by David Fable
“She loves this place,” said Alexander as he motioned toward the raging flames with his bottle. “Doesn’t want to leave,” then added mockingly, “She’ll have to leave now.” He took another slug from the bottle and whispered loudly, “She’s crazy, you know. But still…she’s my mum.”
I didn’t know how to humor him, how to reason with him. He seemed completely unreachable. My only concern was Lilah’s safety, and I feared it might be too late for that. I took several steps toward him with my hand held out docilely. “Alexander, let’s go find your mother together.”
He suddenly produced Watson’s Webley from his waistband and pointed it directly at me, stopping me in my tracks. “I was his son!” he yelled angrily. “His rightful son! But he cared nothing for me. He left me nothing. He left you all his things. Look at your things now.” He held his hand up to display the burning cottage.
I reached in my pocket and felt for my switchblade. I was too far from him to throw it with enough force. I had to get a bit closer. “He loved you,” I said soothingly and slowly took a few more steps toward him. He fired a shot. I heard it whistle over my shoulder in the darkness.
“Stand where you are or I’ll shoot you dead.” He held his arm stiff as board with the gun pointed straight at me. “Fuck him!” he said venomously. “He left us here! That’s what drove her mad.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw something at the edge of the small forest of chestnut trees that bordered the yard. It was Lilah, glassy-eyed and hugging the trunk of a tree as if it were the mast of ship in a storm-tossed sea.
Alexander noticed her as well and took his eyes off me for a second. In one smooth movement I pulled out my switchblade, clicked it open and whipped it underhand through the darkness. Alexander gasped as it lodged squarely in his rib cage. He gazed down at the handle of the knife as if trying to recognize what could possibly be protruding from his side. He took an unsteady step sideways but did not go down. He looked at me hatefully with the gun pointed directly at my chest. I heard the crack of the gunshot. My body jerked. An electric jolt surged though my legs. I couldn’t tell where I had been shot. I felt no pain. I looked across at Alexander and he was lying on the ground clutching his chest.
I turned around and behind me, holding his Jesse James revolver, was Wiggins. He was flanked by Watson, Creed and Sir Patrick. “Look a’ that,” remarked Wiggins. “It still shoots straight.”
Watson rushed to my side. “Are you all right?”
“Yes, Doctor,” I assured him. “I’m all right.”
We both moved quickly to see Alexander’s condition. He was lying on his back, staring lifelessly at the sky. Doctor Watson reached down and closed Alexander’s eyes.
Sir Patrick strode over to Lilah, who had fainted onto the grass by the woods. He picked her up in his huge arms and gently carried her back toward the front of the house as Wiggins came up behind us. “She belongs with us,” he said, looking down at me and Watson. “You will take care of this, will you not, Doctor?”
I rose to my feet and answered for the both of us. “We will take care of this.”
Wiggins handed me the gun and without another word walked off with Creed at his side. There was a loud groan of timbers and I looked up to see the cottage collapse in on itself.
36
L estrade was perfectly willing to accept our version of the story. Gregson was a bit dubious. He wondered how Watson had managed to gain possession of Wiggins’s prized Jesse James revolver, and how it was that he had been dropped off at the cottage by a “helpful stranger.” In fact, the story we told Scotland Yard was essentially accurate, excluding Wiggins’s involvement and Alexander’s relationship to Holmes. It was adequate to claim that Holmes had always taken an interest in the boy’s well-being and had been drawn up to London through threat of the kidnapping. Gregson stared knowingly at me for a full minute and, despite his misgivings, declared himself satisfied that the case was closed. We left on a cordial note, and I felt I had genuinely made some headway in the respect department with Superintendent Gregson.
My next stop was at my parents’ home in Hampstead Heath. I informed my tearful mother that at present I was not going to proceed to medical school. I told her that, though I saw medicine as a noble profession, I was not an individual who tolerated tedium easily. This was not to offend those who do pursue this venerable occupation, but I felt a career in crime detection would suit me better at this point in my life.
After inquiring whether I might reconsider going to medical school at some future date and getting the response she was hoping for, Mother kissed me on the forehead and gave me her blessing. “Oh, if only Mr. Holmes could see you. He’d be so proud.” I considered my mother an authority on that topic and therefore was content to believe her statement to be true.
Next, I took the underground to the Green Park station to pay a visit to Dr. Watson. The Harley had sprung an oil leak on the way back from Sussex and would take at least two weeks to repair while we waited for a part from the States.
When I arrived at his flat on Stafford Street, Watson was already at his desk documenting the final events we had confronted only the day before. I did not question whether he intended to publish all the sensitive facts of the case. That was totally up to his discretion, and I would not presume to try and influence him one way or the other. What Holmes and Watson had can never be questioned or duplicated, and it certainly was not my place to even imply that I should have any opinion or input on the matter.
After Watson greeted me, he resumed his position at his desk. “I should like your point of view on the case when I get finished doing my notes and recollections,” he said as he scribbled a last thought.
“You are more than welcome to it,” I answered. “It should be interesting to compare experiences of the events.”
“How did your mother react to your news about medical school?” Watson asked, putting down his pen.
“I believe she took it as well as can be expected,” I answered.
He nodded and smiled as if visualizing my mother’s face. “You may never be able to fill his shoes, you know,” he said with as impartial a tone as possible.
“That is why I came here. To ask you to join me,” I answered. I could see from his expression that this was not an unexpected request and I could also see it was not an easy one for him to answer.
“It is so hard to let the past go,” he said with a wistful look in his eyes. “That is both the push and the pull of what you are requesting.”
“I know it will never be the same, Doctor Watson. But Holmes chose me. And how often was he wrong?” I couldn’t help grinning as I offered up the strongest part of my case.
A smile grew across Doctor Watson’s face as well. “You make a powerful argument, young Master Hudson.” He gave me a pat on the shoulder. “Let me think on it.”
I left Watson’s flat and proceeded to the underground to take the train to Oxford and withdraw from medical school. No on could ever take the place of Sherlock Holmes, but I would try to follow in his footsteps. That was the path that he had laid out for me those many years ago without me even realizing it.
I was about to step onto the train when someone tapped me on the back. I turned and saw a tall, young, blond-haired man who I took to be Australian, based on his accent. “Is this the train to Piccadilly?” he asked.
“No,” I told him. “Try the orange line. You can pick it up on Bond Street.”
“Thank you, mate,” he responded with a broad smile.
I stepped onto the train, and just before the door closed, he reached out and put something in my hand. “A souvenir from the Professor,” he said, without the least trace of an accent.
The doors sealed closed and the train moved forward. I opened my hand. In my palm was the slug that I had searched for back at the building where the attempt had been made on the lives of Watson and myself. When I looked back the man had disappeared into the throng.
37
WATSO
N
I let Christopher do most of the talking at Scotland Yard. We had piecedtogether that after Lilah called Christopher she got on a night train to East Sussex and returned to the cottage. Alexander, knowing that his childhood home was her likely destination, stole a car and drove down after her. The hundred and ten thousand pounds that was taken from my flat was recovered in the car. Obviously, Alexander intended to use the money to go off to wherever it was he was trying to convince his mother to go off to. As we mutually determined beforehand, Christopher omitted the more sensitive facts of the interrelationships.
Lestrade was more than satisfied. This Alexander Hollocks was certainly the culprit and just as well dead. Gregson was clearly not as sanguine. He knew Christopher was not telling the whole story but did not press the issue.
After leaving Scotland Yard, I returned home and sat down at mywriting desk trying to decide whether to divulge all the facts of Holmes’s murder. It made me remember that in his final letter Holmes asked me to deliver his eulogy, saying there is no one who can speak the truth about his life better than I. Holmes always sought the truth, and that is why I have decided to write the truth without reservation. I am convinced that Sherlock Holmes paid in full measure for his mistakes. In a moment of weakness, a man with sublime talent betrayed himself and quietly paid for it the rest of his life. And he did not pay in legal tender,for that was the decision he made on that last, fateful night. He knew the price of his error might well be greater than gold. It might well be his most valuable possession—his name. Instead, it merely turned out only to be his life. His name remains intact. His humanity is secured in the acts of bravery and justice that are his alone. I, Doctor John H. Watson, have written of them. I have written the truth about the finest man I have ever known, the perfectly imperfect Sherlock Holmes.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
I would like to thank my friends and family who were gracious enough to read my manuscript and give me their thoughts, support and encouragement, particularly my brother Dennis for his always indispensable counsel. Thank you to Califia Suntree for her immaculate editing of the manuscript. Thank you to Margot Frankel for her excellent artwork. And thank you to Bob Wallace for his invaluable advice.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
D avid Fable is the pseudonym for an award-winning screenwriter, playwright and network television producer.
Fable is currently the artist in residence at a major university where he lectures on writing for the stage and screen.
Table of Contents
CONTENTS
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
CHAPTER 20
CHAPTER 21
CHAPTER 22
CHAPTER 23
CHAPTER 24
CHAPTER 25
CHAPTER 26
CHAPTER 27
CHAPTER 28
CHAPTER 29
CHAPTER 30
CHAPTER 31
CHAPTER 32
CHAPTER 33
CHAPTER 34
CHAPTER 35
CHAPTER 36
CHAPTER 37
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
ABOUT THE AUTHOR