N1 § P1 C1 Pa8 W13 § P1 C2 Pa2 W65 § P1 C1 Pa1 W72 § P1 C1 Pa18 W1 § P2 C1 Pa9 W63 § P1 C1 Pa1 W56 § P2 C4 Pa29 W72 § – MORTLOCK
“Who, then, is Mortlock?” I asked.
“Mortlock, Watson, is a nom-de-plume, of course. You must recall our ally of sorts, that shifty and evasive personality who attempted to aid us in the affair at Birlstone?”
“Porlock?”
“Yes, of course. Do you not see, Watson? That particular name was obviously chosen for two reasons. First, because of its final rhyme with that latter half my own given name. And second, because the initial syllable would convey the message that that individual so-called could be induced to provide information if properly recompensed.”
“I admit that I am not following you, Holmes. Do you believe that Porlock has resurfaced after all these years?”
Holmes shook his head violently. “No, no, Watson. I think that the name used herein is a message beyond what is encoded in this cryptic combination of letters, numbers, and symbols. Recall your days at Winchester, Watson. What does the Latin root ‘mort’ denote?”
I finally understood what he was trying to tell me, and the thought chilled me to the bones. “It means ‘death’ of course.”
“Exactly, Watson. Exactly. But whose death?”
“Surely we can determine that by deciphering the message itself?”
“Yes, Watson, but how?”
“Is this not the same book cipher that Porlock once employed?”
“Not at all. Look at it, Watson. Porlock’s code did not use so many letters, nor these funny symbols. We must apply all of our reason to the problem of what method is herein being employed.”
I studied it for a moment. “Well, it seems to be to be quite simple.”
Holmes’ right eyebrow rose in surprise. “Oh? You have broken it?”
“Almost, Holmes, almost. Surely the symbol is nothing more than a break, and the ‘W’ stands for ‘word.’”
“I will accept that as a point of departure.”
“Then the ‘Pa’ must be ‘page.’”
Holmes shook his head. “There are difficulties, Watson. The printing of various editions of the same story can be quite numerous, and the paginations differ between them. Even if we were able to guess the name of the book, how are we to determine which edition to utilize?”
“Paragraph!” I cried.
“Good, Watson, good! No matter what font and spacing a printer uses, unless they deviate from the author’s master plan, the separation between paragraphs should remain intact.”
“Then the next sign, ‘C1’ stands for ‘chapter the first,’ no doubt.”
“Excellent, Watson. Your deduction of twenty years ago has finally proven correct, unless I am much deceived. But now we encounter further difficulties. If we know the chapter number, then what do we make of the ‘P’ symbol?”
“That is obvious, Holmes,” I said triumphantly.
“Is it?” he asked archly.
“Of course, Holmes. It stands for ‘part.’”
“Part! That is brilliant, Watson. Surely that allows us to narrow our search down to books which are divided into multiple parts, within which the chapter numbers are repeated. You can see that the first three words come from Chapter 1 of Part 1, while the fifth word can only be found in Chapter 1 of Part 2. Only a few authors would employ such an eccentric numbering strategy.”
“But what about the ‘N1?’”
“Unless I am very much mistaken, that is not a word, but rather the symbol that identifies for us the book itself.”
“But there must be thousands of books that begin with the letter ‘N,’” I protested.
“True enough, but you will note, Watson, that there is no second letter. So this is a book with only one word in the title. That should help considerably.”
A long silence followed, during which we sat pondering this mystery. I finally spoke. “I am sorry, Holmes, but I cannot think of any novels with one word titles that start with ‘N.’ The closest I can come up with would be Dickens’ ‘Nicholas Nickleby.’”
Holmes slumped back in his seat. “No, no, Watson, that will not do. You have one ‘N’ too many. We are undone, I fear. I was hoping that a man of letters such as yourself….” He stopped at stared at me, a wild look in his eyes. “Could it be…?” he cried.
“What is it, Holmes?”
When he opened his mouth, a laugh tinged with a hint of madness echoed forth. “I fear we were off target with our last conclusion, Watson. Mortlock is not trying to make this too difficult for us. His goal is to deliver a message, is it not? He would not have picked a book that was too obscure. He has it, and he imagined that we would have it too. In short, Watson, it is a very popular book.”
“So you know it? I have not known you to read much popular fiction, save only the most sensational literature.”
“Yes, I fear that I do. I once remarked that it was a work of superficial romanticism. Follow me, Watson.”
He rose from his seat and shrugged on his great overcoat. With a wave of his hand, Holmes directed that the bill be sent to him. I hurried to keep up with him as he set off eastwards along the Strand, dodging cabs and omnibuses. At the first junction with Lancaster Place, I watched as Holmes stopped before a cheap newsstand. The front shelves were filled with the scent of freshly printed pages while, in the rear, moldered a forlorn assortment of dusty novels. Next to the structure, a boy was bawling out headlines of the latest edition of the evening paper.
“Why, Mr. Holmes, I’ll be,” said the news-vendor. “It’s been a long time. What’ll it be tonight? The Evening Standard has a nice story about a bold robbery at St. Paul’s Cathedral. That’s right up your alley, I reckon.”
“Not tonight, Carter,” Holmes said. “It’s a novel that I require. The first chronicle of a novice biographer, who applied to it a somewhat fantastic sobriquet.”
The man shrugged. “Doubt I have something with so many fancy words, but it’s yours if I got it, Mr. Holmes.”
He turned to me, an inscrutable look in his grey eyes. “You see the significance of the ‘N1’ now, do you not, Watson?”
“Ah, yes. It is clear. The first novel by that writer.”
“Can you still not deduce the name?”
“I am afraid not, Holmes. There are new writers appearing every day, it seems. I cannot possibly keep up with them all.”
“Well, Watson, this tale might not have seen the light of day if we had not thwarted the Red Leech.” He sighed and shook his head before turning back to the newsman. “Carter, give me a copy of ‘A Study in Scarlet.’”
“What?” I cried. “Holmes, you cannot think that I had anything to do with this?”
“Not at all, Watson. But it was sent by a man who knows far too much about me. He has studied my methods, as so carefully laid out by you in your tales.”
“My dear Holmes, I certainly never intended….”
He forestalled my protest. “It is no matter, Watson. It is, as they say, water under the bridge.”
Holmes took the slim volume from the newsman Carter and tucked it under his arm. He then strode down towards the Thames and out onto Waterloo Bridge. He did not pause until he came to the streetlamp in very middle. He set the volume upon the top of the balustrade and flipped to the first chapter. “Now let us see what Chapter 1 has in store for us. Jot down the words, Watson.” He counted silently. “Paragraph eight, word thirteen, is ‘what.’ That is an auspicious beginning. Now let us try the next one. Paragraph ten, word fifteen, is ‘walks.’ – ‘What walks.’” Holmes’ eyes were gleaming with nervous anticipation and his fingers danced upon the page as he moved along. “The next word is ‘on.’ I think we are on the right track, Watson.” He continued until the phrase was complete. “What – walks – on – no – legs – at – midnight?”
“You must be mistaken, Holmes. Certainly it is a different book. That phrase is gibberish.”
“Is it, Watson?” he stared
at me intently. “Do you not recall the lessons of your Greek master? What was the riddle of the Sphinx?”
I considered this for a moment. “‘What is the creature that walks on four legs in the morning, two legs at noon and three in the evening?’ And the answer is ‘Man,’ of course.”
“Do you see, Watson?” his voice was deadly serious. “Mortlock’s question is a progression of the Sphinx’s riddle. Morning, noon, evening. And now: ‘What walks on no legs at midnight?’ Midnight being the very end of the metaphorical day.”
“What?”
“A corpse.” He shook his head grimly. “These are much deeper waters that I had originally thought. I fear that once more the game is afoot.”
I attempted to buoy his spirits. “You have always answered that call, Holmes. Why is it now cause for alarm?”
“Because, Watson, this time I do not even know what game we are playing.”
The two of us sat in silence for some minutes, the rough water rushing against the stones beneath us. We gazed out at the fog-shrouded sky over the vast murky River, a spiritual counterpart to one in a far-away dusty land, and our eyes strained to glimpse what mystery lay beyond the curtain.
§
THE ASSASSINATION OF SHERLOCK HOLMES will continue in…
THE PROBLEM OF THREADNEEDLE STREET
§
About the Author
In the year 1998 CRAIG JANACEK took his degree of Doctor of Medicine of Vanderbilt University, and proceeded to Stanford to go through the training prescribed for pediatricians in practice. Having completed his studies there, he was duly attached to the University of California, San Francisco as Associate Professor. The author of over seventy medical monographs upon a variety of obscure lesions, his travel-worn and battered tin dispatch-box is crammed with papers, nearly all of which are records of his fictional works. To date, these have been published solely in electronic format, including two non-Holmes novels (The Oxford Deception & The Anger of Achilles Peterson), the trio of holiday adventures collected as The Midwinter Mysteries of Sherlock Holmes, and a Watsonian novel entitled The Isle of Devils. His current project is the short trilogy The Assassination of Sherlock Holmes. His first in-press work will be included in the forthcoming MX Book of New Sherlock Holmes Stories (Fall 2015). Craig Janacek is a nom-de-plume.
For augmented content, connect with him online at: http://craigjanacek.wordpress.com.
§
Literary Agent’s Foreword: Annotated
For someone whose life has touched the hearts of so many people throughout the last one hundred and twenty-eight years,[1] Sherlock Holmes’ career ended not with a bang, but a whimper.[2]
For a brief time, the reading public was convinced that Holmes did meet his glorious, albeit tragic, end in 1891, when he was thought to have nobly sacrificed himself at Reichenbach Falls in order to ensure the destruction of the malevolent Professor Moriarty. However, upon his sensational return from the Great Hiatus in 1894, Holmes threw himself back into a series of cases, some of which showcased the heights of his power,[3] while others were much more commonplace.[4] These uneven investigations continued until 1903, when Holmes suddenly retired to an estate on the South Downs. After that date, only two more cases have appeared in the official records, one of which detailed a trivial matter that occurred in 1907 near his villa,[5] while the other took place on the eve of The Great War in 1914.[6] We know from Dr. Watson’s own pen that the mystery of the simian-like Professor Presbury was ‘one of the very last cases handled by Holmes before his retirement from practice.’[7] But the Canon is curiously silent about the true closing case of Holmes’ official career as the world’s first consulting detective. Did some undisclosed horrible tragedy drive him into premature retirement, or did he deem that some great unrecorded feat of detection was finally sufficient to serve as the capstone to an unprecedented, and to this day unrivaled, career?
It was to reconcile this puzzling debate that I went searching for an account of that lost case which made Holmes resolve that it was time to finally hang up his deerstalker’s cap.[8] Unfortunately, what I discovered was not that tale. But perhaps these papers contain something equally singular and important in the closure of a career, and even of a life?
I will not bore you with a prolonged narrative of my search. Suffice it to say that it was long and dusty. However, it began with an inspiration that I like to think was worthy of Holmes himself. Much effort has been made by many fine scholars to locate the actual site of Holmes’ retirement villa. The sprinkling of clues in the Canon have been followed with scrupulous care, and strong suspects, such as Birling Manor Farm, between the Seven Sisters and Eastbourne and near Went Hill, have been identified. While this hunt is a worthwhile pursuit on its own merits, it is unlikely to reveal any manuscripts of note. Holmes very rarely bothered to record any literary account of his own cases, and the few instances that have been preserved appear to lack Dr. Watson’s characteristic vigor.[9] And certainly Watson would not have been likely to send any completed texts to Holmes, not after enduring years of disparagement from his friend about Watson’s overly romantic style of writing.
Therefore, if I wished to locate some other entombed tin box,[10] for the one kept at Cox & Co. surely appears to have been heavily damaged by a bomb[11] that fell during the Blitz, I must instead turn my eyes to other locales that might hide potential treasure troves. To that end, the question was not ‘Where was the site of Sherlock Holmes’ retirement?’ but rather, ‘Where was the final domicile of his great biographer, Dr. John H. Watson?’
That was the problem that I ultimately solved in order to present these tales to you now. I do not, at the moment, wish to disclose the exact location, in hopes that from some unexplored corner further manuscripts may one day appear. What I unearthed was quite damaged by over a hundred years of damp and rot. Painstaking restoration work was required to bring the pages into a readable condition. In the translation to digital form, a conscious decision was made to adopt American spellings of such words as ‘colour’ and ‘theatre.’ If this seems contrary to the spirit of its original author, the fault is entirely mine. Furthermore, while the papers appear to tell a unified narrative, for reasons known only to Dr. Watson, he decided to separate them into three tales, the individual bundles tied up with decaying red tape. While each tale is enjoyable on its own, they are perhaps enhanced when read as part of the complete story. The story of the way a career ended, not with a whimper, but a bang.
§
THE ADVENTURE OF
THE PHARAOH’S CURSE:
Annotated
On referring to my notes, I see that it was a mild morning on the last day of October in 1909 when Inspector Lestrade appeared upon my doorstep. The boisterous equinoctial gales of fall had past, leaving the trees in the yard behind my home stripped bare and puddles in the fallow garden. After many years where I imagined that my wounds had fully healed, with the advance of time[12] and the change in the weather, I felt again their once familiar ache. At the time, I was busy in my study with the writing up an adventure from my extensive archive of cases investigated by Sherlock Holmes over the years of our mutual association. Little did I know at the time that the facts of that particular undertaking paled in comparison to the most remarkable and dramatic events that were about to unfold.
I was experimenting with a new technique, which I had adopted after reading about the practice by Mr. Jefferson of Virginia. I was using one of his polygraph machines to simultaneously create a duplicate of the adventure I was documenting.[13] I had sadly learned over the years that banks such as Cox & Co.[14] can be robbed,[15] that residences can catch on fire,[16] and that hounds can on occasion feast upon pages of foolscap.[17] Some manuscripts had already passed out of my possession into the hands of private individuals,[18] but I had firmly determined that those future cases which were not yet ready for publication would be best preserved in duplicate form.[19]
Needless to say, I was quite surprised to look up from t
his work and find his face peering at me from the other side of my desk. He was dapperly dressed, but the years had not been kind to Lestrade, whose sallow-faced, furtive features in the best of times can only have been described as either bulldoggish or ferret-like, and now appeared most similar to a wrinkled leather sack. Still, while he was not without faults, he was a good man in his own way, and reminded me of some of the fine old days. My wife must have seen him in and bade him wait for a natural pause to my activity, so as to not interrupt the train of my thoughts.[20]
My mustached lips curled upwards at the once-familiar sight of the Scotland Yarder. “Well, well, Inspector, it is a pleasure to see you again. It has been, what, eight years?”
“Indeed, Doctor,” he nodded sadly, his eyes dark. I noted that he wore a light brown dustcoat and leather leggings rather than his official uniform, which I deduced represented his travelling outfit. “I don’t get down to Southsea much, I am afraid.”[21]
“Yes, well I find that it suits me. While the bustle of London’s five millions may be intoxicating to a man of eight and twenty, the charms of the largest city on earth can begin to wear thin when the years start to mount. And as long as I have a Bradshaw’s close to hand, I can always rely upon the remarkable British train system to have me at Waterloo Station in but a shade over two hours, should the London season promise a new exhibition of Expressionists[22] at a Bond Street Gallery,[23] or a singer of great repute at Covent Garden.”[24]
As I spoke Lestrade looked about my study, examining the rows of books upon my shelves. “You’ve done quite well for yourself, Doctor.”
“Yes, well…”
“Don’t get me wrong, Doctor. I daresay you deserve it. You have been instrumental over the years in helping Mr. Holmes bring to justice some right dangerous individuals, who would be a general menace to the peaceful British public if left free to roam the streets.”
The Adventure of the Pharaoh's Curse (The Assassination of Sherlock Holmes Book 1) Page 8