“Have you ever shot at a human being?”
“No. But I would not hesitate if I believed Moran posed a terrible threat to my father. I might even look forward to it.”
“Well and good, but do not forget to aim low.”
“The better target area is up high.”
“I know, but we want this prey alive.”
A sudden worry came to my mind. “But the key is in the door to the room, and Moran could easily lock it.”
“No matter. One well-placed kick and it will come off its hinges.” Joanna hurried over to close the blinds while I went to lower the light emitted by a small lamp.
“A slight glow should not be noticed from the parlor,” I said.
“But it might streak by the edges of the blind and be seen from the street below,” she warned as she moved to my side. “If, on alighting from his carriage, Moran saw the faintest glow, he would know the room was occupied.”
At that moment we were both peering into a mirror on the wall above the lamp. We had pleasant smiles on our faces and our eyes appeared to be on each other.
“It is impossible for me not to stare at your reflection,” I breathed.
“Tell me what you see, John,” Joanna said softly.
“The essence of loveliness, which captured my heart from the very start,” I replied. “When I am not with you, all I dwell upon is when I will see you next. Do you feel the same?”
Joanna nodded slowly, her sweet gaze never leaving me. “It is at night, when I am all alone, that your face always comes to me. And it is at that moment that I so look forward to being with you again.”
“I must tell you that at times you absolutely take my breath away.”
“And you, me.”
I kept my eyes on the lovely face reflected back to me from the mirror. Every part seemed flawless. “I was unaware.”
She then gave me a wonderful smile that was only for me and no one else in the universe. “Perhaps my signals are too subtle.”
“I must learn to observe more carefully.”
We both laughed. Then Joanna’s gaze sharpened as she turned away from the mirror to study me directly. “You have your father’s strong jawline and thick, brown hair, and your face would be most attractive were it not for your nose, which is a bit misshapen because it was once broken. May I ask how that happened?”
“Joanna Blalock, the detective,” I said, amused. “I am surprised you cannot solve the puzzle of the broken nose.”
She quickly increased the lamp’s light, and moved in to examine every feature of my face. She seemed interested in my brows and cheeks. “You were a boxer, probably at university, because your career in the ring was relatively brief. You were very good defensively, and you won more matches than you lost.”
“I should have known better,” I said, and shook my head at the woman’s marvelous deductive skills. “Please do not tell me you gathered all this information after one, quick observation.”
“But it is true, dear John, and again it is that which is out of place that is so important. A physician with your background is very unlikely to participate in street fights, and thus we must find another solution for your broken nose and for the formation of some excess scar tissue under your eyebrows. Those are the features one discovers in boxers. The most plausible place for you to box would be at university. Correct?”
I nodded with a grin. “The Oxford Boxing Club.”
“And your boxing career there was brief because your nose was only broken once and the scar tissue is not very evident about your brows. This, together with your hands, which are not gnarled, vouches for a brief career. The absence of more facial damage indicates you won more matches than you lost, and that you knew how to defend yourself.” Once again she gave me a special smile and added, “I might be able to tell more in a brighter light.”
“From where did you acquire all this information?”
“Books. I read a lot,” she replied. “And your next question should be—why would I choose to read about the sport of boxing? The answer is straightforward. When I was a nurse at St. Bart’s, a patient I cared for was a professional boxer who was in a coma from striking his head on the floor during a match. I noticed all the peculiar features that boxers have and decided to study their causes.”
“Remarkable.”
“Not really. It is cause and effect, with all the changes readily apparent.”
I shook my head. “I was referring to the manner in which you continually sweep me off my feet. I never tire of gazing at your beauty or waiting for your next smile and touch. It is as if some spell has been cast upon me. Are you aware you do this?”
Again came the perfect smile. “Of course. It is my way of saying I am fond of you and your rugged good looks that contrast so wonderfully with your stately manner. You are a genuine paradox, dear John, and I happen to delight in genuine paradoxes.”
“So I might conclude, for reasons beyond me, that you are attracted to this battered boxer?”
“Why else would I allow your arm to rest on mine for such an extended period?”
I glanced down and saw our hands against each other, but made no attempt to separate them. My heart raced as I said, “I am out of words.”
Joanna reached up and touched my face. “At this moment, none are required.”
I was about to draw her to me when we both heard the sound of a carriage approaching outside. We doused the light completely and went to the window, where we carefully peeked around the edge of the blind. I was directly behind Joanna and was so close I could hear her breathing and enjoy her delicate perfume.
“I forgot to tell you something important,” I whispered.
“What?”
“That you are beautiful.”
She rested her head back against my chest and replied, “And you are handsome. But now we must focus on Christopher Moran, and everything he says and does.”
The carriage below had come to a complete stop with its door open, yet no one could be seen alighting. At length Christopher Moran stepped out and looked directly up to the second floor of 221 Baker Street. He pointed up to our window with his walking stick before turning to speak with someone who remained in the carriage.
“Do you believe Moran saw us?” I asked in a low voice.
“No,” Joanna replied at once. “He was pointing to the upper floor before he reached the sidewalk. I think he is giving someone instructions.”
“To what end?”
“I have no idea.”
We watched Moran adjust his cape and top hat, then discard the cigar he was smoking. Once more he glanced up to the second floor, but only briefly.
“Ah!” Joanna said. “The cunning devil comes. Please alert your father.”
I hurried to the door and knocked. “Father, Moran is here! Prepare yourself.”
“You have my service revolver at hand?”
“And ready to be used.”
“Good fellow.”
We could easily hear the sound of footsteps coming up the stairs. At near two hundred pounds, Moran’s weight caused the wooden steps to creak, and the louder the creak, the nearer he was. Joanna held a finger to her lips to reinforce the need for absolute silence, then led the way in the dim light to the door of Sherlock Holmes’s bedroom. Then we waited. The creaking stopped, but there was no rap on the front door.
“He is delaying,” I worried aloud.
“He is removing his cape and hat and adjusting his tie,” Joanna said. “He plans on making a grand entrance.”
A moment later we heard a very loud knock on the front door, and after another moment Moran’s booming voice.
“Ah, Watson! How kind of you to invite me for what certainly will be an enjoyable evening.”
“It was gracious of you to accept on such short notice,” my father said. “Please give me your hat and cape.”
Joanna and I quickly positioned ourselves against the door to overhear every word spoken. Unfortunately, the key was in
the door lock so we could not peer out through the keyhole.
“Do you have your revolver in hand?” Joanna asked in a barely audible whisper.
“At the ready,” I whispered back.
“If possible, remember to aim low, for the kneecap. I have read that a gunshot to that area is intensely painful and immediately incapacitating.”
“And crippling.”
“An added benefit.”
The conversation between Moran and my father continued in earnest after Miss Hudson served up the roasted pheasant. They spoke in an amiable fashion about the unrelenting, thick London fog and the recent election of Prime Minister Asquith. Both seemed most interested in the problems involving the colonies, particularly the unrest in South Africa.
After dinner my father suggested they retire by the fireplace to enjoy cognac and cigars. Because of the noise made by the crackling logs and the rain outside, we had to press our ears to the door to clearly hear their words.
“I must congratulate you, Watson,” Moran was saying, “on the excellent cuisine.”
“The credit must go to our housekeeper,” my father replied. “Miss Hudson does wonders with pheasant.”
“We never saw this kind of food in India, eh, Watson?”
“Hardly,” my father guffawed. “The food was barely edible, but I must say it kept me trim.”
The men shared a laugh, then went silent for a long moment.
“Strange that we should not have met or heard of each other during the war,” Moran said. “After all, we were both assigned to the Fusiliers.”
“As I previously mentioned, I arrived in Bombay after the corps had advanced through the passes,” my father explained. “And this accounts for us missing each other. When I finally reached Kandahar, you were no longer with the regiment.”
“By then we were taken prisoners by the Ghazis,” Moran said. “And so we remained for two months under the harshest of conditions.”
“I am surprised the rebels allowed you to survive.”
“That was only because they discovered I had medical training and needed my skills,” Moran said. “And I might add, this saved the lives of some of my fellow officers whom I passed off as being my assistants.”
“Good show!”
“And this is how Charles Harrelston and I became such good friends,” Moran went on. “He was one of the officers I saved.”
“How many others were there?” my father pried gently.
“Several,” Moran said evasively. “In any event, the rebels who were our captors decided to attack a passing caravan that was loaded with goods and other valuables. Unbeknownst to the rebels, the caravan was heavily guarded and a fierce battle broke out, during which we managed to escape.”
“Luck was with you once more,” my father said.
“In more ways than I can say,” Moran went on. “To avoid being captured again, we hid during the day and traveled at night with only the stars to guide us. Eventually we spotted another caravan and joined it, and thus found a route back to safety in Peshawar near the Afghan border.”
“And then home, eh?”
Moran hesitated. “We had to stay longer because of the enteric fever we contracted. Our departure was further delayed by a rather long recuperation at the base hospital near Peshawar. But this was not too unpleasant, for we were allowed freedom to see the nearby countryside. Altogether, it was the most fascinating journey of my life.”
“Fascinating indeed,” my father said. “It is unfortunate that my son is not here. He is particularly intrigued by India, and is well versed on the subject.”
“Is he traveling?” Moran asked in an innocent voice.
“Yes, but only a short distance,” my father replied. “He had business in the Edgware Road district.”
“Oh? The Edgware Road district seems a strange place for a pathologist to be late at night.”
“One of his colleagues is ill and requires assistance filing a final report.” My father paused to stoke the fire, for we heard the logs suddenly cracked loudly. “He did not go into detail, except to say he would be away for the evening.”
“Perhaps I will have the opportunity to see him when we dine next.”
“I will mention that to him.”
“Please do.” Moran swallowed audibly and made a soft groaning sound. “May I use your loo?”
“Of course,” my father said. “It is the second door on the right.”
“I shall only be a moment.”
We heard his heavy footsteps coming toward us, for the loo was next to Sherlock Holmes’s bedroom. Then, to our surprise, the doorknob to Holmes’s room began to turn. I brought my revolver into firing position in the event Moran became violent on discovering our deception. Joanna placed her hand on my weapon and gently pushed it down.
“Not that door!” my father cried out. “It is the next one down.”
“You will have to forgive my curiosity,” Moran said. “When I saw the key in the lock I wondered if this was in fact the former bedroom of Sherlock Holmes.”
“It is,” my father replied sharply. “And that room is off limits and will remain so.”
“How sentimental,” Moran said. “I see you have left all of his papers and examining devices in place as well.”
“And there they will stay,” my father said in a firm voice.
“But some of the papers and notes appear quite recent. Have you yourself been doing some investigating?”
“I am only reviewing old cases that Holmes and I were involved with.”
“Too bad Sherlock Holmes is not here for the current spree that pervades all of London.”
“Most unfortunate.”
We heard the door to the washroom close loudly. A moment later Joanna darted out of the bedroom and over to the coat rack. She picked up Moran’s walking stick and quickly examined its silver head and the polished wood adjacent to it. With a hurried glance toward the washroom, she removed the vial of liquid from her purse and wet the handkerchief. It required only seconds for her to rub the handkerchief over the silver cap and the wood next to it. After replacing the cane in its original position, she dashed back into our room.
“What was the purpose of that?” I inquired.
“Evidence,” she said, and brought a finger up to her lips.
The door to the washroom opened and Moran stepped out. The direction of his footsteps indicated he was walking to the coat rack. “Allow me to thank you for your generous hospitality, Watson.”
“Must you leave so soon?”
“I am afraid so,” Moran answered. “I have a very early start tomorrow morning.”
“As do I.”
“Thank you again,” Moran said. “I will see myself out.”
We tiptoed silently to the window and waited until we saw Moran enter his carriage and drive away. We waited another full minute in the event Moran decided to double back.
Joanna led the way into the living room, with a smile. “Well done, Watson! Well done!”
“Masterful!” I complimented him.
“Well, I did a bit of acting at Cambridge,” my father remarked.
“It paid off for you handsomely,” Joanna said.
My father went for his cherrywood pipe and carefully lighted it. “And Dr. Moran played it exactly as we thought he would.”
“But he left so abruptly,” I said. “I was worried he saw through our deception.”
Joanna waved away my concern. “He departed because he got what he came for. He learned John was in the Edgware Road district where Martin Morris lives, which indicated we were on his trail.”
“But why let him know that we have picked up his scent?” I asked.
“To force his hand,” Joanna replied. “Now he knows he must move quickly.”
My father nodded slowly. “So he is aware that John is not there to assist an ill colleague.”
“Pshaw! A sick colleague is a lame excuse, and Moran is a very clever fellow. He may well believe John is in the Edgwa
re Road district. It is the reason you gave that he does not swallow.”
My father looked at Joanna slowly. “Then he knows I lied?”
Joanna shook her head. “He believes you were misinformed to prevent you from unwittingly telling him what John was really up to.”
My father’s face hardened. “He does not think much of me.”
“He has underestimated you, Watson,” Joanna said. “And in the end, it will cost him dearly. Now, let us examine the handkerchief that I rubbed on Moran’s walking stick.”
Joanna produced the handkerchief and held it up for us to see. “There is only a very faint brown spot on the linen where I rubbed the wood. It is no doubt polish from the cane.”
“But the spot next to it is a dark, mahogany brown,” I observed.
“Which indicates that Sherlock Holmes’s test to detect human hemoglobin is correct. This rich, mahogany color proves that there is human blood on the silver cap of Moran’s walking stick.”
“From Charles Harrelston’s head,” I added.
“No doubt.”
“But we cannot prove the blood belonged to Harrelston,” my father argued. “And unless we do, there is nothing more than circumstantial evidence.”
Joanna smiled thinly. “Circumstantial evidence can at times be very convincing, Watson. Such as—to quote Thoreau—when one finds a trout swimming in milk.”
“But I am amazed that a clever doctor like Moran would not know how to remove all traces of blood from the walking stick,” I said.
“And how would he accomplish that?” Joanna asked.
“As we do with surgical instruments,” I replied. “Boiling water or diluted acid would do the job nicely.”
“But he would not do that,” Joanna said at once. “Because boiling water or acid could ruin the wood of a very expensive cane. And besides, even in his wildest imagination, he could not conceive of someone connecting his cane to the murder of Charles Harrelston.”
“So he is not so clever after all,” my father said.
“Do not underestimate him,” Joanna warned. “He is a cold-blooded killer with a brilliant mind. This combination makes for the best of criminals.”
Joanna began to pace the room, hands clasped behind her. Back and forth she went, mumbling to herself, off in some world that others were not privy to. Finally she stopped and said, “Watson, your question asking Moran to name the other members of the quartet was brilliant.”
The Daughter of Sherlock Holmes Page 14
