The Falling Curtain (The Assassination of Sherlock Holmes Book 3)

by Janacek, Craig

  I stared at him in frustrated consternation. He had done nothing but taunt me, and I had learned little in return. What more could I ask that would induce him to reveal some clue to the identity of his employer? As I puzzled over this, hesitant to leave without some piece of useful information to report to Holmes, Moran began to cough.

  He looked at me, his eyes wide with fear, though I could hardly understand the source of this emotion. “What have you done to me?” he exclaimed, dropping the cigarette.

  “What are you talking about, Moran?”

  “My lips, my tongue,” he stammered, his voice starting to slur. He held up his hands in front of his face, and rubbed the tips of his fingers together. He suddenly began to retch, and then toppled out of his chair onto the floor. I sat frozen for a moment, suspicious that he might be malingering in order to induce me to lower my guard and attempt to take me hostage, but the sudden convulsion was too convincing to be fictitious. Even Henry Irving, or Holmes himself, could not have feigned such a fit. When Moran’s lips began to turn blue, I knew that this attack was most serious.

  Calling out for assistance, I sprang into action and attempted to support the man’s airway. But the spasms in his lungs were too great for air to be forced down his bronchi. Try as I might, I could not make the man’s chest rise, and within minutes I knew my effort to be futile. As two constables watched in dismay, I reached over and felt the artery at the side of his sinewy neck. To my extreme mortification, no vital force moved through it any longer. Under my very eye, Colonel Sebastian Moran, the best heavy game shot of the Eastern Empire and the second most dangerous man in London, had been struck dead.

  §

  A subdued Inspector Gregson accompanied me back to Pall Mall in order to report this singular event to Holmes. We found him in Mycroft’s library hunched over a map of London. His amber-stemmed pipe was reeking of a particularly poisonous shag, and he had clearly been studying it for some time.

  He looked up at our entrance. “Ah, Watson, you will see that I have not been idle in your absence. I have been tracking various crimes described in the papers of the past months, the unique nature of which might suggest… I say, Watson, whatever is the matter?”

  “Colonel Moran is dead,” I said quietly, still shaken by what had transpired within the walls of Wandsworth Prison.

  The look upon his face and his clenched hands betrayed Holmes’ acute displeasure. “What!” he exclaimed. “How?”

  I shook my head. “I can only assume that he was poisoned.”

  “Poisoned?” cried Holmes. “That should have been impossible, Gregson,” said he, accusingly. “Were you not testing his food?”

  “Of course we were, Mr. Holmes!”

  “Then how was it introduced?”

  Gregson shook his head dejectedly. “We don’t rightly know.”

  Holmes stared at him. “I will need access to his corpse. Samples must be taken. If we can learn the identity of the poison, it will be a major clue. Poisoners are like homing pigeons, they find their favorite and stick with it. Morgan always used aqua tofana. Hughes, from Farnham, was a Prussic acid man. Mrs. Peterson was loyal to belladonna, etcetera, etcetera.”

  “Very good, Mr. Holmes,” said Gregson. “I will speak to the examiner immediately.”

  Once Gregson had departed, Holmes turned to me. “Tell me everything, Watson,” he commanded. “Leave out no detail, no matter how minor it might appear.”

  I carefully recounted everything that had transpired from the moment I entered Moran’s cell. When I was finished, Holmes shook his head irritably. “It really will not do, Watson. You learned almost nothing of interest, and watched as our prime witness was murdered in front of your very eyes.”

  I was stung by this criticism, as I felt that I had done my best. “But what of Moran’s claim that he was being aided by someone within the government? That they procured the air-gun for him and promised to ensure his luxurious retirement?”

  Holmes scowled. “Lies and deceptions, Watson. Do you honestly believe that our own government is conspiring against me?”

  I shrugged. “You have knowledge of many secrets, Holmes. Secrets pertaining to the defense of the nation, as well as the private details of Royal Houses throughout Europe. Is it not possible that someone decided that you knew too much and that the best method to guarantee your silence would be to eliminate you entirely?”

  “I think not, Watson. Have I not once said that Mycroft is at times the government itself? He would know if such a wide-ranging conspiracy existed.”

  “But perhaps not one originating from a small handful of men?”

  He sat silently for a moment, puffing on his pipe. “Perhaps not,” he finally admitted.

  “Then what should we do about it?”

  “We should play our cards close to our vest, Watson. If we do not know who to trust within Scotland Yard, then we shall trust no one. In any case, we have nothing in which Gregson or Lestrade could possibly act upon.”

  The hour had grown late, and as I saw no further avenue of investigation that evening, I retired to my room, leaving Holmes gloomily hunched over his map of London.

  §

  In the morning, I was little surprised to find my friend seated at the dining table, plainly enjoying a hearty repast of rashers and eggs, all washed down with a prodigious amount of black coffee.

  “You look cheerful this morning, Holmes. Have you come across some new piece of evidence?”

  “No, but I plan to make use of the current impression that I am out of commission to conduct some clandestine inquiries in certain of the less salubrious corners of London.”

  “I have never known you to make such a late start when going about in disguise.”

  He chuckled. “An excellent observation, Watson. However, need I remind you that we are not at 221B any longer? I have no ready stock of appropriate attire and greasepaint with which to effect my transformation. I have sent out for something suitable and am awaiting its delivery.”

  At that moment, Stanley entered with an urgent telegram. I assumed it would be for Holmes, and was therefore startled when he handed it to me. I opened it eagerly, hoping to hear news from my wife, and was astounded to find that it was from someone else altogether. I read as follows:

  8, CATHEDRAL GREEN, Wells, Nov. 29th.

  Re Hags

  SIR, –

  As a means of personal introduction, may I recall to you that we were once classmates in the fifth form at Winchester School. From a reading of the daily papers, we have been made aware that you and your friend Mr. Holmes have returned to London, in what we can only hope is a permanent capacity. We have a terrible mystery on our hands here in Wells, with the reappearance of an ancient legend and the subsequent disappearance of a gentleman of our acquaintance. We therefore wish to call upon you at your earliest convenience and lay the matter before you.

  We are, Sir,

  Faithfully yours,

  Dr. Basil Gennery

  Curator, The Wells Natural History Society, Mendip Hills

  I looked up at my friend. “What do you make of it, Holmes?”

  He made a noise which I interpreted to be a snort of derision. “Really, Watson, how many supposedly supernatural sightings do I need to expose via the harsh light of reason before people will stop bringing them to my doorstep? Were the events of the supposed Pharaoh’s curse not less than a month ago?”

  I shrugged. “There is something intrinsic to human nature, Holmes, which is attracted by the notion that there may be something mystical lurking just beyond the limits of our senses. You cannot stop it any more than you can stop the sun from rising.”

  “You have succinctly summarized precisely why I have retired to the South Downs. My bees comprise an eminently practical society, with none of these absurd human failings.”

  But any further philosophical discussions were halted by the appearance of Stanley, who announced a visitor for me and Holmes. A glance at the man’s calling card showed h
im to be the forewarned Dr. Gennery.

  “Send him away, Stanley,” ordered Holmes, irritably.

  “We shall do nothing of the kind, Stanley,” I countermanded. “You need not listen to the man, Holmes, but I will not turn away an acquaintance, no matter how tentative.”

  A resigned wave of Holmes’ hand was sufficient to signal Stanley that he might see in our guest. Dr. Gennery proved to be an elderly gentleman, whose bald pate was fringed with tufts of white hair. His pale blue eyes were magnified by a pair of thick spectacles. His manner was agitated, and he seemed unsure of precisely what to say beyond the initial introductions.

  Clearly Holmes did not intend to be helpful, so I took the lead. “Perhaps if you would start at the beginning, Dr. Gennery?” I said.

  “Yes, of course, Doctor, you are correct.” He paused for a moment, and seemed to gather his thoughts. “As you may be aware, gentlemen, the caves of the Mendip Hills are famous throughout Britain for being sites of great natural wonder and beauty, but also for their immense historical interest.”

  “How so?” I inquired.

  “First of all, certain of these caves, such as Banwell, contain animal bones of an immense age. From them we have learned a great deal about the days when the creatures who would eventually become modern man still dragged their knuckles upon the ground. Furthermore, these caves have been occupied since the first era of prehistoric man. In Aveline’s Hole, for instance, a cemetery of over two-score individuals has been unearthed from the days when the pyramids had yet to be built.”

  I nodded encouragingly. “I see, please proceed.”

  “Our troubles began roughly three weeks ago. It began with reports from the local farmers that they were witnessing strange lights at night in the area near Haybridge. Mr. Howard Kidd, my assistant, became convinced that the appearance of these lights was evidence that the fabled Haybridge Cave had been re-discovered. You see, Doctor, over the years, many of these caves have attracted a series of legends. This particular cave was, as the stories go, the home of a foul spirit that haunted the countryside for miles around. This spirit formed from the mist of a pool deep within the cave, and could materialize as an old and hideous woman, whose cry would bring down terrible misfortune upon any who heard it. After many years of suffering at the hands of the Hag of Haybridge Cave, the locals finally gathered together enough gold to attract the attention of a famous monk from Glastonbury Abbey. He came and called down a powerful counter-curse upon the Hag, which sealed the entrance to her cave, so that she could go forth in the night no more.”

  I listened with some thrill at this tale, for it vaguely recalled the legend once laid out to us by Dr. Mortimer. “And why did Mr. Kidd think that the cave had been re-opened? Would not such a find be reported at once?”

  Dr. Gennery shook his head ruefully. “People are stumbling across new caves all the time, Dr. Watson, and you are correct that most folks immediately notify the authorities. But there are some less scrupulous folk who keep the find to themselves, in hopes that their discovery may contain a treasure hoard.”

  “Is such a thing possible?”

  He shrugged. “Not to our knowledge, Doctor. But the British countryside is replete with hoards from all manners of invaders: Romans, Saxons, Norsemen, even Royalists. It is always possible that some poor soul might have buried a hoard in one of the caves in advance of some approaching army, and was sadly never able to return and reclaim it.”

  I glanced over at Holmes, who appeared to be following Dr. Gennery’s tale with ill-concealed scorn. “Do you think, Holmes, that this could be connected with the early British objects stolen from the Museum? Some unscrupulous collector of such treasures?”

  Holmes shook his head. “It is a capital mistake to theorize in the absence of facts, Watson. For all we know, like those Neolithic animals before him, Mr. Kidd could have simply fallen down a hole from which he was unable to climb back out.”

  “I assure you, Mr. Holmes, that Mr. Kidd was an experienced spelunker,” protested our guest.

  “Even the world’s greatest climber would be hard pressed to do so if his leg was broken, for example. In any case, I fail to see how we can be of assistance?” said Holmes, tersely.

  Dr. Gennery licked his lips. “Well, Mr. Holmes, it is the impression of the board of directors that something foul is afoot. I am not saying that there is any truth to the legend of the Hag, mind you. As a man of science, my first inclination is to discount such notions in favor of a more rational explanation. But Mr. Kidd vanished for a reason, and we mean to see that he is found. And there is no doubt that you are the best man in England when it comes to getting to the bottom of a mystery.”

  I have mentioned previously that Holmes was on occasion susceptible to such flattery, but in this case, he resisted it. “You are correct, of course, Dr. Gennery. However, if your tale is accurate, then your case is a timely one if you wish to find Mr. Kidd alive. I am afraid that I am unable to offer assistance at the present instant, for my attention must remain fixed in London.”

  “Perhaps I could go, Holmes?” I volunteered.

  Holmes peered at me for a moment. “You feel strongly about this, Watson?”

  “I do,” I replied, nodding vigorously.

  “Very well,” Holmes slowly agreed. “But I cannot spare you either. For there is no one else I trust fully in the present matter.”

  “But we cannot fail to assist Dr. Gennery and Mr. Kidd,” I protested, waving my hand at the anxious curator sitting before us.

  “No, you are correct, Watson. Fortunately, I have someone who owes me a very great favor, and I am willing to call it in now.”

  “Who is that?”

  “Barker.”

  “Your rival from the Surrey shore?”

  “Exactly. He is not in my league, of course, but he is also not without some small merits of his own. I will wire to him and ask him to join you, Dr. Gennery, at Haybridge immediately. I am confident that he can rapidly solve your little mystery.”

  Dr. Gennery looked somewhat disappointed by this decision from Holmes, but as I saw him to the door, I assured him that Holmes was understating Barker’s talents. For no detective could be seriously considered a rival of Holmes without also possessing a very great deal of both acumen and skill.

  §

  Holmes had no sooner dispensed with dictating his promised wire to Barker when Mycroft and Inspector Lestrade appeared. Considering how we were staying in Mycroft’s rooms, it was no small irony to see him approaching his brother like any other client in need.

  “Mr. Holmes, Mr. Mycroft and I are in need of your assistance with a small matter,” said Lestrade.

  Holmes sighed and glanced at his brother. “Really, Mycroft. I am engaged at the moment. Can you not figure it out yourself?”

  The elder Holmes shrugged. “Perhaps I have spent too long pondering the intricate dance of nations, Sherlock, but I fail to see how precisely it was done. I think this is more along your line of expertise.”

  “Very well. Pray tell what great catastrophe has occurred.”

  “A train has gone missing,” said Lestrade, with some hesitancy.

  Holmes laughed. “Trains do not go missing, Inspector. People go missing. But the British railway companies take great pains to ensure that their trains fail to vanish from sight.”

  “Yes, well, technically it was only the brake van and rear-most carriage.”

  “A prank?” I interjected. “Some bored aristocrats, perhaps?”

  Lestrade shook his head. “The train was moving at the time.”

  Holmes’ eyebrows rose, a sure indication that his interest had been piqued. “Do you mean to say, Lestrade, that a moving train lost its final two cars and no one knows what happened to them?”

  “That is exactly correct, Mr. Holmes. At first it was thought that they must have become uncoupled by some freak accident. But in that case, the next train along would have happened upon them.”

  “And that did not occur?” />
  “Not at all. The line superintendent then feared that the cars somehow ran off the tracks, but a close inspection of the entire length revealed that no such thing occurred.”

  “How many people are missing?”

  “Only one. The guard.”

  “So it was a freight train? It must have been carrying something quite valuable for my brother to become involved.” He glanced over at Mycroft.

  The man chuckled, his corpulent belly shaking with rueful mirth at Holmes’ perception. “That is correct, Sherlock. This train had originated at Waltham Abbey.”

  “Is that not where King Harold Godwinson was buried after the Battle of Hastings?” I asked.

  Holmes looked at me queerly. “I never get your limits, Watson. Why exactly you chose to clutter your brain with such unimportant trivia is beyond me. I presume that Mycroft is more concerned with a certain factory that sprung up at Waltham after the monks were dissolved from their lands by good King Henry?”

  Mycroft nodded his agreement, while Holmes proceeded to explain. “You see, Watson, there are only three Royal Gunpowder Mills on our shores. Faversham in Kent, Ballincollig in Ireland, and Waltham Abbey. For reasons of security, their identities remain largely unknown to the general public, though of course, those with an especial interest in methods of violence are aware of their existence. It was from the idyllically-named Waltham Abbey that poured the agent which stoked the engine of the three wars: against Napoleon, in Crimea, and against the Boers. So I assume that a load of gunpowder was seized from the missing van?”

  “It was guncotton, actually” replied Mycroft. “Bound for Canary Wharf, where a ship would take it to Gibraltar.”

  Holmes frowned. “An odd thing to steal, don’t you think, brother? Useful for the Royal Navy, of course, but hardly to the common criminal. Especially as dynamite is much more stable, and therefore far safer if you plan to blow up a bank door.”