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Authors: Sam Christer
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assisted by a turnkey, or indeed, if one of them was a turnkey. Either of those options proffers a credible explanation. But of even greater interest is the identification of the person who commissioned them to carry out such an act.’
‘I have a long list of enemies, Mr Holmes.’
‘Of that I have no doubt.’ He grew thoughtful then added, ‘Tell me, Lynch, if you were to assemble said list in order of those who despise or fear you the most, whose name would be top of it?’
‘I have no idea.’
‘Think, man! Who is so impatient to have you buried that he cannot wait but a fortnight for the hangman to do the job for him?’
My mind spun with possibilities. Relatives or business associates of people I had killed. Perhaps police officers who had hunted me over the years. Rival gangs and criminals. Maybe even Johncock.
‘I see you are overwhelmed with candidates, so I will tell you.’
‘Please do.’
‘Moriarty.’
I huffed out a laugh.
‘Mark my words. This is the work of the master schemer. James Moriarty wants you dead. I saw it in his eyes in the Old Bailey courtroom when you were convicted. That man would hang you himself if he could.’
‘And why would he do that, Mr Holmes?’
‘You may spill family secrets. Might endanger him and his cohorts.’
‘You are a fantasist, sir.’
‘To the contrary. I am a realist. Moriarty’s agents will have told him I have been here. He will suspect an offer has been made to you and he knows that turning Queen’s Evidence would save your neck and endanger his own. The betrayal of a wicked master by a desperate servant is a common enough occurrence to prompt his hand and his darkest acts.’
‘You are deluded, Mr Holmes. As brilliant as you are, you are a blind fool when it comes to James Moriarty. He is not my master and I am not his servant. You really should stay clear of those opium dens or at least reduce your cocaine consumption; your judgement is impaired.’
‘I suspect you are more proficient at dispensing violence than insults.’ He rapped on the door so he might be released, then added, ‘Madness is coming for you, Lynch. Be certain of that. Make your deal now, before the stink and solitude of this place takes your sanity, before time runs out and, most importantly, before those playing chess with your life become bored and resort to other means of dispelling their worries.’
Derbyshire, September 1885
Mr Bailey, the effusive head of Heating, Bathing and Laundry, had been correct. Hanging in my room was a selection of shirts, both with and without collars, some ties and neckcloths, formal and informal trousers, waistcoats, a suit, several hats and caps, a pair of black shoes and sturdy boots. It was more clothing than I had ever owned.
I chose a pair of brown striped trousers, a red silk waistcoat and white flannel shirt. Dressing was an ordeal. Not because the items didn’t fit. They did. Perfectly. Someone had either guessed my size to the exact proportions or measured me in my sleep. No, the ordeal came because of the pain in my ribs. It seemed to me that the seaweed bath had done precious little to ease the suffering.
Having struggled into the garments, I stood before a wall mirror and considered myself quite a dandy. But why had I been given these clothes? Why was I here? Why had I been plucked from the spartan rooms of a northern mill and brought to this luxurious country estate?
What did the professor want of me?
I was still searching for answers when a well-dressed man appeared in my open doorway and gave a genteel cough to catch my attention. He was tall and gaunt, in his late forties, with greying hair and heavy, curly eyebrows.
‘I am Cornwell, sir, the butler. I am here to show you to the drawing room.’
I smoothed down my new clothes and nervously glanced again in the mirror.
The reflection of Cornwell appeared over my shoulder, ‘Might I recommend the
brown
waistcoat instead of the red, sir?’
‘You might, but I
‘I have a long list of enemies, Mr Holmes.’
‘Of that I have no doubt.’ He grew thoughtful then added, ‘Tell me, Lynch, if you were to assemble said list in order of those who despise or fear you the most, whose name would be top of it?’
‘I have no idea.’
‘Think, man! Who is so impatient to have you buried that he cannot wait but a fortnight for the hangman to do the job for him?’
My mind spun with possibilities. Relatives or business associates of people I had killed. Perhaps police officers who had hunted me over the years. Rival gangs and criminals. Maybe even Johncock.
‘I see you are overwhelmed with candidates, so I will tell you.’
‘Please do.’
‘Moriarty.’
I huffed out a laugh.
‘Mark my words. This is the work of the master schemer. James Moriarty wants you dead. I saw it in his eyes in the Old Bailey courtroom when you were convicted. That man would hang you himself if he could.’
‘And why would he do that, Mr Holmes?’
‘You may spill family secrets. Might endanger him and his cohorts.’
‘You are a fantasist, sir.’
‘To the contrary. I am a realist. Moriarty’s agents will have told him I have been here. He will suspect an offer has been made to you and he knows that turning Queen’s Evidence would save your neck and endanger his own. The betrayal of a wicked master by a desperate servant is a common enough occurrence to prompt his hand and his darkest acts.’
‘You are deluded, Mr Holmes. As brilliant as you are, you are a blind fool when it comes to James Moriarty. He is not my master and I am not his servant. You really should stay clear of those opium dens or at least reduce your cocaine consumption; your judgement is impaired.’
‘I suspect you are more proficient at dispensing violence than insults.’ He rapped on the door so he might be released, then added, ‘Madness is coming for you, Lynch. Be certain of that. Make your deal now, before the stink and solitude of this place takes your sanity, before time runs out and, most importantly, before those playing chess with your life become bored and resort to other means of dispelling their worries.’
Derbyshire, September 1885
Mr Bailey, the effusive head of Heating, Bathing and Laundry, had been correct. Hanging in my room was a selection of shirts, both with and without collars, some ties and neckcloths, formal and informal trousers, waistcoats, a suit, several hats and caps, a pair of black shoes and sturdy boots. It was more clothing than I had ever owned.
I chose a pair of brown striped trousers, a red silk waistcoat and white flannel shirt. Dressing was an ordeal. Not because the items didn’t fit. They did. Perfectly. Someone had either guessed my size to the exact proportions or measured me in my sleep. No, the ordeal came because of the pain in my ribs. It seemed to me that the seaweed bath had done precious little to ease the suffering.
Having struggled into the garments, I stood before a wall mirror and considered myself quite a dandy. But why had I been given these clothes? Why was I here? Why had I been plucked from the spartan rooms of a northern mill and brought to this luxurious country estate?
What did the professor want of me?
I was still searching for answers when a well-dressed man appeared in my open doorway and gave a genteel cough to catch my attention. He was tall and gaunt, in his late forties, with greying hair and heavy, curly eyebrows.
‘I am Cornwell, sir, the butler. I am here to show you to the drawing room.’
I smoothed down my new clothes and nervously glanced again in the mirror.
The reflection of Cornwell appeared over my shoulder, ‘Might I recommend the
brown
waistcoat instead of the red, sir?’
‘You might, but I
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