The Further Adventures of Sherlock Holmes: The Whitechapel Horrors (38 page)

The equerry, having done his duty, departed without a further word, closing the door soundlessly behind him.

“Insufferable,” muttered Mycroft Holmes, scowling.

His younger brother considered him with one of his looks of wry amusement. Watson considered him not at all, having not heard him. He was totally captivated by the billiard table, lost in awe of its magnificence.

Although feeling that he shouldn’t, he could not resist placing a hand on the table to lightly caress its cushioned banks. The covering of green felt was in flawless condition, not a sign of wear in evidence, not a blemish or speck of dust. The highly polished wood of the table was a rich, warm walnut, the same hue as the paneled wainscoting of the room.

Watson leaned over to read the small bronze plaque affixed to the side of the table.

Presented to HRH the Prince of Wales on the occasion of his fortieth birthday Messrs. Thurston & Co., Ltd. Of Leicester Square

Of course the table would have come from Thurston’s: They were the premier manufacturers of billiard tables in all of England, and therefore the world. Deftly inlaid with mother-of-pearl and ivory, its workmanship was flawless, the grain of the wood without peer. It was, simply, a thing of beauty, a work of art equal to the finest piece of furniture that Watson had ever seen. He ran his hand over the highly polished surface. He could not even begin to estimate its cost, but guessed that it would amount to many times his annual pension. Indeed, it was probably a sum that would feed a working-class family for several years.

Watson crouched down and lined up an imaginary shot. The cue ball, thoughtfully, had already been spotted on its mark, placed in position for the opening shot. All that was required was the blow to send it on its way.

At the other end of the table, precisely aligned on the green felt surface, was a perfect inverted pyramid of red balls, standing like a formation of soldiers on the field of battle, dumbly awaiting the violent blow that would destroy its perfection and cause it to burst apart with sudden fury.

Several minutes went by. The three of them waited quietly. Not a word passed among them.

Holmes wandered over to a rack of cue sticks along the wall and examined it disinterestedly. Mycroft merely stood and fumed. He
did not like to be kept waiting in any event, but on this occasion was particularly eager to get it over with.

Several more minutes went by.

Suddenly and without warning a pair of double doors on the other side of the room flew open and, heralded only by a sharp intake of breath by Watson, in strode the Prince of Wales.

“Ah, Mycroft, old chap,” he boomed. “How very good to see you!” He strode around the billiard table, his hand extended.

The prince was an extremely large man of truly Falstaffian proportions — not tall, merely large. Indeed, Watson was surprised to find that he was well below average height, five foot six or seven at most, but his girth made him seem almost massive. And he looked considerably older than his forty-seven years, more like a man who was in his sixties. He had a large head, protruding, heavily lidded eyes, a long and rather full nose, and a neatly trimmed beard, pepper and salt in color. The admirable cut of his evening clothes made his swelling girth majestic and that, along with his booming voice, gave him a most imposing presence. It would not take much of an imagination to picture him dressed in the costume of an earlier age, bearing an uncanny resemblance to his distant ancestor, King Henry VIII.

Mycroft stepped forward, took the prince’s hand, and bowed. “Good evening, Bertie. Forgive me for taking you away from the tables.”

“It is just as vell that you had,” laughed the prince. “I was losing abominably. It is not my night for baccarat.” Then, catching sight of Watson and Holmes in the subdued light: “Who’s this you have vis you? Have these gentlemen been presented to me?”

“Yes, I believe so, though perhaps not formally. My brother I think you will remember, but you may not recall his friend. May I name Dr. John Watson to Your Royal Highness?”

Watson bowed deeply, Holmes less so.

The man who would someday be King of England came forward. He ignored Watson for the moment and concentrated his gaze on Holmes, considering him with a distinctly cold look.

“So, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, we meet again,” said the prince, his tone suggesting that the memory of their previous meeting was something less than pleasurable to him. It was not quite a withering glare that he bestowed upon Holmes, but it came close.

Holmes returned the prince’s gaze without flinching. He waited an interminable moment before saying with icy correctness: “Your Royal Highness is kind to remember me.”

There was another awkward interval of silence during which Holmes and the prince continued to stare at each other, the prince with a fixity that any other man would have found terrifying, Holmes with a total lack of expression that under the circumstances could be considered only impertinent.

Mycroft coughed delicately and, casting his brother an urgent glance of warning, stepped in quickly to save the moment.

“Good of you to see us on such short notice, sir. Good of you, indeed.”

The prince finally looked away from Holmes and turned his gaze on Watson, changing his manner abruptly.

“Doctor, did I hear Mycroft refer to you as? A medical chentleman, are you?”

His voice, strange to note, had a guttural quality to it, a slight but obvious Germanic accent, and he seemed to have particular trouble pronouncing his r’s.
⁷⁹

“Yes, Your Royal Highness, though I am presently retired from active practice, I fear.”

“I see,” said the Prince. Then, harumphing: “There are those who vould say that I, too, am retired from active practice, so you needn’t
apologize on my account.” He harumphed again, then threw back his head and laughed — an explosive, boisterous, jolly laugh that was highly infectious, the quality of the humor notwithstanding.

Mycroft and Watson joined in, of course, for when a prince of the royal blood is disposed to deliver of himself a merriment, a joke — especially a self-deprecating joke, even a feeble one (
most
especially a feeble one), it is only natural and polite, and certainly politic, to laugh along with him. Somehow, strangely, a joke seems that much more amusing coming from royalty, or from anyone in authority, for that matter.

Holmes did not laugh. His features remained devoid of expression.

The prince considered him under lowered brow for a moment, then purposely turned his broad back to him and walked to the billiard table, where he picked up a ball at random from out of the perfect pyramid and idly began tossing it in his hand.

“Vell, what is it, Mycroft? Somesing tedious, I warrant, from your brother’s sour countenance.”

Mycroft cleared his throat. “Something most delicate, Bertie. And I fear quite painful.”

“Oh!” The prince stiffened and gave him a look. “Really tedious, then. You come from Her Majesty, do you?”

All of a sudden he had become apprehensive. His accent had thickened noticeably, as it always did when he became upset.

Mycroft smiled weakly. “No, it is not that, Bertie.”

The prince sighed gratefully.

It was no secret that His Royal Highness did not get along with the Queen, and it was barely a secret that he was positively terrified of her. It was strange to see any man who was past middle age afraid of his mother, let alone such a commanding figure as the Prince of Wales. But then, the Queen was not any mother. She was strict, domineering, and demanding and held her family to the highest standards of conduct; and
in her eyes her eldest son fell far short of the mark. She disapproved of him in no uncertain terms, being highly critical of his intemperate habits, his hedonistic, pleasure-seeking ways, and even his choice of friends. And she let no opportunity go by without telling him so.

That Mycroft did not bear ill tidings from the Queen was such a relief to the prince that whatever ill tidings he did bear could only pale in comparison. Accordingly, the royal mood brightened considerably.

“Vell, this calls for a trink, if anysing does. Brandy, everyone? Doctor, I take it you are not vun of those tiresome practitioners who adfocates abstinence?”

“Heavens no, Your Highness! Indeed, I often prescribe spirits for a variety of ailments — in moderation, of course.”

“Do you now? Do you indeed? I must consider you for the post of my Physician in Ordinary. The fellow I have now sinks I imbibe too much, damn him.” As if in reflex, he pulled his cigar case from an inner pocket.

“Sinks I smoke too many Havanas too. But a fellow’s got to have some vices, don’t he?” He favored Watson with a broad wink, and Watson, flattered beyond words, flushed with pleasure.

He could be forgiven. The prince had the knack of putting people at their ease and could be most charming when he set his mind to it. Indeed, some of his critics claimed he made a career of it. “He can charm the birds from out of the trees and the ladies from out of their knickers,” someone once said of him with only slight exaggeration and the merest hint of envy. That he also had remarkable success in calming the wrath of husbands he had victimized said much for the versatility of his talent, and, if anything, added to his stature.

To his critics, and there were many, this much-vaunted charm of his was one of his few saving graces, for he was not the most clever of men or the most knowledgeable or the hardest working. He had little talent for diplomacy or patience with the tiresome details of governance; he
rarely read a book, knew little about world affairs, less about scientific matters, had a short attention span, and could be most intolerant, cruelly insensitive and highly irascible, especially when someone had the effrontery to subject him to anything that was the least bit boring. Early in life he discovered that charm could cover a multitude of sins, and if artfully applied could bend others to his will. Since it was something that came naturally to him anyway, it was a talent he was able to cultivate with such success that he deemed it unnecessary to make any serious effort in any other direction. And besides, what he could not accomplish with charm, he found he could generally accomplish by bullying. He was equally good at that.

At a summons on the bellpull, brandy and glasses were brought in without delay, not by one of the club’s servants, oddly enough, though they were conspicuous in great numbers throughout the club, but by a tall, cadaverously thin gentleman referred to by the prince, with obvious fondness, as Xtopher.

Mycroft, well-acquainted with the gentleman, made the introductions. He was the Honorable Christopher Sykes, known in the prince’s close circle of friends as the Great Xtopher. A rather humorless man from the look of him, and somewhat dull-witted in both appearance and manner, he seemed a strange choice to be on such close terms with the ebullient, fun-loving prince. But it was obvious he enjoyed the royal favor and, equally as obvious, that he was as devoted as a puppy. He catered to the prince hand and foot, performing the most menial tasks for him, anticipating his every wish. Rarely was he seen far from his side, despite the fact that he was sometimes used badly by his royal friend, and was often the butt of his practical jokes. More than one glass of port had been poured down his neck over the years, the contents of more than one ice bucket deposited in his lap.

Perhaps this was why the prince insisted upon keeping him in close
attendance: The Great Xtopher was good for a laugh. He was the perfect fool and could always be depended upon to take it in good grace. No matter how great the indignity or cruel the treatment, he invariably responded (to the glee of those present) with a long-suffering, “As Your Royal Highness pleases.” And he was always there for the next time.
⁸⁰

Dull-witted appearance notwithstanding, he was perceptive enough to realize that Mycroft Holmes’s presence — along with that of his well-known brother, the consulting detective — must be of a confidential nature and of some importance, so after pouring the brandy and handing the glasses all around, he made his excuses and discreetly withdrew, neatly sparing himself the awkwardness of being dismissed by the prince and thoughtfully sparing the prince of the awkward necessity of having to do so.

The door closed softly and once again the room became silent.

The prince took a sip of his brandy, observing Mycroft and Holmes over the rim of the snifter. He did not like the looks on their faces, and never one to readily undertake distasteful business when there was the possibility of putting it off, he didn’t give Mycroft an opportunity to explain the purpose of the visit.

“Come!” he said with sudden jollity. “Ve shall shoot a game of billiards. Who vill play vis me? Not you, Mycroft — you are a terrible player! In your hand a cue stick is a dangerous veapon. Doctor, how about you? You have the commendable look of a man vis a misspent youth. You know the game, do you?”

Watson looked very pleased to have been singled out. “I am not totally unfamiliar with it, Your Highness,” he admitted modestly.

“Ah-ha! I don’t like the sound of dat. I shall take care to be on my guard. And let me varn you, sir, that mine vas a misspent youth also, so you had best be on
your
guard. Come, choose your cue stick and name your vager.”

Watson looked flustered for a moment, then smiled and bowed.

“Allow me to defer to Your Highness,” he said politely but not wisely.

Mycroft winced, knowing what was to come.

“Very vell,” the prince said. “Let us make it interesting: Is ten pounds comfortable for you?”

Watson blanched. His army pension, his sole source of income, totaled a munificent eleven shillings sixpence a day. Ten pounds equaled more than two weeks’ earnings. To him it was a princely sum indeed, no pun intended. He swallowed hard. “As Your Royal Highness pleases,” he said with a casualness he did not feel.

It was just as well that he could not see the expression on Holmes’s face, which was hidden by shadow. It would have neither inspired confidence in his judgment nor done anything to improve his game.