Sherlock Holmes Murder Most Foul (2 page)

Chapter 1

The Final Confrontation

Towards the end of April of this year, 1888, and in ardent pursuit of a criminal mathematical genius, two men, one a consulting detective and the other a part-time general practitioner, caught the Continental express train from London, and after travelling continuously through Europe for eight days, finally neared the picturesque village of Meiringen in Switzerland. Seated in a dimly lit first-class train carriage and intently studying the page of a guide book, Sherlock Holmes glances at Dr John Hamish Watson, sitting opposite him.

“Meiringen is famed, Watson.”

Watson sighs, “Holmes, please, it is late and I am rather tired. Does the village possess an inn, and if so, will we be able to obtain suitable lodgings for the night?”

Holmes smiles, “Meringue, my dear fellow.”

Watson frowns, “I beg your pardon?”

“A delicate pastry made of powdered sugar and the whites of eggs, Watson.”

Watson raises a quizzical eyebrow.

“Are you suggesting meringue for supper, Holmes?”

Holmes stifles a chuckle with his hand.

“My dear fellow, Meiringen is supposedly the birthplace of meringue. It derived its name from the village. Quite a delicate dessert, I am led to believe.”

Watson fidgets in his seat.

“I will be more than happy to forgo the meringue for a warm bed, Holmes.”

Holmes snaps the guide book shut.

“And so you shall, my dear fellow.”

Watson leans forward enquiringly, “How can you be so certain that we will be able to get a bed for the night, Holmes?”

Holmes nonchalantly slips the guide book into the pocket of his Inverness overcoat.

“I telegraphed ahead. We will stay at the Englischer Hof tonight. The hotelier is Peter Steiler. He worked as a waiter at the Grosvenor Hotel in London for three years. I am told that he is a trustworthy fellow.”

Watson leans back in his seat and smiles admiringly.

“Forever prepared, aren’t you, Holmes?”

“My dear fellow, your welfare is of great concern to me.”

The train begins to reduce speed. Holmes peers out through the carriage window, seeing only darkness.

“Ah! I do believe that we will be shortly arriving in Meiringen, where destiny undoubtedly awaits us, Watson.”

Watson shivers momentarily, “Good Lord, it’s cold. And what of tomorrow, Holmes?”

Holmes turns away from the window, leans back in his seat and thoughtfully stares up at the carriage ceiling.

“Tomorrow, tomorrow.”

Gradually he lowers his gaze and stares at Watson.

“Tomorrow, and with your support, Watson, I will finally bring our reprehensible friend to justice.”

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Stepping from the motionless train carriage onto a snow covered platform, Holmes inhales the crisp night air, whilst looking at the scattered houses of the village just beyond the station. Standing alongside him, and in an attempt to keep warm, Watson stamps his feet.

“Meiringen is predominately a farming community, Watson, and there, to the southwest, just beyond the Reichenbach Falls, is the hamlet of Kaltenbrunnen, where our friend lingers, biding his time until tomorrow morning.”

Watson blows into his cupped hands.

“And are you certain that this train will remain here tonight, Holmes?”

“Of course, Watson, and that is to be his undoing. In his endeavour to stay ahead of us and reach
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Liechtenstein as swiftly as possible, he had failed to heed the appalling weather conditions that can make the Swiss railways extremely unreliable, especially at this time of the year. Yesterday, the train taking him to Liechtenstein was unexpectedly terminated here at Meiringen and then diverted to Zurich
[2]
, leaving him with no alternative but to wait for this train, which will depart tomorrow morning.”

Watson again shivers from the cold.

“And when he attempts to board the train, you will have him.”

Holmes smiles.

“Precisely, my dear fellow.”

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Met at the Englischer Hof and greeted heartily by the amiable Peter Steiler, Holmes and Watson enjoy a long overdue hot meal and then retire to their respective rooms for the night.

Quickly undressing, Watson falls exhaustedly into bed, blissfully closing his eyes the moment his head touches the pillow. On the other hand, Holmes, pensive as ever, lies awake in bed, recalling the time when he had first disclosed to Watson, in their lodgings at 221b Baker Street, the name of the man they now pursue.

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“His name, Watson, is Professor James Moriarty. He is the embodiment of evil, the Napoleon of crime. That is the genius, the wonder of him. He is the orchestrator of all that is malevolent in this great city, and no one has ever heard of him.”

Hurriedly closing the window drapes, Holmes turns and steps towards Watson, seated in an armchair, warming his hands before an open fire in the grate.

“He sits motionless, like a spider in the centre of its web, Watson. He appears to do little himself but, like a force of nature, consistently unleashes a torrent of crimes that, if not halted, could eventually overwhelm
[3]
Scotland Yard and the entire police force of London. He is utterly merciless. In fact, Professor James Moriarty is the personification of crime itself.”

With a quizzical expression, Watson settles back in his armchair.

“But, Holmes, if no one has ever heard of Professor Moriarty, how did you come by him?”

Holmes throws his arms aloft admiringly.

“Bravo, my dear fellow, your ability to come straight to the heart of the matter is commendable.”

Watson chuckles.

“Do you really think so, Holmes?”

Ignoring the question, Holmes begins to pace back and forth across the room.

“As you are aware, Watson, no other person has examined the criminal fraternity of our city more closely than I. For some time past, I had become increasingly conscious that, behind all the forgeries, robberies and murders which have been my privilege to investigate, has lurked an ominous, invisible presence. Something felt, yet something utterly indiscernible.”

Watson frowns disapprovingly.

“Good Lord, Holmes, you are going to wear out the rug.”

Jolted out of his exposition, Holmes halts, staring at Watson.

“Come, sit down, Holmes. Near the fire, it is warmer here.”

Holmes smiles, seats himself opposite Watson, staring at him fondly.

“My dear fellow, what would I do without you?”

Watson guffaws.

“What would we do without each other, Holmes?”

Holmes responds teasingly.

[4]
“You have cut me to the quick, Watson. For once, I am without an answer.”

Watson raises a sceptical eyebrow.

“Well, now that we are both seated, perhaps you had better continue with your story.”

Gathering his thoughts, Holmes leans back in his armchair.

“At the age of twenty-one, James Moriarty wrote a treatise on the binomial theorem.”

Watson leans forward enquiringly.

“A medical thesis, Holmes?”

“The binomial theorem is an important formula that expands mathematics, Watson.”

Watson scratches the side of his face with his finger.

“The things you know, Holmes.”

“It is crucial to know the ways of your adversary, Watson.”

Watson settles back in his armchair.

“Yes, I suppose it is.”

“On the strength of the treatise, Moriarty won the mathematical chair at
[5]
Cambridge University and had, to all appearances, a brilliant career before him. But dark rumours abounded about him, made all the more sinister by his extraordinary mental ability to corrupt weaker individuals. Compelled by the university authorities to resign his
[6]
chair, he gravitated to London where, over the last thirty-five years, he has furtively created a criminal organisation par excellence.”

“It sounds like you admire the scoundrel, Holmes?”

“On the contrary, Watson, nothing would please me more than to apprehend him and see him hanged. If I could free society of him, I would feel that my own career had reached its summit.”

Holmes wistfully glances at the glowing coals in the grate.

“Who knows, Watson, I might then be tempted to pursue a more placid line of employment.”

“Heaven forbid, Holmes. Drudgery would drive you insane.”

“Undoubtedly true, Watson.” 

With a grave expression, Holmes leans closer to Watson.

“The game is afoot, my dear fellow. Should we take up the chase?”

“I would like to know how you came by all this information, Holmes?”

Holmes leans back in his armchair.

“Moriarty was most informative about himself.”

Watson frowns.

“You met the
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blighter? Then you must have sought him out?”

“Quite the opposite, Watson.”

“Moriarty came to you?”

“Last night, in this very room, whilst you were attending to patients at your surgery, Watson.”

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“Responding to a knock at the door, I had been confronted by a somewhat physical curiosity standing before me. He was exceptionally tall and thin, virtually bald, except for a few strands of white hair at the back of his head. His opaque, near lifeless eyes were deeply sunken and, although clean shaven, he had a pale, ashen complexion. Upon inviting him in, I had cause to note that he walked with a stoop and oscillated from side to side in a peculiar reptilian manner.”

“And you did not suspect that he might be Moriarty?”

“No, not until he was in the room. He had neither exchanged pleasantries nor extended his hand, but after a slight pause he had lisped, ‘I am Professor James Moriarty, Mr Holmes. I believe you have been enquiring after me?’” Holmes pensively gazes at the ceiling, “I have to confess, Watson, that, for a moment, I had felt a surge of admiration. Before me stood my nemesis, the equal of my intellect, who had dared to enter the lair of the wolf, seemingly armed only with a
[8]
Buckram top-hat and a damp umbrella.”

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With a gloved hand, Moriarty brushes droplets of rain from his
[9]
frock-coat, “A humble abode indeed, Mr Holmes. Rented for an indefinite period, I do believe? Rather reminds me of my old university quarters. An unpretentious sanctuary where I wrote ‘The Dynamics of an Asteroid’, a book so advanced for its time that no man dared criticise it. Similar to you, Mr Holmes, I favour the simple things of life. I find the very thought of a grandiose existence quite abhorrent, which in itself implies a complete lack of intelligence.”

Holmes slips his hand into his dressing-gown pocket. Moriarty raises a censorious eyebrow, “It is a dangerous habit to finger a loaded firearm in the pocket of one’s dressing-gown, Mr Holmes.”

Holmes takes a revolver from his pocket and places it upon the dining-room table, “I am a solitary person by nature, Moriarty, and therefore not in the habit of entertaining people, particularly those I intend to bring to justice.”

“Your caution is understandable, Mr Holmes, but I mean you no harm tonight.”

Moriarty removes his gloves, sits before the fire and warms his hands, “It is a damp evening, Mr Holmes, might I trouble you for a cup of tea?”

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“Whilst our landlady, Mrs Hudson, was brewing us a pot of her fine
[10]
Ceylon tea, Moriarty used the time to further enlighten me about the science of pure mathematics, Watson.”

“The nerve of the fellow, Holmes. Dropping in unexpectedly and then requesting tea. Why not ask for a
[11]
muffin as well?”

Amused, Holmes smiles, “His damp umbrella revealed to me that he had stood outside the house for some considerable length of time before finally calling.”

“Watching the house, waiting for me to leave, Holmes?”

“Precisely, my dear fellow, and he had come prepared. Hence the umbrella. Only a fool would have deliberately loitered in the street without some form of protection from the rain.”