The Criminal Mastermind of Baker Street

by Rob Nunn

  Watson moved back to the darkness of the corner and the two men continued their vigil until midnight. Watson clutched Holmes’ arm suddenly. “The shadow has moved!”

  “Of course it moved. Am I such a farcical bungler, Watson, that I should erect an obvious dummy and expect that some of the sharpest men in Europe would be deceived by it? We have been in this room two hours, and Mrs. Hudson has made some change in that figure eight times. She works it from the front so that her shadow may never be seen. Ah!”

  Holmes drew in his breath with a shrill, excited intake. In the dim light, he pulled Watson back even further into the shadows. A low, stealthy sound came from the back of the very house they waited in. Watson’s hand closed upon his army revolver. A large man entered the room and crept forward, crouching, menacing into the room. The sinister figure was within three yards of them, yet he had no idea that Holmes and Watson were in the same room as him. The man stole over to the window, and noiselessly raised it six inches.

  The light of the street fell upon the man’s face. His face shone with excitement, and his features working convulsively. A huge grizzled mustache covered a large portion of his gaunt face. The rest of his face was scored with deep, savage lines. He carried what appeared to be a walking stick, but the man set about to pulling objects out of his overcoat which turned the stick into a sort of gun. He crouched down, rested the end of the barrel upon the ledge of the open window, and peered through the sights. With a sigh of satisfaction, he sighted the target, and tightened his finger on the trigger.

  There was a strange, loud whiz and a long, silvery tinkle of broken glass.

  At that moment, Holmes sprang like a tiger onto the marksman’s back and hurled him flat upon his face. The man was up again in a moment, and seized Holmes by the throat with convulsive strength. Watson landed a blow to the villain’s head with his revolver, and the man dropped to the floor. Watson fell upon him, and held the stranger to the floor while a clatter of feet ran into the room.

  “That you, Allard?” asked Holmes into the darkness.

  “Oui, Monsieur Holmes,” came the reply in a heavy French accent.

  Two large men entered the room with lanterns and fell upon the would-be assassin, tying him up. A few loiterers had begun to collect in the street, and Holmes closed the window and the blinds.

  “Ah, Colonel!” said Holmes, arranging the man’s rumpled collar. “This is what it is like to face your prey. Not hiding in a dark room or behind tumbling rocks. At least Morgan was brave enough to sit across a table from me.”

  “You fiend,” the colonel muttered, staring at Holmes as if in a trance.

  Holmes turned to Watson. “I have not introduced you yet. This, gentlemen, is Colonel Sebastian Moran, once of Her Majesty’s Indian Army, and the best heavy game shot that our Eastern empire has ever produced. I believe I am correct, Colonel, in saying that your bag of tigers still remains unrivalled?”

  The fierce old man said nothing, only glaring at Holmes.

  “I wonder that my very simple stratagem could deceive so old a shikari,” said Holmes. “It must be very familiar to you. Have you not tethered a young kid under a tree, lain above it with your rifle, and waited for the bait to bring up your tiger? You have possibly had other guns in reserve in case there should be several tigers, or in the unlikely supposition of your own aim failing you. These,” he pointed at Watson and the two large men, “are my other guns.”

  Holmes picked up the powerful air-gun. “An admirable and unique weapon. Noiseless and of tremendous power. I knew Von Herder, the blind German mechanic, who constructed it to the order of the late Professor Moriarty. For years I have been aware of its existence, though I have never before had the opportunity of handling it.”

  Holmes quickly broke the gun over his knee and leaned in close to Moran.

  “You are nowhere near the caliber of your former employer. It was foolish for you to think that you could perform a feat that the so-called ‘Napoleon of Crime’ could not do.”

  Holmes turned to the two men. “Gentlemen, Inspector Lestrade will be awaiting Colonel Moran and would like to talk to him about the murder of Ronald Adair.”

  Holmes’ men nodded and unceremoniously dragged Moran out of the room.

  On their way back to the Baker Street rooms, Watson turned to Holmes. “You said that Moran was the second most dangerous man in London. Who is the first?”

  Smiling, Holmes responded, “That honor, my dear Watson, belongs to me.” Holmes took a deep breath of the night air. “It is good to be back in London again!”

  Chapter 13: A Curious Collection

  At Holmes’ request, Watson sold his practice and moved back in to 221B Baker Street. A young doctor named Verner purchased the practice with little argument to the high price that Watson asked. When he moved back in, Watson was glad to find that the old chambers had been left unchanged through the supervision of Mycroft and the care of Mrs. Hudson. The old landmarks were still all in their place. There were the chemical corner and the acid-stained table. Upon a shelf was the row of formidable scrapbooks of reference. The diagrams, the violin case, and the pipe rack - even the Persian slipper which contained Holmes’ tobacco - all met Watson’s eyes as he glanced around.

  After disassembling Holmes’ organization, Doctor Watson kept track of most of the employees, a fact that delighted Holmes, leading him to tell Watson that he would never get his friend’s limits. Watson’s actions allowed Holmes to restart his empire quicker than he had anticipated after his hiatus and the Colonel Moran incident. Forgers and fences were quickly re-established. Robberies were scouted and competitors discouraged. Word spread quickly through the London underworld of the return of Sherlock Holmes.

  Society hardly noticed, and the few police officers that asked were simply told that Holmes had been on an extended holiday abroad. His eccentricities were so well by known by his acquaintances at this point, that follow-up questions were never asked. To keep up the charade as an eccentric gentleman writer, Holmes threw himself into a writing on early English charters, while alternating between cocaine injections and planning his next criminal endeavors.

  Over the next year, Holmes’ employees pilfered an ancient British barrow of its singular contents, helped a banker named Crosby launder money from his employer, inserted themselves into the Smith-Mortimer succession for financial gain, and took care of an embarrassing matter for a well-known tobacco millionaire for a sizable sum.

  As the days passed one into another, Holmes and Watson would often find themselves sitting after pleasant little meals. During these respites, Holmes would allow himself to expound upon his topic of the day. One day after Holmes had spent the day reading of Paganini in the British museum, he told anecdote after anecdote of the virtuoso when he arrived back in Baker Street that evening.

  Watson poured them both another glass of claret and said off-handedly, “His imagination must have known no bounds. Improvising on the violin as you do, do you ever find yourself envious of such a man’s imagination?”

  “Oh, I value imagination and dare say I employ it every day in my own line of work! When planning crimes, I must imagine and balance probabilities and choose the more likely. It is the scientific use of imagination, but we have always some material basis on which to start. And to avoid capture, I must imagine myself as one of the Yarders. Having lowered my intelligence to their level, I try to imagine how I should myself have followed the clues under the same circumstances.”

  “You can hardly state that every Yarder is of sub-par intelligence!”

  “Hardly. There a quite a few workman-like officials of the force, and some, such as Inspector Gregory, are extremely competent officers. But they are not gifted with imagination, and that is how I continue to score over them. The Yard does not value imagination. We imagine what might happen when the Yarders investigate, preempt the supposition, and f
ind ourselves justified.”

  Before the conversation could continue, their new page-boy Billy arrived with a note.

  “Our dinner conversation has been a delightful one, Watson, but a Mr. Slaney of Chicago promises a nice payment to meet him in Hyde Park. I would be remiss to pass up an opportunity to discuss business with one of our American cousins. Good night!”

  One day in April of 1895, Holmes was studying a palimpsest with a powerful lens while Watson read a recent treatise on surgery, when there was a knock at the door, and Cartwirght, one of the Irregulars, delivered a message to Holmes.

  “It is a message from Archie Stamford in Farnham, Watson. It seems that he has found Woodley and Carruthers.”

  “But I thought there were six more months until their return from South Africa.”

  “Yes, that was the original plan. According to Stamford, they have been back for some weeks now.”

  “And they haven’t called upon you? You were the one who advanced them the money for their trip!” Watson snorted.

  “Precisely. Perhaps you will go down to Farnham and collect our payment from the two gadabouts. I trust you to act as your own judgment advises. Then, having collected what you will, come back to me and report how the two men fared on their South African prospecting.”

  The next day, Watson left Waterloo station on the 9:13 to Surrey. Once he reached the village of Farnham, Watson headed straight for the pub, the center of public gossip. He made inquiries of the garrulous landlord, only to be told that one of the men he had described was in the next room. Watson moved into the tap room, and greeted Woodley seated at a table.

  “I ain’t got no money now, Doctor Watson, but I swear in just a few days’ time, we’ll be payin’ Mister Holmes back. Carruthers and me got a nice angle here in this town.”

  “You will not speak my employer’s name in public, Mr. Woodley,” Watson said flatly. “I’m not interested in what you plan to do. I’m here to collect payment on what you owe from past jobs.”

  Woodley changed to a sneer. “Listen here, Doctor. I said we ain’t got the money. Now, you can either let me have my time to hang up the ladle with a nice little flower for her money, or you can shove off!”

  Watson took a deep breath. “Woodley, you agreed to the terms with our agent. Whether you found gold or not in South Africa, you knew what you would be expected to pay when you returned. And my employer is not pleased that we had to hear about your return to England from someone other than you and your partner. I will return on Saturday, and you will have a payment for us.”

  Woodley gulped down the last of his beer and slammed the empty mug on the table. “We’ll just see about that, Doctor,” and strode out of the bar.

  Watson returned to Baker Street that night and relayed the story to Holmes, who was not surprised.

  “I had to believe that my absence from London would lead some to acts such as this. I will accompany you to Farnham on Saturday. We will have to make an example out of Mr. Woodley,” Holmes sighed.

  That Saturday, Holmes and Watson took the train to Surrey, and once again, Woodley could be found in the tap room of the local pub.

  “Well, well, it’s the doctor,” he sneered. “And it looks like you brought another pimp with you to run off at the sauce-box and do your boss’s dirty work, eh?”

  Watson began to correct him, but Holmes held up his hand. “Mister Woodley, we are here to collect payment for an advance you received for your trip to South Africa. We understand that you were not successful, so we will allow you to begin a payment plan.”

  “Oh, you’ll allow me will ya? What if I tell you I ain’t got the money, and there’s not a damn thing you can do about it unless you want to get batter-fanged?”

  Holmes grimaced. “That is unfortunate. Then I believe we should also speak to Mister Carruthers and see what he has to say.”

  “That capon will do what I tell him to or else I’ll cop ‘is mouse. And so will you!”

  Woodley’s backhand struck out so quickly, that Holmes was caught off guard and took a wicked blow to his forehead. Holmes staggered back and then moved back in with his hands in a boxer’s position.

  Woodley grinned at the prospect and charged, only to have his face met with straight left, dropping him to the floor. Holmes stepped back and allowed him to stand. Woodley raced back in and delivered one flailing hit to Holmes’ face, splitting his lip. Holmes quickly returned a series of three punches that put the man down so hard that when he staggered to his feet, he immediately slunk out of the pub without another word.

  Holmes turned to the landlord, and described Carruthers.

  “He’s got a place out by Charlington. Got servants and everything. There’s a pretty gal out there, too.”

  Holmes started to walk towards Charlington, when Watson offered to call a cart.

  “No. We will walk. I get so little active exercise that it is always a treat to be outdoors,” Holmes said, and the two men began their trek to the manor where Carruthers was hiding.

  After some time, an empty dog-cart came cantering down the road, its reins trailing behind it.

  “Stop the horse, Watson!” Holmes cried.”This can hardly be a coincidence.”

  Holmes and Watson climbed into the dog-cart and Holmes snapped the reins to take off down the road. A bearded man pedaling furiously on a bicycle soon appeared and hollered for Holmes and Watson to stop, blocking the road with his bicycle.

  “Where is Miss Violet Smith?” the man demanded.

  Holmes looked at the man. “I don’t know who that is. And why are you wearing a fake beard?”

  Ignoring Holmes’ question, the man responded, “You’re in her dog-cart. You ought to know where she is.”

  “We met this dog-cart on the road with no one in it. We are driving it back,” Holmes answered.

  “Good Lord!” he cried. “What shall I do? They’ve got her, that hellhound Woodley and the blackguard parson. Come, man, if you can help. Stand by me and we’ll save her, if I have to leave my carcass here.”

  The man took out a pistol and ran towards a gap in the hedge along the side of the road. Holmes and Watson looked at each other and then followed, only to come upon a young man about seventeen lying unconscious in the grass.

  “That’s Peter, the groom,” the man cried. “He drove her. The beasts have pulled him off and clubbed him. We can’t do him any good, but we may save her from the worst fate that can befall a woman.”

  Suddenly, a woman’s shrill scream pierced the air from the thick green clump of bushes in front of them. Breaking through the bushes into a lovely glade, they saw a group of three people. One of them was a woman, drooping and faint with a handkerchief around her mouth. One of the men present was a gray-bearded man, wearing a short surplice over a light tweed suit. The other man present, holding the woman, was Woodley.

  “By Jove, Holmes,” Watson panted, “this is the marriage he was speaking of! He must have made his way out here while we spoke with the landlord!”

  “Yes. We are mixed up in more than a simple collection,” Holmes stated.

  Woodley advanced towards the newcomers. “You can take that damn beard off, Bob. So these two found you, eh? Well, you and your pals have just come in time for me to be able to introduce you to Mrs. Woodley. You’ll have your money soon enough, gents.”

  The man snatched off the dark beard and threw it to the ground, raising his gun as he did so. “Yes. I am Bob Carruthers, and I’ll see this woman righted if I have to swing for it. I told you what I’d do if you molested her, and by the Lord, I’ll be as good as my word.”

  “You’re too late!” Woodley laughed. “She’s my wife!”

  “No. She’s your widow.”

  The revolver cracked, and blood spurted from Woodley’s waistcoat. He screamed and fell to his back.

&nbs
p; The preacher cursed and pulled out his own pistol, but found himself looking at Holmes’ weapon before he could use his own.

  “Enough of this,” said Holmes coldly. “Drop that pistol. Watson, pick it up. Hold it to his head! You, Carruthers, give me that revolver. We’ll have no more violence. Hand it over!”

  Carruthers looked at Holmes with confusion. “Who are you?”

  “My name is Sherlock Holmes.”

  “Good Lord! Mister Holmes, I didn’t know it was you! Woodley told me that your man came to collect, and I swear we were in the process of getting your money, but that brute muddled everything up.”

  “Enough!” Holmes barked. His masterful presence dominated the scene as everyone stood frozen. The preacher and Carruthers carried Woodley to the house while Watson escorted the frightened girl.

  Once inside, Watson examined Woodley and pronounced that he would live.

  “What!” cried Carruthers. “I will go upstairs and finish him off now!”

  “You will do no such thing, Mister Carruthers,” Holmes said flatly. “Sit down.”

  Once the man had followed orders, Holmes continued. “What we witnessed today was a sham marriage. I don’t know why, nor do I care, but it was certainly not legal.” Holmes glared at the preacher, who withered under his gaze.

  “Now,” he continued, “as for my reason to be here. Mister Carruthers, you and Jack Woodley owe me a nice sum of money for your expedition to South Africa. It is lucky for you that Mister Woodley will live, otherwise you would be responsible for his portion.”

  “Mister Holmes,” Carruthers said meekly, “we didn’t score anything like we had hoped to in South Africa, but we met a man over there, this young lady’s father. He found plenty of gold, but died on the way home, leaving his fortune to her.”

  For the first time that day, the young woman spoke, “My father is dead?”

  Carruthers nodded. “I’m sorry, Miss Smith. I had hoped to gain your trust before telling you.”

  Watson laughed. “That’s a lie! Woodley said the plan was to marry her for money to pay your debt!”