Sherlock Holmes and the Alice in Wonderland Murders

by Barry Day

  “Please continue, Moriarty,” Holmes said encouragingly. “It is always intriguing to see a twisted mind at work …”

  At that a peal of laughter chilling in its intensity, came down the phone. “Good old Holmes. The stage lost a rare actor when you committed yourself to the study of crime. Perhaps we should both have followed where Thalia and Melpomene beckoned. Who knows, we might have rivalled Irving and Tree. Which of us would have played Othello, I wonder, and which Iago?” And again the laugh. “But the Gods, it seems, willed it otherwise.”

  Suddenly the tone was sharper, more businesslike. “Well, much as I have enjoyed our little chat—rather more, I fancy, than Miss Creighton here—I must attend to affairs of state. Just one last thing. You were enquiring, I believe, into the well being and whereabouts of Mr. Steel. Knowing how you like a good conundrum, Holmes, let me leave you with just one clue. Don’t forget that the gentleman was—is—let’s not argue tenses here—mine own invention.”

  And the line went dead. Strangely, the silence shrieked even louder than Moriarty’s laughter.

  Holmes returned the receiver to the stand as gently as if he were handling porcelain. Then he looked at me soberly.

  “The damnable thing is that there is a great deal of truth in Moriarty’s demented ramblings. The country very probably is living on the reputation of past glories and the widening gap between have and have-nots could easily become a political as well as a social chasm. There are vultures beyond these shores who are waiting to feast. All of this is true and, without being able to articulate it, the British people sense some of it and would like nothing more than for some latterday St. George to ride up and kill the dragon. Which is why Moriarty tried to create his own superman—his man of steel in more ways than one. His motive was cynical and self-serving but his analysis, as ever, was insightful.”

  “Well, you certainly dealt with that solution,” I said, becoming uncomfortable with the way the conversation seemed to be tending.

  “Perhaps,” my friend replied, “but only temporarily. There will be others, with or without a Moriarty to prop them up. None of them will succeed for the simple reason that our society has grown too complex for a single Galahad to save it Should such a man arise, perhaps many years from now, he will only succeed—if he does succeed—by tapping into the great heart of this great nation.”

  Then with a wry smile Holmes got to his feet. “Watson, you really must pull me up when I begin to wax philosophical. How many times do I have to tell you that the worst error the consulting detective can fall into is to draw conclusions without sufficient evidence?”

  He began to pace the room and I knew that he was literally winding himself up to act.

  “Let us address those matters we are qualified to address in the hope that such success as we may achieve will have its impact on the larger canvas. I promise you this, Watson. War in Europe may prove inevitable some day not too far distant but if it should come, it will not be by the machinations of one malignant and power crazed man called Moriarty!”

  “Come, old fellow,” he said, throwing a pad and pencil in my general direction. “Moriarty has kindly offered us a clue but he does not know that we have—thanks to Miss Creighton—the makings of several more. If we cannot piece out their imperfections with our thoughts—Moriarty does not have a monopoly on the Bard, you see—then we are not the fellows we think we are. Now, let us set down what we have.”

  “Well,” I said chancing my arm, “we know that Moriarty has placed Steel under house arrest, so to speak, and is holding him somewhere, presumably in London. He clearly believes the man is expendable …”

  “He ‘invented’ him and, therefore, believes he can destroy his own invention. ‘Invented’ him …”

  “Then something about Royston going to Court,” I continued, “and can he swim? Royston … Court … what’s that supposed to mean?”

  Holmes swung round in his chair and those piercing eyes bored into me. “Say that again, Watson.”

  “Say what again?”

  “I said about Royston going to Court …”

  “No, you didn’t, old fellow. You said ‘Royston Court’. My dear fellow, I’ve been blind. Royston Steel has nothing to do with a Court of Law. That’s simply Moriarty’s little pun. ‘Royston Court’ is a place! And he spoke of inventing Steel … Quick, pass me my commonplace book, if you would—the one for ‘S’ …”

  I did as he asked and he flicked through the well worn pages with practised skill.

  “Staunton, Arthur—the forger … Staunton, Henry … hm, the man I helped to hang … ah, here we are—Steel, Royston … born, etc., etc., as I thought. Born Arthur Chadwick in Belper, Derbyshire … career in local politics … reputation as something of an orator … wins national debating prize which takes him to the US, where he becomes a protégé of …”

  “John Moxton?”

  “The very same, Watson, the very same. Stays in New York to work for the Moxton publishing empire and around that time changes his name to Royston Steel. Returns to England about two years ago and stands for Parliament in a marginal seat. It is generally thought that massive support from The Clarion swung the vote his way. The rest I think we know … Moriarty invented him and probably named him to symbolise the character he wished to project on the British psyche. That would account for the ‘Steel’. But ‘Royston’ …? There must be some other connection in Moriarty’s empire that he is taunting us with I wonder …”

  Throwing the commonplace book aside, he leapt to his feet and began to rummage around in another pile of books, until he emerged with a London street guide. A moment or so later—“As I thought, it is a place. Watson, I am prepared to wager you a pound of your Arcadia mixture that the answer lies in Wapping. ‘Royston Court’ is a location by the river, most likely one of Moriarty’s hideaways. If he hasn’t got Steel tucked away there, I shall be very surprised. Steel goes to Court He could not resist the irony.”

  “That means he’ll have Alicia there, too?”

  “I think it highly likely, old fellow, but there is only one way to find out,. I have a few arrangements to make first and then, as soon as is dark, we shall pay a visit to the East End.”

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  I have often thought that Holmes demonstrated an unhealthy interest in the East End of our fair metropolis. On more than one occasion I have opened the door in Baker Street to a filthy lascar, usually sporting a livid scar down one cheek. Holmes would deny this strenuously, but I have often felt that something of the persona lingered for an hour or two even when his more familiar figure was lounging languidly in the chair opposite.

  Tonight I had little to complain about. My friend was dressed as formally as if he were about to attend a society soirée. Catching my appraising glance, he smiled. “This is no evening for fancy dress, Watson. Our business is to unmask not to don the motley. Do you have your service revolver about you? Good. Then let us have our day in Court …”

  The waiting carriage was soon clip-clopping its way through London’s back streets towards the East End. Holmes had been adamant that we should leave our arrival until late. “On this occasion, old fellow, let darkness be our friend and give us the element of surprise. I know from my own expeditions how difficult it is to detect movement through that maze of back streets and during the daylight hours there will be too many eyes to observe and warn Moriarty of our presence.”

  As a result the clocks were striking their various versions of ten as we made our way through the narrow mean streets of south east London. The city itself offered its usual collection of sepia snapshots as we passed through. Young men bidding each other a tipsy ‘Goodnight’ outside a tavern … elegant carriages waiting for a theatre to ring down the curtain … ladies of questionable origin parading under the gas lamps … pinched looking clerks scurrying home after an endless and poorly paid day. It was no wonder, I reflected, that Mr. Dickens had found so much material from which to weave his tales.

  I became a
ware that the carriage had come to a halt. “The rest of the way on shanks’s pony, I think, Watson,” said Holmes. “If my calculations are correct, Royston Court is only a street or two from here and I made arrangements to meet—ah, here is Lestrade.”

  As we descended the Inspector was waiting to greet us with half a dozen uniformed constables carrying bull’s-eye lanterns.

  “Studied the area very thoroughly, Mr. ’Olmes, as you requested and ‘Awkins here knows it like the back of his hand. Seems he was brought up in these parts.”

  A thin faced middle-aged constable stepped forward and respectfully touched the brim of his helmet to us.

  “Mr. Holmes, Doctor Watson, an honour to be of assistance.”

  “Never mind that, ‘Awkins, get to the point,” Lestrade interrupted gruffly.

  “Well, gentlemen, the locals reckon that way, way back this part of the river was considered a bit special. Lots of big houses and all the toffs going to and fro. But there was one house that they all gave a wide berth …”

  “Royston Court,” Holmes interjected, more as a comment than a question.

  “That’s right, Mr. Holmes,” said Hawkins, clearly pleased to see Holmes living up to his reputation.

  “The Roystons had arrived here from nobody knew where and built this regular mansion right on the water. Most of their visitors seemed to arrive by boat and they kept themselves pretty much to themselves. Of course, that got everybody talking from all accounts and when on certain nights strange noises were heard and lots of lights, there was talk of witchcraft and the Black Sabbath.”

  “Lot of stuff and nonsense, if you ask me,” Lestrade snorted.

  “Very likely, Lestrade,” Holmes cut him off. “As Watson will tell you, I am no believer in the supernatural myself but it has often been used as an effective defence by those who—for whatever devious reasons of their own—require privacy. Pray continue, Hawkins. The concise nature of your narrative might be an object lesson to others.”

  I turned to see how Lestrade was taking this rebuke before I realised that Holmes was looking quizzically in my direction!

  “It all came to a head when a woman’s body was found floating off the jetty at Royston Court with some strange marks on it. The police couldn’t rightly prove it had come from there but there was such a hue and cry in the local community that it wasn’t long before the Roystons did a skidaddle, lock, stock and barrel. Went as sudden and secret as they arrived. And that was fifty—sixty years ago. I remember my granddad telling me the tale often enough.”

  “Since when, no doubt, the place has been empty. No one wanted to buy a house with possible Satanic associations, until—a year or so ago—an anonymous vendor, whom no one has ever laid eyes on, pays cash and ferries his effects in by the river entrance at dead of night. Since when, the shutters have all been drawn, no contact has been made with the outside world—which has no desire to make contact in the first place anyway.”

  It was amusing to see the constable’s expression so closely resemble the one I had seen on countless other faces.

  “But how did you know, Mr. Holmes? That’s exactly what happened.”

  “Once one is given a piece of the puzzle and knows the designer, Hawkins, it is relatively easy to deduce the rest of the picture.”

  Then, turning to Lestrade—“I think you will find that the lease was taken up within days of the arrival in this country of one John Moxton.”

  To which Lestrade—looking like the cat who had swallowed the cream—replied—“As a matter of fact, Mr. ’Olmes, I’ve had the local records checked and …”—here he consulted his notebook—“the said property was taken on a shortlease in the name of one Jabez Milverton. Now, what’s so funny about that?”

  And, indeed, I found it hard to understand why Holmes should have given himself over to that fit of soundless laughter that showed he was truly amused.

  “One must give the devil his due,” he replied, ceasing as abruptly as he had begun, “but surely you appreciate the irony, Watson? Not only has our mutual friend retained the ‘J.M.’ but he has made up this new identity from two of our more celebrated cases. Jabez Wilson from the affair of the spurious ‘Red Headed League’—not exactly a common Christian name, I think you’ll agree—and then he purloins the surname from the king of the blackmailers, Charles Augustus Milverton, the worst man in London—or perhaps I should say, the worst but one. You know, Watson, I shall be almost sorry when this affair is over. It is definitely not without its points of interest.”

  At that moment it came home to me what we were doing in this squalid London side street and I had a vision of a young woman in desperate need.

  “Come along, Holmes,” I said, perhaps more brusquely than I had intended, “this is neither the time nor the place to stand around analysing the mental aberrations of a lunatic. There is work to do.” And to emphasise the point I took out and checked the mechanism of my service revolver.

  “You’re absolutely right, old fellow.” Holmes laid a reassuring hand on my arm. “Hawkins, is there anything further to which you wish to draw our attention?”

  “Well, Mr. Holmes …” the constable sounded diffident for the first time—“this is more hearsay, like, but a mate of mine when we were kids once claimed that he’d sneaked into the place and he said it was really creepy, like one of those houses at the fun fair. He said he couldn’t wait to get out of it. Mind, he probably said that to scare us all. I remember him saying—‘The people who lived there must have been mad.’”

  I was the only one close enough to hear Holmes murmur to himself—“‘How do you know I’m mad?’ said Alice. ‘You must be,’ said the Cat, ‘or you wouldn’t have come here.’”

  Then to Lestrade—“Lestrade, post your men at every point. Watson and I will use the ground floor window. Give us five minutes, then break in the front door. The place appears empty but then appearances, as we know with this particular gentlemen, can be deceptive.”

  Moments later we were hurrying through the swirling mist that evening had brought to the river. Every now and then I heard the hooting of the boats still plying their trade on London’s great waterway, warning each other of their presence. For some strange reason I found myself thinking of mythical beasts on Loch Ness singing their siren song. How much had happened since that abortive fishing trip.

  The next thing I knew Holmes had pulled me into the shadow cast by the portico of one of the strangest buildings I can remember seeing. It was as though someone had leafed through an encyclopaedia of architecture and taken details at random, then instructed a builder to assemble them as best he may. Part Georgian, part Gothic with a touch of strictly pseudo-Elizabethan, it should have been a monstrosity. As it was, intermittently shrouded with London fog, it looked splendidly eerie and almost as if it were challenging us to unlock its mysteries. It was then I noticed that it was the only house standing intact for many yards around. All the rest were derelict shells, as though the ground were contaminated.

  “Moriarty is certainly assured of a degree of privacy,” Holmes whispered. In the faint light of my lantern I could see that he was carefully sorting through a set of implements he had taken from an inside pocket and I recognised them as the tools of the master burglar’s trade. Since he was so clearly enjoying himself, I refrained from pointing out that the mere possession of them at night was in itself a felonious offence.

  As he selected a thin probe that reminded me all too forcibly of a visit to the dentist, I recalled his boasting to me on more than one occasion that he felt burglary was an alternative profession at which he would have excelled. Well, now he had the opportunity to prove it.

  There was the faintest of clicks and a satisfied grunt from Holmes as a casement window swung open. A moment later we were both standing in a marble hallway that could easily have come from a Venetian Doge’s palace. There was something peculiarly menacing about the very quiet and I found myself patting the pocket in which I carried my service revolver for reassuranc
e.

  The inside of the house was much bigger than it appeared from the outside. In fact, it was a veritable maze of rooms, one leading into another and each decorated—as Hawkins had predicted—in a different and often bizarre style. An Egyptian room led into a Louis Quatorze suite, which became a medieval banqueting chamber. What was perfectly plain, however, was that none of them appeared to have been used for a considerable period of time. It was as though their inhabitants had been summarily recalled to their respective pages in the history book, leaving behind only an elaborate stage set.

  Holmes seemed to read my thoughts. “Once again our bird has flown. I feared as much when he left us a trail to his nest. However, let us hope he has left us some chicks.”

  His words instantly reminded me of why we were in this place out of time and I hastened my pace, only to find Holmes’s arm restraining me.

  “Steady, old fellow. It seems clear that Moriarty and his men have vacated the premises for our arrival but that does not mean that the premises themselves do not contain a few surprises. In fact, I think it highly likely that the reason he was attracted to it in the first instance is that—like so many things about him—it is not what it seems.”

  “Do you notice something else, Watson? Although the rooms seem all of a size, in reality they are constructed with a slight curve to them. We are being led to the heart of a spiral—or perhaps a web would be a more appropriate metaphor.”

  He raised his head and sniffed the air which, truth to tell, was damnably musty. Whatever purpose the place served in Moriarty’s scheme of things, he had made little use of it, that much was certain. There was a musty quality—and something more. As if reading my thoughts, Holmes said over his shoulder—“Black deeds have been perpetrated here, make no mistake about it. The genius loci never lies and this is an evil genius. Ah, yes, just as I thought.”