The Last Confession of Sherlock Holmes (8 page)

“Well, it's good to see you've lost none of your confidence, Mr Holmes. See what you make of this one. The Honourable Ronald Adair returned here at ten o'clock this evening, from the Bagatelle Card Club. He entered his sitting-room, found upon the second floor; a fire had been previously lit and the window opened as it smoked. His mother and sister were out visiting a relation, and upon their return at eleven-twenty, tried to gain entrance to Adair's sittings, only to find the door locked from the inside and no answer to their calls. Alarmed by such a prospect, they called the servant, who forced the door and found the Honourable Ronald Adair lying on his back, murdered in cold blood. Those familiar with the victim once described him as youthful and moderately handsome, but you cannot see any of that anymore, Mr Holmes. His head has been horrifically mutilated by an expanding revolver bullet. However, there was no trace of a murder weapon, nor were they any footprints or signs of disturbance in the shrubbery some twenty feet below. No one else had been in that room. The only other point of interest was that Adair had been writing a list of names with some figures next to them; in accordance with his earlier destination, I believe them to simply be a record of his winnings. Before you arrived, Mr Holmes, I was inclined to suspect Adair had cheated someone he rather shouldn't have.”

“That is all?” I asked, unsurprised by this terrible, yet rather convenient outcome.

“Indeed, sir, it is,” replied Lestrade, slightly taken aback by my tone.

“Thank you, Lestrade, your description was most enlightening. Now, I shall be able to tell you exactly how this little conundrum unfolded and the culprit behind it; all I require in return is your total obedience upon my every instruction.”

“Ha! Oh that's all is it? Very well, Mr Holmes, anyone else and I would have been up in arms at such a suggestion. Now, what is it that you have in mind?”

To his great credit, Lestrade agreed to remain idle despite my revelation, and dutifully allowed the murder of Ronald Adair to transform itself into what became known as ‘The Park Lane Mystery'. I was grateful that Scotland Yard still failed to employ or promote the qualities required to solve such a case: quite clearly, there was only one theory to suit the facts. Frustrating though it was to allow these events to continue, it was also of the utmost importance to put Lestrade through such an ordeal.

The first of which was simply to allow Moran to simmer in a fit of agitation. I was certain that he would have heard of my return through Lord Balmoral, and it was now necessary to play a most dangerous game of cat and mouse.

The second was one which I had eagerly anticipated. I had kept my eye upon the developments around Park Lane in the hope that its shocking crime, yet subtle points of interest, would spark the embers of curiosity in an old friend. It was with both a cause of personal pain and amusement that I listened to some of the whimsical theories being proclaimed to the hoards in the streets by plain-clothed detectives. I stood upon the Oxford Street end of Park Lane, disguised as a decrepit book-collector, and listening to yet more absurd tales from a rather lean man with sapphire-coloured glasses, when, to my delight, I noted the appearance of a rather fine-looking fellow. He was tall and well-built, with neatly trimmed hair and moustache, and his impeccable conservative attire smacked of time in the armed forces. I had avoided making contact with Watson, as I wished not only to avoid placing my dear friend in a most unnecessary peril, but also to guard from any act of momentary weakness on his behalf if he sought to contact me. Happily, however, such precautions were no longer required.

I moved to the periphery of the crowd which had gathered, and positioned myself behind Watson, noting the visible signs of his agitation at the ridiculous observations being offered. As he turned in apparent disgust to continue upon his way, I quite purposefully knocked into him, sending my selection of rare collectibles tumbling into the street.

“My dear fellow,” he said. “I do apologise, please allow me to assist you with your books.”

Although I was confident that Watson would not recognise me beneath my self-designed hump, time-hardened features and notably reduced height, it was critical that any meeting take place under seemingly innocuous circumstances. And so I simply snarled at my friend and disappeared amongst the swarm, and maintained a safe distance as I followed him, curiously, to Baker Street.

I waited an adequate amount of time before knocking upon my door, which was swiftly answered by my dear housekeeper Mrs Hudson. She was a rather small, middle-aged woman, who was fiercely loyal, and had shown great instinct during my residency at Baker Street. On more than one occasion she had provided invaluable assistance, to which I shall be forever indebted. For the time being, however, I decided it would be imprudent to reveal my true identity and so enquired of an oblivious Mrs Hudson whether I would be allowed entry to thank the charitable gentleman from the street.

My rooms had been kindly maintained by my admirable housekeeper and subsidised by Mycroft. I like to believe my rooms were cheerfully yet practically furnished: as it is necessary to make one's clients feel welcomed and relaxed if they are to divulge their private affairs. The only new additions were some rather curious objects which had not been intended for my address.

“I came to apologise for my rough manner,” said I, addressing Watson in a croaking voice. “I realise my reaction was unfitting toward such a charitable offer.”

“You make too much of such a minor token of goodwill, sir,” he said, standing in the middle of our old quarters. His hands, it appeared, reflected his state of mind, for they seemed to be hopelessly searching, buried deep down into his empty pockets.

“Perhaps so, sir, but no matter my hardships, I was raised to always show gratitude to those who deserve it. I see you are a busy man, and I will not attempt a sale upon you; but I will offer a kind word of advice. There is a gentleman with a rather formidable reputation around these parts; I do not know him by name, but I saw him follow you and stop just across the street as you entered.”

With a look of bewilderment across his features, Watson turned and slowly approached the window.

Chapter V - A Symphony of Glass

I could not fathom the identity of the daunting pursuer of whom my guest spoke: few men commanded such a reputation, and I could see no reason why I should be followed by such a man. I had visited Baker Street upon several occasions over the last three years, and I did not believe for an instant that my military background would have abandoned me so readily; I would have almost certainly become aware of such a presence during my visits. But, as I stood and contemplated my predicament, my heart was clenched by the grasp of fear.

This was the first occasion I had visited Baker Street since the predicted rise of Jack the Ripper. Holmes had never shared with me whether he had even a scrap of incriminating evidence; but if he had, surely it would be sufficient to cause Moriarty's old followers to now abandon Moran in disgust. Had the Colonel been watching the rooms? Perhaps he had been unsuccessful in a search of his own, and believed that I would take him to such information. Though the rooms showed no sign of disturbance, it was perhaps still premature to draw any firm conclusions. Aware that it would be far too easy to constrict myself into a riddle of paranoia before I had even ascertained my situation, I decided to investigate my now rather precarious position.

Holmes's old revolver was still in the desk; I knew my chances were slim against Moran, but it at least offered some protection. To the great surprise of my guest, I withdrew and loaded the weapon. His eyes glistened with the pale-white of fear as I motioned for him to be seated and remain calm. I pressed my back against the right-hand wall and edged closer to the window. The drawn out metallic click of the revolver reverberated with murderous intent.

Ensuring only the smallest fraction of my face was visible through the glass, I tentatively peered down into the street below. It was a rather busy day, and the street was a constant stream of people and carriages, but there was no man who matched the description the book-collector had offered. I remained by the window, desperately trying to devise some of form of escape, when I heard a most shocking sound.

“It is good to see you have not let your guard down after all these years, my dear Watson,” said a hauntingly familiar voice.

For a moment I remained in a state of complete paralysis. The tone was unmistakable, yet I knew the owner to have been dead for almost three years. Terrified that I had been led into a trap, I decided immediate action was crucial. I dropped to the ground, and spun around onto one knee, my fully loaded revolver now pointing directly into the temple of my guest.

“Move an inch and I shall shoot,” I warned, rising to my feet. “You knock into me in the street, warn me of a dangerous man who is nowhere to be seen, and now try and imitate the voice of my late friend Sherlock Holmes. Explain yourself man!”

“As to your first points, Watson, they were rather for my own amusement, and as for the latter, I am rather offended that you believe me to be a mere imitation.”

“I do not have time for this nonsense,” I replied. But as I made to direct this rather disturbing individual toward the door, he began to remove his hair, from both his scalp and whiskers. To my wide-eyed astonishment, the man who stood before me had a long nose, sharp jaw, and piercing eyes. It was none other than Sherlock Holmes.

“Good God, Holmes!” I cried, almost keeling over at the shock. “Is it really you? I can scarcely believe my eyes! You almost gave me an aneurism! For a moment I believed I had fallen prey to some deadly deception.”

“I apologise for my rather imprudent choice of revelation, but you know of my fondness for the theatrical,” said he, amused at my misfortune.

“Indeed I do, Holmes,” I replied, years of mourning mixing with almost contemptuous rage. “If I were not so entirely thrilled by your presence, I would be sorely tempted to thrash you!”

“Ha! Good old Watson, I do apologise, and it is duly appreciated that you have refrained from thrashing me.”

I looked on in amazement, as Holmes shed the rest of his disguise. He now stood, dressed in an elegant suit, pristine in condition, other than the slight unkemptness created by the slumped position that he had forced himself to adopt. His white hair and hump were cast casually amongst the volumes he had placed upon the table. Although still rather gaunt, Holmes looked in much better health and temperament than when we last spoke, upon that fateful eve at Reichenbach. He took time to walk about the room before we shared a most rare, brotherly embrace.

“Come, Holmes,” said I, placing the revolver back into the drawer before taking a seat; a chair I had not brought myself to use in over three years. “How on earth did you survive that perilous fall?”

“Well, Watson,” said he, taking his place and lighting his pipe. “In my experience, I have found a truly remarkable solution to surviving such a fall. It really is one of my more astute ideas, being both simple and effective.”

“Do tell,” I urged, but Holmes seemed more than content to gaze around under the pretence of sentiment, teasing my curiosity.

“You know I have truly missed some of the comforts of these rooms, Watson. I have lived a life of distinct discomfort these past years.”

“Holmes,” I said impatiently.

“I have found, dear Watson,” said he, turning to face me, “that the best way to survive such a fall, is to rather simply… not to.”

“To not to? As in
not to fall
… Holmes, you are infuriating!” I exclaimed, as he allowed himself a minor chuckle at this most dramatic of anti-climaxes.

“I apologise,” said Holmes. “Professor Moriarty was indeed generous enough to allow me to write you the note which you read, and I truly did believe my career to be at an end. It was both skill and fortune which allowed me to survive, but I was quite prepared for a more final conclusion.”

We both remained in a thoughtful silence. Though I was hurt that my closest of friends had deceived me in such a manner, and for such a prolonged duration of time, I could not help but be awed by the sacrifice he had been prepared to take.

“I am surprised you have not asked how I managed to survive Watson,” said Holmes after a prolonged period of reflection. “Having scribed such a convincing, yet inaccurate account I thought you would wish to know the details.”

“If you are willing to talk about such events now Holmes then please by all means.”

I can scarcely recall such an ordeal, even from our adventures together. Even for an experienced campaigner, the terrible image of Holmes and Moriarty grappling and teetering upon the edge of that dreadful abyss sent the tingling sensation of horror shivering down my spine. Though I pride myself on my ability to crack on in such perilous conditions, I confess I was more than pleased not to have heard the terrible last cry of Moriarty as he plummeted into that seething cauldron.

“Your tale is a remarkable one, Holmes, but I do hope you will provide as sufficient an explanation as to why you have deceived me for so many years,” an air of bitterness still ringing in my voice.

“Watson, if I keep apologising we shall be here until dawn,” said he. “I know your practice has been more than a trifle dull, and I truly did take to my pen when I heard of poor Mary's untimely death; but I could not risk my position.”

“No, I understand, old chap.”

“Speaking of Mary, if I may,” said Holmes, to my surprise, “I cannot help but notice that you have used my lodgings to dispose of those rather heartfelt gifts I had purchased for you both during my exile.”

“Those were from you?”

“Certainly; this Vigor's home exercise horse for instance,” said he, pointing to a ridiculous wooden contraption. It bore more resemblance to a mechanical crate than a horse; its foolish bouncing mechanism was most uncomfortable and it would have been the height of embarrassment to be seen upon such a device.

“Holmes, unless one had suffered a rather unfortunate blow to the skull, why on earth would one wish to possess such a contraption?”

“The advertisement clearly stated that it is a complete cure for obesity, hysteria and gout. I assumed being both loving husband and a doctor, that you would have been quite cheerful at the prospect of your wife avoiding such issues. I hear even the Princess of Wales has one.”

“And that ridiculous male corset?”

“I recalled Mary's culinary talents and thought you may have gained a few pounds, which you may have wished to remain a private affair. After all, it is of the highest importance that a doctor at least appears to be healthy.”

“Holmes, what would be said of me if my former servicemen heard that I wore a corset? I would never be able to show my face at the club again.”

“You are supposed to wear it
beneath
your clothes Watson, so as to conceal the item. Surely you do not believe I purchased such gifts simply for my own amusement?”

“Oh no Holmes, I am sure the image of me bouncing up and down on a wooden box, wearing what most would consider a female undergarment would not amuse you in the slightest.”

“Well, entertainment is limited in the afterlife, Watson,” said Holmes. “Now, to business, my good fellow; you will need to remove these items and take them back to Kensington where they belong, I have need for these rooms once more. And so, if I may be so bold, do you Watson, should you be willing to take up your former residence once more?”

“Mrs Hudson!” I cried. “Sorry, old boy, but if you are to go into your usual amount of detail we will need some tea.”

“Ah, Mrs Hudson,” said Holmes, rising from his chair, “how wonderful it is to see you again.”

“Mr Holmes!” she exclaimed, clutching the door to prevent herself from falling. “This is the most unexpected of pleasures! But I hope you have not returned from beyond the grave to haunt me with your eccentricities?”

“But my dear woman, why else would I be here?” replied Holmes. “I am sure you will have ample time to complain of my habits later, but for now I am a trifle famished, and Watson is being made to await a truly fine tale. If you could bring us some tea and two plates of your fine luncheon, I would be most grateful.”

Along with the whole of the country, I had of course read the correspondence from Jack the Ripper. I consider it to be the first duty of any man to protect a woman, no matter what her circumstance.My blood had boiled, and I had had stern words with any children I passed playing in the street who were naively re-enacting his terrible legacy.

Despite my publications and association with Holmes, I have always looked on in disgust at the relish of the public for such events. The fascination of murder has an immoral place in our society, and to revel in such violence is a notion I find most repulsive. Melodramas fill theatres: street-ballads and ale-house songs amalgamate and echo throughout the city; and I even hear how murder-souvenirs are savoured by those who can afford such perverse luxuries. Though his crimes may have ceased, I found no comfort in the knowledge that the beast may simply be lying dormant, waiting in the shadows. It therefore came as a great delight that we were about to end this most infamous of chapters in London's great history.

“It must be Moran,” I remarked after Holmes had finished his narrative.

“Mycroft drew the same conclusion. He is convinced that it was a ploy of the Bagatelle-Quartet.”

“Have you any theories as to their activities?”

“Nine, but that is immaterial to our investigation at this time, for now we have more decisive work on our hands than to speculate over mere conjecture.”

“Capture Moran and await the affect; or catch Jack the Ripper in the act?”

“Bravo, Watson, I see you are still as sharp as a hunting knife. But it is Moran who we move upon tonight, and as you correctly deduce, we shall be forced to simply await the consequences; hardly a desirable solution, I concede, but for the moment the most practical. If we are successful in our exploits, we shall bring a conclusive end to this deadly collaboration. As for Jack the Ripper, if he remains a figure of the shadows, then, although we may never truly be certain, we may rest somewhat safely in the assurance that he was most likely to have already been consumed by the depths of Reichenbach.”

“When do we leave?”

“Oh, not until tonight, but I do have a slightly unusual task which needs performing before we vacate.”

“Should we not inform Mycroft of these developments? You say he is anxious to hear of your capturing Moran.”

“No, Watson, Mycroft has faith in my abilities. A man of his position has enough on his plate without needing to hear of my every movement. He will remain upon his rails and simply be delighted with our results when we produce them at one of his stations; should he wish to hear of our methods at a later date, I am sure I will either pay him a visit, or he can simply read them through my esteemed biographer.”

The task of which Holmes spoke was indeed rather odd. He had purchased a wax bust of himself from Monsieur Oscar Meunier of Grenoble, and the majority of our afternoon was spent recalling our exploits over the last three years, while he arranged this bust in order to perfectly resemble his posture.

“Holmes, I am aware that you can be rather fond of yourself, but is this not a touch too far?” said I, observing from behind one of the day's papers.

“It serves a far greater purpose than feeding my ego or your mockery,” said he, positioning the bust by the left-hand window. “Ah, Mrs Hudson, impeccable timing as ever.”

“What is it now, Mr Holmes? I have been up and down those stairs more times this afternoon than in the entire duration of your absence!”

“I do apologise. Only one more favour do I ask of you, and it is most significant.”

“Very well, Mr Holmes, as long as it does not place me in a compromising position in the eyes of the law.”

“No, I only like to compromise Watson; particularly upon any occasion that he needs reminding of life's more exciting elements.”