The Sherlockian

by Graham Moore

  It looked identical to the tube he’d found wrapped in a very similar package, in his letter box. Fortunately, in this case the dynamite did not appear to be attached to anything. There was no triggering mechanism in sight. Arthur reached down and turned the package over. On the bottom a label had already been fixed. “Dr. Arthur Conan Doyle,” it read. “Undershaw. Hindhead.”

  Bram joined Arthur at the desk. He merely nodded as he observed the letter bomb, and the name printed on its address label.

  “My God,” said Arthur. “It was this Emily girl. She was the one who tried to kill me.” But before Bram could respond, they heard footsteps at the door to the flat. Both men turned.

  Emily stood in the doorway in her colorful coat. Under the crook of one arm, she held a stack of letters. In the other arm, she held a revolver, which she aimed straight at Arthur.

  Arthur’s mind turned, strangely, not to his family, or his loves, but to Bram. Underpinning Arthur’s fear was the thought that he should never have involved a friend so good as Bram in all this. Bram deserved more, Arthur realized as he stared into the steel face of Emily’s pistol and watched her pull back the pin.

  CHAPTER 26

  Ron Rosenberg Theorizes

  “How do you know that? ”

  “I followed you,” [said Holmes.]

  “I saw no one.”

  “That is what you may expect to see when I follow you.”

  —Sir Arthur Conan Doyle,

  “The Adventure of the Devil’s Foot”

  January 10, 2010, cont.

  With great effort Ron Rosenberg heaved himself onto his feet. He still clutched his knee, his hands rubbing at the spot where Sarah had kicked it. While Ron took a deep breath, Sarah stepped back, giving him space. She continued to hold the knife in her hand, however, its blade outstretched and at the ready.

  “Why are you following us?” said Harold.

  “And more importantly,” said Sarah, “what the hell are you wearing?”

  As if suddenly remembering his disguise, Ron reached up to his face and pulled off the costume nose. He removed a pair of fake gray eyebrows and a very convincing gray wig. Bits of leathery fake skin had been dislodged from his cheeks and forehead. They hung off him, making it look as if his face were melting.

  “Maybe I should be the one asking questions of the two of you!” he said. “What have you done with the diary?”

  “Jesus, Ron, we don’t have the diary. Stop.” Harold turned to Sarah, addressing her. “The costume, the old man bit . . . It’s a Sherlock Holmes thing. When he was trailing suspects, Holmes would go out in disguise a lot. He often dressed as an old man, or even an old woman. It’s in a bunch of stories.” He turned back to Ron. “Which doesn’t explain what you’re doing here.”

  “I had hoped not to reveal my hand this early, Harold, but you leave me no choice. I think you killed Alex Cale and stole the diary. I think you’re in league with Sebastian Conan Doyle and that the two of you planned it together.”

  Sarah smiled.

  Harold rubbed his temples with his hands, more irritated than angry. “Why would I kill Cale?”

  “Because you wanted to be number one, Harold. Don’t pretend you’re not ambitious. You’ve been an Irregular for, what, a week now? You’ve already published an article in the Baker Street Journal. You’ve befriended all of the group’s luminaries, including me. You made sure to meet Alex Cale the night before his death. Jeffrey Engels sponsored your investiture, you must know that. But did you think he was going to help you cover up the murder, too? Don’t be stupid, Harold.”

  Harold didn’t even know where to begin his response. Ron was embarrassing, not just to himself but to Harold. Detective work was serious and difficult and not something to be dabbled in. Ron wasn’t cut out for this. This wasn’t a time for amateurs.

  “I didn’t kill anybody,” Harold said wearily. “If I was the murderer, then why was I the first person to discover his body? Why am I out here trying to find the murderer? Why not go home and enjoy my new tenmillion-dollar diary, the one that I just stole?”

  “To draw suspicion away from yourself, of course!” replied Ron. He spoke with equal parts professorial condescension and rueful acknowledgment of a skilled adversary. “No one ever suspects that the detective himself is the murderer. It’s a brilliant device, but an old one. Agatha Christie used it first, not Conan Doyle. The Murder of Roger Ackroyd. Remember, I’ve read all the same stories that you have, Harold. I know what you’re up to.”

  “Well, if that’s true,” said Harold, “then since you’re the one investigating me, since you’re the one playing detective, maybe you’re the one who killed him.”

  Ron stood motionless, thinking this over. Harold nodded toward Sarah, who gave Ron a polite smile as the two walked out into the street. Alone, Ron was lost in thought.

  CHAPTER 27

  The Strange Tale of Emily Davison

  “What business is it of yours, then?” [said Henry Wood.]

  “It’s every man’s business to see justice done,” [replied Holmes.]

  —Sir Arthur Conan Doyle,

  “The Crooked Man”

  November 12, 1900, cont.

  Arthur stood perfectly rigid as his gaze leaped between the hard steel pistol in Emily’s hand and the hard steel expression on her face. Her skin was firmed smooth and taut with rage. The millennial seconds drew long. Arthur realized that he was not breathing, though when he attempted to open his lungs to air, his body did not respond. He stood just between Bram and Emily. He could neither hear nor feel his friend behind him, though Bram could not be more than three feet away.

  “You bloody butchers!” whispered Emily. “You killed my Sally. And you killed my Anna. You close your evil eyes now, and you picture their faces while you die.” She shivered with anger, her right index finger vibrating against the trigger.

  “You misunderstand,” said Arthur through quivering lips. “We haven’t killed anyone.” He raised his hands above his head, giving the universal sign for surrender.

  Behind him, he thought he could faintly hear the motion of Bram’s coat. Bram’s revolver, Arthur realized, was back in his pocket. Was he making a go for it?

  “I catch you standing here, right here, guilty as sin, and all you can do is lie!” Emily raised her voice as she became more set on pulling the trigger. “I didn’t expect to find two of you. But when you’re done, I’ll still have four bullets to spare. The two of you for two of mine, then? I’ll wager the trade is fair.”

  Arthur hadn’t the faintest idea what she was talking about. But from the look in her eyes, he knew she’d kill him whether he understood or not. He heard another rustle of cloth behind him. Bram was going to get them both killed.

  “Elementary!” cried Arthur with every bit of air he could muster.

  Emily frowned. Her lips pursed, and then loosened, as her face expressed a series of confused expressions.

  “Elementary?” she asked.

  “I am Arthur Conan Doyle,” he said. “And you’re the one who’s been trying to kill me.”

  Emily appeared shaken by this information. She stared Arthur dead in the eyes, as if trying to read the truth on his face. Was he really Arthur Conan Doyle?

  “I shaved my mustache,” he explained. “Yesterday.” Emily’s rage seemed to subside as she evaluated his statement.

  “You are Arthur Conan Doyle?” she asked, her whole body twisting with confusion.

  “Yes.”

  “And who are you?” She looked over Arthur’s shoulder.

  “My name is Bram Stoker.” Emily’s face gave no sign of recognition as Bram spoke. “I’m a friend of Arthur’s.”

  “Who are you?” asked Arthur of Emily, as if addressing a child.

  “Emily . . . Emily Davison,” she replied.

  “Miss Davison, you sent a bomb to kill me in the mail,” said Arthur. “There was a clipping from the paper attached. The murder of your friend. You wrote ‘elementary’ on it, I
haven’t the faintest idea why. I investigated the case. There were clues the Yard had missed. I followed them. To this house. I followed them to you.”

  Arthur watched Emily Davison inhale deeply, her chest pressing outward as it filled with air. Arthur suddenly noticed the sweat that had formed on his brow and beneath his arms. He felt damp and unclean.

  Emily lowered her revolver. Arthur could feel the blood returning to his face. As he blinked, the girl’s demeanor changed completely. She flopped herself down on one of the chairs beside the couch and rolled back her head. She looked as if she’d just been holding up a great weight and now she’d let it go.

  “I can’t believe it worked,” she said quietly. “I hoped . . . my God, I hoped so much that it would. I can’t believe . . . How did you find me?”

  “Your tattoo,” replied Arthur cautiously. He was unsure of what to make of this woman and her sudden change in demeanor. “We found the man who’d painted it. You and your friends were imprinted with matching tattoos, were you not?”

  “Oh, but you are good, aren’t you? I knew you would be. I prayed you would be. But you weren’t supposed to come here. You weren’t supposed to find me.”

  “Who were we supposed to find?” asked Bram.

  “The man who killed my friends. The man who killed Sally and Anna. I wasn’t trying to hurt you, you must believe me. I was trying to hire you.” The girl let herself sink into the massive couch. She discarded her revolver onto a long coffee table as if it were a ring of keys. She appeared suddenly harmless.

  Arthur took the opportunity to turn his head around. Behind him Bram inched his hand toward his coat pocket for his revolver. Arthur shook his head at Bram. Bram raised an eyebrow, as if to say, Are you sure? Arthur nodded. Yes. He was sure. The immediate danger had ended. What was required now was talk, and lots of it.

  “Perhaps you had better explain,” suggested Arthur.

  Emily paused, considering this for a long moment. She looked as if the idea of having to explain herself to Arthur had never crossed her mind. She pursed her lips and made a face that sank with both gravity and exhaustion.

  “Yes,” she said. “Perhaps I had better. We have much to discuss. May

  I offer you gentlemen some tea? Please? It is the least I can do. I’m not sure if I’ve still got milk, but I know there’s some fresh honey in the cupboard.”

  “Thank you, no,” said Arthur as he sat down beside her on the couch. “Did you send a letter bomb to murder me?”

  “I wouldn’t mind a cup, if you’ve got one handy,” said Bram. He took a seat on an armchair opposite Arthur. Emily stood up and went to her kitchen, where she put on a pot of hot water.

  “Yes,” replied Emily after she’d returned to the drawing room. “And a thousand apologies for that. But I’d no intention of murdering you, you must believe me.” She sighed. “It was just supposed to give a little pop and a burst of smoke. It’s only that it was my very first letter bomb. I think I used too much dynamite. I would never have hurt you. Do you understand? Not you.” A weariness had crept into her voice, fully replacing the anger which not two minutes before had seemed completely to consume her.

  “Might we start from the beginning?” suggested Arthur.

  “The beginning?” she said. “But it’s so hard to say when that might have been. I’ve been a woman all my life, you know.” At this she smiled ruefully. “But I suppose I’ve been a suffragist for less time than that.”

  “Why don’t we begin there?” said Arthur reassuringly. “You and your friends Sally and Morgan—er, I believe you said her real name was Anna? You, Sally, and Anna were all suffragists?”

  “I’m not ashamed to say I was rather more committed to the cause than those two. But I think that’s plain as day, isn’t it?” She stopped herself and straightened her back. “Oh, but this is coming out all wrong! You deserve an explanation, Dr. Doyle, and soon you may even deserve my thanks. There were four of us. Sally, Anna, Janet, and, of course, myself. We met at Caxton Hall over the years, as we all went to the meetings. I wasn’t yet seventeen when I joined the NUWSS, if you can believe it. The others were older. We’d see one another from time to time at the meetings, and then one evening about two years ago—BANG.” Emily clapped her hands together in front of her, giving Arthur a scare. “We became fast friends. Funny how you can know someone for years and then all of a sudden something passes between you and you become inseparable. That’s how it was with us. And it was that way between Janet and me especially. She was by far the most beautiful girl I’d ever seen. She and I simply understood each other, from our first conversation onward, there wasn’t a moment of uncertainty or confusion between us. Sometimes people confuse me. I have trouble making out whatever it is that they’re saying. But never with Janet. Do you have a friend like that, with whom you can share absolutely anything, and nothing between you is forbidden?”

  Arthur thought of Bram. Their relationship, for all of its trust and goodwill, was not exactly that which Emily described. He said nothing, and Emily continued her strange monologue.

  “At least I still have my Janet. This man, this detestable creature, whoever he may be, hasn’t gotten to her yet.”

  The kettle crowed, and Emily stood up to prepare the tea. She returned in a few moments with three empty cups, which she laid before her guests along with a steaming pot. She allowed it to steep while she spoke.

  “We formed our own group, the four of us. Mrs. Fawcett is daft, and practically a Tory to boot. People like her are not going to win our suffrage. She is weak and fearful, and she is beholden to the society in which we live for her purse, as well as for her husband. She thinks no more highly of England’s women than does the stodgiest old antisuffragist.” Emily again smiled bitterly. “Like you! For Fawcett, and for her useless union, our fight is merely one of politics. Can you imagine the shortsightedness? And so we formed a rival organization. We were not by any stretch the first to do so, mind you. You’d be surprised how many splinter groups exist on the margins of Millicent’s minions. Those girls from Manchester—you’ll be hearing about them soon, I’ll promise you that!”

  Arthur hadn’t any clue as to who these Manchester girls were, but he saw no use in interrupting the flow of her thoughts.

  Emily poured three cups of tea, though Arthur had not asked for any. He sipped politely out of habit. When it occurred to him that he was accidentally taking tea with a woman who had nearly murdered him, he felt foolish and returned his cup to the table.

  “We named ourselves the Morrigan, after the Irish goddess. She’s the goddess of war, and of prophecy. She could assume different forms as well—sometimes she took the shape of an eel, sometimes a wolf, but our favorite was the crow with three heads. We adopted the crow as our emblem and had it painted permanently onto our skin to prove our devotion to the cause. We had such plans as would have sent the kingdom into shock. We were to launch a campaign of pamphlets this fall. We hired a printer and tried out arrangements for our emblem. It took ages. He was most helpful, that printer—he never even charged us for his many hours of work. But pamphlets would not save the country, we knew that. We were prepared for more, if need be. They would be followed by bombs. And if the bombs failed to rouse the public’s attention to the cause of England’s women . . . well, then we were prepared to build bigger bombs if it were required. I’d have liked to see the NUWSS do that!”

  “You would have bombed London?” said Arthur. “You would have turned your own homeland into a battlefield over legislative politics?”

  “There is a war under way in London whether we join it or not!” said Emily forcefully.

  She banged her palm down on the table, splashing tea onto the saucers. Bram raised his cup and took a gentle sip.

  “England is changing. The Morrigan is not a cause of that change; she is an effect. Have you been to Whitechapel, Dr. Doyle? Have you seen the depredations there? A hundred thousand ladies enslaved as whores. Have you been to Westminster? Another h
undred thousand enslaved as chars. The women of England have but three choices in this age. We toil with our hands, we toil with our cunts, or we marry rich and toil with our very hearts. Which would you choose?”

  She became more animated as she spoke, the anger again building inside her. Arthur gripped on to the cushions of the couch, afraid and unsure as to where this all was headed.

  “I’ve read your speeches, you know. I’ve read what you said in Edinburgh. We all have. And I’ve read your stories. I’ve read your Sherlock Holmes. Your London died with him, dropped off a cliff and drowned in a pool of frothy water. The Morrigan was to see the deed through.”

  The girl stared off into the distance, as if at some imaginary horizon. Arthur felt himself to be in the presence of villainy. This was the kind of rage which tore down civilizations.

  “You attempted to murder me over a speech?” Arthur asked, as calmly as he could.

  “No, no, of course not,” she said. “I told you. I never meant to hurt you. I needed your help.”

  “My help?”

  “We never set our bombs. We never even distributed our pamphlets. The NUWSS reigns still as the sole and impotent voice of suffrage in London. Before we could see our plans to fruition, Sally was murdered. And then Anna. I saw that article in the paper, the one I sent you, and I knew it was her. ‘Morgan Nemain.’ Ha! It was a little joke between us that Anna used for her pseudonym. ‘Morgan,’ for the Morrigan, and ‘Nemain’—that’s the name of one of the Morrigan’s spirits, in the myth. She was the funny one, Anna was . . .

  “Janet, my dear Janet, was so distraught she gave it up. She went away to live with her uncle in Leeds. I wrote to her about my plans. How I would carry on the Morrigan myself. She never even wrote me back.”

  Arthur saw something new on Emily’s young countenance. A great sadness had entered her cheeks, reddening her face and wetting her clear green eyes. “Even dearest Janet left me! This killer took everything, don’t you see? He wrenched from my breast every last soul on whose love I depended. I had no one left to turn to. Except for you.”