The Falling Curtain (The Assassination of Sherlock Holmes Book 3) (2 page)

“Joseph Harrison?”

“Hah! Be glad, Watson, that you are not your friend Mr. Phelps, to have such a loving brother-in-law,” said Holmes, with no small measure of irony in his voice. “That was
a gentleman to whose mercy I should be extremely unwilling to trust. He was eventually picked up by Inspector Forbes and is a currently resident of Princetown.”

“James Ryder?”

“Come now, Watson. Did I not tell you that Mr. Ryder was too terribly frightened to continue his life of crime? During one of those periods of inactivity which I so abhorred during my active practice, I looked in on him and ensured that he continued to walk a straight line.”

“Culverton Smith?”

Holmes shook his head. “He put on a brave show through the trial, but once he was convicted and his sentence passed, the coward took a fatal dose of the
upas
poison of the Javanese mulberry tree.”

“How about Jonas Oldcastle? If I recall correctly, he threatened to pay his debt to you one day.”

“Unfortunately for him, Clotho cut his thread before his fully-allotted time at Parkhurst Prison expired. A far too common occurrence in those unhealthy locales, as Colonel Valentine Walter also discovered.”

“But what of Hugo Oberstein, who only got fifteen years for the murder of Cadogan West?”

“Yes, which does not put him out from Portland Prison until next year. I inquired, and was assured that he has not been set loose early for good behavior.”

“Williamson and Woodley?”

“The defrocked priest got only seven years for his presiding over a forced marriage, but upon release he resumed his evil ways and met his end at the hands of some, perhaps justly, outraged individual. Roaring Jack Woodley received ten years and was last seen departing for the South African mines, again striving to obtain a fortune, more honestly this time.”

“Huret?”

Holmes’ eyebrows rose. “The Boulevard Assassin? Guillotined by the French Republic.”

“Wilson?”

“The Canary Trainer? Drowned.”

“Abe Slaney?”

“Deported to America. He still resides at Joliet Prison near Chicago.”

“Josiah Amberly?”

“Hung himself while awaiting trial. He beat Jack Ketch to the punch.”

“James Wilder?”

Holmes nodded. “A good thought, Watson, but he is still seeking his fortune in Australia. I confirmed with the Duke of Holdernesse that he has not returned to our shores.”

“Reuben Hayes?”

“Hung for the murder of Heidegger.”

“His wife?”

“Ah, an interesting suggestion, Watson! I confess that I do not see the hand of a woman in these matters. Save one, I have yet to encounter one that possesses the necessary degree of cunning required to set these traps.”

“We could go on with this all day, Holmes,” said I with some exasperation. “There must be a hundred more men whose desire for vengeance is great enough that they have sworn your death.”

“Yes, Watson, so many have tried to break me for crossing them, and yet here I am. But most of them were small minds, with little ability to conceive of such grandiose and elaborate schemes.”

A dreadful thought occurred to me. “I say, Holmes, could it be the Professor? Has James Moriarty returned?”

Holmes laughed sharply. “I think not, Watson. I am certain that he died in those falls, even if his body was never recovered. He lies at the bottom of Lake Brienz. Moriarty could not possibly have been silent for so many years. I would have caught a sense of his presence. When he first rose to power, I became conscious that there was a deep organizing force, from which a thousand threads led out to the individual criminal. There would be a vast web, with the Professor lurking at the center. And I do not detect the same force this time.”

“But there are similarities….”

“Yes, Watson, but on a more limited scale. Here we have a person whose goal is not to set up a shadowy empire of crime, but solely to revenge themselves upon me.”

“Surely, the robberies at the Bank of England and the British Museum suggest a motive to enrich themselves as well.”

He shrugged. “Perhaps to a small extent. Though I suspect that these outré crimes were done more to ensure my continued presence upon the board.”

I shook my head and wondered if Holmes’ vanity was blinding him to the truth of the matter. To rank himself as more valuable than four and a half tons of gold bullion and the treasures of Ancient Britain was a great conceit.

“No, Watson,” he continued. “I have heard these fevered dreams before. How many have tried to postulate over the years that the Napoleon of crime survived? He lurks in their brains like something vaguely horrible, all that is monstrous and inconceivably wicked in the universe. But he was human after all. He could not have survived that fall.”

“So what is our next move, to continue your chess metaphor?”

“An excellent question, Watson. The stalemate has been broken. To date, we have been forced to play a defensive strategy, where we can only react to our opponent’s moves. We have been unable to plan an attack, for the simple reason that we know not where his pieces are even located on the board. But it is possible that he has just made a critical error, which may shine some light upon the disposition of the battlefield.”

“And what is that, Holmes?”

“By moving Peters against me, he made it very clear that this army has been purposefully assembled from my old enemies. Unhappily for him, he has also exposed his rook or perhaps even his queen, if such a term could be employed to describe the nasty piece of work that is Colonel Sebastian Moran. Windibank, Parker, Clay, Peters, they are all pawns. But Moran was once the lieutenant of Moriarty himself. If anyone knows the location or identity of the king, it will be him.”

“But Holmes, you have already questioned him at length,” I protested. “It has been three weeks since he was snared atop the Monument. I do not doubt that he could be concealing information from us, but how are we to extract it? Nothing has changed.”

“On the contrary, Watson, much has changed. I am at death’s door.”

I frowned. “What are you talking about, Holmes? Even at your age, your iron constitution will have you back at peak power within a day or two.”

“Ah, but whom precisely is aware of that? I was half-carried back here by a local constable, who came upon the end of the battle between Peters and I. Peters and his hound escaped, but he at least is certain that I was severely bloodied. The night was dark, so Peters has little idea of precisely how seriously he wounded me. It only remains for us to tell Moran the story we wish him to believe.”

“You plan to use the press again?”

“I do indeed, Watson.”

“But if you are dying, Holmes, then who will question Moran?”

He chuckled. “I must admit, Watson, that I was moved by the outpouring of emotion demonstrated by the British public when they first thought I had perished, but it is a long way from wearing an armband to confronting one of the most dangerous men in the world, even if he is safely behind bars. Mycroft would never exert himself to do it. And I have no real friends, save one. I can but think of a solitary man who would be the most distraught at my crucial wounding. You must question him yourself, Watson.”

I was quite astonished at this request. “But Holmes, have you not before commented upon my lack of talent with dissimulation? Is that not why you kept me in the dark when I confronted Culverton Smith? Or when I accompanied Sir Henry to Baskerville Hall?”

He nodded. “There is no doubt, Watson, that your strengths lie in directions other than the stage. As Dr. Hill Barton, you fooled Baron Gruner for mere moments. But you have studied my methods for almost thirty years now, excepting some small hiatuses. I believe that you are ready for this role.”

I was touched by this vote of confidence. “Then what must I do?”

“I have a few more telegrams to write, and we need entertain some visitors this afternoon. By the time the evening papers are printed, I think it will be time for your cue.”

§

The afternoon visitors proved to be a veritable parade of the best physicians in London. Sir Leslie Oakshott, who once stitched up Holmes after the ambush at the Café Royal. Sir Jasper Meek and Penrose Fisher were finally allowed to call upon Holmes. Benjamin Lowe and Sir James Saunders, who both owed Holmes great debts. Percy Trevelyan, and even the renowned Leslie Armstrong, called out of retirement, all stopped in to see this most important of patients.

Holmes believed that our base at Mycroft’s was being monitored by agents of our mysterious adversary Mortlock. Thus, if no physician other than me visited these chambers, it might give the lie to our deception. While invisible within Mycroft’s curtain-drawn rooms, with only the loyal Stanley to witness what transpired, we conversed gaily with each of these eminent medicos about adventures long past. But as they departed one-by-one into their fine carriages, each man was carefully instructed to appear grave with concern. As one who had watched many lives slip through my fingers over the years, it was not a difficult emotion to conjure, simply by thinking of the still face of some once-beloved patient.

For his part, Holmes was in a merry mood as he read the agitated account in the
Evening News
, which ran as follows:

It is with great sadness that we report that Mr. Sherlock Holmes, the celebrated consulting detective, has been grievously wounded in an attack by persons unknown. Mr. Holmes, who retired six years past, was in London on private business. We have been informed by Inspector Lestrade of Scotland Yard that a constable on his rounds found Mr. Holmes being set upon by a ruffian and his hound while walking in St. James’s Park. Given the terrible wounds sustained by Mr. Holmes, the constable rightly felt that his first priority was ensuring his safety, such that the unknown assailant has yet to be apprehended. Despite the attention of several of London’s top physicians, Mr. Holmes has still to recover consciousness and his life is feared for. Scotland Yard assures the public that additional constables have been assigned to patrol St. James’s Park until this villain has been caught and safely imprisoned. Inspector Lestrade states that there is absolutely no need for the public to avoid the park at this time.

I need not say that, for my part, I read this paragraph with considerably more sang-froid than I did the last time Holmes utilized this particular strategy, when I was not forewarned about its hyperbole.

Holmes chuckled as he set the paper down. “Excellent, Watson. The stage has been set. I think it is finally time for your entrance. Gregson should be here at any moment to facilitate your appointment with the good Colonel.”

As predicted, Gregson soon appeared, his face grinning with pleasure at being included in such a subterfuge. The two of us bundled into a hansom cab and, in swift progression, passed through royal London, affluent London, Bohemian London, over New Battersea Bridge, and finally through industrial London, till we came to our destination.

As I entered the grey-bricked walls of Wandsworth Prison, I noted a comely-shaped woman departing from the building. She held a silken handkerchief over her face, hiding tears of shame from the world. I thought it must be a bitter blow indeed to have a loved-one locked behind those grim walls. Fortunately, my mission was not to visit a treasured relative, but rather to call upon a virulent enemy who richly deserved to be so incarcerated. At Holmes’ request, Gregson had swiftly obtained for me the necessary orders and permits that allowed me access to Moran’s cell.

I recalled Holmes’ words as I departed Pall Mall. “Use every natural shred of cunning at your disposal, Watson,” said he, sternly. “I tell you that it is his evidence which I depend upon to reveal the identity of our adversary.”

Moran looked up as the door to his fetid cell opened. The
glare from his blazing, deep-blue eyes was no less malevolent than every other occasion when I had the displeasure to encounter him. Although he was dressed in a shabby prison uniform, his fierce, aggressive nose, high, bald forehead, and huge grizzled moustache bestowed upon him a gravitas much out of place for his current squalid surroundings. His face was even gaunter than I recalled, and the deep, savage lines scored therein suggested that a great anger blazed within his breast. The décor of the cell was Spartan in the extreme, with nothing hung upon the dull grey walls. The table at which he sat held a pad of lined paper, a blunt-tipped fountain pen, a cigarette case, and a
tray that held the remains of his evening meal. A discarded copy of the
Evening News
lay upon the floor.

He laughed cruelly when he saw me. “Ah, Dr. Watson, I expected you sooner.”

“You villain!” I cried. “Are you responsible for this attack?”

“How can you blame me, Doctor?” said he, mildly. “Do you not see that my claws have been pulled?” We waved his hand around the stark cell.

“Then you know of what I speak!”

He gestured to the paper. “The amenities of His Majesties’ prisons leave much to be desired, but one cannot accuse them of denying a gentleman his daily news.”

“You are no gentleman!”

He laughed again. “My father, the late Sir Augustus, might argue with you on that point.” He looked at me keenly. “You know, Doctor, we are not so very different, you and I. Did you yourself not formerly tread the hills of Afghanistan in the service of our beloved Queen, as I once did? Were not your friends and companions mercilessly shot down at your side for little reason? Do not a modest number of the King’s shillings still ring in your pocket?”