Corroborating evidence was found upon the body… er… well, the remains of Inspector Hopkins. A second thorn, identical to the one that had struck down Bartholomew Sholto, was found lodged in his skull. Scotland Yard could mourn Stanley Hopkins as a fallen hero—struck down in the noble pursuit of duty. And really, wasn’t that about the best outcome that could be hoped for him? The expectation that he was going to actually solve a case had been seeming ever more remote.
Thaddeus Sholto was freed from custody in the nick of time, as his medicinal hookah had run out of vapor. Though his jailers were certainly glad of this, due to the smell, they could not help but notice Thaddeus’s rapidly declining health. By the time Holmes reached him, he was positively green. He was spirited home with all haste and quickly recovered. Solid fellow, he took the news that the Agra treasure had been lost (which indeed, proved to be the case) with a stiff upper lip. Well… actually, a doughy, wobbly upper lip, but one that behaved admirably, nonetheless. Rather than wallow in defeat, Thaddeus modified his brother’s hookah into an underwater breathing device and made repeated dives into the Thames in an attempt to recover any missing gems. He did find a few and—to his great credit—surrendered every other one to Mary Morstan. He even attempted to file a patent as the inventor of the “methane-enriched-oxygen underwater breathing aid machine, Mk1”, though—as this was as vile to the average underwater adventurer as it was toxic—I have not heard the patent was granted.
The black coin stayed, for a time, at the bottom of London’s great river. Any upswing in the value of trade upon the Thames, as well as the level of violence and greed associated with the pursuit of that commerce, may very well be ascribed to coincidence.
Or it might not.
Yet, the final dénouement of this tale does not rest with Jonathan Small. Not with his treasure. Not with his victims.
That honor—that rather dubious honor—goes to me.
I was at the very end of my endurance. I was shaking. Had it been only the morning before that I’d begun my quest across South London with a demon on a leash? How long had it been since I’d slept? Considering my recent habit of poisoning my body, my blood, and my slumber with shredded Xantharaxes, how long since I had really slept? I had every intention of returning to Baker Street as soon as I could, falling into my bed and letting slumber take me. If I slept for three days, it would not have surprised me. In fact, it would have delighted me. Yet, there was one thing I must do first. A petty thing. An unkind thing.
And I relished it.
It was morning by the time Grogsson and I finally knocked upon the door of Mr. and Mrs. Cecil Forrester. The instant I announced my name to their butler, he was shoved bodily aside by the couple themselves.
“Ah! Dr. Watson,” Mrs. Forrester said, “how eager we have been to see you again. And this must be… er…”
“This is Detective Inspector Torg Grogsson, of Scotland Yard,” I told her. “We have brought the case to its conclusion and retrieved this item from Bartholomew Sholto’s murderer. As Miss Morstan is entitled to half its contents, we thought we would unseal it in her presence.”
“Yes! Oh, by God, yes! Come into the sitting room, won’t you?”
I had a pang of guilt. Not only was I abusing Mary Morstan, I was crushing the hopes of Mr. and Mrs. Forrester to be rid of her, and that, at least, I regretted.
Hardly ten minutes later, we found ourselves sitting comfortably, provided with steaming cups of tea while Mrs. Forrester bustled Mary downstairs to hear our tale.
She didn’t care for it.
As we recounted the previous night’s adventure—the chase along the Thames and the capture of Jonathan Small—Mr. and Mrs. Forrester sat in rapt attention. They tried to get Mary to do the same. When I came to the unfortunate end of Stanley Hopkins, Mrs. Forrester said, “Isn’t it sad, Mary? Why, he gave his life to help you!”
“Yes,” said Mary. “Sad.” Yet her expression left little doubt that her words were false. He’d been a policeman, after all. That had been his job. And whenever Mary did her job to everyone’s satisfaction, she did not feel quite so much need to boast of it, did she?
I smiled. Strange, the thrill I felt to be here, delivering her just deserts to her.
“And this,” I said, indicating the iron chest, “is what the villain had in his possession. It exactly matches the description and size of the treasure chest stolen from Bartholomew Sholto at Pondicherry Lodge, on the occasion of his murder.”
Now Mary was interested. She leaned forward in her chair.
“It has yet to be opened and we found no key,” I said, “but I think that will present no great difficulty. Inspector Grogsson? If you would be so kind…”
“Eh?” said Grogsson, then, “Oh.” He reached down, closed one hand around the ancient iron lock and gave a squeeze and twist. There was the quick squeal of deforming metal, then the pop-and-tinkle of latch and lock parts that knew when they were bested.
“Ladies and gentlemen, may I present the Agra treasure!” I said, and flipped the lid open.
There was nothing. The Forresters’ faces fell. Mary Morstan’s expression resolved into one of unalloyed hate. She locked her eyes on mine.
“Oh dear, it seems Jonathan Small elected to give the treasure to the Thames rather than allow it to fall into the hands of the men he knew would catch him,” I said. “And yet I am glad of it. Had you become the inheritor of a treasure so great, Miss Morstan, you would have been forever beyond my reach.”
Mr. and Mrs. Forrester exchanged surprised but hopeful looks. Mary looked completely shocked, though this did not seem to ameliorate her anger. In fact, I think it redoubled it. My own hand flew to my mouth, and I stammered, “Oh! No. Excuse me. I did not mean to say that last part. What I meant to say was…”
What I meant to say was something along the lines of “Ha ha, that’s what you get” but I was never to have the chance.
Mary rose, pointed one finger straight in my face and declared, “Then I thank God it is gone, for I wish nothing ever to come between us!”
Then she recoiled with a look of horror and muttered, “No. Wait… What I meant was: you’re an ass!”
“And you are a terrible person,” I told her, “and I want to kiss you, right in the middle of your awful, awful face.”
She slapped me. Hard. Yet I think there was a fierce joy in it, for both of us. Even as I turned back to rebuke her for it, she grabbed a fistful of my hair and pulled my lips down onto hers. I kissed her with a ferocity that I had no idea I owned, then used the free corner of my mouth to say, “Unhand me, madam! Mmnf. I can never be happy if we are parted! I can only be at peace when I’m with you!”
Which—I realized, to my horror—was true. My distaste for Mary Morstan had in no way lessened. Yet, what did it matter? I had infinitely more respect for Violet Hunter. And a perfect fascination with Irene Adler. Yet, what did that matter, either? Mary Morstan was now my core and my center. My place of rest. My home. The reward for all my battles. The fact that she was a vile harpy was immaterial.
“Let’s get married, you useless cad!” she growled.
“Damn it! I wanted to be the one to ask!”
“Haw!” Grogsson laughed, pointing one mocking finger at me. “Watson kiss, kiss!”
Mary tore open the front of my shirt, sending two of my buttons clattering across the Forresters’ sitting-room floor, then lunged back in to renew her affections.
“Woah!” Grogsson noted. “Okay… Watson kiss, kiss!”
“The library!” Mrs. Forrester cried, springing to her feet. “I’ve just realized: Inspector Grogsson has never been shown the library.”
Grogsson and her husband exchanged puzzled looks.
“But…”
Right in the middle of your awful, awful face.
“Right now, Cecil!”
“Yes! All right! The library!”
The three of them beat a hasty retreat, Mrs. Forrester pointing out certain aspects of the architecture
that had never been to her taste, you know, but the house was so old and the features were original, so had she any right to change them? She made sure to close the door behind her.
Mary kissed my face and neck, pausing only to gasp, “I don’t understand what’s happening!”
Neither did I. I struggled to pull my mind back from the present situation—to observe it dispassionately and deduce the reason. By God, who was I in that moment? What was happening to me? I had to recover my power of reason! I had to…
And, I had it.
“Oh no!” I cried, running my hand over Mary’s thigh. “Holmes!”
“What about him?” Mary asked between kisses.
“He wanted me gone and I said I wouldn’t go. So what did he do? Don’t you see? He bound our souls together so I’d leave of my own accord!”
Such ideas were strange to Mary. She stared up at me for a moment, parsing my words, searching for understanding. Then she shook her head. “No. I don’t care,” she decided, and began tugging at my belt.
“Warlock Holmes!” I screamed, shaking my fist in what I thought might be roughly the direction of Baker Street. “Warlock Holmes, you blighter! You bastard! I’ll kill you!”
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I ACKNOWLEDGE THE SUPERIORITY OF DILETTANTE Chocolates’ peppermint truffle cremes over all other candies. I’m going to eat this whole Costco-sized bag, puke it up, then eat that whole other bag.
Thanks again to the usual gang of misfits who made this book a book. To Sam and Sam, Miranda, Sean and Hayley. Without you guys making me a real-live published author, I’d have no cred to back up my insufferable snootiness.
To that Arthur guy: hey, didn’t your version of Toby live? Ha! Now I’ve even surpassed you as a dog-murderer! Eat it, Doyle!
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
GABRIEL DENNING LIVES IN LAS VEGAS WITH HIS WIFE AND two daughters. Oh, and a dog. And millions of microorganisms. He’s a twenty-year veteran of Orlando Theatersports, Seattle Theatersports, Jet City Improv and has finally figured out to write some of that stuff down. His first novel, Warlock Holmes: A Study in Brimstone, was published in 2016, and the Booklist review said “Mashup fans will be eagerly awaiting more”, which is why he wrote the sequels.
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