by Rob Nunn
On their way to Sussex, MacDonald filled the two men in on what details he had. John Douglas had been found dead from a shotgun blast to the head. The alarm had been raised close to midnight, but so far, no arrest had been made.
When their train arrived, the three men were met by the chief Sussex Detective, White Mason, who took the men to the manor house, which lay encircled by a moat. White Mason filled in more details for the newcomers. He had found a sawed-off shotgun with an American inscription on the barrel. The bridge had been pulled up overnight and no signs of anyone exiting the moat were found on the far side.
Holmes moved into the study and inspected the body of the deceased. A shotgun blast had been administered at close range, leaving most of the victim’s face unrecognizable. Holmes noticed a small piece of plaster on the angle of Douglas’ jaw, apparently from shaving the day before. An old branded triangle was on Douglas’ arm, and his wedding ring was missing. Beside the dead man lay a card with “V.V.” and “341” printed on it. A large hammer lay on the ground, a smudge of blood like a boot mark was upon the windowsill, and a single dumbbell lay under the side table.
Mr. Cecil Barker was introduced to the men as an old friend of Mr. Douglas from California. Barker was a frequent visitor and friend who had been in the house the previous night. He heard the shot while in the guest room, rushed downstairs and saw the body of his friend and rang for the servants. When Douglas’ wife appeared, Barker convinced her to return to her room upstairs. Mrs. Douglas corroborated Barker’s story, but Holmes was surprised to hear that she had been talked into returning upstairs before seeing her husband’s body.
After meeting with Mrs. Douglas and the servants, Holmes dispatched Watson to the village inn, while he remained at the murder scene. Holmes returned about five that evening with a ravenous appetite.
“My dear Watson, when I have exterminated that fourth egg I will be ready to put you in touch with the whole situation. I don’t say that we have fathomed it - far from it - but when we have traced the missing dumbbell-”
“The dumbbell!”
“Dear me, Watson, is it possible that you have not penetrated the fact that the case hangs upon the missing dumbbell? Well, well, you need not be downcast, for between ourselves, I don’t think that Inspector Mac or the local practitioner has grasped the overwhelming importance of this incident.”
Holmes lit his pipe and talked slowly, “A lie, Watson - a great big, thumping, uncompromising lie. The whole story told by Barker is a lie. But Barker’s story is corroborated by Mrs. Douglas. Therefore she is lying also. What are they trying to conceal? And what is Moriarty’s role in all of this? I think that an evening alone in that study would help me much. I shall sit in that room and see if its atmosphere brings me inspiration. By the way, you have that big umbrella of yours; I’ll borrow that, if I may.”
“Certainly - but what a wretched weapon! If there is danger...”
“Nothing serious, Watson, or I should certainly ask for your assistance. But I’ll take the umbrella.”
The next morning after breakfast, Holmes asked MacDonald to send a note to Barker telling him that they planned to drain the moat the following day. The two officials objected to this maneuver, citing its impossibility, but Holmes admitted that it was only a ruse. After the note was delivered, Holmes, Watson, and the two detectives waited for the next step, which would come later that night.
After taking up a hiding spot on the far side of the moat that evening, Holmes, Watson, MacDonald and White Mason settled in for a long vigil. Finally, the window from the study was thrown open, and a man’s shadow appeared. The man leaned out the window and stirred up the moat, attempting to fish something out of it. Running swiftly across the bridge, Holmes and his companions burst into the manor house and down to the study.
When they arrived in the study, Cecil Barker turned around, with a wet bundle at his feet. “What the devil is the meaning of all this? What are you after?”
Holmes replied, “This is what we are after, Mr. Barker. This bundle, weighted with a dumbbell, which you have just raised from the bottom of the moat.”
Barker stared in amazement. “How in thunder do you know anything about this?”
“Simply that I put it there. Perhaps I should have said that I replaced it there. When water is near and a weight is missing it is not a very far-fetched supposition that something has been sunk in the water. Last night, with the crook of Dr. Watson’s umbrella, I was able to fish up and inspect this bundle. It was of the first importance, however, that we should be able to prove who placed it there. This we accomplished by the very obvious device of announcing that the moat would be dried tomorrow. So, Mr. Barker, I think the word lies now with you.”
White Mason picked up the sopping bundle, put it on the side table and undid the tie. He drew out a dumbbell, a pair of American made boots, a long knife and a bundle of commonplace American clothes. Turning back to Barker, he said, “We will keep you here until we have the warrant and can hold you.”
Barker stared defiantly back at the policemen and they stared at their captive. The deadlock was broken by a woman’s voice behind them.
“You have done enough for us, Cecil,” Mrs. Douglas said, entering the room. “Whatever comes of it in the future, you have done enough.”
“Mrs. Douglas,” Holmes said, “I should strongly recommend that you ask Mr. Douglas to tell his own story.”
Mrs. Douglas gave a cry of astonishment, but a man did appear, blinking as one who has just come into the light from the dark. “And you’ll have it, gentlemen,” Mr. John Douglas said. “Can I smoke as I talk? You’ll guess what it is to be sitting for two days with tobacco in your pocket and afraid that the smell will give you away.”
“Well, this beats me!” cried Inspector MacDonald. “If you are Mr. John Douglas, of Birlstone Manor, then whose death have we been investigating, and where in the world have you sprung from now?”
John Douglas leaned against the mantelpiece and told his story. He told the men that his real name was Birdy Edwards, a Pinkerton detective from Chicago. He had infiltrated a secret society in Pennsylvania and had to flee to England once he had been found out. Three days ago, Douglas spotted Ted Baldwin, an old American enemy, in a neighboring town. He knew to be on guard from then on out. The next night, Baldwin came for him after the house had been shut up and Douglas was making his nightly rounds. Douglas spotted Baldwin hiding behind the curtain of the study just in time to grab a hammer as Baldwin sprang at him with a knife. After an initial struggle, Baldwin pulled a shotgun from under his coat, and as they fought, the shotgun went off in Baldwin’s face.
Cecil Barker was the only one to have heard the shotgun blast and hurried to the room. Seeing the same brand from the secret society on the dead man that was on his own arm, Douglas decided to trade identities with the would be assassin, and enlisted Barker’s help. The dead man was quickly dressed in Douglas’ clothes, and a piece of plaster was applied to what was left of his jaw and the murderer’s clothes were lowered into the moat. The only thing Douglas didn’t place on the dead man was his wedding ring, saying he couldn’t bear to part with it. A fake boot mark was placed upon the windowsill to make it look like the murderer had escaped, and Douglas went into hiding. After letting Mrs. Douglas know what had happened, Barker raised the alarm, and the investigation began.
The room sat in silence after Douglas’ tale until it was broken by Holmes. “I would ask you how did this man know that you lived here, how to get into your house, or where to hide to get you?”
“I know nothing of this,” Douglas answered.
Holmes already knew, though, and very gravely responded, “The story is not over yet, I fear. You may find worse dangers than the English law, or even than your enemies from America. I see trouble before you, Mr. Douglas. You’ll take my advice and still be on your guard.”
Within a few days, John Douglas was quickly acquitted as having acted in self-defense and Holmes wrote to his wife, “Get him out of England at any cost. There are forces here which may be more dangerous than those he has escaped. There is no safety for your husband in England.”
Two months went by, and Holmes continued his investigations into Moriarty’s operation while keeping his own working smoothly, when, one morning, a note was slipped into Holmes’ letter box that simply read, “Dear me, Mr. Holmes! Dear me!”
“Devilry, Watson!” Holmes remarked and sat quietly after that.
That night, a note from Cecil Barker appeared with disturbing news: Douglas and his wife had been on a ship bound for South Africa, and he was lost overboard. No one could say how the accident occurred.
“Ha! It came like that, did it?” Holmes said, thoughtfully. “Well, I’ve no doubt it was well stage-managed.”
“You mean that you think there was no accident?” Watson asked.
“None in the world. There is a master hand here. It is no case of sawed-off shotguns.”
“But for what motive?”
“Because it is done by a man who cannot afford to fail - one whose whole unique position depends upon the fact that all he does must succeed. A great brain and a growing organization have been turned to the extinction of one man. It is crushing the nut with the hammer - an absurd extravagance of energy - but the nut is very effectually crushed all the same.
“Having an English job to do and knowing that I would not deal in murder for hire, they took into partnership this new consultant in crime. From that moment their man was doomed. At first he would content himself by using his machinery in order to find their victim. Then he would indicate how the matter might be treated. Finally, when he read in the reports of the failure of this agent, he would step in himself with a master touch.”
Stunned, Watson asked, “Do you tell me that we have to sit down under this? Do you say that no one can ever stop this king-devil?”
“No, I don’t say that,” Holmes said, his grey eyes looking to the future. “I don’t say that he can’t be beat. But you must give me time - you must give me time!”
Chapter 8: The Dominant Mind
The remainder of 1888 found Professor Moriarty increasing his efforts to wrest control of the criminal world from Sherlock Holmes. But the two intellectual adversaries knew that a war between their organizations would only end up hurting everyone involved, and even the winner could not come out of such a battle unscathed. Instead, these two criminal masterminds spent the next few months performing crimes that rang all across London and the continent, and caused London’s criminals to pick a side in the battle.
Holmes was first to strike. After his defeat by allowing John Douglas to be murdered, Holmes dearly wished to reclaim his good name. Being a man who loved to dominate and surprise those who were around him, Holmes’ next feat would be one that was the talk of two countries. Alexandre Lecomte had recently inherited his family’s estate outside of Paris. But before the young man was able to move in, Holmes’ associates slipped in under the cover of night and removed numerous paintings and jewels from the house. They were soon distributed to dealers in Riga, Latvia and St. Louis in the United States. One of France’s most prominent detectives, Francois Le Villard investigated the theft. Holmes admired the man’s quick intuition, for he was able to immediately deduce how the robbers gained access to the manor and how they were able to move the takings out so quickly. But Holmes knew that he could be beaten when it came to his exact knowledge of practical matters, and LeVillard was unable to trace the thieves’ multiple routes out of the country. Therefore, he was able to catch up to the stolen goods only after rumors of their individual sales drifted back to France months later. Holmes’ empire benefited greatly from the sales, and the authorities were left clueless by the crime.
Professor Moriarty was not a man who let the grass grow under his feet. His next crime was local but no less notorious. For weeks, the Nonparieil Club in London had been rumored to have an unbeatable whist player. Being a private club, the rumors stayed unfounded. The members of the club were hesitant to discuss the unbeatable man, Colonel Upwood, with outsiders. Not only was the man impossible to beat, but he had taken each of the members for grand sums of money. Colonel Upwood behaved so atrociously during his card games that the club feared public disgrace and for the honor of individual members for associating with such a man. Once the colonel had won all that he could from his club mates and some became suspicious of his methods, he quickly disappeared, citing an impending trip to Africa. Upwood was a known associate of Moriarty’s lieutenant, Colonel Moran, so Holmes and most of the underworld knew that Moriarty had orchestrated, and most likely benefitted greatly, from the famous card scandal.
Holmes followed his lucrative Parisian heist by returning to one of his quieter, but steady forms of income: helping people to disappear from unpleasant situations. Amy Davenport was a beautiful young woman scheduled to have her coming out ceremony, when her stepmother woke one morning to find her gone without a trace on the day that she was to be presented at St. James’ Palace. Miss Davenport’s stepmother had done all of the necessary preparation for the presentation and had done all she could to make her stepdaughter a wildly coveted debutante that season. But unbeknownst to her, the young woman had employed Sherlock Holmes to escape the wicked woman. Miss Davenport had learned that her stepmother planned to use her debutante season as a way to marry her off to the richest suitor, despite Miss Davenport’s own preference for travelling abroad. Holmes listened to tales of the stepmother’s behavior, and after pocketing his fee, arranged for the young lady’s disappearance to New York. The stepmother was imprisoned for a time on a charge of murder, but when no proof could be produced, she was acquitted. The whole affair created such an uproar that her name never carried much cache in polite society again.
Moriarty’s next work was blackmailing Dr. Robert Crammond, master of The Rugby School, and the most revered name in English education. Dr. Crammond was successfully blackmailed twice, but when Moriarty’s men squeezed him a third time, he refused to pay, showing that Moriarty had gone back to his target one too many times. Moriarty abandoned the scheme, and he allowed pieces of the story to trickle out, letting others know that the professor’s organization was happy to use blackmail as another tool in building his criminal empire.
During these months, Holmes showed an excitement that Watson had rarely seen. One evening, Watson sat, reading the British Medical Journal, when Holmes burst through the door in high spirits.
“A productive day out?” Watson asked as Holmes threw his hat into the basket chair and settled into his own.
“Nothing extraordinary, but this is a stimulating time nonetheless. This grand game Professor Moriarty and I are playing of one-upmanship is quite invigorating. Slips are common to all mortals and the greatest is he who can recognize and exploit them. This time we have got a foeman who is worthy of our steel, Watson!”
“I must say that I am surprised that all of this activity has not taken a toll on you.”
“I have a curious constitution. I never remember feeling tired by work, though idleness exhausts me completely. And, there is nothing more stimulating than a competition where your rival is of this caliber. This work, the pleasure of finding such a field for my peculiar powers is such a reward that it would be unappreciative of me to not acknowledge it.”
“Then you are willing to allow Moriarty to co-exist in London? This is a different strategy than I had expected of you.”
“Hardly. There are times when a brutal front attack is the best policy, but not with a foe such as Moriarty. Not only must I contend with him, but the police also. I fully intend to dismantle his organization, but it must be done slowly. When a crime is coolly premeditated, then the means of covering it are coolly premeditated also. Moriarty must not see how I plan to move again
st him until it is too late.”
“And surely, he has his motives against us,” Watson said.
“Undoubtedly. Remember to keep your revolver near you night and day, and never relax your precautions, for this is a truly dangerous man and he seeks to have our agency as his own.”
“But you must take pains to protect yourself as well, Holmes.”
“Of course, doctor. I am well versed in single stick fighting, as well as Baritsu, the Japanese system of wrestling if it were to come to physical contact. But you surely know that I have other precautions in place. In fact, over the last year, I have made at least five small refuges in different parts of London in which I am able to change my personality. No, I hardly doubt that Moriarty’s agents will detect me, and even so, they would not move against me yet. Moriarty is like a master chess player, and he has not yet meditated his crowning move in his scheming mind. But our time will come, Watson. Soon enough. Now, Watson, ring for Cartwright. I have a job for Mr. Lynch that I would like to have started very soon.”
One evening in September, Holmes and Watson were discussing the finer points of Holmes’ recent Bishopgate jewel heist, when Watson stated that Holmes’ gift for plotting and execution must come from systematic training.
“To some extent,” Holmes answered thoughtfully. “My ancestors were country squires, who appear to have led much the same life as is natural to their class. But, none the less, my turn that way is in my veins, and may have come with my grandmother, who was the sister of Vernet, the French artist. Art in the blood is liable to take the strangest forms.”
Having never heard Holmes refer to his relations before, Watson was keenly interested. “But how do you know that it is hereditary?”