The Murder of Sherlock Holmes

by David Fable

  Moriarty watched me mull this over for a moment before he continued. “For the first year of Holmes’s so-called ''death,’ I assumed he was trying to draw me out into the open. Why else would he include me in this deception? Obviously this was a conspiracy to get me to come out and disprove this fraud.” Moriarty yielded the trace of a smile. “This is the vanity of genius; I thought I knew what was happening, and it taught me that one must always dig deeper into the dark recesses of the human mind. You see, it finally occurred to me that Holmes understood my psychology even better than I realized. I used the rumor of my death to full advantage by receding further into the shadows. I could transact my business without any meddling from the authorities. I did exactly what Holmes anticipated I would do. And, when all the facts were in, I understood why he had included me in this scheme. He was giving me an out as well. You see, Holmes was a selfish man, and if he couldn’t have me, no one would.” Moriarty exploded with a huge laugh. “He knew I would exploit my supposed death. I must say, it took me a while to piece it all out.” He gave me a look of rapture. “He wanted me all to himself.”

  I remained speechless. Not just because Moriarty seemed to be lost in some half-mad state at his recollection of that period more than twenty years ago, but also because I didn’t want to say anything that might dissuade him from venting what was on his mind. I waited for him to speak.

  His face darkened as he seemed to be organizing his thoughts. “I will help you find Holmes’s murderer on one condition, Doctor,” he declared.

  “I will consider it,” I responded steadfastly.

  “I want to attend his funeral,” he said flatly.

  This took me totally by surprise. I tried to quickly decipher what his motive could be. Perhaps he thought it was another ruse and Holmes wasn’t truly dead. Perhaps it was the first step in some escape plan. I would have understood a trade for improvement in his living conditions or a shortening of his sentence, which was impossible since he was serving three consecutive life sentences, but this request to attend the funeral…Holmes was a respected and beloved citizen of London. It would be a huge event with royalty and dignitaries from all corners. Granting Moriarty’s request would be like inviting a cobra to a christening, yet, I was convinced that Moriarty was indispensable to my objective. I believed this was an earnest negotiation.

  “I will propose it,” I said with as much frankness as I could muster. If I could get Lestrade to grant the proper security, I would fulfill my end of the bargain and hope that Moriarty would fulfill his end.

  I heard a faraway screaming from the ward above. I turned toward the open cell door and could see across to where Moriarty indicated Colonel Moran had recently died. The screaming abruptly stopped and there was a sudden, ringing silence in the basement cell. I turned back to Moriarty and saw him sitting eerily still in his chair, as if a wax figure. He seemed to be done with me. I rose from my chair and moved to the door.

  “Dr. Watson…” I turned back at the sound of Moriarty’s voice. Cigar smoke curled out of his mouth and he studied me for moment with a malicious stare. “Are you prepared to look into the darkness?”

  “I’m looking into it right now,” I responded as I stared back fiercely, and I walked out.

  I dragged myself down the front steps of Bedlam. I was emotionally spent from the day, and I still was scheduled to meet young Hudson at the coroner’s in an hour. I resolved to refresh myself at the Northumberland Arms and then proceed to the morgue. The rain had begun to fall again and thankfully a horse-drawn four-wheeler approached up the driveway.

  The roads were wet, but the rain was gone as I waited in front of the coroner’s office for Hudson. I hadn’t had much of an appetite when I stopped in at the Northumberland Arms but ordered a bowl of barley soup in an attempt to put something in my empty stomach. It made me feel marginally better, and it took a considerable effort to force myself to leave the warm, wood-lined comfort of the establishment.

  As I waited in the afternoon chill, I heard a clattering sound approaching, and young Hudson coasted toward me on a motorbike. He was wearing small tinted goggles, a leather jacket of the kind that aviators wear, with a red scarf trailing behind him. He glided to the curb, cut the engine and hopped off the motorbike. The vehicle was steel-gray with whitewall tires and a placard beneath the crossbar with the name Harley-Davidson. He secured it to a railing with a chain and padlock and pulled off his goggles.

  “I’m sorry to put you through this again, Doctor, truly I am,” he said.

  I was heartened by his acknowledgement of the effort he was making me extend. “One must face reality, Christopher. Holmes would be disappointed in me if I didn’t look at this tragedy with a cold eye.”

  “Perhaps a younger set of eyes might help, as well,” he added. This latest comment strained my patience again. “What did Moriarty have to say?” he probed.

  “He said he will help if he is allowed to come to the funeral,” I answered, not being able to think of any reason to conceal it from him.

  “The funeral? Do you think that it is part of some escape plan?”

  “There would have to be significant measures taken to make sure that doesn’t happen.”

  We climbed the stairs and entered the building. “Do you think he is behind this?” he asked, continuing his interrogation as we approached the morgue desk.

  “I don’t know. I think he could be helpful as we move forward. If he is behind this, he’ll relish a game of cat and mouse, and I believe his ego will slip him up. I must say, however, he seemed genuinely surprised that Holmes had been murdered.”

  “Maybe he was just surprised he succeeded,” young Hudson speculated.

  The coroner’s clerk, a nice, plump young woman, looked up from the large oak counter that guarded passage into the examining rooms. “Good evening, Doctor Watson. Dr. Nolan told me you’d be back,” she said pleasantly but with appropriate sullenness to acknowledge the circumstance of my second visit of the day.

  “Good evening. This is Christopher Hudson.” Christopher gave a polite bow of his head.

  “Pleased to meet you, Mr. Hudson. If you gentlemen will kindly sign the log.”

  We signed the logbook and passed through the door that leads into that formaldehyde-laced, tiled whiteness. The bespectacled assistant met us at a cloakroom where Hudson exchanged his leather jacket and scarf for a rubberized coroner’s apron. I would not need one as I intended to keep my distance from whatever proceedings Hudson was planning. I was already a little regretful that I consented to this. I couldn’t see that an examination by a pending medical school student could do much good. Certainly this second visit to the morgue wasn’t doing me much good. I had slept little and eaten little during the last twenty-four hours and was feeling a bit unsteady as we approached the autopsy room.

  When we entered, the body was already waiting for us covered by a sheet on a porcelain-topped gurney. The coroner’s file was lying on the sheet. I retreated to the corner as Hudson approached the gurney and picked up the file. The coroner’s assistant exited without a word, but Hudson called after him, “Could I have a look at his belongings as well, please?”

  The coroner’s assistant poked his head back in the door, “Yes, sir. I’ll bring them to you,” he said respectfully and disappeared again.

  Hudson scanned the coroner’s report. The room was silent except for the rumble of the morgue’s newly installed refrigeration system. From my vantage point I could see through the doorway into the main dissection room where a new body awaited the coroner’s scalpel.

  Finished with the file, Hudson put it aside and lifted the sheet. His confident, dispassionate manner dissolved in an instant. His mouth quivered and his eyes blinked back brimming tears. That moment reminded me what a towering figure Holmes must have been in the lad’s life. He was no less than an uncle to the boy and perhaps even a second father.

  The bespectacled youth returned with a canvas bag containing the clothes and belongings. “Thank you,
” said Hudson with a slight tremble in his voice. The assistant coroner hurried off again as if to other pressing business. Hudson placed the bag on the floor and then, having composed himself, bent over Holmes and inspected the damage to his forehead.

  “He was undoubtedly killed by that blow to the head,” I said trying to give him a running start and hence shorten our visit.

  “Yes, I read that in the report,” he replied quickly. “I’m confident the coroner has done an excellent job of medical examination. I’m not looking for injuries, I’m looking for evidence.” As he said this, he withdrew a test tube and tweezers from his pocket. “See this speck here?” I drew closer and noticed a minute silvery speck at the edge of the indentation on Holmes’ head. He collected it with the tweezers and put it in the test tube. His manner had become clinical, much the same way I had seen Holmes conduct himself when collecting evidence from a murder scene. “I’ll analyze it at home,” he said, pocketing the test tube and pulling back the sheet to reveal the crude, thick sutures that had been sewn across Holmes’s chest, post autopsy. Suddenly, it was more than I could endure.

  “I’ll be waiting outside,” I said as I lurched to the door. My queasiness had turned to full-blown nausea, and I felt as if in a swoon. I barely made it out into the hall, staggered into a chair by the cloakroom and hung my head between my knees. Presently, the nausea and disorientation passed. I picked myself up and resolved to wait outside in the fresh air.

  Half an hour later, Hudson emerged from the building buckling his leather jacket and winding his red scarf around his neck. “Are you all right, Doctor Watson?” he asked, descending the steps.

  “I hope that was of some use to you, because I have determined that I shall not be going back to the coroner’s for some time,” I responded sharply.

  “Yes, well, may I say again that I’m sorry to put you through this, but I think I can be of great value in this investigation. I may have a couple new ways of looking at things.”

  “Yes, of course,” I said softening. I wanted nothing more than to go home and lie down. It was almost dark, and a dome of clouds was threatening again.

  Young Hudson whistled loudly and hailed a motor taxi. “I’ll bring you up to date tomorrow.”

  I forced a smile. I was not particularly interested in being brought “up to date,” and I regretted having indulged the young man at all. I bid Hudson good evening, shambled into the back of the cab and did my best to ignore the fumes.

  3

  A hot bath and large dose of brandy steadied me considerably. Sitting at my writing desk in my robe and slippers, I recorded the day’s events in my journal. I documented only facts, not thoughts and feelings. It had been too emotional a day to recount all that. As I was writing, the sounds of merriment drifted up from Stafford Street. For the first time, I realized it was Saturday night and activity was swelling on these lively avenues of London. There was probably some event, a wedding or such, being held at the Brown’s Hotel, a block away. The flow of people coming and going from large events hosted at the stately hotel often crowded my street.

  I had resided in two apartments since Holmes and I vacated Baker Street. The first one was on Charing Cross Road, owing to my love of the theater. There I had a five-minute walk to no less than a dozen venues. I suppose this desire to live in the West End could be traced back to those joyous days I had spent with my dear Mary. We would attend the theater whenever possible, everything from Gilbert and Sullivan to George Bernard Shaw. Secretly, Mary harbored the dream of being an actress. She certainly had the looks for it, but I think she might have been an even better critic if she had chosen that pursuit. Her analysis of plot and performance were razor sharp. Over dinner she would evaluate every scene of the play. I would listen to her excited, musical voice and say nary a word. When she realized how much she had been twittering on, she would blush and ask if I didn’t agree with her. I always agreed with my darling wife, the dearest soul who ever rose to heaven.

  After Holmes retired to Sussex, I took the flat in the theater district, but soon the pace and population of the West End became too hectic for me. The idea was far more attractive than the reality, and attending the theater after Mary died often magnified my loneliness. I moved to my present apartment, on Stafford Street, less than six months later. I found the rhythms of Mayfair more suitable to my temperament. Everything I require is quite convenient, and, should I have the occasion and the companion to go to the theater, the walk to West End is quite pleasant.

  As I closed my journal, there was a knock on the door. For the first time it occurred to me that whoever had murdered Holmes might well have a motive to do away with me as well. “Who is it?” I called out cautiously as my mind went to the Webley revolver in the locked drawer of my desk.

  “It’s Lestrade,” came the voice of the Scotland Yard commander from the other side of the door. I made no attempt to make myself more presentable. Certainly there was no sense of formality between Lestrade and myself.

  I had met the then Inspector Lestrade at the Baker Street flat a week after moving in with Holmes those thirty-plus years ago. Obviously, Holmes had been instrumental in his advancement through the ranks, and though Lestrade was often irritated by Holmes’s condescension, he was as fond and surely as indebted to the man as any of us. I opened the door and, in a rather startling display of emotion, Lestrade threw his arms around me and buried his pointy chin into my shoulder. “How are you faring, Doctor?” he asked with deep concern.

  “I am bearing up, Commander,” I replied as I extricated myself from his awkward grasp.

  Lestrade’s spirit had grown more generous with age and success. When we first met, he was a sarcastic little rat-faced detective, and though age had improved his disposition, it had done nothing to improve his looks. His sallow complexion was now accompanied by deep furrows running down the length of his cheeks and across the width of his forehead. His dark eyes peered out from beneath folds of eyelid skin and, as the years had advanced, he began to remind me of a large-nosed proboscis monkey in a trench coat. Lest I seem ungenerous in my description, let me state that I had a legitimate affection for Lestrade. He was a faithful friend, absolutely trustworthy with any confidence imparted to him, and there was never a request within his power that he would not grant.

  “Have you any new information?” I asked.

  “I was out at that farm most of the day. I found no evidence in the granary and nothing the farmer says leads me to believe he has anything to do with it. Tomorrow, I’ll have Gregson and his men question people in the town. Perhaps someone saw Holmes there.” Lestrade eyed the decanter of brandy. “Mind if I have a little swallow of that, Doctor?”

  I was exhausted and desperately wanted to retire. “By all means. Pour for yourself.” It was more a plea than an offer. I didn’t feel as if I had the strength to lift another finger. Lestrade poured himself an inch of brandy into a snifter, sat down in my leather armchair and gazed at me silently. I stared back at him blankly. After a few moments I broke the silence. “I don’t mean to be rude, Commander, but if you have no news to tell me, I would be grateful if you would finish your brandy and bid a good-night. I am indescribably weary.”

  “I feel the same. I could fall asleep in this chair right now, but it was you who requested we meet here at this hour,” he kindly responded.

  It occurred to me that he was right. I had left that message for him by telephone at Scotland Yard when I was at the Northumberland Arms. My brain was so dulled I had completely forgotten and only now remembered the reason.

  “Quite so,” I said somewhat abashed.

  “Well, what is it you wanted to discuss?” he asked, sipping his brandy.

  “I visited Moriarty today, as you know.”

  A frown appeared on his face. “How did he react?”

  “It’s hard to decipher. He seemed genuinely surprised and almost…” I searched for the right word, “…disappointed.”

  “So you don’t think he had anyth
ing to do with it?”

  “I wouldn’t say that. Did you know that he has cigars and a rug and a bed with a mattress?”