“Where is Miss Rosario?” said Holmes.
“She is in the next room, securely bound and gagged. As you and Dr. Watson soon will be. If you do not cooperate, the four of you will die.” Worth’s tone of voice was as matter-of-fact as if he were discussing tomorrow’s weather.
“What is it you want?”
“My son Blake, of course.”
“You were watching.”
“The fog obscured your identities. I could have shot you from the balcony, but that would have called attention to this flat, which I did not realize you knew about until you entered. How did you learn of it, by the way? Clevering could not have told you, for he did not know of its existence.”
“The banker Perkins kept a hidden diary. Whoever cut his throat failed to discover it.”
At this remark I saw Worth dart an angry glance at Cleo. When she gave an apologetic shrug in return, the identity of Perkins’s murderer was confirmed. Holmes saw it, too, for he said, “Ah, Miss Cleo. I see that you share your family’s lethal propensities. You also were involved in the untimely end of the unfortunate Mr. Foster. You kept Mr. Foster’s attention focused on your fascinating features and conversation, enabling your brother to take him from behind. Your costume must have been so alluring that he did not even notice the odor of chloroform.”
“We heard all about your fanciful theories from Mr. Clevering,” said Cleo smugly.
Holmes continued, speaking amiably, and the movement of his right hand toward his coat pocket was barely perceptible. “So when you learned Mr. Foster had seen what you were constructing at the Savoy, you lured him to your carriage house in Clapham Common.”
Cleo smiled more broadly and looked positively triumphant. “Another theory, and it only proves you know nothing about Mr. Foster.”
“Here, now, that’s enough chatter.” Worth gestured menacingly with the shotgun. He held it left-handed, favoring, I supposed, his good shoulder, and I wondered momentarily if we could somehow turn that infirmity to our advantage. “And keep your hands steady, Mr. Holmes, there’s a good fellow. Cleo, search Mr. Holmes’s pockets.”
Cleo soon had extracted Blake’s revolver and knife, along with the policeman’s whistle the sergeant had given us. Worth smiled as Cleo laid the weapons on the couch. “You are so unlike my brother, Mr. Holmes. He was a master of delegating the various tasks that our organization required. You, however, insist on doing everything yourself. My brother never found it necessary to carry weapons.”
“And like him, you employ others to murder for you,” replied Holmes.
“Mr. Holmes, I begin to lose patience with you. I take it that this whistle is to be used to signal your policeman friend?”
“Your identities are known,” Holmes replied. “You and Colonel Moran will not live to spend the payment Perkins received via the German embassy. You will be hunted down and brought to justice on the gallows.”
“I have taken other identities before. A million pounds sterling buys a great deal of influence and anonymity. You will be remembered as a spectacular failure. My brother will look down on your humiliation and smile.”
“Your brother is in Hell, where you will soon join him.”
Worth shrugged. “Until then I shall be enjoying myself in San Francisco or Johannesburg under another name. Now, Cleo and I must go to free my son, and I would prefer not to alarm the policeman guarding him with the noise of our shotguns. Of course if you choose not to cooperate, you can die here, and possibly be remembered as a martyr. But I think you will choose life, because you do not wish to watch Dr. Watson and Miss Rosario in the agonies of a painful death. Also I am sure you are vain enough to think that you may be able to escape and somehow prevent Colonel Moran from carrying out my orders.”
“You allow me to live now, and yet you engaged men to kill me and Dr. Watson at Dartmoor.”
Worth gave a small, self-satisfied smile. “I have recently changed my plans.”
“What about Miss James?”
“As my niece, she is welcome to join me when we leave the country. Provided, of course, that she can give me a satisfactory explanation for her presence here.” Worth’s voice turned silken, which made it even more menacing. “Lucy, how do you happen to be in the company of Mr. Holmes and Dr. Watson this evening?”
Lucy’s eyelids fluttered. Then her jaw slackened, her knees buckled, and with a shudder, she sank to the floor, apparently unconscious.
Involuntarily I took a step forward to assist her, but Worth’s voice stopped me.
“No, Dr. Watson. Or Cleo shoots Mr. Holmes. You and he will kneel.” He pocketed the police whistle that Cleo had placed on the table. Then he trained his gun on me. “I said kneel, Dr. Watson.”
“Do as he says, Watson.”
I knelt. Holmes did likewise.
“Cleo, use the cords from these drapes and tie the three of them together.”
She cut the cords with the curved knife. As she tied us, she showed her teeth in a twisted smile of mockery. Triumph glittered in her coal-black eyes.
Worth stood directly before us, his shotgun still at the ready. “Now, gentlemen. As I said, the fog obscured your identities, so I did not see which of you struck my son. Each of you will therefore pay the penalty.”
Whereupon he grasped the shotgun by the barrel and swung it like a club. The wooden stock smashed into the side of Holmes’s face. Holmes took the blow in stoic silence. Before I could move, Worth turned to me and, smiling broadly, delivered a similar blow. In a blinding flash of pain I felt myself toppling onto my side. I heard Worth’s voice.
“Now, Cleo, fetch three hand towels and gag them. Mr. Holmes, these relatively gentle measures will delay you long enough for me to continue with my plans. I look forward to our next meeting. At that time you will feel pain considerably greater than what you have just experienced.”
41. A CALL FOR ASSISTANCE
About five minutes after Worth and Cleo had departed, the three of us were struggling with our bonds. My jaw throbbed, but the pain had none of the sharpness or intensity that would have indicated broken bones. I hoped Holmes had fared similarly well.
Lucy was the first to free her hands. She quickly removed the towel that had gagged her. “I saw him hit you both,” she said, her fingers now busy undoing the towel from Holmes’s face. “Are you all right?”
Holmes nodded. “Thank you, Lucy.”
“Worth is a coward.” She undid the cords from Holmes’s wrists. “I didn’t know how to answer him, so I pretended to faint. I guess I was convincing enough.”
Soon Holmes and I were both free. Holmes went to the balcony window. “The police coach is gone,” he said. “They have taken the young sergeant.”
“Why has he allowed us to escape?” I asked.
“He is toying with us, Watson,” Holmes replied.
“Letting us go, the way a cat plays with a mouse,” said Lucy grimly.
We found Miss Rosario in the adjoining room. She lay on a single bed, blinking her eyes and twisting as Lucy turned on the electric light. In a moment, Holmes removed the hand towel that had gagged her and set to work loosening the cords that bound her wrists and ankles. She asked for water. Lucy went to the kitchen to fill a glass. Shortly after, we were relieved to see Miss Rosario sit up, take a few sips and then a long drink. She appeared alert, but confused.
“I have no recollection of how I came to be here,” she said. “But I am grateful that you came to rescue me. I heard voices—are you all unhurt?”
Holmes nodded. “Do you think you can stand up?”
“I think so.” She looked at me somewhat dazedly. “One minute I was with you, and about to fetch my violin from its cabinet, and the next . . . I was here.” She shrugged. “I have been awake for some time, but I have no recollection. A mystery.”
“But not insoluble,” said Holmes. “Can you recal
l anything at all from when you were in your flat? Something in the air, perhaps?”
Her beautiful dark eyes widened in recognition. “There was a strange odor. Dust or smoke. Then something wet, clapped over my mouth and nostrils.”
“There is still dust on your forehead,” said Holmes. He took from his waistcoat pocket the small vial we had obtained from Clevering’s possessions, drew out the cork, and held the open vial up to where Miss Rosario could catch the scent.
“That is the odor I recall from this morning,” she said. “What is it?”
“A South American herb known as Devil’s breath, or hyoscine. It induces a temporary amnesia. Native tribes use it in their religious rituals.” He turned to me. “I believe Mr. Clevering was employing it to keep his superior minister in a state of incompetence, so that he could act as his replacement and attend certain high-level government meetings.”
“So that is why he traveled to Bowood each day,” I said, as the realization set in. “And Clevering’s murderer knew that he carried the vial with him. He used a bomb rather than a gun in hopes of destroying that vial and preventing the police from learning how Lord Lansdowne had been manipulated.”
“The effects are quite temporary.” Holmes looked reassuringly at Miss Rosario. “You were also injected with a sedative, or forced to drink one. But since that has clearly worn off and you are awake, you should be able to come with us.”
“But why were you taken in the first place?” asked Lucy. “Can you remember anything they said?”
“Perhaps later I will be able to recall something useful.”
Holmes’s voice took on a note of urgency. “We need a police coach to take us to a place of safety. Also, we must have a warrant issued for the arrest of Worth, Blake, and Cleo on charges of kidnapping and murder. Watson, can you please determine if there is a telephone here? If there is, please call Scotland Yard and arrange for them to send a police coach as quickly as possible. We cannot stay here long, and I do not want the four of us to be walking unarmed in the fog.” He gave a glance at the doorway and continued, “Colonel Moran may be nearby, in the flat connected to this one. While you make the arrangements, I shall remain here with Miss Rosario and Miss James.”
I found the telephone in a cramped little alcove built for the purpose into a small room that was lined with shelves and leather-bound books and contained a desk and two small chairs. There were no papers on the desk, only an inkwell and an ink-stained blotter. I was sorely tempted to go through the desk drawers, for I believed the room was Worth’s office and I thought it possible Worth might have left some clue as to his operations. But time was short. We needed to alert the police to the events that had occurred.
I rang the Diogenes Club, hoping that the Commissioner was still there. There was no response. Then it took me several minutes to reach the duty officer at Scotland Yard, and several more until I was able to convince them to send help.
Shortly afterward we waited together for the police coach to arrive. Miss Rosario sat beside Lucy. I was grateful to see that she appeared stronger and more alert, although she leaned against Lucy for support.
Miss Rosario said, “I have remembered something. I was just awakening in the room where you found me, not long before you arrived. Mr. Worth was talking to a man he called Blake. They were discussing how they would send a message to you—a note, giving the location where I was being held and demanding that you go there if you wanted to see me alive.”
“Was the location here?”
“They said something about a carriage house.”
“They wanted you to go back to Clapham Common,” I said, “where they could kill you as they did Foster.”
“More likely they wanted to hold me prisoner there.”
“And then savor your humiliation, after they had completed their mission. You heard Worth say he wanted you to be remembered as a spectacular failure.”
“He also said he had recently changed his mind,” said Lucy. “So the plan to humiliate you was not part of his original scheme.”
Holmes nodded. “I am not so vain as to suppose my humiliation would have a value of one million pounds sterling. Yet Worth has added this personal touch, which demonstrates his strong desire to avenge his brother. Let us hope that we can somehow use his emotional attachment to our advantage.” Then he turned to Miss Rosario. “They were watching when I visited you Sunday night. They saw me take you away. They followed us to the Diogenes Club. They knew you would return to your flat for your violin. Seeing us together, they deduced that you were . . . important to me.”
“So was I to be the bait for a trap?” she asked.
Whatever response Holmes would have made to this observation was lost, for at that moment came the sound of a police whistle. Looking down from the balcony we saw the fog had begun to clear. A police coach was coming to a stop outside.
42. A MATTER OF HONOR
After a brief ride in the police coach we stopped and Holmes asked me to get out. I did so, immediately feeling a strong wind from the north. The fog had vanished. I realized that we had stopped on Pall Mall just opposite the Diogenes Club. Before us were several tall residential buildings, their white limestone facades gleaming cold and austere in the light of a nearly full moon.
Holmes climbed down to stand beside me and drew a key from his pocket. “This is Mycroft’s building. His rooms are on the second floor. We had best not bring the ladies to the Diogenes Club, since we know Moran has already struck there. It would likewise be foolish to risk the half hour’s drive through the dangerous side streets of the Docklands in order to take them to Mr. Rockefeller’s yacht. But we must find a safe haven where Miss Rosario and Miss James can rest and recover.”
He handed me the key and continued, “Please open Mycroft’s outer door as soon as you see the ladies step out of the coach. We can then all mount the stairs and explain the situation to Mycroft. He will understand the need for his immediate hospitality.”
So it was that I approached the heavy black-painted door to Mycroft’s building, my memory going back to the predawn incursion Mycroft had made on our Baker Street rooms less than three days before, and thinking that now we were about to return the favor. Then I heard a familiar, youthful voice call, “Dr. Watson!” I turned and saw young Mr. Rockefeller running at full speed toward me across Pall Mall.
He drew up beside me, his breath coming in frosty clouds after his exertion. “Have you seen Lucy? She said she was coming to the Diogenes Club but she is not there. Mother is quite worried.”
Then Holmes was beside us. “We need to be mindful of the dangers of moonlight, Mr. Rockefeller. We can escort the ladies as soon as Dr. Watson has opened this door.”
Soon the five of us had mounted the wide, carpeted stairs of a luxuriously appointed entry hall, and I was knocking at the dark-stained heavy oaken door to the second-floor flat.
There was no response. “Mycroft,” said Holmes. “Are you there?”
From within came Mycroft’s cheery voice. “Where else would I be at this hour?”
The door opened, and Mycroft stood before us, a red silk smoking jacket wrapped over the wide expanse of his evening shirt and white tie. We were quickly ushered into his spacious sitting room. Electric lights on the wall and ceiling revealed comfortable leather furniture as inviting as any of the chairs at the Diogenes Club. Glancing around the room I saw dark green walls hung with landscapes and other memorabilia, and five chessboards lined up on a long side table, each evidencing different stages of play. Beside each lay an opened letter neatly clipped to a mailing envelope. I also caught the scent of a rather sweet cigar, which was puzzling, since no one in the room was smoking and I did not recall Mycroft ever having indulged in the habit.
Mycroft greeted Miss James and young Mr. Rockefeller by name and nodded respectfully to Miss Rosario. “Well done, Sherlock,” he said. “I take it this is Miss R
osario? Madam, you are most welcome here. Would you ladies please be seated on the sofa? I perceive you are in need of sustenance, Miss Rosario.” He turned to a young and extremely competent-looking man who had appeared behind him. “This is Stamford, my valet. He will bring scones and tea with plenty of cream.”
A very short while later we had all been served and Miss Rosario, looking far more comfortable, thanked Mycroft for his hospitality. Mycroft continued, “I have another unexpected guest this evening.” Raising his voice slightly, he continued, “Richard, will you please join us? I believe you know all these people.”
Whereupon we saw gliding in from the adjacent library, holding a lit cigar and wearing his customary evening wear, Richard D’Oyly Carte.
Carte looked quite as self-possessed and assured as he had in his office Friday night. “Mr. Holmes and Dr. Watson! And Miss James and Miss Rosario. And the name of this young gentleman is . . .”
“John Rockefeller Jr., at your service.”
“Of course, and what a coincidence!” Carte shook young Rockefeller’s proffered hand. “Young man, I came here because your father telephoned me! He was concerned about the security at our performance tomorrow evening, and he worried that Miss James had gone missing.” Carte turned to Holmes with a smile. “But she is clearly safe, thanks no doubt to you, Mr. Holmes. Perhaps you can reassure me that Mr. Rockefeller—Senior—has no cause for concern?”
“To the contrary. He and all who attend the meeting are in danger. As are you and your troupe.”
Carte took several rapid puffs on his cigar. “Mr. Holmes, I thank you for your candor. However, before we continue, I cannot help but observe that two of my most important performers are here with us at a late hour and in what must be a state of fatigue. If there is a telephone here, I should like to summon a carriage from the Savoy to take both these ladies to wherever they choose to rest for the night. Each of you is welcome to stay at the Savoy as my personal guest.”
The Last Moriarty Page 17