I thanked him and waited patiently. I was left wondering just what the Dalai Lama would need to speak to you about privately, out of my presence.
As I waited, I heard a ruckus in the outer hallway and suddenly Lestrade and Gregson entered the room and behind them were four brace of stout London bobbies. They held none other than Colonel Sebastian Moran in irons, as Lestrade hefted a peculiar-looking rifle in his hands. It was Moran’s notorious airgun.
“Just as you said, he was across the street, aiming to get another shot off at the old man by the window.” Lestrade offered, “The old man you said would be the target.”
“Is the old man all right?” I asked.
“Flesh wound, but it is enough to tie Moran and his gun to alleged murder,” Gregson offered with a smile.
“You cannot arrest me! I am the commissioner of Scotland Yard!” Moran demanded with substantial pomp.
“Not quite,” Gregson said triumphantly. “We may not have official authority any longer, but there are still laws against murder. This is a citizen’s arrest, all quite legal. You have been arrested for the attempted murder of His Holiness the Dalai Lama of Tibet. The crime may not get you gaol at the assizes because of powerful friends, but your days as commissioner of the Yard are quite over!”
“Take him away!” Lestrade ordered the constables, and soon Moran was gone.
“Things will go badly for him, and better for Lestrade and me now,” Gregson said. “Who knows, perhaps there will even be a reinstatement?”
Once Lestrade and Gregson had left it was not long before you returned to me, Watson, from your private audience with the Dalai Lama.
“Well? I must admit, I am intrigued. What did he have to say?” I asked, full of curiosity.
You seemed strangely reticent, but finally you simply smiled at me, putting your hand on my shoulder in a very touching brotherly fashion. “Fear not, Holmes. His Holiness explained it all. He really does see almost as far as you do. We must find a way to make Moriarty return to the Reichenbach Falls.”
I nodded. “There is something you are not telling me.”
You ignored my question, and so I did not press it. Instead, my thoughts turned to the problem at hand.
I was thinking about that link between Moriarty and me. It made sense, and Thubten Gyatso’s words seemed to validate the facts that I knew. However, getting Moriarty to the Reichenbach once again, and by himself without henchmen, could prove difficult, if not impossible. He was powerful now, he had a seat beside the king, and he was a brilliant criminal. My plan would be near impossible, but I would have to find a way to make it happen.
“Can it be done, Holmes?” you asked me, seemingly reading my thoughts.
“I do not know,” I replied. Then I told you of the events that had transpired in the last half hour, with Gregson and Lestrade arresting Moran.
“Moran?” you said, showing evident surprise.
“Yes, Moran with his airgun, the perfect, silent, assassination weapon,” I replied sharply.
“But why Moran, Holmes? Does Moran know something?”
“No. Not Moran, Watson, Moriarty. He must suspect. I wonder what it could be? Well, whatever the case, he will surely be alerted now that Moran has been taken out of the picture.”
“That seems a key move,” you ventured.
I looked at you, standing there, the Watson of another world and yet, so very much like my own true friend. “Indeed, you are correct. Moran being taken out of the game is a key event. A move Moriarty will not be able to accept lightly. If I know my Moriartys, and I think I do, this event will disturb him no end. Perhaps we can play on that to good effect.”
“Well, Lestrade and Gregson made the pinch …”
“Moriarty knows Lestrade and Gregson would never be able to pull such a coup on their own. He will suspect something, see the hint of my hand in the action. He will send his agents to ask questions about the old sailor who calls himself Sigerson. That is good also. Perhaps we can nudge those suspicions a bit into fears he cannot ignore.”
“How so, Holmes?”
“I feel the rumors of my demise have been greatly exaggerated and too long gone uncorrected,” I said with a smile. I had an idea, one that might not only solve the problems of this world, and my own, but yours as well. You had lost your honor and taken to drink for my death. Now you shall be vindicated.
“Watson,” I said, “I shall cause Moriarty to suspect through certain circles that I may, in fact, be alive. It will draw him out. He could not resist finding the truth out for himself and settling this once and for all.”
“Bravo, Holmes! That will set them up in Piccadilly! But how do we do it?”
I was silent for a long moment. There was much to consider. I began to miss my pipe and the swirling clouds of helpful tobacco smoke that always offered surcease in such matters. I knew this had to be done just right. I could not overplay my hand by being too bold, nor be scant in my approach. Finally, I took out pen and paper and wrote three letters. The first two were almost identical. One each was addressed to Lestrade and Gregson at their residences. I told them that I was indeed alive, that it had been I who had directed them under disguise, as the old sailor, Sigerson. Then I explained your part, Watson, in my plan. I told them you had always been acting under my direct orders.
Next, the third and most important letter, addressed to Professor James Moriarty. The missive was short, simple and direct. It said, “If you seek the truth, then seek that which is in the grave of Sherlock Holmes.” It was unsigned.
Then I gave you these three letters and asked you to deliver the first two to Lestrade and Gregson. The third letter I instructed you to leave at a West End pub in the hands of the barman, Reynolds. I knew the message would not fail to get to its intended addressee and pique his interest. Then, over your objections, I solicited a promise from you that you would stay in London and await my return.
Immediately after, I took the boat train once more, to the Continent and Interlaken, alone.
The evening of the first day I arrived at the small village below the mighty falls and took a room at the local inn. There I set my plan in motion. I contacted good Hans, and that night we stole to the cemetery, opening a grave. We moved the body within to another location and closed the grave. It was empty now, save for one small item.
The next night, from a place of concealment using my spyglass, I kept constant vigil on the grave of Sherlock Holmes.
As I expected, I spied a tall, thin figure furtively approach the cemetery with an enclosed lantern after midnight. He was alone and he carried a shovel. I watched with interest as he dug the dirt away from the grave of an “English Man, Died, May 1891.” The more he dug, the faster he dug. Once he hit the wood of the simple coffin, he stopped, brought his lantern closer, and deftly cleared away the remaining dirt. Finally, he was able to open the casket lid, and after he did so, he stood motionless and silent as a statue. I could well imagine his consternation, for there was no body in the coffin. It was certainly shocking, but then, that coffin was not entirely empty either. Slowly, the tall figure brought the lantern closer to the coffin and he peered down to look at something within. Suddenly he reached down and pulled out a small envelope. It was the one I had left there the evening before. It said simply, “Moriarty,” on the outside. On the inside was a small note, which he pulled out, carefully unfolded, and began to read. That, too, was short and simple. It read: “Meet me at dawn, upon the heights overlooking the Reichenbach Falls.” It was signed with the initials, “S.H.”
Moriarty crushed the note and envelope and in anger threw them into the empty coffin. He looked around him into the darkness, quickly extinguished his lantern, and suddenly let out a loud menacing yell of sheer animal rage. I have never heard anything quite like it in my life. It brought a grim smile to my face.
It was then far after midnight, and I gathered my things together and began my trek up to the heights overlooking the Reichenbach Falls, where I would await Moriarty, and our de
stiny.
Dawn at the Reichenbach is a beautiful sight, Watson, and I was surely sorry that you missed it this time. In my own world you had accompanied me to the falls, but then at the last minute had been called away upon some pretext by Moriarty, so that he and I would be alone. Now, no such subterfuge was necessary, for it would just be Moriarty and Holmes, as it was intended all along. Two primal forces engaged in the eternal struggle between good and evil.
I was out of disguise, it was no longer necessary, and I was dressed in my usual clothing, along with heavy hiking boots and jacket. It was quite chilly upon the Reichenbach, even with the sun having just come up.
I looked over at the falls below in order to discern the whereabouts of that strange mist I had encountered upon my first visit here, more than one year ago. To be sure, it was still there, a misty fog that seemed to shimmer and shift as it moved to different locations along the falls edge. I began to surmise that if the strange mist encompassed properties of movement—or at least of being able to change location—then that might be the reason why in our original encounter in my own world, Moriarty had died in his fall, while I had fallen into the mist and been transported here. The mist had to be the doorway. It seemed quite possible, and I found myself enjoying the evident logical solution to this most strange of problems once and for all when I suddenly heard a footstep behind me.
It was Moriarty! He was instantly upon me, wrapping me tightly in his arms, pinning my own arms to my sides, as he quickly dragged me to the ledge.
“Now, Mr. Holmes, I know it cannot be, but it is! You seem to plague me unto forever. Can I never be free of you? Well, I shall be free of you, Holmes. I killed you once, of that I was certain, and I’ll kill you again, and this time you shall stay dead!”
“Moriarty!” I growled, shocked by what I could see of him. For this Moriarty was not the old, bent-over, bookish professor I knew from my world. This man appeared to be younger, and certainly much stronger. I was at a loss to understand why—but then why Should it not be so? The Dalai Lama had told me that while this world was similar to my own, it was also different from my own world. Had I not seen so for myself?
Suddenly I realized that this Moriarty had killed the Holmes of this world in their first encounter. He could easily do so to me as well. He was bigger, stronger than the Moriarty of my own world. I felt myself being inexorably dragged to the ledge. I heard the churning, roiling waters crashing below, felt the spray from the cliff, the sun blinded my eyes, as I was pulled closer to my doom.
“You’ll not escape this time, Holmes! This time you go over the cliff and die!” Moriarty growled these words into my ear.
I tried to fight him off, but he was stronger and held me tightly. I could not free my arms from where he had them pinned to my sides. I could not break his hold over me. It was then that I realized I was going to die. He was going to do it again! He was going to hurl me over the ledge into the falls to my death on the rocks below.
And then I felt a heavy blow, as if from some mighty collision, and we were entirely spun around. Then, good Watson, I saw your face, and you fought with Moriarty.
“Holmes, I’m here. The Dalai Lama knew you would need my help!”
“I told you to stay in London!” I blurted as I tried to free my arms.
“Hah!” you laughed, pummeling Moriarty with blows from your fist as you tried to pull us apart.
Then I broke Moriarty’s hold over me and was free. Immediately I stepped in to shield you from his blows. You hit him again, and once again, causing him to move away backward, where he seemed to hesitate, to lose his balance. Then as Moriarty slipped over the falls, I watched in horror as he suddenly grabbed your coat, and you followed him over the cliff.
“Watson!” I cried.
“Holmes, no need, I’m glad it ended this …” And your voice diminished as you fell down to the rocks below.
I stood at the abyss, as you and Moriarty plunged down to the falls and instant death below.
It was over. I looked down and saw that Moriarty and you lay mangled upon the stones of the falls and were soon pulled under by the furious water of the river. Both of you were gone a moment later.
“Moriarty finally dead,” I whispered, shaking with sorrow, “but at what price? My good Watson, dead! What am I to do now?”
And then the words of Thubten Gyatso came back to me, “Seek the mist, that is your doorway.”
I looked over and saw that the mist was about twenty yards away, and I walked toward it as if in a dream. It was shimmering in a most unnatural manner, and I could well believe now that it might in fact be some form of transcendental, or supernatural, doorway between the worlds as the Dalai Lama had told me.
Moriarty in this world, and in my own world, was dead now. I had accomplished my mission. I wondered, had I been brought here for this very reason in the first place? It was a question I had no way of answering. Perhaps Thubten Gyatso knew more than he was saying? Perhaps he had told you, Watson, and that is why, stout fellow, you had disobeyed my order to stay behind in London? Yet, your disobedience had saved my life and enabled me to accomplish that mission.
Now it was time for me to go home to my own world, where I belonged. The gate awaited me. Sadly, I was leaving behind a world where not only Moriarty and Holmes were dead, but so was your own other self. Yet now, more than ever, I yearned to be free of this nightmare world and be back home in my own London, with my own good Watson, at our own 221B, with Mycroft, Mrs. Hudson, and even dour-faced old Lestrade.
I made for the mist. Once it was stationary below me I looked carefully down upon it. I knew what I had to do. I could not live in this world. Not with my best friend dead—who had given his life to save my own. But what I was considering was incomprehensible as well. If I was wrong, I would be doing myself what Moriarty had just been unable to do. I could be killing myself, committing suicide.
I looked into the roiling mist below. I took a deep breath. The shimmering seemed to call to me. I thought of you, good friend, and home, and all the people I desired to see again, and I dove down into that doorway and my destiny.
“Are you all right, mister?” I heard a voice saying from above me.
I was coming back to consciousness slowly, breathing the chill mountain air, feeling the dirt and grass under my body, I felt my shoulders and body shaken. I opened my eyes, and there I saw good Hans.
“Are you all right? A strange place to fall asleep, no?”
“Hans?” I asked.
“Yes, that is my name. But how did you know it?” he replied carefully.
“You do not know me?”
“No, sir. Should I know you? I have never met you before this moment.”
I nodded. “No, of course not, you would not know me.”
On my way to London, I bought a copy of the Times and read it with a renewed sense of joy as I learned of the plans being set in motion for the Birthday Celebration for Queen Victoria. She was to be joined in the celebration by her son Edward, heir to the throne. I sighed with relief, the world I knew, the world I belonged in was here, and I was in my rightful place in it. I read with interest where a new American president had recently been elected, and there was nary a peep of military insurrection or succession; where the government of France was still in the usual turmoil but had not yet fallen; and where Germany and Russia were quiet. It appeared now that all was as it should be.
I also noticed a small item tucked away in the back pages about Eddy. He wasn’t king here, just a minor royal. It said simply that Albert Christian Edward Victor, Duke of Clarence and Avondale, and grandson of Queen Victoria, had been hospitalized for a severe illness, previous to his sudden demise. Now it was rumored the notorious libertine had contracted syphilis and that it had been the disease that had slowly driven him mad. It appeared the disease had taken its ultimate toll on the young royal. Now there was no way he would ever become king.
I closed the paper and put it away. The train was pulling into Victoria
Station. I cannot express the joy I felt. I had been gone a long time. Now I was home again. Immediately I hired a hansom cab to take me to Baker Street and our rooms at 221B.
I had a story that no one—not even you, Watson—could ever chronicle, for who would believe it? But I give it to you anyway, my old friend. You may put the narrative among your other papers in that old lockbox of yours. Perhaps someday in the future the secrets of time and space will be well enough understood so that my tale may seem credible. It seems incredible to me already, even though I lived through it so recently. And, as I said to you last week upon my return, it was good to see you after so long, my dear Watson. It was good to see you.
Cross of Gold
Michael Collins
Tadeusz Jan Fortunowski arrived in America in the spring of 1893, speaking no English. Three months later he was arrested for the murder of high-roller horse breeder, socialite, and onetime lieutenant governor of California, Colin “Condor” Cameron. A sensational event at the time, but in the end no more than a forgotten incident in the turbulent history of the cities of Brooklyn and New York, and I would never have heard of the crime if Tadeusz Jan had not been my grandfather.
He was nearly twenty-one that May of 1893, born and raised by Polish parents in a small town in Lithuania, which was, at the time, part of the empire of the tsar of all the Russias. An empire where the Poles and the Lithuanians hated each other, where both hated the Russians, where all three hated the Jews, and where the Cossacks hated everyone, including each other. No one cared whom the Jews hated.
He died before I was born, but his widow—his second wife, not my grandmother—told me his story in the front room of the old-law tenement on Seventh Street in lower Manhattan, where she lived alone after Tadeusz’s death. She told many tales of that far-off world to an eager boy who was also a Tadeusz—Daniel Tadeusz—and who had once been Fortunowski, but was now Fortune. (A change made by my father, and old Tadeusz never spoke to his only son again.)
Sherlock Holmes: The Hidden Years Page 40
