Sherlock Holmes Mystery Magazine, Volume 15

by SIR ARTHUR CONAN DOYLE

  Holmes was more sanguine, however, and deliberately turned his back to procure a match from the mantelpiece. At this our visitor chuckled.

  “Always the showman, eh, Holmes?” he said in a low voice, hissing his s’s, his grey eyes as hooded as a viper’s. He turned his steely gaze on me, and it was then I first made eye contact with the late Professor James Moriarty.

  “No more than yourself,” Holmes replied, lighting his pipe and turning to face the Professor.

  “Now it is you who are making me nervous, Holmes—sit down, please,” I said, my eyes still trained on Moriarty; some instinct deep within me would not let me take my gaze off of him. I had always thought of him as the personification of evil, and yet now what struck me about his face was how deeply pain was etched into every line, every crevice—as though someone had taken a sharp knife and carved out a mask of suffering. His eyes were dead, though, as cold and lifeless as the lidless eyes of a fish.

  Holmes sat in the winged armchair opposite mine. “Now, then, Professor, what can I do for you?”

  Moriarty gave off a long, slow exhalation of breath, which made a low hissing sound like air escaping from a tyre. There was a long pause as he rose and walked to the window, pulling aside the curtains to look out on the street below. I tensed in my chair, ready to spring, my mind racing—it occurred to me that he might be giving a signal of some kind. I glanced at Holmes, who appeared utterly unconcerned; he sat smoking peacefully, his eyes half-closed, fingers folded in repose on his lap.

  Finally Moriarty spoke. “What a pitiful sight mankind is,” he said, still gazing out onto the street, “hurrying back and forth like so many ants, and all to what purpose? To work and spawn and die, with no more mindfulness than a doomed salmon swimming upstream towards his death.”

  “You certainly did not come here to philosophise with me,” said Holmes. “May I ask—”

  “You are unaware, perhaps that I have a brother?” Moriarty interrupted, swivelling to face us, and again I was struck by the pain which had hardened into the lines of his face.

  “I had heard something of it,” Holmes replied, “from my own brother.”

  “Ah, yes, Mycroft,” Moriarty said, his thin lips curling into something resembling a smile.

  “I believe he lives in Ireland, does he not?”

  Again Moriarty sighed, but when he spoke his voice was a sneer. “If anyone could be said to actually ‘live’ in Ireland. He is, in fact, a Catholic priest.”

  If Holmes felt any surprise at this revelation he betrayed none. Moriarty, however, snickered. “Yes, it is ironic, isn’t it? A brother who is a man of the cloth—when I have devoted myself to quite another kind of priesthood.”

  “He is in trouble, your brother?”

  Moriarty nodded, his large head swivelling precariously on its long, thin neck; it was as though the head of a bull had been set upon the body of a giraffe.

  “We had a—falling out, shall we say—and have not spoken for some years, and yet—when I came by the information that I am about to tell you I had no choice but to intervene.”

  “No choice—?”

  Moriarty smiled, and though I would not say it was a warm smile, some of the hard lines on his face softened. “It may surprise you to know that even I have areas in my life which are—sacred, so to speak.”

  “Not at all,” Holmes replied. “I would have assumed as much.”

  “I am afraid that it is so unoriginal as to be a cliché, but I made a promise to my dying mother that no matter what came I would look after my younger brother Sean. And I have kept that promise—until now, that is.”

  “I see; pray continue.”

  Moriarty walked back to sit upon the couch again; his gait swayed like that of a large flightless bird.

  “You have perhaps heard of the Fenian Brotherhood?”

  “I have heard of them, yes—they are essentially a terrorist organization bent on the eradication of British rule in Ireland. Is your brother mixed up with them?”

  “On that contrary; he is their sworn enemy. I have reason to believe they have kidnapped him.”

  “I see.” Holmes’s face was stoic as ever, but he could not conceal the gleam of interest in his grey eyes, which burned dark as coals in the dull November light.

  “So you see your involvement in this case would be for the good of England as well. If you don’t believe me, ask your brother Mycroft; he is privy to every bit of international intelligence, is he not?”

  Holmes just smiled in reply. “Why do you come to me for assistance when you have a network of your own upon which to draw?”

  Moriarty’s face hardened again, and his dark eyes clouded over. “Because my brother must know nothing of my involvement in his rescue. He knows my agents, and he knows the way I operate. He has taken great pains to disassociate himself from me—”

  “And yet you protect him—” I blurted out.

  “As I said, Dr Watson, every man has some things that are sacred.”

  “Say no more,” Holmes said graciously; “I see your predicament. Do you know whether Scotland Yard has been informed of this matter yet?”

  Moriarty let out what could have been taken for a laugh—a short, brutal exhalation of air. “If they have, they have not learned it from me.”

  “Why don’t you tell me what you know?”

  “There isn’t much to tell. My brother was invited to preach at a notoriously pro-Fenian church here in London, and his subject matter did not sit well with certain factions in the congregation…the next day he went out in the morning and did not return.”

  “I see. Naturally you suspect elements of that organization.”

  “Let’s just say there’s a strong certainty, Holmes.” Moriarty’s eyes narrowed and darkened. “It’s well for them that I am not handling this myself…I would make them pay in ways you cannot imagine,” he said in a cold, flat voice.

  I shuddered at not so much his words as the way he said them.

  Holmes rose from his chair. “I will begin working on it immediately.”

  Moriarty rose stiffly and walked to the door in his peculiar, swaying gait. When he reached the door he paused.

  “You realize, of course, that this changes nothing between us?”

  Holmes smiled. “Of course.”

  Their eyes met briefly and they exchanged a look extraordinary in its contradictions—it was full of understanding without friendship, admiration without affection; the sort of look two opposing generals might give one another on the eve of battle. Without another word Moriarty turned and was gone. I listened as his footsteps descended the stairs, and only when I heard the front door latch behind him did I turn to Holmes.

  “I didn’t know he had a brother.”

  Holmes shrugged. “Neither did I.”

  “But you said—”

  “My dear Watson, with a man like Moriarty it is better not to admit ignorance on any matter if you can avoid it.”

  “But how did you know he lived in Ireland?”

  “That was a lucky guess; Moriarty is an Irish name.”

  “But what if this whole thing is a trap?”

  “I think we can rule that out easily enough,” he replied, opening the door to the sitting room. To my surprise, our landlady Mrs Hudson was standing in the hallway outside. She wore an apron and there was flour on her hands.

  “Yes, Mrs Hudson?” said Holmes with a smile.

  “I just thought I’d come up and see…if everything was all right—that is,” she said, flustered.

  “Quite all right, thank you,” Holmes replied, scribbling something on a piece of paper. “Would you see that Master Tuthill of the Baker Street Irregulars gets this?” he said, handing the note to Mrs Hudson.

  “Yes, sir,” she answered, tucking it into the pocket of her apron. “Mr Holmes, may I ask you something? That fellow who was just here…he—what I mean is, was he—?”

  “Yes, Mrs Hudson, he was. And now don’t let us detain you any longer; please
return to your baking.”

  “What—? Oh, yes,” she said, looking at her flour-covered hands. “Yes, of course…”

  “Goodbye, Mrs Hudson, and thank you,” Holmes said firmly.

  “You’re welcome, Mr Holmes; quite welcome, I’m sure.” She looked as if she wanted to say something else, but Holmes escorted her gently to the door and closed it behind her.

  “The less she knows about this the better for her,” he said, heading for his bedroom.

  “He’s telling the truth, you think, then?”

  “We shall find out soon enough. It’s time for a visit to Brother Mycroft.”

  The Diogenes Club was in Pall Mall, across from Mycroft’s rooms, and a short distance from his office. His routine rarely varied; he could be found in his office until precisely four forty-five, at which time he made his way to his club, then at exactly seven-forty trundled off to his lodgings. It is ironic that the physical universe inhabited by this extraordinary creature was as limited as his mental world was expansive. Holmes had once confided to me that Mycroft was not only his intellectual superior, but that “one might even say that Mycroft is the government.” Holmes was not a man given to exaggeration, and so my respect for his brother Mycroft was considerable.

  We entered the august edifice which housed the club, a heavy grey stone building typical of the mid-Victorian period, and headed straight for the Visitors’ Lounge, the only room in the cavernous structure in which conversation was allowed. Mycroft Holmes was seated in an armchair, and I thought he had grown a tad heftier since our last encounter. His grey eyes were as keen as his brother’s, however, and his massive skull was evidence of the same magnificent brain power. I sat—or rather sank—down upon a low overstuffed armchair.

  “You are dealing with an offshoot of the Fenians called the Triangle,” he said, without any conversational preamble. “They call themselves The Invincibles, or Clann na Gael. Some of their darker deeds include the murder of Lord Frederick Cavendish, shortly after he was appointed Chief Secretary for Ireland, in 1882; they are also suspected of crimes in the United States. They are ruthless and will stop at nothing to achieve their goal of Irish independence.”

  He paused and lit the pipe which sat at on the arm of his chair, and thin reeds of smoke curled around his broad head.

  “The government has already received a ransom note in the matter of Moriarty’s brother, offering to exchange him for Fenian prisoners. An exchange is of course out of the question. The men we hold are directly implicated in the dynamite campaign of 1883, in which a number of bombs were set off all over England, some of which killed innocent people.”

  “One more thing,” said Mycroft as we rose to leave; “we have reason to believe that a bomb will be planted in a major edifice somewhere in London within the next few days. I needn’t tell you that the consequences could be catastrophic.” He handed Holmes a piece of paper. “These password phrases may or may not work; however, it is the most current information we have.”

  “I see,” said Holmes. He studied the paper, his lean face tight, his grey eyes gleaming in the dim light of the Diogenes Club.

  Mycroft walked us to the door, and as we turned to leave he laid a hand on his brother’s shoulder.

  “Be careful, Sherlock.”

  I was struck more by the uncharacteristic gesture than by his words, but Holmes just nodded.

  Outside, we stood for a moment watching a dimly glimmering twilight settle over London. Holmes stood upon the stairs, his sharp profile silhouetted against the waning light in the western sky. I wondered what thoughts were racing through that quicksilver brain when suddenly he shook off his mood, sprang into the street, and hailed a cab. The cab ride back to Baker Street was spent in silence; Holmes sat in the corner wrapped in thought, and I knew better than to disturb him at times like this.

  When we arrived at Baker Street Holmes went straight to his bedroom without a word. I sat down on the couch and filled my pipe. I didn’t like this, any of it, but I was so accustomed to deferring to Holmes in most matters that I didn’t know if I should say anything. My concern turned to astonishment a few minutes later when Holmes emerged from the bedroom dressed in a black suit and clerical collar.

  “What do you think, Watson?”

  “Good heavens, Holmes!”

  “I admit it’s a bit of a stretch, but it’s necessary under the circumstances.”

  “But—”

  “Oh, I know; my soul could go straight to hell.”

  “I didn’t mean that, but don’t you think it’s a bit—”

  “Sacrilegious? I suppose it is, but I’m sure I’ve committed worse sins. And now if you’ll excuse me, I shall be off,” he said, throwing his black Ulster on over his priestly garb. “Tell Mrs Hudson I shall be back in time for dinner and that I look forward to the fine fruit tart she is preparing for us.”

  I didn’t even bother to ask Holmes how he knew it was a fruit tart. I closed the door after him and wandered around the sitting room for a while, trying to make sense of the strange events of the morning. Finally I lay down upon the couch and attempted to immerse myself in some medical texts which I had recently purchased. My mind was having none of it, however, and soon I drifted off into uneasy dreams in which masked gunmen tried to pull me off the couch where I lay. I clung to my pillow, though, until I heard Mrs Hudson’s voice coming from one of the gunmen.

  “Dr Watson, wake up! There’s a message for you.”

  I sat up abruptly and took the slip of paper which she held in her hand. I opened it and read:

  “Meet me at Paddy O’Reilly’s—Holmes. P S…bring your revolver.”

  “Thank you, Mrs Hudson.” I rose from the couch, groggy from the sleep which still clung to me. I thrust the note into my pocket and, with trembling hands, took my service revolver from the desk drawer and loaded it.

  “I’m going out, Mrs Hudson,” I said, smoothing my hair and buttoning my cuffs. My wife had just given me a beautiful new pair of gold cufflinks with my initials engraved on them, and I was very taken with them.

  “Wouldn’t you like some tea before you leave?” she said, picking up the sofa pillows which I had flung about the room in my dream-tossed slumber.

  “No, thank you—I haven’t any time.”

  As I closed the door behind me, she was fussing about the room muttering something about “regular hours” and “all this dashing about.”

  The weather had cleared, and a brisk wind had picked up from the river. I pulled my coat about me as I stood waiting for a cab to arrive; and soon I was seated in a hansom rumbling east along the cobblestones.

  London’s East End is sometimes referred to as “the other London.” This catch-all description includes the opium dens and whore houses in neighborhoods such as Whitehall and Spitalfields; it also describes the colorful but less ominous environs which respectable working class English people and foreigners made their home. The men and women who cleaned the houses and chimneys of the richer folk, who shod their horses and shined their shoes, who baked their pastries and sewed their clothes—these hard-working people resided to a large extent in the Eastern sector of the city. Holmes and I had often journeyed into these places—as a source of information, the pubs and tea rooms of the East End were invaluable. The Irish pubs of Spitalfields were no exception. In London in 1891 an Irishman was regarded as closer to a foreigner than an Englishman. They retaliated by taking their business en masse to the East End.

  An Irish pub is not like an English pub. It is noisier, more boisterous, and more vital. There is usually music, there is often dancing, and there is always drinking—not polite social drinking, but serious, determined drinking, the consumption of alcohol serving as a revolt against the insults of the world. I am half Irish myself, and as a child I saw what motivated that kind of drinking, and also what it could do to a man.

  Paddy O’Reilly’s was the kind of place you could go to forget the insults of the world—to drown them in a glass of stout if that
was your choice—or to lose them in a reel played hard and fast on a concertina and a tin whistle. The sound of the music reached me even before I put my hand upon the handle of the heavy oaken door. It was a tune I recognized—“Mary’s Wedding,” a Scottish melody, and it was being played at breakneck speed on a fiddle and concertina, with a tin whistle supplying a kind of obligator or counterpoint. I stood in the doorway for a moment, pushed back by the harsh smell of tobacco, sawdust, and beer. The concertina player was middle-aged, with the heavy-lidded eyes of a Scotsman, and he sat pumping his instrument with a grim determination. Four or five dancers stomped out something close to the Highland fling, and a few other people watched them, clapping and laughing with a bleary-eyed euphoria.

  I made my way across the sawdust-strewn floor, heading for a lone figure sitting hunched over at a table at the back of the room. I was very nearly drawn into the dance by a raucous young woman who attempted to link her arm around mine. Her red hair was wild; her eyes were wilder, and I extracted myself from her clutches, mumbling a polite excuse, and made my way to the back of the room.

  When I reached the solitary man, who was seated at a dimly lit table in the corner, I sat down. When I looked at his face I thought I had made a mistake; surely the ruddy complexion and full cheeks did not belong to my friend Holmes. I began to rise, but I felt a strong hand upon my should pull my back down.

  “Sit still, Watson! Do you want to call attention to us?”

  It was unmistakably Holmes’s voice, and I could not prevent the look of astonishment which crossed my face.

  “Holmes!” I whispered, “it is you, then!”

  “Of course it is. Now keep still and try not to look suspicious.”

  Holmes ordered two glasses of stout from the surly waiter, whose cigarette perched upon his lower lip, defying the laws of gravity and physics.

  “Try to look inconspicuous,” Holmes muttered as the man set two foaming mugs in front of us.

  “By the way, what happened to your last disguise?” I said, taking a sip of the heavy, sweet dark liquid in my glass.

  “It was very useful for a time.” He smiled. “I’m afraid I violated the sanctity of the confessional, but as you know, Watson, I am not religious.”