The Problem of Threadneedle Street (The Assassination of Sherlock Holmes Book 2) (9 page)

We had rattled through an endless labyrinth of gas-lit streets until we emerged into King William Street and the cab stopped in front of Silvester’s Bank.

“But, Holmes,” I protested, “I distinctly recall us crossing the Battersea Bridge. We had no reason to traverse back and forth over the Thames.”

“On the contrary, Watson, we had every reason to cross the river. For our every movement is being watched. The coachman is an old associate who is aware of our quest, and who took every precaution to ensure that we threw all pursuers off of our tracks.”

We were met at Silvester’s by Mr. Pycroft, Inspectors Gregson and Lestrade, and six stout constables. Mr. Pycroft was shaking his head as we arrived. “I still don’t understand how you propose that these thieves plan to rob us, Mr. Holmes?”

“I am afraid that you are vulnerable from above, Mr. Pycroft. I suspect that a dirigible will land a gang of men upon your roof this very night.”

“Impossible. For a balloon to precisely target an area the size of our roof… it beggars the imagination.”

“Not if it is powered by some engine that allows it to control its direction. Not if it is an airship.”

“Do such things exist?” he asked.

“They do indeed, Mr. Pycroft. It is a brave new world that hath such things in it. But what one devious mind can turn to ill-use, another equal mind can counter. And that is why I am here. Now, if you will lead us to the roof, I think the men of the Yard would like a word with the gang that plans to pay you a visit.”

Hall Pycroft nodded his acquiescence to Holmes’ plan, and the eleven of us climbed a series of stairs that led to the rooftop of the building. The front half of the roof was made up of the great glass vault, while the rear was flat, a perfect landing place for a balloon. From this perch we gazed out over the shadowy City, half-parchment-colored lamplight and half deep murk. Holmes attempted to utilize my field-glass, but I doubted that he could make out much. A half mile away, the dome of St. Paul’s gleamed in the moonlight. Throughout the City, great roars erupted as the populace celebrated the burning of numerous effigies of poor Guy Fawkes.

Holmes directed the constables to conceal themselves amongst the pipework, so that a descending airship would not know that they were being ambushed. He suggested that Mr. Pycroft repair below, as the gang might be armed and the initial scuffle could prove to be dangerous, but the brave man elected to remain at his post.

As Holmes and I settled into our positions, he spoke in a low whisper. “It is no coincidence that our gang has chosen this night, Watson. First of all, their propeller cannot possibly run silent; however, tonight it will be covered by the noise of the fireworks and celebrations. Secondly, the moon is full, which will aid their navigation, and if they are seen, they can hope that their device is thought to be part of the festivities. It is a brilliant plan, but they did not reckon that we would discover their target so rapidly. Now, let us see how long we have to wait. It may be several hours.”

The night was bitterly cold, so that it promised to be a weary vigil. However, despite the bone-biting chill, I could not but stop and smile at the memories of similar vigils that I had staked at Holmes’ side. The room at Stoke Moran, the rocks at Merripit House, the moat at Birlstone Manor, the window at Camden House, the outhouse of Woodman’s Lee, the street lamp by Laburnum Villa, and so many others. No matter their length, they always had the sort of thrill about it that the sportsman feels when he lies beside the watercourse and waits for the big game to appear.

In absolute silence we crouched amongst the shadows of the rooftop, which had lengthened to the point where I could no longer even see Holmes at my side. An absolute stillness had descended upon the rooftop, save for the chimes of the surrounding churches as the hours ticked by, and the distant celebrations.

It proved, however, that our vigil was not to be so long as Holmes had led us to fear, and it ended in a very sudden and singular fashion. In an instant, without the least sound to warn us of its coming, a giant shape dropped out of the sky. Everything was painted black, but I could vaguely make out that from the gondola dropped several ropes, and down these slithered four men. Before they could move but a few steps, the Scotland Yard men jumped out of their nests and a great fracas erupted. The gang was putting up a stout resistance, and several of the constables were attempting to secure the ropes connected to the balloon, perhaps in hopes of capturing any additional members aboard. Mr. Pycroft lit a lantern near me, and with the addition of this light, I could tell that additional assistance was going to be required in order to subdue these criminals.

“Come on, Holmes!” I shouted and leapt into the fray.

As I did so, there was a strange, loud whizzing sound and the lantern exploded. I turned about in confusion, for I had heard no bullet. It was then that I realized that Holmes was missing. A cold hand seemed to close round my heart. Where had Holmes gone? He would have only deserted this critical post for an even more pressing duty.

Focusing my attention back upon the raging conflict, I realized that the Inspectors had ordered their men to abandon the airship and instead focus on capturing the four men that had comprised the villain’s erstwhile ‘boarding party.’ This maneuver well underway, I could plainly see that the gang was soon to be fully subdued, even as the airship slowly drifted away back up into the sky. It was then that I heard a cry echo out from the top of the nearby Monument to the Great Fire. Gazing towards that massive column, I realized that a struggle was taking place upon its viewing platform two hundred feet in the air. At least three men were involved, one of which could only be the wayward Holmes.

Abandoning the men of Scotland Yard and Mr. Pycroft, I dashed for the stairs back down to Pudding Lane. Injuries and advancing years may have stolen much of the former swiftness from my feet, but there were no signs of those ailments on that night. I flew downwards and out of the bank as if chased by the very hounds of Hades. Within moments I was at the entrance to the narrow spiral staircase within the great Doric column. I ran frantically up the stairs, scarcely realizing the magnitude of the feat, and little caring how winded I would be when I finally reached the top. Sheer terror pumped the blood through my veins, and within minutes I burst out onto the platform.

“It is most good of you to join us, my dear Watson,” said that well-known voice. “I hope you do not feel the same as other biographers, and find this place monstrous, for I think the view above London and its spires to be quite refreshing. Would you care for a pipe?”

There I was stunned to see Sherlock Holmes calmly standing and smoking his second-favorite pipe. With Holmes was a huge, coarse, red-faced, scorbutic man, whose pair of vivid black eyes were the only external sign of the very cunning mind within. I knew him at once as Shinwell Johnson, the dangerous villain later turned ally and agent of Holmes. Johnson appeared very interested in something occurring over the side of the railing, so I joined him there.

The shocks continued when I found myself staring into the malevolent glare of a pair of blazing deep blue eyes. These belonged to an elderly man who was hanging on to the edge of the rail with both hands, the knuckles white with tension. He possessed a fierce, aggressive nose, a high, bald forehead, and a huge grizzled moustache. His face was gaunt and swarthy, scored with deep, savage lines. I immediately recognized our old enemy, Colonel Sebastian Moran.

Moran’s features worked convulsively as he stared at me. Then he burst into a bitter laugh that marked the cold composure of despair. “You fiend! You clever, cunning fiend! What now, Holmes? Do you plan to wait for my strength to fade and allow me to plunge to my death? That seems to be your
modus operandi
when dealing with foes that you cannot outwit.”

Holmes snorted with amusement. “You are a fine one to talk, Colonel Moran. You who have had little qualms with shooting innocent men, either in order to ensure that your card cheating went unnoticed, or simply for financial gain. You have more blood on your hands than there is water in the Ganges with which to wash it off. The world would be a safer, better place with your crumpled corpse lying on the Eastcheap Road. But as for your fate, I think we should let Dr. Watson decide.”

“Me?” I cried. “Why ever should it rest in my hands?”

“You were his original captor, Watson. If Moran had not of late been set loose to again terrorize London, he would still reside where you had safely locked him away. Do you wish to return him to that state, or should he pay the ultimate price for his murder of your poor balloonist? I care little, as long as he is declawed. However, I do think this beauty,” said he, hefting the powerful air-gun with its curiously misshapen butt, “undoubtedly requires a more secure location that some dusty shelf in Scotland Yard.”

I stared at the dangling man, who had carried out so much evil in his ill-spent life. Innumerable murders, and multiple attempts upon the life of my friend, suggested that Moran little deserved to live. And yet, such power over life and death should not rest in the hands of one man. I would have him face a jury, who could hardly fail to convict him for his great crimes. “Haul him up, Mr. Johnson, if you please.”

The sizable man shook his head, but followed my orders after a quick confirmatory glance in the direction of Holmes. As soon as Moran was tossed upon the floor of the platform, Holmes sprang forward and with a sharp click and jangling of metal, Moran found himself locked in a pair of glittering steel handcuffs. “You will be interested to note, Colonel Moran, that a better man than you has also worn those cuffs. They are of my own design, and I recently liberated them from the same museum where you came by your old air-gun. I had donated them to the Yard after they were used to capture Mr. Jefferson Hope, in the first adventure in which I was joined by my Boswell. Since that man just saved your life, you may now show your gratitude to Dr. Watson, if you so wish.”

Moran’s response was an incoherent snarl of frustration and hatred.

Holmes shrugged. “Well, no matter. As to you, Watson, I owe you every atonement for having allowed your natural curiosity to remain so long unsatisfied. Should we now escort the good Colonel here back to our friends on the roof of Silvester’s Bank? They must be wondering to where we have vanished.”

As I followed him, Johnson, and their prisoner down the stairs I contemplated what had just transpired. “But, Holmes, why did you depart Silvester’s, and furthermore, why not inform me of your plans?”

“My dear Watson, you were born to be a man of action. Your instinct is always to do something energetic. I was concerned you would not be able to stay your hand, when we needed Colonel Moran to declare his attentions to the world. We have little proof that he was involved in the matter at Runnymede, but we now have the word of two respected Chief Inspectors of Scotland Yard that Colonel Moran was taking shots at them.”

“If I was trying to hit them, they would be dead already,” snarled Moran.

“So you say, Colonel. Perhaps your aim is, in fact, still that steady after all these years. But you have learned little in the way of guile. I am surprised how easily I sprung your trap and ensnared you in one of mine own making.” Holmes turned to me. “The wax model of Monsieur Meunier
would hardly serve in this setting, of course, Watson, but the good colonel knew that where-ever strode Dr. John H. Watson, Sherlock Holmes would not be far behind. That is the other reason I had you remain on the rooftop, for your very presence distracted Moran from realizing that I was creeping up behind him. And of course, I have little forgotten that Moran here might have gotten the better of me at Camden House if you had not intervened. Therefore I brought Mr. Johnson here to ensure that we had the upper hand.” The large former ruffian smiled severely at the mention of his name.

“And what now, Holmes?” I asked.

“Let us see precisely whom Lestrade and Gregson have caught in their nets.”

Once we had made our way back to Silvester’s Bank, we found the lobby swarming with constables. To one side lay several coils of rope and a pile of the muffled tools utilized by cracksmen, clearly how they planned to penetrate the vault door. Next to these was a stiff tube about eight feet in length, whose exact role in the planned robbery was to me not immediately apparent.

Four familiar-appearing men were fully bound and under heavy guard. The first was a middle-sized, dark-haired, dark-eyed, black-bearded man, with a large hooked nose, while the second was of such a similar look that I presumed them to be brothers. Their brows glistened with perspiration, their cheeks were of the dull, dead white of a fish’s belly, and their eyes were wild and staring. The first man licked his dry lips before he addressed Holmes.

“We are innocent, I swear to you,” he protested sharply. “These two men shanghaied us, and forced us to help with their plans.” As he spoke, I saw a gleam of from the second tooth upon the left-hand side, which had been very badly stuffed with gold. At once I knew him to be the supposed Arthur Pinner, whose true name I had never learned. Therefore, the man beside him could only be his brother Beddington, the famous forger and cracksman.

Holmes only shook his head sadly. “I am afraid that the criminal records belonging to you and your brother are far too long for any jury to believe such a preposterous story.”

Meanwhile, one of the men next to Pinner appeared outraged by this accusation. He was a lithe and small man, with a pale face and a shock of very red hair. His companion, however, took it with an indifferent attitude. Of the latter, it was challenging to say his age, though he was not short of forty. He too was fairly small, but stoutly-built, with quick mannerisms. His still-boyish face was lacking in hair, though he had a white splash of acid upon his forehead, and his ears were pierced for earrings. A wicked scar crossed his throat, a wound that must have been so severe it was a great wonder that the man survived the blow which had dealt it.