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

by Janacek, Craig

  “By Jove, Watson! He had one last escape route prepared.”

  “Can you open it?” I exclaimed. “What of the lever?”

  Holmes shook his head, a motion I could barely make out in the dim wavering light. “That only appears to have dimmed the lights, Watson. I fear that the door is controlled by another mechanism.”

  “Could he have locked it from behind? Is he trying to trap us in this room?”

  “To what end?”

  “Poison gas, perhaps?”

  Again Holmes shook his head. “No, Watson, Robert Moriarty is no Amberley.[160] He wants to witness my demise, not see me slowly suffocate.”

  I threw the lever and brought the lights of the room to bear upon our problem. “Then he must want us to follow him wherever this door leads.”

  “Very good, Watson,” said Holmes dryly, still examining the wall in hopes of finding some pressure point that might open the hidden door.

  I looked about the room, focusing my attention upon the desk where Moriarty had been sitting. The various papers could wait, though I was certain that they contained a bounty of information on his criminal enterprises. There was a strange hollow tube leading up through the ceiling, which I finally decided that he used to communicate with his lackeys in the warehouse above. And then there was a foot and a half-high wooden frame, from which was suspended a bronze gong. “Holmes!” I exclaimed, pointing at it.

  “What is it, Watson?”

  “Is that not a Tibetan gong?”

  Holmes stopped what he was doing and turned to look at it. “It is indeed,” said he, quietly.

  “Moriarty knew that you spent two years in Tibet after the events at Reichenbach Falls.”

  “Without a doubt, Watson!” Holmes became animated at this realization. “Everything he has done has been orchestrated to lead me back to that happy day, when a terrible blight upon society was finally brought low.”

  I picked up the wooden hammer, and tapped lightly upon the gong. The sound was quiet, so much so that our shots must have masked it previously. But immediately, the same creaking sound was heard as a crack appeared in the wall near where Holmes was standing. He reached out and pushed the iron door fully open.

  Dropping the hammer, I joined him and gazed into the black maw that lay behind the secret door. At first I thought that within all was absolute silence and darkness. But then I made something out, sounding as if it was echoing from a great distance. “Is that water that I hear, Holmes?”

  Holmes listened for a moment and then nodded grimly. “I fear that it is. This building must have been built over some covered tributary, perhaps even the Fleet itself. Now it has become part of the sewer system.” He shook his head, plainly irritated. “I should have expected this, given his use of the sewers under Threadneedle Street.”

  “What are we to do?”

  “There is only possible option for me at this time, Watson. I am going in.”

  “Then I am going with you, Holmes.”

  He shook his head. “Are you certain, Watson? You have almost died on multiple occasions. Your luck can only be pressed so far.”

  “The same can be said of you, Holmes, but you continue to do your duty.”

  He smiled. “Indeed. Well, we have not yet met our Waterloo, Watson, but this may be our Trafalgar.”[161] He reached out his hand.

  I clasped it in silence, and the die was cast.

  §

  Before we entered the foreboding doorway, Holmes paused and reached into his pocket. He drew forth an envelope and handed it to me. “The endgame draws nigh, Watson. Should anything happen to me, should we become separated for some reason, I want you to open this immediately.”

  “I suggest that we avoid becoming separated down there, Holmes.”

  “I completely concur, Watson, but one must prepare for all eventualities. I need not remind you to keep your powder dry. You have already shown a steady hand when you were faced with the terrible threat of Killer Evans. But Robert Moriarty makes Evans look like a schoolboy by comparison.”

  “I understand, Holmes. I once swore an oath to preserve lives, but not all lives are worthy of that oath. Moriarty is something less than human.”

  Holmes nodded tightly and stepped through the doorway. Once inside, our path lit only by the frail rays sent off from his torch, I felt a crushing sense of claustrophobia unlike anything I had ever experienced before, as if the world above had ceased to exist. But this had the opposite effect upon Holmes, who was clearly invigorated by the challenge. All other extraneous players had exited the stage. Much like that terrible day above Meiringen, it was now just the two adversaries fated to meet in a struggle from which could emerge but one victor. However, Holmes had one advantage. Unlike that fateful day in 1891, this time I would not be lured from his side by some despicable ruse. I was in it until the end.

  We found that the passage was entirely bricked; it’s walls stained with damp and slime. It sloped downwards until we found ourselves in the curved tunnel of a sewer proper, a hazy, foul-smelling miasma lying over the water. In addition to the steady flow of the waste-laden water, I thought I could hear the skittering feet of the innumerable rats which I knew to haunt these warrens. After a moment’s hesitation, as he determined the route taken by Robert Moriarty, Holmes followed the ankle-high current downstream, our feet soaked and slipping upon the wet stone. It was nigh impossible to gage distance in that malodorous underground hell, but I sensed that we had travelled at least half a mile, ignoring several side passages along the way. Holmes paused at each, but even I could easily determine that Moriarty had not passed through any of them, for the sludge piled at the junctions was thick and undisturbed. Finally, Holmes pointed towards a narrower tunnel that led off to the left. Stooping, so as to not brush our heads on the bilious green-stained bricks of the ceiling, he carefully entered it. The water was now rushing faster past our knees, and the sound level rising in the smaller space such that a herd of elephants could have been waiting for us at the end and we would have never known. Instead it would prove to be something far more terrible. Suddenly, Holmes stopped, as the tunnel opened into a far larger chamber.

  “What is it, Holmes?” I whispered.

  In response, Holmes shone his torch about. I could see that it was a fearful place, the subterranean equivalent to that torrential fall high in the Swiss Alps. I estimated from the sudden increase in whirling clamor that at least eight shafts identical to the one where we stood all came together here. Their combined burdens rushed down into a tremendous chasm. The glistening brick-lined shaft narrowed into a boiling pit of incalculable depth. I felt a terrible sense of déjà vu as I stood near the edge and peered down into the blackness below, the place from which Robert Moriarty surely intended that Holmes would never return.

  A rusting metal bridge beckoned us forward over the abyss, but Holmes’ torch could not throw its pale light over the entire length, such that the other side was lost in the gloom of the large chamber. If we crossed it, we would be fully exposed to anyone waiting upon the other side.

  “We must turn back, Holmes,” I protested, shouting above the din. “We must assume that Moriarty has a gun. This is the perfect place for him to ambush us.”

  Holmes did not answer at first. His pale, eager face had suddenly assumed that tense, far-way expression which I had learned to associate with the supreme manifestation of his genius. “Of course it is, Watson. That is why we must move forward. I will go first, and you will follow directly behind, your revolver trained over my right shoulder. If you see anything move on the other side, that is where you must train your aim.”

  “This is madness, Holmes!”

  “Perhaps one must be a little mad to stop a madman. But the straight road of destiny leads onwards, Watson.” And without another word, he strode forth onto the bridge. I had no choice but to follow him.

  Holmes got about half-way across the slick metal slats of the bridge when he suddenly stopped and shouted in his loudest voice. “A
h, this is much like Reichenbach Falls, do you not think, Watson?”

  The same terrible thought had of course occurred to me, but I had submerged it, rather than allow such a fear to consume me. Before I could even give voice to a response, a series of shots blazed out from the darkness. Without hesitation, I raised my pistol in the direction from which the muzzle flare had blazed and fired until all of my chambers were empty.

  It was then that I stopped at looked at Holmes. Everything happened so fast, I could barely process it. Even as I had finished firing, I watched as Holmes, his shirt-front perforated by no less than four bullets, staggered backwards, tottering upon the brink. He looked at me and without a word, dropped over the edge of the bridge into the churning deep below. I gave a cry of surprise and dismay as I watched his body drop into that awful abyss. A sudden flood of horror utterly submerged my mind, and it was many minutes before I could feel function returning to my limbs.

  A nobler man never walked the earth. And in a heartbeat, he was gone.

  §

  So, fortunately, was Colonel Robert Moriarty, but this time to his just reward. When I was finally able to walk, I found Moriarty’s body, pierced with all six of my bullets, lying motionless on the far side of the bridge. I held my fingers against his throat for at least five minutes, far longer than required, so as to be certain beyond all possible doubt that his foul heart beat no longer.

  As I knelt there, I realized that Holmes had determined that there was only one way out of the stalemate that Moriarty had devised. If Holmes had failed to press on, Moriarty would have escaped, and who knows how many more innocents would have been killed by that madman before we were once again able to track him down? But by moving towards Moriarty, Holmes had willingly sacrificed himself so that I could be in place to deliver the coup de grâce. He had made England safe once more, but at a price I found far too great to contemplate.

  It was many hours before I was done speaking with Lestrade and Gregson. It seemed as if all of Scotland Yard had descended upon the warehouse at Midland Road, summoned there by Cartwright. Under the careful guard of an eccentric mix of amateurs and constables, a series of large crates were opened to reveal both the missing treasures of the British Museum, in addition to the half-million pounds sterling of gold bullion belonging to the Bank of England. Meanwhile, all of the men working for Moriarty had been rounded up by our Irregulars, save only Mathews, who had refused to surrender and was shot dead by both Musgrave and Trevor while trying to escape.

  Despite my hesitancy in returning to that terrible abyss, I finally led Lestrade and a group of constables down to recover Robert Moriarty’s body. I will admit to being relieved that his corpse was still where I had left it, for a part of me feared that, like some mystical bogeyman, Moriarty would have vanished and continue haunting my dreams. Lestrade made noises about sending men down the shaft in order to look for Holmes, but I knew this to be a futile task. Much like that of his first great nemesis, Holmes’ body would never be recovered.

  Eventually, the corpses of Moriarty and Mathews, as well as all of the living prisoners were hauled away, and the various treasures were re-packed for careful shipping back to their respective homes. Once complete, I stood on the side of the Midland Road for a long time, uncertain of what precisely I should be doing. I knew that Musgrave, Trevor, Billy, Cartwright, Wiggins, Simpson, and Shinwell must have been nearly as distraught as I, but I could find no energy to provide them with any comfort. Billy finally asked if I wished to return to his Hampstead inn for the night, but I saw no point in such a journey. There was no reason to hide any longer. Our suite at Baker Street may have been gone, and Mycroft’s rooms remained in a state of disrepair, but the Langham Hotel still stood. I would spend one final night there, before catching the first morning train back to Southsea and my wife.

  Paying my distracted respects to the now disbanded Irregulars, and wondering if I would ever see them again, I hailed a cab. I directed the driver towards the hotel and leaned back to close my eyes. I reached into my coat pocket, hoping to find the comforts of my pipe. But instead my hand settled upon Holmes’ envelope. I pulled it out, sat up, and stared at it for a moment. I then tore it open, only to find one of Holmes’ laconic messages: “Watson – Come at once to Nevill’s Baths if convenient – S.H.”[162]

  §

  Northumberland Avenue was some distance down Kingsway from Midland Road, and with several infuriating traffic delays, it was a span of some thirty minutes before I found myself in front of the old Turkish bath-house. When I entered, the attendant smiled and handed me a robe and towels. Without asking my name, he promptly directed me to drying-room number four. I paused before the door, anxious at what exactly I may find behind it. When I finally summoned the courage to swing it open, I found therein one Sherlock Holmes, enveloped in a swath of white sheets, smiling at me from one of the couches. I stared at him for some seconds in utter amazement, and felt a gray mist swirl before my eyes. I was nigh speechless.

  “Holmes!" I cried, once I had recovered. “Is it really you? Can it indeed be that you are alive? Is it possible that you succeeded in climbing out of that awful abyss? I know you were in it. This time I saw you fall!”

  He nodded. “Yes, this time I was actually in the abyss. It was a calculated risk.”

  “You knew!”

  He shrugged. “I thought it highly probable. You see, Watson, the attack at the top of the Tower Bridge was the only true prior attempt upon my life. Moriarty, in his twisted vision of the endgame, wished for me to fall from some great height into a body of water, just as his brother once died.” He paused for a moment, and appeared contemplative. “Human nature is a strange mixture, Watson. You will note that even a villainous murderer such as Professor James Moriarty can inspire such affection that his brother turns to crime to avenge him.”

  “But how did you survive?” I exclaimed.

  “Ah, yes, well, it is thanks to this wonderful invention of Mr. Szczepanik. He has created a silken vest that is able to reliably stop bullets that are shot from a distance of eight paces.[163] Though, as I learned to my chagrin, the kinetic force is still sufficient to knock a man backwards and produce some impressive bruising. Fortunately, I had prepared for the latter eventuality, and made plans to recuperate here. Hence the envelope I handed you.”

  “Why did you not tell me? I thought you dead!”

  He shook his head crossly. “I did tell you to open it immediately, Watson. You can hardly blame me for your oversight.”

  I sighed at Holmes’ penchant for unnecessarily dramatic reappearances. It seemed that some things never changed. “I have only one word to say to you, Holmes.”

  His eyebrows rose with interest. “And what is that, Watson?”

  “Norbury.”[164]

  “Hah!” he chuckled. “Perhaps I was overconfident that I would survive this encounter, Watson. The odds were high, but hardly one hundred percent. Still, I felt that it was a worthwhile gamble. Even if I died, if I could rid the world of the Moriarty-family plague once and for all, it would be one of the red-letter days of my career.”[165]

  I sighed and realized that Holmes would never change, nor would I want him to. He was a man unique amongst all others in the world. Thinking back over our many adventures together, I could want nothing to be different. “At least we no longer need to be concerned that our leisure time will again be disturbed by some mysterious cipher.”

  Holmes pondered this for a moment, and then shook his head. “Only the greatest cipher of them all, Watson.”[166] Holmes laughed aloud. “You see, education never ends, Watson. Every day we still seek knowledge at the old university. Life is a series of lessons with the greatest for the last.”

  And with that maxim I can now set down my pen on this remarkable and sensational chapter of my association with Sir Sherlock Holmes, for as I previously noted, he received a knighthood for his preservation of the Tower Bridge. This final incident may now allow the curtain to fall[167] upon a career which
has now outlived both its enemies and its shadows and promises to end in an honored old age.[168]

  §

  Appendix: The Whole Art of Detection

  Over the last three thousand years that span the history of the written word, there have been many fabled lost books, ranging from a multitude of plays by Aeschylus to Shakespeare’s Cardenio.[169] Each in its own was presumably a masterpiece, whose wit and wisdom have forever been lost from the world. But there is one book whose loss above all others is felt most keenly by Sherlockians worldwide: the fabled masterpiece of Sherlock Holmes entitled The Whole Art of Detection. This was, of course, the other great magnum opus of his latter years, which distilled as much as his gathered wisdom into a tome that could forever be consulted by the would-be detectives of both the present and the future.[170]

  Until now, we only knew of this lost masterpiece from Watson’s reference to it in The Adventure of the Abbey Grange, much like the tantalizingly brief mention of Homer’s lost comedic poem the Margites in Aristotle’s Art of Poetry.

  But I have fortuitously unearthed a note containing Watson’s expanded reminisces of its contents, some of which have been previously published, but only in monograph form. The contents read, as Holmes intended it, like a course of systematic and scientific lectures, and not a tawdry series of tales.[171] Like a pale specter, from this dim shadow, we can perhaps better imagine how the whole work would have shone like the vivid sun. Perhaps it still may, if from some dusty vault an intact copy one day emerges.

  §

  Part I: The Book of Life.[172]

  One: From a Drop of Water to Niagara Falls: The Great Chain of Life.

  Two: The Building of a Memory-Attic.[173]

  Three: A Sounding Board: The Role of a Partner.[174]