A minute examination of the scene served only to make the case more complex. Immediately about him, the snow was somewhat tumbled, but everywhere else it was still smooth. I cast my eye about for any horse or vehicle which could have brought the body to that spot, but nothing of the kind was to be seen. I could confirm that Lestrade was not mistaken. There were no other prints in the snow. Either the man had died of natural causes, taken his own life, or Mr. Black himself had killed the man for reasons unknown. But the blow upon the back of his head ruled out the former two possibilities. And furthermore, how had the man come to the site of his death? There were no signs of wheels, or a horse, or of any other man, save the tracks that I had already mentioned. How did the stranger find himself there, more than a quarter of a mile from a road or a house or even a tall tree, without breaking the snow or leaving a track?
All these details I jotted down, and felt that Holmes himself could not have been more adroit in collecting his facts. I then put myself in Holmes’ shoes. If he was on the scene, he would have considered how the murderer placed the body in this precise spot. I used my imagination, which Holmes’ had often accused me of possessing to an overactive degree, to think about how I would undertake it. And from what I saw there were only two possibilities.
“Have you found anything of note, Doctor?” asked Lestrade when the silence had grown overlong.
“Beside the fact that he was a user of morphia[74] and that he worked with tarred ropes, like a sailor, no there is nothing.”
“Yes, we noted those signs on his hands and arms as well. Anything else?”
I am, in my advancing years, finally developing a subtle wisdom. I did not live for years with Sherlock Holmes for nothing and had learned to keep my own counsel. But I deigned to dole out a pair of clues to Lestrade.
“I say, Inspector, what direction did the wind blow last night?”
“The wind?” he spluttered. “What does the wind have to do with anything?”
I shrugged. “I think the wind’s direction may be as critical as the light of the moon.”
“But it was a cloudy night with the snowstorm,” protested Lestrade. “The moon would have been blotted out.”
“That is what is so critical,” I replied cryptically. Already in my mind the mystery was beginning to define itself, as figures grow clearer with the lifting of a fog. But what horrible purpose, what deep design, lay behind these events, and how did they relate to the plot that revolved around my friend?
Determining that there was nothing more to see at the location of the incident, Lestrade and I took the dog-cart back to Egham Station and there caught a train for the twenty miles back to Waterloo.
§
When I finished listing the details to Holmes, I then proceeded to expound upon my theory. “And so, as I see it Holmes, there are very few methods by which the body of this unfortunate man could have ended up on that snow-covered hill.”
“Pray tell,” said he, with hooded eyelids.
“One possibility is that his body was launched there, by something like a catapult or trebuchet.”[75]
Holmes broke into a whimsical laugh. “Oh, Watson, I fear you are reading far too many adventure tales. This is not the Middle Ages![76] Do you think one of Runnymede’s neighbors is planning a siege? I ask you now, is such a theory tenable?”
It took all my self-control not to smile. “I said, Holmes, that this was only the first possibility. I did not say it was the most likely.”
“And what is?”
“The key to this mystery is that the death of this man and the theft of the goldbeater’s skin are linked. For I recalled that goldbeater’s skin has another use beyond that of making gold leaf. It is also used to line and make airtight the reservoir bag used for the inhalation of the chloroform anesthetic.[77] If it could contain a small quantity of gas, surely it could also be employed to create something much larger, something large enough to lift a group of men into the sky?”
“An aeronautical balloon!” exclaimed Lestrade.
“Southwest of Runnymede, from which direction the wind is most often blowing,[78] there is, the town of Farnborough. I believe that is the location of the Army School of Ballooning,[79] having moved there from the enclosed Aldershot site,[80] after first being established three decades ago at Woolwich Arsenal.[81] I would inquire there, Inspector, whether they are missing an engineer,” I concluded.
“Brilliant, Watson!” said Holmes. “A veritable triumph! You have demonstrated that you have finally mastered my methods. It proves that it can be done. The only problem is that you are of my same age. I should have perhaps trained some younger person to do the same.” He shook his head. “Now we must hope that my magnum opus, The Whole Art of Detection, will accomplish the same.”
“Then you agree?” I said, somewhat surprised to find that for once in our long association Holmes actually concurred with my deductions.
“Oh, yes. Clearly this man was employed at the Ballooning School as you suggested. His salary however, could hardly match the cost of his opioid habit, so he was forced to supplement it by working for our Mr. Wild, or Mortlock, or whatever we shall call him. The villains were practicing a moon-less run last night, when the man must have heard too much, or became suspicious of their plans. He was therefore jettisoned over the fields of Runnymede.”
“But, Mr. Holmes,” cried Lestrade, “would not the Army know if one of their balloons suddenly went missing?”
“Not if they made their own,” I pointed out.
Holmes looked thoughtful and remained in silence for some moments. “Well, Watson, there is this to be said for your theory. It does tie together many of our loose threads. It explains why the goldbeater’s skin was stolen and what was hidden in that Lambeth Gardens shed. It even explains the theft of Mr. Mac’s hydrogen gas. But it still does not tell us who is behind this masterful plot. I don’t suppose, Lestrade, you have any more peculiar crimes that you have yet to share with us?”
“Well, now that you mention it, Mr. Holmes, there is one.”
“Oh, yes?” said Holmes, with some interest.
“Something notable vanished from the Scotland Yard Museum a few nights ago.”
I laughed. “You have a museum at Scotland Yard?”
“Indeed, Doctor. It is where we keep all of those objects that we confiscate from the scenes of notable crimes. And the particular object that was stolen could be considered the pièce de résistance of our little collection. It is the famous air-gun of Von Herder.”[82]
Holmes sprang upright, apparently thunderstruck by Lestrade’s news. “Moran!” he exclaimed.
These words sent a chill to my heart. “Surely he is dead by now?”[83]
“No, Watson, it would take a mighty force to bring down that old shikari.”
“But was he not given the death sentence for his murder of the Honorable Ronald Adair?”
Holmes shook his head. “There was a commutation of his sentence due to some political maneuvering on behalf of his father, the former Minister to Persia. I am afraid, Watson, that Moran is very much alive.”
“But he must be in prison?”
“So I was led to believe, however, I think we must now verify whether or not this actually remains true.” He refused to speak another word, but sat with his chin upon his breast, and his eyes closed, sunk in the deepest thought. I had the sensation of an unseen force, a fine net drawn round us with boundless skill and care, holding us so imperceptibly that it was only at the ultimate moment that one was indeed fully ensnared in its tangles. Perhaps Holmes felt it too, for even after Lestrade finally left us, he sat motionless for so long that it seemed to me that he had forgotten my very presence.
“Watson,” said he, as he finally stood. “I am about to make several telephone calls from Mycroft’s splendid system. You may take this time to avail yourself of a brief rest, for I fear tonight may be a long one.” He glanced at his pocket watch. “In an hour we will head out. When we do so, kindly put you
r revolver in your pocket. We have an excursion to make this evening, and I think it best that you go armed. You would also oblige me by bringing with you your very excellent field glass.”
“What about you, Holmes? This may not be the time for loaded hunting crops or canes.”
“Indeed, Watson, you will be happy to learn that I had more than just my violin sent up from the Downs. I now have my old favorite Webley with me, and I fear that it may see some use tonight.”[84]
The appointed hour flew by, and soon I found myself bundled with Holmes in the back of a brougham, on our way to some critical dénouement. The thrill of adventure was again in my heart as we dashed away through the endless succession of somber and deserted streets, which widened gradually, until we were flying across a broad balustrade bridge, with the murky river flowing sluggishly beneath us. Beyond lay another broad wilderness of bricks and mortar, its silence broken only by the laughs of drunken revelers. A star or two twinkled dimly here and there through the rifts of the clouds. I suddenly recalled that tonight was Bonfire Night, the annual commemoration of the end of the Gunpowder Plot and the arrest of Guy Fawkes.[85] Soon, the sky would be filled with the lights of burning effigies and fireworks.
Holmes was monitoring our progress out of the window, his extraordinary knowledge of the by-ways of London allowing him to determine our location when all was twisted and confused to me. “We could, Watson, attempt to determine where exactly they plan to launch their airship,” he explained. “Given the most common direction of the wind, it is probable that they would still choose to utilize a base to the southwest of the City, such as Spring Gardens or in the fields near Bedlam. But there are far too many spaces to search, and too little time, I fear. Instead, we must spring their trap. We shall be waiting for them at the locale upon which they plan to descend.”
“And where is that?”
“Is that not obvious? We are here.”
We had rattled through an endless labyrinth of gas-lit streets until we emerged into King William Street and the cab stopped in front of Silvester’s Bank.
“But, Holmes,” I protested, “I distinctly recall us crossing the Battersea Bridge. We had no reason to traverse back and forth over the Thames.”
“On the contrary, Watson, we had every reason to cross the river. For our every movement is being watched. The coachman is an old associate who is aware of our quest, and who took every precaution to ensure that we threw all pursuers off of our tracks.”
We were met at Silvester’s by Mr. Pycroft, Inspectors Gregson and Lestrade, and six stout constables. Mr. Pycroft was shaking his head as we arrived. “I still don’t understand how you propose that these thieves plan to rob us, Mr. Holmes?”
“I am afraid that you are vulnerable from above, Mr. Pycroft. I suspect that a dirigible will land a gang of men upon your roof this very night.”
“Impossible. For a balloon to precisely target an area the size of our roof… it beggars the imagination.”
“Not if it is powered by some engine that allows it to control its direction. Not if it is an airship.”
“Do such things exist?” he asked.[86]
“They do indeed, Mr. Pycroft. It is a brave new world that hath such things in it. But what one devious mind can turn to ill-use, another equal mind can counter. And that is why I am here. Now, if you will lead us to the roof, I think the men of the Yard would like a word with the gang that plans to pay you a visit.”
Hall Pycroft nodded his acquiescence to Holmes’ plan, and the eleven of us climbed a series of stairs that led to the rooftop of the building. The front half of the roof was made up of the great glass vault, while the rear was flat, a perfect landing place for a balloon. From this perch we gazed out over the shadowy City, half-parchment-colored lamplight and half deep murk. Holmes attempted to utilize my field-glass, but I doubted that he could make out much. A half mile away, the dome of St. Paul’s gleamed in the moonlight. Throughout the City, great roars erupted as the populace celebrated the burning of numerous effigies of poor Guy Fawkes.
Holmes directed the constables to conceal themselves amongst the pipework, so that a descending airship would not know that they were being ambushed. He suggested that Mr. Pycroft repair below, as the gang might be armed and the initial scuffle could prove to be dangerous, but the brave man elected to remain at his post.
As Holmes and I settled into our positions, he spoke in a low whisper. “It is no coincidence that our gang has chosen this night, Watson. First of all, their propeller cannot possibly run silent; however, tonight it will be covered by the noise of the fireworks and celebrations. Secondly, the moon is full, which will aid their navigation, and if they are seen, they can hope that their device is thought to be part of the festivities. It is a brilliant plan, but they did not reckon that we would discover their target so rapidly. Now, let us see how long we have to wait. It may be several hours.”
The night was bitterly cold, so that it promised to be a weary vigil. However, despite the bone-biting chill, I could not but stop and smile at the memories of similar vigils that I had staked at Holmes’ side. The room at Stoke Moran,[87] the rocks at Merripit House,[88] the moat at Birlstone Manor,[89] the window at Camden House,[90] the outhouse of Woodman’s Lee,[91] the street lamp by Laburnum Villa,[92] and so many others. No matter their length, they always had the sort of thrill about it that the sportsman feels when he lies beside the watercourse and waits for the big game to appear.
In absolute silence we crouched amongst the shadows of the rooftop, which had lengthened to the point where I could no longer even see Holmes at my side. An absolute stillness had descended upon the rooftop, save for the chimes of the surrounding churches as the hours ticked by, and the distant celebrations.
It proved, however, that our vigil was not to be so long as Holmes had led us to fear, and it ended in a very sudden and singular fashion. In an instant, without the least sound to warn us of its coming, a giant shape dropped out of the sky. Everything was painted black, but I could vaguely make out that from the gondola dropped several ropes, and down these slithered four men. Before they could move but a few steps, the Scotland Yard men jumped out of their nests and a great fracas erupted. The gang was putting up a stout resistance, and several of the constables were attempting to secure the ropes connected to the balloon, perhaps in hopes of capturing any additional members aboard. Mr. Pycroft lit a lantern near me, and with the addition of this light, I could tell that additional assistance was going to be required in order to subdue these criminals.
“Come on, Holmes!” I shouted and leapt into the fray.
As I did so, there was a strange, loud whizzing sound and the lantern exploded. I turned about in confusion, for I had heard no bullet. It was then that I realized that Holmes was missing. A cold hand seemed to close round my heart. Where had Holmes gone? He would have only deserted this critical post for an even more pressing duty.
Focusing my attention back upon the raging conflict, I realized that the Inspectors had ordered their men to abandon the airship and instead focus on capturing the four men that had comprised the villain’s erstwhile ‘boarding party.’ This maneuver well underway, I could plainly see that the gang was soon to be fully subdued, even as the airship slowly drifted away back up into the sky. It was then that I heard a cry echo out from the top of the nearby Monument to the Great Fire.[93] Gazing towards that massive column, I realized that a struggle was taking place upon its viewing platform two hundred feet in the air. At least three men were involved, one of which could only be the wayward Holmes.
Abandoning the men of Scotland Yard and Mr. Pycroft, I dashed for the stairs back down to Pudding Lane. Injuries and advancing years may have stolen much of the former swiftness from my feet, but there were no signs of those ailments on that night. I flew downwards and out of the bank as if chased by the very hounds of Hades. Within moments I was at the entrance to the narrow spiral staircase within the great Doric column. I ran frantically up the stairs, scarce
ly realizing the magnitude of the feat, and little caring how winded I would be when I finally reached the top. Sheer terror pumped the blood through my veins, and within minutes I burst out onto the platform.
“It is most good of you to join us, my dear Watson,” said that well-known voice. “I hope you do not feel the same as other biographers, and find this place monstrous, for I think the view above London and its spires to be quite refreshing.[94] Would you care for a pipe?”
There I was stunned to see Sherlock Holmes calmly standing and smoking his second-favorite pipe. With Holmes was a huge, coarse, red-faced, scorbutic man, whose pair of vivid black eyes were the only external sign of the very cunning mind within. I knew him at once as Shinwell Johnson, the dangerous villain later turned ally and agent of Holmes. Johnson appeared very interested in something occurring over the side of the railing, so I joined him there.
The shocks continued when I found myself staring into the malevolent glare of a pair of blazing deep blue eyes. These belonged to an elderly man who was hanging on to the edge of the rail with both hands, the knuckles white with tension. He possessed a fierce, aggressive nose, a high, bald forehead, and a huge grizzled moustache. His face was gaunt and swarthy, scored with deep, savage lines. I immediately recognized our old enemy, Colonel Sebastian Moran.
Moran’s features worked convulsively as he stared at me. Then he burst into a bitter laugh that marked the cold composure of despair. “You fiend! You clever, cunning fiend! What now, Holmes? Do you plan to wait for my strength to fade and allow me to plunge to my death? That seems to be your modus operandi when dealing with foes that you cannot outwit.”
The Problem of Threadneedle Street (The Assassination of Sherlock Holmes Book 2) Page 14