“Hurry, Watson! Tend to him! Quickly, man!” Holmes shouted. I looked down and saw him kneeling next to the wounded politician. Arthur’s hands were grasping desperately at his throat, which was spewing short bursts of red liquid through the open spaces between his fingers. He coughed, trying to fill his lungs with air, but instead he was flooding them with blood. His pupils danced around frantically, from me to Holmes and back again in endless cycles. There was a definite glare of surrender in them; he knew as well as I did, that there was no saving him. I attempted to aid him anyway, perhaps there was something I could do to help him go easily into the afterlife, but by the time I knelt down next to him, his breathing had ceased and his blood soaked hands had fallen away from the horrible wound in his throat. Those once frantically dancing eyes froze, glazed over and stared away, up into the clouds.
“He’s gone,” I murmured as I closed Stanley Arthur’s eyelids with a gentle sweep of my fingertips.
Holmes, though, wasn’t listening to me. His gaze was focused intensely upon that far away area of woods where the rifle shot had emanated from.
2
Detective Inspector Lestrade and his men arrived a short while later, along with the morgue wagon. As Holmes repeated the exact events of what had happened a few minutes before to Lestrade, I noticed that a crowd had gathered, fenced off by a series of constables, and watching with deep curiosity when the morgue officers cleared Arthur’s corpse from the walk, leaving a large, circular blood stain behind. Perhaps the spring rain that constantly harassed London would wash it away.
“The shot came from over there,” Holmes said, gesturing to the woods across the roadway. “I suggest we search that area, there must be something of a clue left behind.”
Lestrade agreed and we followed Holmes across the brick and gravel roadway, skillfully avoiding the ever present gaggle of hansom cabs going back and forth. When we made the woods, Holmes took in a deep breath then exhaled.
“Do you smell it?” he asked us. “The odor of gunpowder. Very strong in this direction.”
Holmes led us through an opening in the brush, which was currently exploding with green buds and we came to a lightly treaded black dirt path, following it around to where a large willow tree stood. Holmes stopped, looked east and pointed. “This is where the assassin stood,” he said. “See the opening through the vegetation? There’s a perfectly clear view of the crime scene from here, yet it’s aptly covered enough to hide the assassin from witnesses looking in this direction. Arthur didn’t stand a chance.”
I looked for myself and agreed, yet one glaring detail stood out for me. “But Holmes,” I began. “The range has got to be nearly a hundred and fifty yards, if not more. It’s an almost impossible shot.”
“I agree,” Holmes mused. “And the assassin was a poor marksman-”
“Poor marksman?” I echoed incredulously. “It’s about as good a shot as I’ve ever seen. The assassin landed a perfect bull’s eye in Arthur’s throat.”
Holmes nodded. “Yes, but he was aiming for the heart, Watson.”
I didn’t follow up and ask how he knew that, I probably wouldn’t have understood it anyway. From past experience, I assumed he was, as usual, correct in his assumption. Holmes glanced down at the black soil of the path and pointed again. “Look here... tracks,” he said. “Fresh and deep. They coalesce here behind the tree then take off to the west.” Holmes took out his glass, knelt down and inspected a single foot track. “Size ten, a hundred and seventy pounds, Scotland Yard issued treads on the shoes.”
“You’re saying the assassin is a police constable?” Lestrade asked.
“No,” Holmes answered as he stood up. “I’m saying he’s disguised as a constable. Quite clever... if seen, no one would ask him why he’s tromping through the woods near parliament. They’d assume he was running his daily patrol beat.”
“But it took a rather distinctive rifle to have made that shot and constables don’t carry rifles,” Lestrade offered. “If someone saw him carrying one, that would raise a red flag immediately and he’d be made.”
“You are quite correct, Detective Inspector,” Holmes said. “So logic would dictate that he left it here, in the woods somewhere. Somewhere very close.” He turned his attention back to the willow tree and followed another set of tracks around to the other side, facing the roadway. “Aha!” he exclaimed.
Lestrade and I went around and saw a rifle leaning against the bole of the tree, the barrel was pointed up and its tip was pressing a folded piece of white paper against the bark.
“Apparently the assassin has left us a note,” Holmes said knowingly.
3
“I must say, Holmes,” I said, leaning forward to inspect the weapon. “I’ve never seen a rifle like that one before.”
“And you probably never will,” Holmes said as he inspected it closely. “As you know, over the years I’ve become an expert on firearms manufactured in all parts of the world. This is a fifty-two caliber sniping rifle, with a maximum range of a thousand yards, manufactured by Sharps-Borchardt in Bridgeport, Connecticut, 1878. Which means, of course, that it’s American made.”
“Our assassin is an American?” Lestrade asked.
Holmes slipped the note from its pinch between the barrel and the bark and unfolded it. “No, Detective Inspector. But he’s been there, and recently.”
“How can you know this?”
“From the condition of the barrel. As you can see there’s no pitting from entropy, no wear patterns on the stock, no deformation on the hammer. It’s pristine, brand new, never been fired before, and it’s the most accurate long range weapon in the world. I suspect the assassin traveled to America for the sole purpose of purchasing this weapon to use it for this one particular assassination, telling me that the assassin is upper-middle class and has deep knowledge of firearms from around the world, which means he’s a reader, hence - very intelligent.”
“What does the note say?” I asked.
“Hmmm,” Holmes mumbled as he read silently. “Very interesting indeed. Here, Watson, read it aloud for the Detective Inspector.”
I took the note from Holmes and began reading:
“Most brilliant and competent Consulting Detective - Sherlock Holmes,
I’ve watched your career from afar for two years and suspect I’ve finally discovered someone equal to my talents - a yin to my yang, a white to my black, if you will. So, I’ve devised a simple contest to confirm my suspicions... let us set mind against mind on a battle field of intelligence and wit - the most dangerous weapons in the human arsenal. Prove me right and innocent lives will be saved, prove me wrong people will die and my search for an equal will continue. The clock is ticking, solve the riddle below and begin the contest...
The ancient rungs of English power and might have been steadily weakened by termites and must be replaced, one-at-a-time, so that a ladder of anarchy can be raised, leading eventually to a stronger, new order of government sympathetic to the lowly and the meek.
The first rung, as you have witnessed for yourself, has been destroyed - the next rung up the ladder that needs immediate replacing resides in the kitchen of a common man, where glass, pottery and steel hide. This rung hints of royal blood but it is truly, honestly, common to the core.
Time to see if you can stop me, Mr Holmes... it’s your move but you have only until dusk. And remember, there is no great genius without a mixture of madness.
Your Respectful Squire,
The Underworld Assassin.”
“Incredible!” I exclaimed and handed the note to Lestrade.
“Yes, my dear Watson,” Holmes said. “It seems I’m to be tested like a child in preparatory school, except that if I get a failing grade, people will die.”
“But why? And by Whom?”
4
“You read it yourself, Wat
son,” Holmes said. “By an anarchist, a madman quoting Aristotle, confirming my suspicion of the assassin’s intelligence.”
“You mean that last part about genius being associated with madness?”
“Right. But the questions of who wrote the note or why are unimportant at this point compared to the identity of the next man to be targeted for assassination, which is clearly hinted at in the text of the riddle.”
Lestrade looked up from the note. “I can’t make sunlight out of any of it, Mr Holmes,” he said.
“Then you should read a little slower and with a little more concentration, Detective Inspector,” Holmes said. “The riddle references where the rung, or the targeted man, resides-”
“Yes,” Lestrade interrupted. “In the kitchen of a common man, where glass, pottery and steel hide.”
“Exactly. The first part tells us where he is, the second part tells us what he is,” Holmes explained, then he pulled the fake invitation card from his pocket. “Now, we must not forget who the first victim was, that will help us figure out who the second victim is, obviously another member of parliament, as is evidenced by the assassin’s reference to the next rung up the ladder of government. Let’s see, oh, yes, Mr Stanley Arthur, newly elected Member of Parliament from the House of Lords. If you recall, there are two houses of parliament, the House of Lords and-”
“The House of Commons!” Lestrade exclaimed, as if he’d made the deduction on his own.
“Correct, Detective Inspector,” Holmes said. “The kitchen of the common man refers to the House of Commons. But where in the kitchen hides glass, pottery and steel?”
It was clear Holmes already knew the answer but was walking Lestrade and me through it gently, trying to get our brains to work like his.
“Glass, pottery and steel,” Lestrade echoed aloud, trying to work it out for himself. But when he said it, the answer became obvious to me.
“A cabinet!” I shouted. “Glass, pottery and steel are the dishes and pots stored in the cabinet in a kitchen.”
Holmes nodded. “Which means that the next victim is a Cabinet Minister coming from the House of Commons.”
“But what about the last part of the riddle - the part about the next rung hinting at royal blood but being truly, honestly common?” Lestrade asked.
“That, I suspect, tells us the man’s exact name,” Holmes answered. “For that I’ll need to see the current roll of the Cabinet Ministers of the House of Commons. I’ll recognize the man’s name as soon as I see it.”
“I can help you with that,” Lestrade said as he grabbed up the American rifle and led us back to the English Parliament building.
5
Before entering the House of Commons, Lestrade handed the American rifle off to one of his constables, telling him to secure it back at Scotland Yard until further notice. As we made our way up the flight of exterior steps, Lestrade told Holmes and I that a roll of everyone serving in the English government is kept in a designated records office in each house of parliament.
The man in charge of the House of Commons office was a short, frumpy, white haired leprechaun of a man named Barloe. Once Lestrade introduced himself and told him that lives are in the balance, the little man’s fuzzy white eyebrows rose like two bursts of smoke and he led us into a back room where shelves of bound books lined every wall and a large empty table sat in the middle. A single, uncurtained window on the west wall supplied the only light but it was fading fast. Dusk was quickly approaching. The assassin’s next victim didn’t have much time.
Barloe lit a lamp then drew his attention to the east wall, a stumpy finger pressed to his lips as he searched the shelves left and right for the proper volume.
“Hurry up, man!” Lestrade pleaded.
Barloe ignored him and continued his search. “Ah! Here we are!” he said as he reached out and slid a thick, leather-faced book from off the shelf. He placed it on the table with such care I couldn’t hear it touch the polished wood surface.
“This is a complete, updated listing of the current members of parliament,” Barloe said as he opened the book and fanned through the yellowed pages. “As you can see, it goes back many decades. A new page is added after every election cycle, the last one took place last year. Here is the list of present Cabinet Ministers, there are twenty-two of them, hopefully, the man you’re looking for is on it.” He came to a page near the back then stepped away so that we could survey the record. In sharp black ink were the different signatures of the following men:
Darrel T Hendrickson
Richard H Cappel
Robert E Hough
James T Martin
Raymond H Tyler
Christopher I Walstraff
Jacob R Stone
Major T Brish
Thomas E Markey
Charles E Lighterston
Killian N Knight
Manley T Hall
Robert H Earl
George N Ballis
Peter A Wilkerson
Stephen M Rydell
Leslie E Duncan
Alan D Erwine
Randall O Beckwith
Glenn W Sterling
Morris N Dunkling
Leonard Squire
“Do you see him, gentlemen?” Holmes asked.
“My guess is the eleventh man down,” Lestrade said. “Killian N Knight.”
“Incorrect, Detective Inspector,” Holmes said. “Being a knight doesn’t necessarily mean one possesses royal blood. Watson?”
“The last name on the list,” I stated. “Leonard Squire.”
“You two aren’t looking hard enough,” Holmes said. “Our man is the thirteenth name down - Robert H Earl. He possesses the royal title of Earl but is clearly a commoner, just as the assassin’s note directed.”
I felt like slapping myself, the answer was painfully obvious in hindsight.
“Where can we find this Robert Earl, Barloe?” Lestrade asked impatiently.
“Well, being a senior Cabinet Minister, his office is on the fifth floor, sir. Office five-fifteen.”
A quick look out the window told me we had little or no time left. We thanked the short man and hurried out of the room.
6
The halls and staircases of the building were crowded with people, for what reason I couldn’t fathom. Perhaps because it was a Friday afternoon and they wanted to get a jump on the weekend. Whatever the reason, it made our trek up to the fifth floor very difficult, even with Lestrade shouting that he was from Scotland Yard and was here on official business.
When we finally reached the fifth floor, the story remained unchanged. The crowds, in fact, seemed even heavier. Holmes was checking the address plaques as we fought our way through the hall. “Earl’s office will be on the north side, probably halfway down! Hurry, gentlemen!” he shouted above the rolling din of other voices.
We had had the bad luck to have started out on the south side of the hall so that meant we were to fight and claw our way across the rush of oncoming traffic. No easy task - once, I was nearly trampled by a group of young interns carrying stacks of old books.
Finally, after what seemed like an hour, Holmes shouted “Here!” and we followed him through the open door and into the office where an attractive, professionally dressed, older blond haired woman sat behind a reception desk. There was a large closed oak door in the wall behind her.
“We’re looking for Mr Robert Earl! Is he in?” Holmes asked, his voice agitated but steady.
She looked up at us with large blue eyes, suspiciously. “I’m afraid Minister Earl has left for the day, whom my I ask -?”
Lestrade quickly introduced himself and told her it was a matter of the Minister’s continuing life to tell us where he went.
“Oh, dear,” she said shakily as sh
e opened a date book that was lying on her desk. She paged through it until she found the proper entry. “It says here that Minister Earl was to meet a constituent in the food commons for tea at a quarter to four and then he was to go purchase a birthday gift for his daughter.”
“This food commons... where is it?” Holmes asked.
“I know where it is, Holmes,” Lestrade said, thanked the woman and we followed him yet again into the flowing crowd. Pushing, shouting and cursing, we stayed against the north wall as we went east. I could see, at the tail end of the hall, how it opened up into a large room filled with tables, some empty, most full.
“Do you see him?” Holmes asked Lestrade.
“No!” the Detective Inspector answered. “There are too many damn people!”
Then there was a blood curdling scream, coming from somewhere in the chaos in front of us. This lead to a chain reaction of screams, arms flailing about and people running in all directions. Quickly, in their panic, the crowds in the hall thinned out, revealing a tall, thin man with a full head of brown hair and wearing a black suit, standing alone near the entrance of the food commons. He had a briefcase in one hand, his other hand was grasping at something poking out of his chest. A permanent look of confusion was masked upon his middle-aged face. Out of the corner of my eye I saw a black-haired man in a black overcoat running away, down a connecting hallway that led to a flight of stairs. Lestrade saw him too and began pursuit while Holmes and I tended to the man.
The chaotic din of the past few minutes had extinguished itself as people gathered against the walls and watched the proceedings in horror. When we finally reached him, the man pulled a large knife from his chest, his hand and suit covered with blood.
Sherlock Holmes Page 12
