“Moriarty?” I croaked.
“That’s why I need Holmes,” said Holder. “I need to find someone capable of stealing from me who wishes to hurt Moriarty’s criminal empire. And somebody close! By God, I have only until tomorrow to find help. The Chinese Triad does not operate here—not in force. The Yakuza would never cross Moriarty. The Pinkertons’ rivalry with Moriarty is well known, but how could I possibly get one of his agents here, all the way from America?”
“Well you may have some luck there,” I told him. “Allan Pinkerton has hundreds of agents in his employ. I am sure there must be one or two in London.”
Holder waved this away. “No, no. I do not mean one of the mundane men in Pinkerton’s employ. I mean one of his true agents. There are only nine.”
“Nine?”
“Nine riders, clad in black. Woe to you, if you should ever meet one, Dr. Watson. But the nine have not been seen to walk abroad for many a year. They sleep, it is said. They await their master’s summons, lying dormant in some faraway land—a land of gray skies and shattered hopes, where no man ever smiles. Philadelphia, I seem to recall.”
Mr. Holder fell silent for a time, staring away into the middle distance. Then he shook his head and muttered, “It matters not. Holmes is the prize. He’s been the positive bane to Moriarty’s gang—they’ve never had such a rival. If it appeared he had come to rob me of the coronet, it would be believed, don’t you see?”
“Yes, but might that not be a bit ruinous to your family trade?”
“I don’t care!” Holder cried. “Worse is at stake! My son stole the rest of the coronet! He broke it! Thirty-six stones are missing. Those that remain have all gone dark—they are useless! On Monday morning—tomorrow morning—one of Moriarty’s most trusted men is to come and reclaim the coronet from my keeping. I have every reason to believe that Adler, Moran or McCloe will be at my door tomorrow, demanding a treasure I cannot deliver! I cannot produce even one useful stone.”
“And you wish Holmes to take the blame, rather than your son?”
“Yes. I will pay you, of course. Holmes must come to my home and lay magical siege to it. The damage must be extensive and there must be no doubt that Holmes is the source.”
I shook my head. “I fear I can be of no use to you, Mr. Holder. I was in earnest when I said Holmes is unreachable and unable to help. Perhaps it would be wiser to try and find your son and reclaim the coronet from him.”
“Oh, I have my son. He didn’t even make it out of the corridor by the vault. Amongst my home’s defenses is one of the original Aethereal Guardians. Though it broke my heart, I summoned the guardian to bind my son. He stands within the corridor still, waiting for Moriarty’s man to come and mete out punishment to us all.”
My brow furrowed. “He didn’t leave the corridor?”
“No.”
“Yet you did not retrieve the rest of the coronet from him?”
“Er… no.”
“Why not?”
Holder gave a shrug. “He didn’t have it.”
“How is that possible?”
“I have no idea! I caught him in the corridor with this fragment still in his hands. I confronted him, but he would not admit the theft or say where the rest of the Beryl Coronet lay. I told him Moriarty’s man would have the answer out of him through worse methods than I dared speak of! He was unmoved! In my fury, I summoned the guardian and bound him. Now he cannot make an answer, even if he would. But oh, the more I think of what they will do to him—or to me if I try to shelter him—maybe to both of us… I cannot bear the thought.” He leaned in close to me and spoke in a whisper. “They punish you, you know. If the job they wish you to perform for Moriarty is of high importance, they punish you before they hire you. Then they pay you for your pain—a lavish amount! This way, before you come to deal with them, you know the agony they can bring and also the rewards. They know that any who think to betray them will dwell on how much they preferred the one to the other. I cannot let them do that to me again! I cannot let them do it to my son!”
In retrospect, it seems foolish of me to have brought comfort to a man who was part of an evil magical empire. Yet, in that moment I saw no villain, only a father grieving for a son yet living. I asked him, “Your son: is he a very powerful magic-user?”
“What? No. Not at all.”
“Er… he’s not?”
“No. He’s always had a disdain for such things. No respect for the family trade. He’s never bothered to attempt so much as a parlor-trick illusion.”
“Then, your story makes no sense. Your son did not take the coronet.”
Holder paused. First hope, then confusion lit his face. “What?”
“He did not take it. Think: your son had no time to stash away part of the coronet—you caught him nearly in the act. Even if he had possessed sufficient time, why would he employ it in the way you describe? Successful thieves are not in the habit of making off with an item, smashing it, hiding half and then returning to the scene of the crime to stand around holding the other half. Do you follow my reasoning, sir?”
“Well… yes.”
“Now, I do not know exactly how a sorcerer could make part of a coronet spirit itself away from your house, but I don’t doubt he could. Yet, you say your son has no magical abilities. If there is no mundane explanation as to how he could have stolen it and no magical one either, then we must conclude that he did not take it. Not by himself, at least. No, something else occurred last night.”
“What?”
“How should I know?” I shrugged. “I propose we go to your house and see.”
Mr. Holder was most amenable to the idea. However, if I thought his would be the next home to face examination, I was mistaken. I spent a few moments procuring suitable clothing, so I didn’t notice as Holder began to sniff the air and make faces. My brief absence was enough for him to follow his nose to Holmes’s door and push it slightly ajar. “Good Lord! Dr. Watson, what have you done?” he cried. “You can’t keep corpses in a London lodging house! Honestly! You shall be caught. What you want is a country estate or an underground tunnel, like mine. I don’t mean to be rude, but you have much to learn about keeping secrets.”
* * *
We spoke little on our journey, not wishing the cab driver to overhear us. I was somewhat surprised by the perfectly average appearance of Holder’s Streatham home. It sat in the middle of a line of houses, every bit as quiet and respectable as its neighbors. One would never guess at the secrets it held below.
Holder dismissed the servants who gathered to take our coats and offer refreshments. We made our way down a narrow hallway towards the back of the house, then turned onto another which ran to the scullery on our left and the kitchen and pantry on our right.
“My son: Arthur Holder,” Mr. Holder said. “Oh, and the Aether Guardian.”
There in the middle of the corridor stood one of the strangest sights I have ever seen. I do not think that statues have ghosts, but if they do that is what I beheld. It looked like the marble figure of an armored knight except that it was made of nothing more than translucent white threads of luminescent fiber. One of its hands was resting on the shoulder of a young man, who must have dressed hastily, for he wore nothing but trousers and a shirt, both only half fastened up. His face bore an expression of shock but aside from that, most signs of life were gone.
“Is it safe to touch him?” I asked.
Holder gave a nod and I bent in to examine his son. Arthur Holder’s heart rate and breathing had slowed until they were similar to Holmes’s current state. As I felt his wrist to time his pulse, I made a discovery.
“Hello! This is a boxer’s fracture.”
“A what?” asked Mr. Holder.
“Do you see the swelling in his right hand and the way his little finger sags towards his palm?”
“What does that mean?”
“It means he has recently hit something or someone—hard, but not well, for he has broken his hand.”<
br />
“But what is the significance of it?” Holder asked.
“I don’t know,” I replied. “I think I’d like to take a look at the vault, if I may.”
“If you can,” Holder scoffed. “Can you see what is on that portion of the wall, right there?”
I beheld it. Or attempted to. Mr. Holder was right: every time I tried to look at the section of wall, my gaze swerved and my mind wandered. Either I found myself looking towards my right, wondering if there were any unguarded biscuits in the pantry, or to my left, fondly remembering the pretty scullery maid who had smiled at me on my way in. I was still struggling to see the catacomb’s entrance, when a voice from behind me asked, “Who is this, Father?”
I looked around to behold a mousy young lady in her mid-twenties. Her features were drawn; I guessed she’d had no sleep the night before.
“This is Dr. Watson. He’s here to see if something can be done to help Arthur,” Holder said. “Dr. Watson, this is Mary, my niece.”
“Then why did she call you ‘Father’?” I asked.
This seemed to irritate Holder, who said, “Yes, why did you, Mary? I have asked you not to, I think.”
“Oh! I am sorry,” she replied. “Habit, you know. I have been used to calling you that for so many years, it still slips out sometimes.”
“And why has she been calling you that?”
Holder sighed. “By birth, she is my niece. When my brother died, I adopted her as my daughter. Thus, she became accustomed to calling me Father.”
“And why must she cease?”
Mr. Holder reddened somewhat and Mary stepped in, saying, “Mr. Holder has several times expressed a wish that Arthur and I should wed.”
“Oh, I see,” I said. “And even in evil magical circles, it is considered improprietous for siblings to marry? I learn something new every day.”
Mary suppressed a giggle and flashed me a grateful smile. A fool could see she found the prospect of engagement to her brother worrisome, to say the least. Mr. Holder gave a great sigh and insisted, “Arthur needs you, Mary. Can you not see that? He is wayward, Dr. Watson. He spends all his time at that club of his, in the company of his disreputable friends. He plays at cards with that American cad, George Burnwell.”
“There is nothing wrong with Mr. Burnwell!” Mary cried. I found the sudden heat with which she rose to his defense… telling. So did Mary, it seems, for she demurred and added, “Nor is there harm in Arthur keeping the society of other men his age, is there?”
“He loses money. Did you know that, Mary? He came to me only last night, asking for two hundred pounds. It was the third time this year! I told him no! He would not have a further ha’penny from me. And then, not five hours later: this! I find him stealing an artifact of incalculable value, no doubt to cover some paltry gambling debt. The fool has exposed us all to Moriarty’s ire! And for what? If only I had forsworn him!”
I pursed my lips and said, “I am still unconvinced Arthur is the thief. Look at him—he has no shoes or stockings on. It snowed last night, if you recall. Does he look like he is dressed to flee? No, I think we must begin looking at other possibilities. I must know the name of everybody in the household and hear what they were doing last night.”
“I think most of them were abed,” said Holder.
“Not all of them,” Mary interjected. “When I heard Father… er… Mr. Holder cry out, I was just doing my final check to see if all the doors and windows were locked. Just a few moments before, I had to chase Lucy away from the kitchen window. She was speaking with somebody.”
Holder snorted. “Probably that Francis Prosper again. Lucy’s a pretty girl, Dr. Watson. She has no shortage of admirers.”
A sudden thought struck me: the snow.
“I need to go outside,” I said.
* * *
I returned not twenty minutes later, beaming from ear to ear. Mr. Holder met me at the door with an eager look on his face. “I am no tracker,” I told him, “but with a freshly fallen blanket of snow, even an amateur like myself can be of use. It seems, sir, that you had two men lurking about your windows last night.”
“Or the same man, twice,” Holder reasoned.
“Not unless part of his plan was to leave, amputate one of his legs, replace it with a wooden peg, and return to finish his crime.”
“Ah,” said Holder. “Well, I can tell you the identity of one of them. Francis Prosper has a wooden leg.”
“Then he stood outside the kitchen window, probably flirting with Lucy,” I said. “But there was another gentleman who came to the scullery window—very close to your vault.”
“And broke in through there?”
I shrugged. “Perhaps. I cannot see any telltale scrapings upon the sill, nor did I note any sign of mud or melted snow inside.”
“So, you have no idea whom it might have been?”
“I have some. I’ve already seen how Mary feels about the prospect of marriage to Arthur, but tell me—honestly now—does he share the same reluctance?”
“Oh God no,” Holder grunted. “Why, he’s perfectly smitten with her. Follows her like a puppy, trying to be noble, do good deeds and impress her with his character. It’s not working.”
“Indeed. And what of that fellow you mentioned earlier? The one Arthur plays cards with?”
“George Burnwell?”
“Yes, that’s the fellow. An American, you said?”
“Disgustingly so. He’s always hanging about, telling Arthur and Mary tales from the age of the gunslingers. Oh, they’re both quite wrapped around his finger. It’s a damned shame, I tell you! The man is nothing but a layabout and a cad!”
“Whom Arthur met at a gentleman’s club?”
“Yes.”
“Which one?”
“The Bachelor’s Club, down on Piccadilly. But you can’t suspect Burnwell,” Holder said. “Remember that the vault is heavily warded. Even if he could perceive it, he could not open it.”
“And yet, Mr. Holder, I feel I have most everything I need, with only one exception. I am sorry to say, but if you wish to see the main body of the coronet, you must leave the fragment in my possession.”
He frowned at that, but eventually assented. After all, how much more murder could Moriarty work over the loss of the last, useless piece?
On my way out, I said, “Fear not, Mr. Holder; I have every hope of bringing this adventure to a satisfactory conclusion.”
“You must hurry! Tomorrow is Monday and Moriarty’s man will come with the dawn!”
“Then I suppose neither of us will sleep much tonight.”
* * *
I went around to Piccadilly, first thing, and knocked on the door of The Bachelor’s Club. It opened to reveal an impeccably dressed butler.
“May I help you?” he asked.
“I hope so. I was looking for George Burnwell; is he here?”
“I am sorry, sir. Mr. Burnwell has not come today. I believe he is bound for America.”
I had thought as much.
“I wonder if you might have his address?” I asked.
The butler harrumphed and said, “It is not the policy of this club to disclose the private information of its members.”
“Well, that is admirable, but I owe him quite a bit of money. I rather thought he might like to have it before he left on his trip.”
“Ah… well… if it lies on that footing, then I suppose…”
* * *
The address wasn’t too far from Baker Street, just on the other side of Regent’s Park. Thus, after a quick stop at 221B for some essentials, I made my way to George Burnwell’s abode and rang the bell.
“Who is it?” asked a voice behind the door.
“The man who has the other piece of the Beryl Coronet.”
The door opened to reveal a fit fellow in his early thirties. He was rakish and handsome, or would have been if one of his eyes was not swollen almost shut.
“Looks like Arthur Holder hit you pretty hard,
eh?”
“Lucky shot,” Burnwell said. “Maybe you’d better come inside, where we can talk.”
“Thank you, Mr. Burnwell, but I prefer to remain on the street. Here in the public eye, it is less likely that you and I will begin shooting at one another in a misguided attempt to determine who owns the coronet.”
“Oh,” he said. “So that’s why you’ve got that hand in your pocket.”
“Just as you have one in yours,” I pointed out.
“You’re a pretty cautious fellow,” he noted.
“Yes, and you are a Pinkerton.”
The flicker of shock across his features showed I had guessed the whole thing right. He took a breath and asked, “Why would you think that?”
“Mr. Holder could name only four parties with the wherewithal to rob him. Two were oriental, one was my friend, Warlock Holmes, and the other was the Pinkerton Detective Agency. The Pinkertons are American, just like you.”
He gave me a grudging nod and said, “You must be John Watson, huh? We’ve got a file on you.”
I’ll admit I was shaken, but I persisted. “Mr. Burnwell, I must ask you to lend me your part of the coronet.”
“Now why would I do a dumb thing like that?”
“Because, if you do, I can use it to procure the rest of the coronet, and I will bring it to you.”
“All right, then. Let me rephrase the question: why would you do a dumb thing like that?”
“I want it gone,” I told him. “I want it safe from Moriarty. From what I understand, Allan Pinkerton and his nine friends are some of the only folk who can keep a thing from Moriarty.”
“Yeah,” said Burnwell, visibly disturbed by the depth of my knowledge. “Most of the time they can, I guess.”
“And they must do it this time,” I insisted. “But it must be the whole coronet. If you do not aid me, the missing fragment will be reclaimed by Moriarty tomorrow morning.”
“So? I got most of it,” he said defensively.
I put on my best lord-how-hard-it-is-for-us-Britons-to-tolerate-you-foolish-Colonials voice and demanded, “If he had sent you out for milk, would you have brought him half a cow? Sorcerous devices are generally unlike farm animals, but here is one trait they share: either they are whole and they function, or they are not and they do not. Now, which is it?”
The Hell-Hound of the Baskervilles Page 2