The MX Book of New Sherlock Holmes Stories Part I

by David Marcum

  “That is conceivable, but not likely. They will be in a hurry. We had to take that risk.”

  “I see.” The man exhaled a thoughtful puff of smoke. “No more news about this character behind all this?”

  “Not really. As I told you the other day, he only appeared a few months ago as if out of nowhere. One thing, he seems to be a mathematician by profession, of all things...”

  “I never liked math.” The man chuckled. “Bane of my school days. Let us make sure his career is short-lived. We should get underway, I suppose. If you are sure Ferguson is heading to the East End.”

  “I’m sure about the East End. Where in the East End I don’t know, unfortunately. But I’ve seen to it that we’ll have word once he reaches his destination.”

  The man with the cigar rolled up the papers. “Very good. I’ll follow your lead, Mycroft; this is your operation.”

  Unbeknownst to the two men now leaning over the documents from the umbrella, the little drama on the sidewalk had had an observer. After Ferguson emerged from the office building, a stout man with a gray walrus moustache appeared from the inside of a black coach that stood idle on the opposite side of the street as if waiting for an important personage. The man wore the thick, double-breasted dark jacket of coachmen during the cold season. He now clambered onto the box, apparently having concluded a nap inside his vehicle, and began readying himself for a resumption of his duties. While Ferguson walked down Whitehall with measured steps, swinging his umbrella, the coachman nestled with the reins. His head jerked briefly to the side as a young man with a cap pressed down upon his forehead suddenly appeared on a bicycle, heading in the same direction as Ferguson. The coachman’s head remained lowered, but his fingers became motionless. From a distance of almost a hundred yards, he watched the collision between the bicycle rider and Ferguson and the appearance of the middle-aged gentleman from the house door. The coachman waited until Ferguson took leave of his helper and resumed his walk towards Charing Cross, then maneuvered the coach into the street with a smack of the whip.

  The coach maintained a slow pace, and the man with the walrus moustache watched Ferguson approaching the line of hansom cabs. One cab driver accosted the young man and tried to steer him towards a vehicle, but Ferguson ignored the imprecations and selected another cab. The coachman increased his speed as the cab with Ferguson inside pulled into the busy traffic of Charing Cross. Immediately, the cab whose driver had failed to receive the young man’s business followed. The two cabs, the coach behind them, now made a half tour of the circle, passing under Nelson’s Column, which pierced the gray sky like a barren mast, and headed down Northumberland Avenue towards the river. On reaching the Thames, they turned west along the Embankment, before finally crossing Westminster Bridge. The water lay dark in the evening light, emitting an odour of seaweed and dead fish. From down the river came the braying of a steamship’s horn; the paraffin lamps of the cabs and coaches bobbed yellow in the dusk.

  The man with the walrus moustache allowed other vehicles to insert themselves between his coach and the two cabs, but never lost sight of his quarry; the second cab followed the same practice with regard to the first one. A keen northwest wind blew towards the Channel, but could not dispel the pall of clouds and smoke over London. The cold air brought a flush to the coachman’s heavy round features, crisscrossed on the cheeks by a spider’s web of capillaries. The three vehicles passed through Lambeth into the Borough and crossed the river again on Southwark Bridge. They then turned east on Thames Street and made their way through the City towards Whitechapel. The buildings on either side began to take on a derelict aspect; some passers-by moved furtively, as if reluctant to be seen.

  As the two cabs and the coach turned into the thoroughfare of Fenchurch Road, the coachman let his horse’s croup feel the whip. The animal broke into a faster trot and passed the cabs. He did not look left. Another touch of the whip, and he had soon left the two vehicles far behind. He reached a three-storey redbrick building with Old Forge Hotel painted over the entrance in peeling verdigris letters. Turning into an alleyway, he followed it for fifty yards, turned into a lane, then into another one, and after thirty yards gingerly steered his coach into a walled courtyard. He jumped from the box with an agility surprising for a man of his bulk and walked back out of the courtyard, pulling a heavy gate closed behind him. Having secured it with a padlock, he retraced his way to the hotel and entered the building through a side door that led into a hallway. Down it ran a carpet of indeterminate colour. A man who looked like a prize fighter stood, arms before his chest, in front of a door. He now moved hastily aside and knocked, three raps followed by a pause and another single rap.

  A rustling sound could be heard, then a bolt slid back. The door swung open and revealed a woman. She was tall and dressed in a mauve silk Caraco jacket whose top buttons were open. It set off her décolletage and slim waist advantageously. The frosted lustre of a string of pearls circled her slender neck. A flush was just receding from her cheeks, leaving her skin with a lightly rouged porcelain complexion. The room behind her lay in half light; thick curtains sealed the windows. The flame of a single gaslight on the wall imparted a copper glow to her wavy auburn hair. She had a thin nose that sloped upward towards the point. A hard clarity lay in her eyes and belied the expression of girlish ingenuousness on her features. At least two decades and a half had been hers on this earth, and some of those years had been rich in experiences. She now opened her lips to reveal a line of white teeth and was about to speak, when a voice from the shadows cut her off:

  “Moran, come in. What is the news?” The voice was low and almost without inflexion, yet commanding. “Beatrice, shut the door.”

  The woman did so, after Moran had stepped inside.

  “As you had expected, Professor,” said Moran, a grin under his moustache. “They staged the accident while Ferguson was walking towards the cabs.”

  “Mycroft Holmes had to strike. This was his last chance. Are they following Ferguson?”

  “Yes, there’s a cab behind his.”

  “When will he be here?”

  “In three, four minutes.”

  The man who elicited these quick replies sat reclining in an easy chair. His right calf dangled comfortably over his left knee.

  “Pour yourself a drink, Moran.” The Professor rose and gestured towards a decanter and some glasses on a sideboard. His hands were large, with long fingers, pianist’s hands. A signet ring with a dark blue spinel gleamed on his left hand.

  He took a glass of gin that stood on a side table and crossed the room with long steps. He was over six feet tall, yet appeared of only a little above average height. His back was slightly bent, as if he had spent too much time hunched over a desk. Yet a closer look revealed that in fact his entire frame was coiled in wiry expectancy. He was middle-aged in an ill-defined manner. He had thin, metal gray hair, combed back straight from his forehead. His features were taught and unlined. The shadow of a beard covered sallow cheeks and a bony chin. The only feature that bespoke the body’s fleshly substance was his lips. They lay full and sensuous on his face as if painted on, displaying a prominent Cupid’s bow.

  He took up station by the window and with index and middle finger pushed the curtain an inch aside. Every once in a while, he took a sip from his glass, rolled the liquid in his mouth, and then swallowed with an expressionless face.

  “Professor Moriarty.” The woman’s voice had the modulation that comes with years of training. Yet now she spoke a little unsteadily, and a hint of a Yorkshire accent flattened her vowels, while her fingers played with the antimacassar on the chair behind which she was standing. “I’ve asked you this before, but what will happen when... things don’t go as he hopes?”

  “And as before, my dear, I tell you he will be heartbroken.”

  “That is all?”

  “You will never hear from hi
m again. There are two types of men, Beatrice, those who are capable of revenge and those who are not.” She seemed to be considering this when Moriarty turned. “But you must leave with him tonight.”

  She looked into the Professor’s strangely unblinking gray eyes.

  “I never renege on a bargain.”

  “Good.” He passed an appreciative glance down her figure, as if beholding a fine piece of artisanship he had created. Then he turned back to the window.

  “Here they are...” he announced after a minute.

  “Shall I go into the lobby?” asked Moran, who had settled down with his drink on a sofa next to a cold fireplace.

  “No, someone is already there.”

  The familiar knocking signal came after half-a-minute. Her dress rustling, Beatrice crossed the carpet to the door. Ferguson entered with all the aplomb of a schoolboy tiptoeing into the classroom after the bell has rung. Yet in the presence of the woman his appearance changed rapidly. He straightened up, and his chest appeared to broaden. His pupils expanded behind the pince-nez, lending him an air of determination and focus. A ruddy colour crept into his cheeks, and a smile that betokened a belief in assured well-being spread over his thin face.

  He leant forward awkwardly. Both his hands were full; in his right he held his satchel and top hat, in his left the umbrella. “Miss, Miss... J-Jones.” He recovered himself and brushed her cheek with his lips. “Sorry I’m a little late-”

  “I was becoming worried for you, Henry.” Her voice had acquired a playful lilt and had risen by half an octave.

  “Nothing to worry about,” he assured her. “All went well...”

  She pushed the door closed, then slipped his hat from his fingers and hung it on a hook in the wall. Turning, she gestured towards the man who had crossed the room behind her.

  “As the Professor told you it would. He is rather good at anticipating events.”

  Ferguson switched his satchel into his left hand, and Moriarty took the young man’s right. There was a grasping quality to the Professor’s motion, as if he were laying claim to a coveted object.

  “Good evening, Mr. Ferguson.”

  “Good evening, Sir.”

  “No surprises. I am glad.”

  “It happened almost exactly as you had expected. A cyclist hit me.”

  Moriarty lifted both hands, palms up, to indicate his invariable correctness in such matters. “These are the clumsy ways our friends in the government mount their efforts.”

  “We took quite a risk,” Beatrice observed. “I am relieved.”

  Ferguson shrugged. “It was nothing, really. And I did put on a good show, even if I say so myself.”

  Moriarty gave a short, rasping laugh. “I am sure you did. Now to our business,” he added, steering Ferguson by the elbow to a desk in the corner.

  Moran and Beatrice joined as the young man placed his satchel on the desk and took the umbrella in both hands.

  “First, the wages of my accident,” he said with an emphatically wry smile, unscrewing the wooden handle.

  Moriarty bent forward to inspect the umbrella. “They produced a nice duplicate, I have to say.”

  “I left mine in the office occasionally, so they would have enough time.” Ferguson pulled a role of tracing papers from the shank and held it out to the Professor.

  “So,” said Moriarty, his long fingers closing around them, “this is what Mycroft Holmes would have me pass on to my clients.” He unrolled the papers and eyed the top one, head tilting left to right and back. Then he repeated the procedure with the remaining sheets. A lopsided grin formed on his full lips. “Not bad at all. Every number, angle, curve is wrong, but believably wrong. One must appreciate dedicated work.” He laid the papers on the desk and pointed at the satchel. “That contains the genuine plans.”

  “It does. Hidden in plain sight, so to speak. As you suggested.”

  “Oh, not my idea.” The Professor raised a modest hand, the spinel shining dully. “Some years ago, I read a story about a detective in search of a stolen letter. I forget the title, but the story was rather good. The idea was that the most obvious places are never searched.”

  “It appears Henry has kept his side of the bargain,” Beatrice interjected now.

  “Indeed he has,” agreed Moriarty. His left hand closed on the satchel’s grip, while his right pulled an envelope from his jacket. “And I never renege on one, Miss Jones.” The envelope passed into Ferguson’s sheepishly outstretched hand. “The sum we agreed upon in government bonds. You are a wealthy man now, Mr. Ferguson.”

  The young man held the envelope mutely between thumb and index finger.

  “Please, do have a look inside.” The Professor gestured invitingly.

  Ferguson fingered open the envelope, Beatrice by his side. Her lips parted as her lover’s thumb grazed the edge of the bills. Then her large blue eyes quickly rose to meet his glance, and with a smile he slipped the envelope into his coat. His left arm passed around the small of her back and pulled her against him.

  “Wouldn’t you like to have a look at the genuine plans?” He pointed at the satchel.

  Moriarty shook his head. “That will not be necessary. I trust you, Mr. Ferguson. And now we must see to it that you have a chance to enjoy your newfound wealth. Mycroft Holmes appears to bear... enterprising government employees somewhat of an animus. Even the ones he believes to have been useful. A pity, isn’t it? This hotel has more exits than are readily visible, Mr. Ferguson,” he continued. “If you were to leave by the front door, you would be pursued, I am afraid, and would not see the end of it... until the end. Happily though, I’ve been preparing for such eventualities.”

  He gave Moran a nod, who set to work moving the chairs and table to the edge of the room. The others watched, as he bent down and rolled up the carpet until a trap door became visible in the wooden floor. A handle was set into the door’s boards in such a manner that the surface was flush. Very carefully, Moran took the handle between thumb and forefinger of his left hand and lifted the metal half moon into an upright position. In the handle’s centre the nub of what looked like a screw became visible. A penknife appeared in Moran’s right hand and with a click a stiletto blade sprang out of the handle. He proceeded to push the blade’s tip under the metal nub. Once he had dislodged it, he laid aside the knife and pulled a thin splint from the centre of the handle. The splint was just long enough to traverse the body of the handle to the inside. The splint’s tip would inevitably puncture the skin of anyone who gripped the handle without being aware of this hidden danger. Moran rose from his knees, walked over to the side table, and placed the splint in the table’s centre. Then he returned and with one swift movement yanked open the trap door.

  Moriarty approached the gaping black hole. A few steps of a ladder where visible before darkness closed in.

  “You see, Mr. Ferguson. Everything is prepared. This passage leads to a house some distance away. My associate here, Colonel Moran, will take you. You can trust him implicitly; he has worked aside me for many years. From this house, you will all three travel by coach to a spot somewhat east of the docks. A boat will be waiting. I understand you have given some valuables for transport to your charming lady here. You will find them stowed in your cabin. You will be in Calais by tomorrow morning, Mr. Ferguson. There, Colonel Moran will take his leave from you. Our customer does not reside in your place of destination. I’m afraid the crossing might not be comfortable tonight, but such is the lot of us who travel light.”

  Moran had lit an oil lantern and now descended the ladder. The hole was not as deep as it had initially appeared, somewhat over eight feet. The entrance to a side passage became visible; the passage was a little under six feet in height and a foot and a half in width. A wooden beam, the first in a long line one might conjecture, supported the entrance. Having reached the bott
om, Moran stood in the centre of a dirty three-by-three foot square and held up the lantern.

  “Please,” said Moriarty, looking at the pair. “Don’t worry. I assure you, it’s quite safe.”

  Beatrice nodded, but first went over to the hook in the wall and took Ferguson’s hat. She placed it in his hand as if to say that he would forget his own head if it were not attached. Then she pulled up the hem of her dress, turned her back to the hole, and placed a dainty shoe on the first rung. In a few seconds she was below, Moran gallantly raising a hand to assist her with the final steps.

  “Our ways part here, Mr. Ferguson,” said Moriarty. “I wish you good fortune. Remember, you must never again set foot in this country, no matter how homesick you become. And beware of Her Majesty’s many agents; the reach of their arm is long.”

  Ferguson paled at these words, yet nodded as if to intimate that he had considered his choices long and carefully. Moriarty did not extend his hand. In his left he held the papers, in his right the satchel. Ferguson turned and slowly descended the steps.

  “We’re ready,” Moran’s voice called from below after a few seconds.

  “Don’t forget the merchandise.” The Professor lowered himself on one knee and extended his arm holding the satchel downward. A careful observer might have seen that one of the satchel’s two straps, both of which had been closed, now hung half open and dangled outside the loop.

  “Thank you,” came Moran’s voice from the hole, and the Professor retracted his arm, hand empty, and rose.

  Without further ceremony, he closed the trapdoor.

  Beside him on the floor lay a manila folder of exactly the size that fitted snugly into the satchel. Moriarty took the folder and laid it on the side table. He picked up the splint Moran had placed there. Holding it between his fingertips, the Professor retraced his steps. He kneeled down and fitted the splint into the hole in the handle, before carefully settling the handle into place. Then he went over to the sideboard and poured himself a gin. Thoughtfully, he emptied the glass. He finally set it down and returned to the trapdoor. Unlike Moran, he used a fingernail to dislodge the splint before pulling it out. He held it up towards the gaslight. On the tip, an oily sheen was visible. Moriarty pulled out a handkerchief and wiped the splint clean with a few vigorous motions. He looked at it critically, then nodded. A sting, yes, for sure, but no longer a deadly one. He replaced the splint in the handle, stood up, rolled back the carpet, and moved the pieces of furniture to where they had stood before.