The Falling Curtain (The Assassination of Sherlock Holmes Book 3) (12 page)

“He has finally made his mistake, Watson,” said he, exultantly.

“You have identified the poison then?”

“I have indeed. And it can only have come from one place.”

“Where?”

“All in good time, Watson.” He leaned back and took a small phial from his pocket. “As I suspected, this has not yet found its way into either the pharmacopeia or into the general literature of toxicology. I shall have to revise Chapter Four of
The Whole Art of Detection
. But I have nonetheless found references to it in Eckermann. It is known as tetrodotoxin, and has some similar properties to curare, which you will recall is the favorite poison found on South American arrows. But unlike curare, which is a plant-based poison, tetrodotoxin derives from a certain species of
Pisces
known as the puffer.”

“Was there not a sea captain in English history whose crew and hogs fell sick from eating pufferfish?”

“Excellent, Watson, you are scintillating this evening. And do you also know what nation is known for their consumption of pufferfish?”

I shook my head. “Unfortunately I do not, Holmes.”

He smiled. “Fortunately, I do. It is a practice common solely to the men of Nippon.”

“How does that help us?”

“Because, Watson, the Empire of Nippon, or Japan as we call it in English, is a very isolated place. Unlike the denizens of Limehouse, who mainly hail from China and India, there are very few
nikkei
here in London. They live primarily in the area of Somers Town, where on Phoenix Street you can find the one eatery in London where pufferfish are sold.”

“You seem very well informed about them, Holmes.”

“Remember, Watson, that I have some knowledge of baritsu, or the Japanese system of wrestling. Where do you think I learned it?”

“Holmes, I recall reading about the recent Anglo-Japanese Alliance. Do you suspect that this is an effort to drive some wedge between our nations?”

“No, Watson. This is more personal. You may consider it a conceit, but everything to date has had a purpose directed towards Mortlock revenging himself upon me. The thefts and murder at the British Museum, the robbery at Threadneedle Street, the attempted destruction of Tower Bridge, none of them meant anything to Mortlock beyond being a tactic to be used against me.”

“Who then is Mortlock?”

He smiled and nodded slowly. “You asked that once before, Watson. At the time, I had no answer, but I now have a theory. Let us gather our troops and see if I am correct.”

§

Instead of returning to Hampstead, Holmes wired to Wat Tyler’s House to inform his Irregulars that they should meet us at
a ramshackle café on the Midland Road. There he left me for few minutes to reconnoiter the local area. By the time they had all assembled, Holmes had returned and dusk was falling.

“I don’t understand why we are here, Holmes?”

“The clouds are finally lifting, Watson.”

I glanced through the window at the sky, which still loomed an ominous grey. “I think not, Holmes. I see a storm approaching on the horizon.”

“Good old, Watson!” he laughed. “I have every hope that the light of truth is breaking through. Gentlemen, I believe that I have identified the base of our elusive adversary. His lair is beneath an innocuous shop two blocks away.”

“How can you be certain?” I asked.

He shook his head. “We will never be entirely certain until I have stared into the whites of his eyes, but I think it highly probable that we will find him within. For there are few other shops in this part of London whose back room is filled with crates that are being guarded by a man with a number twelve shoe.” I think it highly probable that we will find Murderous Mathews within those walls.”

“The giant?”

“Indeed, Watson. The very man who tried to remove your arm three days prior. Once Mortlock sacrificed Colonel Moran, it is simple to deduce that he would need another lieutenant to carry out his commands, so that he himself can remain in the shadows. Mathews may not have been blessed with a surfeit of brains, but his strength is second to none, and once bought, his loyalty is without question. Once we dispose of Mathews, our path to Mortlock should be clear.” Holmes paused and glanced at me. “Have you a theory, Watson?”

“It can only be Professor Moriarty.”

Holmes laughed grimly. “A fine guess, Watson, as you suggested once before. I admit that the similarities are most redolent of the dearly departed Professor’s touch. One such example is what your friend Mr. Goldfield discovered under the counterfeit painting of
Le Jeane Fille
, which he told me in response to a follow-up telegram.”

“I thought he said it was the work of a minor German painter?”

“Indeed, specifically a Romantic painter. From our days spent perusing the walls of the Bond Street Galleries, Watson, surely you recall that this group favored dramatic landscapes?”

“Of course,” I shrugged. “What of it?”

“Well, this particular painting was of Reichenbach Falls.”

I was stunned speechless by this news. “Then it is Moriarty!” I finally exclaimed.

“No, no, Watson. I previously assured you that Professor James Moriarty perished in that abyss, and I have seen nothing to make me alter my opinion.”

“Who then?”

“Do you recall, Watson, when I said that the trial of the Professor’s gang had left two of its most dangerous members free?”

“Of course. One was Colonel Sebastian Moran. And the other was….” I tailed off, thinking. “I don’t know, Holmes. Was it Parker?”

Holmes shook his head. “Parker was never more than a lowly pawn in this game. He is not of sufficient importance to count in any tally. No, the other was Colonel Robert Moriarty.”

“His brother!” I exclaimed.

“Indeed, Watson.”

Cartwright frowned. “I thought there were two brothers?”

Holmes chuckled. “We shall forgive poor Watson here for not being overly precise in his descriptions of those days. He was much distraught in 1891 and much excited in 1894. He even called the man the same sobriquet as his elder brother, the professor. There was always but one brother, Robert by name. Like Sebastian Moran, Colonel Robert Moriarty was drummed out of the Indian Army for conduct unbecoming, though the precise details of the scandal are vague. He then seemingly settled into country life as a station master in the west of England. But where James was like a spider, Robert is a chameleon. He is completely unremarkable in appearance, and a natural actor to boot. He disappears into roles in a fashion that eclipses even my small talents in the way of disguise.”

“He impersonated you at the Bank of England!” I exclaimed.

“Certainly, Watson. He also walked out of their empty vault in the guise of a policeman. I believe that he was also ‘Andrew Morrison,’ the missing guard from the British Museum, as well as the false guard on the munitions train. And I suspect that he may have played one other role in this drama, which I hope to confirm as soon as we confront him.”

“So, we are going to crack the shop, Mr. Holmes?” asked Shinwell Johnson.

“Indeed we are,” said Holmes, nodding grimly.

Johnson shrugged. “Maybe it’s not my place to say so, sir, but why don’t we bring in the official police force? Surely the Yarders are more equipped for this task than our little band?”

“An excellent question, Mr. Johnson. Do you recall the air-gun of Colonel Sebastian Moran? That gun was safely locked in the Scotland Yard Museum before it mysteriously made its way back into his hands. From this I can only deduce that someone within the ranks of the C.I.D. is aiding the efforts of Colonel Robert Moriarty. I have my suspicion as to this individuals’ identity, of course, but no proof. Until that person is removed from their position of power, I fear that any attempt to enlist the aid of Lestrade, Gregson, and company would only serve to warn Moriarty of our impending assault.”

“You can count on us, Mr. Holmes,” said Billy eagerly. This affirmation was taken up by all present.

“Thank you, gentlemen. While Watson and I awaited your arrival, I carefully scouted the building of interest. Besides Mr. Mathews, there are at least ten other men inside, and we must assume that each of them is well armed. Any individual allowed this close to Robert Moriarty’s base will be a violent and desperate soul, doubly-so if they are cornered. But we can allow none to escape, for Moriarty’s skill with disguises is unparalleled, and he could easily slip through our fingers in the most innocuous of guises. Given the profound dangers, each of you will carry a weapon and no one will proceed unaccompanied in this task. There are four apparent exits from which Moriarty may attempt to escape. The two obvious ones are the front and rear doors. Cartwright and Billy, you will go in the front door. Mr. Johnson will enter though the back-door. As that is where I expect you will find Mr. Mathews, both Musgrave and Trevor will support you. The other two entrances are less obvious. There is a skylight opening onto the roof, from where it would be simplicity itself to cross to either of the neighboring buildings. Wiggins, you and Simpson, will enter from that direction. Finally, the villains have cut a hole into the basement of the eatery next door. This provides the ability to come and go unnoticed. Watson and I will enter via that aperture.” He pulled his watch from his waistcoat pocket. “It will take some time for Wiggins and Simpson to get into position, so we will synchronize our watches and move on the strike of eight o’clock. Are there any questions?”

As there were none, our group disbanded towards our respective assignments. Holmes and I made for the eatery, where, our faces muffled by our scarves, we took seats in the darkest corner. Although the place was crowded with men who originally hailed from Japan, there were enough westerners that we did not immediately appear out of place. From the looks of these non-Japanese clients, it seemed that most were sailors who had made their way up from the docklands to sample the unique cuisine served in this establishment. Holmes and I were perhaps somewhat overdressed, but no one seemed to take especial notice of us.

A woman appeared to take our order and Holmes asked for several exotic-sounding items, the names meaning little to me. But I was never to learn what precisely the words signified, for before any food could arrive, Holmes pulled his out his pocket-watch and glanced at it. Holmes turned to me and smiled. “Now, Watson, we’ll just take our luck together, as we have occasionally done in the past.”

I nodded my agreement, and rose to follow Holmes. He pushed past a pair of startled waiters and made his way towards the back of the building, where we found a set of stairs heading downwards into the earth. Taking the steps two at a time, he bounded down them, and I endeavored to do the same, careful to ensure that my old-war wound did not flare at such an inopportune time. At the bottom, Holmes followed a brick-line passageway about fifteen feet, which ended at a door. This proved to be barred by a stout Chubb’s lock, but that was little match for Holmes’ quick pick-work. The door swung open, but Holmes caught it before it could make any sound. The corridor behind was lined with wooden panels, a change which made it clear that we had left one building and had proceeded into the cellar of the adjoining one, where Holmes believed our nemesis made his lair. Finally, the corridor ended at another door, this one unlocked. There was no way to see what might lay behind it. I tightly gripped my Webley Mark III .380 caliber pocket revolver, which more than once had been a good friend in need. Holmes nodded in approval and holding his own pistol, he pushed open the door.

We stepped into a large, vault-like room, with rough masonry walls and vaulted ceiling. Overhead, several electric bulbs flooded the chamber with a harsh light. It appeared to have been converted from the cellar of a warehouse into a fairly comfortable office, though the long-ago white-washed masonry was now old, stained, and grimy. There were no windows, of course, but rather the walls were covered by an admixture of Old Master paintings and maps of England, France, Germany, and Russia. Notably, there was also a heavily-marked map of London and many charts of buildings, with their floor plans, as well as diagrams of possible tunnels. Finally, the room contained many improvised shelves, which sagged under the weight of innumerable books. I noted, with a strange mix of pride and dismay, that my own modest works were prominently situated within arm’s grasp of the owner of this illicit head-quarters.

Robert Moriarty himself was seated at a large circular desk facing us. He had been looking over a pile of letters, telegrams, and other assorted papers, but set them aside at the sound of our footsteps. Now that I had finally put a face to our mysterious adversary, I found him to be utterly unremarkable. He was a middle-aged man, but without any of the distinctive features that once marked his evil brother. There was no domed forehead, or deep-sunken eyes, or curious reptilian manner. It was in short, not a face full of character. Rather than the man of great intellectual force, the Professor’s brother looked like little more than a mild grocery clerk.

With me in close pursuit, Holmes strode forward, his pistol trained upon the man. “Ah, there is your missing Greuze, Watson. And is that a Raphael I see?”

The man behind the desk looked up and smiled. To my consternation, his eyes betrayed no surprise. He appeared little upset by the sight of our guns. “Welcome, Sherlock, you don’t mind if I call you that, do you?” he said. “And you too, John. There should be no formality between such old friends. As you may have deduced, I have been expecting you.” His manner was as cool as ice, his voice silky and as soothing as a fashionable consultant, and as poisonous as a cobra. But the dead black of his eyes possessed all the cruelty of the grave.