Disclaimer: main characters belong to ACD. Well, here we are, we have arrived at the fateful day ... (see chapter 1).

Chapter 13

19 January 1920

Their footsteps, and the tap, tap of Clay's walking stick, echoed down the passageway as they made their way down the bank's corridors towards the security vault. Clay himself walked ahead with the clerk, his whole demeanour quite jaunty, on occasion swinging the stick up to shoulder height in an action of delight. A smile was set on his face, whilst Moran, bringing up the rear, was quiet and preoccupied. Between them Holmes walked silently, his being the only footsteps difficult to hear – even in stressful times and at his age, his movements were still catlike. Watson walked with the girl, Miss Sweatham, trying to comfort her as the passage bore on.

After a minute or two they came to another door, which the clerk unlocked, and which was followed by a flight of stairs. "Come, come," invited Clay, excitedly waving them through. The door closed behind them, but remaining unlocked. Electric lights came on as they walked onwards.

Watson was trying to work out an escape route, and this last point was not lost on him. So, he thought to himself, if we have to make a run for it the way is open...

After what seemed like an age, but in truth was something less than a further couple of minutes, they came at last to the final door. Clay snapped his fingers, and the clerk handed him the key. "This really is most irregular," he said in anger. "I know Mr Sweatham has given you clearance, and let Mr Moran down here earlier with me to lay things up, but never in all my years here, man and boy, has the key to the strongroom been handed over to a stranger."

"Ah, but I'm not a stranger, am I?" replied Clay. "Ask Miss Sweatham here. I am a ... family friend, aren't I, my dear?" He passed the key to Moran.

"Yes," she replied, nervously.

"So you can go now."

"Well, I still don't like it," carried on the clerk. "Mr Sweatham's orders or not, I'm staying with you, sir."

"I think you really had better go," said Holmes. "Really I do."

There was something in Holmes' voice which carried the authority necessary. "Oh, very well," he replied, turned on his heels and walked back up the passageway from whence they had come.

Clay rubbed his hands in glee. "Excellent! Well, now, Holmes, let's do the deed shall we? And then we can be rid of each other. You can go back to your retirement and I can carry on running this little show. Moran, let's celebrate!"

He put the key in the lock which turned easily. Clay was the first in, and swept across to a table laid with a cloth, bottle of champagne and five glasses. "I asked Moran to prepare this earlier. I thought we might have a drink to toast the success of our endeavour!" he exclaimed.

"Great heavens, you are quite mad," said Watson.

"How dare you, sir!" shouted Clay. "I am of royal line! You shall not talk to me like that again!" In a flash he had drawn the end from his walking stick, and with a swish as he drew it from the hollow tube the concealed fencing foil's blade was at Watson's throat. As Miss Sweatham screamed Moran leaped forward, grabbing Clay's wrist.

"No. Clay, no. Let no blood be shed."

Clay abated. "Doctor, you should learn respect. Yes, very well. My apologies, my dear," he said to the young woman, "but you see with what I have to work. It isn't right, you know. I am of royal descent, a prince of men, and yet I have to work with such as these."

Moran went over to the table, pulled the cork and poured five glasses. He handed a glass to each of them. Clay raised his glass. "A toast, lady and gentlemen! To the Professor!"

Watson put his glass down, but seeing Holmes shake his head, picked it up again. He knew he was already walking a tightrope with the unstable Clay, who was growing more excited by the minute. They drained their glasses. Moran looked at his watch. "Come on, hurry."

Clay moved quickly. "Miss Sweatham, if you please would you sit on the chair over there. Thank you. Now, Mr Holmes, please, would you locate the deposit box."

This Holmes did quickly, and brought box A56 to the table. Clay reached forward and picked it up, turning it in his hand. It was a small metal case, about nine inches by nine, and three feet long. The front of one end had the keyhole for the door. Clay clicked his fingers to Moran. "The key, please."

Moran took the key from his pocket, but kept hold of it in his hand. "You presume too much, Clay."

Clay turned to face him, his features contorted with anger. "What!?"

"What I mean is, the Professor left the contents of this box to me. There is a letter to prove it, which you have seen. Do not forget that."

"But I am in charge of the Fellowship! It is mine!" shouted Clay.

"Don't you think it might be time to be relieved of that burden, Clay?"

"Never! Never! She will not accept you. She doesn't trust you! I know your game! You've just been waiting for this moment to oust me, but I'm not going to let you." The blade flashed in his hand again. "Now, give me the key, and let's get the box open." He took a breath. "Come, Moran, let's not fall out now. These last few weeks have been good, haven't they? All our plans? And when Bingelow said he didn't trust you, I killed him for you, didn't I?" His voice was becoming plaintive, almost childish. Holmes and Watson stood silently, knowing that they were watching the two men spar for the future of the Fellowship.

Moran laughed. "Yes, they have been good, Clay. Too good. I've seen you, running off to visit her, no doubt poisoning her against me. Again."

"She's never forgiven you, you know!" shouted Clay, his anger rising again. It was terrible to watch him trying to master his emotions; he seemed to be on the verge of exploding. Suddenly Watson realised just how precarious their situation was. One false word or move, and who knows what might befall one of them? He looked to Holmes, who was equally transfixed by the proceedings. Holmes looked likewise at him, and Watson with shock saw the look on his face. It filled him with fear. He had never seen that face before, so full of horror and doom .....

Clay continued to rail against Moran. "She knows, you know. She knows you can't be trusted. You know what she'll do!" He turned to Holmes and Watson. "She works like that, you know. She'll not harm you Mr Holmes, but, oh, Doctor, I think you'd better beware. That's how she'll get to Holmes! That's how!"

"Yes, that is indeed, isn't it?" said Holmes. "She hurts those closest to the one she wants to punish. We've seen it before, Clay."

"Yes, yes," said Clay dismissively. "Oh, for pity's sake, Moran, just open the thing and have done with it."

Moran turned the key in the lock. With a resistance borne of thirty years of closure, the door snapped open revealing the contents. Moran reached in and emptied the contents onto the table. A small bag, a rolled up piece of cloth and a small bundle of letters lay before them. Clay pushed him aside. "The jewels, the gold, where are they?"

Moran pushed him back. "Clay, these are mine. You have no right."

"I am the leader of the Fellowship! I alone! I have the right!"

"The Professor entrusted these to me. You know he did."

"No! It is to me that the leadership has come! You're yesterday's man! Turning up out of the blue! I am the future! I just say the word and she'll have you killed, you know that?"

"I gathered as much. She needs proof of my commitment to the Fellowship."

"And how exactly are you going to do that, Moran?"

"Well, I'll save her the trouble of her hurting Holmes, at least!" shouted Moran.

Time seemed to slow and he pushed Clay away, wresting the blade from him. He turned and faced Watson.

Watson saw rather than felt the blade enter his body. He saw the hilt get closer to his abdomen, somehow knowing with the astute mind of the surgeon that, given the length of the blade and the closeness of the hilt, that he had been run through. He opened his mouth to speak, and found he could not. A strange sensation was filling his whole body, a sense of peace and relaxation. He did not hear Holmes' shout of horror, nor Miss Sweatham's scream; he did not hear the vault door being thrown open as Lestrade and his police contingent arrived, pulling Moran away and arresting him; nor did he see Clay making off, back up the corridor, escaping in the confusion, looking back at the unexpected turn of events.

All he knew as the darkness descended was the sense of peace. He knew what was happening. He accepted it and closed his eyes.