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Chapter Nine

New Scotland Yard

asha stepped out of the Hansom, leaving her well-used travel bag on the seat, and told the driver, “Wait for me, Jarvey!” He nodded and pulled out a copy of the London Times (not a paper usually read by Hansom drivers). The headline proclaimed: “MURDEROUS ATTACK ON NAVAL OFFICER. DREADNOUGHT SECRETS INVOLVED.” Tasha’s eyes gleamed as she asked if she could borrow the paper. He handed it to her and she mounted the steps of the red-and-white brick gothic edifice designed by the noted architect Norman Shaw.

The building had been built in 1890 as the headquarters of the Metropolitan Police, but in this new century it already seemed slightly old-fashioned. There had been a vogue for Highland architecture at the time of its conception, so the building, whose bottom floor stonework had, fittingly, been performed by convicts, resembled a fanciful Scottish Baronial Castle. The force had already outgrown the building and an extension was being constructed next door.

As Tasha reached the entrance, Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson emerged. Holmes solicitously held open the door and Watson tipped his hat as Tasha walked past.

Ramsgate was at his desk while Commander Bernard was pacing. They both had cups of tea. Despite the crowded condition of the building, Ramsgate had a large, richly panelled office with a view of the Thames. A constable opened the door and Tasha walked in, hidden behind the outstretched and open newspaper. The headline was depressingly visible. From behind her journalistic wall, Tasha asked, “Seen the morning paper?”

“Hours ago,” said Ramsgate as he pulled the paper away. “Behind the times, Tasha?”

Before she could make an appropriate reply, Sebastian appeared in the doorway behind her. “Sorry I’m tardy,” he said stiffly as he nodded to Ramsgate, Bernard, and Tasha, who turned to him in surprise.

Ramsgate was in a fine mood. “Ah, the navy’s here! Tasha, I don’t believe you’ve met, Commander Blackshaw. Commander, Lady Dorrington.”

“You had an interesting companion last night. Who was that singularly formidable lady in the green dress?” Mother extended her hand.

Sebastian kissed her offered hand. “I had never seen her before. And hope I never see her again.” He let go of Mother’s hand and gave a brief cough of embarrassment.

“Yet, she was your companion.”

“Aye, but nothing more. I’m new to London. When Captain Summerlee invited me to the Hermes, well, I didn’t want to attend alone. It was a friend-of-a-friend sort of arrangement.”

Certainly Commander Blackshaw would have preferred to end the conversation, but Mother was persistent and asked for the lady’s name.

“Her name is Violet Adler,” dissembled Sebastian.

“Are you sure of that?”

“Well … that’s what she told me.”

“And you knew nothing about her?”

“I was simply grateful not to go alone. You are very persistent with your questions.”

“That is my business,” grinned Mother.

“So I have heard. You caused quite a sensation. The evening was surprisingly entertaining. But I do apologize for my guest’s behaviour, and may I compliment you on a superbly played game, Lady Dorrington?”

“You may call me Tasha. It usually saves people seventeen minutes a year.”

“Eighteen minutes, seventeen seconds,” came a rich, cultivated voice from the back of the big office. “You’ve miscalculated.”

Tasha turned in the direction of the voice. A high-backed swivel chair pivoted toward her. Resting in it was the prodigious bulk of Mycroft Holmes, a man of Olympian detachment and vivid intelligence.

Ramsgate made introductions. “I believe everyone but Lady Dorrington and Commander Blackshaw knows the man responsible for our little rendezvous. Mr. Mycroft Holmes.”

Tasha had heard of Mycroft and knew he held some post of dramatic importance in the government. Dr. Watson would later write that at times Mycroft was the British government. The only title Mother could discover him having was along the lines of “consultant.” Whatever his official standing in Whitehall, his real authority extended high in the stratosphere of power and decision.

“I passed your younger brother as I was entering,” offered Tasha.

Mycroft nodded as Ramsgate continued. “Commander Black-shaw has replaced the unfortunate officer attacked yesterday in St. James Park.”

Mycroft elaborated. “The man was a special assistant to Admiral Fisher, the First Sea Lord.”

Tasha was impressed. “Congratulations, Commander. I had no idea we were moving in such exalted circles.”

Mother knew of Admiral Fisher, of course—everyone did. The amazingly energetic First Sea Lord, the nation’s highest-ranking naval officer, had galvanized the navy out of a half-century of rigidity. By cultivating the press, and by his own forceful personality, he had aroused public and political interest in the Royal Navy to a degree unseen for a lifetime. His reforms included reorganizing the fleets, scrapping scores of obsolete ships and replacing them with smaller numbers of modern ships of new and daring designs. At the dawn of a new century, the tradition-bound Royal Navy had a leader with an eye on the future. And with the Imperial German Navy expanding night and day just across the North Sea, it needed one.

Ramsgate took a document from his desk and handed it to Tasha. “Exalted enough. What do you make of this?”

“It’s on Barclay cream paper, written with a medium ‘J’ quill using Holton off-purple ink by an elderly man with asthma.”

“Please. Just read it.”

“Sorry.” She read and was impressed. “Downing Street. It authorises my security clearance regarding the Dreadnought.”

Ramsgate pulled closed the thick curtain and then lit the lamp on a magic lantern. The sleek image of a battleship was projected. Though the ship was barely completed, the silhouette—with its long snout and myriad big gun turrets—was already world-famous. Mycroft began to speak. “The Dreadnought, the ultimate battleship! With the firepower of any two ships afloat, she’ll make Germany’s entire naval programme obsolete.”

“Why did they put the crows-nest behind the smoke-stack?” asked Tasha. “The smoke will blind the look-outs.”

“We don’t call them crows-nests in the navy,” said Commander Bernard with asperity. “They are called fighting-tops, and it won’t be a problem!”

The next slide appeared, showing diagrams of the Dreadnought. Ramsgate explained, “These are the stolen plans. Every effort was made to keep their loss a secret.”

“And yet it was front-page news this morning,” said Mycroft gravely.

“I can think of five theories to account for that, but the most likely is that you’ve been infiltrated,” chided Tasha.

“Impossible!” stated Bernard.

Mycroft interceded before an argument could develop. “If anything would force this government to send an ultimatum to the Kaiser, it would be an incident involving this ship. She’s become the very symbol of national pride.”

“Or rather she was made that symbol through ceaseless government pronouncements,” corrected Tasha blandly.

Mycroft raised his finger in agreement at her perception and then signaled for the next slide, which displayed a chart of Millport Island and vicinity.

It was Sebastian’s turn to explain. “This is the Firth of Clyde. Up at the top is Greenock. That’s where the ship is. Next week she sails on her trails to the Mediterranean and then the West Indies.”

Ramsgate cut in. “Half of Whitehall’s going up to watch her departure, and you can wager that the press will be out in force as well.”

“The Admiralty will be very disappointed if they are not,” said Mother knowingly.

“Look a few miles south of Greenock, Tasha,” responded Ramsgate, sticking to his point.

“Aha! Millport Island. Where McGloury has his sheep farm. And since I’ll be so close …”

“I’m against it!” Bernard interrupted.

“So am I!” agreed Tasha, amazing him. “Gentlemen, I have a train to catch and a murder to prevent. Neither of them will wait.”

Mother spun to make her departure, opened the door, and nearly collided with a messenger. Ramsgate, amused, took the message while teasing Tasha. “Pity. Seems we’ve ruined your exit.” He read the note and his face darkened. “It’s the medical report confirming, I regret, that our wounded officer has been murdered right under our noses.”

Tasha took the note. “Murdered … and all he told you was that he was attacked by the Germans. Why would they go out of their way to give us that information? Very odd.”

“Then stay,” offered Mycroft.

Tasha was polite. “I’m sorry, Mr. Holmes. The Dreadnought has ‘all the king’s horses’ and such to look after it. All Mr. McGloury has is …” she pointed to herself.

Mycroft nearly raised his voice. It was as much passion as he ever revealed. “Lady Dorrington! You have a misplaced sense of priority. The nations of the world are divided into two hostile camps and armed to the teeth. We hover on the brink of a war the likes of which man has never seen!”

Mother had no doubt as to the accuracy of Mycroft’s statement, though his arguments failed to sway her. The case already involved Whitehall, Naval Intelligence, and Scotland Yard. No doubt the Intelligence Division of the Foreign Office and Diplomatic Service would soon be agitating to put their oar in (the Secret Service Bureau—a genuine intelligence service—would not be formed for another three years). Her freedom of action would be constrained, her methods questioned, her deductions doubted. She wanted no part of it, especially with the formidable and bizarre McGloury business before her.

“Your battleship will have to fend for itself. Good day, gentlemen,” said Mother firmly. “I have never failed anyone who has come to me for protection. My client is my priority.” She left, closing the door behind her. The men glanced at each other in bewilderment.

“Women!” mused Mycroft. “Can one trust even the best of them?”

“Especially that one!” answered Bernard whole-heartedly. “Who does she think she is? She struts around like a one-woman assault on the natural order of male supremacy.”

Sebastian shut off the magic lantern and opened the drapes. Down on the street below, he saw Tasha enter her Hansom and drive off. He felt a sudden surge of apprehension.

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Framed