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  My interjection evidently reminded Holmes of his responsibilities, for he cleared his throat and addressed Lestrade more usefully, if not markedly with any more cordiality. ‘It is really quite straight-forward, Lestrade. Observe the man. He is not merely standing upright; he is at attention. His arms are held straight down each leg, in spite of his manacles, with his hands bunched and his thumbs to the fore, a stance one might almost describe as the hallmark of the British soldier on display.

  ‘Additionally, I see the edges of a tattoo on his chest, usually hidden by his shirt, but currently partially visible due to his torn collar. The section I can make out contains the Latin word “caritatem”, or “charity” in English, which I would hazard is the end of the motto of the county of Donegal, “Mutuam habeatis caritatem” – “Maintain amongst yourselves, mutual charity”.

  ‘Finally, it is implausible, in these turbulent times, that an Irish Catholic from Donegal would be able to move straight from home to a position in the British Army. Hence, he spent some time in this country, softening his accent and Anglifying his manners. The man’s voice is faintly flavoured with the Irish brogue, I’ll warrant. He also, most probably, joined up under an assumed name.’

  I could not be sure but it seemed to me that the man stiffened slightly beside us as Holmes spoke. Holmes obviously thought the same, for he turned round in his chair to stare at our prisoner. Before he could say a word, however, Lestrade laughed and slapped a hand against his desk.

  ‘I should know better than to doubt you, Mr Holmes,’ he said. ‘Hear that, young Paddy? Mr Holmes here has the measure of you already!’ He turned back to Holmes, with a more serious expression on his face. ‘Of course, we had already guessed that he was really an Irishman, for all his English talk. But knowing which part of that blasted country he calls home is a small additional help, Mr Holmes.’

  I admit that I bridled a little at Lestrade’s words. Scotland Yard, while seemingly happy to make use of Holmes’s remarkable brain, were also jealous of their own reputation and had, on more than one occasion, purloined credit that rightfully belonged to my friend. That this rarely concerned Holmes himself was scant consolation. I said nothing, however, for I knew that he would not thank me for the intervention.

  In fact, he appeared utterly sanguine about the matter, and continued in his observation of the prisoner. After a minute or more of silent contemplation – while Lestrade fidgeted at his desk and seemed, on more than one occasion, about to speak – Holmes steepled his fingers in front of his chin and came to a decision.

  ‘Can you please leave us alone now, Inspector?’ he asked. ‘I believe your presence – as a representative of the Crown – is making this man uncomfortable in the extreme.’ He gestured with one hand to the door. ‘I should like to come to know him better, and to discuss his grievances more fully, but, I fear, that is unlikely to happen while you remain in the room.’

  Again, Lestrade seemed on the verge of protest, but Holmes’s half-smile and unmistakable tone of command rendered him mute and, without another word, he rose and left the office to Holmes, the prisoner and myself. Throughout this exchange, he too had remained utterly silent, but as before I was aware of a subtle shifting of his body, a slight relaxing of his shoulders and softening of his face as Lestrade closed the door behind him.

  ‘Now,’ Holmes said without preamble, ‘perhaps you and I can talk.’ He rose from his chair and indicated that the prisoner might be seated in his place. The man made no move at first then, hesitantly, as though expecting a blow, and without taking his eyes from Holmes, sat down in the vacated chair. Holmes moved round Lestrade’s desk and pulled the Inspector’s chair towards himself, before sitting down so close to the prisoner as to be almost touching.

  ‘My name is Sherlock Holmes,’ he began. ‘I am a private citizen—’

  The man, whose eyes had remained fixed on Holmes throughout the exchange, suddenly flicked forward, and his shoulders squared and lifted as he sat at attention once more.

  The next hour was a peculiar one. Holmes addressed the prisoner constantly, unceasingly, beginning with one train of thought, then moving to the next without pause, trying out first this conversational gambit, then that, and all the while scrutinising his silent audience with unblinking eyes. Holmes spoke of towns and rivers in Donegal, of great political leaders and popular journalists, of religion, and science and philosophy. For one who claimed to know little beyond that necessary for his detective work, Holmes, in that hour, exhibited a breadth of knowledge that would not have disgraced a university tutor.

  Finally, he laid his hands on his thighs and pushed himself to his feet with a heavy sigh. Still, the prisoner sat unmoving, only an occasional slow blink betraying the fact that he was still awake.

  ‘I think,’ Holmes said slowly, ‘that now would be an opportune moment for you to explain what you meant when you told Lestrade that “next time it won’t just be a painting”.’ He cocked an eyebrow quizzically, as though expecting a response, then continued, more forcefully, ‘Don’t you agree, Corporal Charles O’Donnell?’

  The reaction from our prisoner was dramatic.

  He leapt to his feet and swung himself round to face Holmes. Their faces were mere inches apart as he grabbed a handful of my friend’s jacket. Of course, I immediately moved to intervene but I need not have concerned myself. With a twist of his body and a flick of his wrist, Holmes easily reversed positions with his assailant, driving the man to his knees with no apparent effort.

  ‘Thank you,’ Holmes said, ‘for the confirmation. Now,’ he continued in a harder, colder voice, ‘will you resume your seat and answer my questions, or must I break your wrist?’

  Though Holmes was no shrinking violet, this was a side to him that I had not often seen. I admit that I had never heard of Charles O’Donnell, but Holmes evidently knew exactly who he was.

  O’Donnell was no coward, at least, and though the pain must have been excruciating, he gave no sign of discomfort as Holmes bent his wrist unnaturally then – with a grunt – pushed him back into his seat.

  He sat, rubbing his wrist and staring up at Holmes with undisguised loathing. Holmes, for his part, walked across to the door, pulled it open, and spoke a few words to the constable standing outside. He had barely crossed back to Lestrade’s desk before the Inspector appeared in the doorway, puffing as though he had run some distance.

  ‘My apologies, Mr Holmes,’ he said between exhalations. ‘I was having a cup of tea downstairs in the canteen. I didn’t expect you to discover anything quite so quickly.’ As Holmes was already sitting in his chair, Lestrade perched himself uncomfortably on the edge of the desk. ‘You have discovered something, haven’t you?’ he asked.

  Holmes allowed himself a small smile as he replied. ‘That depends on your definition of discovered, Inspector. I now know this gentleman’s name, and his former rank and regiment in the British Army. I can tell you that he has been resident in England for more than ten years but fewer than twenty. Finally, I can tell you that, though no common foot soldier in the struggle, neither is he currently high in the confidences of the Brotherhood of Ireland leadership and that, therefore, any threats he makes beyond the immediate should be treated with caution.’

  For the second time in an hour, Lestrade stood, nonplussed, before Sherlock Holmes. I was conscious of a certain pleasurable anticipation running through me as I prepared to hear an explanation for this collection of facts plucked, it seemed to the Inspector at least, from thin air.

  Holmes, as was often his way, allowed himself a small expression of impatience before any such explanation was forthcoming. After a moment, though, he murmured, ‘Oh, very well, if you have failed to observe anything…’ and settling himself more comfortably in Lestrade’s chair, explained his reasoning.

  ‘I have had occasion in the past to mention the need for thorough preparation, have I not? The current case is an ideal example of the efficacy of such preparation. Why, even before leaving Baker Street I k
new that the prisoner held by the Inspector was likely to be Irish and Catholic. Who else, after all, would have so vehement an objection to Lord Salisbury and the question of Home Rule? So far, so good; the most fresh-faced of police constables could hardly fail to have reached the same conclusions.

  ‘But then there is the fact that the man strolled into the Gallery some time before he strictly needed to. Confidence is required to look over the location of the crime in advance, especially in so public a place. An Irishman recently arrived in this country would lack such confidence, while one who had lived here for two decades or more would not, I suggest, have quite the same revolutionary fire in his belly as he once had. These few, simple facts I was able to surmise while we yet sat in front of the fire in Baker Street.’

  As Holmes paused to take a sip of water, O’Donnell’s face took on a peculiar aspect, of fear mixed with what could almost have been respect, which surprised me, for the man had until that point appeared to be made of granite. But I had seen the same look before, on the faces of other men brought before Sherlock Holmes: men secure in their own secrets until that great mind began to winkle them out. Lestrade took the opportunity of the brief pause to open the office door and speak quickly to a uniformed police officer standing in the corridor. This constable hurried off, returning just as Holmes re-commenced his narrative. He handed Lestrade a thin brown folder and closed the door behind him on his way out.

  ‘Knowing these several facts as I did, I was therefore able to examine my own personal files this morning, before Watson and I made our way to Scotland Yard. As you are possibly aware, Inspector, I have an extensive library of newspaper clippings relating to criminal activities included in my records, and it was a relatively simple matter therefore to scan those reports specifically linked to republican crimes in Ireland between ten and twenty years ago and, from there, check on the known whereabouts of all suspected parties in the period immediately afterwards. Of eleven such incidents – bombings, assassination attempts and the like – the vast majority of the culprits were either killed in the commission of their crimes or later by the process of law. On two occasions, however, the most strongly suspected individual, though named, was never caught, and in one such occurrence was never heard from again.

  ‘That individual, Charles O’Donnell of Clonmany in County Donegal, was responsible for the destruction of a Protestant church and the murder of its minister nine years ago. His likeness was circulated to newspapers in both Ireland and England, though to no avail, and he was believed by the authorities in Ireland to have fled to the United States. Before coming here, Inspector, I refreshed my memory from just such an image. This man is Charles O’Donnell.’

  At this point Lestrade, impatient as ever to demonstrate his own utility, flipped open the folder he carried, and held it out for Holmes’s inspection. Holmes examined the few pages within for a minute, and no more, before handing the file to me.

  The photograph on top of a slew of handwritten documents clearly showed the man sitting in front of me. He was now a little older and a little heavier, but the scar on his face was unmistakable, and the look of hatred in his eyes identical. I quickly examined the pages beneath, but they held little which Holmes had not already expounded on. Our prisoner was a dangerous and merciless man, of that there was no doubt.

  ‘That’s all very well, Mr Holmes,’ Lestrade said, rising from his desk to take the folder which I now held out to him. ‘But you claimed to know the man’s rank and regiment. How can that possibly be? Unless… did he speak to you after all?’

  ‘After a fashion yes, he did,’ Holmes replied. ‘A man may say not a single word aloud, and yet his face will betray him every time, if his interrogator knows what to look for. The eyes in particular are not called the windows to the soul for nothing, Lestrade. Every movement tells its own story. And as I spoke to Mr O’Donnell of this and that I read the story in his eyes, and can tell you that – under an assumed name which, I regret, I do not know – your prisoner has spent the better part of the past decade in the South Staffordshire Regiment, rising, I believe, to the rank of corporal. In that time, I have no doubt that he has remained in occasional contact with his former revolutionary compatriots, but it seems highly unlikely that he will have maintained a sufficiently regular degree of communication to be aware of more than the Brotherhood’s most immediate plans. A small fish, at best, Inspector.’

  Lulled by O’Donnell’s long silence and stillness, I was not prepared for the reaction that this parting line evoked in the prisoner. No sooner had the words left Holmes’s lips than the man threw himself forward with a hideous snarl on his face. Lestrade and I barely moved, so swift and unexpected was the attack, but Holmes had obviously been expecting it and took two steps backwards as O’Donnell’s lunge was brought short by the manacles at his ankles and wrists. The very act of stretching his arms towards Holmes caused the connecting chains to snatch at his feet and brought him tumbling to the ground. He lay there, groaning quietly, until Lestrade pulled him roughly to his feet and thrust him back into his seat.

  ‘Enough!’ the Inspector barked. ‘One more trick like that and—’

  Whatever consequence Lestrade intended to convey was lost, however, as O’Donnell pushed himself to his feet and, with his eyes locked on Holmes, snarled in his direction, ‘I tell you this, who thinks he’s so clever. I tell you this. Next time it’ll be flesh being cut, not canvas and paint.’ With that, he was evidently satisfied that he had spat his defiance well enough, for he sat back down carefully, smiling, as though taking tea with a friend rather than facing an uncertain future in custody, and refused to say another word.

  Try as he might, Lestrade failed to pierce this wall of silence and eventually, after twenty minutes or more, he called for the attentive constable to take O’Donnell back to his cell.

  ‘Perhaps we might have been better to stick with our own methods,’ said Lestrade once we were all settled again. I thought this more than a little unfair, given the progress Holmes had made, and said so, making no attempt to keep the annoyance out of my voice.

  Holmes though was sanguine and shook his head as he murmured, ‘No, Watson. I thank you for the defence, but the Inspector is quite correct. I miscalculated the manner in which our erstwhile companion would react, if his importance to the “movement” was cruelly downplayed. I had imagined, I admit, that he could be manipulated into boasting of his position within the Brotherhood, even perhaps brought to the point of confession regarding his recent activities. And yet, apart from identifying the prisoner, all I managed to extract from him was the very same threat that inspired Scotland Yard to ask me to consult on the matter.’

  ‘No,’ repeated Holmes with a frown, as he stood and reached for his hat and gloves. ‘This meeting has not been the success I had hoped for. The few snippets of information I was able to glean do not, in truth, advance our case overmuch. We now know who the man is, I grant you, but, in every other important respect, we are in an identical position to that of several hours ago.’

  Lestrade, too, was frowning as he stood to show us out of his office. ‘What can we do then, Mr Holmes? We’ve kept the whole affair as quiet as we can, with no word to the newspapers, and I’ve arranged for an extra police presence at the Gallery for the next few nights, in case O’Donnell’s confederates try again. But I can’t ignore the specific threats the man has made, even if my superiors were willing to do so – which they are not. And I have to tell you, this business could not have come at a worse moment.’

  ‘In what sense?’ I asked.

  ‘Just that we already have enough on our plates here at the Yard, dealing with proper criminal types, without having to waste time on the likes of O’Donnell and his friends.’

  ‘Anything of particular interest?’ asked Holmes, never one to miss the opportunity to expand his knowledge of crime.

  ‘Oh, nothing to trouble you, Mr Holmes. Just that we’ve had reports of an odd sort of foreigner in town. The Albino, they call
him.’ He chuckled. ‘Can you believe that, Dr Watson? The Albino. Foolish foreign sort of name, if you ask me. Apparently he gets up to his criminal activity all over Europe. Turns up in some city or other, with a plan and not much else. Recruits locally, they say, a different gang every time, oftentimes borrowed from the local mobs. Another Moriarty, eh?’ Holmes did not return Lestrade’s smile, so he hurried to a conclusion. ‘Anyway, rumour has it that he’s in London to steal… well, something or other. Nobody knows what, exactly, but “England’s Treasure” they call it, so obviously something very valuable.’

  I expected Holmes to react to this fascinating speech, but he seemed barely to be aware that Lestrade had spoken. ‘“England’s Treasure”?’ I said, with interest. ‘What do you think, Holmes?’

  ‘The Crown Jewels, perhaps,’ he drawled, though evincing little sign of interest in the subject. Indeed, beyond that, he would not be drawn. ‘I think,’ he said, ‘that the time has come for more direct action. I will,’ he concluded as he stepped through the office door, ‘need to get to know these republicans far better than I do now.’

  With an apologetic nod to Lestrade, I hurried after my friend as he strode down the outer corridor.

  Two

  Once outside, we quickly hailed a cab. The morning promised to be pleasant, with the early sun already warming the air, and the promise of clement weather to come. Holmes, as was usual when his interest was roused, was impatient of any delay. He began to speak before we were even properly settled in our seats; plainly that keen mind had already formulated a plan of action.

  Sure enough, he began without preamble to lay out his intentions. ‘I think it clear enough that the threat posed by O’Donnell’s faction is not one that can safely be ignored, even though the specifics of the threat thus far elude us. That the Brotherhood of Ireland wish to keep the identity of their target secret is unsurprising, but I believe that O’Donnell’s last words had the ring of truth to them. Someone is in grave danger.’ He fell silent as he turned the problem over in his mind. I took the opportunity to make a suggestion of my own.