I sprang up and caught Holmes just as he was about to collapse to the carpet. Calling out for Stanley, Mycroft’s ancient butler, I guided Holmes to the settee. I rolled up his shirt-cuff, exposing his thin, sinewy arm, whose innumerable puncture-scars along its veins were now obscured by the presence of a terrible cut from a serrated knife.[6] Once Stanley appeared, I ordered him to bring me all of the carbolized bandages and alcohol that he could procure. As soon as these were in hand, I proceeded to tend to Holmes’ wound.
Holmes finally stirred and smiled. “Thank you, my dear Watson. I hope this is the last time that I have need of your astute judgment and medical talents.”[7]
“What happened, Holmes?” I exclaimed.
“I was foolish, Watson. I thought I saw someone trailing us yesterday evening, when we left the performance of Lucia at Opera House.[8] But I paid him little mind, for we were only coming straight back here, and our base of activity is far from secret, what with the constant comings and goings of Gregson and Lestrade.”
“But why did you not accost the man then, when I was there to assist?”
Holmes shook his head irritably. “No, no, Watson. That would have served little purpose. I knew that the man would be a little more than a flunky, no more entrusted with the true identity of his employer than a barnacle knows the name of the ship to which it is attached. However, this evening I made a critical error. I ignored the crying in my ear.”
While it was not quite as troubling as ‘oysters,’ these nonsensical words were said in all seriousness.[9] Given that Holmes presently had little reason to persuade me that he was dying, I was suddenly much concerned that Holmes had suffered a concussion in the attack.[10] I would need to employ every possible strategy to calm his nerves, in hopes of preventing this damage from escalating to a florid case of brain fever. Such a thing might knock him out of commission for weeks. “It is all right, Holmes. Let me see you to your bed. A tincture of laudanum will help you recover.”[11]
Holmes chuckled softly, wincing at the pain that such laughter brought on. “Do not fear, Watson. I assure you that I am in full possession of my faculties. I suppose that I never told you of the technique that I learned while studying with the grand Llama in Tibet? It is a talent that they have developed, which warns them that an avalanche is about to crash down the mountain. When a skilled local hears a crying in his ear, he realizes that it is time to move away from the dangerous area. I in turn should have recognized that my old enemies are resurfacing and that one would soon make such a move. But I disregarded the warning and went for a walk in the very park where he might expect to find me. That is where I was set upon.”
“Surely your knowledge of boxing and baritsu….”
“Unfortunately, Watson, baritsu is of only partial utility against the attacks of a ferocious hound.”
I frowned in confusion. “This is hardly the mauling of a dog attack, Holmes. This is a cut from a knife.”[12]
“Ah, yes, it was while I was occupied with fending off said hound that his master crept in for the kill. First he landed the vicious backhander which I am afraid has not improved the symmetry of my face. He then flew at me with his knife, and I had to grass him twice, procuring this cut along my arm for my troubles. He had rather more viciousness than I gave him credit for.”
“Who did?”
“Harry Peters, also known as the Rev. Dr. Shlessinger.”
“Peters! I thought he and his hideous wife were in jail?”
“Unfortunately, it seems like that scheming pair must have slipped through the overly-slack net of Inspector Lestrade.”[13]
“So Peters is behind all of these crimes!” I exclaimed.
Holmes frowned. “Do not be absurd, Watson! Peters has a certain crude cunning, sufficient for beguiling foolish old women, but do you honestly think that his small mind could have planned the masterful thefts at the British Museum and at the Old Lady of Threadneedle Street? Do you think that Peters could convince Sebastian Moran to make another attempt upon my life? No, Peters is but another cog in this infernal machine. In order to stop its relentless motion, I need to find the central mover.”
“And who is that?”
He shook his head. “That at present remains a mystery, Watson. But he knows me; that much is now certain. The warning is a useful one. Don’t you see, Watson? I have been dreadfully careless. I am falling into my old patterns. Attending concerts, walking in parks – this is exactly what he expects from me. I have been playing into his hands. I have given him the weather gage.[14] But it is now time to change the battlefield to one more to our liking.”
I gazed upon his aquiline face and saw an inexorable purpose in his grey eyes. I felt that an evil time might be coming upon those whom Holmes had set himself to hunt down. “As your physician, and your friend, Holmes, I must advise that you delay at least until dawn before you begin your assault. Judging by the quantity of blood upon your sleeve, you have just suffered a severe shock to your system.”
He laughed. “Very well, Watson. But surely even a wounded general can dictate a few telegrams before retiring for the night?”
“I will allow that,” said I, with some reluctance.
“Very good, Watson. If you would be so kind as to send round to the district messenger office for the services of their keenest lad, one that can faithfully take down some legible notes, I will relay to him the information that we require in order to plan our attack.”
§
The greater part of the night’s tempest had cleared by the morning, and the sun was shining with a subdued brightness through the dim veil. When I entered Mycroft’s library, I knew from the pile of telegrams upon the breakfast table that Holmes had received answers to his messages of the night before, though his mood had little improved. He showed few ill effects of his rough treatment the night prior beyond a healing lip, a fading bruise upon his forehead, and the bandages with which I had wrapped his left arm. As always, I was amazed by his constitutional powers, even as his age advanced in pace with my own.[15]
“No luck, Holmes?”
He sighed. “As I have told you before, Watson, I abhor the concept of luck. A detective needs only knowledge, observation, and deduction to bring a successful conclusion to any case.”[16]
“And have you been successful?”
“Not yet, but I will. It is merely a matter of time. It is no small task, mind you. I have accumulated a vast number of enemies of the years, Watson, as anyone who knew me and my methods might expect. For every commonplace crime, such as the dilemma of Mr. Hilton Soames,[17] there has been a more serious one. While some, such as Dr. Roylott,[18] Captain Calhoun,[19] Lattimer and Kemp,[20] Jack Stapleton,[21] and Mortimer Tregennis[22] have shuffled off this mortal coil, there are still near a hundred men who have good reason for ending my life. Brooks and Woodhouse may take the lead in the quest for vengeance, but there are many others who stand directly behind them in the line.”[23]
“Pray tell, Holmes, what was the precise nature of your telegraphic inquires?”
“I adopted the obvious method of sending to the various prisons in which my enemies have been locked up, and thereby obtained a list of precisely who is still safely secured and who has been let slip.”
“And the results?”
“Well, you will be happy to hear that Brooks and Woodhouse remain safely ensconced in Pentonville Prison, for starters.”
I nodded my gratification at this news, and pondered who else might so desire Holmes’ death. “What of Sir George Burnwell?[24] He was a man without heart or a conscience.”
“Yes, Watson, he was indeed one of the most dangerous men in England. Fortunately, he is no longer in England, for as you recall, he fled to the Continent with the poor Miss Mary Holder in tow.” He waved his hand towards one of the scattered telegrams. “My sources tell me he has yet to return to our shores.”
“How about Alec Cunningham and his father?[25] They were quite the pair.”
“I wholeheartedly agr
ee, Watson. As I recall, if not for you and Inspector Forrester, my windpipe might be a tad narrower today. Fortunately, the old man is dead now, and Mr. Alec, who has all the tender qualities of a wild beast, is still a guest at Reading Gaol.”
“Joseph Harrison?”[26]
“Hah! Be glad, Watson, that you are not your friend Mr. Phelps, to have such a loving brother-in-law,” said Holmes, with no small measure of irony in his voice. “That was a gentleman to whose mercy I should be extremely unwilling to trust. He was eventually picked up by Inspector Forbes and is a currently resident of Princetown.”[27]
“James Ryder?”[28]
“Come now, Watson. Did I not tell you that Mr. Ryder was too terribly frightened to continue his life of crime? During one of those periods of inactivity which I so abhorred during my active practice, I looked in on him and ensured that he continued to walk a straight line.”
“Culverton Smith?”[29]
Holmes shook his head. “He put on a brave show through the trial, but once he was convicted and his sentence passed, the coward took a fatal dose of the upas poison of the Javanese mulberry tree.”
“How about Jonas Oldcastle?[30] If I recall correctly, he threatened to pay his debt to you one day.”
“Unfortunately for him, Clotho cut his thread before his fully-allotted time at Parkhurst Prison expired.[31] A far too common occurrence in those unhealthy locales, as Colonel Valentine Walter also discovered.”[32]
“But what of Hugo Oberstein, who only got fifteen years for the murder of Cadogan West?”
“Yes, which does not put him out from Portland Prison until next year. I inquired, and was assured that he has not been set loose early for good behavior.”
“Williamson and Woodley?”
“The defrocked priest got only seven years for his presiding over a forced marriage, but upon release he resumed his evil ways and met his end at the hands of some, perhaps justly, outraged individual. Roaring Jack Woodley received ten years and was last seen departing for the South African mines, again striving to obtain a fortune, more honestly this time.”[33]
“Huret?”
Holmes’ eyebrows rose. “The Boulevard Assassin?[34] Guillotined by the French Republic.”[35]
“Wilson?”
“The Canary Trainer?[36] Drowned.”
“Abe Slaney?”[37]
“Deported to America. He still resides at Joliet Prison near Chicago.”[38]
“Josiah Amberly?”[39]
“Hung himself while awaiting trial. He beat Jack Ketch to the punch.”[40]
“James Wilder?”[41]
Holmes nodded. “A good thought, Watson, but he is still seeking his fortune in Australia. I confirmed with the Duke of Holdernesse that he has not returned to our shores.”
“Reuben Hayes?”[42]
“Hung for the murder of Heidegger.”
“His wife?”
“Ah, an interesting suggestion, Watson! I confess that I do not see the hand of a woman in these matters. Save one, I have yet to encounter one that possesses the necessary degree of cunning required to set these traps.”[43]
“We could go on with this all day, Holmes,” said I with some exasperation. “There must be a hundred more men whose desire for vengeance is great enough that they have sworn your death.”[44]
“Yes, Watson, so many have tried to break me for crossing them, and yet here I am. But most of them were small minds, with little ability to conceive of such grandiose and elaborate schemes.”
A dreadful thought occurred to me. “I say, Holmes, could it be the Professor? Has James Moriarty returned?”
Holmes laughed sharply. “I think not, Watson. I am certain that he died in those falls, even if his body was never recovered. He lies at the bottom of Lake Brienz. Moriarty could not possibly have been silent for so many years. I would have caught a sense of his presence. When he first rose to power, I became conscious that there was a deep organizing force, from which a thousand threads led out to the individual criminal. There would be a vast web, with the Professor lurking at the center. And I do not detect the same force this time.”
“But there are similarities….”
“Yes, Watson, but on a more limited scale. Here we have a person whose goal is not to set up a shadowy empire of crime, but solely to revenge themselves upon me.”
“Surely, the robberies at the Bank of England and the British Museum suggest a motive to enrich themselves as well.”
He shrugged. “Perhaps to a small extent. Though I suspect that these outré crimes were done more to ensure my continued presence upon the board.”
I shook my head and wondered if Holmes’ vanity was blinding him to the truth of the matter. To rank himself as more valuable than four and a half tons of gold bullion and the treasures of Ancient Britain was a great conceit.
“No, Watson,” he continued. “I have heard these fevered dreams before. How many have tried to postulate over the years that the Napoleon of crime survived? He lurks in their brains like something vaguely horrible, all that is monstrous and inconceivably wicked in the universe. But he was human after all. He could not have survived that fall.”
“So what is our next move, to continue your chess metaphor?”
“An excellent question, Watson. The stalemate has been broken. To date, we have been forced to play a defensive strategy, where we can only react to our opponent’s moves. We have been unable to plan an attack, for the simple reason that we know not where his pieces are even located on the board. But it is possible that he has just made a critical error, which may shine some light upon the disposition of the battlefield.”
“And what is that, Holmes?”
“By moving Peters against me, he made it very clear that this army has been purposefully assembled from my old enemies. Unhappily for him, he has also exposed his rook or perhaps even his queen, if such a term could be employed to describe the nasty piece of work that is Colonel Sebastian Moran. Windibank, Parker, Clay, Peters, they are all pawns. But Moran was once the lieutenant of Moriarty himself. If anyone knows the location or identity of the king, it will be him.”
“But Holmes, you have already questioned him at length,” I protested. “It has been three weeks since he was snared atop the Monument. I do not doubt that he could be concealing information from us, but how are we to extract it? Nothing has changed.”
“On the contrary, Watson, much has changed. I am at death’s door.”
I frowned. “What are you talking about, Holmes? Even at your age, your iron constitution will have you back at peak power within a day or two.”
“Ah, but whom precisely is aware of that? I was half-carried back here by a local constable, who came upon the end of the battle between Peters and I. Peters and his hound escaped, but he at least is certain that I was severely bloodied. The night was dark, so Peters has little idea of precisely how seriously he wounded me. It only remains for us to tell Moran the story we wish him to believe.”
“You plan to use the press again?”[45]
“I do indeed, Watson.”
“But if you are dying, Holmes, then who will question Moran?”
He chuckled. “I must admit, Watson, that I was moved by the outpouring of emotion demonstrated by the British public when they first thought I had perished, but it is a long way from wearing an armband to confronting one of the most dangerous men in the world, even if he is safely behind bars.[46] Mycroft would never exert himself to do it. And I have no real friends, save one. I can but think of a solitary man who would be the most distraught at my crucial wounding. You must question him yourself, Watson.”
I was quite astonished at this request. “But Holmes, have you not before commented upon my lack of talent with dissimulation? Is that not why you kept me in the dark when I confronted Culverton Smith?[47] Or when I accompanied Sir Henry to Baskerville Hall?”[48]
He nodded. “There is no doubt, Watson, that your strengths lie in directions other than the stage. As Dr. Hill Barton, you f
ooled Baron Gruner for mere moments.[49] But you have studied my methods for almost thirty years now, excepting some small hiatuses. I believe that you are ready for this role.”[50]
I was touched by this vote of confidence. “Then what must I do?”
“I have a few more telegrams to write, and we need entertain some visitors this afternoon. By the time the evening papers are printed, I think it will be time for your cue.”
§
The afternoon visitors proved to be a veritable parade of the best physicians in London. Sir Leslie Oakshott, who once stitched up Holmes after the ambush at the Café Royal.[51] Sir Jasper Meek and Penrose Fisher were finally allowed to call upon Holmes.[52] Benjamin Lowe[53] and Sir James Saunders,[54] who both owed Holmes great debts. Percy Trevelyan,[55] and even the renowned Leslie Armstrong,[56] called out of retirement, all stopped in to see this most important of patients.
Holmes believed that our base at Mycroft’s was being monitored by agents of our mysterious adversary Mortlock. Thus, if no physician other than me visited these chambers, it might give the lie to our deception. While invisible within Mycroft’s curtain-drawn rooms, with only the loyal Stanley to witness what transpired, we conversed gaily with each of these eminent medicos about adventures long past. But as they departed one-by-one into their fine carriages, each man was carefully instructed to appear grave with concern. As one who had watched many lives slip through my fingers over the years, it was not a difficult emotion to conjure, simply by thinking of the still face of some once-beloved patient.
For his part, Holmes was in a merry mood as he read the agitated account in the Evening News, which ran as follows:
It is with great sadness that we report that Mr. Sherlock Holmes, the celebrated consulting detective, has been grievously wounded in an attack by persons unknown. Mr. Holmes, who retired six years past, was in London on private business. We have been informed by Inspector Lestrade of Scotland Yard that a constable on his rounds found Mr. Holmes being set upon by a ruffian and his hound while walking in St. James’s Park. Given the terrible wounds sustained by Mr. Holmes, the constable rightly felt that his first priority was ensuring his safety, such that the unknown assailant has yet to be apprehended. Despite the attention of several of London’s top physicians, Mr. Holmes has still to recover consciousness and his life is feared for. Scotland Yard assures the public that additional constables have been assigned to patrol St. James’s Park until this villain has been caught and safely imprisoned. Inspector Lestrade states that there is absolutely no need for the public to avoid the park at this time.
The Falling Curtain (The Assassination of Sherlock Holmes Book 3) Page 12