‘I understand.’
‘No doubt I will be approached and asked to accompany my contact to some dark and dismal place where they intend to dispose of me.’ He gave a dry chuckle. ‘Not such a long face, old fellow. Trust me. This evening is well orchestrated on my part. Attend to your duties and all will be well.’
‘My duties. What are my duties?’ I could not keep the note of irritation out of my voice.
‘Follow me when I leave the Lord Nelson, making sure to keep a safe distance. You must not be seen. I will be taken to a meeting place where there will be a fracas. I can promise you that. During this melee, one or more of my attackers, most likely my contact, realising the game is up, will flee. It is your job to follow him. It is quite possible he will lead you to the gang’s headquarters.’ Holmes moved closer and grasped my arms. ‘You are merely to note the location and return to Baker Street. On no account must you investigate further. It is not yet the time for heroics. Is that understood?’
I nodded my head.
‘Don’t look so glum. All will be well.’
Despite Holmes’s confident manner, I was not at all sanguine about this risky affair. I had a nagging premonition that all would not go our way this night.
I waited five minutes after Holmes had disappeared inside the ale house before entering. The Lord Nelson was a noisy smoke-filled tavern filled with a crowd of rough-looking individuals, mainly men, loudly carousing and attempting, by the consumption of alcohol, to place the harsh realities of life at a distance. The few women present were middle aged or older and sat by themselves, solitary characters, apparently lost in thought while they nursed their glass of gin.
Despite my shabby attire, my appearance attracted some interest at first. I heard someone mutter, ‘Ooh look, another toff,’ and a few heads turned in my direction. But the novelty of my presence soon dissipated. I ordered a drink and sat at a table near the door.
Holmes was leaning on the bar, smoking a cigarette in a casual fashion and gave no indication that he had seen me. After some ten minutes, a scruffy bewhiskered individual with a patch over one eye, wearing a long, shabby soldier’s greatcoat – one that had not seen a barracks in many a long year – approached him with a swagger. Leaning forward towards my friend he whispered something in his ear. Holmes nodded and flashed me the briefest of glances.
The one-eyed man gave some further gruff utterance, turned on his heel and headed for the door at a brisk pace. Holmes gave me a sly wink and followed him. Giving them less than a minute, I drained my glass, rose from my chair and made for the door. As I did so, a burly fellow in a rough tweed suit barred my way. ‘Now where the hell d’you think you’re going?’ he demanded in a thick Irish brogue.
‘What business is it of yours?’ I asked.
‘Hear that, boys? The fellow wants to know what business it is of mine—’
He got no further for I had delivered a heavy blow to the fellow’s chin. The force of it and its surprise element so caught him off guard that he dropped like a felled tree. There was a mixture of laughter and angry uproar. A couple of men with knitted brows and clenched fists moved in my direction. It was clear that these were my assailant’s confederates. With as much speed as I could muster, I stepped over the man’s prone body and rushed out into the night.
In the distance I saw the silhouetted figures of Holmes and his companion, just before they turned left into another thoroughfare. I ran some way in their wake and then dived into a doorway just as three bruisers emerged noisily from the Lord Nelson in pursuit of me. Puzzled by the empty street before them, I could hear them discussing what to do next. Eventually, two of them hared off in the opposite direction, while the brute who had confronted me made his way with some haste up the street. I pulled back, deep into the shadows of the doorway. Without a glance my way, he passed me by.
Clasping the barrel of my revolver, I slipped out of my hiding place and, keeping to the shadows, followed the man. I soon caught up without the fellow being aware that I was on his tail. Stealthily, I crept up behind him, but just as I raised my gun to bring the butt down hard upon his skull, he faltered, sensing my approach. With an inarticulate grunt, he began to turn, but thankfully I was too quick for him. The metal connected with the back of his head. The brute uttered a guttural moan, his body shaking as if from the palsy, before he collapsed senseless onto the cobbles.
I tested his pulse. It was weak but regular. He would live, but have both an unpleasant wound and a severe headache for some time when he regained consciousness.
I wasted no more time on the fellow and recommenced my pursuit, hoping to catch up with Holmes and his guide before I lost them in the labyrinthine streets that lay beyond.
Luck certainly was on my side. I turned to the left, as I had seen Holmes and the other man do, and caught a sight of two shadowy figures in the distance. We were very near the Christopher Docks now, but I assumed that Holmes was being led to a location close by rather than to the docks themselves, to a secret lair for his assignation. I had no real idea what to expect, but I was determined to carry out my friend’s orders.
Keeping close to the buildings, I moved swiftly and silently down the street. My quarry turned left through a gateway into the yard of a warehouse. On reaching it, I peered around the edge of the open rusted iron gates and saw Holmes and the rough standing facing each other in hushed conversation. The man in the greatcoat lit a cigarette, the match briefly illuminating his weathered features. This seemed to be some kind of signal for within seconds I observed six figures emerging from the shadows. Although their faces were indistinct, it was clear from their postures that their intentions were far from benevolent.
It was the ambush that Holmes had predicted, but now strangely he seemed to be unprepared. He stood casually, his body relaxed, apparently unaware of the threatening forms. I yanked my revolver from my pocket ready to fire at the men. I was about to call out to Holmes as a warning when, with amazing speed and dexterity, he pulled a silver whistle from the folds of his coat and gave three strong blasts on it.
The initial effect that this action had on the group advancing on him was one of confusion. They seemed disorientated and bewildered by this strange turn of events. Their discomfort grew all the more when suddenly from nowhere it seemed there was an army of other figures materialising out of the night. At least a dozen, I thought, moving swiftly. As they flashed across my vision, heading, as it turned out, to do battle with Holmes’s enemies, I saw that they were raw youngsters, ill clad but agile and carrying sticks and iron bars. I recognised some of their faces. They were the Baker Street Irregulars.
Holmes must have arranged all this in advance. He had discovered through his investigations that the man would lead him here into this warehouse yard and that it would be a trap – a fatal trap. It was clearly intended that Holmes would not escape this encounter alive. I was both impressed and delighted at his perspicacity while at the same time dismayed, as usual, not to have been informed of his plans.
I had little time to contemplate either thought in detail as a dramatic skirmish played out before me. The Irregulars roared like savages as they approached the men who had been advancing on Holmes. It was with great pleasure that I saw them freeze with shock as the Irregulars set about them. It very quickly became evident that not only were the ruffians outnumbered by Holmes’s troops, but they were also outclassed. The youngsters, nimble and better armed than their opponents, soon had the roughs beating a retreat. Two had fallen unconscious with bloody wounds to the head, while the others tried to escape, but to no avail. One lively youth jumped on the back of one of the men and beat him about the head with a stick until he crumpled to the floor unconscious.
I observed the man who had led Holmes to this spot slowly begin to edge his way backwards into the shadows, while the detective himself stood motionless, like an anthracite statue overseeing the proceedings. I was aware that it was my friend’s intention to allow this scoundrel to escape and I knew that it
was my job to follow him. On surveying the scene, I could see that none of the others would escape from the clutches of the Irregulars, but these felons were probably hired hands anyway and would have no real knowledge of the controlling power in this nefarious organisation. Holmes’s companion, on the other hand, was a different kettle of fish. The one-eyed man skirted the warehouse walls and edged his way through the gates and out into the street. I was on his trail straight away.
My experiences with Holmes over the years have helped me to develop the stealthy talent for following a man without his knowledge. Crouching low, I peered around the gate and saw my quarry glancing back in my direction, making sure that he had slipped the net without hindrance. Then he hurried down the street at full pelt. After a moment’s pause, I followed. As I travelled the dark streets in pursuit of the one-eyed man, I had little notion where this enterprise was going to lead me or how dangerous the outcome would be.
Sixteen
Sherlock Holmes was feeling rather pleased with himself as he sat back in his chair close to the dying embers of the fire in the sitting room of 221B Baker Street. He had treated himself to one of the cigars he kept in the coal scuttle and as he smoked it, he smiled. All had gone well tonight. Very well, indeed. The Irregulars had behaved magnificently, like a well-oiled machine, and the outcome of the skirmish was as he had planned it. The one-eyed man was obviously a lieutenant in the organisation and he would help to lead him, through Watson, to the centre of the web. The thought of this image brought to mind the late Professor James Moriarty. He had always regarded the professor as a cunning spider sitting at the centre of a giant web which had a thousand radiations. And Moriarty would know every quiver of each of them. The Temple kidnapping was an enterprise such as he would have masterminded. Holmes almost felt a twinge of regret that the criminal genius was no more, his bones beneath the turbulent waters of the Reichenbach Falls. However, it was clear that whoever this new nemesis was, he was from the same mould as the late-lamented professor.
Holmes glanced at his pocket watch. It was nearly three o’clock in the morning. He wondered how long it would be before Watson returned. He had seen him with wonderful stealth slip from the warehouse yard on the heels of the one-eyed man and he knew he could rely on his old friend to carry out his duties with aplomb. There was no man more worth having at your side when danger threatened than John Watson. With this thought in mind, Holmes puffed contentedly on his cigar.
The detective’s confidence gradually began to fade as fingers of morning light reached in through the gaps in the blinds. He consulted his watch. Great heavens, it was nearly eight o’clock. Where on earth was Watson? Surely it could not have taken him all this time to follow the one-eyed man to his lair, note its location and return to Baker Street. Supreme logician though Holmes was, for a moment his mind avoided the obvious, the most probable reason for his friend’s absence: that something had happened to him. Something unpleasant.
Holmes rose in an agitated fashion and began pacing the room. What on earth could he do? This was a situation he had not bargained for. Absentmindedly, he moved to the window and drew up the blinds, allowing the morning light to stream in. As he did so there was a knock at the door. For a moment his spirits rose, but then he sneered at his own foolishness: his friend never knocked at their own door. The knock came again. This time Holmes recognised the rhythm. It was Mrs Hudson.
‘What time would you like breakfast, Mr Holmes?’ she asked.
Holmes shook his head distractedly. ‘I shall not require any today, thank you.’
‘And Doctor Watson?’
‘Watson… is out.’
‘Oh, very well.’ She could clearly tell Holmes was in one of his queer humours and so without further converse, she left the room.
With a weary shrug, Holmes retired to his bedroom where he shaved, changed into fresh clothes and tried to decide what his next course of action was going to be. When he returned to the sitting room, he immediately sensed another presence. At first he smiled, thinking that Watson had returned, but a gentle aroma of snuff soon informed him otherwise. Holmes’s smile faded. Sitting, hidden from view in the winged armchair, was his brother, Mycroft.
‘Good morning, Sherlock.’
‘Mycroft,’ Holmes responded. ‘I am always fearfully disconcerted when I find you in the flesh in my chambers. I fear some catastrophe has taken hold of the country in order for you to make a detour from your fixed route between the government buildings and the Diogenes Club in order to visit me. Nothing pleasant would persuade you to alter your routine. So it must be doom and gloom.’
Mycroft gave the bleakest of smiles. ‘As a consulting detective, doom and gloom are your veritable bread and butter.’
Holmes sat down across from his brother.
‘I took the liberty of ordering coffee from Mrs Hudson on my way up. I am used to a warm libation at this time of the morning.’
As though on cue, there was a tap at the door, and the landlady entered with a tray bearing a coffee pot, milk jug and crockery.
‘Would you like me to pour, gentlemen?’ she asked.
‘No, no, Mrs Hudson,’ said Mycroft sweetly. ‘We’ll see to ourselves. Thank you so very much. I will let Sherlock be mother.’
After Mrs Hudson’s swift departure, Holmes served the coffee with good grace.
‘Thank you, Sherlock,’ said Mycroft cheerily. ‘No Watson, I see. Not back in practice or out ministering to some medical emergency for I observe his medical bag by the door.’
‘What is the reason for this visit?’ asked Holmes bluntly, resuming his seat.
‘I think that you know very well why I’m here.’
‘You’ve not had a ransom note yet or any kind of ultimatum.’
For the first time, Mycroft’s features darkened and his brows furrowed into deep lines. He shook his head. ‘No, we have not.’
‘They are playing a long game.’
‘Making us squirm, more like it.’
‘Who are they?’
‘I was hoping that you could tell me that.’
‘Would I?’
‘If you know, I would strongly advise it, Sherlock. I have no wish to see my brother carted off to the Tower of London.’
‘As it happens I do not know. But you could do worse than take Mrs Chandler into custody.’
Mycroft’s features softened once more and his lips parted in a thin smile. ‘Would that we could. She and her assistant rats have fled the ship, I am afraid. We sent a posse round to her establishment yesterday to find the place deserted. No staff, no babies, no clues.’
‘They are efficient, aren’t they?’
‘What do you know, Sherlock? It is imperative that you tell me and keep us informed of your investigations.’
‘By “us” I suppose you refer to the British government.’
Mycroft did not reply.
Holmes sat back in his chair and steepled his fingers. ‘To begin with I think it is essential that you present me with all the details of this dark scenario if only to confirm what I believe I already know.’
‘I am sure that you do already know.’
‘Indulge me.’
Mycroft heaved a sigh and took a sip of coffee, and then glowered at his brother over the rim of his cup. ‘Very well,’ he said at length. ‘Some eight years ago, Prince Albert Edward, the Duke of Clarence, unwisely formed an attachment with a prostitute, Mary Kelly. So obsessed was he by this woman that he actually married her and indeed fathered a child by her. When this news reached certain individuals at the palace – do not ask me for their names for I cannot and indeed will not reveal them – plans were set in motion to destroy this unfortunate union… to do away with the mother and child. They were seen as a threat to the monarchy and the stability of government.’
Mycroft paused, expecting his brother to comment, but Holmes said nothing, his gaunt features set in a cold hard mask, his eyes glittering with disdain.
‘And so the woman was sought o
ut…’
‘And slaughtered,’ snapped Holmes with vehemence. ‘Along with the others. All those in the know on the streets of Whitechapel fell victim to the Ripper, killer by royal appointment.’
Mycroft’s hand flew up in alarm. ‘You know that is not true. Her Majesty and her closest advisors, including the Prime Minister, had no knowledge of this.’
‘But some people who could wield power did.’
Mycroft nodded. ‘Matters got out of hand, it is true.’
Holmes gave a bitter laugh. ‘You are a master of the diplomatic euphemism.’
‘It is part of my trade and it is both a burden and a boon. But, to continue… Mary Kelly was killed, but the child was never found.’
‘Until now.’
‘Yes. The boy, effectively the heir to the throne, has been taken by persons unknown for reasons also as yet unknown.’
‘But one can hazard a guess.’
‘I believed that you never guess.’
‘Don’t let’s play semantics, Mycroft. You know as well as I do that these malefactors are going to use the boy as a pawn, a lever to get what they want.’
‘Oh, I agree. That is taken for granted. But what exactly do they want? That is the unanswered question. However, we cannot sit around doing nothing while we wait for this to become apparent. We have to act. You have to act.’
‘Me?’
‘You are already involved in the case. Now, you are being commanded—’
‘Commanded?’
‘Requested, if you prefer, by the Prime Minister to focus all your efforts in investigating this affair. It is of vital national importance.’
Holmes did not reply. He rose casually and retrieved his long grey pipe from the mantelpiece and filled the bowl with a quantity of shag from the Persian slipper in the hearth. Picking up the tongs he retrieved a cinder from the fire and carefully lit his pipe. When his features emerged from a cloud of pungent smoke, he spoke again.
The Ripper Legacy Page 7
