"Then it won't be in Germany," Lestrade declared stoutly. "And we'll be watching lest von Holbach comes here, and hold him."
"On no account do so, Lestrade. Von Holbach is known to us, an agent who would then doubtless be sent would not be. Let the game continue."
The days then weeks passed, while Holmes fretted. The newspapers carried a short paragraph about an unfortunate stockbroker who had returned to find his home full of police constables, and his cook together with a total stranger, who was as yet unidentified, lying murdered on his floor.
As June opened, a heightened sense of excitement swept through London as it prepared for Her Majesty Queen Victoria's Diamond Jubilee on the 22nd of the month. Carpenters were already at work on a huge stand in Whitehall, another in the churchyard of St Martin's Church, and a colossal one by St Paul's churchyard. Large sums were being demanded of the visitors now flocking into London from all quarters of the globe, for space at windows. From the eleventh of the month when the official programme was published, the sole topic of conversation wherever one walked or dined was Jubilee Day. Everywhere, that is, save in our Baker Street rooms, where my friend paced in silence save for a few days when he disappeared, and, I suspected, disguised as a beggar or postman, tramped the streets of London in search of his prey.
Even Mrs Hudson's patience wore thin, as the air became thick with smoke, and meal after meal was returned uneaten. Pursuing the fiction of his illness, he avoided going out save in disguise, keeping the curtains drawn much of the time.
Of Adolph Meyer there was no sign whatsoever. Lestrade swore he had not left the country, but he was not to be found in London. His servants professed not to know his whereabouts. A watch on the Legation ensured he had not sought sanctuary there. Towards the end of the week of the 13th, decorations began to blossom all over the city, transforming grey stone into a veritable bower of flowers and coloured flags. Favours sprouted in buttonholes and hats, and bicycles and carriages streamed with red, white and blue.
Returning to Baker Street late on Saturday the 19th, I found to my relief that Sherlock Holmes was at last disposed to talk. "Sir George visited me today. Watson, he has come."
"Who, Holmes?"
"Von Holbach himself. He lodges at the Legation. He has no official invitation, of course, for his master's regrettable severing of friendly relations between his nation and ours at Cowes in 'ninety-five means that not only can he not cross the Channel, but his eminence grise is not officially welcomed here either."
"Then when Meyer goes to deliver the letter, we have him."
"He would be arrested before he pulled the bellrope. No, he will seek some other means." Holmes picked up his violin and I knew we were in for another long spell of waiting, though the sands of time were running out fast.
My friend's violin droned on that evening and again on the Sunday morning, the usual sign of great pressure bearing upon him. The hot, stifling air around us in the darkened rooms bore insupportably in upon me. "Holmes," I cried, "at least play some recognizable tune."
A screech from the fiddle. "Tune,Watson?" my friend replied icily. "What could my poor violin choose to please you? "God save the Queen" might be appropriate. Or a Sousa march? The Ride of the -Watson!" he exclaimed, "I have not been using the wits God granted me." In a moment, the violin lay disregarded on the table as his eyes took on the gleam with which I was so familiar.
"I grow dangerously near that practice of which our friend Mr Didier might approve, but I have always distrusted, that of assuming an end as yet unsupported entirely by fact. We have very little time left to us. Logical deduction is our only hope. The Times of yesterday, if you please, Watson, and the Jubilee programme you so kindly purchased for Mrs Hudson."
When I returned from my errand, having promised to return the booklet to her possession, he snatched the programme from my grasp, and after a few moments' perusal cried: "Come Watson, you will need your best straw hat, your smartest cane, and that unfortunate blazer you purchased for boating."
"Where are we bound, Holmes?" I asked eagerly, relieved beyond measure that at last we were taking action. "Shall I have need of my pistol?"
"To take a solitary turn round St James' Park, Watson?" he jested. "I trust not. Though you go alone, the ducks are not thought to be a hazard."
My hopes fell. I was in no need of a constitutional walk, but of a resolution of this affair. However, he was in no mood to bandy words; he was set upon my taking this walk.
"Very well, Holmes," I agreed, albeit reluctantly.
"Good old Watson. And after your stroll, I recommend to your earnest attention the concert advertised to begin at the St James's Park bandstand at noon."
"Concert, Holmes? Good heavens, how can I think of music at such a time as this?"
"What more obvious place for us to meet, my dear fellow?"
Relieved that Sherlock Holmes had indeed some plan in mind, I took a cab to the Birdcage Walk entrance to the park and had it not been for the urgency of the dark situation in which we were placed, would have enjoyed my stroll in this delightful park, now crowded with Jubilee visitors. Children bowled hoops in and out of the promenaders round the lake, sweethearts floated in a blissful world of their own, flowers spread a carpet of colour before my eyes, and as I crossed the bridge the sun chose to appear. The weather had been capricious for some time, but nothing could dim the enthusiasm of these crowds.
I obediently took my seat at the bandstand, towards the back of the rows of seats as befitted my cavalier holiday appearance. A travelling ice-cream vendor wheeling his bicycle passed by, as I looked anxiously for Sherlock Holmes. There was no sign of him. The front rows were filled with those of high social standing, amongst whom the ticket-seller was now moving, a rough-looking fellow despite his peaked cap and crumpled navy uniform. The German band, usually resident in Broadstairs in Kent, was already preparing to play by the time the ticket collector reached me; I handed over the sixpence demanded of me, my thoughts elsewhere.
"The game is afoot, Watson."
The hoarse whisper as the ticket collector bent down to retrieve a fallen coin startled me. But why should I have been surprised to see Sherlock Holmes himself, presently the most unremarkable ticket collector the Royal Parks had ever boasted? He passed on, exchanging a few gallant remarks with the young lady next to me, which made me wonder if my friend had not courted more young ladies than he acknowledged, whether in pursuance of his profession or otherwise.
Of course. A brass band concert. Holmes was expecting Meyer himself to be in the audience, and for von Holbach to join him. But when? The concert proceeded without incident, though I was scarcely in a mood now to appreciate it. A rousing selection of Gilbert and Sullivan choruses concluded the concert, and the audience rose for the National Anthem, sung with deep feeling and solemnity on this opening day to the week's festivities. I was in great anxiety. Holmes had vanished, the band was packing its instruments, and the audience was drifting away. Now was the time and yet I could see no one amongst the groups of lingering spectators to answer Holmes's description of Meyer.
At last I spotted Holmes, on the platform, and hurried as unobtrusively as I could to be at hand. He was busy helping the band with their instruments and the music stands, no doubt to gain a vantage point over the audience. A few people had mounted the bandstand to congratulate the players, and I watched an insignificant man in mackintosh and Homburg hat approach the tuba player to shake his hand, though a less musical instrument I have yet to hear.
"Watson!"
Holmes's shout sent me running for the steps to his aid, as unbelievably he hurled himself between the two men. Amid the general alarm, the tuba player recovered his balance and aimed a vicious blow to Holmes's body sending him staggering back. I caught a glimpse of the most malevolent eyes I have ever seen, and then he was pinioned, by myself and, I recognized with relief, Lestrade. I had not recognized him, in his guise as ice-cream vendor. His whistle was even now summoning his constables.