asked incredulously.
“Ah,” Holmes said, “but it isn’t. And if we do not succeed in stopping it, some major outrage will be committed in the harbor of Trieste or some nearby coastal city, and it will be blamed on the British Navy.”
“A ruse of war?” Preisner asked. “But we aren’t at war, that I know of.”
“We’d better consider it a ‘ruse of peace,’ then,” Holmes said. “Although the ultimate purpose of the exercise might well be to provoke a state of war between Britain and several continental powers.”
“A Royal Navy destroyer,” Preisner mused, “that isn’t a Royal Navy destroyer.”
“The name on her side will be Royal Edgar, I told him. “In reality she is the decommissioned Royal Mary, which has been sold to Uruguay. The Uruguayan government, we believe, renamed her the Florida.”
“We’re going to war with Uruguay?”
“She is now in the hands of a group of rogue European, ah, gentlemen, who plan to use her to provoke animosity and, perhaps, active hostilities against Great Britain. How the transfer was made from the Uruguayan authorities to the plotters remains to be seen. It could well be that the government of Uruguay knows nothing of the supposed sale.”
“My god! How did you-never mind that now!” Preisner swung around and barked out a series of orders which got the great ship underway.
While the Agamemnon made her way out into the Gulf of Trieste and headed down the Adriatic Sea, Captain Preisner concerned himself with the handling of his ship, but once we were in open water he turned the helm over to Lieutenant Willits, his bulldog-jawed, taciturn first officer, and called us to his side. “Now tell me what you know,” he said, “and what you surmise, so that we can plan a course of action.”
As rapidly as possible, but leaving out nothing of consequence, we told him our story. Holmes took the lead, and in that nasal, high-pitched voice of his outlined what we knew and how we had learned it.
Preisner rested his elbows on the ledge running around the front of the bridge, directly below the large glass windscreens, and stared out at the choppy blue-green sea. “And on these meager facts you have commandeered one of Her Majesty’s battle cruisers and set out in search of a destroyer that may or may not exist, and that, if it does exist, may or may not be planning some harm to British interests? And the Lords of the Admiralty have agreed with this, ah, unlikely interpretation?” he shook his head. “I will obey orders, even if it means obeying your orders and racing up and down the Adriatic, but frankly I don’t see it.”
“You don’t agree that it is likely that this cabal has gotten possession of the Royal Mary and intends harm to Britain?” Holmes asked.
Of what possible profit to them could such an action be?” Preisner asked. “I grant you your conclusion that these people were training a crew to operate a British warship, and the Royal Mary might well be the one. And if they were planning to come to Trieste, then they were probably picking up the ship somewhere around here. But is it not more likely that, having obtained the ship, they will take it to some distant port to commit their outrage, if indeed an outrage is planned?”
“There are several reasons to believe that, whatever sort of attack they are planning, it will be nearby and soon,” I said.
“For one thing,” said Holmes, “their men cannot be all that well trained in the handling of a modern destroyer.”
“For another,” I added, “every extra hour they spend will increase the likelihood that they will be intercepted by some ship of Her Majesty’s Mediterranean Fleet. And one attempt to exchange signals would brand her as an imposter.”
“For maximum effect,” Holmes said, ‘the outrage should be conducted close to a city or large town, so that it will be observed by as many people as possible.”
“That makes sense,” Preisner agreed.
“And then there are the undergarments,” I said.
“Yes,” Holmes agreed. “That gives the whole game away.”
“Captain Preisner looked from one to the other of us. “It does?” he asked.
A mess steward came by with steaming mugs of tea for those on bridge, and he had thoughtfully included two for Holmes and me.
I took the tea gratefully and sipped at it. Neither Holmes nor I were dressed for chill breeze that whipped through the open doors of the bridge. “The men in the Royal Navy uniforms are to be visible on deck during the event,” I told Captain Preisner, “so that watchers on shore will believe the masquerade. But why undergarments?”
“And why only five?” Holmes added.
Preisner looked thoughtful. “A good question,” he said.
“The only reasonable answer is that those five men must pass close inspection when their bodies are examined.”
“Their bodies?”
“Consider,” said Holmes. “The undergarments only make sense if it is expected that the men will be examined.”
“Yes, I see that,” Preisner agreed.
“But if they are alive when they are examined, any discrepancies will become quickly evident,” said Holmes.
“As, for instance, their not speaking fluent English,” I added.
“So you think they are dressing corpses in British naval uniforms?” Preisner asked.
Holmes looked away. “Perhaps,” he said.
“Sail ho to the port!” a seaman outside the bridge relayed a call from the lookout on the top mast. We turned to look, but it was indeed a sail, the topsail of a three-masted barque, and not the four funnels of a British destroyer, that slowly came into sight on our port side.
We saw a variety of ships during the rest of that day, but it was dusk before we found the ship we were seeking. A four-masted destroyer appeared in the distance a few points off the starboard bow. Lieutenant Willits grabbed for the chart of identification silhouettes and ran his finger down the side while peering closely at the illustrations. “I don’t believe there would be any other four-masted destroyer in the area,” he said, “but it would not do to make a mistake.”
Captain Preisner examined the distant ship through his binoculars and, even before Willits had confirmed the identification, turned to the duty seaman and said quietly, “Signal all hands-battle stations.”
The seaman whistled down the communications tube and relayed the command and, almost immediately, an ordered bedlam descended on the boat as the members of the crew raced to their assigned positions.
“She’s flying no flags or pennants,” announced Willits, who was staring at the approaching ship through his own binoculars. “But she’s making no attempt to avoid us. There appears to be a small black ship of some sort to her rear.”
“It would look suspicious were she to turn aside,” said Preisner. “She doesn’t know that we’re stalking her. Hoist our own flag and the recognition code flag for today. And see if you can identify the ship to her rear.”
“Aye, aye, sir.” Willits relayed the command, and in a few seconds several flags were fluttering at the top of the Agamemnon’s forward mast.
“No response,” said Willits after a minute. “Wait-she’s turning to port, trying to evade us. If she complete’s the turn, she’ll be able to show us her heels. She must have three or four knots better speed.”
“Probably less with an untrained engine crew,” commented Preisner. “But nonetheless-”
“I can make out her name now,” said Willits, peering through his binoculars. “She’s the Royal Edgar, right enough. Or claims she is. The other ship is keeping on her far side, but it appears to be some sort of large yacht, painted black.”
“A smuggler, no doubt,” said Preisner.
“I believe you’re right, sir.”
“Put a warning shot across her bow and run up the signal for ‘Come to a complete stop’,” directed the captain. “Helmsman, turn twenty degrees to the starboard.”
One of the Agamemnon ’s four-inch guns barked once, and a fountain of water appeared off the bow of the Royal Edgar.
The destroyer continuing turning, ignoring the warning. The Agamemnon fired another shot, which plunged
