“The ceremony is nearly completed,” Lestrade whispered irritably. “We’ve not much time. Do you see anything suspicious?”
I scanned the crowd sitting in the pews, the empty confessionals, then I caught the familiar whiff of cigar smoke. Letting my nose point me in the origin of its direction, I saw a black haired man standing alone way up on the second level vestibule, in an opening at the front of the cathedral above the main entrance. He had a cigar in his mouth and seemed to be staring down at the three of us.
“Up there,” I whispered, tugging Holmes’ sleeve.
“Ah, yes, Watson, well done,” Holmes said. “And look, coming down from the edge of the opening in the vestibule... ”
I squinted and saw what Holmes was talking about. It was a thin cord of some kind, streaming down from the opening, along the wall and then tightly circled around a sculpted column until it disappeared somewhere under the pews near the rear.
“What the bloody hell is it?” Lestrade asked.
“A fuse, my friend,” Holmes answered. “And the man has a lit cigar in his mouth.”
11
I considered screaming a warning to everyone to get out but realized that would only cause a panic and probably force the dreadful man to light the fuse. Then I considered cutting the fuse with my handy pocket knife but I was sure the Underworld Assassin had a contingency for that also, like a secondary fuse. It seemed to me it was a final confrontation he wanted so, without a moment’s more hesitation, we hurried to a flight of winding stairs near the entrance and rushed up to the second level vestibule.
The man stood there in his place by the window that overlooked the grand ceremony below, cigar still in his mouth and an unconcerned aura about him. The blunt end of the fuse hung by his left arm. He was a medium sized man with a long, chiseled face and black, soulless eyes. The cape was gone, replaced by a black suit and tie. This unremarkable, plain looking man instilled no fear or intimidation in me. I couldn’t believe he was the man who’d outsmarted Holmes back at the House of Commons the day before.
“’Ello, Mr Holmes,” the man said through his cigar, a deep cockney accent weighed heavily in his voice. When the three of us took a step forward, only a few feet from him now, he reached up with his left hand and pulled the cigar out, holding it very near the fuse. “I knew you wouldn’t disappoint me this time.”
“I’m glad I’ve lived up to your expectations,” Holmes said smarmily. But there was something about Holmes that struck me as odd. His face betrayed a look of suspicion and intense curiosity... and boldness, something one shouldn’t have been feeling when the real possibility of the assassination of the Queen in an exploding cathedral was at hand. “What happens now?”
The assassin smirked and pointed the cigar at my compatriot. “You, Mr Holmes, try to stop me from blowin’ this building an’ everyone inside it, up.”
“But that means you’ll die too,” Holmes said.
“Maybe. Maybe not.”
There was a wide, stained glass window on the outside wall portraying a haloed Jesus walking on the turbulent waters of the Sea of Galilee, the boat with the disciples floated in the distance. Perhaps the assassin’s plan was to jump through the window, to the ground two levels down and escape the blast. Whatever it was, I was having none of it. I took another step towards him.
“That’s far enough, Doctor Watson!” the man spat with a raised voice, but the soaring voices from the choir below still echoed loudly, covering any conversation we were having from those in the pews.
“You’re familiar with me, then?” I asked, trying to spread the conversation out so long that his cigar would extinguish itself.
“An’ also with Holmes, Detective Inspector Lestrade an’ Commissioner Carruthers, thanks to your well-written adventures printed in the London Gazette. In my ‘umble opinion, they be the only reason to read that rag, sir.”
“I agree,” Holmes interjected. “Who was it that said; the man who reads nothing at all is better educated than the man who reads nothing but newspapers?”
The man stood there, gazing at Holmes with empty, motionless eyes. An answer was not forthcoming.
“You don’t know?” Holmes suggested more than asked. “A man who considers himself a mad genius, a man who quotes Aristotle in deviously written riddles is unfamiliar with a quote from one of the great thinkers of the last century - Thomas Jefferson?”
All that confidence and ease in which the man had stood suddenly disappeared. His expression became anxious and fearful. “What? I... I-” he stammered.
“You’re not the Underworld Assassin, are you?” Holmes asked sharply, taking a quick step forward. “No. You’re someone who’s been hired to play him. Judging from your thick accent, you’re from Liverpool or the area surrounding it and you’re uneducated, didn’t make it past elementary school. That nice new black suit tells me you’ve been groomed for the part by a secret benefactor. That cheap cigar you’re smoking, the distinctive aroma tells me it’s from the south of France, the Foulon region I’d guess.”
“How... how did you-?”
“It’s been my experience that most criminals too poor to purchase the real thing fall back on that particular brand because of the smooth pull, imitating a more expensive cigar; a mad genius would know better and wouldn’t sully his mouth on it because the leaves in a Foulon cigar are bitter and mildly poisonous, leaving dark rashes on the lips. What’s your name and who are you really working for? How much is he paying you? Who’s the true genius behind this idiotic contest? Speak up, man!”
The man, knowing he’d been cornered, thrust the cigar into his mouth to reignite the tobacco. Clearly, it was his intention to light the fuse and take the truth with him into the grave. But just as he pulled the cigar out of his mouth, a man’s voice rang out from behind us. “What’s going on up here?” it asked. This caused the merest hesitation in the man’s desire to light the fuse and I took advantage of it, running into the man with as much force as I could muster, knocking the flaming cigar from his hand. He and the cigar went flailing over the edge, proving once again Newton’s long held theory that things under a gravitational pull fall at the same speed.
12
As it turned out, the Queen’s sword came down upon Commissioner Carruther’s shoulders just as the man and the cigar hit the floor, so there was very little interruption in the ceremony. The disruption of the assassination attempt by Lestrade, Holmes and I won us a personal audience with the Queen before she headed back to the palace in London. She was most grateful for our efforts and threatened to award us with knighthoods but humbly, the three of us declined, knowing we were as yet still unworthy for such an honor.
We took a train with a private car back to London that evening. Mycroft and Sir Carruthers were keen on traveling with us to hear all the details about our adventure of the past two days. Afterwards, Holmes sat in his seat staring out the window, a forlorn look on his face.
“By God!” I exclaimed. “What’s wrong with you, Holmes? We’ve saved the Queen and the empire! We’re heroes!”
Holmes shot a quick glance to each of us then answered. “But there’s still that one loose end, Watson,” he said. “The mastermind behind the Underworld Assassin. He remains at large and just as dangerous as before. Who’s to say we won’t be going through another adventure like this in a week, month or year from now? And perhaps the next time we won’t be so lucky.”
“That’s a frightening thought, Holmes,” Sir Carruthers said.
“But a possible one, My Lord.”
The five of us fell into a kind of depressed stupor until finally Lestrade broke the silence. “Let’s at least enjoy this victory, even if it is a minor one,” he protested. “And worry about that later.”
It seemed a good suggestion and we all eagerly agreed. Then a train steward opened the sliding door to our cabin and hande
d an envelope to Holmes. Holmes tipped the steward. “Did you see who gave this to you, steward?” he asked.
“No, sir. It was in the mail bin when the train left the station in Durham.”
“Thank you,” Holmes said and waited until the man left before tearing the envelope open.
“Hmmm,” he mumbled. “It’s from our mastermind, gentlemen.”
Without any prompting from us, Holmes read the missive aloud:
“The Great and Formidable Consulting Detective, Mr Sherlock Holmes,
You have proved to be an adequate yin to my yang after all! Congratulations on this accomplishment. You have preserved the English way of life using merely your intelligence - for this I respect you. As Shakespeare once wrote, ‘Let me embrace thee, sour adversity, for wise men say it is the wisest course.’
You’ll forgive me, I trust, if I’m not choked up about my puppet perishing in that terrible fall, as some loose ends are better left untouched in the end.
You have earned yourself and England a short reprieve, Mr Holmes, but mark my words, we will match wits again sometime in the future. In the meantime, I’ll watch your progress from the shadows –planning the steps for our next dance.
Your Ever Respectful (but defeated) Squire,
The Puppet Master”
“Remarkable,” I said. “I don’t think I shall ever sleep again.”
“Come now, Watson,” Holmes said as he slid the letter back into the envelope. “Nothing sharpens a mind like a challenge. I shall be far better prepared the next time.”
“I agree,” Sir Carruthers said. “You are far too brilliant a man to fail. This ruffian stands no chance.”
“Tell me, Holmes,” I said. “Just who was that man that walked in on us in the vestibule, distracting the assassin long enough for us to defeat him?”
“A man who works at the university, Watson. The newest Chair of the Mathematics Department, his name was Moriarty. Professor James Moriarty.”
Links
MX Publishing are proud to support the Save Undershaw campaign - the campaign to save and restore Sir Arthur Conan Doyle’s former home. Undershaw is where he brought Sherlock Holmes back to life, and should be preserved for future generations of Holmes fans.
Save Undershaw
www.saveundershaw.com
Sherlockology
www.sherlockology.com
MX Publishing
www.mxpublishing.com
Also Available
Sherlock Holmes Page 14