by Roger Jaynes
It hit me then, as we began to close on the blinking lights that marked the approaching shoreline: we were being taken to Moriarty’s Lair, hidden in the West India Docks near Limehouse! That he would take such a risk, I knew, could mean only that he did not plan that either of us should survive.
Leaving the main channel, we slowed, and began to make our way through the seemingly endless wharves, past row after row of barges, launches and other small craft, all tied up for the night. Here and there in the snowy darkness the gleam of a lamp could be seen, from the window of a fisherman’s shanty. Off to our right, a dog began barking furiously, then just as suddenly, was quiet. On we went. Save for the soft chug of our engine, and the churning of the water beneath us, I could hear no other sound. Glancing at Holmes, I discerned a look of quiet resolution on his face. The end of our journey, we both knew, was not far off. Our fate, at best, appeared uncertain. But we had made plans, and we were ready.
A short time later, our launch nudged gently to a halt against the side of a snow-covered dock, whose weathered posts and creaking boards were all but hidden in the shadow of an ageing warehouse, built nearly a century before at the river’s edge. The place, clearly, was in a state of some decay; its dark windows were cracked and boarded, the grimy brickwork scarred and worn. In spite of the freshness of the cold, the dank, foul smells of the river quickly rose up to meet us, the taint of fish and waste and rotting wood, all heavy on the senses. Adjoining the grim-looking structure was a continuing flight of wooden stairs which led to the street above, where the yellow glow of a lone street lamp showed resolutely through the falling snow.
It was upon that staircase and that lamp (which seemed to me, a beacon of hope) that Holmes directly affixed his gaze, before giving me a confirming nod.
As he had expected, it was Moriarty who stepped off first, hurrying along with Sanders to the rear door of the warehouse, clutching close his treasured prize. Langdon was next, levelling his pistol in Holmes’s direction, as he raised a foot and followed.
It was then, in that fraction of a second it took for me to put my foot upon the rail, that Holmes quickly stepped to the killer’s other side, causing him to momentarily look away.
With all my strength, I propelled myself up and forward, smashing into Langdon! His gun went off, firing harmlessly into the air, and Holmes was off like a sprinter out of the block – making for the staircase as we both fell to the boards. As best I could, I threw my full weight upon the man, hoping to gain my friend those precious seconds I knew he needed, if he was to make it safely out of range.
Cursing heartily, Langdon threw me off, and raised his arm to fire. Again, I heaved into him, and again his shot went astray – the bullet throwing off sparks as it struck and ricocheted off the dingy brick, not a foot from Holmes’s side!
Struggling to my knees, I heard Moriarty’s scream of rage, as Holmes continued on. Then something struck me from behind; my senses blurred, and I slipped to the ground again. The last thing I remembered, before the dark closed in, was how hard the ancient planking felt, and cold snowflakes on my cheek . . .
When I woke, my head ached mightily, and my ears were soundly ringing. My first impression, as my vision cleared, was of the ropes above me, which now not only bound my wrists, but held me captive in a chair. Before me was a desk and upon it an oil lamp burning bright. On the other side, Moriarty and Langdon stood, gazing down intently in my direction. The professor, I vaguely realised, was speaking.
‘ – as Dr Watson, I see, has finally regained his consciousness. How very excellent. Our party is again complete.’
Complete? The word jangled alarmingly at my senses! Glancing about, I recognised Sanders standing some feet away – and beside him Holmes, his hands still bound!
I tried to sort things out. What could have happened? Surely, Holmes had made the street . . .
‘This was, I’m sure, not the result you have intended,’ Moriarty remarked, noting my puzzled gaze. ‘Still, I do commend you both on such audacity. It almost worked, you know. Oh my, it nearly did! Had two of my lurkers not heard the shots I seriously doubt that Mr Holmes would have been waylaid.’
‘And what of you, Watson?’ Holmes enquired. ‘Are you seriously injured?’
‘No,’ I replied, ‘I was struck from behind but I am beginning to come round.’
‘Ah, Langdon’s work, no doubt,’ Holmes said, the words dripping with distaste. ‘It is, I imagine, the full extent of his expertise.’
The huge killer snarled angrily, drawing out his knife, but Holmes ignored him, stepping forward to lock his steely gaze upon the peering black eyes of our evil captor. ‘I am not a man to beg,’ he stated, fiercely, ‘but I must ask that you release my friend. You know, as well as I, that he is no danger to you. Do that – then deal as you will with me.’
As I tried to object, Moriarty motioned me to silence, then slowly shook his large, domed head with what I took to be an expression of finality. ‘It is a laudable gesture, sir,’ he admitted, a waxen smile upon his craggy face. ‘Truly, I am affected. But no, I really cannot do it. You see, it would spoil my little plan.’
‘And what is that?’ Holmes asked.
The professor chuckled. ‘Why, to create a mystery, Mr Holmes! The final mystery of your career! Oh, it will be a tangled skein, I do assure you. So tangled and full of contradiction that the truth will never be discovered. A century from now, I daresay, it shall be this night you are remembered for, as much as your previous successes.’
‘The cufflink,’ Holmes stated.
‘Ah! – The power of your intellect never fails to disappoint me. Or was it merely that you saw me place it?’
‘Hardly. The connection is a rather simple one to make.’
‘Make it, then.’
‘My cufflink is found at the scene of the crime. We are found here, with Potter’s brush and paint. That I recently sought knowledge of runes could easily be attested to. We were seen entering the gallery at dusk, but did not leave. Circumstantial evidence, to be sure. But evidence, none the less.’
My heart sank. Before me again passed the askew glances of the tour group. And what cabbie would forget a guinea tip?
‘My blushes, sir! ’ Moriarty exclaimed. ‘Why, it seems you are on to me entirely. However, there are a few embellishments I have yet in mind. Your jewellery was but the first strand of the web –’ He gave Sanders an urgent nod. ‘Bring him in.’
A moment later, the artist stood before us.
‘You have done well,’ Moriarty told him, ‘unlike that wretched acrobat, who attempted to raise his price. Fortunately, his services were no longer needed.’
From the pocket of his coat, the professor drew an envelope, which he then handed to the man. ‘A bonus,’ he said, with the slightest smile. ‘Your ticket and expenses. The Costa del Sol is marvellous at this time of year.’ The sinister tone of Moriarty’s voice left no doubt that the other would not refuse. ‘If you return before I send for you,’ he added, ‘I shall find it very inappropriate. Do you understand?’
‘I-I do, Professor.’
‘Good. – Oh, before you go, I have a final request. A simple task, I assure you, which will only take a moment. Just sprinkle some paint across this gentleman’s trousers, will you? And put the slightest smudge upon his shoe.’
‘Another strand?’ Holmes observed, sarcastically.
Moriarty’s look turned cold. ‘The first of many I have in store,’ he replied, while the painter did as he was told. ‘Thank you, Potter. Sanders has a coach outside. He will see you to your ship.’
‘Y-yes, sir. Goodbye, Professor.’
‘Now, where was I?’ Moriarty mused, after they had gone. ‘Oh, yes – we were talking of embellishments.’
He picked up both our weapons, which had been lying upon the desk, then weighed them carefully for a moment, one in either hand. ‘Now, how shall this be done?’ he asked himself. ‘Shall I first train Dr Watson’s gun on you, then yours on him? Or shall I l
et one pistol do the work? – Why, of course! That’s it. Why, Fleet Street will have a field day! I can see the tabloids now: “Murder – Suicide! The Strange Death of Sherlock Holmes! ”
‘And what of motive, you say? Why, what better than a hint of megalomania? After all, your disdain of the official force is commonly known. How better then to prove your point, than to play them such a game, while you investigate yourself ? Tut, tut. And to think that I, a simple man of letters, was to be the scapegoat for your dementia? For shame, sir. For shame. Of course, we shall need a note in Dr Watson’s hand, which will surface later, alluding to your condition. What shall we say led to his downfall, Doctor? Morphine? Or cocaine?’
‘You fiend! ’ I cried. ‘You’ll get nothing of the sort from me! My hand shall wither, before it writes such a line! ’
‘Come, come, Doctor,’ the monster replied, a gleam of perverse pleasure in his eye. ‘There is more than one hypnotist in Limehouse, after all. I imagine we could secure another within an hour –’ Hypnotist? The word jangled something in my brain. ‘ – Or would you rather we fetched your dear landlady, Mrs Hudson, and brought her here to plead our case?’
‘You wouldn’t dare!’ I shouted, straining at the ropes which bound me. ‘Surely, you are not so despicable! May the devil take you, sir! – If you are not the devil, himself .’
‘Calm yourself, Watson,’ Holmes interjected. ‘He is enjoying this, can’t you see? Moriarty, do your worst, I say! But spare us your pitiable madness.’
Angry colour rushed to the professor’s pale cheeks, and his head began to oscillate slowly from side to side. For a moment, I thought his condition to be apoplectic. ‘Madness, you call it! ’ he stormed. ‘I call it power, Mr Holmes! Power which forces others to do my bidding! Oh, you may scoff, sir, but it is so. Far more than you realise. The police may patrol the streets, but on the East End the power of life and death is mine! ’
Moriarty lay Holmes’s pistol down upon the desk. Again, I strained with all my might, but the ropes remained secure. Was there nothing I could do?
‘I know a hundred men who would pay dearly for this moment,’ Moriarty declared, as he turned again to face my friend. ‘But in this case, I shall forgo profit for some pleasure. It shall be I who plays the final trick.’
Pausing, he produced a scrap of paper, which he held triumphantly before him. ‘I nearly forgot,’ he said. ‘This is the final garnish. The receipt for the Galpin. I shall place it in your pocket, sir, after you are gone. Watch carefully, then, Dr Watson! I shall now succeed, where you once failed! How does it feel, Mr Sherlock Holmes, to fall victim to your own trap?’
Trap! Trap! It struck me, then! The words of Porlock’s message! A trap door, hidden before Moriarty’s desk – where he was standing now! But how to trigger it? There must, I knew, be a latch of some sort close by. With all my strength, I edged down in the chair, and began to frantically search, with my feet, beneath the desk.
Moriarty raised his arm to fire.
‘These will be your last ten seconds on earth, Mr Holmes,’ he said, as he levelled the barrel at my companion’s chest. ‘When you are gone, I must admit, it will be a considerable relief. Ten, nine –’
Wildly, I moved my legs and feet about, feeling nothing but the smoothness of the wood.
‘Eight, seven, six –’
Right side, nothing! Left side, nothing! In desperation, I raised my knees, first right, then left, running them as quickly as I dared along the underside of the middle drawer. I froze! Langdon had turned his gaze my way! My heart was pounding! It seemed an eternity until he looked away again, anxious to view my friend’s demise . . .
‘Four, three –’
What if the switch was inside a drawer? The thought was too awful to contemplate.
‘Two, one.’
There it was! My left knee had brushed against what felt like the edge of a metal button, not an inch from the front of the drawer! With all my strength, I pushed my leg up against it, then let forth a blood-curdling yell – which gained me a precious second or two, as Moriarty and Langdon whirled round!
For a heartbeat, all I could hear was the crash of boards, and Moriarty’s terrified scream, as he dropped from my view! Seeing my revolver clatter across the floor, I surged to my feet, carrying the wooden chair behind me. Quick as a cat, Langdon drew his knife, then staggered – Moriarty, I saw, was hanging from his leg!
It was at that instant that Holmes lunged forward, positioned himself, and sent a devastating kick into the big man’s side. Dropping his weapon, Langdon groaned, then sank to one knee at the edge of the black abyss.
I did not hesitate. With a well-placed shove, I sent both him and the evil professor plummeting into the darkness! For the briefest of seconds, we heard their cries, a splash – then nothing more.
Grabbing Langdon’s knife, Holmes quickly cut loose my ropes, after which I did the same for him. I could tell, as we stood there, looking into each other’s eyes, that he was greatly moved.
‘God bless you, Watson,’ he said, finally. ‘What was that you said about a faithful friend being a strong defence? They are words, I promise you, I shall not forget.’
‘What do we do now, then?’ I enquired, as we hastened to retrieve our weapons.
‘We shall make the street, and hail a cab! ’ Holmes answered. ‘As to the professor’s minions, do not hesitate! Shoot any who might try to interfere! ’
Uttering a sigh, my friend reached for the singular canvas that had been the cause of so much recent destruction, agony and suffering. ‘And this, of course,’ he said, ‘goes with us. For the night, it should be safe enough at Baker Street.’
Glancing back at the empty black hole, I felt a surge of relief flood through my veins, and a heartfelt sense of vindication as well. Moriarty had used me as a tool to try and kill my friend; at least, now, I had done for him instead.
‘How many poor souls have gone before him?’ I pondered, half-aloud. ‘This was, it seems to me, a fitting place for so evil a man to meet his end.’
‘Yes, if it indeed proves so,’ Holmes agreed. ‘One wonders if you can ever kill the devil, Watson. But, come along. We still have much to do this night.’
If Moriarty’s guards were still on watch, the gleam of our revolvers must have kept them in the shadows. At any rate, we were not molested. Two blocks away, we secured a conveyance, and returned without incident through the softly-falling snow to the welcome warmth and security of our tried and familiar lodgings.
The following morning, I awoke shortly after six, dressed quickly, and rushed hurriedly through my toilet. Holmes had despatched telegrams to both Lestrade and his brother, Mycroft, upon our return the night before, asking that they call on us at Baker Street at seven o’clock. It was a conversation, quite naturally, that I did not want to miss.
My timing, I discovered, could hardly have been better. As I entered our cosy sitting room, Mrs Hudson was just leaving, having placed upon our table a steaming pot of coffee and a hearty supply of toast and jam, to which Mycroft was busily applying his attentions. Lestrade, I could see, had only just arrived, as he was removing his hat and heavy topcoat, both of which were lightly flecked with snow. Beside the plates, I glimpsed a copy of the morning Times, and a headline which immediately caught my eye:
PAINTING LOST!
National Gallery
Damaged by Fire
‘Ah, Watson! ’ Holmes enthused, as I shook our visitors’ hands. ‘You have your notebook, I see. Excellent! What better than my faithful Boswell, present to record the finish? Pour yourself some coffee, won’t you? I was about to relate to these good gentlemen the story of our travails, as well as the telling facts in this lurid case! ’
Upon hearing the words, Lestrade appeared to be taken aback. He cast the detective a doubting glance. ‘No disrespect, Mr Holmes,’ he stated, with what I took to be some satisfaction, ‘but I think you should be aware that there’s very little of this I do not already know. Oh, a detail or two,
perhaps, which I’m sure will complete the picture. But in the main, the matter has been solved. The fact is, I have had the criminals in hand, since shortly after midnight! ’
Holmes flashed me a look of apprehension. ‘Oh, really?’
‘Yes! I received your wire, thank you, and I do admit that it put us squarely on the track. Truth is, however, we did not have far to cast our net. Both Langdon and Sanders were arrested when they turned up at their lodgings – and have since confessed to everything.’
‘Good Lord! ’ I said, nearly spilling my cup. ‘What an unexpected turn of events! ’
‘Almost providential, wouldn’t you say?’ Holmes observed, a downcast look upon his face. ‘Rather, I suspect, it is a most ingenious ploy. – But pray, Inspector, have a chair! With your permission, I shall give you our account, after which we shall hear of yours. The exchange, I’m sure, can only benefit us both.’
For the next quarter-hour, Holmes relayed to Lestrade and Mycroft what had transpired the night before: how, after divining the true intent of Moriarty’s convoluted scheme, we had lain in wait for him at the National Gallery, only to be taken prisoner ourselves and transported down river to one of his haunts, where ensued the dramatic struggle that had nearly cost us our lives.
‘A remarkable story, to be sure,’ the policeman said, after Holmes had finished. ‘Not that I doubt your word, sir. But it does contradict, in many ways, the statement which I was given.’
‘Ah, does it now? Tell me, then. To what, exactly, have these men admitted?’