“Thank you, Cleo.”
The policeman removed the helmet, shook loose an array of shining black hair, and the smiling visage of Worth’s daughter was before us.
“The young sergeant’s uniform required a few alterations,” she said. “But it fooled the guard at the front of the building.”
“You killed them both,” said Holmes.
“Never mind that, Mr. Holmes,” Worth said. “You and Dr. Watson. You will sit.”
I followed Holmes’s example and sat cross-legged on the cold concrete, my knee joints and the muscles of my inner thighs protesting from the unfamiliar position as Worth, Blake, and Cleo trained their guns on us. I wondered why Worth had not ordered us restrained in some manner. Then I realized how quickly we could all be shot.
Lucy looked at Holmes and seemed about to speak, but Holmes gestured for her to remain silent. “Come now, Worth.” Holmes’s tone was exasperatingly calm and reasonable. “What were you thinking when you set up this weaponry? Were you planning to rain down death and destruction on the Corsair, knowing that your niece and her mother would be killed?”
Worth consulted his pocket watch. “We have nearly twenty minutes until the performance begins at six o’clock. So there is ample time for you to understand that I am neither a poor planner nor a heartless uncle. Even now, a young street urchin waits in the crowd outside the military barriers. He holds typewritten notes addressed to each of these two ladies, instructing them to come at once if they value their lives. He awaits my signal, but of course that will not be necessary. So Lucy can continue the brilliant career that I have helped put into motion. She will need to sing under a different name, of course, for I am also not such a bungler as to think that after the tragic events that are about to ensue, people might not have cause to question why she and Miss Rosario were not present among the victims. Besides, I shall want to be able to see them both from time to time, and you will naturally understand that it may not be possible for me to remain in London.”
Then, to my astonishment, Holmes said, “Miss James is not your niece. There is no blood connection between her and that reptilian brother of yours.” Holmes turned to Miss Rosario. “Zoe, I would be most grateful if you would confirm this.”
As I stared in wonder, Zoe replied, her voice perfectly composed, “Professor James Moriarty was not Lucy’s father.”
“Then you lied to me,” said Worth.
“Your brother lied to you. He wanted to control me. Since I had rejected his attempt to possess me in one manner, he said he would find pleasure by possessing me in another. Had I told you the truth, he would have had me killed and Lucy would have been left an orphan. I had no choice. He told me he also would gain favor with you if you thought he was continuing the Moriarty bloodline. He said you were obsessed with family. He said you were the oldest, and that your parents took to drink and abandoned you both when you were ten years old. He said he needed access to the funds that you controlled in order to build what he called an ‘organization.’”
She paused and looked at Worth. “You still appear to doubt me. Do you think I could have obtained that information from some other source than your brother?”
Worth stood motionless, his face a mask. Holmes said, “I can supply further corroboration. Your brother spoke to me on the subject when we were together at Reichenbach, though I did not realize his meaning until later. I now see that even twenty-one years ago he had wanted to cause me emotional pain.”
“You were a nobody then, Holmes. Why should my brother have cared about your feelings twenty-one years ago?”
“He was jealous,” said Zoe. “After I rejected him, he had seen me with Sherlock on a number of occasions. He said a trust would be established for the care of my child, but only if I never spoke to Sherlock again. If I failed to obey, both my child and I would be—to use his word—‘discarded.’”
Recognition began to appear on Worth’s cruel features. “Just what did my brother say to you, Mr. Holmes?”
“We were at the Reichenbach Falls. He had just told me that Colonel Moran would kill me if I happened to survive the struggle that we both knew was about to occur.”
“Do not waste my time, Holmes.”
“His exact words are still fresh in my memory. He said, ‘I broke your heart, Holmes, and you never knew who it was that had caused you such pain. Over the years I have savored that knowledge, and I will take that joy with me to the grave.’”
Holmes paused reflectively. “At that time, of course, I was not sure of his meaning, and it has been a vexing puzzle ever since. But Miss Rosario understands the truth of the matter. She has told you how Professor Moriarty forced her to end her relationship with me. She can now confirm that Lucy James is my daughter.”
55. MR. WORTH REACTS
For a long moment there was silence. The shadows around us, the cold light from the windows, the looming presence of the tall dark rows of crates on our right—even the air itself in that cavernous enclosure—seemed to be alive and to press heavily in upon me. I stared at Holmes, then at Zoe, then at Lucy. My heart pounded as I waited for Zoe to reply.
“She is Sherlock’s daughter,” Zoe said firmly. “A few minutes ago on the Corsair he told me that he had deduced the truth. Lucy, he made me promise to tell you—if he did not return.”
Questions whirled through my mind. How long had Holmes known? How had he deduced the truth? How must he feel, knowing he was Lucy’s father? I recalled when we were in Worth’s Piccadilly flat, Holmes had said that we might use Worth’s emotions to our advantage. Was this a last, desperate attempt to infuriate Worth, though at the cost of the only motive Worth had for allowing Lucy to remain alive? Then I realized that we all might die here and that those questions and a thousand others would forever remain unanswered.
Lucy’s eyes were shining, locked on Holmes. Johnny was staring at Lucy in amazement.
It may have been my imagination, but it seemed to me that both Holmes and Lucy were gathering their strength, waiting to spring at Blake or Cleo if either shotgun were to waver. It occurred to me that since I was closest to Worth, I should be following the same plan. It seemed certain that the news of Lucy’s real father—which meant Worth had been supporting the daughter of his mortal enemy for more than two decades—must take its emotional toll. I felt certain that Worth was bound to react soon, and that when he did I must be ready to move. I waited.
“I apologize for misleading you, Lucy,” said Zoe. “After keeping the truth from Sherlock for twenty-one years, I was too ashamed to tell him what had really happened. So I took the path of least resistance and continued with the lie. Sherlock, I am sorry.”
“You need not apologize,” Holmes said. “I am glad you had no physical contact with James Moriarty. To be anywhere near the man was most unpleasant. Even when I was pulling him over the precipice at Reichenbach and sending him to his death, I felt a very strong repugnance.”
Worth was staring at Holmes, blinking rapidly at what I was sure was Holmes’s deliberate provocation. I gathered my inner forces, hoping my middle-aged sinews would not betray me and that I would be able to get to my feet in time.
Then, to my astonishment, Worth turned to me. His face shone with a triumphant smile.
“Dr. Watson,” he said. “Now that I know the true circumstances of Lucy’s birth and the relationship Miss Rosario had with Holmes, I know that both these women are dear to him and, therefore, to yourself. So you will act as I demand, or in the remaining time that we shall spend together here you and Holmes will watch both Lucy and her mother suffer most horribly.”
The shotgun trained on me remained steady. “In just a few minutes the colonel must commence work with his specialized weaponry. So let us begin.”
56. AN IMPOSSIBLE DEMAND
Worth advanced toward me, cradling the shotgun. Then he allowed it to point downward for a moment, holding it under o
ne arm while he reached into his coat pocket with his other hand. As he moved, I felt this was my opportunity to somehow wrest control of the weapon from him. But he was coming closer, and the light was clear enough for me to discern that his finger still grasped the shotgun trigger. Horrible possibilities swept through my imagination: the gun firing both barrels into the concrete; the gun swinging up and the blast connecting with Holmes, or Zoe, or Lucy . . .
I did not act. Still, I thought, if not now, when? Hardly any time remained; Worth had said so himself. I vowed I would stay focused on every moment and not shrink or hesitate if my chance arose.
Worth pulled a rectangular object from his pocket and in one motion tossed it in my direction. It slid across the concrete and landed at my feet. “Please pick it up, Dr. Watson,” Worth said pleasantly. “And please remain seated. You also, Mr. Holmes.”
I picked up the object. It was a leather-bound notebook, of exactly the type that I used to prepare my narratives of the cases that Holmes and I had worked on.
Worth gave no explanation for the notebook. He stepped back from me a few paces toward the window so as to encompass the others in his remarks, puffing out his chest and widening his stance as if he were an orator on a stage or a professor in an auditorium. “To celebrate this Guy Fawkes Night,” he said, “there will soon be a large explosion at the Bank of England.”
“There will be no explosion,” Holmes interrupted. “We found the dynamite your minions stole from the Ardeer factory train. It was in the carriage house of the London Bridge Hospital. It is now at Scotland Yard.”
Worth blinked rapidly for a moment. “You are so clever, Mr. Holmes. But I am the one holding the gun.”
I realized yet another attempt of Holmes’s to distract him had failed.
Worth continued, “Here, as you see, there is no way for the Queen’s Army, Navy, or police forces, or the Pinkertons, to stop us. We hold the higher ground, the militarily superior position. Not one of them will be standing after a few thousand rounds have been fired from our artillery.”
He gestured at the Maxim gun, from which a belt of ammunition cartridges descended, folding upon itself into a pile that filled a large wooden crate to overflowing. A second crate lay beside the first, also overflowing with a cartridge belt. “We also have something special planned for the ships,” he said with a cruel smile. “This second box contains a new form of ammunition supplied by Herr von Herder, whose innovations in weaponry have served Colonel Moran so admirably in the past. These are incendiary bullets, tipped with phosphorus, which as you know is highly combustible. We possess here the modern-day equivalent of the flaming arrows that our ancestors employed to soar over the high walls of a medieval castle and send the occupants running terrified and helpless in the ensuing blaze. Our parallel here is not quite exact, since the fortresses in question are steel ships, and we are shooting down upon them with many thousands of metallic missiles. Also the havoc that results should be greater.”
I drew in my breath as the horrific consequences of this lethal attack flashed through my imagination. Even though the fire might not penetrate the boat deck, the fumes from the conflagration that would consume the upper portion of the ship would poison the air supplied to those below. Rockefeller, Morgan, D’Oyly Carte and his troupe, and many more—they would all die in agony.
“You stored the ammunition on the workbench in your Clapham Common carriage house,” Holmes said.
“Oh, did you find residue?” He glanced at Blake, then shrugged. “That would be an oversight on Blake’s part.”
“He also left Mr. Foster’s identification papers on his body. Was that another oversight?”
At Worth’s shrug, Holmes continued, “I thought not. You killed Foster because he was investigating at the Bank of England. But you wanted to divert attention from the Bank to prevent discovery of your dynamite plot. So you allowed Foster to be identified, and ordered Blake to tell the police that he was investigating at the Savoy Theatre. Blake also left three white ceramic connectors for us to find in the Savoy workshop, and he left an inert dynamite bomb in one of the troupe’s kettledrums—two more of your diversions.”
“You continue your attempts to divert me, Mr. Holmes. But we have very little time remaining here. I have promised myself this moment, and I shall have it. And then hundreds will die in a hail of bullets, and hundreds more will perish in the fires that will come down upon them like brimstone on the judgment day. Blood will have blood.”
“You are mad, indeed,” Holmes said.
Worth ignored the insult and once more he assumed the pose of an orator. “On Saturday I visited the offices of The Strand Magazine, for the idea came to me that I might go beyond my charter, so to speak. In addition to hoodwinking you, succeeding in my mission, and being rewarded in a handsome enough fashion to ensure that my family could build a dynasty forever, I might also rectify the harm that you and Dr. Watson here have done to my brother’s reputation and to our family honor. I might add, the idea sprang to my mind, fully formed.”
Worth looked at me. “So now to business, Dr. Watson. Saturday, a clerk at the Strand offices was perfectly willing to show me your notebooks in exchange for a mere five pounds in ready cash. The notebook you hold, as I am sure you are aware, is identical to those you have employed to present your fictionalized concoctions to your editors at the Strand. Since publishing your abominably libelous tale of my brother and Holmes, they have not told your readers that Holmes has returned. Your readers would gladly pay for news of their lost hero. Your editors would gladly pocket the revenues. So you will write a new account of Mr. Holmes’s latest adventure. The Strand will eagerly publish, knowing it is unassailably authenticated by your own handwriting in one of your own notebooks.”
My heart sank as I recognized the truth of this statement. I shuddered inwardly at the anticipation of what he would say next.
“Your millions of followers will soon read how Sherlock Holmes has confessed his participation in a long-standing criminal venture for his own profit. They will also read how he lied about my brother, intending to deflect blame by casting the innocent Professor James Moriarty in the role of the Napoleon of crime, the role that was in reality played by himself. The final stroke will be his confession of complicity and profit in the plot to assassinate the highest officials of the British government as they assemble here, on Guy Fawkes Night, and his boasts of how he succeeded two hundred and ninety years after the original plan was foiled. Holmes will confess—that is, you will write—that following this last climactic event of his criminal career, he intends to vanish from public view and assume another identity, using his well-known powers of acting and disguise.”
Holmes interrupted. “You let us escape from your Piccadilly flat so that you could recapture us here?”
“No, Mr. Holmes, I am not so driven by my emotions that I would put our main enterprise at risk in order to avenge my brother. The discovery of your bodies might have created a sensation, and caused Mr. Rockefeller and Mr. Morgan to go elsewhere to conduct their business with the British government. If that contingency had arisen, I would have lost a very substantial fee. One million pounds.” Worth bared his teeth in a brief smile. “But your humiliation is a most gratifying bonus for me, nonetheless.”
“How did you know I would deduce your location and come to the warehouse?”
“I did not know. But given your knowledge of Colonel Moran’s previous methods of assassination, it was a reasonable assumption that you would. But the point is no longer relevant. For you are here. And, Dr. Watson, you will now write as I direct you to.”
My heart pounded in my chest and I could barely speak, so stunned was I at the enormity of the outrage I was being commanded to perpetrate. “Never” was what I managed to say.
“In that case, Mr. Blake, will you please carefully deliver a blast from one barrel of your shotgun directly at Miss James where she now sit
s before us, so that you shoot off her right arm.”
I could not help looking at Lucy as Worth spoke his terrifying command. Her eyes rolled back in their sockets and she slumped sideways, collapsing on the concrete floor.
I heard Holmes’s voice behind me. “Do as he says, Watson.”
“I knew you would be reasonable,” Worth replied. “Mr. Blake, you will train your shotgun on Mr. Holmes, and shoot him dead if he moves. Doctor, you will find a reservoir pen fastened in its leather loop inside the cover of the notebook. I shall dictate. You shall write. Begin.”
His hideous distortions and lies came thick and fast. My pen flew across the notebook pages.
After an eternity that was actually not more than five minutes, Worth paused. “There,” he said, coming closer. “Now, let us see how well you have kept up with me. Hold the first page up to the light so that I can read it.”
I did, and Worth saw the seven words I had written, on each page, over and over and over again:
ADAM WORTH IS A DANGEROUS, RAVING LUNATIC.
57. ACTION AND REACTION
I did not know what would result from my refusal to obey Worth’s order. I really had no expectations at all. Holmes doubtless would have anticipated the various forms Worth’s reaction might take, and the consequent advantages or disadvantages that would attach to any subsequent counter move on my part. I, on the other hand, was merely acting from the heart, or perhaps from a stubborn streak in my Scottish makeup that urged defiance against any man like Worth, regardless of risk or peril.
I did not plan my next action, either, nor did I consciously register my surroundings or Worth’s reaction. Holmes would doubtless chide me for my lapse in attentiveness—I can hear him now: “You see, Watson, but you do not observe.” Nonetheless, the events that followed are etched into my recollection as clearly as I see my journal and pen before me at this moment.
The Last Moriarty Page 21