The word stopped on his lips, and his face changed, in the starry twilight of that crossroads, as he recognized me at last. First enlightened, then filled with a rush of comprehension, as he understood at last why I had come to be so free within the Neverlands, followed by pity and grief. And it seemed to me that I no longer looked up so far at him, though as I’ve said he was always far taller than I. But it seemed to me that I was as he saw me, not my child self, nor even the woman I’d been when first we’d met, but a gaunt and shorn-haired invalid in the final stages of consumption.
“My dear.” He put out his hand, and where once it had felt cold against the healthy heat of my child-hand in dreaming, now his was the warm one.
“Don’t worry,” I said gently. “I’ll be returning to John, at least for a short while.”
In his face I saw his knowledge, of how short that time would be.
“Take care of him,” I said, simple and matter-of-fact.
“Of course.”
“It’s been good to have an adventure with you,” I said. “I always wanted to. They never let girls.”
Holmes opened his mouth to reply — almost certainly with some sentence beginning, The female of the species … then thought about the words, and closed it again. At length he said, “That has been my loss.”
We were silent, on that crossroads island, the dark bridge that led back toward my own room — and to Baker Street, for him — disappearing into the star-sprinkled gloom before our feet. In the other direction I could still see the Neverlands, sparkling in sunlight and joy.
Holmes asked, “Will you be all right?”
“Oh, yes. Peter will look after me, and go with me the first part of the way. It is the one thing he always does.”
He nodded, knowing this to be true. “Until we meet again, then, Mary.”
And we went our separate ways.
His Last Arrow
His Last Arrow
by Christopher Sequeira
The following is transcribed exactly as it appears on many handwritten sheets of paper. The original document itself was the sole contents of a plain brown envelope that had at one time been sealed with wax, which was found amongst a large selection of items in a house in Crowborough, East Sussex, in England. The envelope and many items of value were believed to have been stolen property, accumulated by a gang of burglars who were apprehended after successfully robbing several houses in the vicinity. Some of the goods the thieves had taken appeared to have come from the home of the late Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, however, when the brown envelope was proffered to the late author’s family, and it was noted that the seal was broken, a legal representative of the Doyle family examined the documents and announced the papers had never at any time been in the possession of the family, and then took the unusual step of expressing the view in writing that any attempts to claim otherwise would meet with legal action.
In 1894 I had returned to Baker Street following the failure of my marriage. I had concealed the full ignominy of my situation by revising the beginning of a story that was just about to see print in The Strand magazine so that the tale began with a contemporary reference to the ending of the union as a ‘bereavement’. This was artistic sophistry, of course, for the woman I had married was still on this earth, she had simply decided she could tolerate no more of my involvement in the activities of my friend, Sherlock Holmes. What my other friends and acquaintances, as well as my readers had no appreciation of, however, was how well I knew this deception would take on a life of its own, and surely enough, it did. Within months old friends like Thurston, Murray and Stamford were speaking of my former wife as if she had passed from this world.
My return to Baker Street and resettling of some of my personal effects seemed to interrupt Holmes not at all. He seemed to be cocooned in a realm of chemical formulae and calculations, and would sit for hours painstakingly measuring droplets of fluids and solutions that he mixed and boiled on his Bunsen burner. When he did speak of his current work he claimed he was seeking an alternative chemical explanation for a spattering of dye stains he had found on a murderer’s dye-apron, because that killer’s height and infirmity of the left elbow precluded his wielding a left-handed blow that killed his much taller attacker. Due to the fact I was in sombre spirits I made a poor attempt at humor and suggested the killer might have stood on a ladder and turned his back to his victim, stabbing that poor person with his right hand, but in a backwards thrust. Holmes glared at me curiously and instead of expressing disgust or amusement he became quite absorbed in the notion. He proclaimed “Watson, you have increased your deductive capacity greatly since our last shared occupancy — that was positively luminous!” and he spoke not another word for the remainder of the week as he completed his investigations.
So I had much to ponder in those first days back in the old digs, and much to ponder without the company of another’s conversation. I surveyed our old quarters, noticing that Holmes had changed little about its character and appearance. Cigars lay sequestered in the coal scuttle, tobacco was to be found in the toe of a Persian slipper Holmes kept near the gasogene, and a bust of Napoleon near a window often served as a hat rack. I wandered to the mantelpiece cluttered with the essential items that marked Holmes’ day — tobacco dottles, correspondence answered and unanswered, souvenirs of his most recent case — and here I stopped.
The mantle-corner was the place he always left a souvenir of his last effort; be it a coin, a letter; anything that allowed him to reflect on the relative successes and failures of his last inquiry; and the object always remained there until replaced by the next dirt sample, bent hairpin or scribbled cryptogram that merited his scrutiny.
The latest item was a curious flattened stone, almost perfectly triangular but with rounded corners. On the uppermost side there was carved into the surface a writing of some kind, vaguely like Sanskrit or the Arabic language, whilst on the reverse I was surprised to discover a sort of pictograph; an image carved into it. The writing meant nothing to me, but the image was another matter, infuriatingly, it seemed familiar yet impossible to place into context. The image was clearly a face of some kind, but a monstrous one, of a leering, demoniacal caricature, an ugly fetish, bulging-eyed and sporting a jaw full of menacing teeth, clearly meant to frighten the simple-minded and superstitious. Although it seemed unlike that of the native art of any cultures of the Middle East I had encountered — though I was far from an expert I had spent many years abroad — I felt the nagging sense I’d come across such a totem before.
I knew Holmes would ignore me if I asked him about a recent case whilst he was engaged on a new one, so I decided to wait until he had finished his chemistry work. I could not put the issue, and my possible memory lapse, from my mind easily, but I consoled myself by recalling that during the frantic events of my time of service in the East, including the brush with death that my one-time orderly Murray had saved me from in Afghanistan, there were many experiences that were lost or blurred in the turmoil of gunfire, heat and blood; or the delirium of terrible fevers.
Some degree of relief to the mystery of the stone came in another form the following morning. I had breakfasted alone — Holmes had left a note that he was on one of his mysterious excursions — but as I finished my toast I heard the door downstairs open and close and then the familiar tread of Inspector Gregson on the stairs. Moments after a sharp double-rap at the door and a yelled “Halloa”, the man himself entered the room.
The long-faced Scotland Yard man looked older than just the year or so since I had last seen him, and I discerned something unhealthy about his physique; he seemed wasted and drawn, his eyes slightly yellowed, although his greeting was hearty enough.
“Doctor, Good Lord, man, I wasn’t aware you had returned here, I am so sorry about your wife, sir.”
I muttered a reply, and waved him to a chair, and brought forth some cigars and cigarettes. He smiled and pointed at the silver coffee pot.
“Thank you, Doctor; I wouldn�
��t say no, if I might also partake of a cup of Mrs. Hudson’s coffee, she always brews it just right.”
“She does indeed, Inspector, so help yourself. Mrs. Hudson has doubtless told you that Holmes is out, but I take it since you opted to come upstairs anyway that I may act as the sounding board of old? Now, what criminal enigma brings you here today?” I said.
Gregson sipped his coffee and exhaled a plume of Egyptian tobacco smoke. He gave me a grin.
“Murder of the most unusual stripe, sir, very much in Mr. Holmes’ line. There’s an antiques appraiser, name of Spencer Pethebridge, lives in Bloomsbury, but maintains an office in the Commercial Road. He’s considered extremely knowledgeable, especially about Oriental artifacts, and has exposed more than a few forgeries, I’m told. And only an hour ago he was found dead, in his office, probably murdered.”
I leaned forward, my attention fully engaged.
“Inspector, you should not tease me after I’ve only just returned to this house of riddle-solving. Probably murdered, you say? How can a murder be only probable to a Scotland Yard man?”
Gregson saluted me with his cigarette. “Bravo, Doctor, I was seeing if you were in the frame of mind for the business again. I do say ‘probably’, because although there was all the appearance of a suicide, the method of death was so out of the ordinary that murder has to be countenanced.”
“Unusual?” I said, feeling a strange sense of dread rise in my chest, rather than the excitement of curiosity that I had felt in the days of old. I was surprised at this reaction, and concealed it from Gregson. I wondered if I was not myself because of the circumstances that had brought me back to Baker Street, the sense of failure, or regression.
I wondered if I was merely growing too old too soon.
“Oh, yes, unusual it was. Mr. Pethebridge shot himself, straight through the heart. With an old arrow, fired by a crossbow.”
I was about to ask a question — exactly what I cannot now recall at all — when the door to the room was flung open, and a weird individual stood on the threshold, staring at us both.
He was a tall man in his late fifties or early sixties, with sun-baked, heavily creased, skin. He had a military bearing, but wore a strange hodge-podge of clothing, partly European, in terms of his boots and his trousers, but his long shirt and robe-like cloak was cotton and loose-fitting, and his head was adorned with the many windings of a turban. A few loops of beads were draped about his neck, some holding shining stones and metallic links of a sort not seen in Europe, and in his hand he clasped a very tall stick; more a staff than a cane. Although obviously of the Asian continent in origin, he reminded one more than anything else of that wonderful citizen of the Crown who lived life as much in the world of the Orientals as he did England, the late Sir Richard Burton. He flung a yellow-nailed hand out at Gregson, and spoke in a high, clear, but accented voice, assuredly Middle Eastern.
“The man Holmes, are you he?” he said; then turned to me. “Or are you?”
I stood and approached the fellow, extending my hand, cautiously, although this took enormous effort, for I found I was fearful of the fellow and his blazing brown eyes.
“Mr. Holmes is, I’m afraid, not here,” I said, “However if you would state your business I might be able to assist you, Mister…?”
The visitor stamped a foot impatiently, almost in temper. “I cannot delay! I cannot delay!” he said. “I must return to my own city soon. I have no time!”
“I am Holmes’ closest associate,” I ventured, “if you would just explain what you want, it may help.”
The man jumped forward, so fast that I had absolutely no time to anticipate him, and found my forearms gripped with a coiled strength that could have been painful had he exerted much more pressure. Gregson moved to his feet to assist me somehow, but it was not necessary, I was not, apparently in any danger.
“The Doctor! I was told you no longer dwelt here, that you had…” The stranger paused and a look passed over him. He stared at me, searching my face for I knew not what. “I mean that you no longer lived here, with the man, the detective, Holmes,” he finally said. “Please, when will Holmes return here? I have a message that he must receive, I took an oath to bring it to him.”
I tried to explain to the visitor that Holmes’ movements were not easily predictable when he was on a case but the man seemed to lose all interest. Gregson was becoming impatient with the fellow, too.
“I think that’s about all Dr. Watson really needs tell you, sir, unless you are prepared to give a name, or something a bit more substantial. And as a member of her Majesty’s Scotland Yard detectives division I would suggest you heed him.”
Our guest looked at Gregson, and then shook his head, but there was no hostility, only sadness.
“My name is Faroukhan. I will try to find Mr. Holmes elsewhere. If you see him, please tell him I will return no later than four o’clock this afternoon if I have not found him by then. I stay with friends, but only until seven o’clock tonight, then I must return home.”
“Do you wish to leave me the address of where you stay, sir?” I asked.
The stranger shook his head, and without another word he turned and left.
Gregson, bless his soul, could sense the strain this odd intrusion had on me, so newly returned to the world of Holmes and his parade of strange clients.
“Don’t worry, Doctor, you’ll get used to things again, I dare say. Here, why don’t you come to the Commercial Road with me, we’ll leave a message with Mrs. Hudson and perhaps Mr. Holmes will end up joining us there if we’re lucky.”
I agreed that this sounded an excellent plan. We left and took a cab.
Once in Commercial Road we stopped outside a small house-front where two constables were guarding the door in a largely futile effort to dissuade a group of curious on-lookers from loitering. Gregson nodded at the men and escorted me inside.
It was a terrible sight. There was a large desk and chair in the middle of the room whilst the walls were covered by a multitude of shelves featuring reference books of many shapes and sizes and glass cabinets containing a small museum’s worth of oddities and artifacts. Ancient weapons, old bronze vessels, aged and cracked tools lay in various cabinets within the shelving. All of this paraphernalia only served to heighten the ugliness of the scene of the dead man at the desk.
He was a dark-haired man of between thirty and forty, clean-shaven, and he sat back in the chair, a look of pain frozen on his white face. A crossbow was clutched in his fingers, and indeed an arrow was embedded in his chest — just the angle and appearance of the corpse made me feel certain that the weapon had pierced his heart and killed him almost instantly. But what cast an eerie aspect upon the whole scene was the item that lay on the desk, largely under the dead man’s hands and the crossbow. It was a photographic plate, the type that appears in textbooks illustrating a particular item, and a ragged edge made it quite clear that it had been torn from the pages of a book.
Naturally enough my first thought in this room of many books was that the original volume the page belonged to might be somewhere at hand, recently pulled from a shelf, but no tomes seemed to have left their home on the bookcases.
What the photographic plate depicted was a dying man, in eastern clothing lying on a mat on a dirt floor in some sort of tent, surrounded by grieving women and children. The man however had one arm outstretched and his eyes looked in that direction, even though, judging from the emaciated state of the man, the act of rising even that small amount seemed to be an effort. The curious aspect of the plate was that where the man looked to, where his hand was stretched to — there was nothing, no other hand grasped his withered palm to comfort him, and despite the look in his eyes, he met no other face with his gaze. The caption read simply “The Shaman asks for Mercy on his Death-bed”.
Gregson explained that the neighbors had neither heard nor seen anything out of the ordinary this morning. Pethebridge had arrived at his office, very early, at eight o’clock, as
was his custom. He would normally read and drink tea for an hour before opening his doors to his appointments. A curator of one of the collections at the British Museum hoped Pethebridge might have some available time that day to inspect a new shipment of Egyptian articles they had received, so a commissionaire had been sent here at half past eight to deliver a message. The messenger entered and had found the body just as we saw it here, and alerted the police.
I examined the actual arrow that was in the dead man’s chest. It was of a strange construction, it seemed to be made of old bronze — ancient bronze — rather than wood, which gave me great doubts about its flight capabilities over any sort of distance. The arrow was one of five that appeared to be part of a set that belonged in an old leather quiver of some kind, almost petrified by age, which stood on the desk near the corpse. Of the four remaining arrows in the quiver all were bent or had broken heads, none other appeared, through dint of age, to be in a state where it could be loaded into the crossbow. Of the crossbow itself I noted that it seemed to have a different vintage and origin than the arrows and quiver, for it seemed more like an ancient English device, of the type that can be found in many a native crafts and hunting exhibition; I dared think it was more than fifty years old. So, to kill himself, it seemed Pethebridge had opted to combine a mismatched crossbow and bolt.
Gregson expanded on what he thought was a feature of interest. “Now, according to the fellow who owns the haberdashery opposite, not a person entered this premises between seven thirty and eight thirty, other than Mr. Pethebridge. Therefore we need to consider an entry from another part of the building as a possibility, such as a window or back door, but, I’ve been unable to locate any that aren’t securely bolted on the inside, so a death by suicide certainly seems supported, but really, Doctor, I find it very difficult to conceive of a man killing himself in such an awkward way.”
Gaslight Grimoire: Fantastic Tales of Sherlock Holmes Page 5