Gaunt and Henshaw sat in the large empty kitchen of the house in Prince’s Square and drank whisky while the inspector gave him details of his meeting with Sherlock Holmes. The room was illuminated by candlelight only, and a meagre fire glowed feebly in the grate.
Henshaw grinned and ran his fingers through the thick unruly thatch of blonde hair, but Gaunt was not smiling.
‘Don’t think for one minute that Holmes was fooled by the watch and my story. He is far too clever for that. I could see the suspicion in his eyes. We made the mistake of underestimating him last night; we must not do the same again.’
Henshaw’s grin faltered. ‘What is your plan then? Do I need to round up the boys again?’
Gaunt shook his head. ‘And have a repeat performance of the Christopher Docks shambles? No. Tonight there will be no mass ambush. Tonight I will kill Mr Sherlock Holmes myself.’
Henshaw’s eyes widened in surprise. ‘And how do you intend to do that?’ he asked nervously.
Gaunt was pleased at the effect his statement had made on his companion and he smiled. ‘I shall shoot him. No matter how many of his young cronies he assembles as a backup, the man himself will be a sitting duck on Waterloo Bridge. And I am a crack shot with a rifle.’ Gaunt raised an imaginary weapon to his shoulder and aimed at the far distance. ‘Bang! One bullet and it’s goodbye, old Sherlock.’
Henshaw chuckled. ‘Very nice.’
Gaunt drained his glass. ‘But first, I think it’s time we delivered the other member of this interfering partnership into the hands of his maker. Doctor Watson is of no use to us now. It will give me great pleasure to put him out of his misery. If you would be so kind as to lend me your pistol.’
‘Of course.’ Henshaw retrieved a small gun from the inside pocket of his greatcoat and handed it to Gaunt.
Gaunt fondled it for a moment and then stood up quickly, pushing the wooden chair back on the flagstones, creating a strange high-pitched squeaking sound that echoed around the chamber. ‘Come on, Henshaw, let’s get the job over with. It’s time we had a little fun.’
Without further words the two men made their way up to the top storey of the house and the locked room where they had imprisoned Watson.
Henshaw retrieved the large key that was attached to his belt, opened the door and stepped into the room. He turned up the gas, filling the room with a rich yellow glow. Watson raised his head and gazed groggily at the intruders.
‘Time to meet your maker now, old boy,’ said Gaunt, holding the pistol aloft.
‘I think not,’ said a voice behind him, and Gaunt felt the cold sensation of a gun barrel pressed hard into the nape of his neck.
‘Drop your weapon,’ said the voice. Gaunt recognised it in an instant. It belonged to Sherlock Holmes. He lowered his arm, but still retained his hold on the gun.
‘Do as I say,’ came the voice again and Gaunt heard the sharp click as Holmes cocked the pistol. Reluctantly, Gaunt allowed his gun to drop from his grasp. It hit the floor with a dull thud.
‘You,’ snapped Holmes, addressing Henshaw, who seemed held in a trance, frozen by shock. ‘Untie your prisoner. Do it now and do it quickly.’
Like an automaton, Henshaw shuffled over to where Watson was bound and began to loosen his bonds in a slow mechanical fashion. While this was happening, Gaunt took a chance and made a desperate move. Quickly sidestepping to the left and spinning round, he attempted to knock the gun out of Holmes’s hand. He failed, but the gun went off, the bullet thudding harmlessly into the wooden floorboards. This sudden distraction appeared to bring Henshaw to his senses and dropping to the ground he made a grab for Gaunt’s discarded pistol. With lightning swiftness, Holmes stepped forward and kicked the gun, sending it skittering into the corner of the room before Henshaw could snatch it up.
By now Gaunt had slipped past Holmes and was out in the corridor. He slammed the door of the room shut and turned the key, locking it. With a sardonic grin, he raced down the stairs, making good his escape.
Inside the chamber, Henshaw had taken advantage of the distraction caused by Gaunt’s exit and had scrabbled across the floor to retrieve the gun. With a cry of satisfaction he grabbed it and, clambering to his feet, aimed it at Holmes. Without hesitation, he pulled the trigger. The detective feinted to the left, the bullet just clipping the shoulder of his overcoat. Henshaw roared his dismay and was about shoot again, but Holmes fired first. Henshaw was hit in the chest and the force of the blow flung his body backwards. With an animal-like bellow he crashed against the far wall of the room, and then slowly slithered down to the floor, leaving a thin crimson trail of blood in his wake.
For a moment, everything was silent and still. Holmes gazed down at the dead man whose lifeless glassy eyes seemed to stare back at him with vehemence. Holmes hated killing, but was particularly annoyed that it had been necessary in this instance. This man, Gaunt’s accomplice, could have told him so much. With the thought of Gaunt, Holmes’s features tightened even more with anger and disgust. Not only had he killed an important witness, but he had allowed one of the key players in this treacherous game to escape. He had handled the whole episode incompetently.
His thoughts were interrupted by a soft groaning sound and he observed a desperate Watson, trying manfully to wriggle his way out of his bonds.
Holmes could not help but smile. Well, he mused, this episode is not entirely without its rewards.
‘Here, let me help you with those,’ he said, kneeling down by the chair and tackling one of the tightest knots.