“Naturally?”
“I don’t understand.”
“Your friend, the late Mr. Holmes, never mentioned him?”
“I am quite certain he did not; and what if he had?”
“Someone, who wished to avoid unpleasantness by remaining anonymous, recalled rumours about Sir Cecil—rumours which, if true, might have given you cause for animosity.”
“I swear, I knew nothing of the gentleman before last night and know of no reason to dislike him.”
“Including rumours—unsubstantiated, I assure you—of his connection with the man you must hold responsible for your friend’s death?”
“Professor Moriarity?”
“The same. I should reject the suggestion that, since the man who killed Holmes died as well, your revenge might have been directed against a surviving member of his organisation, but for the unpleasantness between yourself and Sir Cecil and one other fact. There is no evidence of direct contact between Sir Cecil and Moriarity; but we have witnesses to both having been seen in the company of the same man, a scoundrel guilty of every sin that has a name, suspected of murder, selling secrets to unfriendly powers, and some unfit to be discussed between gentlemen.”
“One Jean-Baptiste Thibadeau?”
“Exactly. He avoided being photographed; but the Sûreté had a sufficiently good idea of what he looked like to be certain the body was his.”
I sat up. “Body!”
His gaze in my direction hardened. “Correct, doctor. They had a hard time making a case against him; but when they finally did, with the help of an anonymous note that arrived at their headquarters, they tracked him to a village thirty miles from Paris. He killed three gendarmes before they got him. Identification was verified by one Yvette Rousseau, who’d sheltered him for at least a year. She claimed to have known nothing of his activities—which, given her own reputation, the French authorities doubted. That was also why they sought further corroboration of his identity. Oh yes, doctor, he’s dead, could not have been in that garden last night, could not have killed Sir Cecil.” I was considering all this when he added: “There is, of course, the possibility it was someone else, someone who knew what he looked like and that there were no photographs, who hoped he would be blamed when they killed Sir Cecil.”
“That is very generous of you, inspector.”
“Indeed it is. It is a straw I am clinging to rather than accuse the best friend of the late Sherlock Holmes of committing a revenge murder and trying to blame it on a dead man. There is no reason for this conversation to go beyond this room for the present. You may return to London, where you have a wife, a home, and a medical practice, all of which should keep you where we may find you, should the need arise. I hope you also have, especially after your years with Holmes, the good sense to realise how unfortunate it might prove if you were not where we might find you. Good day, Doctor.”
I took the next train home, more depressed than when I had arrived. Only one person noted my disquiet: Mary, who took it for continued grief over Holmes’s death.
I have since wondered whether it might not have been a blessing that, a few months later, she passed away believing it.
“ . . . ‘Here’s British Birds, and Catallus, and The Holy War—a bargain every one of them. With five volumes you could just fill that gap on the second shelf. It looks untidy, does it not, sir?’
“I moved my head to look at the cabinet behind me. When I turned again, Sherlock Holmes was standing smiling at me across my study table . . . ”
We watched the police hansom bearing away the second most dangerous man in London.
“Let us hope,” said I, “our next adventure proves less catastrophic.”
“This one is not quite over,” said Holmes. “There is one more link in the chain—at least, I hope there is. It will involve a short trip, after a good night’s sleep, to a village called Dickencroft.”
This was my second shock of the day, equal to that following the “strange old book collector” indicating the gap on the second shelf. “Holmes, since we are going there anyway—”
“It’s the same matter, Watson.” He raised a hand as I stared at him. “I should prefer discussing it tomorrow.”
The train was well underway the following morning when Holmes gave me the account. “I was in the beautiful city of Antwerp a year and a half ago, partly to relax, partly to consider my next move. Given Belgium’s proximity to England, I wore one of my favourite disguises—” He grinned. “—which I shall discuss in greater detail later. I am tempted to say what happened there was due to some clue that drew me to a certain sidewalk café; but the fact is, it was—I blush to say I, of all people, should benefit from such—blind, stupid luck. A man approached my table at a sidewalk café, greatly chagrined. It seems I was supposed to have lain low after killing a man, a certain Leonard Trelawney, in Lyon a few months earlier.”
“Trelawney—I recall the case.” Leonard Trelawney was an officer at the Royal Lion Bank, one of the most prestigious in England. He was married with three children and lived in a country house not far from the City. He was thought to be the soul of discretion until he left one spring morning and never returned. Seventy thousand pounds in securities disappeared with him. Scotland Yard learned of several alleged business trips, about which the bank knew nothing, and holidays with his wife and children, about which they also knew nothing. His body, with a dagger in the back, was found floating in the Saône early in June. The case was more than two years old, the assassin and the securities yet to be located.
“Though this opportunity had been due to blind chance, instinct gave it a little help. I claimed I’d had no choice but to come here; and that it was dangerous to talk openly. I made an appointment to meet him that night at a certain corner where I would tell all. Naturally, I slipped out of the city, changed disguises, and looked into the matter further. The investigation took a little over a year. There wasn’t that much to it; but you know my methods—learning all the details, separating rumour from fact, then verifying and re-verifying everything I’d learned. The facts are basically these: Leonard Trelawney had made the acquaintance of a certain peer, who had squandered enough of his fortune to be willing to enter into certain questionable enterprises to restore the life to which he had become accustomed. They had met through another officer of the Royal Lion Bank—like Trelawney, a gentleman with an apparently unimpeachable reputation. His friends knew he liked an occasional game of whist. Others knew how completely cards had possessed him, despite his miserable luck.
“This associate was undoubtedly the one who brought Trelawney into the operation. He would have known of Trelawney’s beautiful wife with expensive tastes, who insisted that her children be educated at only the best schools and that she and her husband live in such a fine house.
“The question was how this associate had come in contact with the peer; not a large detail, but helpful in making a connection between all involved. Imagine when blind fortune led me to that which I should have sensed all along. The associate played cards with an acquaintance of the peer—one Sebastian Moran, which meant that, at the end of this chain of embezzlement and murder, was almost certainly the late Professor Moriarity. But Trelawney was still alive and healthy when the Professor and I battled at the edge of the Reichenbach, which meant the operation continued after its founder’s death.”
“Obviously Moran.” I threw up my hands. “Which means the whole affair is at an end.”
“Then who killed the peer, Sir Cecil Dandridge, five months ago? Because I was following Moran when that tragedy happened; and he was nowhere near England that night.”
“How about this associate?—who, by the by, you haven’t named yet.”
He smiled. “I try not to name names until I have proof, especially against those with pockets deep enough to launch slander suits. You may now have guessed Professor Moriarity was behind that business of the Valley of Fear; and you may recall Inspector MacDonald and I seemed reluctant to
name the man we believed to be behind the presumed murder of John Douglas. Ah, I see by the way you stare at the opposite wall, it has all come back to you.”
“I—uh—I don’t know what you mean.” I did—at least, I thought I did—but it seemed too insane to enunciate.
He leaned back. “Many years ago, in an area of California known as the Vermissa Valley, there existed a group of men known as the Scowrers. They claimed to represent Irish miners, but were actually hoodlums spreading terror and death throughout the area, causing that valley to be called the Valley of Fear. A man named Jack McMurdo insinuated himself into the gang, aided by erroneous reports of his criminal activities in Chicago. He was actually a Pinkerton detective named Birdy Edwards, who effectively brought down these wretches, including their leader—or Bodymaster—McGinty. He then fled the States to avoid reprisal.
“Some time later, a man named Jack Douglas was shot in the face; and as it was connected to a man I was investigating, whom I did not choose to name at the time, I looked into it, only to discover the real victim was a man sent to kill Douglas, whom Douglas accidentally shot during a struggle. Douglas was not tried, since it was obviously self-defense. He and his wife fled England. He was later reported washed overboard. We had no doubt the Scowrers or this unnamed mastermind—more likely both—were involved.”
“I am aware of the story. I had some idea of writing it someday as a remembrance of you.”
“Feel free to pretend you knew about Moriarity at the time. How many of your readers will quibble about your claim to have only heard of the man before our departure for Reichenbach? But please, for the sake of a noble, gallant man, do not mention having seen McMurdo-Edwards-Douglas alive and healthy on a street in Dickencroft a few months ago.”
“Then, he was not lost overboard near St. Helena?”
“And his wife, despite her heart-wrenching letter, knew it. Moriarity undoubtedly took credit for it, because one cannot take credit for too many murders if one wishes his power; and he cannot be paid for a murder he had nothing to do with. Moriarity probably assumed someone else killed him. Birdy Edwards had, and undoubtedly still has, many enemies—another good reason to pretend he fell, or was pushed off, the boat to Palmyra that night.”
“How long does he think this is going to work, pretending to be dead again—if Moriarity’s people are still out there?”
“It worked for me; and I have reason to believe our troubles with him and his people are coming to an end.”
Something else struck me as we neared Dickencroft station. “But hiding out a short distance from where they tracked him down before?”
“From what I know of Birdy Edwards, it is conceivable he saw himself as a human purloined letter.” I settled back when something occurred to me, something I had meant to mention before we had gotten on the subject of Edwards. “Holmes.”
“Yes?”
“Speaking of men who are supposed to be dead . . . .” I glanced at him. He retained the stony look I had so often seen. “Do you recall a man named Jean-Baptiste Thibadeau?”
“I know of him well, much more than I’d like to.”
“I know that the Sûreté was supposed to have tracked him down and killed him; but I encountered him, or someone claiming to be him, the night of the murder. He indicated he had ways of dealing with Sir Cecil and that Dickencroft might be made highly undesirable for me, and that any unpleasantness I might suffer might be at his hands. Inspector Thompson insisted the man was dead, but conceded that whomever I had encountered matched his description.”
“Thibadeau had an understandable aversion to being photographed; but many knew what he looked like, and there are a number of police sketches. A disguise that might fool someone like yourself who had never encountered the real man is conceivable.”
There was something odd about Holmes. I may not have seen him for several years; but he seemed strangely uninterested in the mysterious Frenchman.
We sat in Inspector Thompson’s office late that afternoon.
“This is an honour, Mr. Holmes. I only wish we had met under happier circumstances.”
“I take it you do not mean the death of Sir Cecil Dandridge. If you know me at all, you know that is the sort of thing I live for; but from the way you glanced at Dr. Watson, I take it you mean that my friend is a suspect?”
The inspector studied the back of his left hand. “He did give a satisfactory explanation for his quarrel with Sir Cecil; and while I would not ordinarily give great weight to his suggested motive, he did try to steer suspicion from himself with what must almost certainly be a lie.”
I rose, snarling: “I did see that man. As God is my witness, I did see Jean-Baptiste Thibadeau.”
“Sit down, Watson,” said Holmes. “That is hardly prudent behaviour for a murder suspect.”
I resumed my seat.
“My reputation was not built on being blind to a man’s guilt even if he is my dearest friend. Watson did not sneak into Maple Meadow. Sir Cecil invited him; and as for that disagreement, it is consistent with everything I know about the man, about his fears that I was still alive and on his trail, that my friend might be there at my behest. In other words, if Watson lied, it was based on information he could not possibly have had. And the evidence shows Sir Cecil repaired to his bedchamber with some unnamed person who, since there was no sign of a struggle, he trusted sufficiently for this person to get close enough to plunge that letter opener into his chest. Does that fit your theory of Dr. John H. Watson, avenging angel?”
“And I did speak to this Thibadeau.”
“Imbecile. If Monsieur l’inspecteur says I am dead, I am dead.” I could not mistake Thibadeau’s voice even months later; but as I looked about, I saw only Inspector Thompson and a grinning Sherlock Holmes. “As I said on the train, one of my favourite disguises. I tried to warn you away from danger; and you thought it was a threat. I assured you I had my own ways of dealing with Sir Cecil Dandridge; and you thought I was hinting at my intention of killing him—which, by the way, the real Thibadeau would have been far too crafty to do.” He shrugged with a chuckle. “I rather suspected something of that sort. That said, he was rather a disappointment as members of Moriarity’s organization go. He would never appear in public without false eyebrows, attached with the aid of spirit gum, his own being rather thin. He would alter his voice and his nose; and he had an encyclopedic memory of whom he had encountered with which voice and which nose. He grew the beard to draw the eye to it and, of course, those brows. He would dispose of both should the police ever make a case against him. There was some talk of his having a pair of spectacles on hand, just to make recognising his real self the more difficult.”
“Sounds ingenious to me,” said I.
“And to me,” said the inspector.
“It was—unless, of course, someone like myself is on one’s trail, in his own disguise, with the notion of impersonating one. Jean-Baptiste Thibadeau did such an excellent job of confusing everyone he came in contact with that it was simple to deceive those who’d encountered him several times. He might have gone on forever had the organization, for their own reasons, not betrayed him to the Sûreté. I have speculated how much trouble I might have saved them by telling him what a fool I’d made of him, handing him a pistol, and reminding him what honourable Frenchmen do when they have been so humiliated.” He sighed. “He probably would have done so after shooting me. Anyhow, I am certain I should have recalled plunging a letter opener into Sir Cecil Dandridge’s chest.”
“Holmes,” said I, “what about that other fellow? You know, the one involved in that other business we were discussing on the train—” I glanced uneasily at Inspector Thompson, uncertain how many people Holmes would want to let in on that particular secret. “—the one who is supposedly no longer with us?”
“You mean,” inquired the inspector, “Jebediah Watts?”
“Who?”
“His latest nom de guerre,” said Holmes. “You don’t suppose, after al
l the trouble he went to, convincing Moriarity and his crew that John McMurdo, Birdy Edwards, and John Douglas were dead, that he would be so foolish as to use any of those names again? His wife is now Mary Watts. He makes his living as a blacksmith; they have one child. What about him?”
“How long could he and Sir Cecil reside in the same area before Sir Cecil discovered his secret? And could our friend of the many names have decided to get rid of Sir Cecil—”
Holmes’s fit of laughter was nearly apoplectic. “Forgive me, my friend.” He took a moment more to gain full control. “I—I suppose he had something of a motive; but in making deductions, it is always best to think them through before speaking.” He leaned over and squeezed my arm. “Again, forgive me. But there are so many objections to it. Dandridge was not one of Moriarity’s best men; but he would have given Watts no hint he had been exposed until blow fell against Watts. And you have been to soirées like that one often enough to know that no one but invited guests, and their guests, could have gotten past that butler.”
“I recall,” said I, “a gentleman calling himself Jean-Baptiste Thibadeau who seemed to get in without going through the butler.”
“Ah, Watson’s revenge—I feel so much better, though you must admit someone as cunning as I could manage it, where many couldn’t. But even if he could have procured evening clothes—on a blacksmith’s salary?—and blended in with the rest, we have the same objection I offered in your defense: getting close enough to Sir Cecil Dandridge in the man’s own bedchamber to deliver the fatal blow without a sign of a struggle.”
“Actually,” said the inspector, “we knew this fellow’s secret and kept an eye on him. He and the victim did business several times over the years—no sign of suspicion, no unpleasantness between them.”
“Speaking of the actual guests at this gathering,” said my friend, “was one of them an employee of the Royal Lion Bank, one Trevor Atkins?”
“I recall his being there,” said I, “along with a most charming companion.”
The Adventure of the Plated Spoon and Other Tales of Sherlock Holmes Page 16