THE DEADWOOD STAGE
May - June 1887

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.

At that time, I was living in the Diogenes Club masquerading as a young man. It was the only way I could ensure that I lived with Mycroft. Fortunately, the rule that members must not speak meant that no-one took the slightest notice of me, and the staff we saw regularly were either half-witted, half-blind, or half-senile.

Mycroft was as interested as I to visit the arena before the first night of the Wild West Show and meet some of the performers, including the Colonel.

"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, complete with finest-quality theatrical wig, I emerged as Anna Weybridge and met Mycroft at the corner. He was casually dressed in light tweed suit and stiff straw hat and was carrying a fine silver-topped Malacca cane, which he was tapping impatiently on the pavement. 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 to take us to Earl's Court.

The scene at the Earl's Court arena was one of frantic activity: men shouted orders in broad American accents, others staggered by 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 him.

"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 would fail to recognise 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 on posters and in the illustrated papers for him to be a stranger in England. 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 one 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 want to see you shoot again."

I loaded the weapon and took careful aim, putting five shots into the bull's-eyes of the three targets. 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 smoking a cigar and casually 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 thirty yards, then put five more 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 thirty yards.

"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 hope I can talk him into taking a ride in the Deadwood Stage. There it is, over there. A fine-built Concord coach used on the Pacific coast, the Overland trail, and 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. Time and again, drivers and passengers were massacred by road agents or Indians. Some of the Indians reckon it's haunted and kinda fated to be the death of others yet. 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."

A slight shudder possessed me as I took a final glance at the unfortunate coach. We left the arena and returned to the Club. In our rooms 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."

I opened the secret closet behind the bookcase in my room and considered my female attire. I hadn't much, but I laid them on my bed and eventually decided 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 crossed to Mycroft's other rooms as Mr Dalziel and changed into Anna Weybridge. Then I went to Oxford Street and made my purchases. Of course, as I later explained to Mycroft, you can't buy gloves on their own. 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 pearl 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 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 he 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 shooting at Earl's Court 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 oil 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 peered at me from the threshold.