7
John Clay was running faster than he ever had. In the dark, Friston forest was nature at its most forbidding. He had already fallen over several times. His knees hurt. Between bouts of panic, his mind kept flooding with the day’s events. After making the weapon pick up at Steyning, they had stayed put in Herbert Hammer’s first floor room. Hammer had provided them a free meal. His exhaustion had taken over. He had fallen asleep till late in the afternoon. The Colonel had woken him up for the drive to East Dean. As they drew nearer, the Colonel had insisted that they take a small detour towards Friston forest and that he would no longer need Clay’s assistance afterwards.
The tyres of his car were shot out first as he was driving away. The next bullet smashed the rear glass. What was the Colonel doing? Another bullet whizzed past his neck and smashed the front glass. It was then that Clay jumped out of the running car into a hedge. The car hit a cluster of trees and stalled. He started running. He started shouting. Even as he shouted, he knew no one could hear him. Who would hear him in this place? The early evening sun had retreated into the greying sky. It would rain again soon.
He continued to run, tripped over a branch and his face hit a stone. He lay there for a while. Colonel Moran. His mind flashed to the rumours he had heard in prison. He willed himself up when a bullet hit his leg. He groaned and fell. The pain was nothing like he had experienced before.
‘You must stop this thievery John, you must. Your Pa, he came to a bad end. You will too, my son. They ain’t one for forgivin’ once you become an adult. At fifteen, they forgive, later they won’t my son.’
‘Sure Ma, be poor, be hungry all the time Ma, be God fearin’ and such. And then die poor too. Ever seen a feast, Ma? You see their clothes, Ma? You see ours. The difference Ma, is that I am clever, I don’t lose control. Money does not come from praying Ma. And let me tell you this straight, I am clever. I won’t get caught again.’
Only he had been caught. By that detective on Baker Street. Later he came to know that the detective was no ordinary man. The English public revered him; the government felicitated him with honours. That was some consolation; to be outwitted by a legend. Had he ever truly been clever? What was this that he was doing now? He had driven himself to his own death? Is this what Ma had said?
He turned over and looked at the sky. Dark was the night. John Clay began to chuckle and cry at the same time. He shouted ‘Ma.’ The face of the Colonel loomed above him. Those eyes. This was not a man. A shot rang out and John Clay aka Vincent Spaulding heard no more.
Approaching East Dean at full speed was a police vehicle. Lestrade was sitting in the back seat. So was Inspector Battle. Two young men sat in the front. One was a skilled driver. The other was a sharpshooter.
‘Keep doing that speed, Andrew,’ said Lestrade and turned to speak to Battle.
‘Do you know why I told Sir Shash, Battle?’
‘No Sir.’
‘Moran was once posted in India.’
‘I see Sir.’
‘England is owed by Moran, Battle. So is India.’
8
It was that hour when people have finished supper and are thinking of listening to something on the radio or reading a book before turning in for the night. At Sherlock Holmes’s residence, by the fire, sat Lestrade, Inspector Battle, Dr Watson, Mrs. Hope and the legendary detective himself.
Sir Shash and Lady Roberta Wickham had excused themselves earlier in the afternoon and had not yet returned. They told Dr. Watson that they needed to buy a change of clothes and that they had to send telegrams to London. They took the car as Lady Roberta was too exhausted to walk. Mrs Hope noted that they put the guns in the trunk of the car.
‘A strange couple,’ she had said to herself. ‘They take out the guns. They put back the guns. Why do they have guns? They are not the police.’
Mrs Hope usually did not stay this late but on this night, she had felt that Mr. Holmes would not be able to handle he unusual number of guests he had received that day.
Supper was now over. The policemen had refused to eat the good food she had made.
She sat on a chair in the corner of the living room and pondered, ‘I have never seen so many people visit the same day. Something isn’t quite right. They are all going to need tea and something to eat soon. These men cannot simply live on sandwiches in paper bags. What a travesty!’
Outside in the rain, in the police car, sat the two young men who had been told to stay on watch. The incessant precipitation had necessitated sitting inside the vehicle. Andrew and Ian were used to waiting all night. Their experiences with Inspector Battle had taught them that opportunities presented themselves when you waited with patience.
Inside, Lestrade spoke, ‘As I have mentioned before Mr Holmes, it is my presumption that Colonel Moran is headed here. Perhaps, I should use stronger word. It is my conviction. The man has only one thing on his mind. Revenge. He is a killer. His escape from Dartmoor is unfathomable. He escaped with another convict who you know quite well. They had help. From the inside. Maybe someone powerful from the outside too. Why would anyone want him loose?’
Battle followed up, ‘Chief Lestrade and I discussed the possibility that the only reason John Clay was chosen to escape with him is that Clay knew how to drive a motor vehicle. We suspect the Colonel has never driven a modern automobile. Now, we guess that even accounting for the poor weather and impaired visibility on the country roads, he should be somewhere close. The assumption of course, remains that he is indeed coming here. There is a slight possibility that he may have planned an escape outside England, perhaps even to foreign shores. However, I agree with Chief Lestrade that his mental makeup is entirely driven by violence.’
Dr Watson replied, ‘Gentlemen, I tried convincing Holmes last night to leave. He is too stubborn. He is willing to risk it all but not listen to reason. I can only hope for his sake that Colonel Moran values his personal freedom over any evil design of retribution. Surely, even he must know that his time in prison was no punishment for his heinous crimes.’
Holmes gave an impatient wave of the hand.
‘Lestrade, Battle, my dear Watson here is speaking from the heart. He has always had that issue. It is quite simple, gentlemen. Moran had help. There are powerful men in England and elsewhere who would like to see me depart the land of the living. I have damaged enough criminal enterprises and exposed too many political spies to not have a rather long list of adversaries. As you say, John Clay was picked for a purpose. For someone like the Colonel, he would be a completely disposable handyman. You would have heard what he did in Afghanistan with some of his own people. He will come here. It is inevitable. Today, tomorrow, a week from now, the time of his appearance is secondary. He will come. It is in his nature to hunt. Even Moriarty knew he was uncontrollable. I may be his target but I am your bait. Use me and deliver justice. At my age, this may be the final service, I can offer this country.’
‘Oh Gentlemen, this is all extremely upsetting talk,’ protested Mrs Hope. ‘I shall make some tea to calm my nerves and some for all of you.’ She got up and left the room. Lestrade motioned for Battle to go after her. Battled nodded.
He walked into the kitchen to put Mrs. Hope at ease.
‘Mrs Hope, there is really no need to worry too much. You may have noticed that Mr. Holmes and Dr. Watson have very able company from the us. I am sure that the criminal they seek will be apprehended soon.’
Mrs Hope looked at Inspector Battle and said, ‘Sir, it is not my place to ask and forgive me if I seem forward. It is just that I have cared for both Mr. Holmes and Mr. Watson for some time now. They are both wonderful gentlemen. You won’t see many like them anymore. However, I have the common sense to see that today is not a normal day. Why you should have seen Lady Wickham and that Indian gentleman who came this morning. They had apparently driven all night and they had these guns. Sir, I have a sinking feeling. As I said, it is not my place to ask.’
Battle was about to reply when the telephone rang. He stopped. The murmur of the conversation in the living room paused.
Sherlock Holmes said authoritatively, ‘It is for me. I shall take the call.’
Cautious faces watched him as he picked the receiver in the narrow corridor.
‘Holmes, is that you?’ asked a low, raspy voice.
‘Yes. Colonel Sebastian Moran, I presume?’
‘You do know that I am a now free man Holmes.’
‘Where are you?’
‘I am close by. But you were expecting me, were you not? There is a car outside your home. A police car. You have called for protection.’
Holmes heard a noise that sounded like laughter.
‘I am able to protect myself Colonel.’
‘No. You are not able to do anything much Holmes. I have eyes and ears, you see. I know things too. You know why I am here. Surely, you must have deduced that.’
‘Yes, you are here for revenge. Years ago, I outwitted you. I had you arrested. You want to have the final say in this rivalry.’
‘Rivalry? We are not rivals. Now listen to what I say. I am in East Dean. In five minutes, I shall knock on the first door I can locate. Whoever answers, I shall shoot them immediately. Man, woman or child. Then, I shall knock on a second door. Unless…’
‘Unless what Colonel?’
‘Unless, you ask your police friends to stay home and have a nice cup of tea. Wear your coat, come out, walk to the telephone booth on High Street. Alone. I will make it quick.’
‘Colonel, how do you know you are not in police sights since you claim that I have called them?’
‘Holmes, I saw the police car arrive. I was already here. There are four. If you don’t show up now, I will first kill the two in the car. I will kill the other two later. Come out now. Do not waste my time.’
The phone disconnected.
Holmes told the faces looking at him, ‘I must walk out. You all must remain here. If we do anything else, he plans to execute innocents.’
Dr Watson was frantic.
‘No Holmes, you go out and he will shoot you from a distance. That is his modus operandi.’
‘My dearest friend, the time has come. I can never thank you enough. In case I do not return, I wish you well.’
Dr. Watson sat on down on a chair and buried his head in his hands.
Holmes looked at Lestrade and Battle.
‘Gentlemen, after he kills me, find and shoot him. Like me, he is old. Getting away in this weather will not be easy.’
Holmes grabbed his hat, his overcoat and his walking stick. He spoke to Mrs Hope who was standing with a terrified look on his face.
‘I do not see Miss Wickham or Sir Shash, Mrs. Hope. Convey my regards. I thank you.’
He walked out in the rain. The two young policemen in the car got but Holmes motioned at them to stay back.
Colonel Sebastian Moran hung up the phone in the telephone booth and stepped out. His overcoat mostly hid the gun he was holding in his hand.
He noticed a Bentley a few metres away. Its lights suddenly came on. He squinted.
A door opened. A man stepped out.
He called out, ‘Colonel Moran.’
He pointed the gun at the man whose face he could not see. The rain had reduced visibility further.
‘How do you know who I am?’
‘Photograph given by Lestrade. That moustache sure looks funny.’
Colonel Moran fired the Short Magazine Lee Enfield. The bullet hit the door. The man behind the door had run to the back of the car. He fired again twice. The glass of the Bentley shattered but he was not sure if the man had been hit. There was some screaming in the distance.
‘Colonel Moran,’ shouted out a female voice.
He turned around, gun pointed but saw no one.
A bullet hit him in the back. He was flung to the ground face forward. He tried to turn around. His muscles were refusing his command. He back was on fire. He turned his head backwards.
An Indian was looking down at him. In his hand was a double-barrelled flintlock.
‘What? Who? How dare you?’
Colonel Moran tried to raise his right arm where he held his gun. However, the gun was now pressed down by a red-haired woman’s riding boot. It was summarily kicked away. Moran managed to turn around. He was flat on his back. A Winchester was pointed at his face.
‘How?’
The red-haired woman said, ‘This village has two hundred people, all of six streets and one public telephone booth.’
His breathing grew more laborious. He had heard the sound of laborious breathing before. He had enjoyed it then. He was not enjoying this. Raindrops were not supposed to hurt. He was confused.
He heard the Indian say. ‘Step back Bobbie.’
The last thing Moran saw was the outline of a man in a deer stalker cap at a distance. The flintlock spoke once more.
Lestrade, Battle, Andrew and Ian had run out to the scene, pistols in their hands. They were relieved to see Sherlock Holmes standing near the Bentley.
Moran’s body lay on the street.
Sir Shash was standing against a wall. Lady Roberta Wickham was holding his face in her hands.
The End.
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