Barry Day - Sherlock Holmes and the Alice in Wonderland Murders

“I had hoped to be present to both take part in and report on my own ‘coronation’ when the time was ripe. Now, I shall have to devise a new persona to receive that honour but receive it I shall, make no mistake about it. I hear that you have taken a few of my pawns but they are expendable. Next time I must remember to use knights or even bishops. It never does to deal at too low a level, don’t you feel?”

“I must say, my dear chap, I am a little disappointed in your sense of historical inevitability. I would have thought it obvious to the merest tyro that the country had reached a crisis of identity. Something is rotten not in the state of Denmark — ah, the Bard again! — but right under your noses. Change can be encouraged or — as I prefer to think — it can be forced. The country is — how can I put it? — a powder keg. All it needs is a match. But I digress …”

“Please continue, Moriarty,” Holmes said encouragingly. “It is always intriguing to see a twisted mind at work …”

At that a peal of laughter chilling in its intensity, came down the phone. “Good old Holmes. The stage lost a rare actor when you committed yourself to the study of crime. Perhaps we should both have followed where Thalia and Melpomene beckoned. Who knows, we might have rivalled Irving and Tree. Which of us would have played Othello, I wonder, and which Iago?” And again the laugh. “But the Gods, it seems, willed it otherwise.”

Suddenly the tone was sharper, more businesslike. “Well, much as I have enjoyed our little chat — rather more, I fancy, than Miss Creighton here — I must attend to affairs of state. Just one last thing. You were enquiring, I believe, into the well being and whereabouts of Mr. Steel. Knowing how you like a good conundrum, Holmes, let me leave you with just one clue. Don’t forget that the gentleman was — is — let’s not argue tenses here — mine own invention.”

And the line went dead. Strangely, the silence shrieked even louder than Moriarty’s laughter.

Holmes returned the receiver to the stand as gently as if he were handling porcelain. Then he looked at me soberly.

“The damnable thing is that there is a great deal of truth in Moriarty’s demented ramblings. The country very probably is living on the reputation of past glories and the widening gap between have and have-nots could easily become a political as well as a social chasm. There are vultures beyond these shores who are waiting to feast. All of this is true and, without being able to articulate it, the British people sense some of it and would like nothing more than for some latterday St. George to ride up and kill the dragon. Which is why Moriarty tried to create his own superman — his man of steel in more ways than one. His motive was cynical and self-serving but his analysis, as ever, was insightful.”

“Well, you certainly dealt with that solution,” I said, becoming uncomfortable with the way the conversation seemed to be tending.

“Perhaps,” my friend replied, “but only temporarily. There will be others, with or without a Moriarty to prop them up. None of them will succeed for the simple reason that our society has grown too complex for a single Galahad to save it Should such a man arise, perhaps many years from now, he will only succeed — if he does succeed — by tapping into the great heart of this great nation.”

Then with a wry smile Holmes got to his feet. “Watson, you really must pull me up when I begin to wax philosophical. How many times do I have to tell you that the worst error the consulting detective can fall into is to draw conclusions without sufficient evidence?”

He began to pace the room and I knew that he was literally winding himself up to act.

“Let us address those matters we are qualified to address in the hope that such success as we may achieve will have its impact on the larger canvas. I promise you this, Watson. War in Europe may prove inevitable some day not too far distant but if it should come, it will not be by the machinations of one malignant and power crazed man called Moriarty!”

“Come, old fellow,” he said, throwing a pad and pencil in my general direction. “Moriarty has kindly offered us a clue but he does not know that we have — thanks to Miss Creighton — the makings of several more. If we cannot piece out their imperfections with our thoughts — Moriarty does not have a monopoly on the Bard, you see — then we are not the fellows we think we are. Now, let us set down what we have.”

“Well,” I said chancing my arm, “we know that Moriarty has placed Steel under house arrest, so to speak, and is holding him somewhere, presumably in London. He clearly believes the man is expendable …”

“He ‘invented’ him and, therefore, believes he can destroy his own invention. ‘Invented’ him …”

“Then something about Royston going to Court,” I continued, “and can he swim? Royston … Court … what’s that supposed to mean?”

Holmes swung round in his chair and those piercing eyes bored into me. “Say that again, Watson.”

“Say what again?”

“I said about Royston going to Court …”

“No, you didn’t, old fellow. You said ‘Royston Court’. My dear fellow, I’ve been blind. Royston Steel has nothing to do with a Court of Law. That’s simply Moriarty’s little pun. ‘Royston Court’ is a place! And he spoke of inventing Steel … Quick, pass me my commonplace book, if you would — the one for ‘S’ …”

I did as he asked and he flicked through the well worn pages with practised skill.

“Staunton, Arthur — the forger … Staunton, Henry … hm, the man I helped to hang … ah, here we are — Steel, Royston … born, etc., etc., as I thought. Born Arthur Chadwick in Belper, Derbyshire … career in local politics … reputation as something of an orator … wins national debating prize which takes him to the US, where he becomes a protégé of …”

“John Moxton?”

“The very same, Watson, the very same. Stays in New York to work for the Moxton publishing empire and around that time changes his name to Royston Steel. Returns to England about two years ago and stands for Parliament in a marginal seat. It is generally thought that massive support from The Clarion swung the vote his way. The rest I think we know … Moriarty invented him and probably named him to symbolise the character he wished to project on the British psyche. That would account for the ‘Steel’. But ‘Royston’ …? There must be some other connection in Moriarty’s empire that he is taunting us with I wonder …”

Throwing the commonplace book aside, he leapt to his feet and began to rummage around in another pile of books, until he emerged with a London street guide. A moment or so later — “As I thought, it is a place. Watson, I am prepared to wager you a pound of your Arcadia mixture that the answer lies in Wapping. ‘Royston Court’ is a location by the river, most likely one of Moriarty’s hideaways. If he hasn’t got Steel tucked away there, I shall be very surprised. Steel goes to Court He could not resist the irony.”

“That means he’ll have Alicia there, too?”

“I think it highly likely, old fellow, but there is only one way to find out, I have a few arrangements to make first and then, as soon as is dark, we shall pay a visit to the East End.”

I have often thought that Holmes demonstrated an unhealthy interest in the East End of our fair metropolis. On more than one occasion I have opened the door in Baker Street to a filthy lascar, usually sporting a livid scar down one cheek. Holmes would deny this strenuously, but I have often felt that something of the persona lingered for an hour or two even when his more familiar figure was lounging languidly in the chair opposite.