“Drop it, Watson!” This instant, I say!” he cried with such vehemence that I dropped the envelope upon the floor.
“What is it, Holmes?” I protested.
“If you value your life, do not open it, Watson!” he commanded.
“Whatever is the matter, Holmes?”
“My correspondence is, as you know, a varied one. I have lost count how many packages sent to me contain some subtle poison. Knowing that I am upon my guard for such a stratagem, our adversary is therefore forced to seek some other method that may introduce a contagion into the room. You are the logical choice for an addressee of such a parcel.”
I studied my friend, and excepting only the time that he feigned being struck down by his mythical Tapanuli fever, I could not recall seeing him in a worse state. His hair and attire were disheveled and his long white fingers trembled slightly. His face had taken on a terrible gauntness, as if food had not passed his lips for many days, which might well be the truth. But the sign that sent a chill to my heart were his eyes. His pupils were mere pinpricks, and it was with considerable horror and dismay that I realized what this signified. Long ago I had weaned him from a terrible practice, but it was now clear that the fiend had only been hibernating for all these years. Despite many trials and tribulations following his return from Tibet, his iron will had prevented any waking of the beast. But the calm had now vanished, as this terrible storm threatened to reduce Holmes to a drug-addled creature. “Holmes! Tell me that you are not using the seven-percent solution again!”
He shrugged as if it was of no concern. “It is clarifying for the mind, Watson.”
I shook my head. “I thought you had rejected that fallacy?”
“Yes, but perhaps I was wrong to do so. Some of my greatest triumphs occurred during those numinous days.”
“Correlation does not imply causation,” I replied, appealing to the eminent logician that I knew lurked in the brain behind the dulled windows of his eyes.
He did not reply, but instead sank into one of the plush armchairs and leaned back, lost in gloomy speculation. As I watched him, I knew that his inner being had been terribly shaken. Inspector Patterson, a good man, had been killed for little reason other than to serve as the lure that would draw Holmes out of retirement. Did the man not have some wife and children who would never again see him walk through the door and hold them tightly to his breast? Stanley, a man whom Holmes had known for close to half-a-century, had escaped a terrible death by the smallest of fractions. Even my own wounding, slight as it may be, would pile up in his mental inventory as another innocent person who was harmed solely because of Holmes.
Despite our long and close association, due to his natural reticence, some small part of Holmes remained a mystery to me. But I suspected that the logical machine, the brain without a heart, was but a façade, and like any man, Holmes surely must have terrors that come to him in the small hours of this night. Had he always secretly dreaded that his actions might lead to the harm of those rare individuals he considered to be friends? Had this sudden realization of his worst fears bring on this black melancholy? Never had I seen him so utterly despondent, even after when we had witnessed some horror enacted by one man upon another, or after those rare times when Holmes failed one of the clients who had entrusted their lives to him.
He finally sighed and looked up at me. “Well, Watson, I do not jest when I say that we seem to have fallen upon evil days.”
“It is during such moments when the great man rises to the occasion,” I said, quietly. “There is nothing more stimulating than a case where everything goes against you!”
He snorted. “Who said such nonsense?”
“You did, Holmes.”
He chuckled sadly, and then shook his head. “We are in the grips of some inexorable evil, a relentless persecution, not by one man, but an entire society of those who wish me harm. But I can find no thread that leads me towards the foul mind that is the prime mover.”
“We can but try! Compound of the Busy Bee and Excelsior!”
He finally smiled. “I don’t know quite what to do, Watson, and I should value your advice.”
“You must act, Holmes!” said I, a heat rising into my voice. “It is not like you to be so defensive. I had thought you would go on the attack.”
“Attack against whom?”
“I don’t know, Holmes.” I looked around the room, searching for an inspiration, when my eyes landed upon the envelope that Holmes had previously dashed from my hand. “Perhaps this contains some critical clue,” said I, stooping to pick it up.
He glanced at it with some interest. “Let me see it first, Watson.”
I handed it over and he inspected it closely, even going so far as to sniff it multiple times. “I can see no signs that it has been tampered with. If they introduced a poison, then they must have infiltrated the messenger offices. I think, on the whole, the odds suggest that you can safely open it, though it is likely just a message from your concerned wife.”
I was barely listening to him, however, for the enclosed message was unusual in the extreme. I little knew what it meant, but I thought that perhaps Holmes might see some hopeful sign therein. Before I could speak, Holmes snapped. “Out with it, Watson! What is so interesting? Your face is an open book!”
TRAFALGAR SQUARE, Westminster, Nov. 30th.
Re Forgery
Dr. Watson –
I write to inform you that I promptly followed your advice and took Le Jeune Fille to the University for a painstakingly complete analysis. I am most dismayed that your suspicions were correct and the painting that we have proudly displayed for some measure of the last eighteen years is indeed fraudulent. Although the paint and canvas are of an appropriate age, Jean-Baptiste Greuze was not in the habit of painting over landscapes of prior German Romantics, no matter how minor, as we discovered when the painting was subjected to the rays of Mr. Röntgen. I pray that this information is of some minor assistance in any investigations conducted by yourself and Mr. Holmes.
Yours sincerely,
Joshua Goldfield
Holmes read this with growing excitement, and suddenly sprang out of his chair. His inexorable eyes gleamed out of his haggard face. I could now read in them a set purpose to devote his life to the quest, until the men who had already been harmed should be avenged, and until no further danger awaited any of us at the hands of Mortlock. “You are absolutely right, Watson. We have been passive for far too long. Now that we know the name of our enemy, it is time to take the fight to him.”
“We know the name of our enemy?” I asked with some confusion.
“Oh, yes.”
§
However, Holmes would say no more at the moment. He informed me that he would need to go out for a short while in order to perform the few tasks that would be required to prepare for the coming battle. Upon his return we would be decamping from the luxury of the Langham. He instructed me to rest my shoulder as much as possible while we still maintained our comfortable quarters, and to not let anyone through the door until Shinwell Johnson arrived.
He smiled at my question regarding the necessity of this action. “Shinwell is a blunt instrument, of course, Watson. But he is as loyal as he is intimidating. He will ensure your safety while I am occupied. It is a temporary measure only until you have regained some use of your arm and are able to defend yourself. Do not take it as any denigration of your use, Watson. In fact, without your little visit to the National Gallery, we might still be in the dark.”
The rest of the day was quiet, with only the arrival of Mr. Johnson, some packages, and a light supper to break the monotony. Nevertheless, the rest did wonders for my shoulder, which admittedly had hardly felt up to the task of waging war against the forces of Mortlock. By the time Holmes returned, however, a series of hot packs applied by the surprisingly solicitous Mr. Johnson had me feeling, if not normal, at least upon my way towards being whole again.
Holmes did not identify our group’s de
stination, but before he led our way out of the hotel, he gave Johnson and I a series of instructions. “We can be certain, gentlemen, that our adversary has already deduced our current location. As we are retreating to a new base of operations – whose location I would for the time being prefer remains a secret – we must ensure that they do not follow us there.”
“Should we split up?” I suggested. “It will be harder to follow three men travelling alone rather than a group.”
Holmes shook his head. “But even if one man is followed, it will give away the game. Nevertheless, your suggestion is a good one, Watson, and we shall indeed split up. Once we reach the lobby, Watson will engage the fifth hansom cab that appears, while Johnson and I will make our way upon foot. We will meet at St Pancras Station and will then proceed together to our final destination. Any questions? No? I see that you both changed into the suits I provided, yes? And you have the hats? Excellent, let us be off.”
Earlier in the afternoon, Holmes had sent up to the suite a new suit for both Johnson and I, his brown and mine grey. These were accompanied by hats, an ascot for Johnson and a bowler for me. At the time, I thought that Holmes had simply believed that our previous attire might attract too much attention, as I noted that Holmes had also acquired a new suit and hat. But once we reached the hotel’s lobby, I realized that he had a far deeper strategy in play. For in that magnificent space there was a congregation of men unlike anything I think the Langham had previously witnessed. As I gazed about in confused awe, I counted no less than twenty men dressed exactly like my friend, with an equal number of men who resembled either me or Mr. Johnson in both stature and attire. I could not help but laugh at the brilliance and wonder of it all, and I was certain that the poor employees and guests of the hotel would remain mystified about that bizarre gathering for many long years to come.
Before I could even note it, Holmes and Johnson had melted into the crowd, such that even I could no longer spot the real man amongst his doppelgängers. At some unseen cue, the crowd sprang into action and began to vacate the hotel from all possible means of egress. A handful of ‘Holmes’ and ‘Johnsons’ and other ‘Watsons’ joined me in hailing hansoms, but I made certain that I was the occupier of the fifth one to arrive. As my cab pulled away, I was still laughing at Holmes’ subterfuge, and wondered from precisely where Holmes had managed to find so many willing actors and identical suits?
Although my driver had clearly been instructed to take a roundabout track to the neo-Gothic railway station at St Pancras, it was a span of less than fifteen minutes before I found myself deposited at what appeared to be my first destination. Disembarking, I looked about in vain for Holmes or Johnson, but could not spot them. I stood there for a moment, unsure of what I should do, when a ragged young news-vender approached. Although I had weightier subjects upon my mind than the events of the day, I purchased a copy so as to have something to do while awaiting the arrival of my friends. I thought it would appear more natural than standing there idle. Imagine my surprise when the lad did not immediately move off, but instead spoke to me in a low voice. “I recommend the story on page four, Doctor.” Before I could look up and ask him what he meant, he had vanished into the crowd. I shrugged and followed his advice, where I found a message scrawled in Holmes’ familiar hand instructing me to proceed to a black brougham on the nearby corner of York Way and Caledonia Street.
This proved to be a rather plain conveyance, though heavy velvet draperies blocked the windows such that its occupants could travel unseen. Before I could knock upon the door, it swung open to briefly reveal Mr. Johnson, before he reached out and hauled me rather roughly inside. “Sorry about that, Doctor. Instructions from the boss.”
“Yes, well,” said I, rubbing my injured shoulder suggestively. “Where is Mr. Holmes?”
“Right here, Watson,” replied my friend as he slipped into the brougham after me, which immediately sprang into motion. “I was watching you to ensure that you were not followed, but I think we are in the clear.”
“So where are we going, Holmes?” I asked, somewhat crossly that he had kept me in the dark about all of his preparations for so long.
He chuckled. “I apologize, Watson. We are headed to an inn situated upon Hampstead. From there we will wage our offensive against Mr. Mortlock.”
“And who exactly is that?”
“All in good time, Watson. All in good time. Much will be revealed tonight.”
Finally, after climbing for some time up the ridge where I knew Hampstead to lay, the brougham ground to a halt and the three of us bundled out. I looked about for a moment before recognizing Parliament Hill, the highest point on the Heath. I had been there many times on fine summer days, when the hill was teeming with laughing clerks, tittering seamstresses, courting couples, off-duty soldiers, and folks from every other walk of life. They came up here for the clear air and fine views, to look back over the often dismal yellow-laden, smoke-covered city from which they had temporarily made their escapes. But in the late hours of the night, those merry-makers had fled back down to the river-side city below, leaving only a deserted landscape of hills, fields, and woods. I knew that Holmes had chosen this locale primarily for its topography which would make it impossible for us to be tracked by an unseen foe.
After surveying the area, Holmes set off briskly across the heath, Johnson, and I trailing close behind. The last slivers of the setting sun were fading to black, and the long, sloping plain in front of us was still tinged with hints of bronze, deepening into rich, ruddy brown where the faded ferns and brambles caught the evening light. But the glories of the wonderful autumnal panorama were wasted upon my companion, who was sunk in the deepest thought.
A walk of a mile or so across the wind-swept heath, the air filled with the crisp snap of advancing winter and its trees alive with the evening calls of the birds, brought us to a rear-gate that opened into the grounds of the public house. A path led us through a small tea garden, and we circled the building where, from the front window upon the left of the door, there peeped a glimmer of a feeble light.
At the reception desk, we were met by a rosy-cheeked young lass, who welcomed us to Wat Tyler’s House. Speaking for all of us, Holmes engaged three rooms, giving Mr. Johnson’s true name, but registering himself as Mr. Harris of Bermondsey and myself as Mr. Price of Birmingham. We had nothing in the way of baggage, so there was no need to immediately visit our rooms. Instead, Holmes motioned for us to follow him into a back room, which seemed to be a leasable space for a private party. However, to my great surprise, the room was already filled with six individuals.
Holmes smiled at the sight of them and waved his arm as if to include them in our group. “Dr. Watson, Mr. Johnson, may I introduce you to the New Irregulars.”
As I studied them, I realized that several faces seemed familiar. The first was a slender young man in his mid-twenties, with a clean-shaven face and a wise look in his brown eyes. His coat-less attire and well-stained apron suggested that he was the keeper of this establishment.
“Is that little Billy?” I cried. “Not a boy in buttons any longer, I see.” For there was little doubt that this was our former page at 221B Baker Street.
He smiled abashedly. “It is mighty fine to see you again, Dr. Watson. Even considering the circumstances.”
“What has become of you, lad?”
With a nod of his head, he indicated the roof above our heads. “You are looking at it, Doctor. With the money I earned from you and Mr. Holmes, I had enough to settle down and purchase this little inn.”
“Congratulations, Billy. It is very well deserved.”
I glanced over at the second man, who also appeared to be an old acquaintance. Although no longer a youth of fourteen, he still had a bright, keen face. His blue eyes were active, and his entire body quivered with energy. He wore a modest suit and though his head was uncovered, I immediately pictured him wearing the blue flat-topped cap that was once an essential part of his uniform.
&nbs
p; “Cartwright?”
“The same, Dr. Watson.”
“Are you still working for Holmes, after all these years?”
“Only after a fashion, Doctor,” he replied. “I took over the district messenger office from Mr. Wilson, when his gout proved to be too great to continue.”
“And we are glad to have you back in the Firm, faithful Cartwright,” interjected Holmes, clasping the man on the shoulder. “Your appreciation for detail is excellent, Watson, as always. Can you also recall the names of these two lads?”
I looked over the pair of thin, hard-faced men, both well into their thirties. One was slightly taller and older than the other, and he carried himself with an air of longing superiority. He had black hair and dark brown eyes that bespoke of hardness and want, though the fine cut of his suit suggested that those days were long past. The other had sandy-colored hair, and blue eyes, but seemed nonetheless to be a spiritual twin to the first man. I could not for the life of me place them.
“I do not believe that I have had the pleasure,” I replied, holding out my hand to the elder of the pair.
Holmes chuckled. “All, well, it has been a few years, to be certain. And both Mr. Wiggins and Mr. Simpson have come a long way from their former insignificant and disreputable situations.”
“By Jove!” I exclaimed. “You don’t mean to say that these are your original Irregulars?”
“I do indeed, though they are street Arabs no longer.” Gesturing to the taller man, Holmes said, “Wiggins here, who always had a fine eye for color, secured an apprenticeship under the artist Hughes. He is now an illustrator at Newnes Publishing.” He then motioned to the second individual. “And you may recall that Simpson here was a sentinel extraordinaire, who would stick to a man like a burr. With a reference from me to Mr. Merryweather, the chairman of directors, Simpson obtained a position at the Coburg branch of the City and Suburban Bank, which certainly needed some additional protection. Due entirely to his own merits, he has subsequently risen to the post of chief guard.”
The Falling Curtain (The Assassination of Sherlock Holmes Book 3) Page 6