The Last Moriarty

by Charles Veley

  37. A TRAITOR IS UNMASKED

  Promptly at nine that evening Holmes and I were called with Lestrade into the library of the Diogenes Club. Seated around the polished mahogany table were the men whose expectant and authoritative faces had by now grown familiar to me. Tonight, however, there was an additional intensity in the atmosphere. Unspoken was the threat that a horrific disaster might befall us within twenty-four hours, when the all-important meeting with the powerful American industrialists would begin with the performance of The Mikado on Mr. Morgan’s yacht.

  Tonight I also noticed a marked difference in Clevering’s demeanor. At our other meetings he had leaned forward aggressively over the table as though eager to do battle. Now, he sat rigidly upright, lips pursed, staring fixedly ahead. He had the look of one who was steeling himself for a moment he dreaded.

  “Well, Mr. Holmes?” asked the Prime Minister.

  On the table before him, Holmes carefully placed the ledger notebook from the unfortunate Perkins’s office and the telegraph message from New York City Police Commissioner Roosevelt. “Gentlemen, my investigations have led me to the conclusion that Colonel Sebastian Moran is intimately involved in a well-funded and organized conspiracy to murder those who plan to meet with Mr. Rockefeller. I will begin by explaining to you the means by which the colonel escaped from Dartmoor Prison. My explanation will be brief, and it will also clear the name of an innocent man.”

  Around the room the PM’s committee members nodded their heads; all, that is, except Clevering. He remained rigid, eyes fixedly staring forward, his monocle dangling unnoticed from its gold chain and collar pin.

  “I shall begin with the day of Moran’s escape,” said Holmes. “That morning, the guard assigned to Moran’s wing of the prison was a trustworthy veteran named Trent, a man of similar size and build to Moran. In another wing of the prison was a guard named Asher, who had been at his job for only six months. Using some pretext, the guard Asher entered Moran’s wing of the prison. He struck Trent from behind, knocking him unconscious. He used Trent’s key to unlock Moran’s cell. Asher and Moran beat Trent around the face and drugged him so that he would remain motionless under the blanket of Moran’s cot. Then Moran donned a black wig—supplied by Asher, through a confederate. He exchanged clothes with Trent, covering the wig with the guard’s uniform hat. Asher returned to his post. At the end of the shift, he and Moran left the prison.

  “In Trent’s uniform, Moran walked toward Trent’s house so as not to be noticed to have departed from the usual routine. But instead of stopping there, he went to Asher’s rooms and donned civilian clothes that had been left for him, either by Asher or another accomplice. He hung Trent’s uniform in Asher’s closet, where, to a casual observer, it would appear to be one of Asher’s. He walked to the bridge at Hoo Meavy, some eight miles south, where an accomplice had hidden yet another change of clothing and some money. When Asher arrived as instructed to receive payment, Moran doubtless told him to count the money or diverted his attention in some other manner. He crushed Asher’s skull and threw him over the bridge onto the road below. He placed his first set of clothing in Asher’s knapsack. Partially devouring Asher’s sandwich and drinking from his flask, Moran threw them both from the bridge to make it appear that Asher had fallen to his death while having his lunch. Moran remained in the area only long enough to place the remnants of the meal beneath Asher’s body. He then took the train to London, where, this past Friday morning, he set off the bomb that we all experienced at St. Thomas Hospital.”

  The Commissioner spoke. “I have obtained evidence that supports the story Mr. Holmes has just recounted. And the guard Trent will be cleared of all suspicion. However, Mr. Holmes, it would no doubt be welcome to all of us if you will explain the relevance of what we have just heard.”

  “Thank you. I was coming to that. The relevance relates to the death of Mr. Trent’s family kitten.”

  A few murmurs of impatience came from the committee members, but Holmes continued unperturbed. “The animal was found beneath a small tree with a broken neck the afternoon before Moran’s escape. That evening Trent received a note, instructing him to forget whatever would happen at the prison on the morrow, or he would find that his three-year-old daughter would suffer the same injury as the kitten. Mr. Trent verified this to me personally this past Sunday afternoon. When I told him I knew he had received the note, the statement brought Mr. Trent out of his despair-induced torpor. The threat is relevant to our present circumstances because the same vulnerability to threats against an innocent family member was exploited by the gang in order to manipulate the behavior of one of us here at this table.”

  Amid the immediate gasps of surprise from the committee members, Holmes continued, “Is that not correct, Mr. Clevering?”

  Clevering continued to stare fixedly ahead, saying nothing.

  A hush fell over the room. Holmes picked up Perkins’s ledger notebook and explained the system: how the bearer bonds were sent by diplomatic courier from Zurich to an embassy in London, where they were picked up by Clevering, converted to cash by Perkins at the Bank of England, and then returned to Clevering, minus Perkins’s fee, so that Clevering could deliver payment for services rendered to someone in the Moriarty gang. As Holmes read the dated entries from Mycroft’s decoded transcript, murmurs, first of shock and then of repugnance, seemed to pass through the room each time he said Clevering.

  Clevering did not respond. Holmes went on, “Mr. Clevering, this last entry indicates you delivered a million pounds in bearer bonds to Mr. Perkins this morning. Will you confirm that you obtained the bonds from the German embassy?”

  A murmur of shock went round the room, but Clevering remained silent.

  “The German government has an obvious motive to fund the disruption of this meeting, does it not? A network of naval ports and the conversion of the British fleet to oil would enable, in turn, the construction and operation of battleships far larger and more powerful than those possessed by any nation today. And a long-term alliance between our country and America would profoundly strengthen our military powers for generations.”

  A smile flickered across Holmes’s features. “So the stakes we are discussing are enormous. The situation is one that the German government would find intolerable, one they would pay huge sums to prevent.”

  The Prime Minister nodded in acknowledgment. “Theoretically, Mr. Holmes, your supposition is quite possible.” He looked around the table, measuring his words as he met the gaze of each man in turn. “But we must take great care, gentlemen. These are deep waters, and we have no way of knowing who sent the funds—only from whose embassy they were sent.”

  “Quite right, Prime Minister,” said Goschen. “The British public would be unlikely to honor that distinction, if a tragedy at the meeting were to take place and the source of the funding became known. There would be an outcry calling for war with Germany.”

  “And other nations might want such a war to take place,” the PM replied.

  Goschen continued, “The French, the Italians, the Turks—any of them would be pleased to see our two nations annihilating one another, hoping they could then preside supreme over the ruins. The Fenians too, consider any enemy of England to be a friend of Ireland. They would also be delighted to see us at war.”

  “Or the Boers,” said the PM. “This might be their doing, for we know they have tried to obtain German military support for their present quarrel with us in the Transvaal.”

  “And they would have ready access to the German embassy—”

  “Let us not get ahead of ourselves, gentlemen,” said Holmes. He turned to Clevering, and his voice now held a distinctly threatening note. “Would it surprise you, Mr. Clevering, to learn that you were being watched this morning by Lestrade’s men? And that you were seen entering and leaving the German embassy and going directly from there to the Bank of England?”

  I saw the
shrewd, calculating glint in Clevering’s eyes that I had observed the previous night. Still, Clevering did not speak.

  “I will be candid,” said Holmes. “You were seen entering the Bank of England, but Inspector Lestrade’s men unfortunately did not see you leave, and so we do not know where or to whom you delivered the cash you obtained from the unfortunate Mr. Perkins this morning.”

  Clevering spoke at last. “So you want a name.”

  “With a name, we can have the man arrested. The papers will trumpet the name and his role as paymaster in a conspiracy to interfere with an upcoming diplomatic conference, the precise nature of which we need not disclose. When he sees the newspapers, Mr. Worth will realize that his plot has been discovered and that he has no prospect of being paid, at which time he will have no motive to carry out the assassination.”

  “Come, Clevering,” said the Prime Minister. “You must see that Mr. Holmes’s plan gives you the opportunity to prevent great harm to your country.”

  Clevering hid his face in shame for a long moment. Then he turned to the Prime Minister, his voice coming almost in a whisper. “I want full amnesty.”

  “Impossible,” said the Prime Minister.

  “However,” said Holmes, “public knowledge of your treason might be minimized. You might plead guilty, and your family might be spared the shame of a sensationalized public trial. Your wife and children might thus escape a stigma that will otherwise make their lives—”

  Suddenly, Clevering’s voice hardened in petulant resentment. “My wife and children? What do you know of a wife and children, Mr. Holmes? You, with no family save for that fat brother of yours—”

  “Enough of that, Clevering,” said the Commissioner. “Will you cooperate? Or shall I order Lestrade’s men to take you to jail?”

  “I must see that my family is safe. Worth has threatened their lives. They must be protected.”

  “They will be,” said the Commissioner. “Now. The name of the bank official and his bank.”

  Clevering shook his head. “Not until I see that my family is under protection. Also, I want a decent opportunity to say my farewell. After that I shall tell you everything you want to know.”

  The Commissioner gave a reluctant nod, at which Lestrade stood up and left the room. We waited uncomfortably for several minutes. Then Lestrade’s men appeared at the library doorway to indicate that the police wagon was ready to transport Clevering, guarded by two police officers, to what would be his last visit to his home.

  As Clevering turned to leave, he looked long and hard at Holmes. “You had me followed. Hardly the behavior of a gentleman, after I came to you in confidence Sunday night.”

  “It was on Saturday morning that we began to have you followed,” replied Holmes.

  Lestrade’s men then shackled Clevering by the wrists and marched him out of the room. Holmes moved quickly to the front window and looked down. Below us in the glare of the electric lamps we saw the wide entry steps to the club, the police wagon waiting on the pavement, and the driver, who stood at attention with another guard before the opened side door of the wagon.

  The Commissioner came to watch with us at the window. “Once again, we owe you our gratitude, Mr. Holmes.”

  “Not yet” was Holmes’s reply.

  Clevering and his police escorts then appeared directly below us. The three men walked forward and down the wide steps. Clevering bowed his head and took his place inside the wagon. One of the policemen closed and locked the door behind him. The other turned to walk around the rear of the wagon to enter from the far side.

  In the next instant a strange flickering yellow glow appeared behind the wagon. Then the glow was coming from within it, and we could see yellow flames through the small rear window.

  “No!” cried Holmes. “Get him out!”

  But it was too late. With a sharp thunderclap, a dazzling flash of light momentarily consumed the wagon and then dissipated, leaving behind a smoking ruin.

  Though stunned, I was nonetheless aware of the shadowy figure of a tall man moving directly away from us and from the smoke of the explosion. He had an odd, crouching way of walking that seemed familiar to me, but I could not place it at the time. When my addled eyes finally focused, he had very nearly crossed the wide pavement of Waterloo Place. Moments later he had vanished into the darkness of the trees on the far side.

  I turned and saw Holmes running from the room. The Commissioner and I followed him down the wide stairway to the entrance of the club.

  From atop the entry steps I tried to take in the scene. The door of the police coach hung at a crazed angle on one of its hinges. Embedded in the blackened surface of what, moments earlier, had been its interior finish, innumerable shards of glass sparkled coldly in the electric light amid a hideously glistening sheen of shadowed crimson. Mercifully, the explosion had spared the two police officers and the police coach driver. They were struggling to their feet as we descended the wide granite steps.

  I strained to see within the shadows of the trees across the plaza pavement where the killer had fled and where, I was certain, Holmes had run in pursuit, though putting his own life in danger.

  I was about to follow and offer what assistance I could, when I heard a moan from within the coach. I clambered inside and saw Clevering. The injuries he had suffered were as catastrophic as any I had seen on the battlefield in Afghanistan, and it was with a sense of hopelessness that I took off my belt, instructed the Commissioner to do the same, and improvised tourniquets, applying them as best I could manage.

  Clevering was of course in shock, the detached state that a merciful Nature creates to obscure overwhelming pain. As I tightened the tourniquets, however, his gaze began to clear, and I thought he recognized me. I saw my opportunity. “The banker, Clevering. Can you say the name of the banker?”

  He nodded, with a tight-lipped smile. He drew a deep breath. I leaned forward to hear the all-important name.

  Then his eyes widened. His manacled hand grasped my wrist. As his grip tightened, he emitted a long, shallow, fluttering breath, and died.

  For a long moment I felt overcome by sadness and frustration, on the brink of the same dark abyss that had confronted me in Miss Rosario’s flat when I had first seen the open window that evidenced my failure to protect her. I had been so close to the name we needed! The name of the banker could have signaled to our adversary that even if he succeeded in his lethal plan, he would receive no payment. But now Clevering was gone.

  PART THREE

  I SEE NO REASON

  38. A SMALL GLASS VIAL

  I washed Clevering’s blood from my hands and changed into a fresh set of clothes, hoping to expunge the memory of what I had just witnessed. I needed to clear my mind if I was to be of assistance to Holmes. But as I entered the library of the Diogenes Club a few minutes later, I still seemed to feel the pressure of Clevering’s spasmodic final grip upon my wrist.

  I found Holmes in a leather wing chair, in the glow of the fireplace. Lucy James stood behind him, holding a sheet of notepaper at an angle so that each of them could read it. In the strong electric light the circles under Holmes’s eyes were plainly visible. The worried, urgent set of his eyebrows told me that his concern over Miss Rosario’s whereabouts was still very much with him. The look on Miss James’s features showed me that her anxiety was equal to his.

  The two noticed my entry and looked up. Holmes spoke. “The Commissioner will join us soon. When he returns, we shall make plans. Meanwhile, Miss James has news.”

  Lucy’s green eyes flashed. “The Corsair has arrived twelve hours earlier than scheduled. I saw it docking, close by Mr. Rockefeller’s ship.”

  “We ought to warn Mr. Morgan,” I said. I thought this was a perfectly sound observation; however, Holmes held up his hand.

  “There is more,” Holmes said, nodding to Miss James to continue.

 
“Also, I saw Blake and Cleo leaving the Shamrock after the rehearsal this afternoon. I ran to the White Star and persuaded one of Mr. Rockefeller’s Pinkerton men to follow them. I received the report about an hour ago on the White Star and came straight here. Both Blake and Cleo were seen entering 198 Piccadilly. I believe that is where we will find my mother.”

  I shook my head in bewilderment. “We were at 198 Piccadilly this morning. We found nothing.”

  “But if there is really nothing there, why should Blake and Cleo go inside?”

  “I still do not follow.”

  Holmes’s voice was kind. “Lucy is deducing that there is a portal, Watson. A connection between Number 198 and one of the other flats.”

  Lucy said, “There could have been a false wall. Or a hidden staircase.”

  I understood. “You think the building is where Miss Rosario is imprisoned.”

  “Exactly,” Holmes said. “We will arrange for a police coach to take us there as soon as we can speak to the Commissioner.” I knew he was saying this last as much for Miss James’s benefit as for mine, for plainly she was anxious to take action. In my fatigued and worried state, I also felt a troubled uncertainty about the effect Miss James’s determined presence would have on Holmes. He was accustomed to directing all aspects of his investigations, and now, on the eve of the critical meeting with the Americans, he had to contend with the inner tumult he must have felt at Miss Rosario’s peril, intensified by the voice and emotional urgency of Miss James. She was, after all, not just another client, whose pleadings could be more or less objectified; she was Miss Rosario’s daughter. And clearly he intended to take her with us in the police coach. But how well would he be able to function with her at his side, knowing that she was also in danger?

  I tried to shake off these doubts as Holmes took the paper from Miss James and thrust it into my hand.