Chapter 7
It wasn't an altogether unexpected demand. "I beg your pardon?" I asked politely.
"Jump, and maybe I'll spare your friend." He was deadly serious, and I stared at Holmes. He met my gaze quickly, but his face was still, his expression almost distracted, and I knew that he was thinking furiously, aligning bits of information into the whole that could turn the tide. That itself told me he still needed time, though, and I had to find a way to provide it.
"I know you won't spare him, Marcus," I said reasonably. "No more than you'd spare these young men in the lockroom. I know how your brother thought, you see. It didn't matter who was in the way, if he desired to he would simply sweep them aside, murder them."
"No!" he replied firmly. "No, I don't believe you. He fell in with bad influences as a youth, he was no murderer, not at heart."
"You don't believe me? What part of my statement was unbelievable?" We could not attack this man physically, but I could keep Dabney from acting, keep him talking. I had absolute faith in Holmes' ability to discern the mans' weakness. "Do you not believe me when I say I know you'll kill everyone in this room as easily as your brother killed his enemies, as easily as swatting a fly? Or do you not believe me when I tell you that your brother was a criminal with no conscience?"
He frowned when I described Julius as a killer and a criminal. It was not something he wished to hear, but neither was it something he disbelieved. And if I had made that connection, I knew my friend had. He still did not speak, though, and so it was still my conversation for now.
"I…" he hesitated, vacillating, but he still gestured. "Jump, Doctor, you might live."
"You knew he was a gang leader at a young age, don't you? He made a living from thievery and deceit..." I continued, but he shook his head, as if the truth were a fly he would simply dislodge.
"He was my brother, he was no crook. You killed him and I have to make certain you pay. You need to jump. Jump!" The commanding note was gone, and the tone approached…pleading? He heard it in himself, though, and it angered him – bolstered by that he stepped forward slightly and raised the bag.
"Jump or I drop this!"
The new threat seemed to slip the last piece of the puzzle into place. Holmes' face cleared, he coughed once, like a lecturer beginning a class, voice pitched to overpower the low rumble of the wheels and the wind in the open doorway, and his commanding tone drew all attention.
"You were orphaned when you were fifteen and your brother was twelve," he began. "You were apprenticed out and he got a decent place in a great house, possibly…a boot boy? He visited you at your lodgings when he could, but you could see the disdain in his eyes - no matter what your efforts on his behalf, they were never enough."
Marcus's gaze shifted, watching alternately me, and Holmes, who was seated on a steamer trunk, hands clasped loosely before him.
"He never had appreciation for the gifts you gave," he continued, "the time you spent working for the honest wage you earned, and you had a falling out…I would say three years later? He left his position and dove into the London underground, where his innate intelligence and ability to manipulate saw him the head of his first gang by the age of eighteen."
I looked at Marcus. His expression was astonished, perturbed. His weapon was still aimed at me, though, and the bag still swung threateningly.
"You grew steadily more uncomfortable with such visits as he deigned to bestow," he was almost musing aloud, "his manner and attributes were at odds with your own, and he still looked down on you. You decided to move to the Americas, and have a new start. He corresponded with you occasionally, but you found the new world to your liking and slowly your connection was severed."
"How do you know these things? How dare you say these things?" Marcus gritted the words in puzzlement.
Holmes continued serenely, as if we were not in mortal peril. "Your younger life was spent trying to find favour with a young man with psychopathic tendencies. Sensibly, you decided to leave well enough alone when you moved out of the country. For some reason, though, when you heard of his death it brought out the guilt you felt at what path the lad took. Guilt is insidious, Marcus. It can skew perception, and that - along with the years you spent persuading yourself you had failed him - made you take ship and return here. To bring yourself peace with your..." and his voice sharpened slightly, "sadly distorted memory of your brother, you purpose to deprive me of mine. To prove yourself strong, you will kill a man who was acting in defense of self and other."
Marcus still held steady in the face of the onslaught of words, but his face was a study in perplexity.
"But one of the most interesting - and telling - points, the one that grants insight into your most curious plans of revenge, is the way you plotted to murder Dr. Watson." He crossed his arms, thoughtfully. "Your initial plan was to place the vial in his bag and wait for the natural bumps and jars of travel to detonate it, even though you had no guarantee that it would do so in his possession, and might in fact have gone off in the luggage car. It might have derailed the train. Your second plan was - what? Did you even have a second plan? Are you not simply now acting on the spur of the moment? You have him presently at gunpoint, but you encourage him to jump, instead of simply pulling the trigger. Most curious indeed."
He sat on his trunk, seemingly at ease. His intellect formulated the arguments as he spoke - if the truth was a weapon, Holmes was expert in wielding it.
"It puzzled me, I must admit, until I realized that murder is not really your forte, Marcus. You desire to remain too detached, as if any death that results is not from your actions but is Watson's own fault. It is not revenge you wish to take, so much as you desire the right to say to yourself that you avenged your brother."
He was staring at Marcus, and the man looked back at him, fear plain in his face now.
"You spent your young life trying to appease him, didn't you? And he was never appreciative of your effort. You moved to America to escape him. You return to take your old burden up, to avenge the death of a man who would never have considered doing likewise, as if this ultimate act will prove your worth to one dead who in no way considered you worthy. You will kill a man whose nobility cannot be questioned, to revenge the death of a thief and murderer whose only hold on you was by blood, never by affection."
The scorn was thick in his voice, now, and Dabney's gaze ranged anywhere but the face of the man telling him the hard truth.
"Watson will not jump," Holmes stated flatly. "He will not provide your odd sense of justice fulfillment. If you want him dead, you will have to serve him as he served Julius, and fire that weapon. But you do know it will not be the same, don't you?"
His tone was reflective, a bit sad, and his gaze met mine. "It won't be the same at all. Not at all, because your brother is not presently lying on the floor before you, gasping and crying with pain as his life drains, you are not being held at gunpoint and forbidden to help, unable to ease him." I closed my eyes briefly, heart aching at the memory, hearing Holmes finish soberly, "No, it will not be the same at all."
The words were sinking in, and now Marcus simply looked lost, confused. The gun wavered. His eyes flickered between Holmes and I, and I spoke, finally.
"Julius had shot Holmes, Marcus. He did it with deliberation, in his stomach, and his full intent was that we would simply wait the interminable amount of time a stomach wound takes to kill. It was his last chance to seize power again, to have stature with the London criminals, to gain the respect he once had. Even in his agony, Holmes had managed to give me his gun and I took advantage of a distraction, and I shot Julius Dabney dead to save one I love as a brother."
I had chosen the last few words with deliberation, knowing it was that particular bond Dabney felt responsible to, and now I let the silence build for a moment.
"You know to what measures a brother can be driven, perhaps as no one else could," I said, concealing my concern that I was by no means certain this confused man had the empathy to see my position. Holmes seemed to believe he did, though, and I trusted his judgement.
"I am sorry I killed him," I finished gently, "but I truly had no choice."
Marcus flinched, oddly, and I felt it was not at what I had said but perhaps a memory of a cold and bullying younger brother whom he had loved. He stared long at Holmes, and turned his regard to me for another long moment, before he lowered his gun. Holmes stood and rounded the baggage, and together we closed the distance between us, and the dazed and defeated man.
"You're wrong about me. I knew, inside, that he was a bad'un, even as a lad…" he said softly as I retrieved the gun, and Holmes the bag. "I just didn't want to believe it. I am sorry, I am sorry…" and he sat suddenly, head in hands, as if the enormity of what he had planned finally dawned on him.
Holmes handed me the bag and went towards the lockroom, intending to liberate the young men, but the door swung open as he approached and he stopped with a smile, watching as Jackson pulled a small strip of fabric from the catch.
"I didn't know what to do, sir," he said. "We could have been out at any time but he was very agitated, I thought it best to let you handle it. If he'd moved on the Doctor or yourself, though…"
"I see – very good, Jackson. Most ingenious."
Jackson smiled at the compliment, and then moved on to stand by me.
"What of Mr. Dabney, Doctor?"
I looked at the broken man crumpled on the floor, and at the cold and hard lockroom. Dabney sobbed aloud, face buried in his hands, and I sighed. "Can the compartments be locked from outside?"