The Last Moriarty

by Charles Veley

  Another quite maddening flutter through the papers ensued. Then, “The Isle of Dogs. He has an arrangement with the West India Company.”

  “And did he purchase the yacht?”

  “He leases it through a subsidiary company. We had a bit of difficulty making the connection, but it is virtually certain that the company is wholly owned by Worth, for he personally guaranteed the lease. Since late September of this year.”

  Mycroft said thoughtfully, “A large empty house and a yacht, not far from one another. A criminal organization might meet quietly in either or both locations.”

  “Oh, dear,” said Perkins.

  “We do not mean to alarm you,” said Holmes. “Your information is very helpful. But I should like to understand one thing. If Mr. Worth were to come into possession of a substantially large sum of money—say, hundreds of thousands of pounds, or more likely the equivalent in a foreign currency—would you have a way to know it?”

  “We have a reliable network among our banking fraternity,” said Perkins. “So if Mr. Worth were to deposit a cash sum of such magnitude in one of his accounts, I am quite sure I would be able to learn of the circumstances.” His face clouded. “However, such a large amount of cash is generally bulky, and for that reason rarely found in a personal transaction. Might I ask if you could tell me the type of transaction you are, dare I say, expecting?”

  “Let us say a foreign power wishes to send a substantial payment to Mr. Worth for a substantial service.”

  Perkins blinked rapidly. “Then that payment could be sent via diplomatic channels. But as I noted, the cash form would be bulky and therefore inconvenient. It is more likely that payment would be sent in the form of a bearer bond.”

  “Why?”

  “A bearer bond is as anonymous as cash, but as easy to transport as a single piece of paper. The Americans invented them when they needed investment funds to rebuild their cities after their civil war. A bond of one million pounds could be carried in an envelope in a gentleman’s inside pocket. Mr. Worth could take that with him to whatever country he chose and be assured of payment at virtually any bank, without having to show any identification.”

  “And a London bank, as well? He could proceed with anonymity?”

  “Provided he did not want to create an account to deposit the bond—or the cash, as it would become, of course. If he was not known to the bank when he went in, he would remain anonymous when he went out.”

  Perkins’s small dark eyes took on an imaginative gleam as he continued, “Worth could carry an inconspicuous satchel, have it filled with hundred-pound notes at the bank, and then go to that empty estate house of his, or that yacht, and parcel out the cash to his accomplices, and no one would know. You would have to follow him, or post watchmen every day at each of the city’s three-hundred-odd banks, in order to have an inkling of such a transaction, and even then he might simply travel to Manchester, or to Leeds, or anywhere else to cash in his bond.”

  Holmes shut his eyes briefly in a gesture I was sure indicated his exasperation. Then he stood. “Mr. Perkins, you have been most helpful. We will intrude upon your patience no longer.”

  As we left, we passed the room where the clerks still stood, cranking away at their tall black boxes. My curiosity prevailed and I asked Perkins what they were doing. “They are weighing gold sovereigns,” came the reply. “Each machine can process thirty-three sovereigns in one minute, separating out those of short weight from those with full value. Every month nearly one million sovereigns are judged by these machines, and nearly a third, being found short, are sent to the furnaces to be melted and recast.”

  He gave a brief, pious smile. “Each time I pass this room I think of the judgment day that will come to each of us, and pray that my soul will not be found wanting and sent to the furnaces when it is weighed in the balance by our Maker.”

  “A most worthy sentiment, Mr. Perkins,” said Holmes. “By the way,” he said as we stopped beneath the soaring high ceiling domes of the magnificent front hall, “you are no doubt aware that I am engaged by Mr. Rockefeller?”

  “I believe Chancellor Hicks Beach mentioned it.”

  “Mr. Rockefeller is considering a large transaction that would require financing here in London. Several days ago he sent his American agent, one Mr. Foster, to determine a suitable location in which the necessary negotiations might be conducted.”

  Perkins’s gaze flickered momentarily upward and over Holmes’s shoulder, in the direction of the imposing cantilever staircase. “I do not recall meeting that gentleman.”

  “Would you be able to arrange a suitable meeting room here at the bank? One where a group of, let us say, twelve gentlemen might confer, and with three or four adjacent smaller rooms, where each of the principals might confer with his own staff and advisors?”

  “Such arrangements are made by a different department here. But I would be happy to make the introductions, and to help in any way I possibly can.”

  “Your cooperation is much appreciated,” said Holmes, and we took our leave.

  When we four were all outside, Mycroft said, “It was as well that Chancellor Hicks Beach did not attend. We should otherwise have been subjected to even more of Perkins’s sycophantic ardor.”

  Holmes nodded. “Though I think he did provide some useful information.”

  “He knows the location of Mr. Rockefeller’s meeting.” As I struggled to understand, Mycroft continued, “Have you seen Moran, Sherlock?”

  “No. But I would not expect him to show himself in my presence.”

  “You should stay away from Baker Street. I have made arrangements for you and Watson to stay at the Diogenes Club. There are rooms available on the top floor.”

  “Watson and I are grateful.”

  Holmes turned to Lestrade. “Now, what was the news you spoke of?”

  “Oh, yes, Mr. Holmes. This morning we at Scotland Yard also learned of Mr. Worth’s estate in Clapham Common. I had one of my men take a look. In the carriage drive he found silver sand.”

  17. A TRAP IS BAITED

  At the Diogenes Club shortly thereafter, the Prime Minister, the Commissioner, and Clevering sat with Baron Halsbury, Lord Goschen, Mycroft, and Lestrade around the great walnut table in the south library as Holmes and I entered. Shelves surrounded us, filled to the thirty-foot-high ceiling and representing the wisdom and dreams of thousands of our predecessors.

  “You have been to the Bank of England.” Clevering’s tone was polite, but guarded. “We should like to know who you spoke with at the Bank and what you may have learned.”

  Holmes looked toward the Prime Minister, and at that gentleman’s nod, replied, “The chief clerk indicated that the bank might be the location of a meeting with Mr. Rockefeller next week. You must change the location.”

  “Why?” asked the Prime Minister.

  “I have three reasons for the recommendation. First, because an assassin formerly employed by the Moriarty gang has escaped, undoubtedly with the help of a criminal organization similar to the late Professor’s. Second, because Mr. Foster, Mr. Rockefeller’s man in charge of security, visited the bank less than twenty-four hours before he was murdered. And third, because I believe that a man named Adam Worth is connected with both the escape of the assassin and the murder of Mr. Foster.”

  “Who is this assassin?”

  “Colonel Sebastian Moran. I was responsible for placing him in the dock.”

  “Are you in danger?” asked Clevering.

  “I have left my rooms on Baker Street and shall be staying elsewhere.”

  I wondered briefly at this statement, because I knew that we had not left our rooms.

  “Have you any evidence to support a connection between Mr. Foster and this Mr. Worth?”

  “Inspector Lestrade has unearthed what I believe to be a valuable clue. I propose to follow it up, ei
ther tonight or early tomorrow morning.”

  “What clue?” asked Clevering.

  Holmes nodded to Lestrade, who said, “We found silver sand in the driveway of a house belonging to Mr. Worth.”

  “What bearing does that have?”

  Holmes spoke patiently, as though to a child. “You may recall when we met last evening, I mentioned that silver sand had been discovered on the socks and inside the shoes of Mr. Foster.”

  “Do not patronize me,” said Clevering. “And as for changing the location, remember we are dealing with Americans of the highest station and enormous influence, each of whom possesses several grand estates and cannot be expected to take direction from a consulting detective who lives in a rented flat.”

  “Mind your tongue, Clevering,” said the Prime Minister. “It is imperative that Mr. Rockefeller be able to conduct business in safety whenever he is on British soil.”

  Baron Halsbury rapped his knuckles hard upon the table, as though calling for order in his courtroom. “Speaking of our American friends, I think we must also inform Mr. Holmes of the evening’s entertainment we have arranged to inaugurate the meeting. Mr. Morgan has offered the use of the Corsair, his personal yacht, and will provide a sumptuous banquet for the occasion. Mr. Carnegie has kindly offered to pay all the expenses for the entertainers. The performance is certain to please our guests, because its subject matter already enjoys great popularity in America.”

  The others nodded their assent. Holmes asked, “And who are the entertainers?”

  “They are an established British cultural institution that represents our leadership in the world, including our sense of humor as well as our appreciation for beauty. I am sure you have heard of them, Mr. Holmes. We shall all be entertained—I might even say captivated—by Mr. D’Oyly Carte’s Savoy Theatre opera troupe.”

  “And where will the Corsair be located for the troupe’s performance?”

  “West India Docks. Conveniently close to Mr. Rockefeller’s White Star.” Baron Halsbury gave a benevolent smile. “Do not worry, Mr. Holmes. All manner of security arrangements will be employed. Everyone will be perfectly safe.”

  18. A CONFRONTATION WITH A LADY

  Less than an hour later we were at the Savoy Theatre. Holmes had used the telephone at the Diogenes Club to call Mr. Carte’s office, and the usher stationed beside the door was expecting us. We went first to the rehearsal room. Some of the musicians had already begun to gather, chatting and tuning their various instruments. Holmes took in the scene briefly, and then we returned to the stage door entrance.

  We waited inside the doorway with the usher. Soon the door opened and Miss Rosario arrived, carrying her violin case. I wondered briefly whether I ought to have broken my promise and told Holmes of our meeting Friday night.

  Her lovely face paled when she saw Holmes. Her green eyes met mine in what I felt was an indignant accusation. I shook my head, hoping she would realize that I had kept my word.

  Holmes’s face took on a studied impassiveness as he addressed her.

  “Miss Rosario.”

  “Sherlock.”

  “You have my apologies for this unannounced visit. Is there a place where we could speak privately?”

  “There is not.” She walked with us to the end of the passageway, where the usher could no longer hear us. “I shall be late for my rehearsal. Why are you here?”

  Holmes said, “Because of what happened in the county of Kent near the village of Linton Hill, on the seventh of January, 1875.”

  Miss Rosario’s features turned scarlet. She pushed past us and entered the rehearsal room, closing the door behind her in a marked manner.

  19. A DISCOVERY AT CLAPHAM COMMON

  Holmes did not discuss Miss Rosario’s reaction. Nor would he discuss the added complication represented by the entertainment proposed for the Corsair, other than to say that smuggling more than a ton of dynamite onto Mr. Morgan’s private yacht would be a task too difficult for even the Moriarty gang to attempt. From the Savoy we returned to Baker Street for a light supper and a few hours of fitful sleep.

  Half past three the next morning found us in a hansom cab, driving south on Regent Street. The driver was well known to Holmes. The approaching day was of course a Sunday, so at that hour Regent Street was nearly deserted and a goodly portion of the working populace was home enjoying the beginning of a once-weekly day of rest.

  I envied them.

  Despite our precautions Holmes’s features were grave as he scanned the shadowy streets around us. We crossed Westminster Bridge to the Albert Embankment. Then we drove southwest on Wandsworth Road to Lavender Hill. The cab stopped. We climbed out and stood on the pavement amid dark rows of dark houses. Gas lamps were few and far between in this part of the city, but our surroundings were somewhat illuminated by a pale moon.

  After Holmes gave instructions to the driver, we walked briskly due south on the Elspeth Road, taking care to keep clear of shadowy store entrances and alleyways. We wore our evening garments; in white tie, thin-soled shoes, and top hats we would appear to be two gentlemen returning from a very late Saturday evening. Holmes carried a small satchel. There was no fog and no wind, but the chill in the November air cut deeply.

  I wrapped my thin evening cloak closer around me as we came within sight of the dark and far-reaching expanse of Clapham Common. By day the Common was more than 220 open acres of grassland, lake, and shrubbery available to the public. At this hour the Common was a vast, nearly stygian void, almost impenetrable to the eye. My watch put the time at just past five a.m. It would be more than an hour until the sky above that murky panorama began to lighten with the sunrise. By then, I fervently hoped, we would have secured whatever evidence Holmes wanted and would be safely on our way home.

  Holmes touched my arm and indicated a large, three-story brick house behind us, built in the Georgian style. In the faint moonlight I could make out the white-trimmed outlines of its arched front doorway, and the tall bay window on the right side. The house was well set back from the road. To its left was a smaller, squared-off structure that was clearly the carriage house. In front, the moonlight illuminated a wide, curving driveway covered in silver sand.

  “Mr. Worth’s estate,” Holmes said quietly, his lips close to my ear. “Please stay close to me at all times, Watson, and keep your revolver drawn.”

  He walked quickly to the front door. “Notice the tracks,” he said, and indeed I could see the marks of wheels and hoofprints, running in parallel in front, and curving in the direction of the carriage house entrance. I saw no footprints, so evidently Lestrade’s man had not trespassed on the property as Holmes and I were doing. In the doorway he drew a set of picklocks from inside his coat. As I watched nervously for passersby he bent over the door handle for a few moments. Then I heard a clicking sound. The door opened and soon we stood in the vestibule, where the musty, unpleasant smell of a long-abandoned interior enveloped us. I pulled the door closed behind us and held my nose, not wanting to risk the sound of a cough or a sneeze.

  Holmes seemed not to notice. He reached into his satchel and drew out a dark lantern. When he had lit it, he focused the beam on the floor of the front hall. A bleak and gray scene greeted us. The yellow light spread over empty floorboards, all coated with a thick layer of dust. As Holmes lifted the lantern slightly, so that we could see further inside, we saw a grand, curving staircase, its outlines blurred by the gray dust that clung to its wide steps and smooth banisters.

  Holmes closed the lantern’s panel. “It is as well not to leave our footprints for others to find. We will go outside and locate the rear entrance.” In a minute we had done so. Holmes repeated his work with the picklocks.

  This time the unpleasant smell was more pronounced. We were at the back of the house, looking in on what once may have been a working kitchen, but which now was a shambles of pots and pans, stacks of dishes, and va
rious kitchen implements, all gray with dust. Even the lumps of coal in the coal bucket beside the stove were gray. Holmes shone the lantern light forward, revealing a few dust-laden steps leading down to a small root cellar or storage pantry. In its light at the foot of the stairs we could see burlap and canvas sacks that had once held flour or grain, but were now gnawed to bits by rodents. In scattered piles were what may have been the decayed remnants of their contents, mingled with droppings. The cause of the unpleasant smell was now evident.

  Holmes said, “The Worth estate is still a home for vermin, Watson,” and shuttered the lamp. We withdrew. I closed the door behind us, and, grateful for the fresh night air, followed Holmes to the only part of the estate that remained unexplored.

  The carriage house adjoined the main house. It had no rear entry, as we soon discerned. We walked around to the front and saw the white sand of the driveway, smooth and undisturbed from where it joined the circular turnaround at the front of the house, all the way to the large doors through which a carriage might enter. To the left of these was a smaller door. For a third time Holmes busied himself with the picklocks, opened this door, and, after we entered, opened the lantern.

  The carriage house was empty.

  A long workbench stood to one side of the left wall. Some tools hung on the wall above it, and a hand-turned lathe was positioned in front of the side window. I caught the scents of machine oil and spirits of turpentine. The floor was smooth concrete. The lantern’s beam revealed that the workbench had been swept, or wiped, more likely, by turpentine-soaked rags. I saw nothing that would provide a clue to what activity had been taking place.

  Then Holmes directed the lantern’s beam at the side window, away from the workbench. “There, Watson. Do you see?”

  “I see a rather dirty window.”

  “Please turn your attention to the workbench, now that it is in darkness.”