The Shadow of Reichenbach Falls

by King, John R.

  But in my calculations, I couldn’t help noticing other possibilities. There was Susan Graham, the aspiring opera star who was also the pampered mistress of another mob boss. If I got at her, I could get at him. I arranged the untimely illness of a diva in Aïda, and Susan stepped up from understudy to star. Then I made sure the mob boss understood that this had been no accidental illness. By careful and anonymous insinuation, I gained influence over a third of the East End rackets.

  There was also Harold Jenkins, a drug lord who used opium to allay his own natural paranoia. Simply by adding a few other choice compounds to his daily hit, I put strings on the man. I controlled his every move and slowly took over his whole enterprise.

  Then there was Bill Stewart, a minor but promising blackmailer who had a weekly appointment at a brothel. I sent him an anonymous tip that he should delay his weekly visit by half an hour—and thus he witnessed a Member of the House of Lords in flagrante delicto. Bill had struck gold. In the course of a month, he became king of the extortion racket—a king who religiously read every note that came to him from his anonymous benefactor.

  A hit man named Emil Sykes received a similar note—indicating that his boss had taken out a contract on him. At first unbelieving, the hit man soon discovered the truth of the message—for I myself had taken out the contract in the boss’s name. Sykes was desperate for a plan, and I provided him one, note by note. He followed my advice and soon chewed his way through the boss’s other killers until at last he slew the boss himself. A new lord of murder was crowned, one completely loyal to me.

  And so it went. With the right note sent to the right eyes at the right time, I could destroy a whole branch of crime and build it up again in my own image, under my own control. In six months, I had gained influence over every major branch of crime in London. By the end of a year, I controlled every operation. In two years’ time, I had become the unchallenged and unchallengeable emperor of crime throughout southeastern England.

  Susanna would have been proud.

  But Anna wasn’t. She had turned on me the very morning after I’d killed the Ripper. She wanted to involve the police, argued about what was “right,” told me that I hadn’t killed the Ripper—that he had killed me.

  I laughed it off. It was just the sort of nonsense a young woman would say. Anna hadn’t ever done an honest day’s work. She was a china doll who did not cook or clean or raise children but only sat and stewed about “injustice.” A whole generation of Victorian women did the same. They protested that they couldn’t vote, they protested that their men ran out to prostitutes, they protested that their men got drunk, they protested that their men were opium addicts. And why were these men driven from their homes to the streets and the sins there? Because of the insufferable protests of the insufferable women in their lives. Anna’s “concern” had the same effect on me. The more she complained, the more time I devoted to my criminal empire.

  What a grave disappointment she had become.

  And then even Jesus turned against me—Jesus College, that is. Here is the letter I received from the president.

  Dear Dean Moriarty:

  Your genius is needed, now more than ever, at the head of the Department of Physics. However, your activities beyond the campus have been stealing you away with increasing regularity. Some of your students have reported that you attended only two of the twelve physics tutorials you were assigned to provide. This sort of disregard for your duties, if left unchecked, will result in your eventual dismissal.

  President MacWilliams

  Absurdity. Jesus College had the greatest mathematical mind of a generation, and they would let him go because of tardiness?

  I decided to dismiss myself before MacWilliams could dismiss me. That very night, I packed up Anna and me, and we moved to London. The next morning, MacWilliams was found stabbed in his bed.

  AND SO, mathematics herself delivered dominance into my hands. Other men rose through bribes and threats and murder. I rose through logarithmic functions. Like a tireless spider, I spun out my equations and sent forth my notes and wove a vast web of calculation and crime, a web that soon reached to York in the north and Cardiff in the east and Copenhagen in the west and Paris in the south.

  But some men are immune to the Mother of Sciences. Mathematics has no hold on them. They are irrational figures: 3 divided by 0 or 5 divided by infinity or the square root of negative 9. When such a figure enters an equation, he brings it crashing down.

  I met my irrational figure. I met a man who, like a plague, infected the smallest tissue of my leviathan and thereby destroyed the whole organism.

  With no love of mathematics, he brought me down. And I will bring him down, in turn.

  BOOK III

  OF LEGENDS AND MEN

  32

  HER STORY

  As the Bern Express rolled toward Paris, Anna lay between Thomas Carnacki and Harold Silence and told them all she knew about her father’s life: that James Moriarty was a genius, that he once had been a good man, that her mother was also a genius but had unwittingly set into his hands the keys to control a vast criminal empire. Anna told them that after slaying Jack the Ripper, her father had ceased to be the man who had loved her and whom she had loved, and had become a monster.

  “Of course, I don’t know all the details. Father’s been writing his memoirs, and maybe someday I’ll get to read them. But I do know this much: Whatever madness grips him now comes from outside. Deep within, my father is a good man.”

  Silence, who had been lying with his hands templed above his face, at last spoke: “So, you knew of your father’s activities all the while that he was taking control of this … empire of crime?”

  “Well, I knew what he let me know—or what I could discover on my own. At first, I pleaded with him to stop, but it only drove him into a rage. Then, I simply watched him, monitored, tried to understand his machinations. One day he caught me studying his algorithm, and he struck me across the face. From then on … I ceased trying.

  “And when we moved to London, all that was bad became worse. I had no friends in the city, and Father spent no time with me anymore. His manias became terrifying—with ruined furniture and words that turned the air blue. At least he didn’t kill anyone by his own hands anymore. He had others to do that. He even found this Dr. Gottlieb—a ghoul of a man whom Father had met at Cambridge—and enlisted his talents. Whenever Father had a particularly horrible man to kill, he would take the man to Gottlieb, who performed a lobotomy. Father always assisted. It was as if he wanted to see what was happening in their minds, wanted to harvest the evil in them.”

  Thomas, who lay next to the wall, took Anna’s hand. “It must have been terrifying.”

  “It was. I only hoped I could somehow win him back. And then, one day, he appeared at the door with a storm cloud about his shoulders and his eyes flashing lightning. He stomped into the room and sat in his accustomed seat, and when I brought him his tea, he gently laid hold of my wrist and said, ‘You may get your wish, Anna.’

  “‘What wish, Father?’ I asked.

  “He laughed bleakly and squeezed my arm so that his fingernails left circular welts. ‘Your wish to destroy me.’

  “I protested: ‘I don’t want to destroy you. I want to save you. I want you to give up this life of crime.’

  “‘Well,’ he replied more quietly, ‘you may get your wish. There’s another man out there—another genius. He’s figured out the algorithm. He’s found the lynchpin.’

  “‘Then let’s escape, Father. Let’s take the money and escape to the Continent—before the killing begins.’”

  “‘There won’t be any killing. This man has set everything up through the police. My whole empire will go before the docket and go to jail. There’s nothing I can do.’

  “I knelt before him and stared into his eyes. ‘Yes, there is. Let’s go to the Continent. Let’s be someone else—James and Anna Schmidt.’

  “His face brightened for a moment as if h
e saw the hope of a new life. ‘Yes. The Continent. Why not travel there? It would be pleasant to have a diversion. I’d like to go hunting on the Continent.’

  “I took his words the wrong way, of course. I took them as a sign that he would be giving up his life of crime.” She looked to Silence. “I had no idea, until too late, that he had come to the Continent to hunt you.”

  The conductor’s voice came, distant and muffled, through the compartment door, “Paris! Saint-Lazare! Une demi-heure! Paris! Saint-Lazare! Une demi-heure!”

  Silence gave a sigh. “And your long story tells us everything except who I am.”

  Anna shook her head. “I’m sorry, but Father never told me your name.”

  “It’s no matter. I’ll know in half an hour.”

  33

  THE MAN HIMSELF

  After Anna’s long and tragic tale and after Silence’s bold pronouncement, I was ready for a little quiet. Only the train spoke as we approached Paris. Silence seemed to be dozing, though I had thought the same any number of times this past night and had always been surprised when he asked some probing question. Anna, for her part, was wrung out. She drew the blanket up and fell soundly asleep.

  Let them sleep; I felt strangely wakeful. Anna’s story had filled me with a terrible melancholy, and I wanted nothing more than to roll over, raise the window shade, and watch the dark night give way to gloaming.

  The train moved through hilly country beneath a wine-red sky. Farmland undulated in wave upon black wave from our wheels out to the horizon. It was a dark and dreamy landscape, the chaos before creation. The rolling horizon was broken only by the occasional farmhouse, boxy and black.

  In time, the sun roused itself and climbed into the sky. Morning light moved across the monochromatic land, and it bloomed with color: green and gold, brown and red—it was as if a watercolor brush were dragging across the charcoal hills and bringing them to life. I felt as if I were sitting beside the easel of God.

  Gradually, the works of God were overtaken by the works of man. Farmlands gave way to Dark Age hamlets, and they to medieval towns, and they to the imperial capital of Louis the Sun King. Beyond the train window, Paris was taking shape. Limestone facades with thousands of gables, spoke-like avenues laid out by Napoleon III, gray cathedrals aspiring to the sky …

  The tracks bore us on toward another cathedral, one built for machines. Our rail line delved in among a dozen others, converging from all points across Europe. Roaring engines of iron passed through viaducts and underground ways to emerge within the glass-topped station at Gare Saint-Lazare. Smoke belched from stacks and spread across glass awnings. Incrementally, we slowed, and at last the air brakes hissed, and the conductor called: “Paris! Paris!”

  I heard it, but my comrades still slept. I did not want to wake them. Anna lay like a child, so fragile and weary and beautiful. I had loved her selfishly before hearing her terrible story, but now I loved her selflessly. I would defend her to the death. How could I wake her?

  And Silence, if his pledge was true, would wake to somehow discover his identity. While he drowsed, he was still my friend, my comrade, but who would the man be in five minutes?

  Let the other passengers bustle and stand in the aisles and curse as they yanked their trunks down the passage. I would allow my companions a few more minutes of sleep. To this day, I look back at those stolen moments as precious. They were over all too soon.

  The tread of the porter came through the aisle, and his fist pounded the frame of the sleeper. “Paris! Gare Saint-Lazare! Tout le monde descend!”

  “Indeed,” said Silence, rousing suddenly, his eyes keen and clear. “I was merely waiting for the rabble to pass.”

  “A moment, please,” I said to him.

  Between us, Anna stirred. Disoriented, she glanced between the two of us and said, “Paris?”

  “Yes,” I replied, smiling. “Beautiful Paris. The City of Love.”

  “The city of identity,” Silence corrected, and he drew back the curtain from the sleeping berth and stepped into the aisle.

  Anna stared after him a moment. “Feeling energetic, isn’t he?”

  “We’d better catch him up, or we’ll never find him. He’s planning to have a new name in five minutes.” I helped Anna to her feet. Turning, I remembered to hoist the damned electrical contraption I’d been carting since the sanatorium. I followed Anna into the aisle, empty now of any other passengers, including Silence. Hurrying to the end of the car, we climbed down the steps and onto a crowded platform. “Where is he?”

  “There!” Anna cried, pointing to a newsboy who was handing a paper to Silence.

  We ran up to join him as he shook the paper out before him. It was Le Temps, and the masthead indicated it was the eighth of May, 1891. When Silence scanned the first headline, he practically crowed.

  “What is it?” Anna asked.

  Silence flipped the back of his hand against the article and translated the headline: “‘Scotland Yard Arrests Five Hundred.’ Here, my dear, is the fall of your father’s empire. Surely this story will credit me with destroying his syndicate. Anna, my French is not as good as yours. Would you mind?”

  Trembling slightly, she took the paper in hand and began to translate:

  In a series of lightning raids last week, the London police rounded up hundreds of crime lords: opium dealers, proprietors of brothels, extortionists, racketeers, and all manner of other thugs. The detective who masterminded the crackdown was Inspector Lestrade of Scotland Yard.

  I looked at Silence and let out a giggle. “You’re Lestrade?”

  Anna shook her head. “Of course not!”

  Silence shot me a querulous look as Anna continued:

  This is by far the largest criminal dragnet ever conducted by Scotland Yard. Previous cleanup attempts have been hampered by an inability to gather sufficient evidence to provide a case for trial. According to Inspector Lestrade, “This time we had an encyclopedia of evidence before beginning any arrests—letters, ledgers, physical evidence, a host of eyewitnesses, and the results of a few ingenious sting operations, which I oversaw. Over one hundred operatives made these arrests happen, and I would like to thank them. We were assisted, also, by Mr. Holmes.”

  Anna stopped reading and let the paper crumple. We looked at each other in blank astonishment, and then turned toward our amnesiac friend. “Mr. Holmes?” we chorused. “You’re Sherlock Holmes!”

  He drew a deep breath, nodding. “I’m Sherlock Holmes. Ha-ha! I’m Sherlock Holmes!” Then he blinked and looked at us. “Who’s Sherlock Holmes?”

  Anna’s mouth dropped open. “No.”

  “You’re joking,” I said.

  Our friend returned our incredulous expressions. “Honestly. Who is he?”

  “Only the greatest detective who ever—You’re joking! Everyone in England knows of Sherlock Holmes. Of course you’re Holmes! Who else could bring down a criminal empire?”

  Anna looked a little hurt, “My mother could …”

  “Who else would be a match for your father?”

  “My mother …” Anna repeated sullenly. Then she gasped, and her hand flew to her mouth. “My father threw Sherlock Holmes over the Reichenbach Falls!”

  “Yes,” mused Silence.

  I felt stupid for not having seen it before—the knifelike features, the piercing eyes, the hawk nose … . He’d once said he didn’t need memory as long as he had deduction. “How stupid we’ve been!” I said. “You’re Sherlock Holmes!”

  Silence—or Holmes—took the paper back, his eyes darting through the lines of French text. He set a finger on one part of the article and said, “My dear, can you please render this paragraph?”

  Anna reached over to pull the paper close. She translated:

  The jubilant mood at Scotland Yard was dimmed, however, when police failed to apprehend the head of the criminal enterprise—a Professor James Moriarty, late of Jesus College, Cambridge. Disappointment deepened to remorse when word came from Switzerl
and that Professor Moriarty, in an apparent bid at retribution, had followed Mr. Sherlock Holmes and his longtime companion, Dr. Watson, to the Continent. According to the good doctor, Professor Moriarty caught up to them at the Reichenbach Falls, high in the Swiss Alps. There, the emperor of crime and the master of deduction battled to their deaths. Dr. Watson has testified that both men went over the falls and were killed.

  “Dr. Watson … ?” Holmes mumbled.

  “Yes! Of course,” I said, “Watson—he’s your dearest friend—the chronicler of your exploits.”

  “Not much of a doctor, declaring two men dead who are very much alive.”

  “The article says no bodies were ever recovered,” Anna pointed out.

  Holmes took a disappointed breath. “Funny. I don’t feel like the greatest detective who ever lived. Especially since I’m purportedly dead.”

  “Rumors,” I said dismissively. “But we know the truth—Anna and I.”

  “And Father,” she added.

  Silence nodded. “And Professor Moriarty.”

  “Yeah,” I said, “and him.” I was a bit annoyed at Silence’s attitude. If I had found out I was Sherlock Holmes, I would have felt … well, honored. Or at least amused. “Look, there’s nothing for it. We’ll have to get our hands on Dr. Watson’s chronicles of your adventures.”

  Anna chimed in, “The Bibliothèque Nationale is walking distance from the Gare Saint-Lazare.”

  “Well, then,” Holmes said dubiously, “if my identity lies in books, let’s go read me a life.”

  34

  FINGERS IN THE ASHES

  HOW strange it is to sit here in the Bibliothèque Nationale at a table piled high with stories of my life: A Study in Scarlet, The Sign of Four, and countless stories in the Strand Magazine … . The whole world knows more about me than I do.