Sherlock Holmes Mystery Magazine, Volume 15

by SIR ARTHUR CONAN DOYLE

  “Good Lord—what did you do to him?” I gasped.

  “I did a bit of boxing before I was called to the priesthood,” he replied modestly, and I stared at him in wonder. Though possessed of the same wiry frame as his brother, I would not have thought he could deck the big man like that. Tuthill stood looking at Moriarty with an expression of adoration.

  I turned my attention to Holmes, who lay upon the floor looking very wan; I feared his injuries were causing internal bleeding.

  “Dr Watson, how are you at knots?”

  “I’m excellent, sir,” Tuthill piped up; “I’ve worked on shipboard.”

  Moriarty regarded the lad. “Good,” he said, pointing to Connors; “see that you tie him up well.”

  “Yes, sir!” said the boy, and grabbing one of the ropes formerly used on us, he set to work.

  “We must get out of here before he comes to and tells the others,” Moriarty said sharply, and then he bent over Holmes.

  “Can you move?”

  Holmes nodded, and we helped him to his feet. Gripping his side, his face deathly pale, he spoke in a raspy whisper. “What can you tell me—about what they—are planning?” he said, pausing between words to catch his breath.

  I felt strongly that moving him was not a good idea, and yet we could not leave him here.

  “I remember they said something about ‘the third time’s the charm’—”

  “What else did they say? Can you remember anything else?”

  “It’s difficult; I was drugged at the time…“ Moriarty paused, and then his face lit up..”Wait a minute—yes, they say something about ‘the bird will have flown for the last time!’”

  “Excellent!” cried Holmes, and then he winced and paused for breath. “Quickly, we must hurry!”

  “Where are we going?” I said, following him out of the warehouse.

  “To St. Paul’s Cathedral!”

  I immediately grasped Holmes’s reasoning. Twice destroyed by fire, a bombing of St Paul’s would indeed be “a third time.” The ‘bird’ was a thinly veiled reference to Christopher Wren, the architect who designed the current building.

  “May I come along, Mr Holmes?” said Tuthill.

  “No, Tuthill, it could be very dangerous,” Holmes replied; “but you have rendered us a great service today which I won’t forget.” The boy’s beaming face showed the impact Holmes’ praise had on him, and again I felt myself foolishly wishing those words had been spoken to me.

  The night was dark and overcast but as the three of us scrambled up the bank of mud which led away from the river I could see the sweat gleaming on Holmes’ forehead. When we reached Cannon Street we flagged down a cab.

  “There’s an extra guinea for you if you hurry!” Holmes cried to the driver, and soon we were rattling along the cobblestones at a brisk canter. The driver earned his money, for we arrived there within minutes.

  St Paul’s Cathedral’s reputation as one of the greatest cathedrals in Europe is well deserved. Its dome dominates the skyline of the City like a mountain rising majestically out of foothills. Christopher Wren’s design displays a harmony and balance which is both calming and exhilarating, and as we dashed through the marbled entryway I couldn’t help feeling overwhelmed by its grandeur.

  Suddenly Holmes gripped my arm. “There—there he is!”

  I followed his gaze and saw the thin form of O’Malley dart behind a column.

  “He’s seen us,” said Moriarty.

  “Go around the back way, Watson; Moriarty and I will separate and cover the entrances.”

  I nodded and crept around the row of silent marble columns, my eyes straining to catch a sight of our quarry. The smooth floor and resonance of the walls made it difficult to move quietly, but I tiptoed as softly as I could. I stopped and listened. There was no sound except my own breathing, and I listened vainly for the echo of other footsteps.

  Suddenly my eye caught a movement behind one of the columns. I froze and stopped breathing for what seemed like an eternity, then crept slowly forward.

  “Well, Dr Watson, I must congratulate you—I don’t know how you escaped, but now you will die a glorious death for the cause of Ireland.”

  I spun around to see O’Malley holding a gun pointed at my chest. Under his arm he carried an ominous-looking package wrapped in brown paper.

  “Don’t do it, O’Malley; think of the loss.”

  “Oh, but we’re all thinking about loss all the time,” he replied, his dark eyes narrow. “The loss of our homeland—the Ireland that once was but is no more thanks to the British government.”

  “But this won’t solve anything,” I said desperately; “you’ll only be killing innocent people.”

  O’Malley shrugged. “Do you know how many people died in the potato famine because of the greed and indifference of British landlords? An eye for an eye. It’s in the Bible, you know.”

  “And a tooth for a tooth.”

  O’Malley turned around to face Holmes, who stood there looking as pale as a ghost. As he did I threw myself at him, knocking him to the ground. I grabbed for the gun, and we fought for possession of it—then suddenly a shot rang out. O’Malley’s eyes stared wildly into mine, and then his body went limp.

  “Watson—are you all right?” Holmes cried, sinking to the ground beside us.

  “Quite all right, thank you,” I said, secretly pleased at the desperation in his voice. He was not a man given to emotional outburst, and it warmed me to the core to hear the concern he felt for my safety.

  “Thank God,” he said, and then gingerly picked up the package from where it had fallen on the floor. We opened it, and found that the timing device had not yet been set. “I think we’d best take this to Scotland Yard,” he said as Sean Moriarty joined us. The commotion caused by the gunshot had already attracted several policemen, and I convinced Holmes to give them custody of the bomb and go back with me to Baker Street.

  Only once we were safely back in our sitting room did I get a close look at Father Sean Moriarty. He had the same high domed forehead, the same thin lips as his brother, but without the cruelty about his mouth. His black eyes were softer, and as he sipped the tea which Mrs Hudson insisted on serving us, he shook his head, reminding me of the strange reptilian head swivelling which was peculiar to James Moriarty.

  “My brother must have felt a bitter humiliation when he came to you for help.” At Moriarty’s insistence, Holmes and I both had finally stopped denying the involvement of James Moriarty.

  I wanted to ask him how he and his brother had ended up at such different ends of the moral spectrum, but I contented myself with a question for Holmes, who lay on the couch at my insistence; after much protest, he had allowed my to bandage his ribs and administer some morphine.

  “How did you know that they would take us to Father Moriarty if we were taken prisoner?”

  Holmes stared at me for a moment and then let out a laugh, which caused him to wince and hold his side.

  “Good Lord, Watson—you actually thought I planned to have us captured?”

  “Well, didn’t you?” said Moriarty.

  “Good heavens, no; I was just there to infiltrate their meeting. Everything which happened afterwards was a complete surprise to me.”

  “But how did you know Tuthill was outside the window?” I said.

  “I didn’t; but I you may remember I sent him a note earlier. In it I just suggested that he keep an eye on our movements. He occasionally works as a costermonger’s assistant, and as you can see, he did a good job of tracking us.” Holmes smiled. “Well, Watson, I’d rather you didn’t write this one up—I was employed by Professor Moriarty, nearly failed to prevent the destruction of St Paul’s, and I was rescued by a priest and a little boy. Not a very successful case, I think, Watson.”

  “The public might enjoy knowing you are human after all, Holmes.”

  Holmes stretched and turned his face toward the pale light of dawn which was creeping through the curtains. “I think n
ot, Watson; if they knew I was human, why on earth would they want to read about me?”

  I smiled. “There are things in heaven and earth not dreamt of in your philosophy, Holmes.”

  Holmes shrugged. “Perhaps you are right, Watson; perhaps you are right.”

  HOW WATSON LEARNED THE TRICK, by John H. Watson, M D

  In the early 1920’s, Queen Mary’s Doll’s House was built to be exhibited at the British Empire Exhibition. The house was approximately three feet high and was “furnished” with miniaturized items from Windsor Castle. Several authors were invited to write small books to be bound in scaled ­down volumes; these included works by James M. Barrie, Thomas Hardy, M. R. James, Rudyard Kipling, W. Somerset Maugham, and the following short­ short piece which shows Watson’s good nature in telling this unflattering joke upon himself.

  Watson had been watching his companion intently ever since he had sat down to the breakfast table. Holmes happened to look up and catch his eye.

  “Well, Watson, what are you thinking about?” he asked.

  “About you.”

  “Me?”

  “Yes, Holmes. I was thinking how superficial are these tricks of yours, and how wonderful it is that the public should continue to show interest in them.”

  “I quite agree,” said Holmes. “In fact, I have a recollection that I have myself made a similar remark.”

  “Your methods,” said Watson severely, “are really easily acquired.”

  “No doubt,” Holmes answered with a smile. “Perhaps you will yourself give an example of this method of reasoning.”

  “With pleasure,” said Watson. “I am able to say that you were greatly preoccupied when you got up this morning.”

  “Excellent!” said Holmes. “How could you possibly know that?”

  “Because you are usually a very tidy man and yet you have forgotten to shave.”

  “Dear me! How very clever!” said Holmes. “I had no idea, Watson, that you were so apt a pupil. Has your eagle eye detected anything more?”

  “Yes, Holmes. You have a client named Barlow, and you have not been successful with his case.”

  “Dear me, how could you know that?”

  “I saw the name outside his envelope. When you opened it you gave a groan and thrust it into your pocket with a frown on your face.”

  “Admirable! You are indeed observant. Any other points?”

  “I fear, Holmes, that you have taken to financial speculation.”

  “How could you tell that, Watson?”

  “You opened the paper, turned to the financial page, and gave a loud exclamation of interest.”

  “Well, that is very clever of you, Watson. Any more?”

  “Yes, Holmes, you have put on your black coat, instead of your dressing gown, which proves that your are expecting some important visitor at once.”

  “Anything more?”

  “I have no doubt that I could find other points, Holmes, but I only give you these few, in order to show you that there are other people in the world who can be as clever as you.”

  “And some not so clever,” said Holmes. “I admit that they are few, but I am afraid, my dear Watson, that I must count you among them.”

  “What do you mean, Holmes?”

  “Well, my dear fellow, I fear your deductions have not been so happy as I should have wished.”

  “You mean that I was mistaken.”

  “Just a little that way, I fear. Let us take the points in their order: I did not shave because I have sent my razor to be sharpened. I put on my coat because I have, worse luck, an early meeting with my dentist. His name is Barlow, and the letter was to confirm the appointment. The cricket page is beside the financial one, and I turned to it to find if Surrey was holding its own against Kent. But go on, Watson, go on! It’s a very superficial trick, and no doubt you will soon acquire it.”

  THE THIRD SEQUENCE, by Sherlock Holmes (edited by Bruce Kilstein)

  “Spiritualism has been so befouled by wicked charlatans, and so cheapened by many a sad incident, that one could almost wish that some such term as psychic religion would clear the subject of old prejudices, just as mesmerism…was rapidly accepted when its name was changed to hypnotism.”

  —Sir Arthur Conan Doyle

  The Vital Message

  Of the myriad cases which have come before me, there are many that have gone unsolved. The readers of my dear friend, John Watson’s, accounts of so-called adventures have come to expect, sadly I must admit, a tidy conclusion to each investigation that I have undertaken wherein some dark business is exposed to the light of Justice. Lux et Lex. Watson’s publications are pleasing enough; yet his tales with satisfying endings often give short-shift to the elucidation of the process of deductive reasoning which I employ in the prosecution of any inquiry. What would seem at once baffling to the careless eye of the police force may become a mere ordering of minutely observed facts with the exclusion of theories of the impossible.

  Of all the places to which our inquiries have led us, from the most rancid opium den to the luxury of royal palaces, no corner has been so darkly impregnable than that of the human mind. The question of the motivations, the manipulations of the spirit that impel some to commit the basest of acts (not to mention the ease in which the victims are willing to be manipulated) continues to elude the best investigators. I am confident that science, in spite of the stunning advances of the last century, will continue to struggle to bring to light the forces that drive the engines of inhumanity. One has only to examine the suffering imposed by the Great War to realize that as a civilization we have not scratched the surface of what lies deep in the recesses of the human condition.

  And so, I relate a tale that Watson has avoided disclosing. Suffice it to say that the lover of the mystery story may be intrigued but the reader seeking a simple explanation to events had best turn away.

  * * * *

  It was in the autumn of 191_, the bees I had been studying had gone into dormancy, the skies had become sere and the ashen pall that covered the sensibilities of all Europeans had yet to be lifted in the aftermath of war. Perhaps with the prospect of a cold, inactive winter, I read with interest an article in the morning Times:

  SPIRITUALIST MEDIUM ARRESTED ON CHARGES OF MURDER!

  Confessions linked to the ghostly realm.

  London—In a grisly display, renowned psychic medium, M Marcel, was found by servants in the presence of three dead clients of his séance conducted the previous evening. The victims of foul play at Spivey House included Lady Regina Spivey and Colonel Jonathan Mills. Inspector Lestrade of Scotland Yard would offer no identity of the third deceased, citing matters of National Security, but is confident that the medium used his mesmeric influence to inflict harm upon his victims.

  “What rubbish!” I muttered, tossing the paper to the floor. I summoned my housekeeper, Miss Finch, and instructed her to send telegrams to Watson and Mrs Hudson of my plans to travel to London. I penned the notes and consulted my Bradshaw’s. “Tell the coachman I would like to make the 8:15 train to Victoria.”

  “Yes, Mr Holmes,” she said. “You could use the telephone. It might be…”

  “…a buzzing hive of eavesdroppers and gossips. Thank you, no, Miss Finch.”

  * * * *

  The sight of my Baker Street apartments, the rose glow of the fire and the familiar countenances of my friends served to dispel the melancholy which I had been experiencing.

  “Holmes, what a surprise, old man! Let me help you with your case.” Watson shook my hand vigorously and led the way into my old room.

  “Wipe your feet, both of you,” was Mrs Hudson’s greeting as she finished beating dust from the sofa cushions before limping away rheumatically to fetch the tea.

  I selected a pipe from the rack, scraped the Persian slipper for usable tobacco, and took stock of my aging colleague. “You look fit, Watson.”

  Watson chuckled. “Put on a few stone. Married life, you know. But, I must confess, I
am shocked to see you here on such short notice. What could possibly be of such urgent…?”

  Before he could finish, the brash voice and tread of Inspector Lestrade assaulted our senses. “…no need, I’ll show myself in, Mrs Hudson.” He burst into the room in a sodden Macintosh, paused, and realizing the impending brunt of our housekeeper’s wrath, returned to the hall and hung the damp garment on the stand. “Well, Mr Holmes, I am delighted you have returned to London, no doubt to congratulate me on my most recent arrest.”

  Mrs Hudson brought the tea, frowning at the pool of water collected in the doorway as we gathered at the table.

  “Quite, Lestrade,” said I. “You have certainly outdone yourself this time. Pray, partake of the tea and enlighten the doctor and me on the particulars of this extraordinary act.” I trusted that the Inspector could not resist the opportunity to sound his own horn. Watson took up a plate of cakes and I lit my pipe and closed my eyes, welcoming the sounds of the old house, the repast, the smell of tobacco and dust and, I must admit, even the shrill tenor of Lestrade’s voice was a balm to my ears.

  “A wonder, really,” Lestrade began, between sips from his cup. “Three found dead and one in hospital from the doings at Spivey House two days ago. The group had gathered for some silly séance.”

  “I have heard of these gatherings,” Watson said, the sound of brushing crumbs from his vest. “My friend, Dr Conan Doyle, is a strong believer and investigator of spirit phenomena. Strange stuff, if you ask me: ghostly rappings, levitations, automatic writing, mesmerism…but if a respected man of science endorses the practice, well, maybe there is some credence to it.”

  “Of course there is nothing to it,” I said without opening my eyes. “Continue, Inspector.”

  “The servants had been sent away for the event and found the awful scene the next morning. Five people were still at the table. Three dead, the so-called spirit medium in some sort of stupor from which we took great pains to arouse him, and his assistant badly injured. The medium calls himself Marcel—we’re working on getting his real name—he’s about as French as Big Ben—but he put up no resistance to arrest. After subjecting him to close examination, I am happy to say that he confessed to the crime. Justice will be quickly served, I can assure you, as some very prominent people were victims of this fatal chicanery.”