The Last Confession of Sherlock Holmes

Title page

The Last Confession of Sherlock Holmes

Kieran Lyne

Publisher information

First edition published in 2014

© Copyright 2014 Kieran Lyne

2014 digital version by Andrews UK Limited

www.andrewsuk.com

The right of Kieran Lyne to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1998.

All rights reserved. No reproduction, copy or transmission of this publication may be made without express prior written permission. No paragraph of this publication may be reproduced, copied or transmitted except with express prior written permission or in accordance with the provisions of the Copyright Act 1956 (as amended). Any person who commits any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damage.

All characters appearing in this work are fictitious or used fictitiously. Except for certain historical personages, any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. The opinions expressed herein are those of the authors and not of MX Publishing.

Use of the Sherlock Holmes characters created by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle by permission of Conan Doyle Estate Ltd,
www.conandoyleestate.co.uk

Published in the UK by MX Publishing

335 Princess Park Manor, Royal Drive,

London,
N
11 3
GX

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Dedication

To Ra'ad,

for being there every step of the way.

Acknowledgements

First and foremost I must thank Sir Arthur Conan Doyle for providing us all with these timeless characters: I can only hope I have done them justice. ‘The characters of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle are used here by the kind permission of Jonathan Clowes Ltd, on behalf of Andrea Plunket, Director of the Arthur Conan Doyle Trademark (EU).' For anyone interested in reading up on Jack the Ripper I found Paul Sugdon's The Complete History of Jack the Ripper, as well as www.casebook.org to be of great value. I would like to thank all those who helped make this book possible: my publisher Steve Emecz, and Jon Lellenberg for introducing us; to Alice Smales for her editorial support; my readers, who kept me on the right path; Kate Pool at the Society of Authors for her invaluable assistance; Saunders Carmichael-Brown for dragging me singlehandedly into the 21
st
Century; and finally to my parents, for providing me with the support, patience and platform to write this book.

Preface

It is with a heavy heart that I take up my pen and record what will be the first and indeed the last confession of Sherlock Holmes. It is a revelation so shocking in its nature, and so shameful in its bearing upon the public, that I am at considerable unease to reveal even my own minor role. For years I have wrestled with my conscience, danced with the demons in my mind: to be placed in a position of the utmost secrecy, while in possession of the facts regarding one of the most disturbing and infamous mysteries this country has ever known has been a terrible ordeal.

I have continued with my publications and scribed many more of Holmes's adventures but always I receive the same enquiries: I cannot satisfy their curiosity, I can offer no salvation. In matters of privacy, it is simple to hide accounts of delicacy, for they only require the consent and co-operation of a few individuals; but when an issue has been displayed before the world, this luxury is but a distant memory. No matter how much light is cast before the solitary wanderer, never can he resist the lure of the shadow. But now, at last, the world shall share my secret, and when they have experienced the horrors of the truth they shall wish to return to the blissful peace of mystery and wonderment.

I appeal directly to the heart and conscience of the individual, in the hope that, as they help alleviate me of this burden, they will not allow this darkest of episodes to tarnish any fond impression which they may have formulated regarding my dearest of friends, Sherlock Holmes.

Chapter I - The Great Duel

In the year of 1891, the capital of the British Empire was engulfed by the simmering clouds of civil war. For years this menace loomed over London like some form of vile arachnid slowly and meticulously descending upon its unsuspecting prey. Murder filled the streets, corruption poisoned the water, and at every turn the cornerstones of society were rife with decay. The very heart of the Empire was crumbling. Yet, remarkably, there was no retaliation. The Government were dismissive and the authorities perplexed. But, for Sherlock Holmes, this was the pinnacle of his career.

I had accompanied Holmes on many of his investigations but seldom did he seek my assistance during this most crucial of times. I had since departed bachelorhood and with it my room at Baker Street, having settled into lodgings and opened a private practice in Kensington with my wife Mary. We led a prosperous and content life, which was in stark contrast to the extremes that I had become accustomed to whilst living at 221
B
. I still continued to scour the papers for criminal reports containing any unusual features of interest, and as many of the public may recall, the first few months of that fateful year were notable due to the occurrence of several shocking murders.

In January, deep in the heart of that remorseless winter, a young couple, revered throughout the land for their generosity and charitable work for London's orphaned children, were found murdered, frozen in a pit of snow. Only their heads could be seen protruding from the pile; their faces only inches apart, as if they had been forced to watch their beloved slowly drift into oblivion. They were dressed in their evening attire, having attended a charity event earlier that evening in a nearby hotel. It was said that Mr and Mrs Ledger had no known quarrels, or even misunderstandings with anyone, and they were described as loving and energetic newlyweds who had dedicated their lives to the prosperity of London's misfortunate children.

The mystery caused a great outcry, as the press and public demanded answers from the authorities, but none could be found. The murders were ruthless, meticulously executed, yet completed unmotivated. Along with the rest of the civilised society, I remained horrified at these crimes and the apparent ease with which those responsible evaded even rumoured identification. It was therefore to further indignation that those seemingly responsible struck again the following month, when the body of Arthur Winchester, renowned entrepreneur and innovator of social housing reforms, was found floating lifelessly in the Thames.

The body was recovered on the riverbank near Fulham, having been dumped into the water a few miles North. Mr Winchester had been severely beaten in the hours prior to his death before finally being stabbed shallowly in the vertebrae, and thrown into the water. The injuries were insufficient to kill the victim, and were believed to have been purposefully executed to prolong the man's suffering. Though Mr Winchester likely had those in the world of business with whom he had not seen eye-to-eye, he was described as an amiable man, and one whose moral principles ensured that even the most stubborn of opposition held no qualm against him personally. Of course, certain landlords and developers were investigated as direct profiteers from Mr Winchester's death, but once again, the police could find no satisfactory motive to the murder of a prominent, popular and progressive member of society.

Such a series of events is usually sufficient to send me upon my way to Baker Street: if not to offer my assistance, then to at least hear what would probably turn out to be the likely unravelling of the mystery from Holmes. Although he was never guaranteed to produce enough evidence to allow for a prosecution, at least I could find that certain sense of salvation and peace of mind which comes from a plausible understanding of the events, which helps anaesthetise the burning sense of injustice. Holmes, on the other hand, takes far more satisfaction in the knowledge that once again he has been able to unravel another intellectual puzzle.

Despite this, I had not had any correspondence with Holmes at all, save a couple of notes sent to me during his time spent in France while he was engaged by the French Government on a matter of supreme importance. Some may find this surprising for two great friends who live within reasonable walking distance of each other's doors. But such is the life of the world's only consulting detective that, on any occasion when I was free, he was often preoccupied or in a mood so undesirable that any visit would be instantly rendered pointless.

Happily, however, as winter's bitter grasp began to relent under the gentle breeze of spring, I found ample time to visit Holmes, having wired ahead of my intentions. It was a bright yet brisk day, so I travelled by foot through Hyde Park. The sky was reflected perfectly in the Serpentine, and provided a pleasing imitation of warmer months.

I reached Baker Street around midday, rang the bell, and was greeted by dear Mrs Hudson, a rather nanny-like woman, with a commendable nature and temperament. She is remarkable, particularly on account of her continuing relationship with Holmes, as I am certain there are few, if any, who would endure such a tenant.

Upon entering my old lodgings, I was instantly struck by the lack of light and a musty smell of stale neglect. It was clear that the two broad windows had remained firmly bolted for some days, and that Holmes had presumably spent that time skulking in the shadows. I had no intention of tolerating such conditions during my visit, so marched across to the window, and cast light and air back into the room. Holmes was not one for unnecessary change, and so it was no surprise to see that the sitting-room had remained cheerfully, yet practically furnished: a single sofa and two arm-chairs were the main focal point of the room, arranged around the large fireplace.

I decided against sitting in my old chair until Holmes had emerged from his quarters, and instead took a seat at the table, and lit my pipe. On top of a great pile of press-cuttings and other documents I found two pictures, both of which were instantly recognisable, and appeared to have been removed from their frames. The first was of a young, attractive couple; while the other was of a commanding man with a young boy, who was clearly the man's son. The pictures were of Mr and Mrs Ledger, and Arthur Winchester.

It was usual for Holmes to interest himself in such cases, but it did strike me as rather odd that he possessed two seemingly intimate pictures of the recently deceased. I did not recall his name being mentioned in the papers; and I was almost certain that he would have sought my assistance had he been engaged on such a case. My suspicions aroused, I continued to search through the pile before me, dusting off any of the fluffy ash of Arcadia which I spilt along the way, before coming across two quite unusual items. They both appeared to have been removed from the same small notebook. The first simply read ‘Saturday, January 3
rd
, Gallery' and the second ‘Friday, February 13
th
, Dockyard'.

“I see you have made yourself at home once again, Watson,” said Sherlock Holmes, finally emerging from his bedroom.

I began to smile at the realisation that he had fully intended for me to see such data; but, as I glanced up, I was almost thrown from my chair, such was the shock that greeted me. His usual sharply defined, hawk-like features, were becoming increasingly transparent, as if he were being dragged into a lifeless purgatory.

“Good God, Holmes, you look awful! What on earth has happened to you?”

“I am engaged on a case.”

“Which requires that you do not eat, leave your rooms, and remain constantly in the dark?”

“It is not essential, only advisable.”

“But what could possibly require such action?”

“I believe you know the answer, my dear fellow, you just do not wish to admit it,” he said, glancing down at the photographs.

I admit that I was rather disturbed by Holmes. His mannerisms, which were often eccentric and unpredictable, had come to resemble those of a desolate soul upon being admitted into a sanatorium. Never had I seen him so haggard.

“You know who is responsible for these crimes?”

“Naturally,” he replied casually.

“Who?”

“Is there no name which springs to mind?”

“Moriarty?”

“I once told you that he is the instigator of almost all that is evil in our great city. Well, there is your proof,” said he, pointing to the photographs, before flinging himself onto the sofa. “He has a mind of the highest calibre; in fact I would go as far as to say, it is no exaggeration that I have met my true intellectual equal. He organises virtually all undetected crime, leaving but a hollow strand of evidence. For years I have felt this power, this disturbance in the commonplace criminal equilibrium: robberies, corruption, murders, I have investigated a wealth of crime where, though I could not prove it so, I knew that the true perpetrator had not been brought to justice. It is maddening, Watson! To see these terrible injuries: young, innocent lives, torn and tortured, while the hand that guides the knife remains completely anonymous. These cases, people say there is no motive.
I
am the motive! The dates and events you see were sent to me by Moriarty, a warning, that if I continue to thwart his designs, more people will die, before eventually he will turn his entire focus upon me. It has taken me three years to weave my way into the great spider's web, but only now, after a great game, am I close to the belly of the beast.”

“Is there nothing you can do?”

“I have gone too far to turn back.”

“But how many more will die?”

“At least one.”

“How can you be so sure?”

“I received this three days ago in the morning post,” he said, passing me a slip of paper. Upon it were the words, ‘April, Tuesday 21
st
, Westminster'. “What you are examining Watson, is Moriarty's idea of a game: for every inconvenience I cause him, he retaliates with a public and brutal murder, of some of our finest and most beloved citizens. Previously such information was sent to me after the murders, a perverse bill of sale, if you will. This time, though, my crime has been acknowledged in advance, and I am forced to await the consequences. I have been waiting for Inspector Patterson to call upon Baker Street ever since.”

“But why haven't you moved to protect these people?”

“Tell me who is to be next, and I shall act.”

“But how could I possibly know that?”

“I may ask you that exact same question.”

“But have there been no clues, no small piece of minutiae for you to follow?”

“If Moriarty wanted to send me on a wild chase throughout the City, he is well within his power to do so. But I am afraid he finds it far more enjoyable to offer me no such opportunity, and instead prefers to give me the option to act, and then send me pictures of those who I have allowed to die.”

“Surely you do not blame yourself for these murders, Holmes? You have been left with no alternative.”

“For now, Watson, you are right. But I would draw my career to a close this very hour if only I could be assured of freeing the public of such a dangerous antagonist.”

Before I could ask Holmes quite what he meant by this rather ominous remark, I was interrupted by the ringing of the bell, and then the sound of hurried, heavy boots upon the stairs. A moment later the door flew open and Inspector Paterson came marching into the room. He was a large, powerful man with hair so red he would have been an ideal candidate for the Red-Headed League. His features were hard, but there was something in his light blue eyes, which suggested this was also a man capable of deep thought and humility.

“There has been another murder, Inspector?” asked Holmes, rising to his feet.

“Not murder, Mr Holmes, but suicide. Mr Robert Snetterton was found earlier, dead at his desk.”

“The MP?” I asked, dumbfounded.

Robert Snetterton was an up and coming Radical, a charismatic and most gifted young politician whose work toward Liberal reform was second to none, and he was already being tipped as a future Home Secretary and even Prime Minister. Though the previous victims had been tragic, the potential murder of a prominent politician went beyond anything that Moriarty had previously executed.

“Unfortunately yes,” replied Patterson. “However, it may interest you, Mr Holmes, to know that although there was poison in Snetterton's whisky, only one vial could be found on the premises, unopened upon his desk; and despite the note which he wrote, there appears to be no motive for such action. We have managed to keep word from spreading, but that will not last forever. I am sure you appreciate the delicacy of the situation, Mr Holmes, and I need you to come right away. You too, Dr Watson, if Mr Holmes desires it.”

“I certainly do,” said Holmes, reaching for his coat.

We immediately set off for Charlwood Street, and were fortunate that the streets were rather quiet, arriving at our destination in good time. Mr Snetterton lived in a well-to-do neighbourhood, and his house, as were the rest on the street, was of Georgian origin, well kept and modest. We exited our cab, and set off down the short path, before being ushered up the steps and across the threshold by Inspector Patterson. We found ourselves in a relatively narrow corridor with closed doors upon each side.

“Mr Snetterton has a servant,” stated Holmes, examining the door which led to the servant's quarters. “Was he in the house at the time of death?”

“No; he had received word that morning that his mother had been struck gravely ill, and had set off immediately. He found the body upon his return, and he claimed Mr Snetterton had mentioned nothing of guests before.”

“Ha, we shall soon see about that,” said Holmes.

In a matter of moments, he had closely examined the path, the door through which we just entered, the floor and the all the doorways along the corridor, before finally pausing with a most perplexed look upon his brow. Clearly dissatisfied, he opened the door at the end of the corridor, and entered into what was presumably Snetterton's study.