The Last Moriarty Read online

  Holmes merely nodded and said, “Yes, Miss James. That is correct.”

  Her look of shock turned into a glad smile, and then, in the next moment, a puzzled frown. “But you were killed! The Strand Magazine said so! And I cried my eyes out!”

  Then, still talking, and before Holmes could interrupt the flow of her excitement, she was up from her chair and standing before him. “And look at you, you’re just like Dr. Watson said, and just like those pictures of Mr. Paget’s! Your nose is like a hawk’s and your eyes are close-set, and dark, and just glittering! I do declare! And how perfectly noble you look, in your wing collar and white bow tie. I have to tell you, Mr. Holmes, I worshipped you when I was growing up. You were my inspiration—” She broke off, suddenly looking at me. “And you must be Dr. Watson! Sir, why did you write that Mr. Holmes had died? Why did you make us all grieve so?”

  As she stood before me she seemed the embodiment of righteous indignation, but also she seemed endearingly vulnerable, filled with the fragile hope and expectation of youth. Coming as it did after Carte’s equally passionate reaction, her outburst reminded me of my duty to be truthful in my accounts of Holmes. I felt the magnitude of my responsibility with a force of particularly strong emotion. I was also struck by the realization that if my Mary and I had been blessed with a child, and that child a girl, I would have been proud to see her grow up to be such a one as Lucy James. I tried to reply, but my sentiments at that moment overcame me.

  Holmes was speaking, quietly and patiently. “Dr. Watson did not know I was alive. At the time of my return, it was necessary that no one know. Since then, I have resumed my work for a limited circle of clients. But there are still reasons why I should remain out of the view of the public.”

  “And yet you go about openly!” she broke in. “I saw you tonight in the second-level box stage left, the second one in, and for some reason you stood out from the others in the audience and for a moment I imagined you were, well, ‘you,’ and I was so distracted I nearly forgot my next line!”

  Holmes sat forward and took her hand. “Miss James. I sincerely regret the distress you have undergone. But we are caught up in a matter of some urgency and danger. Will you help us?”

  Her eyes softened and a smile gradually suffused her lovely face. “I would be proud to help you, Mr. Holmes.” Her hand went to her blouse, just above her heart. “In my dormitory at school I have dreamed of—” Then she cleared her throat, moved gracefully to the empty chair, and sat, hands clasped primly in her lap. “How may I be of assistance?”

  “Please tell us about your family.”

  This was to my mind a very strange question for Holmes to be asking, but Miss James seemed to take it in a perfectly ordinary way. She replied, “I have none.”

  “You have left them behind in America?”

  “No, I never had a family, even though I have wished for one for as long as I can remember. All my life I have lived in institutions or boarding schools.”

  “Who pays your tuition and expenses?”

  “There is a trust, and a trustee I have never met. He communicates with me only through correspondence, delivered by school officials.”

  “And you reply through the same channel?”

  “Yes. I’ve told him about my classes, my singing, who my friends are, that kind of thing.”

  “Did he know you were coming to London to perform with the Savoy troupe?”

  “Oh, yes, he sent a telegraph message to congratulate me, and he made the arrangements for me to stay at the Savoy.”

  “His name?”

  “I have often asked, but to no avail. I am sure he paid the school officials to keep me uninformed.”

  “Has he told you the name of your parents?”

  Her face flushed. “No. Only that my father is dead.”

  “Very well. Now, I am most curious to learn how a young lady recently graduated from a school in America comes to appear in a leading singing role at London’s Savoy Theatre.”

  She gave a wry smile. “As are many of the ladies in the chorus, I can tell you. But all I know is that I had a telegram from Mr. Carte asking me to come. As an understudy. Miss Perry is the lead, but she took sick, so I went on tonight. I think they liked me all right.”

  This was an understatement, of course. At the end of the performance she had received prolonged and enthusiastic applause.

  “Mr. Carte?” Holmes turned toward him, expectantly.

  Carte turned up an empty palm. “In truth, I was unaware of her singing talent when I sent the telegram. She was strongly recommended by one of my principal investors. He had heard her sing in America.”

  “Did he say where?”

  “It must have been in Providence, Rhode Island,” she replied. “Our school had a joint concert there with the Brown University glee club. We were very well received.”

  Holmes nodded. “Mr. Carte. Can you tell us the name of the investor?”

  “I regret that he has asked me to keep his name in confidence.”

  “Do you have any idea who this investor might have been, Miss James?”

  “Haven’t the foggiest. There’s only one person I remember from that concert, and he was one of the boys in the glee club. The two of us sang a duet from The Magic Flute. The one at the end, where we both are stuttering. On purpose, of course.”

  “His name?”

  “Johnny Rockefeller.”

  Holmes did not react, merely asking, “He has a singing talent?”

  “He’s pretty good. I don’t think they gave him the part just because he’s wealthy, if that’s what you’re getting at. There are lots of wealthy boys at Brown.”

  “Have you seen him since you’ve been here?”

  “Not yet. We’re to have supper tonight at the hotel restaurant. He sent me a note during tonight’s performance.”

  “And he—cares for you?”

  She shook her head, dismissing the notion. “It’s been a long time since that concert, and other than a few brief letters, this is the first I’ve heard from him.”

  “How did he know you were here?”

  “His note said he’d recognized me on the stage from the way I sang, and then he noticed my name in the program.”

  “Can you think of anyone who would have told Mr. Rockefeller to come to this performance and see you?”

  She shook her head. “Nary a soul. Why should there be? And why should you care?”

  “Your relationship with young Mr. Rockefeller may be of some consequence to us. His father has important business here that could be affected by . . . the matters we are investigating.”

  “Well then. I’d better tell you that I’m not all that much interested in Johnny Rockefeller, or being accepted into his social circle. I’ve spent vacations visiting the homes of other girls at school. I’ve seen their mothers.”

  “You do not wish to emulate them?”

  She smiled ruefully. “Have you read Mr. Thoreau, Mr. Holmes? But no, of course you haven’t, for he is an American philosopher and Dr. Watson says your knowledge of philosophy is ‘nil.’ But anyway, Mr. Thoreau says that the masses of men lead lives of quiet desperation and that happiness does not arise from the trappings of success. I don’t know whether he is right about the masses of men, but I can tell you that the lives of several married women at the heads of several very wealthy households look to me to be pretty darned desperate.”

  I was a bit confused at this point, for I did not see what the writings of an American philosopher had to do with the matters that occupied our concern. Moreover, I continued to be baffled as to why Holmes had adopted this line of questioning with Miss James. She seemed totally irrelevant to our case, and her personal aspirations would be even less relevant. Yet Holmes continued to draw her out on what I considered to be her private and subjective opinions.

  “How are these
ladies desperate?” he asked.

  “When I see them at their unguarded moments, they’re always looking over their shoulders, as if they are in fear of disapproval.”

  “Disapproval of what?”

  “Come, Mr. Holmes. You have visited the royal houses of Europe. Surely you know what I’m talking about. They have families, but they’re afraid they’re not measuring up.”

  “But we are all judged, are we not? Even you, when you are on the stage?”

  “But on the stage I feel—I don’t quite know how to say it. When I sing, it is as natural as breathing, and at that moment I have no care at all what others may think. And I forget that I have no family, because I’m wrapped up in my work. I bet you know what that feels like, to be all wrapped up in your work.”

  “I do indeed,” said Holmes. “It is the only reward one can be sure of.”

  Holmes’s remark seemed cryptic to me, but Miss James nodded as though she understood.

  “We don’t always get applause afterward, do we?” she replied.

  At that moment I, too, understood, for I had seen how many of our cases ended in anger or despair as Holmes brought the wrongdoer to justice, and how infrequently Holmes received any credit or expression of gratitude from the police. Yet I felt puzzled at how easily the conversation seemed to flow between this young lady and Holmes, as though they had been longtime friends. I also felt a moment’s pride, since Miss James, though barely more than a schoolgirl, had clearly been able to reach this state of familiarity while relying on only what she had read in my accounts of Holmes’s and my adventures.

  Then the door to Carte’s office flew open.

  Two tall figures stood at the entrance, their outlines, at first glance, nearly identical. At the front was a tall ruddy-faced man in a black cape. Behind him was the set supervisor, Blake, looking abashed.

  “He couldn’t wait, Mr. Carte,” Blake said.

  “Never mind that,” said the other man and pushed Blake further behind him. “Carte, you and I have business to discuss.”

  I stared, astonished at the man’s rudeness. He looked respectable enough, attired in evening dress like the rest of us, and even distinguished, with a luxurious growth of perfectly groomed gray hair, though his right shoulder slumped downward several inches lower than the other, thrusting the left shoulder forward and giving him an oddly twisted, misshapen air. Further, his protruding square jaw, framed by graying muttonchop whiskers, his cold blue eyes, and his lofty, dismissive bearing as he surveyed us in evident appraisal—these all were the marks of a man who cared little for the niceties of social politeness.

  “This is Mr. Adam Worth,” said Carte, nodding at the intruder and speaking smoothly, though I detected a hint of embarrassment. “He is one of my principal investors.”

  “Here, now—” began Lestrade.

  But Holmes interrupted, speaking with ease and perfect equanimity as he stood up. “I completely understand the urgency of business matters. We thank you very much for your time, Mr. Carte.”

  9. A MUSICIAN’S APPEAL

  We all got up then, following Holmes’s lead. Once outside Carte’s office the four of us walked quickly and in silence back along the corridor to the theater lobby, which by now was nearly in darkness. The once-brilliant chandelier hung in shadows above us, only vaguely outlined by two small wall sconces, one on either side of the doorway. The lobby was deserted. Through the windows of the exit doors I could see two ushers standing outside to bar entry from that direction.

  Miss James was talking as if to herself. “I didn’t like that man one bit. I’ll just go get my coat from my dressing room and then go straight to the restaurant to meet Mr. Rockefeller. The ladies’ dressing rooms are this way.”

  We followed her gaze down one of two corridors, leading to the backstage part of the theater on the eastern side. Coming toward us in the corridor was a shadowy figure in woman’s dress with a shawl over her head, carrying a violin case. As we four looked in her direction, the woman paused, evidently not wanting to intrude on our conversation.

  “Watson,” said Holmes quickly, “would you kindly wait here for Miss James and then escort her to the Savoy restaurant? Lestrade and I must go to our clients. I fear the meeting will not be a pleasant one and we do not want to keep them waiting any longer than absolutely necessary. Please join us there when you can.”

  “Of course,” I said, feeling some pride in the responsibility, but Holmes did not acknowledge my acceptance. He was already moving toward the exit door, Lestrade at his heels.

  Miss James called after him, “Mr. Holmes, when will I see you again?”

  But Holmes was already outside the building and the door was closing behind Lestrade.

  “He is distracted,” I said to Miss James by way of apology for Holmes’s abrupt departure.

  “I know. He’s on a case. Now, the restaurant is just next door, and I can take care of myself.” She gave me a little smile and patted her reticule. “You don’t have to wait for me.”

  “Nevertheless, I shall.”

  “Then I’ll just be a minute.”

  She turned away, striding confidently down the corridor, her white blouse and dark hair clearly visible in the electric light against the drab dun color of the painted walls. The other woman waited, turning away from the light, her figure shadowed. I watched carefully as Miss James moved past her without incident.

  Then I saw the woman pick up her violin case. She was looking at me. In a moment she was walking quickly and purposefully in my direction.

  “Dr. Watson!” she said.

  I waited, astonished to hear her call me by name. Then she stopped before me, drew back the shawl from her lovely face, and I recognized the violinist whom I had observed through my opera glasses during the performance.

  Up close she was even more strikingly beautiful than from a distance. I judged her to be about forty years old. She appeared to be in radiant health, possibly due to the beneficial effects of frequent exposure to music. Her dark green eyes fixed me with an intensity that demanded respect. She spoke rapidly, urgently. “I know who you are. I saw you with Sherlock at numerous performances here years ago, sitting in your usual box seats, and you were in your seats again tonight. And just now, before he ran away from me, he called you by name. I have read your accounts of your adventures with him, so I know that your nature is to be truthful. I beg that you will be truthful with me.”

  I stood silent, transfixed by the deeply emotional tone of her appeal. I felt both relieved that she had not come to accuse me of spying on her during the performance, and bewildered that she had thought Holmes would be running away from her. All I could manage to say was “I will.”

  “My name is Zoe Rosario. You may tell Sherlock—Mr. Holmes—of my inquiry if you wish, but I must warn you that it will cause him some distress, and so I would urge you not to discuss our encounter with him or with anyone.”

  “You have my word—Miss Rosario.”

  She gave a wry smile at the name, and I wondered if indeed it was really hers.

  “Thank you, Dr. Watson. Now I have one question for you. One fact that I must know. Your account of Mr. Holmes’s death. Clearly that was false, for he was just here. And others know it was false, for the young American actress called his name as he left. But—”

  She pursed her lips, drew in her breath and held it, trying to bring her evident distress under control. “But what of the—the other man? I cannot bring myself to say his name. Is he, too, alive?”

  I replied without hesitation. “Professor James Moriarty fell to his certain death in the way I described it. I have the account directly from Mr. Holmes, and there is another who witnessed the Professor’s death and tried to avenge him.” I shuddered inwardly at the knowledge that the murderous Colonel Moran was now at large. “Mr. Holmes escaped death through a combination of agility, training, and goo
d fortune. Someday I will be free to publish the truth, but at this time I cannot.”

  Her eyes held mine for a long moment. Then she gave a deep sigh and the anxiety in her expression changed to relief. I saw a blush suffuse her cheeks as she leaned forward, touching my arm for support. “I believe you, Dr. Watson.”

  She seemed lost in thought. Then, as though she had only now become aware of her hand on my forearm, she drew back slightly. “I cannot tell you the reason for my urgency in this matter. I must collect my thoughts and decide on my course of action.”

  She stopped suddenly, as the sound of a door opening came to us from the direction of Carte’s office and, with it, the voices of Carte and Worth. She paled, drew in her breath, and picked up her violin case, holding it close to her. “I must go,” she whispered.

  She turned and walked quickly back down the dun-colored corridor, leaving me to wonder just what could be troubling her and how Holmes could be of assistance. Even more baffling was her assertion that Holmes had run away from her.

  As I puzzled over these matters I kept an eye on the beautiful but bewildering Miss Rosario. She had nearly reached the end of the corridor when she stopped and turned.

  Then I realized that Worth was coming my way from Carte’s office. He strode rapidly, his dark cape billowing behind him. “You’re still here,” he said curtly, but he did not slow down as he passed me and pushed through the exit door to the street.

  I looked back for Miss Rosario, but she was no longer there. A moment later, I saw Miss James coming around the corner.

  “Did you see anyone?” I asked Miss James when she stood before me.

  “One of the violinists passed me. We haven’t been introduced yet.” As I pushed open the lobby door and we felt the chill November air she added, “But I’m expecting to make friends with everyone in the company.”

  Moments later, Miss James and I entered the Savoy Hotel. Almost immediately I saw young Mr. Rockefeller waiting for her just inside the entry area to the fashionable hotel restaurant.

  His alert gaze found Miss James and me, and his face lit up in an eager smile. I had already cautioned Miss James not to mention my name or that of Sherlock Holmes, and now I held a finger to my lips, indicating that young Rockefeller should not disclose our previous acquaintance. He nodded, and I withdrew.