by Mrs Hudson
‘Melmoth was clearly impressed. Suddenly he was our greatest supporter. He set us up with funds and premises, took charge of distribution and paid us well when the money began to flow. Soon we had little to do but sit back and enjoy the rewards, but we knew all along we were nothing to Melmoth but a front. If the Excise called, it was we who were incriminated. We didn’t even know Melmoth’s real name and we only saw him when he chose to call. We did exactly what he asked of us, took any risks, paid officials, gave jobs to anyone he named. He knew our guilty secret and would never have hesitated in sending us to the gallows if it suited him. But Carruthers did his part in making us indispensable, building on his connections in society until we were completely above suspicion.’
He paused for a moment to sip from a glass of water beside his chair. Holmes continued to regard him with unemotional intensity. From where I sat his strong profile gave him the appearance of a bird of prey, patiently marking his victim’s movements. Watson’s head was sunk low, as if in disgust. Mrs Hudson, who had listened quietly during most of Neale’s exposition, had leaned forward intently when he began to describe his affairs in London. She stayed there, poised, waiting for something, when Neale continued his tale.
‘I don’t expect your sympathy, gentlemen, but for the first time since my departure for the tropics I felt that fortune was favouring me. Then everything changed. I learned that Moran was in London.’ He shuffled uneasily. ‘I had thought him dead. Or to be honest I had hoped him dead. For at the back of my mind I always knew that, if he had survived, a reckoning of accounts was inevitable. In London it began to seem impossible that he would ever appear again – but he did. He wasted no time in finding us. He told us we were in grave danger from the vengeance of those we had exploited, that there was a blood vendetta against us. He told us he intended to enlist your assistance in protecting us from our hunters. He told us that, if we lent him money, he had plans to travel to America. And through it all we believed nothing except that we were in great danger. Oh, we had no doubts! We could see the hatred in his eyes. We even left our homes and took rooms in hotels, believing ourselves safer in such public establishments. But still we were devoured by fear. Moran is relentless, sir! His heart is cold as stone and his hatred implacable!’
Something strange was happening to Neale. For the first time his voice was beginning to rise and waver. He stood up and moved to the mantelpiece. I could see his body beginning to shiver and the fear he spoke of seemed to be seeping into the room as though a dark angel stood at our door. I saw Watson look around uncomfortably and Mrs Hudson’s hands grew tense as she sat gripping her knees.
‘Is that your story, Neale?’ Holmes’s tone was flat, implacable, but a note of urgency suggested that he too was aware of the changed atmosphere. ‘Is Moran responsible for Carruthers’s death? For the attempts on your life?’
‘I am sure of it, sir! I would stake my life that it is he alone I have to fear.’
‘Calm yourself. Moran is at home. The police are watching his door and I have my own observer placed outside. If he attempts to leave his house, word would reach us within minutes. Now I have another question, one of the greatest import. What can you tell us of this man Melmoth who seems to be the very centre of an evil web of crime?’
‘Melmoth, Mr Holmes? Why, yes. I will tell you everything. I have nothing to lose now. You see, by accident I was able to discover his true name.’
‘You can only gain by sharing it with us. It will stand well with a court if you assist us in this.’
But at this point there was another knock at the door and again the maid advanced a step or two into the room.
‘The gentleman from the solicitor’s, sir. He’s impatient to talk to you.’
For a moment all eyes were on Neale. From where I sat I could see the faces of Holmes and Watson turned eagerly towards him as he stood with his back to the mantelpiece, looking towards the open door.
As I looked, his expression began to change. His impatience at the interruption turned to mystification and then to a sudden, astonished disbelief. He seemed about to address the maid for his mouth began to open and then the sound of a shot exploded in our ears and Neale rocked backwards, a bullet hole drilled neatly into the centre of his forehead.
Almost before he hit the ground it seemed everyone was on their feet. Watson and Holmes were up out of the chairs and turning towards the door. Mrs Hudson and I were up and stepping forward, the open door hiding us from the assassin. Only the maid continued to look at Neale and it was her rising scream that masked the sound of the second shot.
This time it was Mr Holmes that crumpled, spinning to the floor as though clipped by the wheel of a speeding hansom. Two new cries went up and both Watson and Mrs Hudson leapt towards him. The maid was screaming uncontrollably now and Mrs Hudson had to push past her to reach the fallen detective. Watson was there first, striding over Neale’s fallen body and tugging at Holmes’s collar. Somewhere behind me running feet were escaping through the drawing room. I was in time to see the tail of a coat swirling out of view into the hall beyond.
‘Stop him!’ yelled Watson, looking up in time to see the hall door slammed shut. A thin voice brought us back to more pressing business.
‘Neale, Watson! Look to Neale!’ Mr Holmes was still conscious and gesturing with his left hand.
‘He’s dead, Holmes!’ snapped Watson, still tearing at the buttons of Holmes’s shirt. ‘Dead before he hit the ground.’
At this the maid stopped screaming and appeared to faint, landing with a soft thud at my feet. So while my companions struggled to remove their patient’s jacket, I fanned the fallen maid strenuously with my handkerchief. As I did so, crouched in the doorway, I was aware of a new figure advancing towards us across the drawing room. I recognised the tweed-clad figure of Inspector Gregory.
‘Good God!’ he cried. ‘What has happened? The man I passed in the hall said Holmes was murdered!’
Dr Watson looked up, his eyes wide.
‘The man you passed in the hall? Gad, sir! Why the devil didn’t you stop him?’
‘He was going for a doctor, Dr Watson. I …’
Realisation struck him like a blow and his honest face collapsed into despair. He began instinctively to turn in pursuit but Mrs Hudson stopped him.
‘Too late, sir. Help us here instead. We should lift Mr Holmes into that chair.’
Within a few minutes, a semblance of order had been created amidst the carnage. A footman and a heavily blowing cook had been quick to the scene and had removed the quivering maid. Holmes, though pale, remained conscious and his wound, when revealed, proved to be no more than a cut to the flesh of his upper arm.
‘You have been dashed fortunate, Holmes. Despite the bleeding there is little damage done. Once we have bound that wound properly, some few days of rest should see you well on your way to recovery.’
Holmes smiled at him grimly. His pale cheeks seemed to have sunk further into his face, making his features more gaunt than ever.
‘Rest, Watson? This is hardly the time. Action is what is called for now.’
Nevertheless, he remained obediently in his chair while Mrs Hudson and I bound the wound with bandages provided by the cook, freeing Dr Watson and Inspector Gregory to examine the fallen figure of Neale.
‘It’s as I thought,’ nodded Watson. ‘The first shot killed him outright. Whoever fired must have taken good aim.’
In a few words he described to Gregory the scene we had witnessed. ‘The villain fired from behind the maid,’ he concluded. ‘But why on earth should Neale’s solicitor want to take a shot at him?’
‘If you remember, sir,’ came Mrs Hudson’s voice softly, ‘when we arrived Mr Neale said he had sent for his solicitor. But if I recall correctly, a message came back saying that gentleman was out of town and another would take his place. Could it have been that the original message was intercepted, sir, by someone who wished Mr Neale harm?’
‘Good lord, Mrs Hudson! C
ould that be possible?’
‘It fits the facts, Watson,’ cut in Mr Holmes. ‘I warn you that you underestimate Mrs Hudson at your peril.’
Inspector Gregory stepped into the drawing room and returned with the calling card that still lay on its silver platter.
‘Hand-written,’ he commented. ‘And with signs of haste. “Lewis Monk, Attorney-at-Law”,’ he read. ‘An alias, do you think?’
‘Clearly,’ Mrs Hudson and Mr Holmes said together, and then paused to exchange glances of mutual acknowledgement.
‘Mr Neale wasn’t particularly meant to see the card, you see, sir,’ I piped up timidly. ‘It was just a way of making sure the maid would open the door.’
Mrs Hudson raised an eyebrow at me in an approving way but Dr Watson looked unconvinced.
‘A dashed risky plan though,’ he pondered. ‘How could he know he’d get a shot at him? Anything could have gone wrong.’
Mrs Hudson nodded gently.
‘I think, sir, we are dealing with someone who is not afraid to take risks.’ She tied a last knot in the bandage and Dr Watson examined her handiwork with approval.
‘Come now, Watson. Enough of this fussing.’ Holmes struggled to a more upright position. He was paler than ever but his eyes burned with determination. ‘Neale is dead, Moran inescapably compromised. We must act quickly.’
‘You think this is Moran’s work, eh, Holmes?’
‘I have just come from Moran, sir,’ put in Inspector Gregory. ‘When I left him he was repeating the tale he told you about Sumatra to one of my officers. I came here directly. It is inconceivable that he could have overtaken me.’
‘Then that sinister servant of his. Could he be the guilty man?’
‘Penge, sir? I’m afraid Penge left London for Cornwall on last night’s express. My men followed him to the station and I received a telegram earlier today from the local constabulary confirming his arrival in Truro. His home town, apparently.’
‘Then who, dash it?’
It was a question to which the policeman had no answer other than a shrug of bewilderment. Holmes, watching wryly from where he lay, turned to his companion.
‘I’m afraid a joker has turned up from the pack to upset all our calculations, Watson. We can at least hope the maid had a good look at the man. When she is calmer she may be able to provide a description.’
Gregory blushed furiously at this reference to the assassin and to spare his feelings we all tried to look away, only to find that by doing so our gaze came to rest on Neale’s paling corpse.
‘Perhaps, if you’re well enough to move to the drawing room, Holmes …’ suggested Watson.
But Mrs Hudson had risen to her feet and was frowning at a spot of dust on the mantelpiece. ‘This may of course be Mr Moran’s work, sir, if he were acting through a proxy. But I am inclined to believe that Mr Moran himself might now be in great danger.’
Again Mr Holmes smiled.
‘Ah, your woman’s intuition, Mrs Hudson? Just when I thought we had converted you to more scientific ways of thinking!’
He rose unsteadily from his chair and Watson helped him to stand. ‘You forget, Mrs Hudson, that Mr Moran is closely watched. His rooms are inaccessible except from the street and the entrance is under close guard. I think Moran is safe enough.’
‘From what you’ve told me, sir, shouldn’t I be arresting him for the other murder?’ Gregory seemed anxious to atone for his earlier error.
‘I would much prefer to speak to him first, Gregory, if I could prevail upon you to stay your hand for a few hours. We know him to be a villain but at the moment it is little more than Neale’s word against Moran’s. And Neale is not well placed to state his case.’
By now we had made our way to the drawing room and Gregory closed the door upon the grim scene in the snug.
‘You are in no state to see Moran now, Holmes,’ said Watson firmly. ‘You need that arm in a sling and I insist you rest a few hours at the very least.’
‘Very well, Watson. I shall call on him this evening. Moran will wait until then.’
But I could see from Mrs Hudson’s tightly set jaw that this was a view of things she did not share.
‘I beg you, sir. Perhaps I am wrong that Moran is in danger. But could we not take precautions? At least until you are well enough to call on him yourself, sir.’
Holmes considered her carefully. Perhaps it was the loss of blood or a reaction to the shock of his wound but his manner towards her seemed suddenly thoughtful.
‘Very well, Mrs Hudson,’ he said at last. ‘There can be no harm in it.’
He turned to Dr Watson. ‘I have already suggested to Moran that you will be sitting with him from time to time to reassure him as to his safety. Would you be so good as to go to him now? Given what we now know of him, I daresay your attentions will not be particularly welcome. But if you could stay there regardless until I have rested a little and can join you, I should be eternally grateful.’
Watson flushed with pleasure.
‘Of course, Holmes. Happy to be of assistance.’
‘I can think of no safer pair of hands than Watson’s, Gregory,’ said Holmes, ‘and he will not put Moran on his guard as one of your men would.’ Holmes turned again to Watson. ‘Gregory’s men will be on call should Moran try anything, but since he has no way of knowing of Neale’s confession I can see no reason why he should.’
‘In that case,’ declared Mrs Hudson, ‘I shall have no objection to Flotsam going with you, Dr Watson, in case you wish to send any messages back to Baker Street.’
Dr Watson smiled warmly.
‘Excellent! I shall enjoy Flotsam’s company greatly, Mrs H. We shall leave at once.’
Before we did, however, another small incident occurred. A knock at the front door was answered by the footman and a very small boy was ushered into our presence.
‘Message for Mr Holmes,’ he stated firmly as though it were an incontrovertible fact of existence.
‘I’m afraid the gentleman is a little indisposed,’ replied Mrs Hudson gently, indicating the bandaged arm. ‘Allow Inspector Gregory there to take receipt.’ So while Watson rooted in his pockets for a tip, Gregory opened the note and began to read.
‘My dear Mr Holmes,’ he began before breaking off. ‘Are you sure you don’t want to read this yourself, sir?’
‘Not at all, Gregory. I receive no correspondence of a personal nature and the fact of this note being delivered here is of great interest in itself.’
Gregory nodded and continued to read.
‘My dear Mr Holmes,
You must forgive me for the most unmannerly way in which I forced myself upon your acquaintance this afternoon. I would have chosen to meet under more agreeable circumstances. However, we are all the servants of chance and I regret that it was necessary to inflict on you a trifling wound. Rest assured that had I intended you any lasting harm, you would not now be reading this note. My restraint is a tribute to your reputation and to the hope that we may meet again in more propitious circumstances.
Necessitas non habet legem.
Melmoth’
‘Melmoth!’ exclaimed Watson. ‘What damned impertinence!’
‘And yet the neat hole in Neale’s forehead suggests his boast may not be an idle one, my friend.’
Gregory was looking confused. ‘Necessitas non what?’ he wondered aloud.
‘Necessity knows no law, sir,’ I informed him, remembering the utterances of my knife-grinding Latin teacher as he used to feast so liberally on Mrs Siskin’s baking.
‘Melmoth was the name used by Neale’s mysterious collaborator,’ Holmes explained to Gregory. ‘The man is apparently guilty of more crimes than the one we have just witnessed. Neale was on the brink of revealing his identity when the blow fell.’
He turned to the boy who still stood determinedly in front of him, looking pointedly at Dr Watson’s pockets.
‘Who gave you this letter? There’s a coin in it for you if you answer
clearly.’
‘The gent, sir.’
‘And which gent was that, young man?’
‘The gent what gave me the letter, sir.’
‘That much logic cannot be faulted. Let me start again. Was this gentleman previously known to you?’
‘Nivver saw ‘im before. Came into The Red Lion, he did, asked the landlord if there was a boy to take a missage.’
‘And what did the gentleman look like?’
The witness seemed a little taken aback, as though it had never particularly occurred to him that all gentlemen didn’t look pretty much the same. However, he was not to be defeated and after a thoughtful pause he delivered his opinion.
‘He were a dark gent, sir. He weren’t fat at all. An’ he had a black ‘at on.’
Mr Holmes pondered for a moment.
‘Thank you,’ he concluded. ‘That is an admirable description. I’ve known members of the professional force offer a great deal less. Gregory, since Watson appears short of change perhaps you could reward this child for his labours. Meanwhile, let us ready ourselves to depart.’
It wasn’t until a cab was waiting at the door and Mr Holmes was about to step outside that Mrs Hudson stopped him quietly and drew him to one side.
