The Revenge of Sherlock Holmes

by Phil Growick

  He pulled out the chair tucked tightly in the desk and I quite literally fell into it, sitting there transfixed as I stared at the initials.

  “You can open it, John. It won’t bite you. And then again, it most certainly might. I’ll leave you two alone. I have a suspicion that I won’t be seeing you again for quite some time.

  “Oh, yes, I’ve also had the clocks removed from this room as a further precaution of what time it is right now. When you’ve finished, I’ll return your watch. Though you might want a better one.” Then that Sidney laugh again as he left the room, closing the door behind him.

  I was too dazed to answer, to speak, to make any kind of utterance whatsoever. My heart was racing so fast that I took my own pulse and forced myself to calm down.

  If what Sidney had said was true, and in my heart I knew that it was, I also knew that I was now going to become privy to events known only to a very few people.

  Then I reached for the cover, opened it, and began to read words handwritten by grandfather so very long ago. However, the chapter titles were not his. I’ve added them to make his disclosures easier to follow in his labyrinthine tale.

  But not, necessarily, easier to fathom.

  My Grandfather Begins

  What I am about to divulge, I almost cannot believe myself; although my wife, Elizabeth, and I, actually took part in some of the unfortunate events recounted herein.

  After all that I had lived through with the Romanovs and Reilly and Holmes, and detailed in my journal, these events were even more fantastic and unbelievable; if that were at all possible.

  Unlike my journal, the events will not be told in chronological order, because many of these disparate events were happening concurrently. So please forgive the occasional leap from one tale focused on one individual or event to another. I hope you understand and will not find it too jarring.

  I must admit, as a literary device, I find it rather intriguing.

  I also caution you that this is most certainly not one of my usual Holmes tales, where he uses his prodigious powers of intellect and deduction to solve a grave mystery; although there are enough layers upon layers of historical intertwining and involvement of many famous, and infamous, historical personages to give one a migraine trying to weave this twine into a logical fabric.

  Except for what Elizabeth and I personally experienced, all that I now commit to these pages were conveyed to me by Sidney Reilly himself, in my home in London, on four separate occasions; and in one final letter and package, well subsequent to our final meeting.

  After all that he and I had been through together, I had absolutely no reason to doubt one word of what he told me.

  Yet, as Holmes had made me so astutely aware, how much of what Reilly said was truth, and how much was fecund fabrication?

  Though Reilly would much later tell me of what happened to Holmes, told to him by Holmes himself when they met much later in the history of these events, in our first meeting at my home in London, he knew nothing of Holmes’ fate. Therefore, he spoke only of what happened to himself, subsequent to his taking leave of us in Russia; in itself an absolutely incredible accumulation of astounding adventures.

  It would not be until our second meeting at my home that Reilly told of Holmes’ fate. But since this narrative may prove beyond intricate, I’ve taken the liberty of melding what Reilly told me of Holmes directly into the chronology; as though he had told of the events during our first meeting.

  This only sounds confusing, but as you continue, my account will become easier to comprehend.

  What you will now read, for the most part, is a retelling of a tale previously told by someone to someone else expert in tailoring tales to his taste; which, in itself, is a sentence needing elucidation by Holmes.

  But I trust my own elucidation should suffice: I will be telling you what Reilly told me that Holmes told him. Who, then, can you believe?

  In these pages, I have decided to believe Reilly; perhaps because I need to believe Reilly. It will be up to you to decide what you choose to believe.

  In that regard, much of these pages deal with Holmes in America, or, to be more precise, in New York City. For there, as hard as it will be to fathom, Holmes became an important part of America’s nascent organized crime world. In fact, he became one of its founding fathers, if I may adopt that familiar Yankee term.

  You will now learn what happened to Reilly, to the Romanovs collectively and individually, to young Yardley and all the others whose acquaintances you met in my secret journal. But most of all, you will learn what happened to Holmes.

  Therefore, I will begin with what Reilly told me about Holmes’ rescue.

  Holmes Rescued

  “Sharks. Sharks.”

  These were the words Holmes was muttering over and over, his rescuers said. But of course, they didn’t know the man they’d saved was Holmes. They didn’t know who he was, or what he was, he just was; and that was good enough for them for the moment.

  By the look of him, he had been out there for days. He was dehydrated, sunburned badly and delirious. But that was because of the all of the above, plus a surfeit of swallowed seawater.

  It was lucky that he was found adrift in that lifeboat. But from which ship? There was no ship’s name on the lifeboat. Another mystery.

  In Port Royal, South Carolina, the United States, where he now was, he would be nursed back to health by the family who found him. Then the questions would be answered.

  When he first opened his eyes, two days after Hank, Lou, and Martin Curtis found him, he wanted to know where he was and when it was.

  He was told it was August 18, 1918, and that he’d been picked up two days previously. But they didn’t know how long he’d been out there. They were on their usual fishing run when they happened to see him. Then Hank told him what he’d been repeating when he was hauled aboard their little scow, “Laughing Abby”, after Hank’s wife, and Martin and Lou’s mother, Abigail.

  Hank later remarked, when Holmes was well enough to be human again, that when Homes heard the words he’d been repeating in his delirium, Holmes’ eyes flashed open so violently Hank thought both would go popping out and rolling about the floor like the marbles Lou and Martin had played with as young boys.

  Holmes remembered: he had been with Captain Yardley, having a comforting nightcap and the next thing he knew, he was here. It was as if a child had suddenly realized his father had just tried to kill him.

  Holmes knew what this meant. He had been the victim of attempted murder; and he suspected who was behind it. But if that were so, what of Watson? Was he safe? Had he met with some similar perfidy? And the Romanovs? What of them?

  In that instant, Holmes realized that to survive, he must cease being Sherlock Holmes and become one of the pseudo-selves he’d established decades ago; for Holmes always suspected the need to take shelter out of his own identity would come one day.

  This was the day.

  He surveyed the man who saved him. He looked to be about fifty or so, tall and lithe and giving off the feeling of a tremendous tensile strength. He had a benign face with an easy smile. But it was his eyes that Holmes realized were surveying him as intently as he surveyed Curtis.

  “Thank you for saving me.”

  “Well, you can thank the Almighty and my son Martin’s eagle eye. He saw ya first and his kid brother, Lou, grabbed ya first. I just cut the engine and let the boys haul ya aboard. You’re in Lou’s bed right now. He figured ya needed it more than him.

  “And if ya have a mind to know where that bed happens to be, it happens to be in Port Royal, South Carolina. I hope we’re not too far from where you were headed. Which I gotta ask about because ya been laid up here for two days. We did some checkin’ and we couldn’t find no note of no vessel goin’ down nowhere. Nowhere.

  “And we all know ya were
n’t dropped down from heaven, and now that I listened toya I know you ain’t American. So how the hell didya get where ya were? Where’d ya come from? Where were yagoin’? And who the hell are ya? If you don’t mind me askin’ and if you have the strength to be answerin’?”

  Holmes had only the strength to smile at the outburst of fact and questions shot at him and marveled at how true it was about Americans: they will tell you their whole life story fifteen seconds after they’ve met you and expect the same from you immediately thereafter.

  Since this particular American and his sons had been good enough to save his life, answers were the least he could supply in return; even if they weren’t the truth.

  In addition, what puzzled and concerned him was that he was in South Carolina. Why would a simple fishing scow be so far from its home waters? But since he seemed to be in caring hands, he continued with his own masquerade.

  “What, what day is it, pray tell?”

  “August seventeenth by the calendar on that wall.”

  “Thank you. My name is Hamilton. James Hamilton.”

  “How yadoin’, Jim ?”

  “Jim? Oh, yes. Fine, thanks to you, I believe; and your sons.”

  “No, Abby’s been the one really carin’ for ya. She’s been the one feedin’ya and wipin’ yer head and all. We kinda know how t’ take care of ourselves. And each other.”

  “I must thank her, then.”

  “Abby’s in town. She’ll be back later. The boys went back to their real job. But you were goin’ to answer those questions I asked; and here ya are askin’ me more questions than I’m askin’ you. We’re all as curious as Pandora about you.”

  “I’m originally from London.”

  “I thought you were a Limey, uh, sorry, British, when ya opened yer mouth.”

  “No offense taken. I was a professor at the Royal Oceanographic Institute on Bermuda. Ichthyology. I must let them know I’m safe.”

  Holmes was testing Curtis. After all, Curtis had just made mention of Pandora, and, usually, simple fishermen have little need or knowledge of Greek mythology. Not even if they’re Greek. And his speech pattern was almost as if he was trying to speak English improperly; to give the impression of a coastal yokel. It seemed they were not merely indigenous to England, after all.

  “Ichthyologist? So you’re a fisherman, too?” Curtis had to laugh at his own joke. He had also just passed, or failed, the test. Holmes was not, as yet, sure which.

  “Yes, I suppose so. Very droll, indeed.”

  “But how’d ya come to be floatin’ out there?”

  “I was on a day outing and I hate to admit it, being a son of a seafaring nation and an ichthyologist to boot, but I couldn’t handle my little boat very well and somehow I was pitched overboard.

  “I must have hit my head on the boat, swallowed enough seawater to quench the thirst of Thetis, then somehow found the strength of drag myself back on the boat, where I surmise, I passed out.” Holmes noticed that Curtis made no inquiry as to the identity of Thetis.

  “And ya weren’t with nobody?”

  “Just myself. Foolish, what?”

  “If you weren’t so fragile, friend, stupid is what I’d call it. But I guess you’ve learned your lesson.”

  “Yes, ironic. As a teacher I’m still learning.” Curtis saw that Holmes was still in need of sleep. His energy was waning.

  “Yeah, well. I’ll leave ya alone now to rest some more. Abby and I will check in on ya later. And if ya need anythin’, of course just holler.”

  “Thank you, again.”

  “Don’t mention it.” Curtis closed the door behind him.

  Alone in these strange, yet seemingly safe, surroundings, Holmes worried about the fate of Watson, Reilly, the Romanovs and the rest. If he had been the target of assassination, what had happened to them? Were they alive, dead, what did this all mean? But he was still too feeble to give full force to the mystery.

  Holmes then heard muffled speech on the other side of that door. One voice was Curtis. The other sounded like a woman. But Abigail was supposed to be in town; and since Holmes’ strength was still small, he drifted back to sleep wondering.

  But he had noticed that the wrist chain given him by the Tsar as a token of thanks was still on his wrist.

  When Holmes awoke, his blurred eyes beheld what appeared to be ahermaphroditic, two-headed chimera. But as his eyes cleared and the two heads moved, he saw it was Curtis, and, he guessed, Abby.

  “I’m Abby.” That confirmed that. “How are you?” Not “ya.” Holmes thought to himself.

  “Fine, thanks to you. Thank you.”

  “Oh, that’s all right. I had nothing better to do anyway. Do you think you’re fit enough to sit up and take some real nourishment?”

  As he propped himself up, with the proffered aid of both, Holmes readily agreed, ate heartily, then prepared himself for the American inquisition sure to come.

  “Hank tells me you’re an Englishman.” She laughed as she continued. “We threw you all out over a hundred years ago, and you keep coming back, anyway.”

  Holmes laughed. “Well, this time I had no choice. But had I known the royal treatment I would receive, I would have gladly washed up on your shores years ago.” They all laughed.

  “Really, I must repay you all for your kindness to me. I’m not without funds. Once I can correspond with my bank in London, I will repay you for all you’ve done.”

  “Hank, this gentleman is obviously still out of his head. He doesn’t seem to understand that what we’ve done is simple American courtesy.”

  “No, no,” Holmes said,” I don’t wish to offend you nor your courtesy, but this is really too much. I must be able to make this up to you.”

  “Well, then, James, get well quickly and get out!” She laughed.

  “And she means it, Jim. Abby means it.”

  “I shall do everything within my power to retrieve my health and strength and be on my way as soon as possible.” Then his jovial mood changed radically. “There is much that I must do. There is much that I must do.”

  At that, Hank and Abby looked at each other and turned to leave Holmes alone once more. That’s when Holmes noticed the handle of a revolver Abby had in her basket.

  Reilly and Lenin and Trotsky and Stalin

  When Reilly left us all in Russia, he said it was at his government’s behest; Secret Intelligence Service, to be exact. He was Cheka Colonel Relinsky, and had become so firmly entrenched within the Cheka hierarchy, the Bolsheviks’ dreaded secret police, that SIS had instructed him to launch a counter-revolution.

  Had it succeeded, with Reilly at the head of a new pro-Western government with strings pulled at Whitehall, perhaps even ready to re-enter the war, the turn in human events could have proved to be nothing short of astounding.

  Reilly had become a trusted political pet of Lenin, who referred to him as his bulldog. He had been a huge fan of my accounts of Holmes’ and my adventures, which he read when exiled in Switzerland; and he had never forgotten the favor Reilly had done by introducing him to Holmes and me in Petrograd and his boyish joy when we gave him our autographs.

  Leon Trotsky, the founder and commander of the Red Army, had an even greater affinity for Reilly. He was wise enough to see how useful Reilly could be. If the Red Army and the Cheka were allied, nothing could stand in the way of Trotsky achieving supreme power.

  He had often said, “Not believing in force is the same as not believing in gravity.” Wielding the Red Army as your hammer turned everyone else into nails.

  However, there was a significant new actor upon that bewildering Bolshevik stage; an important member of the Bolshevik Party’s Central Committee, and already a deadly enemy of Trotsky and a malevolent genius of the first order. His name was Iosif Dzhugashvili.

  He
was a rather small, repugnant Georgian with an already marked ability to remain in the underbrush, sniffing and waiting for the perfect moment to pounce on his prey. A man with no scruples, no morals, no wish for anything other than to make himself the undisputed master of the nascent Soviet Union. He would kill, or have killed, anyone who stood in his way; including Lenin; and, most certainly, Trotsky.

  History would come to know this man as Stalin.

  Knowing these things about Stalin, Trotksy drew Reilly even closer. He knew that in the inevitable and ultimate confrontation with Stalin, anyone as brilliant and ruthless at obfuscation as Reilly would be an indispensable ally.

  In addition, Trotsky already knew Reilly was SIS. With Reilly at his side, perhaps England might be persuaded to come to his aid at his inevitable and crucial clash with Stalin.

  The exposing of Reilly’s true identity was the doing of the evil head of the Cheka, Felix Dzerzhinsky, also known as “Bloody Felix”; so subtle and serpentine, that he was playing everyone against everyone else without anyone seemingly knowing it.

  Dzerzhinsky sniffed the acrid air and decided the wind was blowing in Stalin’s direction; so he allied firmly with Stalin.

  Reilly was then forced to flee, aided in his escape back to Finland by Trotsky; Trotsky thereby incurring further enmity from Stalin. Stalin, too, would have had use for Reilly. After all, as Stalin said, “Traitors are only traitors if they’re not on your side.”

  What amazed me in his telling of all this, was that Reilly was actually enjoying the memory. He was laughing as he remembered all these titans of history that to him were mere comrades or enemies. Men who either tried to kill him or help him, but in the end, Reilly survived.