That night will always be etched in my memory. It was the
night when for the first and the last time in my life I doubted the predicament
of my friend and partner in crime James Moriarty.
It was the night when we would murder Mr. Henry Baskerville.
The trap was set and the ball already in motion. Mr. Henry was dining in
Merripit House. Jim and I waited outside to witness the crime that we had
hatched. After all, there is no greater reward than to see your creation with your
own eyes.
We waited for Mr. Henry. I was reminded of my time as a
shikari in the jungles of Hindusthan. I would tie a goat to a tree and wait for
the tiger to pounce on the bait. One shot. That was all that was required to
put an end to the man eater. But tonight I would have to content myself by
watching the act. I was not to play an active role or so I thought.
It was then that I so the wagonette stop at the gates of
Merripit House. Three men got out of it.
“Ah! Our friends have arrived for the party!” remarked
Moriarty with a smile.
“Shouldn’t we warn, Rodger.’
“Of course not. Why worry the old fellow unnecessarily? I
assure you, Seb, everything shall go according to my plan."
I watched with
baited breath as the three men passed our hiding place and went to the House.
They stopped two hundred yards before the House. Then one of them, whom I later
learned was Dr. Watson, went to survey the house. All this time Moriarty waited
in silence not making a move. Then suddenly, I saw why he was not worried. The fog
was setting in. Holmes and party had to withdraw due to the advancing fog. In
another five minutes, Mr. Henry would be completely under the mercy of the
hound. That was when I felt something cold in my hand. Moriarty pushed a pistol
in my hand and whispered a command into my ears. I was shell shocked.
“But that will ruin everything. What about the effort we put
in to create the myth? Besides, Holmes will know of our presence.” I said in
protest.
“Just do as I say. Shoot when Holmes shoots. That will conceal
our presence. But what about the extra bullet?”
“One of them is bound to miss.”
“How can you be sure?”
“Ever heard of probability and statistics?”
“This is not a lecture class, professo-“
Our argument was cut short by the sound of gunfire which was
followed by a howl of pain from the poor creature. The time for arguments had
passed. I was to decide the fate of this crime. I aimed my pistol at the
target’s head. The hound had pounced on Mr. Henry. In another moment it will
bury its fangs into his neck. Holmes was too far to interfere. Our plan could
succeed. No one would know of our presence. But my army training got the better
of me. In the army, we did as our superior ordered us. No questions were asked.
My finger pulled the trigger even before I realized. The bullet hit the hound
on the head. The noise merging with the gunfire that Holmes unleashed upon the
dead creature. Now you may think that by losing my aim, I had unwittingly saved
the life of the man we intended to kill. But the truth was far from it. My aim
was accurate. I had hit my target. Moriarty wanted the hound dead.
But why did he want the hound dead? Why did he ruin his own
plot?
[To be continued…]
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