had been granted vast lands in County Limerick in the early fourteenth century by their Desmond overlords. The whole family were from the Norman Maurice FitzGerald, a companion-in-arms to the legendary warrior Strongbow, who'd acquired his fierce moniker in the twelfth century or thereabouts for his skill and use of the long bow.
Drummond was busy whacking away at floribunda and surgically pruning 'Double Delights' in one of the Knight's countless hybrid tea rose beds that morning when he heard a familiar voice calling his name.
'Bulldog! I say, Bulldog, where the dickens are you? I can't see a thing for all these bloody roses!'
Ambrose Congreve, and someone named Hawke, were expected, of course; Congreve had called ahead. He'd never arrive unannounced, too proper for that by half. And he was the only man on earth Drummond allowed to call him 'Bulldog.'
There was a story behind that. There was always a story. One rather late and liquorish pub evening, Congreve had gotten to his feet, pulled a black spiral notebook from the inside of his stylish Norfolk jacket, and opened it with a flourish and a clearing of the throat. He then started in to reading aloud a 'tribute' to his new colleague in the Mountbatten murder investigation.
'Ahem…'Drummond…has the appearance of an English gentleman: a man who fights hard, plays hard, and lives clean…His best friend would not call him good looking but he possesses that cheerful type of ugliness which inspires immediate confidence…Only his eyes redeem his face. Deep-set and steady, with eyelashes that many women envy, they show him to be a sportsman and an adventurer. Drummond goes outside the law only when he feels the ends justify the means.''
'Rubbish,' Drummond said.
'Sound like anyone we know?' Congreve had asked, when Drummond stared at him in stony silence.
'Where the hell'd you find that nonsense?'
'I copied it. From a book. By Sapper. I'm rereading it now, having none of my beloved Sherlockian volumes at my disposal.'
'Pulp fiction.'
'Pulp truth, Bulldog,' Congreve had replied. And he'd called him by that name ever since. Drummond, snipping away at his roses, was snapped out of this reverie by a loud wail, once again calling his name.
'Bulldog! I say, where the hell are you, you little leprechaun? Have you fallen down a rabbit hole?'
'Over here!'
'Over where?'
'Here, you damn fool,' he said, and flung an empty wicker basket high into the air so the world's most brilliant detective might accurately deduce his whereabouts.
'Oh. Over there. Why didn't you say so?'
A moment later Drummond could hear his old friend's heavy footsteps approaching on the gravel walkway. He was not alone. Someone with a more athletic gait was following in his wake. This man Hawke, or whomever.
'Oh. Hullo, Bulldog.'
'Hullo, Congreve. Who's this?'
'May I present my dear friend Lord Alexander Hawke?'
Hawke shook the man's rough red hand. 'Alex will do, Mr. Drummond.' But Drummond wasn't listening to him. He was eyeing Congreve through narrowed eyes. Ambrose had told Hawke the man was difficult and the less he said, the better. Alex was happy to let Congreve do the talking.
They stared at each other in stony silence.
'Haven't changed much, have you?' Ambrose finally allowed.
'Nor you.'
'Ugly as ever.'
'Still fat as a Yorkshire pig.'
'Drink?'
'Not too early?'
'Never too early.'
And so they all three traipsed along winding garden pathways through endless acres of multicolored roses to Drummond's cottage. Entering the tiny kitchen, they sat opposite each other at the round wooden table. Drummond put a decanter of Irish whiskey on the table, the strong sunlight gleaming on the facets of the carved Waterford glass, a retirement gift.
'Help yourself, gentlemen,' Drummond said, and slid two small glasses across the table. After they'd both downed one and replenished supplies, Congreve plastered his most serious expression on his face and looked at his old colleague.
'This is police business.'
'I'm retired. I'm in the rose business.'
'Involves the Mountbatten case.'
'Case closed.'
'Case reopened.'
'What the blazes are ye talkin' about?'
'I think our 'third man' has surfaced.'
'And what makes ye think so?'
'The Prince of Wales found a death threat in one of Mountbatten's books. It was signed 'The Pawn.''
'So?'
'Prince Charles recently received yet another threat from the Pawn. 'Death to Kings.' Clearly a reference to His Royal Highness and his two boys.'
'Same signature? Same hand?'
'Identical.'
'Fresh?'
'As a hen's egg.'
'Anythin' else?'
'Alex and I spoke to McMahon the other evening. He's out of prison, I'm sure you know. Freed by some lunatic in the Good Friday pardons. Two days ago, over in Mullaghmore, we had a nice little chat with him.'
'Say anything new, did he?'
'I asked him about the missing girls. Did he know anything about that.'
'Did he?'
'More than he was telling, I think.'
'He have a name for the third man?'
'Same name we've always had. Smith.'
'And how, pray tell, is any of this new information?'
'Be patient, will you? He said he'd heard rumors this Smith was living on an island just off the coast. Place called Mutton Island. I went out there with Alex. Amid the ruins of an ancient settlement, we found evidence of this mysterious Mr. Smith. We also found evidence of murder, by God. And we found human remains.'
'Jesus Lord.'
'We've got fresh DNA evidence, Bulldog. We're back in the game. We'll finally get to the truth of this thirty- year-old crime!'
'We? What is it you want from me?'
'Help. Despite your many unpleasant qualities, you're still the best copper I ever worked with. You were the one who first quoted Sherlock Holmes to me, and I shall be eternally grateful for that alone.'
'Did I? What was the quote?'
''When you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth.''
'Ah, The Sign of the Four. One of my favorites. What exactly do you want of me? I'm quite busy as you can see.'
'I want a look at your old files, first of all. Get the names and addresses of all the female victims. Get the M.E. to run a cross-check of their samples with the new DNA we found. If we get a match, everything else opens up. With this fresh evidence in hand, we're bound to turn something over. With your help, we just might crack it, Bulldog. Only if you're willing, of course. All these gorgeous roses.'
Drummond cast his eyes out the window at the sun beaming down on his beautiful roses. Was any place on
