Death on a Pale Horse - By Donald Thomas Page 0,104

Holmes could do, Moran could do. Which man, woman, or child in my vicinity might not be in the colonel’s pay?

Someone in the busy crowd at Baker Street station might still have been watching me as the train pulled out—or might even be on the train. There was no question of what I must do—or rather what I must not do. They would expect me to scramble out of the carriage, run back up the street to our rooms and report everything to Holmes. I confess I was angered at the thought that they regarded me as the weakling of the two. Anger sharpened my wits. Holmes had deductive and forensic gifts far beyond mine. But a man who has been through the slaughter of Maiwand and the siege of Kandahar does not take to his heels in the face of common criminals. It did me good to think of these masters of conspiracy as nothing but common felons.

I stepped down from the carriage only when I reached my destination at St. James’s Park. I emerged from the steps into the sunlight with the park before me, Buckingham Palace to one side and Whitehall on the other. I did not think anyone had followed me up to the surface. Of course, there were dozens of people crossing the lawns, past the flower-beds, over the bridge and the lake to the Mall. A few were nursemaids with prams. Most were men whose suits and hats proclaimed them as going about the business of government. Almost anyone in that moving crowd might have been detailed to report on my movements, but I no longer cared. Past Marlborough House and the cabs of Pall Mall, I came to the club.

The rooms are quiet in late morning. Roebuck, the porter at the desk, took my hat, coat, and gloves. From force of habit, I glanced at the baize notice-board, where letters to members await collection, held in place by a wire mesh. There were seldom any for me. I did not correspond much within the club, and I give my Baker Street address to friends and acquaintances as a rule. I scanned the board and saw one envelope with my name on it. It would be the steward’s bill for monthly expenses.

Then I noticed a postage stamp on the envelope and knew that this had nothing to do with club business. It also came as an unwelcome surprise to see that the address of the club had been written in the same copperplate hand as on the first letter which “Samuel Dordona” had persuaded someone to write on his behalf. It even had the same punctilious style. “John H. Watson Esq., M.B., B.Ch.” The postmark confirmed that the envelope had been posted only two days earlier.

I did not think anyone could be watching me here. A stranger would be challenged if he tried to follow me into the club lobby. Moran himself would never have been so foolish as to put up for election to membership. His right to the title of “colonel” must have been questioned at once, even if his conduct had not been known. I slid the envelope from behind the wire and walked slowly up the wide carpeted marble stairs to the library on the first floor. I chose an armchair in a corner with a window view of lawn and trees at the centre of the square. That was where a spy might linger, but I saw no one. I slit open the envelope.

There was no letter—just a card of the kind used by doctors or dentists as a memorandum for appointments. Only the name and the date had been filled in, but I did not recognize the writing. Of course I had been prepared for threats or “warnings”; yet the five words on the card meant absolutely nothing. Had the envelope not been so precisely addressed, I should have thought that the message was intended for someone else.

In the space left for a name, someone had entered Comtesse de Flandre. Where there was a space for the date, there were instead just two words: New Moon. And that was that. I stared at the words, but I faced a stone wall at the end of a blind alley. What the devil was this? I could find no meaning to the name or date, and yet the circumstances of their delivery suggested they must be of importance. Whoever sent the card knew that I belonged to the club. Had