Maxim Jakubowski - The Mammoth Book of the Adventures of Professor Moriarty

She took a sip from the glass of brandy.

‘You must know, Mr Holmes, that though my dear late husband, Harold Armstrong, was somewhat older than myself, we were the most united of couples and three years ago there was not a happier woman in the world than myself. Little Arthur was two and our baby daughter had just been born. Despite Harry’s wealth, he came from humble origins. His own efforts and his brilliance as an engineer were responsible for his founding the engineering company of Armstrong and Morley. His sudden illness and death two years ago was a grievous blow. Still, I have my children to live for, and Harry has left me a wealthy woman, Mr Holmes. Our children shall never know want.

‘That brings me to the present. My little girl is delicate and I decided to spend the winter in Italy for the sake of her health. Two weeks ago, there was an attempt to snatch my son from our garden. It was foiled by the quick thinking of his nurse, Mrs Shaughnessy, and the ferocity of our guard dog. Kidnapping is not uncommon in that part of the world. Fearful of another attempt, but unable to move my little Alicia, who was suffering from a low fever, I made a plan to get Arthur to England and out of harm’s way. Mrs Shaughnessy left secretly at night and travelled incognito with Arthur as her own child. I was to follow on as soon as Alicia could safely travel. Mrs Shaughnessy sent me a telegram on arrival to let me know that she had arrived safely and was at the Midland Grand Hotel at St Pancras.

‘Alicia was by then much improved. We set off for England and arrived back in England only today. And then—’

She seemed on the point of breaking down again, but, after a sip of brandy, she composed herself and went on. ‘We arrived at the hotel this morning to find that Mrs Shaughnessy and Arthur were not there. The staff at the hotel had seen nothing of them since the day before yesterday, when they left the hotel in a cab. Of course we informed the police. When I explained about the earlier attempt to kidnap Arthur, they sent someone from Scotland Yard. But it is clear to me, Mr Holmes, that they have no clue as to what has happened or where my son is. I have read accounts of your successes and I had the idea of coming to see you. Rufus was not so sure, but—’

‘And who is Rufus?’ Holmes asked.

‘My stepson, Mr Holmes. My husband’s son from his first marriage. Rufus is twenty and has been a great support to me. He is waiting at the hotel in case there is a ransom demand.’

‘Who is in charge of the case?’

‘Inspector Lestrade. He too is waiting at the hotel.’

‘I know Lestrade,’ Holmes replied. ‘A good man in his way, but somewhat lacking in imagination. I think our first move will be to return with you to the hotel.’

‘Then you will take the case, Mr Holmes? Oh, thank you, thank you.’ Hope shone in her eyes.

‘I will do my best, dear lady,’ Holmes said gently. ‘I cannot say more.’

I have mentioned before that Holmes was a stranger to the tender passions, but a situation like this, involving a devoted wife and mother, was just the kind to draw out all that was chivalrous in his austere nature.

I had heard of the Midland Grand Hotel as one of the most lux urious hotels in London. We stepped out of a raw, drizzly November evening into an atmosphere of warmth and bright lights and deference. A magnificent sweeping staircase led up to an opulent apartment, the ceiling of which was lavishly decorated with gold leaf. A young man was lounging by a blazing fire, and sprang to his feet as we entered. Lestrade was there too, standing by the window, looking out of place with his heavy boots and worn overcoat.

Mrs Armstrong looked at them with an appeal on her face. Both men shook their heads and her face fell.

She introduced the young man as her stepson, Mr Rufus Armstrong. He was a little too well dressed for my taste, but then I am old-fashioned and do not care to see men wearing diamond cufflinks.

‘I’m not sorry to see you, Mr Holmes,’ Lestrade said.

‘I am glad that Scotland Yard is taking the case seriously.’

‘Oh, yes,’ Lestrade said grimly, ‘when an heir to a fortune, and a child at that, goes missing, we take it seriously all right. Any little assistance you care to give us will be welcome, Mr Holmes.’

There was a sardonic twist to Holmes’s lips, but he refrained from comment. He turned to Mrs Armstrong. ‘Mrs Shaughnessy would scarcely have foiled the earlier attempt if she had been in the pay of the kidnappers. She is, I take it, beyond suspicion?’

‘Oh yes, Mr Holmes, she has been with us since Arthur was born and she is devoted to him. She would defend him with her life, I am sure of that.’

At that moment there was a knock on the door. Lestrade answered it and I glimpsed a constable outside. They conferred in low voices.

When Lestrade turned to us, he looked grave. ‘The body of a woman was found in the Regent’s Canal this afternoon.’

Mrs Armstrong gasped and her hand flew to her bosom.

‘Of course, it may not be Mrs Shaughnessy,’ he continued, ‘but if someone who knew her could come to the mortuary …’

Mrs Armstrong was about to speak, but her stepson stepped forward. ‘I can accompany the Inspector, Mother,’ he said, the name sounding incongruous on his lips, for there can have been no more than ten years between them.

Holmes nodded his approval. ‘We also will accompany you, Lestrade.’

Leaving Mrs Armstrong in the care of her maid, we departed.

I felt a sense of foreboding as we passed through the wroughtiron gates of the mortuary. A wind had got up and the bare branches of the surrounding trees swayed and rustled. If it was chilly outside, it was bitter within, as the cold struck from the tiled walls. I am not a fanciful man, but on that chill November evening it was like entering the very gates of death.

We were shown into a room by a gaunt attendant, himself of a cadaverous appearance. On a marble slab, the body of a woman lay covered with a sheet. Fearing how Mr Armstrong might react, I positioned myself at his elbow. When the attendant drew back the sheet, we saw the face of a woman of about forty, framed with a mass of dark red hair. It was a strong face, full of character, even in death.

Mr Armstrong nodded. ‘That is Mrs Shaughnessy. But whatever can have become of Arthur?’

He was very pale, but otherwise remarkably composed. Lestrade and Holmes exchanged glances and I guessed what was in their minds. Who knew what further secrets might be concealed in the murky waters of the canal?

‘We’ll do our best to find out, Mr Armstrong,’ Lestrade said. ‘Come with me. I’ll arrange for a constable to accompany you back to the hotel.’

‘With your permission, Lestrade, Watson and I will linger a little longer,’ Holmes said.

When the two men had left the room, Holmes and I examined the body. One side of the face was badly bruised. I picked up her hand. It was icy cold and the fingernails were broken. All down her arms were clusters of small bruises.

‘Mrs Shaughnessy struggled with her attacker,’ I concluded.

‘She has certainly been subjected to some rough treatment,’ Holmes agreed. ‘She may have marked her assailant. Where are her clothes?’ he asked the attendant.

‘Over here, Mr Holmes.’ On a table in the corner of the room, lay a pile of sodden garments, neatly folded, but stinking of the canal.

‘Something curious, Mr Holmes,’ the attendant went on. He showed us a small oilskin packet. ‘This was in her bodice, next to her skin, like.’

‘Have you opened it?’ Holmes asked.

‘I was waiting for the Inspector.’

Lestrade returned at that moment and we opened the packet. It contained a piece of pink and white ribbon, about three or four inches long.