Being Sherlock’s smarter brother sometimes leads me to a slight over confidence in our relationship and my talents. Even, I daresay, an uncommon arrogance on my part. That was to prove my undoing, as well as events from a hitherto unforeseen source by the name of Colonel Sebastian Moran. Little did I realize that all my fine underhanded plans would crash down upon my head before I knew it.
After I deposited Watson at Victoria Station, I watched with some amusement as he went about the place as inconspicuous as possible—or as inconspicuous as possible for good Watson—frightfully amusing, let me tell you. From a safe distance, still in my disguise, I watched when Sherlock and Watson finally boarded the 7:11 Continental express. When the train pulled out, I waited to be sure that my brother did not perform one of his little “double-back” tricks. When I was sure no one had left the train, I drove off, back to Pall Mall. I was happy that my brother and Watson were now on their way to the Continent. Out of London, safe from Moriarty.
The next morning Burbage woke me early with alarming news. Moriarty was still in London as we agreed, but he had secretly sent his most trusted man, Colonel Sebastian Moran, to follow my brother and Watson. Moriarty had sent a note saying it was “just a simple precaution to be sure my brother does not return to London.” However, Moriarty’s “simple precaution” now upset the applecart and had thrown all my plans into disarray. For I knew that once Sherlock discovered he was being followed—and he surely would—he would seek the very confrontation I had worked so hard to avoid.
“That maniac with an air gun is stalking my brother!” I fairly shouted at Burbage. “He’s Moriarty’s chief henchman. He is not a member of the gang, so our people did not watch him like the others. Moriarty keeps him on separate status for use in delicate and special cases. Now he has slipped away. This is an outrage, Alex. Very bad!”
My man, Alex Burbage, nodded grimly. “I can be ready to leave within the hour, sir.”
I looked up at Alex. “It will be dangerous. While I thought I could reason with Moriarty—after all, this was all in his own self-interest—Moran is altogether something different. He is a killer. If he gets it in his mind, he will kill whoever is in his way—Sherlock, Watson, or you—and Moriarty’s restrictions on him be damned!”
Burbage smiled, said, “A little travel, the prospect of action, it sounds like fun. I will leave immediately, sir.”
“Thank you, Alex. Good man!” I said, touched by his loyalty and willingness to help. We shook hands. I said, “Be careful, Alex. Follow Sherlock and Watson, make no contact, just observe and report back to me via coded telegram each evening. And keep a sharp eye on Moran! He’s a bad one, and while ostensibly under the thumb of our professor friend not to take violent action, he likes to freelance too much for his own good. Keep me informed.”
Burbage was a good man. I felt entirely confident with him on the case. His talents in combat and with weapons were superior to Moran’s. His loyalty was unquestioned. He was just the man for the job, my eyes and ears in this matter on the Continent.
The first report from Burbage was brought to me next evening on a silver salver where I sat reading the Times in my chair at the Diogenes Club.
Without a word, Wilson placed the salver down upon my reading table and then quietly departed. I saw a folded piece of foolscap that had been sent upstairs to me from the secret offices below by my chief of Intelligence, Captain Hargrove. Already deciphered, I opened the paper and read Burbage’s first telegraphed report carefully.
It read:
M.
HAVE REACHED YOUR BROTHER AND W STOP ALL APPEARS WELL STOP NO SIGN OF M STOP TOMORROW INTERLAKEN AND FALLS STOP WILL REPORT NEXT EVENING STOP
AB
That was the last time I heard from Alexander Burbage. By the next evening, when there had been no report from him, I became concerned. The next day I dispatched two agents from Special Branch to follow him. Two days later their report, pieced together with Dr. Watson’s added comments, formed the picture of what really transpired on that foggy morning at the Reichenbach Falls.
My brother always expected that someone would be following him. Had my original plan gone into effect unhampered, all would have been fine. There would have been no pursuit. Sherlock would have been perplexed, but finding no evidence of anyone tracking him, he would have been relegated to nothing more sinister than a harmless tourist. Moran changed all that by his very presence. Whether he meant my brother harm or not, whether he was stalking with murderous intent or just to observe, neither I nor Sherlock could have known for certain. Unfortunately, while Moran stalked Sherlock, he also set himself up as bait. So as Moran watched my brother, my man Burbage watched both of them. It was not long before wily Sherlock doubled back on his tracks and soon stood to confront Colonel Sebastian Moran on the heights over the Reichenbach.
A terrible fight ensued.
Watson told me later that he was on his way back from the hotel, where he had been called away on a medical emergency. A subterfuge by Moran to get Watson out of the picture, with my brother’s obvious compliance to protect his friend. But good Watson realized the trick and raced back just in time to see two figures locked in a death struggle at the height of the fogenshrouded falls. Watson could see my brother plainly fighting for his life against a man whom he took for Moriarty. The thick fog obscured what happened next. Suddenly, out of the swirling mist a body hurled downward to the roiling waters below. Watson gasped. Was it Sherlock? Was it Moriarty?
Watson frantically raced to where he had seen the body land. It appeared the man had fallen into the turbulent river, badly injured; he had made his way to the shore only to die. Watson ran over to the man, naturally fearing it was Sherlock. He frantically turned the man over, faceup, surprised to gaze upon a face that he did not know.
Sherlock then came out of the shrubbery and Watson, surprised and relieved, let out a shout of joy.
“Holmes! You’re alive!”
“Indeed, Watson, though there are those who would be disappointed with that fact.”
“What happened?” Watson had asked.
Sherlock said nothing as he went over to examine the body.
Both were surprised the man was still alive, though barely. Watson did what he could, but it was obvious without serious medical attention the man would soon be dead.
Sherlock said, “Good Burbage, you saved my life. I don’t know how to thank you.”
“You know the man, Holmes?” Watson had asked.
It was, of course, Burbage. He had also seen the fight but was far closer and stepped in to save Sherlock’s life. It was Burbage who Moran had caused to drop off the Falls as he made his escape.
“Yes, Watson. I sense my brother Mycroft’s involvement here.”
“Mycroft?”
Sherlock nodded grimly, then said to the injured man, “Tell me, Burbage, what were you doing here?”
Burbage coughed, tried to steady his gaze. “Moriarty betrayed your brother, sent Moran. I had to stop him.”
Moriarty betrayed Mycroft? Naturally Sherlock thought the answer odd and so he questioned Burbage further.
Burbage, dying, sick with delirium and in great pain, told Sherlock all he knew about the plan to cause him to leave London. Sherlock was obviously upset by this deceit on my part, but what my man said next actually enraged him. For before Burbage died, he babbled a long detailed account of the alliance between myself and Moriarty and of some of our common projects. When Burbage died, Watson told me the look on Sherlock’s face appeared as if he had died as well. The look of pained betrayal was hard set in his eyes and it was terrible to see.
Watson told me that when Sherlock first heard this news, he could see my brother’s face turn ashen, and Sherlock shouted my name in rage. Sherlock had lost control and was furious. “I have been betrayed, Watson!” he shouted angrily. “Not only is my brother allied with the same forces that I have risked my life to fight, dedicated my profession to destroy, but it is now obvious that he has b
een working with them all along. This is just too much!”
Of course, not being there to give Sherlock my side of the story, I was at a considerable disadvantage. But Sherlock would not have listened anyway.
Watson told me later, “I have never seen your brother so upset. It was most unlike him. He had lost all composure and even commented that not even the cocaine needle could assuage his pain this time. He actually used profanity in conjunction with your name. He said he was finished with you, London, and the Empire and that he would never come back.”
I was shattered by this news. Sherlock now knew that I had not only used Moriarty on certain matters, but that some of the “Napoleon of Crime’s” activities were in fact, attributed to me! That would be an affront I knew my brother could never accept. I feared his reaction, for I knew it would be extreme.
“Then,” Watson continued, “your brother gave me instructions on what I must do and say about this matter before he told me good-bye.”
“What did he say?” I asked Watson.
“As far as anyone knows, Sherlock Holmes met his death at the Reichenbach. This is the last case I shall write. I am to write no more of his cases for publication in the popular press,” Watson said, adding, “He told me he will travel the globe, see the pyramids, perhaps seek an audience or studies with the Dalai Lama.”
I harrumphed my displeasure. Of course it was utter nonsense.
Watson shrugged. “I tried to convince Sherlock to return but upon his death, Burbage told your brother such information that caused him great anger and distress.”
Indeed! Sherlock finding out that some of the actions taken by Moriarty, had in fact, been at my direction and design was the one thing I feared the most. I was crushed. I was the reason Sherlock was never coming back to London. It was because I was in London! I grew despondent and morose.
Watson shook his head sadly, added, “Aside from Moriarty and Moran, you and I are the only ones who know that Sherlock is still alive. I haven’t even told Doyle the truth. He never liked your brother anyway.”
I nodded; there was nothing to do about it now. Once Sherlock had made up his mind it was set in stone. I had damaged his pride, but far worse, I had betrayed him. Even if it was for his own good, I had deceived him and now he knows the worst of it. My involvement with Moriarty. It was terrible!
Watson, afterwards, began to write his last Sherlock Holmes story for the Strand, as directed by my brother, calling it “The Final Problem”—ending with Sherlock’s death at the Reichenbach at the hands of Moriarty. And that, as Sherlock told Watson before he came home to London, was the end of that!
I made the prerequisite funds available to Mrs. Hudson to keep up the rooms at 221B. I hoped Sherlock would be back someday, once he dropped this silly notion of anger at what I had done. After all, everything I had done was for his protection and England’s. Well, most of it, at any rate. As time went by, though, I began to realize how wrong I had been.
I used my agents from time to time to carry cash and letters of explanation to my brother. His travels seemed varied and eclectic. His use of the name “Sigerson,” claiming to be a Norwegian explorer, did not put me off his track. Wily Sherlock kept the money but always returned the letters to my agents unread. He made it clear to me it was over between us.
But it was not over for me. Since that day the rift between Sherlock and me weighed heavily upon me. I wanted to mend that break at any cost and bring Sherlock back to London. So from that day on, I worked on a plan with Watson that I hoped would set everything right.
Three years passed since Sherlock left and I missed him. Though we were always separated, there was always a connection that resonated between us. Two great intellects. The last two Holmes brothers left alive. It was a shame it had come to this.
In the meantime I continued my work for the Empire. It was a struggle, but rewarding in its own way. The Empire was now at its height and my work progressed well. Over the last months, through my various agents, including Moriarty’s organization, there had been many successes. I had managed to defuse one revolution, end two minor wars, begin one invasion, annex new territory, free a dozen hostages, cause distress among the French, confound the Germans, foster an alliance with the Czar, succeed in three assassinations and prevent two others. This string of successes ended with the murder of young Ronald Adair in London on March 30, 1894.
Much had been made of the murder of this young dilettante and scion of the lesser nobility in the popular press, but would it shock you to know that he was one of my most able agents?
His tragic murder by Colonel Sebastian Moran, up to his dirty tricks once again, had been doubly troublesome for me, for it precipitated what I had feared most in recent months, conflict between Moriarty’s gang and my own Special Branch people.
It seemed that without Sherlock in London, the criminal classes—and the organized criminals in particular, of which Professor Moriarty had lately achieved an impressive consolidation of control—were making their own play for power. I began to realize I had created a monster. It is times like these that I especially miss the services of my brother and men like Burbage. I felt more alone than ever.
It was early April when virtual warfare between our two organizations broke out. My operatives in the Special Branch called it “The Silent War.” There were serious political problems, probably instigated by Moriarty, and they took my full attention so that I did not notice the connection with his other actions. We missed some telling clues early on, all beneath the vision of the press and the police. So very British. I really must compliment Moriarty. It began with an inconsequential fall, then an accident by hansom cab, a heart ailment; later there was a suicide or a lovers’ quarrel gone bad. Before we knew what was happening, we had lost half a dozen prime operatives and I found myself under siege.
Now I dare not even return to my lodgings across the street at Pall Mall. Should I do so and some attempt be made upon my person that is successful or causes some public spectacle, it would cause undo questions, which cannot be allowed. Thus I cannot leave the confines of the Diogenes Club. So long as I remain in this secure bastion, I am safe from Moriarty and his minions. The sad irony of this situation is not lost on me. My brother’s attempt to destroy Moriarty and his entire organization three years ago had been the correct thing to do. I should never have stopped him. Sherlock always understood the criminal mind far better than I. He knew there was no reasoning with such people. I knew then it was time to cut my ties with Moriarty for good altogether.
The situation had become serious when I heard from Dr. Watson. I had not seen him since that day he had come hack from the Continent after my brother had let out on his travels. Watson told me the most astounding and welcome news; Sherlock was back in London! The Adair murder had called him back, for Sherlock realized the meaning of such a bold move and the danger that it placed me in. It was an alarm to us that Moriarty was making his move. Watson said that my brother was back to help me and that he wanted to meet with me later at his rooms at 221B.
That’s wonderful news!” I told Watson.”This is a perfect time for us to start our plan. Leak a message of this meeting so Moriarty is sure to find out. I will do the rest.”
I must admit that the prospect of seeing Sherlock again and our reconciliation did much to improve my spirits and I eagerly looked forward to our meeting later that evening. I knew leaving the confines of the club could be dangerous, but I took precautions. I had Hargrove see to it that Lestrade sent over two of his best men from Scotland Yard to accompany me.
All was going well until we turned onto Baker Street and I realized the two plainclothes police were in the employ of Moriarty. Though in disguise, and their papers had all been quite correct—their reputation had preceded them. I finally recognized them as Scottish specialists in murder, Jamison and Conner. This, I am afraid, was not what I had planned, but by then it was too late. They had a weapon on me and I had no choice but to allow them to bring me to the destinati
on where I knew I was to be assassinated. It was the empty house across from 221B. The very house my brother Sherlock used for some of his more clandestine activities.
I was brought into the house, and taken upstairs at gunpoint.
“Aye, guv, someone of great importance wants to see you. On the upper floor,” Connor said, prodding me up the steps. His partner, Jamison, following behind quietly.
When I reached the top of the stairs I was confronted by the sinister fig ure of Professor James Moriarty.
“Welcome, Mr. Holmes. It is so good to see you could actually bring yourself to leave the protection of your club to join us here tonight. It has been a number of years since our last meeting. At that time I seem to remember there were numerous issues left unresolved. I believe I can promise you that they shall all be settled this evening.”
“Where is my brother?” I asked defiantly.
Moriarty smiled. “How sad. The vaunted reunion of the Holmes Brothers finally after so many years. There will be no meeting, but you shall see your brother presently, I assure you.”
His dark words put a dread feeling upon me. I began to realize that Moriarty had a far more sinister plan in mind than just my own murder.
“What have you done to him? You’ll hang for this, Professor!” ] growled.
Moriarty nodded, motioning his men to gag me and bring me forward into the next room. There I saw Colonel Sebastian Moran at the front win dow. He was aiming his notorious air gun at a figure silhouetted in the window across the street from us. I realized that the window was the front room of the top apartment at 221B Baker Street, and the figure silhouetted in the center window was that of my brother, Sherlock.
My Sherlock Holmes Page 15
