on that early afternoon we slipped into the grounds along Horse Guards Road and entered the residence through a French door overlooking a walled garden. It was obvious that our presence was to remain undisclosed. Walking into the foyer one could not help but feel the immense power contained within the hallowed structure, which only intensified the gravitas of our visit. A look of reverence crossed my father’s face, but Joanna’s expression stayed placid as she gazed briefly at the hanging portraits of previous prime ministers. The surroundings were no doubt of interest to her, but she had swept away any emotion which was her custom when about to match wits with the best of villains.
A prim secretary of middle years, with gray streaks throughout her hair, awaited our arrival and, nodding to us in greeting, led us down a wide, elegant corridor to a closed door, against which she rapped her knuckles lightly. On hearing a commanding voice say, “Come,” we were allowed entrance into the White Drawing Room.
The Wayward Prince. Copyright © 2023 by Leonard Goldberg.
