The Gordon Square Discovery

Many of Sherlock Holmes’s investigations were handled quickly, but that never made them any less interesting to the student of his methods. Today I was reminded of this after reading in the newspaper of the untimely passing of someone who was peripherally associated with one of his past cases. This led me to reminisce about those days before my marriage when I was still residing in Baker Street, and I was moved to pull down my journal for that year. However, rather than immediately refreshing my memory concerning that specific series of events, I found myself lingering over recollections of this-and-that other previous adventure, glad that I had made such extensive notes when I had the opportunity.

Turning the pages, I recalled the vivid dilemma related to the disquieting observations of the funeral mute, and Holmes’s quick thinking which had saved an old woman from an unhealthy marriage. And then there was the curious narrative of the four-fingered Methodist, which featured so widely in the press of the time. Holmes’s demonstration of the charlatan’s Bible and what was hidden in it had been a sensation – and both objects ended up going straight into Scotland Yard’s unofficial Black Museum.

Each of these were solved within hours of being brought to Holmes’s attention. Another, that related to the mystery associated with Lord St. Simon’s marriage, was started and finished within one rainy October afternoon and evening, and that case led to a second investigation that (for the most part) also took little more than a day – although with more tragic results.

It had been after nine o’clock the previous night that Holmes had returned from his investigations into the missing wife of Lord St. Simon. His efforts had proceeded quite quickly. Holmes’s involvement began in mid-afternoon when the nobleman had arrived to seek my friend’s help in relation to the mystery that had been upon everyone’s lips for the previous week. That day I had remained indoors, as heavy rains were being thrown against the window and the strong winds were occasionally finding their way down our chimney. I see from reviewing my journal that I was suffering particularly from my Afghan wound, in spite of it having occurred over half-a-decade earlier.

Holmes, however, had been quite active, as he had six or eight matters on hand at the time. He preferred to let some of them cook slowly, so to speak, while others progressed at a naturally accelerated pace. He had made mention that one such was complete, involving a curious furniture van associated with Grosvenor Square, and that he would be ready soon to reveal the true facts to the authorities. From this, our conversation moved to a letter that he’d received that morning from Lord St. Simon, regarding his new bride, the former Hattie Doran, American heiress, who had vanished during their wedding breakfast on the past Wednesday. Now a full week later, suspecting foul play and disgusted with the failed efforts of the official police, the groom requested – nay, required – an appointment with the private consulting detective.

Lord St. Simon arrived at four o’clock and told his story within a few minutes. The small marriage had gone off as planned. Later, during the wedding breakfast at the bride’s father’s home near Lancaster Gate, the new bride, following some conversation with her maid, had walked across the street into Hyde Park and vanished. She had last been seen then in the company of one of St. Simon’s former female acquaintances, Flora Miller, who was now being held by the police, but it was uncertain as to whether the woman was actually involved in the bride’s disappearance. Upon questioning, the nobleman could only add that his new wife had been in good spirits until immediately after the ceremony, when she suddenly seemed distracted. In fact, a change had come over her as she was leaving the church, when she curiously dropped her bouquet, which was then retrieved for her by a man in a nearby pew, apparently one of the many loiterers who turn up to watch strangers’ weddings and funerals as a form of entertainment.

After Lord St. Simon’s departure, we were joined almost immediately by Inspector Lestrade, in a pea-jacket as a concession to the terrible weather outside. He had been investigating the case with the idea that the bride, somehow lured from the wedding breakfast, had been murdered. He exhibited a wedding dress and appurtenances that had been found by a park-keeper, floating in the Serpentine, whose upper end was near the bride’s father’s house. Inside one of the dress pockets was a card-case that identified the owner as the missing Hattie Doran, along with a note stating “You will see me when all is ready. Come at once. F. H. M.” on one side and “Oct. 4th, rooms 8s., breakfast 2s. 6d., cocktail 1s., lunch 2s. 6d., glass sherry, 8d.” on the other. Lestrade felt that the initials added further evidence against the woman in custody, Flora Miller, but Holmes seemed to find great interest in the note for other unexplained reasons, to Lestrade’s vexation. My friend was amused at some of the official policeman’s notions, while Lestrade – who hadn’t yet learned to trust Holmes in those days quite as much as he would in later years – left thinking that Holmes was on the wrong track. After the inspector’s withdrawal, his evidence bundled under his arm, Holmes also departed around five o’clock, and I didn’t see him again until after nine.

However, those four hours did have a bit of excitement when, less than an hour later, a caterer arrived, laying out a meal fit for a nobleman, if not a king. Cold woodcock, and a pheasant. A pâté de foie gras pie – never my favorite – along with a grouping of bottles that seemed to be of very dear vintage indeed. Mrs. Hudson had followed the confectioner’s man up the stairs, alternating between curiosity and a few comments of her own about sensible cooking being good enough for anyone. Then they were both gone, and I had several hours to fill, attempting to read both the newspapers and a recently acquired novel, but finding instead my thoughts returning again and again to Lord St. Simon’s problem, and Holmes’s seeming understanding of the solution based simply upon hearing the specifics of the events. (Additionally, the pervasive scent of the food was an ongoing distraction.)

At nine o’clock Holmes returned, looking approvingly at the little supper and seemingly happy to have arrived before the guests that he’d invited while he was out. I commented that he must have done so nearly first thing, as the food had arrived within an hour of his departure. He waved a hand dismissively, stating vaguely that the solution had been obvious to him before he left, and that his efforts since then had simply been to verify a few specifics – such as where to offer his invitation. I was about to ask who else would be joining us when Lord St. Simon arrived, sinking into the same chair that he’d occupied just a few hours earlier and bemoaning his misfortune in a most un-Lord-like manner. Apparently he had received a message from Holmes relating the solution to the problem – although I myself was still in the dark.

Yet all was soon revealed when there was a ring at the bell, and within a few moments a man and woman entered our modest sitting room.

Introduced as Mr. and Mrs. Francis Hay Moulton – the F.H.M. of the note found in the abandoned wedding dress – it became quickly apparent from the lady’s solicitation as to Lord St. Simon’s welfare that this was his missing bride, the American girl that he had met and married after traveling to the United States earlier that year. She was beautiful, in a rather coarse way. Clearly she had spent a great deal of her formative years out-of-doors, and she moved with a confident power that indicated she’d had no hesitation at helping her father with the physical labor that had been required as he made his fortunes in the gold field. She offered her hand to me in a forthright and modern American way, and I was surprised to find that her grip was strong and her palm rough, and covered with not-a-few callosities.

Moulton seemed just as toughened as his wife, although he was shorter than her, and wiry. He had a sharp face and darting eyes, looking quickly from person to person. He was clean-shaven and burned by the sun – quite unusual to see during a rainy October in London.

Mrs. Moulton quickly explained that two years before, long before she’d ever heard of Lord St. Simon, she had impulsively married the man at her side, but had later believed that he’d died after reading in the newspaper that he’d been killed in an Indian attack while on a prospecting trip. In fact, Moulton hadn’t died, but instead had been grievously wounded. When he was finally able to return to civilization, it was as a rich man, but only to learn that his new wife of only a few days, believing herself to be a widow, had since agreed to marry a British nobleman. She and her father had come to England the previous summer, and Moulton had followed. Uncertain as to his wife’s feelings after his prolonged absence, he didn’t immediately reveal that he was still alive, but rather sat in the pew at her wedding. She had seen him and was momentarily startled, dropping her bouquet. Moulton retrieved it for her and slipped a note inside. Afterwards, she had abandoned Lord St. Simon during the wedding breakfast, walking into Hyde Park. She had been momentarily approached by Flora Miller then, the woman currently under arrest, but they’d only had the briefest of conversations before Miss Doran had joined Moulton, her true husband and love.

After tracking them down, Holmes had arranged the little supper in the hopes that hurt feelings could be mended, but Lord St. Simon was having none of it, instead preferring to depart immediately, with no wish to celebrate the reunion of the apparently happy couple. And who could blame him? He walked out with all the dignity that he could muster, leaving Holmes and me to share the meal with the Moultons.

It was quite interesting, especially hearing of Moulton’s adventures in the American West. Holmes and I had travelled there in days past, both separately and then later when involved in various investigations, so some of what was related to us wasn’t unknown. Moulton finished up one of his anecdotes and took a sip of wine. He had maintained a certain reserve throughout the evening. His wife, however, had treated the little gathering as something of a celebration. She clearly felt that the revelations were liberating, and she made free use of the contents of the various bottles.

Early on it was apparent that she was becoming rather inebriated, and Holmes had stopped offering to refill our glasses. However, that was meaningless to an American heiress raised in the rough western gold fields. She simply stood and opened the next bottle for herself, and proceeded to finish it on her own over the next hour or so as the rest of us declined.

It was after some comment related to one of Holmes’s past cases that she said, “Of course, we’ve had own little mystery as well.”

Moulton frowned and made as if to speak, but Holmes leaned forward and said, “What sort of mystery?”

Moulton waved his hand dismissively at what she’d said, a look of irritation on his face. His wife, seeing his expression, frowned slightly, and then, in what seemed to be typical willfulness, continued to pursue the matter. “The letters,” she prompted. “Tell him about the letters.”

Moulton’s lips tightened. “It’s nothing. Hattie, you’re drunk.”

She turned up her glass and finished what was left before reaching out to the bottle beside her. Finding it empty, she said, “I suppose that I know what is and isn’t nothing.” Then she looked at Holmes. “There was a problem at the hotel. After I walked out on Robert and joined Frank, we went to his house in Gordon Square, but after a day or so, I felt like the walls were closing in, so we went to the Metropole, where Frank had stayed when he first came to London. At first we had no reason to complain, but we returned from an outing one night to find that our room had been searched, and some of Frank’s papers were missing.”

“What sort of papers?” asked Holmes. I kept my eye on Moulton, who was poised as if he might spring to his feet to silence his wife. And yet, he did nothing except watch her intently.

“A few letters,” she continued. “Nothing important, but Frank dearly hated to lose them. It was obvious that his case had been tampered with. I saw it as soon as we came back. We called for the manager, and he agreed with me completely, but Frank begged that he keep from involving the police.”

Holmes turned to Moulton. “Is that true? You didn’t summon the authorities?”

The American’s mouth was tight. “Of course. As much as I hated my letters being stolen, Hattie and I didn’t exactly want to come to the attention of the officials. Instead, we packed up and moved back yesterday morning to the house that I’d already leased in Gordon Square – where you tracked us earlier today. Since then, I’ve been considering what to do about getting my letters back, as I don’t trust the hotel’s efforts.” He took another sip of wine and set the empty glass on the table.

“But Frank,” said his wife, with a rather vindictive smile on her face, as if she had found a way to frustrate him. I had to question the future success of this marriage if it was already so important for her to score points off of her husband so soon. “Maybe it’s luck that Mr. Holmes came knocking on our door. He can help us now, and after all, we don’t have to be cagey anymore about who we are.” She looked at Holmes. “Would you look into this for us? I’d be very grateful if you could retrieve Frank’s letters.” Then her eyes darted toward Moulton again to see his reaction.

Her husband’s face darkened and he started to speak – he clearly didn’t like the idea. I could see that the letters themselves had ceased to be important. Instead, they and Holmes’s involvement were being used to see who would have leverage in the marriage. I doubted that this couple would remain happy for very long.

Holmes was certainly aware of this, observing what I had seen, but he apparently found no need to soothe these troubled waters. He nodded. “I’ll be happy to look into it,” he said, “but more information will be useful. Was anything else taken? Any other papers? Or jewelry or other valuables?”

“No,” said Mrs. Moulton. “Only the letters.”

Holmes looked toward Frank Moulton. “Do you have any idea why the letters would have caused any special interest?”

“None,” he growled. “They’re simply routine correspondence. There is no need to pursue this.”

“Did the hotel manager have any explanation?” asked Holmes, ignoring the man’s objections. “Any suspicions as to how your room was entered, or who could have been responsible?”

Moulton looked at his wife. “It did seem as if the manager had an idea about that. Hattie noticed it.”

She nodded. “He called in his assistant, and they whispered for a minute. The assistant said something about ‘Vernham’ being on duty earlier that afternoon, and the manager nodded as if that made some kind of sense to him – as if they’d expected something like this to happen, and now here it was.”

“And did they summon this Vernham to be questioned?” asked Holmes.

“He’d apparently already gone for the day,” replied Moulton, somewhat surly, but relaxing a bit now that his resistance to Holmes’s involvement had been overcome. “They assured me – us – that they would follow up, and that they would send Vernham a message immediately.”

“And what happened? Did he respond?”

“We asked late that night, and there hadn’t been an answer. He isn’t due back to work until tomorrow, so the manager said that nothing more could be done until he could be questioned. I asked why they hadn’t sent someone to his house, but they acted as if that weren’t possible. Then I wanted his address so that I could go around and see him myself, but they wouldn’t give it to me.

“At that point, I became disgusted with their handling of the situation, and that’s when I decided to decamp back to Gordon Square. I sent a message around to the hotel this morning, asking if there were any developments, but they were vague – just that they still hadn’t heard from Vernham. Then you came knocking at our door, so I haven’t had a chance to see if anything else has happened.”

Moulton leaned forward. “What Hattie said – about you investigating… There isn’t any need. You understand? It’s just some missing letters. I’ll take care of it.”

Beside him, his wife started to speak, but Moulton had had enough. He stood and turned quickly toward her, moving with the foot-work of a nimble bare-knuckle fighter. She started, leaning back in her chair, and with a suddenly sober – and rather wary – expression on her face. She seemed to understand that she was dangerously close to pushing her husband too far.

I stood, intending to prevent the American from further threatening the woman. I was already worried for her during the rest of the evening after they left our presence. Holmes rose smoothly to his feet, taking a step forward to diffuse the situation. “I understand, Mr. Moulton. I’m sure that the hotel staff will resolve the situation. And now, I wish you both a very good evening. I understand that the weather will be clearing tonight, so tomorrow should be a more pleasant day for all of us.”

Moulton looked over his shoulder, as if for a short period he’d forgotten where he was, or that Holmes and I were there. For a moment, he and his wife had shared a look that conveyed volumes.

But soon after that they departed, with the couple considerably and curiously more tense than they had been upon arriving to face Lord St. Simon. After they were gone, I expressed my concern to Holmes, and he nodded in agreement. Then I asked if he wanted something else to drink, and he opted for a small whisky. I joined him, feeling the need to cleanse my palate from the rather unpleasant couple.

We sat for a while, and Holmes spent the first few minutes explaining to me how he had traced them, based on the writing on the back of the piece of paper found in the card case. The prices shown had clearly been from an expensive hotel which turned out to be the Hotel Metropole in Northumberland Avenue, which Holmes had found after just a few tries. He had learned at the front desk that they’d recently moved back to their rented lodgings at 226 Gordon Square in Bloomsbury, and it was there that he’d gone and convinced them that it would be better to tell the truth about what had happened to the unfortunate bridegroom.

Recalling Lord St. Simon’s departure after he heard their story, I remarked, “His conduct was certainly not very gracious.”

“Ah, Watson, perhaps you would not be very gracious either, if, after all the trouble of wooing and wedding, you found yourself deprived in an instant of wife and of fortune. I think that we may judge Lord St. Simon very mercifully and thank our stars that we are never likely to find ourselves in the same position.” He set aside his pipe and said, “Draw your chair up and hand me my violin, for the only problem we have still to solve is how to while away these bleak autumnal evenings.”

He played for a while, something mournful to fit the rainy night, reflective of the turn which the evening had taken, and perhaps as well the sad ending for Lord St. Simon’s hopes of marriage and dowry. Then he allowed the instrument to fall silent. I could see that a thought had occurred to him. “It doesn’t quite ring true,” he said in response to my query.

“What?”

“Something about Mr. Moulton’s reaction.”

“They are two strong-willed people who barely know one another, and haven’t seen each other in years – after an impulsive and secret mining-camp wedding. He didn’t like it when she asserted her own ideas about asking you to look for the letters.”

“No, that isn’t it. I mean his reaction towards the hotel.”

I frowned. “I would be upset if I found that my possessions had been searched and looted while supposedly safely secured in my room at a noted hotel.”

“And yet, why depart? Why not stay there, where you could more easily harass the management to investigate the matter?”

“He felt that they could no longer be trusted.”

“Possibly. But if he was worried about protecting whatever else he has that might be of value, he could have found a way to lock it up in a better way than simply leaving it in his room – placing it in the Metropole’s safe, for instance, or even by making a temporary arrangement at a local bank. No, there’s something about these letters that goes beyond a man simply being angry that he was victimized in this way. And then there’s the question of the Gordon Square house.”

“What do you mean?”

“They were supposed to be in hiding. Gordon Square was a better choice than a busy hotel. As you know, the Square consists of rows of rather standard houses surrounding the park, north of the University. There’s nothing special about them – why not remain there? Yet they returned to the Hotel Metropole soon after their reunion – even as all of London speculated as to the woman’s mysterious disappearance and her current whereabouts. She had become quite well-known in recent weeks as interest in the wedding of a British Lord to an American heiress reached a fever peak in the press. Her image has appeared in a number of journals. Surely there was the danger that she would be recognized.”

I laughed. “Clearly you aren’t taking into account the persuasive ways of a woman. And incidentally, as I recall, you asked me to brief you this morning before St. Simon’s arrival, claiming that you knew nothing about the matter, and stating that you only read the criminal news and the agony columns. It seems that you knew enough after all to be aware of the capitol’s rising interest in Hattie Doran.”

He smiled in return. “Perhaps I did have somewhat more knowledge of the affair then I let on – although I didn’t pay too much attention as the weeks leading to the wedding went by, little realizing that we would be peripherally involved. In any case, my point is that a great many people did know about Hattie Doran, and what she looked like, and later about her disappearance. The papers have maintained speculation as to her fate at a frenzied level for nearly a week now – and yet, I repeat that Moulton had no hesitation at returning with this notable woman to a very public hotel for several days – dining and shopping with her, and generally doing the opposite of hiding until they could arrange to leave the country. Only when his supposedly unimportant letters were taken did they move, the very next day, back to Gordon Square. Before his letters were taken, he apparently had no concerns about traipsing all over London with his noteworthy bride. Yet this afternoon when I knocked on the Gordon Square door, he answered with a pistol in his hand.”

I raised an eyebrow. “Indeed.”

“I simply put it down at the time to him being an American from the same rough life where his wife originated. As we learned, that was true – they had met in the same mining camp where Mrs. Moulton was residing with her father. I could see from the second that Moulton opened the door that he was a toughened American. Of course you noticed that he was armed tonight as well?”

I had to confess that I had not observed it.

“It was a small weapon, but effective nonetheless. Now possibly, but not very likely, he came here with a gun because he feared some sort of violent reaction from Lord St. Simon, although I doubt it. He would have sized him up as being no threat. He was already nervous when he answered the door in Gordon Square this afternoon, but he was comfortable and confident when he arrived our sitting room tonight. Clearly he was worried about something out there, and not what he’d find in here – including a jilted bridegroom. I wonder if he’s gone about armed since his arrival in London. From what I was able to ascertain, he didn’t seem to show any fear before his letters were stolen…”

His musings trailed off, and I could only assume that he was considering what might be in those supposedly innocent letters. Seeing that he intended to think – and likely smoke – for a goodly portion of the rest of the night, I wished him well and went upstairs to my room, hoping that both the weather and the pain from my old Army wound would be more agreeable in the morning.

***

The new day promised to be much different than the previous one, when we had been beset by the equinoctial autumn gales. The sky was a brilliant blue, and there was a decided coolness to the air, encouraging one to feel both brisk and vital. I found that despite the change in the weather, the pain from the Jezail fragment still resting in my shoulder, a constant souvenir of my time in Afghanistan, remained in evidence, although greatly lessened.

I descended from my bedroom to find that Holmes had already started his breakfast. He nodded in my direction without speaking, his attention focused on one of the morning newspapers. This silent companionship lasted until he rose, remarking “Your shoulder is still bothering you, I see.”

It was no great deduction upon his part, as he’d observed these symptoms many times before. I had long ago given up trying to hide my pain, when it occurred, behind some sort of false pride. He had no doubt noticed that I reached for the salt and pepper in the awkward manner that presented itself when the ache returned. I was frankly grateful when he indicated that he planned to carry out his initial investigation of Moulton’s problem on his own.

After his departure, I hauled the accumulated morning newspapers to my chair before the fire and settled in to see what was new in the world. The events were singularly uninteresting, which I suppose was good news for the masses as a whole, although there were certainly the usual tragedies and injustices occurring on an individual scale. I lost interest rather quickly and tried to immerse myself in a novel by a Scottish author of my acquaintance, loosely based on one of Holmes’s former investigations, but I found myself becoming somewhat irate at certain liberties that had been taken. For the hundredth time, I vowed that one day I would make use of the voluminous journal entries that I regularly recorded of my friend’s investigations and work them into some sort of material worthy of publication. With that in mind, I rose and resettled myself at my desk, moving aside the fossilized jawbone of some ancient lizard that had been used to kill a blackmailer and proceeding to polish my notes related to several of Holmes’s more noteworthy inquiries.

Mrs. Hudson checked on me quite a few times, and I was surprised in the early afternoon when she asked about any preferences that I might have for lunch, having been unaware of how quickly that time was passing. After that question was determined and then the meal subsequently consumed, I continued at my labors, vaguely aware as the afternoon passed that my shoulder had finally started to feel better once again.

I was just finishing up my account of the events concerning the hideous visitant to the grounds of Deddington Castle when I heard the front door open, followed by Holmes’s spry steps as he climbed to the sitting room. I was surprised to see that the day was fading away, and that it was later than I’d realized.

The door opened and he glanced toward me as he entered. “Ah, Watson – feeling better, I see. Are you game for a bit of burglary?” Then, before I could answer, he stepped to the shelves containing his scrapbooks, where he spent several minutes checking through various volumes while I made ready for departure.

And so it was that half-an-hour later we found ourselves settled at a table at Naples in Charlotte Street, an Italian restaurant that I’d discovered a year or so earlier. Holmes had eschewed bringing some of his more elaborate burglary tools, instead relying on the comprehensive lock-picking set that he usually carried with him. While eating our dinner, and waiting for a certain amount of time to pass until our excursion could be carried out with some degree of discretion, Holmes recounted the events of his day, sometimes waving a piece of bread like a baton as he cheerfully went, step-by-step, through his gradual understanding of the situation.

“Naturally enough,” he explained, “I began by sending several wires to make certain of our ground. Then I ended up back at the front desk of the Hotel Metropole, where I implied that I was acting as Moulton’s agent and the reason for my questions. As you know, there are one or two managers there who still recall the little service that I performed for them back in ‘83, when the Countess of Grantham, apparently suffering from some sort of emotional crisis related to her fortieth birthday the previous year, had placed herself in such a position as to utterly destroy her reputation. The Metropole management was quite grateful then, and to this day as well, and they had no hesitation in providing me with Mr. Abel Vernham’s home address – in spite of their reluctance to do the same for Mr. Moulton.

“Their account of the theft of the letters was similar to that of Moulton’s, although they did provide a bit of additional information. It seems that Vernham was already being watched after a few similar incidents where the shadows of suspicion had tilted his way – minor thefts occurred in rooms that were generally connected with him. He is one of the under-managers at the hotel, assigned to several floors, and on at least a half-dozen past occasions since his employment began just four months ago, other small items have gone missing – odds-and-ends that have personal associations to the victims.

“There has been no evidence to specifically point to Vernham, but he has been on the premises – and in fact on the very floors – when each minor theft occurred. And his antecedents have given the hotel managers some pause, as at one time long ago – and they only discovered this after he was hired, based on some hints that he dropped in conversations with some of the maids – he was an actor.”

I smiled. “Scandalous.”

“Exactly. And while we both know that being an actor in one’s past does not automatically make one a criminal – for instance, it did me no harm! – it does still have a great deal of social stigma in certain quarters. The knowledge that Vernham had such experience in his past put him on thin ice – but that’s not to say that in this case he was unfairly suspected. The evidence against him as shared by the managers is convincing, and he probably has been stealing. As I had arrived a bit too early this morning, I was prepared to wait and discuss the matter when Mr. Vernham joined us. Yet nine o’clock, when he was supposed to begin work, came and passed without his appearance. The managers were alternately irate and concerned, and it was then that they gave me his address, with the assurance that they would take no action until the heard from me, and that they would put Mr. Moulton off if he happened to arrive asking questions – in case leaving the matter in my hands wasn’t enough for him after all.”

He paused to take a sip of wine and continued. “Vernham’s address is in Pocock Street, across the river in Southwark near Nelson Square. I hied myself in that direction to find that he actually lived just around the corner, in first-floor rooms above some stables, reached by a way of a poorly-kept mews. A word with his neighbors gave me to understand that he was at home, and that there was no landlord on the premises. I needed to convince him to speak with me – and I assumed that, if Vernham had chosen to abandon his job this very morning, coincidentally around the same time that the letters went missing, I wouldn’t necessarily be welcomed. And I was right. At first he didn’t answer the door at all, although I was aware from some slight sounds within the apartment that he was at home. Then, foregoing any attempt at deception, I identified myself and stated that I was there in regard to Mr. Moulton’s missing letters. The resulting silence from that revelation was so emphatic that I began to fear that I’d made a mistake in not simply prevaricating. Then, after worrying that perhaps he’d skittered out through a back entrance, I heard the door unlock. Almost immediately a hand urgently gestured for me to enter the darkened rooms.

“There was a noticeable odor of neglect about the place, some of which was certainly from the various articles of unwashed clothing scattered around the floor. The room was dim, with the curtain pulled across the only window, and the only light coming from the fireplace and a feeble gas fixture above the mantel. Vernham – for it was he – pushed the door shut behind me and then stood watching, awaiting my further explanation. He’s about thirty years of age, lean and striking in a theatrical way, with high prominent cheekbones that throw shadows across his thin mouth. One can see the stage training in him by the way he stands, but unfortunately he also showed obvious signs of an incipient and detrimental opium addiction. All-in-all, he has the appearance of a skittish animal that would as soon bolt as remain, although I didn’t know where he should have run this morning if the decision had been made to do so. Most important, the man was in fear.

“Normally an awkward silence is a useful tool for a man asking questions, but I could see that in this case, I would have to give way first. ‘The managers of the hotel suspect that you stole the letters from Mr. Moulton’s room,’ I opened. He nodded noncommittally but didn’t reply. ‘When you didn’t show up this morning,’ I added, ‘it rather sealed that belief.’ Still no response. ‘What made taking the letters worthy of such trouble, above other choices?’ Then, in a flash of insight, I asked, ‘Who hired you to retrieve them?’

“With that, his expressionless features devolved into something like a rueful sneer. ‘I’ve heard of you, Mr. Sherlock Holmes. I thought that you knew everything. Well, you don’t know what I’ve gotten myself into.’

“Here was something new, then. I had suspected that there was more to Moulton’s letters than we had been told – why else should the man change his place of residence, and answer his door with a gun? But I seemed to have peeked under the very edge of something much more substantial. Affecting to have a bit more omniscience than was entirely true, I carefully replied, ‘You’ve read the letters, then?’

“Of course I had no idea what was in them, but I gave the impression that I did. He nodded in reply. ‘And I wish that I hadn’t.’ Then he frowned, as if just realizing that he’d made a mistake. ‘Did Esher send you?’

“The name was familiar, but I shook my head in reply. ‘The hotel is concerned,’ I prevaricated. ‘Too many guests have reported thefts lately. They’ve had their eyes on you.’ I named off several of the items that had been taken, as based on what I’d been told an hour earlier. Vernham simply listened until I mentioned an insignificant ruby ring. Then he angrily reacted. ‘I didn’t take that! You can bet that one of the old lady’s brats snagged that one, and is blaming the hotel!’

“‘But you took the other things?’ He nodded grudgingly. ‘Those were all objects of demonstrable value,” I continued, “but without enough worth to lead to police involvement. They might very well have been misplaced by the owners. Why change your method and take letters instead?’

“He shook his head as if I were a slow pupil. ‘Esher! He forced me to. He told me just what to look for – he described the envelopes, and where they would be hidden in Moulton’s luggage. He said that they would be in a secret pocket in the lining of the man’s travel case. But he also wanted me to find something else, some other papers about Moulton’s past, and they weren’t there.”

“‘To be clear,’ I asked, ‘are we talking about Jack Esher, the swindler?’

“‘Jack Esher the killer, you mean.’

“‘I thought that he fled to America two years ago.’

“‘He did, but he’s been back for a week or so – at least that’s what he said. He followed this Moulton – they came over on the same ship, but Moulton never realized it.’

“‘And how did Esher convince you to help him?’

“‘I knew him from… from before he left in such a hurry. He knows some things about me. When he followed Moulton to London, and to the hotel, he saw me working there. After that, he couldn’t wait to have me nick those papers for him.’

“‘Then why are you so frightened? Surely all that you needed to do was deliver the letters that you found, and report to him that the others weren’t there. Then you simply had to return to work and brazen it out.’

“‘You don’t understand!’ he snarled. ‘I read the letters, and stupidly mentioned to Esher that I did it. Now he knows that I know!’

“‘And what is it that you saw?’ I asked.

“At this point he suddenly became cagy. ‘Why should I tell you, Mr. Sherlock Holmes? How will you help me out of this mess?’

“‘I’m not even sure about the extent of what this mess is,’ I replied honestly, ‘but if you feel that you need some sort of protection – ’

“‘I do,’ he said. ‘I certainly do need that.’

“So the long-and-short of it, Watson, was that I helped him get away from his meagre lodgings and into a place of safety that I maintain elsewhere in the city – one of my little hidey-holes where I keep disguises and other materials that I might need in the course of my work. I hated to let him know about it, and I told him that it belonged to an actor friend. Being a former actor himself, I think that he believed me, seeing the various items of clothing and the theatrical make-up on the mirrored table that is the main object of furniture in the place. After he was settled there, he told me the rest of his story.

“It seems that the letters that he was to retrieve were not – as you probably have realized by now – the innocent personal missives that Mr. Moulton tried to lead us to believe. In fact, they are a series of introductions promising substantial funds from a group of American criminals to be delivered to Bill Wayman of Bennett Street.”

My eyes widened. “Bill Wayman, who has been making a serious play to replace Professor Moriarty’s organization with his own?”

“The same. He doesn’t have a chance, of course, but it’s been useful for us to let him continue unhindered, as every resource that the Professor is forced to direct toward holding Wayman in check is one that he can’t exert somewhere else.”

“And if I recall correctly,” I said, “Jack Esher was – at one time, at least – one of the Professor’s lieutenants.”

“Something like that,” replied Holmes. “The Professor’s chain of command isn’t exactly laid out along military lines, but that description fits close enough.”

I leaned back as the implications washed over me. “So Moulton has something for Wayman which will give him an advantage – a promise of American criminal support – and Moriarty’s man contracted with Vernham to steal it before it could be delivered.”

“That is how I read it as well,” replied Holmes. “Somehow they became aware of the letters, even in America, but were unable to retrieve them while they were in transit.

“Well,” I said, “why interfere? Let them settle it however they wish. As you said, everything that Wayman is allowed to accomplish for now diminishes Moriarty to some degree. Why not let Moulton complete his mission, so that Wayman can divert Moriarty’s resources to an even greater extent?”

“It isn’t that easy now. You forget, the letters have already been stolen and placed into Esher’s hands, and surely Moriarty has them now. To get them back would be nearly impossible, even if we wished to do so. They’re usefulness for Wayman is finished. And in any case, Wayman has been effective up to now because he functions at the same continuing level of success today as yesterday, and as he will tomorrow. To allow him a nourishing connection with American criminal resources would perhaps make him more powerful than would be healthy at present. There’s always been the understanding that when Moriarty is ready, he’ll kill Wayman and absorb his organization. If Wayman is allowed to expand his influence, he’ll simply built a bigger resource for Moriarty to eventually control.”

“And of interest from all of this is that Moulton is likely a criminal as well, and wasn’t just delivering these documents as a favor for a friend?”

“Oh, it’s quite certain. Vernham indicated that the other papers that he was supposed to locate contain evidence of Moulton’s own crimes, which Esher – working for Moriarty – wishes to use as a way to control Moulton. Having these documents in his own possession could allow Esher to force Moulton into Moriarty’s service. As I mentioned, I took a moment this morning to send a few wires – all of them to some of my American acquaintances. You may be interested to learn that there is no record of an American named Francis Hay Moulton.”

“But surely – ” I began, and then checked myself. “To enter the country, he would have needed legitimate papers.”

“Precisely, Watson. And someone that I know with a great deal of influence within the Foreign Office quickly checked the records of recent arrivals from America, confirming that no one named Francis Hay Moulton has entered the country, but one Francis Harris Mason did – a man of the same approximate age and description as our recent acquaintance, arriving ten days ago through Liverpool.”

“F.H.M.” I said. “Still, traveling under another name is not evidence of a crime, or of a deep connection with a known criminal organization.”

“This is true, but it turns out that Francis Mason, or ‘Frank’ as he’s known in America and to his wife, has a long history of mayhem to his credit – theft, assault, fraud, and the odd murder or two when it was to his benefit.”

“He sounds like a rough character – and too smart to have spoken with you at all.”

“I puzzled over that as well. I unexpectedly intruded into their lives yesterday evening, having traced them from the Hotel Metropole to the Gordon Square house. They really had no choice but to visit Baker Street and let the matter with Lord St. Simon play out. For all they knew, I had the Gordon Square lodgings under observation in case they tried to escape, and might have complicated things much worse than they already were.”

I took a sip of wine. “But again I have to ask, what is the purpose of your – our – continued involvement? Moriarty has the letters, and they are now as good as gone. This seems to be some sort of scuffle between two rival gangs, and any damage that they do to one another only benefits the greater good.”

“Except that disrupting their plans is always good practice as well. Moriarty gaining some sort of ascendance over Mason – or Moulton, as I will continue to call him – is likely much worse than simply letting Wayman have access to American financial resources. The Professor would love to expand his influence to both the Continent and the Americas, and having the documents relating to Moulton’s guilt would let him convince the American to change his allegiance, so to speak, from Wayman’s team to that of the Professor. Then the Professor can make the American connections himself. And if nothing else, Mrs. Moulton needs to understand what sort of man that she has married, and be able to correct the problem, before it goes any further.”

“And how will this bit of burglary that you promised do that?”

“I propose to find the papers relating to Moulton’s guilty past, the ones that Vernham could not, and see him brought to justice.”

“And what is your plan? Are we simply going to slide into their rooms – even as he guards them with his gun – and lurk behind curtains or the furniture until they go to sleep?”

“I have it on good authority that they are attending the theatre tonight.”

“And how did you obtain that information.”

“They told me so when I called upon them this afternoon.”

I took a moment to ponder that before asking simply, “Why do that?”

“I visited on the pretext of being in the neighborhood on other business, making sure that they had arrived home safely last night, etcetera. I believe that Moulton was suspicious, but I didn’t care. I was interested to observe that his wife is becoming impatient with being kept inside. I dropped a hint or two about some of the local theatrical productions which interested her greatly – the result of which is that they will be attending tonight’s performance at the Haymarket, while you and I slip into the house in Gordon Square and search at our leisure.”

I had a premonition – correct, as it turned out – that things wouldn’t progress quite that smoothly, but I held my tongue as we paid our bill and found a hansom to carry us to Bloomsbury. We had the cabbie drop us at the corner of Gower and Keppel Streets, and then walked through the dark night until we entered Russell Square. Turning north, we paused on the steps of Christ’s Church in Woburn Square, where Holmes raised his hand twice in a curious chopping motion. Within half-a-minute, a lad appeared from the darkness. It was Arthur Belling, one of his Irregulars.

“Something different from what you said to expect, Mr. Holmes,” he said. “The lady left at the time you said she would, but there was no man with her, and she hired a growler. The driver helped her load a small trunk that was just inside the building. The lights to the rooms that you said to watch are still lit.”

“Did you see which way they went?”

“To the south. Thad jumped on the back – he’ll get word to us where they’re going.”

Holmes frowned and glanced at me. “I fear that I have been hoodwinked, Watson. This way!”

Leaving Arthur where we had found him, Holmes led me back down to the pavement, and so on along the eastern side of Gordon Square, and then straight to Number 226. Stepping off the street through the unlocked front door, he pounded up the stairs to the first floor, while I followed gamely behind. He reached a door as I stepped off the stairs and raised his fist to knock. Before he could do so, however, he sniffed, and then shifted his hand to push against the door. It opened, having not been entirely closed. He looked toward me. “Gun smoke – do you smell it?”

I did. As I took another step closer, his expression changed at whatever it was that he saw through the open door.

“Deviltry, Watson,” he muttered, and then stepped inside.

From the doorway, I saw him approach the body of a man – Moulton – lying on the floor, his head lying in a thickening puddle of blood. The man’s eyes were glazed in death, and his features were distorted, a result of the blackened wound on his left temple. A gun was tossed carelessly onto the floor at his side.

Holmes muttered to himself to a moment. “There is no attempt to fabricate a suicide,” he finally said. “Moulton was right-handed – he wouldn’t have fired into his left temple, and in any case, the gun is lying by his right hand.” He leaned down over the weapon. “This appears to be the same gun that he had when I called up on the two of them yesterday evening.” He stood and looked at me. “It would seem as if his wife somehow gained possession of it – probably without his knowledge, as there is no sign of a struggle – and she was likely able to approach him without arousing his suspicions. She killed him and then departed – probably for good, as she took a trunk.”

He then turned and spent five minutes or so comprehensively searching the rooms, while I placed myself near the door, in case anyone should arrive with uncomfortable questions. I was struck by how solid the building seemed to be, and how silent as well. I couldn’t hear anything from the neighboring flats – which was possibly why none of them seemed to have heard the sound of a gunshot.

Holmes returned and stood beside me. “She hasn’t taken all of her possessions, but enough to indicate that she doesn’t intend to return. And there is no sign of the documents related to the events in Moulton’s past.”

He raised a hand and rubbed his brow. “I have seriously erred, Watson. Something that I did today during my visit alerted them – alerted her – that I knew more than I was sharing. I thought that Moulton was the villain, but it seems that there was more than one viper in these rooms.”

“You don’t know that for certain,” I said. “Perhaps Moulton was a brute, something that she never realized during the short time that they were previously married in the United States. We saw indications of it last night. Possibly he did something just today that drove her to kill him, entirely unrelated to the tale that you shared regarding Moriarty and Wayman.”

“Possibly,” he said. “But I can see from examining the rooms that her departure was efficient and organized. There was no panic here, no desperate attempt to flee from an emotional murder that came as the result of some sudden abuse. And the papers are missing…”

***

There isn’t much more to tell. One of Holmes’s Irregulars, Thad Warren, passed the word to us that Hattie Doran Moulton’s cab had deposited her at Victoria Station, where she had purchased a ticket and then entered one of carriages for the boat train to France. However, by the time the police could wire ahead and intercept it, she’d vanished from her compartment, abandoning her trunk in the process, long before reaching the coast. Holmes personally undertook to interview the lady’s father, Aloysius Doran, still in England following her supposed wedding to Lord St. Simon. He had remained through the following week instead of returning to America, seemingly awaiting news concerning her disappearance. He claimed, as he always had, that he hadn’t known where his daughter went after fleeing the wedding breakfast, and that she wouldn’t have told him what she’d planned in any case, knowing his objections to her relationship with Francis Moulton. And yet, Holmes was certain after questioning the man that he had actually known all along where his daughter was during the week after the wedding, and more importantly, that he knew where she was now as well.

“I’m convinced that the old rascal helped arrange for her escape from the train,” he said with great irritation a few evening later. We were sitting by the fireplace in Baker Street, Holmes with his pipe in hand. Old Doran had vexed him, and as Holmes cast more nets and obtained more information, it was clear that the American was a much more dangerous figure than we had first credited, based on the little that we’d previously heard of him.

“No great surprise there,” I said. “A man like him who made a fortune in the western mines is surely ruthless and brutal.”

“Exactly,” said Holmes. “Just the kind of man who could parlay some sort of successful connection with Professor Moriarty, to their mutual benefit.”

“You believe that is what’s happening, then?”

“There is every indication of it. He hasn’t been sitting idle during his visit to London. I’ve learned that he made several visits to Moriarty’s Russell Square residence during the week that his daughter was missing.”

“Then we have a rough idea of what is happening.”

“But do we really know anything, Watson? It seems that these waters are even deeper and darker than we realized. Was Hattie Doran simply an innocent who found out the truth about her recently reunited husband? Or was there some newly threatened violence that prompted her to kill him? In either case, what made her choose to flee, rather than count on her father’s money and influence to save her? Why walk away from her entire life – and in so effective and successful a manner? It might be easy for someone like her to do so – after all, she was ready a week ago to abandon Lord St. Simon and the security that life with him offered. Was she the woman that we saw the other night, talking too much while drunk and needling her new husband, or was she really pulling the strings all along?”

He set his pipe aside. “Thinking Moulton dead two years ago, did she then manipulate poor Lord St. Simon in search of a title, an entry-way into British society, only to abandon him when something better came along – a return to whatever life that she’d initially planned alongside a man with an extensive criminal history? I begin to think that the reappearance of the actual husband, while initially quite unfortunate for our saddened nobleman, was a rather lucky thing for him after all. The question now is where has she gone to ground – and why? Does it have something to do with her father’s seeming association with the Professor? She and Moulton had already planned to go to France when I first visited them. Were they both taking direction even then from Moriarty? Is she still following that path laid out for her by the Professor, leaving behind her dead husband, her fortune, and even her identity? A striking woman like her cannot hide forever. Even under Moriarty’s protection, if that’s where she has taken herself, she must eventually be discovered.”

And she was, but not until Holmes had a much greater understanding of the criminal enterprise which he faced, and only after the Professor had made one trip – only a little, little trip – which was more than he could afford when Holmes was so close upon him. From that starting point, Holmes wove his net around Moriarty, and all the little fish that encircled him as well. The final whereabouts of Hattie Doran, as I continued to call her, was one of the many mysteries that were cleared up to a small degree when Holmes’s papers were examined in those dark days of May 1891, soon after he was believed to have perished at the Reichenbach Falls. I was with Inspector Patterson when he pulled the documents needed to convict Moriarty’s gang from pigeonhole M – done up just as Holmes had described in a blue envelope and inscribed “Moriarty”. Among them was a sheet telling how to find Hattie Doran, along with a long list of the crimes, some capital offenses, that she had committed since vanishing years before following the murder of her husband.

Holmes’s notes were extensive, showing that he had found her just a few months after her disappearance. Rather than stay in that confining life of luxury, which she had apparently despised as her father attempted to marry her into the world of higher society, she had instead gone to work willingly for Moriarty’s organization, a path that gave her some sort of satisfaction as she lived the dangerous life of an adventuress – and that eventually led her to the rope.

Holmes had gotten word of her activities in Monte Carlo, had set a watch in place, and then kept his eye upon her from that moment on, waiting. Sadly he wasn’t around to see her arrest and conviction, as by that point he was using his presumed death to travel the world under the name “Sigerson” (among many others) while carrying out the nation’s secret business under the direction of his brother.

***

I was allowed to speak with Hattie Doran in her cell the day before her execution, but she refused to answer any of my questions. She seemed to believe, even then, that somehow either her father’s money or her association with the Professor’s shattered organization would save her – the look of mocking and confident amusement at her plight was there in her eyes, and she made no effort to hide it. I understand that she became more frantic as the day progressed, and that she had to be sedated during the night as the hour of her execution approached. And yet, she took the truth of her relationship with Moulton with her, as well as whatever it was that had motivated her to kill him on that October night, just a day after our convivial little supper in Baker Street, sometime between the hour that Holmes had visited their apartment and when we later returned to burgle it.

I was at Newgate Prison the next morning when Hattie Doran was hanged, and I bore the brunt of the hatred meant for both me and Holmes as I tried to ignore the glare of her father. His blistering gaze was upon me instead of watching his daughter, even as the flooring beneath her feet gave away and we both heard her muffled and abruptly silenced gasp. He made it clear as I turned to go that he would never forgive, and he would never forget.