by Carole Bugge
“All right!” Holmes said angrily, and loosened his grasp on Stockton. “Someone else was there with you—who was it?”
“Wickham... the idiot,” Stockton added under his breath, referring to the prim, bespectacled young man we had just seen at The Drowned Rat.
“What were you there for then, if not to kill him?”
Stockton hesitated, and then, seeing Holmes meant business, muttered, “W-w-we was supposed to g-g-get information—”
“Information? About what?”
“About why you was there. B-b-but ’e wouldn’t t-t-talk, and so’s I ’ad to convince ’im, an’ that’s when...” Stockton stopped and looked at Holmes almost contritely. “I didn’t m-m-mean to k-k-kill ’im.”
“I believe you,” said Holmes, “but why was it so important to know why we were there?”
Stockton looked around desperately, and then he closed his eyes as though expecting a blow.
“G-g-go ahead, k-k-kill me,” he said. “If I t-t-tell you, ’e’ll kill me anyway.”
“Who? Who will kill you?”
“’E will.”
“The man you’re working for?”
Stockton nodded.
“I’d rather be killed b-b-by you than ’im.”
Holmes released Stockton.
“If you don’t tell me, I’ll tell him you did anyway. But if you tell me, he never need know where I got the information.”
Stockton looked at us, a crafty smile forming at the corners of his mouth.
“You don’t know w-w-what you’re talking about,” he said. “You don’t even know who I’m w-w-working for.”
“Oh yes we do,” said Holmes.
“You don’t,” said Stockton, but this time he sounded a little less convinced.
“The dead will rise and the lame will walk,” Holmes said suddenly. “He has risen, hasn’t he?”
Stockton’s face turned as white as his hair.
“’E’s the Devil himself,” he said in a hoarse whisper. “I wouldn’t ‘a believed it if I ’adn’t s-s-seen it with me own eyes.”
Holmes put his face close to Stockton’s.
“Why was he so interested in our visit to Mr. Wiggins?”
“All I know is it was s-s-somethin’ about a p-p-perfume, somethin’ Wiggins w-w-was s’posed to know about.”
“That’s all you know?”
“Cross me heart; Wiggins died before I c-c-could get any more. I swear it.”
Holmes released his grip on Stockton.
“Come on, Watson; we’ve learned all we’re going to from this sewer rat.”
“Shouldn’t we turn him in for the murder of Mr. Wiggins?” I said.
“There’s time for that,” Holmes said, walking away. “For the present, he may be more useful to us at large... Besides, once it is discovered that he failed at his task, his life may not be worth much anyway.”
We left Stockton trembling and cursing in the street and went back to Baker Street. I lit the fire in the grate and then stood with my back to the fire, thinking. I remembered my friend’s words: Once you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, is the truth.
I was, in this case, beginning to redefine what was impossible.
“Can it be, Holmes?” I whispered.
Holmes looked at me, his mouth drawn up in a curious smile.
“Yes, Watson, Professor Moriarty has returned from the dead.”
Five
It was some moments before I could think of anything more to say. I realized that even though all the signs had been pointing to that inescapable conclusion, I had somehow not allowed myself to fully believe the fact which now confronted me: Moriarty lived!
Holmes lit a cigarette and sat in his chair by the fire. I sank down in the chair opposite him, my head reeling.
“I have been thinking for some time, Watson, that perhaps my old enemy did not die at Reichenbach after all. Incredible as it may seem, it occurred to me relatively soon afterwards that the world might not be rid of him yet.”
“But you saw—”
“I saw him fall, yes, but I never saw his body—and with a man like Moriarty, more is possible than you would ever think.”
“But the chasm—”
“Ah, yes; I can only assume that the drop was not without overhanging ledges. In fact, I was probably remiss in not examining it more carefully at the time. I was somewhat pressed, however; as you know, he had confederates everywhere, and my life was still in danger.”
“But what makes you think he’s still alive?”
Holmes stared at the picture of Reichenbach Falls which hung on the wall above the mantel.
“For some time I have been seeing signs within the criminal community, certain—events—which I was hard put to explain any other way. However, even as the evidence accrued, I refused to believe that such a thing could be true. Even with all of the facts mounting— staring me in the face, as it were—it still seemed impossible; that is, until tonight.”
“Tonight? What happened tonight?”
“Several things, actually, although the thing that finally convinced me was Stockton’s face.”
“His face?”
“I’m not talking about simple fright, Watson. I’m talking about a terror so pure that it is the very distillation of fear: an elemental dread which surpasses all horrors imaginable...” His voice trailed off and the look in his eyes was faraway, distant. “You know I am not easily intimidated, Watson—”
“No, I should say not!”
He looked at me, and there was a vulnerability in his eyes I had never seen before.
“And yet I myself felt that very terror at Reichenbach Falls, there on that ledge with Moriarty.” He looked down, and I could see he was in the grip of a strong emotion. “I don’t know if there’s an English word for it, but the Germans call it Todesangst, literally ‘death fear.’ But it is more than fear of death... it is a fear which is like death in its horror, its power over your very soul.” He shuddered, as if attempting to shake off a terrible memory.
“That is what I felt at Reichenbach in those few moments when I struggled with Moriarty, and that is what I saw in Freddie Stockton’s eyes tonight. And that is why I know he has come back. I don’t know how he survived, or what he is trying to do; I only know he has returned.”
We sat in silence for some time, listening to the crackle of the wood burning in the grate. There seemed to be nothing else to say.
After a while Holmes got up and lifted the curtain from the window to look down at the street outside. Dusk had fallen, and the sound of horses’ hooves upon the cobblestones mingled with the cries of vendors and carriage drivers.
“He is out there somewhere, Watson. He is behind the death of Wiggins, though what he has planned I do not yet know.
I shall find out, however, and when I do, no one in London will hide him from me.”
I shuddered. After what Holmes had just told me, the thought of actively seeking out Moriarty was more than I could imagine.
“So he is the one leaving those messages for you in the Telegraph—he is Mr. Fermat?”
“Yes—you may recognize the name, Watson. Pierre de Fermat was a famous mathematician of the seventeenth century. Moriarty is a mathematician himself, and I happen to know he did some work on the proof of Fermat’s last theorem, which has never been proven. Hence his choice of the name as an alias.”
“What is his game, I wonder?”
“I wonder the same thing, Watson: Why, for example, is he so interested in Miss Merriweather?”
“Miss Merriweather?”
Holmes smiled and cocked his head to one side.
“Oh, yes; surely he knew our visit to Wiggins had something to do with her. Did you not think it an odd coincidence that we should be seated next to her at the concert the other night?”
“I suppose I didn’t think about it at all.”
“Where did you say you got those two tickets to the concert, Watson?”
“Let me think... oh, yes: They came in the post. There was a thankyou note attached. It was unsigned, but I assumed it was from one of my patients.”
“Did you save the envelope?”
“I’m afraid not. It’s not uncommon for me to receive such gifts.”
“That is unfortunate; it might have contained clues.”
“Clues? Are you suggesting that—”
“—that someone wanted us at that concert.”
“Moriarty?”
“Or someone else... there may be more than one agent playing this game, Watson.”
“Who?”
“I don’t know as yet, but I intend to find out.”
We were interrupted by the sound of the front doorbell, and I rose to answer it. Holmes was still standing by the window, and he glanced out onto the street.
“Ha! She is back, as I thought she would be.”
“Who is back?” I asked, pausing at the door.
“Our friend Miss Merriweather. Would you be so kind as to show her up, Watson?”
“I was just on my way,” I answered, bounding down the stairs two at a time. Miss Violet Merriweather was indeed standing in front of the door, and when I opened it she came inside with such hurry that I thought perhaps she was being pursued.
“Oh, Dr. Watson, thank heavens!” she said, trembling, her dark, luminous eyes ringed with fear. A few strands of black hair had escaped the bun at the back of her neck, as though she had dressed in haste.
“What is it, Miss Merriweather?”
Instead of replying, she looked anxiously up the staircase.
“Is Mr. Holmes in?”
“Yes, he is—in fact, he sent me down to bring you up to him.”
“Oh, thank heavens!” she said, and headed up the stairs at once.
I followed after her, and before long she was seated in front of the fire, sipping a brandy which Holmes offered her and which she gratefully accepted. Today she wore a powder-blue dress with white lace trim at the throat, and I found myself thinking that it was every bit as becoming as the yellow dress I had last seen her in. I was busy wondering if a dress existed which would not look charming on Miss Merriweather when Holmes interrupted my reverie.
“Now then, Miss Merriweather,” he said, “what occasion brings you to call upon my services?”
Miss Merriweather cradled the brandy glass between her hands and looked up at Holmes, her large brown eyes as innocent as a doe’s.
“Oh, Mr. Holmes—” Her voice quivered, and I could tell she was about to cry.
I looked at Holmes: On his face was the look of distaste which any display of emotion occasioned. He sat down opposite Miss Merriweather and said gently, “Why don’t you begin by telling us exactly what happened the night you left your gloves at the Royal Albert Hall?”
She looked up at him in surprise.
“But how do you know?”
Holmes waved his hand, dismissing the question.
“It was quite obvious you were already in trouble that night, so you might as well start at the beginning and tell me exactly what has transpired.”
Holmes’ authoritative tone evidently had an effect on Miss Merriweather, for the tears which were threatening to fall suddenly evaporated. She drew herself up in her chair and took a deep breath.
“First I need to know how much you know,” she said with dignity. “There is more at stake here than just my honor—”
“Yes, yes; very well,” said Holmes impatiently. “I understand you do not want to betray any confidences, least of all his.”
At this Miss Merriweather froze, then she looked at me, but when she saw that I had no idea what Holmes was talking about, she laughed—a forced laugh, which came off as a rather pathetic attempt at bravado.
“No doubt you are very clever, Mr. Holmes; at least everyone says you are, but you cannot possibly know—”
“—know which august person has bestowed his favors upon you?” said Holmes smoothly. “My dear Miss Merriweather, what makes you think your secret is so well kept?”
She grew pale at these words, and took another drink of brandy. She could pretend no longer, and looked at Holmes imploringly.
“You do know, then,” she said quietly.
Holmes poured her some more brandy.
“I shall tell you exactly what I know, Miss Merriweather. For some time now you have been carefully guarding a secret which, if it were to become generally known, would deeply embarrass a great man.”
At these words our visitor turned even paler, and lifted the glass of brandy to her lips with shaking hands.
“However, up until now you both have taken great precautions and assumed your secret to be safe. A few days ago, something happened which threatened the very notion of this security: you received a note of blackmail.
“The first payment was to be made at the concert where we first saw you, at the Royal Albert Hall. However, when the messenger did not arrive to pick up the payment at the arranged time, you left in some agitation. Am I correct so far?”
Our visitor shook her head in amazement. “I have heard that you know everything, see everything, Mr. Holmes, and I must say you live up to your reputation.”
Holmes continued without acknowledging the compliment.
“I can only assume that your visit here tonight concerns the same delicate matter which you are so anxious to protect. Something else has happened, something with which you feel I may be able to help you. I assume, by the way, that he has no idea that you are seeking my services.”
Miss Merriweather looked stricken.
“Oh good heavens no, Mr. Holmes—why, he—he would be mortified if he knew I was being blackmailed—I mean—” She stopped, quite flustered.
“Yes, quite,” said Holmes. “No doubt you are trying your best to spare him any anxiety at all in the matter.”
“Oh, it is essential, Mr. Holmes; I don’t what he would do—if his name were dragged into—well, you see my predicament.”
“Yes, I do, and your discretion does you credit, Miss Merriweather. By the way, may I assume that your—patron—gave you the very interesting perfume which you are wearing?”
Holmes’ words brought a blush to the young lady’s cheeks.
“Yes, he did.” She turned to me. “You understand, don’t you, Dr. Watson, why secrecy is of the utmost importance?”
I was about to say that I certainly would understand if I had any idea what they were talking about, but Holmes saved me the trouble.
“I have no secrets from Dr. Watson,” he said. “We work together on everything.”
“Well, I’m sure you must think me very wicked,” she said in a tone which was not entirely ingenuous.
“What I think is not an issue,” Holmes replied.
“I can only tell you that I love—and hope that I am loved by—a wonderful man, and if he happens to be a great man, then so be it, but it will not stop me from loving him.”
“Your sentiments do you credit, Miss Merriweather,” said Holmes, “but really there is no need to justify your actions. I am concerned merely with the matter which now troubles you.”
“Very well,” said Miss Merriweather, evidently satisfied. “I shall tell you as best I can what has happened these last few days.”
“Pray do,” said Holmes, sitting across from her in his usual chair, fingertips pressed together, eyes half closed, in his “listening” position.
“Well, I am quite certain that I am being followed,” she said. “Ever since the night of the concert there have been two different men lurking outside of my building. No matter what time of day I look out, I always see one or the other, hiding in the shadows of the buildings across the street or loitering about on the pavement.”
“Do they know you’ve spotted them?” Holmes said without opening his eyes.
“I don’t think so... I can only assume they followed me here tonight.”
“No doubt. Watson, would you be so kind?” said Holmes, motion
ing me toward the window. I went and lifted the curtain, and, as soon as I did, my eye caught a movement outside. I couldn’t be certain, but I think someone stepped back into the shadow of a shop entrance across the street. I let go of the curtain.
“I think I saw your man. I’m not certain, but I think—”
“Thank you, Watson; that will do,” said Holmes, sitting up in the chair. “Blackmail is no longer their game. That is, if it ever was.”
“What do they want from me, then?” she said in an agitated voice.
“Perhaps they want what you are carrying in the inner pocket of your cloak,” said Holmes.
Our visitor blanched, and then she laughed again—a forced, mirthless sound.
“Why, Mr. Holmes, whatever do you mean?”
“Miss Merriweather, I would appreciate it if you would drop the pretense,” Holmes said impatiently. “If I am going to help you I must insist on complete honesty.”
At these words Violet Merriweather’s shoulders sagged and her face lost some of its vivacity.
“Very well, Mr. Holmes,” she said, rising and fetching her cloak from the rack upon which I had hung it. “I don’t know how you could possibly have known—”
“Miss Merriweather, you are a very poor liar. The room is very warm, and yet you parted with your cloak with reluctance when you came in. Since then, you have glanced in the direction of your cloak no less than half a dozen times. Whatever it is you have in there evidently has great value, at least to you.”
“I think you will agree that it would have great value to anyone,” said Miss Merriweather, extending her hand toward us, palm open.
I do not consider myself a fancier of gemstones, but even I gasped involuntarily when I saw the object in Violet Merriweather’s hand. I recognized it at once as a star sapphire, but I had never seen a jewel of such size and luster before. It was as blue and translucent as a tropical sea, and the pattern of a single white star was contained within its depths, catching and reflecting the light in an infinite variety of angles. Indeed, light seemed to emanate from its very core, illuminating everything around it with an unearthly glow. The thing was truly bewitching, and I wanted to gaze at it forever, to plumb the secrets which it contained in its glittering center.