"I think not, Mr. Barnett," Holmes said, brandishing a folded-up document at him. "Here is the warrant. On information received, the police are to search the premises at 64 Russell Square, and any surrounding adjacent area. They are to look for any items, objects, personal possessions, dunnage, household furnishings, weapons, or other articles not specified herein, which would serve to connect Professor James Moriarty or other persons as yet unspecified in this instrument with the murder of Sir Geoffrey Cruikstaff, or with other crimes relating to or growing out of the specified murder."
"Murder?" Mr. Maws sniffed. "So now it's murder you are accusing us of!"
"Dunnage?" Barnett asked. "Dunnage? Why not flotsam and jetsam?"
"You may laugh," Holmes said, "but you will also stand aside while we search the house. And where is Professor Moriarty? We would very much like to speak to him in regard to this murder."
Barnett unfolded the paper and glanced at it. "So this is what a warrant looks like," he said. "I suppose it is in order, I've never seen one before. It certainly looks official, with a red seal in one corner and a blue seal in the other. Done at her majesty's order, eh? Why, I'll bet that if I were to ask her majesty right now, she wouldn't know anything about it. What exactly is this squiggle down here, this ink blot?"
"That is the magistrate's signature," Holmes told him. "I assure you it is quite in order. And stalling us will get you nowhere. The house is completely surrounded and nobody is going to get in or out until we have completed our search."
"Go ahead," Barnett said. "I've already told you to go ahead. But this paper had better be legit. I intend to send it to Professor Moriarty's solicitor, and if he informs me that this thing is a phony, or that you have in any way exceeded your authority under it, we shall certainly see what sort of legal trouble we can cause you and your friends of the police." He turned. "Mrs. H!" he called.
The housekeeper appeared in the dining-room door, her fingers laced together at her waist. "Yes, Mr. Barnett?"
"Would you please show Mr. Holmes and his friends whatever they would like to see in the house," Barnett told her. "Discourage them from making more of a mess than is absolutely necessary."
"Very well, Mr. Barnett," Mrs. H said, her face expressionless.
"Have Lucille clean up the breakfast things," Barnett added. "I shall go up and dress now."
Mrs. H nodded, and then turned and focused her gaze on Sherlock Holmes. "Mr. Holmes," she said.
"Mrs. H," Holmes said.
"One cannot expect gratitude in this life," she told the detective, "but one has a right to expect civility. I consider this sort of behavior most ungracious and uncivil."
"I owe you no gratitude, Mrs. H," Holmes said, "nor any more civility than is common between the sexes in this day and age."
"I was not speaking of any debt to myself, Mr. Sherlock Holmes," Mrs. H said, "but to the debt of gratitude that it might be thought you owe to your old friend and mentor, Professor James Moriarty— the man who took you in and treated you like a son. The man whose house you are now so rudely invading and ravaging."
"Ravaging, Mrs. H? Hardly ravaging, I daresay."
"No? What else do you call knocking poor Mr. Maws about? And look at all those men with their muddy boots grinding the dirt into the carpeting."
"Well, call it what you will, Mrs. H," Holmes said. "Anything that happens to this house, or to Professor Moriarty, for that matter, he has brought on himself. In his pursuit of crime to further his own secret desires, in his delight in evil, he has placed himself and his associates outside the human pale. And any ill results that he suffers, he brought on his own head with his own hand."
"What are you talking about, Sherlock Holmes?" Mrs. H asked. "Never in fifteen years has Professor Moriarty so much as lifted a finger to harm you, and yet you continue this senseless vendetta past all reason. And now you bring in the police on some kind of trumped-up warrant! I rather think that is going too far, and I'm sure that the professor will think so also."
"What Professor James Moriarty thinks is of no concern to me," Holmes said. "Not now, and not ever again. Will you show us around, Mrs. H, or shall we find our own way?"
Mrs. H sniffed. "This way," she said. "Mind your boots on the rug."
The search began on the top floor, where Mummer Tolliver slept under the eaves, and slowly worked its way downstairs. Large policemen were stationed at each landing of both the front and rear staircases to make sure nothing was removed in one direction while the searchers looked in the other.
Nothing of interest was found on the top floor.
On the second floor Mrs. H protested loudly when Holmes's minions stamped their big feet into Professor Moriarty's bedroom. Barnett merely watched with interest as the search proceeded. He thought that Moriarty would be more enraged at the coming invasion of his laboratory than at the search of his bedroom.
Sherlock Holmes directed the endeavor, and kept himself busy tapping on walls and measuring the space between closets in search of hidden passageways or secret panels. The search seemed thorough and complete, but Barnett became more and more convinced, watch-ing Holmes, that the detective's heart was not in it. Holmes went through the gestures with the regard for minutia that was his hallmark, having every drawer pulled out and looked under, peering under rugs, thumping at cracks in the flooring, sending someone down the dumbwaiter to see what might be concealed in the shaft. But somehow Barnett sensed that he knew he was beaten before he began; that the professor was not lurking about the house and that there was nothing in the dunnage to connect Moriarty with any crime.
The search of the house took most of the day. Holmes himself spent two hours in the basement laboratory, poking into retorts, peering into dusty jars and canisters, looking through stacks of photographic plates, and otherwise searching for clues.
The Mummer insisted upon following two of the policemen about, telling them that they were getting warmer or colder at random until they finally tried to chase him away. At which he indignantly reminded them that it was his house, after all, not theirs, and he would go where he liked. Mr. Maws settled down to ostentatiously count the silver service in the pantry after the policemen had finished searching in there. Mrs. H stayed ahead of the group, pointing out things they should examine and sniffing with disdain when they did. She kept warning them to mind their feet, and not brush things with their shoulders, until she made one constable so nervous that he knocked over a four-foot Tseng vase while trying to avoid an armoire.
There was a flurry of excitement when one of the policemen discovered the bust of Moriarty in the study. Holmes went over and examined with interest the arrangement of straps that enabled Mummer Tolliver to wear the device on his shoulders. Then he called Barnett over. "What, exactly, is this doing here?" Holmes asked, pointing an accusatory finger at the offending object.
"It doesn't appear to be doing much of anything," Barnett replied.
"That may be," Holmes said, "but we both know what it has been doing for the past few hours. It and Tolliver. Exactly how long has he been parading about with that device on his shoulders?"
"Ask him," Barnett said.
The Mummer was called for, and the question was put to him. "Blimey!" he said. "Ye've discovered me secret. I goes about in me professor disguise all the time."
"And for how long?" Holmes demanded.
"Oh, years and years."
"I see," Holmes said. "To give Moriarty an alibi while he is off committing some deviltry, no doubt."
"None of that!" Tolliver said. " 'Ow dares you talk about the professor that way!"