CHAPTER ELEVEN
The next two days passed more slowly than any I can ever remember. Moriarty and his men seemed to vanish from the face of the earth. Lestrade and his men — even Holmes had to admit — did a remarkable job of quartering the city and following every lead and whiff of rumour. Lestrade himself would arrive at Baker Street with monotonous regularity, his ferret face looking increasingly drawn, to report on progress — or, rather, the lack of it. Even Wiggins and his Baker Street Irregulars had nothing to report — a situation which irked those young men particularly, since they saw themselves as amateur competitors to Scotland Yard and were never so happy as when they were able to find a lead the police had missed.
The employees at The Clarion seemed equally and genuinely mystified. The official story was that Moxton and his entourage had taken off for an unknown European destination for an undisclosed period of time. Meanwhile, the paper was to pursue its set policies. It was a well-oiled machine that could function perfectly well without its proprietor for a few days. What appears to be the problem, gentlemen?
Amidst the frenzy of activity Holmes was, as usual, the still centre. Shrouded in his old dressing gown he padded about the sitting room in the pursuit of various mysterious activities. Meanwhile, a stream of telegrams came and went. The information they contained appeared to confirm whatever he was thinking but I knew my friend well enough to know that none of them contained the answer to the problem that was occupying us both. In moments when he did not think himself observed I could see his brow furrowed in a frown and the lines around his nose and mouth deepen. He was too sensitive not to realise that this was one case where my professional involvement touched upon the personal.
As for myself, I was constantly reproaching myself for letting that brave young woman return to a situation all of us knew to be fraught with risk. I should have insisted, I told myself more times than I care to recall. But then I had to remind myself that this was a modern young woman — no Mrs. Pankhurst, perhaps — one who made her own decisions and lived by them.
It was late afternoon on the second day after our search of the Chester Square house and Holmes and I were sitting by the fire.
Mrs. Hudson had served us a light lunch of some cold collations, as I recall, but neither Holmes nor I had any appetite and for once Mrs. Hudson decided not to reproach us for it. His long thin fingers steepled in front of his face, Holmes stared into the fire, as though the answer was hidden somewhere in its dancing flames. When he spoke he did not look in my direction.
“Except for the one vital piece, the puzzle is almost complete but that piece is the key to it all, Watson.”
As I shifted uncomfortably in my chair, he continued: “I know how this apparent inactivity weighs upon you but we cannot afford to make a mistake now. The net is tightening around Moriarty and his accomplices and you may be sure he is well aware of the fact. The last two days have not been without some small success, old fellow. My little experiments …” and with a wave of his hand he indicated the array of chemical apparatus on its zinc-topped table — “even though they may offend your olfactory sensibilities, have clearly identified the substances from Moriarty’s war room which, indeed, is what it was. As a result I have been able to provide Lestrade and his colleagues with enough ‘ammunition’—if you will permit the pun — to apprehend certain undesirable characters in six of our larger cities.”
He reached for a bundle of telegrams on the table next to him. “Let me see … two Frenchmen in Cardiff and Glasgow, two Prussians in Birmingham and Leeds and a particularly unsavoury Spaniard in Manchester. All of them were carrying identical explosive devices, clearly designed to create the impression of a Nihilist network at work within our midst. But perhaps the most interesting aspect of the whole business was the little experiment I urged Lestrade to try, which was to have a series of bloodhounds sniff out the presence of the explosives. When exposed to the ingredients I had in my possession, their sense of smell was unerring. Do you know, Watson, I believe I may have hit upon something here of considerable significance.”
“But surely the risk of detonation … I mean, those poor dogs must have been in danger — and the police, too, of course.” I finished lamely. But Holmes was in no mood to be bothered with trifles. “All of which makes it even more imperative for Moriarty to pull off the one big coup with which he was hoping to crown a series of smaller incidents. And it is that which we have to anticipate. Somehow I cannot bring myself to believe he will find himself able to act without using it to goad me first.”
“You mean Moriarty will have to show himself again?”
“I think not, Watson. I very much believe we have seen the last of John Moxton, though certainly not the last of Moriarty. Though wearing what face?”
At that moment the telephone rang.
It was rare to see Holmes startled. It was some months since he had bowed to the march of progress and had the instrument installed but he continued to view it with a certain suspicion and rarely used it to place a call. I think he had a superstitious feeling that it might undermine the world of commonplace books, cables and the face to face consultations in which he felt at home. He glanced instinctively in my direction, as if for help, before gingerly picking up the receiver.
When he heard the voice on the other end of the wire, however, his nervousness fell away immediately. He beckoned me over and held it far enough away from his ear so that I could hear too.
There was no doubt about the identity of the speaker. It was Alicia Creighton and she was a frightened woman. She spoke hurriedly and it was obvious that she was keeping her voice low, so as not to be overheard. It gave what she said a sinister intensity.
“Mr. Holmes, thank God you’re there! Did you find the book?”
Holmes spoke soothingly in an effort to calm her.
“We did, Alicia. May I compliment you on an ingenious solution. Dr. Watson is here with me. Where are you? Alicia? …”
There was a silence and I could imagine her perhaps going to a door to make sure that she was not being overheard. Then she continued. “We’re in some place where all the windows are barred, so that I can’t see out. I was brought here blindfold. There’s hardly any furniture, so I’m sure he doesn’t intend to stay here long. The man hates you, Mr. Holmes. He can talk about nothing else except you and whatever it is he’s planning. It’s soon, that’s all I know, and it’s big. He keeps saying the world will hear from him.”
“What about Steel?” I said into the mouthpiece.
“I haven’t seen him since those men took him away. I didn’t like the man but he was so frightened … Mr. Holmes, I …” Her voice broke off, there was a crackle on the line, then a different voice. Moriarty’s voice …
“Good evening, Holmes … Dr. Watson … I can almost see you sitting in front of one of Mrs. Hudson’s good coal fires. You, Holmes, are wearing a dressing gown — the blue or the mouse, I wonder? I’m inclined to think the mouse, for this is certainly a two pipe problem, is it not? With any luck, three. The faithful Doctor is well into his Arcadia mixture …”
I put the pipe down immediately. The man had second sight.
“I wish I could describe the setting in which Miss Creighton and I are sharing this convivial conversation with you but I’m afraid that is not possible at the moment. In any case — what is Shakespeare’s phrase about ‘summer’s lease’ having all too short a time to run? We must shortly be on our way to pastures new — or at least, one of us must …”