by David Fable
“We searched him thoroughly before leaving the cell and before entering the abbey,” stated Gregson with the utmost certainty. “Somebody passed him that knife inside.”
Gregson removed his scarf and I noticed an angry red boil on his neck. It didn’t strike me as noteworthy, but Christopher immediately inquired, “What happened to your neck, Superintendent Gregson?”
“Damn bees at Holmes’s place. This one’s become inflamed,” he said brushing it off. “Now, I know none of my men passed that knife to him. I was thinking maybe Freddy passed it to him thinking he was going to use it for something else. We know he was giving him cigars and newspapers and such back at the hospital.”
During this conversation, Christopher had wandered eight or ten rows down the aisle of chairs, which had not yet been removed from the abbey. He crouched and eyed the floor beneath the seats as if doing some sort of calculation. He was wearing his leather aviator jacket, red scarf and American dungarees, which I had only seen on farmers and factory workers.
“What possible reason could this guard have had to give him a knife under such circumstances? Taking bribes to smuggle a man a few comforts in his cell is one thing. It’s a huge jump to arming him in this situation and knowing you’ll be the most likely suspect,” offered Lestrade.
“I wouldn’t give this guard that much credit. He didn’t strike me as first in his class,” responded Gregson while scratching the boil on his neck.
“Perhaps someone secured it to the underside of his chair,” I posited.
“Impossible,” Gregson shot back. “We checked that before any guest entered and then we stationed officers at the ends of the rows.”
“Gentlemen, I have a theory.” Christopher had gotten back to his feet and was standing in the aisle five rows back.
“About what?” asked Gregson tersely.
“How Moriarty got the knife. Does anyone have a pocketknife?” he asked. One of the officers produced an ivory-handled jackknife. “Yes, thank you, that will do,” said Christopher courteously as he was handed the knife. “Now, can I get some of you gentlemen to take a seat in the rows directly behind where Moriarty was seated?”
The assembled Scotland Yard personnel blinked at Christopher as if deciding whether they wanted to participate in this parlor game from the upstart.
“It should only take a moment. Please.”
After a few more moments of silence, Lestrade nodded for the others to accommodate Christopher. Gregson conspicuously stood his ground, not wishing to be a player in this reenactment.
Christopher directed half a dozen officers to occupy the three rows directly behind the chair where Moriarty was seated. He then guided me over to Moriarty’s seat, sat me down and adjusted my feet on the floor with toes together and heels splayed. He walked to the row directly behind where he had arranged all his players and addressed the group. “Right before he murdered Freddy, I noticed Moriarty looking down at his shoes. Now I know why he was doing that.” He sat down behind the three rows of officers and exactly four rows behind where I was occupying Moriarty’s former seat. “Now the weapon was a lacquer-handled paring knife. I myself have only this pocketknife to use in the demonstration, not nearly so sleek as the weapon that Moriarty had.”
Christopher bent forward and, with one smooth backhand, slid the knife along the floor beneath the seats into the little wedge I had created with my feet by sitting with my toes together and heels apart. I picked up the pocketknife and held it up. There was an appreciative murmur from the officers. Gregson remained stone-faced.
“During the hymn, no one would have heard the knife skid across the floor. Moriarty needed only to receive the knife, bend over and pick it up when he felt the time was right.” Christopher walked back to me and retrieved his knife.
“But why did he kill the guard?” bristled Gregson, rubbing at his bee sting. Lestrade and I exchanged a look. Gregson seemed to be even more prickly than usual. Christopher seemed to bring this out in him.
“I have no idea,” responded Christopher calmly. “I’d like to talk to him about that.”
I asked the obvious question. “Who was seated behind him in those rows?”
“There was a scattering of lords and other elites including Lord Fitzroy, in addition to Wiggins and several of his crew,” answered Christopher.
“Do you recall who was seated in the seat you were just occupying?” asked Lestrade having already warmed to the theory.
“Well, I would say this could have been accomplished from a range of the surrounding six to nine seats, but that particular seat was occupied by a dark-haired, Latin-looking man of thirty to thirty-five years of age. He was sitting next to Daisy, who was sitting next to Creed, who was sitting next to Wiggins.” Christopher was perfectly clear on the arrangement. It seems, among his other attributes, he had Holmes’s near photographic memory.
“So you think it was one of Wiggins’s crew did this?” asked Lestrade.
“Seems most likely,” answered Christopher.
“Why on earth would Wiggins want to help Moriarty murder his guard?” asked Gregson dubiously.
“I have no idea, but it was done, and I’m quite sure that’s how it was done,” answered Christopher confidently.
“Any other theories? I happen to favor this one,” said Lestrade to the group.
“I’ll go have a talk with Mr. Wiggins,” declared Gregson.
My eyes shot over to Christopher. I could see by his expression that he wanted the opportunity to speak to Wiggins first, but he had the good sense not to suggest it. This was official police business and even Holmes would not presume to interfere with the activities of Scotland Yard. Contrary to the beliefs of some, Holmes never withheld information from the authorities or interfered in any way with an investigation. Frankly, it mattered little to Holmes what Scotland Yard did when he was on a case or what they knew or didn’t know. Occasionally they were a convenient bludgeon and could be used to leverage some situations with the threat of their authority, but, Holmes generally left them toddling behind him as he single-mindedly pursued those minute details that only he could discern and that would ultimately yield the truth. I was beginning to see a bit of this attitude toward Scotland Yard in young Hudson.
15
A visit to Moriarty was certainly in order. A fierce debate had already commenced in the streets and in the Parliament about what to do with him. If tried, it would be a speedy trial with the outcome certain, and most voices were calling for just that, but Lord Andrew Fitzroy called for a full investigation of the circumstances of Moriarty’s imprisonment and relationship with the victim. I always considered Fitzroy a bit of a glory hog. He enjoyed chiming in on any subject that was getting attention from the papers. Sometimes he was for the suffragette movement, sometimes against, at first in favor of Irish home rule and then against. The rather rotund Fitzroy traced his lineage to Henry Fitzroy, First Earl of Wharton and illegitimate son of Charles II. The illustrious line included William Fitzroy, Sixth Earl of Wharton, nicknamed “Bobbing Bill” for his habit of shifting from Tory to Whig and then back again during his tenure. Lord Andrew was already giving interviews to the Post about how, “Justice can only be served by a thorough investigation of the event.” Never mind that a hundred people saw Moriarty bury a paring knife into Frederick Carson’s neck. Surely he had an excellent reason and, of course, “Justice must be served.” The sodding windbag.
I met Christopher in front of Bedlam at two thirty in the afternoon. I felt he was entitled to participate in this visit to Moriarty. Undoubtedly his version of how the professor procured the knife was correct. His keen observations during the emotional upheaval of the funeral would have made Holmes proud. I, conversely, could barely trust myself. I was still in a most hostile state. I was obsessing about the events of the day before. I had let Moriarty turn the occasion into an opportunity to showcase his villainy. This interview could not wait, but I needed someone there who could observe coolly.
When
Christopher and I descended into the musty chill of the basement cells, we found two Scotland Yard officers stationed there. They were two of the same men who had escorted Moriarty to the abbey, and I’m sure they were dispirited by what they considered to be a failure on their part. I placed my hand on their shoulders in turn, shook their hands and asked their names.
“Roberts,” said one.
“Dobbs,” said the other.
“The failure was mine, gentlemen, not yours,” I assured them. They nodded unconvincingly and led us to Moriarty’s cell.
There had been no changes to the cell since the last time I had visited. Moriarty still had his comfort. While the debate and furor raged over his gruesome act, his life remained essentially unchanged. He was sitting behind his desk sketching a view of the inside of the abbey as witnessed from his seat at the funeral. There was remarkable detail, down to the flowers adorning the altar and the expression on my face as I delivered the eulogy. His wrist again was loosely shackled to the wall and he was wearing his funeral attire sans the jacket. He addressed us without looking up. “So you’ve brought a friend. Christopher Hudson, is it? Pleasure to meet you.”
I nodded for the officers to leave us alone and they withdrew. Christopher and I sat down in the two chairs across from the desk that had been readied for us. I glared at Moriarty, seeing him with different eyes for the first time. It was one thing to see evidence of a man’s crimes. It was another to have watched him commit a murder with his own hands. “I’m here to ask you what you’ve gained from this senseless act.”
Moriarty looked up, rubbing his chin in mock thoughtfulness. “You’re right. Maybe I didn’t think this through properly. Now where will I get my cigars?” He reached into the drawer and pulled out a fresh cigar. “My last one.” He put it between his teeth and returned to his sketch. “I’m grateful to you for coming today to straighten out my thinking on this matter. How is it going with the investigation?” he added casually.
“That is no longer any of your concern,” was my quick retort. Christopher was silent keeping his eyes glued on Moriarty. Moriarty acted as if Christopher were not there and continued with his sketching.
“What, Doctor? Has this event created a rupture between us? I’m feeling quite warmly right now toward you. You arranged for me to attend the funeral, and I had a splendid time.” He was also having a splendid time trying to goad me, and it was hard not to take the bait.
“You have destroyed any trust. Any gentlemanly understanding we had is dead.”
“Now you’re hurting my feelings,” he said, forlorn.
“I don’t give a damn about your feelings. I’d just as soon see you hanged.”
“They won’t hang me,” he said confidently.
“They might.”
“They won’t.”
“And why not, you dishonorable sack of shit!”
This epithet made him abruptly stop his sketching. He looked up at me with a particularly menacing expression. “Because they have secrets,” he hissed.
“Who?”
“Not your concern.”
“I would like to know.”
“Would you really like to know, Doctor?
“Yes,” I said firmly.
“Here’s something you wouldn’t like to know. I had your wife killed. That maid…I believe you called her 'Annie’…her real name was Rose Sullivan. She was a prostitute who had worked in one of my whorehouses. What you thought was heart failure was merely a lethal dose of mercuric cyanide in your beloved Mary’s tea. I was hoping it would draw Holmes out of hiding, but apparently he didn’t care.”
Before I could think, I had lunged across the desk to throttle the bastard, but he was expecting this. He blocked me with a taut section of his chain across my throat, looped it around my neck and snapped it tight. His grip was remarkably powerful and I could feel the veins in my head bulging as I fought for air but could not summon a single atom of oxygen into my lungs.
With an incredible smoothness and economy of motion, Christopher thrust aside the desk, kicked the chair out front under Moriarty and planted his heel on the professor’s throat. I heard a choking sound from beneath me as the chain slackened and I was released.
The two officers rushed into the cell, having heard the clatter of furniture. Christopher calmly backed up a step and the officers pulled Moriarty to his feet and held him with his back against the wall. A smile curled across his lips. “You were never cut out for this work, Doctor. But the boy might be.”
“Are you all right, Doctor?” asked Dobbs.
“I’ll be fine, Officer Dobbs. Thank you,” I said, massaging my throat. “We haven’t concluded yet.”
“I would be more comfortable if we stayed.”
“No need. A small mishap,” I said blithely.
Christopher said nothing but followed my lead by shrugging as if this had been an insignificant skirmish.
“If you say so, sir.” The two guards relented and reluctantly withdrew once more.
Moriarty rubbed a bruise on the back of his head and then proceeded to dust himself off. “Rose Sullivan is buried in a shallow grave outside of Derby. Botched abortion.” Moriarty righted his chair and sat back down in it. “I would have had your wife stolen away from you, Doctor, but that would have been a long process. Instead I decided to kill her.”
Christopher gave him a vicious backhanded smack across the face. I believe he did this to co-opt me from doing even worse. My mind was a whirl of emotions. I knew I could no longer endure being in Moriarty’s presence. Nothing productive could come of it in my present state. I gave him one last feeble glare and walked out of the cell convinced that the next time I saw him he would be standing on the gallows.
16
CHRISTOPHER
M oriarty was tall and more powerful than most men but seemed to have no formal training in any of the fighting arts. That coupled with the fact that he was shackled did not make for a particularly formidable opponent. I was a bit stunned that Watson would attack him, but his story of the Doctor’s wife’s death had a ring of truth, and I could easily see how it would be extremely difficult to control oneself after such a revelation.
“You’re an interesting fellow, young Hudson. Maybe I should have paid more attention to you,” Moriarty said after Watson had stormed out. He looked around the floor for his cigar and found that it had rolled up against the wall. It was nearly split in two. “Pity,” he said as he picked it up, removed the broken half and placed it back in his mouth. He dragged the desk back in front him, put his elbows on it and leaned toward me. “Many think I was well-born, because I have given that impression. No, I am the son of a workingman, just like yourself. Not so worldly as a merchant captain, my father was an accountant with the railroad. He worked for the Canterbury Railway in Leeds and then it was swallowed up by George Stephenson and his South Eastern Railway. Stephenson decided that, given the way he ran his affairs, it wouldn’t do to have accountants looking over his shoulder, so he sacked my father with one day’s severance. That was a year before South Eastern went under. Stephenson plundered the company by paying himself a huge dividend out of the operating capital. All the graft and wild speculation led to the complete collapse of the industry for nearly a decade. My father was unable to find employment. He hanged himself in our attic. I was the one that found the simpering weakling. My mother went to work as a maid. She was caught stealing food and was imprisoned for a time.” He turned his eyes toward the ceiling and mused for a moment. “I was thirteen.”
Whether these things were true or not, there was a method to this disclosure. This battle with Moriarty would not be fought hand-to-hand. The battlefield on which I would have to better him was a psychological one. He had information to impart. He wanted to impart it, even if he was going to do it by trickery and riddles. He had a reason for killing Frederick Carson. Either Freddy did something or he knew something. This was not a random act. He might have killed any number of other people to greater effect. G
regson. for example, might have been a likely target.