A substantial fog had settled over Northumberland Dock, and the thick, moist air, coupled with the odors of industry and the Tyne River, stifled our breathing. Or perhaps, if I might indulge in melodrama, we were smelling doom nearby.
The navy sailors guarding the Dutch steamship Friesland called out softly to one another across the dock, their voices echoing and distorted by the nearby water. But no sound at all came from the Friesland.
Of the four of us approaching the ship, only my old friend Mr. Sherlock Holmes seemed undaunted by the atmosphere. I reached for my handkerchief often to mop my brow. Poor Inspector Lestrade cleared his throat every few minutes. And the navy man, Lieutenant-Commander Sebastian Powell wheezed noticeably.
"I am still curious," said Lestrade, clearing his throat once more, his narrow, sallow face constricted in annoyance, "as to why you insisted that Mr. Holmes and Dr. Watson accompany us. The events as you described them seemed quite straightforward." Lestrade himself had been called in only to consult, as the critical events had certainly occurred outside his jurisdiction. This placed him on equal footing with Holmes, a situation that left him discomfited.
Without slowing his pace, Lieutenant-Commander Powell removed his cap, brushed his salt-and-pepper hair back from his face with thick fingers, and then returned the cap smartly to his head. He was a muscular walrus of a man, perhaps fifty-five years of age, with piercing cobalt eyes. "There are certain factors, inspector, that make me question the obvious conclusion," he said. "Not the least of which the fact that the obvious conclusion could lead to war."
Holmes had characteristically taken the lead in our walk through the fog, but he stopped now in front of the Friesland. "Lieutenant-Commander, it is a logical fallacy to reject a conclusion simply because it is unsavory," he said. "However, I applaud your caution in this matter." His eyes flashed with anticipation. "I was struck by one element of your tale, an element that perhaps might elude others." His gaze encompassed Inspector Lestrade, who flushed and twitched his ratlike nose in annoyance.
I forced a chuckle and mopped my brow again. "Well, it eluded me, Holmes," I said. "Perhaps we should proceed aboard, though I am reluctant to see with my own eyes the sad scene that Lieutenant-Commander Powell described."
And with that, we proceeded aboard the Friesland and embarked on one of the more remarkable adventures of Mr. Sherlock Holmes's long career.
The Friesland was an iron steamship of the relatively new "three island" design, with a casing in the center, a monkey forecastle, and a short poop deck forming three "islands" above the main deck. She bore two masts with limited sail, and Powell estimated her weight at over two thousand tons. She bore the flag of Koehler House, one of perhaps a dozen such ships. As we boarded her, I took note of two large holes in her hull, above the waterline, as well as the jagged stump of the front mast. Still, the ship seemed quiet and secure against the dock, the water lapping gently against it. The Friesland did not look like a ghost ship.
"Early last week, the Friesland traveled from London to Stavanger, Norway. She left Stavanger five days ago and set course for Newfoundland. Yesterday evening, a Royal Navy patrol discovered her adrift thirteen miles off the coast of Scotland, near Aberdeen," Powell said, leading the way to the deck. He was repeating facts he had shared with us earlier in the day in our parlor at 221B Baker Street, perhaps to distract himself from the sights he would soon reencounter. "In addition to several tons of a fish oil product processed in Stavanger, the cargo included an exhibit that the Rijksmuseum in Amsterdam intends to share with the Roscoe Clay Hall of Culture in Vanguard City. The collection features paintings by Vermeer and Rembrandt. As far as we have been able to determine, the cargo is still intact." He stopped and turned to face us as we stepped onto the deck. "The Navy ship discovered no living souls on board." He shook his head. "Many of the crew are missing, quite likely thrown overboard. Two American passengers, John and Harold Smith, are missing as well. We found the bodies of ten crewmembers throughout the ship, most shot dead, a few stabbed. And we found three other bodies in the ship's corridors, all dressed in Royal Danish Navy uniforms. Our Navy brought the Friesland here so we could learn the truth before informing the Dutch and Danish governments of the gruesome discovery."
"The ship's course would have taken it near Iceland?" Holmes asked. He was peering past Powell's shoulder, toward the body of a crewman, arms splayed out, laying face down on the deck.
Powell nodded.
Holmes walked purposefully toward the body.
Lestrade coughed. "The Danish government has been strident in recent years about steamships fishing near Icelandic waters," the inspector said, "and the appropriate distance for fishing boats to keep from Iceland has been in dispute. Danish gun ships have chased off British fisherman, for example. The newspapers call it the Cod War."
Holmes, kneeling by the body, chuckled and stood back up. "The only fish of concern here isn't cod," he said. "It's herring. The red variety." He addressed Powell. "I'll need to see the bodies of the alleged Danish sailors," he said. "But I doubt seriously that next week's newspapers will be reporting war between the Netherlands and Denmark."
The carnage aboard the Friesland was grim indeed. The Dutch sailors had not died cleanly. Most were shot several times, and many bore gruesome knife wounds. One had been decapitated, the poor soul's head staring balefully from one end of a corridor while his body rested at the opposite side. And wherever we walked, we saw blood, much more blood than the bodies we encountered could account for. "I'm not sure I've seen its like since the Battle of Maiwand," I said quietly.
Holmes investigated in turn each of the three men in the uniforms of the Royal Danish Navy. We came to the final such body in the entryway to the cabin assigned to the Americans John and Harold Smith. "Aha!" Holmes said as he examined the fallen man.
"What is it, Holmes?" asked Lestrade. "Will you illuminate the rest of us? Or are we simply supposed to stand here admiringly?"
Holmes stood gracefully. "I am but observing, Lestrade, confirming suspicions I've had since Lieutenant-Commander Powell first informed us of the bizarre attack on this vessel."
"And what are these suspicions, Holmes?" Lestrade sounded more curious than querulous now.
"There is no shame in overlooking some of these facts, Lestrade, although that oversight could indeed have led to war between Denmark and the Netherlands. Some of these details could only have been discovered by the most trained eyes." When Lestrade's face reddened, Holmes's eyes gleamed with that peculiar satisfaction they showed when he was able to goad our old sparring partner. "Perhaps I do you a disservice. I presume that you noted that it would be strongly out of character for the Danish Royal Navy to attack in such a way. Even if we hypothesize that the Friesland entered into what the Danish government contends are Icelandic waters, and again hypothesize that the ship was mistaken to be on a fishing expedition, the aggression displayed here is disproportionate to the imagined offense."
Lestrade's back straightened. "I had drawn the same conclusion myself," he said.