For once in a way the gentlemen of Fleet Street had found common accord. In simple terms they had turned and rent Royston Steel. Few men since Genghis Khan can have suffered such universal obloquy. Only the Clarion was muted and its story of “UNUSUAL DISTURBANCE IN HOUSE OF COMMONS” must have soured the professional soul even of the hacks writing to Moriarty’s instruction.
Even the editorials of politically divergent publications were remarkably unanimous. The country was clearly threatened. It was time for all men of goodwill to band together and support the Government in whatever draconian action needed to be taken to root out the insidious evil in our midst. All of this in the kind of language that would have caused my friend the greatest possible displeasure, had I used it to tell one of his exploits. It was clear that Holmes had succeeded with one bold strategic stroke in diverting the force of public opinion — insofar as the newspapers were anticipating and shaping it — from the course Moriarty had so carefully set.
And there to taunt him in every agony column was the rueful countenance of the Cheshire Car. Even I had to smile when I saw it.
It was my friend’s voice that tempered my pleasure. “Indeed, we have something to smile about for the first time since this affair began but we must ensure that Moriarty does not have the last laugh. His arsenal is by no means exhausted, Watson, and we must hope that we have ruffled the feathers of his pride sufficiently to lure him into breaking cover rashly. Meanwhile, I suggest we see what traces he has left for us in this particular nest … I despatched a note with Wiggins to ask Lestrade to meet us there with a search warrant. Much as I like to indulge your appetite for larcenous entry, old fellow, I think under the circumstances a more formal approach may be indicated.”
Some few minutes later our cab was bowling into Chester Square. The scene was very different from my last visit. Instead of the procession of carriages full of revellers, the pavement outside Moxton’s former residence looked distinctly deserted with scraps of paper — presumably from the hurried packing — blowing about in a chill late morning breeze. The occasional passers-by, bundled up against the winter waiting surreptitiously in the wings, went about their business unheeding and only added to the sense of desolation. The house had only been empty for a few hours but it might as well have been years.
Lestrade and two of his uniformed men were already standing by the front door, stamping their feet and blowing on their hands. Not for the first time in my observation Lestrade looked pleased to see Sherlock Holmes, although, come to think of it, his expression was perhaps more abject than pleased.
“Sorry about this, Mr. Holmes. I should have thought to have the house watched round the clock.”
“I shouldn’t let that worry you unduly, Lestrade,” Holmes replied. “What could you have done except watch? You had no grounds to question a foreign national about his movements when you have no evidence of his wrongdoing. Had you done so, he would merely have told you that it was none of your business. No, I think we may expect to learn more about our friend’s plans by his absence than by his presence. You have the warrant?”
“Just as you requested but what should I fill in on the form?”
“Oh, I think that’s obvious enough. Doctor Watson and I happened to be passing and heard suspicious sounds coming from this obviously deserted house. Being good publicly-minded citizens, we immediately called the police to investigate. Isn’t that so, Watson?”
“Absolutely, Holmes,” I replied beginning to enjoy the way things were turning out. This was more like one of our old adventures.
“Shall we …?” Holmes indicated the solid front door.
Within moments one of the uniformed constables had opened it and we found ourselves standing in that enormous main hall amid all the signs of a hasty departure. Old copies of the Clarion were littered around the floor and some of them looked to me as though they had been thrown down and trampled on in anger — but that could have been my fertile imagination working overtime. In the other rooms it was the same story. In every fireplace on the ground floor were the ashes from what looked like burned documents. I noticed Holmes pick up several fragments that appeared less scorched and put them away carefully in the envelope he invariably carried in an inside pocket. I knew that his bunsen burner and chemical retorts would be pressed into their odiferous service before the day was out.
The task before us was clearly enormous. At least the man who goes to find a needle in a haystack has the supposition that the haystack actually contains a needle but we had no idea what we were looking for. Eventually a short consultation resulted in the decision that Lestrade and his men should search the ground floor and the cellars, while Holmes and I would concentrate on the upper floors.
Two hours later we were none the wiser. Frankly, I was not at all sure that Holmes had expected to be, knowing the cunning mind of the man who opposed him. I reflected that I would hate to play chess against either of them with the certain knowledge that they would be mentally removing your last piece from the board before you had made your opening move.
We had started our search in Moxton’s study. Like the rest of the house, it had been rented fully furnished. With the personal possessions removed it looked much as I imagine it must have looked when he moved in — with the exception of a small empty space on one wall where a picture had clearly hung.
Holmes saw my glance.
“The Greuze. Moriarty would never leave that behind. I only wonder where he kept it during his ‘sabbatical’? Under the bed perhaps.”
“Have you found anything, Holmes?” I asked without much hope of an encouraging answer. After all, I had seen everything my friend had seen.
“Relatively little, Watson, relatively little. Other than that six men occupied one of the bedrooms as an improvised barracks. Two of them were French, two German, one almost certainly a Spaniard or Basque of distinctly peasant origin, while their leader was unquestionably our old friend, Krober. Their presence so close to Moriarty is particularly disconcerting, since they were apparently engaged in the manufacture of explosives.”
“Come along, Holmes,” I protested, “I passed through that same room myself and I saw nothing to lead me to those conclusions.”
“That is because you were looking for obvious clues, old fellow, when the little things are infinitely the most important. Let me explain. The room is not particularly large, yet six small metal beds were crammed into it. That suggests the men in them were intended to be kept together as some sort of group. Since there was ample accommodation for them to have had a room each, they must be servants of some kind, and since Moriarty could have afforded to provide them with a degree of comfort, the deliberately spartan conditions suggest men trained to subsist — possibly in a military environment. The fact that the beds were iron cots arranged with symmetrical precision tends only to confirm that hypothesis, as do the distinctive scratch marks on the parquet floor boards.”
“The Frenchmen?” By the side of two of the beds were traces of ash from two different brands of peculiarly revolting French cigarettes and I find it unlikely that one man cooped up in this situation would have two different brands available to him — ergo two Frenchmen. The Spanish peasant was in the habit of sitting on the bed with his head against the wall. The type of macassar oil with which his hair was liberally doused is common in the south-west of Spain, an area which is also known for a particularly vicious type of assassin.