In the meantime the Prince had risen and walked across his cell to make a slight adjustment to the picture. Then he began to pace back and forth, in slow, measured steps along the length of the cell, holding himself with the dignified carriage and air that one would expect of a member of the royal family.
He stopped for a moment, looked toward us, gave a slight nod in Mary's direction and continued pacing.
"I do not expect the attack to be direct," I told Moriarty.
"Perhaps," he said.
"Sometimes a frontal assault is exactly the sort of strategy that works the best," someone said from behind us.
We turned to find Director Throckmorton standing in the door that led to the upper levels of the asylum. The voice belonged to a big bear of a man standing directly behind him, his arm around Throckmorton's neck, a pistol pressed to the doctor's temple.
"If you gentlemen and the lady would be so good as to step back against the far wall it would make things a great deal easier for the lot of us."
"Please do as he says! He's already shot two of my orderlies and who knows how many other people," pleaded the director in a whiny high-pitched voice.
"Colonel Moran, I presume?" I said.
"Indeed I am, and who might you be, sir? I know Moriarty and this girl, but you are a stranger to me."
"I am Colonel Doctor John Watson, late of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers. You may be more then a bit familiar with my old regiment." I elected to use the unaccustomed rank, hoping that it just might give me a tiny bit of equality in Moran's mind.
"A fine outfit. Now Colonel, if you don't get yourself up against that wall I will shoot you and then Director Throckmorton, in that order," he said.
So much for the idea of impressing him. "Oh really, Mr. Holmes," said Moriarty, shaking his head. "I do think that it would be a bit more comfortable for you if Colonel Moran would take the gun out of your ear."
For the briefest moment I wondered what kind of game he was playing. Then I saw a change come over the asylum director. Moran did indeed free him, stepping back several paces. An obviously padded jacket slipped off Throckmorton's shoulder, followed by a shirt pillow and the shock of unruly red hair and mutton-chop sideburns.
Sherlock Holmes stood stretching himself to his full height. The face was the same as that of my friend, but the lines around his eyes were harder and crueler.
"There, that is much better. The disguise was not all that difficult a thing to do, but the man has such an insufferable attitude I wonder how anyone can stand to be around him for any length of time. Tell me, Professor, when did you know it was I?"
"Not immediately. Only when I noticed that one of your sideburns was not quite glued down completely did I suspect that I was not talking to the genuine Dr. Throckmorton. Your acting was excellent. I have no doubt you would have done well treading the boards," said Moriarty.
"My thanks, Professor. Like many, I have always harbored dreams of theater. Perhaps if my life had gone down a different path. That however, is neither here nor there. Your sudden arrival has forced me to accelerate my plans."
Holmes's slim fingers reached into his vest pocket and produced a long gray key. He fitted it into the lock, swinging open the cell door with a flourish.
"Your Highness, if you would come with me."
Victor Wednesday continued to walk back and forth, ignoring Holmes's action. When he did stop, he didn't look at Sherlock Holmes, or even the open cell door, but stared at the painting.
"Is this real or but another of these endless nightmares given form?" he whispered.
"Oh, very real, Your Highness, very real. The only nightmare invoked this night will be for those who locked you away," said Holmes.
"Good," he said.
For the first time, Victor Wednesday seemed to pass away and Prince Albert Victor took his place. As he headed for the door he casually said, "It would please us greatly if you would accompany us on our journey, Dr. Morstan."
The thought of Mary in the hands of Holmes and this man who was Jack the Ripper was more than I could stand. Without a thought as to consequences, I charged at Holmes, screaming at the top of my lungs. Unfortunately, I did not get close enough to my old friend's double because a mountain stepped between us. Moran grabbed me by the lapels and slammed me hard against the cell bars.
The last thing that I recall before I blacked out was Mary calling my name.
It was at least several eternities before the darkness opened up for me. I struggled to say something, but lost the words echoing through the pounding in my head, which could very easily have been the Changing of the Guard at Buckingham Palace. I tried to rise up, but a wave of dizziness sent me rolling back onto the floor.
"Easy, Doctor. Besides having the wind knocked out of you, you slammed your head solidly into those bars. You don't appear to have a concussion, but I think you should just lie still for a moment, until your head clears," said Moriarty.
We were in the Prince's cell; that much was quickly obvious. I didn't have to ask to know that the door was securely locked.
"How long was I unconscious?"
"Ten minutes, no more."
Seemingly satisfied as to my condition, Moriarty turned away from me to examine the cell door.
"I really don't mean to belabor the obvious," I said. "But if we don't get out of here Mary may well become the sixth victim of Jack the Ripper."
"Eighth. There were two that the public never found out about. However, I think you may well be right," he said. Just then the door swung open. He turned to me and displayed a thin wire he reattached to his pocket watch chain.
"Shall we, Doctor?"
Before I could get to my feet, Moriarty crossed to the wall and reached into a trash container near a guard post. He rummaged around for a moment and then produced the army service revolver that Murray had given me the night before.
"Moran searched us both for weapons after knocking you out. While he found your gun, his ego wouldn't let him keep a common army issue weapon. I doubt he expected us to be putting it to use quite this quickly." Moriarty passed the gun to me.
The main entrance hall of Druid's Hill was almost empty. I could hear a grandfather clock chiming ten o'clock.
"They're probably making for the carriage house," said Moriarty.
I was already a dozen steps ahead of him toward the door. Unfortunately, we were not fast enough. I had barely cleared the doorway before an open carriage came ripping past the front of the house, horses at full gallop. Whoever had the reins, and it looked to be Moran, was struggling to keep control while defending himself from an attacker who seemed to be trying to push him out of the carriage. It looked like the Prince.
"We'll never catch them," yelled the professor. "Shoot, Watson, shoot!"
I fired three times.
Whatever control Moran had was lost when the animals began to charge headlong into the sharp curve of the drive. The carriage whipped sharply from one side to the other several times before tilting too far in one direction and sending its passengers and the frightened horses sprawling across the grass.
I found Mary a few feet from the wreckage. She tried to rise up on one arm to free herself from the bushes that had cushioned her fall. However, the moment she leaned any weight on her arm, her face contorted in pain.
"I can't be sure," she said. "But I think it may be broken."
It was a clean break, thankfully. Her only other injuries appeared to be cuts and bruises.
"A fair enough trade for my life," she smiled.
We found Moran sprawled on the ground unconscious. The Prince was dead; we found him beneath the overturned wagon, his neck broken. Death had been almost instantaneous.
I did not envy Moriarty the task ahead of him; informing a father and grandfather that the fiction they had invented many years before had now become fact.