by Roger Jaynes
Thus left to my own devices, I first made an examination of the visitors before me, on the chance that Moriarty – or perhaps a suspicious-looking cohort – might be among them. They were not. Finding the guide’s perfunctory monotone uninteresting, I decided to focus my complete attention upon the two paintings themselves, and apply what meagre appreciation I possessed until Holmes returned. Head of a Girl, whose languishing face was framed in soft brown hair, was, I decided, too melancholy for my taste. Boy with Lesson Book, however, was quite another matter. In the soft, radiant face of the student, I felt, Greuze had admirably captured both the innocence and enquiring mind of youth; the boy’s brooding, meditative eyes seemed to be trying to fathom the mysteries of life itself, rather than the mere problem posed from the open lesson book before him. The sensitivity of his features, however – especially his delicate hands – I found disturbing, as they seemed to hint at weakness, as well as virtue. Was this, I wondered, why Moriarty desired the painting so? Because, on one hand, it harkened back to his own youthful thirst for knowledge, when he was regarded as one of the most brilliant theologians in the land? And, because it also seemed to confirm his own later-acquired belief that virtue was, when tested, a weakness – and that pure, logical, evil was, in reality, the only true strength? I shuddered at the thought, and reverently hoped that within the next few hours, come what may, I would possess my father’s good Scot’s strength.
My reverie was suddenly broken by a tap upon my shoulder. I turned to see my friend.
‘The Bolognese exhibit demands our attention, Watson,’ he declared, just loud enough to cause a few heads to turn. ‘Come, come. Dolci’s Madonna awaits.’
No sooner had we removed ourselves to the adjoining room, than Holmes quickly pulled me aside. ‘Our choices, as I feared, are few,’ he said, speaking low. ‘I had hoped we might repair to the small closet across the room. Alas, it is locked. And, as I’m sure you will agree, the curtains at either entrance could hardly conceal us both.’
‘So what, then?’
‘We are fortunate the paintings have been exhibited in such a manner,’ Holmes replied. ‘We shall position ourselves behind the display.’
‘But is there sufficient cover?’ I asked, somewhat taken aback.
‘Enough, I’d say. I was able to glimpse some packing crates, as I walked past, which have been stored behind the curtain. If you are not averse to using the floor, Doctor, I think they will do nicely. Ah, good! The group is moving on. Come along. Once they’ve gone, we shall take up our positions.’
Re-entering the French room, we stationed ourselves before the two Gruezes, behaving as if we were viewing the paintings. The last of the tour group, I noted from the corner of my eye, was leaving at the other side. For a long moment, we stood alone in that large, silent chamber, in which the light was now rapidly fading.
Holmes glanced warily about. ‘Upon my signal, Watson,’ he hissed, ‘step behind the curtain. I shall follow, as is convenient.’
The floor, I found some seconds later, was hard indeed, and our quarters exceedingly cramped. Encumbered by my heavy outer coat, it was all I could do to kneel down clumsily behind the crates and lean my back against the wall, thankful for its firm support. A moment later, Holmes joined me in that small space and followed suit.
‘From now on, not a sound,’ he warned, his voice a whisper. ‘And not a move, unless I say. Remember, we must give them time to do their work before we spring.’
Thus, our wait began.
It was, I could not help but recall, our second such nocturnal vigil in two months, the first having been in the infamous D’Arcy affair (chronicled earlier in this volume), which involved the scheming of Moriarty as well. On that night, matters had been brought to a successful conclusion; I could only hope that once again such would be the case. What troubled me, however, as I waited beside Holmes in the darkening room, was the knowledge that on this occasion, we were not accompanied by the police.
A short time later, we heard a single set of footsteps approaching, their soft click-clack accompanied by the roving, yellow beam of a bulls-eye lantern. As the steps paused before the curtain, and the light was flashed about, Holmes and I exchanged a nervous glance. It was only when the light had gone away, and the footsteps were receding, that we dared breathe a sigh of relief. The gallery, it was clear, had closed; the guards had begun their evening rounds.
Another half-hour and we were in total darkness. Owing to the constant strain of kneeling, my legs were aching to the point where I felt I must, if only slightly, shift my weight. As I started to move, however, I felt Holmes’s steady grip upon my arm. It was then that I heard it, too: the sound of footsteps again, coming rapidly our way. And then, the low, unmistakable murmur of voices! Forgetting the pain, I withdrew my revolver and focused all my attentions outward. By the sounds, it was clear, that at least three people were approaching. Would Moriarty, I wondered, be among them?
Seconds later, my question was chillingly answered, when the footsteps ceased and lantern light glowed from the other side of the curtain. I heard faint, scraping noises, as if objects were being moved, or placed upon the floor.
‘There will, I presume, be no interruptions?’ My blood ran cold; it was the same soft, yet terrifying voice I had first heard in Baker Street some weeks ago, and which, I knew, belonged to only one man.
‘No, Professor. Every watchman in this wing has his copper – or a threat that’s worth as much.’
Moriarty uttered an evil chuckle. ‘Good. I must confess, Langdon, you seem a talented man. I was told you were a mere assassin, a knifeman and garrotter. Your abilities, however, seem to have been vastly underrated. I shall not forget.’
‘Thank you, Professor.’
‘The carriage waits outside?’
‘It does. And with a driver who’s papered well. Should any peeler enquire, he’s on an errand for Burton himself this night.’
‘My, my! You have done well. I can see that we were quite fortunate in placing you here, even on short notice. I do not exaggerate when I say that your efforts have eased our task considerably.’
‘And the painting, Professor? Shall I place it in the coach?’
‘No, not yet. If discovered, it could prove difficult to explain – besides, I wish to study it a bit, while Potter concludes his work. Savour the moment, you might say, although I doubt you understand my meaning.’
‘That’s not my business,’ the other quickly replied. ‘The whys don’t interest me much. I just carry out my orders, as I’m told.’
‘A laudable attitude, I assure you. Maintain it, and you will go far in my organisation. Suffice to say, some months ago in Durham, I was deprived of my proper position in academia. Just like that! And all because, I felt, of what amounted to a petty misdemeanour. It was an aberration, given my standing, which should have been allowed.’
‘Ah, you’ve been settling accounts, then?’
‘Yes, in a fashion.’ Moriarty’s words were coldly measured now, laced with a bitterness heavy as lead. ‘In my own manner, I have secured revenge. The fool who betrayed me is dead. The institute which denied me has suffered. And now, I possess a student of my own. The prize student, you understand? It is, I feel, a definite tribute. A trophy, if you will, to my superior intellect. It is a class of one – which no academic wretch can take away!’
For a moment, there was an awkward silence. Although the heavy curtain blocked our view, I sensed that Moriarty was struggling to compose himself, his malevolent anger spent.
‘Potter,’ he enquired, finally, his voice again its deadly calm, ‘how long until you are finished?’
‘N-not long, Professor,’ assured a third voice, which I took to be that of the artist. ‘The message is down. I need only to splatter the easels and the floor – and the Galpin, once the change has been made.’
‘Well, do it then. But, mind you! Take great care not to damage the other Greuze. Who knows? It, too, may be mine one day. Langdon, fetch the l
amp oil and matches from the bag.’
It was at that moment Holmes sprang to his feet, pistol in hand, and stepped out from behind the curtain. ‘Stand fast, all of you! ’ he ordered, as I quickly made his side. ‘Well, well. Professor Moriarty. Or should I say, Mr Cornelius? Your ruse of the Crimson Vandals has been most entertaining.’
Moriarty allowed us a sour smile. I shuddered. Pure hatred showed in his black eyes. ‘I did not expect you would be present, sir,’ he replied, with an evil sneer, ‘or I assure you I would have made my little charade more challenging.’
Beside him, holding a small burlap sack, stood the killer Langdon, dangerous-looking and strongly built. A step behind cowered Potter, red-tipped brush in hand, a small, thin fellow with a frightened look upon his face. Head of a Girl, I noted, had been reversed, and a line of runic figures painted across the paper backing of the frame. Boy with Lesson Book appeared untouched, and a third canvas, which I assumed was the Galpin, leaned against its easel.
‘I am complimented that you took such pains in trying to dispatch me,’ Holmes rejoined. ‘It makes this moment that much more rewarding. This time, my dear Professor, you shall not escape the justice you deserve. – Disarm them, Watson. But carefully! ’
Once behind them, I removed a considerable haul, relieving Moriarty of his revolver and stick, Langdon of a pistol and a knife tucked inside his boot, and Potter of a small derringer, which was strapped to his arm beneath his sleeve.
‘Now,’ Holmes said, picking up a lantern, ‘if you will permit me –’
Motioning the others back, he then stepped forward and held the light above the line of the crimson markings, while I kept watch, knowing full well the fatal danger that lurked beyond the barrel of my weapon.
‘Let me see,’ Holmes murmured, ‘how does it go?
“Red conceals the circle
“As trees conceal the land.
“Red conceals all knowledge
“Behind which real truth stands.
“Truth, red says, is what is not– ” ’
He paused a moment to scan the line.
‘ “And what’s not is in my hands.”
‘My congratulations, Professor! You could not, I trust, have written a better confession. For you and Potter, it means a prison term – and the death sentence for “Bloody Jack”.’
At that instant, I started, as something cold and hard touched the back of my neck!
‘That may well be,’ a voice behind me said, ‘but only after this gentleman’s brains are blown to kingdom come! Your choice, Mr Sherlock Holmes! You have five seconds to decide! ’
‘Holmes! ’ I cried. ‘Don’t –’
My protestation was cut short by Holmes’s almost imperceptible gesture of resignation, as he dropped his revolver to the floor. I was then quickly relieved of mine as well.
‘I knew you were out there somewhere, Sanders,’ Moriarty remarked, as he and the others rearmed themselves. ‘Your timing, however, was exquisite. Oh yes, it really was.’
As the fourth man stepped round into the light, I could not conceal my amazement. It was none other than the fake policeman, who had burst into our rooms, then vanished, four days ago in Baker Street!
‘No need for any Hindu mumbo-jumbo this time ’round,’ he chortled. ‘These fish are ready to fry.’
A sickening feeling welled up inside me. My worst fears had come to pass. We were in Moriarty’s clutches; our fate was in his hands.
‘How ironic that we spoke of settling accounts,’ Moriarty mused, as Potter began splattering paint about. ‘Let me see. Rope and another carriage are what we need.’
‘There’s rope in the closet below the stairs,’ Langdon said, knowingly. He snapped his fingers. ‘And I can call a cab just that quick.’
The ogre smiled. ‘Good. They shall go with us, then – once our work here is done.’
Moments later, our wrists were tightly bound. A cry for help, we both knew, would be of little use, given Langdon’s earlier preparations. Helplessly, Holmes and I watched as he doused the Galpin and its stand with kerosene, then drenched both the carpet and the curtain with the smelly fluid as well. A small holocaust, I could see, was in the making.
For a time Moriarty, too, had watched this all in silence, arms crossed, his chin resting thoughtfully in his hand. Then, as if emerging from a dream, he suddenly uttered an exclamation, a look of immense satisfaction upon the deep-set lines of his drawn, pasty-white face. Moving quickly to my companion’s side, he raised his sleeve, and removed one of the silver links which held his shirt cuffs in place.
‘It is my understanding,’ Holmes told him, ‘that cannibals only strip the dead.’
‘Believe me,’ Moriarty said, his fangs bared in a frozen smile, ‘I shall try my utmost to accommodate you. Oh yes, I really shall! Let us just call this a souvenir of the occasion.’
The monster swung round, riveting us both in his evil gaze. ‘I feel I must warn you both,’ he said, in his soft, precise way, ‘that once we reach the door, your lives are in each other’s hands. A cry from either of you in the street, and Langdon will do for the other –’ He made a short, stabbing motion with his hand. ‘ – Silently, and quickly.’
‘All’s ready, Professor,’ the massive killer said.
Taking the box of matches, Moriarty struck one, and tossed it in the direction of the painting. With a blinding flash, the fire ignited the oil, and flames shot up before us! The Galpin and its ornate wooden stand were immediately engulfed, as more licks of fire crept quickly toward the curtain – which suddenly exploded into a white-hot sheet of flame, scorching the air so fiercely that we all were forced to back away!
The horror of that dreadful moment will remain forever etched in my mind. The heat, the smoke, the burning smell, the terrifying yellow glare of the consuming blaze – in whose awful glow, I saw a look of hideous pleasure on Moriarty’s wicked face.
As we were hurried along down the darkened corridor, alarm bells began to sound. Macabre light from the flames behind us danced upon the walls. Not unlike a funeral pyre, I thought, or what must welcome a soul to hell.
Langdon, unfortunately, was as good as his word, and we were quickly off – Moriarty, the Greuze and Sanders occupying the first cab; Langdon, Holmes and myself in the second. Snow was falling heavily again, and it softened the clip-clops of our horse’s hooves, as we moved off down the street. The assassin said nothing, merely eyeing us carefully, a revolver in his left hand, a gleaming stiletto in the right. As the blue, sputtering arc lamps passed by outside, I repeatedly wondered if either Holmes or myself should not try to make some break, but a look at my companion told me that this was not the moment. We must bide our time, and hope for a better opportunity.
As to our destination, I could only guess. We seemed to be heading in the general direction of the river. My suspicions were soon confirmed, when we came upon the orange-lit windows and iron gates of Charing Cross Hotel and Station. How many times, I recalled as we rattled past, had Holmes and I set out from there on some wild and mysterious adventure? The grisly death of Sir Eustace Brackenstall, and our curious trip to Yoxley Old Place, immediately sprang to mind.
Turning left onto the Embankment, which bordered the dark waters of the Thames, our coach continued on a little way before slowing to a halt. At Langdon’s signal, we stepped out into the swirling snow, only to find ourselves standing at the base of Cleopatra’s Needle, the sixty-foot granite obelisk originally cut from the quarries of the Aswan, which now marked a concrete mooring located along the Embankment’s edge.
Looking north, the lights of the city blinked and gleamed in the wintry night. Waterloo Bridge, I knew, loomed somewhere in the darkness, and beyond it, Doctors’ Commons. At our captors’ urging, we descended the steps which led to the water’s edge. A motor launch was waiting.
No sooner had we stepped on board than the captain swung away, smoke belching from his vessel’s single stack, and we set off down the darkened Thames, with the wind
and the flakes of snow it bore whipping at our faces. My initial thought was to turn up the collar of my greatcoat, but my bound hands would not allow it. As we moved further away from shore, Langdon ordered Holmes and me to seat ourselves at the rear of the boat, then joined the others, who were standing next to the low bulkhead of the cabin, some feet away. Moriarty, I noted, did not seem to mind that his lieutenant had relaxed his watch; after all, our hands were securely tied, and save for the icy waters all round, where else for us to go?
‘I could stick ’em here, and dump ’em easy, Professor,’ the burly killer suggested. ‘A bit of ballast, and nobody but the fish would ever see the bodies.’
Moriarty’s evil reply was even more chilling than the gusts of wind and snow which stung at my cheeks and throat. ‘No doubt you are right,’ he agreed, placing a complimentary hand to the other’s shoulder. ‘As to means, it would certainly be most efficient. However, it seems to me, well – so uninspired. I have something more imaginative in mind.’
A sense of both anger and fear welled up inside me. What now, I thought, what now?
‘Holmes, we must do something,’ I whispered, as we passed beneath Blackfriars Bridge, leaving the glowing streetlamps of the Embankment behind. ‘Good Lord, I feel like a sheep being led to the slaughter.’
‘What would you have us do, Watson?’ he rejoined. ‘Weapons and freedom of movement would most certainly improve our odds, but at the moment, we have neither. However, I think our chance may come when we reach shore.’
‘Ah,’ I said, ‘you have a plan, then?’
‘Not a very original one, I’m afraid. But somehow one of us must break free – to summon help, and quickly.’
‘You then, surely. You are much quicker afoot than I, and thus more able to avoid pursuit.’
My companion smiled. ‘Watson, I swear,’ he said, ‘you are living proof that a stubborn heart shall best evil at the last! I can only pray this works – else we are hard against it.’
As best I could estimate, another half-hour passed by before our craft – which had kept studiously to the middle of the channel – finally veered to the left and swung back towards the shore. The biting wind had left my face frozen, and my limbs were stiff, as we had been unable to move about. One thing, however, was clear: we had ventured well downstream to the far East End, for we had long ago passed through the Tower Bridge construction, and since left behind the docks of the Thames Police at Wapping, and the Shadwell Basin as well. If my calculations were correct, we were presently chugging south by east, somewhere off the Isle of Dogs.