It was a prearranged
rendezvous between truck crew and the rider of the Puch.
Von Bork was dressed in a long, leather coat over the sharply tailored uniform of an
Oberstleutnant
in the
Oberste Heeresleitung
, the Supreme Army Command. Watson had last seen the
man one sultry night in August 1914, when Holmes had disrupted his spy ring. Then, he had been in civilian clothes and favoured cigars. He had been expecting to be welcomed like a returning hero in
Berlin; Holmes had ensured the plaudits were replaced by recriminations.
The well-cut tunic could not hide the fact that Von Bork had put on weight. During his time in England he had been keen on yachting, polo and hunting. Now, with his nascent belly and jowls, he
looked like a man who was trapped behind a desk and indulged only in good lunches.
‘Dr Watson,’ said Von Bork, tapping out his pipe on a tree trunk. ‘It has been some years.’
‘Von Bork,’ he said, trying to keep his voice steady. ‘How unexpected.’
‘How are you, Doctor?’
‘Major.’
‘Oh, we can dispense with that nonsense. You aren’t in any army now, not in my book. It’s back to Dr Watson. The faithful companion, the not-so-reliable biographer. You know I
often think back to those four years in England. Some of my happiest times. The clubs, the women, the weekends in the country. All so civilized. Until that night when Holmes played his hand. How is
he?’
‘Keeping well.’ Which was true, although he had moved cottage to be closer to Bert, the young boy who was proving an invaluable companion and quite the beekeeper. It also made it
harder for the admirers and the inevitable scribblers to track him down. The latter were always trying to ferret out what, exactly, was Holmes’s contribution to the war. ‘He has his
hobbies and his health.’
‘I’m sorry to hear that. I was hoping for sadder news,’ he admitted with a wry smile. ‘You know, I always expected, one day, to see your great triumph in print.
“The Adventure of the Gullible German Spy”, perhaps. Have I missed it?’
‘Your story has not seen the light of day,’ said Watson. ‘Who knows if it ever will? It is hardly a tale of great detection or deduction. Merely one of tenacious
pursuit.’
Von Bork narrowed his eyes. ‘Oh, I think it will bubble to the surface, like scum on a pot, Watson. The great man’s final case? How can you resist a curtain call for your consulting
detective?’ The sourness in the voice was striking, years of resentment curdled into hate.
‘It was you who took my name off the repatriation list, wasn’t it?’ Watson said as the mental tumblers clicked into place.
Von Bork now permitted himself a wide grin, as if his work was something to be proud of.
‘And arranged my transfer to Harzgrund?’
A nod. ‘I said I would get even with you. If it took me the rest of my life. I have not yet acquired the means to take down Mr Sherlock Holmes, but I can imagine his suffering when he
hears of the conditions prevailing at Harzgrund.’
‘Holmes is a virtual hermit. He will be oblivious to any suffering I might experience.’
‘Under normal circumstances, perhaps. Yet you write to him.’ From his pocket, Von Bork took two envelopes. ‘And to . . . Mrs Gregson . . .’
Watson started forward but a half-gargled bark from the guard stopped him. ‘You scoundrel,’ Watson said. It sounded so feeble. He wished for Sayer’s artful facility with oaths
and curses. ‘Those are personal letters. How did you—’
‘Oh, as a member of the POW committee, I can do anything. Even take the mail for censoring. Personal letters?’ He held the envelopes aloft. ‘Or full of secret codes? I shall
let our cryptographers take a look. And I shall send them on, do not worry, suitably edited, if need be, but with a little additional information to worry Mr Holmes and this . . .’ he looked
at the address, ‘. . . Mrs Gregson. A sweetheart perhaps? A widow to keep you company in
rendezvous between truck crew and the rider of the Puch.
Von Bork was dressed in a long, leather coat over the sharply tailored uniform of an
Oberstleutnant
in the
Oberste Heeresleitung
, the Supreme Army Command. Watson had last seen the
man one sultry night in August 1914, when Holmes had disrupted his spy ring. Then, he had been in civilian clothes and favoured cigars. He had been expecting to be welcomed like a returning hero in
Berlin; Holmes had ensured the plaudits were replaced by recriminations.
The well-cut tunic could not hide the fact that Von Bork had put on weight. During his time in England he had been keen on yachting, polo and hunting. Now, with his nascent belly and jowls, he
looked like a man who was trapped behind a desk and indulged only in good lunches.
‘Dr Watson,’ said Von Bork, tapping out his pipe on a tree trunk. ‘It has been some years.’
‘Von Bork,’ he said, trying to keep his voice steady. ‘How unexpected.’
‘How are you, Doctor?’
‘Major.’
‘Oh, we can dispense with that nonsense. You aren’t in any army now, not in my book. It’s back to Dr Watson. The faithful companion, the not-so-reliable biographer. You know I
often think back to those four years in England. Some of my happiest times. The clubs, the women, the weekends in the country. All so civilized. Until that night when Holmes played his hand. How is
he?’
‘Keeping well.’ Which was true, although he had moved cottage to be closer to Bert, the young boy who was proving an invaluable companion and quite the beekeeper. It also made it
harder for the admirers and the inevitable scribblers to track him down. The latter were always trying to ferret out what, exactly, was Holmes’s contribution to the war. ‘He has his
hobbies and his health.’
‘I’m sorry to hear that. I was hoping for sadder news,’ he admitted with a wry smile. ‘You know, I always expected, one day, to see your great triumph in print.
“The Adventure of the Gullible German Spy”, perhaps. Have I missed it?’
‘Your story has not seen the light of day,’ said Watson. ‘Who knows if it ever will? It is hardly a tale of great detection or deduction. Merely one of tenacious
pursuit.’
Von Bork narrowed his eyes. ‘Oh, I think it will bubble to the surface, like scum on a pot, Watson. The great man’s final case? How can you resist a curtain call for your consulting
detective?’ The sourness in the voice was striking, years of resentment curdled into hate.
‘It was you who took my name off the repatriation list, wasn’t it?’ Watson said as the mental tumblers clicked into place.
Von Bork now permitted himself a wide grin, as if his work was something to be proud of.
‘And arranged my transfer to Harzgrund?’
A nod. ‘I said I would get even with you. If it took me the rest of my life. I have not yet acquired the means to take down Mr Sherlock Holmes, but I can imagine his suffering when he
hears of the conditions prevailing at Harzgrund.’
‘Holmes is a virtual hermit. He will be oblivious to any suffering I might experience.’
‘Under normal circumstances, perhaps. Yet you write to him.’ From his pocket, Von Bork took two envelopes. ‘And to . . . Mrs Gregson . . .’
Watson started forward but a half-gargled bark from the guard stopped him. ‘You scoundrel,’ Watson said. It sounded so feeble. He wished for Sayer’s artful facility with oaths
and curses. ‘Those are personal letters. How did you—’
‘Oh, as a member of the POW committee, I can do anything. Even take the mail for censoring. Personal letters?’ He held the envelopes aloft. ‘Or full of secret codes? I shall
let our cryptographers take a look. And I shall send them on, do not worry, suitably edited, if need be, but with a little additional information to worry Mr Holmes and this . . .’ he looked
at the address, ‘. . . Mrs Gregson. A sweetheart perhaps? A widow to keep you company in
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