The Final Threat

I looked more closely, shielding myself against the heat. Holmes’ observation was correct, the coats or shirt fronts of the four men looked black in this uncertain light. At first, I had thought it to be from the fire, but closer inspection of each revealed blood loss from a gaping wound.

“Holmes, I recognise these men. They were all present when we visited the One Hundred per Cent Society.”

“They were indeed, and would probably have been able to contribute to Scotland Yard’s knowledge of Mrs. McLyall, had they lived long enough to be arrested. Hence, I think, her disposal of them. She is covering her tracks.”

I stepped back, away from the blaze. “But why the fire, it seems rather dramatic.”

“More to the point, why did she not throw the bodies onto the fire? Surely, it would have been better for her to have the evidence consumed.” In the flickering shadows, I saw his expression change as the answer came to him. “Of course, this is a lure, a tethered goat. Down, Watson!”

We threw ourselves to the ground at the same moment as a fountain of sparks burst from the fire and one of the seated figures toppled forwards into the flames. Holmes realisation had come not a moment too soon.

“Keep your pistol ready,” Holmes said from beside me. “I think the shot came from one of the out-buildings.”

I peered into the cloud of swirling smoke. The brick shelters were barely visible, because of the harsh glow from the fire. I recoiled at the spitting and hissing as the flames began to consume the fallen body, quickly engulfing it. The smell of cooking meat was sickening.

“Nothing has moved,” I said after some time.

Holmes surveyed the scene carefully. “If we remain still, our would-be murderer has no means of knowing if his bullet found its target because he cannot see beyond the fire. At any rate, he will be aware that he can only have hit one of us at best. When he shows himself, he may begin his assault with a fusillade, which could easily be the end of us both. Therefore we must begin firing on sight, before he has a clear shot.”

“There will be no opportunity to ask for his surrender?”

“None. If it is not Mrs. McLyall herself who is our adversary, then it is someone who she has manipulated to do her work for her. If he knows her by reputation, he may be terrified of failure.”

The minutes went by, and we remained still and watchful. I felt the beginnings of cramp, from maintaining my crouched position, but Holmes seemed entirely unaffected.

The smoke thickened until it was like the fog in Baker Street on a mid-winter morning. That curious dull quality that sound takes on when it is enclosed or confined was now evident as we strained our ears to define the position of our enemy. The crackling of the fire grew louder, increasing our difficulties.

Holmes moved suddenly, with the speed of a striking snake. “There, Watson, behind us! Fire, before we are hit!”

I turned to face the same direction, to where our enemy had stealthily crept under cover of the smoke. Something whipped past my face into the fire, small explosions erupted around us as bullets struck the earth and the remaining bodies.

Holmes already had his revolver levelled and we began shooting at the same moment. At first there was no response, but then we heard painful cries above the roaring and it became clear that we were no longer under fire.

“Careful, Watson.” Holmes and I got to our feet warily, with our pistols ready.

We separated, presenting smaller targets as we advanced through the dense clouds, both of us beginning to cough but keeping our eyes trained on the indistinct ground ahead. Presently the smoke thinned and some visibility returned.

“There!”Holmes pointed.

I saw at once the writhing body sprawled before us. My doctor’s training and instinct took over and I knelt beside it, laying my pistol on the ground.

“This is the secretary of the Society!” I exclaimed. “Zedekiah Furlong.”

Holmes peered at the prostrate figure. “See what you can do for him.”

The man’s short body had been hit several times, his eyes were full of terror and his jowls dripping with sweat.

“There is no hope for him, Holmes.”

“This is my work, she made me do it,” Furlong’s voice came faintly through a harsh death-rattle. “Cutting off loose ends, she said. That woman is a devil.”

“Mrs. McLyall?” Holmes asked.

As best he could, Furlong nodded his head. “She had power over all of us, for one reason or another. She knew all our weaknesses. Anyone who disobeyed was murdered by the others. That was her ruling. She will kill anyone in her way, for her husband’s sake.”

“We know of this. But why did she try to kill us?”

“You interfered, became a threat to her. She knew you would understand her message and come here tonight.”

“The Gorgon’s head visiting card?”

He spluttered something that we couldn’t understand, as blood appeared at the corner of his mouth.

“Where is she now?” Holmes glanced at me quickly, and I shook my head.

“Waiting at her house, for you or for me. She said you would know, if you survived.”

“How unfortunate,” Holmes said to me. “I told Lestrade to bring his constables here.”

“What awaits us there?” I asked Furlong, but my words went unheard. He was gone.

We stood upright, away from the body. I felt guilty, as I always do, at such times -- I, as a doctor, am trained to save lives, not to destroy them.

“Do not distress yourself, Doctor,” Holmes said, and I realised that he had read my expression in the uncertain light. “Think as you did when you served in the army. These are evil people and the world is a better place without them.”

He took my arm to guide me through the lingering smoke, our eyes tearful and stinging. When we reached the street we breathed deeply, and I have never known the air of London to taste so pure.

“We must get a message to Lestrade,” my friend said when we had recovered ourselves. “He will want to clear up here.”

“But first he will wish to accompany us to Mrs. McLyall’s house, I should think.”

“He would, but we cannot delay and risk her escape.” Holmes looked up and down the empty street. “It will be difficult, but perhaps we could find a hansom to take us there, with a driver who would return herewith a message for the Inspector. By then he should have arrived.”

“If we walk in the direction from which we came, we may be fortunate.”

We struck out at a smart pace. At the end of the road, near a tailor’s shop, a landau waited, its soft top closed and the black horses illuminated by its lamps.

“Luck is with us, Holmes!” I exclaimed gratefully.

To my surprise, his face was grim. “This is too convenient,” he said. “My usual practice is not to take the first carriage that appears, nor the second, and now my philosophy is vindicated.”

“Holmes, look at the coachman. He is the butler who admitted us to the One Hundred per Cent Society!”

“Doubtless this was to be the means of escape for Furlong, had he successfully disposed of us.”

I let my hand drop to my pocket, where I could feel the reassuring weight of my pistol. “Holmes, if we are very quick...”

“No, we would be killed in an instant.” He turned his head as he spoke, and I followed his gaze. “You will observe that the coachman has produced a shotgun.”

“Whoever is inside the coach is certain to be armed also.”

“Quite. Our best course of action is to do nothing until their intentions become clear.”

The horses stamped their feet impatiently. A voice, from the dark interior of the coach, spoke to us.

“Good evening, Mr. Sherlock Holmes. You will oblige me by allowing your companion to precede you, and then taking the seat opposite.”

Holmes and I looked at each other, and in the glow from the coach lamps I saw his almost imperceptible nod. I climbed into the coach and he followed. We sat side by side on the hard leather seat, facing two men who wore evening clothes and top hats. The light was minimal, yet I was sure that these two also had been present at our visit to the One Hundred per Cent Society. Each held a pistol, pointed in our direction.

“Where are you taking us?” I asked.

The man sitting opposite Holmes replied in an educated voice. “Not out of your way, I think. You were bound for Mrs. McLyall’s house, were you not?”

“You have assumed correctly,” Holmes answered.

The coachman whipped up the horses and we began to move. I have little memory of the cavalcade that passed outside, for I feared for our lives. In the almost complete darkness I could see little of the man who had spoken, or of his companion. The fleeting glow of the street lamps revealed faces half-hidden in the shadow of their hat-brims.

“Then we will assist you,” the same man said. “Since you appear to be unharmed, can I further assume that Mr. Furlong is no more?”

“You may,” I said, “with confidence.”

“No matter, the man was becoming an annoyance to us all. Oh, do not move quite so quickly, Dr. Watson. I see that you reached for a handkerchief, but the action might easily have been misinterpreted. I should tell you gentlemen that our instructions are to deliver you unharmed. You are quite safe until we arrive if you make no attempt to draw your weapons.”

I replaced my handkerchief in my pocket. “Those were Mrs. McLyall’s orders?”

“Of course. I understand that she wishes to deal with you both personally.” A few moments passed without any sound save that of the horses’ hooves on the cobbled streets, before he added, “She is a clever woman, that one, and absolutely without conscience. I have seldom seen anyone so purposeful and driven.”

“Revenge is a powerful motive,” Holmes said.

In the poor light, I fancied I saw our captor nod. “That is what consumes her, a frenzied desire to wreak vengeance for her husband’s death. It is an obsession, and I do not think she can help herself. She collected a group of us, all outcasts from the higher levels of society. This was ostensibly to create a benevolent club, but actually to aid her in her purpose in exchange for money or opium obtained from I know not where. Then some of us realised how easy it would be to form our own criminal enterprise, and this will be put into practice on completion of Mrs McLyall’s task.”

“I do not think she will lead us for long,” the other man spoke for the first time. “She is quite mad.”

“And what are her intentions towards us?” I asked.

“She has not said, but ours are to deliver you both to her house,” the man who had first spoken said. “She awaits you in the Great Hall.” He paused, then added: “Perhaps you should both make your peace with God.”

The coach slowed and, in response to a command, the horses came to a halt.

“I will alight first to ensure that Mr. Holmes and the doctor comply with our instructions,” the second man said.

When he stood outside the coach, he gestured for us to follow, his pistol held steady. His companion jumped down and I saw then that the coachman also had alighted. Three weapons threatened us and I realised, as Holmes would already have done, that there was no chance of escape. They took us through the gate and along the gravel path.

The little we could see in the darkness showed signs of the owner’s absence. The surrounding foliage was now untended and overgrown, while the house itself had boarded windows and peeling paint. We walked along the path as the decaying atmosphere of the place reached out to engulf us, or so it seemed in my imagination. Our captors signalled that we should halt at the entrance.

“You are to proceed down the corridor,” we were ordered. “It is useless to attempt to escape into any of the rooms, for all doors on both sides are locked.” They bowed courteously. “Goodbye, Mr. Sherlock Holmes. Goodbye, Doctor Watson.”

We were left without choice but to enter the house. Here too was evidence of neglect. Leaves and twigs that had blown in, perhaps from a broken skylight, were strewn across the marble floor. I looked back once to see our captors with their pistols still levelled, appearing sinister in their long black coats and top hats. I was reminded of pall-bearers at a funeral.

“I will see if I can open a door, Holmes,” I said then. “There are six on either side of us, and they may have forgotten to lock one.”

My friend smiled. “Do not trouble yourself, Watson. You will have realised from the way we were brought here that these people are thorough. Clearly, Mrs. McLyall is an efficient organiser.”

“I am puzzled as to why they failed to disarm us.”

“I am also, but we are now at the end of the corridor with nothing but a wall with a single door before us. Perhaps the answer lies beyond it.”

With that he grasped the handle and opened the door cautiously.

The night air rushed in and I realised that we were again in the open air. I had assumed that the Great Hall was part of the main house, as is usual, but here now was a separate building, square, large and solid-looking.

“There is no way out there, Watson.”

My friend had already noticed the tall iron fences to either side of us, between the house and this new structure.

“There is nothing for it then, but to proceed.”

I sensed his nod of agreement. “Let us do so with caution. Keep your hand on your revolver, doctor.”

The tall double-doors creaked loudly as he swung them open. We stepped across the threshold into what could have been the interior of a large church. There were no pews or altar, but small windows with stained glass were spaced along the high gallery running around the entire room. On either side of us, colonnaded passages led into the darkness. Oil lamps, placed on the walls at intervals, cast a meagre light among long shadows, and along the gallery a number of metal braziers, such as are used by road-menders, held glowing coals.

The atmosphere was close and depressing. I noted with disgust the heavy cobwebs hanging from the gallery, and from the grotesque statues in every corner of the room. Unknown men, some of whom had doubtlessly been mad, stared from their portraits on the walls with cruel eyes. Thick dust covered the floor, and our footfalls echoed loudly.

“For such an unused place, there is a strange smell.” I commented.

“Some derivative of tar, unless I am much mistaken, and that means...”

Holmes was interrupted by the loud report of the doors slamming closed behind us. The trap was sprung.

He shrugged. “One or more of our friends from the coach evidently followed us, not an entirely unexpected move.” A piece of coal fell from one of the glowing braziers. “Mrs. McLyall has a great liking of fire, it seems.”

Before I could reply, we heard movement above us. From the shadows along the gallery came echoing footsteps, getting closer.

“I have been pondering,” Holmes said in the nonchalant manner he sometimes adopted, “on the question of why our pistols were not taken from us in the landau. The answer, of course, is obvious. Do you recall the words of one of our captors, during the journey?”

Despite our situation, I forced my mind back. “I think you mean: ‘She will not lead us for long.’”

“Precisely that. These men wish to operate the criminal gang formed by Mrs. McLyall, without her. If things should turn out that we kill her, it would be to their advantage.”

“They would dispose of us next, surely.”

“Doubtless that is part of their plan.” He shook his head, dismissing the subject with his eyes fixed on the gallery. “But others have attempted this, yet here we are.”

I followed his gaze “What did you mean about Mrs. McLyall and fire?”

“After that little episode with Mr. Furlong earlier, we are now confronted with this.” He gestured, taking in the room. “The smell you mentioned is of a highly combustible chemical compound. If you were to strike a vesta to light your pipe, this place would become a furnace.”

“That woman is a fiend.”

“I am sure that you are not the first to think so, remembering our previous encounters with her. But look, we are no longer alone.”

Mrs. McLyall stood quiet and very still, looking down at us from the gallery. She held herself erect, her hands gripping the railing tightly. Her eyes appeared dark and sunken, holding a stare of evil intent.

She was dressed completely in black, and I saw at once that she appeared to have aged greatly in the interval since our previous encounter. Her hair was now much shorter than before, no doubt to accommodate the various wigs of her disguises. She spoke in a cold and bitter voice.

“This time I will kill you, Mr. Sherlock Holmes. Be sure of it.”

“That would not ease you pain, nor restore your husband to you.”

I fancied I heard remembered grief, among the hate. “No, but I will destroy those who took him from me. You will not rob me of my vengeance. I will have justice!”

“A strange kind of justice,” observed Holmes, “that takes the lives of the innocent.”

“They killed my husband!” Her voice became a hysterical shriek. I recalled one of our captors in the landau mentioning her madness.

“Even so, does that justify your creation of a gang of thieves and murderers?”

“You may not think so, Mr. Holmes,” her tone was suddenly quieter, “but revenge is indeed sweet. I have tasted it.”

“Not so. You will find it lies bitter in the soul.”

“We shall see. I shall complete my work the more quickly, without your interference.” She turned and flitted like a shadow along the gallery, picking up a stout stave that she must have brought with her for the purpose, and proceeded to strike the flaming braziers around her. Amidst showers of sparks they toppled, one by one, over the rail and down onto us. Holmes gripped my coat and dragged me back towards the door. I heard a final scream, then her voice was lost in the explosive roar as the fire spread around us.

Instantly, we were surrounded by a wall of flame and flying debris. Mrs. McLyall had primed her weapon well, for the inferno rapidly engulfed everything. I wondered if she had underestimated the efficiency of the inflammable chemical when she saturated the hall, for I felt a rush of air as part of the structure collapsed.

Through the smoke, with our eyes streaming and beset by racking coughs for the second time that night, we staggered through the heat until we were against the doors. I threw myself against them, but they stood fast.

“No, Watson!” Holmes cried. “Your pistol!”

I drew my service revolver and saw that he, too, held his weapon ready. We fired into the ornate and ancient lock until it fell to the floor, then kicked at the timber. At last the doors burst apart, and we tumbled into the open air fighting for breath. After regaining our composure we re-entered the house, and Holmes closed the door firmly behind us.

“That will slow the fire’s progress,” he said. “But first we must reload our weapons, for there may still be those three beauties from the landau to deal with.”

Some minutes passed before we were able to retrace our steps along the corridor, for despite our efforts some of the smoke had been inhaled. As we reached the front of the house our caution dissolved, for a familiar voice greeted us.

“Mr. Holmes, Doctor Watson, thank God you have survived!” Lestrade cried as he saw us emerge. He gestured to two constables from the group that accompanied him, and Holmes and I were helped into the street by strong hands.

“Thank you, Lestrade,” Holmes gasped. “I have seldom been so glad to see you.”

“What happened in there?” The Inspector asked.

“I will relate it to you in detail later, but for now the fire brigade must be summoned.” Holmes paused. “Ah, but I see that you have done this already.”

“How could you know that?”

“It is quite evident. You have two police four-wheelers standing by, further down the street. You would have needed at least another to bring all these men. I would speculate that the third vehicle was dispatched, the moment you saw the flames emanating from beyond the back of the house.”

Lestrade smiled. “You do not change, Mr. Holmes. We received your message earlier, and went straight to Coldharbour Lane. There we found several bodies around a blazing fire, about which I will ask you later. I could think of no other place where you might be found, in connection with this affair. But tell me, were you correct? Was it Mrs. McLyall again?”

“It was indeed,” I put in.

“It was she who set the place afire,” Holmes said. “But there was an explosion and she may have perished.”

“We shall see. I will have this place examined with a fine tooth-comb, in the morning.”

Mrs. Hudson was still up, when we eventually arrived back at Baker Street. She smelled the fire on our clothes at once, and made such a fuss that I had to administer brandy in order to restore her calm.

The following morning Holmes returned to Coldharbour Lane to tell Lestrade of our experiences and to observe the search of the ruined house.

I returned from my practice in the early afternoon, and Holmes arrived shortly after.

“Did Lestrade”s men discover the remains of Mrs. McLyall?” I asked him.

Holmes had taken off his hat and coat, and now lay back in an armchair with his hands laced behind his head. “I fear not, Watson,” he said regretfully. “But the good Inspector has indicated that the files on her at Scotland Yard will be closed shortly. He believes her to have been incinerated beyond recognition. As for me, I am not comfortable with that. As far as I am concerned, the Baker Street files remain open.”

“There is still no end to this, then?”

“Let us call it a partial conclusion. Gregson has been called into this case also, and he has already succeeded in apprehending the three from the landau of last night, much to Lestrade’s annoyance. The One Hundred per Cent Society is finished, since those three have readily betrayed the remaining members in order to save their own skins. No, I think Mrs. McLyall’s fledgling organisation will never now take London’s criminal underworld by storm, and any outcast bluebloods still at liberty will have to find honest employment.”

With that he took up his violin and proceeded to play one of his own dark and frantic compositions, while I looked through our window down onto Baker Street and wondered who next would emerge from the crowds to bring my friend a problem with enough singular features to engage his interest.

In conclusion, I have to record that Holmes was right. He never closed our file on Mrs. McLyall and constantly urged Lestrade to give some protection to the remaining jurors, until the tragedy of the Glasgow Express two months later. The crash killed twenty-seven passengers and among the bodies was that of Mrs. McLyall who, as my friend commented, was almost certainly on her way to Scotland to bring about the premature end of one of the surviving jurors who lived there.