"Easy, Doctor. Besides having the wind knocked out of you, you slammed your head solidly into those bars. You don't appear to have a concussion, but I think you should just lie still for a moment, until your head clears," said Moriarty.
We were in the Prince's cell; that much was quickly obvious. I didn't have to ask to know that the door was securely locked.
"How long was I unconscious?"
"Ten minutes, no more."
Seemingly satisfied as to my condition, Moriarty turned away from me to examine the cell door.
"I really don't mean to belabor the obvious," I said. "But if we don't get out of here Mary may well become the sixth victim of Jack the Ripper."
"Eighth. There were two that the public never found out about. However, I think you may well be right," he said. Just then the door swung open. He turned to me and displayed a thin wire he reattached to his pocket watch chain.
"Shall we, Doctor?"
Before I could get to my feet, Moriarty crossed to the wall and reached into a trash container near a guard post. He rummaged around for a moment and then produced the army service revolver that Murray had given me the night before.
"Moran searched us both for weapons after knocking you out. While he found your gun, his ego wouldn't let him keep a common army issue weapon. I doubt he expected us to be putting it to use quite this quickly." Moriarty passed the gun to me.
The main entrance hall of Druid's Hill was almost empty. I could hear a grandfather clock chiming ten o'clock.
"They're probably making for the carriage house," said Moriarty.
I was already a dozen steps ahead of him toward the door. Unfortunately, we were not fast enough. I had barely cleared the doorway before an open carriage came ripping past the front of the house, horses at full gallop. Whoever had the reins, and it looked to be Moran, was struggling to keep control while defending himself from an attacker who seemed to be trying to push him out of the carriage. It looked like the Prince.
"We'll never catch them," yelled the professor. "Shoot, Watson, shoot!"
I fired three times.
Whatever control Moran had was lost when the animals began to charge headlong into the sharp curve of the drive. The carriage whipped sharply from one side to the other several times before tilting too far in one direction and sending its passengers and the frightened horses sprawling across the grass.
I found Mary a few feet from the wreckage. She tried to rise up on one arm to free herself from the bushes that had cushioned her fall. However, the moment she leaned any weight on her arm, her face contorted in pain.
"I can't be sure," she said. "But I think it may be broken."
It was a clean break, thankfully. Her only other injuries appeared to be cuts and bruises.
"A fair enough trade for my life," she smiled.
We found Moran sprawled on the ground unconscious. The Prince was dead; we found him beneath the overturned wagon, his neck broken. Death had been almost instantaneous.
I did not envy Moriarty the task ahead of him; informing a father and grandfather that the fiction they had invented many years before had now become fact.
"What happened in the carriage to make the Prince attack Moran?" Moriarty asked Mary.
"I can't be sure. Moran said something to the Prince just as we left the barn; he screamed bloody murder and went for Moran's throat. I'm just glad that Moran said whatever he said," Mary replied.
"Whatever the reason, it looks like Jack the Ripper probably saved your life," observed Moriarty.
That was when it occurred to me that I had seen no sign of Holmes since the carriage had overturned.
"His footprints lead off away from the asylum," said Moriarty. "There was some blood, but I lost the trail about a quarter of a mile to the east. I have no doubt that we will be hearing from Mr. Sherlock Holmes again."
"The train is late," I said, snapping the cover on my watch closed. Mary reached out, took my hand and smiled. Her left arm hung in a sling, a reminder of our encounter with the other Holmes.
All right, I admit that I was more than a bit nervous. Frankly, considering what had happened to me over the last few days, I would say that I had every right to be.
This wasn't Victoria Station by any means, but, rather, a country train depot. In fact, it could have been a waiting room in any depot from Liverpool to Glasgow. There were a few people lingering around the waiting area. Professor Moriarty sat with a notebook on his lap, eyes half closed, every so often jotting down a few words or numerical notations. Occasionally I heard the now familiar sounds of the small metal balls clicking together as he rolled them across his palm.
Mary and I had talked for some time, but in the last few minutes both of us had lapsed into a silence, broken only by an occasional reassuring smile.
"I believe that the train is arriving," Mary said.
The familiar sounds of a steam locomotive filled the station. From the west I could see its lights, hear the metal on metal sound of its brakes, and moments later watch the steam cloud cut across the platform as it slid to a stop.
Moriarty extracted his watch from a vest pocket. "Nine and a half minutes late; mathematically insignificant, especially considering the distance that it had to travel."
A number of people emerged from the train. Most went right to the baggage compartment, while a few lingered around, looking slightly confused. A familiar figure in frock coat and top hat, carrying a walking cane, cut his way through the crowd.
"Holmes, over here," I called out.
I must confess that until that moment I had harbored the slightest fear that all of my memories of the other world had been one long dream.
"Watson, old fellow. It is good to see you." Holmes said grasping my hand. "I have had the most remarkable journey and have seen things that even surprised me."
"They must have been a remarkable sight, then," I said.
"They were. I am sure the return journey will present even more astounding sights," he said.
I glanced at Mary. Her eyes had that remarkable wisdom that I had always looked to for strength and support.
"Holmes, where are my manners," I said "Let me introduce you to—"
"It is my pleasure, Dr. Morstan."
"I am honored, Mr. Holmes. You seem as remarkable as John has described you. Since John has explained how you both came to know my other self, I would be most interested in how you reasoned that I am a doctor."
Holmes flashed a familiar grin. "Simplicity in itself. A number of signs gave your profession away. I shall mention only two: the slight stain of silver nitrate on your uninjured hand, plus I noticed the ear piece of a stethoscope protruding from your sleeve. Since I see Watson is still carrying his in his hat, I reasoned that it most likely belonged to another doctor, you in this case," he said.
"Remarkable!" Mary laughed.
"Elementary," said Holmes. "Wouldn't you agree, Professor?"
"Indeed I would, Holmes. I note you did not fail to make use of the station's wall mirror to note my approach."
"A simple precaution, given our history. One I'm sure you would have taken had the positions been reversed."
"Indeed, you prove once again why your doppelganger has proved so elusive for these many years," chuckled Moriarty. "It is a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Sherlock Holmes,"
"The pleasure is mine, Professor Moriarty," Holmes said.
I then saw something I never in my life had expected to see: Sherlock Holmes shaking hands with Professor Moriarty.
"The note that you sent was fascinating in its implications," said Holmes.
"You had no trouble with the formulas that I suggested?"
"None. It was simply a matter of reorienting one's perceptions of the world around us to direct the train to this particular station and your world," said Holmes. "I doubt the other passengers ever noticed the difference."
"Then there should be no problem in allowing you and Watson to return, by the next train, to your world." Moriarty pulle
d a time table from his pocket. "Which should depart in just a bit over ten minutes, if this schedule is correct."
It was time. I squeezed Mary's hand once more before speaking. "Unfortunately, I will not be returning with Holmes."
"Indeed. And would I be wrong in assuming that at least part of your reason for remaining is Dr. Morstan?" asked Holmes. I noticed he had a very large grin on his face as he spoke.
"You would be exactly on the mark. In our world, the path for a female physician is especially difficult. Here, though not common, they are accepted more easily. As a general surgeon, I can practice anywhere. Save for a few distant cousins, I have no family left. Beyond yourself and a few other friends, none will miss me. The Professor has offered to help establish my credentials in this world," I said.
"There is then marriage in the offing?" asked Moriarty.
"Perhaps," I said.
They both knew there was, as did Mary and I. True, I had not formally proposed, but that was a matter I fully intended to correct very soon. "For now, we are definitely going into medical partnership."
"Well, Professor, it seems a good thing that I did not accept your wager," said Holmes.
"Wager?" I asked.
At that moment both Holmes and Moriarty had the same sort of twinkle in their eyes.
"Oh yes, did I forget to mention the wager that the Professor offered me? It seems that he appended a note to his missive containing the formulas for traveling here. He suggested that you might have decided to remain here, even offered to bet me ten pounds that you would.
"I did not accept that wager because, though you have been steady as a river throughout our friendship, you have at times surprised even me. From the things told me I had the feeling that this might just be one of those times." A porter appeared carrying two large carpetbags. "I also took the precaution of bringing some of your things I thought you might wish to retain in your new home."
"My thanks. Will my disappearance cause you any problems?"
"None that cannot be handled. I think with the aid of your friend, Dr. Doyle, we should be able to maintain the fiction that you are still writing your chronicles of my minor adventures."
Doyle was a good man, a decent physician and an excellent writer of historical tales. He had recommended me to the editors of the Strand Magazine when I had first begun to seek publication for my work. Doyle's only problem was he had an annoying habit of forgetting my name and calling me James.
"Then this is good-bye?"
"Let us simply say Auf Wiedersehen, Watson. I would not rule out the possibility that we will see each other again."
I watched as Holmes strode across the platform. He had only just stepped inside one of the first-class compartments when I noticed a conductor, with a worried expression on his face, approaching him.
As the train pulled away I saw Holmes nod and follow the man deep into the train.
"Do you think that there is a problem on the train, John?" Mary asked.
"Problems always seem to find their way to Holmes. Perhaps this one will not be without points of interest for him."
"Then, for Mr. Holmes, it appears that the game is once more afoot," she said.
A Scandal in Montreal
by Edward D. Hoch
Edward D. Hoch's work has been named a winner of both the Edgar Award and the Anthony Award, and he was named a Grand Master by the Mystery Writers of America. He was known for his prodigious short story output, which, at the time of his death in 2008, numbered more than 900, many of which chronicled the adventures of Dr. Sam Hawthorne, Captain Leopold, or Nick Velvet. In addition to this story, which appeared in one of Ellery Queen's Mystery Magazine's annual Sherlock Holmes tribute issues, he has also written about a dozen other Holmes stories.
Once readers fall in love with a character, they can't help wanting to know what happens to that character next. Conan Doyle twice attempted to retire Sherlock Holmes, once, dramatically, at Reichenbach Falls, and then again in a more sedate fashion, when he imagined Holmes easing into a well-deserved retirement as a beekeeper in Sussex. Readers famously rebelled against the first retirement, and many still aren't satisfied with the second. Could a man as single-minded and dynamic as Sherlock Holmes ever really retire? Surely a case must come his way every now and then. And what about Irene Adler, the woman who outwitted Holmes, the only woman he regards as his equal, the woman, as he calls her. Surely their paths must cross again. What happens next? We always want to know. In this next tale we see some familiar characters many years later, when they're older and their troubles are those particular to the more mature crowd—errant offspring, nostalgia, regret. It's always strange when you haven't seen someone in many years and then you meet them again. Sometimes you've both changed completely, and other times you find that you're both just the same as you've always been.
1. The Crime
My old companion Sherlock Holmes had been in retirement for some years when I had reason to visit him at his little Sussex villa with its breathtaking view of the English Channel. It was August of 1911 and the air was so still I could make out a familiar humming. "Are the bees enough to keep you busy?" I asked as we settled down at a little table in his garden.
"More than enough, Watson," he assured me, pouring us a little wine. "And it is peaceful here. I see you have walked from the station."
"How so, Holmes?"
"You know my methods. Your face is red from the sun, and there is dust from the road on your shoes."
"You never change," I marveled. "Are you alone here or do you see your neighbors?"
"As little as possible. They are some distance away, but I know they look out their windows each morning for signs of a German invasion. I fear they have been taking Erskine Childers too seriously."
It was eight years since publication of The Riddle of the Sands, but people still read it. "Do you fear war, too?"
"Not for a few years. Then we shall see what happens. But tell me what brings you here on a lovely summer's day. It has been some time since you spent a weekend with me."
"A telegram was sent to you at our old Baker Street lodgings, all the way from Canada. Mrs. Hudson couldn't find your address, so she brought it to me."
"How is she these days?"
"Infirm, but in good spirits."
"I have a housekeeper here who tends to my needs. But she is off today. If you wish to stay for dinner I can offer you only a slice of beef and bread."
"There is no need, Holmes. I came only to deliver this telegram."
"Which could have been delivered more easily by the postal service."
"It seemed important," I told him, "and I have little enough to do in my own retirement. Not even bees!"
"Well then, let us see about this urgent message."
He opened the envelope and we read it together. "Mr. Sherlock Holmes, 221B Baker Street, London. Dear Mr. Holmes, Excuse intrusion on your time, but am in urgent need of help. My son Ralph Norton gone from McGill University. Police suspect him of murder. Please come! I beg you!" It was signed simply, Irene.
"What is this, Holmes?" I asked. "Do you know the meaning of it?"
"All too well," he answered with a sigh.
"What Irene is this? Certainly not Irene Adler. She has been dead some twenty years."
"She was reported to have died, but I always doubted it. Irene was born in New Jersey, and after her marriage here to Godfrey Norton I suspected they might have fled to America to escape questions about the Bohemian affair. If this is truly from her, she would be fifty-three now, four years younger than me and not an old woman by any means. She might well have a son of university age."
"But what can you do from here, Holmes?"
"From here, nothing." He pondered the problem for several minutes, staring at her address at the bottom of the telegram. "I must respond to her at once," he decided. "This telegram was sent four days ago, on the twelfth."
"What will you tell her?"
"She begs my help, Watson. How
can I refuse her?"
"You mean you would travel to Canada?" I asked in astonishment.
"I would, and I shall be immensely grateful if you are able to accompany me."
Within a week's time we were at sea, approaching the mouth of the St. Lawrence River. I wondered how Holmes ever persuaded me to accompany him on such a lengthy journey, and yet I knew the answer. I had to be present when he met Irene Adler one more time. I had to see her for myself, after all these years.
The Improbable Adventures of Sherlock Holmes Page 14