The Last Confession of Sherlock Holmes (9 page)

“Like riding a wooden horse?” I interjected.

“Exactly. Now Mrs Hudson, if you would be so kind; Watson and I will have departed long before, but at exactly ten this evening, I need you to return to this room and move this wax bust,” said Holmes, waving his hand in the direction of the waxwork, dressed in one of his old dressing-gowns and set upon a pedestal table, “upon every quarter-of-the-hour. Enter the room on your knees, and move it from the front, so as to disguise your shadow.”

“I assume that this
is
of importance, Mr Holmes? I shall not be pleased if I discover that I have merely been playing a part in one of your silly experiments.”

“Dear woman, I would not ask you of such a service unless it was of
the most
critical importance.”

It had been some time since I had left Baker Street with the thrill of adventure coursing through my veins. I shall always cherish my years of wedlock as my most content, but still I cannot deny the void that was left in my heart since the day of Holmes's supposed death.

I had kept a keen interest in criminal exploits and read every perplexing case which so readily presented itself before the public. I even assisted Lestrade on a few occasions, though often I could only raise some minor detail of significance; I was never an adequate replacement for the brilliance of Sherlock Holmes. I had left Baker Street alone and travelled back to my Kensington lodgings to await Holmes's arrival; there we would dine and continue our discourse before setting out into the night.

We departed my quarters into a hansom at exactly half-past nine; our destination, Cavendish Square. Despite the strategic advantage we seemingly enjoyed, Holmes was in a state of great apprehension. The intermittent flashes of light from passing street-lamps provided me with only flickering glimpses of my friend. He was sat rigidly compressed, and only the occasional twitch in finger or brow assured me of his consciousness. I had no desire to break him from his meditative concentration, and simply sat in a fit of nervous excitement, my hand subconsciously stroking the cold barrel of my revolver.

As our carriage drew up at our destination, Holmes's entire body seemed to tighten, as if he were being suffocated by the full-body grip of a python.

Upon exiting the carriage, he gave long searching looks down the street, assuring himself at every corner that we were not being followed. I believe there are few men, if any, with a more comprehensive knowledge of London's many paths and passages than Sherlock Holmes. We travelled through a maze of dark alleyways, stables and yards at a rapid pace. We wove in and out of this urban labyrinth, through Manchester Street and Blandford Street, before our journey finally terminated at a wooden gate and the entrance to an empty house.

Fully aware that Holmes had no prior connection to this building, I deduced the key that he had produced from his pocket had been acquired by unlawful means. He motioned me inside, my eyes struggled to adapt to the darkness as he relocked the door, plummeting us both into an impenetrable gloom. I could scarcely see Holmes, standing only a few feet away from me, for he had insisted that under no circumstances could we justify the use of even a solitary candle.

We set off into the house; the dull groaning of the floorboards echoed throughout, alerting whatever evil that occupied such a dwelling that its nest had intruders. I was amazed at Holmes's ability to navigate in such conditions, for he seemed to barely place a foot wrong as we travelled further and further into the depths of the house.

Suddenly, I felt his cold thin fingers grasp my wrist. We stood for a moment silently waiting; the darkness seemed to almost close upon us, but nothing stirred. Satisfied, Holmes led the way down a long hall toward a dull glow in the distance. We turned left into a large empty room; a thick curtain of dust lay across the windows, forever resilient against the insufficient penetration of the outside lamps, casting the corners of the room into a deep shadow.

“Now we must wait,” Holmes whispered.

It was a cold, still night and though the rain had ceased to fall the air remained damp. Men and women could be seen tightening their coats and raising their collars as they hurried back to the warmth and comfort of their homes. Amongst the general hustle and bustle of public life, Inspector Lestrade's plain-clothed men could be spotted after half-hour intervals, seeking shelter under house doorways.

“Mrs Hudson is doing a fine job,” I commented almost inaudibly as the silhouette of the waxwork rotated perfectly and entirely naturally. The bust of my friend had been crafted perfectly; it encapsulated all of his defining features; and, had I not been stood next to him, I would have sworn before a jury that the profile was indeed that of Sherlock Holmes.

“I would not have daunted her with such a task if I did not believe her capable. The graceful touch of a woman is far more reliable and trustworthy than having one of Lestrade's blundering fools attempt at subtlety.”

Despite all of Holmes's intricate planning, it did not appear as if our evening's endeavours would bear fruit. As the minutes turned to hours, his agitation grew from impatient tapping to frantically pacing the room: never have we remained in such purgatory. I had once again taken out my pocket-watch, and I noted the hour turn midnight when Holmes suddenly stopped in his relentless march. He remained silent as a hawk before swooping upon its prey, listening. Slowly, he lowered himself to the ground, and pressed his ear upon the floor; his features were that of the utmost scrutiny. He then rose and silently glided into the shadows of the room, urging me to join him.

My senses, though keen and alert, are incomparable to Holmes. For a moment, I could hear no sound which would cause such actions, and I wondered whether my friend's wits were coming to an end, such was the prize at stake. But then, as I joined him in the shadows, I heard the disturbance. There were slow, purposeful footsteps, almost silently echoing throughout the empty house. A door faintly creaked, and the steps began to march decisively down the corridor. Holmes pressed himself in a crouched position against the wall; I followed suit, my hand tightening around the handle of my revolver. As I squinted through the darkness, the outline of a featureless spectre filled the open doorway. I glanced at Holmes in search of some form of reassurance, but, to my distress, his eyes appeared wide and pale; his body in a state of fear. I had heard all of the stories, read all of the articles and even been an active component in the strive to bring down this hellish creature; but I must confess that fear engulfed me, my mind betrayed me, and my blood ran colder than the terrible currents of Reichenbach at the realisation of being in the same room as Jack the Ripper. Though I had witnessed the horrors that this beast had committed, to finally lay eyes upon him was almost a perverse confirmation that he was no malevolent myth. From what I could see of the phantom-like apparition, he wore a tall top hat and long leather coat; his face was masked, yet the eyes burned. He stepped into the room and there, slightly protruding from his coat, was a long slender box, the container of his demonic blades. He placed the box on the floor and began to unpack the contents, though, rather oddly, the object met the ground with a definitive metallic thud. He removed his facial-sheath but I could not see his features, for he had his back turned to us. He began to assemble the terrible contraption, which concluded with the sharp crack of a rifle snapping into place. It was not until he slightly raised the bottom panel of the window, and the light from the street illuminated his features, that we were able to identify our man. He had a high, receding hairline and a thick moustache; a gleefully murderous expression merged disturbingly into the savage features of Colonel Sebastian Moran.

Still oblivious to our presence, Moran began to mumble, as if performing some kind of ritual. Within a matter of seconds, the rifle was breached, cocked and loaded, ready to execute the murder of Sherlock Holmes. Crouching down, Moran rested the barrel upon the window ledge; he began to inhale deeply. Though the shot was a relatively simple one, such was the value of the supposed prey that he appeared to be taking extra precautions. He took aim, gently squeezing the trigger, but waited a fraction longer than I would have expected. The look of greed was quite absurd as it contorted the Colonel's face; his eyes betrayed him, as finally, he relented and pulled the trigger. Even upon that stillest of nights, to any passers-by, the gentle tinkle of broken glass would have appeared as nothing more than a trivial domestic accident. For Sherlock Holmes, it was the great crescendo in a symphony of glass.

Moran enjoyed a brief second of euphoric triumph before Holmes hurled him face-first upon the ground. The Colonel gave a great cry of bewildered outrage and was upon his feet in an instant; his great arms flung out fearsome blows as he and Holmes engaged in a tremendous tussle. Both men were clearly more than competent in close-quarter combat, and it appeared Moran had gained a momentary advantage when he grasped Holmes by the throat. I saw my opportunity in a flash, and brought the butt of my revolver crashing down upon the Colonel's skull. He dropped like a stone, and I sprang upon him in an instant, pinning him to the ground as Holmes signalled Lestrade.

“Thank you, Watson,” said Holmes, bleeding from the mouth and slightly out of breath. “The Colonel has lost none of his combative skill, and I am sure that you prevented a rather unpleasant ordeal.”

A moment later, the bustle of heavy and hasty steps could be heard hurtling toward the room, as Lestrade emerged, tenacious as ever, with two constables on his heels.

“Good evening, Lestrade,” said Holmes. “As promised, I deliver to you your murderer, Colonel Sebastian Moran.”

“Well, you are indeed a man of your word, Mr Holmes,” replied Lestrade. “Is that the weapon which you described?”

“It certainly is,” said Holmes, who was now kneeling over Moran's airgun and examining it with the utmost exactness. “It is a rather unique weapon. It is of German origin, crafted for the late Professor Moriarty by the blind German mechanic, Von Herder. It is almost completely silent and capable of great power. It is the first time I have seen the weapon, although I have been fractions away from being one of its many victims. It is this which the Colonel used to murder the Honourable Ronald Adair in such supposedly baffling circumstances.”

“Lestrade!” snarled Moran, “if you are going to arrest me, make it quick! I do not wish to stand here and listen to this!”

“Ah, Colonel,” said Holmes, turning toward our prisoner, “I do not think you are at liberty to make requests; particularly as you have not only broken my window, but also ruined what was a perfectly admirable waxwork.”

“You unbearable fiend,” the Colonel muttered.

“Well, I think after all the trauma you caused me at Reichenbach, Colonel, I should at least be able to have my fun. Somewhat ironic, is it not, that the most accomplished heavy-game shot our Eastern Empire has ever seen was hoaxed so easily into such a familiar trap.”

This was the final tether on Moran's patience. He charged at Holmes, only to find himself being dragged back, restrained by the two constables.

“Temper, Colonel, temper. I'm sure you will have bountiful opportunities to vent your physical frustrations in one of the regular yard scraps.”

“I have had enough of this man's taunts, Lestrade! If you have sufficient reason to arrest me, then do it quickly and by the book, for God's sake.”

“If you insist,” said Lestrade. “Colonel Sebastian Moran, I place you under arrest for the murder of the Honourable Ronald Adair and the attempted murder of Sherlock Holmes. Any other matters Mr Holmes?”

“Yes, Lestrade. I wonder, Colonel, whether you would inform us whether it was a certain letter to my brother, Mycroft, which caused the minor quarrel between yourself and the Honourable Ronald Adair?”

“I shall not satisfy your suspicions unless I am forced to do so under oath!” spat Moran.

“Very well, though I suggest that it may be worth a confession to one of my colleagues regarding your activities at the Bagatelle Club. That is, of course, to assume that you wish to avoid the gallows? Though if you are not willing to comply, I can always take time out of my now remarkably free schedule to discover the answers myself, but it really would be a most unnecessary inconvenience. As for your proceedings,” said he, turning away from the raging, distraught Colonel, “please do not include either mine or Mycroft's name in the involvement of this case, or as a reason for arrest. We shall have to simply fashion a rather more innocent and suitable motive behind the Colonel's actions. In fact, I must congratulate you, Lestrade! You have returned to form in spectacular fashion, and I commend you. Not only do you have your man but you uncovered the motive as well! A gambling rivalry, I believe you said? I suggest you visit Baker Street and collect the soft rubber bullet which has so recently passed through my window; I think you shall find it remarkably similar to the one responsible for the death of Ronald Adair. Watson and I shall be there for the rest of the evening.”

Upon our triumphant return to Baker Street, we found Mrs Hudson sitting at the table enjoying a cup of tea and a slice of cake; a casual visitor would have been totally unaware of her role in the capture of London's most dangerous criminal.

“You performed your role perfectly, Mrs Hudson,” said Holmes warmly as we entered the room. “Did you note where the bullet went?”

“Thank you, Mr Holmes, I trust my evening's labours served both you and Dr Watson well. I heard quite a stir from across the street, though I dare say you gentlemen know far more about it than I. As for your bullet, it passed through the head of your bust and flattened itself against the back wall. It is so delightful to have you back, Mr Holmes. Not one person has had the decency to shoot at my walls during your absence.”

“No? I apologise, Mrs Hudson, I thought Watson might have obliged,” Holmes replied, picking the bullet up off the carpet. “It is a genius combination of both airgun and soft revolver bullet. Without knowledge of the former, Lestrade and his men were baffled by the evidence of the latter. Fortunate I am that Moran used such tactics, for its singularities allowed me to completely dictate and manipulate the situation to my advantage.”