The Case of the Assured Assassin
III: The Deadliest Gift
Given the choice at that very moment, I would have rather sliced off my hands than comply with this villain's command. I had no inkling of his intent, save that it was in some way part of his insane plot to bring death to my dearest friend.
"Do it," he said quite calmly, with the air of a man asking me to do nothing more than pour tea. The gun was raised a fraction and levelled itself somewhere in the region of my chest. "Unlike the bullet that brought an end to your career in Afghanistan, mine will certainly kill you. How is the shoulder by the way? Or is it your leg, I am never entirely sure."
"You seem to know a great deal about me," I said obstinately.
"Only what you yourself have told me. Whatever happened to that bull pup of yours? I was most curious. Such delightful creatures."
To my absolute horror, his free hand went into his coat pocket and he extracted a copy of The Strand, which he tossed onto the desk in front of me.
"That really tells me all I need to know about you and Mr Holmes. I can quite see why your friend had cause to remonstrate with you over your style – most florid, Doctor, but very readable."
So, here then was the source of so much of his information. I had been damned by my own pen.
"I must say your opening chapter of The Sign of Four did present me with an interesting avenue of investigation. Poison, self-administered, now there would have been an irony." He chuckled, but gesture did not reach his eyes nor melt the ice within. "Now, Doctor, let us not delay. Take the bottle and open it."
Holmes would surely chide me for my use of a cliché, but in all honesty I was numb. I was aware of the world that continued to move around me, except that I no longer felt a part of it. I was aware of my arm reaching out, my hand closing around the neck of the bottle and the slow return to place it in front of me, whilst every instinct screamed out to me that what I was doing was insane.
I fumbled with the cap, my hands shaking all the while until the deed was done.
From across the desk, my opponent smiled grimly. "May I congratulate you on making an excellent albeit difficult choice, sir. Now, I think we must add a little something to this gift of yours to make it extra special and extra deadly for Mr Holmes. What poisons do you keep here, Doctor?"
"I have none," I stammered, lying poorly. "I consider them to be too dangerous."
"Then you are unique in the medical profession. No morphine, Doctor?"
"My supply has not yet arrived."
His eyebrows rose a little at this bold assertion. "Ah, well, never mind. I prefer to use my own preparation in any case. Personally," said he with a self-important sniff, "I have a preference for the older poisons – belladonna, wolf's bane and the suchlike. However, my clients are most unsubtle, and have a liking for arsenic. Crude, but effective and very easy to detect in a corpse."
"Your clients?" I echoed.
"Indeed, sir. My business is the removal of certain inconvenient individuals, discreetly and without any reflection on my clients."
"You're a murderer, a hired assassin."
He winced, as though he found the term unseemly. "I prefer facilitator, Doctor. Your friend, for example, stands in the way of a good many people, myself included. Normally I would not go to such lengths, but when my very liberty not to mention my livelihood is at risk, then I am compelled to act. It is, I am sorry to say, your misfortune that I have been forced to include you in my plans. You will accept my deepest regrets."
Here then was the reason that lay at the heart of this charade. Holmes had played a dangerous game with this man and was on the verge of losing. Worse of all, it seemed clear to me now that mine was to be the hand that brought him to his death. A small vial landed in front of me, thrown by this smiling demon, its intended purpose frighteningly obvious.
"Empty the contents into the bottle," said he smoothly. "It is a frightful waste of a fine whisky, though. Why ever did you not purchase Beaune, Doctor? That is your personal favourite, is it not?"
I hesitated long enough to hear the sound of a pistol being cocked. "You first," he said. "And then I shall go upstairs."
It is not an exaggeration to say that it was the worst moment of my life when I picked up that vial and emptied the accursed powder into the bottle. It vanished into the depths and, under his instruction, I replaced the cap and all was returned to its former state.
"That wasn't too hard, was it?" he said, eminently satisfied with my performance. "Now we must make haste to Baker Street. Do you have your keys on your person?"
As I had come this far, resistance on this minor note seemed pointless. I produced them from my pocket and held them up for him to see.
At my apparent meekness, his face took on an expression of delight. "I am so glad you have decided to co-operate, Doctor. This evening will pass all the more swiftly for it."
What I was not about to let him know was that I had every intention of making my move as soon as I was able. Even if I was unsuccessful, I had, as he had noted, every confidence that Holmes would somehow be alerted to this plot against him. I did not know how, but I was not about to go to my death without making some effort to warn my friend, whilst never endangering Mary. I had not thought this business through far enough as to how this was to be accomplished; I only knew that I had to trust to chance.
My kidnapper – for that was surely what he was – was eager for us to leave and I was bustled out at gunpoint into the hall, where I had barely time to collect my coat and hat. I noticed too late that he still wore his gloves. That meant that the only fingerprints the police would find on the bottle I was currently carrying in my medical bag would belong to me and the man from whom I had purchased it. The vial too, left carelessly on my desk for easy discovery after the deed was done, would point the finger of blame firmly in my direction.
This knowledge, more than anything he had said or the gun barrel I could feel pressing into the small of my spine, produced within me a most alarming feeling of panic. Escaping the stranglehold of guilt that was being wrapped tightly around me would be most difficult, if not impossible. I believed most fervently at that moment that I would never return here to my home, that I would never see Mary again nor hear her gentle laughter.
As if in response to my fears, as though my very thoughts had reached out to her, I heard her voice and looked up to see her slim figure appear on the landing above us.
"Do not try to warn her, Doctor," said the man in a low voice from behind me. "We have come thus far. It would be a great shame if you were to undo all your good work with some inopportune remark."
With difficulty, I cleared my throat. "I've been called to a confinement, Mary. I may be some time."
To my consternation, she started to make her way down the stairs until she was within feet of us. "Very well, John," said she. "Would you like me to save you something for supper?"
My gut knotted at her innocent question. Had she known that I would not be back to share another supper with her, it would surely have broken her heart, as surely as it was breaking mine.
"No, thank you, Mary. I don't know how long I will be." I ached to say more, but that insistent metal point in my back forced me to hold my tongue. "Don't wait up, my dear," was all I could manage.
"Then I will see you later," said she, smiling so blithely that I had to look away for fear I would betray myself. "And good wishes to your wife, sir."
It sickened me to hear her offer such words to the man who had only moments before threatened her life. He smiled that same sickly smile of his and gave a slight bow in acknowledgement of her kind thoughts.
"I know she will be in safe hands," said he. "I have every confidence in your husband. Good day to you, madam."
I was urged forward, out of the open door and into the grey light of the afternoon. A hansom cab pulled up at my call and I was ushered inside. He took the seat beside me, the barrel of his gun now digging into my ribs. As we moved away from the kerb, I looked back to the house to see Mary standing in the open doorway, waving goodbye.
All too quickly we were gone, swallowed up in the busy traffic. I tried to fix her image in my memory to sustain me through the hours to come and, found that all too fleetingly, she was already fading as fast from my mind as surely as she was fading from my sight. With such despairing thoughts blotting out all my reason, I turned my face away from the house and tried to gather my wits as we began the short journey to Baker Street.
Continued in IV: The Scene Prepared
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