The Devil's Due Page 24

  ‘But do you share them? Do you believe he has crossed the line?’

  Holmes shivered. He looked unwell. ‘It is so cold. We haven’t much time. My brother is hiding over there.’ He pointed to a great assemblage of the theatrical flats, stacked together at the north end of the hall, visible across the darkness like a pale canvas Stonehenge. ‘No matter what else happens, Watson, we will discover, here in this place, the secret of these Alphabet Killings. And something, I fear, about my brother.’

  It occurred to me that even if Mycroft Holmes were not the Alphabet Killer himself, he was on the list. And if on the list, he was guilty of past harm to someone. A terrible harm. But there was no time to ponder that.

  I heard the sound of crunching glass from upstairs where I had entered. Had Heffie followed, unbidden?

  I looked up, but just then Mycroft Holmes stepped into the pool of feeble light from the other side. I had rarely seen him outside of the Diogenes. His corpulence usually lent his movements a ponderous quality, yet there was something strangely vital about him now – electrified, almost, with a fearsome energy. Clothed in a suit which might have cost a doctor’s yearly income, and impeccably tailored and groomed, his leonine countenance projected a terrifying strength.

  My eyes were drawn to his heavy jowls. Again I thought of Lady Eleanor’s glimpse of the man who nearly ran her over in the street.

  ‘Sherlock, show yourself,’ said Mycroft. ‘I know you are here.’

  Holmes stepped into the dim pool of light to face his brother. I finally got a good look at him. He looked shaky, manic, the cocktail of drugs coursing through his system. Beads of sweat hung across his brow.

  ‘Hello, Mycroft,’ said my friend. ‘You have gone to a great deal of trouble to bring me here.’

  ‘Ah, Sherlock, I know you enjoy the dramatic. Oh, my, look at you. What have you taken?’

  ‘Do not concern yourself.’ said Holmes. ‘That fire at your apartment. That was a dangerous show you put on.’

  ‘It did not go precisely as intended. I thought you would be the first on the scene, not the girl. I nearly ran back in to save her, but thankfully you showed up to do so. A bit clumsily, I might add.’

  Mycroft had observed that entire scene? He had deliberately put his brother in harm’s way. I felt a surge of rage.

  ‘She nearly died, Mycroft,’ said Holmes.

  ‘That would not have happened had you been just a little bit more ahead of the game.’

  I heard a faint sound from outside. A girl’s cry. Heffie! I stiffened. A sick concern washed over me. Heffie. Standing sentinel.

  Mycroft and Holmes heard it too. Both froze in place, listening. There were footsteps, barely audible. Did they hear them, too? I raised my gun. I was to wait for his signal. But Holmes was not in his right mind. Would he even remember it? Or give it in time?

  ‘Mycroft, you knew the transgressions of each victim, did you not?’ asked Holmes, his voice shaky. ‘You knew from the start these murders were more than they seemed. More than a game of of A–Z. Rather a kind of vengeance for deep wrongdoings. I would not be surprised to discover that the specific crime of each of the victims was available somewhere in your government files.’

  ‘That is correct, dear brother. The discovery of each criminal act by the Goodwins via their alcohol and ganja-infused social gatherings either corroborated what I already knew or revealed additional facts about each one. As you surmised, the government does keep track of influential people and their … shall we say, vulnerabilities.’

  ‘Which sets up an enormous question, does it not, Mycroft? Why are you on the Luminarian list?’

  Mycroft laughed. It had a strange ring, deep and mirthless, as though Mycroft found whatever it was both laughable and pitiful. I had not heard this sound coming from the man before.

  I took that moment to edge closer, crouching down behind a short piece of scenery.

  ‘Sherlock, how is it precisely that you think the world works? In black and white?’

  ‘In a symphony of greys, Mycroft. I am not oblivious. But there is also a world of difference between the compromises made when governing a nation and a person who venomously destroys another for personal gain. Each of these Alphabet Killings revealed a crime of that nature.’

  ‘You are terribly naïve, Sherlock. I have always said so.’

  I shifted uncomfortably from my crouched position. There was a silence. In that gap, I thought I heard a creak off to my right. Did I imagine it? Neither Holmes nor his brother appeared to hear.

  I looked back at Holmes, swaying slightly from all the drugs. But he pressed on.

  ‘The Goodwins named you for a reason, Mycroft. The transgressions of each victim I have uncovered are deeply personal. Uniformly vile. Most transpired long ago.’

  Mycroft laughed again. ‘Greys, you said, but still you insist on black and white? It was always thus for you, Sherlock. Your métier suits you well. You pursue criminals. An immediate though minor benefit to society. You kill a shark while I keep the ocean free.’ He nodded at his brother.

  I was now sure I had heard something. I looked around but could discern no movement outside of the light under which the Holmes brothers were standing.

  ‘How does the death of each Luminarian serve your greater picture, Mycroft?’ asked Holmes.

  ‘You are so wrong, Sherlock. Aren’t you wondering what it was that made me point you to the case, introduce the Goodwins, and insist upon your investigation? Why would I do that if I were the killer?’

  ‘It is personal. Given that you denigrate the small crime, it is odd that you have in fact aimed your most petty offence at me.’

  ‘Really, dear brother?’ The depth of scorn Mycroft conveyed was chilling, as though years in the making. ‘And what would I possibly want from you, Sherlock?’

  ‘The satisfaction of beating me at my own game,’ said Holmes. ‘As you have always wanted, Mycroft.’

  What happened next stunned me. Sherlock Holmes drew a pistol from his pocket and cocked it, aiming it at his brother. Holmes rarely carried a gun. I was not entirely sure how good a shot he was, especially not in his right mind.

  My hand crept to my own pistol and I drew it slowly, carefully from my pocket. Now? Surely now. Shoot the gun from his hand. Startle him into his senses. Offer to cover Mycroft while he … did what?

  But the word did not come. Holmes swayed. The drugs. The shock.

  Now?

  ‘But you will not do so today, Mycroft. You will come with me or die here.’

  Now?

  ‘I think not, Sherlock,’ said his brother.

  Mycroft Holmes could move in lightning speed when he so desired. In less than a blink, suddenly Mycroft had a gun in his hand, and for a brief terrible moment the two brothers faced each other, aiming their pistols. Before I knew it, two gunshots resounded in the empty space.

  For long seconds, they stood … then Mycroft gasped. He clutched his chest, blood trickling between his fingers.

  Holmes was upright, arm extended, his mouth open in surprise.

  Mycroft sank heavily to his knees. ‘Sherlock,’ he said and made a gurgling noise. ‘You mistake me.’ He collapsed to the floor like a sack of flour and lay still.

  Holmes was frozen, arm still extended. He stared at his brother, lowered his hand and looked in horror at the gun in it, as if seeing it for the first time.

  I pocketed my own gun. I felt sick, unsure what to do next. Holmes looked directly at me, where I hid in the shadows. He shook his head.

  ‘No.’ He began turning in aimless circles. ‘No, no …’

  That direct look – was that an instruction? Do nothing. And yet …

  I hesitated. His eyes glittered as he moved aimlessly. This was not the Holmes I knew. This was some other Sherlock Holmes. A man who had fallen over the edge, truly into darkness. A man who had just shot his brother in cold blood. A man with cocaine and morphine pulling the strings.

  Holmes stopped circling and waved his g
un in the air, as if it had somehow become attached to his hand and he did not know how to release it. He lowered his hand and stared at the weapon, transfixed.

  ‘My God,’ his voice dropped to a whisper. ‘What have I done?’

  Off to my left came a sudden cry of relief. Lady Eleanor appeared in the pool of light. ‘Oh, Mr Holmes! I found you Thank God! … I am so afraid!’

  I retreated further into the shadows.

  ‘Dr Watson left me with that man, Mr Billings. But I don’t trust him! Something he said. He just … I broke away … Lestrade said you were coming here …’

  Suddenly she noticed Mycroft’s body lying nearby.

  ‘That’s him! Oh, but you have killed him! Thank heavens! Mr Holmes, you killed the monster who attacked me!’

  She raced to Holmes and flung herself against him, embracing him, hard. He grunted in pain. ‘Thank you!’ she cooed.

  I watched, confused. Holmes seemed unable to understand her. He stood limply, the gun pointing down as she hugged him and then stepped back.

  Her voice dropped in pitch and sounded like another woman’s voice entirely. ‘Thank you.’ There was a metallic click as Lady Eleanor raised her arm and put her hand next to Holmes’s forehead. In it was a Derringer.

  ‘Drop your gun, Mr Holmes.’

  His body stiffened. He looked up in a kind of stupor, and slowly released his weapon. It clattered to the ground.

  Had she gone mad? Had he? I raised my pistol, trying to get a clear shot. Now? Holmes stepped to the side, glancing in my direction. I thought I detected a ‘no’ in his glance, but his eyes were glassy and his posture was not normal.

  Lady Eleanor moved again, keeping Holmes between us. ‘I know you are there, Dr Watson. Step into the light and drop your gun,’ she commanded. ‘Do it now or your friend dies, and I will be very disappointed. We have unfinished business.’

  I stood up and stepped into the light, dropping my gun to the floor. The sound of its landing echoed through the vast hall. I was aware of the darkness surrounding us, and I sensed movement. I saw nothing, but someone else was there. Friend or foe, I had no idea. But I also realized that Holmes and I now faced the real Alphabet Killer, the Lucifer of the handwritten notes. The scourge of London.

  ‘A, B, C, D, E, F …’ said Holmes.

  ‘And G.’ Lady Eleanor smiled sweetly. ‘Surprise!’

  CHAPTER 31

  The Bizarre

  I have evidently been cursed with an expressive face. Lady Eleanor, who rarely took notice of me, now stared at my aghast countenance.

  ‘Dr Watson, you appear astonished that it’s a woman you have been seeking. The brains behind the murders of Luminarians. But what has been a revelation for me is how much enjoyment I got from fooling the great Sherlock Holmes.’

  She turned to my friend. ‘How does it feel to have taken care of the “H” for me? To have shot your brother in cold blood?’ She laughed. ‘A rare mistake, but one of your last. You can stop acting, Mr Holmes. Pretending to be so little affected. I suspect you may respond differently when I kill Dr Watson.’

  Holmes looked up slowly, the chaos and pain of a moment ago seeming to fall from him like a cloak. He shrugged. ‘It is all the same to me.’

  I heard another gun being cocked, then the deep, familiar voice of Titus Billings. ‘Sherlock Holmes is lying, of course. You should have witnessed the scene in my office. These two would die for each other.’

  Billings stepped into the light. His left hand was held aloft, the elbow tucked into his side, as if cradling an injury. In the other hand, he brandished his cold, grey police revolver.

  Titus Billings, the Law. Or a law unto himself. ‘I have him now, Ellie,’ he said to Lady Eleanor, training the gun on Holmes. Neither Holmes nor I dared to move, but we exchanged a quick glance. Ellie?

  Lady Eleanor lowered her Derringer and picked up Holmes’s revolver from the ground, then mine as well. The tiny woman moved from us to stand beside Titus Billings, who towered over her. What was his role?

  ‘Keep an eye on the doctor,’ she ordered. ‘He’s a military man.’ The chain of command was unexpected: the delicate widow commanding the head of the London Police? Her voice had turned to steel, her back was straight, face rigid. This was an entirely different creature from the one we had met in Kensington. A she-devil. How had I not seen this before? And how could Holmes have missed this?

  ‘Relax, Ellie,’ said Billings. ‘We only need a gun on one of them. Holmes, I think.’ He smiled in our direction. A reptile. ‘Have you got that, gentlemen? If either of you move I will blow chunks of that famous detective brain all over the doctor’s nice white shirt.’

  ‘Good.’ Lady Eleanor glanced at Billings, then gave him a sharp second look. ‘What happened to you, little brother? Your hand?’

  Titus Billings and Lady Eleanor were brother and sister!

  ‘Ah yes, of course,’ murmured Holmes. ‘The ears. Siblings.’

  Lady Eleanor glared at him, then turned to her brother. ‘What happened?’

  ‘Attacked by a street urchin just outside here. She got my wrist.’

  ‘Using your own nippers by any chance?’ asked Holmes, holding up his own damaged wrist. ‘Effective, I will admit.’

  ‘The little harridan,’ said Billings.

  ‘Got away, did she?’ asked Holmes lightly.

  There was no reply. My heart lurched. But Billings’s lack of response gave me hope. He would have boasted if he had hurt Heffie.

  Lady Eleanor smiled at Holmes. ‘On the subject of siblings, it seems the most famous detective is now the most infamous. Mistaking your own brother for a multiple murderer!’ She laughed. ‘I must say, I did not quite see that coming. But Gabriel Zanders will no doubt thrill to this latest development. How does it feel to have slaughtered your own next of kin?’

  Holmes said nothing. He looked ill.

  ‘Well, before you die, are you curious about anything?’ she asked, seductively. ‘I would be happy to give you a little something, Mr Holmes. You have tried so hard.’ She approached and caressed his face with the back of her hand. My friend managed to recoil without apparently moving a muscle.

  ‘Still pretending that you don’t find me attractive?’ she said. ‘Shame.’

  Holmes did not respond.

  ‘Surely you are curious about something. Something you might have missed? Something that defies logic?’ She leaned in, caressing his ear.

  I feared a fatal reaction from Holmes.

  ‘I have a question!’ I found myself blurting out. ‘What is your reason, Lady Eleanor? Why kill all those Luminarians?’

  She laughed. ‘Oh, the little friend speaks. Well, Doctor, I am the rat-catcher. It is a public service, after all. Anson? Benjamin? Clammory? Danforth? Enrietti? All of them deserved to die. And believe me, I’ll get Flynn soon enough. Even the great Sherlock Holmes hasn’t figured out the “why” of those.’

  ‘Of course, I have,’ said Holmes.

  All eyes swivelled to him.

  ‘You were making sure the Devil got his due,’ he said simply. ‘Making villains pay for success stolen from others.’

  ‘All right, Mr Holmes,’ said Lady Eleanor. ‘You are partly right. But only partly. Stop moving, Dr Watson! There, that’s good. Remember those chunks of brains. But, Mr Holmes, you do not stand on the moral high ground. You have just killed your only family, remember?’

  ‘I shall ever regret it, Lady Eleanor. Or perhaps I should call you simply … Elaine.’

  There was dead silence. Titus Billings flushed and his expression grew belligerent. He looked from Lady Eleanor and back to Holmes.

  ‘Yes, Elaine Linville,’ said Holmes quietly. ‘And you, Billings, are Tristan Linville, whose father Thomas Linville was ruined by Horatio Anson, a rival shipbuilder. And the rest of that sad story – and there is quite a bit of it – launched your murderous scheme.’

  ‘Oh, you do amuse me!’ said the lady, intrigued.

  ‘It was apparent from the out
set that one or more of the murders was personal to the killer. Simple revenge. But it strained credibility that they all were. My struggle was to figure which one. And what was motivating the rest.’

  ‘More than one, Mr Holmes.’

  ‘Yes, I understand that … at present.’

  ‘You cannot know my mind, Sherlock Holmes. Nor even guess.’

  ‘Guess, no. But I can reconstruct from the facts. Your first victim was your husband, Lord Gainsborough, when you discovered his ruthlessness in killing off rival orchid hunters. His actions reminded you of your long-time nemesis, Horatio Anson. Killing Lord Gainsborough was a well-conceived crime. But not adequately appreciated for your taste. You hid your tracks too well and found that you took little pleasure in the murder.’

  ‘Interesting,’ said the lady.

  ‘Your husband was an evil man. But Lord Gainsborough saw the same in you and took you for an ally. The Luminarians were all compromised individuals in one way or another. When he confided this to you, he no doubt thought the two of you could take advantage in some way. You were thrilled to find that your personal nemesis, Horatio Anson, the man whom you lived to destroy, was among the group. It was then that you hatched your idea.’

  ‘Someone has been researching. Go on, Mr Holmes.’ She smiled impassively but I could sense that Lady Eleanor was enjoying this.

  ‘You decided to kill Anson and your husband, then you decided to hide these acts in a larger series of murders. A rather good plan.’

  She preened at this appreciation of her cleverness. Multiple murderers generally want to be known, their cleverness appreciated.

  ‘Anson, of course, deserved his fate, in your mind,’ he continued. ‘Not only were there three deaths in your family, but then the two youngest children were sent to live with relatives in London, never heard from again. Elaine and Tristan: Eleanor and Titus. You were given over to awful families, almost as indentured servants. Both of you clawed your way – quite admirably – out of this, you by marrying Lord Gainsborough, and you, Billings, by a slashing your way through the army ranks and aligning with royalty. Horatio Anson’s murder was particularly sadistic – tying him to his own slip and letting the Thames swallow him alive.’