Sherlock Holmes and Doctor Was Not

by Christopher Sequeira

  “Holmes, you scoundrel, you sport with me again!”

  “Ah, forgive me, dear fellow.” Stretching to his true height, Holmes smirked. “I could not resist.”

  Mabuse turned and continued toward his house, Holmes walking beside him.

  “I take it you have trailed your quarry to the Chinese quarter then?” the doctor said.

  “Indeed, once again the trail led me to the docks area.”

  “You say ‘once again’. I know what the mention of that place conjures for you, Holmes, the image of an epicentre of crime you have often lectured me about. The realm of that criminal mastermind you have spent so much time trying to build case against. You suspect the involvement of Moriarty, n’est pas?”

  “Well, yes,” Holmes admitted. “You no doubt suspected that when Miss Durance mentioned gambling dens my mind was drawn to him. After all, as you are well aware, I have long proposed that Professor James Moriarty controls most of the illegal gambling operations among the underworld and the Chinese are inordinately fond of that particular vice. However, I did not want to mention it just yet. I know you think my interest in the professor is exaggerated. It is true much of it is based on rumour and possibly even myth. So many of the crimes that have defied solution seem to point toward his involvement; yet with so little that is concrete and nothing we can take action upon, I know you grow weary of my speculations.”

  “We all have our obsessions,” Mabuse remarked with a smile as he slid the key into his front door.

  “Yes,” Holmes agreed. “You must forgive me for being so impatient with your excessive interest in Marlowe’s play; it is hardly fair of me when you tolerate more than a few enthusiasms of my own that defy your sympathy.”

  “Well, I guess it is a fascination with devils we both share,” Mabuse said. “It is only a matter of seeing whether yours, Moriarty, is more or less fabulous than mine. But tell me, what have you learned?” Mabuse asked, as he poured a brandy and Holmes sank into an armchair.

  “Well, only that Batersea seems to like to spend his leisure time in the docks area frequented by a certain giant Afghan, Abdul Hakim, who is a known associate of the Professor.”

  “So we do not have anything truly incriminating?” Mabuse said.

  “No,” Holmes agreed. “It is but a start. They are a cunning bunch of villains. Though much is in doubt, I remain certain that Moriarty is behind it ultimately.”

  “Still,” Mabuse observed, “at least we have Batersea, who is a villain if not the principal. If we bring him to justice would we not have achieved something?”

  “We can hope for more than that,” Holmes said. “If we can prove Batersea’s guilt, then perhaps we can bring pressure to bear upon him to lead us to his master.”

  “Yet, it would be suicide for Batersea to do so,” Mabuse said, “if Moriarty is indeed behind all this and he is the infallible and merciless tyrant you have always envisaged him to be. How could we ever convince him to risk such a perilous course?”

  “I have an idea,” said Holmes.

  Batersea was due to play Doctor Faustus again that night and it was, therefore, with confidence that Holmes and Mabuse entered his premises. Due to his extensive knowledge of the techniques of burglary, it was a small matter for Holmes to gain access to the actor’s lodgings from an upstairs window reached by way of a trellis. The lodgings, in a large, well-kept boarding house, were quite substantial. Moving quietly, Holmes and Mabuse made a thorough search of the premises. They had been there several minutes when Mabuse had cause to remark upon a set of goblets upon the mantelpiece.

  “What do you make of these, Holmes?” he asked. “The material is quite strange.”

  Holmes took the goblet and turned it about in his hands, the handles, stems and bases were of finely wrought gold but the bowls were indeed of an unusual but rather beautiful material.

  “Ah, Mabuse, your curiosity has borne fruit,” Holmes said, smiling. “These goblets are uniquely Australian. The cups are of emu shell, if I am not mistaken.” Holmes turned the piece upside down. “See here, on the underside of the base, the artisan’s details are inscribed, ‘Joseph Tucker, Melbourne.’ Interesting. I was aware of Tucker’s work in silver but have never heard of such items being made in gold. They must be incredibly valuable; somewhat beyond the means of an actor such as Batersea whose star is only just on the rise of recent times.”

  “You suspect he has purloined these from the Durance estate?”

  “It seems most likely,” Holmes agreed. “Perhaps while he was carrying out his charade there he became fond of the items and Moriarty agreed he might have them as a reward for his services, or he just helped himself to them, arrogantly believing that he would never be connected to this matter.”

  “Well, I hope the scoundrel feels sufficiently recompensed for the bad dreams he must suffer,” Mabuse said ironically.

  “Bad dreams?” said Holmes.

  “I am sure you noticed the laudanum by his bedside,” Mabuse said. “I assume his conscience plagues him and he needs assistance to find repose.”

  “I doubt conscience is something that has ever troubled our suspect overly,” Holmes demurred. “But working for a ruthless fiend like Moriarty might well lead to a state of considerable trepidation.”

  Mabuse nodded thoughtfully. “True. Nor do I imagine that playing a role in which you are dragged off to Hell by a demon every night would do much to sooth the nerves, especially for one so clearly superstitious.”

  “Yes, he is a typical Papist at that,” Holmes grunted. “Have you ever seen such a collection of icons?”

  He pointed to the cheap plaster statue of the Virgin that stood on its niche in the corner and the daguerreotype of Holman Hunt’s The Light of the World above the bed. A crucifix, bloody as anything in Grunewald’s oeuvre, hung between the two and an engraving of St Peter was situated on the far side of the pre-Raphaelite masterpiece.

  “Well, he’s safe from vampires at least,” Mabuse grunted. “Perhaps with his guilty conscience he would be happy to confess if pressured.”

  “Small hope of that,” Holmes snorted. “Whatever nerves the villain may suffer from he has kept up the charade with apparent ease for a considerable time. If he lacks true confidence, he is a good enough actor to counterfeit sufficient courage to see him through.”

  “Doubtless you are right,” Mabuse conceded. “Nothing short of a visit from Durance’s shade would move him to confess. But I guess we cannot hope for that. Though if he overindulges the laudanum enough, he may conjure an apparition of his own.”

  Mabuse lapsed into silence and studied the books upon the sideboard dejectedly, noting the preponderance of ghost stories and books of a supernatural bent. Yet he was not long at this occupation before an exclamation from Holmes demanded his attention anew.

  “Mabuse, you are a genius!” Holmes exclaimed.

  “Thank you, Holmes,” Mabuse said. “I wondered if you would ever recognise the fact. Now if you would just explain to me why?”

  “That I will, indeed,” Holmes agreed. “Now listen closely, my friend.”

  It was with a weary step that Batersea made the short journey from his cab to the door of his lodgings once he had finished the demanding role of Dr Faustus once more. He cast about nervously as he put the key in the slot, as if the demons he had escaped from in the theatre might attempt to reprise their role on the landing. Entering his bedroom he hung up his cloak and hat and stood briefly before the statue of the Virgin, head bowed, muttering a prayer.

  He sat in apparent dejection upon the edge of his bed for some moments, as if pondering what he might do with himself, before turning to his laudanum and making the usual preparation. Throwing back the concoction he grimaced, as if the familiar brew was even more unpleasant than he was used to. Yet, having swallowed the tincture of opium which guaranteed sleep, his demeanour relaxed. Throwing his cl
othes upon a chair he donned his night gown and had hardly fallen back in the bed before a gentle snoring filled the room.

  Batersea had not long to enjoy his repose before he felt himself shaken and awoke to find himself confronted by a tall striking figure with a bristling red beard and hair like straw that jutted from under his top hat. Though the figure’s attire was of the finest quality, somehow it did not seem to sit upon him quite as it should.

  “Batersea!” The figure moaned. “Batersea!”

  “Who, who are you!” the actor shrieked, his eyes wide with terror.

  “Do you not know me?” the apparition growled, coming closer to loom over the bed.

  “It cannot be you, it cannot be!”

  “So you do know me! Do you think the angels would leave me without justice?”

  “No, you are some imposter!”

  “Imposters! You know of that, eh?”

  “Get out! Get out!” Batersea cried. “I will call the police! I have powerful friends!”

  “And what will you tell them?” the figure cried. “That the spirit of the man you betrayed has come to haunt you! Will they arrest me? Will your powerful friends thwart heaven or hell for you?”

  “What do you want?” Batersea cried.

  “Confess!” the apparition cried. “Confess to your crimes if you would have peace! Or I will be here every night and you will see me during the day and when you close your eyes, too.”

  “I cannot,” Batersea pleaded. “It is the gallows for me, if I do.”

  “But you already have,” said Holmes, removing the wig from his head.

  “Who are you?” Batersea demanded wearily. “Why this ridic­ulous imposture?”

  “To establish your guilt beyond reasonable doubt,” the detective said. “I am Sherlock Holmes, perhaps you have heard of me?”

  “Yes, of course,” Batersea said. “I have read many tales of you and your love of disguise. You are very good,” he said grudgingly. “You almost had me believing.”

  “No doubt my colleague’s meddling with your laudanum somewhat enhanced your credulity,” Holmes conceded. “He is somewhat the expert when it comes to increasing the suggestibility of a subject.”

  Batersea smiled weakly. “Nonetheless, you have achieved nothing save taking some years off my life. You cannot prove a thing.”

  “Oh, I will have you convicted,” Holmes said. “Have no fear of that. The passenger list shows you on the boat with Durance. You have his goblets on your mantle—his daughter has confirmed their provenance—and I have ample witnesses of your presence in the gambling houses where Durance lost his fortune.”

  “That last detail is of no importance,” Batersea countered. “Many people visit the dens by the docks.”

  “Come,” said Holmes. “I have you. And if I do not, I will get you. You know my reputation and my resources. Do you really want me as your enemy?”

  “You speak as if I have a choice?”

  “You are a villain,” Holmes said. “Make no mistake, and you deserve punishment. But you are merely small fry. It is the one who orchestrated this evil whom I seek, Professor Moriarty.”

  “Professor who?” Batersea avoided Holmes’s eye.

  “I will not spar with you, Batersea,” the detective said sternly. “I know you fear him as well you might. Yet, if you do not help me you are already dead. For I can make it known that I have uncovered your crime. Do you think he will let you live once he knows I am on your trail? You have been discovered and in his eyes that is already a failure. Moriarty does not tolerate incompetence. Once he knows you are even suspected he will have you eliminated rather than chancing that you would betray him or that somehow your blunder will lead us to him.”

  Batersea gasped.

  “Ah!” Holmes exclaimed triumphantly, “realisation dawns, eh? You are lucky to still be alive as it is. Your cohort, Flanders, is dead I presume.”

  “I have not seen him for some time,” Batersea admitted.

  “He has ended his usefulness to Moriarty, just as you have,” Holmes observed. “Yet he is gone while you are still with us. Have you any idea why?”

  “I amuse him,” Batersea speculated. “He enjoys my Faustus and admires my talent, though I know I am an amateur compared to him.”

  “He’s an actor?” Mabuse ventured.

  “Well, yes,” Batersea said glumly, “even if he does not ply his trade upon the stage, but when it comes to disguise and deception, he has no equal. Not even you, Mr Holmes.”

  “Be that as it may,” Holmes said. “The point is you have no choice but to help me. So long as Moriarty lives you are in peril. He and I have been playing out this game for years. I intend to win. If you help me, both of our problems disappear.”

  “What do you propose?” Batersea asked.

  At four o’clock on the following day, Elizabeth Durance arrived at Sherlock Holmes’s residence in Baker Street where she had been summonsed. Doctor Mabuse and the famous detective were awaiting her arrival and she was soon seated and equipped with a cup of strong tea, Holmes avoiding all questions until things were so arranged.

  “You are no doubt anxious to hear of our progress,” he said. “So I will leave you in no further suspense. I think it safe to say that we have discovered those responsible for your father’s death and the disappearance of your inheritance.”

  “And may I ask who these villains are?” Elizabeth queried hesitantly.

  “I am afraid you have fallen afoul of a man who is possibly the worst villain in the world,” Holmes announced. “A man whose evil is so vast that it has given rise to legends that he is immortal, that he is assisted by demons or has supernatural powers—if he is not a demon himself.”

  “Goodness,” Elizabeth gasped. “How is it possible for one man to have so much power?”

  Holmes was sombre. “While a great number join this Napoleon of Crime’s army willingly at first, no-one dares to desert should they become disillusioned at any time. His hold on the populace of fringe dwellers who inhabit his fiefdom is such that no one is willing to testify against him, lest their family be murdered. Yet it is not only through intimidation that his rule prospers, for his power and wealth are immense. Not only has he amassed vast fortunes through theft, but through graft and intimidation he has negotiated many lucrative labour contracts and trade arrangements. Therefore, there are also opportunities for advancement in allying oneself with such a one and being rewarded with a portion of these ill-gotten gains.”

  “But why would a man with such means and far-reaching power squander his efforts in fleecing my father?” Elizabeth wondered.

  “Your father’s fortune in itself is not significant to Moriarty, it is true,” Holmes admitted. “But how much less so the few shillings a pickpocket must hand over from his earnings, yet do you think that the fiend, therefore, waves his tithe? No. For ten thousand times a few shillings is a tidy sum. And a hundred fortunes such as your father’s is a vast amount.

  “And Moriarty is also a patient, scheming monster. He is a genius, and whilst such men may struggle to find a challenge worthy of their abilities, he has found crime is able to provide a multitude of challenges to keep him stimulated, his interest fresh. Contemplating hundreds of these cases at a time, some taking years to mature, is the kind of mental juggling act that would engage his intellect fully.”

  “It seems you know this mastermind rather well,” Elizabeth observed.

  Mabuse made a short sharp laugh of admiration. “If you are intimating that Mr Holmes knows him as a kind of kindred spirit, or rather the evil mirror of his own soul, you are correct. For just as Moriarty juggles a hundred opportunities at a time, Holmes keeps several hundred crimes, not yet solved, in his head, for one never knows when the solution or a new lead will suddenly present itself.”

  “Unsolved crimes?” Elizabeth said. “I hadn’t thought of
Mr Holmes encountering such things.”

  “They far outnumber the solved ones,” Mabuse conceded. “We tend not to publicise the fact any more than the police do; it makes for rather a poor and unsatisfying story.”

  “And you cannot involve the police?” Elizabeth asked. “Surely, with all of this villainous activity, the scoundrel must have come under the suspicion of the authorities?”

  “Not at all,” Holmes demurred. “It is a small matter for such a one to conceal his true nature. As far as the public know, including the police, he is the very embodiment of respectability; an esteemed mathematician, author of the Treatise Upon the Binomial Theorem and The Dynamics of an Asteroid.”

  “So how do you think it is that this brilliant individual has finally allowed an opportunity to trap him to arise?” Elizabeth asked. “You give the impression he is infallible.”

  “No human being is infallible,” Holmes said. “Perhaps it is sentiment and the professor has an odd affection for Batersea as the actor hopes is the case. The fact that Batersea still lives suggests that he is a sort of pet. It would not be the first time such sentiment had been an individual’s undoing. It is one of the reasons I avoid it.”

  “Yes,” Mabuse noted, ironically. “I have observed, over the years, what an effort it has cost you to stifle the abundance of natural affection within yourself.”

  “You are amusing,” Holmes said coolly. “But sometimes, I wonder why, otherwise, I continue our association.”

  “Other than the fact that I have made your methods famous, and thus earned you the respect that allows you access to many of the continent’s greatest mysteries, which your great talents alone might solve?”

  “Ah, yes,” said Holmes, “there is that.”

  Sherlock Holmes and Mabuse waited with Batersea in the sumpt­uous suite they had hired in a London hotel for their trap. Holmes’s longtime collaborator, Inspector Lestrade of Scotland Yard, and a brace of five constables, were hidden behind the heavy damask drapes. Holmes had promised the inspector the breakthrough of a lifetime and that he would receive great credit for the part he was to play in the downfall of a villain whose capture would overshadow all else in his career. Holmes had confessed that the venture was somewhat risky and suggested that, if it proved a debacle, Lestrade should slip away with his reputation intact.