The Last Moriarty

by Charles Veley

  “We are also somewhat pressed for time. Can you tell us what facts you know of the escape?”

  “Ah, yes, facts. Of course. Facts. Well. There is not much news that does not get around in a country village, and when something as momentous as—but that is opinion, to be sure. Well. Facts. As I have heard from numerous sources, Colonel Moran overpowered the guard on duty in his section of the prison, a man named Trent, last Tuesday night. He beat the man senseless, then exchanged clothes with him and left him lying unconscious on his bed, locked in his cell. Moran then walked out when the night shift was replaced with the morning one.”

  “Did no one recognize him?”

  “His physical bearing bore somewhat of a resemblance to the guard. Of course he was at least thirty years older, but he had exercised strenuously in his cell nearly every day and had the physique to show for it.”

  “But Moran’s hair was gray,” I said. My memory still held a vivid image of the colonel, and his hate-filled glare when Holmes had trapped him in the house across from our Baker Street rooms, nearly eighteen months before. “If the guard was thirty years younger, surely he was not gray-haired.”

  “Possibly the light was insufficient. The shifts change at six a.m. and the sun did not rise until nearly an hour later. I am an early riser myself and take notice of the celestial timetable.”

  “Do the guards wear uniform caps?” asked Holmes.

  “Why, yes, they do. That may account for it!”

  “Possibly. Do you know if Mr. Trent wore a mustache similar to Moran’s?”

  “Oh, my.” The vicar shook his head. “Mr. Trent is one of our parishioners, and I know he is clean-shaven. A fine figure of a man, with a full head of coal-black hair. Though rather I should say, he was a fine figure of a man, for he remains quite infirm after his injuries, and his memory of the incident is completely gone, as I understand may be the consequence of such an attack.”

  I affirmed this. “Head trauma can be the cause of amnesia, which can be of short or long duration depending on the case.”

  “I also know poor Trent is greatly distraught over his failure—he may even lose his position, and he has a loving wife and two little girls to support—”

  Holmes interrupted. “Did the morning guard not look into the cell when he made his first rounds?”

  “Yes, but Trent was still in Colonel Moran’s bunk, unconscious. The guard thought the colonel was still sleeping. It was only when the morning guard came to escort Colonel Moran to morning roll call that the escape was made known.”

  Holmes nodded, producing the typewritten report from his inside coat pocket. He consulted the page for a moment. “We are told that morning roll call was at seven and the change of shifts was at six. And that this guard, with his clean-shaven face and coal-black hair, lying on the prisoner’s pallet, was believed to be the gray-haired and gray-mustached Colonel Moran when the morning guard looked in.”

  “He might have remained motionless under his blanket after he had been attacked. He might have still been unconscious due to his injuries,” I volunteered.

  “Possibly. Or he may have been drugged. Or he may have colluded with Moran, and permitted the beating and the exchange of clothes, and then hidden himself under the blanket, to provide Moran more time to make his escape.”

  “Oh, I protest!” said the vicar. “George Trent is a family man, a churchgoing man, and he has a fine reputation in our village. I cannot believe he would ruin his future and jeopardize the welfare of his family by doing such a thing.”

  “Nevertheless, it remains a possibility.”

  The vicar considered this, then asked to see the report. Upon reading it over quickly, he said, “This conforms to what people have been saying. Prior to evening lockup, Moran complained of a fever and stomach distress. Then when Trent was making his rounds, Moran asked to be taken to the infirmary, which was obviously the pretext to induce Trent to open the cell door. But the report omits any mention of the handcuffs.”

  “Indeed?”

  “Yes, though it is hardly a point in Trent’s favor. People have been remarking how unlikely it would be that, when handcuffed, an older man like Moran could overpower a young man in his prime such as George Trent. And yet handcuffs are required when a guard is to be alone with a prisoner as able-bodied and as intractable as Moran, or in this case, to walk with him to the infirmary. So prior to opening the cell door, Trent would have followed the procedure and required Moran to place his wrists through the aperture to receive the handcuffs.”

  “Have you heard whether Trent has said anything about this?”

  “I have only heard that he remembers nothing of the morning’s events.”

  Holmes stood up. “I wonder if you might be kind enough to introduce us to Mr. Trent. It would help me greatly if I might have a brief word with him.”

  22. AN INVALID COMES TO LIFE

  The vicar graciously consented, and within five minutes we had walked the short distance to the small white cottage occupied by the Trent family. Mrs. Trent greeted us at the door, her two little girls clinging to her skirts. Her expression was worried.

  “Hello, Amy,” said the vicar. “These gentlemen have come from London this morning, and one of them is a doctor. Might we be permitted to have a brief visit with George?”

  “He’s still poorly, the dear man,” she said. “You won’t be upsetting him, will you?”

  “We hope to help him,” said Holmes. “We shall only stay a minute or two.”

  As we entered I saw the doorway to a small bedroom, and a reclining figure on the bed.

  Then the younger of the two girls spoke up. “Is Trixie still in Heaven, Father?”

  “I am sure of it,” replied the vicar in a comforting tone. Then he quickly explained for our benefit, “Trixie was the name of the family kitten. She evidently had an unfortunate fall from a tree in the backyard that broke her neck, though none of us can explain why she did not utilize the ability of her species to land on her feet. In any event, we held a little funeral ceremony for her.”

  “When was that?” asked Holmes.

  “Just this past Monday,” replied Mrs. Trent. Then she went on in a hushed voice, “Too many funerals, Vicar.” She glanced meaningfully toward the bedroom. “I pray we will not have a third.”

  The vicar nodded. We entered the bedroom, where Trent lay motionless in a white muslin nightshirt, staring blankly at the ceiling. Bruises and minor abrasions disfigured his eyes and forehead. His cheeks still bore a black stubble of beard, although a razor and shaving bowl were visible on the nightstand. Mute testimony, I thought, to his wife’s unsuccessful efforts to make him presentable in the midst of his despair.

  “George,” said Mrs. Trent brightly, “here’s the vicar, and he’s brought two gentlemen with him.”

  “I heard,” Trent said. “From London.” Then he said nothing more. His gaze remained fixed on the ceiling.

  Holmes bent down, whispered something briefly into Trent’s left ear, then quickly stood up, his gaze fixed intently on the heretofore motionless man.

  The effect of Holmes’s words on George Trent was remarkable. The guard’s eyes grew round as saucers. His jaw dropped open. Then he sat up. Looking at Holmes in wonderment he whispered hoarsely, “How can you possibly know that?”

  “It is my business to know things,” replied Holmes. He spoke quietly, and as calmly as if he had been discussing the helpful effects that a recent rainstorm would provide to the crops of the region. “Now, Mr. Trent, I beg you to take heart. I know you are blameless in this matter and I will do everything in my power to clear your name.”

  On Trent’s features, wonderment mingled with hope. “May God bless you, sir. But what shall I do now?”

  “For the moment, allow your good wife to care for you and bring you back to health as rapidly as possible. You will hear from me in a few days’
time. Thereafter, I believe it will be possible for your memory to return, and for you to resume your duties. Please, though, I beg that you and your family say nothing of this visit to anyone.”

  “I will do just as you say, sir. And may I say again, God bless you.” He looked over to his wife. “And I’m sure Amy and our girls say the same.”

  “Oh, George!” cried Mrs. Trent, moving forward to embrace her husband.

  Holmes had already nodded his good-bye.

  23. A SECOND FUNERAL

  We left the house a few moments later and set out for the prison with the vicar. Both the vicar and I pressed Holmes to reveal what he had said to George Trent, but he would say only that it had been “something of a long shot, but gratifying nonetheless.”

  After an uneventful walk to the prison, and an equally uneventful walk to the records office, Holmes spent less than five minutes perusing Moran’s file, examining the official reports and a few scraps of handwritten notepaper. Then we took our leave. The three of us were now close by the entrance to Dartmoor Prison. The gray, monolithic gateposts loomed above us, and I was glad that we would soon be away from their ominous presence. Holmes turned to the vicar.

  “Your assistance has been invaluable,” he said. “Might I trouble you for one more piece of information? Mrs. Trent mentioned that she hoped there would not be three funerals. I presume the service you held for the family kitten was the first. Can you tell me something of the second?”

  “That would be Asher. A quiet man, and also employed at the prison as a guard. He died in an accident at Hoo Meavy, some eight miles away.”

  “Might he have been involved in Moran’s escape?” I asked.

  “There was some talk of that in the village, but I think it most unlikely. Asher worked in another section of the prison, entirely apart from the one that housed Moran.”

  “Were there witnesses to the accident?” asked Holmes.

  “There were none. Or I suppose it would be more accurate to say that no one has as yet come forward as a witness. Asher’s body was found on the road beneath a bridge, with a partially eaten sandwich and a dented flask beneath him. He was accustomed to taking long walks around that time of day, carrying his picnic lunch in a knapsack. The knapsack, containing a change of clothing, was found on the bridge, some thirty feet above the road. It seemed plain to the coroner that Asher was sitting on the bridge, eating the sandwich and drinking from the flask, when he lost his balance and fell. So no inquest was called for.”

  Holmes nodded. “Did Mr. Asher also have a family?”

  “No, he was a single gentleman, only in town these past six months. He worked as an orderly in a London hospital prior to coming here. He kept much to himself. He did not attend church services. No one knew of a next of kin to notify, and there were only myself and the undertaker’s employees at the interment service.”

  “And when was the service?”

  “Why, Thursday noon.”

  “How long was that after the body was discovered?”

  “Barely two days. We are a small village and do not have the facilities to preserve the dead for a long interval before burial.”

  “Of course.” Holmes nodded in that polite but brisk manner he takes on when he has reached a conclusion and wishes to move on to something else. “Now, Vicar, it remains only for Watson and me to have a meal at the Plume of Feathers Inn prior to boarding our train. Might we persuade you to join us? No? Well then, once again, we are very grateful for your help. Do not, I beg you, speak of our visit to anyone. If you learn of any further developments that you think are significant, please send a wire to me in London, care of the Commissioner of the Metropolitan Police.”

  We said our farewells to the vicar and watched his receding form grow smaller on the pathway to the village church. A wind had sprung up, bringing with it a cold mist from the southwest. I consulted my watch. “It is nearly two,” I said. “We shall have to move quickly if we are to get a luncheon and catch the 3:05.”

  There was a moment’s silence. Then Holmes replied, “Draw your revolver, Watson.”

  Startled, I looked at Holmes in bewilderment. I saw that he was taking his own pistol from beneath his cape. Then, looking over his shoulder, I saw two burly men advancing toward us from the prison gates. I turned, looked behind me, and saw two more. They were blocking our retreat to the inn and to the railway station beyond.

  “Walk toward them,” said Holmes, “and take care to show that you are armed.”

  24. A NARROW ESCAPE

  My racing heartbeat pounded in my temples. I drew my revolver and aimed it directly at the two men who were coming closer to us from the direction of the railway station. My gesture had its effect, for the two men stopped. To my surprise, I saw that one of them was the bearded old fellow we had seen on our first arrival. Now, however, he stood fully erect in his drab green cloak, and as we drew nearer I could see a mocking smile on his face.

  “Walk slowly and carefully,” I heard Holmes say behind me. “I am covering these other two.”

  About forty yards ahead of me the bearded man waited with his companion. He opened his cloak. His smile broadened.

  “One of these has a shotgun, Holmes.”

  “Keep walking. The Prince of Wales Pub should be coming up on your right, and just beyond that is the police station. We may find shelter there.”

  I advanced, keeping my pistol trained steadily on the chest of the bearded man. I felt apprehension, but I was also glad that Holmes had remembered the police station from his perusal of the map.

  It was clear to me what had happened. Moran had reasoned that we would try to pick up his trail by investigating in Princetown, and had positioned the bearded man as a lookout at the railway station. Then during the hours we had spent at the church and with the vicar and with Trent, three other thugs had been assembled. Two had waited at the prison, where they thought we were most likely to go. The third, with the old man, had taken a position at the railway station, where we should have to come to catch our train.

  Would they try to kill us? My confidence grew as we neared the police station. Lethal intentions or no, I did not believe these men would dare to attack us there, especially in broad daylight. We were alongside the Prince of Wales Pub now, and the police station was the next building, only a few feet from where we stood.

  Behind me I heard Holmes say, “I was mistaken, Watson. These two have each drawn a pistol.”

  Then I saw the sign on the police station’s front door:

  CLOSED SUNDAY.

  INQUIRIES AT PRISON OFFICE.

  At the same time I saw the bearded man raise his weapon to his shoulder and take aim.

  “Holmes, get down!” I called. I dropped to the ground and fired my revolver, just as I saw flames burst from the muzzle of the shotgun. A rush of wind from the pellets whistled over my head. The bearded man dropped his gun and writhed on the ground, clutching his knee.

  His companion picked up the shotgun. I fired again and saw the gun fall once more as the man’s left arm dangled unnaturally from his shoulder.

  Holmes was behind me. In the distance I heard the clatter of running boots approaching. “Make for the back of the pub,” Holmes said. Then he fired twice. I ran alongside the pub, hearing no more footsteps other than those of Holmes, who was close behind. Up ahead I could see a groom standing with two waiting horses, and two travelers emerging from the pub’s rear entrance.

  The travelers and the groom gaped at us in astonishment as we ran toward them. Then they saw our pistols and their expressions turned to fear.

  “Keep your gun out,” Holmes said quietly. As we reached the three men, Holmes put away his pistol and took out his wallet. He held out a sheaf of bills.

  “We are in urgent need of transportation,” he said cordially. “Here is compensation for your trouble—enough to purchase a dozen horses.”
>
  So saying, he let the notes flutter to the ground in front of the amazed trio. Before the notes had been picked up, Holmes and I quickly mounted and were on our way down a small path and across a brown-gold hayfield, riding at a gallop toward the road that ran parallel to the railway line.

  We reached the road, turned left, and galloped northward. About a hundred yards to my left I could see four huddled figures, one of them in a drab green cloak.

  Four shots, four wounded, I thought.

  We rode at full speed until the four men were no longer visible, and then continued several minutes more. Holmes slowed his horse to a walk. I did likewise, coming up beside him. We were two riders alone on a deserted road. I caught my breath. The air was growing colder, yet I was perspiring from the heat of exertion. On Holmes’s grim features also, beads of perspiration mingled with the chill November mist. But there was no one else to be seen. For the moment, at least, we were safe.

  Holmes’s eyes flashed. “Well, Watson, that cost me one hundred pounds. Still, I thought it best not to add armed robbery and horse thievery to our last night’s crime of breaking and entering.” He gave a nod of satisfaction. “It is as well those four thugs were not marksmen. You saw how they waited to get close before they opened fire.”

  “You wounded your two, as I wounded mine.”

  “Against four assailants I would have been defeated if I had been alone.”

  “My dear friend—”

  He continued before I could finish. “Our day’s journey has been highly instructive. Among other things, it is plain that Moran did not miss deliberately when he shot at me in Clapham Common. He obviously wants to kill us.”

  “Obviously.”

  “We also know more about the organization that arranged Moran’s escape. There is one fact in particular that I believe will prove highly useful.”

  One of those quick smiles flickered across his hawklike face, and I wondered just what new knowledge he had attained during our brief stay in this windswept little town. I also knew that it would be futile to press Holmes for an explanation until he himself had decided that the time was right.