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

by Janacek, Craig

  However, it is difficult to say how Holmes could have possibly suspected the transformation of the girl we found waiting for us in a private room at the Swiss Tavern. She proved to be but a few years over thirty and her face was still unlined. Her piled up hair was golden blond, which contrasted vividly with her eyes, so dark brown to be almost black. She wore what was plainly an expensive grey muslin dress and her neck was adorned with a golden necklace studded by a dozen exquisite rubies. Sitting in a high-backed chair, her posture was ramrod straight, as if she was a sergeant-of-arms just off the parade ground. I thought her beautiful at first glance, but further inspection revealed the blazing eyes that I recognized from portraits of such zealots as Joan of Arc or Bloody Mary. As soon as she spoke, I realized that she was far gone from the paths of decency.

  “Good morning, gentlemen,” said she, in a voice like being entombed in a glacier. “I have been expecting you for several days now. I had been told to anticipate far more from you, Mr. Holmes, but it is now clear that you were put out to pasture for a reason.”

  If Holmes was upset by her slights, his face did not show it. “And your uncle? Were you also instructed to put him down, like a maimed thoroughbred?”

  She chuckled, but there was a curiously-hollow tone in her laughter, as if she was merely aping the emotion rather than actually experiencing it. “Very good, Mr. Holmes. But are you simply guessing, I wonder?” When Holmes failed to respond, she continued. “He was never very kind to me, you know, or to my father, who was but his half-brother,” she shrugged. “So once he had outlived his usefulness, it was time to make certain that he could betray no confidences.”

  “And who precisely trained you to be a lowly assassin?” asked Holmes, harshly.

  But Holmes’ blistering words made little impression upon her rosy cheeks. Only her cold dark eyes narrowed dangerously. “Those are dangerous words, Mr. Holmes. If you were to repeat them in public, you can be certain that you would be hearing from my solicitor. Do you truly want your last appearance in the papers to be the story of how you libeled a defenseless young woman?”

  “It is not libel if it is true.”

  “If what is true, Mr. Holmes?” She opened her empty palms. “What proof do you have that I have ever committed a crime? Especially one so foul as the murder of my own uncle. Who could believe such a thing?”

  Holmes shook his head. “I may not be able to directly link you to the Colonel’s death, but once I imprison Mr. Mortlock, you can be certain that your source of income will be cut off. How long will you be able to eat after pawning that necklace on Tottenham Court Road? Three months? And then what? The workhouse? The back lanes of Whitechapel?”

  She smiled cruelly. “You truly do not see, do you, Mr. Holmes? What do I care of fancy jewelry and fine dresses? These are merely props, stage settings for the great play in which we are all actors. Unfortunately for you, the playwright has deemed that this will be a tragedy. And like all great tragedies, it must end with the protagonist’s death.” She glanced over at me for the first time. “Only your Horatio here will be allowed to survive long enough in order to take up his pen and record the sequel to his prior false finale. What shall you call it, Doctor? ‘The Fall of Sherlock Holmes?’ I think that has a nice ring.”

  “So you will not give him up?” Holmes demanded.

  With a smile that dripped with false sweetness, she shrugged again. “Give who up, Mr. Holmes? Provide me with a name, not some nom-de-plume, and perhaps I can help you.” She stared at him for a moment. “No? Then be gone, I say!” she waved her hand, her tone no less commanding than a queen of old, though I knew her to be nothing but a country-bred lass.

  Holmes stared at her for a moment, and then nodded coolly. “Very well, Miss Moran. If you will not listen to a voice of reason, then there is little I can do to save you when the sword falls. And fall it will. Even the great Professor Moriarty was no match for me. What hope does Mr. Mortlock have?”

  He strode out imperiously, matching her manner with a similar aloofness. As I followed behind him, I glanced back to see if he had made any impression on the fanatical soul that resided in the bosom of what looked like nothing more than a modest young lady. But I feared that there was nothing hopeful in her lifeless gaze.

  As we departed, I threw my hands into the air. “Why will she not give him up? Does she not realize that he is a monster?”

  Holmes shook his head. “As you know, Watson, I am not a whole-hearted admirer of the so-called gentler sex. I find them to be capable of as many horrors as a man. And while their inner workings are more your area of expertise, I would suggest that she must be in the grips of a perverted love, much as were Maria Pinto Gibson or Violet de Merville. And a woman’s love is not so easily set aside.”

  “But if she will not tell us anything, how are we to ever find Mortlock?”

  “I can think of seven separate possibilities, Watson. For example, we could wait for either her to go to him or vice versa, but that could prove to be a long game. Who knows how long they are willing to go without seeing each other? And then we have given him sufficient time to devise some new scheme against us. No, we must maintain our momentum of last night, when we disrupted his carefully-planned attempt upon my life.”

  “So what do you propose?”

  He stopped and looked at me. “Tell me, Watson, what poison was in that fatal cigarette?”

  I frowned. “I do not know, Holmes.”

  “But surely you still retain the professional knowledge of all medical men on the pharmacopoeia of typical poisons, either deliberate or accidental, that you might encounter in your daily practice?”

  “Of course, Holmes. But this was certainly no common poison,” I protested. “Did you yourself not once write the definitive monograph on the various agents employed by the famous poisoners throughout the centuries?”

  He smiled. “I did indeed, Watson. And that is what is so remarkable.”

  “So you do recognize it?”

  “No, I do not.”

  “But you just said that it was remarkable!” I protested.

  “Exactly, Watson. As I have said before, singularity is almost invariably a clue. The fact that Miss Moran employed a poison unknown to me suggests that it is singularly rare. If we can identify it, we should be able to determine from where it came. And there, unless I miss my mark, we shall find Mr. Mortlock.”

  “So it is to be a chemical experiment, then?”

  Holmes nodded. “Of course. However, it is during moments like this that I regret my retirement, Watson. For while Mycroft’s chamber served as a marginally adequate base, even if the repairs were complete, it cannot truly replace our flat at Baker Street. And of course, our Hampstead inn is remarkably lacking in chemical equipment.”

  I shrugged. “I have a suggestion, Holmes. Why not use the laboratory at St Bart’s? I am certain they would let you borrow it one more time.”

  A smile lit up his normally grim face. “Ah, Watson, you are in a deplorably sentimental mood today. You wish to return to the scene where we were first introduced?”

  I smiled in return. “Why not? While you are working, I may even pay a visit to the Criterion Bar.”

  Holmes shook his head and laughed. “I suppose if this is to be the end of us, there is something apropos of coming full circle. Very well, let us head to your old stomping grounds.”

  §

  A hansom ride of some twenty minutes deposited us at the steps of St Bart’s, though we stopped along the way so that Holmes could dash into a telegraph office and order Gregson to meet us there with a representative sample of the instrument of Moran’s death. As I stepped from the cab, a profound sense of familiarity washed over me, and I knew I would need no guiding to our destination. Gregson, stalwart and true, was waiting for us with the requested package, which he handed carefully to Holmes. However, the Inspector seemed mildly dismayed that Holmes would not include him further in his confidence, and he departed morosely.

  Once
he was gone, Holmes and I turned down the narrow lane and through a small side-door into one wing of the great hospital. We climbed the stone staircase, even bleaker after an additional thirty years of wear, and made our way through the long corridors of whitewashed walls and dun-colored doors. Near the far end, a low arched passageway branched off to the old chemical laboratory. This lofty chamber had little changed since the last time I stepped through its doors. It was still lined and littered with countless bottles, while a plethora of students were absorbed in their work over the flickering blue flames of their Bunsen lamps.

  Holmes spotted one unoccupied space and immediately set to work on the poisoned cigarettes with the pipettes, retorts, and test-tubes that he found there. I had accompanied Holmes up to the chemical laboratories in a nostalgic temperament, but the noxious fumes soon drove me from the place. I did not bother to inform the engrossed Holmes of my destination, for I knew that he would easily deduce it. I spent many fine minutes under the glistening ceiling of the Long Bar, whose gold mosaics were curled down into ornaments of blue and white tesserae. Over a glass or two of Château d'Yquem, I merrily conversed with a wide variety of acquaintances that I had not seen for many years. I had almost forgotten my raison d'être when Holmes finally appeared. His body looked haggard, which was hardly surprising given how hard he had been pushing himself over the last few weeks, and his hands were covered with small pieces of plaster where he had clearly had some recent mishap. But his manner was bright.

  “He has finally made his mistake, Watson,” said he, exultantly.

  “You have identified the poison then?”

  “I have indeed. And it can only have come from one place.”

  “Where?”

  “All in good time, Watson.” He leaned back and took a small phial from his pocket. “As I suspected, this has not yet found its way into either the pharmacopeia or into the general literature of toxicology. I shall have to revise Chapter Four of The Whole Art of Detection. But I have nonetheless found references to it in Eckermann. It is known as tetrodotoxin, and has some similar properties to curare, which you will recall is the favorite poison found on South American arrows. But unlike curare, which is a plant-based poison, tetrodotoxin derives from a certain species of Pisces known as the puffer.”

  “Was there not a sea captain in English history whose crew and hogs fell sick from eating pufferfish?”

  “Excellent, Watson, you are scintillating this evening. And do you also know what nation is known for their consumption of pufferfish?”

  I shook my head. “Unfortunately I do not, Holmes.”

  He smiled. “Fortunately, I do. It is a practice common solely to the men of Nippon.”

  “How does that help us?”

  “Because, Watson, the Empire of Nippon, or Japan as we call it in English, is a very isolated place. Unlike the denizens of Limehouse, who mainly hail from China and India, there are very few nikkei here in London. They live primarily in the area of Somers Town, where on Phoenix Street you can find the one eatery in London where pufferfish are sold.”

  “You seem very well informed about them, Holmes.”

  “Remember, Watson, that I have some knowledge of baritsu, or the Japanese system of wrestling. Where do you think I learned it?”

  “Holmes, I recall reading about the recent Anglo-Japanese Alliance. Do you suspect that this is an effort to drive some wedge between our nations?”

  “No, Watson. This is more personal. You may consider it a conceit, but everything to date has had a purpose directed towards Mortlock revenging himself upon me. The thefts and murder at the British Museum, the robbery at Threadneedle Street, the attempted destruction of Tower Bridge, none of them meant anything to Mortlock beyond being a tactic to be used against me.”

  “Who then is Mortlock?”

  He smiled and nodded slowly. “You asked that once before, Watson. At the time, I had no answer, but I now have a theory. Let us gather our troops and see if I am correct.”

  §

  Instead of returning to Hampstead, Holmes wired to Wat Tyler’s House to inform his Irregulars that they should meet us at a ramshackle café on the Midland Road. There he left me for few minutes to reconnoiter the local area. By the time they had all assembled, Holmes had returned and dusk was falling.

  “I don’t understand why we are here, Holmes?”

  “The clouds are finally lifting, Watson.”

  I glanced through the window at the sky, which still loomed an ominous grey. “I think not, Holmes. I see a storm approaching on the horizon.”

  “Good old, Watson!” he laughed. “I have every hope that the light of truth is breaking through. Gentlemen, I believe that I have identified the base of our elusive adversary. His lair is beneath an innocuous shop two blocks away.”

  “How can you be certain?” I asked.

  He shook his head. “We will never be entirely certain until I have stared into the whites of his eyes, but I think it highly probable that we will find him within. For there are few other shops in this part of London whose back room is filled with crates that are being guarded by a man with a number twelve shoe.” I think it highly probable that we will find Murderous Mathews within those walls.”

  “The giant?”

  “Indeed, Watson. The very man who tried to remove your arm three days prior. Once Mortlock sacrificed Colonel Moran, it is simple to deduce that he would need another lieutenant to carry out his commands, so that he himself can remain in the shadows. Mathews may not have been blessed with a surfeit of brains, but his strength is second to none, and once bought, his loyalty is without question. Once we dispose of Mathews, our path to Mortlock should be clear.” Holmes paused and glanced at me. “Have you a theory, Watson?”

  “It can only be Professor Moriarty.”

  Holmes laughed grimly. “A fine guess, Watson, as you suggested once before. I admit that the similarities are most redolent of the dearly departed Professor’s touch. One such example is what your friend Mr. Goldfield discovered under the counterfeit painting of Le Jeane Fille, which he told me in response to a follow-up telegram.”

  “I thought he said it was the work of a minor German painter?”

  “Indeed, specifically a Romantic painter. From our days spent perusing the walls of the Bond Street Galleries, Watson, surely you recall that this group favored dramatic landscapes?”

  “Of course,” I shrugged. “What of it?”

  “Well, this particular painting was of Reichenbach Falls.”

  I was stunned speechless by this news. “Then it is Moriarty!” I finally exclaimed.

  “No, no, Watson. I previously assured you that Professor James Moriarty perished in that abyss, and I have seen nothing to make me alter my opinion.”

  “Who then?”

  “Do you recall, Watson, when I said that the trial of the Professor’s gang had left two of its most dangerous members free?”

  “Of course. One was Colonel Sebastian Moran. And the other was….” I tailed off, thinking. “I don’t know, Holmes. Was it Parker?”

  Holmes shook his head. “Parker was never more than a lowly pawn in this game. He is not of sufficient importance to count in any tally. No, the other was Colonel Robert Moriarty.”

  “His brother!” I exclaimed.

  “Indeed, Watson.”

  Cartwright frowned. “I thought there were two brothers?”

  Holmes chuckled. “We shall forgive poor Watson here for not being overly precise in his descriptions of those days. He was much distraught in 1891 and much excited in 1894. He even called the man the same sobriquet as his elder brother, the professor. There was always but one brother, Robert by name. Like Sebastian Moran, Colonel Robert Moriarty was drummed out of the Indian Army for conduct unbecoming, though the precise details of the scandal are vague. He then seemingly settled into country life as a station master in the west of England. But where James was like a spider, Robert is a chameleon. He is completely unremarkable in appearance, and a na
tural actor to boot. He disappears into roles in a fashion that eclipses even my small talents in the way of disguise.”

  “He impersonated you at the Bank of England!” I exclaimed.

  “Certainly, Watson. He also walked out of their empty vault in the guise of a policeman. I believe that he was also ‘Andrew Morrison,’ the missing guard from the British Museum, as well as the false guard on the munitions train. And I suspect that he may have played one other role in this drama, which I hope to confirm as soon as we confront him.”

  “So, we are going to crack the shop, Mr. Holmes?” asked Shinwell Johnson.

  “Indeed we are,” said Holmes, nodding grimly.

  Johnson shrugged. “Maybe it’s not my place to say so, sir, but why don’t we bring in the official police force? Surely the Yarders are more equipped for this task than our little band?”

  “An excellent question, Mr. Johnson. Do you recall the air-gun of Colonel Sebastian Moran? That gun was safely locked in the Scotland Yard Museum before it mysteriously made its way back into his hands. From this I can only deduce that someone within the ranks of the C.I.D. is aiding the efforts of Colonel Robert Moriarty. I have my suspicion as to this individuals’ identity, of course, but no proof. Until that person is removed from their position of power, I fear that any attempt to enlist the aid of Lestrade, Gregson, and company would only serve to warn Moriarty of our impending assault.”

  “You can count on us, Mr. Holmes,” said Billy eagerly. This affirmation was taken up by all present.

  “Thank you, gentlemen. While Watson and I awaited your arrival, I carefully scouted the building of interest. Besides Mr. Mathews, there are at least ten other men inside, and we must assume that each of them is well armed. Any individual allowed this close to Robert Moriarty’s base will be a violent and desperate soul, doubly-so if they are cornered. But we can allow none to escape, for Moriarty’s skill with disguises is unparalleled, and he could easily slip through our fingers in the most innocuous of guises. Given the profound dangers, each of you will carry a weapon and no one will proceed unaccompanied in this task. There are four apparent exits from which Moriarty may attempt to escape. The two obvious ones are the front and rear doors. Cartwright and Billy, you will go in the front door. Mr. Johnson will enter though the back-door. As that is where I expect you will find Mr. Mathews, both Musgrave and Trevor will support you. The other two entrances are less obvious. There is a skylight opening onto the roof, from where it would be simplicity itself to cross to either of the neighboring buildings. Wiggins, you and Simpson, will enter from that direction. Finally, the villains have cut a hole into the basement of the eatery next door. This provides the ability to come and go unnoticed. Watson and I will enter via that aperture.” He pulled his watch from his waistcoat pocket. “It will take some time for Wiggins and Simpson to get into position, so we will synchronize our watches and move on the strike of eight o’clock. Are there any questions?”