The Ripper Legacy

by David Stuart Davies

  ‘I am flattered that I should have been such an important consideration in your plans.’

  ‘How could you not? For years you were a thorn in my flesh, upsetting my operations, foiling my ventures – but since Reichenbach … since Reichenbach…’ For a moment the eyes lost their fire and darkened as his left hand caressed the rim of the wheel of the mechanised chair while his mouth tightened. And then in an instant, Moriarty had regained his composure and his savoir faire once again.

  ‘Since Reichenbach your destruction has been my most fervent wish and most of my energies have been channelled to that end. In my current venture it pleasured me to think that I was hitting several targets with one arrow: upsetting the British government and the monarchy, accruing a large fortune and having a final chat with my old friend Sherlock Holmes before ending his life.’

  Moriarty’s hands shook slightly with emotion as he raised the shotgun a little higher. Just as it seemed that he was about to pull the trigger, he was distracted by a strange whistling sound that emanated from a speaking tube on his desk. With a dextrous movement, Moriarty propelled the wheelchair backwards so that it reached the desk, while keeping the weapon trained on Holmes. He lifted up the speaking tube from its cradle and listened. As he did so his mouth broadened into a wide malevolent grin.

  ‘Excellent. Bring him down.’

  His grin remained as he replaced the tube on its cradle.

  Holmes moved closer to the desk, still pointing the gun at Moriarty. ‘What do you intend to do with the child?’

  ‘Do with him? What do you think I am going to do with him? The boy is my safeguard. He will remain with me for the time being. I will have great pleasure in reading him your obituary in the newspapers. Your second. I do hope the press do you justice – but alas, you know how unreliable they are.’

  ‘Where is he now?’

  Moriarty’s head turned slightly. It was only an infinitesimal movement before he checked himself, but Holmes observed it. Moriarty’s automatic reaction had informed him that the boy was situated somewhere behind the large bookcase against the wall. No doubt this was concealing a doorway to another part of Moriarty’s quarters. There was nothing that Holmes could do about it now, but he regarded it as useful information nonetheless.

  ‘The whereabouts of the boy are of no consequence to you now,’ said Moriarty, taking two glasses from the silver tray on his desk and placing them in the centre. ‘Call me sentimental, Sherlock Holmes, but I have a whim to take a final drink with you. We have gazed at each other for some time across the great divide that separates us and yet we share some strange kind of bond. We are both masters of our profession, you and I; meticulous, brilliant and resourceful. It is these qualities that almost make us brothers.’

  ‘For a mathematician, you are somewhat fanciful,’ said Holmes, his manner relaxed, belying his inner tensions. He knew that he had to keep Moriarty talking. The longer he distracted him in this fashion, the more it allowed time for Watson to reach Scotland Yard. He had no concerns for his own safety, just as long as the boy was rescued and Moriarty was captured. ‘There is nothing that binds us,’ he continued. ‘Far from it. We are poles apart in outlook, morality and vision. Your success in the world is only as a criminal preying on the weak and the good, using corrupt, mentally inferior individuals as minions to carry out your nefarious plans for personal gain and to increase your sense of power over the innocent and unsuspecting.’

  ‘Bravo, Holmes. How eloquent.’

  ‘The criminal mind such as yours has a distorted view of the world and concepts. Your triumphs are mean and degraded. There is no glory in what you do. In fact, Professor Moriarty, nothing separates you from the thug who knocks over an old lady and snatches her purse for his gin money. When the history of the world is written, you will only be regarded as a worm.’

  The insouciant smile that had lingered on Moriarty’s lips faded and his body stiffened. It was clear to Holmes that his words had, as he intended, hit home and irritated the professor. For some moments he appeared to be lost for words, unsure how to respond to the detective’s barbs. He opened his mouth to say something, but as he did so the speaking tube on his desk made the strange whistling sound again. Moriarty grabbed it and listened. The smile returned.

  ‘Excellent,’ he said. ‘Bring him in.’

  The door through which Holmes had entered swung open and two men entered. One of them Holmes recognised as the beggar they had passed on their way to Leonine Chambers. The other was Watson.

  Thirty-Three

  In a room close by, Dr Graham Murray was leaning over the bed in which William Temple was lying. The doctor was shaking his head ruefully. ‘There is nothing I can do to help the boy. He needs hospital treatment. His condition has gone beyond the powers of my pills and tinctures.’

  Gaunt, who stood some distance away, snarled in anger. ‘You are a doctor. Treat him!’

  Murray faced his aggressor fearlessly. ‘You can shout all you want at me and wave that gun in my direction, but it will not help to cure this child. Yes, as you state, I am a doctor and as such do you think I would renege on my Hippocratic Oath and refrain from helping someone who was ill if it were within my power? This boy has a fever and is slipping into a coma. He needs specialised treatment, and oxygen. I am only a general practitioner.’

  Gaunt’s eyes twitched anxiously, his fury dissipating. Murray could see that the man was perplexed and unsure what to do. Perhaps now was the time to try and take this matter into his own hands…

  Thirty-Four

  From Dr Watson’s Journal

  With his pistol pressed firmly in my back, I was led by the beggar into the building that Holmes had entered less than fifteen minutes earlier. Once inside I was taken into a side room, the entrance of which was disguised by cunningly arranged fallen rafters and large drapes of sacking. Here, my captor lit an oil lamp to reveal a small cabinet on the wall from which he produced a speaking tube, similar to those used aboard ships. He spoke to someone at the other end, gleefully announcing my capture.

  Replacing the contraption, he grinned broadly at me. ‘The boss wants to see you. You’ll enjoy that.’ He gurgled unpleasantly as he prodded me with the gun once more.

  We moved from this cramped chamber back into the main body of the building. I was led in the gloom towards the far end of the property and through another door into a vestibule where to my surprise there was a lift contraption. He pressed one of the buttons on the wall, and with a muted whirring and clanking sound the lift cage eventually hove into view.

  ‘Nice little thing, ain’t it?’ said the beggar, pulling back the sliding cage door. ‘In you go, Doctor.’

  With a juddering motion, the lift began to descend.

  ‘I reckon that’ll be your last journey. Hope you enjoyed it,’ he grinned, as we stepped from the lift. ‘Now through that door.’

  The room I found myself in was large and surprisingly well appointed. It was like encountering a lush oasis in the barren sands of the desert. I was conscious of the warmth provided by a blazing fire, but what immediately caught my attention and rooted me to the spot was the sight of the two individuals facing each other by a large desk. One was in a wheelchair brandishing a large shotgun. The other, standing close to him, was Sherlock Holmes.

  The man in the wheelchair beckoned to me. ‘Ah, do come in, Doctor Watson. We meet at last. Let me introduce myself,’ he said with an easy smile.

  ‘I know who and what you are,’ I replied coldly, as I tried to conceal the shock I felt at finally seeing the ghost of the arch criminal before me. My heart thudded in my breast.

  ‘I could say the same of you. But let us not bandy words about now. Come forward and take a drink with me and your erstwhile companion Holmes here.’

  I moved forward, glancing at Holmes, who raised his eyebrows in query. I knew what he was thinking, what he wanted to know: had I managed to summon help? I gave a brief shake of the head. I saw my friend’s lips tighten in disappoi
ntment.

  ‘Come, Holmes, be sociable and pour your partner a drink.’

  Holmes hesitated and Moriarty raised his shotgun a fraction. ‘I insist,’ he said, the voice suddenly full of undisguised menace.

  Slowly and with reluctance Holmes did as he was bidden.

  ‘That’s better,’ said Moriarty and then turned his attention to the beggar who was hovering by the door. ‘That will be all, Crowther. Back to your post. And good work.’

  The beggar grinned. ‘Thank you, sir,’ he said before leaving.

  ‘Now it’s just the three of us. How cosy.’

  ‘What do you intend to do?’ I asked.

  ‘Do take your drink, Watson. What do I intend to do? Well, I think you know the answer to that. As I was just explaining to Holmes before you arrived, the successful completion of my plan will be crowned by the destruction of your friend here… what did you once call him, “the best and wisest man I have ever known”? And, of course you will be joining him in that bourne from which no traveller returns, so I’m afraid you will not be around to write an overblown obituary for him this time or even record his last words.’ With a sudden swivel of the head he turned to Holmes. ‘In fact, do you have any last words, Mr Holmes, before I pull the trigger?’

  ‘Actions speak louder than words,’ snapped Holmes and with a quick movement fired his pistol at Moriarty’s legs while at the same time throwing his drink into the villain’s face.

  The professor cried out in pain, but such was his steel that he was only momentarily distracted and he fired the shotgun at Holmes, but he, by now, was swiftly on the move and the shot missed him by inches. Moriarty turned his attention to me and fired in my direction, but his reactions were slower than mine and I dropped to the floor, safely missing the round that flew over my head.

  Holmes rushed forward and with great force snatched the gun from Moriarty’s grasp. ‘No time to reload now, Professor,’ he said, hurling the gun to the other end of the room. ‘Watson, who has a liking for clichés, will no doubt pen the one about tables being turned when he comes to write an account of this meeting.’

  Moriarty rubbed his wounded leg but kept his composure.

  Then suddenly there was the sound of a shot and a muffled cry from somewhere else in the building. We followed Moriarty’s gaze to a bookcase on the far wall. Holmes raced towards it and within seconds I saw that he was able to pull the whole structure back like a large door. ‘You keep an eye on our friend, here, Watson, while I investigate,’ he cried as he disappeared down the dimly lighted corridor beyond.

  I turned to face the professor just in time for me to see him extract a small revolver from his inside pocket. ‘An old maxim of mine: never rely on one weapon. But no time for chit-chat now, Watson,’ he said, aiming the gun at me and firing.

  Thirty-Five

  Holmes made his way down a narrow corridor, along which were three doors. He tried the first, which revealed a large unoccupied bedroom with a four-poster bed. He assumed that this must be Moriarty’s private quarters. As he approached the second room, he heard two more shots ring out from the chamber where he had just left Watson and Moriarty. In a split second, his mind reviewed several possible scenarios. His body trembled with indecision. Should he return to the room and investigate? Or should he continue his search? Rarely had the detective been faced with such a dilemma. It might well be that Watson needed his help, or worse still that it was too late.

  However, Fate took the decision from him, for the door of the second room opened suddenly and Dominic Gaunt appeared in the aperture, his face damp with sweat and his eyes wild and darting. He staggered into the corridor and on seeing Holmes he gave a raw guttural cry. He raised a pistol, but with frenetic speed Holmes leapt forward and knocked the weapon from his hand before bringing his fist into forceful contact with Gaunt’s chin. The man staggered backwards, but managed to maintain his equilibrium. The blow seemed to focus his mind and galvanise his energies all the more. He gave a rasping cry and rushed at Holmes, thrusting him against the wall. The two men struggled, each one approaching the task in a different fashion. Gaunt was frantic, his mind full of anger and disappointment. His fury increased his strength, which momentarily gave him an advantage over Holmes who, while being calmer and more methodical, lacked the mad passion of his opponent.

  As they struggled, the two men crashed to the floor, rolling over entwined in each other’s grip. Gaunt wrenched his hands free and grabbed Holmes by the throat and began to throttle the detective. Deftly, Holmes brought his arms up, breaking Gaunt’s grip and then with a great effort he managed to heave his assailant sideways. This gave him the freedom to scramble to his feet once more. Gaunt swivelled round into a crouching position, panting heavily, his face gleaming with perspiration. For a few seconds the two men stared at each other, still as statues, uncertain what the other would do next. And then Gaunt launched himself forward, reaching out for his gun, which lay a few yards from him on the floor. With glee he snatched it up and staggered to his feet. Like lightning Holmes reached out and grabbed his wrist before he was able to aim it. Once more the two men wrestled with each other for mastery. Holmes thrust Gaunt against the wall, winding him, and attempted to shake the gun from his grasp by slamming his arm with great force against the woodwork. Gritting his teeth and emitting a deep feral growl, Gaunt pushed hard against his opponent and managed to wrench his arm from Holmes’s grip.

  Suddenly the gun went off.

  Once again both men froze, static figures in the gloomy corridor. And then, Gaunt’s eyes widened with a sudden horrid realisation. His lips quivered momentarily as though he was about to say something, but no words emerged. Holmes felt Gaunt’s whole frame relax and lose its tension. Gently, he released his hold and took a step back as his opponent’s body slid down to the floor. For a moment the eyes remained open, gazing vacantly and then very slowly they closed forever.

  Holmes stood for a moment, gaining his breath and composure. He felt no sense of triumph. Killing a man was not a thing to be proud of. He would have much preferred to bring the fellow to justice. It was for the judiciary to pronounce sentence, not him. He was a detective, a solver of crimes – not an executioner.

  Mopping his brow, he sent these gloomy thoughts to the back of his mind as he entered the room from which Gaunt had appeared. Once inside, the sight that met his eyes sickened him further. There on the floor was another corpse. That of the man Holmes had glimpsed with Gaunt entering the building. Obviously he was a doctor of some kind: the stethoscope around his neck and the medical bag on the bedside table proclaimed as much. He knelt down and felt the man’s pulse just to be certain he was dead. There was no doubt. In turning over the body, he saw the savage wound to the chest. A victim no doubt of Dominic Gaunt. At this sight, he felt a lessening of his own guilt at being responsible for the death of the corrupt policeman.

  Rising slowly, he observed the shape under crumpled covers on the bed. He hurried forward and pulled back the blanket to reveal the face of a young boy beneath. It was flushed and still. This innocent little boy was what all the death and violence had been about. This was William Temple – the potential heir to the throne. Holmes dragged the blankets back further to reveal the little night-gowned figure. He lay very still, curled into a ball.

  ‘My God,’ murmured Sherlock Holmes, gazing at the lifeless form, ‘we are too late: the boy is dead.’

  Thirty-Six

  Dr Watson’s Journal

  Having produced a small pistol from his jacket pocket, Professor Moriarty had leaned forward in his chair and fired two shots in my direction. Instinctively, I dived to the ground in a desperate attempt to avoid the bullets. I managed to do so, but in landing awkwardly I banged the side of my head on the edge of a small marble table. I felt a violent stabbing pain to the temple. In an instant darkness and silence engulfed me.

  I was only unconscious for a very short time, but when I dragged myself groggily to my feet, my eyes gradually focusing on my surrou
ndings, I discovered that the room was empty: the professor had gone. No doubt he had assumed that as I had crashed to the ground and remained still, he had been successful in his attempt to kill me. Now my concern was to locate him. Then I heard the whirr of the lift mechanism. Blinking hard to clear my head, I made a move towards the vestibule where the lift was situated. As I did so, I heard another shot. It came from the direction of the door through which Holmes had disappeared. For a moment I hesitated, my brain only slowly returning to normal after the blow to my head. No doubt, I reasoned, Moriarty would have made good his escape by means of the lift. By the time I made my way to the upper floor in pursuit, he would have already fled the building. However, the shot I had just heard might well indicate that Holmes was in trouble and in need of my help.

  As swiftly as I could I changed my course and made my way towards the doorway revealed by the moveable bookcase. Passing through into a narrow corridor, I encountered the body of Dominic Gaunt. Kneeling down I took his pulse. The man was dead. A crimson stain spreading across his waistcoat gave evidence as to the cause of death. Gaunt lay across the width of the passageway, his body twisted awkwardly, but his face with the eyes closed looked serene and at peace. It is strange that no matter what paths we take in life, what morals we adhere to, what gods we worship, death homogenises us all.

  Stepping over him, I continued down the corridor to where a door stood open. In the lighted room beyond I discovered Holmes, leaning over a huddled form on a bed.

  ‘Holmes!’ I cried, my voice hoarse with emotion. ‘Thank heavens you’re safe.’

  He turned to me and gave a tight grin. ‘And you too, old fellow. We survive. Unfortunately, I cannot say the same for this poor mite.’ He turned his gaze back to the shape on the bed.