“Tonight, Mr. Holmes, I clean up all loose ends in this affair. It has been a long road for us to get to this point. Beginning with your meddle some brother, Sherlock. He eluded Colonel Moran at the Falls. He’ll not get away this time.”
I watched the silhouette of my brother in the window across the street, wishing that he would get up and move safely out of range. I saw him move slightly, turn his head a bit, but he still presented a full shot for Moran’s murderous weapon.
I wanted to shout out to Sherlock in warning, but the gun pressed tightly in my back by Conner and the gag stuffed in my mouth by Jamison made it impossible. Moriarty’s men held me firmly. So I just stood there watching with dreadful fear. Here I had come to meet Sherlock and there he was, waiting for me patiently, and I would never see him again. I felt like crying when I saw Moran take aim. Moriarty rubbed his hands together in anticipation.
Moriarty said, “Colonel Moran, you may fire when ready.”
Moran smiled, savoring the bloody moment, and said, “Yes, Professor.” Then he slowly squeezed off a shot. There was a slight whoosh, and a moment later I saw a tiny explosion in the center of the silhouette of my brother’s head.
Moran put down his weapon, stood up and said proudly, “Sherlock Holmes is dead finally, once and for all, Professor.”
My heart sank. A tear streamed down my cheek. My brother dead? It was inconceivable. Terrible! I cried, knowing I would soon join him in death. That was the reunion Moriarty had planned for us.
“Good,” Moriarty said, satisfied, then added, “Sherlock’s brother, Mycroft, will soon join him.”
“Not so fast, Professor Moriarty!” A voice boomed from the doorway at the other end of the room. It was my brother, Sherlock, standing tall and bold, and beside him was good old Watson, Inspector Lestrade, and a host of armed Scotland Yard detectives.
The trap was sprung and the rats were left with no place to hide now. The men from Scotland Yard were upon Jamison and Conner immediately. They were disarmed, put in irons, and taken away.
Lestrade commented, “A pretty pair, those two, wanted for murder throughout the I ligh Country. It’ll be the assizes for them soon enough in Edinburgh.”
Moran, seeing the way the wind was blowing, raised his hands in surrender. Lestrade’s men took him into custody and held him.
Moriarty, enraged at the sudden reversal of his fortunes, quickly drew a knife and came at me before anyone could act. He held me in an iron grip with the blade to my neck. “I’ll slit his throat if you don’t all back off!” he ordered.
Everyone held back, waiting, fearing the worst.
Sherlock calmly said, “Let me have your revolver, please, Watson.”
I saw Watson put the weapon in my brother’s hand.
Sherlock cocked the hammer back, even as I could feel Moriarty’s knife tickle the folds of flesh at my throat. This had not been in my plan for the events of the evening.
I saw Sherlock take careful aim.
Everyone was frozen, waiting to see what would happen next.
Moriarty barked at Sherlock, “I will certainly kill your brother if you do not drop your weapon and stand back!”
I watched fascinated as Sherlock held his arm out steady and straight, extended with Watson’s revolver aimed at Moriarty’s head.
“Drop the knife, Professor. It is over. Harm Mycroft and you will not live to hang,” Sherlock said sternly.
The face off was incredible, the tension in the room, electric. Everyone held their breath.
Moriarty lowered the knife. He was an intelligent man, surely common sense was to prevail. I could feel the blade move away from my throat. I let out a breath of profound relief, and then I saw what was in Moriarty’s eyes. The hatred that was there shocked me. It was like looking into his soul and it was ugly. Repulsive. The gag still prevented me from talking, but with my eyes I implored Sherlock to shoot. Could Sherlock not see that Moriarty wanted us all to believe he was coming to reason, that he would soon surrender? All the time he was planning to slit my throat in one quick gesture, then hurl his knife into Sherlock’s chest as soon as he saw the opportunity. Moriarty lowered the knife further … .
Sherlock did not buy the bait. He did not lower his weapon. He did not waver.
Moriarty saw all was lost. He quickly moved his arm upward, bringing the knife back to my throat for the killing blow.
One loud report issued from the revolver in Sherlock’s hand!
The explosion was ear-shattering and terrible.
Moriarty froze, as did everyone in the room.
I tried to move, to get away.
Moriarty still held me tightly. I remember thinking, had Sherlock missed? It was inconceivable, but …
Then Moriarty’s arm continued upward once again, the blade of his knife touching my throat. I remember feeling the coldness of the steel, seeing Sherlock’s and Watson’s terrified faces. Why did not Sherlock take another shot? What had happened? Then suddenly the knife left Moriarty’s hand to fall and clatter on the floor, and his hold on me loosened and fell away. I turned and saw his surprised face, the coldness of his reptilian eyes as the fire in those eyes seemed to dissolve before me. His great criminal intellect melting away in death as I watched. There was a tiny hole in the center of his forehead and drops of blood now began suddenly pouring down his face. Then Moriarty collapsed to the floor dead, and I sighed with relief as Sherlock and Watson ran to my side.
“Good shot, Sherlock!” I said, once I had taken the gag out of my mouth and regained my composure somewhat. “You saved my life. Thank you.”
“You mean to tell me this was not a part of your and Watson’s plan?” he said with a smile.
I shrugged. “Indeed. However, I am relieved that you were able to improvise a correction so handily. But how did you know I had been taken hostage?”
“Good Watson here kept an eye on you after he gave you the news of our meeting. He alerted me to the fact that Moriarty’s men had abducted you. I confess, I expected some such action from our enemy. The one thing you can count on in any plan, no matter how well formulated, is that something will always go wrong. The criminal mind is a dark and devious morass but it functions at a rather primordial level. So accordingly, I made my own plan, and here we are!”
“I thought Moran had murdered you,” I said. “I saw your head, the silhouette moved, so I thought …”
“Aye, and so did Moran, and that’s what convinced him and Moriarty. It was a pretty setup, Moriarty literally champing at the bit at the prospect of murdering both Holmes Brothers in the same evening when they were so close to meeting and reconciling their differences. It was a master plan, worthy of the Napoleon of crime.”
I nodded. “Indeed, it was an evil plan. I will never understand the criminal mind as you do. I am just relieved we are all safe and have concluded this Moriarty business once and for all.”
At that moment, Moran was dragged past us by two stout bobbies. He shouted, “Why? Why am I being arrested? I did not kill Sherlock Holmes! He is alive and here!”
Lestrade held up his hand. Then Sherlock brought over the air gun and gave it to Lestrade, saying, “Here, Inspector, I believe this rather unique gun will prove to be the weapon used in the murder of the Honorable Ronald Adair.”
“Aye, Holmes,” Lestrade said, “I’m sure that it will.”
“And, Inspector,” I added, “that should be quite enough evidence to send Colonel Moran to the gallows. He has eluded the hangman for far too long.”
Lestrade nodded. “So it will, Mr. Holmes, eh, Mr. Mycroft Holmes.”
Sherlock and I smiled.
Moran struggled and shouted threats.
Lestrade barked to his men, “Get him out of here!”
Sherlock and I joined Watson as he performed the final examination on the body of the late Professor James Moriarty.
“Official cause of death,” Watson said, getting up from the corpse, “one bullet in the head. Death was almost instantaneous
.” Then to the waiting bobbies, “You men can take the body away now.”
Sherlock, Watson and I sat in the rooms at 221B an hour later.
“I see you had Mrs. Hudson keep our rooms just as they were. I thank you, Mycroft.”
“It was the least I could do,” I said.
Sherlock nodded. “It certainly was. Especially after you had your man Burbage set fire to them!”
“Now, Sherlock … ,” I said carefully, “it was really, after all, a very minor fire.”
Sherlock laughed. “Fear not, older brother, my anger is gone and I know that in your own way, you tried to protect me, even as you protected your own interests.”
“It seemed the best course open at the time,” I replied.
“And anyway, we have a celebration! Watson, break out that bottle of Napoleon brandy you have kept for a special occasion. For there can be no occasion more special than this one—the end of Moriarty and the liberation of the world from his grasp—and we have a bonus! The capture and future hanging of Colonel Moran …”
“Not to mention you saved my life, Sherlock,” I added.
“Quite right, Mycroft. Glad to be of service. You and Watson had a good plan, the use of both Holmes Brothers as bait could not fail to bring out Moriarty and Moran where we could finally get at them. Your mistake was failing to realize that no plan, no matter how brilliant, is a solid item. It is fluid, always open to change and amendment. You saw a chance to bring out our enemies; they saw an opportunity to twist your plan against you. However, they neglected to factor in my own action. So the wax bust to mark me as an easy target as I waited to meet you in these very rooms. It was a situation I knew Moriarty could not resist. And while our enemies concentrated on the image in this window, Watson, Lestrade and I, with a triple brace of good London bobbies, were quietly entering the house from the backyard.”
“Mrs. Hudson helped,” Watson added, pouring brandy and passing it out. “She bravely stayed in here moving the wax bust of Sherlock to trick Moran and not make him suspicious.”
“Good Mrs. Hudson,” Sherlock said, gently sipping his brandy.
“When Moriarty thought you were dead,” I said to Sherlock, “he became confident. Even I noticed how he grew lax and did not post a guard, and that is how you were able to move up the stairs undetected. It was the perfect time to make your move,” I added. “But even you did not know he would take me hostage with a knife to my throat?”
“Why, Mycroft, you continually surprise me! Actually I did. But the game was up for him no matter what and he knew it. He wanted me dead, not you. He could not get at me with a knife and I had Watson’s revolver and knew how to use it. He gave me no choice, so I fired. Your eyes told me what I must do.”
I nodded. It was all becoming clear to me now and I gained new respect for my little brother and his great talents.
“But I did not think you had it in you, Mycroft, lowering yourself to actual ratiocination. This uncommon interest in the criminal mind bodes well for you,” Sherlock told me with a laugh and a gleam in his eye. “Why, I believe I’ll make a detective of you yet.”
“Your acid wit has returned, I see,” I said.
“It never left, brother,” Sherlock replied sternly.
“Well, I think it is time I return to my club; there are matters that need my direct attention,” I said.
“Indeed,” Sherlock said tartly. “Are you already thinking of a replacement for Moriarty?”
I sighed. I had no anger left in me. “No, Sherlock, that is over. I am truly sorry for deceiving you. These last three years have made me realize much and I hope that the rift I have opened between us can now be mended. I will go back to the club, tidy up a few matters, confer with Captain Hargrove, and then tender my resignation. I believe retirement is in order and, frankly, I look forward to it now.”
Sherlock was surprised but pleased. He came over to me and shook my hand, saying, “Mycroft, you did what you thought best. A man, no man, should be chastised for that. I know Great Aunt Julia would have been proud of you for all you have done over the years. I am proud of you for what you did today and for what you just said.”
A tear came to my eye then and I saw it mirrored in Sherlock’s own eyes.
Sherlock wrapped his arms around me and we hugged each other silently for one brief endless moment as Watson watched in wonder.
“You know, I, too, think I shall retire, some day, Mycroft. Perhaps to the Sussex Downs and a study of bee culture? It can be most fascinating.”
“Is that wise, Holmes?” Watson interjected with evident concern as my brother and I both looked at him and smiled.
“With Moriarty and Moran gone,” Sherlock answered contritely, “I am afraid that London’s criminal element will be reduced to the banal and the inept. Lestrade will be well within his depth, I am sure.”
Watson and I nodded, knowing all too well of my brother’s opinion of the official police.
“However, Mycroft,” Sherlock added seriously, “while I am the first to admit that your ‘work’ has been a serious bone of contention between us for years, with your retirement I fear the Empire has lost its most successful advocate and protector. Know this, our vaulted ‘Pax Britannia’ exists in no small part due to your tireless effort. That is a considerable accomplishment, even if it can never be made public. With you gone from the scene, the politicians will be in charge again and God alone knows what horrors they’ll perpetuate upon the body politic. For instance, I see ugly war brewing in South Africa among the Boers in years to come. I see a tragedy coming our way there. But far worse, without your direction of our ship of state, I fear within twenty short years we will find ourselves engaged in a worldwide conflagration the likes of which this world has never seen before.”
I nodded. “I am aware of the projections.”
“Then you know the politicians will only expand the length and depth of the misery and carnage,” Sherlock added.
“Yes, brother, I know that and it saddens me, for I have worked for the Empire all my life and I do not want to see the approaching sunset. Nevertheless, the Empire is changing, and so, too, the world, and we must all change with it. Or be left behind. It is time for me to move on, and for you … to study bees in Sussex? Indeed!”
I took another sip of Watson’s excellent brandy.
“Well, Watson, surely this has been a case worthy of your efforts for the popular press?” Sherlock said.
“Yes, I would like your permission to write it up for the Strand.”
“Indeed, certainly, but with certain restrictions. Of course all mention of my brother and his ‘government’ service must be deleted. I’m afraid you will have to leave Moriarty out of the story as well. Knowledge of his surviving Reichenbach will not only contradict your previously published narrative of this case, making you look rather foolish, but it will cause fear and chaos in the criminal underground and among the public. Moran can easily fit the bill of your villain, and he is the actual murderer of young Adair. But Watson, do not publish the story for at least ten years. I see 1904 as an adequate date for the appearance to the public of such a tale. What do you think?” Sherlock asked.
“Of course, I shall abide by your wishes,” Watson replied.
“Good. Thank you, old friend. I rather like the thought of being dead, at least where the public and popular press are concerned. And it certainly will surprise the criminal element who believe that I am no more, when I appear and confront them with their crimes,” Sherlock added with a grin.
I nodded. “It sounds like it would make an interesting case, Doctor. I shall look forward to reading it in the Strand … some day.”
“Hah! Ably put, Mycroft!” Sherlock said. “And who knows, between now and then—two Holmes Brothers, retired, on our own and left to our devices—why, we may even join forces on occasion when a particularly complex or interesting problem may arise, eh, Mycroft?”
I smiled at my brother. “I don’t see why not, Sherlock. Holmes an
d Holmes, Consultants. It does have a certain ring to it, don’t you think?”
BILLY
It was pleasant for Dr. Watson to find himself once more in the untidy room of the first floor in Baker Street which had been the starting point of so many remarkable adventures … . His eyes came round to the fresh and smiling face of Billy, the young but very wise and tactful page who had helped a little to fill up the gap of loneliness and isolation which surrounded the saturnine figure of the great detective.
—“The Adventure of the Mazarin Stone”
by GERARD DOLE
The Witch of Greenwich
[To Dave Stuart Smith ]
During the years I had the luck and privilege to be the page boy of Mr. Sherlock Holmes, I ushered many an illustrious client into his old study in Baker Street. I also had the chance to witness his amazing reasoning and observational abilities, which made me dream to practice one day in turn as a consulting detective. It was a great honor, then, when in the last years preceding his retirement to Sussex my master asked me to become his assistant and began teaching me fully the art of detection. Tonight I am looking back and reminiscing about the first case I followed with Mr. Sherlock Holmes that showed me I had the deductive abilities to become a detective myself The master referred to it as The Witch of Greenwich, an astounding story which put Londoners’ security at stake. Now that all the other protagonists are gone, I dare to put on paper these lines. I unfortunately do not have the skill and literary style of the late Dr. John Watson, but I shall nevertheless strive to relate all I saw and beard in the most accurate manner.
My Sherlock Holmes Page 16