The Last Sherlock Holmes Story

by Michael Dibdin

  By now my sleeplessness was beginning to take its toll, and as I considered the prospect before me it became clear that this was going to be a continuing problem. The scene Holmes had painted for me the night before, of two exhausted men each willing himself to stay alert longer than the other, now took on a more immediate significance. Obviously I could not leave Holmes unwatched for even a few minutes. There was quite literally no telling what he might do, and even if it were nothing more than a decampment in flight from imaginary enemies, it would mean the end of all my hopes for a decent solution to this horribly indecent business. Evidently if I was to retain the advantage I had to have some artificial support denied to Holmes. I had made sure that he was without needles or bottles, but what was I to do? I had nothing suitable to hand, and by the time the chemists’ shops opened Holmes would be up and about. Then, suddenly, I remembered the gift which Holmes had made to me of his hypodermic needles and his cocaine solution. Cocaine was by no means ideal for my purposes, but its action is stimulating to the central nervous system and if used judiciously I had no doubt it would fit the bill. I located the small brown bottle in one of the drawers of my desk, transferred the contents to a larger container marked ‘The Linctus’, and diluted them considerably. I then injected a small amount into my arm. The effect was immediate and remarkable. I felt my head clear, my spirits lift, my limbs surge with energy. Yes, it would do! I set the bottle and the case of needles on one side, and went upstairs to see how my guest was faring.

  As I opened the door I noticed at once that the bed was now empty. In the same instant Holmes leapt out from behind the door and swung at my head with a fire-iron. Only the hypersensitive reactions which are a product of the drug saved my life. I sensed the attack just in time, and the weapon caught me only a glancing blow. This was still enough to stun me momentarily. I came to lying on the floor with Holmes bent over me. His arms were around me and his face was filled with anxiety.

  ‘You’re not hurt, Watson?’ he cried. ‘For God’s sake, say that you are not hurt!’

  I rose groggily to my feet

  ‘It’s nothing.’

  ‘Ah, the fiend! You see how cunning he is. He makes me almost kill my only friend! He knew that after seeing his man in the garden I would assume that he had done away with you, and was coming to finish me off.’

  ‘In the garden? His man?’

  He plucked me by the sleeve and led me over to the window.

  ‘No, stand back! Like so, at the side. Do you see him?’

  ‘William? He comes every Saturday, to do the garden.’

  ‘Ha! Clearly Moriarty foresaw the utility of having an agent with access to your household. Your domestics may also have been suborned. I should never have stayed here, Watson. It was madness. We have been very fortunate thus far, but the Professor may strike at any moment. We must leave at once. Every second is precious.’

  ‘My luggage is packed.’

  Holmes gave out an exclamation of disgust.

  ‘No luggage, man! You might as well tell him which station we are headed for and save him any further trouble in the matter. We will go as we are, and encourage the manufactures of the countries through which we travel. But first we must think of a beau stratagème to get out of this house alive.’

  Whilst Holmes paced the floor, wrestling with this imaginary problem, I was trying to answer the rather more vital question of how to take along the cocaine and syringe unobserved, since we were to travel without luggage. The thought of the drug gave me an idea.

  ‘I say, Holmes! How would it be if I got myself up as if I were paying a visit to a patient? You know – morning-dress and black bag. Surely he would not suspect that?’

  Holmes gave me an approving glance.

  ‘Excellent, Watson! I see that you are in form today. I had the same idea two minutes ago. What was giving me pause was the question of how my own exit might be managed. Now I have that too.’

  He would say no more, but bade me go and change. When the maid called me, I was to go straight down and get into the waiting cab. Evidently Holmes was indulging himself in that strain of arch mystification I had come to know so well. It seemed best to humour him, so I went to my room to don my professional attire. I had scarcely finished packing my medical bag – it was rather weightier than usual, what with the cocaine, the case of needles, a purse of gold coins, and my service revolver – when the maid knocked to tell me that my cab was at the door. I hastened downstairs. A hansom was drawn up at the kerb. I climbed in without a word and the driver promptly whipped up his horse. We drove smartly through the residential streets of the district and turned out into Cromwell Road. Our pace here was such that we were soon overtaking all other traffic. Passing the great façade of the new museum, we drew level with an unoccupied four-wheeler. I heard my cabbie hail his opposite number.

  ‘You free, mate?’ he cried. ‘There’s a growler wanted in Alfred Place West.† Down by the railway station. I just come from there!’

  The other waved acknowledgment and turned off to the right. At the next corner we followed suit. We sped furiously down the street, rounded the corner on one wheel, raced to the end, and drew in at the Metropolitan station. My driver leapt down from his perch and secured the reins to a lamp-standard.

  ‘Come, Watson! There’s not a moment to lose!’ cried Sherlock Holmes.

  A few words with the maid had in fact prepared me for this revelation, but any want of warmth in my response went unnoticed as Holmes led me at a run into the station. Instead of turning down the steps leading to the trains, however, he continued at full stride the length of the short arcade. Dashing out the other side, he crossed the road and climbed into the four-wheeler that was just drawing up. I scrambled in after him, Holmes rapped loudly on the roof, and in another moment we were mobile again.

  ‘Might I trouble you for a cigar, Doctor?’ asked Holmes with a twinkle. ‘All this fresh air calls for a chaser.’

  Now I had to hear how he had told Jane to run to the High Street cab rank and summon the tallest and thinnest driver to my address, where he was induced by means of a sum of money to exchange clothes with Holmes and to part with his cab for half an hour, at the end of which time he was to take a train to the South Kensington station and retrieve it. Moriarty would of course assume, on seeing us enter the station, that we had resorted to the railway, into whose nether depths he would descend whilst we sped away unpursued, etc., etc. Dutifully I gasped and nodded and exclaimed. What did it matter? Let Holmes amuse himself. He might elude Moriarty, but he could not escape me.

  There were still two hours to wait before the departure of the boat train. We occupied this time with a long drive across the river to Peckham, where we breakfasted amply in an establishment frequented almost exclusively by omnibus drivers. Shortly before eleven o’clock we drew up in the concourse at Victoria Station. I remained in the cab while Holmes purchased the tickets. At his signal I joined him, and we both then rushed headlong through the milling throng and clambered aboard the already moving train. Needless to say this behaviour, together with the eccentricity of our apparel, attracted some little attention. But it was not this which caused Holmes to utter an oath as he gazed back at the receding platform.

  ‘Damn! It’s Moriarty!’

  I rushed to see, but another train pulling out hid the station from view. Holmes smote the partition of our compartment in frustration and anger.

  ‘The cunning devil! He must have gambled that we were heading for the Continent. When we gave him the slip he simply made for Victoria and sat down to wait. It is what I myself would have done in the circumstances. It is well we took no chances at the station! But I fear we are up against it once more, friend Watson.’

  By now this continued pantomime was beginning to pall on me, and I found it hard to keep my voice from betraying that fact.

  ‘I scarcely see what good it can do him to know we have caught this train. It is an express, and the boat runs in connection with it. Even if h
e engages a special he must arrive too late.’

  Holmes favoured me with a pitying smile.

  ‘My dear Watson, you evidently did not realise my meaning when I said that this man may be taken as being quite on the same intellectual plane as myself. His plans have been laid for months, and you can be certain that he will not have overlooked the possibility of my escaping him in London. Our train may achieve sixty miles an hour, but the impulses in those wires’ – he pointed out of the window – ‘travel at the speed of thought. Even if we break every record for the run, Moriarty’s henchmen in Dover will have well over an hour to prepare for our arrival, and when we step from this carriage we will be as good as dead!’

  I shrugged my shoulders.

  ‘If that is the case,’ I muttered, ‘we had better say our prayers. The train does not stop, and there is no way out of this compartment.’

  Holmes took a large pinch of snuff and settled back in the corner without a word. The train sped on, shaking off the tentacles of suburban London and striking out into the vernal Kentish countryside. Outside, life burgeoned, fresh and strong and straight, whilst in the fetid air of our compartment lurked a blight that sickened and twisted everything it touched. Already I was exhausted again. The simple act of constantly moving from my world to Holmes’s and back again, as I had to every moment, was in itself debilitating to an extent I had not foreseen. Thank God I had the cocaine to help me! But its spell was wearing off, and I needed privacy to renew the dose. I lit a cigar and chewed anxiously on the smoke. How dangerously demoralising it was to turn from those stilly gathered oast-houses to confront a man capable of brutally murdering a young mother, bottling her gravid womb, and then celebrating this infamy with a diabolical pastiche of one of our finest Christmas hymns!

  We roared through Chatham and Sittingbourne, and still Holmes spoke not a word. As we passed Faversham he roused himself at last, crossed to the outside of the compartment and tried the door. It was locked. He took out his keychain, and opened a small instrument which was attached to it. With this he worked at the lock for a few minutes. Then he reached up and pulled the alarm cord.

  ‘Climb out on the running-board, Watson. When I shout, we jump.’

  He opened the door. The brakes were squealing viciously but the train was still moving very fast.

  ‘After you, Holmes.’

  With a shrug, he went. Gingerly I followed him out on to the narrow board, clinging for support to the brass hand-holds. The train was now slowing perceptibly, although the cinder bed beneath us was still but a streak. It was very awkward having to hold my bag while grasping the shaking carriage, and I was wondering how long I would be able to keep it up when Holmes shouted and was gone. I shut my eyes and leapt out into space. The fall was painful, but I was soon on my feet and running towards Holmes, who stood beckoning to me from the abutment of a bridge some fifty yards away. In the other direction the train was grinding to a halt as I joined my companion. Together we climbed the bank, slipped through a hedge, and started off along a little country lane. A short walk brought us to the village of Chartham, where we repaired to the inn. After a leisurely lunch we remade our plans in consultation with Bradshaw. By leaving Holmes for a few minutes at table I was able to restore my flagging energy and confidence, and the day ended without further ado in our sailing aboard the night packet from Newhaven.

  I do not propose to weary my readers with a detailed account of our peregrinations through France and Germany. The journey from London to the coast was the model upon which all our subsequent travel was undertaken, and if I had the strength and the time I might compile a catalogue of moonlight flits, assumed identities, invisible foes, arrangements continually revised, and many and various laws infringed. But such a task would be tiresome and nothing to the point. All that matters is that at no time during these five days was Holmes out of my sight, and at no time was I able to bring about the decisive confrontation that I sought. The affair was clearly going to be more difficult than I had imagined. The new month saw us quitting Geneva for the Valais, and found me facing a problem which might aptly be described as insoluble – how to replace my dwindling supply of cocaine. I had only to go to a chemist’s and purchase a quantity of the hydrochloride, which I could then dilute at will. But as I have said, at no time during the five days was Sherlock Holmes out of my sight, as a consequence of which I was at no time out of his. I devised several stratagems to obtain the drug secretly, but they all failed. Meanwhile I was having to inject ever larger doses of the solution to maintain that state of vigilance which was so essential, for as I continued to deny my body its rightful rest, so it increased the interest it exacted on the mounting debt.

  Had some Olympian observer been following our progress, he must have been mightily amused at the contrast between my expectations that morning in Baker Street and the reality which was unfolding. I had imagined myself – strong, righteous and resolved – leading the bewildered and distraught Holmes to a deserted spot where, man to man, we would have things out. Instead, a Holmes who arose each morning still fitter and more lucid than he had been the day before was dragging his increasingly weakened and distracted companion across Europe on an itinerary which he refused to discuss towards a destination he declined to disclose. In short, with each day that passed we resembled more and more the Holmes and Watson of old. The crisis came when our departure from Geneva – at three o’clock in the morning, in a cart full of empty milk churns – ruled out the last possibility of my obtaining further supplies of cocaine. I had just three days’ stock remaining. A few hours after failing to refresh my blood with the drug I would undergo a nervous collapse, and for the next two or three days I would be quite incapable of looking after myself, never mind Holmes. Thus I now knew that the dénouement could on no account be delayed beyond the fourth day of May.

  On Saturday the 2nd we walked from Leuk to Kandersteg over the Gemmi Pass. I am told the route is extremely scenic. The condition of my nerves, to say nothing of my ankle, prevented me from forming an opinion on the subject. Holmes quite made up for my low spirits, however, displaying a vitality and an exuberance that were almost excessive. We were accompanied by a guide the entire distance, and any initiative on my part was therefore impossible. I remember Holmes making much of a rock-fall which occurred quite close to our path. He clearly regarded the incident as another attempt on his life, and would have none of the guide’s protestations that such mishaps were common at that season. After spending the night at Kandersteg, we descended the next morning to Spiez, where Holmes announced that we might indulge in the luxury of public transport for the rest of the day. We accordingly took the steamer to Brienz, continuing that evening by train to Meiringen, where we put up at the Englischer Hof.

  As I kept my vigil through the long alpine night, I knew that the morrow must inevitably witness either the success or the failure of my enterprise. Fortunately for me the proprietor of the inn, one Peter Steiler, had worked for some time at the Grosvenor Hotel, and his command of English was excellent. Early the next morning, while Holmes was still asleep, I found Steiler greeting the dawn from the porch of the hotel with a series of yodelling yawns. I engaged him in conversation concerning the noteworthy sights in the locality, and as a result I was able to suggest to Holmes over breakfast that we walk across the hills to Rosenlaui that day, taking in the famous Reichenbach falls on our way. Holmes replied, as was his wont, that such had in fact been his intention. I excused myself, and in the privacy of our room I drew the last dregs of cocaine solution from its bottle and injected it into my scarred forearm. Once again I savoured the gush of strength and clarity and purpose. All was well. The die was cast. Vengeance was to be mine.

  To my chagrin and dismay, however, Holmes absolutely refused to start our expedition until after lunch. We had been ceaselessly on the move for nine days, he pointed out, and a morning’s rest would do us both good. The walk to Rosenlaui was a matter of a few hours only. We would enjoy a pleasant lunch at the Englis
cher Hof and set out about two o’clock. I was furious. This whim of Holmes’s posed a serious threat to the success of my efforts, since it prevented me forcing a conclusion while the stimulating effects of the drug were at their height. I argued, I cajoled, I begged, I sulked, but all in vain. The pictures I painted of charming picnics in alpine meadows, a bottle of Neuchâtel cooling in a near-by stream, entirely failed to move Holmes. He had made up his mind to spend the morning in Meiringen and that was that. And so I was obliged to fritter away my precious energy on such all-important activities as admiring our landlord’s collection of wood-carvings, and listening to Holmes hold forth upon the effect of climate in forming the character of nations.

  It was after two o’clock when we finally set out. I was silent, husbanding my strength for the trial that lay ahead. My companion, by contrast, was at his blithest and wittiest. Undeterred by my preoccupation, he persevered gamely in pointing out to me the many beauties of the surrounding landscape. But I was conscious only of the sickening sagging of my spirits, and of the exhaustion and delirium lurking like a pack of wolves at the fringes of my mind.

  We had covered about half the distance to the falls when I discovered, with much annoyance, that I had left my watch at the inn. Quite apart from its actual value, the piece was of some considerable sentimental interest to me, having belonged to my late father. I could not feel easy, I told Holmes, until I had it once more in my pocket. But it is always tedious to retrace one’s footsteps, and there was no point in his returning with me to Meiringen. I therefore suggested that he continue alone to the falls, where I would rejoin him as soon as possible. Holmes readily agreed, and we parted. I hurried off down the hillside, hoping that I had not made a mistake in letting Holmes out of my sight. But I did not see how else the affair could be managed. I reached Meiringen in a little under the half-hour. Steiler was lounging on the porch of the inn as I hurried up.