Sherlock Holmes (35 page)

Holmes nodded. “Yes, it is. I
wonder, do you recall anything of the man who left the bags?”

The clerk thought for a moment
before answering, “Yes, I do, as it happens. He was a stocky bloke,
about your height, sir. He must have been strong ‘cos he had one of
those bags in each hand and they are as heavy as lead! His missus
was standing in the doorway, a redhead, she was. She looked like
she had just stepped out of a shop window in Oxford Street.”

Holmes turned slightly towards
me and whispered, “Moriarty! Stay here, Watson, I’m going to fetch
the constable.” With that he turned on his heel and was gone.

The clerk looked somewhat
bemused but his expression quickly changed as Holmes re-appeared
with the constable at his side. Holmes pointed to the ledger and
the entry for item 514, saying, “This bag is a vital piece of
evidence, Constable. I believe that many people’s lives are
threatened by its contents. It is vital that I take it and examine
it. If anyone presents themselves to claim the bag, I must be sent
word. They are to be immediately arrested and held incommunicado. I
will send a telegram to Inspector Lestrade who will send men to
relieve you. Do you understand?”

The constable nodded,
stammering, “Yes… yes, Mr Holmes!”

Holmes took out his wallet and
notebook and began writing. He turned to the clerk, saying, “This
is a receipt for the bag, number 514. I shall leave a deposit of
£20 which will, no doubt, cover any of the contents. I must warn
you not to speak of any of this. If you do, you will be held as an
accomplice to murder and surely hang!”

I truly thought the clerk was
about to faint. His face was now ashen and he could only nod.
Holmes, satisfied by the clerk’s compliance, held out his hand,
palm upwards, waiting for the bag. The clerk scurried back into the
office and returned with the heavy bag, carrying it with both
hands. Holmes took it, raised his cane in salute to the constable
and was off.

Stopping only to send two
telegrams, we quickly hailed a cab. I was greatly surprised when
Holmes directed the cabbie to take us to St. Bartholomew’s
Hospital. The bag that Holmes carried was indeed heavy and, once
out of the cab, it was clearly a relief when he deposited it close
to the Porter’s Lodge. I was still mystified by events but stood
guard over the bag whilst Holmes disappeared into an annexe of the
hospital.

Holmes was gone but a few
minutes and he returned, accompanied by a hospital porter pushing a
trolley. The bag was duly loaded onto it and I followed as it was
wheeled inside. My curiosity got the better of me and I tugged at
Holmes’ sleeve crying, “For pity’s sake, Holmes. Tell me what’s
going on?”

Holmes smiled wryly. “We are
going to apply a little modern medicine to solve a conundrum,
Watson. To determine what is within…without opening it!”

I thought about this for a
moment and then suddenly understood. I nodded slowly, saying, “Ah!
The rays of Professor Roentgen!”

Soon we were led to a room set
aside for the new science of ‘Radiography’. Looking around the
room, there were to be seen several large devices that were fixed
to the walls, each one connected by heavy cables to an electrical
supply. However, my interest was taken by a small, portable machine
that was wheeled over to our trolley.

I had taken a keen interest in
the professor’s work from the very beginnings of what was, at
first, called ‘Roentgenography’. As I watched, a glass photographic
plate, in its wooden frame, was placed on the trolley and then the
bag was laid sideways upon it. An assistant energised a large coil
and a loud, buzzing noise filled the room. After a few seconds, the
device was switched off and the photographic plate removed to be
developed.

I marvelled at the array of
equipment around me and was amazed how this new science had, in
just five short years, made such an impact on medicine.

In what seemed merely a few
minutes, Holmes had received the still damp glass plate and was to
be seen examining it closely.

Holding the plate up to the
light, Holmes looked grim. It was as though the very photographic
plate itself was a harbinger of doom.

I joined my friend, asking,
“What is it Holmes? What is inside the bag?”

Holmes held the plate against
the light so that I could see it. In a quiet voice he said, “It is
as I feared. There is a mechanism within the bag which is designed
to detonate a quantity of explosive as the bag is opened. It is, I
believe, identical to the bag that killed Henry Carter.”

I looked on, incredulous,
saying, “You… you mean it is a bo–”

Holmes instantly held up his
hand to stop me speaking further. “Have a care, Watson. We do not
want to cause panic. I believe that the bag would be better
examined back at Baker Street.”

Holmes touched his hat and gave
a brief nod in the direction of the staff of St. Bartholomew’s as
we left the hospital. I have to say that I was fearful all the way
back to Baker Street. I was now most nervous to be in the vicinity
of the bag, remembering the devastation at Liverpool Street.

Once settled in our rooms,
Holmes placed the bag on our dining table. Beside it he placed the
photographic plate so that the light from our window provided a
source of illumination. Thus arranged, side by side, Holmes now had
a skeleton view of the contents of the bag.

I was mindful that, when Holmes
and I had examined the photographic plate, the majority of the bag
appeared to be filled with an assortment of potentially lethal
items of ironmongery. Holmes, noting my concern, said, “I think,
Watson, that it might be better if only I were present whilst I
defuse the explosive…just as a precaution.”

Shaking my head, I replied, “No,
Holmes, I have the upmost confidence in your abilities. I will stay
and give you, at least, some moral support.”

Holmes smiled and nodded.
Opening his desk drawer of surgical equipment, he took from it a
scalpel, an assortment of tweezers and several pairs of scissor
clamps. Holmes paused for a moment as he studied a particular area
on the glass plate. It seemed to show a metal rod attached to the
clasp of the bag.

Pointing to it, Holmes said,
“This appears to be the trigger for the device, Watson. As the bag
is opened, the rod is pulled backwards. It is, no doubt, attached
to a mechanism that then fires a percussion cap which ignites the
main charge.”

Picking up his scalpel, Holmes
began by making a delicate incision at the end of the bag, close to
the hinge. As he did so, I moved my position to get a better view.
Holmes was now peering inside. Reaching for a scissor clamp, he
attached it to something within the bag, out of my view. “Watson!”
called Holmes, “Be a good fellow and hold this clamp… hold it as
steadily as you possibly can.”

I hurried to his side and
grasped the clamp, holding it firmly as if, perhaps, my very life
depended upon it. Holmes now took up another clamp and, working
painfully slowly, he manipulated the mechanism until he finally
withdrew a small metal link. For my part, I stood like a stone
statue, concentrating hard on maintaining a firm, steady, grip.

To my utter surprise, Holmes now
opened the bag, leaving me still grasping the clamp. “Holmes!” I
cried, “For pity’s sake, help me! I am still holding the
mechanism!”

Holmes chuckled, saying, “Ah,
yes, so you are, Watson. You may let go now.”

Relieved, I slackened my grasp
and was eager to view the interior of the bag. To my horror, I
found that the clamp I had been holding so tightly was simply
attached to a seam of the lining!

I was dumbstruck! I managed only
to say, “What? I thought…”

Holmes patted me kindly on the
back saying, “I could not see clearly into the bag, Watson. You
seemed to be constantly changing position to get a better view and
I needed the light. I thought it better to give you a task so that
you might remain ‘tethered’, so to speak.”

At first, I felt tricked but,
after a few moments, I laughed. I quickly realised the importance
of giving Holmes the room he needed to complete that most delicate
task. Now that Holmes had greater access to the mechanism, he
quickly made it safe. The bag indeed was intended to kill not only
the person who opened it but also anyone within several yards of
it.

After my ordeal, I sat back in
my chair, feeling the need to relax with a pipe of tobacco. “It is
indeed a monstrous thing, Holmes. What will you do with it?” I
asked.

Holmes did not answer
immediately. He was again deep in thought. “I think, Watson, it
will be evidence for the courts… but not before it has become our
tool.”

It was in the early afternoon
that we received a telegram from Inspector Lestrade asking us to
join him at Liverpool Street Station. It took but moments for us to
don our coats and head out once more into Baker Street. Once inside
a cab, I could see that Holmes was rubbing his hands together, a
clear sign that he was eager to continue with the case. He turned
to me, saying, “I am most curious to see who has come to collect
the second bag, Watson.”

I, in turn, was most curious to
know why Holmes was now sitting in a Hansom cab with a bag
containing a bomb upon his knee. Pointing to the bag, I asked, “Are
you going to turn that over to Lestrade?

Holmes had a grim smile upon his
face. “Not yet, Watson. It is an instrument of fear… and I intend
to use it as such!”

Arriving at Liverpool Street, we
immediately made our way towards the Left Luggage Office. However,
as we approached, we were met by a constable who saluted smartly,
saying, “Inspector Lestrade’s compliments, Mr Holmes. He’s waiting
for you in the Station Master’s office. This way, sir.”

Holmes and I were led through
the station, finally stopping in front of a large, mahogany door
which bore a plaque that announced, ‘G. Stevens – Station Manager’.
Knocking upon the door, the constable ushered us into the
office.

The décor of the office matched
that of the rest of the station. The walls were again a tired cream
that had succumbed to years of exposure to tobacco smoke. A dado
rail separated this from a questionable example of embossed
wallpaper that, in truth, would have been more suited to the snug
bar of a public house. Bookshelves were arranged along one wall
whilst the opposite wall was decorated with framed photographs of
railway engines and portraits of railway officials. The end wall of
the office was dominated by a truly enormous railway clock and
beneath it sat the familiar figure of Inspector Lestrade. To one
side of him sat a despondent, uniformed, railway employee who was
handcuffed to the burly constable standing beside him.

Lestrade rose as we entered and
looked somewhat peeved, as he said, “Good afternoon, gentlemen. I
trust that you will be able to explain why you think you are able
to commandeer the officers of the Metropolitan Police.”

Holmes smiled and placed the bag
on the desk in front of Lestrade. “Well, let us see, Inspector. A
railway employee and several members of the public are killed in an
explosion that Scotland Yard presumes, wrongly, I might add, to be
the work of anarchists.” Holmes paused and pointed to the bag,
saying, “The bomb was contained in a bag, not dissimilar to this
one. Indeed, it was identical… for this bag also contains a
bomb.”

The fear in the room was
palpable. Lestrade had risen from his chair and had flattened
himself against the wall. Looking around me, I could see that
Holmes’ words had had a similar effect on all those present. Holmes
leant forwards and opened the bag. Almost as one, hands went
upwards to shield faces. The poor railway employee was almost
lifted bodily from his chair by his handcuffed wrist. Holmes now
delved into the bag and removed the mechanism, together with the
bundle of explosives.

“Have no fear, gentlemen, for it
is now harmless.” Holmes turned and looked directly at the fettered
railway employee, saying,”… but imagine what damage it would have
done to the person that opened it and to those around him.” Again
Holmes reached into the bag. This time he withdrew a large handful
of nails and screws.

Lestrade had now recovered some
of his composure, although he was to be seen wiping the palms of
his hands with a handkerchief before asking, “Was that really
necessary, Mr Holmes?”

Holmes’ face was now grim. “Yes,
I believe it was. Henry Carter had, I believe, been paid to make an
impression of a key. For this he was paid five sovereigns. However,
I am of the opinion that the payment was simply an advance on a
much larger sum which he expected to find inside the bag. I also
believe that Julia Moriarty is behind this and that she cares not a
jot for the lives of others. The bomb was simply an efficient way
of removing evidence.” Holmes paused and pointed his cane towards
the prisoner who was ashen and visibly trembling. “I take it that
this is the fellow who turned up to collect the second bag?”

Lestrade nodded. It was clear
that he was now angry. The thought that Moriarty could simply take
innocent lives to protect herself was abhorrent to him. “Yes, this
wretch had the ticket for the bag: one William Tindall. We
questioned him but could get little out of him. He claims that he
had been paid a few shillings to collect the bag and he was to
deliver it to a local public house. He hadn’t been able to pick up
the bag before because he had been away from his place of work due
to illness.”

Holmes pulled up a chair and now
sat facing the prisoner. Tindall was still shaking and regarded
Holmes with frightened eyes. Holmes began, “Tell me all, Mr
Tindall, for I am your only chance of avoiding the gallows.”