Moriarty Returns a Letter by Michael Robertson Read Free Book Online

that confederate resisted, and Wilkins was obliged to strike that confederate several times on the head with a truncheon. That confederate has since expired. At that same moment, Dawson came forward with his own truncheon from the stern to place the second confederate under arrest, who we anticipated would resist as well, but unfortunately Dawson slipped on the slick surface of the deck—he’s never been on a ship before, he has told me since; I know I should have inquired about that beforehand—whereupon the second confederate pulled a six-round revolver from his inside coat pocket, and fired off two rounds, in my direction, before Jenkins came up from the cargo hold and struck that suspect several times on the head. With a truncheon. That confederate has since expired.”
    Turner paused and looked at the inspector, apparently expecting some specific follow-up question at this point. The inspector just looked back expectantly.
    “And?” said the inspector, finally.
    “Both shots at me missed, sir.”
    The inspector nodded impatiently as though that were a given, and said:
    “And Redgil?”
    Turner straightened his stance, as if on parade inspection.
    “Sir, during all that, Redgil jumped overboard. I heard the splash, and we kept close surveillance on all points where he could likely surface—but we did not find him.”
    “Bloody hell!” The inspector leaped up and slammed his hands on the desk.
    Turner stood straight as a telegraph pole. “He may have drowned, sir. It is possible.”
    “And I may someday become prime minister, but I don’t advise that you bet your pay on it!”
    Turner held his position as the inspector circled him.
    Then the inspector paused, looked at the widow sitting by his desk, and, with Turner still standing there, he said to her:
    “I am sorry.”
    The woman looked up at the inspector as if to ask what for. Then she looked at Turner, who dared do nothing but just stand ramrod still and look straight ahead at the wall.
    Then she looked back at the inspector again.
    “Oh,” she said. “You were hoping that the sergeant would manage to kill Redgil, and in so doing make up for the loss of my husband, as if they were chess pieces on a board, and things could be evened out by the exchange of one for another. I see.”
    Now the inspector, deeply embarrassed that he had indeed been thinking that, turned almost as red and sweaty as Turner.
    “Inspector,” said the woman, overstepping her bounds with no apparent hesitation whatsoever. “Perhaps the sergeant can be excused now?”
    The inspector quickly nodded and told Sergeant Turner that he was dismissed.
    Turner opened the door, but before he could exit, the woman spoke again.
    “Sergeant—” she said.
    “Yes, ma’am?” said Turner, snapping to attention again.
    “Thank you very much for your efforts,” she said, with all sincerity.
    “Yes, ma’am, thank you for saying so.” And then he exited.
    The inspector went back to his desk and sat behind it, avoiding eye contact for a moment with the widow sitting in front. Letting her hear directly of the justice being done to the man who had tortured and murdered her husband was the best card the inspector had to play, and it hadn’t played nearly as well as he had hoped.
    And now the woman was still in London, and also still sitting at his desk and racking him with guilt.
    He tried to think of another approach.
    “I think,” he said after a moment, “that with this Redgil still on the loose, it is all the more reason for you to leave London as quickly as possible. He doesn’t know your real name, and that’s the name under which you are booked to America; so far as he knows your husband was named Moriarty, and even if he goes to the trouble of checking the official death certificate, it will confirm that; I made sure of it. Passport, death certificate, bill of lading—everything regarding your husband now shows the name Moriarty. So if you leave the city now under your real