Sherlock looked worn and haggard but alert with the hunt. I knew he was in his element investigating some kind of criminal case, no doubt, and loving it. I knew this could be a difficult meeting for both of us.
After niceties had quickly been exchanged, in Sherlock’s customary tart manner, we got down to the purpose of the meeting. He told me, once again, of his suspicions about Moriarty’s activities. He asked if I knew anything about them. I gave some vague generalizations and once again denied knowledge of everything.
“Ah!” my brother said sharply, “you know it is barely three years since the Ripper murders, Mycroft? Eighteen eighty-eight is not long ago. You did not know anything about that matter either. I did not investigate the case, as you are well aware, though I was asked to do so by the official police.”
“That is outrageous!” I blew up in anger. I knew he was trying to provoke me. Inwardly I smiled at my brother’s sharp boldness, but it did hurt. Once again, I denied everything.
He was silent, observing, fingers steepled, thinking.
“Just what are you implying? That I killed those women, or had them murdered? You are so out of bounds on this, Sherlock, you have no idea!”
He said nothing.
“Well?” I asked sharply.
“Nothing. I did not come here to argue. Today three years later, there is Moriarty to consider,” he said. “That is my one focus now.”
Here we were, back at Moriarty again. I felt his interest was bordering on obsession. I tried to dissuade him as best I could.
“I tell you, Sherlock, do not become overly involved in this Moriarty business. I do not advise you to travel to the Continent either,” I told him bluntly.
“My dear Mycroft,” he said with that glimmer of rich sarcasm in his cultured tones. He was being prissy with me. “I would expect nothing less from one who detests travel and all modes of circumlocution to only embrace the sedentary life.”
“Nevertheless, Sherlock, you must be aware that it is a trap.”
“Of course.”
“And yet you persist?”
“And what is the alternative? Am I to forgo an opportunity to smash Moriarty and his organization once and for all!”
“Moriarty! Moriarty! You have the man on the brain! I tell you, in all truth, he is a rather small fish and of little consequence in the grand scheme of things,” I replied, showing my annoyance.
Sherlock gave me a quizzical smile.
“No matter, Mycroft. I am off to the Continent.”
“To where?” I asked, incredulous.
“Why, to Meiringen, by way of Interlaken.”
“All the way to Switzerland?” I asked in obvious surprise.
“Indeed. I have a yen to see the Reichenbach Falls before I die.”
This kind of talk disturbed me and, as Sherlock’s brother, I realized I had made a grievous error by allowing this situation to approach a crisis point. I knew something had to be done soon. I had already set my mind to working out a plan. Now I felt linked to this situation as if by handcuffs. When my brother left, little did either of us realize what actions would be set in motion and what momentous events would transpire.
Try as I might to dissuade Sherlock of his obsession, to be fair, his assumptions about Moriarty’s activities were more often correct than not. Moriarty certainly was an unsavory sort. However, not all that had been attributed to Moriarty, nor even the worst of it, by dear brother Sherlock, had been at Moriarty’s cause or design. Some of it had been at my own. Which was the crux of the matter between us that I needed to keep from my brother at all costs. This information, what I tend to call “Empire business” —and the less said on that matter the better—must forever be kept from Sherlock. For my brother to find out the truth could destroy our friendship forever.
I grew concerned that events were swirling out of hand when no sooner did Sherlock leave my Pall Mall lodgings that evening to visit his good friend Dr. Watson, and I settle down to what I thought would be a relaxing thoughtful repose, than I had a surprise visitor.
Tall, thin, wiry, and furtive, he looked like some human manifestation of a ferret on the prowl, or some mongoose from the Indian subcontinent ready to devour a poisonous python. With his hunched back and bald pate, deep-set eyes that did not miss much at all, I knew the man instantly as he strode the twenty-two steps to my outer door, knocked once lightly, and was admitted by Burbage, my squire and retainer.
Professor James Moriarty stood in the doorway as I motioned him quickly inside. Sherlock’s supposed “Napoleon of Crime,” indeed! He was a nervous and fearful little man who knew he was breaking a dire rule in our relationship by ever approaching me directly in public or private—all our communications being done clandestinely through third and fourth parties.
I nodded. “Take a seat, if you please. Tell me what is on your mind.”
“I will stand. I will be brief.”
“Continue,” I said firmly. My substantial girth made him seem to dwindle before me. He knew this was a dangerous breach contacting me directly—a serious breaking of the rules—but it was for an important reason, so we “got to the point,” as the Americans are so fond of doing.
Moriarty sighed. “It is becoming impossible! Impossible, I tell you! Your brother is at me all the time now. The harassment, the constant investigation of my affairs. What have I ever done to interfere with him or his friends, Watson and Doyle? Why does he persecute me?”
I did not say anything for the moment. It was a serious matter to see this man so upset. He was no one to trifle with.
Moriarty continued, “I tell you, Mr. Holmes, I am at my wit’s end with this affair. Call off your brother or I shall have no choice in the matter. I do not want to act, but know this; I will never stand in the dock. I will not allow your brother to be the cause of my loss of liberty. I have stayed my hand these past months out of respect for our mutual interests. I cannot do so forever.”
I nodded slowly; Sherlock had certainly muddled up this affair royally. “You spoke to my brother?” I asked Moriarty.
“Yes, and he will not see reason. Why, he actually drew a revolver and kept it handy as we spoke. I was highly insulted by that gesture.”
I nodded. I could imagine the scene.
Moriarty continued, “I do not wish to interfere with our business arrangements, they have been beneficial and lucrative, so I come to you now pleading, Mr. Holmes, before things get out of hand or someone makes a terrible mistake that we shall all regret.”
The subtle threat in Moriarty’s words was all too evident.
“The mistake, my good Professor, would be if any harm ever came to my brother. I hope you understand that completely,” I said, my eyes burning into his own.
He looked away, nodded slowly.
“Then we are in agreement on that matter, at least?” I asked, emphasizing my previous warning with all seriousness.
“Yes. No harm shall befall him, but please, this is quite out of hand now and becoming dangerous. I have come to you for advice and assistance.”
“And you shall have it, Professor,” I replied, more upbeat now that he was evidently willing to seek a nonviolent solution to the problem.
“So then, instruct me. What shall I do?” Moriarty asked.
“Nothing, Professor. You will do nothing.”
Moriarty looked at me curiously.
“I will explain.”
“Please do.”
I was silent, thoughtful. Finally I had it all worked out.
“My brother is going on a little trip to Switzerland, hiking in the Interlaken area, perhaps even a visit to the majestic Reichenbach Falls? Are you familiar with the region?” I asked Moriarty.
He fidgeted, still standing before me, still refusing the seat I had offered him. He said, “I am. My knowledge and influence extends to the Continent, just as yours does. But what is the significance of your brother’s travel there?”
“Ah, that is the interesting matter. Through various
agencies, I have made it appear that you are, in fact, ‘after Sherlock’; that you intend to remove him once and for all.”
“Anticipating my future move?” Moriarty smiled, then thought better of it.
“A move you shall not be making, but yes, to your question.” I said, adding, “Your little visit to him the other day has certainly played into brother Sherlock’s fascination with your affairs. I have also been concerned because I have noticed a conflict growing between the two of you for some time.”
“Not on my part, I can assure you,” Moriarty asserted.
I nodded. “That may be true. Regardless, I have begun the manufacture of a scenario that will make my brother decide to leave London. Fleeing to the Continent, he believes your agents will attempt to hound him to an early demise. He will, of course sense a trap, and in doing so, quickly reverse it to trap you instead.”
Moriarty’s smile melted. He stood careful, waiting.
“Of course, nothing could be further from the truth,” I added. Moriarty nodded, but he looked surprised, confused. He said, “But I thought—”
“Absolutely, and that is the beauty of the plan. Sherlock will flee London in the belief that he is being chased by you and your minions. Meanwhile you will remain in London.”
Moriarty smiled ferretlike, asked, “That will remove your brother’s meddling from my affairs?”
“Yes, you will be free of him, and you and your organization will remain in London to perform your work for me once again, uninterrupted,” I added.
“Then your brother will be sent on a wild goose chase?” Moriarty said with a grin.
“He needs the rest, a nice hike in the Alps shall do him good. Don’t you think? Watson will accompany him,” I added.
“I am still concerned that he plans a confrontation of some kind.”
I smiled. “He absolutely does. But nothing of the kind shall occur. Since you will be safely ensconced in London, that confrontation cannot possibly take place. You see, I know my brother Sherlock’s mind too well. He may fantasize about some titanic struggle abroad, perhaps even at the Falls of the Reichenbach. The opportunities for melodramatic heroics, l am sure, will not be lost on Sherlock. But it will be a nonevent. Instead, Sherlock will be traipsing abroad, safe and out of your hair, and you shall be safe in London, unhampered, and never the twain shall meet.”
Moriarty nodded. “I am satisfied. I appreciate your assistance in the nullification of this danger to my person.”
“That is just as well, Professor. Now you may rest easy. By tomorrow, Sherlock and Watson will begin their grand tour, and you shall be free and unencumbered once again. We will work out details in the coming months and I shall convince Sherlock to drop the matter before he returns.”
“I thank you, Mr. Holmes. I knew that coming to you with this problem was the appropriate way to attain satisfaction.”
Burbage let Professor Moriarty out and carefully closed the door behind him. We were alone now.
I looked to my aide. Burbage was as taciturn as ever, his lips sealed tight, but I felt the thoughts going round in his head. Alexander Burbage, late of the Indian Army, marksman, secret agent, Afghani scout, and now my manservant, confidential secretary, bodyguard, and sometimes man-of-action.
“Well?” I asked. I could see he was fairly bursting to speak his mind but would never do so unless I prompted him.
“I fear your brother will never leave London,” he said matter-of-factly.
“He will certainly think seriously about it after you set fire to his rooms at 221B later tonight!” I said.
“I, set fire to his rooms? Are you serious?”
“Oh, absolutely, but Watson and he will not be there, of course. And it will be, after all, a very minor fire that will do no lasting damage—it will look far worse than it actually is. You can manage that, can you not? I shall instruct you later. It will, of course, be blamed on Moriarty and his ‘gang’—all part of my plan to pressure my dear brother to leave London.”
“But I was here when he visited you earlier today. I am sure I heard him tell you that he already planned to leave London for the Continent,” Burbage replied, confused now.
“Aye, Burbage, you heard correctly,” I said carefully. “So Sherlock would have me believe. In fact, that was all a ruse. You see, Sherlock has suspicions about my place and work, but no hard facts. Our little association on the Affair of the Naval Treaty notwithstanding did not begin to display the length and extent of my interests. So he tempts me with a plan where he proposes to do exactly what I would like him to do. And I, playing his game, dutifully reply with all earnestness that I do not like the idea at all. I further state the obvious, that he is desperately needed here in London. Now would be the worst possible time for him to leave. And he knows it. For truth to tell, we have each noticed that it tends to cause an unnatural excitement in the criminal classes when Sherlock is not in the city.”
Burbage shook his head as if to clear the cobwebs of gamesmanship. He was a man of action, not used to the intellectual double thinking and conundrums required when chess pieces are moved in this Great Game of ours.
“Now, let me see if I understand this,” he said finally. “Sherlock feigns a trip to the Continent, though he has no actual intent of going. He says this all just to gain your attention and see your reaction. Meanwhile, you do not give him satisfaction; instead you react in the reverse of what you actually want and intend. Which is the reverse of what Sherlock believes that you want. It seems like the reverse of logic to me. My poor head hurts from the thought of it all!”
I laughed. “You have it absolutely! And there you see the beauty. For as you are perplexed, imagine poor Sherlock! I will gently prod my little brother into accepting the validity of his initial idea—that a trip to the Continent is just what he needs now. He will come to the realization that London is too hot to hold him. That is why I had you perform several highly convincing but absolutely unsuccessful attempts upon his life recently—obviously the work of this dread ‘Moriarty gang.’ Sherlock will leave London convinced that the gang is hot on his trail and will seek a confrontation on the Continent. He will set a trap for Moriarty at Reichenbach. He believes that then he will solve the Moriarty problem once and for all. One way or another.”
“Aye, and in the meantime, he will be out of London and out of your hair,” Burbage said with a smile.
“Yes. You see I dearly love my brother, but I do not take Moriarty lightly, and my brother will not drop the matter. That places him in dire peril. While Moriarty is a useful agent, I have no illusions about this situation. Sherlock has enmeshed himself in a serious game. When a dangerous man is in fear of his liberty, unless something is done to remedy that situation, panic cannot be far behind. And during panic, a man will lash out and perform actions that may not be in his best interest. Moriarty values our alliance, but he values his freedom more and Sherlock is trimming his sails appreciably. Lately my brother has been stepping up his efforts to destroy the entire Moriarty organization. That put each man in danger from the other. An unacceptable situation. A remedy was needed. Now I can never countenance any attack by Moriarty on my dear brother. Nor Sherlock doing anything against our vital interests with Moriarty. Both men must remain safe and allowed to continue to operate. Therefore, my plan. As things stand now, this appears to be an acceptable solution to protect both men and at the same time continue my business with Moriarty. As you know, his people have become most useful lately in ferreting out and exposing anarchists and agents provocateurs who seek to throw our nation into socialist revolution. Through their efforts we have uncovered three bomb plots and broken up two cells of saboteurs and spies, all dutifully handled without police or press interference.”
The next morning I was at the hansom cab stand that Watson frequented. I was the driver of the third rig, suitably disguised. That talent runs in the Holmes family, as Sherlock often makes use of it in his investigations, and Watson chronicles the same in his little detectio
n stories. I knew Sherlock would instruct Watson to pass the first and second cab and take the third one. I smiled to myself as I saw the good doctor approach.
“Aye, guv, where to?” I barked in an indistinguishable cockney growl. Now, I ask you, good reader, had I been the entirely sedentary and reclusive creature I was made out to be, would I have been a part of such activity? Would I have even been capable of doing such a thing? Truth to tell, I often acted as my own agent in certain delicate matters such as this.
“Victoria Station, my good man, if you please,” Watson said, getting in the cab. “There’s an extra guinea in it for you if you make all haste and follow my directions.” Then he sat back quiet, thoughtful. He hardly noticed me at all, his attention concentrated on possible watchers and followers. And while he was in absolutely no danger, I’m sure he felt as if danger were surrounding him and following his every move. I was careful to remember that my brother had certainly instructed Watson to carry his old service revolver. So I had to act with care as I knew my passenger was quite nervous and must be armed.
I climbed down and loaded the good doctor’s trunks and baggage. All loaded up, with a grunt I gave the old mare a taste of the stick and we were off.
I’ve always enjoyed a good ride through the London streets at dawn but actually driving the cab was a real thrill for me. I get away so infrequently these days that donning a disguise and fooling poor old Watson so handily was a bit of a lark. I even played gruff conversation with him, until he barked at me, “Please! Drive the cab!” Then muttering to himself, “The man simply does not know his place!”
I smiled to myself. On Watson’s part, I could see the concern and worry in his face as he tried to sit silently in the backseat, thinking dark thoughts of what the next few days might bring. I felt for him then, but realized that my deceit was protecting Sherlock and him from danger. I knew he would approve, if only for the safely of my brother, his good friend.
Of course, Watson supposed, as did Sherlock, that Moriarty and his henchmen were hotly after them at that very moment. The fire last night in the rooms at 221B had shocked Sherlock, as I knew it would. Burbage’s work had certainly done the trick. This morning both men were hurrying out of London to catch the boat train to the Continent. I sighed and allowed myself a satisfied grin as I drove the cab quickly through the empty London streets. I had averted a possible fatal confrontation between my brother and Moriarty. I was quite satisfied with the matter at the present time.
My Sherlock Holmes Page 14