Frank Thomas - Sherlock Holmes and the Treasure Train

"Unless he starts up again—a possibility. Or unless he makes some deathbed confession, which I think is very doubtful."

I shrugged and my mind took an obvious tack. "How is this associated with the treasure train?"

"Ah, that matter is beset with complexities. But the more angles to a case, the more chance for the lunge of the rapier that will impale the kernel of truth, the key to unlock the door of mystery."

"If complexities aid your investigation, you have plenty."

"Agreed. Had a group of thieves with access to inside information raided the train and removed the gold, we would have had little to work with. How did they get their information? What disposition did they make of the bullion? As it is, I feel this case embraces a wider canvas."

"It certainly does if the Trelawney and Michael deaths are part of the plot."

"That, Watson, will be settled for us. If Cedric Folks killed Michael, then I must abandon my redheaded-man theory."

"Not without regrets," I hazarded. "You do seem quite taken by the idea."

"Because of a remark you made, good fellow."

As I regarded him with puzzlement, he chuckled. "Ah, you haven't figured it out yet. No matter, since for the moment it is a dead issue. Our thoughts must go elsewhere."

"Where, specifically?" I queried, with a show of impatience.

"If Hananish, the banker, is the mastermind, he certainly was not directly involved in the train robbery."

"A man in a wheelchair? I should think not."

"Who, then, did the actual deed? I mean to bag them all, Watson. You recall that when Moriarty went down, the Yard allowed him to escape, along with two of his top henchmen. It was several years later that we convicted Colonel Moran. Then, in that Golden Bird affair, Chu San Fu was not brought to justice and he rose again to plague us. We'll make a clean sweep of it this time, old friend."

That happy prospect caused Holmes to fall silent again, and I could get no more from him during our return trip.

The following morning, we had scarcely completed our morning repast when a despondent Inspector MacDonald was ushered into our quarters. The Scot's habitually glum expression was more pronounced than usual.

"I'll not be guessin' how you figured it, Mr. Holmes, but you did give me fair warning," he said, lowering himself into our cane-backed chair.

"The matter of Cedric Folks," stated Holmes.

"Exactly. I located the artist without much trouble. Of course he denied any association with Michael's death, though he was honest enough to admit that he was not grief-stricken over the happening. But he couldn't come up with an alibi for the time of the murder. Were I a gambling man, I'd have given rather long odds on his being the culprit. Then I ran into a roadblock."

"The hansom driver who had come to the Michael mansion."

MacDonald threw me a dark look. "There's little I can tell him, is there?"

"Come now, Mr. Mac, your case against Folks revolved around the hansom driver. Both Watson and I knew you would track him down straightaway." As Holmes continued in his soothing tone, I poured the inspector a cup of coffee, which he accepted with gratitude.

"The driver did not identify Folks as his redheaded passenger, I take it."

"For a fact, Mr. Holmes. I was a mite stern with him, bein' somewhat taken aback; but he stood his ground. Said the man in his hansom had a longer nose than Folks; and the color of his hair wasn't the same, bein' more auburn than red."

"The cabbie certainly wasn't color-blind," I remarked.

"I see your point," said Holmes quickly.

This surprised me, for I did not know I'd made one.

"Auburn is an unusual word for a cabbie to use, but no matter. The point is that the case against Cedric Folks has evaporated."

"Completely," agreed MacDonald, lighting up a cigar, which I had secured for him. "Now I'm back where I started."

"Hardly," replied Holmes. "We do know that Michael's ward was not involved, the assassin being the cabbie's passenger. It is possible that I may be able to unearth something about him. Just yesterday I was speaking to Watson about the fall of Moriarty."

I sensed that the sleuth was choosing his words carefully, for MacDonald had been completely hoodwinked by the master criminal's college-professor façade.

"The professor met his end in Switzerland, and we got Moran in connection with that Ronald Adair matter. But one man of the Moriarty ring is still at large."

"Porlock," exclaimed MacDonald.

"No, the informer is free as a convenience. An arrangement you know of, Mr. Mac. I refer to the late professor's hatchet man."

"Lightfoot," breathed MacDonald. "'Tis said he died on the Continent."

"No body was found."

As Holmes and the Scot mused on this, I rallied my thoughts. The name meant nothing to me, but I could deduce who they were referring to. Holmes had specifically said that he had spent his years in self-imposed exile from London because two particularly vindictive members of Moriarty's infamous crew had escaped. Sebastian Moran was one, and this Lightfoot fellow must have been the other.

"What makes you suspect McTigue?" asked the inspector.

So , I thought, that's the rascal's name.

Holmes seemed to read my mind. "He used a number of names, and you'll recall that Moriarty only sent him on special assignments. He'd appear at the victim's home as a chimney sweep, a deacon of the church, and on one occasion, he masqueraded as a nurse. A clever fellow was Lightfoot, and I've a thought that he's adopted a redheaded disguise and is back in business again. But there is no concrete proof of this."

MacDonald rose with alacrity. "We've a few people who are helpful on occasion that date back to the Moriarty days. I'll be asking some questions about McTigue and checkin' out his supposed death as well."

The inspector departed forthwith. Given a lead, he needed little urging.

I was completely befuddled by this revelation of Holmes', and he did not seem disposed to discuss it. Something had alerted my friend to the possibility of the presence of an old enemy, but there were so many ifs involved that he had to be playing a hunch. This was contrary to his usual style; and if pressed, I knew he would resort to evasions. Actually, further discussion of the matter was not practical, since Holmes informed me he had an invitation to the rifle contest at the Wellington Club. Not long thereafter we departed for this plaything of the rich and titled.

It was a bit of a trip to the establishment, situated in Bermondsey, close onto the Deptford Reach curve in the Thames. I realized immediately that the Wellington Gun Club served a variety of purposes, boasting a tip-top grillroom, with an adjacent area suitable for the playing of cards. A hideaway where business leaders could consort with their own kind, and I assumed that many a deal had been broached within its stately walls. On this day the club was crowded. It took no brilliance to realize that the match had become an excuse for ladies to don their latest finery and gentlemen, who would not have known a breech from a bolt, to hobnob with the upper strata of society. There was a great to-do about invitations, and there were even some who were denied admission; but the engraved card presented by Holmes secured immediate entry and a carte blanche obsequiousness from the major-domo guarding the entrance. It crossed my mind that we might be present by royal patronage, since Holmes was summoned to Buckingham from time to time, usually after one of his masterly actions on behalf of the Empire. Few indeed were the elite functions that he could not attend if he wished. A humorous droit civil , since Holmes was rather antisocial and, contrary to those around us, availed himself of few of the opportunities open to him.