The Ripper Legacy

by David Stuart Davies

  Twenty-Six

  Although Sherlock Holmes valued and respected Watson’s assistance while investigating a case, there were times when he preferred to operate alone. Watson had a grand gift of silence and was invaluable in a crisis, but there were occasions when Holmes felt the need to act on his own. He could work more swiftly, not having to take a confederate into consideration and, more practically, he could fail without an audience. His mission that morning was built on the most tenuous of threads and he had only the slightest of hopes that it would bear fruit. As a consequence, he wanted to explore this slender avenue quickly and without the encumbrance of a companion.

  His mission was to visit the various manufacturers of wheelchairs in the City of London in search of the establishment that constructed the mechanical model described by Sir Jasper Coates’s butler. Holmes was convinced that the owner of that wheelchair was the key figure in the affair. He had constructed a list of such companies from Addison’s Business Companion and so he began the tedious round of suppliers. At first he met with ignorance or disinterest at all the places he visited. However, around mid-morning, he called at Mortimer’s Invalid Conveyances in Chelsea. It was a small firm, which had a shop area attached to the workshop.

  Holmes entered the shop and was greeted by a fresh-faced, enthusiastic young man, dressed almost in the manner of an undertaker, but his bright eyes and energetic attitude suggested a far sunnier outlook. Holmes deduced that this was the fellow’s first job and he had not been in it for very long. His trousers still had the sharp crease of newness and the elbows of his jacket showed none of the shine that comes with regular wear.

  However, when Holmes explained what he was looking for, the brightness dimmed in the young man’s demeanour.

  ‘We have nothing like that, sir,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘Mortimer’s is a traditional firm. We have been making invalid conveyances for over a hundred years and have in that time supplied such items to members of the gentry and the aristocracy. We have a standard range, but we also offer the facility for bespoke models should you so desire.’ It was a speech the young man had learned off pat. Holmes wondered how many times a day he repeated it.

  ‘Bespoke – but not motorised.’

  The young man shook his head. ‘I am afraid old Mr Mortimer does not hold with such contraptions. They are very rare and he believes they will be a passing fad.’ Suddenly the young man leaned forward in a conspiratorial fashion and lowered his voice. ‘In my opinion, sir, Mr Mortimer is wrong. I believe that is where the future lies for invalid conveyances. A motorised chair gives the occupant much more independence. They will become very popular in time, I am convinced of it.’

  Holmes nodded enthusiastically. ‘If I wanted to get hold of one of these contraptions today, where would I go?’

  The young man pursed his lips. Holmes could see that he was fully aware that there was no sale in prospect for him, but would he be prepared to pass on information that would lead him to another supplier?

  ‘Well, sir,’ he said at length, still maintaining his conspiratorial tone, ‘at present there are no major manufacturers producing such chairs, but I do know of an inventor-type fellow who has made a few for certain clients. He is an eccentric old chap but brilliant. I’d love him to come and work here, but he’d never do that. And Mr Mortimer wouldn’t agree to it anyway.’

  ‘But he may be prepared to make me one of these motorised chairs.’

  ‘For a certain fee, I have no doubt about it.’

  ‘Who is this fellow?’

  The young man glanced nervously around him before snatching up a piece of paper from below the counter and scribbling something on it.

  ‘I would be obliged, sir, that you do not mention how you obtained this name and address. If Mr Mortimer found out I would most likely lose my job.’

  Holmes smiled kindly. ‘Your secret is safe with me,’ he said, holding out his hand. The young man passed him the paper. It bore the words ‘Ralph Harbottle, 5 Angel Court’.

  ‘Thank you,’ said Holmes, touching the brim of his hat.

  Within five minutes he was in a hansom cab on route to Angel Court.

  * * *

  It was just after noon when Sherlock Holmes found himself in a cab returning to Baker Street. His face was drawn and pale and, despite all his efforts, he could not stop his hands from shaking. He could not deny that his morning’s activities had certainly borne fruit, but they had also unearthed information that had shocked him to the core. Holmes was rarely surprised by events to such a violent extent and the experience was unpleasant. It was difficult to believe and yet he knew in his heart of hearts that what he had learned, what he had deduced, must be the truth – the terrible truth.

  ‘We’re here, guv’nor.’ The cabby’s cry broke through the thick cloud of swirling thoughts in the detective’s mind.

  Holmes left the cab in a kind of trance and after paying his fare, he stood before the door of 221B Baker Street for some moments before entering. As he made his way up to the sitting room, one thing that helped to buoy him up was the thought that he would be able to share his news with Watson.

  Twenty-Seven

  Dr Watson’s Journal

  The Sherlock Holmes who walked through our sitting-room door shortly after noon that day was far from the keen-faced sleuth-hound I had been expecting. Even after a night without sleep, he had left that morning eager and alert, his features taut with expectation. The man who appeared before me now was pale of feature and seemed weary, as though the worries of the world had been heaped upon his shoulders. It was clear to me that something terrible had happened in the interim and my heart was filled with dark forebodings. Casting off his coat, my friend slumped down in the chair opposite me without a word.

  ‘Great heavens,’ I cried, ‘what on earth’s the matter? You look terrible.’

  Holmes gave me a wan smile. ‘I’ve had a bit of a shock, that’s all.’

  ‘It’s not the boy, is it? They’ve not…?’ I couldn’t bear to utter the words.

  ‘No, no. Nothing like that.’

  ‘Praise be. Well, then, what is it?’

  Holmes reached for the mantelpiece and scooped up his old briar and stuffed it with tobacco before answering. ‘I think I’d better tell you from the beginning.’

  ‘Very well, please do.’

  He lit his pipe and began. ‘My errand this morning was to track down the supplier of the wheelchair that Sir Jasper’s butler informed us about. Through them I hoped to reach the owner himself, who I believe is the brains behind this whole kidnap business. Now I know for certain that he is.’

  I leaned forward in my chair in surprise and excitement. ‘Really?’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ he replied darkly and puffed heavily on his pipe, sending a dark cloud of smoke forth from the bowl. ‘At first I seemed to be making no progress in my enquiries whatsoever. Motorised wheelchairs are rare it seems, and regarded with either suspicion or disdain by most manufacturers. However I learned from a bright young fellow at one of the places I visited of a man called Ralph Harbottle who has invented such a model as was described to us. So I visited this Harbottle to see what I could discover about Coates’s mysterious cohort.

  ‘Harbottle’s establishment is situated in a small court in Chelsea. It resembles a junk shop rather than a place of creation, but on entering the premises I observed various forms of mechanical devices, clockwork motors and such about the place. Harbottle is a plump individual who could easily have been the model for Phiz’s drawings of Mr Pickwick: short with a large egg-shaped head which is bald on the top but surrounded by a mass of wild straw-coloured hair, which seems to explode horizontally from the side of his head. He was dressed in a green velvet smoking jacket and black and white dog-toothed trousers and gazed at the world through a pair of small gold-rimmed glasses. His somewhat eccentric mode of dress was reflected in his actions and speech patterns. He moved rather like a mechanical toy and he spoke quickly in short bursts with long paus
es between.

  ‘I told him the reason for my visit and he seemed delighted that I had heard of his invention, which he called “the self-propelling bath chair”. I asked him how many he had made.

  ‘“Three,” came his response, “including the prototype that I have kept myself for demonstration purposes.”

  ‘“So you have had two paying customers?” I asked, and he nodded. “How did they hear of your invention?”

  ‘He chuckled. “I have a certain reputation for those interested in unusual devices,” he said. “People seek me out for all kinds of things. I have tried to interest a number of bath chair manufacturers in my design, but they all seem reticent to dip their toe into that particular pool.”

  ‘“May I ask the names of the two individuals who have purchased your mechanical bath chair?” I enquired. Harbottle grinned like a cheeky schoolboy. “You may ask, of course. We live in a liberal society.” I asked whether he would furnish me with the names and he in turn asked me why I was so curious. “It is of the utmost importance that I track down the owner of one of these devices,” I explained. “I have information to impart to him of the most crucial and delicate nature. I am afraid I cannot reveal more to you than that without breaking a solemn promise made to a dying man.”

  ‘Harbottle seemed to enjoy my subterfuge. His eyebrows hovered over the rim of his glasses and his eyes widened with suppressed pleasure. “How dramatic,” he said. “Deliciously romantic. Well, sir, the two recipients of my machine are Lady Emilia Forsythe and a gentleman whom I only know as Mr Moore.”

  ‘“Ah,” said I. ‘The person I need to contact is a man and therefore it is Mr Moore that I seek.” I asked him for an address, but Harbottle shook his head. “I fear not. He was a very secretive fellow and did all his business with me direct – here on my premises. He came and went like a wraith, sir. Appearing and disappearing without warning. A strange cove, indeed, but he paid well.”

  ‘I asked whether Harbottle could at least describe the man, and Harbottle frowned. “I can, after a fashion,” he said. “There was very little of him that was visible to describe. He wore dark glasses and a large hat, which shaded his face. He spoke in a strange strangulated fashion. Actually, he apologised for his speech. He said that it was the result of an awful accident, the same accident that was responsible for him losing the use of his legs.”

  ‘“How old was he?” I asked, and Harbottle shrugged. “It is difficult to say. His face – the part that was visible at least – was pale and parchment-like, which would denote a man in his sixties, but his manner was, if not exactly lively, energetic and focused. There was one very strange thing about him though… All the while he was in my presence, his head kept moving from side to side rather like the waving of a poppy in the wind.”

  ‘As he said this, Watson, I felt an ice-cold shiver run the length of my spine. “Or like a reptile?” I suggested.

  ‘Harbottle mimed the actions as I stared at him, horrified. “Indeed, sir, yes, yes. Quite apt. Very much like a reptile.”’

  Holmes leaned forward, his features taut with emotion. ‘You see what this means, Watson.’

  ‘My God, Moriarty,’ I said.

  ‘Moriarty,’ he repeated in husky tones.

  ‘But… that is impossible.’

  My friend shook his head. ‘It is not impossible. And when you have eliminated the impossible…’

  ‘It beggars belief.’

  ‘Well, it certainly does that. I am still having a problem fully comprehending and accepting the situation, but all the evidence points to the fact that Professor James Moriarty is alive, that he survived the waters of the Reichenbach Falls.’

  ‘How could he survive?’

  ‘He is a remarkable man.’

  ‘But no man is indestructible.’

  ‘And patently neither is he. It is obvious that while his brain may be as active as ever, physically he is very much a damaged creature, resigned to a life in a wheelchair. He must have suffered great physical hurt amongst the rocks at the base of those terrible falls.’

  ‘And now he has come back to haunt us.’

  Holmes gave a bitter chuckle. ‘To taunt us, more like. And with the most cunning and outrageous plan of his whole career. Hah, I knew there was a brilliant brain behind this whole operation, one that was as devious and cunning as it is ruthless and dynamic, I just never contemplated that it could be Moriarty…’

  ‘Why should you? The world believed that he was dead.’

  ‘But I should have looked beyond the obvious. The signs were there. I have been as blind as a beetle. This kidnapping case bears all the hallmarks of the way he operates, even to the point of eliminating his own operatives like Sir Jasper Coates when they have ceased to be of use to him. He may be in a wheelchair, but Moriarty is still a devilish force to be reckoned with.’

  For some moments we sat in silence. I, like Holmes, was completely astounded at the news that the professor was still alive and plying his damned trade once more. Holmes had called him the Napoleon of Crime, a fellow as brilliant as himself in matters of criminal activity, only the professor had chosen to travel the dark unlawful road.

  ‘What do we do now?’ I asked at length.

  ‘We find him and this time we end his nefarious career for good. I shall not be able to sleep easily in my bed as long as that villain breathes the same air as me. Once I said that if I were certain that I could bring about the professor’s demise, I would happily sacrifice my own life in the pursuit of such a goal. I am happy to repeat such a pledge.’

  ‘It is not essential that one follows the other.’

  ‘You are right, Watson, of course.’

  ‘How on earth do we track him down and put an end to this threat he has over the British government and the royal family?’

  ‘We must find his lair.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘That, my dear Watson, is a three-pipe problem. Please give me some time to smoke and contemplate. I have a few notions that may bear fruit if I can knock my shocked brain into action and just muse on them for an hour or so in the company of a strong shag tobacco.’

  Twenty-Eight

  At the same time as Sherlock Holmes was curling up in his armchair with a Persian slipper of tobacco on his lap and his head shrouded in clouds of dark grey smoke, deep in contemplation, Mycroft Holmes was seated in the Prime Minister’s office along with the Home Secretary hearing of the latest developments in the Temple kidnapping case.

  ‘It seems, gentlemen, that our enemies have changed the rules,’ the Prime Minister observed gravely, leaning forward, his features weary and drained. ‘Unfortunately, it is their prerogative, I am afraid. They hold the whip hand. In simple terms, they have cut short our time. I have been informed that they now require their money by midnight tonight.’

  The two other men said nothing but their sombre expressions spoke volumes.

  ‘I received a telephone call at noon giving me strict instructions concerning what has to be done,’ continued the Prime Minister. ‘We are to take a million pounds in notes in an unmarked carriage to a particular location on the Farnborough Road. The carriage should be driven by one man only and there must be no other accompaniment. The speaker made no secret that the money would then be transferred to several other conveyances that will disperse to various ports to leave the country. He stressed that no attempt must be made to apprehend these conveyances or news agencies around the world will be informed about the boy’s parentage and claim upon the throne of England.’

  ‘We have no guarantees they will not do that anyway,’ said the Home Secretary.

  The Prime Minster nodded. ‘I know. That is our cleft stick, I am afraid. I cannot in all conscience ignore their demands while at the same time I am fully aware that we may very well be dupes in this matter. It may be their intention to take the money and ruin us. However, I cannot see any alternative but to take the risk. Unless you two have any brighter ideas than mine. I was told that the child would be rel
eased to us twenty-four hours after the transaction. As I stated earlier: they hold the whip hand.’

  ‘We will have to get in touch with the Bank and arrange for the payment,’ said the Home Secretary.

  The Prime Minister gave a slight nod of the head and turned his gaze on Mycroft. ‘I suppose you have heard nothing from your brother?’

  ‘No, I am afraid not.’

  ‘And there has also been profound silence from Scotland Yard and our intelligence services. We really have got our backs to the wall.’

  ‘I will get in touch with Sherlock as soon as this meeting is over. He does tend to play his cards close to his chest, I’m afraid. It is possible that he has made some progress in his investigations…’

  ‘And not seen fit to let us know?’ snapped the Home Secretary.

  ‘That is his way.’

  The Home Secretary gave an angry snarl. ‘Ridiculous,’ he said.

  ‘It would be if he was not successful in his ventures,’ responded Mycroft calmly.

  ‘He does not seem to be so very successful on this occasion.’

  ‘Gentlemen, gentlemen,’ interrupted the Prime Minister. ‘Now is not the time to fall out amongst ourselves or to apportion blame. I am sure that Sherlock Holmes and the others in our service are doing their best, but we do not now have the luxury of time to wait for them to make headway. Mycroft, I need you to organise the transport side of things. The conveyance and a trusted driver must be ready by this evening. If you will see to that before you attempt to contact your brother…’

  ‘Of course, Prime Minister.’

  ‘Good. I must away to the palace to inform Her Majesty of the situation and you, Home Secretary…’

  ‘I will visit the governor of the Bank and pass on the good news,’ he said sourly.