by Roger Jaynes
Moriarty’s left hand drew back, motioning for silence. ‘What a shame. It is too late for that. Holmes now, you see, will surely be on his guard. Besides, I have other pressing matters in the next few days that require my full attention.’
The sand had run out. The top half of the hourglass was empty. Once again, Moriarty’s left hand disappeared from the light.
‘The point,’ he said, ‘is that I gave you an assignment. A rather simple errand, I felt – and you failed. You know my rules. There is only one punishment for that.’
Beneath the desk, Moriarty lightly fingered a small unseen button, located just below the drawer. The Indian was trembling now, so frightened he was unable to speak.
‘Your hands and feet are bound, I see,’ Moriarty observed. ‘It will be difficult to swim, I imagine, tied together in that fashion.’
Desperately, the Indian strained against the ropes that held him. Unable to control himself any longer, he let out a cry of animal-like terror.
It was at that instant Moriarty pushed the button, which released a hidden spring. With a crash, the square of floor upon which the Indian stood gave way, and one last, hideous scream was heard, as he plunged into the cold, black waters below.
‘What a pity,’ Moriarty said, after a time. ‘Sanders!’
‘Yes, Professor?’ the fake policeman asked.
‘I am going to prove to you that I am a generous man. You are forgiven for your part in this fiasco.’
The man stole a glance at the darkness that was behind him. ‘Thank you, Professor.’
‘Now, if you would, secure the trap door. And fetch me Langdon, as soon as possible. The painting has arrived; I shall have work for him to do.’
‘You’re going ahead with it, then?’
‘I am. We can only hope that Holmes does not discover the true meaning of the Crimson Vandals. At least, not before Wednesday. Oh, my, no, that would never do.’
I had expected, when Holmes returned from the British Museum, that he would immediately closet himself with his findings and attempt to discern the meaning of the strange messages he possessed. Instead, while giving me a brief account of his earlier conversation with Lestrade, he quickly changed into one of his many disguises – this time, the grimy, worn attire of a common dockhand – and went out again. As the evening passed, I began to worry; his destination, it seemed clear enough to me, had been the riverfront, and quite likely had something to do with Moriarty. At nine, feeling somewhat weary from the extraordinary events of the day, I suppressed my feelings of anxiety and took to my bed with a book and a glass of sherry. By eleven, when I caught myself nodding off and finally pinched out the candle, Holmes had still not returned.
On Sunday morning, when I came down about nine, I was surprised to find my friend working busily at his desk, clad in dressing gown and slippers, and sending up clouds of pale blue pipe smoke as he pored over sheets of crumpled foolscap and a large, dusty volume he had brought with him on his return from the museum. He had obviously risen early – if, indeed, he had been to bed at all – since the morning dailies were scattered haphazardly about his armchair, and his breakfast, I noted with disapproval, had clearly not been touched.
‘My dear fellow,’ I reminded him, ‘you really should eat something! This habit of going without food for days is, I have no doubt, damaging to your system! ’
Holmes made no reply. He was, I realised, so engrossed in his present task that he was oblivious to my presence. Knowing also his intense dislike of being interrupted from his reveries, I frowned but said nothing more, instead helping myself to the steaming coffee, eggs and ham which Mrs Hudson had supplied.
Approximately a half-hour later, after I had finished and was glancing at the Times, Holmes suddenly gave a cry of exaltation, put down his pen, and joined me at the table, filling his cup as well.
‘Ah, Watson! ’ he exclaimed, stretching mightily, ‘This has been a most productive morning .
As he reached across for the sugar, I noted with alarm a ragged cut across the back of his right hand.
‘Holmes,’ I cried, ‘you’re wounded. Not Moriarty, once again?’
‘No, no, Watson. This trifle is the result of an argument over a game of darts, at an establishment called the Golden Swan, in Blackwall. It was all quite necessary, of course, to gain the confidence of the particular man I sought. Hah! Bother Lestrade and his police informants! A few hours inside a robbers’ den, and I have learned more than they! ’
‘Well, pray then, tell me all. And while you do so I shall fetch my bag and administer to your hand.’
A moment later, when I returned, Holmes was still waiting restlessly at the table, drumming his long fingers nervously upon the cloth.
‘Moriarty’s alibi, as I suspected, is unassailable,’ he informed me. ‘On the afternoon my life was attempted, he was at the University Club in Cornwall, delivering a lecture on electrodynamics.’
‘And how did you find that out?’ I asked, as I brought forward warm water and bandages.
‘A bit of information gleaned from an unsuspecting servant. You see, I had decided to watch Moriarty’s house for a time, before I travelled to Blackwall. Alas, he was not at home.’
‘Gone to ground, I would imagine. He probably fears retaliation.’
‘Perhaps. At any rate, My contact at the Golden Swan provided me with some very interesting details – once I’d filled his hand with a pint and a half-sovereign. You were, of course, correct about the Indian. Moriarty has been seen in the company of a Hindu fellow of late; his name is Rajan-Raj. And, he has also added a known assassin to his payroll – “Bloody” Jack Langdon is now in his employ.’
‘ “Bloody” Jack, the knifeman?’
‘The very one. An expert with both the stiletto and the throwing knife, at up to twenty paces. I also learned one other intriguing fact, Watson: Moriarty has engaged the services of a painter.’
‘Painter? An artist, you mean?’
‘Yes. Name of Joseph Potter. He has a small shop on Brook Street, not far from Stepney Station. I shall look him up tomorrow.’
‘But what would Moriarty want with him?’
‘The messages were meant to be found and read, Watson. In case you hadn’t noticed, runes are hardly simple figures to reproduce. Moriarty would need someone with considerable skill to get them down at night, both accurately and quickly.’
My friend smiled faintly, with a look of satisfaction upon his face. ‘Were Lestrade here now,’ he added, ‘I should tell him that is connection number one.’
‘And number two?’
‘I discovered it quite by chance, on my trip to the British Museum – which, I must say, was quite rewarding, thanks to the helpful clerk who supplied me with that most informative volume which now resides upon my desk. With it, and a few hours of honest cogitation, I have been able to decipher the cryptic messages.’
‘Splendid! ’
‘To my good fortune, the clerk also possessed a memory keen as mustard. He recalled I was the second person within a month to enquire about runic scripture.’
‘Oh?’
‘The other,’ Holmes said, ‘was a scholarly gentleman named “Mr Cornelius” – a tall, thin man with rounded shoulders.’
‘Moriarty! ’
Holmes smiled again, even as I applied the iodine. ‘Precisely, Watson. Connection number two.’
‘But what about the messages, Holmes? Whatever do they mean?’
‘For the life of me, I must admit that I do not know.’
‘But you said –! ’
‘ – that I had deciphered them. And I have. Unfortunately, my good fellow, reading, as you shall see, is not always understanding. Finish up, now, and I shall show you where we stand.’
Moments later, Holmes began by arranging some sheets of his scribbling before me, atop his cluttered desk. ‘This,’ he said, indicating the first, ‘is how the messages appeared after I had deciphered them. A rather easy task, since the book contains a det
ailed chart of Germanic, Anglo-Saxon and all other known runic forms. These runes are Northumberland, by the way, identifiable by the flagstaff mark which represents the letter “a” – a symbol none of the other forms possess.’
For a moment I studied the lines before me:
‘But these lines make no sense at all,’ I stated.
‘Correct, Watson. That is because Moriarty added another little twist to his devious game – albeit a simple one.’
‘And that was?’
‘Merely to reverse the letters in each line.’ Holmes pointed to the other sheet of foolscap. ‘See here.’
This time, I read:
‘Amazing, Holmes! Whatever made you think of that?’
‘It is a common trick in cryptology, actually. So simple a ploy that I overlooked it at first, while I spent three-quarters of an hour trying one or two systematic codes instead. But come now, Doctor, tell me: what do you make of my discovery?’
‘It’s obviously some sort of verse,’ I said. ‘And I would guess it refers to the Crimson Vandals, and something they are trying to conceal.’
‘Excellent! Go on.’
‘Well – outside of that, it tells me nothing.’
‘On the contrary. It indicates quite clearly, I think, that these vandals will strike again soon. Twice more, if my reasoning is correct.’
‘And how do you deduce that?’
‘By the wording, Watson. It is just as obvious, you must admit, that the verse is not complete. Hence, more acts of vandalism will follow – until, as I suspect, we have received the entire passage. Now metre hints at a six- or eight-line axiom; my guess is six. That means they will appear at least twice again.’
‘But is there nothing we can do?’ I asked, desperation creeping into my voice.
‘My dear fellow, what would you suggest? Post a constable beside every statue and graveyard in the city?’ Holmes returned his attention once more to the four lines which lay before him. ‘No, I’m afraid we’re stalemated, at the moment – unless I can somehow solve this puzzle.’
It was at that moment that Mrs Hudson appeared, bearing an envelope which had, she told us, been left upon our doorstep some time before. Inside was the aforementioned message of doom from Porlock.
Upon reading it, I had that same uneasy feeling as I had experienced on the morning of my regiment’s advance upon Maiwand – that even worse trouble was ahead.
In spite of the early hour, I poured myself a stiff glass of Pattisons, leaving Holmes to his pipe and deductive thoughts before our hearty fire. Parting the curtains, I glanced down into the street. It was snowing lightly, once again.
We had not long to wait. A quarter past seven the following morning, a weary Lestrade was at our door, bringing news that fresh developments were at hand. That he had been up for quite some time was evident; both his haggard face and the dark circles beneath his eyes spoke of little sleep.
‘I was out before daylight this morning, gentlemen,’ he told us, as we all partook of coffee. ‘It has been a busy night. Affairs have taken a graver turn, I’m afraid. The Crimson Vandals have struck again. And there’s been a murder in Stepney.’
‘Stepney! ’ I burst out, recalling Holmes’s mention of the artist Moriarty had employed. ‘Who was the victim?’
‘An art dealer by the name of Peter Jacobsen. He lived above his shop in Abbott’s Lane. During the night, there was a break-in; robbery, I suspect. Jacobsen apparently surprised the thief – and paid for it with his life.’
‘How was he killed?’ Sherlock Holmes enquired.
‘He was stabbed to death. A clean job, I must say. One wound under the rib cage, straight into the heart.’
Holmes and I exchanged a glance.
‘And the Vandals?’ Holmes asked. ‘Where this time?’
‘Trafalgar Square,’ Lestrade said, with a sigh. ‘They painted the head of George IV, bloody red as you please.’
‘There was a message?’
‘Yes. But I didn’t have time to copy it down. I had only arrived at the scene, when I was summoned to Abbott’s Lane. However, I did as you requested: there’s a cordon of constables all round, with orders that nothing be disturbed.’
‘Excellent! ’ Holmes cried, leaping eagerly to his feet. An excited gleam was in his gimlet eyes, and at that instant he reminded me much of a hound who has just been given the scent. ‘We shall look things over there, and then be off to Stepney.’
‘You speak as if there were some connection,’ Lestrade suggested, as we grabbed our coats and hats. ‘Apparently you know something I do not. Gleaned from those messages, I suppose?’
‘Unfortunately, no,’ my friend replied. ‘But come! I shall explain all, once we’re in your carriage.’
Light flakes of snow were gently falling as we climbed into our conveyance, and our breath showed white before us in the winter air. As we passed through the snowy streets of London making our way south towards Piccadilly,
Holmes related to Lestrade what we had learned: the cryptic poem hidden in the runic messages, the ghastly demise of the turbaned man, as well as Moriarty’s reported hiring of both the artist, Joseph Potter, and ‘Bloody’ Jack, the knifeman.
‘By George! ’ Lestrade exclaimed, when Holmes had finished. ‘Given all that, I think I shall have a talk with this Moriarty fellow myself, once we’re through. I should be interested in hearing what he has to say.’
Holmes frowned with displeasure. ‘I’d rather you didn’t, Lestrade,’ he cautioned. ‘After all, you have no proof – only conjecture, and rumour second-hand. Besides, why sound the alarm so soon? The wolf is much more wary when he knows a hunter is near.’
The policeman paused, to mull matters for a second or two.
‘Very well,’ he conceded. ‘I shall take your advice for now. But given the way Jacobsen met his end, I am issuing a warrant for “Bloody” Jack.’
Because of the snow the heavy traffic was slower than usual at Piccadilly Circus, causing us some delay as our cab crossed the busy circle. That done, however, we were able to make our way south on the Haymarket at a remarkably brisk clip, and were soon passing the tall, white columns of the celebrated theatre itself. At Pall Mall, we turned east, and moments later alighted in front of the National Gallery, overlooking Trafalgar Square.
My first thought, as I felt the crunch of snow beneath my shoes, was to pause at the rail and reflect a moment upon the majestic beauty of the winter scene that was spread before us. Amidst the swirling flakes, life in London went on as usual, as hundreds of hardy souls were making their way back and forth across the gigantic, snow-covered square, intent on completing their appointed errands, no matter what the weather. From atop their pedestals, the bronze statues of Havelock and Napier serenely watched this industrious ebb and flow of humanity, as did Landseer’s four huge lions, which had guarded Nelson’s Column for the past two decades. Glancing up at the cold, grey sky, I could just glimpse the stone likeness of England’s greatest admiral himself, standing alone on his towering shaft of Devonshire granite, more than one hundred feet above us.
Our attention, however, was quickly attracted to a crowd that had gathered at the northeast corner of the square, towards which we now made our way. The object of -interest, I could plainly see, was the equestrian statue of King George IV, which stood next to the wide, concrete staircase that connected the street to the square below.
Anger welled inside my chest, as we drew near. The noble features of the man known as ‘the first gentleman of Europe’ had been besmirched in red.
‘Well, I never –’ I began.
‘Here, now! Let us through! ’ Lestrade barked out, as he wedged his way into the throng. ‘This is official police business! Step aside! ’
Moments later we stood inside a resolute circle of London’s finest, who had kept the crowd back for some twenty feet. How the Vandals had accomplished their task seemed easy enough to see: A twelve-foot workman’s ladder had been left standing against the statue’s concr
ete pedestal, and there were clearly footmarks in the snow. Across the back of the pedestal, about shoulder high, the tell-tale line of runic figures had been painted:
‘The ladder is an interesting point,’ Lestrade remarked. ‘I suspect they were surprised, somehow, and were unable to carry it off.’
‘Either that,’ Holmes mused, as he glanced about, ‘or they had no further use for it. My compliments, Lestrade. Your men seem to have kept this area well protected. With your permission?’
‘By all means.’
Holmes whipped out his glass and proceeded to examine the indentations in the snow, delicately stepping this way and that, so as not to disturb a thing. That done, he nimbly climbed atop the concrete rail that overlooked the square, and carefully stepped his way along it until he reached the point where the railing met the pedestal’s base, some four feet off the ground. Then, to my amazement, he swung himself gently out onto the ladder, and, feeling it secure, edged cautiously up one more step, peering at something intently.
‘You must admit,’ Lestrade observed, ‘that getting up there was a tricky business.’
‘I think not. I am hardly acrobatic, Lestrade, yet I have no doubt, should you secure the ladder, that I could easily clamber up beside the good King’s horse with paint in hand. A simple hook and rope would suffice to join him in the saddle. It could all be done, I imagine, in about ten minutes’ time.’
As gracefully as he had risen, my friend eased himself off the ladder and back onto the rail, retraced his steps along it, and then hopped down beside us in the street.
‘By the footmarks, I would say there were three men,’ he stated. ‘One who held the ladder, one who climbed it, and one who left the message. A fourth, I imagine, kept watch some distance away. The man who held the ladder was approximately six feet tall and obviously strong. He also smokes; a cigarette has been crushed at the base of the ladder. By their stride, I’d say the other two men were shorter. The circular marks in the snow next to the pedestal show where they set their lantern, and two small pots of paint.’