4
The Bentley thundered down the country road in the dark. The rain fell on the car windows, futile in its attempt to slow down the driver. Lady Roberta Wickham was pushing the car to its limits.
Sir Shash had not said a word for the past half hour. He simply stared at the countryside, veiled in the dark. This was a particularly desolate stretch of road. In the morning, perhaps it had a different appearance. Now, it looked forsaken. Forbidding.
‘What are you thinking of, silly goose?’ said Bobbie Wickham suddenly.
‘Huh?’
‘Lost in your thoughts? Missing Honoria? The speed scaring you silly?’
‘Hah!’
‘Try another one-word answer. See what happens.’
Sir Shash looked at her and smiled. He was used to the Bobbie’s periodic threats.
‘I was just thinking of my grandfather. Sitting in his room, alone, playing cards all by himself. Only looking up to ask for another cup of sweet tea. My grandma would barge in exasperated and wonder loudly if he had gone quite mad. For he had already had his fourth cup. She would then trot to the kitchen to make the fifth. The cook existed only to stand next to her and make conversation. Grandpa would not drink tea made by anyone else.’
‘That is sweet, Shash. You have been lucky in many ways, you know.’
‘Yes, that is correct.’
‘What made you think of them tonight?’
‘Mr. Holmes is that age now. And I suppose my mind wandered to the tweed coat. My grandpa wore a very similar one. These thoughts of mine, they jump.’
‘I know that feeling, why sometimes I can think for five things at the same time!’
‘Only five?’
‘Aah, being clever now, I suppose?’
‘With you? Never. I must ask you something though.’
‘Oh my, are you going ask me something that makes me blush Sire?’
‘Make you blush? Is that even possible my lady?’
‘You could tell me that you finally found someone more beautiful than me.’
Sir Shash looked at her.
‘Ouch’ said Bobbie.
‘Why do this tonight? Just why? Bertie will be worried sick when he does not see you in the morning. Why make him anxious? Forget that, why risk it all, you silly girl? You have the best thing in life already. A kind of love that other people can only wish for, only dream of. And yet, here you are, running headlong into danger. Instead of just going home to warmth and comfort. What business has Lestrade to open his mouth and tell you of this expected threat to Mr. Holmes? He should have just told me. The police, they must already be on it. I had told him that I would immediately head for East Dean. What was the need for you to insist on coming along? You made that call to Dr Watson too. I am telling you this seriously Bobbie. This risk taking, this recklessness, this is not fair to you or to Bertie.’
Bobbie Wickham was silent for a few moments.
Then she said, ‘What about you? I am just supposed to let you go out and do things that the papers won’t print? Are you of all people going to tell me that I should just be a happily married rich girl who should never do anything or be anyone that makes a difference? You, you who knows that things exist that people won’t even speak of. Why do you risk your life, Shash? Sheesh. Why did I learn to shoot? To ride? To drive?’
‘Bobbie, yes, you do have all the arguments. Yet you know and I know that there are other ways for you to contribute. Like what you were already doing tonight at Dorset Street. Making life better for some people. This need that you have to do risky things; I just cannot fathom it. Love and family and life await you. Do not do foolish things.’
‘You are beginning to sound like a parent. I suspect you will make a good one, despite appearances to the contrary.’
Sir Shash shook his head. She was not going to listen. She rarely did.
He had read about Colonel Moran. Bobbie Wickham handled the Winchester 12 like a natural. Perhaps the best shot he had ever seen. Moran, however, shot to kill.
5
It was a cloudy morning in Steyning. The tiny town was an old settlement with memories of medieval England. The Morris Oxford Flatnose stopped well outside town by one of the many lakes that were in the area. There stood a small two floor establishment that offered both fresh catch as well as angling equipment for a few enthusiasts who occasionally turned up. The proprietor stayed on the first floor. However, on that morning, the customers for Herbert Hammer, proprietor of the establishment were not the usual anglers.
Herbert Hammer was a short, fat and jovial looking man, with a puffy red face. A widower who had inherited the shop from his late wife, he was well liked in the local community for his dignified conduct, his generosity to charitable causes. and for the expert tips he gave to all and sundry in the matter of choosing the right equipment for the call of the catch.
Had the townsfolk known the true nature of Herbert Hammer’s business, their opinion of him would have altered considerably. His establishment was a place for what the constabulary referred to as ‘drops’. The burglary gang that hid out in nearby Brighton often used his establishment as a storage space. There were others too. He would receive a trunk or a packet every few days and he would keep them safe till someone else picked them up. He never asked any questions. A reputation in a business like his was built by a complete lack of curiosity and by an appearance of being somewhat slow. Over the years, references for him as a safekeeper had been whispered around a few nearby counties. He was sometimes surprised that no one from the law had ever knocked on his door except to buy fish.
A few nights ago, just as he had been about to close his shop for the day, a man had come. A smallish box and a Short Magazine Lee Enfield had been entrusted to him with instructions for a subsequent pick up by a tall white-haired man with the word for recognition being ‘Afghanistan’. As usual Hammer had asked nothing but simply collected an envelope for his service. The next morning, he had donated a few notes from the envelope to the local church with a request for prayer for his departed wife.
His establishment was not yet open for the day but he knew he was about to complete his latest contract. In front of him now stood two men who he had just let in. The one in the Gatsby cap called himself Vincent. The tall, broad shouldered white-haired man with him had simply uttered the word ‘Afghanistan.’
Hammer prided himself on being able to read his customers and privately making little guesses about them. The man in the Gatsby cap reminded him of his usual clientele, suspicious, fidgety and very likely a professional thief. It was the old man that made him swallow his saliva as he spoke that one word.
This man was not a burglar. He had the bearing of someone who was used to speaking commands. His dark eyes seemed to be piercing Hammer’s mind.
‘Get a grip, my good man,’ he told himself silently and then said, ‘A moment, gentlemen.’ He locked the door of his shop and then went upstairs to where his bedroom was. On a wall hung the picture of his wife. Below that was an old trunk of her belongings. A very heavy trunk. Behind the trunk, he had created a sliding opening into the wall, camouflaged well by cheap wallpaper. He pulled out the wrapped weapon and the box and went downstairs.
He stared somewhat stupefied at the rapid and precise movements with which the white-haired man examined the weapon, a scope and the bullets. The other man, Vincent opened the box and then asked for a mirror. Hammer continued to gape as a moustache, a beard and make up made their appearance and suddenly the men in front of him looked different. The only thing that had not changed was the eyes of the old man He swallowed again and his mind muttered a prayer for these men to depart.
It was a grey morning in London too. The Home Secretary Lord H______ was talking with Lestrade.
‘I cannot understand how you, Lestrade, have concluded that Colonel Moran escaped from Dartmoor just to target Mr. Sherlock Holmes? I think a man who has spent a significant part of his life locked up is probably planning to leave the country via a sea-faring vessel somewhere. He is probably already on that vessel. He is free. Why would he risk everything by engaging in this personal quest of vendetta? It is impractical, dash it. I must also say that this prison break is the sort of thing that undermines our credibility. How soon will you recapture him?’
‘Sir, your assumptions are perfectly logical. However, it is my firm belief that the Colonel at this age has only one unresolved goal. This is a man who enjoyed the hunt. He did unspeakable things because he wanted to do them. One man stopped him. I was there when we arrested him. I was there when he swore revenge. Unlike his associate, the late criminal mastermind Professor Moriarty, Colonel Moran was remarkably focused on one objective at a time. Mr. Sherlock Holmes ended his sport; he ended the fun of the hunt. Moran is unlikely to forget. Even if he is planning to leave the country, it will not be without extracting his revenge. All I ask for Sir, is a few good men to be deployed to East Dean. Maybe for a week or two. I am sure this ends before that time frame Sir. Also, if I may be so bold Sir, recapturing a murderer against who nothing can be proven is not the best solution. Jail was never going to be a solution for evil.’
‘Good Heavens man, in your old age, have you completely lost you regard for the law, Lestrade? What are you even suggesting? We are not barbarians. Recapture him. And the other man too. Soon.’
‘I am sorry Sir if I overstepped any boundaries. It was certainly not my intention to suggest any specific course of action. I was merely expressing an opinion from a motive of deep concern.’
‘Don’t patronize me Lestrade. I need not tell you however that a policeman can always shoot in self-defence.’
‘Indeed, you need not, Sir.’
‘Results, Lestrade, results and soon. I am half expecting a summons from Buckingham Palace. Colonel Sebastian Moran. Good Lord.’
In another part of London, Bertie Wooster was puzzled and more than a little worried. He was speaking with Jeeves.
‘I say, Jeeves, it is most careless of Roberta to not speak to me in person or on the phone. How could she not return home last night? How could you not wake me up and tell me that she had not returned? Who is this friend of hers in Eastbourne that she has rushed off to assist in a medical emergency?’
‘I am afraid Sir, that Lady Wickham was in a great hurry when she called me. She was quite brief and gave specific instructions that I should not disturb your sleep since you were already exhausted from that tap dance contest at Mr. Prosser’s party. Sir you do know that she had an appointment for a charitable cause with the local church in Spitalfields. I believe that she left for this urgent personal assignment straight from there. I was immediately comforted by the fact that Sir Shash may have accompanied her.’
‘Sir Shash, you say?’
‘Yes Sir.’
‘That eases the mind a bit, Jeeves.’
‘Yes Sir.’
‘More than a bit, my dear fellow. I would say, she is under capable guidance.’
‘Indeed Sir.’
‘I haven’t seen the old boy in a couple of weeks. He has not been to the Drones either. Bingo was wondering if he is off on one of his mystical journeys to India.’
‘He is very much in England Sir.’
‘Is he involved with the church in Spitalfields, Jeeves?’
‘I could not say Sir. He does support Lady Wickham’s causes often Sir.’
‘Never say no to a friend, that is the Wooster code. Also, his.’
‘Indeed Sir.’
‘Well then, I am glad we cleared this up. Anything in the news Jeeves?’
‘Some jailbreak in Dartmoor Sir. Not many details.’
‘Right Ho. Some excitement for the rural constabulary then. They should have something to do occasionally.’
‘I agree Sir. You have luncheon with Lady Angela today, Sir.’
‘It had almost slipped my mind Jeeves, thank you.’
‘Not at all Sir.’
6
‘There you go Mr. Holmes, Mr. Watson, Sirs, fried eggs, toast, rashers and beans,’ said Mrs Hope, beaming.
She looked expectantly at Dr. Watson who was staring at nothing in particular and her face fell.
‘Thank you, Mrs Hope, everything looks positively… topping,’ said Sherlock Holmes awkwardly.
‘I will be back with the Earl Grey presently,’ said Mrs Hope and scuttled off into the kitchen.
Holmes turned to Watson.
‘Watson, are you still worrying over that phone call? It is not like you to be reticent over breakfast. At this rate, Mrs Hope is going to be worried that you are coming down with the flu? I noticed a look on her face.’
Watson suddenly looked at Holmes, snapping out of his reverie.
‘Oh good, Holmes, breakfast is served. Let us dig in. Mrs Hope appears to have outdone herself today.’
‘Watson, do you feel well?’
‘Yes, Holmes, why do you even ask?’
‘Nothing, my good fellow. Oh, look Watson, my eyes spy a Bentley closing in. It may just be the young lady you are so fond of.’
Watson tried to peer through the window. The bell rang. Mrs Hope rushed to open it and soon introduced Lady Roberta Wickham and Sir Shash.
Dr. Watson stood up with a schoolboy smile on his face. Bobbie Wickham walked up to him with a bright smile and held out her hand. Dr Watson kissed it. ‘Dr. Watson, Sir, you are ever the gallant knight,’ said Bobbie. She gave his hand an affectionate squeeze. Sir Shash shook hands with him.
Bobbie and Sir Shash then shook hands with the legendary detective. Bobbie gave him a tight hug and Holmes coughed anxiously.
‘Lady Wickham and Sir Shash,’ began Holmes, ‘You have been driving all night and by all appearances look completely exhausted. Though I am delighted to see you both again, I would urge you first to have breakfast with us, and then make use of one of the rooms upstairs to wash and rest.’
‘Yes, Mr. Holmes,’ said Bobbie. She suddenly paused and said, ‘Blast! I forgot to bring in the most important items. She bolted out to where the Bentley was, passing an astonished Mrs. Hope with a friendly ‘Hello.’
Dr Watson said, ‘What is the matter, Lady Wickham?’ and went to the door. So did Mrs Hope.
They looked on in astonishment as a few moments later Lady Roberta Wickham walked back towards the house with a Winchester 12 in her right hand and an extraordinarily ornated double barrelled flintlock gun in her left. Mrs. Hope’s right hand involuntarily moved to cover her open mouth and stifled a vocal expression of shock.
Dr Watson came back slowly to the breakfast table. The memories of the phone calls of the previous night flooded right back. He wondered how he could have forgotten. The sleeping pills having an unintended effect? Intended effect? First, Inspector Battle’s call warning of Colonel Moran’s escape. Second, Lady Roberta saying that she would come to East Dean as soon as she could. Now, she was here. With Sir Shash.
His mind flashed a newspaper headline from a few months ago, ‘Lord A____, found shot in apartment, London police conclude ill-fated burglary.’ The Ripper’s killings had stopped that night. Not many knew what had happened. He did. Holmes did.
He stared at Sir Shash chatting with Holmes, smiling. He looked at the tired but ever radiant Lady Roberta Wickham.
They had come for Moran now.
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