Sherlock Holmes and The Adventure of The Cold-Served Revenge

XV: A Dish Best Served Cold

Revenge is a dish best served cold and few things today were colder than Professor Moriarty’s remains beneath the Reichenbach Falls.[23]

But his daughter had made it clear to us. Oh Alice, why must you be that devil’s daughter?

That it was Moriarty who had hidden his daughter in the convent in Anges was the only possible solution to the riddle that Holmes and I had been trying for weeks to solve.

Her real name was Alice Moriarty.

It shed new light on Lady Darringford’s motives. It was about more than just power, money and the desire to mould the course of history. It was about revenge! Revenge against Holmes, who had dispatched her father from the world, and revenge against the world for not understanding and valuing his criminal genius.

The war that Alice and her foster brother had set in motion could bring her everything she desired: A new world order and the realisation of her father’s dreams, but on an even larger scale! He had been content with ruling the London underworld. His daughter wanted nothing less than to rule Europe.

She had gravitated towards the suffragette movement, but her militancy was deplorable. It was not the monastery that awakened her opposition towards men; her hatred was self-inflicted. The first wave was caused by John Clay, the uncrowned king of the London underworld in the mid-1880s. We had encountered him as Vincent Spaulding in our investigation of the case of the Red-Headed League.

The nun had described Moriarty in 1883 as a frightened man afraid for his daughter’s life. It was hard to imagine the calculating Napoleon of crime in such circumstances. We knew him in a completely different guise. Parental love had apparently overpowered him and we could only guess why events had unfolded as they had. In those days Moriarty already had grand criminal ambitions, but Clay controlled the breeding grounds of all London. Their power struggle was fierce, so the professor had to get rid of his Achilles heel.

In order to destroy his rival, Moriarty put his daughter somewhere where Clay could never find her.

In 1890 the royal hand of justice fell on Clay’s shoulder. But this was just the last in a series of reversals. Moriarty had risen to the pinnacle of power, but this did not help Alice, who still could not return to her father’s arms. Clay had disappeared, but an even more formidable adversary had appeared: Sherlock Holmes. He aimed to destroy the professor’s criminal network. Moriarty’s daughter would again be an obstacle, so she needed to remain on the sidelines, which by then was with the Darringfords. Difficult months followed for everyone. And before that fateful May 4, 1891 Alice never saw her father again.

Two men had taken her father away from her. Now the whole world had to suffer for it.

First came the murder of the Darringfords, who knew her origin. Then the burning of the monastery. And the fire began to spread further. How madly insane!

Now she stood in the study of her hideaway near the Scottish town of Anges, where it had all begun long ago, pointing a pistol at my companion’s chest. I was trembling in my hiding place in the wardrobe, watching through the crack of the door and clutching the stolen documents. They had to be rescued at all costs.

Keeping the pistol aimed at the detective, Alice carefully walked around him and examined the desk. She immediately realised that most of the important documents were gone.

“Where are the papers?” she sputtered.

The detective did not answer and stared at her defiantly. Alice rummaged through the desk, but all she found was a map of Britain.

She took a few steps towards the door and called into the corridor.

“I ask you again, where did you hide them?”

“Ask as many times as you want, I will not tell you.”

“Tough talk. But we will see how strong your will is.”

A tall man stepped into the study. The sharp facial features were a bit effeminate, but his tight leather pants and loose frilled shirt outlined the broad shoulders and strong muscles. It was probably Alice’s servant, whose footprints we had found on the front lawn of her villa.

“Search him!” the lady ordered, still pointing the pistol at the detective.

The man nodded and frisked Holmes deftly. But he found nothing.

“He’s clean,” he said in a high-pitched voice, strangely at odds with the massive physique.

“So where are they?” the lady cried impatiently. “They must be here somewhere!”

“Do you think?” said the detective.

Alice faltered. But not for long.

“Of course, I almost forgot your faithful henchman Watson. He must have them. He cannot have gotten far!”

The effete muscleman searched the room while she impatiently kept Holmes at bay with the pistol. The longer the search lasted and the longer the secret documents remained out of her control, the more nervous she became. Without them her plan was doomed.

When the servant got to the wardrobe I thought I was certain to be discovered. There was no hope. I instinctively pressed myself into the furthest corner, wrapped myself in the coats and stuck my legs into a pair of wellingtons.

But fortune was on my side.

The muscleman quickly frisked the coats, his hand missing my face by an inch. But he did not see me. Thinking that the wardrobe was empty he again closed the doors.

I returned to my vantage place.

Alice was biting her lower lip and looking at my companion with irritation.

“The doctor and all of the documents are already gone,” he lied. “Soon the authorities will be here to do their work. Give yourself up while there is still time.”

Moriarty’s daughter lipped her lips, on which a drop of blood had appeared, and shook her head.

“Perhaps, but something does not sit right,” she said quietly. “Why would you stay behind? The doctor does nothing without you.”

The detective again fell silent.

“Very well, we will play your game,” she said. “William, take the horse and search around the castle for footprints. Follow them, and when you find the good doctor, kill him. Do not return without my documents! And hurry. I meet Tankosić in the afternoon.”

The servant left while I lamented at the ease with which the beautiful Alice condemned me to death. I promised myself that if we ever got out of there alive I would never again succumb to the temptations of the flesh.

“I still do not believe you, Holmes,” she continued. “I think that in the end you will talk and tell me where our little doctor is hiding.”

“You are a fool.”

“We shall see,” she said. With the pistol pointed at him she led him to the door.

They left the study and disappeared from my sight.

I wondered what to do. I was safe enough in the wardrobe, but to what end? I could die here of hunger without helping Holmes or saving the royal documents.

But leaving the hiding place could mean certain death.

No, I could not just stay there waiting. I had to do something!

I lingered for a few minutes until I was sure that Alice and Holmes were already far enough away. Then I carefully opened the door. The room was empty and the doors to the corridor were wide open.

I checked to make sure I had all the documents and left the room.

There were voices coming from the ground floor.

Creeping on tiptoe I silently made my way to the staircase.

From behind the stone portico I peered through the corridor and into the dining room. At a long table Rupert Darringford was being served breakfast by the woman we had seen in Pascuale’s office, the murderess of the factory owner Minutti and the Italian secret service agent Paolo.

Although I was hardly in a position to take advantage of the situation, we finally had the whole little family together.

Lord Rupert had already “welcomed” the detective. Holmes sat at Rupert’s right and the whole side of his face was red. Alice sat at the other end of the table. Her brother’s interrogation methods evidently greatly amused her.

But no one had ever succeeded in extracting anything from Holmes by force.

“Where is Dr Watson?! Where are my papers?!” Darringford yelled at the motionless detective, wiping his forehead with a napkin, the vein on his temple swollen thick as a finger. Judging by his behaviour our recent diagnosis of him was correct. He clearly suffered from manic psychosis, and his parents had done well not to have another child. Their choice of ward was more disputable.

Lord Rupert soon lost what little patience he had and realised that, try as he might, beating my companion would not get him anywhere.

“We shall do it another way, then” he snorted, tossing aside the napkin. “Let us play a game you and I.”

Saying thus he hurried off somewhere.

The detective took advantage of his momentary absence for a last attempt at some sort of negotiation.

“Alice, it is still not too late,” he said. “Your father was my great rival and I dare say that he died as such. Our fight was dignified and worthy of its name.”

“Save your words, Holmes.”

“You will unleash a war in which millions will die.”

“Yes, millions! The more the better!” she cried. “After all it will be the men who die. Then women will rule!”

“You mean you shall rule. Even the suffragettes know this and have disowned you!”

“They still do not understand!” she fumed. “I offered them the world and they dithered and trembled. All I wanted was their tacit support. At least the wheat has been separated from the chaff. My faithful core has remained!”

“Faithful? Do you mean Pastor Barlow?”

“Barlow? Please!” she laughed. “He served his purpose and then he had to go. He is now stuffing his face somewhere else, whether with ambrosia in heaven or with cockroaches in hell. No, by the faithful I mean the true warriors, not those fools.”

Her lady servant, whose shoulders I could see from my vantage point at the top of the stairs, nodded eagerly.

“Those fools probably have other plans,” said the detective. “Ones in which blood will not flow.”

“Weaklings!”

I was still crouching above the staircase and had no plan but to run into the dining room, cause a panic, grab Holmes and run away. Of course, the chances of its succeeding were practically nil.

Darringford returned to the dining room, brandishing a large revolver.

“Do you know what this is?” he said, sticking it under the detective’s nose.

“It is the gun manufactured according to Vito Minutti’s patent. The revolver with the shrapnel projectile that killed him.”

“Oh, you are not mistaken, my friend,” said Rupert, mocking the detective’s dignified and even-tempered voice. “But there’s one small difference. The one that Veronica used to kill Minutti was just a prototype. This little fellow will turn you into mincemeat!”

“I see. What game shall we play with it?”

“I would also like to know,” Alice interjected.

Rupert emptied the cylinder, and the bullets rattled onto the table. He left only one bullet inside. Then he spun the cylinder and the lock clicked.

“It was taught to me by a prince in Moscow,” he said laughing. “It is called Russian roulette.”

“Rupert, it’s too dangerous!” Alice cried.

“Depends for whom,” said the Lord. He spat and pointed the barrel at the detective’s head.

“You may begin,” said Holmes.

“With pleasure!”

Rupert snorted, pointed the gun at the detective, switched off the safety and pulled the trigger. The hammer struck empty. Holmes looked straight ahead without blinking.

Darringford straightened and pursed his lips. His big bushy moustache quivered with excitement.

Holmes looked at him defiantly and raised his eyebrows. Darringford had no choice but to play the game he had foolishly suggested. He pointed the gun to his head, closed his eyes and pulled the trigger firmly.

Once again the chamber was empty.

The Lord, his sister and Veronica all exhaled audibly. It was now Holmes’s turn.

Rupert thrust the barrel against the detective’s ear and fired. I could not watch. A few seconds of silence in which you could hear a pin drop, and then again an empty click.

There now were only three bullets left. The likelihood that the next one would be deadly was growing.

Holmes must have had nerves of steel. He was still motionless, his tension evident only in his damp brow.

The nobleman meanwhile was drenched in sweat. His hands shook and he brought the revolver to his head reluctantly.

“Rupert,” the lady whispered, “I think you should stop playing.”

“But I like this game,” said the detective wryly. “It is exciting, fair, and impossible to cheat. It is decided by fate and luck.”

Perhaps he should have kept his mouth shut.

“Well if you like it so much you can take another round,” Rupert cried, removing the revolver from his head and again pointing it at the detective. “We will see what your luck is like!”

“But it is not fair!”

“The world is not fair,” said Rupert.

“Shoot!” cried Alice.

He fired.

The deadly bullet remained in the cylinder. There were only two shots left.

Holmes grew pale. I feared for his heart.

“You are a coward who does not even play by his own rules,” said Holmes.

Rupert stood as though turned to stone, firmly gripping the handle of the revolver. He had no choice. If he did not want to lose face he had to play the next round.

The odds were not favourable.

But he was saved by his stepsister, who abruptly ended the game.

“Enough foolishness!” she cried, ripping the gun from his hand and throwing it on the floor. It clattered on the stone floor and slid to the door to the corridor. “This will not get us anywhere. We need to find out where that old fool has run off to and retrieve our documents, not get ourselves killed!”

My eyes were fixed on the discarded revolver.

“You are right as always,” said Rupert, exhaling.

“Leave everything to me,” said Alice, caressing his face as though he were a little boy. “Your sister will take care of it, you just relax.”

She controlled him like a puppet. Rupert looked uncertain, but then nodded his head obediently and shuffled to his chair, where he began biting his fingernails.

“You have stolen something from me that I need, Mr Holmes,” said the lady. “I shall have to break your fingers.”

She walked off and returned with a heavy hammer.

“No! I hate violence,” Rupert cried.

Among other things his mind obviously struggled with schizophrenia.

“Turn around then,” said the lady.

She faced Holmes and looked at him apologetically.

“Forgive me, his degenerated blue blood is to blame. Sometimes he does not know what he is saying.”

She grabbed the detective’s left hand, pried apart one of his fingers, and placed it on the table. With one hand she kept it motionless while with the other she swiftly brought down the hammer.

There was a crunching noise and blood spurted.

Though his spirit was unbreakable my companion could not bear the pain. He cried out.

“Has your tongue finally loosened?” said Alice.

“Never!” he cried.

I could not let her torture him any further. While Alice bent over him and chose another finger I leapt from my hiding place, bounded down the steps, and ran for the revolver. Before they could notice me I was standing between the doors to the dining room, aiming the weapon in front of me.

They froze.

Lady Alice straightened and blinked with surprise.

“Well well,” she said. “Dr Watson”

“Lay down your weapon!” I ordered. “Nice and easy, slide it towards me!”

She reached inside the pocket of her skirt and removed the pistol. She slid it along the floor, but not towards me as I had ordered, but somewhere behind her, where it ended up behind a wardrobe.

Holmes, whose injured hand was bleeding, looked at me with troubled eyes. He must have been in a lot of pain, but it had not broken him.

“You should have run away,” he wheezed.

“He’s right,” said the lady. “Clearly you have not taken into account the laws of mathematics.”

I knew what she meant.

There were three adversaries before me. And the revolver contained only one bullet.