Precisely at two o’clock in the afternoon we began. I was part of the first arrests, the opening moves in a gambit designed to draw the old spider out from the safety of his hiding holes. Holmes listed the officers to be engaged, the detectives whose careers had inspired special attention from the master criminal himself. There was pride in such a selection. Patterson was in charge of the entire endeavor, Holmes was aware of the Yard’s politics, he studied it just as he had educated himself in so many other fields, but those of us who had earned the unflattering notice of the Professor were not forgotten. Gregson, Jones, Bradstreet and myself, all figured prominently in Holmes’ great plan.
The first arrests went well, exactly as planned. As the day faded more arrests were made, more prisoners streaming into our gaols, efficiently followed by the paperwork tracking each one. There would be no mistakes. We were well into our harvest by sundown and by midnight our efforts were taking on the aspect of legend. Not a one of us felt anything but satisfaction, pride and confidence. Following Holmes we were unstoppable.
Midnight found me in one of the underground lairs the Professor favored for his darkest deeds. I had read Holmes’ instructions for this raid and puzzled over the number in the lower left corner. A small, seemingly random notation reading fifty-six percent. Written in another’s hand it would have been meaningless, a bit of ink-stained flotsam which had crept onto the immaculate, crisp surface of the paper. Being in Holmes’ hand indicated it was deliberate, a puzzle which I might, or might not, unravel at the scene. With this small riddle in my mind I lead a squad of men under the earth and discovered a palace. A sewer which seemed more a rich man’s private railway car than a cave, the gas-lamps casting a warm glow over the polished brass and wood of the chamber.
And there he stood, the spider himself. Three other well dressed gentlemen clustered about him, planets orbiting a dark star. All turned when the door opened and I announced our arrival. For just an instant I was granted the distinct pleasure of seeing the Professor’s features twist in a grimace of honest surprise. Perhaps the only honest emotion to ever flicker across those brooding features.
Holmes was many things, but he was not one given to poetry. Yet when he described Moriarty to me his description was unusual for the master detective. Normally Holmes’ descriptions were straight to the point, five foot four, slightly overweight, auburn hair, fair skin, walks with a limp, scar on the palm of the right hand, wears his moustache in this style, parts his hair on the left, right or middle, purchases his shoes from this or that shop. Yet practicality failed Holmes when he spoke of the Professor.
“You will know him, Lestrade,” Holmes assured me. “When you see him, you will know him. The evil mind contained within that balding head shines a malicious light through his sunken eyes. He is tall, thin, a man who appears incapable of enjoying the vices he provides to others. You will know him and you will instantaneously dislike him. Were you unprepared you would doubt your reaction, it would seem too visceral to be trusted and your mind would seek some escape from feelings so strong. But you are ready and surely you know enough of the Professor to know he is worthy of your loathing.”
As he so often was, Holmes was correct. I saw that thin, joyless man twitch in surprise and felt instant satisfaction. It lasted only a heartbeat before the Professor’s surprise shifted into an ugly sneer. He reached out and pulled a lever, obviously expecting something to happen. We had been warned by Holmes’ pen and the escape Moriarty sought was blocked.
One of the Professor’s guests tried for a door at the far end of the room but found it locked as well. The Professor’s scowl deepened frightfully. He reached under his frock coat and I pushed my squad back as the spider’s revolver emerged. A shot came my way, deafening in the enclosed room. Pungent smoke clouded the atmosphere but I could still see the Professor, watch as he turned the weapon on the first of his three companions. I don’t believe the Professor’s guest saw the pistol swing towards him. He remained unaware of the threat even as the bullet entered his skull. Behind me one of the squad gasped in surprise. I moved forward but was forced to duck as the revolver swung again in my direction. I felt that bullet as it passed my ear and witnessed the next shot impact the wall behind me.
Looking up I saw the Professor turn the weapon towards another of his guests, but this man, having seen the fate of the Professor’s other guest, jumped away as the Professor fired at him. It was only a partial escape. Twisting out of the bullet’s trajectory caused his foot to slip on a section of floor made slick by the lifeblood escaping the Professor’s first victim. He fell.
The Professor had loosed five shots. Only one shot remained. Seeing the Professor lunge at his fallen guest I expected to hear the fatal shot sound. Instead I heard a gasping sound and the splash of blood as it landed on the floor. The Professor stood, knife in one hand, pistol in the other. Madness shone in his evil eyes as he flung the knife in my direction. I managed to dodge the weapon even as the Professor raised his pistol, turned the barrel to his own chest and pulled the trigger.
The old spider fell backwards. Blood splattered and dripped from the wall behind where he had stood, giving evidence of his final shot’s accuracy. He was dead. Dead by his own hand. Seeing the grave as his only escape he had hesitated only long enough to murder two of his three companions. The third companion was motionless, his fine clothes stained with a volume of blood which only moments before would have been unimaginable.
We took him easily, the man was too shocked to resist. I searched the room, taking what evidence seemed important, remembering Holmes’ instructions to secure a label to each item I took. What secrets had the Professor’s companions been killed to preserve? I couldn’t begin to guess, that was work for tomorrow. Tonight it was enough to bear the body of our vanquished foe back into the moonlight. Had I a pike I would gladly have impaled the Professor’s head upon it while singing songs of triumph all the way back to headquarters. At this point the meaning of Holmes’ strange notation, the fifty-six percent he had scribbled in the margin, became clear. By Holmes’ reckoning there had been — at the time he had calculated the odds — a fifty-six percent chance the Professor would be waiting in this hole at the time the raid was scheduled.
And the great detective had placed the honor of those favorable odds with me. I was flattered. Given all that happened that night I can only look back on the hours following the Professor’s death with wonder. Was that me, walking through the night with such confidence? Me, seeing the respect in all those who turned my way? Surely it was someone else who took that body to the morgue and waited while the police surgeon pronounced what we all knew. Never had I felt so powerful, so accomplished, so confident. Yet that confidence was to shatter so quickly and all I had achieved that night would be stolen from me. In ways I could not even imagine, in a manner I still cannot understand, everything I felt then would curdle, sour and sicken.
I swear this though: Moriarty was dead. In this there was no trickery. I breathed the commingled scents of gunpowder and spilt blood, I saw the wound in his chest that had ruined his fine coat, I carried his still body. The ‘Napoleon of Crime’ was no more.
After the Spider’s fall there still remained more work to be done. The final stage of Holmes’ great plan for the night. Small, petty criminals to be rounded up, convictions for literally thousands of felonies would be based on the evidence we collected before sunrise. Never one to let an opportunity go unexploited Holmes had plans for raids into dozens of establishments, rounding up hundreds more before the night was through.
As the clock struck three I found myself again descending into the nether world of London, a squad at my back and villains before me. Again I was guided beneath the earth by Holmes’ pen, though by this time his instructions were less certain. Perhaps an opium den, perhaps a brothel, perhaps nothing more than a meeting place for the Professor’s favorites, we had no idea what lay hidden down there but we were determined to find out.
The size of the chamb
er was curious; I remember looking forward to discussing the matter with Holmes when he returned. Had the Professor commanded the chambers excavated or were they the remnants of some forgotten civil project? A wide ledge overlooking a grand hall. Flickering gaslight flames cast a warm, almost friendly light on the brickwork, tables … and the cages below. For a moment — just a moment — all seemed, well, normal isn’t the correct word, nor does the word natural fit. Let me just say that all appeared to belong to the same world I had known outside the chamber, the world where a man was a man and the laws of nature were immutable. I was so very wrong…
The bird was the first thing I noticed. It sat unhappily in its cage. Its dark feathers gave it a distinguished mien but there was something odd about the shape of its head. The skull was too large for a raven’s body, too round and then there were its eyes…. My stomach seemed to fall as I noticed the eyes; a cold sweat dampened my clothing and suddenly my mouth felt dry. The raven looked at me with the hazel eyes of child — a human child. Understanding gleamed in those depths, a sad intelligence I found profoundly unsettling in such a humble creature.
Jenkins, a reliable old sergeant, stood at my side. The rest of the squad waited in the passage behind us. I waved to Jenkins, who in turn signaled the others to wait where they were. Stepping up to the cage I opened a hatch there and reached in to pull out the bird for closer examination. Pecking at my hand, digging its beak painfully into the soft flesh between my thumb and forefinger, the creature escaped my grasp with a flutter and was gone. Disappearing into the shadows above, camouflaged by its sable feathers, I thought — hoped — I would never see such a creature again. I cannot stress enough how disturbed I was by those child’s eyes and the tortured intelligence I saw within them.
Yet the raven’s cage was only the first of many. Beside it stood the bars of a cell, a woman locked within. She was turned away from me, as if hiding some shame from my sight. Her hair was red, her form generously female beneath an unremarkable dress. I called to her, but she did not answer, did not turn. Looking about I saw a key hanging from a hook set in the brick wall, out of the woman’s reach. It seemed the sort of action Moriarty would take, allowing his prisoner to see the key to freedom but placing it just out of reach. I took the key and, voicing assurances to the captive, I unlocked her cage.
Even as I pulled open the cage door I knew I had made an error. This place was no simple brothel, no illicit meeting hall, but something profoundly more disturbing. Opening the cage door required unusual force and I heard something shift behind the walls. One of the Professor’s traps had been sprung. Jenkins, who was looking over a railing into the main chamber below, called out softly:
“Oh my Lord.”
I followed his gaze. Below us were cells like the one I had unlocked, cages containing what seemed to be people and beasts. Yet the line where the animal nature began and that of man ended was horribly blurred and indistinct. There were traces of chemicals in the air, strange scents such as I had never smelled before, and I confess I wanted desperately to deny the scene before me. It was as if the flesh of men were clay to be shaped into whatever form the master of the hellish place sought. Men blended with animals, men combined with machines, I saw what seemed to be a short, fat man of extremely pale complexion with what appeared to be a strong box imbedded in his chest. A young girl covered in a fox’s red fur, her small pointed teeth snapping at us from between the bars of her cell, a naked man whose head had been replaced by leathery wings, a walrus pulling itself along with two muscular arms. As I watched I saw the water begin to flow, a great tide which would drown them all. Even if we could get down there, even if we had keys to open the cages, would we have had the nerve to release those tortured souls? Insanity waited down there, as clear as their warped forms, their misery and madness were even more apparent. As their flesh had been broken so too had their minds been shattered, and in all honesty, who could blame them? One quick glance was all it took to see that they had suffered beyond what even the stoutest of our race could hope to endure. The rushing water would cleanse this place even as it extinguished the burning gaslights.
There was not much time.
I stood in the entrance to the cell, blocking the escape of the woman within. I turned, dazed by what I had seen, and noted for the first time her true nature. Her skin was pale green, lightly scaled like that of a reptile. Her yellow eyes were inhuman but there was a cold gleam of awareness from within them. Slits dilated where a nose should have been. Her lipless mouth was open and the sharp points of her teeth glistened whitely as a forked tongue tasted the air. Her sensuous form writhed curiously as I stared at the tumble of red hair which swept back from her brow. Watching her I wondered if she had once been a woman who had the aspect of the reptile forced upon her or if it had been the other way around. I knew not, nor did it really matter.
She had been placed at the entrance as a trap and I had fallen for it completely. Upon entering such a place what man could resist freeing what seemed a helpless woman? My gallantry had let loose the waters which extinguished the lights in the place. Jenkins stood by the railing, his eyes focused on horrors too numerous to recount. I stood before the reptile woman, knowing her fangs could well be my end. We stood thus for a heartbeat, maybe two or three. As the moment lengthened and it became clear the woman was not going to strike at me, I called to Jenkins.
“We need to get out of this place, now, before we are all drowned.”
His eyes wide and haunted, Jenkins looked at me as if not understanding. I repeated my instructions and he blinked, glanced at the rising water below, then turned and fled, screaming his fear into the tunnel before him.
“Out! Out!” I called to the squad, their ashen faces turned to follow their fleeing sergeant. The retreat was not an orderly one, they practically fell over one another in their rush to return to the surface. I stepped forward to follow and then hesitated.
Turning back, I extended a hand towards the creature in the cage. Her gaze fell on my hand and then flicked to my face.
“Come on,” I urged. “It’s not safe here.”
In retrospect it was a foolish thing to say. That chamber had never been safe. Still, the woman stepped forward, refusing my hand, but following. More lights went out with a hiss; the chill of the rushing water filled the chamber as we departed together. I moved through the dark passage, followed by the sound of rushing water and her footsteps. At some point she left me. Once I became cognizant of her absence I hesitated, calling into the darkness for her, but heard nothing except the echo of my own voice. I had climbed out of danger, but I was anxious for the open air and the sight of stars above me. I left.
The squad waited for me on the street, their hands helping to pull me up and out of the hole. Sergeant Jenkins was gone, though one of the squad assured me, he had made his way up to street level. Good lads, all of them. They asked me what I had seen down there, what had affected the solid Jenkins so profoundly. I looked down into the darkness of the hole, straining for a glimpse of her, but gave them no answer.
I ordered them back to headquarters. The night was almost through but they would need to check-in so that they could be properly paid. Looking up at the stars I thought I saw a flutter of dark feathers and shuddered. They asked me where I was going. I explained that I would look for Jenkins. They were satisfied by my lie and left me to my own devices.
Knowing Jenkins was long gone I hurried on to the morgue. An anger had taken root, enflaming my mind with a rage such as I had never felt before. Holmes had no idea what had awaited us in that subterranean chamber, but he had known enough. Whatever those horrors had been they belonged to the Professor. Even knowing the old Spider was dead did nothing to soothe the rage burning within me. I went to the morgue.
His body lay naked on a metal gurney. The police surgeon’s examination was complete. Laid out naked there was little doubt as to what had killed the old villain. Powder burns on his hands offered further clarification. I stepped up to the
table, fists clenched, my thoughts enduring spasms within the prison of my skull. At some point in that long night I had taken a knife from one of those I had arrested, an unremarkable length of sharpened metal. I felt it in my jacket pocket and I reached for it. With quickness, and a savagery I had not known I was capable of, I plunged the blade into the dead man’s neck.
Pulling out the blade, I struck again in nearly the same spot.
Moriarty’s eyes sprang open and looked at me dully. I fell back, leaving the length of the blade still embedded in the Spider’s throat. No one in my work can afford to be unfamiliar with the ways of the dead. Eyelids might pull open but the eyes within did not move in death. The Professor’s chill flesh was devoid of life yet some other power infused it. Alone in the morgue I watched as the Professor sat up, swung his legs over the gurney’s edge and stood. His head twitched and oscillated briefly from side to side. I swear the knife was still fatally embedded in his throat yet it did not seem to trouble him. Without a sound, the dead man walked past me and out of the room.
I am not ashamed to say I huddled in the darkness for an instant, unmanned by my fear. Crouching there I felt the edge of my sanity and the beginning of the abyss which lay beyond. Dark as that drowned chamber, chill as the river in December, mad as Jenkins screaming in the night, such a future waited for me unless I remained still in the shadows. My mind wanted no part of any further happenings this night.
Gaslight Grotesque: Nightmare Tales of Sherlock Holmes Page 18
