The Last Confession of Sherlock Holmes (7 page)

“Sherlock, think of what you are saying. If that man
was
Jack the Ripper, yet he was
not
Moran, or a decoy, you would be forced to conclude there has been a man in London of devilish genius that has completely escaped our attention this entire time. This man would have had to have pulled the wool over both our eyes; it is an absurd hypothesis.”

“I admit such a feat is highly improbable, but surely you would not be so arrogant as to deny the possibility.”

“For God's sake, Sherlock, don't be absurd. There is only one man capable of weaving this web, and it is Professor James Moriarty!”

“Moriarty is dead, Mycroft,” I said, gazing into the fire.

“No, Sherlock, he is not.”

Such was my shock at the notion of my brother having developed a sense of humour, I turned my attention away from the embers and scrutinised his features. “I would be fascinated to learn of how he achieved such a feat; no mortal could have survived such a fall.”

“I do not mean he
survived
, Sherlock,” said my brother, with an irritating hint of elder sibling exasperation. “I am trying to alert your attention to the likelihood that Moran is acting upon a design inherited from Moriarty himself.”

“You believe that Moriarty ensured I shall meet the end he desired for me, regardless of his own survival?”

“You know I am correct, Sherlock; that is why you come to me with some of your problems, is it not? Moriarty, in all his infinite deviance, is the only man capable of conjuring such chaos from beyond the grave. I do not doubt for a second that it was he who was responsible for the terrible crimes all those years ago. He knew such a horrifying public taunt would haunt you more than any other; now, he is surely doing the same, before his design reaches its truly terrible conclusion. Though the most dangerous criminal has been vanquished, the most
infamous
still roams free. Surely you can see the web he has formed around you.”

“It would seem that you are indeed upon the correct path,” I conceded. “Perhaps you can inform me of whatever it is the Colonel has been scheming, as this is the topic which clearly you are most keen to discuss; though if Moran has indeed inherited a design crafted by the hand of Moriarty, I am sceptical as to the likelihood of any tangible evidence.”

“Well, quite,” replied he, lighting a second cigar rather than suffering the embarrassment of acknowledging the minor blemish in temperament which had caused unsalvageable damage to the first. “As I believe you once so eloquently told Dr Watson, I am effectively the broom-cupboard of Government: I know who should be privy to certain information, but more importantly I know who should not. You may believe me paranoid, but you at least should appreciate the cunning of the men we are up against, so I hope you trust my judgment when I tell you that minor snippets of inconsequential information are leaking out of Departments.”

“Minor details are often the most important, dear brother. Have you not approached any of these suspicious individuals?”

“They merely state they have heard such things in passing, or at a function where someone has had one too many sherries. Though I know them to be lying, Sherlock, it is a regrettably adequate excuse, and I can hardly interrogate them further upon such matters without sufficient cause. I am not at liberty to harass Ministers or Government employees; nor do I wish to place our adversaries upon their guard unnecessarily.”

“You intrigue me, but I fail to see any connection between your faulty Governmental plumbing and Colonel Moran.”

“Until recently, nor could I; that is, until I discovered the existence of a rather disturbing card-club. Every week, a group of gentlemen play at the Baldwin and the Cavendish. The regular attendants are the Honourable Ronald Adair of the Foreign Office; Sir John Hardy of the War Office; and a Mr Benjamin Murray, assistant to the formidable and rather dangerous lieutenant-general of the Intelligence Division, Henry Brackenbury. At these two venues only, this trio are joined by Lord Balmoral, owner of the Central News Ltd, and Godfrey Milner, an insignificant Conservative backbencher. Now this appears to be all rather innocent, but for one peculiarity; the latter two gentlemen, for no decipherable reason, never receive invitation to play with the original trio when they intermittently visit the Bagatelle Club. One man, however, does.”

“Colonel Moran,” said I.

“Moran indeed,” he continued at length. “I have contemplated this information for days and I can come up with no theory, other than the most sinister, which accounts for these regular players to be excluded. From what I hear, there has been no quarrel, and indeed it seems likely that neither gentleman has even been acquainted with Moran. This singularity, accompanied with the Governmental leaks and Moran's connections to some of our innermost Offices has me quite at my wit's end. I can scarcely imagine the terrible scheme that awaits this country if he is desperate enough to use Jack the Ripper simply to ensure whether or not you are in fact dead! I am in great unease; you must help me break this chain!”

“This certainly is a most disturbing turn of events, and I shall be more than cheerful to accept your offer, dear brother. Have you no further information regarding the meeting of this unsavoury group?”

“I am afraid not, Sherlock: while the attendance at the Baldwin and Cavendish are frequent and regular, the Bagatelle is sporadic. You must use your own methods to discover the date of the next meeting and, indeed, what it is that they are planning. If you are successful in breaking up this sinister band, then we may hope it will bring about not only the end of Moran and the remnants of Moriarty's criminal empire, but also prevent the rise of Jack the Ripper.”

Chapter IV - The Bagatelle-Quartet

I remained hidden in the depths of the underworld for several weeks. Though I appreciated Mycroft's sense of urgency, he is often guilty of impatience: such is the way of those with no experience in the art of detection, they naively assume cases can be formulated and matters solved in a mere flash.

I decided the best course of action was to infiltrate Moran's empire via its foundations. It is often possible to gain the confidence of one of the rather mindless employees and begin to formulate a wider picture from the pieces collected from their unsuspecting tongues; if this can be achieved, such a task can be of relative ease. I used an array of dark curled hair and flat-cap to adequately cover my now unshaven face, and a tattered and frayed travellers coat sufficiently completed my ensemble of the common ruffian. I took part in several burglaries and other unsavoury dealings, but I could acquire no worthwhile information; Moran was doing his utmost to conceal his preparations. I did not have the luxury of time to weave an intricate web around this particular problem, and soon aborted such exploits; it is ill-advised to draw too much unnecessary attention to oneself, and it had become clear that a more direct approach would perhaps present more effective results.

Aware that I would be unable to extract information from the inner-trio of the ‘Bagatelle-Quartet', I focused my attention upon those who made up the periphery, Godfrey Milner and Lord Balmoral.

Of the former, there is little to tell; indeed he may have been the only uncompromised gentleman in this affair. As for the latter, his newspaper had been the first to publish the recent public correspondence of Jack the Ripper, and the private message sent to myself had been written upon paper from the same print works. Due to my brother's position in society, and the slight piece of editorial work which I undertook, the letter provided what should prove to be sufficient leverage to encourage a man of Lord Balmoral's position to be of at least some assistance. Though I desired that proceedings should remain cordial, this was perhaps an unlikely outcome; matters regarding Jack the Ripper are often not met with particular relish. Fortunately, I had been previously engaged by Lord Balmoral regarding a case of the utmost delicacy, and should the situation necessitate such action, I would prematurely reveal my identity to ensure the success of my visit.

Relatively assured of my stratagem, I waved down a hansom and embarked upon my journey to Cadogan Place, in the character of a private investigator. It seemed to me rather appropriate that I began my hunt for the remainder of Moriarty's empire almost three years after seeing him plummet to his demise. I was however, rather relieved that I would not be competing in another mortal game of Chess, and even enjoyed the rare indulgence of sinking back into my seat, and momentarily casting aside all thoughts of the impending case.

Upon my arrival, the small, timid face of a child could be seen protruding from behind the curtain of one of the broad downstairs windows. There was soon a great commotion within the grand white house, suggesting that it was not customary to receive visitors announced at such an hour, for it was almost nine.

I paid my driver a small advanced fee to ensure the acquiescence of his services for the rest of the evening, and tucked the correspondence of Jack the Ripper securely in my inner-jacket pocket before walking purposefully down the short shingle path, which divided the small yet elegant garden. I was saved the formality of knocking, for I was greeted upon the step by the doorman, a thoroughly displeased look upon his face.

“We do not accept guests at such an hour unless by invitation,” said he in a brisk, unquestionable tone.

“I trust, my kind sir, that you allow for exceptional circumstances?” I enquired in a thick Mancunian accent.

“You do not appear to be exceptional. State your business or be gone. I do not wish to waste my time upon the threshold all evening.”

“Nor sir, do I; I wish to gain an audience with your master, Lord Balmoral, in reference to the Bagatelle Card-Club.”

“Lord Balmoral is not a member of that establishment. I do not know who you are or where you acquire your information but - ”

“I shall see to this gentleman, thank you, Stephens,” said Lord Balmoral, appearing behind the doorman. He was an aging yet energetic gentleman, dressed in patent leather shoes, matching black Kashmir trousers and smoking jacket, and a white silk shirt. “Now,” said he, in a hushed yet aggressive tone, “I do not know who you are, or your business, but I shall grant you a brief interview. But I must warn you, you shall receive no comfort or advice in return for your mentioning such matters so freely upon my door!”

“As for who I am, Lord Balmoral, I am Richmond Shelvey, a private investigator sent on behalf of Mycroft Holmes. As for my business, perhaps we could step inside? I have no desire to inconvenience you any longer than is strictly necessary.”

At the mention of Mycroft's name, a visible change came over Lord Balmoral; it was clear that though he did not yet appreciate the nature of my visit, he showed all the signs of one expecting an uncomfortable conversation.

“Very well, follow me.”

I stepped inside, and the heavy mahogany door closed with a commanding thud, which echoed throughout the spacious hallway. Serene landscapes hung from the walls, and vases of flowers decorated small tables placed sporadically throughout. I am always on guard when greeted with such obvious displays of tranquillity; it is often the reflection of shimmering beauty which covers far deeper, murkier waters. I was shown into a private sitting room, and as promised, was offered no seat or comfort in the form of smoke or refreshment. Lord Balmoral stood authoritatively behind his desk, a most menacing look across his lined cheeks, and a glint of intimidation in his eye.

“Well, state your business, though I feel compelled to warn you that I am not to be taken lightly, and nor are the men of whom you so ill-advisedly referred.”

“I am perfectly aware of their reputation's; both official and otherwise. I have come to you, my Lord, in reference to Jack the Ripper.” It was most apparent that this was not the line of enquiry expected. His wrinkled knuckles stretched as the leather of the chair retreated under the tightening of his grasp.

“If you are referring to the letter which my newspaper published, Mr Shelvey, it was sent to me anonymously. I am afraid I can offer you no information regarding Jack the Ripper, or indeed Mr Holmes' late brother to whom the letter referred.”

“No? Perhaps you can be of more assistance regarding this,” said I, retrieving the letter and placing it upon the desk before the weary Lord.

‘“Mr Holmes, I welcome you back…
To Hell
,' he mumbled. The colour washed from his expression, leaving only a pale shade of bleached terror. “I assure you I have nothing to do with this!” he exclaimed.

“Your newspaper was the first to publish the latest correspondence of Jack the Ripper, and now a rather threatening message has been delivered to a top-level Government Official, upon paper used by your newspaper. I suggest, for the good of your business and indeed your professional reputation, that you divulge any information which might be of interest to Mr Holmes.”

“I have nothing to say to you!” he cried. “How dare you try and blackmail me in my own home! Do you have any idea of what you are getting yourself caught up in?”

“In fact, I rather think I do,” said I, dropping my accent and shedding my disguise.

I am quite certain that had my host not already had such a firm grip upon his seat, he would surely have fallen in sheer horror as he learnt the true identity of his guest.

“Now,” said I, taking the seat which had failed to be offered upon entrance, “if you do not value your honourable reputation, perhaps you will be more forthcoming if I were to guarantee a visit to your wife and family regarding that lovely little scandal you brought before me.”

“My God,” he whispered, falling heavily into his chair. “I do not believe my eyes!”

“Oh come Lord Balmoral, a man of your station should not be so dramatic! Are you not accustomed to receiving the same visitor upon more than one occasion? Though I must say, the evidence rather suggests this is not the case. After all, you have failed in your duties as host to offer me so much as a glass of water. Perhaps a measure of your rather fine whisky would be welcome to both of us. Don't worry, I shall attend to such trivialities.”

The wide-eyed astonishment of Lord Balmoral as he gawked at me from behind his desk was rather amusing, but upon swallowing a rather large gulp of his superbly sharp scotch, he was once again invigorated back into speech.

“I shall tell you what I know, Mr Holmes. I do not know what Colonel Moran is planning, though I have cause to believe that it will be dangerous and upon a rather daunting scale. He is most paranoid regarding this design, and that is why I am not permitted to attend meetings at the Bagatelle Club; it is for discussions of the utmost delicacy, without attracting any unwanted attention. With regard to the letter from Jack the Ripper, it was, as you have presumably already deduced, sent to me personally, yet anonymously. I, of course, was instantly aware of its potential for selling copy; but its reference to you, Mr Holmes, intrigued me most of all. I consulted the Colonel, and he told me to print it at once, for finally he would be able to ascertain your fate; something which, I am told, came to be quite an obsession in recent months. As to this recent correspondence that was sent to your brother, I cannot say; in fact, I would find it most surprising if any man other than the Colonel himself, or perhaps Ronald Adair, could divulge the information which you seek, for they are the ringleaders behind whatever operation is being set in motion. It is possible in this scenario that Adair is the more likely culprit; he works in the Foreign Office, and his father is Governor to one of the Australian Colonies, so certainly he would be in a position to create such a duplicate. Not only this, Mr Holmes, but it has recently come to my attention that Moran and Adair have been heard quarrelling quite belligerently, though none are aware of the cause behind this rupture. Perhaps it was the delivery of this very letter.”

“Thank you, Lord Balmoral,” said I, rising from my chair. “You have been most insightful. But pray, where would I find the Honourable Ronald Adair this evening?”

“Tonight there is a meeting of the Bagatelle-Quartet, just off of St James's Street; he shall either be engaged there, or at his residence at 427 Park Lane.”

I set off immediately for the Bagatelle Club, and though Lord Balmoral had given every assurance he would not reveal my secret, I was comfortable knowing that he would certainly not uphold this promise; Moran would not yet be the wiser, and such a course of action was necessary in order to lure him back into the wilderness.

Upon arrival, I instructed the driver to wait on the opposite side of the road, directed away from the entrance to the Bagatelle. I had no desire to risk my position, or indeed my life, with the unnecessary ruse of attempting entry in disguise. Lord Balmoral had provided me with a description of the young aristocrat, and so I had no choice but to tediously await his departure.

I had sat in my carriage for a considerable length of time before movement finally began to formulate in the entrance; but, unexpectedly, I noted that it was only Sir John Hardy and a man, who must have been Mr Winston Murray, who vacated the premises, into two separate carriages. There was no sign of Ronald Adair or Colonel Moran.

Disturbed by this turn of events, I awaited five more minutes before urging my driver toward Park Lane. As we rounded the corner, I knew instantly that tragedy had struck. The Adair residence was ablaze with light; crowds had swarmed together in the streets like moths drawn to the flame.

I stepped out of my cab and approached a nearby constable.

“I am not at liberty to divulge any further information, Inspector Lestrade's orders,” said he, dutifully.

“But I am a friend of the Honourable Ronald Adair; may I not speak to Inspector Lestrade? I am perhaps the last person who saw the victim alive. My name is Wilson.”

I have to say that, although I have often been rather discourteous to Lestrade in the past, it was a familiar pleasure to be in his presence upon a case once more, if only to be amused by his somewhat odd appearance. He combined a bullish physique with rather rodent-like features, and was famed for his headstrong instinctive attitude toward detection. Though clearly he had gained little in the art of deduction, it was at least clear from the tweaking of his wire-thin moustache and control of the situation that he had lost none of his commendable vigour and zealous temperament.

“Inspector Lestrade, sir,” said my escort. “This gentleman, Mr Wilson, claims to have information regarding the victim.”

“Ah yes, thank you, Mayhew,” said he, then to me, “Please follow me; we shall go somewhere slightly more private.” I followed Lestrade out of the hallway and into one of the small downstairs smoking-rooms. It was adequately furnished, though clearly not used for entertaining guests.

“You received my wire, Lestrade?” I enquired.

“Indeed I did, Mr Holmes; a pleasure to have you back amongst us, sir,” said he, grasping my hand firmly.

“I should think so, three unsolved murders this year alone, and from my brief exposure to this residence, soon to be a fourth.”

“We can't all go on holiday for three years and return at our leisure, can we?”

“Quite, but I must say it appears that you need the practice far more than I.”

“Well, why don't you show off like you used to then? I assume you aren't here by coincidence. How about you inform me of what is going on here tonight? I tell you it's a real corker, and I, for one, am stumped.”

“You are quite right, Lestrade, I am not here by coincidence; currently I am pursuing a case on behalf of my brother, Mycroft. There are some highly suspicious activities occurring within the upper-strata of the British Government, and it appears that the Honourable Ronald Adair was rather embroiled in it. I cannot tell you the details, Lestrade, but if you provide me with the facts, I can give you the method of murder and the identity of the murderer himself.”