Chronicles of the Lost Years (The Sherlock Holmes Series) (24 page)

“I would appreciate it if you would allow me to do all the talking, Doctor. If you just keep your eyes peeled and that way we should be able to pick up any clues to be had.”

I agreed readily and we went inside.

That was the beginning of a depressing afternoon’s work. Lestrade spoke at length with the governor and afterwards interviewed nearly a dozen prisoners who were reckoned Moran’s closest associates. The later was merely a formality.

Moran’s escape was similar in character to all the operations he had orchestrated to date. The planning was meticulous, the timing perfect and it was audacious. It was a remarkable escape in the history of the prison, for no other escape, successful or otherwise, had been managed without some type of inside help.

The prison was having new drainage systems and plumbing installed and workmen had been scattered throughout the buildings for weeks. Sometime during the Friday afternoon, Moran had subdued a workman that resembled him in stature, taken him back to his cell, swapped clothing and left with the other workmen at the end of the day, all without detection. He had even signed out and collected the man’s pay at the gate, passing through the security arrangements apparently without problems, for not one of the guards who were on duty that evening recalled a single moment of suspicion or any untoward incidents.

Once outside the gate, Moran had melted into the countryside. He hadn’t traveled back to town with the men. His planning, it was decided, had included arrangements for transport and clothing and probably money, but as he had already collected the workman’s monthly wages, he had funds enough to travel quite a distance.

He’d had a start of four hours, for it wasn’t until the evening cell-check that the substitution was discovered.

The workman left behind had been questioned thoroughly and his background scrutinized and it was concluded he was as innocent as he claimed.

We also spent some time looking at the behavior records of all those we spoke to, reading for any conflicting information or other clues.

Moran was, according to all we spoke to and his indisputable record, a model prisoner. He behaved as expected and caused no trouble. He associated with none of the prisoners who were considered troublemakers and even those prisoners deemed his close associates were only vaguely acquainted with him. He wrote no letters and did not appear to communicate with anyone outside the prison, with the sole exception of his sister. She was the only visitor.

The sister, Beatrice O’Connor, lived in London. She had also been questioned. The transcribed notes of her interview were available to us and made unexciting reading. She was as virtuous in fact as Moran appeared to be by report—a Matron at Saint Luke’s Hospital, married and with a blameless reputation which had already withstood countless investigations as a result of Moran’s criminal activities.

Lestrade could add more to the prison’s information. “I personally interviewed her when Moran was put on trial in 1894. Mrs. O’Connor would have disowned him if she’d known how to go about it. An amazing difference in siblings—virtue on one hand and corruption on the other.”

It was not an isolated phenomenon. Moriarty’s brother James had been as good and kind as his brother was evil. “I think we can safely discount Beatrice O’Connor,” I replied.

We emerged from the prison compound into the evening light and wearily made our way to the station and boarded a train for home. Lestrade spent the trip going back over his copious notes, sorting and cross-referencing.

“I suppose this must seem very plodding and pedestrian to you after working with Mr. Holmes,” he said, catching my gaze.

I tried to frame a considerate answer. “Holmes is as tied to information as you, Inspector. Though I have a feeling he would not have bothered with Dartmoor—he said as much only seconds before the shot was fired, if shot it was.”

“Yet he asked you to come. That indicates some importance, doesn’t it?”

“Yes, I suppose it does,” I said doubtfully. “Though we’ve uncovered absolutely nothing. Moran was a saint according to what we’ve learned.”

“Not like the man we know at all, is it?” Lestrade replied. He returned to his notes again.

I fell back into my brown study. I was at a loss as to what to do, now. I had completed the one duty Holmes had charged me with, as useless as that had been. My position now, I thought, was dictated by my being the best person to represent Sherlock Holmes’ interests. Accordingly, I should remain at Baker Street. If I were to emulate Holmes’ usual course of action, I supposed my next step was….

It was on this mental barb that my flow of reasoning became snagged and stayed snagged until the train pulled into the station.

Lestrade packed away his papers and stood up, looking about the compartment. “Will you be staying at Baker Street, Doctor?”

“Yes, I thought I might,” I replied. Then I added carefully; “And you, Lestrade? What will you be doing now?”

He scratched his head. “I do not mind admitting that I am not sure what to do. Whatever it is, it will be routine. Circulating descriptions of that ‘Mrs. Thacker’ and Miss Elizabeth and Moran. Doing the rounds of informers and spies to see what the criminal world can dig up for us. Then there’s the investigation in Perth and Gregson’s part of the show to look into.”

“Do you believe you will find anything?”

“There’s not a lot of hope in any of it, Doctor. I am being frank only because you’re familiar with the business, you understand. You see, all the lines of inquiry we could have followed disappeared along with Mr. Holmes.” He gave a crooked smile. “This is one of those cases upon which I would normally consult Sherlock Holmes.”

•ï¡÷¡ï• •ï¡÷¡ï• •ï¡÷¡ï•

During a night of restless tossing about on my pillow I finally came to the conclusion that my one best course of action was inaction. I had a feeling, merely an instinct, that Holmes would contact me and I had best be prepared and available for him to easily find me.

But my heart and mind were in conflict. Despite the logic of my decision, I found inaction barely tolerable. Much as Holmes had, I began to suffer from mental pictures of Elizabeth enduring hardships and indignities in whatever prison they held her in. I imagined Holmes badly wounded and living off the streets.

I lazed about the sitting room or else sat at the table with the papers spread before me and gazed out the window.

On the second day, from my vantage point at the window, I sighted several people who appeared to have nothing better to do than loll about on the pavements. I guessed immediately they were watching the rooms, but the purpose behind the vigil escaped me. Holmes was no longer here and it was hardly likely that I would be in danger.

I gained my answer on the Thursday. Inactivity had finally driven me out into fresh air. In the first cool of the evening I ventured out onto Baker Street and headed for Oxford Street, intending to walk to the Embankment. I longed for a good extended stroll.

It had been a hot, still day. The traffic was heavy and there were a good many pedestrians out, soaking up the small sporadic breezes that had arrived with the evening star. I threaded my way through them, moving fast, trying to blow away the mental cobwebs.

At the Oxford Street corner I looked over toward the Arch and saw instead, barely fifteen feet from me, a young man whose features I recognized almost at once, even though it had been quite a few years since I had seen him and he had been a boy of ten or so, then. It was Wiggins, once the captain of Holmes’ street urchins. His clothing was still as tattered as I remembered and he was walking away from me, dawdling as if he didn’t have a care in the world.

I acted instinctively at first. I lifted my cane and called out to him.

Wiggins turned, startled. It would have been rare enough for friends of his to be in this area, so he must have assumed that someone calling his name was of the opposite variety. When he saw that I was, indeed, a stranger and therefore in the enemy camp, he bolted.

I gave chase.

Wiggins, of course, outclassed me completely. He was younger and could dodge the crowds more easily and was faster on his feet. He’d had infinite practice at this type of exercise as a child. Nevertheless I raced after him as quickly as I could, content to keep within sight of him, hoping my adult cunning would best him. If I could catch him, I thought, or at least get within earshot and convince him I was not a threat, I might be able to employ him as Holmes had on occasions. Only this time I would put him to tracing Holmes.

The race led down Oxford Street, away from the Park. I found, much to my surprise, that I was able to at least maintain the distance between me and my weaving quarry. Several times I lost sight of him but then he would reappear just as I was about to give up.

He ducked sideways and vanished and when I reached that point, I found a narrow, dank alleyway leading into goodness knows where. Determined to overtake him, I hurried into it. Halfway down its length was a doorway and as I reached it, a door opened. I was grasped and drawn inside by two powerful hands and the door shut quickly behind me.

I blinked in the dark. “What on earth is the meaning of this?” I demanded to my unseen captors.

The hands tugged at my coat. “Give us your hat and jacket.”

And out of the darkness came a voice that, because of its accent and youth, was recognizably Wiggins’. “‘urry up Guv. And the cane, too.”

“I do not understand,” I began, as the hands finally stripped me of my jacket. I felt my hat and stick being removed.

“We’ve gotta get rid of your watchdogs. Just keep quiet for a moment.” Wiggins’ voice was reassuringly confident.

I fell silent as requested, blinking as my eyes became used to the dim light. Before me stood a man of approximately my height and weight. He had donned my jacket. As my eyes continued to distinguish more detail, I saw him quickly empty the pockets, the contents of which he handed me. He adjusted my hat, winked at me and slipped out the door.

The brightness of the daylight dazzled me again and I listened, blinded, as his footsteps echoed up the narrow alley.

“But what—”

“Shush up, will you?” Wiggins demanded fiercely.

I obediently fell silent and waited, redistributing my possessions about my person once more.

Only a few second later I heard a shout which seemed to come from the entrance to the alley, on Oxford Street. “Here! Down here!”

Then the noise of several pairs of running feet echoed along the alley’s length and petered out again.

Only after the alley had been silent for nearly a minute did Wiggins relax with a gusty sigh of relief. “Thank ‘eavens for that.”

“That man was impersonating me to draw them off?”

“Correct, Guv.” Wiggins handed me a faded, disreputable raincoat and a soft shapeless hat. “‘ere. Stick these on.”

I took them and reluctantly donned the filthy garments. “They wouldn’t let me into the Ritz with these,” I quipped.

“Don’t worry. Where you’re going you’ll fit right in.”

“And where am I going?” I asked.

“Don’t know,” Wiggins said blandly. “Ready?”

“Yes.” I settled the hat so it came down low over my face. “Who is it that was following me? Is it the people who have been watching Holmes’ rooms all week?”

“Don’t know,” Wiggins replied.

“I see. I suppose you also don’t know who it is that is impersonating me?”

“That’s right,” Wiggins replied.

Four days of confinement had chiseled at my temper and I said sourly; “Then, if you don’t know who it was, it will not matter to you what will happen to him if he is caught by these people you don’t know.”

Wiggins opened the door and I saw his broad, amused smile. “I don’t ‘ave to worry ‘bout ‘im. ‘e ain’t the one wiv the gammy leg. Come on, let’s get.”

Wiggins’ confidence was built on competence, I discovered that evening. He led me for the first part of my strange journey. We continued toward the river but I never sighted another main street again. Wiggins led me down back alleys and through mews and finally to the river itself. There, we skirted carefully through Bloomsbury, across Bethnal Green and south to Whitechapel.

Finally, forty minutes later, he led me into another alley that ended in an enclosed courtyard.

Sitting on an upturned crate was a dockland worker, still grimy with sweat and dirt, whittling at one of the lathes of the crate he was perched upon.

Wiggins led me to him, then addressed me. “This fellow doesn’t know ‘oo you are or nothin’. At the other end, e’ll get a pound for ‘is work and go ‘ome. So there’s no point in askin’ questions…same as there’s no point in tryin’ to drive the price up, understand?” This last he addressed to the docker.

“Aye,” the docker acknowledged sullenly. He looked at me and jerked his head and walked back up the alley.

Wiggins touched his hat brim. “‘Night.”

I followed the surly docker and stepped up my pace until I was level with him. He maintained his silence throughout the twenty minute trip, delivering me at last to a deep doorway on a street indistinguishable from hundreds like it around the riverbanks.

Sitting cross-legged on the doorstep, tailor-fashion, was a dark-skinned Indian, dressed in ragged white cotton overshirt and trousers, turban and sandals. He handed the docker one pound, which he fished out from an inner pocket. The Indian uncoiled himself from the step.