Disclaimer: major characters belong to ACD.
Chapter 12
November 1919 to January 1920
Watson went back to his flat in London shortly afterwards, and the rest of the autumn passed without further incident. Through November and into December, gradually the feeling of unease that had haunted Watson since the meeting with Moran back in August, lifted and he almost started to dare hope that things would resolve themselves without any further involvement on his part – or that of Holmes, for that matter.
Holmes came up to London at Christmas, and they spent an enjoyable few days together. The redecoration of 221B after the arson attempt was completed, and rendered habitable just in time for new year. Holmes was most upset that his 'work of art' – the bullet holes forming the initials 'VR' formed in the wall of the lounge – had been plastered over as part of the repairs; and some of the colours chosen for the room by Miss Harrison did not meet with his favour. But all in all, new year saw the two of them welcoming in 1920 with Miss Harrison and her friend Emma, who had also come to stay over the holiday. She appeared to be the only one amongst them who appeared ill at ease – but as the first week of January drew to a close, she returned to her own place and Holmes to Sussex.
Watson stayed over at 221B for a few nights, arranging things back as he knew Holmes would prefer, and then made ready to leave. But that very morning, the 18th, Miss Harrison knocked on the door with a telegram. The Sussex postmark bore witness to a communication from Holmes. Watson smiled to himself – Holmes still preferred the old fashioned telegram over picking up the telephone. Not that he was by any means a luddite – it was just that Watson remembered the first time Holmes had used the new instrument after it had been installed in the hallway of 221B. The call was from Lestrade 'Senior', who even to that day still commented about his hearing being permanently damaged by Holmes' bellowing into the mouthpiece. Thereafter Holmes seemed to have a love-hate relationship with the thing.
Watson opened the telegram, the sense of dread that had been so mercifully absent now rising again.
WATSON - STOP - THINGS ARE MOVING - STOP - MAKE 221B READY - STOP - WE ARE SUMMONED - STOP - WILL EXPLAIN ALL ON ARRIVAL - STOP - HOLMES
Watson raised one eyebrow quizzically. Summoned? By whom? Moran? He looked around the familiar surroundings, now arranged in a way that he knew Holmes would approve. He looked at the clock on the mantelpiece. Probably a 2pm arrival, he thought, looking at the postage time of the telegram. Just time for lunch.
Holmes' familiar voice welcoming Miss Harrison duly announced his arrival shortly after two that afternoon. The man himself was soon sitting in his favoured chair, admiring Watson's work in the room.
"Very well done, Watson," he said. "You have been busy. I approve."
"Thank you," smiled Watson. "So what is this summons? Moran?"
"No, I regret it is not," said Holmes, slowly.
"Regret?"
"Yes, regret. I had assumed that matters I had set in motion would result in a communication from him. On the contrary, the summons is from Clay."
"Clay!"
"Hmmm. And that has taken me somewhat by surprise." He got up and walked over to the window, and looked out over the bustling street. "But, no matter, it is all working towards the same conclusion, and of that I have absolutely no doubt."
"And this all hinges on your unmoveable conviction that Moran is trustworthy, I suppose?"
"It does."
Watson knew better than to continue the argument. "So what have you been doing in Sussex? And how did Clay find out where you lived, to be able to issue this ... summons?"
Holmes flashed a sideways glance and retook his seat. "I have been busy, waiting. It is a discipline to which I am well accustomed. And as for the summons, it was received through young Lestrade. He forwarded it to me."
"Hold on. You're saying Clay communicated with you through Lestrade..?" Watson was trying to get his mind around the twists and turns of who was talking to whom, when, and how.
"Oh yes. But, as you would expect, not in a conventional way. You remember Bingelow?"
"Clay's thug who said Moran had done all the planning for those murders – just as I told you he had?" Watson couldn't resist the righteous 'dig' at his friend. "Of course."
"He was found dead this morning, down at the East India Dock. There was a message left in one of his pockets. GET HOLMES TO MEET CLAY. HE WILL KNOW HOW AND WHERE."
Watson sighed. "So, Moran is really taking control, isn't he. Now he is getting rid of Clay's inner circle. I don't like it, Holmes." He got up and walked over to the dining table, picking up a copy of the day's newspaper. "I've been looking every day for coded news of what Clay or Moran is up to."
"And what have you found?"
"Confound it, you know full well I have found nothing, Holmes! I barely know what to look for! For all I know I could be looking at it now and wouldn't recognise it!"
"Precisely, my old friend," replied Holmes softly. "So stop worrying about looking for signs. They are there, if, as you say, one knows what one is looking for. There is a battle going on, my dear Watson, a battle for the soul of London, England even."
"And who will win?" asked Watson. "After four years of war, everyone surely must be tired of all this fighting and warring?"
"Clearly not. And you forget that even through the unhappy years we have just passed through, our criminal friends did not put aside their aspirations for personal gain at the expense of others. Oh, no, Watson, they have not been resting, and I can tell you that even now the leader of this Clay Street Fellowship – what a superb act of pride, absolutely typical of the arrogance of Clay – is seeing their carefully laid plans starting to come apart. They need to act, quickly, and hence the summons."
"Do you know where we are summoned to?"
"Oh, I am so glad you say 'we', Watson!" exclaimed Holmes, "for it is indeed we who must attend to this matter. I will need you like never before, my friend; there is a part in this affair that only you can play."
"Which is ..."
Holmes paused for a moment. "Trust me, Watson .."
Watson smiled. "I know you well enough to know that that is the end of the conversation, isn't it?"
"Yes."
"Very well. So let's get planning then. I'm at your disposal. Just – be careful, won't you?"
"Am I ever not careful, Watson?"
"There really is no answer to that, Holmes!"
The morning of the 19th dawned frosty and fair. The mist lay over the River Thames until breakfast time, and then dispersed to offer an unseasonably mild winter's day. At ten o'clock the telephone rang in the hallway, and a few moments later Miss Harrison opened the door to tell them that Lestrade was calling. Holmes sent Watson to speak to him.
"Morning, Lestrade."
"Good morning, Doctor. It's going to be a nice one, I think."
"Come, on, man, less of the weather lore. What is it?"
"A message for Holmes."
"He has asked me to take the call."
"Very well. It was received at our Epping Forest police house just a few minutes ago. It reads, MESSAGE FOR HOLMES. HE KNOWS WHERE. TWELVE NOON. That's the whole message."
"Thank you, Lestrade, I will tell him. Could I ask – was the caller a man or a woman?"
"Why do you ask?"
"Just asking."
"It was a woman."
"Ah. Right then. Goodbye, Lestrade."
Watson conveyed the message to Holmes, who sat quietly for some minutes. The suddenly all was action.
"The Metropolitan Bank, Edgeware Road. That is where we are to meet them, at twelve. Clearly we are to retrieve the contents of Moriarty's safety deposit box."
"How are we to do that, Holmes? The man is dead, has been for almost thirty years. We can't just walk in and ask for it."
Holmes rubbed his hands with childlike glee. "I know! Exciting, isn't it? I wonder how that has been worked out? But there's only one way to find out. Come!" He turned for the door, and then as Watson started to follow, turned back. "Your old service companion, Watson?"
Watson patted the breast pocket of the jacket he had put on. "You know how careful I am in these matters, Holmes. Fully loaded."
"Good. Let us be gone, then."
Holmes seemed to make quite a big event of leaving 221B. He called a passing cab loudly, and fairly shouted the destination above the noise of the traffic in the busy street. They settled themselves into the seats and spoke no words as they were driven the mile or so to the Metropolitan Bank.
On arrival Holmes waited for Watson to pay the fare, and then drew him aside at the foot of the steps up to the building. He spoke quietly and urgently.
"I really have no clear idea about what we will find here, Watson, but please, please do nothing to alarm or upset our – compatriots. They have come here with a job to do, all of them, and to some extent we must let matters play themselves out. But all will be well, Watson, please believe me in that."
"You almost make it sound like goodbye, Holmes," said Watson, trying to sound light-hearted but in truth almost shaking with fear, or excitement.
Holmes met his eye steadily. "Come, let us get on with it, it is five to twelve."
They walked up the stairs and into the large banking hall. It was poorly lit and it took a few minutes for their eyes to adapt to the light. At the far end they saw a small group, two men and a young woman – no more than a teenager. As they drew closer they saw the men were Clay and Moran, but they did not recognise the woman. Clay extended his hand to shake Holmes'.
"I am so glad you have come, Mr Holmes!" he exclaimed. "Then quieter, "Come, sir, we are in public place, let us keep up appearances, if nothing else." Holmes hook his hand, coldly meeting his gaze. Moran did not extend his hand.
"All is ready!" continued Clay. "Oh, let me introduce you to Miss Elise Sweatham. Miss Sweatham, this is Mr Sherlock Holmes. You might have read about him in magazines or books. The other man is Doctor Watson, who does a very poor job of telling us all about how Mr Holmes does things. Miss Sweatham, gentlemen, is the daughter of the Bank Manager here. Sweatham is co-operating, isn't he my dear, and all the time he is, all will be well. With everyone." These last few words were spoken both to the woman and Holmes.
"Let's do this, shall we?" said Moran, and the four of them were ushered by a clerk through a door and into the secure area of the bank.
Watson's mind was in a daze. So they were through. They were going to find our what the deposit box held, one of Moriarty's last secrets from thirty years ago. But now they were in, how on earth were they going to get out again safely? Had Holmes counted on there being a hostage? He patted his service revolver, still concealed in his jacket. Would he even get a chance to use it if necessary?