Sherlock Holmes and Doctor Was Not

by Sequeira, Christopher;

  We eventually alighted at Endover and were met by a reedy constable named Kenners. I was anticipating a four-wheeler ride, but such was not to be as we simply walked a few minutes beyond the main train station platforms to a group of several buildings adjacent; the Endover Roundhouse and Repair Yards being the chief structures. Kenners began to explain, whilst Gregson headed off to see the Controller of the Yards, to make sure we could have access to all the grounds for our search, if need be.

  “Endover Railyards ha’ been built this past ten-year, big job war that, we are the top of the line, in more ways ’un one,” he giggled, somewhat childishly, I thought. “Over thar,”—he pointed to the massive green roundhouse—“we set ’em oop and turn ’um through, and t’pride o t’coompany we be. This business, this murder business be a blight.”

  Holmes exercised that special capacity he had for putting a person he’d just met at ease. “Mister Kenners, you have my sincere sympathies. An operation this size tells me much faith has been placed in the local community to support this operation, so, to suffer the grim occurrence of murder, well, sir that must be a shock.”

  Kenners nodded and launched into an almost incomprehensible listing of the functions of the different buildings on the allotment, which Holmes seemed keen to absorb, as Kenners led us to what was the key location. He then told us the strange tale of Twykham.

  Kenners had been patrolling the Yard the previous afternoon when he saw a man leaning against a shed, arguing with someone who was on the other side—out of view. He got closer, saw the man was Twykham, and the argument seemed to have altered in tone; receded to calmer words. He decided it was not worth looking into further, and had walked away, when he heard a shot. He turned and saw Twykham had fallen and the man who shot him came out from behind the shed. He looked exactly like the dead man.

  “It were his twin, no doubt—even dressed the same. I were a little bamboozled, I ‘esitated—like, then rounded t’shed a minute later—and this be the hard part, sir—he war gone. Nowhere’s tar be seen.”

  “Well, Holmes, a twin certainly narrows the field,” I comment­ed, a trifle obviously.

  “Yes, Watson, except when he has no siblings. But why dressed identically? I—”

  Gregson suddenly appeared and interrupted our discourse, looking strangely wild-eyed.

  “Gentlemen, this is extraordinary!” he said. “Back at Endover Station, a train has pulled up—a Special, commissioned yesterday. It was apparently called for by David Twykham!”

  “What?” I exclaimed. “The man found dead?”

  “Indeed. It seems he organised it here and it was to run up from London—it must have been not far behind us! What’s more, a number of parcels were placed on board at London.”

  Holmes was staring at Gregson’s face; there was puzzlement in his eyes; an odd look.

  “Well, Holmes, shall we go?” I ventured.

  My friend suddenly regained his alertness. “Of course,” he said, but again, I noticed him staring at the Inspector. Then he rubbed his hands together, briskly. “I daresay we have a look at such items as are on this train.”

  We arrived at the station shortly thereafter and saw the Special. It was a gleaming new engine, emblazoned with the word ‘Pascal’ on its cabin.

  Gregson spoke to the engineer whilst Holmes and I boarded. We began an immediate search for the parcels.

  We had covered the entire carriage when a violent lurch threw us to our feet. The train was leaving the station! With a suddenness that I was not anticipating Holmes sprung from his seat and darted to the compartment door. I followed as quickly as I could.

  Out of the window the station was being left behind and I saw a disturbing sight—Gregson stood there looking at us—laughing with an expression of complete contempt. I was shocked.

  “Watson,” Holmes said before I could articulate my rage at what seemed to be a stupid prank, “what colour are Gregson’s eyes?”

  “Why, blue,” I spluttered.

  “Indeed,” said Holmes, “they were blue at Baker Street. But when he returned from the Yard Controller’s office they were dark brown.”

  “My, my word, you’re right, I thought he seemed different. But eyes cannot change colour, though the pupils may dilate and give that impression, perhaps. Dilation of the pupils can indicate a drug has been consumed, Holmes. Gregson must have taken a drug of some sort or had one administered whilst he saw the Controller! What does it mean?”

  “I suppose so. But yet I have a distinct certainty that his eyes were actually brown, not that his pupils were enlarged, though I could make no sense of observing that change in his appearance,” said Holmes; then he fell silent, as we turned our focus to our current plight.

  The train began to move faster, and faster, and it began to rock on the railings, the speed we were travelling seemed dangerously accelerated. Holmes and I ran to the external doors, but we dis­covered a weird sight—the doors were closed—and it was clear they would not open—they had been nailed shut!

  We then ran throughout the carriage to the front-most part of the car, to where a door between carriage and engine was, and it was the same: the doors there were nailed shut. We went back to the doors whence we had originally entered the special, and though these were not nailed shut we found we were still in fact sealed in by an iron trellis that had somehow been deployed from doorway to floor, carefully hidden when we’d entered. This grate was a single piece of steel fabrication.

  “We were brought here as part of a well-prepared plan.” said Holmes.

  I could only nod in agreement. The windows were all now barred from the outside; some similar ploy had been used that had allowed them to appear as ordinary windows when we boarded but allowed our captor—for that is what we were; captives—to surreptitiously lower the metal grilles that prevented escape whilst we travelled unaware. Had we been able to smash the windows we would not have been able to use them for egress; the bars left insufficient space. Whatever locking mechanisms were used were exterior to the carriage and my revolver would be no help on the iron.

  Holmes began systematically battering the wooden panelling of the carriage’s interior, quite methodically, even as I felt a sense of despair alternating with my anger.

  “For the sake of Heaven! Will we die in a railway carriage? The prosaic nature of such a sinister campaign!” I said.

  Holmes ignored this and began smashing the iron ferrule of his walking stick across the ceiling. When the stick did not puncture the wood he pointed to it.

  “Quite amazing craftsmanship—metal painted as wood—what efforts have been made to keep us here! I am suitably impressed!” said Holmes.

  I failed to share my companion’s admiration, and I directed my attention out the windows, trying to discern our destination. The train was getting faster and the scenery was blurring by. We seemed to me moving along spiralling tracks, splitting off from one junction point to another, then other, then another, nothing but rock and trees visible either side.

  The view became hypnotic, frightening and compelling, the walls of the carriage were violently vibrating, the engine roared as we sped on, and on. I had a sensation we might be on some vast circle of track, perhaps some odd siding, as the view was monotonously unchanging as we continued, but we veered right as often as left—leaving me doubting we were simply traversing a loop.

  Finally, a huge plume of steam painted the windows, throwing us into semi-darkness, and stirring me from what was almost a trance. The steam-cloud lifted, and I cried out aloud to Holmes, but he saw what I saw also—we were pulling into the Endover Roundhouse! As we rolled within its huge confines I peered from window after window, but I could not see a soul at work in the yards, although it was still day, though a fading day.

  The train moved in and came to a halt. The iron trellis that had appeared over the door we’d used to come aboard rattled and by some hid
den automation of gears it rose and disappeared into the door jamb.

  Holmes pushed in front of me, gently. “Steady, old fellow,” he said, and there was a tone to his voice I’d never heard before, one I did not care for—it sounded too like fear. He exited the door and I was directly behind him.

  We left our carriage with the steam-clouds within it, like fog, making it hard to see, and giving the place an eerie atmosphere, save for the very centre of the Roundhouse which was brilliantly illuminated by gas-lamps on poles, arranged in a circle. I could see that all the berths of the Roundhouse contained carriages, just like ours, and I tugged at Holmes’s arm—for I felt I was losing my mind, my sense of time and place—our carriage and all the others—none had engines in front of them! I could not see how we’d been shunted in here, our carriage prison uncoupled and wheeled away, without our being aware of it, but that was precisely what seemed to have happened.

  “He will have the answers, though I am not sure I wish to hear them,” said Holmes, as if to an unspoken question of mine, and he pointed to a doorway that faced us in a far wall on the opposite side of the circle of light. The door was open and a man was coming through it and towards us, walking at an almost jaunty pace, his feet ringing out in the stillness, his features slipping in and out of clear view as the steam—which emanated from nowhere in particular—roiled around. He reached the edge of the circle and waved at us, and seeing no reason not to, Holmes and I kept walking towards him. The man who stood waiting was tall and wiry, dressed in a dark suit of clothes. He looked anything between forty and sixty, for his face was smooth and unlined but he had completely white hair, receding. The features were sharp, and the eyes were clear and compelling. There was an energy about him, as with an athlete; he seemed coiled as if to move at any time.

  I had never met him before, but I felt a dryness in my throat once I accepted that I knew him by his photograph all too well, except for one fact: The man before me, was, I had believed, been dead for more than a decade. He spoke, clearly, with a well-projected voice. “Yes, doctor, I am the man you think me to be. I am James Moriarty.”

  “Holmes,” I exclaimed. “This man did not die at Reichenbach Falls? How could you conceal this from me? Why? I accepted all you had to say about your own falsified death, but this?” I looked at Holmes not angrily, but with pleading.

  Holmes’s expression was different to what I would have expected. He looked at Moriarty with contempt. Then he looked at me.

  “Watson, I give you my word. I saw this man’s body—that is, some man’s body like it, in a mortuary in Switzerland, a week after he died—I was in disguise and wanted to be sure his menace had ended before I commenced my three year hiatus. Believe me, the ruined corpse…”

  “Was not I, Mister Holmes,” said Moriarty.

  Holmes peered at the man and then was angry when he spoke. “I do not know what the nature of this farce is, but I shall let you know I have no time for this charade. James Moriarty died in front of my own eyes, when he fell after trying to kill me at Reichenbach. I have no remorse over acting in self defence, none whatsoever. I know not whether you be his twin or a look-alike effected through very impressive make-up, but you are not he. In any case, his criminal empire ended long ago. If this be about familial revenge, you may do your worst, although I would prefer you leave my friend out of such matters.”

  Moriarty spoke, again, as relaxed as if we were recounting the weather. “Dear me, dear me, Mister Holmes. No, no. My pursuits, since Reichenbach, have been directed away from crime. They have been in other fields entirely. Science. Transportation. And a unique nexus between the two, one might say.

  “You remember my vast financial resources, and no doubt lamented the fact the authorities failed to get to my accounts in time to find all but pennies. Those funds were turned to good purpose. Through a series of proxies and agents all paid to carry out my strictest instructions, I have supervised the construction of this building we are now in, and more importantly the miles of track you rode upon to get here, and the Pascal Engine that pulled your carriage. It cost much, but it has been a profitable investment, too. Young Mr Twykham was my Chief of Construction, and he performed a marvellous job. His contract did have to end when he fathomed some of my purpose, but I blame his rather limited religious beliefs. He could not reconcile them with my employment, and alas, he had to be replaced. With someone like him.”

  The man laughed and the echoes of that outburst reverberated through the structure. I wanted to leave that building, I wanted to run from it, but Holmes was firmly planted, not taking his eyes off the man, who continued.

  “You see, I redirected my entire criminal enterprise into transport and logistics; a wildly flourishing sector of business, let me assure you. The entire metropolitan railway network has been clandestinely suborned to my methods. I extract ten percent of all revenues of all goods that traverse it—a tidy sum. The simplest of accounting artifices ensure the funds are commuted to me without ever appearing on the ledgers of the railway institutions.”

  He continued, gesturing at our environment. “We stand, in many ways, at the centre of a vast web of commerce that brings me what I desire and allows me to move forward and seize what resources my goals require in order to be achieved. I believe, incidentally, I have made British railway systems more efficient by twelve percent since I took hidden control.”

  Holmes shook his head. “A colourful story. However, I fail to see the point of it, at all; despite its grandiosity. You claim to be Professor James Moriarty, you claim to have a new empire of illicit activity. Yet no shred of proof applies.”

  “No proof is needed.” Moriarty said. “For the proof was in the journey you just took. The track-work you just traversed was designed to drive your train-carriage through what I refer to as a Moebius Point; an aperture in reality that allows one to journey to destinations that are normally inaccessible, but by dint of harnessing higher mathematics as a propulsive force, are at last attainable. You are now in the Roundhouse, and the Roundhouse is a nexus, where realities converge.”

  “Holmes, this fellow is speaking gibberish.” I was annoyed that this self-confessed railways embezzler—if he was nothing else—was largely ignoring me in the conversation, as provocative as it was. “What does he mean, ‘realities’?”

  “I mean the answer to riddles, Holmes,” said Moriarty, “and if nothing else, riddles will command your attention, your oh-so-weak attention-span. Answers to questions about how David Twykham could be seen to have killed himself? Why Gregson betrayed you? Why you saw my dead corpse in Switzerland, yet here I be? Why Professor James Moriarty had a brother, Colonel James Moriarty, who defended his academic sibling’s name in the press vehemently, yet James Moriarty’s birth records show him as an only child?”

  Holmes looked at Moriarty. His voice was flat. “The binomial theorem.”

  “Yes,” said the other. “You do comprehend.”

  Holmes nodded. “Your masterwork, the treatise on it. I’ll admit I could not understand the applications you made reference to. As with your other books, few actually understood the work you did with imaginary numbers—but now, now. It was this, wasn’t it?”

  Moriarty was shaking his head, side to side, a sadness in his eyes. “You, you are truly a marvellous, prodigious natural talent, Mister Holmes. My aptitudes were slow in developing, and required massive effort in childhood on my part, but you are like quicksilver. Such a shame, such a distinct shame I shall be terminating your existence. But I cannot allow my personal feelings to assail my plans.”

  Moriarty straightened his shoulders and looked at us both again. “I had divined that the multiplicity of realities are as real, as tangible, as iron and steel; but were separated by the most gossamer of divides, and that divide was a philosophical construct we call choice. Only we, only the one, thinking animal on this plane can exercise this capability; we generate the matrix for this in our brain
s and we even catalogue all its potential shades in memory and fantasy, and then we bring it into being. Thus, if we can create an infinitude of outcomes—”

  “We might travel between those outcomes,” said Holmes.

  And the way Holmes made this last utterance made me feel very cold. He believed what Moriarty was saying, and because he did, I began to consider it possible, too.

  “Yes, it is my belief that every thinking man, woman and child actually does travel from one world to the next whenever they exercise a choice. They can only travel, of course to a place occupied by themselves after making such a choice. The Pascal was my engine for making use of these principles to travel from one point to the other by another means, and to travel to universes where we had made other choices, lived other lives. Or even visit those worlds created by another’s choices.”

  “Thus the three of you. Moriarty, the professor, who died at Reichenbach. The Colonel. And you, the Station Master of this little show,” Holmes snapped.

  “All James Moriarty, and all the same man, but from differing universae. Once I had fathomed the mechanism, I had no more to fear in this world of consequence. I could simply plot in my mind the action I wanted to take, such as chasing you to Switzerland where I might destroy you. I conceived that my plan might fail, thus the Special I engaged to follow you from London all those years ago was in fact the maiden journey of the Pascal, travelling to here before I left England, and I brought one of my counterparts from the divide. He was eager to risk death to face you; poor choices he had made in prior years had left him with advanced syphilis—his time was short and he was prepared to risk much. He openly wept for joy when he laid eyes on me, our plan was agreed to in minutes.