Sherlock Holmes- a Duel With the Devil

by Roger Jaynes

  ‘Why the entire business, of course! ’ Lestrade declared. ‘They, and the accomplice Potter – who I’ve no doubt, we shall soon apprehend – were behind the Crimson Vandals’ game. The motive was profit, quick and substantial. Contrary to your suspicions, the art dealer Jacobsen was no innocent. In fact, he was a confederate – who had secured a means of passage for the stolen objets d’art on to the Continent.’

  Holmes turned away to hide his disgust, and reached for his cherrywood pipe atop the mantel, which I knew gave clue as to his mood. ‘But, of course,’ he murmured, as he began to fill the bowl. ‘How foolish of me not to see it.’

  Lestrade seemed clearly pleased. ‘Ah, well,’ he said, ‘I would not feel too badly. We cannot all be right on every count, I do suppose! – At any rate, from what they’ve told us, the haul was to have been far larger than a single painting. However, when you and Dr Watson surprised them, they decided to take the Greuze and flee. Assuming, I expect that we were close behind.’

  ‘Then that much, at least, you have to thank us for,’ Holmes remarked, as he struck a match and inhaled deeply, sending a blue cloud of smoke about his head.

  Lestrade carefully applied a spoonful of jam to his toast, letting the silence hang. ‘I will only say, consider it fortunate you both escaped,’ he said. ‘You say they took you to Limehouse; their story is that they dropped you in the street, unharmed, a short distance from Stepney Station. What’s a jury to say? Who knows. The point is, in future, I would advise that you include Scotland Yard in your plans.’

  Anger welled up inside me; this was too much! I could contain myself no longer. ‘Why, this is preposterous! ’ I exploded. ‘How dare you take the word of those criminals as equal to our own! Their story is nothing more than a flimsy fabrication! What of the attempt on the life of Sherlock Holmes? And Jacobsen’s death? – Not to mention the murder of Ulric, the acrobat! ’

  ‘Here now, Doctor! ’ Lestrade shot back. ‘Calm yourself ! I’m not saying what Mr Holmes told me didn’t happen. But put yourself in my position: I must have proof. Your friend has many enemies, as we all know. And, outside his theories, I’ve no evidence that Ulric’s death is connected to any of this.’

  ‘And Jacobsen?’ I pressed.

  ‘At this point, I suspect there was some sort of falling out among them. It’s common in these sort of cases. My birds, of course, deny all knowledge of this killing. But, I imagine, it will come out in time. Perhaps once the artist Potter has also been put in gaol.’

  ‘Well, then,’ Holmes said, ‘all else withstanding, you seem to be on top of things. I have but one question for you, Inspector: what of Moriarty?’

  Lestrade frowned, and put down his cup. ‘I am aware of your predisposition towards that fellow,’ he replied. ‘As to my prisoners – they deny all knowledge of the man. Frankly, at this point, I have nothing in my grasp save your suspicions. It’s hardly enough to warrant an arrest, much less hope for a conviction.’

  ‘Ah, you have spoken to him then?’ Holmes asked. ‘If so, it would certainly disclaim our tale.’ I knew what he was seeking.

  ‘No,’ Lestrade admitted, ‘I have not. I was at his door not an hour ago, but his housekeeper said he was gone. He has been in Croydon the last three days on business, she said, but was expected to return tomorrow. You may be sure that when he does I shall question him extensively.’

  Fresh clouds swirled forth from my friend’s slender cherrywood. He was, I knew, as deeply frustrated and disheartened by all of this as I. Barring something unforeseen, Moriarty had slipped the net again. That is, if he were still alive. Langdon, clearly, had survived his icy plunge into the Thames. But what of the professor?

  ‘Then at this point, I think there is little more that can be said,’ Holmes concluded, turning his attentions to our crackling fire. ‘My congratulations, Inspector! You have, it seems, added yet another feather to your cap – as for me, I do have some morning calls to make. You will appraise me of fresh developments?’

  The policeman moved quickly to fetch his coat and hat, looking very ill at ease. The cold dismissal in Holmes’s final words had been impossible for him to miss. ‘I shall,’ he answered, officiously, as he prepared himself for the cold. ‘Understand me, Mr Holmes. I am not discounting your story, but it does not have a leg to stand on. I, on the other hand, have both crime and motive – attested to by signed confessions! Well, I must be off. Good day.’

  ‘He’s right, you know,’ Mycroft said, once Lestrade had gone. I had almost forgotten he was present, since all this time he sat quietly by, content with his toast and coffee.

  ‘Come now! ’ Holmes retorted, sharply. ‘You surely don’t believe that silly story?’

  ‘Not a word, Sherlock. Not a word. But I do understand the inspector’s dilemma. True, he could arrest Moriarty. But to what gain – save his eventual embarrassment? As it is, he at least has two of the criminals in tow, the Home Secretary is wildly happy, and the French have back their painting.’

  ‘Ah! All’s right with the world, you mean?’

  ‘To some extent, yes.’ Mycroft threw up his corpulent hands. ‘You gambled and lost, Sherlock! ’ he exclaimed. ‘That’s the nub of it! Had you nabbed the fellow at the gallery, well, that’s another story.’

  A look of weary resignation crossed Holmes’s face. ‘You are right, of course,’ he admitted. ‘But I do not regret my course of action. It was our only chance.’

  ‘Quite so, quite so.’ With some difficulty, Mycroft shoved his massive frame up from the chair, a look of concern in his watery, grey eyes. ‘You realise Moriarty is still alive?’

  ‘Of course. Why else their move to screen him?’

  ‘He is a much more subtle and resourceful foe than most criminals of the street,’ Mycroft said. ‘You must be on constant guard, Sherlock. I worry for your safety.’

  ‘I doubt if the professor will try anything soon,’ Holmes remarked. ‘He is like a man who has tried to snatch something from the fire. By raising the stakes, he nearly lost his life. No, unless I have him in a corner, I doubt if he’ll be so bold again.’

  Mycroft reached for his coat and hat. ‘Then take my advice,’ he offered. ‘Draw back for now. Take months, years if need be, to learn all you can about every facet of his organisation. That way, when he does finally make that tiniest of slips, you will be in a position to close the net. If you wish to work through me, I am at your service. I can supply agents, and the means.’

  ‘With, or without the Home Secretary’s knowledge?’ I asked.

  ‘I should imagine, with,’ Mycroft answered. ‘I am to meet with His Lordship at two o’clock this afternoon, to report on the Crimson Vandals’ affair, and to deliver him the painting, so he may in turn hand it to the French ambassador. I am quite certain, in the course of our conversation, that I shall make him aware of this latest plague upon our community.’

  ‘Thank God,’ I murmured. ‘Perhaps, now, something will be done.’

  After shaking hands, we escorted Holmes’s brother to our door, where he took the Greuze, which we had wrapped in plain brown paper to protect it from the weather. ‘Take heart, gentlemen! ’ he encouraged us. ‘What was it Hesiod wrote? How “Often an entire city has suffered because of an evil man.” Hopefully, through Sherlock’s wit, and the sword of British justice, we shall not suffer long.’

  I could not help but wonder, as the portly minister without portfolio descended our oft-trod stairs, where this struggle between good and evil would end. There was no way of knowing that what Mycroft had proposed, would indeed eventually come to pass. That, working with government agents, Holmes would one day finally be able to weave a net from which even the wily professor could not escape, bringing about more assassination attempts and their final duel at Reichenbach. That time, thankfully, no one would be there to pull him from the abyss.

  ‘Merry Christmas, Holmes! ’ I said, as we raised our glasses of Montrachet.

  My final words on the Crimson Vandals’ affair must
be dated Christmas Eve, 1888. Outside, soft flakes of snow were gently floating down amidst the street lights, and we could faintly hear the sound of carollers somewhere below. Mrs Hudson had outdone herself – presenting us with a holiday meal of succulent goose, and buttered carrots laced with gravy, accompanied by custard tarts and apple cake.

  Our plan that night was not to venture far from our crackling fire. Holmes wore his purple dressing gown, I my usual maroon with black lapels. Cigars and brandy, and our exchange of gifts, were still ahead.

  No wonder then, I was surprised when my friend put down his glass, and from beneath the table produced a brightly-wrapped package, which he thrust into my hands.

  ‘Surely, Holmes,’ I said, ‘this can wait until later.’

  ‘No, Watson,’ he assured me. ‘It is something we shall toast again, after you have seen.’

  Tearing open the paper, I found before me, elegantly framed and matted, that passage from the Greek Apocrypha:

  A faithful friend is a strong defence; and he that has found such an one hath found a treasure.

  Ecclesiasticus, 6:14

  It has hung upon my bedroom wall to this day.

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