by Roger Jaynes
‘Not a thing, Mr Holmes. You have explained it all quite satisfactorily. I have D’Arcy, and the emerald. You mark my words, gentlemen! He’ll do time, once the evidence is brought to the Assizes. Though, without a body, I doubt a murder charge can stick.’
Holmes nodded in agreement. ‘Alas,’ he said, ‘I fear you are correct. Well, then! Good evening to you, Mr Montclair! And what a remarkable evening it has been! We have not only provided the solution to your eccentric little problem, but served the public good as well. You will give our regards to Dr Trevelyan, I hope, the very next time you meet?’
Once in the cab, I could restrain myself no longer. Holmes, I knew, was holding something back – and I was determined to learn exactly of its nature.
‘I caught that look you gave me, Holmes,’ I ventured. ‘Why do you really think young Arthur Montclair was killed?’
‘There we move into the realms of conjecture, Watson,’ he answered. ‘Simply because of the logistics involved, my reasons must be based more upon that than fact.’
‘Well, by all means, tell me then.’
‘You recall what Montclair said about his brother’s languishing about the Foreign Office all summer?’
‘Yes. Following the cricket matches and playing whist –’ Suddenly it hit me. ‘ – at the Bagatelle Club! ’
‘Exactly! The haunt of Colonel Sebastian Moran.’
‘Good Lord! I gather what you’re driving at! If Moran played foul – as he has been rumoured to do – then it is conceivable the young Montclair might have found himself considerably in his debt.’
‘ – A debt which was called in, most likely by D’Arcy, once Montclair had established himself in Rome.’
‘Ah, you think he was involved, then?’
‘I do, Watson. Every sense, every intuition that I possess tells me it was so. You recall what the newspaper account described concerning Mrs Morrison?’
‘No, I’m afraid that I do not.’
‘It reported that the emerald had been taken from her personal jewel box, presumably in her bedroom. And yet, she was not awakened. That immediately suggests two things: first, that the thieves knew exactly where to look –’
‘Information which had been supplied! ’
‘ – And, that the lady’s slumber had most likely been induced by more than the events of a busy day! She was given a sleeping draught, I’ll wager, by someone who knew her habits well.’
‘The young Montclair, you mean! ’
Holmes shrugged. ‘He certainly had the opportunity, Watson. As well as being able to allow D’Arcy and his confederates silent access during the night – after which, it was made to appear that a struggle had taken place.’
‘That’s all well and good. But if Montclair was in it with them, why on earth did they murder him? They had the jewel; and if Montclair later went to the authorities, his own reputation was forfeit.’
‘True, but it was a chance they could not take. Arthur Montclair was the only man alive who could link D’Arcy and the emerald to Moran. Do you think for a moment that Moriarty would risk leaving both his chief lieutenants unguarded? A change of heart by Montclair, and who knows? The professor may have even found himself standing in the dock.’
‘The blackguards! They took him forcibly up the mountain, then?’
‘I cannot prove it. But I sincerely doubt a man who is so unwieldy at cricket would decide to risk life and limb upon the slopes. Sport was not his cup of tea.’
I was overcome by a sense of deep frustration – and horror. Through my mind flashed a picture of the young Montclair, drugged and helpless, being thrown from some high cliff . . .
‘But is there nothing we can do?’ I demanded. ‘Surely, if we told all this to the police –! ’
‘To what end, Watson? Moriarty’s alibis are secure; you may count on that. Moran? Our only link to him is gone. Ah, well. At least we have D’Arcy. Moriarty’s move to the Continent has been delayed. Lord help us, should his net ever spread that far! Given his genius, and powers of organisation, the possibilities for high intrigue are immense.’
‘If only Moriarty had been waiting in that cab outside tonight,’ I speculated. ‘What a boon to mankind that would have been! ’
‘Hah!’ Holmes laughed. ‘He is too clever for that, Watson! Big Ben will chime thirteen, before Moriarty is caught lurking near. D’Arcy I expected; the game was too big to trust another. But the professor? – no, no. Had you asked, I would have cheerfully wagered every shilling I owned that we’d not see him this night.’
In spite of my sombre mood, I could not help but smile just a little. How could I have imagined that – for one of the few times in his career – events were about to prove Holmes wrong?
Some time later, our cab rattled to a halt before our familiar rooms at Baker Street. As we alighted, I noticed the avenue was deserted – save for a shabbily-dressed fellow who stood before our very door, fidgeting noticeably as he rubbed his ungloved hands together in an attempt to combat the cold.
As my eyes met his, I felt a vague uneasiness; there was clearly recognition in his look. Returning his gaze with steel, I placed my hand again about my revolver, which had served us so well not long before.
‘Beggin’ yer pardon, sirs,’ he said, stepping forward as Holmes and I approached. ‘A gentleman desires to speak with Mr Holmes – in the cab.’
His nod indicated an elegant-looking four-wheeler, which sat beneath the street lamp across the way.
Holmes and I exchanged a glance.
‘It shall be both or none,’ I told him. ‘I shall not allow it otherwise.’
‘There is no danger,’ the other said. ‘I was bound to tell you that.’
In spite of his assurances, a coldness crept up the small of my back; my uneasiness would not go away. I was determined not to be deterred.
‘Holmes, I must insist –! ’
My friend silenced me by raising his hand . . . And, as I was sure I detected, a faint smile of appreciation. ‘You have heard the terms,’ he told the man, coldly. ‘I suggest you convey them to your master.’
The fellow fairly sprinted across the cobblestones. For a moment, as he stood beside the cab, we heard the murmur of voices. Then he turned, and waved us forward.
I kept my grip upon my pistol, as we climbed into that carriage. A sense of overriding danger pervaded the chilly night air. Across from us, a lone passenger was seated, almost engulfed within the shadow. And yet, from the glow of the nearby street light, I could just make out those cold, forbidding features, which at a later date, I would first reveal to my many readers – the tall, thin form with rounded shoulders, the receding grey hair above a large forehead that domed out in a curve. And, perhaps most frightening, the lifeless, menacing, coal-black shark eyes, puckered and blinking, which were deeply sunken into the recesses of his pale, almost skeleton-like head.
I started. Before me, I realised was Moriarty himself. The scholar and master schemer . . . and, as Holmes had oft-times reminded me, the most dangerous man in London. For an instant, my mind began to race like a runaway train. Should I pull my pistol now, no matter the cost, and rid England – nay, the world – of this diabolical madman?
‘I would advise you to release the revolver, Doctor,’ he said to me, as if he had read my very thoughts. ‘You really must, you know! Another movement of your right hand, and I shall be compelled to pull the trigger myself – which will mean nothing to you, sir, but the end to your illustrious companion.’ The ogre smiled. ‘Dear me, it would be such a waste,’ he added, ‘since, I assure you, I have no such independent thought in mind.’
I shrank from the demon’s omnipotence. Was he bluffing? I could not take the chance. My life, in exchange for his, I felt, was little enough. But that of Holmes was far too great a price to pay.
Purposely exaggerating the motion, I withdrew my hand from the pocket of my coat, and rested it upon my leg.
‘Tell us what you wish, then – Mr Moriarty! ’ Holmes said.
‘It is a bitter night, and I am not accustomed to doing business in the street.’
‘My apologies, sir,’ he replied, in his soft, precise fashion, ‘but given the events of the evening, it was absolutely necessary.’ The cruel smile returned. ‘You see, I am at this moment attending Macbeth at the Lyceum, with several friends.’ Checking his watch, he added, ‘Five past eight. The curtain has just risen.’
‘Some friends, perhaps,’ Holmes retorted, ‘but not Pierre D’Arcy.’
The smile froze. ‘That is why I am here. You have caused me a great inconvenience, sir; a buyer had been secured.’
‘I suspected as much.’
‘What I wish to know is: why? You seem an intelligent fellow. Dear me, I have been impressed by some of your recent exploits. You even uncovered my little scheme in Durham –’
‘High praise, indeed! ’
‘ – Yet, it is a pity, in recent months, that our paths have begun to cross so frequently. Tonight, I believe, is the fifth occasion since March.’
‘I fully anticipate, barring your return to academia, that they shall continue to cross even more,’ Holmes told him, evenly. ‘My life is devoted to combating crime, and you are the master criminal who plagues this city.’
‘High praise, returned! ’ Moriarty declared, mincing out the words. His manner, I noted had become more agitated; his head had begun to oscillate slightly, from side to side. ‘That must not happen, sir! Really, it must not! Until tonight, you have been only an infrequent nuisance; now, I must consider you a positive threat. Should you continue this course –’
‘Our conversation is over, Mr Moriarty! ’ Holmes interrupted. ‘To continue it can serve no purpose. Come, Watson – it has been a rewarding night, all told! I am ravenous for some dinner! ’
As we stepped down into the street, Moriarty called out Holmes’s name once more. ‘I am a patient man, sir,’ he said, a cold hatred in his dark eyes. ‘Please, think over what I have said. Please, do! I hope, most fervently, that I shall not have to speak with you again! ’
‘When . . . you do,’ Holmes replied, trembling with emotion, ‘I trust you will have the courtesy to call upon me at my residence, during normal hours. This has been most inconvenient.’
Moriarty snarled, as he closed the carriage door. His driver immediately applied the whip, and the coach clattered off at a furious pace.
‘Good Lord, Holmes! ’ I exclaimed, as I watched the cab disappear into the night. ‘I feel as though I’ve just met Satan himself.’
‘Perhaps you have, Watson,’ Holmes rejoined. ‘Perhaps you have. Unfortunately, I fear, we shall see much more of his evil handiwork in days to come.’
Holmes clapped a hand upon my shoulder; a faint smile crossed his face. ‘For now, however, I recommend a glass of claret, and some repast from Mrs Hudson’s larder; this round belongs to us.’
Moriarty’s Fiendish Plan
Upon reflection, one is apt to note that there are certain dates and occasions during a person’s life upon this planet which he or she never forgets; things like birthdays, anniversaries, holidays (the Queen’s Jubilee, of course), or perhaps, tragically, the event of a loved one’s passing.
For me, November 17, 1888, was just such a day. Even now, more than thirty years later, I cannot recall what transpired on that horrible Saturday without still feeling a shudder of both revulsion and shame – and too, a sense of immense relief as well, considering what nearly occurred. As Sherlock Holmes’s biographer, I must record it as the day upon which he and the insidious Professor Moriarty crossed paths for yet a third time so late in that busy year. As Holmes’s friend, I must admit that, save for my wounding during the awful slaughter at Maiwand, no other event in my lifetime has been – or remained – so painful and shocking.
It was an especially grey and wintry day. Snow had fallen the night before, leaving London covered in a blanket of white, with frost upon the window panes and icicles hanging from the trees. The skies were cloudy and rough, promising more snow; the streets a muddy brown, where the wheels of cabs and carts, and the wagons of sundry vendors, had tracked and trampled this latest layer of the fluffy stuff into a wet and slippery slush.
The cold, damp weather, I knew full well, would do my old leg wound no good. None the less, I was determined to undertake an afternoon walk that day – and not merely because (as Holmes would most surely insist) it had become a habit of late. In addition to fresh air and exercise, I also sought a box of La Coronas from the tobacconist, and a shave and a haircut at the barbers as well. Reason enough, I felt, to trek out-of-doors on such a sloppy day. Thus, at a few minutes past one – after lunching on Mrs Hudson’s delicious steak and kidney pie, braced by slices of hardy Stilton cheese – I pulled on my togsand took to the streets, leaving Holmes curled up before the fire in his favourite armchair, perusing the morning dailies.
Not a day has passed since I left him thus, that I have not sorely regretted that journey.
As Holmes would tell me later, it was not a half-hour after I had gone that our old friend, Inspector Lestrade of Scotland Yard, had come knocking at our door, seeking my companion’s counsel once again.
‘I do apologise for bothering you on a Saturday, Mr Holmes,’ the lean policeman said, as he stepped inside. ‘In fact, I should not have bothered you at all, save I know your taste for that which is uncommon, no matter how trivial it might at first appear.’
Holmes closed the door behind him and rubbed his palms together gleefully, anticipating a fresh problem was at hand.
‘My dear Lestrade! It is no bother at all,’ he insisted, motioning his visitor to a chair. ‘You know I am always obliged, when you see fit to call and apprise me of new developments. Sit down, and warm yourself. The cigars are in the scuttle. Would you care for some coffee, or tea?’
‘Thank you, no,’ the other said, ‘although I shall enjoy a cigar.’
‘Ah, these “Crimson Vandals” have you nettled, then?’
Lestrade shot Holmes an irritated glance. He had, after all, hardly had time to remove his coat and hat. ‘And what makes you think that?’ he asked, a bit defensively, as he sank into my comfortable chair, beside the bearskin rug.
Holmes regarded him with some amusement. ‘Why, the very fact that you are here!’ he exclaimed, reaching for his pipe and the Persian slipper. ‘Come, come, Lestrade – what else could it be? The papers are full of little else; they state you are in charge of the case. And yet, to date, not one arrest! What is it now? Three incidents in seven days? Or rather, I imagine four – as you have obviously just come from a meadow in Kensington, to finally seek my advice.’
Lestrade sat back, nearly dropping the cigar he had just drawn. Had Holmes leaned down and struck his brow with the stem of his charred black clay, I doubt if he would have shown more surprise. ‘But, but – who told you?’ he spluttered. ‘How on earth-’
Holmes silenced his protestations with a knowing look and a wave of his hand. ‘My dear Inspector! It is no mystery. The stub in your waistcoat pocket tells me you rode the Underground this morning. Your cheeks are flushed, your shoes are soggy, and your cuffs are damp – for nigh upon two inches! ’
‘That could have happened in the street,’ Lestrade retorted. ‘It snowed last night; they are a mess.’
‘Only if the street were paved with clay,’ Holmes observed. He took a second to light his pipe, then directed his full attention to the policeman’s dampened shoes. ‘You must admit, Lestrade, the reddish hue is really quite distinctive. Kensington, without a doubt! And what of those blades of grass, crushed between your soles! Is it too much to suppose, then, that a fourth act has been discovered? This time in a field or pasture, where the green of nature grows so free?’
Lestrade sighed, a defeated look upon his ferret-like face. ‘You are correct, Mr Holmes,’ he admitted. ‘The latest desecration took place in a cemetery, behind Brompton Oratory, just south of Trinity Church. Twelve headstones were knocked flat, all told, and some hammered into pieces
. As before, red paint was smeared about everywhere, upon the broken stones, and some that were not touched.’
‘And there was another message?’
The policeman stiffened. ‘Yes, if you wish to call it that.’
‘And what would you call it, Lestrade?’
‘Crazy scribbling, more like. A ruse, a joke. A vagrant’s dialect.’ Lestrade struck a match and lit his cigar, producing thin blue clouds that arched quickly towards the ceiling. ‘This is a queer business, Mr Holmes,’ he added. ‘A queer business, I must say. I admit we’ve not one clue so far, but Lord knows, it’s not for trying. The word’s gone out, a price been set; yet our informants can tell us nothing.’
‘And so you’ve come to me?’
‘Yes. I – that is to say, the Yard – would appreciate any direction you can supply. Royal Albert Hall, St Paul’s Cathedral, St James’s and now the Oratory – this defacement of our national monuments cannot go on. You’ve read last night’s Evening Standard, I presume? Already the cry is up in Parliament. Anarchy, Mr Holmes! That is what they fear.’
For a few moments, Holmes sat silently, puffing upon his tried black clay. Then he sprawled back across his armchair, and crossed his legs and closed his eyes, almost as if asleep. ‘You are correct, Lestrade,’ he murmured. ‘Anarchy will not do. Lay out the facts before me, then. Tell all, and I shall endeavour to be of what help I can.’
Lestrade drew out his notebook. ‘Actually, I have very little else to report, apart from what has appeared in the papers,’ he began. ‘Let me see – the vandals struck first on Saturday, the tenth, attacking the Prince Albert Statue off Consort Road. The head of the statue, as well as those of the seated figures below, had all been painted red, and the inscription was splattered as well. A short row of lettering was also found, neatly inscribed across the marble base. Sergeant Mayhew brought it to my attention, as soon as I arrived.’
‘And what time was this?’
‘About eight in the morning. The damage had been discovered by a constable on his round, and I was sent for immediately.’
