THE REVENGE OF THE FENIAN BROTHERHOOD, by Carole Buggé

Come all ye young rebels and list while I sing,

For the love of one’s country is a terrible thing

It vanishes fear with the speed of a flame

And makes us all part of the Patriots’s Game

—Tommy Makem

We have received many unusual visitors in our rooms on the second floor of 221 Baker Street, but I cannot remember any appearance more unexpected than that of the personage who appeared at our door on a cold, wet November night in 1889. I was, in fact, left speechless for some time—though Holmes, displaying his usual sang froid, calmly motioned our visitor towards the sofa.

“You realize, of course, my distaste in coming to you for assistance in this matter,” said our caller, settling his thin, bony frame into the depths of the sofa.

“Naturally,” Holmes replied, digging his long fingers into the Persian slipper which served as his tobacco tin.

I stood staring as foolishly as a school boy, until Holmes laid a hand gently on my shoulder.

“Please sit down, Watson; you are making me nervous.”

I sat slowly in my usual chair in front of the crackling fire, never taking my eyes off our guest. I don’t know what I thought he would do, but although I had never laid eyes on him before I was certain that this was a man you did not turn your back on.

Holmes was more sanguine, however, and deliberately turned his back to procure a match from the mantelpiece. At this our visitor chuckled.

“Always the showman, eh, Holmes?” he said in a low voice, hissing his s’s, his grey eyes as hooded as a viper’s. He turned his steely gaze on me, and it was then I first made eye contact with the late Professor James Moriarty.

“No more than yourself,” Holmes replied, lighting his pipe and turning to face the Professor.

“Now it is you who are making me nervous, Holmes—sit down, please,” I said, my eyes still trained on Moriarty; some instinct deep within me would not let me take my gaze off of him. I had always thought of him as the personification of evil, and yet now what struck me about his face was how deeply pain was etched into every line, every crevice—as though someone had taken a sharp knife and carved out a mask of suffering. His eyes were dead, though, as cold and lifeless as the lidless eyes of a fish.

Holmes sat in the winged armchair opposite mine. “Now, then, Professor, what can I do for you?”

Moriarty gave off a long, slow exhalation of breath, which made a low hissing sound like air escaping from a tyre. There was a long pause as he rose and walked to the window, pulling aside the curtains to look out on the street below. I tensed in my chair, ready to spring, my mind racing—it occurred to me that he might be giving a signal of some kind. I glanced at Holmes, who appeared utterly unconcerned; he sat smoking peacefully, his eyes half-closed, fingers folded in repose on his lap.

Finally Moriarty spoke. “What a pitiful sight mankind is,” he said, still gazing out onto the street, “hurrying back and forth like so many ants, and all to what purpose? To work and spawn and die, with no more mindfulness than a doomed salmon swimming upstream towards his death.”

“You certainly did not come here to philosophise with me,” said Holmes. “May I ask—”

“You are unaware, perhaps that I have a brother?” Moriarty interrupted, swivelling to face us, and again I was struck by the pain which had hardened into the lines of his face.

“I had heard something of it,” Holmes replied, “from my own brother.”

“Ah, yes, Mycroft,” Moriarty said, his thin lips curling into something resembling a smile.

“I believe he lives in Ireland, does he not?”

Again Moriarty sighed, but when he spoke his voice was a sneer. “If anyone could be said to actually ‘live’ in Ireland. He is, in fact, a Catholic priest.”

If Holmes felt any surprise at this revelation he betrayed none. Moriarty, however, snickered. “Yes, it is ironic, isn’t it? A brother who is a man of the cloth—when I have devoted myself to quite another kind of priesthood.”

“He is in trouble, your brother?”

Moriarty nodded, his large head swivelling precariously on its long, thin neck; it was as though the head of a bull had been set upon the body of a giraffe.

“We had a—falling out, shall we say—and have not spoken for some years, and yet—when I came by the information that I am about to tell you I had no choice but to intervene.”

“No choice—?”

Moriarty smiled, and though I would not say it was a warm smile, some of the hard lines on his face softened. “It may surprise you to know that even I have areas in my life which are—sacred, so to speak.”

“Not at all,” Holmes replied. “I would have assumed as much.”

“I am afraid that it is so unoriginal as to be a cliché, but I made a promise to my dying mother that no matter what came I would look after my younger brother Sean. And I have kept that promise—until now, that is.”

“I see; pray continue.”

Moriarty walked back to sit upon the couch again; his gait swayed like that of a large flightless bird.

“You have perhaps heard of the Fenian Brotherhood?”

“I have heard of them, yes—they are essentially a terrorist organization bent on the eradication of British rule in Ireland. Is your brother mixed up with them?”

“On that contrary; he is their sworn enemy. I have reason to believe they have kidnapped him.”

“I see.” Holmes’s face was stoic as ever, but he could not conceal the gleam of interest in his grey eyes, which burned dark as coals in the dull November light.

“So you see your involvement in this case would be for the good of England as well. If you don’t believe me, ask your brother Mycroft; he is privy to every bit of international intelligence, is he not?”

Holmes just smiled in reply. “Why do you come to me for assistance when you have a network of your own upon which to draw?”

Moriarty’s face hardened again, and his dark eyes clouded over. “Because my brother must know nothing of my involvement in his rescue. He knows my agents, and he knows the way I operate. He has taken great pains to disassociate himself from me—”

“And yet you protect him—” I blurted out.

“As I said, Dr Watson, every man has some things that are sacred.”

“Say no more,” Holmes said graciously; “I see your predicament. Do you know whether Scotland Yard has been informed of this matter yet?”

Moriarty let out what could have been taken for a laugh—a short, brutal exhalation of air. “If they have, they have not learned it from me.”

“Why don’t you tell me what you know?”

“There isn’t much to tell. My brother was invited to preach at a notoriously pro-Fenian church here in London, and his subject matter did not sit well with certain factions in the congregation…the next day he went out in the morning and did not return.”

“I see. Naturally you suspect elements of that organization.”

“Let’s just say there’s a strong certainty, Holmes.” Moriarty’s eyes narrowed and darkened. “It’s well for them that I am not handling this myself…I would make them pay in ways you cannot imagine,” he said in a cold, flat voice.

I shuddered at not so much his words as the way he said them.

Holmes rose from his chair. “I will begin working on it immediately.”

Moriarty rose stiffly and walked to the door in his peculiar, swaying gait. When he reached the door he paused.

“You realize, of course, that this changes nothing between us?”

Holmes smiled. “Of course.”

Their eyes met briefly and they exchanged a look extraordinary in its contradictions—it was full of understanding without friendship, admiration without affection; the sort of look two opposing generals might give one another on the eve of battle. Without another word Moriarty turned and was gone. I listened as his footsteps descended the stairs, and only when I heard the front door latch behind him did I turn to Holmes.

“I didn’t know he had a brother.”

Holmes shrugged. “Neither did I.”

“But you said—”

“My dear Watson, with a man like Moriarty it is better not to admit ignorance on any matter if you can avoid it.”

“But how did you know he lived in Ireland?”

“That was a lucky guess; Moriarty is an Irish name.”

“But what if this whole thing is a trap?”

“I think we can rule that out easily enough,” he replied, opening the door to the sitting room. To my surprise, our landlady Mrs Hudson was standing in the hallway outside. She wore an apron and there was flour on her hands.

“Yes, Mrs Hudson?” said Holmes with a smile.

“I just thought I’d come up and see…if everything was all right—that is,” she said, flustered.

“Quite all right, thank you,” Holmes replied, scribbling something on a piece of paper. “Would you see that Master Tuthill of the Baker Street Irregulars gets this?” he said, handing the note to Mrs Hudson.

“Yes, sir,” she answered, tucking it into the pocket of her apron. “Mr Holmes, may I ask you something? That fellow who was just here…he—what I mean is, was he—?”

“Yes, Mrs Hudson, he was. And now don’t let us detain you any longer; please return to your baking.”

“What—? Oh, yes,” she said, looking at her flour-covered hands. “Yes, of course…”

“Goodbye, Mrs Hudson, and thank you,” Holmes said firmly.

“You’re welcome, Mr Holmes; quite welcome, I’m sure.” She looked as if she wanted to say something else, but Holmes escorted her gently to the door and closed it behind her.

“The less she knows about this the better for her,” he said, heading for his bedroom.

“He’s telling the truth, you think, then?”

“We shall find out soon enough. It’s time for a visit to Brother Mycroft.”

The Diogenes Club was in Pall Mall, across from Mycroft’s rooms, and a short distance from his office. His routine rarely varied; he could be found in his office until precisely four forty-five, at which time he made his way to his club, then at exactly seven-forty trundled off to his lodgings. It is ironic that the physical universe inhabited by this extraordinary creature was as limited as his mental world was expansive. Holmes had once confided to me that Mycroft was not only his intellectual superior, but that “one might even say that Mycroft is the government.” Holmes was not a man given to exaggeration, and so my respect for his brother Mycroft was considerable.

We entered the august edifice which housed the club, a heavy grey stone building typical of the mid-Victorian period, and headed straight for the Visitors’ Lounge, the only room in the cavernous structure in which conversation was allowed. Mycroft Holmes was seated in an armchair, and I thought he had grown a tad heftier since our last encounter. His grey eyes were as keen as his brother’s, however, and his massive skull was evidence of the same magnificent brain power. I sat—or rather sank—down upon a low overstuffed armchair.

“You are dealing with an offshoot of the Fenians called the Triangle,” he said, without any conversational preamble. “They call themselves The Invincibles, or Clann na Gael. Some of their darker deeds include the murder of Lord Frederick Cavendish, shortly after he was appointed Chief Secretary for Ireland, in 1882; they are also suspected of crimes in the United States. They are ruthless and will stop at nothing to achieve their goal of Irish independence.”

He paused and lit the pipe which sat at on the arm of his chair, and thin reeds of smoke curled around his broad head.

“The government has already received a ransom note in the matter of Moriarty’s brother, offering to exchange him for Fenian prisoners. An exchange is of course out of the question. The men we hold are directly implicated in the dynamite campaign of 1883, in which a number of bombs were set off all over England, some of which killed innocent people.”

“One more thing,” said Mycroft as we rose to leave; “we have reason to believe that a bomb will be planted in a major edifice somewhere in London within the next few days. I needn’t tell you that the consequences could be catastrophic.” He handed Holmes a piece of paper. “These password phrases may or may not work; however, it is the most current information we have.”

“I see,” said Holmes. He studied the paper, his lean face tight, his grey eyes gleaming in the dim light of the Diogenes Club.

Mycroft walked us to the door, and as we turned to leave he laid a hand on his brother’s shoulder.

“Be careful, Sherlock.”

I was struck more by the uncharacteristic gesture than by his words, but Holmes just nodded.

Outside, we stood for a moment watching a dimly glimmering twilight settle over London. Holmes stood upon the stairs, his sharp profile silhouetted against the waning light in the western sky. I wondered what thoughts were racing through that quicksilver brain when suddenly he shook off his mood, sprang into the street, and hailed a cab. The cab ride back to Baker Street was spent in silence; Holmes sat in the corner wrapped in thought, and I knew better than to disturb him at times like this.

When we arrived at Baker Street Holmes went straight to his bedroom without a word. I sat down on the couch and filled my pipe. I didn’t like this, any of it, but I was so accustomed to deferring to Holmes in most matters that I didn’t know if I should say anything. My concern turned to astonishment a few minutes later when Holmes emerged from the bedroom dressed in a black suit and clerical collar.

“What do you think, Watson?”

“Good heavens, Holmes!”

“I admit it’s a bit of a stretch, but it’s necessary under the circumstances.”

“But—”

“Oh, I know; my soul could go straight to hell.”

“I didn’t mean that, but don’t you think it’s a bit—”

“Sacrilegious? I suppose it is, but I’m sure I’ve committed worse sins. And now if you’ll excuse me, I shall be off,” he said, throwing his black Ulster on over his priestly garb. “Tell Mrs Hudson I shall be back in time for dinner and that I look forward to the fine fruit tart she is preparing for us.”

I didn’t even bother to ask Holmes how he knew it was a fruit tart. I closed the door after him and wandered around the sitting room for a while, trying to make sense of the strange events of the morning. Finally I lay down upon the couch and attempted to immerse myself in some medical texts which I had recently purchased. My mind was having none of it, however, and soon I drifted off into uneasy dreams in which masked gunmen tried to pull me off the couch where I lay. I clung to my pillow, though, until I heard Mrs Hudson’s voice coming from one of the gunmen.

“Dr Watson, wake up! There’s a message for you.”

I sat up abruptly and took the slip of paper which she held in her hand. I opened it and read:

“Meet me at Paddy O’Reilly’s—Holmes. P S…bring your revolver.”

“Thank you, Mrs Hudson.” I rose from the couch, groggy from the sleep which still clung to me. I thrust the note into my pocket and, with trembling hands, took my service revolver from the desk drawer and loaded it.

“I’m going out, Mrs Hudson,” I said, smoothing my hair and buttoning my cuffs. My wife had just given me a beautiful new pair of gold cufflinks with my initials engraved on them, and I was very taken with them.

“Wouldn’t you like some tea before you leave?” she said, picking up the sofa pillows which I had flung about the room in my dream-tossed slumber.

“No, thank you—I haven’t any time.”

As I closed the door behind me, she was fussing about the room muttering something about “regular hours” and “all this dashing about.”

The weather had cleared, and a brisk wind had picked up from the river. I pulled my coat about me as I stood waiting for a cab to arrive; and soon I was seated in a hansom rumbling east along the cobblestones.

London’s East End is sometimes referred to as “the other London.” This catch-all description includes the opium dens and whore houses in neighborhoods such as Whitehall and Spitalfields; it also describes the colorful but less ominous environs which respectable working class English people and foreigners made their home. The men and women who cleaned the houses and chimneys of the richer folk, who shod their horses and shined their shoes, who baked their pastries and sewed their clothes—these hard-working people resided to a large extent in the Eastern sector of the city. Holmes and I had often journeyed into these places—as a source of information, the pubs and tea rooms of the East End were invaluable. The Irish pubs of Spitalfields were no exception. In London in 1891 an Irishman was regarded as closer to a foreigner than an Englishman. They retaliated by taking their business en masse to the East End.

An Irish pub is not like an English pub. It is noisier, more boisterous, and more vital. There is usually music, there is often dancing, and there is always drinking—not polite social drinking, but serious, determined drinking, the consumption of alcohol serving as a revolt against the insults of the world. I am half Irish myself, and as a child I saw what motivated that kind of drinking, and also what it could do to a man.

Paddy O’Reilly’s was the kind of place you could go to forget the insults of the world—to drown them in a glass of stout if that was your choice—or to lose them in a reel played hard and fast on a concertina and a tin whistle. The sound of the music reached me even before I put my hand upon the handle of the heavy oaken door. It was a tune I recognized—“Mary’s Wedding,” a Scottish melody, and it was being played at breakneck speed on a fiddle and concertina, with a tin whistle supplying a kind of obligator or counterpoint. I stood in the doorway for a moment, pushed back by the harsh smell of tobacco, sawdust, and beer. The concertina player was middle-aged, with the heavy-lidded eyes of a Scotsman, and he sat pumping his instrument with a grim determination. Four or five dancers stomped out something close to the Highland fling, and a few other people watched them, clapping and laughing with a bleary-eyed euphoria.

I made my way across the sawdust-strewn floor, heading for a lone figure sitting hunched over at a table at the back of the room. I was very nearly drawn into the dance by a raucous young woman who attempted to link her arm around mine. Her red hair was wild; her eyes were wilder, and I extracted myself from her clutches, mumbling a polite excuse, and made my way to the back of the room.

When I reached the solitary man, who was seated at a dimly lit table in the corner, I sat down. When I looked at his face I thought I had made a mistake; surely the ruddy complexion and full cheeks did not belong to my friend Holmes. I began to rise, but I felt a strong hand upon my should pull my back down.

“Sit still, Watson! Do you want to call attention to us?”

It was unmistakably Holmes’s voice, and I could not prevent the look of astonishment which crossed my face.

“Holmes!” I whispered, “it is you, then!”

“Of course it is. Now keep still and try not to look suspicious.”

Holmes ordered two glasses of stout from the surly waiter, whose cigarette perched upon his lower lip, defying the laws of gravity and physics.

“Try to look inconspicuous,” Holmes muttered as the man set two foaming mugs in front of us.

“By the way, what happened to your last disguise?” I said, taking a sip of the heavy, sweet dark liquid in my glass.

“It was very useful for a time.” He smiled. “I’m afraid I violated the sanctity of the confessional, but as you know, Watson, I am not religious.”

“You mean—you posed as a priest to hear confessions?”

“The Fenians are Catholics to a man, and a Catholic may do any number of heinous deeds, but if he is a good Catholic he will always confess it to his priest.”

“Holmes—!” I was raised Church of England myself, but still I admit I was shocked.

“Yes, Watson; no doubt I am a sinner, and if there is a hell, I shall end up there.” He dismissed the thought with a wave of his hand. “No matter; I now know the identity of at least one of the conspirators. You see that man there?” he said, indicating a large, heavy-shouldered man who stood watching the dancers as they spun and bobbed to the music. With his thick unruly hair and massive torso, he resembled a large brown bear.

“Yes?”

“He is a good Catholic; he is also a kidnapper, and very probably a murderer.”

Just then, as if he had sensed we were talking about him, the man turned towards us, and I saw his lips part to reveal a mouth of large, yellowed teeth. His face was heavy and thick-featured, a crudely sensual face, and I shuddered at the sight of so many teeth set between those thick lips. His eyes moved about the room but did not settle upon us, and when he turned back to watch the dancers I exhaled heavily; I had been holding my breath.

“So you—you followed him here?” I whispered to Holmes.

“Yes, and it was no easy feat, let me tell you. A priest attracts more attention on the street than an ordinary man, and several times I had to dart behind buildings to make certain he didn’t see me. But when he went in here I had some time to apply the makeup which you see I now wear.”

I shook my head; there seemed to be no end to my friend’s ingenuity.

“So what do we do next?” I asked, but just then Holmes’s hand gripped my arm.

“Shhh—it is time!” he said in a low voice.

Our massive friend was now bending over a table full of men, a serious expression on his florid face. The others at the table were a grim-looking lot, and a tall, sallow man who appeared to be the leader was speaking, his head lowered; all the others listened to him intently. “Time for what?” I whispered to Holmes.

“The thing we have come here to see. Avert your gaze; don’t let them see you looking at them!” Holmes hissed as one of the men at the table let his eyes roam idly around the room. It was too late, however; our eyes met and he nodded to me. His face would have been handsome except for his deeply pockmarked skin; his eyes were large and lustrous, and the high cheekbones bespoke an aristocratic heritage. My skin chilled as he bent over and said something to the thin sallow leader, who nodded and looked over at us.

“You have your revolver?” Holmes whispered.

“Right here in my pocket.” I closed my fingers over the handle of the gun; the cool smooth metal was reassuring in my hand.

The pockmarked man straightened up and walked towards us, and my fingers tightened around the revolver. However, when he reached us he smiled.

“Are you finding it unusually warm in here?” he said in a cultivated, educated voice with just a trace of an Irish accent.

“The weather can be unpredictable this time of year,” Holmes replied smoothly.

The man nodded, then turned and walked back to his table; once again he leaned over for a consultation with his leader. I held my breath; this was evidently the password which Mycroft had referred to, but he had said he was not certain if it would work. To my surprise, the man motioned to us, whereupon Holmes rose and walked over to the other table. I followed him, and I could feel the men’s eyes on us but I tried to look unconcerned. I am not the actor Holmes is, though, and I am afraid I did not manage to look any more nonchalant than I felt. In truth, my heart was racing and my palms were oozing sweat. I have been under fire in wartime and managed to remain rather cool, but there was something in the stares of these men which sent tingling threads of fear up my spine.

The thin sallow man regarded us through half-closed eyes; he reminded me of a long yellow cat.

“I understand you are interested in the current climate,” he said.

“My brother usually knows when it’s going to rain,” Holmes replied calmly.

The sallow man nodded, and motioned to his pockmarked lieutenant, who indicated that we should follow him. He led us across the sawdust-strewn floor, behind the musicians and other patrons, and through a narrow door on the other side of the bar. We followed him down a set of steep steps to a dimly-lit basement room. A few chairs were scattered about the room, and a podium stood underneath a flag of Ireland which had been tacked up on one wall.

“Wait here,” he said, and with that, left us and went back upstairs. Holmes and I stood listening to the sounds coming from upstairs. Someone was singing in a faltering tenor:

Oh Danny Boy, the pipes, the pipes are calling

From glen to glen and down the mountainside

I wondered what we were waiting for, and was about to ask Holmes what was going on, but just then I heard the sound of footsteps upon the stairs. Our pockmarked friend reappeared, followed by the large, thick-lipped fellow we had seen earlier, as well as the sallow man whom I took to be the leader. The rest of the men in his entourage were close behind, as well as a few others which I supposed had been scattered among the pub patrons. I estimated that there were perhaps two dozen people in the room including ourselves.

To my surprise, the wild-haired redhead was also among them, the only woman in the group. Holmes and I took our seats among the other patrons, and as we did, the young woman caught my eye and smiled. Though I averted my gaze, she came and sat next to us, brushing my leg with her long skirt as she did so.

“And what might your name be?” she said in a voice somewhat the worse for whiskey.

“Uh…Hugo,” I said uncertainly.

“Oh, are you French, then?”

I looked at Holmes, but he sat staring straight ahead.

“On my mother’s side.”

“Oh, the French are very romantic, aren’t they?” she replied, snuggling up closer to me.

“I—I don’t know,” I said miserably.

“Oh, but you should know…I could teach you, you know.”

Just then our pockmarked friend banged a gavel upon the podium at the front of the room.

“All right, it’s time we began,” he said, and the room quieted down. “Let’s all listen to what Brother Kerry has to say.”

The wan-faced leader took the podium. He stood for a moment gazing at his audience and then he spoke.

“Our fight has just begun. As most of you know, we are ready to strike a blow which will leave our English oppressors reeling. I will let Brother O’Malley tell you about it.”

With that, he stepped away from the podium and allowed the pockmarked man to take his place.

“This is the grandest plan we have ever conceived,” Brother O’Malley began, but just then the intoxicated young woman grasped my hand in hers. I pulled away, but her grip was tight, and as I pulled back the cufflink on my right sleeve came off and fell to the floor. She bent down and picked it up, and then her eyes fell upon the engraved initials: “JW.”

“You said your name was Hugo,” she said in a loud voice. Brother O’Malley stopped midsentence and looked at us.

“Is there a problem?” he said in a stern voice.

To my horror, the young woman stood up, swaying uncertainly.

“Yes, Annie; what is it?” Brother O’Malley said impatiently.

“We have a spy among us,” she said, pointing at me. At that moment my blood froze and ran cold in my veins; I felt as if the floor had suddenly been removed out from under me.

“Oh?” replied O’Malley in a wary voice. “What makes you think that?”

By now everyone was looking at us. I looked at Holmes; he sat utterly still, his face impassive, barely breathing.

“This cuff link!” Annie declared, holding it up for all to see.

“What about it?” said Brother Kerry, a gleam of suspicion in his eyes.

“Well, he told me his name was Hugo, but his cuff links have the initials “JW”! I say he’s a spy!”

There was a murmur of voices in the room. I slipped my hand into my pocket and gripped the revolver.

“Hmmm,” said Brother O’Malley, and he walked slowly towards us. I cursed myself for having worn these cufflinks, and for having the misfortune to attract the attention of the inebriated young woman.

It was too late, however; I think Holmes also knew the gig was up, because he stood up when O’Malley reached us.

“How did you manage to procure our password?” said O’Malley.

Holmes shrugged and did not reply. O’Malley nodded to the large bear-like fellow, who was looming nearby. To my horror, the huge fellow took two steps towards Holmes and suddenly rammed his massive fist into my friend’s stomach. Holmes groaned and fell to the floor. I drew my gun, but with a quickness I would not have given him credit for, the giant flicked his hand out with lightning speed and delivered a crushing blow to my wrist, sending the gun flying. Cradling my wrist in my other hand, I dropped to the floor.

“We don’t take too kindly to spies, you know,” said Brother O’Malley in a flat voice. He bent over Holmes, who lay gasping for breath.

“Who sent you?”

Holmes shook his head. O’Malley shrugged and turned to me. “Perhaps you will tell me—or it will not go well for your friend here.” He motioned to the bear-like man again, and before I could stop him he kicked Holmes in the ribs. Holmes moaned and lost consciousness.

Just then Annie interposed herself between O’Malley and us.

“Stop it—stop it, I say!” she screamed, clawing at him wildly. O’Malley nodded to his goon, whereupon the man lifted her off her feet and carried her from the room.

“I always said women should not be allowed to be a part of this,” muttered Brother Kerry, walking over to us.

“What shall we do with them?” said O’Malley.

“Oh, I think we can put them with our other friend for the time being—at least until we finish our meeting,” he replied, looking down at Holmes. “He’s no good to us right now, anyway.”

O’Malley nodded to several of the men, whereupon I found myself being half-carried and half-dragged from the room. Several of the men followed behind, carrying Holmes. A blindfold was placed over my eyes, and abruptly locked into darkness, I experienced the sensations which I imagined a blind man must feel. My world consisted now only of my other four senses, and I was suddenly very aware of the sounds and smells around me. I heard the smooth voice of O’Malley faded into the background and was replaced by the heavy steps of my captors, whose labored breathing indicated that they were unused to such strenuous exercise.

I was carried along for some ten minutes, and then I heard the high-pitched cry of seagulls and smelled the thick brackish aroma of the Thames; we were near the river. A door was opened and we entered a room; then another door, and then we stopped. I was shoved rudely into a chair, and I felt my hands and feet being tied. Then the blindfold was removed, and when my vision cleared I saw that I was in a long, low-ceilinged room, the walls and floor entirely made out of crude wooden planks; the kind of room you would see in a warehouse by the docks. Buoys and rusted anchors hung from the walls; coils of rotted rope sat in corners gathering dust; the warehouse had evidently been abandoned for some time. The room smelled of mildew and salt water.

The massive fellow, whom his comrades addressed as Connors, was engaged in tying Holmes to a chair. O’Malley stood, arms folded, gazing out of a small window at the other end of the room, the pale light highlighting the craters on his face. It was then I noticed there was a third figure in the room: along the far wall, in the shadows, I could barely make out the form of a man upon the floor, sitting slumped up against the wall. I strained my eyes to see better, but just then O’Malley turned and spoke.

“You stay and stand guard outside, Connors; we’ll deal with them later,” he said; “I have to get back to the meeting. Well, gentlemen,” he continued, addressing himself to me, “I trust you will introduce yourselves to each other; I shall return as soon as I can.”

With that he turned smoothly and left the room, followed by the other two men who had helped carry us here. Connors looked around the room, grunted, and then left. When he had gone I heard a bolt slide into place from the outside. Shortly afterwards I smelled cheap shag tobacco, and surmised that Connors was passing the time by having a smoke. I turned my attention to Holmes, who had begun to stir. My wrist had begun to throb, but I was far more concerned about his injuries than mine.

“Holmes—are you all right?” I whispered, not wanting Connors to hear our conversation. A moment passed, and then he replied in a weak voice.

“I’m all right, Watson—I was just stunned, that’s all.”

I didn’t tell him that I suspected he had a broken rib or two. Instead I strained to make out the man in the corner. “Holmes, there’s someone else in here with us!”

“Really?”

“Yes, over there in the corner!”

He twisted around to see, a move which caused him to wince in pain.

“Who is it, do you think?”

“I don’t know; he looks as though he’s been drugged, though.”

“Yes, I expect you’re right. Holmes—do you suppose it’s—could it be—?”

“That would be the most logical conclusion, certainly.”

Just then the man stirred and moaned softly.

“Hello—I say—hello there!” I whispered as loudly as I could.

He stirred again, and lifted his head. To my surprise, he chuckled softly.

“Well, well…Sherlock Holmes and Dr Watson, fancy meeting you here. I thought my brother might send you to rescue me.”

“So you are—”

“Father Sean Moriarty, at your service,” he said in a voice which had the same sibilant softness as his brother’s but without the restrained violence underneath. “I am correct, however, in surmising that you are here at the behest of my brother?”

“Your brother and I are enemies,” Holmes said evasively; “we are here on behalf of the British government.”

“Very well, have it your way,” Sean Moriarty said with a sigh. “I know he does not wish me to know of his involvement.”

“What is important is not why we are here, but how we are going to get out of here,” Holmes replied. “Are you able-bodied?”

“You were correct in surmising that I have been drugged, but the effect is now largely worn off; I thought it best to pretend I was still unconscious when our friends were here earlier.”

“Good,” said Holmes, and I mused that craftiness seemed to be one trait which remained consistent in both brothers.

“If they are going to kill us, they will not do so for at least one hour,” Sean Moriarty continued.

“Why is that?” I said, my tongue going dry at his words.

“Because high tide is an hour away, and that is by far the best time to dispose of bodies; the outgoing tide would sweep them out toward sea.”

“Admirably reasoned,” said Holmes, and I felt a pang of jealousy at the approval in his voice.

“There’s more at stake than just us, too,” our fellow prisoner continued; “I overheard them plotting something else, something big involving a bomb.”

There was a silence between us. I had already tried to work free of my bonds, but had only succeeded in giving myself rope burns; we were very securely and professionally bound.

We were evidently near one of London’s busier docks, because I could hear the cries of costermongers outside, advertising their wares.

“Pickled eels—fresh, oy!”

“Get your cress, fresh watercress—penny a bunch!”

Holmes was listening, too, and even in the dim light I could see the muscles of his face working. Suddenly he pursed his lips and emitted a low, soft whistle. He paused and listened for a reply, and to my surprise it came almost at once, the same exact whistle! Holmes whistled again, this time repeating the same tone in short, staccato bursts. Again the answer came, and again Holmes replied. I was wondering where this was all leading when I saw a face appear at the window. It was a weathered, wizened face, with broken veins on the cheeks and a nose red from drink, but never in my life was I so glad to see a face!

Holmes nodded to the man, who nodded and then disappeared from view. A moment later there was sound of glass being cut, and I saw that the sound was being made by a thin blade inserted between the pane and the window frame. The three of us in the room held our breath as the glass was cleanly and skillfully separated from its base. Moments later another face reappeared, followed by a body. This time I recognized the face: it was Master Tuthill of the Baker Street Irregulars. The boy wriggled his thin form through the window, dropping noiselessly to the floor; then he crept over began untying us one by one. He had just started to untie me when the door was flung open and Connors’s enormous bulk filled up the door frame.

“What’s going on here?” he said. Before he could make a move, Holmes sprang at him, knocking him backwards through the door. His strength was enormous, though, and he flung Holmes off as easily as if he were a rag. Holmes staggered and then went at him again, landing several blows to the big man’s torso. Connors grunted and struck out, but Holmes was lighter and quicker than his opponent, and easily avoided his blows.

“Hurry, Tuthill!” I cried as the boy struggled with my bonds.

“I’m goin’ as fast as I can!”

Holmes was aiming his punches to Connors’s face now, and the huge fellow was beginning to slow down when suddenly Holmes tripped over a coil of rotting rope. Connors took advantage of this and swung with all his might, and landed a blow to Holmes’ ribs, whereupon my friend doubled over and slumped to the floor.

Free now from my restraints, I threw myself at Connors with a roar, but didn’t even get near him; a blow to my head from one huge fist made me dizzy and I crumpled to the ground. My head spinning, I looked up through a haze of pain and saw Sean Moriarty rush at the big man. I closed my eyes, not wanting to see the results, but when I opened them moments later I saw Connors stretched out on the floor. Moriarty was standing over him, breathing heavily, rubbing his knuckles. I staggered unsteadily to my feet.

“Good Lord—what did you do to him?” I gasped.

“I did a bit of boxing before I was called to the priesthood,” he replied modestly, and I stared at him in wonder. Though possessed of the same wiry frame as his brother, I would not have thought he could deck the big man like that. Tuthill stood looking at Moriarty with an expression of adoration.

I turned my attention to Holmes, who lay upon the floor looking very wan; I feared his injuries were causing internal bleeding.

“Dr Watson, how are you at knots?”

“I’m excellent, sir,” Tuthill piped up; “I’ve worked on shipboard.”

Moriarty regarded the lad. “Good,” he said, pointing to Connors; “see that you tie him up well.”

“Yes, sir!” said the boy, and grabbing one of the ropes formerly used on us, he set to work.

“We must get out of here before he comes to and tells the others,” Moriarty said sharply, and then he bent over Holmes.

“Can you move?”

Holmes nodded, and we helped him to his feet. Gripping his side, his face deathly pale, he spoke in a raspy whisper. “What can you tell me—about what they—are planning?” he said, pausing between words to catch his breath.

I felt strongly that moving him was not a good idea, and yet we could not leave him here.

“I remember they said something about ‘the third time’s the charm’—”

“What else did they say? Can you remember anything else?”

“It’s difficult; I was drugged at the time…“ Moriarty paused, and then his face lit up..”Wait a minute—yes, they say something about ‘the bird will have flown for the last time!’”

“Excellent!” cried Holmes, and then he winced and paused for breath. “Quickly, we must hurry!”

“Where are we going?” I said, following him out of the warehouse.

“To St. Paul’s Cathedral!”

I immediately grasped Holmes’s reasoning. Twice destroyed by fire, a bombing of St Paul’s would indeed be “a third time.” The ‘bird’ was a thinly veiled reference to Christopher Wren, the architect who designed the current building.

“May I come along, Mr Holmes?” said Tuthill.

“No, Tuthill, it could be very dangerous,” Holmes replied; “but you have rendered us a great service today which I won’t forget.” The boy’s beaming face showed the impact Holmes’ praise had on him, and again I felt myself foolishly wishing those words had been spoken to me.

The night was dark and overcast but as the three of us scrambled up the bank of mud which led away from the river I could see the sweat gleaming on Holmes’ forehead. When we reached Cannon Street we flagged down a cab.

“There’s an extra guinea for you if you hurry!” Holmes cried to the driver, and soon we were rattling along the cobblestones at a brisk canter. The driver earned his money, for we arrived there within minutes.

St Paul’s Cathedral’s reputation as one of the greatest cathedrals in Europe is well deserved. Its dome dominates the skyline of the City like a mountain rising majestically out of foothills. Christopher Wren’s design displays a harmony and balance which is both calming and exhilarating, and as we dashed through the marbled entryway I couldn’t help feeling overwhelmed by its grandeur.

Suddenly Holmes gripped my arm. “There—there he is!”

I followed his gaze and saw the thin form of O’Malley dart behind a column.

“He’s seen us,” said Moriarty.

“Go around the back way, Watson; Moriarty and I will separate and cover the entrances.”

I nodded and crept around the row of silent marble columns, my eyes straining to catch a sight of our quarry. The smooth floor and resonance of the walls made it difficult to move quietly, but I tiptoed as softly as I could. I stopped and listened. There was no sound except my own breathing, and I listened vainly for the echo of other footsteps.

Suddenly my eye caught a movement behind one of the columns. I froze and stopped breathing for what seemed like an eternity, then crept slowly forward.

“Well, Dr Watson, I must congratulate you—I don’t know how you escaped, but now you will die a glorious death for the cause of Ireland.”

I spun around to see O’Malley holding a gun pointed at my chest. Under his arm he carried an ominous-looking package wrapped in brown paper.

“Don’t do it, O’Malley; think of the loss.”

“Oh, but we’re all thinking about loss all the time,” he replied, his dark eyes narrow. “The loss of our homeland—the Ireland that once was but is no more thanks to the British government.”

“But this won’t solve anything,” I said desperately; “you’ll only be killing innocent people.”

O’Malley shrugged. “Do you know how many people died in the potato famine because of the greed and indifference of British landlords? An eye for an eye. It’s in the Bible, you know.”

“And a tooth for a tooth.”

O’Malley turned around to face Holmes, who stood there looking as pale as a ghost. As he did I threw myself at him, knocking him to the ground. I grabbed for the gun, and we fought for possession of it—then suddenly a shot rang out. O’Malley’s eyes stared wildly into mine, and then his body went limp.

“Watson—are you all right?” Holmes cried, sinking to the ground beside us.

“Quite all right, thank you,” I said, secretly pleased at the desperation in his voice. He was not a man given to emotional outburst, and it warmed me to the core to hear the concern he felt for my safety.

“Thank God,” he said, and then gingerly picked up the package from where it had fallen on the floor. We opened it, and found that the timing device had not yet been set. “I think we’d best take this to Scotland Yard,” he said as Sean Moriarty joined us. The commotion caused by the gunshot had already attracted several policemen, and I convinced Holmes to give them custody of the bomb and go back with me to Baker Street.

Only once we were safely back in our sitting room did I get a close look at Father Sean Moriarty. He had the same high domed forehead, the same thin lips as his brother, but without the cruelty about his mouth. His black eyes were softer, and as he sipped the tea which Mrs Hudson insisted on serving us, he shook his head, reminding me of the strange reptilian head swivelling which was peculiar to James Moriarty.

“My brother must have felt a bitter humiliation when he came to you for help.” At Moriarty’s insistence, Holmes and I both had finally stopped denying the involvement of James Moriarty.

I wanted to ask him how he and his brother had ended up at such different ends of the moral spectrum, but I contented myself with a question for Holmes, who lay on the couch at my insistence; after much protest, he had allowed my to bandage his ribs and administer some morphine.

“How did you know that they would take us to Father Moriarty if we were taken prisoner?”

Holmes stared at me for a moment and then let out a laugh, which caused him to wince and hold his side.

“Good Lord, Watson—you actually thought I planned to have us captured?”

“Well, didn’t you?” said Moriarty.

“Good heavens, no; I was just there to infiltrate their meeting. Everything which happened afterwards was a complete surprise to me.”

“But how did you know Tuthill was outside the window?” I said.

“I didn’t; but I you may remember I sent him a note earlier. In it I just suggested that he keep an eye on our movements. He occasionally works as a costermonger’s assistant, and as you can see, he did a good job of tracking us.” Holmes smiled. “Well, Watson, I’d rather you didn’t write this one up—I was employed by Professor Moriarty, nearly failed to prevent the destruction of St Paul’s, and I was rescued by a priest and a little boy. Not a very successful case, I think, Watson.”

“The public might enjoy knowing you are human after all, Holmes.”

Holmes stretched and turned his face toward the pale light of dawn which was creeping through the curtains. “I think not, Watson; if they knew I was human, why on earth would they want to read about me?”

I smiled. “There are things in heaven and earth not dreamt of in your philosophy, Holmes.”

Holmes shrugged. “Perhaps you are right, Watson; perhaps you are right.”