by Rob Nunn
“Then if the Foreign Minister and Phelps were the only people with knowledge that Phelps was to copy the treaty that night, the thief’s presence in the room was purely accidental. He saw his chance and he took it.”
“Precisely,” Mycroft nodded.
“What are the results if the details of the treaty become known?”
“Very grave results.”
“And have they occurred?”
“Not yet. If the treaty had reached another country’s Foreign Office, I would have known.”
“The thief has not been fielding bids for the highest price?”
“No. And if he waits much longer, he will get no price at all. It will not be a secret in a few months.”
“Very instructive...,” Holmes muttered.
“About Mr. Phelps,” Watson cut in, “how will he fare in all of this?”
“This incident will have a very prejudicial effect upon his career,” Mycroft answered, shaking his head. “It is a shame, for what his uncle has said of him, Mr. Phelps was a most trustworthy and tactful employee.”
“His uncle?” Holmes asked.
“Why Sherlock!” Mycroft laughed. “The Foreign Minister is Percy Phelps’ uncle. You are lacking in many facts of this case, brother. Perhaps I should also tell you about the commissionaire’s wife that was visiting him at the office that night or Mr. Phelps’ coworker, Charles Gorot, who was the last person in the office before Phelps took out the treaty?”
“No, this information will be enough. Thank you, Mycroft,” Holmes said. As they parted ways for the day, Holmes said to Watson, “Doctor, I believe tomorrow we should go check on your patient.”
When Holmes and Watson arrived in Woking the next day, they found Percy Phelps very agitated. There had been an attempted break-in the night before, in the very room that Phelps was recuperating. Watson introduced Holmes as someone who might be able to help recover his missing treaty.
“Mr. Phelps, I believe I can present the treaty to you tomorrow morning if you would allow me one thing,” Holmes offered.
“Anything!” Phelps replied.
“You must return to London today with Watson. Tell your fiancée that it is under his orders as your physician and that the house should be closed up until you return.”
Confused, Phelps looked at Watson.
Shrugging, Watson replied, “I have known Mr. Holmes for years and he produces results. My recommendation to you would be to pack your bags for London.”
Once Phelps assented, he had his fiancée pack him items for two days of travel and ordered the house to be closed up. Holmes, Watson and Phelps headed to the train station, where Holmes ordered two tickets to London.
“Two?” Watson inquired.
“Please set up Mr. Phelps in your old room at Baker Street, and I will meet you there tomorrow for breakfast.”
“But my patients, Holmes!”
“We’ve discussed your neighbor’s lack of patients. He clearly has time to watch your practice for a few hours while you save England from war.” Holmes handed Watson the tickets and strode away.
The next morning, Watson was in the Baker Street rooms as ordered, waiting beside Percy Phelps when the door burst open and Holmes strode in.
“You’ve found it?” Phelps asked eagerly.
“You will do me the liberty of enjoying breakfast, Mr. Phelps. Remember that I have breathed thirty miles of Surrey air this morning.” Turning the door, he shouted, “Mrs. Hudson!”
The landlady brought in three covered dishes as the men sat at the table, Holmes buoyant, Watson curious, and Phelps beside himself with anticipation.
“Mrs. Hudson has risen to the occasion. Her cuisine is a little limited, but she has as good an idea of breakfast as a Scotchwoman. Mr. Phelps, please help yourself to some sustenance.”
“Thank you, I can eat nothing,” Phelps said.
“Oh, come! Try the dish before you!”
“Thank you, I would rather not.”
“Well then,” Holmes urged, “I suppose that you have no objection to helping me? Please lift the lid, Mr. Phelps.”
Phelps did so and uttered a scream as he stared down at the missing treaty on his breakfast plate.
“Watson here will tell you that I never can resist a touch of the dramatic,” Holmes smiled.
“God bless you, Mr. Holmes! You have saved my honor!”
“So I have,” Holmes said as he swallowed a cup of coffee and turned his attention to his ham and eggs. “I wouldn’t expect to see your fiancée’s brother anytime soon. He is the thief. I caught him as he retrieved the papers from a floorboard of your sick room - his old bedroom. When I approached him, he struck at me with a knife, but he found himself on the ground, able to see out of only one eye.”
“He is a villain and a thief!” Phelps cried.
“Hum! I was asked to retain the treaty, not arrest ruffians, so I could not tell you what has happened to him. But he is a gentleman to whose mercy I should be extremely unwilling to trust.”
“How did you know where the papers were?” Phelps asked.
“My analysis was that he came to visit you that night in your office, rang the bell when you were not in, saw the treaty lying out, took it and fled in hopes of selling it to another country’s representative. When you took ill and were being tended to ‘round the clock, he had no way of retrieving the papers. But when you were beginning to regain your strength, you were no longer in need of a nurse to sit by you through the night. He saw his chance to retrieve the papers, hoping you were asleep. After that attempt failed, I knew that he would jump at the chance to enter the room while you were away and in London. And now the Queen’s realm can rest easy.”
“And to think that during these long weeks of agony, the stolen papers were within the very room with me all the time!”
“So it was, Mr. Phelps,” Holmes responded, nodding to Watson.
“Percy, if you don’t plan on eating breakfast...” Watson began.
“Not at all, Watson,” Phelps chirped. “I must return these to the Foreign Office immediately. Thank you, thank you, Mr. Holmes!”
Holmes saluted Phelps with his fork as the man rushed out the door. Turning to Watson, he said, “Now, Watson, does your practice require you back so soon, or can you read to me the story from the Times I see about the Garcia murder case? Inspector Baynes is doing fine work these days, and he is one for me to keep my eye on...”
Chapter 11: Fly for Your Life
Watson’s practice continued to flourish and grow. While he treated cases of apoplexy, dyspnoea and rheumatism, Holmes continued to steer his agency while also chipping away at his rival’s. As 1889 rolled into 1890, Holmes’ organization faced a major setback when his counterfeiting operation was discovered.
The counterfeiting operation was set up in an old country house in Berkshire. It was a steady and quiet source of income, until the hydraulic press used in the counterfeiting of coins stopped working. Holmes always expected to know when routine processes were upset and would approve of the routes to correct them. But the man overseeing the counterfeiting, a retired army colonel, named Lysander Stark, chafed at what he felt were the overly restrictive practices of Holmes’ empire, and scoffed at his assistant’s reminder that he should wire to London to let them know of the issue.
Stark decided to take care of the matter himself, and tracked down an apprentice hydraulic engineer to get the machine back in gear to resume the process. When the engineer became inquisitive of the operation, Stark attempted to murder the man, but only managed to sever his thumb with a cleaver. Worried that Stark’s attempt to repair the press would lead to the authorities being alerted and his comfortable position in Holmes’ empire being endangered, his assistant, Mr. Ferguson, rushed out to telegraph Holmes.
Holmes received the news bitterly,
and thought back to the debacle of the opium den years earlier. He ordered Ferguson to torch the building before it could be found out, dealing a heavy blow to the finances of his own organization. Holmes sent word to Stark that his services were no longer needed and suggested that he spend time on the Continent. Knowing a veiled threat when he saw one, Colonel Stark immediately embarked on a trip to India, and was never seen in England again.
Just a few months after this fiasco, murmurs of a lost train began to circulate around London. Intrigued, Holmes began to look into the issue. After an uneventful day investigating pawnbrokers’ shops in areas of interest, Holmes discussed the matter with Watson back at his practice that evening.
“There is a powerful force behind this, Watson. You can tell an old master by the sweep of his brush. I can tell a Moriarty when I see one.”
“But what is the profit in making a train disappear? Moriarty is not in this business for showmanship.”
“That is what I intend to find out. Moriarty is not a showman, but perhaps he appreciates a touch of the dramatic, as do I. The chain of events is certainly one of extraordinary interest. My instinct now is to work form the other end. Instead of investigating the missing train, perhaps I should investigate the missing passengers that had engaged it.”
After a day of furious correspondence, Holmes met Watson at Baker Street the next evening to update his old friend on his progress. “We have our man, Watson! Although official circles are reluctant to discuss the matter, I have found that the two men who engaged the lost special were Louis Caratal, a well-known financier and political agent in Central America, and his violent, but loyal ally, Eduardo Gomez. The two men were on their way to Paris with all due speed to deliver incriminating information on some of the greatest men in France. Certainly, this evidence he held would mean ruin to all of them.”
“Then Caratal was targeted by these men and they made sure that he did not arrive?”
“And who would be engaged to carry out such a task? My supposition that Professor Moriarty is behind this mystery is strengthened.”
Holmes spread out his big map of London and leaned eagerly over it. “It is certain that the train left Kenyon Junction. It is certain that it did not reach Barton Moss. It may have taken one of the seven available side lines, but we may reduce our improbables to the three open lines, which I exhausted yesterday.”
Holmes lit it pipe and stared hard at the map while Watson watched in rapt attention. “It is highly unlikely, but still possible that it may have departed the listed railways,” Holmes continued. “Where would an engine and passenger car be disposed of branching off from this line?”
After tracing numerous paths with his forefinger and muttering about each of their likelihoods, Holmes finally stood back up after almost an hour hunched over the map. “You have a grand gift of silence, Watson,” said he. “It makes you quite invaluable as a companion. ’Pon my word, it is a great thing for me to have someone to talk to, for my own thoughts are not over-pleasant.”
“You have it then?” Watson asked.
“I believe I do. Hearthstone mine is some miles away from this path, but it used to be connected. An ingenious schemer could see that it would only require replacing a few rails to connect it once more. Once done so, the lost special could be smoothly thrown full speed into the abandoned mine and Monsieur Caratal would no longer be a threat to anyone. Moriarty has done it beautifully if I am correct. I would look over the site of the mine, but already know that no clues have been left. And if anyone were to be investigating the area, placing myself in proximity to the mine would only lead suspicion back to our doorstep.”
“Then your interest in this mystery is over so quickly?”
“I may pen an anonymous letter to direct inquiry, but there is nothing for me to gain in following this line of reasoning. No, we may score one for Professor Moriarty, Watson. This endeavor shows just what a dangerous foe he is.”
Looking for a new line of revenue after the counterfeiting catastrophe, Holmes turned to gambling circles, particularly horse races. A fan of betting on the horses now and again himself, Holmes hired George Burnwell and Fitzroy Simmons to build up a bookmaking operation while he infiltrated the local syndicates that unofficially oversaw the local horse races. Holmes maneuvered around London and its surrounding area, making inroads with the notables in each ring. Through promises of profits, and some threats of exposure, Holmes was allowed to have a say in many horse racing matters.
When Silver Blaze, the favorite to win the Wessex Cup, disappeared, it threatened to upend his entire gambling organization. Hesitant to travel to Dartmoor after the area’s nonsensical reaction to the ghost hound events in the news two years prior, Holmes’ boredom finally won out and he found himself scouring the moor in search of the missing horse. There Holmes eventually found Silver Blaze at a competitor’s stable. The stable happened to be owned by Lord Backwater, the same man that Holmes had turned down when he offered to hire him for a job on the night of McMurdo’s benefit fight years ago.
Backwater knew that he stood to lose money on yet another race, but was keen to keep up appearances by entering his horse nonetheless. When the consulting criminal showed up at his gate, Backwater agreed to keep the horse hidden from the public until race time and make a small profit on the side with gambling. Using this information to his advantage, Holmes’ bookmakers raked in bet after bet that resulted in one of the greatest windfalls in horse racing history.
Holmes used some of this windfall to finance an extended trip to France on New Year’s Day 1891. While the day-to-day operations were left to his trusted lieutenants, Holmes continued to order attacks on Moriarty’s crime syndicate. Providence allowed him to cross paths with a small Moriarty operation within days of his arrival in Narbonne, which he happily derailed with little effort.
Merridew, an abominable man that Holmes held in such low regard, had orchestrated a quick but profitable robbery of the Franco-Midland Hardware Company. Included in the man’s haul was a sizeable payment from the French government for a contract they had just placed with the company. Although Holmes would not benefit in any way from this, he quietly tipped off police agents, and Merridew and his spoils were hastily picked up, dealing a large monetary blow to Moriarty.
But Moriarty’s organization was a busy one, and the following month, Holmes’ international agents informed him of a plot Moriarty was hatching against the royal family of Scandinavia. Through well-placed intermediaries, Holmes toppled the plan and word reached the royals through back channels that a Mr. Sherlock Holmes of London was to thank. A quiet but sizable thank you was made to one of Holmes’ discreet bank accounts soon after.
After this endeavor, Holmes returned home. He had been back in London only a few days when Moriarty finally made just a little trip. It was small, but it was more than he could afford after years of Holmes being so close upon him. Holmes took his chance and wove a net round Moriarty until it was ready to close. He had the locations and evidence on all of the key players in Moriarty’s organization and had coordinated with Inspector Patterson of the Yard to collect the head and lieutenants of his rival’s organization. The plan only needed a few more days for every lieutenant to be back in London and available for the coordinated capture.
On the morning of April 24th, Holmes was sitting in his room, reading the latest publication by Sven Hedin, when the door opened and Professor Moriarty stood before him.
Surprised, Holmes looked upon the man who had plagued his organization for the past four years. This was their first face-to-face interaction, but Holmes was quite familiar with how his nemesis looked. In the doorway stood an extremely tall and thin man, with a forehead that domed out into a white curve that sat over two deeply sunken eyes. His shoulders rounded, Moriarty’s face protruded forward in an ever slowly oscillating motion from side to side in a reptilian fashion.
“You hav
e less frontal development than I should have expected,” Moriarty greeted Holmes as he peered from the doorway with great curiosity through his puckered eyes. “It is a dangerous habit to finger loaded firearms in the pocket of one’s dressing gown.”
Holmes drew the revolver out of his pocket and laid it cocked upon the table beside him.
Moriarty smiled and his puckered eyes blinked at Holmes. “You evidently don’t know me.”
“On the contrary,” Holmes answered, “I think it is fairly evident that I do. Pray take a chair. I can spare you five minutes if you have anything to say.”
“All that I have to say has already crossed your mind.”
“Then my answer has crossed yours.”
Moriarty’s head continued to move from side to side. “You stand fast?”
Not moving a muscle, Holmes replied, “Absolutely.”
Moriarty clapped his hand to his pocket. Holmes’ hand darted forward and raised the pistol at the professor. But Moriarty only produced a memorandum book and began to read from it.
“You crossed my path in France on the 4th of January. On the 23rd you incommoded me here in London. By the middle of February my activity with the royal family of Scandinavia was seriously inconvenienced by you. At the end of March I was absolutely hampered in my plans by your organization’s existence. And now, at the close of April, I find myself placed in such a position through your continual persecution that I am in positive danger of losing my liberty. The situation is becoming an impossible one.”
“Have you any suggestion to make?” Holmes asked, hand still on the revolver.
“I do. Imagine what the two of our organizations could accomplish under the same banner. Nothing would be beyond our reach if we worked in conjunction instead of opposing each other.”
“I suppose the banner that flew over the union would bear the Moriarty name.”
“It is the only way. My men will not succumb. Their hatred of you knows no bounds.”
“I am quite aware of it. I believe three of them have already vowed to murder me the first chance they have. I would rather cease all business today than be associated with such men. My organization strives to elevate crime to a gentlemanly manner.”