The Further Adventures of Sherlock Holmes: The Whitechapel Horrors (39 page)

Both men removed their coats and, in shirt-sleeves, went about the ritual of choosing their cue sticks and chalking them, like two duelists preparing for combat.

The table was set up for snooker pool, the most popular of the various billiard games. It was played with fifteen red balls (those placed in the inverted pyramid) and one each of pink, brown, black, green, yellow, and blue, those of the latter colors being spotted in designated locations around the table. In a classic demonstration of noblesse oblige, the prince waved aside the ritual drawing of lots to decide the order of play and generously invited Watson to make the first stroke, giving himself the advantage, of course, since there was virtually no chance at all of scoring with the opening shot.

But he hadn’t counted on Watson’s skill at the game. The best strategy in such a situation was to play for safety, and that was what Watson chose to do, aiming at the outside of the inverted pyramid of red balls, at the very last ball in the farthest row. Despite his
nervousness, he hit it bang on target with just the right degree of force, the ball barely being nudged from its place. But the cue ball, amazingly, did just what the book says it will do when it is aimed precisely and at just the right velocity. It deflected off the target ball at exactly the right angle, struck the back cushion, careened off the side cushion, and, with stately grace, rolled slowly, slowly back toward Watson to return over the balk line, where it finally came to a halt — right behind the brown ball on the center spot.

It was a classic shot.

The prince contemplated the placement of the balls with a scowl, slowly shaking his head from side to side. “Snookered, by gad!” said the heir to the throne, glancing across the table at Watson with admiration. “You’ve played this game before,” he accused him.

Watson, to his credit, managed the affair with total aplomb, for no one was more surprised at the beauty of the thing than he. He stood tall and very dignified, his cue stick held in the parade-rest position, looking for all the world like a man who had done nothing out of the ordinary. But the truth of the matter was that in fifteen-odd years of trying, not only had he never made the shot before but had rarely seen anyone else make it so perfectly. Nodding his head politely in the prince’s direction, he said with almost excessive dignity: “Your Royal Highness’s stroke, I believe.”

From out of the darkness came a single word, a sound really, the source of it unmistakably Sherlock Holmes — one must assume that it was involuntary:
“Hah!”

Watson’s opening was so deftly accomplished that the prince was left with an impossible shot. No matter what he did he would suffer a penalty, for the rules required him to strike a red ball before that of any other color, and this he clearly could not do, the brown ball being in his way. But he had no choice but to attempt it anyway, which he unwisely
did like a bull in a china shop rather than with finesse, succeeding only in scattering the field to Watson’s benefit, leaving him now with a choice of several excellent possibilities.

Watson circled the table and examined the layout of the balls with care, absently chalking his cue all the while. Rather than selecting the easiest, most obvious shot, he chose one that if executed properly would leave the cue ball in the perfect position for yet another. Leaning over the table, he swiftly made it.

Kerplocketa!
Into the corner pocket it went.

The next ball and the next were similarly dispatched — quickly, cleanly, and decisively, one after another in rapid succession.

The prince could only stand there and watch, the scowl on his face becoming deeper and deeper.

Finally came a ball that was not so accommodating. Watson attempted a tricky deflection shot that required some backspin, but it did not come off the way he had intended and the ball bounced off the rim of the pocket and stopped nearby, leaving the prince with an easy potshot. He took it effortlessly. However, he had no luck with the next one, and it became Watson’s turn again.

The remaining balls on the table were potted in short order, with Watson employing a variety of shots from his repertoire with admirable poise and skill. He had never played better. Almost every stroke that he attempted he made, and the few he did not were managed so well that the prince was left in an untenable position every time — tied up and in a tangle with nothing but impossible shots and forlorn hopes.

He was noticeably angry.

“We vill have another game,” he announced curtly when Watson dispatched the final ball with a click and satisfying clunk. “Same stakes.”

There was no mistaking the tone in his voice. Clearly, it was not an invitation but a royal command.

But this time Mycroft was determined. “Bertie, you must forgive me,” he stepped in, “but our business is of extreme importance.”

The prince shot him a look of displeasure, a look that men ignored at their peril. “It vill vait!”

Mycroft stood his ground, apologetically but insistent. “Of the utmost importance, I am afraid.”

The prince glared at him for a long moment, then sighed and dropped his stick on the table with a clatter. “Very vell then. You have my total attention.”

Mycroft took a deep swallow from his glass and began.

It was a pale, shaken Prince of Wales to whom Watson gently handed a second glass of brandy five minutes later. He sat slumped on the leather banquette, looking nothing like the imposing figure of before. His face was gray and haggard; his eyes were dull in their sockets. He had taken the news badly, and there was little that could be said or done to ease his distress.

Mycroft had done his best to be gentle, using all of the tact he was capable of, but even so, the prince was in a state of shock. He knew that his son associated with some fairly objectionable, even disreputable characters — what young man didn’t on occasion? (certainly
he
had when at that age) — but he never dreamed it was a homosexual crowd to which Prince Eddy belonged. And to think that one of them could be involved in this infamous series of murders that was in all the newspapers! It was beyond belief! The very thought that his son and heir was in some way implicated, or could be tied even remotely to someone who was, came as a terrible blow, and it was enough to make him physically ill.

If the news should get out, the consequences would be disastrous, and the prince knew it. The scandal would be unbearable. It would
have repercussions that would last for years, well into his own reign when the time finally came for him to ascend to the throne — if it ever did come.

And good God! What would he tell Alix, the boy’s mother? She would be inconsolable. And what would the Queen say? How could he ever face her? She would be furious, positively livid, and would blame it all on him, of course — just as she always blamed him for everything!

Maybe this time she will be right. He should have devoted more attention to the boy, kept him on a tighter rein. He should have been more strict, more aware.

The Queen will be unmerciful.

But that was the least of it. He looked up at them in disbelief, the full realization of it striking home. This scandal would cause incalculable damage; it would rock the very foundations of the monarchy. He harbored no false illusions: Given the tenor of the times, this thing could topple the throne. Victoria would be the last of the royal line, and he would never reign. After all these years of waiting, he would never be given his chance. They would all be sent off into exile, the lot of them: Uncles and sisters and cousins and sons, all to live out their lives in genteel poverty in some foreign place, humiliated, despised, and, worst of all, pitied, to join the ranks of other failed royal houses, useless to themselves and to the world, the objects of contempt and universal scorn.

The thought carried the Prince of Wales to the very depths of despair, and for the second time that day Watson feared that his medical services might be required.

But he had forgotten with whom he was dealing. This was a man whose background and training throughout the whole of his life had prepared him for one thing and one thing only: To lead other men, to set them an example. This was not a man to give into despair.

Calling upon some hidden resource, he rallied. He somehow gained control of himself and sat upright, the color returning to his cheeks. Pushing them away, he rose to his feet and began pacing the room, furiously puffing upon a fresh cigar. The three of them could only admire his strength and resilience and recuperative powers.

“We must decide what to do!” he announced in a strong, determined voice, once again the commanding figure. “We must come up with a scheme, we must choose a course of action! None of this must be allowed to compromise the throne, to tear the nation asunder. That is our first concern, and in deciding upon the course we will follow, that must be our first consideration.”

He pointed his cigar at the three of them, his bulging eyes burning with intensity. “We vill not allow this to destroy our nation and our Empire! Is that clear?”

Then, to no one in particular and half under his breath: “Damn that boy, vat is wrong with him? Vat in God’s name is wrong with him! It is the influence of that damn Stephen, I am sure of it!”

“Sir?”

“Oh, that Stephen fellow — Eddy’s tutor at Cambridge. I never should have allowed it! I vas given terrible advice about that damnable man. He is to blame, I just know it!”

Then, a thought suddenly occurring to him, the prince jerked his head around.

“Where is Eddy now? Do you know, Mycroft? In London, is he, with his goddamn Nancy-boys?”

“No, sir. In York, I believe, with his regiment.”

The prince’s eyes were practically bulging out of their sockets, he was so angry.

“Vell, bring him back — instantly! I vant him here, before me! Now!”

“No!”

The prince spun around in surprise.

Holmes, who had remained quietly in the background until now, startled everyone with his sudden exclamation, the prince most of all, for it was a rare occurrence for anyone to dispute an order of his, or even question one.

The prince glared at him wide-eyed, his mouth open in disbelief.

Holmes’s tone was respectful but firm. “That would be a serious mistake, Your Royal Highness, and I must caution you against it.”

The prince looked from Holmes to Mycroft, not believing his ears.

Mycroft cleared his throat nervously. “At least hear him out, Bertie,” he said, appealing to reason. “I think you will find that he has good and sufficient motives.”

The prince glowered at them both, breathing heavily, his bearded chin outthrust. He was not a man who welcomed unsolicited advice at any time, nor was he accustomed to it being offered.

“Please, Bertie. Listen to what he has to say, I beg of you. To make a wrong move, to do anything precipitous, could have tragic results.” Mycroft stood in front of him, palms upward. “I beg of you,” he repeated.

The prince considered him for a moment, then exhaled. “Very vell,” he said. “Go on, I am listening.”

Holmes clasped his hands behind his back and, leaning forward like some gaunt bird of prey, his sharp features silhouetted dramatically by the single light over the table behind him, he marshaled his arguments with all the force at his command. He spared the prince nothing, using none of the delicate, tactful language that royalty was accustomed to hearing. The matter was extremely grave, he said. The future of the country was at risk. Now was not the time to give in to anger and play the role of the outraged father, but to think of the greater good. It was the time to act the statesman, to make difficult choices and
personal sacrifices. The welfare of the nation must come first. It was, he suggested in no uncertain terms, the time to act like a king.

He was as merciless in his choice of words as he was in his choice of argument, and the color once again had drained from the prince’s cheeks. No one had ever dared speak to him that way; no one had ever been that blunt or that bold.

“If we are to save the day, sir,” Holmes said, concluding, “if a scandal is to be avoided and if the throne is to be kept secure, the killer must be stopped. He must be identified and taken into custody — and quickly, before he can act again. He must be prevented from committing another murder. To alert him now, to let him know that we are getting close, would be to ruin everything. If he was to learn that Prince Albert Victor has been summoned to your presence and confronted with the facts available to us, then our chance may well be lost. He is very shrewd, this man. If he discovers that we are on his track, there is no predicting what he will do. And if he is as close to the prince as I suspect him to be, he will find out, sir, make no mistake.”

Holmes looked earnestly into the eyes of the Prince of Wales.

“We must play him like a fish, Your Highness. We must show him the lure and allow him to take it, and then I shall set the hook and reel him in, sir. I shall pull him in and take him! Depend upon it!”

After Holmes had finished, the prince considered him for the longest while without speaking, his eyes boring through him. Then he took a turn around the room, deep in thought, to come back finally to where Holmes was standing. He looked at him for another long moment before saying anything.

“Vut vill you do? How vill you go about this... this fishing business of yours?” His eyes bored into Holmes.

Holmes shrugged. “For that I shall require your cooperation, sir. I shall need your permission to, ah, delve into your son’s private affairs to
some extent — his friends, his acquaintances, his servants, his comings and goings.

“Spy on him, you mean!”

Holmes met his gaze directly. “Yes, sir.”

Mycroft shifted his bulk nervously.

The prince considered this amazing request, then returned his gaze to Holmes. His face was pale, his features worked with conflicting emotions. When he spoke again, it was in a tired voice, barely audible.

“Very vell. You vill have your vay. It is obvious I have little choice in the matter. I vill give instructions to have you furnished with everything you require. You vill have carte blanche.”