The three winners of this unholy auction did not carry a large enough purse with them to redeem their prizes. The understanding was that they were to return the next evening with the required cash. In order to identify the right masked gentleman, and ensure that he got the girl he had bought, each of them ripped a pound note in half and gave one half to the Master Incarnate to match up the next evening.
"Tomorrow," the Master Incarnate said, indicating the three terrified women with a wave of his hands.
Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow, the watcher thought.
"Tomorrow you three fortunate men will claim your rewards!" The Master Incarnate clapped his hands, and the three trophies were carried off. "Tomorrow evening," he said. "You have much to look forward to."
And all our yesterdays have lighted fools the way to dusty death, the watcher said to himself as he took his leave. He had a day now to think, and to plan. Dusty death.
TWENTY-FIVE — AGONY
How then was the Devil dressed?
O, he was in his Sunday's best;
His coat was red, and his breeches were blue,
And there was a hole where his tail came through.
— Robert Southey
Sherlock Holmes was not grateful. He awoke from his encounter with the poultry cart with a severe headache, a bruised hip and left leg, and a foul temper.
"How do you feel?" asked the portly man who was bending over him as he opened his eyes.
Holmes took a minute to focus on the man's face. "Rotten," he said. "Who the devil are you?"
"I am Dr. Breckstone," the man told him, enunciating carefully. "Professor Moriarty sent for me. You've been in a most serious accident. Do you remember anything about what happened?"
Holmes looked blurrily about, gathering his thoughts and his energy. Then he focused back on Breckstone. "Thank you, Doctor, for whatever you've done for me. I do remember what happened. I am fine now. I must be on my way."
"My dear man!" Dr. Breckstone said. "You must remain where you are for some hours at least. I'm not altogether sure yet that you've escaped serious internal injuries. And the head, my good man, is not the preferential site for internal injuries! You're lucky to be alive, and no more gravely injured than you appear to be. But I must really insist that you remain lying down here for a few more hours at least. Perhaps overnight."
"Nonsense," said Holmes, sitting up and swinging his spindly legs over the side of the bed. "Where are my clothes? And, incidentally, who undressed me?"
"I wouldn't know," the doctor said. "But your clothes are there, on that chair. Now at least sit still for a minute and let me take a look at you." He peered into Holmes's right eye, and then the left. "Look to each side," he said. "Very good. Pupils seem normal. Coordination is fine. Tell me, do you know where you are?"
"My dear doctor," Holmes said, pushing himself to his feet, "I am not suffering from mental confusion, or aphasia, or amnesia, or anything else save a severe headache and a powerful need to be on my way." He weaved back and forth, and almost fell forward, but was saved by Dr. Breckstone, who grabbed his arm and helped him sit back down on the bed. "Well, perhaps I am a bit wobbly," Holmes admitted. "But I'll be fine in a few minutes. Again, I thank you very much for your efforts. You may send me a bill, of course."
"There'll be no bill. Professor Moriarty is taking care of that," Breckstone said. "If you are determined to leave, then please dress yourself and walk about the house for fifteen or twenty minutes before you go. That will give a subdural hematoma, or whatever else may be lurking inside your skull, a chance to make itself known while I'm still here to do something about it."
Holmes rubbed his head above the left ear. "As you say, Doctor," he agreed grudgingly. "I need some time to think in any case. I'll find a room in which to pace back and forth for the next twenty minutes and smoke a pipeful of shag. I always do my best thinking when I'm pacing back and forth."
"I shall go tell Professor Moriarty that you're conscious," Breckstone said. "If you feel the slightest touch of vertigo or nausea, let me know immediately."
Half an hour later Holmes appeared in the doorway to Moriarty's study. "I apologize for any inconvenience, Professor," he said. "And I thank you for providing medical attention."
"Someone tried to kill you, Holmes," Moriarty said, peering down from the high shelf where he was sorting through a collection of large astronomical atlases. He selected one and climbed down from the stepladder with it under his arm.
"I am aware of that," Holmes said. "I must confess, Professor, that for a moment I was surprised to wake up in this house."
Moriarty regarded Holmes thoughtfully as he went over to his desk and set down the massive atlas. "Surprised that I took you in, or surprised that I allowed you to wake up?" He smiled. "A bit of both, I expect."
Holmes glared at him and walked stiffly over to the desk. "I am surprised that you didn't take the opportunity to dispose of this statuette," he said. "And now I'm afraid that both I and it must be on our way." He snatched the bronze statuette from the corner of the desk and stalked from the room.
"Take care, Holmes!" Moriarty called to the detective's retreating back. "There seems to be something about you that brings out murderous impulses in total strangers; so you can imagine how your friends feel." He chuckled at the sound of the front door slamming, and then went into the hall to make sure that Holmes had really left. Returning to his desk, Moriarty immersed himself in the dusty pleasures of the well-worn astronomical atlas, determined to get a few hours' research done before Barnett or one of Colonel Moran's minions returned with a report that would bring him back to this world.
While studying the columns of figures that interested him in the astronomical atlas, Moriarty was suddenly put in mind of another set of figures, and he pulled the Scotland Yard file from his desk and searched through it intently for the copy of the newspaper fragment that had been found on Lord Walbine's person when he was killed. Then he went over to a locked cabinet and removed a variety of maps, charts, and atlases of the London area and spread them open on his desk.
After performing cabalistic rituals over each of the maps with a ruler and a piece of string, Moriarty rang for Mr. Maws and had him go to the basement and retrieve the stack of daily papers for the last three months. Then he closed the door to the study and left word that he didn't want to be disturbed for anything but the most urgent news.
It was Barnett who disturbed him. At two o'clock in the morning Barnett burst through the front door, slammed into the study, and almost did a jig to Moriarty's desk. "I have your killer!" he announced, grinning broadly and waving an olive-colored envelope in front of him.
Moriarty looked up from the vast mound of books, charts, note pads, newspapers, and assorted drawing and measuring materials that now covered his desk top. "Where?" he asked.
"Well, I don't know where he is, yet, Professor; but I know who he is. And I have a pretty good idea of why he's doing it." The elated expression suddenly left Barnett's face, and he wearily shook his head. "Which is wonderful, I suppose, after all this time — a hell of a scoop, and all that. The only thing is, Cecily is still missing, and I don't see how this gets me any closer to finding her."