Revenge of Moriarty

  Crow got back to London late on the following evening, tired, but feeling that he at least had a scrap of intelligence for Holmes. It was, however, too late to call on the great detective that night. In any case Sylvia greeted him like she had when they were courting. So much so, in fact, that Crow wondered whether she was planning some new act of folly. It was a nervousness which would soon pass, for Sylvia Crow had learned her lesson, and was determined to be a dutiful wife.

  The detective, enjoying the comforts of his own home, and bed, soon decided that he would visit Baker Street as quickly as possible after reporting in to Scotland Yard on the morrow.

  He was up betimes, and in his office before eight-thirty. Yet not soon enough to escape the powers that be. A note on his desk told him that he was to see the Commissioner at nine o’clock sharp.

  Tanner came in as he was about to leave.

  ‘You look fit, sir. Quite recovered?’ he asked jauntily.

  ‘Never felt better.’ Crow remarked to himself that this was indeed true. The thrill of the chase had infused his blood, cutting out all thoughts of Harriet’s treachery.

  ‘Better than Mr Holmes, then.’ Tanner almost leered.

  ‘Why do you mention Mr Holmes?’ he asked sharply.

  ‘You’ve met him, have you not, sir?’

  ‘Two or three times, yes. But what is wrong?’

  ‘You’ve not heard then?’

  ‘Not a word.’

  ‘The great Mr Holmes is making a fool of himself with a woman. It’s become a proper scandal. Half London’s talking of it.’

  ‘I don’t believe …’

  ‘It’s true enough, sir. A former singer they say. Name of Irene Adler. Goes everywhere with her.’

  Crow hurried off to the Commissioner’s office, anxious to have done with his interview.

  ‘Well, you look fit enough,’ said the Commissioner tersely. ‘You think you are completely better?’

  ‘Ready for anything, sir.’

  ‘You’ll need to be. It’s your last chance, mind. I had a word with Moore Agar, and he assured me that you would be as good as new. I trust that he is right, for he has another patient who does not do so well, I hear.’

  ‘Oh?’ Crow forced himself to look as blank as he could muster.

  ‘Don’t let it go any further, mind.’ The Commissioner leaned forward in a confidential manner. ‘It’s Sherlock Holmes. You remember what a firm self-disciplinarian he always was? Wouldn’t go near a woman?’

  ‘Indeed.’

  ‘I’ve seen it happen before at his age, mind you. Finds a filly and loses all sense of proportion.’

  ‘Mr Holmes?’ Crow was genuinely disturbed now. Tanner could have been exaggerating, but not the old man.

  ‘Taken up with a woman who’s no better than she should be.’

  ‘I can hardly credit it.’

  ‘Seen it with me own eyes. Out every night at The Monico, The Cri or The Troc. Canoodling in public as well. Disgustin’ display. Fella in my club told me he’d seen the pair of them half tipsy at the Ambassadeurs, and I gather he won’t even speak to his brother Mycroft. Damn shame, but it often happens. When men like that kick over the traces …’ The sentence trailed off and Crow quickly changed the conversation to the duties which the Commissioner required of him.

  The interview lasted a full hour and contained some disturbing news concerning an explosion in Praed Street, and an unidentified body – the only casualty in this unpleasant affair. However, no sooner had Crow been dismissed than he hurried out of the building, hailed a hansom and was off at a spanking pace towards Baker Street, dread in his heart at what he would find.

  ‘Thank heaven it’s you, sir,’ Mrs Hudson cried with relief when she opened the door to Crow’s agitated knock. ‘He’s left word that you are the only one he will see. I have even thought of telegraphing Dr Watson, but he has forbidden it.’

  ‘What on earth’s the matter, Mrs Hudson?’

  ‘He’s been that ill, sir. I’ve never seen him like it before. I thought he was close to death, but he would not have a doctor near. And the stories they are telling about him. All lies. But he will not listen nor say a word.’

  Crow bounded up the stairs towards Holmes’ chambers, from whence came the high and mournful sound of a violin. Not even waiting to knock, Crow burst into the room.

  Holmes sat in his favourite chair, clad in a robe, eyes closed and his violin to his chin. Crow was aghast at the great man’s appearance. His body, always lean, now appeared wasted, his cheeks gaunt and haggard, the eyes sunken. From the way he was holding the bow to his violin, Crow also deduced that his hand was not as steady as it had been.

  ‘Great Scot, Holmes, what is wrong with you?’ he all but shouted.

  Holmes opened his eyes, stopped playing, and leaned back in his chair.

  ‘Crow, it’s good to see you. Did you get my wire? What news?’

  ‘I have some, but what of you?’

  ‘Don’t worry, my good fellow. I’ve beaten it now. I am almost recovered.’

  As he said the words his body became racked by a great shaking so that he was not able to speak for a few moments. Crow saw that huge beads of perspiration were running from his brow.

  ‘This is a malady of my own making, I fear, Crow,’ Holmes said weakly. ‘But, truly, I am almost better. A little of Mrs Hudson’s chicken broth and I’ll be good as new.’

  ‘But, Holmes, what is it?’

  ‘A long story, and one of folly, I fear. But, your news first. We’ll have him yet. You’ve heard what he is doing to me in the restaurants and hotels?’

  ‘You mean the stories of you and Irene Adler?’

  ‘Quite so.’

  ‘I’ve heard. They’re scandalous and you must refute them at once.’

  ‘Not until I am recovered, or you have done the trick for me. It will be a seven-day wonder, you’ll see. But what news?’

  ‘I found the girl.’

  ‘Yes, I thought you would. When I read in the newspaper, during one of my more lucid moments, that Monsieur Meliés had been using gypsy girls for one of his moving pictures at Montreuil, and was holding a party at the Folies Bergère, I was convinced you would find our elusive Suzanne there.’

  ‘They most certainly found Grisombre – at least Morning-dale did. And she says they mentioned a place in London. Albert Square.’

  The old light came into the great detective’s eyes. ‘Hand down my revised Fry’s London and we’ll see.’ He pointed to the bookshelf. ‘My hands are unsteady. Ah, here we are – there appears to be one Albert Square, up near Notting Hill. It would seem James Moriarty has found himself more respectable lodgings than his last bolt hole. I feel better already. I think I will try some of Mrs Hudson’s broth now, would you be good enough to ask her, Crow.’

  He was still very weak and listless, but once the broth was inside him, Holmes’ remarkable powers of recovery were certainly apparent.

  ‘Can I trust you, Crow?’ he asked.

  ‘With your life, you can count on it.’

  ‘Good, I pray none of this business will get back to Watson. He is a dear man and I do not wish to offend him in any way. He can also be injudicious in what he puts into print. I should never have allowed him to make those remarks, flattering though they are, concerning Irene Adler.’

  ‘I can understand that.’

  ‘But let me tell you a moral tale, Crow, concerning myself.’

  ‘You have my entire attention.’

  ‘I have always driven myself hard, Crow. I think you know that. I dislike inactivity, get bored easily, and I cannot abide the restrictions my body sometimes places on me. So, very early in my studies I resorted to medical means in order to increase my ability; to stimulate my mental processes and to allow me to work with little rest. The medical means is – I should say was – cocaine. I saw no harm in it, indeed used it only as others have used it. You are aware that, on the continent, there have been many experiments in the use of cocaine to make
troops more efficient in the field? Yet it was not long before I discovered its somewhat serious side effects, the same side effects which are now well known to the medical profession.’ He smiled, almost benevolently, as if to suggest that his researches were far in advance of known medical science.

  ‘By the time I knew the dangers, it was too late. My body craved for the wretched stuff, and I had become what one might call addicted. It is, you must be aware, only in the last year or so that leaders of medical science have begun to press for restrictions on the use of certain substances, so there has never been any difficulty in obtaining the foul powder. But old Watson was quick to spot the problem. He pleaded with me time and again, Crow, using all the arguments. I knew he was right, but the drug had such a hold on me that I found it impossible even to contemplate giving it up. However, my mental discipline finally overcame, and I agreed that Watson, with the help of Moore Agar, should wean me off the cocaine. That is one of the reasons I do not wish him to hear of this. Poor fellow, I duped him.’ He gave a short, tired laugh.

  ‘Watson and Moore Agar between them closed off all my sources of supply. No chemist in London would give me even a grain of the drug – not even Curtis and Company down the road, or John Taylor at the corner of George Street. They had me well buttoned, I can tell you. Or so they thought.’

  He now seemed to settle happily into his narrative. ‘You see, the addict is sometimes a most cunning person. Believe me, I know to my cost. At first, Watson and our companion from Harley Street began to slacken off the doses quite easily, and I put up with the occasional discomfort. Then I became – I am not ashamed to admit to it – frightened. So I made sure that there was always a source of supply if I needed to supplement the doses which our medicos were doling out. I found a man in Orchard Street who supplied me regularly, overriding the doctors.’

  Crow gave the great detective a look which was meant to convey a complete understanding of his dilemma.

  Holmes stared gravely at his feet, shook his head, and then went on. ‘I feel most badly about it all. They really thought they had me cured. The dosage dropped to a minute amount, but, unbeknown to them, I was still using cocaine. Until Paris, that is.’

  ‘Your illness there?’

  ‘Quite so. I found myself without the drug and in the grip of the most terrifying symptoms. Withdrawal can be most painful and agonizing.’

  ‘You were in need of it?’

  ‘Very much so.’

  ‘Then why did you not purchase it freely in France?’

  ‘There are some restrictions, but I suppose I could have done. The brain plays funny tricks. I could only think of getting back to London and my man in Orchard Street.’

  ‘But …’

  ‘But he would not supply me. Yes, you may well look like that, I too detect the diabolical hand of James Moriarty in this also. I was a physical and mental wreck, but somewhere at the back of my mind, Crow, the will was showing through. I returned here, and in one of my few lucid moments, made up my mind to quit myself of the drug for all time, no matter what. I cannot ever tell you what it was like …’

  ‘I can see for myself, Holmes.’

  ‘Perhaps. It is like wrestling with the very devil himself, and all his fires. However, I am home now, through the darkness and free of it forever.’

  ‘Yet in the time you have been in agony, Moriarty has done you a grave public disservice.’

  ‘Indeed he has, and one for which he will pay heavily.’

  ‘But how will you convince those who are already spreading scandal?’

  ‘A word or two in the right quarter, a wink here and there will do the trick. My brother Mycroft is already half crazed with anxiety, but I have sent him a telegram telling him to remain calm, and that it will soon be over. Another day or so of food and rest and I will be ready for action once more. It is not for nothing, my dear fellow, that I have what is termed an iron constitution.’

  ‘I could take the villain tonight, while he is with his woman.’ Crow’s face was red with anger.

  ‘What, and spoil me of confronting him myself? No, Crow.’

  ‘I too have made a vow to bring him down, and you have already told me that you have no wish to be publicly involved.’

  ‘You will get all the credit, never fear.’ The old clarity was in his eye now as he gave the inspector a grim smile. ‘I have a plan which will hoist him with his own petard, Crow. I have lost weight, yes?’

  ‘You have, Holmes.’

  ‘And my face has become gaunt? Eyes sunken?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Good, those features will make it easier than ever for me to take on the guise I have in mind.’

  ‘How can I help?’

  ‘First I want to know how he lives in Albert Square – if that is indeed where he is hiding himself. I would do it myself, but …’

  ‘Conserve your strength, I’ll see to it.’

  ‘I need all details. Who is in the house with him. How well he has disguised himself as me. What his movements are.’

  ‘I’m your man.’

  ‘I knew I could count on you, Crow. Stout fellow.’

  The brilliance of his portrayal of Holmes, Moriarty considered, was not in the small details. It was the overall picture – the height, the slight remoulding of the face with actor’s putty, the voice and mannerisms. Faced with the detective’s brother Mycroft, for instance, he would not have lasted five minutes. Yet, to Irene Adler he was Holmes complete, for she merely worked from memory.

  It was the same with all those who had seen him in public places with the Adler woman. They expected Holmes; and that was who they saw. He eased his feet into the built-up shoes – the same shoes which he used when in the guise of his dead brother – and set himself comfortably at the dressing-table, beginning to mould the hawk-like nose.

  The Professor had decreed that, during this period of charade, the Albert Square house was to be empty but for himself, Martha Pearson and the young skivvy. The others were at Bermondsey, going about the family business. Bridget Spear was lying in at Sal Hodges’ best house, for it was said she would have the child early. Sal herself was also there. The remainder collected, stole, defrauded and pillaged. The reborn family grew stronger each day.

  As he applied gum to his own eyebrows, in order to overlay them with hair to achieve a verisimilitude of Holmes’ own brows, he vaguely heard the bell ringing downstairs. Only in emergency were any of the others to come to the house. It was probably some tradesman.

  It was, in fact, Bert Spear.

  ‘Crow,’ said the lieutenant after Moriarty had admitted him to the bedroom.

  ‘What of Crow?’ He ran a red sable brush, dipped in a flesh-coloured preparation, down the join between nose putty and flesh.

  ‘His leave of absence is over.’

  The brush remained poised in mid-air for a second, the only sign that Moriarty was in any way alarmed.

  ‘You mean he has not been permanently dismissed the force?’ The voice something of a cross between his own and that of Holmes.

  ‘It would seem not. He was back on duty at Scotland Yard this morning. Reinstated.’

  Moriarty let go a quiet foul oath, for this meant abject failure for one of his schemes. ‘Is he being watched?’

  ‘As soon as we knew of it, I informed Ember. He’s seeing to the lurkers now. They’ll be in position within an hour or so.’

  Moriarty swore once more, a troubled obscenity. Then, as though regaining confidence, ‘Worry not, Spear. We’ll have the nosey jack yet. Bridget is near her time, I hear.’ Changing the conversation, swerving it onto another path until he could think clearly regarding the problems which Crow’s re-emergence presented.

  ‘Any time. Sal’s there, and the midwife.’

  ‘And the gay ladies doing their business on the other floors.’ The Professor gave a chuckle.

  ‘Aye, it all goes on there. It’s a fine house.’

  Silence for a few moments between the two men as Mori
arty smoothed out the putty around his jaw. Then Spear spoke once more.

  ‘You think one of us should come back here? Or be near you as you go about this game?’

  The Professor did not give it much thought. ‘No, I shall be safe. Tonight and tomorrow night on the tiles with the Adler woman should be enough to blacken Mr Sherlock’s name for good. The last few days have been both amusing and interesting, Spear. I’ve had much enjoyment out of it all. Like a Christmas game.’

  Spear left shortly after, and an hour later Harkness arrived with the cab. Moriarty, in the character of Sherlock Holmes, left the house and flitted down the steps, the cab whisking him from Albert Square out to Maida Vale and the ever-willing Irene Adler.

  As they turned from the square into the main thoroughfare, neither Harkness, nor Moriarty – still wrapped in thought – caught sight of the shadow pressed hard in a doorway.

  As the cab turned away, so the shadow detached itself from cover. Crow stepped out plainly into the light, moving purposefully after the disappearing cab.

  Another hansom, empty, was making slow progress up the street. The detective raised his hand to hail it.

  ‘I am a police officer,’ he said to the sullen cabby. ‘Follow that cab, but keep back and do exactly as I tell you.’

  The cabby, much impressed, touched his hat and urged his horse forward.

  Crow returned to Baker Street on the following morning with the distinct impression that he was now being followed. He had been pretty certain of it from the moment he left King Street on his way to the Yard, and the thought concerned him.

  He found Holmes sitting up, still gaunt and haggard, but with the old light in his eyes, and much more his normal self.

  ‘Tell me all,’ said the great detective. ‘Every detail.’

  Crow settled himself before the fire and began his history of the previous night’s events, conscious that Holmes’ eyes did not leave his face for one moment during the telling.

  ‘To start with, there is no doubt that the Professor is keeping some evil ménage at number five Albert Square,’ he began. ‘I went first to the Notting Hill Police Station and used my influence. I have talked to the beat coppers – they are always the ones who know most about houses, and their occupants, in their area.’