The Further Adventures of Sherlock Holmes: The Peerless Peer

by Philip José Farmer

  ‘You said she was abducted,’ put in the Professor. ‘Now you imply she is with Lassiter of her own will?’

  ‘He’s a Devil of persuasion, to make a woman refuse an Elder of the Church and run off with a damned Gentile. She has no mind of her own, like all women, and cannot fully be blamed for her sins...’

  If Drebber had a horde of wives around the house and still believed that, he was either very privileged or very unobservant.

  ‘Still, she must be brought to heel. Though the girl will do as well. A warm body must be taken back to Utah, to come into an inheritance.’

  ‘Cottonwoods,’ said Moriarty. ‘The ranch, the outlying farms, the cattle, the racehorses and, thanks to those inconveniently-upheld claims, the fabulous gold-mines of Surprise Valley.’

  ‘The Withersteen property, indeed. When it was willed to her by her father, a great man, it was on the understanding she would become the wife of Elder Tull, and Cottonwoods would come into the Church. Were it not for this Lassiter, that would have been the situation.’

  Profits, not parsons, were behind this.

  ‘The Withersteen property will come to the girl, Fay, upon the death of the adoptive mother?’

  ‘That is the case.’

  ‘One or other of the females must be alive?’

  ‘Indeed so.’

  ‘Which would you prefer? The woman or the girl?’

  ‘Jane Withersteen is the more steeped in sin, so there would be a certain justice...’

  ‘...if she were topped too,’ I finished his thought.

  Elder Drebber wasn’t comfortable with that, but nodded.

  ‘Are these three going by their own names?’

  ‘They are not,’ said Drebber, happier to condemn enemies than contemplate his own schemes against them. ‘This Lassiter has steeped his women in falsehood, making them bear repeated false witness, over and over. That such crimes should go unpunished is an offence to God Himself...’

  ‘Yes, yes, yes,’ I said. ‘But what names are they using, and where do they live?’

  Drebber was tugged out of his tirade, and thought hard.

  ‘I caught only the false name of Little Fay. The Withersteen woman called her “Rache”, doubtless a diminutive for the godly name “Rachel”...’

  ‘Didn’t you think to tail these, ah, varmints, to their lair?’

  Drebber was offended. ‘Lassiter is the best tracker the South West has ever birthed. Including Apaches. If I dogged him, he’d be on me faster’n a rattler on a coon.’

  The Elder’s vocabulary was mixed. Most of the time, he remembered to sound like a preacher working up a lather against sin and sodomy. When excited, he sprinkled in terms which showed him up for — in picturesque ‘Wild West’ terms — a back-shooting, claim-jumping, cow-rustling, waterhole-poisoning, horse-thieving, side-winding owlhoot son-of-a-bitch.

  ‘Surely he thinks he’s safe here and will be off his guard?’

  ‘You don’t know Lassiter.’

  ‘No, and, sadly for us all, neither do you. At least, you don’t know where he hangs his hat.’

  Drebber was deflated.

  Moriarty said ‘Mr and Mrs James Lassiter and their daughter Fay currently reside at The Laurels, Streatham Hill Road, under the names Jonathan, Helen and Rachel Laurence.’

  Drebber and I looked at the Professor. He had enjoyed showing off.

  Even Stangerson clapped a hand to his sweaty forehead.

  ‘Considering there’s a fabulous gold mine at issue, I consider fifty thousand a fair price for contriving the death of Mr Laurence,’ said Moriarty, as if putting a price on a fish supper. ‘With an equal sum for his lady wife.’

  Drebber nodded again, once. ‘The girl comes with the package?’

  ‘I think a further hundred thousand for her safekeeping, to be redeemed when we give her over into the charge of your church.’

  ‘Another hundred thousand pounds?’

  ‘Guineas, Elder Drebber.’

  He thought about it, swallowed, and stuck out his paw.

  ‘Deal, Professor...’

  Moriarty regarded the American’s hand. He turned and Mrs Halifax was beside him with a salver bearing a document.

  ‘Such matters aren’t settled with a handshake, Elder Drebber. Here is a contract, suitably circumlocutionary as to the nature of the services Colonel Moran will be performing, but meticulously exact in detailing payments entailed and the strict schedule upon which monies are to be transferred. It’s legally binding, for what that’s worth, but a contract with us is enforceable under what you have referred to as a Higher Law...’

  The Professor stood by a lectern, which bore an open, explicitly-illustrated volume of the sort found in establishments like Mrs Halifax’s for occasions when inspiration flags. He unrolled the document over a coloured plate, then plucked a pen from an inkwell and presented it to Drebber.

  The Elder made a pretence of reading the rubric and signed.

  Professor Moriarty pressed a signet-ring to the paper, impressing a stylised M below Drebber’s dripping scrawl.

  The document was whisked away.

  ‘Good day, Elder Drebber.’

  Moriarty dismissed the client, who backed out of the room.

  ‘What are you waiting for?’ I said to Stangerson, who stuck on the hat he had been fiddling with and scarpered.

  One of the girls giggled at his departure, then remembered herself and pretended it was a hiccough. She paled under her rouge at the Professor’s sidelong glance.

  ‘Colonel Moran, have you given any thought to hunting a Lassiter?’

  IV

  A JUNGLE IS A JUNGLE, even if it’s in Streatham and is made up of villas named after shrubs.

  In my coat-pocket I had my Webley.

  If I were one of those cowboys, I’d have notched the barrel after killing Kali’s Kitten. Then again, even if I only counted white men and tigers, I didn’t own any guns with a barrels long enough to keep score. A gentleman doesn’t need to list his accomplishments or his debts, since there are always clerks to keep tally. I might not have turned out to be a pukka gent, but I was flogged and fagged at Eton beside future cabinet ministers and archbishops, and some skins you never shed.

  It was bloody cold, as usual in London. Not raining, no fog — which is to say, no handy cover of darkness — but the ground chill rose through my boots and a nasty wind whipped my face like wet pampas grass.

  The only people outside this afternoon were hurrying about their business with scarves around their ears, obviously part of the landscape. I had decided to toddle down and poke around, as a preliminary to the business in hand. Call it a recce.

  Before setting out, I’d had the benefit of a lecture from the Professor. He had devoted a great deal of thought to murder. He could have written the Baedeker’s or Bradshaw’s of the subject. It would probably have to be published anonymously — A Complete Guide to Murder, by ‘A Distinguished Theorist’ — and then be liable to seizure or suppression by the philistines of Scotland Yard.

  ‘Of course, Moran, murder is the easiest of all crimes, if murder is all one has in mind. One simply presents one’s card at the door of the intended victim, is ushered into his sitting room and blows his or, in these enlightened times her, brains out with a revolver. If one has omitted to bring along a firearm, a poker or candlestick will serve. Physiologically, it is not difficult to kill another person, to perform outrages upon a human corpus which will render it a human corpse. Strictly speaking, this is a successful murder. Of course, then comes the second, far more challenging part of the equation: getting away with it.’

  I’d been stationed across the road from The Laurels for a quarter of an hour, concealed behind bushes, before I noticed I was in Streatham Hill Rise not Streatham Hill Road. This was another Laurels, with another set of residents. This was a boarding house for genteel folk of a certain age. I was annoyed enough, with myself and the locality, to consider potting the landlady just for the practice.

&
nbsp; If I held the deeds to this district and the Black Hole of Calcutta, I’d live in the Black Hole and rent out Streatham. Not only was it beastly cold, but stultifyingly dull. Row upon monotonous row of The Lupins, The Laburnums, The Leilandii and The Laurels. No wonder I was in the wrong spot.

  ‘It is a little-known fact that most murderers don’t care about getting away with it. They are possessed by an emotion — at first, perhaps, a mild irritation about the trivial habit of a wife, mother, master or mistress. This develops over time, sprouting like a seed, to the point when only the death of another will bring peace. These murderers go happy to the gallows, free at last of their victim’s clacking false teeth or unconscious chuckle or penny-pinching. We shun such as amateurs. They undertake the most profound action one human being can perform upon another, and fail to profit from the enterprise.’

  No, I had not thought to purchase one of those penny-maps. Besides, anyone on the street with a map is obviously a stranger. Thus the sort who, after the fact, lodges in the mind of witnesses. ‘Did you see anyone suspicious in the vicinity, Madam Busybody?’ ‘Why yes, Sergeant Flat-Foot, a lost-looking fellow, very red in the face, peering at street signs. Come to think of it, he looked like a murderer. And he was the very spit and image of that handsome devil whose picture was in the Illustrated Press after single-handedly seeing off the Afghan hordes that time.’

  ‘Our business is murder for profit, killing for cash,’ Moriarty had put it. ‘We do not care about our clients’ motives, providing they meet the price. They may wish murder to gain an inheritance, inflict revenge, make a political point or from sheer spite. In this case, all four conditions are in play. The Danite Band, represented by Elder Drebber, seek to secure the gold mine, avenge the deaths of their fellow conspirators, indicate to others who might defy them that they are dangerous to cross, and see dead a foeman they are not skilled enough to best by themselves.’

  What was the use of a fanatical secret society if it couldn’t send a horde of expendable minions to overwhelm the family? These Danite Desperadoes weren’t up there with the Thuggee or the Dacoits when it came to playing that game. If the cabal really sought to usurp the governance of their church, which the Professor confided they had in mind, a greater quantity of sand would be required.

  ‘For centuries, the art of murder has stagnated. Edged weapons, blunt instruments and bare hands that would have served our ancient ancestors are still in use. Even poisons were perfected in classical times. Only in the last hundred and fifty years have firearms come to dominate the murder market-place. For the cruder assassin, the explosive device — whether planted or flung — has made a deal of noise, though at the expense of accuracy. Presently, guns and bombs are more suited to the indiscriminate slaughter of warfare or massacre than the precision of wilful murder. That, Moran, we must change. If guns can be silenced, if skills you have developed against big game can be employed in the science of man-slaying, then the field will be revolutionised.’

  I beetled glumly up and down Streatham Hill.

  ‘Imagine, if you will, a Minister of State or a Colossus of Finance or a Royal Courtesan, protected at all hours by professionals, beyond the reach of any would-be murderer, vulnerable only to the indiscriminate anarchist with his oh-so-inaccurate bomb and willingness to be a martyr to his cause. Then think of a man with a rifle, stationed at a window or on a balcony some distance from the target, with a telescopic device attached to his weapon, calmly drawing a bead and taking accurate, deadly shots. A sniper, Moran, as used in war, brought to bear in a civilian circumstance, a private enterprise. While guards panic around their fallen employer, in a tizzy because they don’t even know where the shot has come from, our assassin packs up and strolls away untroubled, unseen and untraced. That will be the murder of the future, Moran. The scientific murder.’

  Then the Professor rattled on about air-guns, which lost me. Only little boys and pouffes would deign to touch a contraption which needs to be pumped before use and goes off with a sad phut rather than a healthy bang. Kali’s Kitten would have swallowed an air-gun whole and taken an arm along with it. The whiff of cordite, that’s the stuff — better than cocaine any day of the month. And the big bass drum thunder of a gun going off.

  Finally, I located the right Laurels.

  Evening was coming on. Gaslight flared behind net-curtains. More shadows to slip in. I felt comfy, as if I had thick foliage around me. My ears pricked for the pad of a big cat. I found a nice big tree and leaned against it.

  I took out an instrument Moriarty had issued from his personal collection, a spy-glass tricked up to look like a hip-flask. Off came the stopper and there was an eye-piece. Up to the old ocular as if too squiffy to crook the elbow with precision, and the bottom of the bottle was another lens. Brought a scene up close, in perfect, sharp focus.

  Lovely bit of kit.

  I saw into the front-parlour of the Laurels. A fire was going and the whole household was at home. A ripening girl, who wore puffs and ribbons more suited to the nursery, flounced around tiresomely. I saw her mouth flap, but — of course — couldn’t hear what she was saying. A woman sat by the fire, nodding and doing needlework, occasionally flashing a tight smile. I focused on the chit, Fay-called-Rachel, then on the mother, Helen Laurence-alias-Jane Withersteen. I recalled the ‘daughter’ was adopted, and wondered what that was all about. The woman was no startler, with grey in her dark hair as if someone had cracked an egg over her head and let it run. The girl might do in a pinch. Looking again at her animated face, it hit me that she was feeble-witted.

  The man, Jonathan Laurence-né-Jim Lassiter, had his back to the window. He seemed to be nodding stiffly, then I realised he was in a rocking chair. I twisted a screw and the magnification increased. I saw the back of his neck, tanned, and the sharp cut of his hair, slick with pomade. I even made out the ends of his moustache, wide enough to prick out either side of the silhouette of his head.

  So this was the swiftest pistolero West of the Pecos?

  I admit I snorted.

  This American idiocy about drawing and firing, taking aim in a split-second, is stuff and nonsense. Anyone who wastes their time learning how to do conjuring tricks getting their gun out is likely to find great red holes in their shirt-front (or, in most cases, back) before they’ve executed their fanciest twirl. That’s if they don’t shoot their own nose off by mistake. Bill Hickock, Jesse James and Billy the Kid were all shot dead while unarmed or asleep by folk far less famous and skilled.

  Dash it all, I was going to chance it. All I had to do was take out the Webley, cross the road, creep into the front garden, stand outside the window, and blast Mr and Mrs Laurence where they sat.

  The fun part would be snatching the girl.

  Carpe diem, they said at Eton. Take your shot, I learned in the jungle. Nothing ruddy ventured, nothing bloody gained.

  I stoppered the spy-glass and slipped it into my breast-pocket. Using it had an odd side-effect. My mouth was dry and I really could have done with a swallow of something. But I had surrendered my proper hip-flask in exchange for the trick-telescope. I wouldn’t make that mistake again. Perhaps Moriarty could whip me up a flask disguised as a pocket-watch. And, if time-keeping was important, a pocket-watch disguised as something I’d never need, like a prayer-book or a tin of fruit pastilles.

  The girl was demonstrating some dance now. Really, I would do the couple a favour by getting them out of this performance.

  I reached into my coat-pocket and gripped my Webley. I took it out slowly and carefully — no nose-ectomy shot for Basher Moran — and cocked it with my thumb. The sound was tinier than a click you’d make with your tongue against your teeth.

  Suddenly, Lassiter wasn’t in view. He was out of his chair and beyond sight of the window.

  I was dumbfounded.

  Then the lights went out. Not only the gas, but the fire — doused by a bucket, I’d guess. The womenfolk weren’t in evidence, either.

  One tiny click!
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  A finger stuck out from a curtain and tapped the window-pane.

  No, not a finger. A tube. If I’d had the glass out, I could confirm what I intuited. The bump at the end of the tube was a sight. Lassiter, the fast gun, had drawn his iron.

  I had fire in my belly. I smelled the dying breath of Kali’s Kitten.

  I changed my estimate of the American. What had seemed a disappointing, drab day outing was now a worthwhile safari, a game worth the chase.

  He wouldn’t come out of the front door, of course.

  He needn’t come out at all. First, he’d secure the mate and cub — a stronghold in the cellar, perhaps. Then he’d get a wall behind his back and wait. To be bearded in his lair. If only I had a bottle of paraffin, or even a box of matches. Then I could fire The Laurels: they’d have to come out and Lassiter would be distracted by females in panic. No, even then, there was a back-garden. I’d have needed beaters, perhaps a second and third gun.

  Moriarty had said he could put reliable men at my disposal for the job, but I’d pooh-poohed the suggestion. Natives panic and run, lesser guns get in the way. I was best off on my tod.

  I had to rethink. Lassiter was on his guard now. He could cut and run, spirit his baggages off with him. Go to ground so we’d never find him again.

  My face burned. Suddenly I was afraid, not of the gunslinger, but of the Prof. I would have to tell him of my blunder.

  One bloody click, that was all it was! Damn and drat.

  I knew, even on brief acquaintance, Moriarty did not merely dismiss people from the Firm. He was no mere theoretician of murder.

  Moran’s head, stuffed, on Moriarty’s wall. That would be the end of it.

  I eased the cock of the Webley shut and pocketed the gun.

  A cold circle pressed to the back of my neck.

  ‘Reach, pardner,’ said a deep, foreign, marrow-freezing voice. ‘And mighty slow-like.’

  Moriarty: The Hound of the D’Urbervilles

  By Kim Newman

  Available from Titan Books, September 2011