The Daughter of Sherlock Holmes

by Leonard Goldberg

  I was again amazed at how Joanna could take totally unconnected clues, which most people would have neglected, and connect them in such a fashion that they solved a riddle. Who would have thought to combine Charles Harrelston’s poor spelling with the Pashto language of distant Afghanistan? It was an extraordinary gift that she inherited from her father. At length I said, “You continue to astonish me with your deductive skills, Joanna.”

  “But these skills have not put a name on the treasure they were hiding,” Joanna said. “That most important clue continues to elude us, which once again demonstrates Moran’s cleverness. He invented a superior code and made it even more complex by inserting the key word in Pashto, the true meaning of which was known only to the quartet. Thus, even if the remainder of the code was deciphered, the word darkha would not reveal what they were concealing. It is the best of codes that was constructed by an evil mastermind. And it caused us to waste a great amount of time for little in return.”

  “It was not at all a waste of time,” I objected. “For you have broken the code, which few could do, and now we know beyond any question why Harrelston and Levy were murdered. It was for their shares of the treasure.”

  “True,” Joanna said. “But there is a worry here.”

  “Which is?”

  “Moran must assume that we would soon break the code, particularly after viewing our notes on Sherlock Holmes’s workbench. This will force him to act more quickly.”

  “In what form?” I asked.

  “Against Derek Cardogan,” Joanna said darkly. “His life is now in even more imminent danger than I thought.”

  17

  The Intruder

  By unanimous consent we decided to dine at Simpson’s-in-the-Strand to celebrate our victory over Christopher Moran’s secret code. It was Sherlock Holmes’s favorite restaurant, and my father knew the menu well. At his suggestion, Joanna had the lamb, I the beef Wellington, and he the roast beef carved off the trolley. All was accompanied by Yorkshire pudding and washed down with a superb Médoc. We finished with Turkish coffee, for we had no room left for their delicious desserts.

  Before taking Joanna home, we had to return to 221b Baker Street to fetch a shawl she had left behind. Sitting next to Joanna in the carriage, I had an almost irresistible urge to take her hand in mine, but obviously could not in my father’s presence. Nevertheless, Joanna and I sat close enough together for our shoulders to touch and we both enjoyed the moment. As our carriage turned sharply onto Baker Street, it provided me with the opportunity to slide even closer to Joanna. With our bodies pressing together, a wave of enticing electricity went through me and through Joanna as well, I suspect, for I heard her utter a soft sigh. It required all my effort not to reach over and embrace this most enchanting woman. But I did manage to send her a warm smile, which she returned, and for now I realized that would have to suffice.

  Our carriage came to a stop and, as we alighted, my father noted a glow coming through the curtain of his rooms.

  “Did you leave the lights on, John?” he asked.

  “I must have,” I admitted. “Please forgive me.”

  “Not to worry,” my father said jovially, for he had greatly enjoyed a rare evening out. “Come, let us retrieve Joanna’s shawl and send her on her way before Sir Henry becomes concerned.”

  As we slowly climbed the stairs, we heard sounds emanating from my father’s rooms. There were heavy footsteps, followed by thuds made by objects falling to the floor. We stopped, and moved Joanna to a position well behind us.

  “Do you by chance have my service revolver with you?” my father asked in a whisper.

  “Unfortunately not,” I whispered back.

  “What do you propose, then?”

  “To deal with the problem head-on,” I said, and wrapped a handkerchief tightly around my knuckles.

  I removed my coat and quietly approached the cracked door, listening for the sounds to indicate if there was more than one intruder. The heavy footsteps were those of a lone individual. Taking a deep breath to ready myself, I kicked the door open and rushed in. Before me was a brute of a man, well over six feet in height, with broad shoulders and a stout build. But it was his head that drew my attention. It was huge and scarred, with an overhanging brow that gave him an apelike appearance. He was not the least bit moved by my sudden entrance, and stepped toward me with large fists, confident I was easy prey. That was his first mistake.

  The brute swung wildly at my head and missed, causing him to lose his balance momentarily. To his surprise, I countered with a powerful straight punch to his mid-sternum, which I am certain resulted in a fracture of the skeletal plate that protects the heart and lungs. He crumpled in pain and dropped to his knees, which provided me the opportunity to move in closer. Two quick jabs to the jaw split his lips and drew blood, making him stagger. In a split second, I opened my hands and slammed my palms against his unprotected ears, and this produced a sudden intense increase in the middle ear pressure. He howled at the discomfort, but was somehow able to rise to his feet. The look on his face was one of anger, mixed with a thin smile, for now he had an open switchblade in hand. The blade was at least six inches in length and gave him a clear advantage at close quarters. He licked his bloody lips as he slowly moved in for the kill. I had no choice but to back away toward Sherlock Holmes’s workbench, all the while looking for a defensive weapon. Then came the swish of the knife and I felt a sharp, stinging pain in my upper abdomen, followed by the warm sensation of blood on my skin. I quickly retreated, again desperately searching for anything to protect myself. All I saw was the microscope on Holmes’s workbench. It was of no use, and now my back was to the wall.

  Suddenly the brute let out a loud cry of pain, for Joanna had swung an iron stoker at the lateral aspect of his kneecap. He dropped his knife and grasped for his knee, then spun around to face Joanna. This move gave me a perfect target. I threw a vicious punch to the brute’s high lumbar area where his kidney would lie. He staggered once more and screamed in agony. Now overmatched and in pain, he hurriedly limped out the door and tripped over my father’s outstretched leg. The brute scrambled to his feet and scurried down the stairs.

  My father dashed over to my side and, seeing the blood, cried out, “You are wounded!”

  “I think it is superficial, Father.”

  “Allow me to examine the wound.” My father opened my shirt and carefully examined the stab. It was approximately three inches in length, with even edges, and barely deep enough to break the skin. Still, it bled briskly. “You are fortunate. A bit more force behind the knife and it would have entered your peritoneal cavity.”

  “Do you have your suturing material, Father?”

  “Of course,” he said, and paused to examine the wound once more. “A few sutures will close it nicely and stop the bleeding.”

  Joanna waited for my father to go into his room, then came over close to me and breathed, “You were magnificent!”

  “I almost ended up quite dead.”

  “Only because the animal had to resort to a knife.” Joanna glanced at the wound and used a fresh handkerchief to stem the bleeding. “And I must say that was a wonderful last punch to the kidney area. He will be more than a little upset when his urine turns to blood.”

  “He will be even more upset when his knee swells to the size of a melon.”

  Joanna nodded happily. “That was a lovely blow, wasn’t it?”

  My father returned and, after cleansing the wound with antiseptic, closed it with four sutures and applied a gauze bandage. “We must keep an eye out for infection.”

  “I will watch it carefully,” I said, and glanced around the parlor. The intruder was most interested in the area where Sherlock Holmes did his investigations. Files were overturned and scattered about, while texts and notes and papers were thrown onto the floor in a haphazard fashion. Even several bottles of reagents had been knocked over, although I doubt this was done intentionally. “This was not the work of a common thie
f.”

  “By no means,” Joanna agreed. “It was done with a single purpose in mind and orchestrated by Moran.”

  “He believes we are closing in on him, does he not?” I asked

  “And he is correct,” Joanna said.

  I waved my hand at the clutter and disarray that my father was attempting to deal with. “Was all this done simply to determine whether or not we had broken his code?”

  “Oh, he wishes to know much more than that,” Joanna answered. “He is aware that we are still investigating the deaths of Charles Harrelston and Benjamin Levy. He may have even gotten details from the gardener we questioned who could not wait to tell Moran’s chambermaid of our visit. And she would eagerly pass the information to Moran in hopes of some reward. Remember, members of the working class tend to form cliques and love to inform each other of what transpires in the neighborhood.”

  “And the manager at the Athenian Club no doubt supplied Moran with the details of our visit there,” I added. “As you mentioned previously, Moran will read the actions of Toby Two as if it was a book.”

  My father called over from Sherlock Holmes’s workbench. “All of our notes and papers on the code are gone.”

  “Even the last letter we obtained from Sir William?” Joanna asked.

  “That too.”

  “I made some notes following our visit to Moran’s secretary. Are they missing as well?”

  My father searched through the scattered papers on the table and floor. “Gone. And the newspaper articles on the deaths of Charles Harrelston and Benjamin Levy are not to be found either.”

  Joanna strolled around the parlor and gazed into each room, including the bedroom previously occupied by Sherlock Holmes. “Clumsy,” she said.

  “What?” I asked.

  “The attempt to make the burglary appear to be the work of an ordinary thief,” she replied. “Drawers have been opened and some of their contents spilled out in the other rooms, but there was no real effort made to search for valuables. This is more evidence that this is the work of Christopher Moran.”

  “Now Moran will know exactly where we stand in our investigation,” I remarked.

  “And more importantly, he will try to use this information to stymie us further.”

  “Oh, goodness!” my father cried aloud. “Where is my brain? What has happened to my memory? How could something so important escape my thoughts?” He reached for a thin file and shook his head dispiritedly. “This could prove to be such an integral part of our investigation, yet I could not recall it.”

  “What is it, Father?” I asked with concern.

  “The name Moran,” he replied. “I had some vague recollection of it from the past, yet could not retrieve it from my memory bank. But our thief left one box unsearched and it contains some of Holmes’s most memorable cases, one of which revolves around a scoundrel named Sebastian Moran.”

  “Another criminal named Moran?” Joanna asked at once.

  “Not simply a criminal, but a master criminal,” my father said, now reading from the file. “He had served as a colonel in the First Bangalore Pioneers and distinguished himself in the Second Afghan War. He was quite senior at the time, in his late fifties, but was called upon to participate in the war because of his strategic brilliance. In any event, he returned home, only to go bad under the wing of London’s most notorious criminal, Professor Moriarty. Sebastian Moran was an esteemed officer who ended up on the gallows because he chose to match wits with Sherlock Holmes.”

  “What was his offense?” I asked.

  “The murder of the Honorable Ronald Adair, who was shot with an expanding bullet from an air gun.”

  “Astounding,” I said. “One would never expect that from a distinguished officer.”

  My father smiled at some past memory. “Holmes would tell you that some trees grow to a certain height and then suddenly divulge some unsightly eccentricity, and that often occurs in humans. Holmes believed in the theory that the individual represents the whole procession of his ancestors, and that such a turn to good or evil is from some strong influence that comes from the line of his pedigree. The person thus becomes the epitome of the history of his own family.”

  “Are you saying that criminal behavior is under genetic control?” I asked.

  “It appears to be so here, for Sherlock made a notation in his file that Sebastian had a single son whose name was—”

  “Christopher Moran!” I shouted.

  “The very same. It is in his blood.” My father shook his head again at his memory lapse. “And I could not recall such an important case. My brain obviously suffers from the consequences of old age.”

  “Your brain is fine,” Joanna said. “All of us have difficulty with distant memories.”

  “True. But it is more marked at my age,” my father said.

  “Do not underestimate your value to us,” Joanna said. “Your experience is of great importance here, and if it requires an unexpected incident to awaken your memory, so be it.”

  “You are kind,” my father said gratefully.

  “I am also very honest. Now tell me everything you recall about this Sebastian Moran, for his son may be following in his footsteps.”

  As you are following in your father’s footsteps, Joanna, I thought. But of course I kept this secret to myself.

  My father referred to the file once again, then furrowed his brow while taking his memory back over the years. “The murder victim, Ronald Adair, was killed after playing cards with Moran.”

  “Like Charles Harrelston,” Joanna noted.

  “Colonel Moran had cheated Adair during the game.”

  “Another remarkable similarity.”

  “Adair was shot through a window.”

  “Again death centers around a window.”

  “And once Sebastian Moran discovered that Sherlock Holmes was on his trail, he tried to kill Holmes.”

  “By what method?” Joanna asked at once.

  “That escapes me.”

  “Please do your best on this point,” Joanna urged. “Our lives could be at stake.”

  While my father delved into the recesses of his memory, I continued to be astonished by the brilliance of Sherlock Holmes. How could he be so aware that the traits of good and evil might well be carried on genes and passed from one generation to the next? Sebastian and Christopher Moran were prime examples of this phenomenon. And so were Joanna Blalock and her biological father, Sherlock Holmes.

  My father’s eyes suddenly widened. “It occurred outside. The attempt on our lives took place at night in a thick fog. But all I can recollect is being pushed to the ground.”

  “Was it a shot, such as the one Sebastian Moran used to kill Ronald Adair?” Joanna asked.

  “I cannot be sure,” my father replied in a sad voice. “It happened so many years ago.”

  “Why not review your file on Colonel Moran for this incident?” Joanna suggested.

  My father thumbed through a stack of pages and studied each one carefully, but found nothing of the attack. “It is not mentioned.”

  “Are you certain it occurred?”

  “I believe so, but then again my distant memory leaves much to be desired.”

  “You have done splendidly, Watson. The connection of Sebastian Moran to his son is of immense importance,” Joanna said. “And there is no reason to strain further on this far-off memory. Chances are it will come to you given the appropriate stimulus.”

  “Let us hope the recollection comes before the attempt,” my father said solemnly.

  I accompanied Joanna back to the Blalock mansion later that evening. Alone together for the first time, we talked and touched in the closeness of our carriage. As we rode through the darkened streets of Belgravia, our bodies were drawn together by a magical force that neither of us could resist. Then we kissed tenderly and I experienced a most wonderful warmth that I had never felt before.

  “You are beyond beautiful,” I whispered.

  “And y
ou beyond handsome,” she whispered back.

  “We make a fine pair, Joanna.”

  “Indeed we do, dear John.”

  Our carriage slowed and turned into the well-lighted avenue on which Joanna lived. We smiled at each other and shared a final, warm kiss and gentle embrace. Despite the enchanting moment, I could not hide my concern over my father’s gradual physical and mental decline. We agreed that it happened to all who live long enough for the years to take their toll. But still, it was most sad to see in a loved one.

  “You are fortunate to have had your dear father so long,” Joanna said in my arms.

  “I know.”

  “And we are fortunate to have him help guide us through this criminal maze.”

  “I am aware of that as well,” I said, and drew her closer. “He has pointed out the remarkable similarities between the Morans to us, and how that may bear on our case.”

  “Quite so.”

  After a long pause, I asked, “Do you truly believe Christopher Moran will attack and try to do us bodily harm?”

  “Do you believe Sherlock Holmes’s concept that the elements of good and evil can be passed down through the generations?”

  “I do.”

  “There is your answer.”

  18

  An Unexpected Death

  My wound was causing considerable pain the next day, but I worked through it because of the heavy schedule. I had just completed an autopsy on a most interesting case that had riveted my attention. It appeared that a very nice woman in Brixton decided to poison her husband with strychnine. The man’s face had shown severe, tetanic muscle contractions that resulted in a devilish grin, and his skin was deeply cyanotic, for such patients die of asphyxiation due to paralysis of the neural pathways that control respiration. All of these were typical signs of strychnine poisoning. As I was writing my final note, a pathology clerk hurried into my office with an important message.

  “Sir, I am sorry to intrude, but your father awaits you in a carriage at the entrance.”