Death on a Pale Horse - By Donald Thomas Page 0,112
no doubt have dealt with him more robustly. As it was, I said grimly, “I shall be content to discuss the matter with Mr. Holmes on his return.”
But there was no stopping him.
“Your channel crossing on Friday week, sir. The Comtesse de Flandre.”
It shook me a little that he should know of it already.
“What of it?”
He looked surprised.
“Well, naturally it has taken Mr. Holmes to Lancaster Gate. To discuss the arrangements with Prince Napoleon-Jerome’s chiefof-staff. General Boulanger, I believe.”
I was lost. Like anyone who had read the newspapers, I knew that since the assassination of the Prince Imperial, his stout and elderly cousin Prince Napoleon-Jerome, known to all the world as “Plon Plon,” had become the claimant to the French throne. But I should have thought he was as far from being Emperor of the French as the poor young man had been, after two decades of the Republic. Of course the novelty of that Republic was more than a little tarnished. There had been a tumultuous movement in France in favour of the maverick General Georges Boulanger, winner of elections in that country. His great and popular promises even extended to restoring the Empire, in the person of Plon Plon as Napoleon IV, upon democratic principles.
Lestrade spoke quietly and confidentially.
“First thing this morning, Mr. Holmes took it upon himself to send one of his little ragamuffins to Leadenhall Street, to the shipping agents. Such firms open their doors almost as early as the railway stations. This little shaver was to engage accommodation for the two of you in the first-class saloon of the Comtesse de Flandre on Friday week. Back comes the message that the entire saloon is already taken by a certain party. So you’ll be travelling second class.”
Having savoured the pleasure of our discomfiture, Lestrade continued.
“Mr. Holmes’s budding spy kept his little ears open, asked a few questions of the messenger boys round those offices, and found out who that certain party is.”
“Who?”
“Well, naturally, Prince Napoleon-Jerome and his suite, coming back to London from exile in Switzerland. As soon as Mr. Holmes hears this, a message goes to your colleague’s noble brother. Sir Mycroft is to meet your friend at once. At the prince’s town house in Lancaster Gate.”
Lestrade beamed and chuckled, just as though this were the best thing he had heard in years.
“After all,” he said at last, “you’ll be crossing on the steamer anyway. Same crossing as Prince Napoleon. He’s an exile and there’s a law says he can’t set foot on the soil of France. There’s no way he can get between his estate in Switzerland and his mansion in London except by going through Belgium—and that means Ostend.”
“Why should he need us?”
Lestrade looked very uncomfortable, as if he ought to say nothing.
“Put it this way, doctor. What’s boiling up in France? General Bou-lon-geur hoping to be president next month and the monarchy brought back. That can’t be done for nothing.”
He illustrated the impossibility by a sucking sound and rubbing the tips of his thumb and forefinger together knowingly.
“Where’s the spondoolicks to be found?” he went on; “where’s the royal sparklers? They’ll be needed down the pawn shop in England, because that’s where the whole thing’s got to be launched from. But suppose this restoration was all to go smooth as goose grease, then your friend’s noble brother—and his friends—would be truly in the gravy for the help they’d given. I don’t somehow think he’d mind being Lord Mycroft Holmes of Mayfair, with a Légion d’Honneur medal into the bargain, would he?”
He paused and put down his coffee cup.
“Still, I’m sure you know about this already, sir. Otherwise I should never have dreamt of raising the subject.”
I left my breakfast aside but I sat down at the table. It had all come upon me too suddenly and too early in the day.
“Then Prince Napoleon-Jerome is our client.” It was a bewildered statement, but it sounded like a question. Lestrade inclined his head and spoke consolingly.
“Only for a bit, doctor. Just from Ostend to Dover. Even if he was to come to the throne now, he wouldn’t last long. For one thing, he’s too old. And as for his health, it don’t bear mentioning. What matters to him is getting his royal backside on the throne for a year or two, if you’ll pardon the expression. After that they’d get some young princeling to follow after him. Someone that’s every mother’s dream and every girl’s ambition. He could take his pick.”