Sherlock Holmes: The Quality of Mercy and Other Stories

by William Meikle

  At that very instant Crawford shook himself like a dog, raised his head and smiled.“Ah. The Three Musketeers,” he said. I immediately recognized the clipped English accent, so different from the soft Scots voice I had heard in Shoreditch. He sat up in the chair, the smile widening.

  “Well, Holmes, I think you can now admit that on this occasion I have indeed bested you.”

  Holmes did not reply, and Mycroft looked too dumbfounded to speak.

  “I did not, however, come to gloat,” Moriarty said. “I am finished here, with you, and with this body. Killing two birds with one stone so to speak. Good-bye.”

  The man’s eyes went dead; then he started to thrash, feet pounding a rhythm on the carpet. I was up and across to him almost immediately, but I was far too late. His eyes filled with blood and he slumped in the chair. I checked his pulse just to make sure, but there was no doubt about it. The man was as dead as anyone I have ever examined.

  So you can imagine my surprise when, just seconds later, the body shook again, the head came up, and a soft Scots voice spoke. “Good evening, gentlemen. I’m sorry if I gave you a scare, but I had to wait until the previous occupant departed.”

  Mycroft almost fell off his chair. “Crawford? Is that you?”

  “I’m afraid not sir. Lord Crawford has taken his leave. Angus Seton, at your service.”

  He turned and looked at me. “I’m right sorry to have hit you last night, doctor,” he said. “But I did not know how much time I had, and you would have had too many questions.”

  I felt anger rise in me. “Not only did you hit me—you killed all those men.”

  He shook his head, and there was sadness in his voice. “No, doctor. They were dead already. Just like this body here: the spirit has fled, leaving only a shell behind. And I would not desecrate this one so if it were not such an urgent matter.”

  He turned his attention to Holmes. “I thought I might find you here or at least be able to get a message to you. I managed to find him. I take it you know about the train?”

  Holmes nodded and Seton continued. “I could only make contact for a few seconds,” he said. “But that was long enough. He took several diversions to throw you off the scent and is now on the Eastern Counties Railway tracks, making for Colchester and then for Norwich. He intends to transfer the bullion to a boat. That is as much as I could discover.”

  “It is enough,” Mycroft said. He seemed to have got over his reluctance to believe our story, and left the room in a hurry, no doubt to act on the information.

  “And where are you, Mr. Seton?” Holmes asked.

  The man smiled. “Nowhere near Norwich,” he said. “That was for your brother’s benefit. We both know that this must be finished between Moriarty and ourselves, not with any official interference.”

  “So where is he really?” Holmes asked, without confirming Seton’s previous point. He did not have to—I saw the agreement in his face.

  “He never left London,” Seton replied. “He took the train into a disused tunnel. His idea of a little joke, I suppose—he is hiding out in Limehouse, beneath the eastbound viaduct, biding his time. In the morning, he intends to take the Rotherhithe tunnel south of the river and thence to Dover, where he has a boat waiting. I suggest you get to the train with all haste before he decides to make a run for it.”

  Holmes stood. “Thank you, sir. Let us hope that together we can bring this to a conclusion.”

  Seton nodded. “And now, I must leave this poor man’s body, entrusting you with the proper care and attention to his funeral. Good-bye, gentlemen. I shall see you soon.”

  He dropped his head and went still.

  When I checked his pulse he was dead.

  Again.

  Holmes and I managed to slip out of Parliament while Mycroft was busy elsewhere. It did, however, seem that he had been as good as his word, for we passed several policemen, none of whom so much as looked at us.

  We flagged down a carriage and were shortly on our way back to the East End, once again suffering a bone-rattling trot along the Embankment.

  “We are approaching a conclusion, Watson,” Holmes said as the carriage turned off toward Monument. “As yet I am not sure how we shall catch Moriarty, or even if such a thing is possible. But we can at least stop him in this latest crime and recover the bullion.”

  “That certainly must be a priority,” I replied. “The fate of the Empire may rest on it.”

  Holmes almost laughed. “I leave the fate of empires to Mycroft. Let us be content with catching a thief; albeit a very good one.”

  I had my own worries to contend with, and while the carriage took us through the warren of streets beyond Monument on the way to the docks I gave voice to the chief of them.

  “I am not entirely sure we can trust Seton,” I said. “Not after the affair in Shoreditch.”

  “I agree in part,” Holmes said. “The Scotsman clearly has an agenda of his own. But if he meant us harm he has had ample opportunity before now, both in Comrie and in Shoreditch. And he has provided us with clues when we have needed them. We have taken him at his word thus far, and he has not been proved totally false. If this latest lead is true, then he will have gone a long way in gaining some trust with me.”

  As for myself, I was still ambivalent on the matter; still fretting over those swaddled, defenseless bodies burning in silence under Seton’s hand. I forced it from my mind, a distraction that could be dealt with later. For now, Holmes needed me focused and ready for action. The bruise on my head still hurt like billy-o, but the drumbeat throbbing had eased to a manageable level and the weight of the revolver was a reassuring presence in my pocket.

  Half an hour later the carriage dropped us off outside Limehouse station. Holmes had us alight on the side opposite the station entrance and took me, by a series of narrow alleyways and passages, under the station itself. We stopped under the high arch of a brick viaduct.

  “Quiet now, Watson,” Holmes said. “If the train is where Seton said it would be, it is just around the next corner. We do not even know what this John MacAllan looks like, so from now on we should treat everyone as a possible suspect. Agreed?”

  “Agreed.” I followed him around the corner, revolver in hand.

  There was indeed a train in the tunnel ahead of us, and I was somewhat relieved to see that the engine was not up to steam. There was no driver visible, no one stoking the furnace. We sidled along the side of the carriages into the darkness of the tunnel itself. Still there was no sound, no sign of anyone being present.

  “I say, Holmes, are you sure we have the right train?”

  He did not speak but jumped up into the space between two carriages and pulled aside a canvas tarpaulin that had been tied across the top, moving the material aside just enough so that he could look inside. He turned to me.

  “We have the right train, Watson; there is no doubt of that.”

  Even before he finished the sentence there was a pop. A bullet tore at Holmes’ coat, and I did not see whether he had been injured as he jumped down beside me and pulled me into the space between the wheels under the carriage.

  “I had hoped to investigate a bit further before being seen,” he said. “But it cannot be helped. Let us see if we can outflank this gunman. Keep to the walls, and keep low. I’ll go left.”

  And as quick as that he was gone, running along the side of the track deeper into the tunnel. As soon as he left cover there was another pop, and this time I was able to locate the source better; the gunman was indeed deeper in the tunnel and would be able to see any movement ahead of him silhouetted against the tunnel entrance. I left my spot under the carriage and leapt for the relative safety of the deeper shadows against the wall. I almost didn’t make it; the pop of the gun and a whine close to my ear told me I had been lucky not to be shot.

  The bulk of the train obscured any view I might have of Holmes, but another pop told me that he had broken cover. I used that as cover of my own and moved further into the tunne
l. I had to stop after only ten yards, wanting to allow my eyes time to adjust, but I was not given time, as another pop told me that Holmes was still under fire. I headed further into the darkness.

  “He’s ten yards ahead of you, on the carriage roof,” I heard Holmes shout. I sent a shot in that direction, the muzzle flare leaving a yellow afterimage behind my eyes that took long seconds to fade. There was no cry of pain but I heard a scuffle from that direction; Holmes had used my shot as an opportunity to press an attack. And now there was a cry of pain, although I didn’t know whether it came from Holmes or the gunman. The scuffling continued for a few seconds, then was followed by a loud thud as bodies fell from the train roof to the tunnel floor.

  “I have him, Watson,” Holmes called, and I moved to his aid as my eyes finally adjusted to the dim light. But again, I was too late. Holmes knelt over another dead body, its eyes filled with blood.

  Deeper still in the tunnel someone laughed. When they spoke it was in that clipped English voice I was coming to hate. “You did not think it would be that easy, did you, Holmes? Why not come back here, and we can talk about this like civilized men.”

  At the same time, I heard noises from the front of the train; the unmistakable clatter of coal being shoveled into the furnace. Someone was preparing the engine for traveling.

  “I mean it, Holmes,” Moriarty’s voice said. “I have someone else here, too; a very old friend of yours, I believe. Come back here and join me, and maybe I will let him live.”

  Holmes started to stand.

  “No, Holmes,” I said, holding him back. “It is just another trap—don’t you see?”

  “If it is, it is one I walk into with my eyes open,” he said and, pulling away from me, stood. He put out a hand to help me up. “And I would like your company at the end, if you wish to join me?”

  “Lay on, MacDuff,” I said, and let him help me up.

  “Just leave the revolver behind, Doctor,” Moriarty said from the darkness. “You will not be needing it.”

  Holmes nodded. “An end with Moriarty will be between him and myself,” he said. “Come; bear witness for me.”

  I left the pistol on the tracks, and together we followed Moriarty’s voice into the tunnel.

  We did not have to go far. We walked past four large goods carriages I guessed were the ill-gotten gains. After the second I started to see dim light at the rear of the train, showing us to two opulent Pullman carriages hooked behind the cargo. A man stood at the steps between the two carriages. I did not recognize him, but when he spoke the voice was unmistakable.

  “Welcome, gentlemen. As you can see, I have arranged for us to travel in style. One of the perks of having Lord Crawford make the arrangements.”

  He showed us inside the rearmost carriage. The interior lived up to the promise of the outside, being a wonder of mahogany, leather, and hand-painted mirrors. In feel it reminded me of nothing less than one of the more exclusive gentlemen’s clubs, a feeling reinforced by the six armchairs that dominated the center of the space.

  Even more astonishing still was the fact that the Scotsman, Seton was sitting in one of the armchairs, cradling a whisky. He had a rueful grin on his face as we entered.

  “Greetings, gentlemen,” he said. “We meet again. I’m afraid I was too hasty and tried an attempt of my own at heroism and saving the day before you arrived. I’m ashamed to say I am not as young as I once was, and our friend here bested me to the extent that I yielded—for now. His whisky is the good stuff, though, so I suggest you get some inside of you before he starts talking. It might make the gloating more bearable.”

  Moriarty laughed. It was only now we were in stronger light that I was able to see that he inhabited a young man’s body. He wore the clothes of a clerk, and not a very well paid one at that, with dried ink on his fingers and thin hair already going prematurely bald on top. What was left of the hair was a mousy brown with hints of red, and I guessed this must be the aforementioned John MacAllan.

  “What is to stop the three of us rushing you, right here?” I said.

  Moriarty laughed. “Go ahead, if that is your pleasure. I shall simply jump again and leave you with another dead man on your hands. Would you really like that, doctor? Are you not tired yet of the trail of dead you are leaving behind you?”

  “But at least we would be able to retake the train.”

  Holmes replied this time. “No, Watson. Given the ease with which he performed the last switch, I suspect that there are more available bodies nearby. Probably in that other Pullman carriage yonder.”

  Moriarty said nothing. He did not have to. It was not too great a stretch of the imagination for me to imagine the swaddled bodies, crammed together there in the dark, eyes staring but unseeing, just lying there, breathing softly … waiting. I decided then and there that I would not allow him to desecrate more bodies.

  At that moment the train gave a lurch, and the sound of the engine starting up rumbled through the carriage.

  “Make yourself comfortable, gentlemen,” Moriarty said. “We have a longish journey ahead of us but, as Mr. Seton has already pointed out, the single malt is particularly fine.”

  The train started up and, rather than try to keep our balance in the now-swaying compartment, we took a chair each while Moriarty served us Scotch. Rarely have I taken part in a more disconcerting tableau, but Holmes seemed to be rather relaxed about the situation, so, suspecting he might have a plan he had not yet intimated to me, I decided to play along.

  “This time, I believe I will gloat,” Moriarty said, and laughed. “You have to admit I have bested you this time, Holmes.”

  Holmes made him wait, taking his time in filling and lighting a pipe.

  “And I suppose you have a cunning plan for our demise?” Holmes finally said.

  Moriarty laughed again. He seemed to be enjoying himself immensely. “Demise? Oh no, Holmes. I have no plans to kill you. I want you to be a witness to the full extent of my victory here today … then I want you to remember it for every hour of every day of what I hope will be a long and miserable life.”

  The chug of the wheels on the rails told me that the train was picking up speed. After several minutes the noise intensified into an echoing roar that made any talk impossible until it abated.

  “The Rotherhithe tunnel,” Moriarty said to Holmes. “We are now south of the river and on our way to Dover. There we shall transfer the bullion to a boat I have waiting and we shall all make our way to Dieppe. There I shall take my leave of you and Watson. Mister Seton will travel with me, for a while at least. And you will have plenty of time to reflect on this defeat.”

  Now it was Holmes’ turn to laugh. “I believe it is only a defeat when the game is finally over. This is far from over. Don’t you agree, Mr. Seton?”

  The Scotsman had been sitting quietly all this time, but now he seemed to rouse himself.

  “Indeed, Mister Holmes. We are a way from the endgame yet,” he said. “Although I have already made a gambit that I believe our adversary has missed.” He turned to address Moriarty. “You see, your news that you have spare bodies available to you was not news at all, not to me at least. Before I allowed myself to be captured, I spent some time next door. You will never desecrate my kin again; I have seen to that … permanently.”

  For the first time since our arrival Moriarty’s grin slipped a little. Seton’s, by contrast, widened into a smile. Holmes too allowed himself a thin-lipped smile.

  “I believe you’ll find that Mr. Seton is the winner here,” Holmes said. “A fact that I am sure I will be able to live with.”

  Moriarty produced a small pistol from his jacket pocket. “You may well have stopped me from using my spares, as you called them,” he said. “But that is of little matter, for this body here suits me just fine, for now. Later, Mr. Seton, I shall be taking residence in yours, but that too can wait. Let us all just sit here like civilized men for a time. I have no desire to hurt any of you.”

  “And yet,”
Holmes said, “you may have to. For, you see, you have already lost. While you were telling me all about your little plan for the bullion, Mr. Seton here was back in Parliament in Lord Crawford’s body, telling my brother every detail. Is that not right, Mr. Seton?”

  From where I sat I saw the wink that Holmes sent to Seton, but it would have been completely hidden from Moriarty’s view. Seton was smart enough to do his part.

  “Yes indeed, Mr. Holmes. And right glad he was of the information, too. He was sending people to Dover even as I left.”

  Moriarty’s smile had gone completely now, to be replaced by something that looked very much like rage. As for myself, I was starting to see some method in Holmes’ and Seton’s plan of attack, and I was not greatly surprised by Seton’s next move. He stood and started to walk, somewhat shakily due to the motion of the carriage, toward Moriarty.

  “You have repeatedly assured me that your purpose is to take this body of mine,” he said. “So I am now going to strangle you. You have nowhere else to go, and to stop me you will have to shoot me. I have lived a long time, as you know. But even I do not take bullets kindly. So let us have at it, you and I.”

  Moriarty’s smile came back again. “No closer, or I’ll shoot your friend here,” he said. The gun shifted and was now pointed straight at my midriff. But only for a second, as Holmes stepped forward, placing himself directly in the path of any shot.

  “I do not believe you will rob yourself of a lifetime of gloating,” Holmes said. “But if you must, go ahead and shoot.”

  Even as Moriarty’s finger tightened on the trigger, Seton had moved close enough to bat the pistol aside. A shot, painfully loud in the confines of the cabin, shattered one of the fine mirrors. Seton reached for Moriarty’s throat.

  “You have forgotten something, sir,” Moriarty said as Seton’s hands gripped him. “There is always somewhere else to go.”

  Moriarty’s eyes rolled up in their sockets. At the same time his body slumped, but then almost immediately straightened.

  “I’m sorry, Holmes,” Seton’s voice said—but from the MacAllan man’s body. “That was closer than I intended.”