Sherlock Holmes

by Keisuke Matsuoka

  At last, Sherlock plucked his silver cigarette-case from his pocket. He tore several pages from his notebook, placed the pages inside his cigarette-case, and set the case next to his stick.

  His eyes drifted absently into the distance, but only for the briefest of moments. Immediately, his gaze regained its usual sharpness. He lifted his chin and leveled his eyes at Moriarty. “I find I am able to assure myself that my career to this point has not been in vain. If you wish to settle this by discussion I am at your convenience, though I inform you in advance that I must accede to no proposal that does not involve your surrender to the police.”

  The sauce of the man! Moriarty felt his temper flare. Fortunately, the time for patience was nearly past. Sherlock Holmes approached the rocks, leaving his walking stick behind.

  However, he did not stay his approach until he was nearly upon the professor.

  “Why do you draw so near?” demanded Moriarty.

  “So that we may better hear one another. We have agreed to settle these matters between us by discussion, have we not? A shape-up would be beneath the dignity of a man in your position, Professor, I’m sure.”

  “Indeed,” said Moriarty, taking a step away and attempting to lure him further toward the rocks. “Come this way, so that we may discuss matters face to face.”

  In response, Sherlock grabbed him by the arm. “I shall stay at your very side. There can be no interference in our conversation.”

  This was precisely the behavior that Moriarty found so infuriating. With Sherlock so close, it was impossible for Colonel Moran to take his shot.

  Then toss him from the cliffs and be done with it! The thought flashed into Moriarty’s head as his pulse rose.

  Moriarty was inexperienced in the savage art of fisticuffs. In his career as a criminal, his role had been only to organize and plan—the deeds themselves had always been carried out by his agents. This moment, however, only required that he force Holmes back a few paces. If he was able to place Sherlock on the rocks for even a second, Moran would secure the kill. No game, however fierce, was beyond the colonel’s skill.

  2

  Sherlock realized immediately that Moriarty was preparing to free his arm.

  Like Sherlock, Moriarty was tall and thin, but he was also far older. His face was pale and wan, and his eyes were hollow and sunken beneath a balding, protruding forehead. His face, which jutted forward due to the stoop of his back and tended to undulate with his movements, had ceased to quiver. His eyes were fixated on him.

  A man accustomed to fighting would move briskly, before allowing their opponent a chance to read their intentions. Men less accustomed to such brush-ups, however, might hesitate before their courage reached its sticking point. Such men had a tendency to adopt mannerisms designed to conceal what they were planning. Moriarty was breathing quickly, obviously deliberating over his stance. He opened and closed his hands unconsciously, perhaps to test his own grip. Indeed, the professor’s behavior was unmistakable.

  A moment later he jostled his arm free and shoved Sherlock in the chest. He was pushed back toward the cliff. But Sherlock reacted immediately. A left jab? No, he stretched his arms toward Moriarty and grabbed his lapels in both hands. A look of surprise crossed Moriarty’s face. As it might, Sherlock thought. In the Western imagination, grabbing at your opponent in such a manner during a fight would seem futile. One might secure one’s opponent, but with both hands thus engaged there would be no opportunity to carry through with further strikes. Moriarty was likely only capable of interpreting his move as a precursor to desperation—namely, throwing himself from the cliffs with Moriarty in tow.

  Such, however, was not his intention. His body moved half by instinct. Still gripping Moriarty’s lapels in both hands he took a step backward and jammed his elbow tightly into the professor’s side. He was in his opponent’s pocket in an instant. Turning his body, he threw Moriarty backward, over his shoulder.

  Moriarty’s hefty mass was flung into the air, their positions instantly reversed. Landing at the edge of the cliff, Moriarty scrambled to gain his footing. His balance, however, already tilted dangerously toward the falls. He clutched at Sherlock’s shoulders, but the other man only straightened his back and shook him off. Once a man’s center of gravity had been destroyed, it was easy to dispatch him without further resistance. This was the foundation of jujitsu.

  Moriarty’s arms, flung up in the air, began flailing desperately like the wings of a bird. But one glance showed it was too late for him to regain his footing.

  “Holmes!” Moriarty screamed as he fell. He plummeted down the sheer cliff face, his body macerated in the falls before it struck a rock. He rebounded upon impact and finally collided with the rolling water below. The entire process took mere seconds. The basin below continued to seethe with tremendous quantities of water, betraying no indication that anything had transpired. Moriarty was entirely lost from sight.

  Sherlock breathed sharply, winded. Eventually, he realized that he stood at the very edge of the rocks. The spray surrounded him on all sides like a heavy fog. And how fortunate that it did, he thought. Though it was unlikely that anyone had been watching them, he was still grateful for the cover.

  He was struck suddenly with inspiration. Perhaps this situation could be turned to his advantage.

  Only two sets of footprints led to the place. If Sherlock did not return, he might fake his own death.

  Once the remaining members of Moriarty’s gang, laying low in London, were to learn of Sherlock Holmes’ death, they would likely abandon restraint and venture out into the open. But without Moriarty to guide them they were nothing but a motley band of blundering fools. A few anonymous letters to the police, the proper hint here and there, and the remaining men should soon be placed in the docks.

  But if he were simply to return to London? Then Moriarty’s criminal agents would burrow even further underground, continuing to harass Sherlock with dogged attempts upon his life.

  It would not stand. If he were assumed dead, his enemies might be rounded up in one fell swoop.

  Ought he to meet with Watson so the two of them could get their stories straight? No, John was an honest man. Expecting him to conceal the death of his dearest friend would be too much.

  Sherlock glanced furtively at his alpine-stock and cigarette-case, which still rested against the rocks. A twinge of guilt gnawed at him, but he was aware that he was only delaying the inevitable.

  He turned around. He strode quickly toward the towering cliff face and hugged the rocks closely. Placing his feet against the outcroppings, he began to clamber up the rocks. His clothes would be thick with mud, but no matter. If he were to tumble backward, head over heels, it would be a hasty plunge into the waters below. To his ears, the roar of the falls sounded like Moriarty’s plaintive wail. The rocks were extremely slick. He clutched at a patch of weeds only to have the roots pull free. Nearly losing his balance, by some feat of strength he managed to cling to the cliff face, persisting in his treacherous climb.

  He found a rock shelf at the height of approximately two men from the ground. The shelf itself was some three feet deep, forming a naturally flat bed covered in soft green moss. He sprawled across it. Surely he was now hidden from sight from those below.

  But were his actions rational? The thought only now occurred to him. He had not yet given much consideration to what view the law might take of his feigning his own death.

  Sherlock recalled the case of Neville St. Clair, a man discovered alive though formerly presumed dead. If you leave it to a court of law to clear the matter up, he had told Neville at the time, of course you can hardly avoid publicity. On the other hand, if you convince the police authorities that there is no possible case against you, I do not know that there is any reason that the details should find their way into the papers.

  He grimaced. He wondered how Inspector Bradstreet might react if
he were assigned his case in London. Lestrade, at least, might be expected to show some sympathy.

  But of course, Sherlock’s situation was a touch graver than St. Clair’s had been. Considering that he had been present at the time of Moriarty’s fall, it would likely prove impossible for him to escape suspicion for murder. Would a court recognize self-defense? And should he be kept in custody for the entirety of the trial, Moriarty’s brother might make maneuvers during that time. It admitted no question, then. Sherlock would have to remove himself from society for the present—heavy though the consequences might be.

  The sound of voices began to mingle with the roar of the falls. Sherlock realized he was not imagining things. He raised himself up slightly and peered over the edge of the shelf.

  Below him was a group of uniformed policemen. They stood with another gentleman—a man two years older than Sherlock was, sporting a mustache, and with a face that bespoke good nature. The living image of fidelity and faith, none other than Dr. John Watson.

  His friend’s state of distraction was apparent. He peered fretfully into the chasm several times, before collapsing upon one of the rocks with a groan. He seemed to have caught sight of Sherlock’s alpine-stock. He took up the cigarette-case laying by its side.

  A pang seized at Sherlock’s chest. What an execrable wretch he must be, that the day should come that he must deceive the trust of the very dearest of friends.

  Absorbed for a time in reading the letter he had left behind, Watson lifted his face at last, his expression one of baffled despair. His face stricken with grief, he shouted desperately into the falls: “Sherlock. Sherlock!”

  Sherlock felt a wave of hot misery overcome him. Looking at the sky, his vision swam with tears. There were no eyes upon him now. Surely this once he might be forgiven for momentarily giving in to a little sentiment. Without this slight release, he feared he might cry out for Watson, and then all would be naught—he would only face constant designs upon his life, and his friend would be exposed to considerable danger.

  Watson had been his constant companion. He had shuttered his practice for over a week already to join Sherlock in their present maneuvers. He recalled the day he had first met the doctor, at the hospital chemical laboratory, as if it were only yesterday. A man like Watson might be found anywhere, and yet Watson, the man, was possessed of a temperament unique among any Sherlock had heretofore encountered.

  Friendships between men are built without words. Or so prevailing wisdom demanded. Sherlock had never believed such tripe. Indeed, the two of them engaged in frequent conversation. And while familiarity was known to breed contempt, such was never the case with them. Watson could be called upon whatever the hour, morning or night, and had never hesitated not only in sympathizing with Sherlock but even in joining him in his endeavors.

  The only sound that remained now was the deep groan of the falls. He leaned over the edge a second time.

  Watson was gone, along with the police. He had taken the stick and cigarette-case with him.

  Sherlock turned his eyes toward the sky once more with a heavy heart.

  He placed his two hands before his face. They were numb as churchyards, and he had lost feeling entirely in the fingertips. Was it from the climb? No, not the climb. They had been stiff as boards ever since he threw Moriarty. He must have clenched his hands with considerable tension.

  Sherlock had executed the move instantly. His body had remembered it for him. The first time he had witnessed the move performed, he had been only ten years old…

  Although Sherlock had still been a child then, he had recognized something unusual about the young man’s appearance. He had worn a silk top hat and frock coat, like any common Londoner, but the articles were evidently too large for him. The man was so slender and slight that he might even have been confused for a woman dressed in men’s clothing. His complexion, too, was so clear, and his features so youthful, that Sherlock almost didn’t believe the man later when he revealed he was 22. Though Oriental, the man was evidently not Chinese. His movements were quick and agile, his posture strict, and he spoke English with a vaguely labored pronunciation that Sherlock found distracting.

  The man’s name was Shunsuke Ito, and he had travelled to London as a stowaway, he had told him, though discovery on the ship would have surely meant death.

  Suddenly there was a change in the air pressure against his face. A dark shadow menaced his field of vision, quickly growing larger. A boulder! Sherlock gasped, rolling over. He pressed his body against the cliffs, hugging the rocks. A piercing whistle invaded his ear, before the boulder smashed into the ledge and crashed down the cliff.

  He looked up. A bearded face peered back at him from atop the cliff. The face drew back, and immediately another boulder came rolling down. He attempted to take cover.

  The third boulder hit the cliff with a shrill cry before rolling further down. For a moment, all was still. Sherlock shimmied out from the natural rock bed and latched onto the edge. If he attempted to simply jump down, the momentum would likely send him tumbling all the way into the falls. Instead he slithered, searching by inches for footholds. Another boulder whistled past his ear, rebounding off the rocky outcropping below before disappearing, spinning, into the watery chasm.

  His feet finally reached solid ground below. The skin on both hands was scraped and raw. They throbbed as painfully as if they had been burned. Blood oozed from his palms. Sherlock’s trials, however, were not yet over. He dashed toward the narrow trail that hugged the cliff face, putting new distance between himself and the falls.

  It must have been one of Moriarty’s men. He knew now that Sherlock was still alive. This meant Sherlock had lost half the benefit of playing dead, and to the very enemy against whom such advantage was needed most. What should he do? Surely his sterling intellect would hit upon a solution. At the moment, however, he need better apply his full faculties to escaping his predicament in one piece.

  As of today, Sherlock Holmes was dead. A trifling ghost. There was no one he could rely on now. Not even dear Watson.

  3

  Properly speaking, it was the fourth year of the Bunkyu era. But as this year fell on the first of a new sexagenery cycle in the Chinese calendar, which according to ancient divination portended great political upheaval, the name of the year was instead changed to that of the first year of the Genji era. Changing the era name every few years in this way was extremely inefficient. Using the Western calendar, one could express the year in four simple numbers: The year was 1864.

  At age 22, however, Shunsuke Ito was beginning to realize that Western culture was not always something to be aspired to.

  In March in London, the air had begun to shed its chill and the snow that had accumulated on the streets had finally disappeared. Ito took advantage of the change in weather to escape the streets surrounding his college and stroll through a few areas he rarely visited.

  Though Cheapside was bustling, there was something about the thoroughfare, tucked into a corner of the City of London district with its view of St. Mary-le-Bow Church, he felt was slightly off. True, Cheapside offered the same elegant scenery as the other high streets. The rows of stone and masonry-structure buildings were adorned with splendid classic architectural motifs. And in Cheapside, as in those other neighborhoods, the number of carriages that travelled to and fro was the same, as was the clothing worn by the pedestrians and the way the women dragged their hems as they walked. Ito had learned from a girl whose company he had briefly enjoyed that those skirts were puffed out with bustles and crinolines.

  Yet despite these superficial gestures of respectability, Cheapside felt overladen with an atmosphere of cheerlessness. It was ordinary to see men smudged with faint coats of dirt, immediately identifiable as laborers. The children who ran through the streets, too, were less than kempt in appearance. Drunks squatted in the gutters. And the men who gathered around the hand-drawn two
-wheeled stalls, sipping coffees, did not, for all appearances’ sake, seem to hold respectable jobs.

  But all the same, these men were all accompanied by young women, with whom they seemed poorly matched. Opportunities for flirtation could be found in every walk of life, Ito supposed. Spurred by curiosity, he took a seat upon one of the wooden crates that had been set out in place of chairs. The portly vendor glanced at Ito as if to take his order. “A coffee, please,” he requested politely.

  The rim of the cup he was handed was chipped. The aroma only barely suggested coffee. Ito had expected as much, as soon as he realized the stall had no coffee siphon. He rose slightly from his seat and peered across the stall. A rusted tin had been set upon a fire. Crushed beans were simply swept in and boiled. Any other method was probably too unprofitable.

  A young woman sporting a gaudy hair ornament sat down next to Ito. “Buy us a cup?” she asked, a lilt to her voice that seemed vaguely coquettish.

  Before Ito could reply, the proprietor handed the woman a coffee. The woman stroked her chest eagerly, turning to Ito with an inviting look upon her face.

  Despite her heavy makeup the woman was clearly beautiful. Ito’s interest was stirred, but he quickly admonished himself.

  Of the five of them who had come to London from Japan, Ito had the reputation for being the biggest rake. For his own part, he was sure Kinsuke Endo was worse than he. The leader of their group, however, Yozo Yamao, had warned them both to refrain from their usual womanizing.

  Of course, it was clear what trade the woman was plying. Obviously this stall was a place for laborers to spend what little money they had on the company of prostitutes. As this was central London such business was, of course, prohibited. But perhaps that explained the need for such complicated introductions.

  Ito shrunk at the prospect of bluntly refusing the woman’s advances. He had taken a seat at the stall without being aware of the custom. However, he could hardly break the promise he had made to his friends. His only option…