The Falling Curtain (The Assassination of Sherlock Holmes Book 3) (16 page)

He laughed cruelly when he saw me. “Ah, Dr. Watson, I expected you sooner.”

“You villain!” I cried. “Are you responsible for this attack?”

“How can you blame me, Doctor?” said he, mildly. “Do you not see that my claws have been pulled?” We waved his hand around the stark cell.

“Then you know of what I speak!”

He gestured to the paper. “The amenities of His Majesties’ prisons leave much to be desired, but one cannot accuse them of denying a gentleman his daily news.”

“You are no gentleman!”

He laughed again. “My father, the late Sir Augustus, might argue with you on that point.” He looked at me keenly. “You know, Doctor, we are not so very different, you and I. Did you yourself not formerly tread the hills of Afghanistan in the service of our beloved Queen, as I once did? Were not your friends and companions mercilessly shot down at your side for little reason? Do not a modest number of the King’s shillings still ring in your pocket?”
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“Is that what turned you down this path of evil? Some friend of yours was killed by a Jezail bullet? Does that give you license to murder fellow Englishmen?” I said, hotly.

His eyes blazed, but he merely smiled. “Ah, Doctor, did you come here to debate philosophy? Tell me, why is it considered honorable to shoot down savages at the orders of some distant, pampered monarch, but it is a terrible crime to use your inborn skills in order to enrich yourself at the expense of some weak fool?”

“Do you consider Holmes to be a fool?” I shouted at him.

“Any man who would challenge Professor James Moriarty could stake claim to such a title,” said he, mildly.

“And yet it was Holmes that triumphed on top of those falls, not your beloved Professor.”

“Did he, Doctor? Was Holmes truly the one who was triumphant? Holmes, the man forced into exile by his great fears? Holmes, the man who eventually returned to a quiet London little of his liking? Holmes, the man who even now lies at death’s door as a belated retribution for his pride at challenging the Professor?”

“Are you saying that this latest attack was done by orders of Moriarty?”

He chuckled. “Oh, Doctor, don’t you know that the Professor is dead? But ask yourself who stands to gain from the death of Sherlock Holmes? Not I. I am merely a tool.”

“What are you talking about?”

“How do you think I came to be in possession of my favorite weapon?”

“The air-gun?”

“Very good, Doctor. A man such as me does not just stroll into Scotland Yard and retrieve it without anyone noticing.”

“So who did?”

He laughed again. “If you want me to do all your work for you, Doctor, I expect to be recompensed.”

“What do you want, Moran? Money? That will little help you in here.”

“Want?” he suddenly yelled. “I want my life back, of course! Before Sherlock Holmes took down the Professor, I had everything I could desire in this world. I can assure you, Doctor, that fifteen years in prison made it very clear what I was missing.”

“That is what I do not understand, Moran. Upon
emerging from such a long spell of penal servitude, you immediately commit an act that lands you back in the same predicament?”

Moran resumed his calm attitude. “On the contrary, Doctor, I tell you that I committed no crime. Yes, I stand accused of an attempted assassination. However, I am afraid, from what you and the
Evening Standard
tells me, that my accuser may not be able to prosecute such a claim in court. I feel certain that I shall soon be once more set free. Furthermore,
with the impending change in government, I feel a shifting of the tide.
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Perhaps an ambassadorship to some small potentate; one that will care little for the more illicit affairs of my past. I have always had a hankering for a small palace in Brunei, or perhaps the Straits Settlements.”
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“You are bluffing!”

He snorted in derision. “Am I, Doctor? Only time will tell what cards I have in my hand, and which you have in yours. But I am afraid that your trump has already been played out, and the last trick will fall to me.” He reached for a small silver case and pulled from it a cigarette. With a mocking smile, he offered one to me, but I only glared at him. He shrugged, as if little bothered by my slight and proceeded to strike a match. He puffed contentedly upon the Alexandrian cigarette for a moment, clearly waiting for me to make another move.

I stared at him in frustrated consternation. He had done nothing but taunt me, and I had learned little in return. What more could I ask that would induce him to reveal some clue to the identity of his employer? As I puzzled over this, hesitant to leave without some piece of useful information to report to Holmes, Moran began to cough.

He looked at me, his eyes wide with fear, though I could hardly understand the source of this emotion. “What have you done to me?” he exclaimed, dropping the cigarette.

“What are you talking about, Moran?”

“My lips, my tongue,” he stammered, his voice starting to slur. He held up his hands in front of his face, and rubbed the tips of his fingers together. He suddenly began to retch, and then toppled out of his chair onto the floor. I sat frozen for a moment, suspicious that he might be malingering in order to induce me to lower my guard and attempt to take me hostage, but the sudden convulsion was too convincing to be fictitious. Even Henry Irving, or Holmes himself, could not have feigned such a fit. When Moran’s lips began to turn blue, I knew that this attack was most serious.

Calling out for assistance, I sprang into action and attempted to support the man’s airway. But the spasms in his lungs were too great for air to be forced down his bronchi. Try as I might, I could not make the man’s chest rise, and within minutes I knew my effort to be futile. As two constables watched in dismay, I reached over and felt the artery at the side of his sinewy neck. To my extreme mortification, no vital force moved through it any longer. Under my very eye, Colonel Sebastian Moran, the best heavy game shot of the Eastern Empire and the second most dangerous man in London, had been struck dead.

§

A subdued Inspector Gregson accompanied me back to Pall Mall in order to report this singular event to Holmes. We found him in Mycroft’s library hunched over a map of London. His amber-stemmed pipe was reeking of a particularly poisonous shag, and he had clearly been studying it for some time.

He looked up at our entrance. “Ah, Watson, you will see that I have not been idle in your absence. I have been tracking various crimes described in the papers of the past months, the unique nature of which might suggest… I say, Watson, whatever is the matter?”

“Colonel Moran is dead,” I said quietly, still shaken by what had transpired within the walls of Wandsworth Prison.

The look upon his face and his clenched hands betrayed Holmes’ acute displeasure. “What!” he exclaimed. “How?”

I shook my head. “I can only assume that he was poisoned.”

“Poisoned?” cried Holmes. “That should have been impossible, Gregson,” said he, accusingly. “Were you not testing his food?”

“Of course we were, Mr. Holmes!”

“Then how was it introduced?”

Gregson shook his head dejectedly. “We don’t rightly know.”

Holmes stared at him. “I will need access to his corpse. Samples must be taken. If we can learn the identity of the poison, it will be a major clue. Poisoners are like homing pigeons, they find their favorite and stick with it. Morgan always used
aqua tofana
.
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Hughes, from Farnham,
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was a Prussic acid man.
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Mrs. Peterson was loyal to belladonna,
etcetera, etcetera
.”
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“Very good, Mr. Holmes,” said Gregson. “I will speak to the examiner immediately.”

Once Gregson had departed, Holmes turned to me. “Tell me everything, Watson,” he commanded. “Leave out no detail, no matter how minor it might appear.”

I carefully recounted everything that had transpired from the moment I entered Moran’s cell. When I was finished, Holmes shook his head irritably. “It really will not do, Watson. You learned almost nothing of interest, and watched as our prime witness was murdered in front of your very eyes.”

I was stung by this criticism, as I felt that I had done my best. “But what of Moran’s claim that he was being aided by someone within the government? That they procured the air-gun for him and promised to ensure his luxurious retirement?”

Holmes scowled. “Lies and deceptions, Watson. Do you honestly believe that our own government is conspiring against me?”

I shrugged. “You have knowledge of many secrets, Holmes. Secrets pertaining to the defense of the nation, as well as the private details of Royal Houses throughout Europe. Is it not possible that someone decided that you knew too much and that the best method to guarantee your silence would be to eliminate you entirely?”

“I think not, Watson. Have I not once said that Mycroft is at times the government itself? He would know if such a wide-ranging conspiracy existed.”

“But perhaps not one originating from a small handful of men?”

He sat silently for a moment, puffing on his pipe. “Perhaps not,” he finally admitted.

“Then what should we do about it?”

“We should play our cards close to our vest, Watson. If we do not know who to trust within Scotland Yard, then we shall trust no one. In any case, we have nothing in which Gregson or Lestrade could possibly act upon.”

The hour had grown late, and as I saw no further avenue of investigation that evening, I retired to my room, leaving Holmes gloomily hunched over his map of London.

§

In the morning, I was little surprised to find my friend seated at the dining table, plainly enjoying a hearty repast of rashers and eggs, all washed down with a prodigious amount of black coffee.

“You look cheerful this morning, Holmes. Have you come across some new piece of evidence?”

“No, but I plan to make use of the current impression that I am out of commission to conduct some clandestine inquiries in certain of the less salubrious corners of London.”

“I have never known you to make such a late start when going about in disguise.”

He chuckled. “An excellent observation, Watson. However, need I remind you that we are not at 221B any longer? I have no ready stock of appropriate attire and greasepaint with which to effect my transformation.
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  I have sent out for something suitable and am awaiting its delivery.”

At that moment, Stanley entered with an urgent telegram. I assumed it would be for Holmes, and was therefore startled when he handed it to me. I opened it eagerly, hoping to hear news from my wife, and was astounded to find that it was from someone else altogether. I read as follows:

I looked up at my friend. “What do you make of it, Holmes?”

He made a noise which I interpreted to be a snort of derision. “Really, Watson, how many supposedly supernatural sightings do I need to expose via the harsh light of reason before people will stop bringing them to my doorstep? Were the events of the supposed Pharaoh’s curse not less than a month ago?”

I shrugged. “There is something intrinsic to human nature, Holmes, which is attracted by the notion that there may be something mystical lurking just beyond the limits of our senses. You cannot stop it any more than you can stop the sun from rising.”

“You have succinctly summarized precisely why I have retired to the South Downs. My bees comprise an eminently practical society, with none of these absurd human failings.”

But any further philosophical discussions were halted by the appearance of Stanley, who announced a visitor for me and Holmes. A glance at the man’s calling card showed him to be the forewarned Dr. Gennery.

“Send him away, Stanley,” ordered Holmes, irritably.

“We shall do nothing of the kind, Stanley,” I countermanded. “You need not listen to the man, Holmes, but I will not turn away an acquaintance, no matter how tentative.”

A resigned wave of Holmes’ hand was sufficient to signal Stanley that he might see in our guest. Dr. Gennery proved to be an elderly gentleman, whose bald pate was fringed with tufts of white hair. His pale blue eyes were magnified by a pair of thick spectacles. His manner was agitated, and he seemed unsure of precisely what to say beyond the initial introductions.