Holmes made his way down a narrow corridor, along which were three doors. He tried the first, which revealed a large unoccupied bedroom with a four-poster bed. He assumed that this must be Moriarty’s private quarters. As he approached the second room, he heard two more shots ring out from the chamber where he had just left Watson and Moriarty. In a split second, his mind reviewed several possible scenarios. His body trembled with indecision. Should he return to the room and investigate? Or should he continue his search? Rarely had the detective been faced with such a dilemma. It might well be that Watson needed his help, or worse still that it was too late.
However, Fate took the decision from him, for the door of the second room opened suddenly and Dominic Gaunt appeared in the aperture, his face damp with sweat and his eyes wild and darting. He staggered into the corridor and on seeing Holmes he gave a raw guttural cry. He raised a pistol, but with frenetic speed Holmes leapt forward and knocked the weapon from his hand before bringing his fist into forceful contact with Gaunt’s chin. The man staggered backwards, but managed to maintain his equilibrium. The blow seemed to focus his mind and galvanise his energies all the more. He gave a rasping cry and rushed at Holmes, thrusting him against the wall. The two men struggled, each one approaching the task in a different fashion. Gaunt was frantic, his mind full of anger and disappointment. His fury increased his strength, which momentarily gave him an advantage over Holmes who, while being calmer and more methodical, lacked the mad passion of his opponent.
As they struggled, the two men crashed to the floor, rolling over entwined in each other’s grip. Gaunt wrenched his hands free and grabbed Holmes by the throat and began to throttle the detective. Deftly, Holmes brought his arms up, breaking Gaunt’s grip and then with a great effort he managed to heave his assailant sideways. This gave him the freedom to scramble to his feet once more. Gaunt swivelled round into a crouching position, panting heavily, his face gleaming with perspiration. For a few seconds the two men stared at each other, still as statues, uncertain what the other would do next. And then Gaunt launched himself forward, reaching out for his gun, which lay a few yards from him on the floor. With glee he snatched it up and staggered to his feet. Like lightning Holmes reached out and grabbed his wrist before he was able to aim it. Once more the two men wrestled with each other for mastery. Holmes thrust Gaunt against the wall, winding him, and attempted to shake the gun from his grasp by slamming his arm with great force against the woodwork. Gritting his teeth and emitting a deep feral growl, Gaunt pushed hard against his opponent and managed to wrench his arm from Holmes’s grip.
Suddenly the gun went off.
Once again both men froze, static figures in the gloomy corridor. And then, Gaunt’s eyes widened with a sudden horrid realisation. His lips quivered momentarily as though he was about to say something, but no words emerged. Holmes felt Gaunt’s whole frame relax and lose its tension. Gently, he released his hold and took a step back as his opponent’s body slid down to the floor. For a moment the eyes remained open, gazing vacantly and then very slowly they closed forever.
Holmes stood for a moment, gaining his breath and composure. He felt no sense of triumph. Killing a man was not a thing to be proud of. He would have much preferred to bring the fellow to justice. It was for the judiciary to pronounce sentence, not him. He was a detective, a solver of crimes – not an executioner.
Mopping his brow, he sent these gloomy thoughts to the back of his mind as he entered the room from which Gaunt had appeared. Once inside, the sight that met his eyes sickened him further. There on the floor was another corpse. That of the man Holmes had glimpsed with Gaunt entering the building. Obviously he was a doctor of some kind: the stethoscope around his neck and the medical bag on the bedside table proclaimed as much. He knelt down and felt the man’s pulse just to be certain he was dead. There was no doubt. In turning over the body, he saw the savage wound to the chest. A victim no doubt of Dominic Gaunt. At this sight, he felt a lessening of his own guilt at being responsible for the death of the corrupt policeman.
Rising slowly, he observed the shape under crumpled covers on the bed. He hurried forward and pulled back the blanket to reveal the face of a young boy beneath. It was flushed and still. This innocent little boy was what all the death and violence had been about. This was William Temple – the potential heir to the throne. Holmes dragged the blankets back further to reveal the little night-gowned figure. He lay very still, curled into a ball.
‘My God,’ murmured Sherlock Holmes, gazing at the lifeless form, ‘we are too late: the boy is dead.’