Disclaimer: Holmes, Watson, Moran and Clay are ACD's invented characters. Others are my own.

Chapter 9

Tuesday August 19, 1919

Holmes sat miserably at the table in the drawing room of 221B Baker Street. The first rays of morning sun were illuminating the still drawn curtains in the bay window. His hand shook slightly as he took a sip from the glass of brandy passed to him by Watson.

"Your arrival has been somewhat of an upset, Moran," he stated, "along with poor Wiggins' death last night as well. I have never known the dream to occur so regularly. But to see his face again after all these years. So clearly. And to know he was responsible for our parents' deaths ... at last I understand, the dreams were just memories I have pushed to the deepest parts of my mind. Blanked them out. But truth will out ..."

Moran quietly apologised, but Holmes waved his words aside with apparent contempt.

"And anyway - what were you doing in my room? We agreed Watson would stay up for that part of the night to ensure no harm was done – either to you or by you."

"Watson fell asleep. I dozed, and then heard you calling. As I told you last night, these days I do not sleep well. I was merely concerned for you."

"Sorry, old man," added Watson. "It was a long day, coming up from the country, lots of running around – that awful Wiggins business. Spirit willing and all that."

"Well, no harm is done," continued Holmes more patiently, "and I suppose you have again shown that your present behaviour is indicative of a change in you, Moran."

Moran sighed. "After this long, Holmes, I suppose I am starting to hope I can be accepted for what I am, not what I was."

Holmes glanced at him from beneath furrowed brows, as though weighing his words. Watson shifted uncomfortably in his chair, and took a sip of brandy himself, before breaking the resulting silence. "Where do we go from here, Holmes?"

"That's easy," interrupted Moran. "We find the stolen goods."

"No!" exclaimed Holmes. "That will not do!"

"Why ever not?" asked Watson.

Holmes was clearly recovering from his disturbed night. "Because, if Moran's story is accurate, then the natural extension to be drawn from it is that his movements will be watched by Clay and other members of the gang. Hence any move we make will be reported and the likelihood is that we would be relieved of whatever we found almost as soon as we gained access to it. We are going to have to be clever in our planning in order to succeed."

Moran was at the window, carefully peering through the curtains in the growing early morning light. "I see no movement on the street. I think it is safe for me to leave – I am assuming you do not wish me to stay longer with you than necessary?"

"I think," said Holmes carefully, "that, assuming you were not followed here last night, it should not become known that we have met in this way. By those means we can make progress with maximum safety to all parties. We are none of us as young as we once were, and we are going to have to rely on our brains rather than brawn to get though this. So, indeed, Moran, I think it is best you leave us now; doubtless you have planned some bolt hole you can retire to, for otherwise I doubt if you would have even succeeded in making your way here to us last night!"

"It shall be as you say, Holmes," replied Moran, "and thank you for listening to me. I will advise you of my whereabouts by telegram as soon as I know I am safely homed. I will make such domestic arrangements for me not to have to venture out once I am safely indoors."

"Very well," said Holmes, "we will bid you good day, and await news of your safe passage. And, Moran ..." - at this point he met Moran's gaze and held it - "if for one moment I think you are being less than honest with me, I will not hesitate to make your situation known to the authorities."

"I would not expect otherwise," replied Moran. Within a few moments he was gone, taking care the street was clear and well before the hustle and bustle of the city. Holmes and Watson were left alone to reflect on the unexpected events of the previous evening.

"Our police watchers will have seen him come and go, of course – and it worries me he is losing his hunter's touch so much that he did not see them! But - what a business, eh, Watson?" Holmes was suddenly quite animated.

"Indeed," replied his friend. "What part, exactly, of what business, then ...?"

Holmes laughed. "Some things never change, do they, Watson?" he replied. "And I hope they never do. Make sure you never change, Watson!"

"Too late for that now!" said Watson. "So ...?"

"Oh, yes. Well, the location of the robbery proceeds is quite clear, of course."

"No it isn't. Well, not to me."

"1837 A56. That was the code, my dear fellow. Two parts. The first is easy. Written two weeks before Reichenbach, in his final preparations for Austria. If I know the Professor he was planning how the journey would be undertaken, although in the event it was somewhat different of course. But if you were planning on making a trip to the continent, what would you do?"

"Boat train. Without a doubt."

"Exactly. Which leaves from ...?"

"Victoria Station." Watson paused for a moment, as Holmes smiled. Then - "Ah! I have it – 1837 is the year of the late Queen's accession. 1837 refers to Victoria Station."

"Well done, Watson!" exclaimed Holmes. "There is hope for you yet! Now the other part, we know of course that every major station in London has 'left luggage' facilities, many with lock-up safes. They are arranged in rows and columns along a wall. 'A' refers to the row and '56' to the column. So the code refers to left luggage locker A56 at Victoria Station. Simple."

"So simple, in fact, that I wonder why Moran did not work it out. Or Clay."

"Exactly the point in question," replied Holmes, becoming more thoughtful. "It is a very easy cipher. I cannot envisage Moran needing my help to locate it. Unless ...." Holmes now had so much energy that he almost leaped from his seat, and started to rummage through some of the old folders which had been the subject of his attention the previous day. "Something caught my eye yesterday – let me see – ah! There!" He passed a faded newspaper cutting from the folder to Watson, whose face lit up as he read it.

"No wonder he needs our help, then!" he exclaimed. "The left luggage section of Victoria Station was redeveloped in 1907. The lockers were moved, lock stock and barrel, to the vaults of the Metropolitan Bank in Edgeware Road. He's not going to be able to get at those very easily."

"Precisely, Watson. With Moran's personal history it is not the sort of thing he could easily do – walk into a Bank and ask for the contents of someone else's secure locker. Nor Clay with his background. So he does need us after all ...." His voice trailed off in thought. "There is still something he has not told us, you know."

Watson smiled. "Bearing in mind that this time yesterday we were down in Sussex with no plans for you to return to London, I think there is very likely much that is still missing from the jigsaw, Holmes."

Holmes continued, almost to himself. "And where does Wiggins fit into all this? Does he at all?"

"Well," said Watson, "I know one thing we're going to have to do before we go any further," and he rang for breakfast.

Within a few minutes Violet Harrison brought the food to them – as Watson was used to describing it, 'good old fashioned English fare'. Holmes thanked her, and then asked about Emma.

"I knew her from school," she replied. "Her and I met up again a couple of weeks ago and hit it off straight away – just like old schooldays again! She's had a hard time; she was orphaned at a young age, even before school, and even then I took to taking her under my wing, if you understand. She used to get picked on by the other girls. But then of course we went our separate ways, so it was good to see her again. She was looked after by her aunt, I think, in Kent, and managed an education – but now she's back in London and looking for work. I've been helping her with some of my contacts, a couple of the big houses looking out over Hyde Park and so on. People I met at Oxford. No luck yet, but I'm sure she'll find something soon enough. I paid her two shillings to mind the house last night."

"This aunt," said Holmes, "did she anything of her?"

"No, Mr Holmes," she replied. "Just said that she went to give with her in Tenterden. Kind enough to her, but not a parent, of course."

"Anything about her parents?"

"No, they died when she was very young – too young to remember them – and then she spent time in the Orphanage on the Old Kent Road. She was there when I met her at school the first time. Then this aunt appears, when she's about eleven, and the rest is as I have said."

"Thank you," said Holmes, and she left. They set to their breakfast with vigour, and did not speak for a full ten minutes; however Holmes seemed preoccupied. At last they sat back from the table.

"Almost to Mrs Hudson's standards!" said Holmes. "So, now, a pipe, I think, and then tell me what you think about Miss Emma."

This caught Watson unaware. "Miss Emma? Well, she was pleasant enough," he said at last. "Doesn't seem the most natural friend for Miss Violet, not from her class if you understand me, but then again, old school friends and all that, if I met up with someone from my schooldays there would be a natural affection still remaining, even if we were of different types now. She was efficient enough last night, although her cooking was not up to Miss Violet's standards. But she was not intrusive last night – although she did let Moran in. But that's partly our fault for not making her – or Miss Violet – aware of our present situation. No, I thought after she left that all in all she would be welcome again."

Holmes was watching Watson with a smile as he recounted his views. "Nothing more, Watson?"

Watson thought for a moment. He knew Holmes, and knew he had missed something – something obvious to Holmes, but obscure to him. "No, that is all. What did you see, then?"

"I will keep my powder dry for the moment," replied Holmes. "Let us just say that Miss Emma may be of some use to us in our situation with Moran."

"How so? I can't see it."

"Let it rest for now, Watson. So, we are done here, shall we see what there is to be seen from the newspaper?"

"Subtle as ever, Holmes!" laughed Watson. "I shall be a few minutes."

Half of the front page was taken up with latest developments in the case of Wiggins' murder. Holmes sighed as he read it, before tossing the paper across the table into Watson's lap. "Lestrade is no better than his father," he snorted. "Missed some fairly obvious stuff. But that is to be expected. And of course he may be following my advice." Watson looked at him quizzically. "Keeping his powder dry, Watson. Not everything you know needs to end up in the press. Sometimes it is useful to give the impression you are struggling to make headway. It just makes it difficult, of course, knowing whether it is just a front. First stop, Scotland Yard I think." And with that he was on his feet, grabbed his coat and was out of the door; Watson followed as quickly as he could.

Adam Lestrade greeted them and invited them into his office. In response to Holmes' questions he advised that he was confident that progress was being made. Already one name was coming to the fore as a suspect.

"Bingelow is a nasty piece of work," he continued. "Thrown out of the Navy, tried to sign up for the Great War and then threw a riot when he was refused. Spent time in Newgate Jail last year. A known thug. And a known blackmailer and extortioner."

"A thoroughly pleasant fellow, then," replied Holmes thoughtfully. "Do you know of his connections?"

"He is known to associate with other felons in the East End," replied the policeman. "A nasty case last year where he was getting 'protection money' as they call it from a local shopkeeper. Trussed him up and beat him. Fits the pattern for Wiggins exactly."

"Well, not exactly," said Holmes. "A beating is one thing, murder is entirely something else."

"We have been noticing, Mr Holmes," said Lestrade, and he lowered his voice as though the walls may have been listening to his words, "we have been noticing that the level of violence in crimes has been increasing recently. We've put it down to the War, or an after effect of the Pandemic. But the violence is greater now than at any time since the King came to the throne."

Holmes leaned forward. "Can you suggest a date from when this started?"

"Well, not really, sir," replied Lestrade. "It's the sort of thing that creeps up on you. But if you care to have a look back through the old files, I'm sure you'll find plenty of evidence to satisfy you. I'm sorry, but I can't allocate anyone to help you. I'll give you a chair, though."

"Enough of your cheek to an old man, young Lestrade!" smiled Holmes. "But I will take up your offer. A thought has occurred to me, supported by something a friend said earlier today. I need to start looking at the patterns, Lestrade. Order out of chaos. I can guarantee that there will be an underlying pattern to all this. You may be right that the murderer is this Bingelow fellow – but I can also assure you that unless you see the pattern, you will be fighting a losing battle. He is just a pawn in the game. He's being used. A tool in someone else's hand."

Holmes and Watson were duly escorted to the strongroom, which held records of the crimes dealt with by the Station. Holmes was in his element, his face shining with excitement as he worked his way through the paperwork. Every so often he made an exclamation, or wrote in his notebook.

Lunch came and went, and teatime as well. Watson was growing tired, helping Holmes with replacing files he had viewed, and getting new ones from the shelves. Despite what Holmes had said to Lestrade, to Watson there seemed to be no pattern at all to what Holmes was doing – the files he was calling upon were apparently random, although Watson started to note as the day progressed that the geographical area the crimes were committed in seemed to be narrowing.

At last Holmes stood, with a broad smile on his face. "Ah, that was good!" he proclaimed. "It is many a year since the brain has had such a workout!"

"And the result, Holmes?"

"Let us first return to Baker Street."

This they did, Holmes reporting to Lestrade that the search had not been as successful as he had hoped, but that he would be in touch again shortly with more information. It was gone eight o'clock in the evening before the two were back in Baker Street. After Miss Harrison had brought tea, Holmes lit his pipe and sat back in his chair.

"Doubtless the killer was Bingelow," he stated. "The tobacco we found at the scene was one a sailor would be well familiar with. No, I think Lestrade has got his man. Wiggins was having to pay 'protection money' to run his shop without harm coming to him. But there's more than that.

"Bingelow was almost certainly part of Clay's gang. These sorts of people do not act alone. And Moran has already said that Clay controls the Professor's former empire."

"So we have the connection, then! That's good. We can get Clay as well as Bingelow. Two birds with one stone."

"No, Watson, Clay will ensure his hands are clean. But I was going to continue and say that it doesn't match Clay either – he's ruthless, but this was an execution. It was as much a warning to other members of the gang, including Clay, than it was to Wiggins."

Watson whistled. "So Moran was right again, then?"

"It appears so, Watson. I fear the murder of Wiggins is just an unfortunate distraction from the main order of business."

"Holmes, this is a friend we are talking about."

"I'm sorry, Watson, I know you find my phrasing a little unsympathetic at times, but in my line of work I have to disengage my personal feelings from my work."

"When it suits, yes. You don't always find it so easy."

"True. But in this case I can say that, by doing so, I may be able to lead Lestrade to a bigger catch. The person behind Clay. The true mind of the Professor's empire."

"You know who it is?"

"I have my suspicions. But my suspicions are not often wrong."

"Norbury," said Watson with a smile.

"Yes, well done, Watson," replied Holmes with a little impatience. "But I think I am on the right lines. I believe that Moran has been mislead."

"How so?"

"I do not think that Mary, Duchess of Mortonwell is dead. And as a result, he – and us, if the link with him is ever found out - are in the greatest danger."