‘However, he has received a visitor recently, who came in a wheelchair.’
Barrow’s face softened and his eyes flashed in recognition. ‘Oh, yes, sir, Mr Moore I believe is the gentleman’s name.’
‘Moore? Can you describe him?’
‘Not very precisely, I am afraid. He is an invalid, you understand. The gentleman wore dark glasses and kept his hat on indoors and of course, being wheelchair-bound, he was wrapped up quite well.’
‘What age would you say he was?’
Barrow pursed his lips while he considered his answer. ‘It is difficult to be accurate, I’m afraid. He was not young. His voice was quite frail, rather strange and croaky. Maybe he was somewhere in his late fifties. Possibly sixties. I really couldn’t be more precise.’
‘Is there anything else unusual about this man you can tell me? This is very important.’
The butler’s face clouded for a moment. I could see that he was desperate to provide Holmes with some titbit of information that would remove him from this tortuous rack of interrogation.
‘There is nothing really, sir…’ he said at length and then paused.
‘But yet…’ prompted Holmes, thrusting his face closer to him.
‘Well… his wheelchair was rather… unusual.’
‘Unusual? In what way?’
‘It was self-propelled. It had some kind of motor device fitted that allowed Mr Moore to move without any effort. He didn’t have to physically roll the wheels as is usually the case with those contraptions.’
‘Mmm,’ said Holmes, visibly disappointed in this information. ‘And there is nothing else about the man that you can remember?’
‘No, sir. I saw little of him. Just to accompany him to Sir Jasper’s office… that’s all.’
‘Office? So he was here on business. It was not a social call?’
‘I assume so. I am afraid Sir Jasper does not confide in me on such matters.’
‘Very well,’ said Holmes, drawing back from the old retainer and turning to me. ‘I think our usefulness here is at an end, Watson. Time for us to return to the metropolis.’ So saying, he took hold of my arm and marched towards the door.
Twenty-Four
‘The boy is safely stowed?’ Sir Jasper Coates asked.
The professor manoeuvred his wheelchair out of the shadows into the light.
‘He is sleeping in the room I have prepared for him.’
‘That is good.’
‘Indeed.’ The professor smiled benignly. His lips curved gently, but the eyes remained icy and still. ‘You have completed your role in this affair with great effect, Sir Jasper. You are to be congratulated on your dedication and attention to detail.’ His voice escaped as a harsh whisper.
Sir Jasper gave an imperceptible nod of the head.
‘However,’ continued the professor, still smiling, ‘it has to be noted that as from this moment your duties and indeed your usefulness are at an end.’
A look of mild confusion came over the knight’s face. Was this some kind of subtle jest? Surely it was. He smiled in anticipation of a light-hearted joke.
It was not forthcoming.
Instead, the professor withdrew a revolver from under the rug covering his legs. ‘It has long been a maxim of mine, that when something – or someone – has ceased to be essential to one’s plans, it is best that they are eliminated. It clears the decks – as sailors say.’
Sir Jasper stiffened and his mouth opened as though he was about to speak, but so stunned was he by this sudden and dramatic turn of events that he could not bring forth any words.
‘Again, I thank you for your efforts and cooperation. I could not have asked for more. And indeed you are not able to offer more – and so now it is goodbye.’ He aimed the pistol at Sir Jasper and fired. Before the knight had time to move, time to plead, time to turn and run, the bullet ripped through his heart. His body shuddered with the impact and then he uttered one brief gargling croak, his hand clasping his chest as thin rivulets of blood trickled over the fingers. Coates gazed at his assailant, his eyes wide with shock, and then silently he fell forward on to his face.
Moriarty slipped the gun back under the rug. This time his smile was genuine and the amusement reached his eyes.
The door of the chamber opened and Dominic Gaunt entered. He gazed down at the corpse, his face a mask of indifference.
‘Just tidying up some unfinished business,’ said the professor.
‘So I see and indeed, heard.’
‘I’m relying on you to dispose of the body in the usual way.’
‘It was necessary then?’
‘Indeed. Coates was too significant a character in our machinations for me to allow him to live. His position in society and within the government would always make him vulnerable and thus a threat to us. It was essential to eliminate him once his usefulness was over. Ah, but you look sad. You were fond of him?’
‘After a fashion. He had charm and was amusing. A passing fancy.’
Moriarty nodded as though in agreement. ‘It is as well. Personal attachments are not for the likes of us. They complicate matters. Besides, Sir Jasper Coates was not of our breed, my dear Gaunt. He was a zealot. A man with a cause and a possessor of high if rather misguided principles. He really believed we would bring about the downfall of the government. Misguided and naive. Not like you and I: mere criminals. Seekers of wealth. The collectors of ill-gotten gains.’ The professor laughed heartily, his thin body rippling in his chair while the sound emerged like the expulsion of a damaged bellows.
‘Mere criminals?’ repeated Gaunt jauntily. ‘I think not. Certainly not in your case. Are you not the Napoleon of Crime?’
‘Well, I was once, before I acquired this crippled body. That will teach me to go swimming in Switzerland.’ He laughed again, but this time there was sharp bitterness to the merriment. ‘However, once this particular venture is brought to a happy conclusion with the noses of both Scotland Yard and Sherlock Holmes well and truly rubbed in the dirt, I will feel like wearing my old appellation again.’
‘That will be soon.’
‘Sooner than you think.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Never allow the enemy to know exactly what you are doing. They think we have given them forty-eight hours. They have been misled. We will inform them at noon that we need a decision by midnight. I will ring through to the Prime Minister now that we have his special number, thanks to the previously invaluable Sir Jasper. That should put the cat well and truly in their pigeon coop.’
‘Indeed, it should.’
‘Now, Gaunt, do get rid of this body. The sight of it is beginning to offend me.’
Twenty-Five
Dr Watson’s Journal
The fire had taken hold of the building by the time Holmes and I arrived. The firemen were fighting a losing battle against the voracious flames as they consumed the structure, making it their own. Dawn was breaking and it seemed that the glow of the conflagration was merging with the rosy tint of the morning sky, creating one uniform fiery firmament. There was a large crowd of goggle-eyed onlookers building up around the cordon created by the fire fighters to keep them away from the flames. Despite shouted injunctions to ‘stay back for safety’s sake’, the spectators edged forward, mesmerised by the rippling inferno.
Holmes and I stood in the background watching as the roof of the two-storey townhouse eventually surrendered to the flames and came crashing down inside the shell of the building, sending a fusillade of sparks heavenwards.
‘My goodness, this is terrible, Holmes,’ I cried. ‘Do you think Sir Jasper is in there – and the boy?’
‘I would think not. It is most likely that this fire was started deliberately.’
‘For what reason?’
‘Sir Jasper’s role in the kidnap plot would soon become known. He has no future as a public figure. Perhaps he was intent on eradicating his past… or…’
Holmes paused, his features revealin
g that a sudden strange thought had struck him.
‘Or… what?’ I prompted.
‘Or… his master was. There may be secrets in that house that needed to be destroyed. We found none at Galworth Hall.’
I gazed for a moment at the burning house, now a mere crumbling skeleton of a structure at the heart of the inferno. ‘So, we are yet again a few steps behind them,’ I said.
Holmes touched my shoulder, his own body slumping with fatigue. ‘Once again you are correct. Brutally so. All along in this case I seem to be following in the wake of the villains – never quite getting them within my sights. Hah, it may be that this time I have met my match. Another Moriarty.’
‘I know how you revered Moriarty as a criminal genius, but you beat him in the end and you will prevail against whoever is behind this villainy. With your brains and just a piece of good luck…’
Holmes gave a bitter chuckle. ‘Well, the luck does not seem to be coming my way and perhaps the brain is atrophying…’
‘That could indeed be the case,’ observed a voice from someone standing behind us.
We both turned to see the not inconsiderable bulk of Mycroft Holmes. His face, tinged pink by the reflection of the fire, was twisted into an expression of great displeasure.
‘What on earth are you doing here?’ I found myself saying before I had really considered the question.
‘Sir Jasper is a member of the government and as such one of Mycroft’s flock,’ said Holmes. ‘In the current dramatic circumstances as soon as the authorities learned of this fire, Mycroft would have been contacted.’
‘That is so. I do not take kindly to being woken in the middle of the night and then being forced to emerge in the darkling hours to attend a bonfire. What do you know, Sherlock?’
‘Sir Jasper is one of the kidnap gang.’
‘A traitor.’
Holmes nodded. ‘A mole. Either he has gone to ground and destroyed any clues his house could offer or…’
‘Or his masters have eliminated him. Maybe presented him as a burnt offering.’ Mycroft nodded towards the fire.
‘You never suspected Sir Jasper?’ I asked.
‘Only of being too charming. I suppose that should have alerted me. While his whereabouts are of some concern, more importantly, where is the boy? Time, my dear Sherlock, is running out.’
Holmes tapped his cane impatiently on the pavement. ‘Statements of the obvious are of little use to me, Mycroft. Please desist from uttering them.’
‘Then please demonstrate that you are actually doing something to bring this business to a satisfactory conclusion.’
‘Holmes is doing his best,’ I snapped, unable to resist defending my friend.
Mycroft gave me one of his supercilious smiles. ‘Then perhaps his best is not quite good enough.’
Holmes sighed. ‘We are wasting time in this badinage. I have matters that await my attention elsewhere.’ My friend turned and beckoned me to join him as he strode off at a brisk pace.
‘I appreciate your comments in my defence,’ Holmes said, when I had caught up with him, ‘but I am well able to fight my own battles, especially against my brother. Remember, I know him of old from the nursery to manhood. Whenever things are not quite going his way, he lashes out at others, blaming their incompetence, especially with me. Many are the times in our youth when he railed against me in order that I would assist him to achieve his own ends. The same applies today. His recent outburst was based on fear and frustration rather than any criticism of me. This kidnap business is really eating away at his confidence.’
‘And not yours?’ I said softly.
Holmes gave me a soft smile. ‘Touché, Watson. A palpable hit. Certainly, I must confess that I am not at ease, but I have not as yet given up hope.’
‘Where to now, then?’
‘Back to Baker Street. A wash, a shave and a hearty breakfast to revive the tired spirit. I have an exhausting morning ahead of me I think – but I will not require your services, so I suggest that you rest yourself in readiness for more rigours ahead.’
‘Are you sure that I cannot be of assistance?’ I asked, unable to keep the dismay from my voice. I was unhappy at the prospect of being left out of the next development in this dark and difficult case, keen to be present at all the stages of the investigation.
‘In this instance, yes. Fear not, if I am successful all will be revealed. Take heart, old fellow; you know I treasure your company and assistance, but there are times when it is best that I act alone.’
I nodded. I could not deny the veracity of his words, but this fact did not cheer me.
* * *
Two hours later we had breakfasted and refreshed our toilet. While I had devoured bacon, scrambled eggs and toast, Holmes had merely toyed with some toast and smoked several of yesterday’s dottles, filling our sitting room with a thin, pungent veil. As I settled down by the fire with a cup of coffee and attempted to peruse a medical journal in the vain hope I could distract my thoughts, he donned his overcoat once more and bid me au revoir.
‘With luck, I hope to return by lunchtime.’
‘I wish you well.’
He gave me a brief salute and departed.
I sat for some time, staring blindly into the distance, while my coffee grew cold and the forgotten journal slid from my lap onto the hearthrug. My mind was awhirl with ideas, worries and myriad ruminations all concerned with our investigations, the tangled skein that had enmeshed us and indeed those higher than ourselves. It seemed to me that, for all our efforts, we were really no closer to finding the kidnapped boy or apprehending the villains behind the nefarious scheme.
I ran through the series of events in chronological order, reminding myself of each twist and turn, in a desperate attempt to see if I could unearth one clue that I might have missed along the way. But my efforts were fruitless. There was no sudden shaft of light illuminating my darkness. Neither could I fathom what errand Holmes was about this morning, one in which, as he put it, he would not ‘require my services’. Despite Holmes’s explanations, I still felt hurt at being removed from the chase at this crucial stage.
Suddenly, I felt very tired. A full stomach and a warm fire, along with a weary brain, gradually lulled me towards sleep. However, I was awoken by raised voices and the sound of hurried footsteps on the stairs. Moments later the door burst open and Ronald Temple propelled himself into the room. He was unshaven and his whole appearance was one of neglect. His tie was askew, his clothes rumpled and his eyes bleary from lack of sleep.
Behind him I could see the figure of Mrs Hudson, her face flushed and her hands fluttering wildly. ‘I told the gentleman that Mr Holmes was not at home, but he wouldn’t listen to me,’ she said apologetically.
‘That’s quite all right, Mrs Hudson. I’ll attend to our visitor,’ I said, rising from my chair.
She nodded, gave a pinched look at the recalcitrant intruder and closed the door.
‘Where the devil is he?’ snapped Temple, once we were alone. ‘Why have we heard nothing? Don’t you know the hell we’re going through?’
‘You are all but done in, Mr Temple. Take a seat, please and I’ll get you a brandy.’
‘I don’t want brandy. I want answers,’ he snapped, but his fatigue overcame him at that moment and he collapsed into the wicker chair. I poured him a small brandy and despite his earlier protestations, he drank it in one gulp.
‘What on earth is going on?’ he asked at last, all the fire of his temper having dissipated. Here was a tired and desperate man, eager to hear news, good news, about his son. Suddenly I felt guilty. In concentrating on the case at hand, both Holmes and I had neglected our client. It was true that there was very little we could tell him – certainly we had nothing positive to impart – but I realised that we should have made some effort to contact the family to reassure them that we were expending all our energies in pursuit of a successful conclusion to the case. To have heard nothing must have been wretched for them. As I gaz
ed at this distraught and desperate creature I felt ashamed.
In a humble and less than fully coherent fashion, I apologised for our silence, assuring him that this was because we had been concentrating all our efforts in following various leads.
‘And have you made some headway? Are you nearer to finding our son?’ he asked, his voice breaking and his tired bloodshot eyes moistening with emotion.
‘We are hopeful,’ I said. ‘Mr Holmes is out on the trail of some information now. If anyone can find your boy it is he.’
‘And what if no one can?’ he retorted bitterly.
‘Do not give up hope, Mr Temple. It is very rare that Sherlock Holmes fails.’
‘Rare, but not unknown, eh?’
I sighed. I realised there was little chance that I could reassure our distressed client.
‘If only you could see my wife, Dr Watson. She does not eat or sleep. Her face is haggard with anguish and she spends most of her time weeping. Neither I nor her sister can comfort her.’
My heart went out to this poor fellow. I would have done anything in the world to help him, to be able to confirm without doubt that we should return his son within the day. But I could not.
I rose and patted him on the shoulder. ‘It remains a waiting game, I am afraid, but we are expecting developments shortly. I promise you that we shall be in touch with you within the next twenty-four hours to keep you abreast of matters. I pray that then we shall be able to bring you good news.’
Temple looked blankly at me as though all the spirit had been sucked out of him. With hunched shoulders he got to his feet and in a shambling fashion he made his way to the door. Without another word or a glance back at me, he departed. I felt wretched that I had not been able to give him more than vague promises. I realised, not for the first time, that when Holmes and I were engrossed in an investigation, we often forgot that the events that were fascinating and stimulating us could be having heartbreaking effects on those at the centre of the affair.
In very low spirits, I poured myself a brandy and resumed my seat by the fire to wait for Holmes’s return, desperately hoping that he would bring positive tidings with him.
The Ripper Legacy Page 12
