Sherlock Holmes and the Alice in Wonderland Murders

by Barry Day

TWEEDLEDUM AND TWEEDLEDEE

  AGREED TO HAVE A BATTLE

  FOR TWEEDLEDUM SAID TWEEDLEDEE

  HAD SPOILED HIS NICE NEW RATTLE

  Below the quotation was the familiar face of the Cheshire Cat but this time its grin was upside down, giving it a faintly sinister, Oriental appearance.

  “That will appear in all of tomorrow’s newspapers—including the Clarion—as my private message to Moriarty. But the main message, which those same papers will carry free and gratis was the one I delivered earlier this evening and which you, Watson, were good enough by your unfeigned reaction to authenticate. The Right Honourable Members saw Tweedledee—but they thought they saw Tweedledum and it is on him that they will vent their anger and frustration. Tonight was just as much of an execution as the one Moriarty contrived yesterday—except that on this occasion the victim lived. Only one man will truly appreciate the—if I may employ the pun—double entendre …”

  And allowing himself a small whisper of a smile, Holmes settled back in his chair and completed his toilet. “I think we might safely say that the price of steel has just gone down.”

  I could not forebear to state what seemed to me to be obvious. “But tomorrow Steel will deny that he was present in the House and explain where he really was …”

  “So he will,” Holmes replied, “but who will believe him? He knows he dined with Mycroft and now you and I know but the rest of the world will assume he is merely trying to avoid the consequences of his actions. After all, several hundred of our leading citizens have the evidence of their own eyes and they are not likely to admit the possibility of error. We have simply turned Moriarty’s weaponry upon himself. QED.”

  “Tonight we witnessed Act Two—or perhaps that dignifies it too much. Let us say an entracte. We must now possess our souls in patience until we see what Moriarty does next.”

  The impact of the evening’s events suddenly seemed to hit me and I found myself stifling a yawn.

  “Well, gentlemen, if you will excuse me,” I said, “I think I’ll possess my soul by having a good night’s sleep.”

  As I left the room, I could again hear the murmur of their conversation, as each completed the other’s sentences. With two such minds working in concert, what chance did an antagonist have—even one as clever as Professor Moriarty? Even so, I had no intention of letting that thought lull me into any false sense of security. There was much to be done before we pulled through. The game was afoot but it most certainly was not over.

  It must have been that realisation that disturbed my sleep. I am usually a sound sleeper and, as usual, I was off the moment my head touched the pillow but then the dreams came crowding in.

  I was walking through a house very like the one in Chester Square. It was totally empty of furniture and every room was mirrored, so that I could not avoid seeing my own reflection at every turn. Suddenly I heard a woman’s voice crying out something and I knew it to be Alicia Creighton’s. She was clearly in distress and was calling my name. I opened one door and suddenly saw her in the distance beckoning to me. She was dressed in the Alice in Wonderland costume and the strangest thing was that the faster I hurried towards her, the further away she seemed.

  From room to room I went and each one seemed smaller than the last—or were the walls and ceiling coming towards me? Now I could catch glimpses of other people I knew scurrying past me in the opposite direction, each of them dressed as Alice characters.

  There was Mycroft, an enormous Mock Turtle, lugubriously murmuring to himself—“Jam tomorrow and jam yesterday—but never jam today …”

  “But that doesn’t make sense,” I heard my inner voice saying—only to have Holmes, who now happened to be passing dressed as the Mad Hatter, raise his hat with the label saying ‘In this style—10/6d’ say politely “Everything’s got a moral, if only you can find it.”

  “That’s easy enough for you to say, Holmes,” I found myself thinking, “but you don’t have to worry about the room shrinking.” At which point Mrs. Hudson bustled past, except that she looked for all the world like the Duchess. “Soup of the evening—beautiful soup,” she murmured comfortingly. “Thank you, Mrs. Hudson—Duchess,” I replied. “That sounds delicious. I just hope we get back in time for supper.”

  Now at last I seemed to be getting closer to Alice, which was just as well, since the rooms were not only getting smaller and smaller but darker and darker. And as I approached Alice, she seemed to change.

  “But this makes no sense,” I heard myself shouting. “Take care of the sense and the sounds will take care of themselves,” laughed the Alice Thing in a tone that was distinctly unpleasant. And now it seemed to turn into a large Caterpillar smoking a hookah. “But who are you?” I was shouting even louder now, or so it seemed to me.

  “I’m as large as life—and twice as natural,” the Caterpillar replied in what seemed an eminently reasonable tone.

  “I just don’t believe any of this is happening,” I cried.

  “If you’ll believe in me—I’ll believe in you,” said the Caterpillar, as it slowly turned into … Humpty Dumpty with Moriarty’s face.

  “So you don’t believe, eh, Doctor?” said Humpty Dumpty. “Well, I’m afraid you leave me no alternative.”

  I saw now that he was carefully placing a judge’s black cap on top of his egg-shaped head.

  “I’ll be judge, I’ll be jury … I’ll try the whole case and condemn you to death. Oh, by the way, Doctor, remind me to get a bigger cap, there’s a good fellow … there’s a good fellow … there’s a good fellow.”

  His moon face melted into a blur and as I struggled to bring it back into focus, it turned into Holmes. I realised that he was leaning over me and shaking me awake.

  “Wake up, there’s a good fellow. I need your help and we seem to have stirred up the hornets’ nest right enough. I’ve asked Mrs. Hudson to make us a fresh pot of tea. Is there anything else that would tempt you to rise?”

  “Ask her if there is any jam today?” I replied rather groggily. Holmes laughed loudly. “Good old Watson. The fixed point in a changing world. Jam it shall be.” He went out, closing the bedroom door behind him.

  When I entered the sitting room a little while later, I found Holmes deep in conversation with a tall young man of rather disreputable appearance. On my arrival, however, I was pleased to see him jump to his feet and touch his forelock. “Mornin’, Doctor Watson.” Then I recognised him. “Ah, morning, Wiggins!” I replied, “and how are the Baker Street Irregulars these days?”

  “Mustn’t grumble, Doctor, and always better for a bit of action.”

  At Holmes’s indication, he resumed his seat and I poured myself a much-needed cup of tea. “I’ve had Wiggins and his colleagues watching Chester Square for the last couple of days, Watson. Do you think you were spotted, Wiggins?”

  “I’m pretty certain not, Mr. ’Olmes,” the boy replied. “We took it in shifts, like. One of us would be on a delivery bike. Another would be doing some odd jobs in a neighbour’s garden. Nobody ever takes notice of a young bloke like me,” he added with a touch of professional pride in his voice.

  Holmes looked down at a notepad on his knee.

  “From the boy’s description our friend has been receiving the visitors we suspected on a regular basis. Everything seemed to be proceeding in an orderly fashion until late last night. Right, Wiggins?”

  “Regular ’ornets’ nest it was then, Doctor. People coming and going till all hours, lights blazing and everything. Then about two-ish this one feller comes rushing in. Slicked back hair, looked like he’d seen a ghost …”

  “Steel!” I exclaimed.

  “The genuine article by the sounds of it,” Holmes replied with an enigmatic glance in my direction. “And then what happened, Wiggins?”

  “Well, gentlemen,” said Wiggins, expansive now that he had a captive audience, “I managed to shin up a drain pipe, see, until I was next to the room where most of the noise was coming from. Then I see—saw—this
Steel chap come rushing in. Two other fellers were trying to stop him but he wasn’t having none of that. He goes up to where this chap Moxton is sitting at his desk and starts banging on it. And Moxton doesn’t like that one bit, I can tell you.”

  “So then what happened, Wiggins? Be as precise as you can, if you please. A great deal may depend on it.”

  “Moxton just keeps staring at him and I felt all cold even where I was, I can tell you, Mr. ’Olmes. Gawd knows what it must have felt like when he was looking straight at you.”

  As he spoke I recalled how Holmes had once described Moriarty’s unblinking reptilian gaze when angered and could well sympathise with the lad.

  “Steel keeps saying as how it wasn’t him, which I didn’t truly understand what he meant. How could he be him and not him, if you see what I mean?”

  “Perfectly. And then …?”

  “And then Moxton turns to ‘im and says—‘Steel by name but not, it would seem, by nature. I begin to wonder if you are not, after all, cast iron? And iron, my friend, is brittle. It can easily be snapped.’ And then these two geezers finally get ‘old of him and drag him out of the room. It was then I began to get a bit of cramp and me foot scraped on the drainpipe, see, which drew his attention. I was off out of there in no time, Mr. Holmes, I can tell you.”

  “You did extremely well, Wiggins. Then later this morning …?”

  “Buzzing like bees, they was.” Winged insects seemed to loom large in the boy’s vocabulary. “Packing things in vans. Me and the other lads didn’t dare to get too close, in case they marked us for marking them. But I tell you, gentlemen, I could have sworn they were packed ready for somethin’ like this, ’cos they were out of there in no time at all. That Moxton, ’e must have gone out the back way, cos none of us saw ’im go.”

  “And the lady?” I interposed.

  “Never saw ’er neither, Doctor. A moonlight flit, I’d call it—’cept it was in the daylight. And that’s about it for now, I reckin.”

  “Well done, Wiggins,” said Holmes. “Here’s a little something for you and your friends. Please give them my best.” And with this Holmes discreetly held out his closed hand to the young man, who palmed the offering with the practised skill of a junior Fagin. A moment later it was as if he had never been. I could see entirely why Holmes placed such faith in the services of his band of unorthodox assistants.

  “So it would seem, old fellow,” Holmes reflected when we were alone once more, “that we are beginning to make our presence felt. Moriarty is having to revise his plans and write friend Steel out of them. And while I do not doubt for a moment that the man can be replaced like any cog in any wheel, I do doubt that a cog of that size can be replaced in time for whatever Moriarty has in mind. With any luck we have upset his timetable and will force him into precipitate action.”

  “But where do you suppose he has gone—and what about Alicia?”

  “Oh, someone in Moxton’s position always has a valid reason for moving his base of operations around his empire. According to Lestrade’s research, the house is only taken on a short term rental. As for Miss Creighton—Alicia—I must admit that young lady is beginning to cause me concern. I fear I may have made a mistake by allowing her to return there but the chance of learning something and the risk of forewarning Moriarty, I must admit, weighed heavily with me.”

  “Although the birds may have flown, I think it may nonetheless be to our advantage to investigate the coop. As you know, my dear fellow, it has long been my assertion that wherever any living being has passed, there must inevitably remain some mark, dent or abrasion to mark their passing—some indication that can be interpreted by the true observer. While I change, perhaps you will be so good as to bring yourself up to date with last night’s reviews?” And he threw the pile of morning papers in my general direction as he left the room.

  For once in a way the gentlemen of Fleet Street had found common accord. In simple terms they had turned and rent Royston Steel. Few men since Genghis Khan can have suffered such universal obloquy. Only the Clarion was muted and its story of “UNUSUAL DISTURBANCE IN HOUSE OF COMMONS” must have soured the professional soul even of the hacks writing to Moriarty’s instruction.

  Even the editorials of politically divergent publications were remarkably unanimous. The country was clearly threatened. It was time for all men of goodwill to band together and support the Government in whatever draconian action needed to be taken to root out the insidious evil in our midst. All of this in the kind of language that would have caused my friend the greatest possible displeasure, had I used it to tell one of his exploits. It was clear that Holmes had succeeded with one bold strategic stroke in diverting the force of public opinion—insofar as the newspapers were anticipating and shaping it—from the course Moriarty had so carefully set.

  And there to taunt him in every agony column was the rueful countenance of the Cheshire Car. Even I had to smile when I saw it.

  It was my friend’s voice that tempered my pleasure. “Indeed, we have something to smile about for the first time since this affair began but we must ensure that Moriarty does not have the last laugh. His arsenal is by no means exhausted, Watson, and we must hope that we have ruffled the feathers of his pride sufficiently to lure him into breaking cover rashly. Meanwhile, I suggest we see what traces he has left for us in this particular nest … I despatched a note with Wiggins to ask Lestrade to meet us there with a search warrant. Much as I like to indulge your appetite for larcenous entry, old fellow, I think under the circumstances a more formal approach may be indicated.”

  Some few minutes later our cab was bowling into Chester Square. The scene was very different from my last visit. Instead of the procession of carriages full of revellers, the pavement outside Moxton’s former residence looked distinctly deserted with scraps of paper—presumably from the hurried packing—blowing about in a chill late morning breeze. The occasional passers-by, bundled up against the winter waiting surreptitiously in the wings, went about their business unheeding and only added to the sense of desolation. The house had only been empty for a few hours but it might as well have been years.

  Lestrade and two of his uniformed men were already standing by the front door, stamping their feet and blowing on their hands. Not for the first time in my observation Lestrade looked pleased to see Sherlock Holmes, although, come to think of it, his expression was perhaps more abject than pleased.

  “Sorry about this, Mr. Holmes. I should have thought to have the house watched round the clock.”

  “I shouldn’t let that worry you unduly, Lestrade,” Holmes replied. “What could you have done except watch? You had no grounds to question a foreign national about his movements when you have no evidence of his wrongdoing. Had you done so, he would merely have told you that it was none of your business. No, I think we may expect to learn more about our friend’s plans by his absence than by his presence. You have the warrant?”

  “Just as you requested but what should I fill in on the form?”

  “Oh, I think that’s obvious enough. Doctor Watson and I happened to be passing and heard suspicious sounds coming from this obviously deserted house. Being good publicly-minded citizens, we immediately called the police to investigate. Isn’t that so, Watson?”

  “Absolutely, Holmes,” I replied beginning to enjoy the way things were turning out. This was more like one of our old adventures.

  “Shall we …?” Holmes indicated the solid front door.

  Within moments one of the uniformed constables had opened it and we found ourselves standing in that enormous main hall amid all the signs of a hasty departure. Old copies of the Clarion were littered around the floor and some of them looked to me as though they had been thrown down and trampled on in anger—but that could have been my fertile imagination working overtime. In the other rooms it was the same story. In every fireplace on the ground floor were the ashes from what looked like burned documents. I noticed Holmes pick up several fragments that appeared less
scorched and put them away carefully in the envelope he invariably carried in an inside pocket. I knew that his bunsen burner and chemical retorts would be pressed into their odiferous service before the day was out.

  The task before us was clearly enormous. At least the man who goes to find a needle in a haystack has the supposition that the haystack actually contains a needle but we had no idea what we were looking for. Eventually a short consultation resulted in the decision that Lestrade and his men should search the ground floor and the cellars, while Holmes and I would concentrate on the upper floors.

  Two hours later we were none the wiser. Frankly, I was not at all sure that Holmes had expected to be, knowing the cunning mind of the man who opposed him. I reflected that I would hate to play chess against either of them with the certain knowledge that they would be mentally removing your last piece from the board before you had made your opening move.

  We had started our search in Moxton’s study. Like the rest of the house, it had been rented fully furnished. With the personal possessions removed it looked much as I imagine it must have looked when he moved in—with the exception of a small empty space on one wall where a picture had clearly hung.

  Holmes saw my glance.

  “The Greuze. Moriarty would never leave that behind. I only wonder where he kept it during his ‘sabbatical’? Under the bed perhaps.”

  “Have you found anything, Holmes?” I asked without much hope of an encouraging answer. After all, I had seen everything my friend had seen.

  “Relatively little, Watson, relatively little. Other than that six men occupied one of the bedrooms as an improvised barracks. Two of them were French, two German, one almost certainly a Spaniard or Basque of distinctly peasant origin, while their leader was unquestionably our old friend, Krober. Their presence so close to Moriarty is particularly disconcerting, since they were apparently engaged in the manufacture of explosives.”

  “Come along, Holmes,” I protested, “I passed through that same room myself and I saw nothing to lead me to those conclusions.”