Sherlock Holmes: The Quality of Mercy and Other Stories

by William Meikle

  Moriarty’s voice, that clipped English with a hint of the North, came from Seton’s mouth. “And yet, you have lost, for I am now in occupancy,” Moriarty said.

  I myself was in a degree of some confusion. It was apparent that the essence of Moriarty was now inside Seton—and Seton had somehow taken residence in the MacAllan body. But I had no time then to reflect on it.

  Moriarty reached for the pistol, attempting to grab it from Seton’s hand. All of a sudden his body jerked, as if jolted with a seizure.

  “You may have occupancy,” Seton said, and laughed. “But, as I told you, I was busy before I came here. You have recently thrown many of my kinsmen from their homes to leave them dancing in the shadows … which is where I found them. As their Laird, it would be remiss of me not to provide them with shelter in their time of need. Under the terms of your new lease you will be taking joint tenancy.”

  Seton’s—or, rather, Moriarty’s—body jerked again.

  “Say hello to the clan Seton, and their brothers, the MacAllans,” Seton said. “I am afraid they are rather a noisy bunch. But they are all most eager to make your acquaintance.”

  Moriarty opened his mouth, but it was a loud Scots voice that replied.

  “Thank you kindly, Angus,” the voice said. “We shall take good care of him. He won’t be getting out anytime soon. We have locked the doors and closed the windows, so to speak.”

  That voice went, to be replaced by another, more Irish-sounding this time, uttering vile unrepeatable threats against Moriarty. Then a third, in a Scots dialect so thick I barely understood every second word, but the intent was very clear. Moriarty himself resurfaced for a second—just long enough to scream.

  The body jerked in multiple spasms, throwing it to the floor. Spittle started to fleck at the mouth. I moved to check on him, but Seton … MacAllan … whoever he was now, held me back. He still had a pistol trained on his former body.

  “Just for a few seconds more, Doctor, if you will,” he said. “We need to ensure that the family will be able to maintain control; Moriarty’s will is strong … but they are many.”

  And it did seem that he was right. The spasms were being brought under some degree of control. The body went still, the only sign of life being the eyeballs frantically moving under closed lids and the mouth working as if holding several simultaneous conversations.

  “The boys will keep him busy,” Seton said from his new body. “And I will keep him fed and watered. He will not be bothering society again—not for a long time.”

  Suddenly, just like that, I felt angry; enraged by the casual ease with which so many souls had been bartered. And I am afraid I took it out on Holmes.

  “You knew,” I said, rising to face him. “You knew all along that this would be the outcome.”

  Holmes, to his credit, looked glum. “I knew there was a high chance of it, yes. As soon as I knew that Seton could duplicate Moriarty’s strength of will and inhabit another body, then I knew.”

  “And you allowed it to happen. All those souls, perished.”

  “Those are on Moriarty’s conscience, not ours. It was he who forced those poor unfortunates to break the chain that bound them here; not I, and not Seton.”

  That made me turn my attention on the other man.

  “And you—you are no better than Moriarty. What about the poor man whose body you now have? And him a kinsman of yours too. I …”

  Seton’s tears stopped me in my tracks. “John is with his kin,” he said, and motioned at the body on the ground. “Moriarty made him leave long before I ever got here. If it makes you feel any better, he has given me his blessing for what I have done.”

  “Blessing? I doubt there is anything of a blessing in any of this business.”

  Seton’s eyes were red and he looked sadder than anyone I have ever seen. “I agree with you on that point, Doctor. But a discussion of the morality of my deeds will have to wait. I believe I will have a long time ahead of me to reflect on them.”

  He turned to Holmes. “I know Lord Crawford is gone from my reach, but is Mycroft also keeping an eye on the one who survived?”

  “Old Lord Menzies? Yes. And it would be fitting if his were to be the last actions in this matter, having been the one to bring us in to it in the first place. Tell him to send people to Dover. With luck and speed, they should be there waiting for us.”

  Seton sat in a chair, rolled up his eyes, and was immediately gone. The body on the floor had also fallen quiet, but on checking I saw that the eye movements were still rapid and he was still mouthing words.

  I looked up at Holmes. “Maybe it would be for the best if we just shot the both of them?”

  “Neither you nor I are capable of such a thing, Watson,” he said. “Besides, shooting them would only release Moriarty from the prison where he resides.”

  “And I promise to keep him there for as long as I possibly can,” Seton said, sitting up in the chair. “Mycroft has been informed. They will be waiting for us in Dover.”

  3

  There is not much left to tell.

  We spent a very disconcerting hour or so conversing with Seton in MacAllan’s body while Moriarty, in Seton’s body, lay mumbling on the floor.

  “Having moved, as it were, are you still immortal?” Holmes asked at one point.

  Seton laughed. It seemed his humor had moved with him. “I know not. I shall have to wait and see. Ask me again in fifty years or so.”

  When we pulled in to Dover Station, there was a large police presence waiting. The train driver and two other accomplices were arrested. Holmes and I made sure the bullion was secure. After that, we showed a team of shocked constables to the second Pullman carriage, and left them with the dead who lay there with their eyes filled with blood. When we returned to the rear carriage both Seton and his former body were gone, leaving no trace behind.

  I never saw either of them again.

  4

  About the Author

  William Meikle is a Scottish writer, now living in Canada, with fifteen novels published in the genre press and over 250 short story credits in thirteen countries. His work has appeared in a number of professional anthologies and magazines. He lives in Newfoundland with whales, bald eagles and icebergs for company.

  He has described himself as “A psyche with a deep love of the weird in its most basic forms, and the urge to beat up monsters.” More at williammeikle.com