Chronicles of the Lost Years (The Sherlock Holmes Series) (23 page)

“Are the inmates to be interviewed?” Mycroft asked.

“That is already under way. The prison is conducting its own investigation into the escape.”

“That should concern you least,” Mycroft retorted. “The man has managed to recruit and establish an entire organization whilst incarcerated and that should be worrying the authorities far more. He has made the penitentiary system appear utterly useless.”

Mycroft’s criticism began a three-sided argument on the finer details of penal law and prison reform. The warring parties’ voices slowly lifted as the argument grew more heated.

I observed the debate with understanding and a little amusement. These three gentlemen were all displaying the symptoms of nervous stress, but their misdirected belligerence was also a natural outlet and so I let the argument run its course. Time enough to organize the expedition to Dartmoor once their tempers had cooled.

I spared a glance toward Holmes. He had remained apart from everyone in the room, standing and gazing out of the shattered window with pre-occupied detachment. It was clear he was still thinking deeply, so I left him be. It was all I could do for him in that crowded and noisy room.

Around the table, the argument subsided a little and conversation moved on to more productive ground.

“I have a number of men out searching the streets for this Mrs. Thacker who Holmes described,” Lestrade said.

I nodded to myself. That was the first obvious lead to follow, but I rather doubted Mrs. Thacker would be found.

Gregson thought as I did. “She would have gone to ground,” he said. “We will not find her now, unless she allows herself to be sighted. Still, the effort must be made. I received my reply from Perth, by the way. No store, no Thacker. There is a Cartwright’s Emporium, but it is owned by a business partnership and none of the partners are called Cartwright.”

Mycroft added deferentially: “You might see if ‘Mrs. Thacker’ can be traced in Perth. One confirmed fact in the midst of a wealth of invention cannot be coincidence. Her accent appeared genuine.”

Lestrade nodded, then consulted his watch. “We’d best be leaving. I’d like to get to Dartmoor early and have a sniff around. Gregson?”

“Yes, I will go with you.”

“And I, if I may,” Mycroft added.

They fell to discussing travel details and their proposed tasks at Dartmoor and I moved across to Holmes. “You’re coming to Dartmoor, Holmes?”

He shook his head. “I must stay here and wait for Moran’s communication.”

“Yes, of course,” I replied automatically, whilst I examined his face. I could not analyze his mood. It was uncharacteristic of him not to become involved in the discussion. Normally he liked to lead the conversation. He was not irascible or impatient as he would be when waiting idly for developments. He was not searching for answers—I could at least see that much. Given the little information he had to work upon, Holmes had already drawn his conclusions. In the normal course of a case he would have immediately put into effect any lines of action available to him. With Elizabeth’s life hanging in the balance I expected him to be expending all his energy on the case.

This still, contemplative figure paused by the window was a stranger to me.

“You must go to Dartmoor, Watson,” he told me. “I will quiz you on the details upon your return.”

“Yes, of course,” I replied, stupidly repeating myself because of my inattention.

I began to move away, to return to the table, when the glass fragments still precariously hanging in the window frame shattered and dropped musically to the floor. Startled—but not yet alarmed, for I had not heard the sound of a shot—I turned back again.

Holmes had fallen to the floor, a hand clamped to his side. Even as I turned, I saw the blood begin to spread across his shirt front.

 
• Chapter Eleven •
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I HURRIED BACK to where Holmes lay on the floor. He was conscious and lifted his jacket to look at the wound. I reached to pull the jacket aside so I could examine it, too, but Holmes lifted up his blood-covered hand and with a grimace, spoke urgently. “No. It is not fatal. Quickly now, Watson; you must show the others the empty house across the street. He even had the gall to use the same window.”

I hesitated. I could hardly leave Holmes lying wounded on the carpet and call myself a doctor. But even as I hesitated, Lestrade and Gregson flung themselves out of the room and rattled down the stairs, shouting for the bobbies to give chase.

Mycroft crossed to my side. “Hurry, Watson. You must show us the way.”

Outside the window, I could hear the alarm spreading up and down the street, as the police converged.

“Sherlock will survive for another fifteen minutes, I am sure.”

I looked down at my friend and he nodded reassuringly. “Go.”

Mycroft and I hurried down the stairs and across the street to the house that Holmes had referred to. Mycroft appeared to have maintained the agility and sure-footedness that he shared with his brother despite his corpulent shape, for he moved as swiftly as I.

I led him to the door of the building and Lestrade and Gregson followed. Lestrade forced the lock. Behind us stood a pair of policemen in uniform. The two plain-clothes officers were not to be seen. The door shuddered aside under Lestrade’s impact and we all pushed our way into the narrow hallway.

Holmes had called the house the “empty house” merely as a shorthand means of pinpointing the location of the gunman, for the house had been occupied for several years. This was the house which Moran had utilized as a vantage point when he had attempted to shoot Holmes many years before—in exactly the same manner as on this occasion. Only, this second attempt had succeeding in hitting the intended target rather than a substitute wax dummy.

Our forceful entry brought the residents of the house out into the hall to investigate and both husband’s and wife’s expressions were startled and indignant.

Gregson looked to me. “Which room, sir?”

I reoriented my bearings, for Holmes and I had previously entered from the rear of the building and at night. I pointed toward the appropriate door. “That one.”

One of the uniformed policemen remained behind to speak to the tenants and we rushed into the room.

Only a few short minutes had elapsed since Holmes had been hit, yet the room was quite empty of human occupants. It was prettily furnished, neat and tidy and vacant. I looked around, frustrated. “Gone.”

The two policemen in street clothes came into the room and crossed over to Lestrade. “Nobody came out the back way, sir,” the spokesman said.

“Right. Begin interviewing everyone out there. See if we have any witnesses.”

“Yes, sir.” They saluted and left, this time using the front door. I could hear the householders’ indignant tones as they passed through the hallway. Gregson shut the room’s door once more and Lestrade moved over to the window that gave such an excellent view of Holmes’ rooms. Mycroft followed.

“Yes, that is the window,” I told them, crossing to his side.

“I remember it well,” Lestrade replied, bending to examine the sill. “But I think Holmes was wrong for once. The shot didn’t come from here…. What’s the matter, Doctor?”

His question was put sharply. I suppose my face must have sagged in quite a comical way, for I had suddenly recalled that Lestrade had indeed been here on that night in 1894, for he had been the officer who had arrested Moran. In the rush of the chase I had forgotten.

So why had Holmes insisted I guide them to the correct window? The answer might have come to me had I the time to consider it, but another more sinister thought infused itself. Holmes was injured and quite alone in his rooms and there was a murderer roaming about the streets—free to finish the job he had begun.

“Holmes,” I breathed. I pushed past Mycroft and raced out into the street, across the busy thoroughfare and back up the stairs to Holmes’ rooms. I burst in through the doorway and came to a breathless halt at the spot where I had left Holmes.

It was empty.

Behind me I could hear the rapid ascent of boots on the stairs and Lestrade and Mycroft rushed into the room behind me.

I collapsed onto the nearest chair to recover my breath.

Lestrade and Mycroft both inspected the carpet and Lestrade shook his head, unhappy. “Here’s a pretty kettle of fish,” he observed colloquially. “Did he leave on his own, or was he taken?”

Mycroft bent to look more closely at the bloodstain, then straightened. “I think you can safely assume my brother has departed for reasons of his own. Sending us across the street to investigate the house was a ruse to allow him time to leave unhindered.”

Lestrade shook his head. “Then the shot was a fake?”

Mycroft tapped the stain with his cane. “Something injured him,” he observed. “But not as badly as we were led to believe. I reserve my opinion on whether it was a bullet or not, but I do recall to your attention that Moran is renowned for his powerful—and silent—airgun.”

I concurred with Mycroft, but I kept my opinion to myself, for Lestrade looked baffled and angry enough already. Holmes had made sure I had left him alone, despite his injuries. I didn’t believe he could have fabricated either the blood or the unidentified missile that had cracked the glass that remained in the window, but a swift mind could have improvised around the incident and I knew without doubt that Holmes’ mind was keen enough.

Gregson rejoined us then and he and Lestrade fell to an inconclusive debate over Holmes’ motives.

I was troubled by the mystery, too. What on earth had possessed Holmes to throw aside all aid and assistance and face the certain dangers of confronting Moran and rescuing Elizabeth alone? How badly wounded was he?

Mycroft was examining the carpet beneath the window again, his face thoughtful.

I watched him curiously. Mycroft was as brilliant a reasoner as Sherlock and I suspected he understood better than any of us why his brother had acted as he did. But Mycroft was contributing nothing to the discussion.

Instead he crouched to study the carpet again, this time lowering himself to his knees to examine it as closely as possible. He reached out a hand to delicately probe with a fingertip. Then, with forefinger and thumb he gently picked up something from the tufts and brought it closer to his face and studied it.

I rose from my chair and moved closer. “What is it?”

“Some sort of wax,” Mycroft murmured, sniffing it gently. He rubbed the red substance between his fingers. “Sealing wax?” he asked himself. “Rough, impure.” Then he rose to his feet once more and looked at me. “I shall return to my club.” With that he donned his hat, nodded, and left the room.

His departure broke up Lestrade’s and Gregson’s discussion. Lestrade fished out his watch once more and frowned. “Time to leave. Can you finish the investigation here?”

Gregson nodded. “Of course.”

“But where are you going?” I asked.

“Dartmoor. I have an appointment with the prison Governor, remember?”

“No, I had forgotten,” I confessed. “Would it be inconvenient if I came with you, Lestrade?”

“No, if you must. Why, doctor?”

“Holmes wanted me to,” I told them. “That is the only avenue open for investigation, now.” Which from my point of view, it was. The trail to Mrs. Thacker and Moran was quite cold and could only be traced by someone as skilled as Holmes and he had for reasons of his own disappeared.

The only other skilled enough to unravel the clues was Mycroft and he, too, had bowed out of the mystery. I suspected he had done so for the same reasons as Sherlock—reasons he had deduced from whatever clues Sherlock had left behind.

Dartmoor and the inmates Moran had spent some years associating with might possibly give us another direction to follow. So I overcame my first impulse to stay at Baker Street and wait for a possible communication from either Holmes or Moran. Instead I primed Mrs. Hudson to act as message-taker and boarded the train with Lestrade.

Gregson saw us off with a last minute report on the investigation into Holmes’ wounding.

“Traffic was very thick and nobody heard anything unusual—especially not a gun.”

Lestrade was puzzled. “Then there probably wasn’t a gun involved,” he said. “I cannot see how Moran would be able to obtain a second airgun and we know the original is still safely locked up. The residents of Baker Street are nervous enough after Friday night’s adventure and would have instantly recognized a gunshot if there had been one.”

Gregson looked equally as perplexed. “So what was it that flew hard enough to crack glass and wound a man?”

Lestrade looked at me. “It is a pity you didn’t get a look at the wound, Doctor Watson. That would have given us a very good idea of what the weapon was.”

“There was no time,” I reminded him.

“No. Nor is there now. There’s the guard’s whistle. Keep on it, Gregson. Goodbye!”

Our trip to Dartmoor was uneventful in the extreme. I imagine Lestrade would make a dour companion at the best of times and on this journey he was positively gloomy. This suited me, for I was comparably lost in my own cogitation. The silence between us was almost complete and it wasn’t until we were on the very threshold of the Governor’s office that Lestrade spoke to me.