by william Todd
“With a whistle an army will step out from the shadows and gun down every person on that train who tries to come to your aid.”
Looking around Holmes said, “It seems your confederates are doing a remarkably better job at camouflage than you.”
The young man “Hmphed” at the statement.
“There is no one else here but you,” Holmes went on. “You have me in your sights so why lie? Let us just cut to the quick and take me to the colonel.”
The man’s one long eyebrow furrowed, “You know, then?”
“I am Sherlock Holmes, of course I know. So please, I am not a patient man. Take me to him. He and I have much to discuss.”
The man gestured with the barrel, and Holmes walked deeper into the woods with the hard steel of the rifle dug into his back. After about two hundred yards, the trees thinned out and suddenly they were at the edge of a large open field of gorse in the middle of which was an expansive pond with a boathouse and pier on the right shoreline. From there, like a massive amphitheater, the land rose steeply on three sides, one large oblong hill to their immediate front and right and a slightly smaller hill to their left. Both were barren of trees with only gorse admixed with patches of wild grass. At the summit of the larger hill in front of them stood a great manor house.
Holmes stopped momentarily to take in his surroundings, however the man nudged him on with his rifle. “We’re going to the boathouse, so keep walking.”
They made their way around the right side of the pond and within a few minutes were nearing the boathouse. As they approached, a man stepped into the opening created by two wide doors pulled open and latched in place. Although he stayed within the greyer shadows, his dress was clearly visible. He wore a station master’s uniform but with an uncommonly garish flair. The navy-blue jacket was trimmed in gold stitch with a red collar. Three gold bars were embroidered on each sleeve and on his head, he wore a gold-trimmed peaked cap.
Holmes stopped mid-step, taking in the brash spectacle before him. “My god, I’ve been abducted by the Salvation Army!”
His abductor, not thinking the statement a particularly amusing one, slammed the barrel into his back. Holmes cried out in pain and fell to a knee. The man then grabbed him by the collar of his frock coat and pulled him back to his feet.
“Boyle, is that the proper way to treat a guest?” the uniformed man asked.
The gunman gave him a questioning glance.
“Apologize.”
“But—”
“Apologize. I will not say it again.”
The callous stare told the man, Boyle, that his employer was not jesting. “I’m sorry,” he finally uttered between clenched teeth.
The station master came out from the slight shadows of the boathouse and into the full sunlight at the base of the wooden pier.
Holmes twisted his trunk awkwardly and arched his back to try and subdue the pain between his shoulder blades. Still grimacing, he said matter-of-factly, “You are the spitting image of your brother, Colonel Moriarty, yet you retain more color than the late professor. I suspect you are much more hands-on in your endeavors than was he.”
In all aspects, the man standing before Holmes appeared to be a doppelganger of his late brother Professor Moriarty, with his tall thin stature, large cranium, advancing hairline, and hooked nose. It chilled Holmes to look at the mirror image of the man who almost succeeded in killing him five years prior.
The station master smiled, pleased with himself. “You do not seem surprised. That is good. I did my best to lay easy clues.”
“You do me a disservice, colonel, by not taxing me enough. I knew instinctively that the word tuss was a clever plant. Not knowing which train station she had been on…her immaculate dress in the face of inclement weather on the coast…the smoking…Please, I am offended.”
Colonel Moriarty’s eyes narrowed, and a thin grin creased his jowls. “I bet once I lay out to you the extent of this web, you will certainly be impressed. Every bit the planner as my brother, I am. You see, Mr. Holmes, it was I who started this whole affair by curtailing the illegal activities in London to keep you inactive.”
“I am impressed,” Holmes retorted dryly. “You have plans to continue your brother’s legacy. Although, are there not parties on whose toes you may be stepping?”
“I am a Moriarty. Like an inheritance, no one has a right to my brother’s property more than I. And who would come against me? Who could come against me?”
He pulled out a folded piece of foolscap from his breast pocket. “My brother was a consummate schemer. He had a remarkable ability to perceive all possible outcomes to a given situation, much the way you do, Mr. Holmes; but I daresay his was on a level above even you.”
Unfazed, Holmes replied. “I believe the bones at the bottom of Reichenbach Falls tells a different story.”
A flame of anger briefly burned in the station master’s eyes but was quickly extinguished. “If my brother had a flaw it was that he merely composed and orchestrated these illegal overtures. He was ill-equipped to actually perform. You will soon find out that I am adept at even playing the instruments. At any rate, one of the scenarios he anticipated was his demise and your survival. I received this letter soon after your return to London from your journeys after Reichenbach. It was penned by my late brother in anticipation of your survival. It was a call to arms in exacting his vengeance from the grave. I was only too happy to oblige. What brother wouldn’t?”
“Indeed,” Holmes remarked.
“So, it was I who hired the girl to impersonate the Mrs. Merrick who came to you in such terrible state. It was I who made sure she added the clues on which you would pick up. It was all part of my master plan to make sure you got on that train. You see, I happen to know that your abilities are like a great muscle. It must be constantly worked to retain its strength. With idleness comes atrophy, hence I forced your abilities to wither by preventing their use, then lured you rather easily to what will shortly be your demise.”
“I fear that you underestimate my endurance in these matters, Colonel Moriarty,” Holmes replied dispassionately, “although your long-windedness, I must confess, is unusually taxing.”
The Colonel was about to rebuff the remark, but Holmes continued unabated. “There is one point on which the good colonel could enlighten me on, however.”
Apparently happily satisfied that there was some point on which the great Sherlock Holmes needed clarification, the station master raised his brow in acquiescence.
“May I ask about the prison riot and escape at The Scrubs? Was that not you, as well?”
The question caught Colonel Moriarty off guard. He hesitated a moment then said dismissively, “Yes, word has come back to me of some such thing. Not of my doing, but what a lovely coincidence, nonetheless, to help my plan along. Isn’t it grand? With Scotland Yard keeping themselves busy there, I have no worry of their interference here. It seems that Providence has conspired against you, Mr. Holmes. The perfect storm from which you will not escape.”
The great detective’s aquiline features stretched into a wry smile at his abductor, and he said, “So there are yet soloists in your orchestra who are playing without your knowledge. Is it not interesting how clues can appear from such unexpected places? It seems I have just discovered a missing piece to this puzzle I am piecing together.”
Moriarty frowned in mock sadness. “Too bad you won’t live long enough to finish it. Yet there is still one more line I must cast.”
The station master nodded to Boyle, and a heavy blow came down onto Holmes’ head. The detective’s knees buckled, and he fell limp to the ground.
Chapter 9
When I and my new young lady friend made our way nearer to the front of the train, dazed and injured men and women started extracting themselves from the rubble. Already there were two men tending to the more severely wounded. Both had open bags beside them. These two I approached and said, “I am a doctor.”
The shorter, stocky f
ellow in a ripped black coat turned to me. Blood, though not his own, streaked his face. “Oh, thank heavens.” He was calm and talked quickly, but tension was laced in his words. “We are surgeons. That’s Henderson, there. I’m Todd. No bag then?”
“No. This was to be casual trip for me,” I lied. Offering up my companion, I said, “This is…oh I guess we have not been properly introduced.”
“Miss Clara Willow,” she said, letting a shy, nervous smile rush briefly across her countenance before disappearing.
“Yes, Miss Willow is not terribly injured and has offered her assistance in whatever way she can be of service.”
“May, I?” Todd asked as he eyed the garments in my arms.
“Of course, take what you need.”
He then grabbed a red scarf from the bundle in my arms, wadded it up, and turned back to his injured patient, placing the garment in a gaping wound in his side to soak up the blood.
The young man screamed in agony and fainted at the pain.
“Good. He will be out while I stitch him up,” Todd said. “That will make this go quicker.”
The other surgeon, Henderson, an older slender gentleman added as he, too, took some garments from my arms, “We were in London for a week at a symposium on sterilization techniques. We have some supplies with us but not nearly enough for all of this.”
Todd interrupted him and asked me, “Can you go inside the coach there and see if you can stabilize anyone worth stabilizing.”
“Anyone worth stabilizing?” Miss Willow questioned.
“Unfortunately, we can’t save everyone. It sounds callous, but we need to prioritize and only save the ones we are sure can be saved. This is a grizzly affair, miss. If you cannot stomach it, stay out here.”
I nodded grimly at her. “It is alright if you stay.”
She steeled herself. “No. I will help. I will do everything you tell me.”
“Get to it then,” Todd said coldly as he pulled some suture material from his bag and readied it to close the fainted man’s wound. “Time is of the essence here.”
I dropped the remaining garments, and I and Miss Willow darted through debris to the coach next to the surgeons. It was demolished at its front, having splintered and up-heaved against the train’s tender. Only about twenty feet of the back of the coach was still somewhat intact. The second coach had derailed and clipped the corner of the first as it dug itself into the earth and flipped on its side. The third coach had followed in its wake and came to rest in much the same way as its antecedent. Even through all the tangled wreckage, entry through the back of the first coach was still manageable. I was first up the stairs at the back of the coach then helped Miss Willow up the odd-angled incline.
I immediately heard moaning coming from within. “Please stay here for a moment,” I said to her.
She nodded nervously.
I went through the door, looking in each cabin as I quickly made my way to the front. There were no visible corpses, however I removed my waistcoat and placed it over a lifeless, bloody hand that protruded from the wreckage at the front. Splintered wood and glass and debris penetrated the last intact cabin, and it was there that the source of the moaning was found.
Pushing through the clutter, I rushed to the back of the coach and poked my head back out into the sunlight. “Miss Willow…” I nodded for her to follow; she obliged and followed me back to the first cabin.
The door was jammed in place; however, the entire top half was a solid glass pane that had shattered in the crash. With a few solid kicks, it swung inward.
There the man lay on his back moaning in agony. His right leg was pinned under the collapsed forward seat, the weight of much of the disintegrated coach pushing through the wall.
I patted the man gently on the shoulder and said in a reassuring voice, “Hello, my name is Dr. John Watson, and I am going to get you out from under all this and take a look at your leg.”
“Oh my God, it hurts something fierce. Please hurry.”
To Miss Willow, I said, “I am going to lift this seat up, and I want you to, with all your strength, pull him by his shoulders until his leg is out from under this rubble.”
She nodded.
To the man, I asked, “What is your Christian name, sir?”
Through teeth clenched in pain, he replied, “Oswald.”
“Okay, Oswald, when I lift this debris up I want you to help Miss Willow pull you out from under this by pushing with your good leg. Can you do that?”
He nodded in a quick, painful agreement.
“I will not lie to you, Oswald, this is probably going to hurt, but we need to get you free so I can look at your leg. Are we ready?”
Both he and Miss Willow, bent over with her hands under the man’s shoulders, nodded.
“On three. One. Two. Three…” I lifted with all my might, and Miss Willow, with Oswald’s assistance, pulled his leg clear of the collapsed seat.
A great agonizing wail filled the cabin, but it was all over in a second. We, the three of us, sat a moment catching our collective breaths and letting Oswald’s pain settle.
I then set about examining the injured leg by gently pulling up Oswald’s pantleg. I immediately saw a problem, and it did not bode well for my patient. The area just below his right knee was slightly bulged, and the skin was bloated, hot and firm to the touch.
“Miss Willow, can you go out and ask our surgeon friends for a scalpel and a strip of cloth for a tournequet?”
Both sets of eyes upon me suddenly opened wider in fear; Oswald moaned and Miss Willow gasped.
“I believe you have what is called compartment syndrome. It happens most often with traumatic leg injuries. I believe your leg is broken and a shard of bone has ruptured an artery, most likely your popliteal artery. You are bleeding into your leg, however since it is an internal fracture the blood has nowhere to go. It then fills up all the space inside your leg. That is why your leg is hard and firm. I need to make an incision to release the trapped blood.”
To Miss Willow, I said, “Go, quickly. Get the scalpel and return while I prepare him.”
Miss Willow nodded and made her way back out through the wreckage.
“Are you a surgeon?” Oswald asked as he fidgeted on his back.
“I am not. But I was an assistant surgeon in the Army. The 66th Regiment of Foot; and I spent time in Afghanistan. I saw many of these types of injury there, so rest assured, this is not new to me.”
Miss Willow reappeared a few minutes later holding the scalpel carefully out in front of her. A length of silk stocking was in the other.
“Wonderful,” I said, taking the implement and stocking from Miss Willow. I quickly tied the stocking tightly around his leg just above his knee.
Oswald grimaced in pain but was doggedly resolute.
“Sorry, old chap. It has to be tight to stop you from bleeding out once I make the incision.”
The man’s unyielding features slackened. “Am I going to lose my leg?”
“I will not lie. You have a greater than fifty-percent chance of losing it, but it all depends on the damage done to the artery and how long we are stuck here. I will do my best to keep you intact, however my primary concern at this point is to keep you alive.”
“I’ll learn to hobble so long as I get to see another sunrise,” he remarked as he adjusted himself on his elbows.
Seeing how uncomfortable the man was, Miss Willow knelt down on her knees, flattened out the fabric of her dress, and cradled the man’s head on her lap. “If anyone can fix you sir, it is this gentleman here,” she said sympathetically. There was a quiet reassurance in her voice that calmed even me. If this woman was not a nurse she had missed her calling. She seemed unflappable.
Once I tied the tourniquet tight around Oswald’s leg, I then attached a length of splintered wood and knotted the stocking around it, turning the wood clockwise until I could turn it no further. I then tied the wood in place so it would not unravel once I let go.
&nbs
p; I looked the man in the eyes. “Remember how much it hurt when we pulled you from under the seat?”
He nodded in the affirmative.
“Well, this is going to hurt worse.”
I could see the worry in Miss Willow’s eyes, even as the man seemed resigned to this fate and waited, eyes closed and teeth clenched.
I implored her silently, telling her with my eyes that this was his only chance. She nodded in understanding, holding the man’s head between her hands in anticipation.
I leaned over Oswald’s leg, holding it down at the ankle with my left hand, readying the scalpel with my right. “On three, okay?”
Everyone nodded.
I sighed and exhaled slowly.
“One…Two…”
I cut just above the ankle. Blood sprayed out in an arc onto the cabin wall like a burst hose.
Oswald screamed in agony. He tried to move his leg, which made him shriek all the more. Miss Willow had grabbed him by his shoulders and forced him from sitting up. “I thought you said on three?!” he cried.
“My apologies, but this is a very sharp instrument. I had to be sure you didn’t instinctively try to move, possibly make the incision bigger, and making things worse.”
In less than a minute the stream of blood became a trickle.
Miss Willow said, “The flow of blood is abating. Maybe his leg isn’t as injured as you thought.”
“I wish it were so. It is the tourniquet that is slowing the blood loss. Without it he would bleed to death in minutes.” Regarding Oswald I asked, “How is the pain now?”
“It is significantly less, thank you.”
“Yes, well if you don’t try moving your leg it should stay that way. If you are willing to be a bit patient, I need to see if there are any others who need my assistance. I can come back shortly, splint your leg and see about getting you out into the sunshine until help arrives.”
Oswald nodded.
“Is it alright if I stay here and keep him company?” Miss Willow asked. “I hate just leaving him here in pain with no one to comfort or talk to him.”
“I am sure Oswald would welcome your presence. I believe I can manage, but I know where to find you if I find anyone else needing a pretty face and soothing voice for reassuring.”