Disclaimer – major characters belong to ACD of course.

Chapter 4

Monday, August 18, 1919

Adam Lestrade – or 'Junior Lestrade' as Holmes called him – was the image of his father, in looks as well as temperament. With one important difference – he was only too willing to allow Holmes into his confidence, to learn, and to use what he had learned. He had on more than one occasion been able to solve a quite desperate riddle using Holmes' techniques. Together with his father and some of his colleagues, he was another who was now encouraging Holmes at every opportunity to allow records of his exploits to be published for the 'greater good' – or, as he tactfully put it, to "stop Mr Holmes' methods dying with him". So he was not altogether surprised when, shortly after seven, Holmes and Watson were in his office asking to see the body of the late Robert Wiggins.

"I won't ask why, Mr Holmes," he said, deferentially. "I know you were close in past years, what with you supporting those young lads. A bunch of tearaways if ever there was, but my dad said that they helped out on more than one occasion when more conventional means would not have produced a result."

Holmes had been most upset for a full half hour after Watson broke the news of Wiggins' death, but had then determined to see the body. Watson was impressed that he wished to pay his respects, and had wasted no time in supporting his friend in his quest.

Minutes later, Lestrade had shown them into the mortuary where an assistant wheeled out the body, which was discretely covered by a sheet. "I expect you'll want a few minutes alone, sirs," he said, "to pay your respects? I will be outside." With that he left the room. Holmes stood silently for a moment before the shrouded figures, and then turned to Watson with urgency.

"Doctor. I need information – fast. I need to know exactly – exactly, mark you – the cause of death; if you can the time; and what weapon if any was used. Yes?"

"You want to verify it was Moran."

"Indeed. Go to it."

Watson uncovered the body and spent the next few minutes in professional detachment as he inspected the body. At last he covered the body again, and just had time to answer Holmes' question as Lestrade entered the room.

"Lestrade, where was the body found?" asked Holmes.

"Near Billingsgate Market, corner of Chapel Street. Wiggins had a shop nearby and was obviously making his way there from the Market when he was accosted."

"I agree that the deed has all the marks of an execution." Watson smiled to himself. Holmes was teasing out of the policeman what they knew, without him knowing it.

"Yes, Mr Holmes," replied Lestrade. "There were a few signs of a struggle, but in the end he was trussed up like a prize bird – sorry if that sounds insensitive – forced onto his knees and shot from close range, once, in the head."

"And you have no idea why, or who, of course."

"It's a dark part of the city," replied the policeman. "All sorts of gangs operate there, not all of them from this part of the world, either, if you get my drift. Had a problem with some Italians a little while back, and before that some Chinese were trying on some racket or other."

"Well, thank you, Lestrade," finished Holmes. "That has been most helpful. Please give my regards to your father. You will not object, I trust, to my visiting the scene of the crime at some point. Out of respect, you understand."

"Why of course, Mr Holmes," replied Lestrade, and with that Holmes and Watson left the police station and made their way back along the street.

"Well, Watson, that was a pretty scene, was it not?" asked Holmes when they were out of earshot.

"I would agree as to the execution description," replied Watson. "It was a clinical piece of work. Lestrade's description is accurate enough. But to do it in broad daylight, Holmes! He's not been dead six hours."

"Hence the late edition of the paper; they must have held the press for the latest news. But I would absolutely guarantee that it was not the work of Moran," mused Holmes.

"What makes you say that?"

"Come now. I have spent the afternoon poring over my records of his methods. It does not fit. He is a hunter. He does not execute. He stalks his prey, it is almost part of a game. He would not truss up poor Wiggins and despatch him in such a manner. There is no sport in tethered prey."

"But he may be different now," replied Watson, his heart beating faster in the hope that what he had seen as impending doom might not be so. Holmes again cast him a sideways glance.

"You no more believe that the treatment has changed him than I do."

"But he would have to change his ways, Holmes, in any event! He has no air gun, for one. That's in the Scotland Yard Museum."

"Perhaps. I will revoke the words I used earlier and then say that I am almost certainly convinced it is not Moran's work. There, does that satisfy you?" he added with a smile.

Watson knew when he was defeated. "So what now?"

"The scene of the crime of course. Taxi!"

One of the new black cabs which plied the streets of the capital drew up alongside them, and having issued directions Holmes sat back in the seat and watched Watson's face carefully. At last, Watson asked the question he knew Holmes was waiting for.

"If this is not the work of Moran, then does it mean we are not under threat?"

"I think it is too early to say," replied Holmes with refreshing honesty. "But from our point of view it would appear so. In this instance anyway. Perhaps you are too quick to see Moran's hand everywhere. Although until we have visited the scene I will allow you that I cannot be sure. Just 'almost certain'. But ..." he continued, dropping his voice so that the taxi driver could not hear him, "... remember that Moran controlled the late Professor's affairs whilst I was away as Sigerson; and of course he did so during the height of Moriarty's reign. The Professor always ensured that nothing could be traced back to him. Perhaps there is another possibility – that Moran has been learning from his former master, and keeping out of sight at present."

Within a few short minutes they were outside Billingsgate Market. The site of the murder was still roped off and guarded, but the policeman stepped aside as the well known figure of Holmes approached. How things change, thought Watson. In the old days he was a thorn in their flesh, an annoyance. Now he is so well known they step aside for him. They know who he is and what he can do.

Holmes spent a few minutes on his knees, inspecting the cobbled path and yard closely. At one point he picked up a small piece of cloth, smelled it, rolled it between his fingers, but then replaced it where it had lain. At another, he picked up a small fragment of something and put it in his pocket. The blood from the shooting was dry, and he examined carefully the stained cobbles for information.

He was done after ten minutes, and the two men walked off towards the waiting taxi for the journey back to Baker Street.

Holmes was silent for the journey, and did not speak again until they had been ushered back into 221B by Violet Harrison's friend Emma, and were sitting in the familiar quarters with a half empty brandy bottle on the table between them. A clock struck the three quarter hour.

"The person who pulled the trigger was definitely not Moran," said Holmes at last.

Watson did not know whether to feel better or worse for this news. He settled for better, since it probably meant that Moran might not be coming after them after all. Instead, he proposed, "Who, then?"

"There was a piece of torn shirt at the scene. From a struggle perhaps ...."

"As I said at the mortuary, there were a small number of marks on the body which could indicate some rough handling – not assault exactly, but force nonetheless. He was partially strangled to subdue him."

"Agreed. And the remains of a smoked pipe's contents, tapped out against the wall. They were waiting for him, Watson. It was calculated and deliberate. They marked him as he went into the Market, and struck as soon as the deed would not be seen, or discovered too quickly. What does that tell you?"

"Well, from the tale you tell it is almost as though someone – someone powerful – wanted him out of the way. It sounds like a gangland killing."

"Indeed, that is the conclusion I had come to. Not least that smell; a particular tobacco. With a hint of oriental spices – opiates and the like. I think our murderer was commissioned to get rid of poor Wiggins, and I would lay odds on the reason being that Wiggins – a successful trader, mark you – was perhaps not keeping up his payments."

"Protection money, you mean?"

"Precisely."

Watson sat in silence for a few moments. "What a bitter end," he ventured at last. "I can still see him as an impetuous lad in my mind's eye. It is too bad."

"But at least I am here to see that justice is done, Watson."

"You are going after the murderer, then. Good."

"It might take our minds off the other matter which dogs us. I cannot help but feel he is out there, Watson. Somewhere. Somewhere close." He gave Watson a look which sent a shiver down the latter's spine.

"Perhaps you need a rest, old man," said Watson quickly. "The journey up from Sussex, the shock, it has worn you out. We can set about the Wiggins case in the morning."

"Gone are the days, Watson, when we would stalk the streets at all hours, eh!" Holmes laughed. "But you are right. There is nothing more we can do this night. In the morning you will send out to young Lestrade and we will see ... what we will see. But before then, a smoke, I think."

"Not your best 'shag', Holmes!" smiled Watson.

"And why not? I need this particular brand to help me concentrate, as well you know!" said Holmes in response. "Just a quick pipe, just to help me set things in their right order."

Watson suddenly found that, with all the excitement and travel, the shock of Wiggins' death, and an evening excursion to Billingsgate, the lateness of the hour was now catching up with him at last. He tried unsuccessfully to suppress a yawn.

"Watson, my dear fellow! It is gone ten. Past your bedtime!" Holmes laughed aloud. "Oh, it is good to be back on the hunt!"

"Have a care, Holmes. Neither of us are as quick as we used to be."

"Of that I am well aware," replied Holmes, lighting up. Watson stifled a cough. "I am very hopeful that this matter regarding Wiggins will prove to be an isolated event, and straightforward enough to resolve. My experience of these types are that they are not careful in covering their trail." He thought for a moment. "You know, Watson, I have often regretted not keeping in such close touch with the Irregulars. I regret it now even more. Perhaps if this worry over Moran is ultimately unfounded, we could have a reunion."

Watson looked in amazement at Holmes. He had hardly ever heard Holmes talk in this way before. The look on his face must have been obvious.

"What is the matter? I am allowed to have feelings, am I not?"

"Well, of course, it's just that ..." stuttered Watson.

"Come, man! It is bad enough you keeping on about how old you feel without being reminded that it is a good many years since I have seen many of those who helped us. I just want to ... for old times' sake, you know."

Watson was not at all sure whether he knew, but was not going to say so. He just nodded in agreement. Holmes was human, after all .....

They heard the doorbell ring downstairs. Holmes got up from his seat and went over to the window, but whoever it was at the door had already been let in by Emma. Holmes bit his lip as he turned to Watson. "I am not sure whether Miss Emma has been briefed about the rules for visitors, Watson...."

By now there were muffled voices and quick footsteps on the stair, and even as Holmes reached towards the table, the door opened. Watson, who had his back to the door, and who was still in the middle of another yawn, had missed the urgency in Holmes' voice. "Yes, Emma, what is it?" he said as he turned to face the door.

"Someone to see you," said Moran, a pistol in each hand. He smiled once, just a quick flicker over his face. The sound of the triggers being cocked was the only noise in the absolute silence which fell on the room.