Gaunt smiled gently. ‘They have Watson,’ he said simply.
Holmes froze and his eyes widened with surprise. ‘How do you know?’ He was genuinely puzzled and full of apprehension.
Gaunt reached into his inside pocket and retrieved a gold watch and chain with a fob with which Holmes was most familiar. ‘This arrived at the Yard this lunchtime – addressed to you.’
Holmes held out his hand. Gaunt passed him the watch. Holmes inspected the timepiece carefully. It was Watson’s without a doubt. ‘It is strange that it was sent to Scotland Yard if it was meant for me,’ he observed, cradling the watch in the palm of his hand. ‘Why not have it delivered to Baker Street?’
Gaunt shrugged. ‘Perhaps they wanted to let us know that they are one jump ahead of even the great Sherlock Holmes.’ There was no sarcasm in Gaunt’s tone, but the words certainly carried the feeling.
‘They? And who do you suppose “they” are?’
‘The villains who kidnapped the boy. As to their identities your guess is as good as mine.’
‘I do not guess,’ said Holmes tartly. ‘Was there a note, some communication with the watch?’
Gaunt nodded. He extracted a sheet of paper from his coat and handed it to Holmes, who took it and moved to the window, retrieving his magnifying glass from the chemical bench. Holding the paper to the light, he scrutinised it carefully. He said nothing but made gentle murmurs as the glass moved over the contents. There was a message printed in capital letters. It read:
DEAR SHERLOCK
WE HOLD DR WATSON PRISONER AND HIS LIFE IS AT RISK UNLESS YOU DO AS WE TELL YOU. IF YOU WANT TO SEE HIM AGAIN BE ON WATERLOO BRIDGE TONIGHT AT MIDNIGHT. COME ALONE. DO NOT TRY TO BE CLEVER. ONE MISTAKE ON YOUR PART AND WATSON’S THROAT WILL BE CUT.
‘What do you make of it?’ asked Gaunt.
‘Very little,’ replied the detective guardedly. ‘It has the tone of a penny dreadful, but the message is clear enough.’
‘Surely you will not attend the rendezvous?’
Holmes said nothing, but raised his eyebrows.
‘It would be madness.’
‘I shall have to. I have been given no alternative.’
‘We can have a body of men standing by…’
‘No!’ cried Holmes. ‘I must adhere to their instructions. I must go there alone.’
‘Your life will be in danger.’
‘Of course, but if I do not, they will kill Watson. I cannot allow that. But I must impress upon you that the police must not be involved in this venture. Is that understood?’
Gaunt hesitated, his brow creased in consternation. ‘If you so wish it.’
‘I command it.’
‘I do not know what my superiors will have to say about this. I cannot see them allowing you to face these villains alone.’
‘If your superiors or indeed you have any concerns over this matter, you should consult my brother, Mycroft, who is acting for the Prime Minister in this matter. I am sure he will confirm that my wishes must be adhered to.’
Gaunt pursed his lips before replying. ‘Very well,’ he said. ‘All there remains for me to do is wish you good luck.’
‘I thank you for your sentiments, Inspector, but I fear that luck will play little part in tonight’s adventure.’
Gaunt made a move to leave, but Holmes stepped forward to halt his progress. ‘Tell me, Inspector,’ he said, ‘how were the watch and the note delivered to Scotland Yard?’
Gaunt seemed somewhat nonplussed by this question and it took him a few moments to reply. ‘They were handed in at the main desk in a brown paper parcel. It was addressed to you, but landed up on my desk because… they knew I’d been to see you recently concerning the kidnapping case.’
‘I see. Do you have the wrapping paper from the parcel?’
‘Well, no. I discarded it once the contents had been revealed.’
Holmes sighed. ‘That was most injudicious. It may have told us many things.’
‘It was just two sheets of brown paper…’
‘With writing upon it?’
‘Yes. But quite insignificant.’
‘It is often the insignificant that can lead one to the significant.’
Gaunt looked blankly at the detective.
Holmes sighed again and then allowed himself a bleak smile. ‘Never mind,’ he said. ‘At least we have the note. I trust you have no objection to me keeping this for the moment. A further study of it may provide some clues as to the author.’
‘Of course.’ Gaunt moved to the door, retrieving his hat from the rack. ‘Now, Mr Holmes,’ he said, turning to face the detective again, ‘are you absolutely certain that you would not like some police assistance tonight? I fear for your safety and feel somewhat guilty at letting you tackle this matter on your own.’
‘Your conscience can be clear. I absolve you of all responsibility in this matter. I am convinced that it is imperative that I make this assignation on my own.’
‘Very well. Good day, Mr Holmes.’
‘Inspector.’
As soon as the door had closed, Holmes emitted one of his high-pitched chuckles. ‘The nerve of the man,’ he said to himself, throwing off his seaman’s coat. Still smiling he dashed into his bedroom, emerging in less than a minute, sober-suited and pulling on his overcoat. He raced down the stairs and was out on the street just in time to see the figure of Inspector Gaunt some hundred yards ahead of him. Luckily dusk had fallen now and pedestrians were merging into the evening shadows. Fortunately for Holmes, Gaunt made an imposing figure with his height and top hat and he was easy to keep in view from a distance.
‘Now, where are you going to, my fine fellow?’ murmured Holmes to himself as he set forth in swift pursuit.
As he stalked his prey in a brisk fashion, he turned over in his mind the points of interest that had prompted him to shadow the Scotland Yard man. For a start there was the rather vague account of how the package containing Watson’s watch had come into his possession. Very strange that an inspector of Gaunt’s standing had not felt it important to retain the wrapping and bring it with him. Maybe that was because there was no wrapping. Similarly, why on earth should the villains send the watch there rather than to him personally at Baker Street? Holmes thought he knew why. Then there was the paper on which the note had been written. Although it had no visible water mark, he recognised it easily as standard Metropolitan Police issue: the sort found in all offices at the Yard. Its flimsy coarseness and ivory tinge were familiar to him, as was the murky brown ink, which was typical of the type used in that establishment. He recognised these aspects from the many notes sent to him by Lestrade and Gregson in the past. So it was clear to him that the whole scenario concerning the package was false. Holmes reasoned that there could only be one sensible explanation for such a deception: Gaunt had come into possession of the watch by other means and he had concocted this fairy tale to disguise the fact. Holmes knew that the watch was a family heirloom, having belonged to Watson’s brother and therefore had great sentimental value to his friend. Watson carried it with him wherever he went. The only way Gaunt could have got hold of the watch was by taking it from its owner.
If all these deductions were accurate – and Holmes did not doubt they were – then it pointed to one terrible fact. Inspector Dominic Gaunt was in league with the kidnappers. This being the case, Holmes wondered if Gaunt was just a rogue operative or part of a covert organisation within the establishment. Was he once more at odds with those in power as he had been in the days of the Ripper?
At the corner of Baker Street, Gaunt paused and for a moment seemed uncertain what to do. Holmes slipped into the gutter behind a stationary wagon loaded with barrels. Peering around the side, he was able to observe Gaunt. After lighting a cigarette, the inspector stepped into the road to hail a cab. Holmes moved swiftly, keeping to the shadows until he was within eight feet of his quarry. He knew that he was taking a risk coming so close, but he was determined to hear the instructions given
to the cabby. Gaunt was too intent on flagging down a cab to notice the lean figure hovering in the darkness.
A hansom pulled up and Gaunt flung the door open. ‘Prince’s Square, Bayswater,’ he cried before disappearing inside.
Holmes allowed himself a brief smile and then waited only a few seconds before attempting to secure a cab for himself. In such a busy thoroughfare there were always plenty of such conveyances.
Holmes brandished a sovereign at the driver and pointed to Gaunt’s cab, now some hundred yards ahead of them and already merging into the throng of vehicles.
‘Keep that hansom in view if you can,’ Holmes cried. ‘They are heading for Prince’s Square in Bayswater. There’s another sovereign for you if you don’t lose them.’
‘Right you are,’ returned the driver, whipping up his steed.
The street was thick with traffic and progress was slow, but Holmes’s driver was an adept fellow and by careful and clever weaving between the various carts and carriages in his path he was able to draw closer to the other hansom. Once out of the thick congestion of the West End, the going was much easier and both cabs were able to speed up. However, while keeping a measured distance Holmes’s driver never lost sight of his quarry.
After some thirty minutes, they had reached Bayswater. ‘Prince’s Square is the next on the left, sir,’ cried the driver.
‘Good man,’ said Holmes, swinging the door open and leaning out. ‘Pull up here. This will do me admirably.’
Slipping the cabby a further sovereign, Holmes darted down the street in the wake of Gaunt’s cab. He had almost caught up with it when it turned left into Prince’s Square. It was a neat and smart oasis with a small but tidy railed garden area in the centre surrounded on all four sides by rows of elegant Georgian houses.
The driver drew up outside one of the more imposing edifices. After his cab had departed, Gaunt mounted the steps and rang the bell. Holmes slipped into the park area and hid behind a tree with a clear vantage point to observe events. In due course the door of the house opened, but only enough for the person on the inside to observe who the visitor was. This individual was shrouded in shadow and Holmes could not even tell if it was a man or a woman. A few words were exchanged and then Gaunt entered, the door slamming shut behind him.
Holmes studied the building. A plaque on the gatepost announced it as ‘Greenway’. It was a three-storey Georgian villa, tall and slender like its neighbours, but all the curtains and blinds were drawn as though the property was shut up. It stood in the gloom like a ghost house. It was a house that harboured dark secrets and Sherlock Holmes knew it was his task to uncover them.
Twenty
Gaunt and Henshaw sat in the large empty kitchen of the house in Prince’s Square and drank whisky while the inspector gave him details of his meeting with Sherlock Holmes. The room was illuminated by candlelight only, and a meagre fire glowed feebly in the grate.
Henshaw grinned and ran his fingers through the thick unruly thatch of blonde hair, but Gaunt was not smiling.
‘Don’t think for one minute that Holmes was fooled by the watch and my story. He is far too clever for that. I could see the suspicion in his eyes. We made the mistake of underestimating him last night; we must not do the same again.’
Henshaw’s grin faltered. ‘What is your plan then? Do I need to round up the boys again?’
Gaunt shook his head. ‘And have a repeat performance of the Christopher Docks shambles? No. Tonight there will be no mass ambush. Tonight I will kill Mr Sherlock Holmes myself.’
Henshaw’s eyes widened in surprise. ‘And how do you intend to do that?’ he asked nervously.
Gaunt was pleased at the effect his statement had made on his companion and he smiled. ‘I shall shoot him. No matter how many of his young cronies he assembles as a backup, the man himself will be a sitting duck on Waterloo Bridge. And I am a crack shot with a rifle.’ Gaunt raised an imaginary weapon to his shoulder and aimed at the far distance. ‘Bang! One bullet and it’s goodbye, old Sherlock.’
Henshaw chuckled. ‘Very nice.’
Gaunt drained his glass. ‘But first, I think it’s time we delivered the other member of this interfering partnership into the hands of his maker. Doctor Watson is of no use to us now. It will give me great pleasure to put him out of his misery. If you would be so kind as to lend me your pistol.’
‘Of course.’ Henshaw retrieved a small gun from the inside pocket of his greatcoat and handed it to Gaunt.
Gaunt fondled it for a moment and then stood up quickly, pushing the wooden chair back on the flagstones, creating a strange high-pitched squeaking sound that echoed around the chamber. ‘Come on, Henshaw, let’s get the job over with. It’s time we had a little fun.’
Without further words the two men made their way up to the top storey of the house and the locked room where they had imprisoned Watson.
Henshaw retrieved the large key that was attached to his belt, opened the door and stepped into the room. He turned up the gas, filling the room with a rich yellow glow. Watson raised his head and gazed groggily at the intruders.
‘Time to meet your maker now, old boy,’ said Gaunt, holding the pistol aloft.
‘I think not,’ said a voice behind him, and Gaunt felt the cold sensation of a gun barrel pressed hard into the nape of his neck.
‘Drop your weapon,’ said the voice. Gaunt recognised it in an instant. It belonged to Sherlock Holmes. He lowered his arm, but still retained his hold on the gun.
‘Do as I say,’ came the voice again and Gaunt heard the sharp click as Holmes cocked the pistol. Reluctantly, Gaunt allowed his gun to drop from his grasp. It hit the floor with a dull thud.
‘You,’ snapped Holmes, addressing Henshaw, who seemed held in a trance, frozen by shock. ‘Untie your prisoner. Do it now and do it quickly.’
Like an automaton, Henshaw shuffled over to where Watson was bound and began to loosen his bonds in a slow mechanical fashion. While this was happening, Gaunt took a chance and made a desperate move. Quickly sidestepping to the left and spinning round, he attempted to knock the gun out of Holmes’s hand. He failed, but the gun went off, the bullet thudding harmlessly into the wooden floorboards. This sudden distraction appeared to bring Henshaw to his senses and dropping to the ground he made a grab for Gaunt’s discarded pistol. With lightning swiftness, Holmes stepped forward and kicked the gun, sending it skittering into the corner of the room before Henshaw could snatch it up.
By now Gaunt had slipped past Holmes and was out in the corridor. He slammed the door of the room shut and turned the key, locking it. With a sardonic grin, he raced down the stairs, making good his escape.
Inside the chamber, Henshaw had taken advantage of the distraction caused by Gaunt’s exit and had scrabbled across the floor to retrieve the gun. With a cry of satisfaction he grabbed it and, clambering to his feet, aimed it at Holmes. Without hesitation, he pulled the trigger. The detective feinted to the left, the bullet just clipping the shoulder of his overcoat. Henshaw roared his dismay and was about shoot again, but Holmes fired first. Henshaw was hit in the chest and the force of the blow flung his body backwards. With an animal-like bellow he crashed against the far wall of the room, and then slowly slithered down to the floor, leaving a thin crimson trail of blood in his wake.
For a moment, everything was silent and still. Holmes gazed down at the dead man whose lifeless glassy eyes seemed to stare back at him with vehemence. Holmes hated killing, but was particularly annoyed that it had been necessary in this instance. This man, Gaunt’s accomplice, could have told him so much. With the thought of Gaunt, Holmes’s features tightened even more with anger and disgust. Not only had he killed an important witness, but he had allowed one of the key players in this treacherous game to escape. He had handled the whole episode incompetently.
His thoughts were interrupted by a soft groaning sound and he observed a desperate Watson, trying manfully to wriggle his way out of his bonds.
Holmes could not
help but smile. Well, he mused, this episode is not entirely without its rewards.
‘Here, let me help you with those,’ he said, kneeling down by the chair and tackling one of the tightest knots.
Twenty-One
Dr Watson’s Journal
It was all like a bad dream. The gunshots and the frantic action being played out before my dazed eyes like some violent mummer’s play in shimmering gaslight. I was tired, weak from exhaustion and dehydrated and so my brain was not functioning clearly. However, the one thing that I was able to latch on to was that Sherlock Holmes was in the room. How he got there and even why he was there did not seem to trouble or intrigue me, so foggy was my mind. I just felt a strange kind of relief to see his face and hear his voice. I remember him kneeling beside me, untying the rope that secured me to the chair and I have recollections of him helping me down various flights of stairs and then the sharp cold of the night air on my face. It was hours later, when I regained consciousness fully, that my memory returned and I was able to place recent events into perspective. I was lying on the chaise longue in our sitting room, a travelling rug covering me up to my chin.
‘Ah, you are back in the land of the living, at last. I’m sure you could manage some of Mrs Hudson’s chicken soup. She has had it simmering in anticipation since she helped me upstairs with you.’
I sat up and ran my fingers through my hair. ‘Soup would be wonderful. I would like a brandy to help revive me further, but perhaps not on an empty stomach.’
Holmes nodded. ‘Indeed,’ he said judiciously, lighting his pipe. ‘That can come later.’
I attempted to swing my legs on to the ground and stand up, but I still felt a little woozy and slumped back down on the chaise longue.
‘Sit still, old boy. Let the restorative soup have its way with you first before you start trying to be athletic. Just rest for now while I go and arrange for your sustenance.’
The Ripper Legacy Page 9
