Victorian Villainy

by Michael Kurland

  “Yes, I see that,” Preisner agreed.

  “But if they are alive when they are examined, any discrepancies will become quickly evident,” said Holmes.

  “As, for instance, their not speaking fluent English,” I added.

  “So you think they are dressing corpses in British naval uniforms?” Preisner asked.

  Holmes looked away. “Perhaps,” he said.

  “Sail ho to the port!” a seaman outside the bridge relayed a call from the lookout on the top mast. We turned to look, but it was indeed a sail, the topsail of a three-masted barque, and not the four funnels of a British destroyer, that slowly came into sight on our port side.

  We saw a variety of ships during the rest of that day, but it was dusk before we found the ship we were seeking. A four-masted destroyer appeared in the distance a few points off the starboard bow. Lieutenant Willits grabbed for the chart of identification silhouettes and ran his finger down the side while peering closely at the illustrations. “I don’t believe there would be any other four-masted destroyer in the area,” he said, “but it would not do to make a mistake.”

  Captain Preisner examined the distant ship through his binoculars and, even before Willits had confirmed the identification, turned to the duty seaman and said quietly, “Signal all hands—battle stations.”

  The seaman whistled down the communications tube and relayed the command and, almost immediately, an ordered bedlam descended on the boat as the members of the crew raced to their assigned positions.

  “She’s flying no flags or pennants,” announced Willits, who was staring at the approaching ship through his own binoculars. “But she’s making no attempt to avoid us. There appears to be a small black ship of some sort to her rear.”

  “It would look suspicious were she to turn aside,” said Preisner. “She doesn’t know that we’re stalking her. Hoist our own flag and the recognition code flag for today. And see if you can identify the ship to her rear.”

  “Aye, aye, sir.” Willits relayed the command, and in a few seconds several flags were fluttering at the top of the Agamemnon’s forward mast.

  “No response,” said Willits after a minute. “Wait—she’s turning to port, trying to evade us. If she complete’s the turn, she’ll be able to show us her heels. She must have three or four knots better speed.”

  “Probably less with an untrained engine crew,” commented Preisner. “But nonetheless—”

  “I can make out her name now,” said Willits, peering through his binoculars. “She’s the Royal Edgar, right enough. Or claims she is. The other ship is keeping on her far side, but it appears to be some sort of large yacht, painted black.”

  “A smuggler, no doubt,” said Preisner.

  “I believe you’re right, sir.”

  “Put a warning shot across her bow and run up the signal for ‘Come to a complete stop’,” directed the captain. “Helmsman, turn twenty degrees to the starboard.”

  One of the Agamemnon’s four-inch guns barked once, and a fountain of water appeared off the bow of the Royal Edgar.

  The destroyer continuing turning, ignoring the warning. The Agamemnon fired another shot, which plunged into the water close enough to have soaked anyone standing by the bow of the Royal Edgar. A few seconds later one of the Royal Edgar’s two-inch guns coughed a burst of flame, and an explosion sounded somewhere forward on the cruiser. A few seconds later, another burst, and a sound like the banging together of a hundred large iron pots came from amidships.

  “They’re firing at us!” yelled Lieutenant Willits.”

  “More fools they,” said Captain Preisner grimly, and he gave the order to return fire.

  The universe became filled with awesome roaring sounds as the eight-inch guns of the Agamemnon hurled their hundred and twenty pound explosive missiles into the air. In two minutes the firing from the Royal Edgar had stopped, and Captain Preisner gave the order for our own ship to cease fire. A total of no more than a dozen rounds had been fired by the big guns of the cruiser, but the damage done to the destroyer gave one faith in the might of modern science. She was dead in the water and already starting to list to one side. Billows of smoke were coming from amidships, and a tongue of flame was growing toward the bow.

  The black yacht had pulled up alongside the Royal Edgar now, and people were transferring over. Others were attempting to lower a lifeboat aft of the bridge.

  “We should board her, Captain,” Holmes said.

  “Why?” asked Preisner.

  “There may be documents.”

  “There may be wounded,” added Lieutenant Willits.

  “I’ll have a boat lowered and ask for volunteers to row you over,” Preisner told us. “But I’m not bringing the Agamemnon anywhere near that vessel. And I warn you, she’s either going to blow up or go under quite soon, and quite suddenly.”

  Volunteers were found—the human race never ceases to astound me—and the captain’s gig was lowered. We armed ourselves with revolvers and knives from a locker on the bridge, and we were shortly being rowed over to the Royal Edgar, which was not any lower in the water, although the fire was still burning. As we approached, the black yacht roared past us headed off toward the south. A portly man in a Royal Navy officer’s uniform standing rigidly in the rear of the yacht shook his fist at us as he passed.

  “Would that be the king?” I asked Holmes.

  “I believe it is,” Holmes told me. “Yes, I believe it is.”

  We instructed our oarsmen to remain in the gig and to row rapidly away at the first sign that something untoward was about to happen.

  “But what about yourselves, governor?” asked the bo’s’n in charge of the rowing party.

  “We shall dive off the ship and swim rapidly toward the Agamemnon,” I told him.

  “We’ll probably be there before you are,” Holmes added.

  “Very good, sir,” responded the bo’s’n, but he was not convinced.

  A couple of ropes were visible dangling over the side of the destroyer, and I grabbed one of them and pulled myself up. Holmes waited until I was on deck to follow me up the rope. There was very little damage evident on deck. Were it not for the smoke behind us and the fire ahead of us, it would look like there was nothing amiss.

  “Why do you suppose they fled,” Holmes asked, “instead of attempting to fight the fire?”

  “Perhaps they were not trained to do so,” I responded. “Perhaps they didn’t have the equipment.”

  “Perhaps,” Holmes agreed.

  We had boarded amidships. By some unspoken agreement, we both turned and went forward. “If there are any useful documents,” I said, “they’re probably in the bridge.”

  “If there were any,” Holmes replied, “Wilhelm Gottsreich most assuredly took them with him.”

  “Perhaps,” I said.

  We reached the ladder leading up to the bridge, and Holmes went up ahead of me. He stopped, frozen, in the doorway, and I could not get by. “What is it, Holmes,” I asked, trying to peer around his shoulder.

  “As I feared,” he said, “but could not bring myself to believe....” He moved into the room, and I entered behind him.

  There, lined up against the back wall, were four men in the uniforms of ordinary seamen in the Royal Navy. Their hands and feet were tied, and their mouths were covered with sticking plaster. One of them seemed to have fainted; he was slumped over, only held up by the rope around his chest which was affixed to a metal hook in the wall. The other three were conscious: one trembling uncontrollably, one rigidly staring out the windscreen, his face frozen with shock, and the third fighting like a trapped beast against his bonds; his wrists raw, and blood streaming from his forehead.

  A fifth man, his hands still tied behind him, lay prone on the floor, his face immersed in a large pan of water. He did not move. Holmes ran over to him, pulled up his head and rolled him over. After a few seconds he got up from the still body. “Too late,” he said.

  We used our knives to free t
he other men and, grabbing what papers we could find without bothering to look through them, led the men back down the ladder and out to the gig. Twenty minutes later we were aboard the Agamemnon, and the Royal Edgar was still burning, but was no lower in the water and her list seemed not to have increased.

  “We can’t leave her like this,” Captain Preisner said, “and I can’t tow her in; too many questions would be asked.”

  “You’ll have to sink her,” Holmes said.

  Captain Preisner nodded. “Order the main batteries to fire ten rounds each, controlled fire, at the destroyer,” he told the bridge duty officer.

  About ten minutes after the last round was fired the destroyer gave a tremendous belch, and sunk prow first into the sea. The entire crew of the Agamemnon, having been informed that it was a sister ship they were forced to sink, stood silently at attention as she went down. Captain Preisner held a salute until the one-time Royal Mary was out of sight beneath the waves, as did all the officers on the bridge.

  Captain Preisner sighed and relaxed. “I hope I never have to do anything like that again,” he said.

  Later that evening Captain Preisner called us into his cabin. “I have a berth for you,” he said. “We won’t be back in port again until late tomorrow.”

  “That’s fine, Captain,” I said. “We still have to compose our report to send back to Whitehall.”

  Preisner looked at us. “Those men you brought aboard—you spoke to them?”

  “We did.”

  “And?”

  “The five suits of undergarments,” Holmes said.

  “But you only brought four men along.”

  “True,” Holmes said. “Our antagonist had begun preparing for his assault. One of the men was already drowned. The others would have joined him shortly had we not come upon the ship when we did. The plan was to chase the black yacht in to the Trieste harbor, getting as close to the city as possible. Then fire some shots at the fleeing craft, which would miss and hit at random in the city. Then the destroyer would, itself, flee back out to sea. A small explosion, presumably caused by the yacht firing back, would cause the five drowned men to be flung into the water, there to be found in their Royal Navy uniforms by the locals.”

  Captain Preisner stared at him speechless for a long moment. “And all this,” he said finally, “to discredit England?” he asked. “What good would it do?”

  “Major conflagrations are started by small sparks,” Holmes said. “Who can say where this might have led?”

  Preisner shook his head. “Madmen,” he said.

  “Even so,” Holmes agreed. “There are an abundance of them.”

  Later in our cabin Holmes turned to me and asked, “what are you planning to do after we send our report?”

  I shrugged. “The world thinks I am dead,” I said. “Perhaps I shall take advantage of that and remain away from public ken.”

  “I, also, had thought of doing something of the sort,” Holmes told me. “I’ve always wanted to travel to Tibet, perhaps speak with the Dali Lama.”

  “A very interesting man,” I told him. “I’m sure you’d find such a conversation fruitful.”

  Holmes stared at me for a long time, and then said “Good night, Professor,” and turned down the light.

  “Good night, Holmes,” I replied.

  THE PARADOL PARADOX

  It is a damp, chilly Saturday, the 16th of April, 1887, as I sit before the small coal fire in the front room of Professor James Moriarty’s Russell Square home making these notes; setting down while they are still fresh in my memory the queer and astounding events surrounding the problem with which professor Moriarty and I found ourselves involved over the past few days. The case itself, a matter of some delicacy involving some of the highest-born and most important personages in the realm, had, as Moriarty put it, “a few points that were not entirely devoid of interest to the higher faculties.” Moriarty’s ability to shed light on what the rest of us find dark and mysterious will come as no surprise to anyone who has had any dealings with the professor. But what will keep the events of these past days unique in my mind forever is the glimpse I was afforded into the private life of my friend and mentor, Professor James Moriarty.

  Certain aspects of the case will never see print, at least not during the lifetimes of any of those involved; and I certainly cannot write it up in one of my articles for the American press, without revealing what must not be revealed. But the facts should not be lost, so I will at least set them down here, and if this notebook remains locked in the bottom drawer of my desk at my office at the American News Service until after my death, so be it. At least the future will learn what must be concealed from the present.

  My name is Benjamin Barnett, and I am an expatriate New Yorker, working here in London as the director and owner of the American News Service; a company that sends news and feature stories from Britain and the continent to newspapers all around the United States over the Atlantic cable. Four years ago I was rescued from an unfortunate circumstance—and being held prisoner in a Turkish fortress is as unfortunate a circumstance as I can imagine that does not involve immediate great pain or disfigurement—by Professor James Moriarty. I was employed by him for two years after that, and found him to be one of the most intelligent, perceptive, capable; in short one of the wisest men I have ever known. Most of those who have had dealings with the professor would, I am sure, agree, with the notable exception of a certain consulting detective, who places Moriarty at the center of every nefarious plot hatched by anyone, anywhere, during this past quarter-century. I have no idea why he persists in this invidious belief. I have seen that the professor sometimes skirts the law to achieve his own ends, but I can also witness that Professor Moriarty has a higher moral standard than many of those who enforce it.

  But I digress.

  It was last Tuesday evening, four days ago, that saw the start of the events I relate. We had just finished dinner and I was still sitting at the dining table, drinking my coffee and reading a back issue of The Strand Magazine. Moriarty was staring moodily out the window, his long, aristocratic fingers twitching with boredom. He was waiting, at the time, for a new spectrograph of his own design to be completed so that he could continue his researches into the spectral lines of one of the nearer stars. When he is not engaged in his scientific endeavors, Moriarty likes to solve problems of a more earthly nature, but at the moment there was no such exercise to engage his intellect; and to Professor Moriarty intellect was all.

  I finished the article I was reading, closed the magazine, and shook my head in annoyance.

  “You’re right,” Moriarty said without turning from the window. “It is shameful the way the Austrian medical establishment treated Dr. Semmelweis. Pass me a cigar, would you, old chap?”

  “Not merely the Austrians,” I said, putting the magazine down and reaching for the humidor on the mantle. “The whole medical world. But really, Moriarty, this is too much. Two hundred years ago they would have burned you at the stake as a sorcerer.”

  Moriarty leaned over and took a cigar from the humidor as I held it toward him. “After all the time we have been in association,” he said, “surely you can follow my methods by now.”

  “It is one thing to watch from the audience as de Kolta vanishes a girl on stage,” I told him, “quite another to know how the trick is done.”

  Moriarty smiled and rolled the cigar between his palms. “My ‘tricks’ are in one way quite like those of a stage conjurer,” he said. “Once you know how they’re done, they don’t seem quite so miraculous.” He paused to clip and pierce the ends of the cigar with his silver cigar cutter. Then he lit a taper from the gas mantle on the wall, and puffed the cigar to life. “But think back. This particular miracle should succumb even to your analysis.”

  I rose and went over to the sideboard to pour myself another cup of coffee. The serving girl had yet to clear away the dinner dishes, and I absently banged the coffee spoon against a wine glass that had recently
held its share of a fine ’63 Chateau de Braquenne Bordeaux. Some months ago Moriarty had cleared up a particularly delicate problem for Hamish Plummet, partner in Plummet & Rose, Wines and Spirits, Piccadilly. Plummet presented the professor with a case of that rare vintage as a token of his appreciation, and tonight Moriarty had uncorked a bottle and pronounced it excellent. I was pleased to agree.

  “You read the article,” I suggested.

  “Bravo, Barnett,” Moriarty said. “A capital start.”

  “And you saw me reading it. But wait—you were across the room, looking out the window.”

  “True,” Moriarty acknowledged. “I saw you reflected in the window glass.”

  “Ah!” I said. “But how did you know which article—even if you saw me reading—”

  “I did not merely see, I observed. You stared down at your free hand, turning it over and examining it in a contemplative manner.”

  “Did I?”

  “You were reflecting on Semmelweis’s campaign to get his fellow physicians to wash their hands before treating patients. You were no doubt thinking of how many poor women had died in childbirth because the doctors scorned him and refused to take his advice.”

  “That’s so, I remember,” I told him.

  “Thus I knew, by observation, which article you were reading. And then you put down the magazine and shook your head, clearly revealing your sequence of thought, and I said what I said.” Moriarty returned his gaze to the window and puffed silently on his cigar.

  A few moments later Mr. Maws, Moriarty’s butler, knocked at the door and entered, and the serving girl scurried in past him and started clearing the table. “There’s a milord come to see you, Professor,” he said. “I put him in the front room. Here’s his lordship’s card.” Mr. Maws handed Moriarty the rectangular pasteboard.

  Moriarty centered his cigar carefully on the lip of an oversized ashtray and looked at the card, and then looked again. He ran his fingers over the surface, and then reached for a glass of water on the table, using it as a magnifying glass to carefully study the printing on the card. “Fascinating,” he said. “What does the milord look like?”