Die Again, Mr Holmes

by Anna Elliott

  Becky’s eyes widened, and her jaw dropped a little. “You thought—”

  “So did Professor Moriarty’s brother. That’s why I grew up with the last name James—for James Moriarty. It was the name Professor Moriarty’s brother gave me to honor the man he thought was my father. I didn’t find any of this out, though, until I came to London and met Mr. Holmes for the first time.”

  Becky was still staring at me, wide-eyed. “But you must have thought … you must have felt …”

  “Yes.” I smiled a little. “I don’t think anyone really wants to discover that they’re the last living descendant of one of the most villainous criminal masterminds of all time. Or at least, I certainly didn’t. But then I decided that whatever my father had been or done, it was nothing to do with what I was now. Professor Moriarty once told my father that they were very much alike in their intellect, in their talents—and it’s true. The difference lay in what they chose to do with those talents. Just as I had a choice what to do with mine. There’s a poem called ‘Invictus’ that I read while I was at school. It has a line: ‘I am the master of my fate: I am the captain of my soul.’ It’s true. Everyone gets to choose the direction of their lives: Holmes. Professor Moriarty. Your father. And do you know what else I found out about my name when I first met Holmes?”

  Becky shook her head.

  “I met my mother for the first time—and I learned that she was the one who had named me Lucy, after Saint Lucy, who was so brave and so strong that she couldn’t even be moved by the wicked governor’s whole team of oxen when they tried to drag her away.” I squeezed Becky’s shoulders lightly. “You’re not just your father’s daughter—you are your mother’s daughter, too, and she loved you and tried to do the very best she could for you. You’re Jack’s sister, and mine, and Sherlock Holmes’s honorary niece—and above all, you are yourself, your own person, the captain of your own soul. Do you believe me?”

  Becky’s eyes searched mine for a long moment, and then she let out a shaky breath and nodded. “Yes.”

  I hugged her. “Good. Now let’s go home.”

  We kept walking. Becky was quiet, but her steps had a bouncing skip to them that had been missing these past days.

  Maybe both I and Invictus made matters sound a bit more simple than they were, in the cold, hard truth of real life. But I did believe it to be true: everyone had the power of choice in this world.

  It was the reason I hadn’t spoken to Becky of Lady Lynley’s future, or Mrs. Torrance’s. Mrs. Slade might have the strength and determination to overcome her addiction, but I doubted that Lady Lynley—

  I stopped, frozen.

  75. A NEW SUSPECT

  LUCY

  “Lucy?” Becky stopped walking, too, and looked up at me. “Lucy, what’s wrong?”

  I shook my head. Seemingly-random jigsaw pieces were swirling together in my mind, but for the first time they were—just possibly—beginning to form a coherent pattern.

  We were still in sight of both the Slades’ cottage and the police station.

  “Becky, I need you to run back to Mrs. Slade’s and stay there with her, all right? I have to go into the police station for just a minute and look in on Mr. Torrance.”

  Becky’s brows knitted themselves together. “All right, but—”

  She was about to ask why, I knew, but seeing my expression changed her mind, and ran back up the Slades’ front walk.

  I took a breath and sped to pound on the police station’s front door.

  Constable Meadows—who I’d met only briefly and in passing the night before—opened the door. He was a tall young man with sandy-colored hair and an amiable, square-jawed face that registered surprise at the sight of me.

  “Why, hello there, miss. Can I help—”

  I interrupted him. “Has anyone been here to see Mr. Torrance this morning?”

  The constable looked still more startled by my tone. “Only his wife, poor lady. Most upset, she was, crying and carrying on—”

  I ignored the rest of what Constable Meadows said and plunged towards the door at the back of the room, which I assumed led to the holding cells.

  The constable’s voice followed me. “Miss? Miss, I’m not sure you should go back there—”

  He broke off, sucking in a sharp breath and stopping short—just as I had done a moment before—as he saw what lay inside the jail cell.

  Mr. Torrance’s body lay crumpled on the floor, his arms outstretched and his head lolling awkwardly to the side against the steel bars. His eyes were open, staring sightlessly up at the ceiling.

  Constable Meadows started forward, but I shook my head. I had already reached inside the bars to feel for a pulse and found his skin lifeless and cold.

  “He’s dead.” I jumped up. “Your telephone—where is it?”

  “In the other room.” The constable gestured. “But—”

  I was already halfway across the room, towards the telephone cabinet.

  I lifted the speaking piece, tapping my fingers against the receiver until I heard the exchange operator’s voice. “The Grand Hotel, please.” I barely managed to avoid adding, hurry.

  The wait as I was connected to the hotel’s front desk felt interminable, as did the wait after I had asked to speak with Chief Constable Slade.

  But at last the Chief Constable’s voice came on the line. “Yes? Is something wrong—”

  I didn’t let him finish. I didn’t even have time to explain to him what had happened. “I need you to find Mrs. Torrance! Is she there?”

  I could picture Chief Constable Slade’s eyebrows drawing together into a heavy frown, but apparently he had developed enough trust in me not to ask further questions—yet.

  “Just a moment. I’ll have a look round.”

  There was a light thump of him setting the telephone receiver down, and then another interminable stretch of waiting, during which I could hear the background noise and voices from the hotel lobby.

  It felt like hours, but the clock on the wall told me that only five minutes had passed by the time that Chief Constable Slade’s voice came back on the line.

  “Hello? Still there? Yes, there’s no sign of Mrs. Torrance anywhere. We’ve searched the hotel, but she can’t be found. Now.” The Chief Constable’s voice turned stern. “Would you mind telling me what this is all about?”

  “Yes. But you’d better come back to the police station.” I would tell him, of course. About the vague feeling of uneasy wrongness I’d had about Mr. Ming’s false demonstration of his supposed cure—and about how today, it had suddenly struck me: Mr. Ming had trotted out Mrs. Slade and Lady Lynley and even Kai-chen like obedient little show ponies. Why not Mrs. Torrance, as well?

  It might have been that she simply hadn’t sought him out for a cure.

  Just as it might be that the Duchess that Benjamin Davies had spoken of was actually the name of a ship.

  But right now, I very much doubted that it was.

  76. A REPORT

  London, Monday, January 17, 1898

  WATSON

  Two days had elapsed since Holmes had incinerated the great hoard of stolen opium. He had barely rested since our return to London from Shellingford, spending much of his time away from our Baker Street rooms and not telling me what he was doing.

  We were now at the Royal Exchange, for a meeting at the Lloyd’s Underwriting Room. Holmes had insisted on making a personal report to the Chancellor of the Exchequer, and to the Society of Lloyd’s. I was puzzled, for I saw no apparent reason for him to do so. After all, he had flatly refused to accept the chancellor and the society as his clients.

  What would Holmes tell them?

  In the cavernous expanse of the huge Lloyd’s office area, it seemed as though we were participants in a ceremonial procession. I felt the gravity of the occasion.

  Lansdowne and Holmes walked behind Avery Jacoby, who, despite the serious import of the subject at hand, led with his usual jauntiness. Lestrade and I brought up the rear
. Mycroft was just ahead of us, his broad round back partially obscuring our view. Of our group, only Holmes and I knew all that had happened in the underground storage room at Shellingford. Lansdowne, who walked alongside Holmes, knew that the opium chests and their contents had been destroyed, but, as I understood it from Holmes, Lansdowne had agreed not to disclose the result until this meeting, when Holmes would be present to provide answers and explanations.

  Our procession continued. We approached the majestic columns that supported and surrounded the Lutine Bell. The gilded surface of the bell shone brightly against the polished dark wood, capturing the pale winter sunlight that streamed through the tall glass windows.

  Jacoby gestured upward, towards the gleaming brass relic. “So, Mr. Holmes, will we ring the bell once for bad news, or twice for good?” He added: “People here are making bets on the outcome.”

  “Soon you will have your answers,” Holmes replied.

  Lansdowne said nothing.

  I felt a pang of dread. Seeing the matter with the eyes of the Society and the chancellor’s office, I was certain that they would view Holmes’s report as an utter and complete disaster. Sir Michael Hicks Beach, Chancellor of the Exchequer, and his assistant, Lord Ernshaw, badly wanted the return of the six thousand opium chests. As did Jacoby. And Ernshaw had officiously warned that anyone interfering with those chests would be committing a treasonable offense.

  So if Holmes gave a complete report of what had happened in the underground storage area of the Grand Hotel, he would be confessing to the destruction of government property on a massive scale, and thereby exposing himself and all who had been with him to a trial for treason and then to the hangman’s rope.

  I could not imagine him doing that, but neither could I anticipate what he would say. And, of course, he had given me no indication of his plans.

  “Never been here before,” said Lestrade, walking at my side, his beady eyes darting nervously around the enormous room.

  The tall ceiling dwarfed us all, and the stares from what must have been a hundred pairs of eyes seated at a hundred polished wooden desks made both of us uncomfortable. “Don’t know why I should be here now,” Lestrade continued.

  “Holmes did not enlighten you?”

  Lestrade looked me expectantly.

  “Nor did he enlighten me,” I said.

  Lestrade shook his head in resignation.

  A few paces more, and we reached the entrance to the directors’ room. Jacoby pushed open the heavy oak door. At the end of the long conference table, two men sat across from one another, waiting for us.

  Lord Ernshaw, tight-lipped, sat with his bony hands clasped on the tabletop before him, his posture reminding me of a huge praying mantis.

  Sir Michael Hicks Beach sat with his arms folded, his dark, wolfish features only a little softened by his heavy black mustache and close-trimmed black beard.

  Sir Michael leaned forward, nodded, and spoke in a sympathetic tone. “Gentlemen, please do come in. Mr. Holmes, we are happy to see you in our midst. We had heard most distressing rumors of your demise.”

  “The experience was most distressing to me as well, I assure you,” replied Holmes. “But most necessary. I had the help of Secretary Lansdowne, here, and his men, who did an admirable impersonation of a Chinese crew on a small vessel, an impersonation good enough to convince the captain of HMS Daring. To complete the illusion, they also used a prototype of the latest undersea gear.”

  “Based on the Bruce Partington plans,” said Lansdowne. “For the recovery of which we had you to thank, Mr. Holmes. So, we are even on that score.”

  Ernshaw looked impatient. “All very well about that, I’m sure,” he said. “But now, Mr. Holmes, we are anxious to hear what has occurred concerning the recovery of the opium.”

  Holmes turned to Lansdowne. “Mr. Secretary,” he said, “would you like to say anything before I make my report?”

  Lansdowne inclined his high-domed brow just a fraction of an inch. Then he shook his head. “I shall save my comments for later. You should proceed now.”

  Holmes steepled his fingertips beneath his chin in his characteristic expository pose. “The case has been a complex and difficult one,” he said. “However, I know the financial implications of this endeavor are the most prominent in your minds. I shall immediately come to the point you are waiting for. I located the missing opium. It had been hidden away in an underground storage facility, beneath the Grand Hotel in Shellingford—”

  “Wonderful!” Jacoby interrupted.

  “—but the opium has been destroyed.”

  The faces of Sir Michael, Ernshaw, and Jacoby registered first shock, and then disbelief.

  Finally, Jacoby spoke. “Is that all? Just—destroyed? Gone, poof, nothing to be done?”

  “I am happy to provide further detail,” Holmes replied. “I merely desired not to keep you in suspense as to your principal concern.”

  “But all the same, you are telling us it’s all gone,” said Ernshaw. “You are admitting that you failed in your assignment.”

  Holmes held up an admonishing finger. “I took no assignment from you,” he said.

  “Then why are you here?” Ernshaw’s lip curled in a resentful challenge. “Why have you wasted our time to tell us of this—this, debacle?”

  “I have come here to report the facts. This group is free to draw its own conclusions.”

  “Go on,” said Sir Michael.

  “Very well. Dr. Watson can bear witness that he and I saw a huge quantity of sea chests, in numbers sufficient to account for three ships’ worth of cargo.”

  I nodded.

  “As I mentioned,” Holmes went on, “the chests were all stored in an underground facility. We did not have time to open the chests or even to count them.”

  “So what happened?” asked Sir Michael.

  “Shortly after Dr. Watson and I saw the chests, they were destroyed in an explosion that resulted from an altercation with two men. One of those men, named Ming Donghai, was principally responsible for the theft, by fraud, or piracy, that brought the opium to England. Both men perished in the blast. Dr. Watson and I were fortunate to escape with our lives. No others were killed or injured.”

  “There is no doubt that this Ming and his accomplice were killed?” asked Lestrade.

  “Inspection of the storage cavern yielded enough of their remains to confirm their identities. Both men had been working with others, using the opium to produce various narcotic products for sale in England, and, internationally, to enemies of the Crown.”

  “But the opium is gone. You failed,” said Ernshaw.

  “I never agreed to recover it,” said Holmes.

  “Can any of the opium be salvaged?” Sir Michael asked.

  Holmes shook his head. “The inspection of the storage cavern included a detailed evaluation of that possibility by the local constabulary and a party of Lord Lansdowne’s Royal Marines. The chests were sturdy and built for seagoing voyages, so I, too, thought it possible that some of the opium—itself quite sturdy and compressed in the spherical form in which it had been stored—might still be usable.

  “However, the cavern where the chests had been stored also contained supplies of chemicals used in the conversion of the raw opium to the other forms of narcotic. Alcohol, in particular, and acetic anhydride were present in substantial amounts. The containers containing these substances were shattered in the explosion, and the chemicals reacted with the raw opium, and the pitch covering the chests, causing fire and a cascade of further chemical reactions. There is no possibility of ever using any of that opium for its intended purpose. It has no value. It is mainly foul-smelling ashes.”

  “I am sure we all appreciate your clarification and the accompanying detail,” Ernshaw said. “Yet you are describing failure, nonetheless.”

  “No need to dwell on it, Ernshaw,” said Sir Michael.

  “Indeed,” said Holmes. “I may also add that other persons were involved in the na
rcotics operation at the hotel in which the opium was stored and manufactured. One, the local pharmacist, was employed in the conversion of the raw opium in a laboratory located on the premises. He was apprehended by the local police. Another, one Mr. Torrance, the manager of the hotel, was arrested and jailed. Mr. Torrance has been since found murdered. The principal suspect is his wife. Mrs. Torrance visited him in his cell and left just before his body was found. She has gone missing. The local constabulary is tracking her.”

  Lansdowne added, “As is the navy, in the event the woman tries to leave England.”

  “Well, I suppose that is rough justice,” said Sir Michael, “One apprehended, one dead. And we have the possibility for a third to be brought to the Crown’s justice. That is something, at least.”

  “Still a failure as far as the economics of the affair are concerned,” said Ernshaw.

  Jacoby looked over at Holmes. “You did everything you could, I’m sure.”

  “Quite correct,” said Holmes.

  “Do you have any idea,” Sir Michael asked, “why this Ming and his associate would have destroyed the opium?”

  “They did not confide in me,” Holmes said. “But I doubt that they wished to undergo the disgrace of a trial in a British court.”

  “Perhaps they had booby-trapped the storage room,” offered Mycroft. “And the trap went wrong.”

  “They must have known the game was up,” said Lansdowne. “My men arrested their sailors—the crew that was bringing in a fresh load of supplies.”

  “It may have been a spiteful act,” said Jacoby. “An ‘If we can’t have it, no one can have it’ kind of thing.”

  “Pity you weren’t able to bring them to justice,” said Ernshaw, getting to his feet. He turned to Sir Michael. “Well, Mr. Chancellor, I know you have a very busy schedule. It seems there is nothing else to be done to help the situation and therefore nothing further to keep us here.”

  Holmes held up a cautionary finger. “There is just one thing.”

  77. A TRAP IS SPRUNG