Michael Kurland - Victorian Villainy

“Why do you suppose they fled,” Holmes asked, “instead of attempting to fight the fire?”

“Perhaps they were not trained to do so,” I responded. “Perhaps they didn’t have the equipment.”

“Perhaps,” Holmes agreed.

We had boarded amidships. By some unspoken agreement, we both turned and went forward. “If there are any useful documents,” I said, “they’re probably in the bridge.”

“If there were any,” Holmes replied, “Wilhelm Gottsreich most assuredly took them with him.”

“Perhaps,” I said.

We reached the ladder leading up to the bridge, and Holmes went up ahead of me. He stopped, frozen, in the doorway, and I could not get by. “What is it, Holmes,” I asked, trying to peer around his shoulder.

“As I feared,” he said, “but could not bring myself to believe…” He moved into the room, and I entered behind him.

There, lined up against the back wall, were four men in the uniforms of ordinary seamen in the Royal Navy. Their hands and feet were tied, and their mouths were covered with sticking plaster. One of them seemed to have fainted; he was slumped over, only held up by the rope around his chest which was affixed to a metal hook in the wall. The other three were conscious: one trembling uncontrollably, one rigidly staring out the windscreen, his face frozen with shock, and the third fighting like a trapped beast against his bonds; his wrists raw, and blood streaming from his forehead.

A fifth man, his hands still tied behind him, lay prone on the floor, his face immersed in a large pan of water. He did not move. Holmes ran over to him, pulled up his head and rolled him over. After a few seconds he got up from the still body. “Too late,” he said.

We used our knives to free the other men and, grabbing what papers we could find without bothering to look through them, led the men back down the ladder and out to the gig. Twenty minutes later we were aboard the Agamemnon, and the Royal Edgar was still burning, but was no lower in the water and her list seemed not to have increased.

“We can’t leave her like this,” Captain Preisner said, “and I can’t tow her in; too many questions would be asked.”

“You’ll have to sink her,” Holmes said.

Captain Preisner nodded. “Order the main batteries to fire ten rounds each, controlled fire, at the destroyer,” he told the bridge duty officer.

About ten minutes after the last round was fired the destroyer gave a tremendous belch, and sunk prow first into the sea. The entire crew of the Agamemnon, having been informed that it was a sister ship they were forced to sink, stood silently at attention as she went down. Captain Preisner held a salute until the one-time Royal Mary was out of sight beneath the waves, as did all the officers on the bridge.

Captain Preisner sighed and relaxed. “I hope I never have to do anything like that again,” he said.

Later that evening Captain Preisner called us into his cabin. “I have a berth for you,” he said. “We won’t be back in port again until late tomorrow.”

“That’s fine, Captain,” I said. “We still have to compose our report to send back to Whitehall.”

Preisner looked at us. “Those men you brought aboard-you spoke to them?”

“We did.”

“And?”

“The five suits of undergarments,” Holmes said.

“But you only brought four men along.”

“True,” Holmes said. “Our antagonist had begun preparing for his assault. One of the men was already drowned. The others would have joined him shortly had we not come upon the ship when we did. The plan was to chase the black yacht in to the Trieste harbor, getting as close to the city as possible. Then fire some shots at the fleeing craft, which would miss and hit at random in the city. Then the destroyer would, itself, flee back out to sea. A small explosion, presumably caused by the yacht firing back, would cause the five drowned men to be flung into the water, there to be found in their Royal Navy uniforms by the locals.”

Captain Preisner stared at him speechless for a long moment. “And all this,” he said finally, “to discredit England?” he asked. “What good would it do?”

“Major conflagrations are started by small sparks,” Holmes said. “Who can say where this might have led?”

Preisner shook his head. “Madmen,” he said.

“Even so,” Holmes agreed. “There are an abundance of them.”

Later in our cabin Holmes turned to me and asked, “what are you planning to do after we send our report?”

I shrugged. “The world thinks I am dead,” I said. “Perhaps I shall take advantage of that and remain away from public ken.”

“I, also, had thought of doing something of the sort,” Holmes told me. “I’ve always wanted to travel to Tibet, perhaps speak with the Dali Lama.”

“A very interesting man,” I told him. “I’m sure you’d find such a conversation fruitful.”

Holmes stared at me for a long time, and then said “Good night, Professor,” and turned down the light.

“Good night, Holmes,” I replied.

It is a damp, chilly Saturday, the 16th of April, 1887, as I sit before the small coal fire in the front room of Professor James Moriarty’s Russell Square home making these notes; setting down while they are still fresh in my memory the queer and astounding events surrounding the problem with which professor Moriarty and I found ourselves involved over the past few days. The case itself, a matter of some delicacy involving some of the highest-born and most important personages in the realm, had, as Moriarty put it, “a few points that were not entirely devoid of interest to the higher faculties.” Moriarty’s ability to shed light on what the rest of us find dark and mysterious will come as no surprise to anyone who has had any dealings with the professor. But what will keep the events of these past days unique in my mind forever is the glimpse I was afforded into the private life of my friend and mentor, Professor James Moriarty.

Certain aspects of the case will never see print, at least not during the lifetimes of any of those involved; and I certainly cannot write it up in one of my articles for the American press, without revealing what must not be revealed. But the facts should not be lost, so I will at least set them down here, and if this notebook remains locked in the bottom drawer of my desk at my office at the American News Service until after my death, so be it. At least the future will learn what must be concealed from the present.

My name is Benjamin Barnett, and I am an expatriate New Yorker, working here in London as the director and owner of the American News Service; a company that sends news and feature stories from Britain and the continent to newspapers all around the United States over the Atlantic cable. Four years ago I was rescued from an unfortunate circumstance-and being held prisoner in a Turkish fortress is as unfortunate a circumstance as I can imagine that does not involve immediate great pain or disfigurement-by Professor James Moriarty. I was employed by him for two years after that, and found him to be one of the most intelligent, perceptive, capable; in short one of the wisest men I have ever known. Most of those who have had dealings with the professor would, I am sure, agree, with the notable exception of a certain consulting detective, who places Moriarty at the center of every nefarious plot hatched by anyone, anywhere, during this past quarter-century. I have no idea why he persists in this invidious belief. I have seen that the professor sometimes skirts the law to achieve his own ends, but I can also witness that Professor Moriarty has a higher moral standard than many of those who enforce it.