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Mycroft is also available at sambonnamy.110mb.com
The adventures of Mycroft Holmes continue with the new volume Mycroft Up Against It. Available now from
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JennaKay Francis writes: As the editor on these books, I would highly recommend them to anyone! They are fast-paced, well thought out, very entertaining, in keeping with the voice of the time. I would say that Mr Bonnamy has done his homework!
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Mycroft and Anna once again hotfoot it through Victorian London to solve three cases. "The Deadwood Stage" finds Anna audaciously impersonating sharpshooter Annie Oakley in Buffalo Bill's Wild West show at the Earl's Court Arena in 1887. But unknown to Mycroft, a ruthless anarchist plots mayhem and the assassination of several European crowned heads as well as the Prince of Wales. "Murder At The Lyceum" occurs on stage, at the hands of Anna herself! Is she guilty, or is she the innocent pawn of a scheming mind? Mycroft sets out to determine who the murderer really is, with the help of Henry Irving and Ellen Terry. Finally, "The Green-painted Door" hides murder, disguised identity, disappearance and exotic revelations, permeated by a faint scent of bergamot.
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It was the year of the Golden Jubilee, and the entire kingdom was afire with enthusiasm. The celebrations were to include an American Exhibition in the capital, and, as part of the Exhibition, a stupendous Wild West Show was to take place in London. The arena had been built at Earl's Court, a third of a mile in circumference, and even then there were fears that it would not be big enough for the displays of riding and scenes from Western life that were to be played there. The show was run by an acquaintance of mine, Colonel William F. Cody, but what particularly excited me was the news that my old friend and mentor in shooting, Annie Oakley, was part of it. Mycroft was as interested as I to visit the arena before the first night of the Wild West Show. At that time, I was living in the Diogenes Club masquerading as a young man. If you have read my earlier tales, you will know it was the only way I could ensure that I lived with Mycroft, whom I loved passionately. Fortunately, the rule that members must not speak to one another meant that no-one took the slightest notice of me, and the staff were either half-witted, half-blind, or half-senile. "I can't possibly go like this," I told him, sweeping a hand down the gentleman's light tweed suit I was wearing, then running it over my short-cut hair. "I know both Colonel Cody and Annie Oakley, as well as Annie's husband." "Then change in my rooms over the road. I shall pick you up at the corner of St James's Square." I left the club at one thirty on that sunny afternoon as Warren Hastings Dalziel, carrying a bag containing my dress, and let myself into the unused rooms which Mycroft owned across the street. At one fifty-five, having changed and made myself up in record time, complete with finest-quality theatrical wig, I emerged as Anna Weybridge and met Mycroft at the corner. He was wearing his tweed suit and bowler with a smart silver-topped malacca cane. My walking dress was a charming little dark green creation, and over it I wore a fawn-coloured jacket with primrose yellow piping on the sleeves and lapels. The dress was in the simple "Aesthetic" style, for I hated wearing a bustle, and with my matching parasol and straw hat I felt quite the young lady of fashion as I took Mycroft's arm and we strolled off in search of a cab. The scene at Earl's Court was one of frantic activity: men shouted orders in broad American accents, others scurried about with baulks of timber, saddles, rails of costume and pots of paint. There was the din of hammering from the carpenters fitting up the stands, the steady creep of a gang of painters working their way along the woodwork, and above all was the constant lowing, bellowing and whinnying from the animals. There were nearly twenty buffaloes, almost two hundred horses, huge elks, deer and some longhorn steers of the kind I recognised from my own years spent in the West. "Noah's Ark," grunted Mycroft, as we picked our way among animal stalls, past lasso-twirling cowboys, cigar-smoking Mexicans and statuesque Red Indians. Suddenly, one of the Indians loomed in front of me. "Anna!" he said, and then broke into a flow of Sioux. I had spent some time shooting buffalo with the Sioux - that was how I had met Colonel Cody - and I understood the language, if only imperfectly. But this stocky Indian seemed a stranger to me, until I recognised - "Red Shirt! It is you, isn't it?" Chief Red Shirt grunted with pleasure and seized my hand. "Little Game 'un," he said in his own language. That was what the Sioux had called me in the West. He pointed at Mycroft. "This your man?" I translated our conversation, such as it was, for Mycroft. A few idlers drew near, interested to hear an Englishwoman making halting talk in Sioux. Suddenly a voice bellowed. "What in tarnation is goin' on here? I beg your pardon, ma'am, I - why, bless my soul! I know you. You're that English girl that Annie taught to shoot, ain't you?" Who nowadays is unfamiliar with the celebrated Buffalo Bill? The broad sombrero crowning the flowing locks of glossy dark hair, the magnificent physique clad in exotic buckskin jacket decorated with beaded flowers and tassels, the thigh boots adding to his height, and above all, the handsome, bearded aquiline features with their piercing eyes, have been reproduced too frequently for him to be a stranger in England. He was certainly a striking man. His very appearance used to set my heart pounding. "How do you do, Colonel?" I said, offering my hand. "Anna Weybridge, ain't it? Well I'm darned! And this is - ? Mr Mycroft Holmes? Honoured to meet you, sir. Is it Mrs Holmes, Anna? Oh, friends? Yes, of course, I understand." There came a whoop from behind and Annie Oakley, five foot of whirlwind, was all over me. Once the reunion had settled down and some order was restored, her husband, Frank Butler, joined us and we drifted through the chaos of the arena, all talking at once. Like Colonel Cody, Annie guessed how close a friend Mycroft was, for she gave me a mischievous grin behind the backs of the others. At length we came to a shooting range, where three young women were practising with rifles and revolvers. "Annie's not my only girl shot, Anna," said Buffalo Bill. "These three gals - let me introduce 'em. Lillian Smith, Della Ferrell, Georgia Duffy. Miss Anna Weybridge, ladies, an Englishwoman who used to live out West and now lives back home right here in London. I guess Anna could show you a thing or two with those guns. Here, Anna, try your hand." The three girl shots looked on with interest and a certain degree of cynical amusement as the Colonel thrust a rifle into my hand. It was a .22 calibre Remington repeater with a lever action. "Safer than using a heavier calibre weapon in the arena," said Cody. "Try your hand at those targets, Anna. I ain't seen you shoot since I met you in the States." I loaded the weapon and took careful aim, putting five shots into the bullseye. The three girls gasped and then broke into applause. I had to tell them about my years in the West and my tuition under Annie, and they were possessed, in the way that only Americans can be, with genuine delight and interest. The shooting practice turned into a regular demonstration, with Annie and Frank joining in. I noticed that although Mycroft was casually smoking a cigar and lounging behind the firing line, he took a keen interest in the whole business. He even had a few shots with a revolver, and acquitted himself creditably. Of course, none of us shot as well as Annie. She performed one of her favourite acts, shooting at a playing card placed in a cleft stick - edge on! She whipped the card out of its stick with her first shot at ninety feet, then put five more bullets through it from her Winchester as it fluttered to the ground. I tried it but got no more than four into it as it fell. She concluded with a rather hazardous act, shooting the ash from a cigarette in her husband's mouth, again at ninety feet. "Come on, Anna!" called Frank. "Have a go at this one." He stood ready, the cigarette still in his mouth. I shook my head. "No thanks, I don't think it would be wise. But I'll try this," and I snatched the half-smoked cigar from the lips of the astonished Mycroft, ran and set it up in the cleft stick, then ran back and shot the ash from it with the rifle. "You could have done it with me," laughed Frank. "What were you afraid of?" "Leaving Annie a widow," I replied, handing back the rifle to the girls. When we left, late in the afternoon, I felt that I had established a favourable reputation among the show people. Buffalo Bill took us to the exit, and handed over a couple of tickets for the first night. "You know who'll be here, of course? The Prince of Wales and Princess Alexandra. They'll be sitting right over there, in those seats we're making up to royal standards of comfort. We hope to get Her Majesty to come later, but I guess it will all depend on the report she gets from the Prince." "As long as you don't hit him with a stray bullet," I said. He laughed. "No, Anna, there's no danger of that, but I do want him to take a ride in the Deadwood Stage. There it is, over there. A fine-built Concord coach originally used on the Pacific coast, later on the Overland trail, and finally on the Deadwood route." His face became sombre as we contemplated the stagecoach. Although freshly painted, it looked rather battered, as if it had an interesting history. "That coach, Mr Holmes, has been the death of I don't know how many poor folks. Many's the time drivers and passengers were massacred by road agents or Indians. Still, it's got a more peaceful career now. We do a mock robbery and Indian attack on it, which is worth seeing, and you'll see it in a couple of nights' time. Be here early. There are forty thousand seats in this arena, and I expect to fill 'em all, every night." I was as excited as a girl going to her first ball, as I considered what to wear to the Wild West Show. "It won't be like a reception," said Mycroft. "I myself will not be in evening dress, for our seats are not near the royal party. Think of it as more of a picnic or a sporting occasion." My female clothes were all kept in a secret closet behind the bookcase in my room. I hadn't much, but I laid them on my bed and went through them all before deciding on my royal blue walking dress, which I pressed myself in the seclusion of my bedroom. There was little danger of staff intruding on us. Our rooms were at one end of the first floor landing, while at the other end were the suites of the Chairman, Secretary and Treasurer. Their spacious quarters were closed off from the landing by a panelled door, and ours by a green baize one. On the landing between us were the bedrooms for the occasional use of members. The landing extended into a gallery round the entire first floor, giving onto various smoking and reading rooms. We had complete privacy, with our own bathroom and lavatory across the passageway, and the fire escape at the end. That was most convenient for me if I needed to leave the building in my woman's clothing. "Tell you what," went on Mycroft. "I'll buy you some new gloves to go with your outfit, if you'd care to go out and choose them." I went to Oxford Street as Mr Dalziel and made my purchase as if for a lady friend. Of course, as I later explained to Mycroft, you can't buy gloves on their own. So I went out again as Anna Weybridge, for there was a new matching reticule to get, and who could have resisted the bright little silk scarf which set everything off to perfection and was just right for the occasion? With the new earrings, that is, which I spotted on my way back. Mycroft grumbled a little at the cost, but I rewarded him amply that night in bed, and once he had lost consciousness at about one o'clock I knew I should hear no further complaints. Ten o'clock the next night found me pottering about in our sitting room, waiting for Mycroft to return from his Whitehall office. I knew he would be late, for there was much concern over a treaty to be signed in Europe which no-one was supposed to know about, but which Major Winstanley knew in all its details. I was stark naked, for the night was warm, and I wanted to give Mycroft a pleasant surprise after his long day. Normally, when he was working hard in Whitehall, he preferred to sleep alone, but I was so excited that I could hardly wait to have him in my arms. I was more in love with him than ever, and I knew that my own shooting had impressed him tremendously. I was also looking forward to seeing my old friends performing in the arena the following evening, and wondering what the Prince of Wales would think of them. As I was deciding between hiding behind the sofa or in Mycroft's wardrobe in order to spring out at him, I heard the swish of the baize door outside. "Mycroft!" I thought, and got behind the sofa. To my horror, as I crouched down, I heard the shuffle of old Dinwoodie, the Senior Servant, and a moment later came his scratching knock and piping voice calling for Mycroft. I sprang to my feet, instinctively seizing the large crocheted antimacassar and clutching it about me, but before I could reach my bedroom the door opened and Dinwoodie stood on the threshold, stooping and blinking into the half-light of the single shaded lamp. For a year I had deceived the staff at the club into thinking I was a man. I had not put a foot wrong, had been careful with my speech, my movements and my clothing. Harris the half-witted under-porter, the one-eyed junior waiter, Henderson, and the other staff I met from time to time had accepted me. But never had I been caught unawares like this, as Dinwoodie shuffled in and peered at me.
Things look a bit sticky for Anna. Will she be found out? Buy Mycroft Up Against It and find out
Volume II of Anna Weybridge's Private Papers is now available from
Readers Eden.
Find the first volume of Mycroft Holmes stories, "The Other Mr Holmes",
here.
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 Extract from The Other Mr Holmes | ||
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