“The man only needs a burning bush and a few tablets of stone and we can all follow him to Kingdom come,” he whispered.
“Which is precisely what the people of this country are going to do, Mr. Holmes.”
It was Moxton at our elbow, contentedly puffing a large and expensive cigar.
“I hear on all sides that it is time for a change. By the way, Doctor, as a writer, may I ask your professional opinion of that for a slogan? ‘Time For A Change!’ Not bad, eh? One day a candidate is going to get elected with those same meaningless words.”
This was the second time in a few minutes my literary credentials had been invoked in a distinctly patronising way. A snort of indignation was the only reply that seemed vaguely suitable.
Turning to Holmes, his tone changed. “My spies tell me our ubiquitous feline friend, the Cheshire Cat has been up to his tricks again? It was always one of my favourite characters in Alice. I always envied his — or was it her? — ability to appear and disappear at will. So convenient in today’s world. The company bores you and — pouf! — all they’re left with is the grin, ‘which remained some time after the rest of it had gone’, I seem to remember. Such a way with words, our Mr. Carroll. Or should I say Dodgson? Identity can be such a complex matter, don’t you agree?”
Then, observing that Holmes was making movements to leave, he added — “Oh, Mr. Holmes, one more thing. I’m so grateful to you for reminding me of these past literary pleasures that I find they’re becoming quite an obsession lately. So much so that I’ve decided to throw an Alice party at my London house tomorrow night. You must both come, now I insist. Everyone will dress as a character from the book. I feel sure you’ll find the guest list interesting — what’s the phrase I want? All the usual suspects. Or did I just think of that? Ah, well, like that other literary genius, Oscar Wilde, I shall no doubt persuade myself that I did.”
“You may count on both of us, Mr. M-Moxton,” said Holmes with again the slightest of pauses on the ‘M’ and before I had an opportunity to make any excuse.
“Oh, and may I ask you one last favour? May I take one of your excellent cigars? I’ve been fascinated by them all evening.”
Moxton immediately produced one from his cigar case but seemed to pause a moment before handing it to my friend.
“A cigar, Mr. Holmes? I was always told that you were a pipe man?”
“And I would never have put you down as a smoker at all. No, Watson here has been nagging me for some time about my filthy tobacco habits and I have determined to turn over a new leaf. And a new tobacco leaf seems as good a way to start as any. Good day …”
CHAPTER SEVEN
I awoke the next morning to a fusillade of sounds that my Army experience told me were undoubtedly gunshots. My first thought was that Moriarty had broken cover and decided on the ultimate direct approach. It was the work of a moment to snatch up my dressing gown and my service revolver, which was never far from my hand. Taking the steps two at a time — a risky business at my stage of life — I burst into the sitting room we shared … only to find Holmes hunched up deep in his armchair, a carton of Boxer cartridges in his lap, the detritus of the day’s papers at his feet and a large hair trigger pistol pointed, or so it seemed, directly at my head.
“Good God, man,” I sighed, for it was not the first time this little scene had occurred, “how often do I have to remind you that pistol practice is an open air pastime and, as far as I’m concerned, as far away and as late in the day as possible? To inscribe the sovereign’s initials on our sitting room wall, while undoubtedly an enviable and patriotic talent, is equally one without redeeming social features. I would remind you that Mrs. Hudson has only just had that plaster repaired. What is she going to say?”
“Do you take me for a fool, Watson?” said Holmes, a suspicious twinkle in his eye. “Do you think that before embarking on this feat of derring-do I have not carefully ascertained that the good lady has embarked upon her morning visit to the shops, an excursion that will take her another …” and here he consulted his rather battered watch — “seven minutes? Now, be fair, old fellow, is that not my chef d’oeuvre?”
There on the wall, where once could be discerned the legend — ‘VR’—the bullet-pocks now read — “JM.”
I sighed heavily and picked up what was left of my morning paper. “Any word from our feline friend?” I asked.
“Nothing under that particular imprimatur,” my friend replied, “but then he doesn’t need to boast this morning when the whole of Fleet Street is busy doing it for him. Even as I foretold you, my dear chap,”—and he scooped up a handful of assorted pages from the floor — “Listen to this …”
“HEADLESS LEADERS WITH FEET OF CLAY?” The Daily Gazette … “HOUSE OF PARLIAMENT — OR MUSIC HALL?”
The Daily News. But leaving the sensationalists aside, the worrying content is what is starting to emerge in the serious press. Here’s the Telegraph leader — “If the recent spate of events”—I think ‘spate’ is a little overstated but even so — “is any indication of the state of our national security, then perhaps we would be well advised to take greater heed of some of the more dramatic stories currently circulating in certain quarters. Only a short time ago the possibility of Nihilist or other organised extremists carrying out their activities on our shores would have seemed …”
“You can imagine the rest, Watson, knowing the Telegraph, as you do. Outraged Empire, ‘Disgusted, Tunbridge Wells’ and all that.”
“So the devil is getting away with it?” I spluttered, annoyed as much as anything else with Holmes’s sang froid and the fact that his observations on the futile fumings of certain of our fellow citizens were only too accurate.
“For the moment I’m afraid he is, old fellow. Here, let me pour you a fresh cup of tea before you choke on your toast. I told Mrs. Hudson you would probably need an extra spoonful of the Earl Grey to go with this morning’s news. But to answer your question …” And now the levity was discarded with the crumpled papers. “We have little choice for the moment but to let Moriarty play his hand while we try and assess what cards he is really holding — or, indeed, what his true game is. Disruption, certainly, national instability. No need to ask what is meant by ‘certain quarters.’ The Clarion has been orchestrating for days these rumours of vague Nihilist plots, sightings of mysterious and notorious but conveniently unnamed European agents. They promote Dame Rumour and, if called into question, protest the sanctity of their ‘sources’ and the public’s right to know. I very much fear, Watson, that — whatever the outcome of this little affair — Moriarty has unleashed a force far more sinister than any of his previous skulduggery and one which cannot be re-corked like a genie in a bottle.”
“Perhaps we shall know more after this evening’s affair,” I suggested, more for something to say than with any real expectation. The picture Holmes had painted was black indeed: “Undoubtedly, old fellow. We are meant to be fed little tidbits to keep us interested. Moriarty is having a high old time at our expense but never forget for one moment that, while we are sniffing along his trail, he is constructing a guillotine over our heads rather more practical in its purpose than the one we saw yesterday in the good Madame’s emporium.”