* * *
‘I am afraid your brother is not at home,’ said Mrs Hudson as she stood in the hallway of 221B Baker Street, staring up at the towering form of Mycroft Holmes, his features darkened with a mixture of frustration and annoyance. ‘He left some time ago with Dr Watson.’
‘And I suppose he gave you no indication as to where he was going or when he would return?’ he asked coolly.
Mrs Hudson shook her head and smiled indulgently. ‘Oh, no. He never does that. Why should he? I have got used to his ways over the years and expect him when I see him. But, of course, you’ll know that, being his brother.’
‘Oh, yes, I know that. I am fully aware of how unpredictable… and uncommunicative he is. Thank you, ma’am. If, by some miracle, he returns would you ask him to get in touch with me urgently?’
‘Of course.’
Mycroft gave the demure lady a stiff bow and left. As he climbed into the waiting carriage, he offered up a little prayer, hoping that Sherlock was actually on the case and making headway. He knew in his heart of hearts that despite all the resources at his command, his brother was the only hope of preventing a national disaster.
* * *
‘Dr Murray has finished surgery for the day. Would you like me to book you an appointment for tomorrow?’ said the lady with the tight bun and silver-rimmed glasses in a business-like monotone.
Gaunt gave her a stern smile. ‘No, I need to see him now. This is an emergency.’ He strode past her desk and opened the door marked ‘Surgery’ and entered.
Dr Graham Murray was writing up some notes on the patients he had seen that day when the stranger burst in and slammed the door shut.
‘What the devil,’ muttered Murray, half-rising from his chair.
‘I need you to come with me now to attend to a sick child,’ said the man.
‘Who are you?’
‘That is of no consequence. You must come with me.’
‘I am afraid the surgery is closed for the day. I am not free…’
With a snarl of irritation, Gaunt stepped forward and thrust Murray back into his chair. ‘You will do as I say.’
The doctor’s eyes widened with surprise and then anger. ‘Must I? I think not. If you do not leave my surgery now I will call the police.’
Gaunt removed a pistol from his pocket. ‘That would not be a wise move.’
At the sight of the gun, the colour drained from Dr Murray’s face. ‘Are you mad?’ he croaked.
‘Collect your things. We are leaving. There is an ailing child who needs your attention. You are a doctor, aren’t you? Isn’t it your duty to minister to the sick?’
‘I do so, but not under duress,’ replied Murray, his gaze fixed on the gun the stranger was pointing directly at him.
‘You are in no danger as long as you do as you are told. All I am asking of you is to come with me and alleviate a child’s suffering. That is not too much to ask, is it?’
Thirty-One
Dr Watson’s Journal
Evening was drawing in fast as we reached the north side of the river. Holmes seemed confident that it was upon this particular stretch by Tower Bridge that we would find what we were looking for: Moriarty’s lair. We had travelled back from Reading by train and at Paddington station hired a cab to take us to the bridge.
‘It will be like looking for a needle in a haystack,’ I observed as we stepped from the cab.
‘Really, Watson, as a writer of some accomplishment you must avoid using clichés.’
‘In some cases, they make their point very succinctly,’ I replied tartly.
‘Well, it is a fairly well-conceived haystack.’ He tapped his temple with his left forefinger. ‘You are well aware that I have committed the geographical features and street names of London to memory. No detective of any merit can hope to operate in this metropolis without having a thorough knowledge of its buildings, thoroughfares and byways.’
I knew this to be true. Many was the time that Holmes and I had travelled by cab and so finely attuned was he to the layout of the city that he was able to tell me which particular street we were travelling down without looking out of the window.
‘I happen to know there are great stretches of derelict warehouses off Saint Katharine’s Way, just a short distance from the bridge towards Wapping. They are the sort of anonymous properties in which a major rat may make his nest. It is somewhere to start at least.’
I nodded without comment. I was still picturing that dull needle lodged in an impenetrable haystack.
We made our way down to the river and to Iron Gate where Tower Bridge stood. It is a magnificent structure, a monument to British engineering and planning. I had been in the crowd a year earlier to watch the Prince of Wales officially open it. Its monumental bulk still remained impressive now, looming darkly above us against the twilight sky.
‘It is superb, isn’t it, Holmes?’ I said, pausing to gaze at the structure.
‘Yes, yes,’ he responded, somewhat impatiently, ‘but we haven’t time to behave like tourists. Come along.’
We moved along the embankment for a while and then turned left down a side street into the hinterland that lay north of the river. My comment about a needle in a haystack came back to me once more – and then we had a remarkable stroke of luck. At the far end of one street we observed a hansom cab draw up and two men emerge. As they did so, Holmes pulled me into a doorway.
‘By all that’s wonderful…’ he exclaimed. ‘Look who we have here.’
I peered at the two figures and felt the same thrill of excitement exhibited by my companion. Despite the gathering gloom I was able to discern that one of the two men was none other than our old friend, Inspector Dominic Gaunt. The other man, who was a stranger to me, was carrying a medical bag.
Holmes and I exchanged glances. Fortune was indeed smiling on us at last.
Gaunt dismissed the cab and grabbed his companion firmly by the arm. The two men began walking away from us towards the corner of the street.
‘Quick, we must not lose them,’ cried Holmes, as the pair disappeared from our view.
We hurried down the street, pausing at the corner while Holmes peered cautiously around it. He gave a muted expression of despair.
‘They’ve gone,’ he groaned.
We turned into the empty thoroughfare with dismay. They were nowhere to be seen. The street was empty apart from a blind beggar and his dog tapping his way along. It was as though the two men had disappeared into thin air.
Holmes gave a strange little chuckle. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘they cannot have gone far, can they? Surely we can seek them out again.’
I was not convinced as I gazed at the row of buildings, derelict and deserted warehouses, each blank and shabby façade giving no clues as to what lay inside. It could take us hours, days even to search these properties.
Holmes began walking down the street giving each of the premises a close inspection along with the pavement beneath our feet. I followed in his wake and then suddenly he stopped, his whole body stiffening, and once again he gave his strange chuckle. ‘Look, Watson, by all that’s wonderful.’ He raised his cane and pointed to a nearby doorway. Above the shabby door, covered in grime, were the carved forms of two lions. Beneath them was a small sign in faded script: ‘Leonine Chambers’.
‘Remember what Moran said in his ramblings about golden lions. It is too much to be a coincidence. This must be the entrance to Moriarty’s lair.’
I nodded enthusiastically. I did not doubt that my friend was correct.
Without hesitation, he approached the door and tried the handle. It was locked. ‘This lock should not provide much of a hindrance,’ he observed, extracting the small burglar’s pouch from his overcoat. I glanced up and down the street as Holmes set to work on the lock. There was no one about and already night was providing a sufficient cloak to mask our activities.
Within a few minutes Holmes had succeeded in his task. He turned the handle and the door swung open. He
pulled it to again and turned to me.
‘This is where we part company, Watson.’
‘What!’ I exclaimed, completely baffled by this announcement.
‘I must tackle Moriarty alone.’
‘But he is not alone. There is at least Gaunt and the fellow we saw with him.’
‘Nonetheless, this is my challenge, not yours. You have other duties that are essential to the success of our mission.’
‘Really,’ I said somewhat indignantly.
‘This is obviously Moriarty’s hideout – and it is probably where he is keeping the boy. Both Mycroft and Scotland Yard need to be alerted to this fact. It is up to you to inform them while I beard our notorious lion in his den.’
‘Why don’t we both go to Scotland Yard?’ I said. ‘Now you have located Moriarty’s place, it would be much safer to storm the place with a pack of armed constables.’
‘Safer for whom? Not the boy. This has to be handled delicately. It is time that Moriarty and I face each other once again. I have to be trusted in this matter.’
I knew in my heart of hearts that my friend was right, but I was severely disappointed to be dismissed and sent on an errand rather than be at what I supposed would be the climax of the case. Reluctant as I was to allow Sherlock Holmes to enter that crumbling old warehouse on his own, I knew that any argument I put forward would be ignored. I could see the cold hard determination in those steely grey eyes, which prevented me from raising any objection to his wishes.
‘Very well,’ I said quietly.
‘Good man.’ He pulled open the door again and moved to step inside.
I placed my hand on his shoulder. ‘For heaven’s sake, take care,’ I said.
‘Of course,’ he replied, before stepping into the darkness. With an eerie creak, the door shut behind him.
I wasted no time and headed back towards the main road at a quick pace. I knew that time was of the essence. I was not happy at the thought of Holmes alone in Moriarty’s lair and the sooner that I secured help the better.
It was quite dark now and the street was illuminated by only a couple of gas lamps. As I reached the corner, a figure emerged from the shadows. My heart skipped a beat, but I did not lessen my pace. The figure stepped in front of me blocking my way and I saw that it was the blind beggar we had seen earlier. He held out his hand as though proffering his begging cup, but instead of a cup, he held a revolver.
‘Stop where you are, Dr Watson,’ he said in a gruff but educated voice. ‘Do exactly as I tell you or I will be forced to kill you. Those were my orders. And, believe me, I always obey my orders.’
Thirty-Two
As the large door closed behind Sherlock Holmes with a rather chilling finality, he was plunged into near darkness. There were faint glimmerings of light at the far end of the chamber, but they provided scant illumination. The acrid smell of damp and decay assailed his nostrils and he was conscious of the scuffles and rustlings of unseen rats as they scurried fitfully in the gloom. He cursed himself for not bringing a dark lantern and resigned himself to stand fast while his eyes accustomed themselves to the gloom. Gradually faint shadows strengthened in the darkness and he was able to formulate a sketchy image of his surroundings. Slowly, using his cane as a blind man would, he began to move forward towards the light at the far end of the chamber, tapping the end of his stick gently in order to avoid any obstacle in his way. There were several mainly empty wicker baskets, remnants of the days when this was a trading warehouse. As he pushed one of these baskets to one side, a creature scuttled over his hand. He gave a sharp intake of breath in surprise, but made no other sound. As he neared the faint glow of light, he could see that it was a solitary oil lamp hanging from a beam. Below it was another door. This one appeared new and comparatively modern and was obviously a more recent addition, as was, Holmes was now able to observe, the wall into which it was fixed. Obviously some bespoke alterations had been made to these decrepit quarters by its new master.
Slipping his cane under his arm, he withdrew his revolver before trying the door. This time the door swung open easily and he found himself in a small illuminated chamber. Before him was a strange gated cage contraption, which Holmes deduced was a lift shaft. A mechanism in which visitors and indeed the professor himself would be transferred to the heart of this structure: the professor’s secret headquarters. Of course, he told himself, this was not just some sophisticated addition: it was a necessary device. The wheelchair-bound Moriarty would certainly not be able to use stairs.
Slowly Holmes pulled back the gate and looked down the shaft, observing that the lift was at the bottom of its trajectory. Obviously it had been used by Gaunt and his companion. Holmes gazed at the glimmering lights at the bottom where he could discern the top of the lift cage. He gauged that the drop was some twenty feet. Slipping his revolver into his trouser pocket and discarding his cane, he leaned out into the gloom and grasped the thick wire that operated the lift. It was cold and caked in oil. Securing what he hoped would be a strong enough grip, he allowed his body to sway outwards, his legs clamping themselves around the wire. The combination of his weight and the lubrication of the oil allowed him to slide slowly and silently down.
Within less than a minute, Holmes had landed gently on the roof of the lift. He steadied himself and allowed a few seconds to catch his breath before discarding his overcoat, which was now heavily smeared with oil. In the dim light, he allowed his fingers to explore the top of the lift until they found what he was looking for: the trap built into all such structures to allow engineers access to the workings above. He lifted the rectangular piece of metal and slid it to one side, revealing an aperture large enough for him to pass through and drop down into the body of the lift. He landed softly and quickly took note of his surroundings. Beyond the cage door of the lift he observed a brightly lit vestibule with a door which led, he had no doubt, into the main part of these secret quarters.
There were times in his career when Sherlock Holmes knew that he had to dispense with caution in order to advance the case. Risks, he concurred, were after all part of his trade and if he was not prepared to take them, success would inevitably elude him. But of course he was also cognisant of the fact that in taking a risk, one could place oneself in great danger and risk failure. Here he was in the heart of the domain of his old archenemy, a creature he had long thought dead, but who had risen from the ashes of his own supposed demise to threaten the security of the country. He had to grasp the nettle and step through the door before him.
Gripping his revolver firmly, he turned the handle.
The chamber in which Sherlock Holmes found himself was harshly illuminated, throwing certain sections of the chamber into inky shadow. The room was richly furnished, rather like, he thought, a well-appointed drawing room in a London mansion. The walls were panelled and adorned with paintings. A chandelier hung incongruously from the wooden rafters. There were several armchairs, a chaise longue and a large ornate desk. A fire burnt in a large stone fireplace at one end of the room.
At first glance the room appeared to be empty and for a split second Holmes relaxed his defences, but then the air was filled with a strange whirring noise and, as though materialising from the dark shadows in the corner of the room, Professor Moriarty appeared before him. He glided forward in his motorised wheelchair to within six feet of Sherlock Holmes.
‘So, we meet again, Mr Holmes,’ he said in a strange croaky voice. ‘Strangely, this encounter is not a surprise to either of us.’
‘Perhaps not, although until recently I assumed the only time it was likely that our paths would cross would be in the great hereafter – but perhaps not even then, you having gone to the other place.’
Moriarty chuckled mirthlessly. ‘An amusing concept.’
‘I have come for the child,’ said Holmes, taking a step closer to the professor, raising his gun so that it was aimed at his heart.
Moriarty chuckled again. ‘Ever the dashing hero, full of melodramatics,
eh, Holmes?’ Slowly he pulled back the rug that was lying over his knees to reveal a shotgun. He aimed it in Holmes’s direction. ‘This has tremendous power and should I pull the trigger the impact would no doubt fling you back against the wall, leaving a substantial hole in your midriff. While your little pistol would have little effect on a man wearing a bulletproof armour breastplate – a very special one of my own design based on the Zeglen principle. You really should have one – especially in your line of business. You never know when someone might take a pot shot at you, eh?’ The smile on Moriarty’s face faded as he raised the shotgun.
‘A bulletproof breastplate does not protect all vulnerable areas,’ observed Holmes tartly, his hand not wavering in the least.
‘Oh, do let’s be civil about this, Holmes. You know as well as I do that you will not get out of here alive. You will not be surprised to learn that I fully expected that you would land up here – washed ashore like an unwanted piece of driftwood. Your usual curiosity and brilliance guaranteed that. Thus I was prepared for such an eventuality and indeed allowed you to make your way down here unhindered. You do not think for a moment that this place is not guarded twenty-four hours by my trusted employees. Under normal circumstances, you would have been eliminated once you had entered the building above, but I was… how shall I say… intrigued to meet you once more – for a final time. You are often in my thoughts – the man who robbed me of my health and my ability to walk.’
‘Ah, but it was you who hounded me, if you remember, Professor. You who hounded me all the way across Europe to the Reichenbach Falls. And it was Fate that decreed that I should survive and you…’
‘Fate is such an intangible thing. I need something… someone more concrete to blame.’
‘So it is revenge that you seek.’
Moriarty emitted a theatrical laugh. ‘Oh, yes, it is revenge. My plans always involved that element. I knew full well that my audacious scheme – you will allow me the term audacious, I hope – would inevitably lure you into my machinations. If the Temples did not apply to you for help, then your brother would inevitably drag you into the net.’
The Ripper Legacy Page 15
