by Marvin Kaye
With that he turned smoothly and left the room, followed by the other two men who had helped carry us here. Connors looked around the room, grunted, and then left. When he had gone I heard a bolt slide into place from the outside. Shortly afterwards I smelled cheap shag tobacco, and surmised that Connors was passing the time by having a smoke. I turned my attention to Holmes, who had begun to stir. My wrist throbbed but I was far more concerned about his injuries than mine.
“Holmes, are you all right?” I whispered, not wanting Connors to hear our conversation. A moment passed, and then he replied in a weak voice.
“I’m all right, Watson—I was just stunned, that’s all.”
I didn’t tell him that I suspected he had a broken rib or two. Instead I strained to make out the man in the corner.
“Holmes, there’s someone else in here with us!”
“Really?”
“Yes, over there in the corner!”
He twisted around to see, a move which caused him to wince in pain.
“Who is it, do you think?”
“I don’t know; he looks as though he’s been drugged, though.”
“Yes, I expect you’re right. Holmes—do you suppose it’s—could it be—?”
“That would be the most logical conclusion, certainly.”
Just then the man stirred and moaned softly.
“Hello—I say—hello there!” I whispered as loudly as I could.
He stirred again, and lifted his head. To my surprise, he chuckled softly.
“Well, well. . . Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson, fancy meeting you here. I thought my brother might send you to rescue me.”
“So you are—”
“Father Sean Moriarty, at your service,” he said in a voice which had the same sibilant softness as his brother’s but without the restrained violence underneath. “I am correct in surmising that you are here at the behest of my brother?”
“Your brother and I are enemies,” Holmes said evasively; “we are here on behalf of the British Government.”
“Very well, have it your way,” Sean Moriarty said with a sigh. “I know he does not wish me to know of his involvement.”
“What is important is not why we are here, but how we are going to get out of here,” Holmes replied. “Are you able-bodied?”
“You were correct in surmising that I have been drugged, but the effect is now largely worn off; I thought it best to pretend I was still unconscious when our friends were here earlier.”
“Good,” said Holmes, and I mused that craftiness seemed to be one trait which remained consistent in both brothers.
“If they are going to kill us, they will not do so for at least one hour,” Sean Moriarty continued.
“Why is that?” I said, my tongue going dry at his words.
“Because high tide is an hour away, and that is by far the best time to dispose of bodies; the outgoing tide would sweep them out toward sea.”
“Admirably reasoned,” said Holmes, and I felt a pang of jealousy at the approval in his voice.
“There’s more at stake than just us, too,” our fellow prisoner continued. “I overheard them plotting something else, something big involving a bomb.”
There was a silence between us. I had already tried to work free of my bonds, but had only succeeded in giving myself rope burns; we were very securely and professionally bound.
We were evidently near one of London’s busier docks, because I could hear the cries of costermongers outside, advertising their wares.
“Pickled eels—fresh, oy!”
“Get your cress, fresh watercress—penny a bunch!”
Holmes was listening too, and even in the dim light I could see the muscles of his face working. Suddenly he pursed his lips and emitted a low, soft whistle. He paused and listened for a reply, and to my surprise it came almost at once, the same exact whistle! Holmes whistled again, this time repeating the same tone in short, staccato bursts. Again the answer came, and again Holmes replied. I was wondering where this was all leading when I saw a face appear at the window. It was a weathered, wizened face, with broken veins on the cheeks and a nose red from drink, but never in my life was I so glad to see a face!
Holmes nodded to the man, who nodded and then disappeared from view. A moment later there was the sound of glass being cut, and I saw that the sound was being made by a thin blade inserted between the pane and the window frame. The three of us in the room held our breath as the glass was cleanly and skillfully separated from its base. Moments later another face appeared, followed by a body. This time I recognized the face: it was Master Tuthill of the Baker Street Irregulars. The boy wriggled his thin form through the window, dropping noiselessly to the floor; then he crept over and began untying us one by one. He had just started to untie me when the door flung open and Connors’s enormous bulk filled up the door frame.
“What’s going on here?” he said. Before he could make a move, Holmes sprang at him, knocking him backwards through the door. His strength was enormous, though, and he tossed Holmes off him as easily as if he were a rag. Holmes staggered and then went at him again, landing several blows to the big man’s torso. Connors grunted and struck out, but Holmes was lighter and quicker than his opponent, and easily avoided his blows.
“Hurry, Tuthill!” I cried as the boy struggled with my bonds.
“I’m goin’ as fast as I can!”
Holmes was aiming his punches to Connors’s face now, and the huge fellow was beginning to slow down when suddenly Holmes tripped over a coil of rotting rope. Connors took advantage of this and swung with all his might, landing a blow to Holmes’s ribs, whereupon my friend doubled over and slumped to the floor.
Free now from my restraints, I threw myself at Connors with a roar, but didn’t even get near him; a blow to my head from one huge fist made me dizzy and I crumpled to the ground. My head spinning, I looked up through a haze of pain and saw Sean Moriarty rush at Connors. I closed my eyes, not wanting to see the results, but when I opened them moments later I saw Connors stretched out on the floor. Moriarty was standing over him, breathing heavily, rubbing his knuckles. I staggered unsteadily to my feet.
“Good Lord! What did you do to him?” I gasped.
“I did a bit of boxing before I was called to the priesthood,” he replied modestly, and I stared at him in wonder. Though possessed of the same wiry frame as his brother, I would not have thought he could floor the big man like that. Tuthill stood looking at Moriarty with an expression of adoration.
I turned my attention to Holmes, who lay upon the floor looking very wan; I feared his injuries were causing internal bleeding.
“Dr. Watson,” Moriarty asked, “how are you at knots?”
“I’m excellent, sir,” Tuthill piped up; “I’ve worked on shipboard.”
Moriarty regarded the lad. “Good,” he said, pointing to Connors; “see that you tie him up well.”
“Yes, sir!” said the boy, and grabbing one of the ropes formerly used on us, he set to work.
“We must get out of here before he comes to and tells the others,” Moriarty said sharply, and then he bent over Holmes.
“Can you move?”
Holmes nodded, and we helped him to his feet. Gripping his side, his face deathly pale, he spoke in a raspy whisper.
“What can you tell me—about what they—are planning?” he said, pausing between words to catch his breath. I felt strongly that moving him was not a good idea, and yet we could not leave him here.
“I remember they said something about ‘the third time’s the charm . . .’ ”
“What else did they say? Can you remember anything else?”
“It’s difficult; I was drugged at the time . . .” Moriarty paused, and then his face lit up. “Wait a minute—yes, they said, something about ‘the bird will have flown for the last time!’ ”
“Excellent!” cried Holmes, and then he winced and paused for breath. “Quickly, we must hurry!”
“Where are we go
ing?” I said, following him out of the warehouse.
“To St. Paul’s Cathedral!”
I immediately grasped Holmes’s reasoning. Twice destroyed by fire, a bombing of St. Paul’s would indeed be “a third time.” The “bird” was a veiled reference to Christopher Wren, the architect who designed the current building.
“May I come along, Mr. Holmes?” said Tuthill.
“No, Tuthill, it could be very dangerous,” Holmes replied; “but you have rendered us a great service today which I won’t forget.” The boy’s beaming face showed the impact Holmes’s praise had on him, and again I felt myself foolishly wishing those words had been spoken to me.
The night was dark and overcast but as the three of us scrambled up the bank of mud which led away from the river I could see the sweat gleaming on Holmes’s forehead. When we reached Cannon Street we flagged down a cab.
“There’s an extra guinea for you if you hurry!” Holmes cried to the driver, and soon we were rattling along the cobblestones at a brisk canter. The driver earned his money, for we arrived there within minutes.
St. Paul’s Cathedral’s reputation as one of the greatest cathedrals in Europe is well deserved. Its dome dominates the skyline of the City like a mountain rising majestically out of foothills. Christopher Wren’s design displays a harmony and balance which is both calming and exhilarating, and as we dashed through the marbled entryway I couldn’t help feeling overwhelmed by its grandeur.
Suddenly Holmes gripped my arm. “There—there he is!”
I followed his gaze and saw the thin form of O’Malley dart behind a column.
“He’s seen us,” said Moriarty.
“Go around the back way, Watson; Moriarty and I will separate and cover the entrances.”
I nodded and crept around the row of silent marble columns, my eyes straining to catch a sight of our quarry. The smooth floor and resonance of the walls made it difficult to move quietly, but I tiptoed as softly as I could. I stopped and listened. There was no sound except my own breathing, and I listened vainly for the echo of other footsteps.
Suddenly my eye caught a movement behind one of the columns. I froze and stopped breathing for what seemed like an eternity, then crept slowly forward.
“Well, Dr. Watson, I must congratulate you. I don’t know how you escaped, but now you will die a glorious death for the cause of Ireland.”
I spun around to see O’Malley holding a gun pointed at my chest. Under his arm he carried an ominous-looking package wrapped in brown paper.
“Don’t do it, O’Malley; think of the loss.”
“Oh, but we’re all thinking about loss all the time,” he replied, his dark eyes narrow. “The loss of our homeland—the Ireland that once was but is no more thanks to the British Government.”
“But this won’t solve anything,” I said desperately; “you’ll only be killing innocent people.”
O’Malley shrugged. “Do you know how many people died in the potato famine because of the greed and indifference of British landlords? An eye for an eye. It’s in the Bible, you know.”
“And a tooth for a tooth.”
O’Malley turned around to face Holmes, who stood there looking as pale as a ghost. As he did I threw myself at him, knocking him to the ground. I grabbed for the gun, and we fought for possession of it. Then suddenly a shot rang out. O’Malley’s eyes stared wildly into mine, then his body went limp.
“Watson, are you all right?” Holmes cried, sinking to the ground beside us.
“Quite all right, thank you,” I said, secretly pleased at the desperation in his voice. He was not a man given to emotional outburst, and it warmed me to the core to hear the concern he felt for my safety.
“Thank God,” he said, and then gingerly picked up the package from where it had fallen on the floor. We opened it, and found that the timing device had not yet been set to go off. “I think we’d best take this to Scotland Yard,” he said as Sean Moriarty joined us. The commotion caused by the gunshot had already attracted several policemen, and I convinced Holmes to give them custody of the bomb and go back with me to Baker Street.
Only once we were safely back in our sitting room did I get a close look at Father Sean Moriarty. He had the same high domed forehead, the same thin lips as his brother, but without the cruelty about his mouth. His black eyes were softer, and as he sipped the tea which Mrs. Hudson insisted on serving us, he shook his head, reminding me of the strange reptilian head-swivelling which was peculiar to James Moriarty.
“My brother must have felt a bitter humiliation when he came to you for help.” At Sean’s insistence, Holmes and I both had finally stopped denying the involvement of James Moriarty.
I wanted to ask him how he and his brother had ended up at such different ends of the moral spectrum, but I contented myself with a question for Holmes, who lay on the couch at my insistence; after much protest, he had allowed me to bandage his ribs and administer some morphine.
“How did you know that they would take us to Sean if we were made prisoners?”
Holmes stared at me for a moment and then let out a laugh, which caused him to wince and hold his side.
“Good Lord, Watson—you actually thought I planned to have us captured?”
“Well, didn’t you?” said Moriarty.
“Good heavens, no; I was just there to infiltrate their meeting. Everything that happened afterwards was a complete surprise to me.”
“But how did you know Tuthill was outside the window?” I asked.
“I didn’t, but you may remember I sent him a note earlier, suggesting that he keep an eye on our movements. He occasionally works as a costermonger’s assistant, and as you can see, he did a good job of tracking us.” Holmes smiled. “Well, Watson, I’d rather you didn’t write this one up—I was employed by Professor Moriarty, nearly failed to prevent the destruction of St. Paul’s, and was rescued by a priest and a little boy. Not a very successful case, I think.”
“The public might enjoy knowing you are human after all, Holmes.”
He turned his face towards the pale light of dawn creeping through the curtains. “I think not, Watson; if they knew I was human, why on earth would they want to read about me?”
My Blushes,
Watson!
“. . . You have heard me speak of Professor Moriarty?”
“The famous scientific criminal, as famous among crooks as—”
“My blushes, Watson,” Holmes murmured, in a deprecating voice.
“I was about to say ‘as he is unknown to the public.’ ”
“A touch—a distinct touch!” cried Holmes. “You are developing a certain unexpected vein of pawky humour, Watson, against which I must learn to guard myself.”
The above well-known excerpt from The Valley of Fear proves that Sherlock Holmes was fully capable of laughing at himself. Yet he did have his petty vanities, such as his irritation at Watson’s penning of “The Yellow Face” (for details, see “Too Many Stains” in my 1996 anthology, The Resurrected Holmes) or his presumable embarrassment over the three tales in this section.
In “The Adventure of the Mazarin Stone,” Watson is told by Billy, Sherlock Holmes’s page, that the day before, his master disguised himself as an old woman carrying a baggy parasol. In the following case, Sherlock employs a similar ruse, but considering the outcome, it is probable that this was the last time Holmes chose to go around in “drag” . . .
The Affair of the Counterfeit Countess
BY CRAIG SHAW GARDNER
“You are Dr. Watson, I presume?”
I looked up from my perusal of that day’s Times, a bit startled by this intrusion. Before me stood a tall woman of mature years, dressed in the current layered style so favoured by women of breeding. She was a striking woman in more ways than one, her face arrestingly angular. The bits of colour she had applied to her cheeks and lips accented the paleness of her complexion and made her seem a bit severe. She was still a handsome woman in her way. But what was she doi
ng in our drawing room in Baker Street? Why hadn’t Mrs. Hudson announced her?
“I am the Baroness Von Stuppell,” she ventured when I did not reply. From the directness of her gaze and the strictness of her bearing, she was a woman used to getting her way.
“Pardon me for my rudeness,” I said, quickly rising from my chair. “Does Mr. Holmes know of this appointment?”
She nodded curtly. “Oh, I am quite sure Mr. Holmes is currently aware of my every move.”
So the baroness and the detective were previously acquainted. Still, I wondered why Holmes had not apprised me of this appointment. I felt the slightest concern; what if something had happened to my friend?
“Well, perhaps there is something I can do for you until Mr. Holmes returns.” I waved at a chair placed across from mine. “If you would care to take a seat?”
She sat with the practiced grace of a gentlewoman, and pulled a fan designed in the Oriental style from the large and ornately appliqued bag she had brought with her. She took a moment to fan herself, no doubt fatigued by the lingering summer heat. She paused and observed me from behind her fan. “Doctor, I trust that I might confide in you, for you are certainly a man of the world.” She turned her eyes down to the floor. “That is, if I do not presume too much.”
“Forgive me, Baroness,” I sputtered. There was something about her total propriety that took me aback. I wished for an instant that Holmes were here. Still, my powers of observation would have to serve. I struggled to find the proper words. “Baroness, there seems something about your manner. You seem to wish to keep a distance, as if you might have something to hide.”
“Something to hide? Why, Doctor, whatever could you mean by that?” Despite the surprised tone of her voice, she did not remove her fan from before her face.
“Perhaps it is your nerves,” I added quickly, “or perhaps—” I realized then that there was something else that I recognized about my visitor, something I had yet to put my finger upon. “—something we might yet determine. If we are to help you, you must confide in us completely. If you indeed know Mr. Holmes, you know there is no other way.”
