The Last Sherlock Holmes Story

by Michael Dibdin

  ‘Finally Moriarty made a simple slip which enabled me to outmanoeuvre him. He imagined he was deceiving me, while he was in fact playing into my hands. Our ultimate encounter took place at a famous falls, which I had already scouted as a suitable scene for my purposes. On a narrow path cut into the rock of the abyss, we engaged in a final discussion of the questions which lay between us. His arguments proved the weaker.’

  He spoke these words coldly and unwillingly. The contrast with his earlier sparkling bonhomie could not have been more marked. I was eager to hear how he would account for his actions after I had left him that night in Commercial Street, but to press him still further on a subject so obviously uncongenial, I realised, might well arouse his suspicions as to the reason for my excessive curiosity. That was the last thing I wanted. In fact, on mature consideration, I was inclined to think it no bad thing that Holmes sought to avoid the topic. It might well mean that he had determined to put that entire episode of his life into quarantine, as it were; to erase it from his memory as utterly as he claimed to have destroyed the man responsible.

  We parted that night on the very best of terms, and within a few weeks I was once again regularly joining Holmes in his investigations into the cases which, as soon as news of his return became general, were once more brought in profusion to his door. A.C.D. included accounts of most of these adventures in the stories he published after Holmes’s death, so I will content myself with merely naming them. Following the Irene Adler affair in March, we investigated the events culminating in the robbery at Mawson & Williams’s, and later in June the strange disappearance of Neville St Clair. July was a busy month, providing us with three cases – that of my old school friend ‘Tadpole’ Phelps and the missing treaty; that which bore on the loss of the barque Sophy Anderson; and the highly sensitive affair arising from a duel fought in Windsor Great Park. In August, my records reveal, we were able to exonerate Mrs Nancy Barclay of her husband’s murder, while September found us solving the riddles of Miss Mary Sutherland’s absconding fiancé, Mr Hatherley’s missing thumb, and Mr Openshaw’s orange pips. In November, Holmes was able to foil an ingenious attempt to steal the Rosetta Stone, and the year ended with our unexpected recovery of the Countess of Morcar’s diamond.† This list will in itself demonstrate that throughout 1889 I kept very close watch on Sherlock Holmes. My practice, which had never been large, shrank almost to nothing as a result of my continual preoccupation with the doings of my friend, and I fear that my wife must on occasion have been sorely tried by my apparent irresponsibility. But I was rewarded, come the new year, by my confident conviction that all was well with Holmes, and that whatever fit had temporarily eclipsed his genius in the autumn of ’88 had passed away without leaving any traces. As of old, he seemed happy to turn his attention to any problem that might be laid before him, and the cases we investigated together represent only a fraction of those tackled by him that year. In short, Holmes resembled no one so much as the vigorous and enthusiastic man I had met in 1881. The transformation was so complete that it was with relief rather than surprise that I found myself, one day in September, being presented with the bottle of cocaine solution and the little morocco case that contained his needles.

  ‘Perhaps you may be able to find some use for these, Doctor,’ he declared. ‘For my part, I no longer need them. The supply of work has been quite adequate thus far, but if it fails I shall resort to certain respiratory techniques which I mastered during my stay in the East. The effect is quite as satisfactory, and there are no secondary complications.’

  I took the instruments of evil from his hand with unfeigned satisfaction. This was indeed something! If he had come to understand the danger cocaine represented to his welfare, and was determined to renounce it, then surely he was well on his way to a complete recovery.

  Before leaving these months when Sherlock Holmes was, all unwittingly, on probation, I must record one incident which caused me much concern at the time and was to have a profound effect on later events. One Wednesday morning in mid-July a woman named Alice McKenzie was found in an alley off Whitechapel High Street, her throat cut and her abdomen ripped open. I read about the crime in that day’s Telegraph, which commented that the murder was certainly one of the series which had startled London the previous winter. Later editions were even more positive. All were agreed that the atrocity was the work of Jack the Ripper.

  I felt as though I had been hit by a shell. All the comforting certainties with which I had been busily surrounding myself hung in tattered shreds. Then hope returned, as I recalled that Holmes had not been alone on the night in question. On the contrary, he had been at home in the company of myself and two of Europe’s most distinguished criminal investigators – Monsieur Dubuque and Herr von Waldbaum. The occasion had been a dinner to mark the successful conclusion of the case I have mentioned arising from a duel fought at Windsor. This affair, which involved members of three royal families in situations of an extremely compromising nature, had best remain undisclosed even now. I will refer to it as the case of the second slain. Those who are familiar with the events in question will instantly apprehend my meaning.‡ The investigation, involving as it did the interests of so many highly placed persons, had been conducted jointly by Holmes and the two foreign agents I have named. These gentlemen had taken a markedly different view of the case from Holmes’s, but a mutual respect prevailed throughout and when Holmes proved to have been correct his first wish was to discuss his methods and findings with his rivals. Thus it was that the great symposium was convened. I was privileged to be present, and still retain an almost verbatim account of the proceedings.

  Never will I forget that evening! Much of what was said passed my understanding at the time, but one could sense the air fairly crackling under the communicated energies of those three finely attuned minds. For each it was a unique opportunity to exchange the ideas that were the very breath of their lives with men fully capable of comprehending them. For once, Holmes found himself free of the need to make allowances for his audience, and the result was a discussion of such ferocious brilliance as I never expect to hear again.

  On the face of it, one could hardly wish for a better alibi. But was it an alibi? I myself had been obliged to leave the gathering shortly before eleven o’clock. By then the case of the second slain had been thoroughly talked out, but the conversation had gravitated towards the more general aspects of investigative work and was still going strong when I left. Since McKenzie had been murdered some time between midnight and one o’clock, the point I had urgently to clarify was how long the two Continental detectives had remained with Holmes.

  Monsieur Dubuque had already returned to Paris, but I was fortunate enough to catch Herr von Waldbaum at his hotel. I invented some clumsy story about wishing to know if my brother had called in search of me at about midnight. The German replied that he was unable to enlighten me, having himself left Holmes’s rooms before that hour. Dubuque, however, had remained and might be able to assist me – although a simpler course, natürlich, would be to ask Herr Holmes himself. Alas, I muttered, that was not possible. A question of family honour was involved. Von Waldbaum nodded gravely.

  I left the hotel in an agony of suspense. For a moment I thought of cabling Dubuque, but I soon realised that the matter was too delicate to be adequately conveyed in telegraphic jargon. Above all, I had to drop some hint, as I had with the German, that would prevent Dubuque telling Holmes about my inquisitiveness. There is only one way to be sure that a hint has been taken – especially across a language barrier – and that is by reading your man’s eyes. I therefore hurried home, packed a few necessities, told my wife an untruth, and caught the night express to Paris. The following morning I had a brief interview with Monsieur Dubuque at the Sûreté. With the Frenchman I thought it best to amend my tale. After a lengthy exchange of compliments I asked him, in a suitably halting fashion, whether Holmes had received an unexpected visit from a lady between twelve and one on the night in questi
on. Dubuque was highly taken with the idea of the great English detective and celebrated misogynist being entangled in such an affair, but was able to assure me that he and Holmes had continued to bavarder until after one o’clock, and that no such clandestine rendezvous had been attempted during that time. But then a man of sense and discretion such as Monsieur Holmes would without doubt have arranged some signal to his belle inconnue. I agreed that this might well be the case, but my relief on learning that Holmes had not done the murder and that all was still well was so evidently unfeigned that Dubuque immediately assumed that some rivalry existed between Holmes and myself for the attentions of the lady in question! I entreated him to say nothing of this to Holmes; he seemed offended that I felt it necessary to ask. He quoted La Rochefoucauld; I resisted the temptation to embrace him in the Latin manner, took my leave, rushed into the first café I saw and consumed a pint of champagne.

  Whether it was the wine or the good news, I unfortunately omitted to remove the labels from my luggage on my return to London that evening. Mary was at first reluctant to accept my explanation for the presence of a tab reading ‘Paris via Dover’ on a bag which had supposedly accompanied me to Midhurst in Sussex, where I had supposedly been assisting Holmes to solve the mystery of the corpse on the beach. She protested, among other things, that there was no beach at Midhurst. That, I replied darkly, was the mystery. So ended the episode of the first return of Jack the Ripper, which began with high drama, seemed set to turn to tragedy, and ended perilously close to farce. I came out of it more than ever convinced – with that irrational complacency which is the natural result of a false alarm – that Holmes could now be trusted to his own devices.

  My Paddington practice, meanwhile, was doomed. The rot caused by my constant attendance on Holmes was too far gone to be eradicated, and the resulting air of gloom and failure which hung over my consulting-room proved to be an effective deterrent to new patients. After some deliberation I therefore decided to sell out and move to another district, where I might start afresh. It seemed an auspicious moment for such a change. The new decade promised a fresh start for me too. I had fulfilled my duty to society. The Whitechapel murders had evidently come to an end, and Holmes was no longer a danger to the public. The time had come to consider myself for a change. At the end of January 1890 I found a suitable practice in Kensington. Now at last I could begin my married life in earnest, unencumbered by responsibilities left over from my bachelorhood. A new era seemed to beckon me, and a new life as a family man and a successful physician with a flourishing practice in a fashionable area suitably distant from Baker Street. No longer could I be at Holmes’s beck and call. From now onwards my patients and my household must claim prior importance.

  The financial strain imposed by the move was considerable. My Paddington practice I disposed of for rather more than it was perhaps worth, but my wife was nevertheless compelled to sell another of the fabulous pearls she had received as conscience money from Mr Thaddeus Sholto. Indeed, the Sholto case helped us in more than one way, for it formed the basis of A.C.D.’s second story based on Holmes’s work, which was written at this time. I was a little surprised to find him reverting to a form with which he had seemingly finished for ever, but apparently ‘A Study in Scarlet’ had enjoyed a success in America, and an American magazine had now commissioned him to provide a sequel. The arrangement A.C.D. sought was as before. I was to provide the raw material from my notes and personal reminiscences, while he would give the thing form and style. I was obliged to consult Holmes of course, and remembering his outburst on reading A.C.D.’s treatment of the Jefferson Hope case, I did so with some trepidation. But to my great surprise, Holmes gave his consent at once. He seemed mildly amused that the Americans had so relished ‘A Study in Scarlet’. But which case was my friend preparing to trivialise now? I suggested that perhaps the Sholto affair might prove suitable for fictional treatment.

  ‘Ah yes!’ Holmes smiled fondly. ‘Mr Thaddeus and Brother Bartholomew! Jonathan Small and Tonga!’

  ‘And Mary Morstan.’

  ‘Quite. Yes, I have no doubt it has all the ingredients of a successful novelette. Needless to say, I do not expect your colleague to capture anything but the crude outlines of my method. But I trust the affair already possesses enough romance and pathos to satisfy his readership, thus sparing him the necessity of interpolating frontier melodramas of his own invention.’

  When ‘The Sign of Four; or, The Problem of the Sholtos’ duly appeared in February, I had not seen Holmes for over six weeks. So effective was my determination to change my ways, indeed, that throughout 1890 we met only four, or possibly five, times. Only twice did I accompany him on an investigation, as against a dozen such instances the previous year. In June we travelled to Herefordshire to look into the murder of Charles McCarthy, and in October I was at his side when he foiled the Saxe-Coburg Square bank raid.§ No doubt I was at fault in washing my hands of Holmes in this cavalier fashion. No doubt I should have withdrawn more gradually, and returned more often to check that all was well. But in all honesty, I am afraid that if I had noticed any signs of mischief at 221B Baker Street I would simply have looked the other way. Having braved such a monster, and seen it dead and buried, it is hard to admit that the ground above its grave is cracked and heaving.

  However, the question did not arise. I was aware of no change in Holmes. Indeed, I had virtually ceased to be aware of Holmes at all. My life seemed sunny and serene as never before. Christmas came and went, and it was 1891. I was a respected physician with a growing practice and the contented master of a well-ordered household. Jack the Ripper seemed already a thing of the past, locked away between the pages of yellowing newspapers like all the dead who once strutted so boldly. But Jack was not dead. He was only resting, and his rest had almost reached its term.

  * Now part of Blandford Street.

  † All but three of these cases appear among Conan Doyle’s stories. The exceptions are the case assigned to November, and the last two of the three cases assigned to July. For further details of the July cases, see note to p. 137.

  ‡ This case is not among those treated by Conan Doyle. However, in ‘The Naval Treaty’ we find this passage: ‘The July which immediately succeeded my marriage was made memorable by three cases … I find them recorded in my notes under the headings of “The Adventure of the Second Stain”, “The Adventure of the Naval Treaty”, and “The Adventure of the Tired Captain.”’ If we identify the final pair with the first two of Watson’s cases for July 1889 (see p. 135) then by a process of elimination Watson’s ‘case of the second slain’ and Conan Doyle’s ‘Adventure of the Second Stain’ must be one and the same.

  § For further details of these cases, see ‘The Boscombe Valley Mystery’ and ‘The Red-Headed League’, respectively.

  Five

  Frances Coles, a Whitechapel prostitute of the lowest type, was murdered shortly after two o’clock in the morning of Friday the 13th February 1891. Her body was found by a patrolling policeman in an alley under one of the arches of the railway bridge between Chamber Street and Royal Mint Street. Her throat had been horridly cut. The evening papers carried several columns on the subject, and none professed the slightest doubt that the killing was the work of Jack the Ripper. The police were strongly censured for having relaxed their vigilance; the public warned to brace itself for a fresh onslaught of terror.

  I read the reports with a wry smile and a pleasant sense of superiority. It was perfectly clear to me that the murder had no connection whatever with the earlier series. I knew who had been responsible for those atrocities, and after making myself ridiculous over the last Ripper scare, I had no intention of being drawn every time a Whitechapel whore had her throat cut and the press, knowing it was worth an extra hundred thousand copies, attributed the crime to Jack the Ripper. Within a few days a seaman was arrested for the murder, and although he was subsequently acquitted, I gathered that the authorities were convinced that he had in fact killed not o
nly Coles but Alice McKenzie as well.

  At about this time Holmes left for the Continent, having apparently been engaged by the French Government in a matter of supreme importance. I received two letters from him. The first was a mere conventional note, remarkable only because Holmes was not in the habit of writing conventional notes. The second letter, in contrast, was of so singular a character that I had better reproduce it here exactly as I received it:

  Nîmes

  April 1st

  Dear Watson,

  I am sure you cannot have forgotten Miss Gloria Scott, of whom I told you so much in connection with the Trevors of Donnithorpe? You will no doubt be enlightened to know that she is now staying here, acting as interpreter to poor English folk in distress. We met only last evening, when she told me about ‘the eminent scientist, Professor Nemo. He is apparently still alive. I understood he had been killed while developing France’s industrial resources (coals, iron, etc.) I myself, essentially, am now engaged on carrying further his researches. His trail remains clear. My old tutor’s post at Montpellier is vacant – a watched pot, perhaps, cannot boil. You say: “Tell me more, Holmes!” But this isn’t the time. Remember what he wrote – “Truth shall run, but not hide, nor escape secretly from me.”’ Poor English, indeed, but excellent sense.

  Yours,

  Holmes

  I was greatly alarmed by the disordered state of mind revealed by this letter. A ship named Gloria Scott had indeed figured in one of Holmes’s early cases, which he had related to me, but no such lady. As for Professor Nemo, not only had I never heard of him, I very much doubted whether any such person existed outside the pages of fiction. But what I found most disturbing was the disintegration of Holmes’s normally immaculate style from the relative coherence of the first lines to the halting gibberish of the last. All in all, the letter reminded me horribly of the scribbles of a drug maniac.