I did. From the furthest corner of the bench, directly adjacent to the intersection of the two walls, came a very faint white glow.
Holmes took a small envelope from his pocket and very carefully maneuvered the open flap into the workbench corner. Then with a delicate motion, he secured a few softly luminous granules of what appeared to be coarse white powder.
“I believe this to be white phosphorus, Watson,” said Holmes.
I nodded, recalling how we had encountered that substance, known as “the Devil’s element,” five years ago on the moors of Devon, courtesy of our old adversary Mr. Stapleton. One of the notable properties of white phosphorous is to emit a pale yellow-green glow in the presence of air, until it has become oxidized. Another is to disrupt human neural functions, causing the rapid onset of paralysis and death.
Holmes closed the envelope. It cast a faint light onto his fingers as he slid it into his shirt pocket.
“Do you think Worth plans somehow to poison the attendees of the meeting?”
“It is a possibility, but I should like to have more facts before making a hypothesis. You know my methods.”
The lantern’s beam found the door briefly before Holmes extinguished it. “We are finished here,” Holmes said. “Our cab should be waiting for us at the Cranford Road.”
Keeping to the grassy edge of the driveway we walked quickly out to the West Common Road and headed east for the cab, which was some four blocks away. Above the trees of the Common I could see the eastern sky, barely beginning to lighten with the approaching sun. The air was quiet as we walked, Holmes at my right side and slightly ahead. Our preparations to appear as late-night revelers returning home seemed to have been pointless, as we had not seen a soul for the entire fifteen minutes’ time we had spent at the Worth estate.
I felt weary and disappointed. I do not know what Holmes had expected to find—sawdust, I supposed, was the evidence that would have been most valuable—but plainly such evidence was not to be had. The house had been abandoned for at least a year, I thought. Since I knew that the unfortunate Mr. Foster had been asphyxiated by chloroform rather than poisoned by white phosphorous, I could not make any connection to his murder from the desolation we had seen at Worth’s apparently abandoned estate.
Then, as we walked, I saw Holmes’s top hat fly off. In the same instant I heard something strike the trunk of a large tree in front of us, and suddenly we were showered with fragments of wood and bark.
Stunned, I gazed at the tree, and saw a small white crater, about the size of an orange, that had been gouged from the bark and the wood beneath.
“Run, Watson,” Holmes said quietly. “Take off your hat, and run for the cab. Stay between the trees if you can.”
We ran. We ran until my lungs burned and my heart nearly burst within me. Holmes, always the faster, stayed ahead even in this instance when burdened with his satchel, every now and then looking back over his shoulder to be sure I was still behind. After what seemed an eternity I saw our hansom cab on the roadway at the bottom of the hill, and the driver with the horse, standing at the ready. My relief was even greater when we reached the cab and Holmes was beside me.
“Waterloo Station, if you please,” said Holmes. “As quickly as possible!”
As we scrambled into the cab and took our seats, I turned to Holmes. “Waterloo? Why are we going there?”
There was a long silence as Holmes watched through the window. Then, apparently satisfied that we were not being pursued, he turned to me.
“Because I found what I expected to find, and I have proven what I had expected to prove.”
“But Holmes!” I protested. “Other than what may be a poisonous white powder, you found nothing!”
“Nothing is what I expected to find.”
The clatter of the iron-shod cab wheels seemed to grow louder. I shook my head, trying to gather my thoughts, feeling the familiar mix of chagrin and admiration that so often resulted from association with my old friend.
“I should have known you would say something like that.”
“Dear old Watson. Please. Cast your recollection back to what you saw in Mr. Worth’s mansion. Do you recall that there was a heavy cover of ordinary dust throughout?”
I nodded.
“And no footprints? No sign of recent activity?”
“Yes, and I am perfectly capable of deducing that therefore no one except rodents had entered the mansion from the front or from the back. But Holmes, there was no sawdust! Not in the mansion, nor in the carriage house.”
“Ah, the carriage house. Please recollect what you saw there.”
“It was empty. No carriage. Only a shelf and a workbench with some tools.”
“And on the floor?”
I strained my memory. “The floor was concrete. That is all that I remember.”
“Was there silver sand on the floor, such as would ordinarily been brought in on the wheels of a carriage?”
“The floor was bare.”
“And the shelf and workbench and the tools?”
“They were clean.” A realization began to dawn on me.
“They were remarkably clean, in comparison with the house. And they had been attended to recently, judging from the odor of turpentine that still lingered. The floor had been carefully swept. And outside, in front of the entrance, there were no tracks, either of footprints or carriage wheels. Do you not find that significant?”
“I had thought that the carriage house had not been used for some time.”
“And that someone had flown up to its entrance, hovered there to open the door, entered, cleaned the tools, swept the floor, and then left, closing the door behind, without making footprints?”
Embarrassed, I tried to defend my position. “He might have come though the connecting door to the main house.”
“Also without making footprints as he entered or left the main house?”
My fatigue and irritation were evident as I replied, “Of course when you put it that way it sounds completely absurd. But I am tired and hungry and I fear not in a frame of mind to draw logical conclusions just at this moment. Will you not tell me what you have deduced?”
“Certainly, my dear fellow. I observed that the sand of the driveway, now being smooth, had been raked all the way to the front turnaround. I deduced that someone drove to the front turnaround, got out, walked to the carriage house, cleaned the tools and whatever sawdust had been created on or near the carpenter’s lathe and workbench, swept the floor, and left the building, taking with him a rake which he used to smooth the driveway sand behind him. Having reached the turnaround, he then got into the carriage with the rake and drove away.”
I saw it all in my mind’s eye. My fatigue vanished. Excitedly I said, “And the rake would also obliterate any signs of Mr. Foster’s dragging heels as his murderers took away his body.”
“You have it, Watson. Now, why should the murderers believe that it was necessary to remove the sawdust and obliterate the heel tracks, if they were taking the body some four miles away to Westminster Bridge, and preparing to drop it into the Thames?”
“They would only believe it was necessary if they knew that sawdust and silver sand had been found on Mr. Foster’s body.”
He nodded. “Add that information to this”—Holmes held up his top hat, displaying the holes in either side—“and we now have our evidence to prove that in the meeting room at the Diogenes Club last night, there was a traitor.”
Once again, I saw. “A traitor who revealed what you said there—that we had left our rooms at Baker Street, and that we would be coming to Mr. Worth’s estate to look for the silver sand and sawdust either last night or this morning.” A further thought sprang to my now-awakened mind. “And I believe it was Colonel Moran whom the traitor told of our intentions.”
“Why?”
“From the weapon, I think i
t obvious. We heard no report of an ordinary rifle, so he used a silent air gun. The hole in the tree was nearly the size of an orange, indicating that he used an exploding bullet. That is the modus operandi of Colonel Moran.”
“Very good, Watson. And we shall learn more of the colonel in a few hours when we reach our destination.”
“Are we not going home to Baker Street?” I am afraid my voice showed some of the fatigue and longing for rest that our past two days had instilled in me.
“We are going west, to the county of Devon.”
“That is a four-hour journey!”
“Nevertheless we shall make it, and then we shall return for our report to the Prime Minister. I regret the strain on you, but we have, as you know, overriding obligations.” His voice softened. “Watson, we must learn how Colonel Moran escaped from Dartmoor. Unless we uncover the organization that aided Moran, we cannot prevent the cataclysmic tragedy that they are most assuredly planning.”
PART TWO
TREASON AND PLOT
20. A JOURNEY TO DARTMOOR
A few hours later I stared with half-unseeing gaze at the Hampshire County landscape, a pastiche of green pastures, brown hillsides, and occasional white cottages speeding by outside the window of our first-class carriage. At Waterloo Station we had placed our top hats and evening capes into a storage locker along with Holmes’s satchel, from which Holmes had produced our less-conspicuous brown tweeds. Before we boarded the 7:05 that would take us to Princetown Station and Dartmoor, we had enough time to purchase copies of the morning papers and then, at the railway buffet, hot meat pies and bottled ginger beer. In our compartment I had been gratified to see Holmes methodically devour his portion. Lulled by the rhythm of the steel wheels after departure, I had dozed off, then awakened, read some of the news in the Daily Chronicle, and then fallen into the reverie of the railway traveler who is still many miles from his destination and is not yet ready to think about what he will do upon his arrival.
Holmes’s voice startled me. “Thirty-two minutes, Watson.”
He then closed his watch and produced a page of typescript from his inside coat pocket, along with a folded map of the area. “We have thirty-two minutes until we arrive at Princetown Station. I suggest we employ the next five in studying this report from the prison officials to the Commissioner concerning the colonel’s escape. It is an official report and therefore unlikely to prove conclusive, but it may be useful nonetheless. We can then look over the map and decide on how best to proceed.”
Hard steel wheels clattered on hard steel rails. Holmes and I reviewed the report and studied the map. Then he lit his pipe, closed his eyes, and was silent for the remainder of our journey.
We arrived in the small village of Princetown shortly after eleven, under a cloudy sky, at a deserted railway station. Deserted, that is, but for a gray-bearded man in a drab green cloak, who sat hunched on the waiting bench puffing away at a meerschaum pipe. At Holmes’s direction, we remained on the platform in order to ascertain that we were the only two passengers to alight. The old man surveyed us up and down while we waited, evidently wondering if the porter would offload some luggage of ours that would require his assistance. Of course we had no luggage and no reason to employ him. Soon the train chugged off again on its way to Plymouth. The old fellow heaved himself to his feet and, bent over, walked away toward the station entrance with that shuffling gait characteristic of the aged.
Owing to the town’s proximity to the sea, the November chill had a moist, raw quality, and I was grateful that our first destination was the nearby parish church, a simple stone structure, where the Sunday service of Morning Prayer and Holy Communion was under way. There were nearly fifty worshippers present. From our pew at the rear of the church I could see only the backs of them, so it was impossible to identify the man we hoped to interview, a Mr. Dodson, the chief warden of Dartmoor. Indeed, I worried that Mr. Dodson would not be in attendance. Though his position as chief official for the major employer in the parish would naturally suggest that he set a good example for the other parishioners, he might have come to the early service, or be occupied with other matters and planning to attend later, at Evensong.
For his part, Holmes seemed entirely sanguine. We had less than four hours to spend in Princetown if we were to catch the return train to London in time to keep our appointment with the Prime Minister and his committee. Yet as the service went on, he seemed content to follow along with the other worshippers. He recited the prayers from the prayer book. He listened respectfully to the vicar’s sermon, which made the point that the unknowable purposes of the Divine could cause good to come from even such a dreadful event as the 1812 wars with Napoleon and America, since the construction of this very church had been performed by French and American prisoners of that conflict. The reference to a war with America made me all the more unsettled. The explosion of the bomb at the hospital still haunted me. I worried that while we were here in Princetown, back in London Worth and Moran were now armed with more than a ton of dynamite and were plotting to turn England’s hope for a stronger American alliance into an incident of divisive horror.
But Holmes remained serene. He even sang the refrains of the hymns in his strong tenor, as though he took pleasure in every word. Then, when the time came for us to go to the altar to receive the bread and wine of Communion, he got to his feet and, to my surprise, indicated I should emulate him.
We walked down the aisle, still wrapped in our tweed cloaks, not wishing to call attention to the evening attire that we, of course, still wore beneath them. We knelt at the altar rail and held out our hands, palms up in the prescribed manner, to receive the Sacrament. I was then further surprised to see, from the corner of my eye, that Holmes’s open hands held a small white card on which something had been written.
The vicar was approaching, moving smoothly down the line of kneeling worshippers in his black robe and embroidered white surplice, murmuring the incantation. As he came to stand before Holmes, I saw the vicar’s eyes widen momentarily at the sight of the card, but then he placed the Communion wafer in Holmes’s palm and took up the card without so much as a pause in his chanted intonation of the scripture, as if to receive a message at the Communion altar might have been an everyday occurrence for him. As he moved on to stand in front of me, he pressed the white wafer into my palm with his thumb. The murmur of his chant never varied as he smoothly tucked the card into his surplice. In his eyes, however, I caught a glimmer of excitement.
21. INTERVIEW WITH A VICAR
In a few minutes’ time the service concluded. We filed out with the other attendees, the vicar greeting us from his accustomed position in the church doorway. He gave us each a cordial handshake and nod of greeting indistinguishable from his greeting to the other parishioners, but followed by a barely audible request that we wait for him in the vestry office that adjoined the church. This we did. It was seventeen minutes past noon by my pocket watch when the vicar joined us. We had less than three hours before our train would leave.
He shook our hands again, this time vigorously. “What a wonderful surprise, Mr. Holmes.” An energetic young man with bright blue eyes, ruddy cheeks, and curly red hair, he continued to speak as he shrugged out of his robe and surplice, hung them up in a small oaken wardrobe, and then donned the black coat typical of the Anglican clergy. His words tumbled out in a rapid stream. They were nearly as rapid as a recitation of the liturgy, but of course with more spontaneous feeling. “Even as one who deals in resurrection on a regular basis, I find myself amazed to see you! I will not ask what miracle allowed you to survive the ordeal that Dr. Watson described in The Strand Magazine, though I should love to hear what happened.”
“Someday I may write of it,” I responded politely.
“Oh, I hope so. In this part of the country we treasure all of the published accounts. But Mr. Holmes, I must say that here you are even more renowned for ending the famous curs
e of the Baskervilles. Sir Henry has told me something of the matter—he has now a son and heir whom I had the honor of christening last Whitsuntide—and I do hope that one day we may have the pleasure of reading of that adventure as well, Dr. Watson, if you have the time to—”
Recalling the Baskerville case, I felt a chill, for that affair had been one of the few instances in which Holmes had underestimated the murderous capacity of his opponent. I had been reluctant to share that adventure with the public, because Holmes’s error had very nearly led to the death of our client. I could only hope that the vicar’s words were not an omen foreshadowing a similar mistake, one that would lead to disastrous consequences.
The vicar must have seen my apprehension, for he gave me an embarrassed nod and looked down for a moment. Then his gaze turned to Holmes. “But Mr. Holmes, you cannot be here to talk about something that happened six years ago. You have come all this way because of Colonel Moran’s escape.”
“Quite correct,” said Holmes.
“I thought so. A most malevolent individual. I have seen him on the occasions when I officiated at the mandatory chapel services. Judging from his stark and unfeeling gaze throughout, he is entirely devoid of remorse. It was unnerving to think that he escaped. And what a shameful lapse in competency by the prison officials! Warden Dodson’s absence—he has been away attending to his sick mother in Liverpool these past three weeks—may be something of an explanation, but it is certainly no excuse. But, see, here again in my excitement I am talking too much. Gentlemen, please, my apologies. How can I help you?”
“We are here in an official capacity, but we would like to make our inquiries in an indirect manner. Scotland Yard is already investigating through the regular channels. We have an official report, but that is quite inconclusive. You may have heard details through conversations with your parishioners that may be helpful.”
“I understand completely. I am entirely at your service.”
The Last Moriarty Page 8
