“Good. Then we are ready. I have studied a one-centimetre map of the area, and I am convinced that there is but one heath sufficiently large and isolated as to be suitable for their nefarious purpose. The officials of the train have agreed to stop close by this heath to allow us to descend and deploy. Come, Watney, on your feet! I feel the brakes being applied at this very moment!”
Seconds later we found ourselves beside the railway track while the Ayr Express slowly gathered speed again. In addition to Homes and myself, Flaherty was accompanied by three large men, all similarly attired, and all weighted down by their truncheons. At a cautious signal from Homes, we crossed the tracks and advanced, spreading out in a widening curve, fanning across the heath.
The section of heath we fronted was well landscaped, with numbered flags, probably marking watering holes, spaced about. We were advancing slowly when, of a sudden, there was a sharp whistle in our ears and a white stone flew past to disappear in the distance. “It’s a trap, Homes!” I cried, flinging him into a nearby sand-filled depression and desperately covering him with my body.
“I believe in Scotland they call these ditches ‘bunkers,’” he replied, rising and dusting himself off carefully. “Come, men, we must be close!”
He leaned over the edge of the depression, studying the landscape with Flaherty beside him. Suddenly the police agent stiffened, and peering into the distance pointed his finger excitedly. “It’s him, Mr. Homes!” he cried. “I don’t know how you ever deduced it, but as always you were right! And he is surrounded by three others, all of whom are armed with heavy clubs! But wait!” The police agent turned to Homes with a bewildered air. “He, too, is armed!”
“It is as I feared,” said Homes, watching the four men approach. “Either hypnotism or drugs, both quite common in this type of affair! In his present condition the poor man may even struggle, but at least we have discovered him before they could put their odious plan into practice! Come, men, let us spread out and surround them!”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Homes,” said Flaherty, placing his hand on Homes’s arm. “My instructions are very clear. You have found him, and a very fine piece of work it was, but it is my duty to effect the rescue. You must go back to London and take no part in this.”
“Nonsense!” Homes cried, incensed. “Come, men!”
“No, Mr. Homes,” Flaherty replied quite firmly. “The instructions come from the Home Office itself. You are far too valuable to risk in an operation such as this. But fear not; I promise you I shall get him safely away from these culprits, and this whether he struggle or not!”
“Do not fail, then,” Homes replied sternly. “England depends upon you! Come, Watney, we have but forty minutes if we are to catch the next train south!”
• • •
I had opened the morning journal and was engrossed in attempting to open my eggs and turn the pages simultaneously, when Homes entered the breakfast room and seated himself opposite me.
“I believe you are wasting your time, Watney,” he remarked genially. “I have already been informed by Criscroft that the General is back in London, and I seriously doubt that the censors would allow an account of yesterday’s proceedings to reach the public columns.”
“I am not so sure, Homes,” I replied, noting a small article buried in one corner. “It is true that no great details of the affair appear, but it does say that because of a nerve-wracking experience that he underwent yesterday, General Issac Kennebunk, Esquire, is under doctor’s orders to take a few days’ rest.”
“I can well imagine how nerve-wracking it must have been,” said Homes, his eyes warm with sympathy. “However, I would judge that several days engaged in one of our pleasant English sports could well erase this terrible memory. I believe I shall suggest this to the Home Office. A letter to my brother Criscroft if you please, Watney!”
THE CASE OF THE BLOODLESS SOCK
BY ANNE PERRY
Native Londoner Anne Perry is one of the world’s best-selling writers, and among the foremost practitioners of Victorian suspense. In “The Case of the Bloodless Sock,” she pursues a theme familiar to her readers, the dreaded kidnapping of a child.
It was a sunny March morning in Seattle, and at 221A Baker Street, Jane Watson was preparing for a trip to visit her uncle, Robert Hunt, in Wyoming.
“Jane!” called her mother from downstairs. “We’re leaving in five minutes to drive you to the airport. Finish packing and come down.”
“Okay, Mom,” she called back. She had been thrilled when her uncle had called and asked her to come visit. There hadn’t been an interesting case for weeks, and Sherlock was becoming unbearable. He was in such a foul mood that even his parents and brother were avoiding him.
Finally, she was packed and went out to say goodbye before she left.
“By all means go, Watson,” said Sherlock, who sat on the front porch of his house, reading the newspaper. “At this time of the year you will be in your town, wherever it is, before dark. Goodbye.”
Jane threw her duffle bag into the trunk and got in the car. As her dad drove her away, she couldn’t help but be saddened that Sherlock hadn’t given her a more sanguine farewell.
Hours later, Jane got off the plane at the airport in Gillette, Wyoming, and boarded a bus to the small town where her uncle lived. As a major stockholder in much of the mining activity throughout the Powder River Basin, he lived quite well.
However, to Jane’s surprise, when she got off at the bus station, no one was there to greet her. So she started walking towards her uncle’s house. After about four miles, when she came up to the place, a man ran up to her and said, “Have you found her?!”
Jane’s look of bewilderment told him that she hadn’t, and it pushed the man almost to despair.
“Who’s lost?” asked Jane. “I can help you look.”
“Jenny!” the man cried. “Jenny Hunt, my neighbor’s daughter! She’s only five years old! God knows where she is! She’s been gone since four this afternoon, and it’s almost ten. Please, help me look!”
Jane’s guts turned to water at the news. Jenny was her cousin! It was getting dark fast, and even if she was okay, it was cold and she would be terrified!
“Absolutely!” said Jane, throwing her bag onto the front porch, “Where do we start?”
The next three hours seemed to drag on. Her uncle acknowledged her presence, but he was too overcome with fear to do anything but thank her for helping. All of his neighbors were helping, and the town was soon lit up by all of the flashlights.
Finally, Jane poked her head into a small alley and saw Jenny. Calling to the others, Robert came and picked Jenny up. She was pale and frightened, but she didn’t seem to be hurt.
• • •
The next morning, when Jane came down to breakfast, she saw her uncle sitting at the kitchen table, looking over a number of business papers.
“I don’t know what to do, Jane,” he said when she sat down. “Jenny is devoted to Josephine, her au pair, but how can I keep in my employ a girl who lets a five-year-old child just wander off? But if I fire her, Jenny will be heartbroken. She’s been all but a mother to that girl, since your Aunt Sophie died . . .”
“Well,” said Jane, “at this point, it would probably hurt Jenny even more if she lost Josephine. I’d say give her a second chance. She’ll be much more careful, now that Jenny’s run off.”
Suddenly, there was a clanking sound from the front door. Both Jane and Robert looked to discover that an envelope had been pushed through the mail-slot. They looked out the window, but couldn’t see who had left it.
Hunt opened the letter and paled. “What’s wrong?” asked Jane. Hunt passed her the letter.
Dear Mr. Hunt:
Yesterday you lost your daughter, and last night at exactly twelve of the clock, you received her back again. You may take any precautions you care to, but they will not prevent me from taking her again, any time I choose, and returning her when, and if, I choose. And if it
is my mind not to, then you will never see her again.
M.
Jane’s hands were shaking as she laid the paper down. Hunt snapped out of his trance and said, “I’ll warn the neighbors. Anyone who isn’t known in town will be watched carefully, and we’ll set up a guard around the house. Excuse me, Jane, but this requires my immediate attention.”
Jane nodded, but said nothing. What would Sherlock do if he were here? she thought, He would do more than just defend, he’d attack. But I don’t know who this “M” is.
Jane decided to talk to Jenny first, to see how much she knew. It took a few minutes to persuade Josephine, who was deeply reluctant to let anyone disturb the girl, to let her in, but finally she was admitted.
Jane sat across from Jenny on her bed while she finished her breakfast. She knew that Jenny would not remember her, as they hadn’t met since Jenny was born, so she had to approach the girl carefully.
“Good morning, Jane,” said Jenny when she was done with her eggs.
“Are you feeling okay?” asked Jane softly.
“Yes,” replied Jenny. “I don’t need any medicine.”
“That’s good,” said Jane. “Did you sleep well? No bad dreams?”
Jenny shook her head.
“Can you tell me what happened?” asked Jane.
“I was in the garden,” said Jenny, whose voice lowered to a whisper. “I was picking flowers,” Jane gathered that she wasn’t supposed to do that, “and someone came up to me.”
“A stranger?” asked Jane.
Jenny nodded and said, “He was old, but old like you, not like Daddy; He was big, but thin; and he talked a funny way.”
“What did he say his name was?” asked Jane.
“Fessa,” said Jenny.
“‘Fessa?’ That’s a weird name,” said Jane, more to herself.
“No,” said Jenny. “P’fessa!”
“Oh,” said Jane. “You mean ‘Professor?’” Jenny nodded again.
A terrible thought began to form in Jane’s mind. “He was tall, thin, and spoke with an accent,” reiterated Jane. “Did he have strange eyes?”
Jenny nodded and shivered, as if with fear. Josephine gave Jane a look to suggest that she not upset the girl. By now, Jane was convinced: the man who had taken Jenny was Professor Moriarty, Holmes’s nemesis!
“Where did he take you?” asked Jane.
“A house,” said Jenny, “with a big room.”
“How did he take you there?” asked Jane. “In a car?”
Jenny shook her head, “It was like a bike, but it was fast, like a car.”
Jane deduced that she meant a motorcycle. “Okay,” she said to Jenny, “was it warm there?”
“Not really,” said Jenny.
“Did he give you anything to eat?”
“Yes,” said Jenny, “he gave me cupcakes with lots of frosting.” She smiled as though the memory was a pleasant one.
“Was there a window you could see out of?” asked Jane, a little too hopefully.
“Yes,” said Jenny, “I could see the whole town!”
Jenny spent the next several minutes describing the scenery to Jane, who, by the end of it, had a fairly clear idea about where this place could be. She went back downstairs to see her uncle, who was still ashen.
“What does he want?” he asked. “I can’t even comply! He didn’t ask for anything!”
“Uncle Rob, can I use your computer for a sec?” asked Jane. “My friend, Sherlock Holmes, is a detective, and he’ll help any way he can if I send him an e-mail.”
“There hasn’t really been a crime, Jane,” said Hunt. “My child has been taken and returned with no ransom demand.”
“It’s weird enough to get him interested,” said Jane.
Hunt nodded and left. Jane’s e-mail contained only one word, the word guaranteed to bring Holmes to Gillette: Moriarty.
• • •
Sure enough, when Jane met Sherlock at the airport in the evening, he was very different from the miserable teenager he’d been when she’d left Baker Street.
“Moriarty!” said Holmes to Jane, as if it were some sort of charm.
“I think so,” replied Jane.
Sherlock gave her a quick glance and said, “You are uncertain. What makes you doubt, Watson? What has happened since you sent for me?”
“Nothing,” said Jane. “We don’t know if it was Moriarty who took Jenny.”
Holmes rubbed his chin thoughtfully and said, “Has any demand been received yet?” He made no attempt to disguise the disappointment in his voice.
“Not yet,” replied Jane. They both got into the car that Hunt had lent her and they proceeded back to the house. On the way, Holmes was scowling slightly, as though he were brooding on something.
“I’m not going to apologize, Holmes, if that’s what you’re waiting for,” said Jane, a bit more petulantly than she intended.
“What gave you the idea that I expected an apology?” said Holmes in a toneless voice.
“The kidnapping of my cousin is just as important as any one of your cases, Holmes,” she said. “There’s no reason for you to sulk just because your archenemy may not have anything to do with this.”
Holmes was about to reply when suddenly John, Hunt’s gardener, ran up to the car, waving his arms. Jane stopped and got out.
“What’s wrong? What happened?” asked Jane fearfully.
“She’s gone again!” shouted the gardener, choking back a sob. “Jenny’s gone!”
Instantly, Holmes was all attention. He leapt out of the car and strode over to the man. “I am Sherlock Holmes,” he said. “Tell me precisely what has occurred. Omit no detail but tell me only what you have observed for yourself, or if someone has told you, give me their words as exactly as you can recall them.”
“Her maid, Josephine,” said John, regaining his composure. “She was with Jenny, upstairs in the nursery. Jenny had been running around and stubbed her toe badly. It was bleeding, so Josephine went to get her a Band-Aid, and when she got back, Jenny wasn’t there. At first, it didn’t seem worth worrying over because the ice-cream man was outside and Jenny loves ice cream. So she went down, but Jenny wasn’t there, and Mr. Hunt hadn’t seen her either. We looked everywhere in the house . . .”
“But you did not find the child,” Holmes finished for him, his own face grim.
The man nodded vigorously and said, “Please, help us look for her!”
“Where’s the ice-cream man, now?” asked Jane.
“Percy?” asked the gardener. “He’s helping Mr. Hunt search the woods.”
“Is he local?” asked Holmes.
“Yes,” said John. “I’ve known him almost all my life. He would never hurt Jenny, and he couldn’t’ve because he’s been with us the whole time.”
“Then the answer lies elsewhere.” Holmes got into the car again and said, “Watson may know where she was taken the first time and we shall go there immediately. Tell your employer what we have done, and continue your search in all other places. If it is indeed who we think, he will not be so obvious as to show us the place again, but we must look.”
Jane drove with all speed to the place Jenny described, a rundown old house at the very edge of the town. They searched the house and found it empty. They didn’t have time to inspect it closely, and only had flashlights to search as they could.
“She has not been here tonight,” said Holmes bitterly. “We shall return in the morning to learn what we may.”
They went back to the house, where Holmes questioned Hunt’s entire staff and every neighbor present. Jane, having tried and failed to console her uncle, found him again out back, examining the soil for footprints.
Holmes knew it was Jane by her step and said, “This is a miserable business, Watson. There is something peculiarly vile about using a child to accomplish one’s purposes. If it is in fact Moriarty, he has sunk very low indeed.”
Jane had never known Holmes to have a special fondness tow
ards children, but the look of harsh anger on his face made her proud to call him her best friend.
“I despise a coward even more than I do a fool,” said Holmes. “Foolishness is more often than not an affliction of nature. Cowardice is a vice sprung from placing one’s own safety before the love of truth, known as the safety and welfare of others. It is the essential selfishness, Watson, and as such it lies at the core of so much other sin.”
He stood from his crouch and started pacing. “But he must want something,” he said as much to himself as to Jane. “Moriarty never does anything simply because he has the power to do it. You say the child was returned last night, and this morning a note was delivered? There will be another note. He may choose to torture his victim by lengthening the process, until the poor man is so weak with the exhaustion of swinging from hope to despair and back, but sooner or later he will name his price. And you may be sure, the longer he waits, the higher the stakes he is playing for!”
The two of them then took up their flashlights and started searching again, walking what seemed like miles through fields and woodland, calling Jenny’s name.
After another half-hour, everyone gathered in Hunt’s kitchen to take a break when the door suddenly opened. Jenny stepped in, pale as a ghost, with one shoe off and her foot smeared with blood.
“Papa . . .” she called out, on the verge of tears. Hunt ran over to her and scooped her up in his arms, crying with relief. Many of the women did the same, and not a few of the men found the need to blow their noses and turn to regain their composure.
Jane woke up at half past seven the next morning. When she came down for breakfast, she found Sherlock pacing back and forth in the hall.
“Ah, at last,” he said when he saw Jane. “Go and question the child again. Learn anything you can, and pay particular attention to who took her and who brought her back.”
“You don’t think one of the neighbors is involved, do you?” she asked quietly.
“I don’t know, Watson,” said Sherlock, clearly frustrated. “There is something about this that eludes me, something beyond the ordinary. It is Moriarty at his most fiendish, because it is at heart very simple.”
Sons of Moriarty and More Stories of Sherlock Holmes Page 5
