The Ripper Legacy

by David Stuart Davies

  I took a step forward and saw that it was a boy – the boy. The child we had been searching for since the start of this dark business. We had found him at last.

  ‘I fear we got here too late,’ said Holmes softly, running his hand across his brow.

  ‘No!’ I gasped in horror and bent over the child. His features were still and the face clammy with sweat. I lifted his limp arm and felt for a pulse. ‘No,’ I said again, but this time my utterance carried a different meaning. It was not an exclamation of despair, but one of hope. Holmes had been wrong. Faint, like the fragile fluttering of a butterfly, I could feel his pulse.

  ‘This boy is not dead,’ I proclaimed. ‘There is still life there. It is faint, feeble but with a gentle regularity. The boy is fighting.’

  Holmes’s eyes widened in surprise. ‘Are you sure?’

  The butterfly fluttered again.

  ‘I am sure,’ I said. ‘We need to get this lad to a hospital immediately. If he is to survive he needs specialised treatment.’

  ‘He must survive!’

  I nodded and began wrapping the frail creature in a blanket.

  ‘Moriarty?’ said Holmes, his voice full of apprehension.

  ‘He has escaped I’m afraid.’

  Holmes gave a sharp rasp of frustration. ‘He has the luck of the Devil!’ he cried. ‘Still, we know his plans.’

  For a few moments Holmes sunk his head on his chest and closed his eyes. ‘Very well,’ he announced briskly, his eyes snapping open, shining with excitement. ‘I charge you with the task of conveying this poor creature to the hospital.’

  ‘Why certainly but—’

  ‘In the meantime I will alert the authorities as to what has happened. Mycroft should be able to get things moving pretty sharply. At least we can prevent the ransom being paid. The game is not over yet.’

  Thirty-Seven

  Dr Watson’s Journal

  Within half an hour of leaving Moriarty’s secret headquarters, I was sitting in a corridor of Bart’s Hospital waiting anxiously for a report on William Temple’s condition. I had taken him to this particular hospital, my old alma mater, because I was familiar with its system and I was known there as an ‘old boy’ and I felt sure that I would be able to obtain immediate attention for the child. This indeed turned out to be the case for only minutes after crossing the threshold, my charge had been whipped away and a portly physician by the name of Maxwell, whom I did not know, assured me he would do his best to save the lad. I knew that I could not have expected a better response. This did not calm my nerves however, for I knew how critical his condition was. As we had travelled by cab, the boy had been cradled in my arms and that sad moist face had shown no real signs of life. It was only that frail pulse that gave any indication that the child was still clinging on to life. In my heart of hearts I feared the worst.

  What further increased my distress was the fact that I was now essentially an impotent pawn in this grim and complicated game that Holmes and I were involved in. I had done all I could to help save the child’s life – the rest of that particular journey was in other, more experienced hands – and I was no longer able to offer assistance to Holmes in his exertions. Where was he now? I wondered. And where was Moriarty? They were questions that had no satisfactory answer and all I could do was to sit on a hard chair in this lonely hospital corridor waiting in a kind of limbo. For a man of action, as I rather arrogantly considered myself to be, this was a sentence of the harshest torture.

  It is at times like this that time seems to slow to a snail’s pace. I tried to avoid checking my watch frequently, but failed. The hands on the clock face seemed hardly to move at all, as though the cursed instrument had stopped functioning, and yet it seemed hours since I had arrived at the hospital. Occasionally I rose from the chair and walked up and down the corridor to alleviate my frustrated boredom. There was a constant parade of nurses, orderlies and doctors passing me by, most of whom hardly gave me a glance.

  And then at long last, I observed the bulky form of Maxwell appear at the far end of the corridor rather like a mirage. His shape was ill-defined at first, as though I were viewing him through frosted glass. I put this visual anomaly down to my tiredness and anxiety. Clarity gradually reasserted itself as he approached me. My heart sank when I saw the gloomy expression on his face and the beads of perspiration dotting his brow as he sat himself beside me with a heavy sigh.

  Thirty-Eight

  The carriage bearing the legend ‘Thompson’s Tinned Meat Products’ painted on the side pulled off the main road into a field, as had been instructed. The driver, Arthur Moxon, a sergeant in the Metropolitan Police disguised in scruffy workman’s clothing, tensed in readiness for the next and what he assumed would be the most dramatic stage of his journey. All that had been planned for this venture had suddenly been scrapped. His role as a docile delivery man had been changed dramatically at the eleventh hour.

  Instinctively Moxon’s hand slipped inside his jacket, the fingers clasping around the handle of his pistol. The feel of the cold metal gave him a sense of security and comfort. He had never actually used it while on duty, but he knew that he would need it tonight. He fought hard to quell his nerves while he waited patiently. Gazing out at the darkness before him, he could gradually make out the shapes of three carriages in the far corner of the field and emerging from each of them were several men, around eight in all, moving towards him. Three of them carried lanterns; the others carried rifles and pistols.

  ‘They’re on their way,’ said Moxon, leaning back so that his voice would carry. In response to this, there was a faint rustling noise in the rear of the vehicle.

  By now the group of men had reached the carriage and one man stepped forward from the rest, pointing a rifle at Moxon. ‘Step down. We mean you no harm if you behave yourself. Our interest is in the contents of your conveyance. Once we have removed it, we will let you go without harm.’

  Slowly, Moxon did as was asked and clambered down from the vehicle on to the wet grass. He moved towards the leader of the group with such confidence that he, surprised at the driver’s effrontery, took a step back.

  Noting the fleeting sign of apprehension on the man’s face, Moxon smiled. ‘I should advise you in your own best interests that it would be sensible if you dropped your weapons now,’ he said, edging even nearer. ‘That way no one will get hurt.’

  The leader of the group laughed. ‘Well, you’re a cocky one, ain’t you? You going to take us on single-handed, eh?’

  ‘Not quite,’ said Moxon, turning his head to the carriage from which a dozen officers with rifles had emerged silently and stood in readiness.

  ‘What is this?’ cried the leader of the group, panic rising in his voice.

  ‘It is a rout,’ said Moxon. ‘That’s what it is. The game is up, gentlemen. You are all under arrest. Do not attempt to run away. If you do, you will be shot. Now, throw down your weapons.’

  The officers moved forward, rifles cocked.

  ‘Bugger!’ said one of the men as he let his pistol fall to the ground.

  * * *

  The telephone rang shrilly, breaking an interminable silence. Mycroft snatched it up eagerly. His tense features, sharpened by the table lamp, relaxed and his eyes brightened as he listened to the voice at the other end. ‘Excellent!’ he cried. ‘Excellent!’ And he slammed the receiver down with a great sigh of satisfaction. ‘It’s over, Sherlock. It’s over. They’ve captured Moriarty’s men – or the rump of them at least. No doubt some of the minor players will slip through the net, but the main thing is that the danger is past. Thank God you found the child in time. We certainly couldn’t have carried out such an operation if the professor still had his hands on the boy.’

  ‘You speak of the child as though he were an object, an item. He is a fragile pawn in this treacherous game and has suffered greatly from his ordeal. While you and your government friends can break open the champagne none of you care whether William Temple is alive or dead.’
/>
  ‘Of course we do, Sherlock. Forgive me if I gave you a different impression. But in the great scheme of things this is a personal tragedy. You must stand back and observe the greater picture. The life of a child, while precious, is nothing compared to the stability of the monarchy and the security of a nation. If we had failed, chaos would have resulted; the country would be turmoil. But, thanks to you, this has been avoided and the plot has been foiled.’

  Sherlock Holmes lit a cigarette before responding. ‘Indeed, it is true: the plot has been foiled. You have a band of ruffians in custody, but the professor has got away. He is not one of your minor players.’

  Mycroft nodded and a sympathetic smile touched his tired features for a brief moment. ‘Moriarty. Yes, I fear so, but I am afraid it is a price I am prepared to pay for the destruction of his plan and the removal of the threat to the British monarchy and the government. In my eyes, all’s well that ends well.’

  ‘Not for me,’ replied Holmes wearily, stubbing out his cigarette with some force.

  * * *

  In a first-class cabin on the night ferry to Dieppe, Professor James Moriarty was also smoking a cigarette and feeling similarly dismayed. All his careful planning and organisation had in the end come to naught. There was no financial reward and what was perhaps worse, that devil Sherlock Holmes had beaten him again. He gave a deep groan of anger. ‘One day,’ he muttered, ‘one day that man will pay. I will see to it.’ With a sudden movement he too stubbed out his cigarette with remarkable violence.

  Thirty-Nine

  Dr Watson’s Journal

  Dawn was breaking over the city as I made my way along Baker Street. I was weary and strangely numb as though my tiredness was acting like an anaesthetic. I climbed the seventeen steps slowly and entered our sitting room. I was pleased to see Sherlock Holmes at the breakfast table with a pot of coffee.

  ‘Watson, my dear fellow, I am so very glad to see you,’ he said, rising from his chair and advancing towards me. For one moment I thought he was going to embrace me. Instead he helped me off with my coat, ushered me to a chair at the table and poured me a cup of coffee. ‘How does the boy?’

  ‘He lives,’ I said.

  ‘That is wonderful news.’

  ‘It was touch and go. We nearly lost him, but a brilliant fellow at Bart’s managed to pull him through.’

  Holmes chuckled. ‘Bart’s, eh? I thought you’d take the lad there. Your old stamping ground. He will make a full recovery?’

  I nodded. ‘So I am led to believe. And what of Moriarty and the ransom?’

  ‘I will tell you all over breakfast. I can see that you are in desperate need of some sustenance. I’ll ring for Mrs Hudson. And when you have eaten, we shall take ourselves off to Bart’s and visit the little invalid.’

  * * *

  It was mid-morning by the time we reached the hospital. I led the way to the room where I had last seen William only to find it empty and the bed stripped of its linen.

  ‘He’s been moved,’ I cried, somewhat puzzled. ‘Where to, I wonder?’

  ‘I am afraid you will never know that.’ The voice came from the doorway and we turned and saw the imposing figure of Mycroft Holmes.

  ‘What have you done with William Temple?’ asked Holmes brusquely.

  ‘Tut, tut, dear boy,’ replied his brother silkily, ‘you don’t expect me to tell you that.’

  ‘What on earth’s going on here?’ I asked, making no attempt to keep the anger from my voice.

  ‘William Temple has been removed to a safe place where he will be cared for appropriately.’

  ‘What do you mean, “appropriately”?’

  ‘He means in secret,’ said Holmes.

  ‘Indeed,’ agreed Mycroft. ‘The boy is still a living threat to the monarchy. There may be other villains who share the same ideas as Professor Moriarty. We have to protect ourselves from them.’

  ‘This is monstrous,’ I cried.

  ‘It is better than the alternative. He must be removed from all danger for his own sake as well as ours.’

  ‘Is he to live the life of a hermit?’

  Mycroft gave me a half-smile and shook his head. ‘Not quite, but he will be… monitored. I am sure you understand, Sherlock.’

  ‘I understand, but I do not condone. What of the poor parents – the Temples? Are they never to see their son again?’

  ‘I fear not. You must remember that he was not their son; that is the problem. I am sure time will heal their wounds.’

  ‘Glibly said, brother.’

  My anger and dismay had robbed me of words and I strode from the room, desperately needing some fresh air. As I stood on the steps of that great hospital, I was joined some minutes later by Holmes, who laid a hand on my shoulder. ‘I know how you feel, old boy. I agree it is harsh, but perhaps it is for the best.’

  ‘The best for whom?’

  ‘I am not sure. Only time will reveal the answer to that conundrum. Ah, it has been a most disturbing affair. At the conclusion, Mycroft is happy, the government is happy, but for the rest of us…’

  * * *

  There is little left to tell. Sadly the Temples never recovered from the loss of their precious child. Although he was not of their own flesh and blood they perhaps loved him all the more because of this. The pain they endured as a result of this brutal separation was great. Mrs Temple in particular felt his absence the most and her health declined rapidly. It would seem that she had little energy or enthusiasm to aid her own recovery. Within three years of the events I have just recounted, the lady died. In deep grief Temple moved away from London and I lost track of him.

  Holmes too sank into a depression for several months following the affair. He did not speak of his feelings to me – he rarely did – but I could see that the unfortunate circumstances surrounding the child and the cruel fate suffered by the Temples affected him greatly. However I am also sure that the greatest reason for his malaise was the knowledge that Professor Moriarty was alive and free. For years my friend had been secure in the belief that he had rid the world of this wicked criminal mastermind and now he had to accept the terrible truth that this was not so. He saw it as his great failure – a failure allied to a threat. Now he could never be sure when the dark spectre of Professor James Moriarty would come back to haunt him again.

  About the Author

  David Stuart Davies is a renowned expert on the Great Detective. He is the author of three ‘Further Adventures’ titles, The Devil’s Promise, The Veiled Detective and The Scroll of the Dead for Titan Books, as well as numerous other Sherlock Holmes novels, and the hit plays Sherlock Holmes: The Last Act and Sherlock Holmes: The Death and Life. He was editor of Sherlock Holmes: The Detective Magazine.

  THE FURTHER ADVENTURES

  OF SHERLOCK HOLMES

  THE SCROLL OF THE DEAD

  David Stuart Davies

  In this fast-paced adventure, Sherlock Holmes attends a séance to unmask an impostor posing as a medium. His foe, Sebastian Melmoth, is a man hell-bent on discovering a mysterious Egyptian papyrus that may hold the key to immortality. It is up to Holmes and Watson to use their deductive skills to stop him or face disaster.

  ISBN: 9781848564930

  AVAILABLE NOW!

  THE FURTHER ADVENTURES

  OF SHERLOCK HOLMES

  THE VEILED DETECTIVE

  David Stuart Davies

  It is 1880, and a young Sherlock Holmes arrives in London to pursue a career as a private detective. He soon attracts the attention of criminal mastermind Professor James Moriarty, who is driven by his desire to control this fledgling genius. Enter Dr John H. Watson, soon to make history as Holmes’s famous companion.

  ISBN: 9781848564909

  AVAILABLE NOW!

  THE FURTHER ADVENTURES

  OF SHERLOCK HOLMES

  THE TITANIC TRAGEDY

  William Seil

  Holmes and Watson board the Titanic in 1912, where Holmes is to carry out a secret government mission. Soo
n after departure, highly important submarine plans for the US navy are stolen. Holmes and Watson work through a list of suspects which includes Colonel James Moriarty, brother to the late Professor Moriarty – will they find the culprit before tragedy strikes?

  ISBN: 9780857687104

  AVAILABLE NOW!

  THE FURTHER ADVENTURES

  OF SHERLOCK HOLMES

  THE WEB WEAVER

  Sam Siciliano

  A mysterious gypsy places a cruel curse on the guests at a ball. When a series of terrible misfortunes affects those who attended, Mr Donald Wheelwright engages Sherlock Holmes to find out what really happened that night. Can he save Wheelwright and his beautiful wife Violet from the devastating curse?

  ISBN: 9780857686985

  AVAILABLE NOW!

  THE FURTHER ADVENTURES

  OF SHERLOCK HOLMES

  THE STAR OF INDIA

  Carole Buggé

  Holmes and Watson find themselves caught up in a complex chessboard of a problem, involving a clandestine love affair and the disappearance of a priceless sapphire. Professor James Moriarty is back to tease and torment, leading the duo on a chase through the dark and dangerous back streets of London and beyond.

  ISBN: 9780857681218

  AVAILABLE NOW!