The Last Moriarty Read online

  “Meanwhile,” he said, “examine this. It is the police account of Clevering’s movements from Saturday morning until tonight when he arrived here at the Diogenes Club.”

  The typewritten account showed that Saturday Clevering had gone from his home to the German embassy, to the Bank of England, to Lord Lansdowne’s estate, and then to our meeting here at the Diogenes Club before returning home. Yesterday he had traveled only from his home to Lord Lansdowne’s and then here, and then home again. Today he had repeated his Saturday pattern of movements, though of course he had never reached his home.

  “Does anything in this account strike you as noteworthy?”

  “He did not attend church on Sunday.”

  “And yet he did travel to Lord Lansdowne’s estate that day, and each of the other two days that he was being observed. A visit to Lord Lansdowne would be a considerable inconvenience, since, as you are likely aware, the Lansdowne family has for more than a century been seated at Bowood House near the town of Derry Hill, a two and one-half hours’ journey from London by train.”

  “It was Clevering’s duty to report to Lord Lansdowne, whatever the inconvenience.”

  “He could have reported by telephone.”

  “If indeed the lines have reached so far from London.”

  “They have,” said Holmes. “While you were changing clothes, the Commissioner telephoned Bowood House to report the need for a successor to Mr. Clevering. Lord Lansdowne is still unwell, so the Commissioner spoke to Lady Lansdowne.”

  I failed to see the significance of Clevering’s making the journey rather than using the telephone. I said, “Clevering might simply have been trying to impress his superior with his zeal, or to show his concern for Lord Lansdowne’s health.”

  Holmes looked thoughtful. “Or his visits—”

  “—may have been the cause of Lord Lansdowne’s illness,” Lucy finished.

  “Quite possibly,” said Holmes, and the flicker of excitement in his gaze told me that, far from being annoyed at Lucy’s interruption, he shared her opinion.

  I was struggling to understand what Holmes and Lucy were getting at, when the Commissioner entered the room. Upon seeing Miss James, he looked startled, for it was unusual for a woman to be present in the club, particularly at a late hour.

  Holmes spoke in a matter-of-fact manner. “Commissioner Bradford, this is Miss Lucy James, of the D’Oyly Carte Troupe. She has been staying on the Rockefeller yacht and is a friend of young Mr. Rockefeller, who has told her of the upcoming conference. She is also the daughter of Miss Rosario, and she has come here tonight with important information concerning Miss Rosario’s whereabouts. As you know, we believe Miss Rosario has been abducted by Mr. Worth, and finding her may lead us to him.”

  “Which could end the threat to our meeting.”

  “Unless Colonel Moran is arranging that side of the affair, and is operating with no further communication required from his . . . employer.”

  “We must follow the trail nonetheless. You shall have a police coach to accompany you.”

  Holmes nodded his thanks. “We must go to 198 Piccadilly as soon as we have dealt with matters arising from the explosion here. Now, have your men discovered anything new from further examination of the police coach?”

  Fatigue showed on the Commissioner’s face. “The explosive device appears to have been a bottle bomb. A pint glass bottle, packed with gunpowder and nails, an oakum fuse soaked in kerosene, probably lit with a cigar. Easily concealed.”

  “Unlike the bomb from Friday morning, which employed dynamite, detonated electrically with a timing device of some sort, and was intended as a demonstration of capabilities. Tonight there was a different purpose.”

  “He wanted to kill Clevering.”

  “But he could have done that with a pistol at close range. He could have shot Clevering and got away just as quickly, and with less risk. The fuse of the bomb might have taken longer to burn than he had foreseen. The officer might have seen the flame, opened the door, and pulled Clevering to safety. If our killer had used a pistol, such a risk would not have presented itself.”

  “And yet he used the bottle bomb.”

  “Indeed.” Holmes pressed his fingertips together, musing. He continued, “Assuming there is a method at work here, there is also a message. And the message is either deliberate or unintentional. Either way we would benefit from knowing it, and as yet I cannot say I understand.” He shook his head. “But let us set that puzzle aside for the present. Has Mrs. Clevering been told of her husband’s death?”

  “Lord Salisbury delivered the news personally by telephone.”

  “And what did the Prime Minister tell her?”

  “That her husband had died at the hand of an unknown bomb thrower as he was leaving after tonight’s meeting.”

  “Nothing was mentioned about Clevering’s involvement with Worth?”

  “We thought it best not to do so. He is being judged by a higher power than ours, and having newspapers trumpeting the story of a cabinet minister’s chief assistant engaged in a treasonous plot . . . Well, that would prove disastrous for our meeting. It might even bring down the government.”

  “Where is Mrs. Clevering now?”

  “She is staying with the children. Two servants of the family are coming to arrange for transport of the body.”

  Holmes nodded. “I trust the manacles have been removed from Mr. Clevering’s wrists.” Then, at the Commissioner’s startled look, he continued, “Let us go downstairs to confirm that. Something else has just occurred to me.”

  Once outside the club, we found a ring of policemen protecting the entrance and the nearest part of Waterloo Place. They had no difficulty keeping back the few curious onlookers who had been attracted by the noise of the explosion. Behind the damaged police coach, a police ambulance had been drawn up, and inside it Clevering’s body lay on a gurney, covered by a khaki wool blanket of the same variety that had covered Mr. Foster’s remains less than four days earlier.

  Holmes drew back the blanket, and we saw the manacles, blackened and stained, on Clevering’s wrists. Fortunately the locks were still working despite being exposed to the heat of the explosion, and Holmes, after getting a key from one of the attending police guards, was able to remove them without difficulty. I noticed with admiration that Miss James did not flinch from the sight.

  Handing the manacles to the guard, Holmes asked, “Have you removed the contents of the victim’s pockets?”

  “Yes, sir.” The guard nodded toward a metal box beneath the gurney.

  Holmes lifted the lid of the box and bent down to inspect its contents. “Billfold, pocket watch, coins, half-empty cigarette case, contents all slightly scorched, as one would expect. And . . . this.”

  He showed the guard a small object. “Can you tell me which pocket this was taken from?”

  “It was in his waistcoat pocket, along with his pocket watch.”

  “Thank you.” He handed the object to the Commissioner, and in the light of the streetlamp I could see it was a small glass vial with a cork stopper. “Commissioner, I can assure you that it will be best if we retain this. It will have no value to the Clevering family, and it may have some bearing on this investigation.”

  “What is it?” asked the Commissioner.

  Holmes looked at Miss James for a moment. “I believe it is the reason why Mr. Clevering’s killer employed a bomb rather than a revolver.” Holmes turned to the guard. “I must request that you say nothing of this to those who will soon arrive to claim the body.” The guard having nodded respectfully, Holmes turned to the Commissioner. “Sir Edward, may we now proceed with a police coach?”

  39. A WALK IN THE FOG

  The young sergeant who was to be our driver gave Holmes a quizzical glance when he heard that our destination was 198 Piccadilly, barely a quarter mile away. But Hol
mes explained that we were going there in search of a woman who might very well be in need of medical assistance, and that the police coach might have to function as an ambulance on short notice. At this the young man drew himself up to attention. “I’m your man, sir. We have a first aid kit on board.”

  “We shall walk,” Holmes said. “Please remain behind us and when we arrive, watch the entrance. The mist is turning to fog so you must keep a sharp lookout. If you see someone leaving in haste, stop him. Or her. Are you armed?”

  “I have my revolver on board, sir. Fully loaded.”

  “Watson?”

  I felt the reassuring weight of my own weapon in my coat pocket and nodded. “Mine is here, and I have a spare in my room upstairs. Would you like me to—”

  “One will be sufficient. We shall have the element of surprise on our side.”

  The chill dampness in the November air seemed to cut through my coat as the three of us set out on Regent Street. I was grateful that the distance was short and that we would soon be at our destination, for better or worse. The mist, as Holmes had observed, was coming in from the Thames behind us. Holmes kept a brisk pace, and it was with some apprehension that I saw Miss James fall in beside me, her black woolen shawl drawn tight beneath her chin, her lovely young features set in a determined frown. Was it wise, I wondered, to allow her to come with us, and subject her to the peril that could lie ahead? But I dismissed the thought. Holmes had made that decision once before, at Miss James’s insistence, when we had entered the flat at 198 Piccadilly less than twenty-four hours earlier. No doubt he had once again weighed all the considerations.

  After a time I noticed Holmes was farther ahead of us than when we had begun, and called out for him to slow down lest the sergeant following in the coach lose us in the thickening fog.

  Holmes stopped immediately. “Quite right, Watson. Your warning is most sensible.”

  “You think Colonel Moran is waiting for us?” asked Miss James.

  “Quite possibly. Although the fog may hamper the use of his customary air gun.”

  As we reached Jermyn Street, the fog enveloped the light from the streetlamps. By the time we turned left on Piccadilly our view of the doors to the shops and other buildings was all but obscured. The streets were deserted, for this was a section of London in which the fashionable shops had long since closed their doors, after the Whitehall workforce had gone home for their evening’s rest. We kept close to the facade, in order to see the street numbers, but this of course increased our distance from the street and the following police coach. I worried that the sergeant would have lost sight of us, until I heard the steady clip clop of his horse’s steel-shod hooves on the hard pavement. As we passed the dark recess of the St. James Church courtyard my fretful mind turned to the possibility that our search, even if we found Miss Rosario, would not lead us to Mr. Worth and his accomplices. Then Holmes would be accused of placing a personal relationship above matters of national importance. I recalled an ironic poem by Mr. Kipling, the gist of which was that we ordinary people frequently take an attitude of superiority to soldiers, until the shooting starts and we need them to protect us. The critics of Holmes, I thought, would not hesitate to turn on him if he failed in his mission.

  My fatigued brain continued to swirl with these pessimistic and most unprofitable thoughts, when I saw a plaque with the number 198 above a doorway just ahead. I realized, with a shock, that the door was ajar, and my heart began to pound as I saw the door open wider.

  Holmes saw it, too, for he held up his hand, motioning Miss James to step back. She did so instantly, and I drew my revolver.

  In the next moment a burly figure emerged. Standing well back, out of the man’s line of vision, Holmes let him step out onto the pavement. The man then turned, bending to lock the door behind him.

  Holmes said, “Mr. James Blake, is it not?”

  The man looked up and with a snarl of rage flung a ring of keys at Holmes. Then he leaped at me, hands outstretched for my revolver. In the fraction of a second that followed, I swung my revolver as hard as I could and hit him in the face. Blake shook off the blow and lunged forward, crashing into me, his hands trying to wrest the revolver from my grip. I struggled with him, trying to keep my feet beneath me and not be shoved off balance by his powerful frame.

  Then I saw Holmes before me, pressing his revolver against Blake’s temple. “Release him, Mr. Blake. Do not move, or the next impact to your head will be that of a bullet.”

  I covered Blake with my revolver while Holmes bent to search Blake’s pockets. In a few moments Holmes had withdrawn and put away a revolver and a wickedly curved knife. “Most interesting,” Holmes said as he tucked the knife into his coat. “I wonder if someone on Threadneedle Street will remember you as a visitor to Mr. Perkins at the Bank of England this morning.”

  By now the sergeant had dismounted from the police coach and was at Holmes’s side, holding a pair of handcuffs. “Shall I do the honors, sir?”

  “If you please. And take special care with this one, Sergeant. A nasty piece of business.”

  Blake twisted for a moment but I gestured with my pistol and he stood erect, glaring, his lips beginning to swell. I heard a metallic sound as the sergeant applied the cuffs and clicked the locking rod into place.

  “I do thank you for providing us with these,” said Holmes as he picked up Blake’s key ring. “Sergeant, you may take him to the coach. Please guard him carefully.”

  “I’ll keep him safe.” The sergeant handed me a police whistle. “Just use this if you need me.”

  “But before you leave us, Blake,” said Holmes, “where is Mr. Worth?”

  Blake said nothing, but I saw his eyes flicker upward for a moment before he set his jaw and stared defiantly back at Holmes.

  “Others will question you,” said Holmes, “and they will have fewer scruples than I, particularly when interrogating traitors to our country. You should think about your alternatives as you wait for us.”

  Blake remained silent. The sergeant led him to the police coach and pushed him, none too gently, inside.

  “Holmes, Worth is upstairs,” I whispered.

  Miss James added, “I saw Blake look up.”

  Holmes tried the door. Blake evidently had not finished locking it, for it opened noiselessly. Holding a finger to his lips, Holmes motioned us to come inside.

  40. THE MORIARTY FAMILY

  An electric sconce illuminated the stairway at each of the building’s three levels. We quickly mounted the steps to the doorway of the flat we had entered some twelve hours earlier. Holmes produced the key ring. In the shadowy electric light of the hallway he was about to select a key to open the adjacent door when Miss James placed her hand on his wrist. “Look for a matched pair,” she said quietly. “If there is a connection between the flats, the keys to each will likely have been made by the same manufacturer.”

  Holmes smiled appreciatively. “Quite right. And if there is a connecting flat, Mr. Blake would have possessed a key to it.”

  But Holmes probed the locks of the other two flats on that floor with all the keys on the ring, to no avail. We then walked up the remaining flight of stairs. Holmes paused before the doorway positioned directly above the one we had entered. “This is a Chubb lock, and so is the lock on the door directly below us.” He gestured at the bottom of the door and the small dark gap above the threshold. “Someone is inside,” he said, his voice barely audible.

  “I see nothing.”

  “That is how I know someone is there.”

  I nearly expressed my exasperation, but Lucy put her hand on my arm, held a finger to her lips, and whispered, “We saw a light in the window when we were on the sidewalk. Someone must have switched it off.”

  On Holmes’s second attempt the key turned noiselessly in the lock. Holmes eased the door open a crack. I saw only darkness inside.

&
nbsp; I drew my revolver and looked to Holmes for guidance. In answer, he nodded at my revolver and eased the door open another inch or two.

  At that moment, the lights of the room flashed on, the door was jerked open, and before us stood Adam Worth, training a double-barreled shotgun on Holmes’s midsection.

  He spoke in that same harshly intrusive voice we had heard in D’Oyly Carte’s office.

  “No one moves, or Holmes dies.”

  We froze. Then a woman stepped from behind the door. She, too, had a shotgun, which she leveled at Miss James’s face.

  “Now, Dr. Watson,” Worth said. “Kindly set your revolver down on the floor and kick it very gently toward me. Very gently.”

  I caught a warning glance from Holmes, nodded slightly, and did as instructed, whereupon Worth motioned the three of us to step inside. We did, and I recognized the woman as the costumer and makeup artist we had seen earlier that afternoon at the Savoy Theatre. After taking the ring of keys from Holmes she locked the door behind us. Then, still brandishing the shotgun, she moved to stand on the other side of Holmes, yet at such an angle that would enable her to shoot either Holmes or Miss James without endangering Worth.

  “Mr. Holmes. Allow me to introduce my daughter, Cleo James. You have already met my son, James Blake, and my niece, Miss James, whom you have brought with you this evening for a purpose that I shall soon discover. You may already have deduced that Cleo, James, and Lucy are all three named in honor of my late brother, James Moriarty.”

  “Honor is hardly an appropriate term to associate with that name,” replied Holmes.

  “We shall not debate, Mr. Holmes, though I am sure you would like to distract and delay me with your quibbling. And even you will concede the futility of changing my opinion of my late brother. Certainly you, Dr. Watson, must understand the strength of my feelings, for you mentioned my letters defending my brother’s honor in your abominably distorted account of his passing in Switzerland.”