The Last Moriarty Page 11

  “Moriarty was both physically unattractive—‘reptilian,’ as you have described him, Dr. Watson—and also entirely lacking in ability to perform a musical composition in the spirit intended by the composer. Due to his mathematical gifts he was able to grasp the theoretical aspects of a composition instantly, that much is true. But he had no feel, no heart, to understand and project the emotion of the composer, which is, of course, the sole reason for the existence of any musical performance. His pride, however, would not let him admit that he lacked ability of any sort. He persisted in the face of my frequently expressed opinion that he should direct his energies to other matters. ‘No, one more week. I am sure I can master this, just let me continue one more week,’ he would say. Then, one day, I discovered that he had gone to my landlady and paid the rent on my flat for the next six months. He had learned somehow that I was in difficult financial straits. Although I should have told my landlady to return the money, I took the path of least resistance and did not. But when Moriarty insinuated that I should meet with him socially, in addition to the scheduled lessons, I told him I was no longer willing to see him at all, and he went away.

  “I thought myself well rid of him and put him out of my mind, for, you see, by this time I was completely infatuated with another student, a young man studying at Cambridge, who had talent for both musical theory and violin performance. Additionally, he had such an eclectic taste, such an energetic nature, such a wonderful interest in so many things that I found myself looking forward to our weekly lessons not only for the musical experience but also for the sheer delight of encountering his exuberant personality.”

  She glanced at me briefly and then continued, her lovely features seeming to glow with happiness at the recollection, though her hands remained tightly clasped together.

  “To my delight, the young student seemed also eager to see me, and began to ask me to spend time with him outside our weekend lessons. We walked together in Hyde Park, we strolled through the British Museum, we had tea at little shops, and we could not seem to get enough of each other’s company. That was during the springtime of that year.”

  She stopped and drew a breath, and then her voice hardened and the words came faster. “But after the month of May he did not come for his next scheduled lesson. He sent a letter that he would be busy with his end-of-term examinations, and that during July he would be visiting a schoolmate of his for a few weeks or perhaps more during what he called ‘the long vacation.’ I was disappointed, but looked forward to his return. Then, on Monday the twenty-ninth of June, James Moriarty appeared at my door. When he realized that I was alone, he . . . forced himself on me. I cried out for the police but no one heard. He left me with the threat that if I told anyone what had occurred, he would have me killed.”

  I felt my face burn red with acute embarrassment and sympathy. She continued, “In early August I realized I was pregnant.”

  “How terribly, terribly unfair,” I said.

  “I was alone. I could not go back to Rome and my parents. They had disowned me when I defied their wishes by coming on my own to London. And they are staunch Roman Catholics, so you can imagine the reception they would have given me had I arrived on their doorstep unmarried and pregnant. So I had no one to talk to about what I ought to do. However, my landlady guessed what had happened, and one morning I made the mistake of taking her briefly into my confidence. A day later James Moriarty came to call on me again.

  “His proposition was simple. First, he had a document I was to sign that released him from any liability for anything that had passed between us. Then he said he had a brother who was somewhat obsessed with family ties, and from whom he needed funds to invest in his business activities in London. He proposed to go to his brother with the news that he had fathered a child, that the woman did not wish to marry him, but had no means of support, and that he wanted to be sure the child had a proper upbringing. His brother would act as trustee for the child, who would be raised in a manner befitting the status of its father. Moriarty was convinced that his brother would reward him for having acted in that honorable, family-oriented manner. He was very open in saying that if I ever tried to contact the child or make inquiries, or tell anyone the truth of his involvement, he would have me killed, along with the child.

  “That November, when my condition became too visible for me to conceal, I had to resign my position with the London Symphony. I was taken to a remote tenant farm in Kent and lived with a kind old couple, husband and wife, until the time for the child to be born. A midwife attended the birth. She took the child away immediately. I heard its first cries but I was not permitted to see it or hold it, and she would not even tell me whether it was a boy or a girl. I stayed on for a week until I recovered my strength, however, and during that time I overheard the wife say she wondered ‘how the little lass would turn out.’ So I believed the child was a girl. And last night Sherlock confirmed it.”

  “Lucy James,” I said.

  “Yes. I then returned to London and resumed my life. Or tried to. It was extremely difficult to overcome the sadness, just as difficult as you would imagine. I could of course no longer stay in my home at Montague Street, since I could not trust my landlady not to inform on whatever I might be doing, so I moved. Then I began imagining that the people in that building were watching me, so I moved again. Then desire to learn more of the child overcame me and I journeyed to the farm in Kent, but the old couple had gone away and the new tenants had no knowledge of their identities or whereabouts. Finally I resolved to live my life without thinking of either the child or Moriarty. Of course I did not succeed. But I did find a position with Mr. Carte’s troupe and that has been a blessing.”

  “Did you ever meet the trustee? The brother of Moriarty?”

  She nodded. “I believe so. Shortly after I returned from my fruitless journey to the Kentish farm, a tall man stopped me outside my building one evening as I was on my way to the orchestra. He said that it could be dangerous to travel in these times, because travel might lead to injury, and he was sure that it would be a disappointment to his brother if I were to be injured. He said he was certain that I knew his brother, who was a rising young mathematician and in line for an appointment as a professor. There was no doubt from his tone of voice that he was threatening me.”

  “Was he specific as to the possible injury?”

  “He said a woman in my profession needs to protect her hands.”

  “Can you describe him?”

  “His face haunts me still. He has a high forehead, thin nose, bushy black eyebrows, and a square jaw, with thick black side-whiskers. I remember wishing I had the courage to defy him. But he made me feel powerless. His cold blue eyes were the same as his brother’s. He looked at me as though I were an insect that he might crush at any moment, on a whim.”

  “Adam Worth,” I said.

  “Sherlock told me his name. I heard his voice coming from Mr. Carte’s office when you and I first met Friday night. That is why I fled. I was terrified.”

  She looked outside the window again. “We are almost there. My flat is in the last but one, just before the corner.” Outside I could see a row of well-kept five-story buildings on the southeast side, their brick facades and concrete steps still in the morning shadows. “I have lived here nearly thirteen years,” she said. “Ever since Mr. D’Oyly Carte opened the Savoy. It is very convenient to the theater.”

  We stopped at the curb. Lestrade’s man opened the door for us. Behind him stood another policeman. “I’ve been on duty since nine, sir. Only residents have come in. And some of the construction chaps.” He pointed to a scaffold high above, on which two workmen crouched to maneuver long boards into the building through a window.

  “My new upstairs neighbor is redecorating,” said Miss Rosario. “The doorman told me about it last night. He says there will be noise starting at nine every morning for the next week.”

  28.
TWO REVELATIONS

  Our two policemen positioned themselves on the stoop so that they could see the street and sidewalks in either direction. Miss Rosario used her key to open the inner door and we entered the building. “I’m afraid we have three flights of stairs,” she said brightly as we started our climb. “Two more than at Baker Street.”

  “But a great deal closer to the Savoy.”

  “My thoughts exactly when I rented it. It only takes me five minutes to walk there, carrying my violin. Though I certainly did not know I would stay here thirteen years. No one could have predicted the theater and the operettas would have been such a great success for so long a time. I remember the night we opened. The electric lights were a mystery to nearly everyone back then. Mr. D’Oyly Carte stood on the stage and broke a glowing bulb, just to show the audience how safe it was.”

  By now we had reached her floor, and soon she was unlocking the door numbered 4A that led to her small suite of rooms. “People still think that living in a flat is somehow ‘not quite nice,’” she said. “But a normal house would be impossible for someone like me to afford.”

  “Yesterday a man tried to make Holmes feel small because he lived in a rented flat and did not have several grand estates from which to choose.”

  “Sherlock never cared for that sort of thing.”

  We entered her sitting room. To our right there was a small fireplace, half-circled by a small couch, two comfortable chairs, and a low table upon which a substantial stack of magazines was neatly piled. At the far corners of the room, two open doors led to what were plainly a washroom and a bedroom. Both appeared to be empty. Nonetheless I drew my revolver and, motioning for Miss Rosario to keep silent, walked quietly to the washroom door and looked in. A glance showed me that no one was present. Moments later I had repeated the process of inspection in the bedroom and returned to Miss Rosario.

  “We are alone,” I said, pocketing my revolver.

  “You are very careful.”

  “Holmes insisted. I have strict instructions that you are not to leave my sight until I have delivered you safely to your rehearsal.”

  “Thank you for your vigilance.” She moved to the low table and gestured toward its contents. “Do you know what these are?”

  “Of course. They are copies of The Strand Magazine.”

  “Dating back to 1887. Every one of your accounts is here. Every one, from A Study in Scarlet to The Final Problem.”

  “I am flattered.”

  “I am grateful. But at the moment you do not know just how grateful. So I would like to tell you about my other student.”

  We sat, and she continued, “I recall our last meeting perfectly. Late in August he had returned from his school vacation visit. He asked me to meet him for lunch. He chose the Criterion, for he was in high spirits, even higher spirits than usual for him, and said he wanted to celebrate. He said his visit had shown him the path forward for his life’s purpose and career. I knew his brilliance, of course, so I understood at once what a wonderful choice he had made and how significant his role in the world would become. He was so full of plans for the studies he would pursue at Cambridge and elsewhere to prepare himself—so completely caught up in the excitement of his visions for the future.”

  She broke off, closed her eyes, and shook her head. “I did not have the heart to tell him of my condition. I sent him a letter afterward, saying that I had found someone new and that I was going away. I made the letter particularly abrupt, so that he would have no expectations of continuing our relationship.”

  She looked directly at me then, and said, “I explained all this to Sherlock last night. Of course he remembered the letter.”

  For a moment I was unable to breathe as the realization dawned. So many things came into focus. The tale of The Gloria Scott that Holmes had recounted years before as he told me of his visit to Victor Trevor, his school friend. Holmes’s careful selection of the placement of our seats at the Savoy Theatre and his hasty departure from the Savoy lobby. Miss Rosario referring to Holmes as Sherlock and her knowledge that he never cared for the trappings of wealth.

  “There were many years when I tormented myself with regret and doubt. Then your reports began to appear in The Strand. You made me see that what had occurred was for the best, at least where Sherlock was concerned. Had my relationship with him continued, Sherlock would not have had the freedom to pursue the life he was born to lead. Severing my connection with Sherlock allowed him to complete his education at Cambridge and beyond, and then go on to contribute greatly to the safety of all of us. I could understand that, each time I read one of these accounts. Dr. Watson, I have read each one of your reports again and again. I never thought I would have the opportunity to thank you in person for writing them.”

  It was a moment or two before I could do more than nod my acknowledgment. Then I found words. “And now you know that your daughter has grown up with a promising future.”

  “And I have hope that we may get to know one another.” She went on lightly, “That does not seem too much to ask for, does it? Now, just let me get my violin. It is a Stradivarius like Sherlock’s, so it is of some value. I keep it in a locked cabinet in my bedroom. I shall only be a minute, and then we shall get to the rehearsal on time.”

  I remained seated on the sofa to wait for her. Before me were the volumes of The Strand in their covers of yellow and black, many with Holmes’s portrait inset amid the titles. Memories of our adventures contained in those pages came flooding back, each with its own wealth of characters and emotions. In my mind’s eye many images flickered into life and then vanished, each to be replaced by another. I saw again the ferocious little Andaman Islander, the tall, gaunt figure of Jefferson Hope, the great Somomy stallion Silver Blaze . . .

  Then I realized that Miss Rosario had shut the door to her bedroom.

  I sat in silence for a few more moments, thinking that she had decided to change her clothing. Then another possibility occurred to me. My heart pounded as I got to my feet. “Miss Rosario?” I called.

  There was no reply. In a moment I had reached the bedroom door and flung it open.

  The room was empty. From the open window, a chill breeze dispersed what was now only a faint scent of chloroform.

  Sick at heart, I ran to the window and looked down. Below me the scene was perfectly ordinary. Passersby on the sidewalk; horses, carriages, and cyclists on the street. Lestrade’s two men were on the stoop, oblivious to my presence. I shouted to get their attention and then called, “Have you seen anything?” The words seemed absurd and futile even as they left my lips.

  Lestrade’s men looked up at me, their eyes wide and uncomprehending. Then I realized what must have happened. I twisted my body to see what was above me. There was the paint-flaked bottom of the scaffold, swinging slightly on its ropes. “Come up to the top floor,” I called down to Lestrade’s men. “Quick as you can!”

  Without waiting for a response I ran for the stairs and up to the top floor. The stout oak door to 5B was locked. I kicked at it in frustration, then drew my revolver and fired three times at the lock. The smoke of gunfire and the reverberations of the shots filled the small confines of the hallway. I barely noticed.

  Lestrade’s men reached the landing, breathless from their climb, just as the smoke cleared. We could see the lock was shattered. Keeping my revolver drawn, I pushed the door open.

  The rooms were deserted, empty save for some boards and dirty painters’ canvas drop cloths. Cold air and traffic noise came from the open window. I ran to it and looked down.

  Five stories below, the scaffold lay empty. The ropes that had supported it now were strewn in untidy coils covering either end.

  My heart sank. On the sidewalk and on the street, there was no sign of the workmen, or of Miss Rosario.

  29. PLANS, INTERRUPTED

  “It was carefully planned,” said Holmes. He an
d the Commissioner had come immediately from Carte’s office and now stood with me in Miss Rosario’s bedroom. Despite Holmes’s masklike expression, I felt sure he was deeply disturbed by the consequences of my failed attempt to protect her. Nevertheless he spoke briskly as he moved about the room, reconstructing the events that had occurred.

  “You see how the edges of the window sash have been coated with soap. The intruders gained entry at some time before this morning to accomplish this, possibly with the assistance of the building superintendent. Then, as you saw, they waited on the scaffold for you to arrive and come into the building. As you climbed the stairs, they lowered the scaffold and opened the window. One of them entered and closed the window so that the room would appear undisturbed. That person stood here, behind the door, as evidenced by these flecks of dried paint and the plaster dust on the floor. I have no doubt that these came from the surface of the scaffold, clung to his trousers when he knelt outside, and then fell to the floor when he pressed himself against the wall.”

  “I should have looked behind the door.”

  “Had you done so, you would have been blinded by chloroform, or your throat would have been cut.”

  “I let her out of my sight.”

  “If you had gone into the room a second time, you would have been taken from behind. The result would have been the same.”

  Holmes pointed to the open door of a small empty cabinet where a key was in the lock. “He waited for her to insert her key before using the chloroform to subdue her, and then took time to remove the violin. I find some cause for optimism there. No, Watson, you must not waste your energies in blaming yourself. I have no doubt that Mr. Worth or one of his associates is the ‘new tenant’ who rents the space above where we now stand. It is likely that he has controlled the rooms for some time. Miss Rosario having lived here more than a dozen years, he has had ample opportunity both to gain access and to injure her. The question we must ask ourselves is why he has chosen this particular time and method.”