Death by Gaslight

by Michael Kurland

  “Au revoir, Count,” Sherlock Holmes murmured, staring after the departing nobleman with a bemused expression on his face.

  Once outside, the Count d’Hiver buttoned his topcoat, nodded to the two constables at the door, and hurried down the steps to the sidewalk. He stared up and down the street for his carriage. The fog had settled in, and it was hard to see more than a few feet in any direction. The brougham was not in evidence, but it could have been no more than four or five yards down the block and been completely invisible. He could have asked one of the constables where his driver had settled in to wait, but it seemed somehow demeaning not to know where one’s own brougham had gone.

  He headed off to the left, the direction the vehicle had been heading when they stopped. It would, he realized with a wry internal chuckle, serve him right if his driver had taken the brougham around the block and pulled up a few feet before the Hope mansion. Then the two constables would see him backtracking, the very image of a man who didn’t know where his own carriage was. He could always go back into the house for a moment, as though he had forgotten something; then, perhaps, they wouldn’t notice. The Count d’Hiver was a man who couldn’t stand to be embarrassed, and he found the potential for embarrassment in every trivial act.

  There was a carriage ahead. Was it his, or the young lady journalist’s? A few more steps and—

  An arm, a muscular right arm, appeared from nowhere and hooked around his throat, forcing the chin up, cutting off the windpipe, stifling any attempt to cry out, to breathe. “Greetings, gov’nor,” a soft, deep, curiously familiar voice said behind his ear. “Let’s go over this way, shall we?” And he was dragged, effortlessly, his heels clattering along the pavement, into a small alley beside the Hope mansion.

  “What?—who?—why?—” He forced the words out as the pressure around his windpipe was ever so slightly relaxed.

  “Well,” the deep voice said, “quite a little journalist we’re becoming, isn’t it, Count? Who, what, why, when, where; all questions that will shortly cease to concern you.”

  “My wallet is in the breast pocket of my suit jacket,” the Count d’Hiver gasped. “Take it. There are forty or fifty pounds in it. Only for God’s sake let me breathe!”

  “Your wallet, d’Hiver?” the voice persisted. “Now what would I want with your wallet? Fifty pounds is of no interest to me. It’s you I want.”

  “Me?” The count struggled to turn around in the iron grasp, suddenly realizing the import of his attacker’s use of his name. This was not a random street crime; he was not an accidental victim. “Who are you? What do you want with me? What do you think you’re doing?”

  “You may call me Richard Plantagenet,” the voice said. “And I want vengeance.” Somehow the mild, soft insistence of that voice was more frightening than a thousand screaming fanatics would have been.

  “Vengeance? Vengeance upon whom?” D’Hiver rasped the question out with the little air permitted him. “And what has it to do with me? You cannot get my assistance by choking me to death!”

  “Vengeance on you, d’Hiver,” the voice said, mildly, calmly, rationally. “And you can’t help. You could, however, assuage my curiosity by explaining just why you are killing these gentlemen off, before I cut your heart out.”

  “I?” The Count d’Hiver could feel his heart pounding against his rib cage as though it were trying to break through. “I have done nothing! I have killed no one! You are making a horrible mistake! Do not do this thing! Let us reason this out. Plantagenet? I know no one called Plantagenet.” And yet he had a horrible feeling that, from somewhere, he knew that voice.

  “That is so,” the voice admitted, a hot, horrible breath in his ear. “You do not know me by this name. But I know you! I know you by all your various names: the Count d’Hiver; Clubmaster; Hellhound; Master Incarnate of the Ancient and Evil Order of Hellfire. I know you!”

  D’Hiver felt a momentary shock almost greater than the physical pain. He had not expected that. He twisted his arm around and thrust his heel backward in a swift kick, making a sudden desperate attempt to break free. He felt the heel connect hard against his captor’s leg. But despite his twisting and kicking, and the grunt the kick drew from Plantagenet, the arm never loosened from around his neck.

  “You’re making some sort of mistake,” he insisted, giving up the struggle. “I have no idea what you’re talking about!”

  “No?” the soft voice of Richard Plantagenet breathed. “Pity. Then you’ll die for nothing. For whether or not you tell me why you are killing the others, I shall still certainly kill you. And within the next few minutes, too. I will lift my arm”—he applied just a little upward pressure, and a great knot of pain thrust itself through the back of d’Hiver’s neck and up into his brain—“and you will be quite uncomfortable. And then you will be dead.”

  “Wait, wait; listen,” d’Hiver croaked. “Let me talk.”

  “Talk.”

  D’Hiver took a few deep breaths, to try to calm himself. There was always a way to turn any situation to your own advantage, if you were smart enough. Even this one.

  The pressure increased on his throat. “Waiting for someone to come by and save you? Won’t happen; you have my word it won’t. Talk.”

  “I am who you say I am,” d’Hiver gasped, squeezing the words through his compressed windpipe.

  “I know you are,” the other said reasonably. “Did you think I was guessing? Is that what you have to tell me?” The pressure increased again.

  “Wait! Wait! Think! If you know who I am, if you know who the men who died were—then how can you think that I killed them? I was their master; I was their guide. I was not their enemy. Whoever is committing these murders must surely be after me, too. You can see that, whoever you are.”

  “We are brothers, as are all men,” the whisper sounded in his ear. “I am your brother, and you are my brother; you have killed my brother, and I must kill you. Simple, isn’t it?”

  “Not so simple,” d’Hiver insisted. “I did not kill your brother.”

  “Who did,” the soft voice asked, “and why?”

  “I am trying to find out who is behind these killings,” d’Hiver said. “You think I am not? Who is your brother?”

  “Was,” the voice corrected. “My brother was Lord John Darby; now he is dust.”

  “Crecy!”

  The arm tightened around his throat. “You may call me Richard Plantagenet,” the man who had once been Lord Crecy Darby said.

  “Of course, of course! I’m sorry. Plantagenet it is. Where have you been, Cr—Plantagenet?”

  “Away. I have been performing experiments. Remember how we used to experiment, d’Hiver? I have done more—much more. But someone murdered my brother, and so I have come back. To speak with you; perhaps to kill you.”

  “Not me, Plantagenet. Help me catch the man who is really doing this. I need your help.”

  “If I am to believe you.”

  “Listen, you know who I am. You know where I live. You know how to find the club. If I’m lying to you, you can kill me later.”

  “That is so.” The grip around his throat lessened, but did not release. “I want to find the murderer of my brother. This is distracting me from other work.”

  “I will help you,” d’Hiver insisted. “It is to our interest to find the killer, and to eliminate him before Scotland Yard gets to him.”

  “So?”

  “His motive must intimately concern us, since everyone so far identified murdered by this maniac has been one of us.”

  “Someone within the group?”

  “I do not think so. Come home with me; my carriage is over there. We will discuss the possibilities.”

  “Fair enough.” The hold around his throat was released.

  Together, they moved out of the shadows.

  There was the clicking sound of high heels on the pavement, and a cloaked figure rapidly headed back up the street.

  “How long was she standing there?”
d’Hiver demanded.

  “I don’t know. I didn’t hear her. Who is she?”

  “A girl reporter. She must have heard too much. Grab her—silently. I’ll pull my carriage up.”

  The large figure disengaged from d’Hiver and raced silently up the street. There was a strange sound that could have been the beginnings of a girl’s scream, suddenly choked off. The two constables outside the front door heard it and ran down the street, flashing their lanterns about.

  The Count d’Hiver descended from his carriage and helped them look about. They found nothing. Nobody thought to look in the Count d’Hiver’s carriage.

  NINETEEN

  THE GREAT TRAIN ROBBERY

  Beyond (51½ M.) Beer (or Bere) Ferrers we cross the Tavy and skirt the E. Bank of the Tamar (p. 151). 55¾ M. St. Budeaux (for Saltash, p. 151); 57 M. Ford; 58 M. Devonport & Storehouse (see pp. 150, 151). We then pass the suburban stations of North Road and Mutley and enter the Friary Terminus at (62½ M.) Plymouth.

  BAEDEKER’S Great Britain

  It took Barnett and Professor Moriarty the better part of two days to reach Plymouth. Moriarty left the train repeatedly, to confer with an odd assortment of agents who were awaiting him in such places as Weston-super-Mare, Taunton, Newton Abbot, Totnes, Dawlish, Teignmouth, Paignton, Okehampton, Tavistock, and nine other, even smaller, towns. It seemed to Barnett, who tagged along, that the professor was pleased with the results of these conferences.

  Barnett listened to the usually brief conversations, but they told him very little, and Moriarty volunteered no additional information. “Are the pit reinforcements holding?” Moriarty asked the short Welshman who had rented a house in Dawlish for himself and his crew. “With nary a shiver,” the Welshman told him. “Are the false cross-ties completed?” he asked the skinny Cockney who had opened a workshop in Teignmouth. “Work like a dream,” he was informed. “How is Toby’s nose?” he asked the slender man in the well-worn tweeds who awaited them at the Totnes Station. “His nose, his lungs, his voice, and his fightin’ heart are all waitin’ on your needs,” the tweedy man told him. At each stop Moriarty passed an envelope to the person awaiting him. “Here are your instructions from this moment; take every care,” he told each.

  At Plymouth, Lord East’s preparations were well in hand for the loading of the treasure train, which was scheduled to take place the next morning. The two companies of Her Majesty’s Bengalese Foot, which had been encamped in a park by the west wall of the Citadel, had moved to the railway assembly yard and were busily patrolling the area between the H.M.S. Hornblower and the line of railway goods wagons, which had been meticulously prepared to receive the treasure. The Twenty-third Light Horse were occupying themselves by cantering about Plymouth, giving the citizenry an exhibition of precision horsemanship.

  Barnett and Moriarty took rooms at the Duke of Clarence, an ancient and venerable inn some blocks from the scene of the Lord East activity. When they arrived, Barnett went to his room and collapsed for several hours, exhausted by the inactivity of train travel. Then he gave himself a quick sponge bath and put on, among other things, a fresh collar. Moriarty awaited him in the gentlemen’s reading room on the first floor, a long, narrow room with a low beam ceiling, which went across the front of the hotel, overlooking the street. It had been completely outfitted, according to a plaque on the wall, with furniture and fittings from the admiral’s cabin, the captain’s cabin, and the wardroom of the 96-gun ship of the line H.M.S. Indefatigable, which had carried Admiral Pellew to Egypt in 1803, salvaged when she was turned into a hulk in 1836.

  “Damned fine history,” Moriarty said, when Barnett insisted upon reading him the plaque, “damned uncomfortable furniture.”

  “Which is probably why the admiral left it behind,” Barnett said, going over to the window and staring down at the street below. “What time is it, Professor?”

  “Ten past seven,” Moriarty said, snapping open his pocket watch, consulting it, and then snapping it shut again. “Have you an engagement?”

  “No,” Barnett said. “However, the thought of food has crossed my mind. I was just wondering why there are so many people on the street at this hour. But now that I take a good look at those passing below, it seems to me that about one out of four is a policeman.”

  Moriarty came over, polished his pince-nez, and glanced out the window. “I believe you’re right,” he said. “There’s no mistaking the peculiarly heavy regulation shoe leather, and the special flatness to which a plainclothes policeman chooses to adjust his bowler.”

  “You don’t suppose that our presence here has anything to do with their presence here, do you?” Barnett asked. “I should have thought that Lord East would regard the various military units as sufficient guard for his treasure.”

  “I’m sure he does,” Moriarty said. “The police are here to protect tomorrow’s crowds of onlookers from having their pockets picked. Every gang of dips in England is probably here tonight.”

  “Ah,” Barnett said, continuing to stare thoughtfully out the window. “So you don’t think the presence of these flat-footed gentlemen with the bowler hats will interfere with your plans?”

  “No,” Moriarty said. “Is this a subtle interrogation? You realize that there are some things that it would not do to print, even in an American newspaper.”

  “No, no,” Barnett said hastily. “I was just wondering.”

  “Nothing could interfere with my plans now,” Moriarty told him, “except a major flood. Which I do not anticipate. Shall we dine here at the hotel, or have you a better suggestion? Perhaps some establishment where your compatriots of the press will gather.”

  “Well,” Barnett considered. “The Railway Arms commercial hotel is probably where most of the London reporters will be staying. But I doubt if the restaurant is very good; reporters’ expense accounts are not up to first-class bills of fare.”

  “Nevertheless,” Moriarty said, “it might behoove us to dine in that establishment, if they serve so late.”

  “I believe the dining room is open quite late,” Barnett said. “They cater to the traveler.”

  “Well then, let us travel!”

  The Railway Arms served a buffet dinner until ten, and was, as Barnett had anticipated, full of reporters come to witness the next morning’s activities. Much to Barnett’s surprise, the usually antisocial Professor Moriarty was quite pleased to meet Barnett’s associates and seemed fascinated by the stories they had to tell. Barnett’s surprise lessened when he realized that the professor was artfully turning each of the stories to extract the last bit of information about Lord East, the treasure, and the train ride. Which, since that is why they were all there—in one way or another—was not hard to do.

  “I say, Barnett,” said Harry Inglestone, a Morning Chronicle staff reporter who had just come straight down from London, pausing at their table, “Caterby-Cahors is rather perturbed at your young lady.”

  Barnett stifled the remarks that sprang to his lips at Inglestone’s innocent use of the phrase “your young lady.” A forced smile creased his face. “What is your editor concerned about?” he asked. “If you are referring to Miss Perrine, formerly of the American News Service staff, she is one of the most competent reporters I have ever known, aside from possessing sufficient organizational skills to run an office single-handedly.”

  “Which is what makes it so puzzling,” Inglestone commented, sitting himself down at their table and happily accepting Moriarty’s offer of a glass of something. “A nice after-dinner claret,” he told the waiter.

  “What?” Barnett asked.

  “I beg your pardon?” Inglestone said, looking totally confused.

  “What is so puzzling?”

  Inglestone thought over the recent conversation, trying to pick up the missing thread. “Oh, yes; Miss Perrine’s disappearance. Thought I mentioned it, old man.”

  “What do you mean, her ‘disappearance’?” Barnett demanded. “When did she disappear? What are you talkin
g about?”

  “Sorry again, old man. I should have realized that you’d be concerned. Ex-employer, and all that. Should have occurred to me that you didn’t know. Well, I tell you, just between us, if she doesn’t turn up quickly, she’s going to lose her job, Lady Hogbine or no Lady Hogbine. Ah! The claret; thank you, Binns. It is Binns, isn’t it? I shall mention you in the dispatches. Binns of the Railway Arms. A lifesaver.”

  “Disappearance,” Barnett prompted.

  “Oh, yes. Well, it’s this way, old man. The lady went out on an assignment last night. No, it would be night before last, now. Doyle went with her. Artist fellow. Fine work. Well, Doyle left to take the carriage back to the Warren.” He turned to Professor Moriarty. “That’s what we call the lovely common room maintained for the reporters, ‘the Warren.’”

  “How clever of you,” Moriarty murmured politely.

  “Yes, well, Miss Perrine never showed up at the carriage. Doyle finally decided that she was chasing up some information or other, and returned to the Warren by himself. And, well, to make a long story short, she never did come back.”

  “Never got back? To the office, you mean?”

  “Yes. Caterby-Cahors sent someone around to her house, and her pater was quite concerned at her absence. Claimed that she hadn’t been there, either. And it certainly wasn’t her custom to stay out all night. But if a lady is going to choose to be a reporter—well, you know, exigencies of the job, and all that. At any rate, Caterby-Cahors was furious. He can’t even stand tardiness, so you can imagine how he feels about unexcused absence. He was ready to fire her outright until the note came.”

  “The note?”

  “Miss Perrine was considerate enough to send a note. She said she was after a very hot lead, and not to wait the story for her, but to write it as it stood. She might be a few days, she said. Well, Caterby-Cahors was fit to be tied. Had to get the information on the murder she was covering from Doyle. Nice fellow, Doyle; good sketch artist, but no reporter. Caterby-Cahors has given Miss Perrine three days to turn up with story in hand, and it had better be a dilly. That was Caterby-Cahors’s term, ‘a dilly.’”