By this time Holmes was bending over him and Mycroft and the others had arrived. “Your department, Watson, I think. I don’t believe he’s come to any real harm. A touch of chloroform, I fancy, nothing more.”
As I knelt to take his place and conduct a cursory examination, he added thoughtfully: “Except, of course, for one thing which is not without significance. It is not given to many of us to see ourselves face to face.” With that he rose to his feet and for the first time we could all see the object his body had been shielding.
When Lord — regained consciousness, he would find himself communing with himself. Literally eyeball to eyeball with the sleeping peer was the disembodied head of his own wax effigy.
CHAPTER SIX
Almost apologetically, it seemed to me, Mycroft fixed his gaze on the recumbent Foreign Secretary.
“I thought it as well, Sherlock, since his lordship was clearly sedated and feeling no pain, to leave the scene of the crime undisturbed. I know how you like to dig and delve.”
And, to be sure, Holmes was already prowling around the prostrate Foreign Secretary. I could tell from his air of concentration that he had scarcely heard what his brother was saying.
It was Lestrade who was providing the background noise, talking as much to himself as anyone else. “Lummy, that’s two in a row, what with the rabbits and this. A proper lot of fools we’re going to look. I don’t know what the Commissioner’s going to say.”
“He’s not going to say anything,” Mycroft answered tartly, “for the simple reason that he isn’t going to know anything about it until I say so.”
“I’m afraid it won’t be that easy, my dear Mycroft,” said Holmes straightening up and rejoining us, as he sifted through something in the palm of one hand with the forefinger of the other. “I think you will find that the news — like Puck — has thrown a girdle round the earth … or at least as far as the room upstairs.”
“The scuff marks on the floor clearly indicate a struggle between three men, two of whom overpower and drag the third — milord here — to his present ignominious position. All of this watched by another man who stood just here …” and he indicated the spot with the toe of his shoe — “and smoked a cigar for approximately three and a half minutes, almost certainly of the type now being generously offered to the gentlemen guests by our host. Unless I’m mistaken, this ash is of American origin, probably a blend of Havana and Virginia leaf. You might remember I once wrote a trifling monograph on the subject, Watson?”
“Upon the Distinction Between the Ashes of Various Tobaccos”—a study of 140 different varieties of pipe, cigar and cigarette tobacco — I could recite the piece by heart. “It would also be relatively easy to identify which of Moxton’s servants were involved in the affray by a study of their shoes. No two leave identical marks. But that, I feel, would divert us from our proper purpose, Mycroft?”
Mycroft nodded almost imperceptibly. This was not a subject he cared to discuss in any but the most privileged company. At that moment the Foreign Secretary showed the first signs of stirring. At the same time I caught a glimpse of a corner of white paper on which he had obviously been lying. Stepping over, I quickly snatched it up.
“Good old Watson.” Holmes gave me an approving nod. “Keeps his eye on the ball while the rest of us are staring around the outfield. What is Moriarty’s arcane motto this time?
“The message was clearly from the same hand that had prepared the advertisement in this morning’s paper. Once again the signature was the drawing of the grinning cat’s face and this time the wording ran …
“HE’S MURDERING THE TIME! OFF WITH HIS HEAD!”
Silently I passed the note to Holmes who perused it carefully with Mycroft looking over his shoulder. “Of course, the Queen of Hearts never actually beheaded anyone,” said Mycroft ruminatively. “True,” Holmes replied, “but then murder was not on the agenda today. By the way, gentlemen, I think his Lordship might be discreetly moved now for his greater comfort. The back door, I think.” Several constables rushed to obey Lestrade’s signalled instructions and shortly the three of us were alone once more.
“No,” Holmes went on as he paced up and down with that familiar stride of a caged animal. There was something bizarre about the sight of him walking in front of this silent gruesome audience, as if he were advising them to mend their ways. “Scandal and public concern remain the priority for the moment. Background noise, one might call it. Watson, you’re the writer amongst us, wouldn’t you take a small bet that tomorrow’s Clarion will have something like …
“OUR HEADLESS GOVERNMENT!” or “MINISTER LOSES HIS HEAD!”
… splashed all over its front page? And the others will feel they can’t afford to be far behind, if they’re to retain their circulation and what passes for journalistic credibility. The snowball appears to be gathering momentum …”
“Curiouser and curiouser,” I found myself saying, to my surprise as much as theirs. This Alice In Wonderland business was catching!
As we left the Chamber the regular inhabitants seemed inanimately sorry to see us go. We may well have provided the most exciting divertissement to be seen there in a long time. After all, it can’t be too often that the spectators provide the entertainment.
Just before we reached the door Holmes paused briefly to address one of the figures as one might greet an old friend.
“Poor old Charlie Peace. A virtuoso of the violin, Watson.” He turned to me by way of explanation. “And an absolute Paganini on the one string fiddle. If only he’d stuck to plucking the strings instead of cutting throats, we might have played some interesting duets together. Which reminds me, I haven’t taken the Stradivarius out of its case for days. You might jog my memory when we get home, old fellow?”
I made a firm resolve to do nothing of the sort.
It was almost certainly this piece of inappropriate tomfoolery on Holmes’ part that prevented me from taking a second look at the figure that had half caught my eye as we entered that benighted dungeon. I had another half impression of a bearded medieval man with a plumed hat and holding something white and somehow out of keeping in his hand … and then Holmes and Mycroft between them had whisked me away. The presentation room crowds were thinning out as we reached the Entrance Hall, buzzing now more like busy bees than birds as they struggled into their coats and hats and made for the door. The general drift seemed to be that the whole episode was a disgrace and that ‘they’—whoever ‘they’ were — should do something about it, the country was going to the dogs and so on. But under the trite expressions one could detect a sense of unease. These things were not supposed to happen — not here, not in England.
When we entered the room itself some of the immediate motivation became clearer. On the dais — standing next to the headless waxwork and making a perfect opportunity for several of the newspaper photographers to take his picture, which they were in the process of doing — stood Royston Steel. Whether he had been part of the crowd when we first entered or whether he had timed his entry more recently for maximum impact was not entirely clear. What was clear was that he was now milking the occasion for every last drop of righteous indignation.
And, no doubt about it, the man was a born orator. The Government was mentally and morally bankrupt … the Opposition was geriatric and traditionally infirm of purpose … Sodom and Gomorrah were just around the next corner and our enemies were massing to recreate Armageddon in England’s green and pleasant land. It was time a few independent souls of like mind and will, etc., etc. It was arrant nonsense, of course, but it was mesmerising nonsense and one could see how he had gained his public reputation. Even Holmes, I could see, was reluctantly impressed with the display.