The Dillon Place Mystery – A Sherlock Holmes Investigation

By George Morrison

Join Baker Street's legendary detective Sherlock Holmes and his faithful sidekick John Watson in a thrilling conspiracy-filled adventure across IrelandOn the eve of the Queen's state visit to Ireland, Sherlock Holmes receives an unusual visit from Sir Richard Waltham, the Parliamentary Secretary to the Home Office. Soon he and Watson are steaming for the shores of Queenstown in Dublin, charged with exposing an audacious conspiracy to shake the very foundations of the Empire.'I'd better start packing, Holmes. What do you suggest I take?''Stout travelling clothes and boots, heavy overcoats and oilskins, fishing tackle for sea-fishing as well as our trout rods, evening dress, and I think, perhaps, Watson, your old service revolver.' The game is afoot …The Dillon Place Mystery is a brilliant new Sherlock Holmes adventure, set for the first time in Ireland, from the pen of critically acclaimed filmmaker and photographer George Morrison, for whom the reading and writing of Holmes has been a lifelong passion.George Morrison is one of Ireland's most distinguished filmmakers and photographic restorers. Now in his nineties, he was born in Tramore, Co. Waterford, and is best known for his films Mise Éire (1959) and Saoirse? (1961). He has also made many documentaries and produced a number of important photographic books on modern Irish history, including The Irish Civil War with Tim Pat Coogan. His wife was the legendary Irish Times cookery writer Theodora FitzGibbon.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Gill Books
• Release date: Dec 1, 2016
• ISBN: 9780717170418

George Morrison

George Morrison is one of Ireland’s most distinguished filmmakers and photographic restorers. Now in his nineties, he was born in Tramore, Co. Waterford, and is best known for his films Mise Éire (1959) and Saoirse? (1961). He has also made many documentaries and produced a number of important photographic books on modern Irish history, including The Irish Civil War with Tim Pat Coogan. His wife was the legendary Irish Times cookery writer Theodora FitzGibbon.

Book preview

CHAPTER 1

‘Good morning, Watson!’

Holmes’s crisp greeting as I entered our living room at 221B, Baker Street, on that mid-March morning of 1900, left me in no doubt that for my friend the dull inactive period that had lasted from the turn of the year was ended.

From the alertness in his eyes I could see that all was changed. March ‘had gone out like a lamb’, which, in Baker Street, had meant a fortnight of windless days of heavy fog, muffling the traffic noise, the bells and the train whistles, and seeming to increase intolerably the oppression of spirit that invariably settled upon my strange and brilliant companion when he lacked the practical problems to engage his intensely active mind.

I had been planning to take him with me to friends in Bath and had arranged a locum to look after my patients, but had been held up by a delayed confinement. However, in the small hours of that morning the call had finally come. Arriving at Baker Street after an uncomplicated delivery, I had observed Mrs Hudson showing out two distinguished-looking individuals in frock coats and silk hats, who had driven off in a smart closed carriage as a thin spring sunshine and a light breeze dispersed the last traces of the fog.

I gladly accepted an invitation to breakfast, but could not restrain my curiosity.

‘A break in the clouds, Holmes?’

‘Indeed, a most encouraging change in the weather altogether, my dear fellow. A case of most unusual importance and delicacy has been placed in my hands by the gentlemen whom I notice you observed departing.’

‘They certainly seemed people of consequence, and they drove off in a remarkably smart turn-out!’

‘When I tell you that they have been with me from eleven o’clock last night, Watson, and that they were none other than the Parliamentary Secretary to the Home Office, Sir Richard Waltham, and his private secretary, Mr Cecil Shortt, you will realise that a matter of the greatest urgency has arisen.’

‘A case which you have agreed to undertake?’

‘Yes – and you are welcome to join with me; indeed I should very much like to know that I can count on your support.’

‘You have that, of course, Holmes, but it begins to look as though my friends in Bath are likely to suffer a disappointment.’

‘That may be, Watson, but I think I can promise you an even more exciting time than we might have had in the West Country,’ replied Holmes with a decided sparkle in his eyes.

‘Very well, I’ll telegraph to say we won’t be down. Where is this likely to take us?’

‘In the first instance, to Ireland. I have an appointment to meet a very important official for lunch tomorrow in Queenstown and I should very much like to have you there too.’

‘I’d better start packing. What do you suggest I take?’

‘Stout travelling clothes and boots, heavy overcoats and oilskins, fishing tackle for sea-fishing as well as our trout rods, evening dress, and I think, perhaps, Watson, your old service revolver.’

As I filled in a telegram form with our regrets, Holmes was consulting his Bradshaw.

‘Today being Wednesday, if I make my arrangements at the bank this morning and we have an early lunch at Simpsons’, we will have plenty of time if we order a cab to pick us up here at half past three. A brougham would be best, on account of our luggage. An excellent connection leaves Paddington at four twenty-five, a corridor train with a dining-car, connecting with the City of Cork Steam Packet Company’s boat at New Milford, which will arrive early enough to allow us to reach Queenstown in time to keep our lunch appointment punctually.’

At ten minutes to four, we were bowling into the carriage entrance to Paddington Station.

‘Two First smokers on the New Milford train, please, porter!’ exclaimed Holmes as he passed over our baggage, while I made my way to the queue at the ticket office. As I reached it, I was a little ruffled to be rather rudely elbowed aside by a passenger in a great hurry who had arrived in a hansom just after us.

‘Single to Cardiff, please!’ shouted this rude individual to the ticket clerk. The clerk produced the pasteboard slip but, much to my amusement, the uncouth traveller could not find his wallet. He turned to me with evident embarrassment.

‘I beg your pardon, sir, please take my place. I may be some time.’

I thanked him and did so.

‘Two singles to Cork, First Class, and Saloon on the steamer, please.’

With our tickets secured, I joined Holmes at the barrier. Our porter had secured us two window seats in the First smoker nearest the dining-car and we had just time to settle in before the blowing of the guard’s whistle and a shriek from the engine signalled the prompt departure of the train, a great plume of white steam expanding into the sunlight as we left the station.

As we passed through Slough, I thought to amuse Holmes with an account of the absurdity of the impatient traveller, but could not help noticing his increasingly sardonic expression.

‘The oldest ruse in the book, Watson, and you fell for it hook, line and sinker!’

‘You don’t mean …’

‘It looks uncommonly like it. In view of what we are about, I should not be in the least surprised if we are kept under watch. Do you think he could have overheard our destination?’

I thought for a moment.

‘As far as Cork, certainly.’

‘Well, at Cardiff, we shall perhaps see. What did he look like?’

‘Medium height, with a florid complexion and a red moustache.’

‘Dress?’

‘A heavy tweed jacket and trousers of matching broad check. He looked a bit like a bookie and had a Gladstone bag and a travelling rug.’

‘And his manner of speaking?’

‘Not English, I should say – could be Welsh.’

‘Or Irish?’

‘Yes, I suppose he could have been, but of course Cardiff made me think of Wales.’

Holmes closed the sliding door onto the corridor.

‘I think,’ he said, ‘that as we have this compartment to ourselves, I ought to give you an account of how things stand.’

He paused for a moment, then began.

‘Although the war in South Africa has taken up a great deal of space in the newspapers, you will have noticed, Watson, from time to time, reports of the progress of the plans for the Queen’s proposed visit to Ireland. I need hardly say that all State Visits of this kind, to whatever country, are the subject of much preparation, planning and, not least, a careful consideration of the risks to which the person of Her Majesty may be exposed during the course of the visit.’

I nodded my assent. He continued.

‘This latter factor varies much from country to country and must always be the subject of special attention, especially when the political history of Ireland is taken into account.’

‘You mean that there may be a threat to the Queen’s life?’

‘That would, at this stage, be going too far, but something very serious is afoot, and so convinced is the Government of this that the most unusual step has been taken of engaging my services as a matter of the utmost urgency.’

‘But surely, Holmes, there are adequate means at the command of Government to investigate the matter and to ensure the Queen’s safety without calling upon a private individual?’

‘In a matter of such importance and delicacy, one must always remember that the strength of a chain is that of its weakest link, and in an extended network of public security there are a great many links! Confidentiality, then, is one reason why my services have been retained, but another is that there is every indication that a long established secret organisation is involved.’

I thought for a moment. ‘The Fenians!’ I exclaimed.

‘Ah, Watson, I see you have not forgotten what we learned of the operations of that body in the Valley of Fear, but I do not mean the Fenians. Such groups are subject to change and development, and a body has now emerged having the same objects as the Fenians but much tighter and more efficient, with members much more effectively placed in the structures of public administration in these islands, a secret organisation called the Irish Republican Brotherhood. I see from your face, Watson, that you have never heard of the IRB, but, like the Fenians, they believe that England’s difficulties are Ireland’s opportunities, and their activities are largely influenced by the saying. The disarrangements of normal public administration brought about by the South African War and the Queen’s proposed visit are, I am told, regarded by them as opportunities for action too important to be missed. Nothing is yet known of their plans, except that some activity, some coup de main, is being prepared, and it is to discover what it is and how it is to be put into effect that we find ourselves on the way to Ireland.’

‘But why to Queenstown?’

‘Because the Director of Naval Intelligence there, Admiral Denton, probably knows more about the movements of the Brotherhood in Ireland than anyone in Whitehall.’

‘Ah, I see now the purpose of our lunch appointment!’

‘And you will see, too, Watson, how important it is to establish the character of your bookie acquaintance and to give him the slip if we have to, so, if you will not think me churlish, I propose to devote a little time to the consideration of this question.’

So saying, he produced a capacious leather tobacco pouch and his favourite ‘travelling pipe’, a knobby briar of deepest hue, and devoted himself to the earnest preparation of a lengthy bowlful. Realising what was to come, I took the precaution of opening the window slightly. Once his briar was quietly aglow and the lazy wreaths of bluish smoke had begun to drift across the compartment, Holmes lay back in his seat with half-closed eyes for more than an hour, in deep concentration.

It was not until the compartment lights, in their rose-pink fluted-glass shades, came on and, with ever-increasing speed, we were running down the long cutting to the Severn Tunnel that he put away his pipe.

‘Quick, Watson, close the window, or we shall be stunk out by the fumes from the engine.’

I was only just in time to close it before we plunged into the tunnel at what seemed a mile a minute and roared down the incline. Soon the glass of the outside windows was covered in a milky condensate of steam, hiding the flashing gleams of the damp tunnel walls. The speed steadied as we thundered along the level stretch beneath the middle of the river and we were soon attacking the steeply rising gradient as we approached the further bank. Here the weight of the train was soon noticed as our powerful locomotive was pulled back almost to the speed of a horse’s trot and the loud panting of the engine could be heard. Even with the window and ventilators tight shut the air became fouler and fouler, the sulphurous stink catching one in the back of the throat.

‘I shouldn’t care to be on the footplate now!’ I exclaimed.

At that moment, all the lights went out.

An instant later Holmes had struck a light and lit a small bull’s-eye lamp taken from his Gladstone bag.

‘Watson! Is your revolver ready?’ he whispered.

I nodded assent as my thumb flicked off the safety-catch and my fingers tightened their grip on the butt of the gun in my coat pocket.

Holmes hung the lamp from the luggage rack to allow himself both hands free and we waited tensely. The light of the swinging lamp filled the compartment with shifting shadows and the hoarse panting of the engine added to the tension. The climb towards daylight seemed interminable. Suddenly, on came the lights again with their reassuring pink glow and, a moment later, we had broken from the tunnel into sunlight.

‘Well, perhaps it was just a coincidence,’ said my companion as he extinguished the lamp and replaced it in his Gladstone bag.

‘The old-fashioned gaslight is not as attractive, but perhaps more reliable,’ I replied, as Holmes turned his attention to the view from the window.

‘You are right. Look – though political geography insists that we are in England, architecture proclaims that we have reached Wales!’

We were still climbing slowly up through the cutting and, as I followed his gaze, I saw the first typically Welsh farmhouse glide past. I rose to my feet and opened the window, glad of the sweet country air that gradually wafted away the reek of the tunnel.

‘We will soon be stopping at Newport, Watson. Let us keep a good look out for your sporting friend to see if he leaves the train!’

At Newport we were lucky, as our carriage stopped close to the platform exit, which we had in view for the entire duration of the short stop, but there was no sign of our follower either leaving or on the platform as we drew away.

‘We might stretch our legs for a moment at Cardiff, eh, Watson?’

‘Agreed,’ I replied, and when, with a musical singing from the brakes and a slight jerk, we came to a standstill, we lost no time in finding ourselves strolling along the platform amidst the passengers joining and leaving the train, the trundling of the porters’ trolleys and the hiss of steam. Almost at once, I spotted the ‘bookie’, who was, like ourselves, seemingly engaged in stretching his legs, but, as he had neither Gladstone bag nor rug with him, it was apparent that he had changed his mind and was coming on further. We kept well back behind a stack of large hampers addressed to a theatrical company and my impression was that he did not see us, but that he was keeping the exit under observation was undoubted. Presently he climbed back on board and we did so too, just as the guard’s whistle was blowing.

Back in our compartment, Holmes reached up to the luggage rack and, taking down a small brown leather attaché case, he transferred several long envelopes from it to an inner pocket of his suit before replacing the case on the rack.

‘What do you say to the idea of seeing what the Great Western can accomplish in the way of dinner, Watson?’

I readily gave my assent, as the excitements of the day had made me as hungry as a hunter, and a moment later we were seated at a table for two in the dining-car, a glass of fino in front of us as we awaited our Brown Windsor soup.

We were demolishing the remains of our portions of Stilton when the ‘bookie’ made his appearance, moving down the car between the tables. He passed us without appearing to be aware of our presence, and went out of the door at the end of the car, in the direction of our compartment. I half rose from my seat, but Holmes placed a restraining hand on my arm.

‘No, Watson, let us have another glass of port.’

About twenty minutes later we returned to our compartment, Holmes entering first and motioning me to remain outside. As it was now dark, he switched on all the lights and keenly examined every feature of the interior, paying particular attention to the polished wood forming the outer rail of the luggage rack and the mahogany veneer on the window panels. Next, he very gently lifted down his slim leather attaché case, handling it only by the corners, and, setting it on end, methodically dusted its top and sides with a light grey powder from a small phial drawn from his pocket. Carefully, he blew the powder away and then very closely inspected the surfaces of the case with a small but powerful pocket lens.

‘As I thought, Watson, your impatient