I nodded. “I was being watched at Baker Street,” I told him.
Holmes laughed—a long, low chuckle. “It is a pity ‘watched’ is a verb, for it prevents me accusing you of understatement. You had no fewer than three agencies examining your every movement. The watchers had watchers watching them and those watchers were in turn observed by others.” He laughed again. “It has been a merry week in this respect, for you confounded most of your watchers by very elaborately doing nothing.”
I stared at him. “You were one of those watchers?” I asked.
“Not in person. I have been busy elsewhere. But mine was one of those agencies I refer to. I have kept myself informed of your conduct.”
“That is a great deal better than I have managed,” I replied. “You had me quite worried, Holmes. The last time I saw you I thought you badly wounded. Mycroft convinced me you were not as incapacitated as you let me believe and for four days now I have been trying to guess what it was you were doing. Have you found Moran? Have you any sign of Elizabeth yet?”
He refilled his cup from the flask. “I had better begin at the beginning and explain myself,” he replied. “As it seems I have sorely troubled you.”
“I thought you had lost your mind,” I confessed. “As there seemed to be no sane explanation for disappearing as you did.”
“There was one—only one—reason. There were too many people involved and the whole affair was in danger of tripping over one of its many feet.” He leaned back against the tin wall and pulled up his knees.
“My midnight pacing had not been entirely without effect, Watson. By reducing the situation down to the bare facts, I could distinguish Moran’s motives. If you ignore the complexity of the arrangements, you have the fact that Elizabeth was abducted at almost the exact moment of Moran’s escape from prison. Moran’s motives become somewhat clearer when it is put that way.”
“Revenge,” I stated.
“No. Not revenge. At least, not entirely. You have overlooked the coinciding times. Moran wanted me to be distracted at the moment of his escape and effectively immobilized for some time afterwards. Elizabeth’s abduction ensured that and allowed him to escape from Dartmoor and travel to London undetected.
“That was as far as I got before your compound stole my senses. It wasn’t until the next morning, when Lestrade forced me into collaboration with him that the significance of the dramatic manner of Elizabeth’s abduction occurred to me. By involving so many people and causing such a public uproar, Moran was not only snarling the police force’s efficiency, but guaranteeing they would be involved in the investigation that followed.”
“He wants you to find him?”
“No, Watson. He does not. He wants to avoid a confrontation. Moran does not fear the power of the police. It is me he fears. So he involves the police, knowing they would hamper my search for him. He knew I would not be able to keep Elizabeth’s disappearance a secret and investigate on my own.”
“That is why you tricked us all?”
“Not completely.” His keen eyes glittered with a remembered impatience and anger. “Although I was, indeed, hampered by all the attention.
“I also knew that Moran would comprehend my every move, either by report or by direct observation. I stood at the window and I could almost feel his presence out there, watching me. I was an insect in a specimen jar, Watson. I could not stir and not be scrutinized from all directions. It was a most uncomfortable and disabling position.”
“So when that shot was fired, you used the situation to climb out of the jar,” I stated, borrowing his simile.
Holmes nodded. “Yes. Excellent, Watson.”
“I am afraid that was Mycroft’s conclusion, not mine.”
“I knew he would comprehend the situation,” Holmes replied.
“What was it that struck you? We determined that it was not a bullet.”
“It was a message. Moran communicated his intentions far earlier and more adroitly than even I would have predicted.”
“A message?”
“A slip of paper enclosed in a ball of wax and projected by an old-fashioned sling, pitched from the rooftop of the building opposite the window. A powerful and almost silent ancient weapon and a clever piece of thinking on Moran’s part. His message is delivered without intermediaries, who could be detained and questioned.”
“But the blood—you were bleeding!”
“A moderately shallow cut from a flying shard of glass from the pane. It was fortunate window dressing. I could not let you examine the wound because you would know immediately it was not what it seemed.”
“It does explain why Mycroft found traces of red wax on the carpet.”
“The ball of wax broke up upon impact. It hit me squarely in the shoulder. My reaction was to clasp the point of impact and I felt the paper beneath my hand. I knew immediately that this was a message from Moran. I kept it hidden in my hand while I played out the scene and sent you to investigate the empty house. As soon as I was alone I read the message, which was close to what I expected it to be.”
He withdrew a small folded piece of paper and handed it to me. It was thick and yellow and not unexpectedly waxy to the touch. Some of the red wax clung to the edges. The writing was in soft dark pencil.
Search for me and she dies.
I turned the sheet over to check the other side, which was blank and featureless.
“Moran’s handwriting?” I guessed.
“Undoubtedly.”
“Succinct and to the point,” I observed.
“It was no more than I had expected,” Holmes replied. “So I pushed it into a pocket, snatched up money and other small essentials, raced down the back stairs to Mrs. Hudson’s kitchen and out the back door and across the yard, now conveniently deserted whilst the police searched elsewhere for my would-be murderer, scaled a few walls and was alone and well on my way to the East end before, I am sure, you returned to the sitting room and found me gone.”
I considered the sequence from Holmes’ point of view. “It certainly achieved your aim.”
“I apologize for worrying you.”
“It was necessary,” I said dismissively, “if you are to find Elizabeth.”
Holmes’ face was grim. “Everything I have done is only for that purpose,” he replied.
“So tell me who it was that was watching me and why,” I prompted him.
Holmes composed himself once more. “The watchers,” he said, with a smile reminiscent of his earlier mirth. “After I had slipped from the limelight, both the police and Moran were anxious to learn where I was and what I was doing. The police, so they could learn where Moran was through me and Moran, to decide whether I was obeying his demand to keep well away from him. The only possible means they had of determining my whereabouts was to watch both you and my rooms, utilizing the theory that sooner or later I would contact you. I am quite sure you had a tail like a comet on your journey to Dartmoor. Had you moved from Baker Street again, that same tail would have dogged your every step.”
“So Moran’s men were also watching the police, while you were watching both.”
“Only to determine when you left Baker Street. While you stayed in the rooms I could not communicate with you. Every message, delivery or tradesman would have been suspect and I am quite sure the police questioned everyone who called at 221B over the last four days, hoping to discover me or Moran or confederates of either party. It must have frustrated everyone when you stayed indoors.”
“I stayed there because I thought you might try to contact me and I didn’t want to be absent and miss any message you might send.”
Holmes nodded. “Again, as always, you have done the right thing for entirely the wrong reasons. When you finally did step out for air this evening, the alarm went up amongst both observing parties. They assumed incorrectly that you had received a covert message and scurried to follow you so they might locate me.”
It was all beginning to make sense to me now. “You
were waiting for me to do that very thing,” I said.
“I was beginning to wonder if I would have to in fact send a covert message to get you out and into a position where I could cut off your pursuers.”
“So all my guides tonight and the backtracking and weaving through streets were designed to baffle anyone who had not been fooled by the fellow who took my jacket?”
“It was vital that no one witness our meeting. For that same reason I became one of your guides. I wanted to observe for myself that your trail was clear. As a last precautionary measure, I forced you to wait alone in this house whilst I watched outside. Had anyone managed to navigate through all my shields and seen you enter the hut, they would have become convinced after some time had elapsed that you had reached your final destination and burst in upon you to catch whoever you were meeting with in situ.”
“You have been exceedingly cautious.”
“I cannot afford to become embroiled in official bureaucracy again. I need to be able to move fast and freely if I am to find Elizabeth in time.”
“‘In time’?”
“Yes, there is a time limit, Watson. I do not know yet what that limit is. That is why I have gone to such lengths to have you delivered here. I said that Moran was not motivated entirely by revenge but that is without doubt influencing his actions. I know that once Elizabeth’s usefulness as a hostage and shield is at an end, Moran will kill her. For revenge.”
“Then we must hurry….” I began, feeling an overwhelming sense of urgency descend upon me.
“Hurry to where?” Holmes asked sensibly. “We have a little time. Let us not squander it by running around aimlessly.”
“How much time do we have, do you think?”
“Two days, perhaps. I will know better by tomorrow. For now, let me tell you about Moran. It may be important to have a second person with knowledge of the full facts.” He tapped the note I had laid down upon the table. “What does that note tell you?”
I picked it up again. “It is a curious paper. Crude. There is no watermark on it—which may mean simply that the mark was on the remaining portion of the page that the note was torn from.” I turned it over and back again. “Apart from that and the handwriting, which I will leave to you as the expert, I cannot infer a thing.”
Holmes smiled. “This paper did not have a watermark. It is handmade and made from very primitive tools and equipment. See the irregular coloration and thickness? There is no point in examining the writing, for we know already who wrote the note. But look at the wax, Watson. See its color?”
I recalled Mycroft’s observations. “Mycroft said it was rough and impure. He thought it might be a type of sealing wax.”
“Mycroft did not have a large sample to examine. Lift the sheet and smell the wax.”
I lifted the note and sniffed gently. The scent was strong and exotic and stirred an obscure memory within me. Holmes nodded at my expression.
“Yes, it is like a calling card, isn’t it? I remember this unusual perfume from my time in Tibet. It is used to make candles for burning in the temples as offerings to the gods. Handmade rice paper is used to send written prayers.” He tapped the note. “That isn’t rice paper but Moran would have had to use something more robust and would have taken whatever was available. This told me I should look for a foreign connection. I recalled from my files that Moran had been with the army in India and I concluded that he had sheltered with Indian comrades whose friendship he had founded whilst in India and who were now somewhere in London.”
“Do you know who they are?”
“Indeed I do. The most notorious of Moran’s Indian friends was listed in my files. I learnt that he was in London and I have, for the past three days, been a guest of Sikmah Rijkmah.”
I raised my eyebrows at this announcement. “Disguised as a fellow countryman? Come now, Holmes, you don’t even speak Hindu.”
Holmes laughed at my expression. “I confess it would have been impossible in a normal household, but Sikmah runs a hostel for migrant workers and quite naturally the greater proportion of his guests are fellow Hindus. This establishment is quite legitimate and also serves as an excellent cover for various other nefarious activities that Sikmah has his busy hand in. I sought a room there the same night I abandoned Baker Street and for three days an unemployed deaf and mute Indian has been loafing about the common rooms of this notorious lodging.”
“You’re taking quite a chance, Holmes. You’re not even sure this Sikmah is involved. You have only got the smell of incense and a peripheral fact in your records, which are possibly quite out of date, as far as Moran is concerned.”
“Yes, it was a gamble,” Holmes conceded candidly. “But a gamble with short odds and it paid off, for on my first day there, none other than Moran’s sister Beatrice O’Connor arrived.”
“Moran’s sister!” I recalled my futile work at Dartmoor. “She was the only one who visited Moran in prison.”
“Yes and that fact should have alerted Lestrade. You would recognize her, Watson, as Mrs. Thacker.”
“Of course!” I groaned.
“I had half expected one or another familiar face to appear in time,” Holmes continued, “because of the peculiar arrangements at the hostel. It is a strangely designed building, Watson. Not at all as one would expect a small, poor hostel to be laid out. The bedrooms are upon the first floor, but not lining a common corridor. Instead they all face a type of minstrel’s gallery which in turn overlooks the sitting and dining sections of the ground floor. It is an arrangement which makes for easy observation of the rooms and the comings and goings of guests—which must be an advantage considering the caliber of the inmates. But it also lays wide open for scrutiny any antics of the owner.
“I had only been inside the door for five minutes before I noticed that there was a large, very powerful looking ruffian sitting on a stool at the end of this gallery, apparently with nothing better to do than scowl at anyone who got too close to him.”
“A guard?” I conjectured.
“A guard,” Holmes confirmed. “I kept an eye upon the end door and noted that no one went in or out of the room, except Sikmah on one occasion and he used a key. The guard took all his meals at his post and I observed he had a heavy revolver tucked into his waistband. He was relieved by another equally as threatening looking a warden and the gun was exchanged.
“You can well imagine my exhilaration, then, when I watched from my cool corner of the sitting room as Moran’s sister entered, nodded to the desk clerk and made her way unaided and without guidance to this very door, where she produced her own key and slipped inside.”
“Holmes, do you think Moran is hiding there?”
Holmes looked a little pained at this question. “I do not merely think so, Watson. I made it my task to know. And yes, he was there, for a while.”
“Then he is gone again,” I said, disappointed.
“Not exactly. Let me explain. Beatrice O’Connor remained in the room for nearly fifty minutes, then left the hostel. Her arrival made it imperative for me to see inside that room. It was impossible to get past the guard, for he was of the sort who are as tenacious as a bulldog in discharging their duties. He wouldn’t be easily tricked or lured from his post. And I was alone. So yesterday I hurried back to Wiggins’ quarters, which I am using as a base of operations, changed into my dark clothes and arrived back at the hostel late last night. I worked my way around to the back of the building and scaled fences and masonry until I was perched precariously close enough to the end room window to hear anything. The window was open, of course, for it was a hot night, but heavy drapes prevented me seeing anything other than a one inch slice of the room, which included the end of a small table and the foot of the bunk which is built into all the rooms.
“Having gained my position, I was very nearly startled off it, for a voice spoke right beside my ear, as if the unseen speaker were addressing me. He must have been standing or sitting against the curtain and paused for a mome
nt to collect his thoughts, for it had been silent as I had climbed.
“‘Very well, then. As you insist upon it, I suppose I must. But I am disappointed, Sikmah. You agreed you would help me and now you’re turning me out.’
“I recognized that voice, although the petulant tone was new. Moran was obviously sheltering in the room. Sikmah answered and his voice held only a touch of accent.
“‘It was not part of our agreement that I risk bringing the wrath of Sherlock Holmes down upon me. Neither do I wish to bring the interest of the police upon me. I especially do not want to face charges for harboring a dangerous prison escapee. You shouldn’t have come here so soon.’
“‘How was I to know the ship had been delayed? Ships aren’t becalmed anymore.”
“‘Because most ships have steam. My cousin’s ship is a poor one and an old one, and uses only sail. You should be thankful for that. It will draw less attention.’
“‘And what am I going to do with the woman for another three days?’ Moran demanded. ‘Beatrice, I am nearly out of morphine. You must bring me some more.’
“And his sister answered heatedly to this demand. ‘No, I will not get more. I was lucky to be able to procure what I did and not be caught. I’ll not do any more thieving for you, Sebastian. You risk killing the women if you continue with the injections. It takes skill and fine judgment to administer it in proper doses and I’m only a nurse.’
“‘I cannot keep her prisoner on my own,’ he protested. “Come now, Beatrice. I will be out of your life forever in three days. Help me just this once.’
“‘Now you just listen to me and listen good, Sebastian Moran. I’ve got a good man at home and a good life. It is only because you’ll be out of my life that I’ve even helped you this far—God help me if Jamie ever knew. I’m not happy with this kidnapping business, but I kept my silence because you convinced me it is the only way to keep Sherlock Holmes from stopping you. Fair enough. But it stops here. Now. Show a little backbone, dear brother. She is only a woman. You can contain her for three days, surely, without resorting to morphine again.’
Chronicles of the Lost Years (The Sherlock Holmes Series) Page 19