this corset. It is strangling me. I can
feel the Bombe Alaska sitting here.” She pressed her fingers
between her breasts. “Speaking of bombs. Papa told me the duellists
were about to fire the first shot when the first bomb went off. If
not for that bomb Colonel Moriarty or Major Nash might now be
dead.”
The Countess had already
thought the same thing. She also thought it extremely fortuitous
that the men in the dome did not get blown up by the first bomb.
Did one man deliberately lead the others up there? Did he plan to
make some sort of excuse – a call of nature perhaps – and rush off
just prior to midnight leaving the others to their fate? Who
suggested the duel? Who opposed it? Who procured the weapons? Who
wanted Mycroft dead?
The Buttery was a medieval
building stuck on the end of Temple Library, opposite Temple
Church. It started life as a dairy for the Knights Templar in the
Middle Ages and had sat empty for the last few decades because of
its prohibitive dimensions and lack of modern comforts. It was
tall, narrow, dark, fusty, and a perfect bolt hole in London.
The Countess had taken a leaf
out of Sherlock’s book and decided to maintain a separate residence
should the need ever arise. She was meeting Dr Watson and Sherlock
inside The Buttery now that it had been furnished with Tudor pieces
and gimcracks. All she needed was a housekeeper to live-in.
“May I suggest Mr Steve Dixie,”
said Sherlock after they had been given a tour of the different
levels. “He is an amiable villain who has just finished enjoying a
holiday at the pleasure of Her Majesty. He can put his hand to
anything and is not averse to a dangerous undertaking. If left to
his own devices he will soon fall in with artful dodgers. If you
have nothing against American Negroes, he might be your man.”
“Nothing at all,” she said.
Dr Watson frowned. “He won’t
run off with the pewterware?”
“I can impress upon him that it
would not be in his long-term interests,” said Sherlock.
“What would stop him betraying
the Countess?” persisted the doctor.
“The same goes for anyone
else,” replied Sherlock with an unconcerned inflection.
“How soon can you arrange a
meeting with Mr Dixie?” she said.
“Why don’t we adjourn to Ye Old
Cock Tavern on the Strand where we can discuss the details and I’m
sure Mr Dixie will arrive within the hour?”
Sherlock soon found one of his
errand boys and the message was quickly relayed. The speed at which
Mr Dixie appeared at the tavern would have put the telephone to
shame.
“Hello, Masser Holmes,” he
delivered in his distinctive Southern drawl, eyeing the consulting
detective and sensing something different. “I hear you is keen to
reacquaint yourself with Mr Steve Dixie, late of Wormwood
Scrubs.”
“I am, Mr Dixie. Please take a
seat. My friend, Watson will buy you a drink. A cup of hot cocoa
fine for you?”
Mr Dixie pulled a wobbly face
and Holmes laughed uproariously.
“Only joshing, Mr Dixie. A pint
of porter for Mr Dixie, if you will, Watson.” Holmes waited for
Watson to repair to the bar. “I would like to introduce you to a
dear friend of mine. Yes, I have one or two. Her name is the
Countess. She is in need of a fixer.”
Mr Dixie studied the lady using
the wary coal-black eye of an ex-slave that knew how not to betray
itself while summing up the rich and powerful. He had met plenty of
tarted-up dollymops but he could tell she was the genuine thing. A
high-class whore for dukes and lords; may be even the Prince of
Wales. “I don’t have to kill no one, Masser Holmes. I swore off
murder after Perkins.”
“No, no, nothing like that,
rest assured, Mr Dixie. You will act as caretaker at an abode not
far from here. You will come and go and make sure everything is
neat and dandy. And when it transpires that the Countess arrives on
the doorstep to stay for a day or two you will act as lookout. That
is all.”
Mr Dixie appeared skeptical. “I
don’t
feel the Bombe Alaska sitting here.” She pressed her fingers
between her breasts. “Speaking of bombs. Papa told me the duellists
were about to fire the first shot when the first bomb went off. If
not for that bomb Colonel Moriarty or Major Nash might now be
dead.”
The Countess had already
thought the same thing. She also thought it extremely fortuitous
that the men in the dome did not get blown up by the first bomb.
Did one man deliberately lead the others up there? Did he plan to
make some sort of excuse – a call of nature perhaps – and rush off
just prior to midnight leaving the others to their fate? Who
suggested the duel? Who opposed it? Who procured the weapons? Who
wanted Mycroft dead?
The Buttery was a medieval
building stuck on the end of Temple Library, opposite Temple
Church. It started life as a dairy for the Knights Templar in the
Middle Ages and had sat empty for the last few decades because of
its prohibitive dimensions and lack of modern comforts. It was
tall, narrow, dark, fusty, and a perfect bolt hole in London.
The Countess had taken a leaf
out of Sherlock’s book and decided to maintain a separate residence
should the need ever arise. She was meeting Dr Watson and Sherlock
inside The Buttery now that it had been furnished with Tudor pieces
and gimcracks. All she needed was a housekeeper to live-in.
“May I suggest Mr Steve Dixie,”
said Sherlock after they had been given a tour of the different
levels. “He is an amiable villain who has just finished enjoying a
holiday at the pleasure of Her Majesty. He can put his hand to
anything and is not averse to a dangerous undertaking. If left to
his own devices he will soon fall in with artful dodgers. If you
have nothing against American Negroes, he might be your man.”
“Nothing at all,” she said.
Dr Watson frowned. “He won’t
run off with the pewterware?”
“I can impress upon him that it
would not be in his long-term interests,” said Sherlock.
“What would stop him betraying
the Countess?” persisted the doctor.
“The same goes for anyone
else,” replied Sherlock with an unconcerned inflection.
“How soon can you arrange a
meeting with Mr Dixie?” she said.
“Why don’t we adjourn to Ye Old
Cock Tavern on the Strand where we can discuss the details and I’m
sure Mr Dixie will arrive within the hour?”
Sherlock soon found one of his
errand boys and the message was quickly relayed. The speed at which
Mr Dixie appeared at the tavern would have put the telephone to
shame.
“Hello, Masser Holmes,” he
delivered in his distinctive Southern drawl, eyeing the consulting
detective and sensing something different. “I hear you is keen to
reacquaint yourself with Mr Steve Dixie, late of Wormwood
Scrubs.”
“I am, Mr Dixie. Please take a
seat. My friend, Watson will buy you a drink. A cup of hot cocoa
fine for you?”
Mr Dixie pulled a wobbly face
and Holmes laughed uproariously.
“Only joshing, Mr Dixie. A pint
of porter for Mr Dixie, if you will, Watson.” Holmes waited for
Watson to repair to the bar. “I would like to introduce you to a
dear friend of mine. Yes, I have one or two. Her name is the
Countess. She is in need of a fixer.”
Mr Dixie studied the lady using
the wary coal-black eye of an ex-slave that knew how not to betray
itself while summing up the rich and powerful. He had met plenty of
tarted-up dollymops but he could tell she was the genuine thing. A
high-class whore for dukes and lords; may be even the Prince of
Wales. “I don’t have to kill no one, Masser Holmes. I swore off
murder after Perkins.”
“No, no, nothing like that,
rest assured, Mr Dixie. You will act as caretaker at an abode not
far from here. You will come and go and make sure everything is
neat and dandy. And when it transpires that the Countess arrives on
the doorstep to stay for a day or two you will act as lookout. That
is all.”
Mr Dixie appeared skeptical. “I
don’t
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