Sherlock Holmes and the Father of Lies

by C J Lutton

  Holmes, I thought, where the devil are you?

  Gently, I grasped the paper at its edges and worked to unfold it. When it was opened flat, I was shocked to find nothing on it. Not one word.

  ”Watson!” cried Holmes, bursting through the door, ”Are you—”

  He came rushing forward in mid—sentence. Glancing past my shoulder, Holmes saw Thaddeus’ prone figure on the bed. The detective’s whole body tensed.

  ”He's fine, Holmes,” I assured my old friend. “Wiggins has a slight abrasion, nothing more. Allowing for the headache he'll have in the morning; he'll soon be back to normal.”

  Sherlock Holmes’ face was white with anger as he backed away. His voice was cold as he asked me, ”What happened?”

  ”Someone tried to kill us. The villain pushed an envelope under the door to draw us near. It was a ruse that nearly worked. The shot barely missed Thaddeus.”

  ”Where's the bullet?”

  ”I have no idea. Wait a minute! I know something that might help.” After turning off the lights, I could see, just as I had seen earlier, a pencil—thin beam of light from the hall as it poured through the bullet hole. I followed its path and walked to the far side of the room.

  ”Excellent!” Holmes said, as he turned on the lights. ”Watson, you've been thinking on your feet again.”

  The detective walked over to the wall, and taking out his glass, examined the hole in the flocked wallpaper. He leaned forward and brought his nose close to the puncture and sniffed it. Then he reached into his trousers for his pocketknife. Holmes dug into the wall and pried out the bullet, letting it fall to the floor. I stooped to pick it up, but Holmes stopped me.

  ”Watson, a pair of your tweezers, please.”

  With a nod, I retreated to my bag. From there I withdrew a pair of tweezers and handed them to my friend. Getting down on all fours, Holmes used the tips of the tweezers to turn the bullet over and over on the carpeted floor, whilst examining it through his glass. After his inspection, and when he was satisfied that he had learned as much as possible, Holmes used the implement to pick up the bullet and bring the blunted lead to his nose.

  ”Aconitine, again,” he said, as a look of concern spread across his face. ”They mean business.”

  ”What are you suggesting?” I asked. To my way of thinking, anyone who lured his prey to the door in order shoot him point—blank was obviously serious. But Holmes, as usual, added a new layer of meaning to his remark.

  ”Aconitine is an old and somewhat dubious method of ensuring results when you hope to kill someone. There are assassins who coat their bullets with various poisons. The reason being, if the bullet doesn't kill you, then the poison most assuredly will.”

  ”But Holmes, the bullet actually hit Thaddeus!”

  ”Judging from the superficial nature of the wound,” Holmes replied, looking down at Thaddeus’ sleeping figure, ”there's no cause for worry, but he's your patient. What do you think?”

  I sat on the edge of the bed and examined Thaddeus more closely. ”Perhaps you're right. The blood seems to have cleaned the wound sufficiently. I cleansed the area surrounding the wound, too. It was little more than an abrasion, but I'll keep my eye on my patient just the same.” As I revisited the horror, my hands began to shake uncontrollably.

  ”Steady, old friend,” said Holmes. “The world's not big enough for these fiends to hide in. We'll get those responsible.”

  His tone was deadly. He turned and glanced at Thaddeus as the young man roused. After quickly touching his bandage, Thaddeus recovered remarkably. He rose from the divan, acting much more alert than he had been moments ago.

  ”We have more pressing matters that require our attention. What happened to your people?” Holmes asked in an accusing voice, while looking directly at the boy. ”Are you able to get about?”

  ”Yes. I'm ready when you are,” the young man responded.

  Holmes took off his coat and unbuttoned his jacket. He opened the breech of the shotgun and checked the shells while Thaddeus and I did the same. It occurred to me that Thaddeus’ people allowed this to happen. That could only mean one of two possibilities: Either his people were dead, or they were in league with the enemy. As we left our room in search of the truth, I sincerely hoped it was the former.

  12

  The Tragedy Of Emma Edwards

  By now, it was nearly two o'clock in the morning. The hotel hallways were empty of guests as we searched the top floor and worked our way down. If any guests would have come out of their rooms, they would have been greeted by three men wearing angry scowls and carrying shotguns at the ready. By the time we arrived at the lobby level, we were obviously frustrated. It was a poor time for the local police to enter, especially since we were brandishing shotguns.

  A local officer perused our credentials with a bored look. He’d never seen the like of the badges that we carried, and he was accustomed to being obeyed without question. I could sense Holmes losing patience with the man. Luck was on our side that night because Wilson finally arrived and sent the local officer on his way.

  Hurrying over to us, Wilson said, ”I came as soon as I heard a shot had been fired, Mr. Holmes. Feel like bringing me up to date?”

  Holmes explained what had happened and the results of our fruitless search. Then he asked, “Where were your men during all of this?”

  Wilson cocked his head and stared at my friend. ”I’m sorry. I thought you knew. Right now, my men are outside in the alley where they're standing over five bodies. It’s a bloody scene, to be sure. All of them had their throats slit and one is a woman, I'm afraid.”

  ”No!” Thaddeus shouted and ran out the front door of the hotel.

  Holmes’ face turned ashen. He was physically rocked by Wilson's words as he stared in the direction that Wiggins had run. “Oh, no! The woman was Thaddeus’ sister!”

  My friend walked slowly out of the hotel. Wilson and I followed him onto the street. A gaslight provided the only relief from the darkness. As we rounded the corner, I saw Thaddeus sitting on the wet ground and cradling a young woman's head in his lap. He swayed back and forth, trying to comfort himself and carefully wiping the bloodied strands of hair out of the dead woman's eyes.

  ”Why?” he moaned, ”Why would they do this?”

  No one answered.

  The other bodies were sitting with their backs propped up against the wall. Their necks had been slashed from ear to ear, and their blood emptied onto the cold stone. All of the dead had their hands bound in front of them. Written in blood above their heads on the limestone wall were the words, “You're next, Holmes!”

  Stepping gingerly over the bodies, Holmes examined each one, except for Thaddeus’ sister, who was still being held by her brother. Holmes looked over at me and then nodded at Thaddeus. Understanding my old friend’s meaning, I knelt next to the grief—stricken young man. ”Let Wilson’s people do their work, Thaddeus. You can't help her now.”

  I gently wrested his arms from his sister and assisted him to his feet. Wrapping my arm round his shoulders, I comforted Thaddeus as best I could. When he was able to walk, I led him back to the hotel and up to our rooms.

  ”I'll get those fiends,” declared Holmes as he clenched and unclenched his fists.

  ”Not before I do,” said Thaddeus. His eyes glowed with revenge.

  Upon reaching our suite of rooms, I gave Thaddeus a sedative and helped him into bed. I pulled a chair over and made myself as comfortable as I could. All night long, I remained at the foot of his bed with my shotgun facing the door. ”No more harm will come to you, my young friend,” I promised the sleeping form.

  Holmes and I may not have known this young woman personally, but we knew her brother. And her deeds, her courage, spoke volumes about her. She would not soon be forgotten.

  Holmes tapped on the door to Thaddeus’ room. ”Watson? It's me, Holmes.”

  I rose from the chair and unlocked the door. Holmes stood in the doorway, his face gaunt and sunken. He w
hispered, “How’s he doing?”

  ”He's sleeping. I gave him a sedative.”

  ”When Thaddeus wakes, just tell him... Oh, never mind. I'll tell him later. I'll have someone relieve you in a few minutes. We both can use some rest.”

  Holmes turned and walked out of the room. I quietly closed the door and secured the lock. Then I resumed my post in the chair at the foot of Thaddeus’ bed. My shotgun was at the ready.

  A few moments later, Holmes returned with three of Wilson's men. I warned the fellow who relieved me that he’d better stay alert and make sure that nothing happened to Thaddeus, or there would be hell to pay. Holmes and I were escorted by the remaining two men, who posted themselves outside our doors. I collapsed on my bed and drifted off into a troubled sleep.

  Our first night in America, and we're responsible for the deaths of five people, was my last cogent thought.

  I awoke to Holmes calling my name. ”Watson, get up. It's nearly four o'clock in the afternoon.”

  Lifting my head from the pillow, I looked over at Holmes. He had changed into fresh clothes.

  ”Thaddeus!” I called out in alarm, as I tossed back the bed covers.

  ”Resting comfortably,” said Holmes. ”Quickly get dressed, there's someone I want you to meet. An American of great stature. Come to my room as soon as you're ready, and you’d best bring Thaddeus with you. He should be here, also.”

  Seeing that I was awake and attempting to rise, Holmes left my room, making sure to slam the door behind him as loudly as possible. I grumbled to myself as I struggled with my clothes. I've never seen my friend impressed by anyone, and especially not an American. As I left my room to retrieve Thaddeus, I noticed several men standing guard at Holmes’ door. Good, I thought. Wilson has brought reinforcements.

  One of the sentries noted my presence by opening his jacket to reveal the butt of a pistol peeking out of the waistband of his trousers. The others turned in my direction and did the same. Feeling in a sour mood, I opened my jacket to reveal the deadly shotgun. They did their best to recover from their shock, as I wheeled around and headed for Thaddeus’ room. Their eyes burned into my back as I walked down the hall. The bulk of my shotgun felt very comforting indeed. Tapping on the door, I identified myself and was allowed into Thaddeus’ room, where the guard promptly left us alone.

  I was surprised to see Thaddeus up and about. In fact, he was already dressed. He sat on the edge of the bed. He was holding the shotgun in his lap and staring blankly into his nightmarish world.

  “Thaddeus? How are you feeling?” I asked, hoping to break the evil spell that had a hold on him.

  ”Good morning, Dr. Watson. I'm afraid I’m not doing too well.”

  Alarmed, I began checking his wounds.

  ”Oh, I'm not talking of me, doctor. You did a splendid job of patching me up. I never did thank you for saving my life, did I?” His smile was both grateful and sad.

  ”You would have done the same. But that's not important. I am very sorry about your sister.”

  Thaddeus jumped at her mention. ”How did you know she was my sister? Of course! Mr. Holmes. He knew all the time, didn't he?”

  ”I don't know how long he knew, but he knew. You know him. Nothing misses his eye.” I hesitated. I didn’t want to pry, but the young man seemed like he wanted to talk about the sibling he’d lost to horrific violence. “What was her name?”

  ”Her name is, uhh, was, Emma Edwards.”

  ”She was married then?”

  ”What? Oh no. My family's name is Edwards. My true name is Thaddeus Cadwallader Edwards.”

  ”But I’ve always heard you called Wiggins.”

  His smile was forced. ”Wiggins was an unfortunate name that I inherited during my days of mischief and hanging round the Old Bailey.”

  From that day forward, I vowed not to call the young man Wiggins again. Although I wanted Thaddeus to forget about last evening and wished him to continue, I remembered Holmes’ words to make haste. ”If you're up to it, Holmes would like us to go to his room straight away. There's someone he would like us to meet.”

  Thaddeus thought for a moment, before responding. ”If it's not my sister's killers, then I have no stomach for introductions. If you would, please make my apologies. Mention to Mr. Holmes my request for privacy for the rest of the day. Tell him—and please use these words exactly—that I suffer from the jukes. He'll understand.”

  I was about to enquire as to his meaning, but he gestured for me to leave. Thaddeus said, ”You mustn't keep Mr. Holmes and his guest waiting, doctor. Perhaps later we will talk.”

  Rising from his bed, Thaddeus ushered me out and shut the door behind me.

  Walking down the hall to Holmes’ room, I became suspicious of Thaddeus’ words and turned back. Before I had taken two steps, Holmes called after me, “Watson!”

  Stopping in mid—stride, I spun round and saw Holmes’ head peeking out from his room. ”Watson, what's keeping you? Our visitor's growing impatient.”

  ”It's Thaddeus,” I answered, looking back in the direction of the young man’s room. ”Holmes, it was something he said. I must speak with him.”

  ”There's no time for that now. Please come in here. I wish to introduce you to someone.”

  His impatient tone broke my indecision, and I walked towards Holmes. My curiosity suddenly piqued, I put aside my suspicions. As I approached the men standing outside the door, one came to the forefront.

  ”If you please, Dr. Watson?” he asked with a gesture indicating that I was to submit to being searched.

  I turned to Holmes to see his reaction.

  He said, ”It's all right, Watson. This is a necessary precaution. These men are just doing their jobs.”

  After surrendering my shotgun and two pistols, I was escorted into our meeting room in Holmes’ suite. Standing in the center of the room was a broad—shouldered, barrel—chested man, dressed in formal attire. He wore a long, black coat over a starched white shirt with a high collar. Tucked beneath it was a black—and—grey cravat, obviously made of silk. His vest was grey and a size too small for his hulking frame. The mysterious guest had a bushy mustache that twitched. Pince—nez rested on the broad bridge of his nose.

  His smile exposed horse—like teeth set in a prominent mouth. As I stepped forward and extended my hand, he jutted out his jaw and stretched his neck. Then he grasped my hand with both of his.

  ”Watson,” said Holmes, ”I’d like you to meet Theodore Roosevelt, the President of the United States.”

  I stared at the guest in disbelief.

  ”Ah, Dr. Watson, I'm a great admirer of yours,” said President Roosevelt enthusiastically, while pumping my hand up and down.

  I was startled by his ebullient, booming voice and did my best to blink back my surprise.

  ”Unfortunately,” Roosevelt continued, “I have just a few minutes but I wanted to meet you personally. I wanted to thank you for all of the bully things you and Sherlock are doing. Mr. Wilson, whom I know you've met, has provided me with the details of last night's occurrences. Sherlock and I spoke at great length regarding your mission. It may surprise you to know that our agents have come upon your Count Dracula many times. Each time we acted, we lost men. Many good men, I might add. I've assured Sherlock that the powers of my office are at your disposal. In fact, he's already availed himself of my offer. As we speak, my private train's being readied for your exclusive use.”

  The President kept shaking my hand as he stared at me through the thick lenses of his glasses. He continued, ”Well, Doctor, what have you to say?”

  ”Mr. President, if your grip is any evidence of your enthusiastic support, then I must assume the world is better off for it, and Dracula's days are surely numbered.”

  Roosevelt was as startled by my words as I. Thankfully, he burst out laughing.

  ”Bully!” he said, turning towards Holmes, then back to me. ”Sherlock? Your opinion of the good doctor was a bull's eye! He is without guile. If only Washin
gton were filled with such men, then we would do great deeds. Dr. Watson, whatever help you need, it's yours for the asking. Hopefully, we'll meet again. And please pass along my sympathies to your associate.”

  A polite cough from one of the President's men standing in the doorway indicated the interview was over. Roosevelt was clearly angered by the interruption and prolonged his visit by casting a cutting glance in the man's direction, before asking Holmes what our plans were.

  ”Perhaps it's wiser that our plans remain our plans,” replied Sherlock Holmes, nodding imperceptibly towards the men who guarded Mr. Roosevelt. ”I'm sure you understand, sir.”

  At first, Roosevelt was angered by Holmes’ avoidance, but a quick change of expression indicated that the great man understood what Holmes was saying.

  ”Bully, Mr. Holmes. The walls have been known to sprout ears. Unfortunately, there's no getting around that. I'm off then.”

  After saying our farewells, the President and his men left in a whirl of action.

  Watching Roosevelt make his way down the hallway, I chuckled at the enigmatic man, as he barked orders and paused to shake hands with a bellboy who had suddenly appeared from a room. As I turned back around to comment on our guest, I was troubled to find Holmes standing slouched against the doorway. Slowly, he raised his eyes from the floor. It was plain to see that he was searching for the appropriate words about last night's incident.

  ”What of Thaddeus?” he finally asked.

  ”He's recovering from his wounds, but I'm afraid his sister's death is still raw. As of yet, the extent of his loss cannot be measured. Her murder weighs heavily on his mind. I’m afraid we’ll have to monitor his actions carefully to determine to what extent her death affects his reasoning.”

  ”What do you mean?”

  ”Physically, he was up to attending the meeting, but mentally he's deeply wounded. He said to tell you that he has a case of the ‘jukes,’ and that you'll understand. What did he mean by that, Holmes? I've never heard of this particular malady.”