The Falling Curtain (The Assassination of Sherlock Holmes Book 3)

by Janacek, Craig

  The two men nodded to me silently, as I vainly tried to reconcile their adult appearances with the ragged waifs of my memory. Meanwhile, Holmes had moved on to a man whom I was certain I had never met. He was a hearty, full-blooded man of a similar age to Holmes and me. Despite his advancing years, he seemed full of spirits and energy. Under his Burberry overcoat he wore a suit cut in a fashion that I knew to be unique to tailors who resided only in the far eastern edges of our colonies. He had a shock of grizzled hair, a brown weather-beaten face, and eyes which were keen to the verge of fierceness. Yet, when he greeted Holmes, his tone carried a note of kindness.

  “Holmes, I have long owed you a great debt. Now that I am returned to Norfolk after many long years abroad, I am happy to have the opportunity to finally repay you.”

  Holmes shook his head. “Say no more of it, but I am glad to have you here, Trevor. Watson, let me introduce you to Victor, one of the oldest friends from my college days, albeit one I have not seen for three decades.”

  I shook his proffered hand with great delight at finally meeting this man, of whom I had once heard such an extraordinary story. Finally, Holmes turned to the last man, also about the same age of us, thin, high-nosed, and large-eyed, who stood up in the corner. His hunting outfit was covered by a dark Mackintosh. He carried with him a finely-made mousetrap fowling piece.

  “Ah, Cavalier,” said Holmes, warmly. “I am glad that you brought something more practical than your old battle-axe.”

  “Yes, well, I could not be certain from your terse telegram, Holmes, however I expect we may be hunting larger game than pheasants,” the man replied. “Since the principal is the same, I raided my gun-room, even bringing with me a few extra for the other lads here.”

  “Excellent! Watson, may I present to you my old acquaintance, Sir Reginald Musgrave, baronet of Hurlstone.”

  Just as Holmes had once described him to me, his manner was exceedingly aristocratic, languid, yet courtly. His pale, keen face and the poise of his head put me in the mind of a venerable feudal keep. With time, his natural diffidence seemed to have faded, only to be replaced with the assured self-confidence that comes with years of public speaking.

  “So, Holmes, are you going to explain this rigmarole to us?” Musgrave asked.

  “Indeed, but first, unlike Napoleon, who always feasted after a battle, and who was eventually brought low, we shall dine now in hopes that it begets us greater fortune.”

  Having lived with Holmes for upwards of seventeen years, I was well-aware that his periods of self-starvation while embroiled in an investigation alternated with rare but lavish feasts of epicurean delight. At this moment, Holmes had clearly arranged in advance for some of his favorites to be served. Amongst the choices were a couple of brace of cold woodcock, a pheasant and a partridge, and a foie gras pie. The repast was crowned with a fine Montrachet and a rare Beaune.

  While we dined, Holmes would speak of nothing save shared past experiences. Even the less-than-literary Mr. Johnson had read my prior published stories and thus all were familiar with the terrible events of both the ‘Gloria Scott’ and the Musgrave Ritual. The loyal service of Cartwright amongst the grim mires of Dartmoor was roundly toasted. They knew of the roles played by Wiggins and Simpson in such affairs as the vanished Aurora and the treacherous Colonel. However, Wiggins’ timely locating of the messenger boy Ned, which saved an innocent man from being hanged, was a new tale to our companions, as I have neglected to organize my notes on that peculiar case. Finally, none were aware of Billy’s heroism during the matter of the barren grave, for Holmes has yet to give me permission to publish the details of that horrifying mystery, though I have it ready in the vault of Cox & Co. for the day when I hope to persuade him otherwise.

  Therefore, our meal proved to be a merry one. Not since the early days of our association have I known him to be so dazzling a conversationalist. This intense humor marked the pendulum swing from his dark despair of the prior night. By the time that the table was cleared, Holmes stood and, like a general, looked over the eight men that served as both his de facto chief of the staff and entire army. It was an interesting lot, three old men, perhaps limited in strength, but long in experience; two former lads of the street, whose endurance once allowed them to thrive in the harshest conditions; two former servants, with unwavering loyalty to Holmes; and one former convict, now walking the path of light. Could this ragged band be the ones to bring down the mysterious Mortlock and his terrible gang?

  Holmes’ demeanor was somber, as if he knew the stakes against which we struggled, however, when he spoke his voice retained its typical jaunty gallantry. “Gentlemen, I wish to thank you all for coming. Save only Watson here, who was savagely beaten by members of the gang, none of the rest of you has any qualms with them, other than your long acquaintance with their primary target…. me. Once you hear what is ranged against us, I will hold no ill will to any man who wishes to leave.”

  “Get on with it, Mr. Holmes,” growled Simpson. “We ain’t here for a holiday. We all know what’s at stake, so let’s not blather on.”

  Holmes smiled, though his eyes remained grim. “I appreciate your candor, Simpson. Very well, then. These are the facts as I know them. The key is to separate those facts which are crucial from the others which are merely incidental.”

  He proceeded to launch into a careful explanation of all that had transpired since Lestrade and I had first implored him to leave his villa on the South Downs. I was, of course, aware of all of the details of the Pharaoh’s curse which had lured him to London, and the nature of the Sphinx’s riddle which had kept him there. The same was true of the audacious robbery on Threadneedle Street, and the attempted assassination of Holmes by Colonel Moran atop the Monument. However, there was one piece of information that was unknown to me. “An item of note that I have been able to establish, gentlemen,” said Holmes, “is that the dirigible’s propulsion system was built by none other than Von Herder, the blind German mechanic who once worked for the dearly departed Professor Moriarty.”

  “But, Holmes,” I exclaimed at this news, “does that not suggest that – ”

  “Hold, Watson,” Holmes interrupted. “As I have said before, it is a mistake to theorize in advance of all of the facts. Let me finish outlining the events for the others.”

  He continued with the attack by Holy Peters and his hound, the slaying of Sebastian Moran, and even the bizarre train robbery that so troubled Mycroft. He concluded with a description of what he had found at Charlton, the full details of which I had yet to hear due to the rapid events of Murderous Mathews’ attack and the fire at 22 Pall Mall.

  “You see, gentlemen,” said Holmes, “I was able to quickly determine the identity of the burned man. His hands were definitive, both for the manner of their preservation, but also from what was revealed by their lack of injuries. He had numerous small circular scars, all of which were over two years in age. The dating of scars is a tricky business, but I am confident in my conclusion. I knew their cause immediately, for they are the scars of a chemist who works with strong acids, and my own hands were once so covered.” He held out those long thin white fingers for our examination. “However, it was clear that the man recently switched to using some sort of retardant glove, and those are what protected that lone portion of his body from the horrific fire. It was then simplicity itself to determine, from a reading of the agony columns, that Mr. Horace Wall, a chemist of Newcastle, has been reported missing these last twenty-odd days.”

  “But, Mr. Holmes, what caused the house to burn so quickly?” asked Cartwright.

  Holmes shrugged. “I have not identified the precise chemical, but it was certainly an accelerant of some sort. Questioning of some of the closer neighbors revealed that most described hearing a muffled boom before any signs of smoke or flame. I am certain that was an explosion being set off inside the house.” Holmes paused and looked each of us in the eye. “So you see, gentlemen, all the cards are at present against us, and we
must do everything that is possible if we are to win clear.”

  “What do you propose, Holmes?” asked Victor Trevor.

  “We must draw him out. He has attempted to ensnare us in his net, but we have our own web to weave! We shall muster all our resources and trick him into revealing himself.”

  Billy raised his hand, and once Holmes motioned to him, our former page-boy offered his ideas. “What about telling him where you are staying, and then setting up one of those wax busts and playing a phonograph recorded with your voice? When they come to kill you, we can spring our trap.”

  Holmes smiled and nodded as he considered this. “An excellent idea, Billy. However, we are dealing with a man far more cunning than Count Sylvius. Mr. Mortlock has clearly studied those cases that I was rash enough to allow Watson to publish. He will be expecting such a trick, and thus it will fail to snare him.”

  Holmes’ continued disparagement of my stories failed to offend me, for I was occupied in thinking about the facts that he had just listed. “Holmes, do not forget the disappearance of Mr. Howard Kidd.”

  “I think, Watson, that we can leave out the illusory Hag and her supposed victim.”

  But my interjection had piqued the interest of Reginald Musgrave. “What is this, Doctor?”

  I told the group the story of our visit by Dr. Basil Gennery and his supernatural tale of the Haybridge Cave, with my hypothesis that the some nefarious operation was being concealed therein. When I finished, an inpatient Holmes waved his hand dismissively. “Yes, very good, Watson. Now if we can return to the task at hand.”

  But Musgrave was not to be dissuaded. “That is interesting, Doctor, though it is hard to imagine that anyone is using one of those caves as a headquarters. You see, Doctor, since the events down at Hurlstone, I have developed an amateur interest in the history of the Cromwellian Terror. Did you know that the Royalists took refuge in caves under the old college at Stourbridge in order to escape the passing notice of a superior force of Roundheads? But they didn’t use them for long, as they did not appreciate sharing the space with all of the bats.”

  Holmes stared at him intently. “By Jove, Musgrave! That is it!” he cried.

  “What is it, Holmes?” I exclaimed.

  “I have been a fool, Watson. These are not three separate mysteries, but rather aspects of a greater whole. Ockham would be most pleased. I should have known that Mycroft’s guncotton was stolen for a specific purpose, and I should have recognized why the place at Charlton burned down so rapidly. Guncotton, as you know, gentlemen, is a type of nitrated cellulose. In small quantities, it can amaze as a magician’s flash-paper, but in larger quantities it can be used for blasting. Meanwhile, the occupants of Hornfair House were clearly experimenting with nitroglycerine, which as you are all aware, is dangerously unstable. Whether the destruction of the house was an accident, or a purposeful attempt to cover their deeds once their plans were complete, may never be known. However, the stories of the Hag of Haybridge Cave are clearly a ruse utilized by this gang in order to scare away the locals from prying into their activities in the cave.”

  “Which is what?” asked Cartwright.

  Holmes smiled. “Harvesting the guano of the native bats.”

  “Guano?” exclaimed Trevor. “Whatever for?”

  “To make saltpeter,” explained Holmes. “Once you combine guncotton, nitroglycerine, and saltpeter, you produce a substance known as gelignite, or jelly. Unlike dynamite, this is one of the most stable of the high explosives.”

  “But how is Mortlock going to use this jelly, Holmes? Is he planning another bank robbery?” I asked.

  Holmes shook his head. “No, I think it probable that he is planning something far more dramatic.”

  “An attack? But what is his target?”

  “Besides me?” said Holmes dryly. He shrugged. “He may have decided to strike a blow against Britain itself to avenge some as of yet unknown grievance. Both of his prior strikes were directed at significant foundations of our nation, both cultural and financial.”

  “But that leaves so many monuments – Parliament, St. Paul’s, the Tower of London – the list could go on,” I stammered.

  Holmes was silent for a moment. “Yes, but he wants to tell us, Watson.”

  “He does?”

  “Indeed, he needs me to be there to witness his strike. It is not sufficient for him to destroy some pile of bricks and stone. He wants to destroy me as well, so I must be there. And he will lead me to it.”

  “How?”

  “I will simply ask him,” he answered enigmatically.

  §

  It was not until the following morn that I learned what he meant. During the wee hours of the night, Holmes had sent Billy and Cartwright back into the City with an important errand. When the assembled Irregulars gathered to read over the morning edition of the Daily Chronicle, we found within the agony column Holmes’ message to Mortlock. Unlike that secret adversary, Holmes refused to hide behind codes and riddles, but rather addressed him directly, as he showed us:

  LONDON, Dec. 1st.

  Re Threats

  SIR/MADAM: –

  Referring to your telegrams of the 1st and 5th November, I beg to state that I have solved both the Riddle of the Sphinx and the Problem of the Riverbank. However, as the final matter has yet to be brought to a satisfactory conclusion, I await your command.

  I am, Sir/Madam,

  Faithfully yours,

  SHERLOCK HOLMES, Esq.

  Once we all had a chance to read it, Holmes leaned back in his chair and grinned. “Let us see if that draws him out, eh, gentlemen?”

  The unfortunate inconvenience of this peculiar method of communicating via the newspapers, however, necessitated a significant delay in Mortlock’s anticipated response. While the other members of the Irregulars were allowed to venture out of the inn for some fresh air upon the heath, Holmes forbid me from departing, claiming that I was too recognizable a figure, and that notice of my presence in Hampstead might divulge the still secret location of our current base. I therefore tried to interest myself in the most recent yellow-backed edition novel of Haggard.

  After what seemed an interminable amount of time, Wiggins and Simpson returned holding a copy of every evening edition paper printed in London. Holmes reached for them, and rapidly skimmed to the end. “Mortlock is aware, gentlemen, that I am – or used to be, at any case – an avid reader of the papers’ agony columns. Thus, that is where he will posit his response.” Holmes turned his attention to the copy of the Evening Standard for a few moments, and then smiled. “Ah, yes, I see it now. Here is the first one, Watson,” said he, pointing with his long, thin finger at an apparently innocent advertisement, which ran as follows:

  Hoped to hear sooner. Terms agreed to. The Abbbot of Blackfriars is dissolved.

  – TOM LOCKR

  Holmes smiled broadly. “All is plain now, Watson!”

  “Are you suggesting that Mortlock plans to destroy Blackfriars Station?” I asked with some confusion.

  “Not at all, Watson, though Mortlock’s play on the word ‘dissolved’ is most amusing.”

  “I see nothing else amiss, Holmes. What is it?”

  “Come now, Watson, is not the word ‘abbot’ misspelled? Mortlock is not a careless man. I find the extra ‘B” to be significant.”

  I shook my head. “How does a single letter further our case?”

  “It is not a single letter, Watson, but rather eleven of them, scattered through a series of messages,” he pronounced, waving his hand over the page.

  “Mortlock put eleven advertisements into today’s Evening Standard?” interjected Cartwright. “Perhaps I could go down to their offices on Fleet Street and inquire as to the identities of those responsible?”

  Holmes nodded. “An excellent idea, Cartwright. It is most probable that Mr. Mortlock will have covered his tracks well, and there will be nothing to gain, but we should leave no stone unturned, in case he has finally slipped up.”
r />   “What do the eleven letters spell?” I asked.

  “Reading them in order, we have ‘B – O – W – R – E – D – T – I – G – E – R.’”

  “Bow Red Tiger! What the devil does that mean?” exclaimed Musgrave.

  Holmes smiled. “Mr. Mortlock, for ‘Tom Lockr’ can only be him, has time and time again shown a proclivity for the various forms of the cryptogram.”

  “It’s an anagram,” said I, suddenly realizing its meaning. “It spells out ‘Tower Bridge!’”

  “Capital, Watson! I had just worked that out myself. Clearly, Mr. Mortlock plans to make a rather spectacular attempt upon one of the prides of our nation. This fits well with the events at Hornfair House, for it is close to the Greenwich Line. From there it would be a straight shot on a special to the London Bridge Station, right around the corner from Tower Bridge.”

  “But when will he do it?” asked Trevor.

  Holmes leaned back in his chair, and pulled out his cherrywood pipe. He proceeded to light it and after taking several puffs, he spoke. “It will be soon. We have baited the bear with our advertisement of yesterday, and now he is uncertain of precisely how much we know of his plans. He will not delay. It will almost certainly be tonight.”

  “At midnight,” said I with some conviction.

  Holmes glanced curiously at me. “Why do you say that?”

  I shrugged. “He told us, Holmes. In his first Mortlock message: ‘What walks on no legs at midnight?’”

  Holmes smiled, though no touch of amusement rose to the level of his eyes. “Ah, yes, indeed he did. Very good, Watson. Midnight it is.” He glanced at his watch. “We have just a few hours to plan our approach.”