The Murder of Sherlock Holmes

by David Fable

“Yes, Mr. Hudson, we were all made aware of the investigation by your Superintendent Gregson.”

  “I would like you to send an officer out to Mr. Holmes’s cottage at the end of Shoreham Road,” I continued as calmly and concisely as possible. “There’s a woman who might be having emotional problems and needs assistance. Her name is Lilah Church. I fear for her safety, so please exercise caution.”

  “I understand, sir,” Barnett answered briskly. “I will send a constable out there immediately.”

  I was a bit reassured when I hung up the phone. I immediately rang Wiggins’s headquarters. Fortunately, I had committed that phone number to memory, as I’m sure it wasn’t listed in any of the directories. The phone rang at least ten times and finally Sir Patrick picked up on the other end. “Good evening,” he said with his usual sonorous composure.

  “Sir Patrick, it’s Christopher Hudson.”

  “Yes, Mr. Hudson. How good to hear from you.”

  “I must speak to Doctor Watson. He is there, is he not?”

  “He is in conference with Wiggins,” said Sir Patrick calmly.

  “Please deliver a message as soon as possible. Tell him Lilah has run off. Tell him I’m on my way to find her in Sussex.” There was a brief hesitation from the other end.

  “Yes, I thoroughly understand,” Sir Patrick answered finally, and he hung up.

  I dashed out of the building and jumped on my motorbike for the ride south.

  34

  WATSON

  I had told Christopher that if Wiggins had a hand in Holmes’s murder, I would get him to confess. As my taxi pulled up in front of Wiggins’s foreboding headquarters, my confidence in that statement began to wane. If I went into that building and accused Wiggins of being involved in this heinous crime, there was a real possibility that I could disappear forever. I wanted to believe that Wiggins and I had a deep and unbreakable bond, but it occurred to me that I might be dwelling in a romanticized past. It is said that history is written by the victors. I suppose, in the same sense, nostalgia is felt by those who survived well. It was unclear to me what camp Wiggins felt he fell into.

  I sat for a moment in the taxi and considered going straight back to Scotland Yard and having them haul Wiggins in for questioning, but that urge quickly passed. I owed him more than that. I had to go in and give Wiggins his options.

  I climbed out of the taxi, mounted the stairs and pressed the buzzer. Presently, the door swung open and I was confronted with Wiggins’s sullen lieutenant, Creed. He stared at me a moment and then stepped aside, allowing me to enter.

  Inside there was hammering and sawing. The first floor was newlyfurnished since my last visit and smelled of fresh leather. The menwho had formerly been playing cards at the far end of the room were busily constructing and mounting shelves and mirrors behind a massive, ornate bar. A large, imposing chandelier had been installed and glowed with a rather elegant grace. I followed Creed up the stairs to the second floor.

  We found Daisy and a coworker sitting at the “reception desk.” The right side of Daisy’s mouth was quite swollen and there was a significant bruise on her cheek. “What happened to you, Daisy?” I asked solicitously. She gave me a lopsided smile but said nothing. Creed kept me moving up the next set of stairs and Daisy’s eyes followed us until we were no longer in her sight.

  On the third floor we found Wiggins lying on a bed that had been added to the sparse furnishings of this dwelling. He was perusing an auction catalogue by the light of a standing lamp. The only other illumination was the halo surrounding the raised platform with Wiggins’s empty satin, throne-like armchair. He propped himself up on one elbow to greet me. “I just spent the afternoon with Christopher. I’m sure 'e tol’ ya all about it. I guess you two just can’t leave me alone.”

  “Is something the matter with Daisy?” I asked, trying to put no particular emphasis on the query.

  “She’ll be fine. She’s just learnin’ ta keep 'er mouf shut,” he said, as if that were an adequate answer. “So wha’ 'ave you come for now, Doctor?”

  I suddenly felt quite defenseless and fainthearted under his gaze. I again began thinking it might be advisable to abandon this confrontation. Creed stood by the door impassively. Wiggins studied me suspiciously, waiting for a response, and there was an uncomfortable silence in the room. I could have offered up some weak excuse. Inform him of some insignificant piece of evidence and take my leave. Wiggins slowly rose from the bed as if sensing what my intentions were. “Wha’ is on your mind, Doctor Watson?” He drew a few paces closer to me. I saw beneath his smoking jacket that he had his Jesse James revolver holstered on his side.

  “Wiggins, I’m going to tell you the truth because you are far too clever for me to try and lie to you,” I heard myself saying. “We have evidence that ties you to the car that killed Holmes. We have information that ties you to the Spaniard who made the attempt on Christopher’s and my life. Before I give this evidence to Lestrade and Gregson, I wanted to come to you and give you an opportunity to make a clean breast of it. Christopher has determined, and I agree, that somehow you are involved in Holmes’s death.”

  “Leave us. Leave us. LEAVE US!” thundered Wiggins, and Creed immediately withdrew. Wiggins took another stride toward me and squinted. “You know I could 'ave you killed right 'ere, Doctor Watson, and no one would ever speak of it.” He glared at me and then shouted, “Nurse!” The unseen door opened and the silent nurse came clicking toward us from the darkness with her velvet pouch.

  “No. He doesn’t need any more,” I called to her, but she didn’t even break stride. It was as if I were a ghost that she could neither hear nor see.

  For some reason Wiggins changed his mind. He waved her off with a flick of his wrist, and she instantly turned and disappeared back into the shadows. He sat down on the step of his platform and hung his head in his hands. “I should have prevented all this, Doctor.”

  “I will do all I can to protect you, as long as justice is done,” I toldhim.

  “Justice!” He sprang to his feet and shouted in my face. “You sent a sixteen-year-old boy and ''is band of beggars around the city to do your bidding and your good friend ends up fuckin’ one of those beggars! I have no use for your justice, Doctor Watson.” He turned his back and moved away from me, fuming. “Do you know what it feels like…lookin’ in those windows when you’re 'ungry…cold…no one to protect you?”

  His words filled me with shame. “You’re right, Wiggins,” I said. “There’s no excuse. I wish I…had done more…seen more clearly.”

  We were both silent for several moments. He kept his back to me. When he finally spoke I could hear the tears in his voice. “I sat in the street and put ''is 'ead in my lap. ’E knew 'e was dyin’, and you know what 'e said to me?” Wiggins turned back around. The tears were running down his face. “’E said 'e was sorry. 'E said that 'e was wrong to have used us so. And 'e asked that we all forgive him.” He fell silent again.

  “Tell me how it happened,” I asked softly.

  Wiggins wiped his face with his sleeve. “It was a foolish plan. Alexander and Sergio dreamed it up. They would pretend that Alexander 'ad been kidnapped and get Mr. 'olmes to pay a ransom. Alexander thought ''is father owed him that. 'E’s a bitter lad.”

  “But Holmes always saw to their well-being, him and Lilah,” I said, offering up a feeble defense.

  “Well, sometimes you want more than well-bein’,” said Wiggins. “The boy wanted to be important to 'im. Like Christopher was important to 'im. ’E used to follow Christopher secretly sometimes. Watch Holmes and 'im go into that fancy club on ''is birthday. I tried to give the lad this and that to do, you know, because 'e’s Lilah’s kid, and that makes 'im one of us. But 'e’s undisciplined. The both of 'em—’im and Sergio—totally undisciplined. I swear I’d 'ave killed 'im if 'e wasn’t Lilah’s child.”

  “Tell me about that night,” I said, trying to coax the whole story from him.

  He shook his head remorsefully. “They
asked me to be the go-between. Said they’d give me ten thousand. Somewhere in me mind I figured maybe 'e’s entitled, you know. This little cast-off. I know what that’s like. ’E is ''is rightful son after all. So I told 'olmes that the kidnappers 'ad contacted me and 'e was to bring the money to Narrow Street, over by Rope Fields…A 'undred thousand pounds. Then the 'kidnappers’ would let his son go.” Wiggins scoffed. “Mr. 'olmes saw through it from the first. ’E showed up without the money and they was, what, a hundred feet away in that black car that Sergio stole. The two of 'em—Alexander and Sergio. And I’m out there in the street with 'olmes, pretendin’ to be the middleman, ya understand. And 'e gets right to it. ’E says 'e knows what’s goin’ on. It’s nonsense. ’E’s not payin’ any ransom. ’E just wants to speak to Alexander. So now I’m feelin’ like the fuckin’ fool that I am, and I go back to the car and tell 'em the jig is up. And 'olmes comes walkin’ toward us to talk to Alexander…and…” Wiggins’s voice starts to tremble, “…the boy runs 'im down…runs right over 'im just like that. Like he 'ad a little fuckin’ fi' o’ temper. Or maybe 'e meant to from the beginnin’. And 'e gets out cryin’ and cur-sin’ and askin’, 'where’s the money?’ And I’m in shock. I genuinely don’t know what to do. And the little piece of shit says, 'Pu’ 'im in the car. I’ll take 'im home and make it look like an accident.’” Wiggins placed his hands over his face.

  “Why didn’t you turn him in?” I asked, deeply disturbed by what I had just heard.

  Wiggins looked over me as if I was as naïve as a newborn. “There was no way to get on the right side of this one, Doctor. Not for a man like me. I only work from the background in your world. Your court would 'ave me 'angin’ by my neck in less than a week. You know that. Wouldn’t no one be comin’ to the defense of the infamous Wiggins.”

  “Tell me why Freddy was killed,” I asked.

  “That was my fault,” he said flatly. “But 'e brought it on 'imself as well. I used Freddy to slips things to Moriarty. Cigars and such… So that night, when I get back, I’m out of my 'ead yellin’ at Sergio, 'oo 'ad always been a useless, li’l whore. 'E’s the one brought me the Smithwick woman after 'e 'ad bled 'er dry by gamblin’ away the money what 'er ol’ man left 'er. And Freddy over’ears what I’m yellin’ about as 'e’s comin’ up the back stairs to pick up Moriarty’s stuff. The next day Freddy asks Sergio for a loan. It wasn’t proper blackmail but that’s 'ow it starts, believe me, I’m an expert on the subject. I couldn’t let 'im go 'round talkin’. Moriarty offered to accommodate us. ’E 'ad nothing to lose long as Fitzroy keeps 'im from the 'angman. We slipped him the weapon and 'e took care of the rest…gladly.”

  “So I gather you and Moriarty are quite close,” I said, still trying to remain even-keeled and not let on how troubling I found Wiggins’s account to be.

  “Moriarty is not a man you want as an enemy. Only Mr. 'olmes could 'andle that. Moriarty let me take over certain interests o’ ''is like the brothels when 'e went into prison. In exchange I supply influence with certain parties and various luxuries.”

  “And what do you know about Sergio’s attempt to kill us?” I asked.

  “I 'ad nothin’ to do with that,” he said emphatically, raising a finger. “If that li’l bastard wasn’t dead already, I’d put 'im in the Thames personally. I underestimated 'ow colossally stupid 'e was. Fortunately, Moriarty was 'avin’ you followed to make sure you was safe. I believe 'e’s quite fond of Christopher in ''is own way.”

  The thought of Moriarty being our savior disgusted me. “Do you know the man who saved us?” I asked.

  “I’ve met 'im, but I don’t know 'oo 'e is. 'E’s always disguised. Never comes 'ere. Make me meet 'im in different places. Sometimes 'e’s a priest. Sometimes 'e’s a barrister. If it’s important to Moriarty, that’s the man what shows up.”

  “And where is Alexander now?”

  “Last night, while Christopher was 'ere, Alexander came to this room to make peace and try to convince me that 'e 'ad nothin’ to do with the break-in at your flat or the attempt to kill you.” Wiggins’s expression turned steely. “I tol’ 'im the only reason 'e wasn’t dead was because of Lilah. Lilah will always be one of us. I tol’ 'im his only choice was to leave town. I tol’ him go somewhere where we’d never 'ear of 'im again. We’ll take care of his mum. ’E left 'ere and that’s when Christopher saw 'im driving off and chased 'im all the way to the river.”

  Wiggins rubbed his hands down his face and took a deep breath, as if relieved by the recounting of all the events. It was as though hearing himself confess made him feel less culpable. Just then, Sir Patrick entered the room, calmly moved to Wiggins’s side and whispered something in his ear. As he listened, Wiggins’s eyes moved to me.

  35

  CHRISTOPHER

  T he engine of my Harley-Davidson strained at top speed and thewind off the channel froze my face. At last, I sped onto the road that led to Holmes’s cottage. Happily, the tunnel of trees sheltered me from the stinging wind. It also blocked out the shining half-moon, leaving only my headlight to pierce the darkness for a distance of no more than a hundred yards. I lowered my speed, fearing I might crash into something by overrunning the range of that lonely beam. Soon, the road opened up onto Holmes’s gravel driveway. I could smell the smoke even before I saw the gray column rising from behind the darkened cottage. An orange glow flickered from above the steeply peaked roofline of the home. Two automobiles were parked in front. One was an East Sussex police car.

  I skidded to a stop and noticed something slumped on the ground not far from the front door. I laid down my bike and cautiously approached. It was a young constable lying in a heap on the gravel. I carefully turned him over and found that he had been shot in the stomach. He was dead.

  I instinctively got into a crouch beside him, fearing I might be the next target. There was little doubt in my mind who had done this. The question was, should I leave to seek help? I quickly decided that I couldn’t do that. I had to see to Lilah’s safety. Scanning the area, I saw no one, then I heard a crash of wood and glass from behind the cottage.

  I stole to the side of the cottage and peeked around the corner. The glow of a growing fire threw shadows that waved to and fro across the back lawn. I could see neither the flames nor the source of a second loud crash.

  Carefully I stalked down the side of the house and got a full view of the back lawn. Flames were jumping through the upstairs windows of the cottage, igniting the shingle roof. Swarms of Holmes’s bees were circling ferociously overhead, swerving back and forth toward the blaze, hundreds falling to the ground with scorched wings. Alexander was in the process of destroying the last of Holmes’s dozen hives with a garden hoe. He pounded the wooden hive with a deranged viciousness, tossed aside the hoe and, seemingly satisfied, wiped away a bee that was attached to his cheek by the stinger.

  Another upstairs window exploded and flames leaped out. I looked for any sign of Lilah and saw none. A hundred feet from the back door the lawn was swallowed by the darkness. I knew another hundred yards beyond that were the cliffs. Alexander swiveled his head back and forth as if looking for something else to destroy. I carefully stepped out from beside the house. “Alexander, where is your mother?” I called to him and tried to ignore the bees circling wildly above me.

  Alexander looked around the yard until his eyes found me. He reached down to pick up something off the ground and I stiffened. It turned out to be a bottle of whisky. It was half empty and from the sound of his voice I deduced it had been full when he found it. “Ahhh, Mr. Hudson. How nice. Come a little closer so we can talk.” He took a gulp from the bottle.

  “Where is your mother, Alexander?” I demanded loudly.

  He motioned at the night. “She’s hiding…Come closer.” He waved me over drunkenly.

  The answer that she was hiding alarmed me to no end. I looked to the cottage. Thick smoke was pouring out of the open French doors. The downstairs was completely obscured.

  “Is she in the h
ouse?” I asked desperately.

  He cocked his head and said as if annoyed, “I told you, she’s hiding.” The flames suddenly burst through the shingle roof. I considered running in through the back door to see if I could find Lilah, but it would have been a hopeless gesture. The cottage was now engulfed and nothing inside would survive.