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

by Janacek, Craig

  “This is madness, Holmes!”

  “Perhaps one must be a little mad to stop a madman. But the straight road of destiny leads onwards, Watson.” And without another word, he strode forth onto the bridge. I had no choice but to follow him.

  Holmes got about half-way across the slick metal slats of the bridge when he suddenly stopped and shouted in his loudest voice. “Ah, this is much like Reichenbach Falls, do you not think, Watson?”

  The same terrible thought had of course occurred to me, but I had submerged it, rather than allow such a fear to consume me. Before I could even give voice to a response, a series of shots blazed out from the darkness. Without hesitation, I raised my pistol in the direction from which the muzzle flare had blazed and fired until all of my chambers were empty.

  It was then that I stopped at looked at Holmes. Everything happened so fast, I could barely process it. Even as I had finished firing, I watched as Holmes, his shirt-front perforated by no less than four bullets, staggered backwards, tottering upon the brink. He looked at me and without a word, dropped over the edge of the bridge into the churning deep below. I gave a cry of surprise and dismay as I watched his body drop into that awful abyss. A sudden flood of horror utterly submerged my mind, and it was many minutes before I could feel function returning to my limbs.

  A nobler man never walked the earth. And in a heartbeat, he was gone.

  §

  So, fortunately, was Colonel Robert Moriarty, but this time to his just reward. When I was finally able to walk, I found Moriarty’s body, pierced with all six of my bullets, lying motionless on the far side of the bridge. I held my fingers against his throat for at least five minutes, far longer than required, so as to be certain beyond all possible doubt that his foul heart beat no longer.

  As I knelt there, I realized that Holmes had determined that there was only one way out of the stalemate that Moriarty had devised. If Holmes had failed to press on, Moriarty would have escaped, and who knows how many more innocents would have been killed by that madman before we were once again able to track him down? But by moving towards Moriarty, Holmes had willingly sacrificed himself so that I could be in place to deliver the coup de grâce. He had made England safe once more, but at a price I found far too great to contemplate.

  It was many hours before I was done speaking with Lestrade and Gregson. It seemed as if all of Scotland Yard had descended upon the warehouse at Midland Road, summoned there by Cartwright. Under the careful guard of an eccentric mix of amateurs and constables, a series of large crates were opened to reveal both the missing treasures of the British Museum, in addition to the half-million pounds sterling of gold bullion belonging to the Bank of England. Meanwhile, all of the men working for Moriarty had been rounded up by our Irregulars, save only Mathews, who had refused to surrender and was shot dead by both Musgrave and Trevor while trying to escape.

  Despite my hesitancy in returning to that terrible abyss, I finally led Lestrade and a group of constables down to recover Robert Moriarty’s body. I will admit to being relieved that his corpse was still where I had left it, for a part of me feared that, like some mystical bogeyman, Moriarty would have vanished and continue haunting my dreams. Lestrade made noises about sending men down the shaft in order to look for Holmes, but I knew this to be a futile task. Much like that of his first great nemesis, Holmes’ body would never be recovered.

  Eventually, the corpses of Moriarty and Mathews, as well as all of the living prisoners were hauled away, and the various treasures were re-packed for careful shipping back to their respective homes. Once complete, I stood on the side of the Midland Road for a long time, uncertain of what precisely I should be doing. I knew that Musgrave, Trevor, Billy, Cartwright, Wiggins, Simpson, and Shinwell must have been nearly as distraught as I, but I could find no energy to provide them with any comfort. Billy finally asked if I wished to return to his Hampstead inn for the night, but I saw no point in such a journey. There was no reason to hide any longer. Our suite at Baker Street may have been gone, and Mycroft’s rooms remained in a state of disrepair, but the Langham Hotel still stood. I would spend one final night there, before catching the first morning train back to Southsea and my wife.

  Paying my distracted respects to the now disbanded Irregulars, and wondering if I would ever see them again, I hailed a cab. I directed the driver towards the hotel and leaned back to close my eyes. I reached into my coat pocket, hoping to find the comforts of my pipe. But instead my hand settled upon Holmes’ envelope. I pulled it out, sat up, and stared at it for a moment. I then tore it open, only to find one of Holmes’ laconic messages: “Watson – Come at once to Nevill’s Baths if convenient – S.H.”

  §

  Northumberland Avenue was some distance down Kingsway from Midland Road, and with several infuriating traffic delays, it was a span of some thirty minutes before I found myself in front of the old Turkish bath-house. When I entered, the attendant smiled and handed me a robe and towels. Without asking my name, he promptly directed me to drying-room number four. I paused before the door, anxious at what exactly I may find behind it. When I finally summoned the courage to swing it open, I found therein one Sherlock Holmes, enveloped in a swath of white sheets, smiling at me from one of the couches. I stared at him for some seconds in utter amazement, and felt a gray mist swirl before my eyes. I was nigh speechless.

  “Holmes!" I cried, once I had recovered. “Is it really you? Can it indeed be that you are alive? Is it possible that you succeeded in climbing out of that awful abyss? I know you were in it. This time I saw you fall!”

  He nodded. “Yes, this time I was actually in the abyss. It was a calculated risk.”

  “You knew!”

  He shrugged. “I thought it highly probable. You see, Watson, the attack at the top of the Tower Bridge was the only true prior attempt upon my life. Moriarty, in his twisted vision of the endgame, wished for me to fall from some great height into a body of water, just as his brother once died.” He paused for a moment, and appeared contemplative. “Human nature is a strange mixture, Watson. You will note that even a villainous murderer such as Professor James Moriarty can inspire such affection that his brother turns to crime to avenge him.”

  “But how did you survive?” I exclaimed.

  “Ah, yes, well, it is thanks to this wonderful invention of Mr. Szczepanik. He has created a silken vest that is able to reliably stop bullets that are shot from a distance of eight paces. Though, as I learned to my chagrin, the kinetic force is still sufficient to knock a man backwards and produce some impressive bruising. Fortunately, I had prepared for the latter eventuality, and made plans to recuperate here. Hence the envelope I handed you.”

  “Why did you not tell me? I thought you dead!”

  He shook his head crossly. “I did tell you to open it immediately, Watson. You can hardly blame me for your oversight.”

  I sighed at Holmes’ penchant for unnecessarily dramatic reappearances. It seemed that some things never changed. “I have only one word to say to you, Holmes.”

  His eyebrows rose with interest. “And what is that, Watson?”

  “Norbury.”

  “Hah!” he chuckled. “Perhaps I was overconfident that I would survive this encounter, Watson. The odds were high, but hardly one hundred percent. Still, I felt that it was a worthwhile gamble. Even if I died, if I could rid the world of the Moriarty-family plague once and for all, it would be one of the red-letter days of my career.”

  I sighed and realized that Holmes would never change, nor would I want him to. He was a man unique amongst all others in the world. Thinking back over our many adventures together, I could want nothing to be different. “At least we no longer need to be concerned that our leisure time will again be disturbed by some mysterious cipher.”

  Holmes pondered this for a moment, and then shook his head. “Only the greatest cipher of them all, Watson.” Holmes laughed aloud. “You see, education never ends, Watson. Every day we still seek knowledge at the
old university. Life is a series of lessons with the greatest for the last.”

  And with that maxim I can now set down my pen on this remarkable and sensational chapter of my association with Sir Sherlock Holmes, for as I previously noted, he received a knighthood for his preservation of the Tower Bridge. This final incident may now allow the curtain to fall upon a career which has now outlived both its enemies and its shadows and promises to end in an honored old age.

  §

  About the Author

  In the year 1998 CRAIG JANACEK took his degree of Doctor of Medicine of Vanderbilt University, and proceeded to Stanford to go through the training prescribed for pediatricians in practice. Having completed his studies there, he was duly attached to the University of California, San Francisco as Associate Professor. The author of over seventy medical monographs upon a variety of obscure lesions, his travel-worn and battered tin dispatch-box is crammed with papers, nearly all of which are records of his fictional works. To date, these have been published solely in electronic format, including two non-Holmes novels (The Oxford Deception & The Anger of Achilles Peterson), the trio of holiday adventures collected as The Midwinter Mysteries of Sherlock Holmes, and a Watsonian novel entitled The Isle of Devils. His current project is the short trilogy The Assassination of Sherlock Holmes. His first in-press work will be included in the forthcoming MX Book of New Sherlock Holmes Stories (Fall 2015). Craig Janacek is a nom-de-plume.

  For augmented content, connect with him online at: http://craigjanacek.wordpress.com.

  §

  Literary Agent’s Foreword: Annotated

  As detailed in the Forewords to The Adventure of the Pharaoh’s Curse and The Problem of Threadneedle Street, herein we present for your enjoyment a newly discovered tale by Dr. John H. Watson, the friend and biographer of the world’s first and foremost consulting detective, Mr. Sherlock Holmes.

  The manuscript was found in a much damaged condition, and in the restoration, a conscious decision was made to adopt American spellings of such words as ‘colour’ and ‘humour.’ Furthermore, for reasons known only to the author, and contrary to his more typical-style,[1] Dr. Watson divided into three separate narratives a unified tale of Holmes’ temporary return from the Happy Isles of retirement.

  A synopsis of the first narrative: In late 1909, Sherlock Holmes has been drawn out of retirement by the pleadings of Inspector Lestrade, who is distraught that Holmes’ one-time ally, Inspector Patterson, has been cruelly murdered. With Dr. Watson at his side, Holmes journeys to the British Museum, where priceless items have been vanishing. In the Egyptian Gallery, strange things have been seen and there are whispers of a curse laid down by the mummy of a disturbed Pharaoh. The Director, the Keeper of Egyptian Antiquities, and four guards are all suspects, but one guard has vanished and another proves to be the son of an old enemy of Holmes. When Holmes’ first solution fails to solve the case, Dr. Watson helps to set him back upon the right track. Finally, Parker, the garrotter, and James Windibank, are unmasked by Holmes as the villains. But just when Watson is ready to celebrate the successful conclusion to this final case, a coded message arrives for Holmes. The mysterious Mortlock has asked them a continuation of the riddle of the Sphinx: ‘what has no legs at midnight?’ And Holmes deduces that the answer can only be: ‘a corpse.’

  A synopsis of the second narrative: Following closely on the heels of the case of the Pharaoh’s Curse, Holmes and Watson remain in London to attempt to discover the identity of Mr. Mortlock. Becoming flat-mates with Mycroft, Holmes is quickly approached by Inspector Gregson with a report that a vast amount of gold has mysteriously vanished from the vaults beneath the Bank of England. The only clue is that a man claiming to be ‘Sherlock Holmes’ had recently opened an account. Intrigued, Holmes quickly deduces that the thieves tunneled in from the sewers below the Old Lady of Threadneedle Street. Meanwhile, Watson is sent to investigate the theft of goldbeater’s skin from St. Paul’s and the mysterious death of a man upon the fields of Runnymede. The clues that he finds allows Holmes to deduce the villain’s next attack, and they set off to spring the trap. Watson is shocked to find that Colonel Sebastian Moran was attempting to lure Holmes into the open so that he could be shot down. Fortunately, Holmes disrupts this plan and captures Moran, but soon learns that Moran is simply another pawn in this great game against the mysterious Mortlock.

  We now conclude, reader, where Watson left off, another message threatening all that they had accomplished together over the years and perhaps even the very life of Sherlock Holmes. But ‘come, my friends, it is not too late to seek a newer world. Push off… for my purpose holds, to sail beyond the sunset, and the baths of all the western stars…’[2]

  §

  THE

  FALLING CURTAIN:

  Annotated

  A great man is dead. The embodiment of his age, with his passing marks a close to that era. And with this fallen curtain comes the realization that I too may have outgrown my usefulness on this earth. What little remains is for me to attempt to finish the documentation of as many of the adventures that Holmes and I shared together as I have breath to write and, of course, which are not of so sensitive a nature to reveal to the world.

  I refer, of course, to King Edward VII, son of our beloved Queen Victoria, who had passed the throne to him a short nine years earlier. The date was 6 May 1910. The King had been ill for months, even collapsing while visiting Berlin and France weeks earlier, though certainly no mention of this was made in the press. He returned to Buckingham Palace, where he suffered several attacks of severe angina pectoris. But he refused to rest, saying: “No, I shall not give in; I shall go on; I shall work to the end.” What glorious courage!

  Two weeks later, Edward VII was buried under the intricate Perpendicular Gothic stone vaulting at St George's Chapel in Windsor Castle. His funeral marks the greatest assembly of rank and royalty ever gathered in one place and, as the sun sets upon the Isles of Scilly, it is well to ponder whether we should ever witness such a thing again.[3]

  I know all of this because I was there, accompanying my friend Sherlock Holmes. For he had finally accepted the knighthood that he so richly deserved, and yet had resisted for so long.[4] The incidents of those days which led to this honor are indelibly graven with fingers of fire upon my recollection, and I can tell them without any need for consulting my notes from the time. Although the events that I am about to set down occurred over five months prior, it was not until now that I felt capable of setting it down properly, so wracking was the experience to my mind. But when I went down to Fulworth last week to visit Holmes, he encouraged me to finally lay this adventure before the public. As such support from Holmes for my publications is quite rarely obtained;[5] I will therefore endeavor to do so before his permission is revoked.

  The events in question began on a wild, tempestuous night towards the close of November. Several weeks had passed since the capture of James Windibank at the British Museum, and subsequently the arrest of both John Clay and Colonel Sebastian Moran near the Great Fire Monument. But Holmes seemed no closer to discovering the identity of the mastermind who had set these men and their robberies in motion. Holmes’ mood could, generously, be described as foul. I doubted that there were many others who would tolerate such a houseguest, though Mycroft’s long absences at Whitehall and the Diogenes Club likely explained much of his forbearance. Even I, who was long familiar with Holmes’ irascible temperament, found myself longing for a return to Southsea. After some particularly tuneless scratching upon his violin, which had been sent up from his villa by his housekeeper, I forcibly suggested that Holmes take a turn around St James’s Park in order to help clear his mind. Holmes studied me for a moment, and then smiled. “I think I am not the only one who is brooding over the inaction of the last few days, am I, Watson? Every possible lead has dried up, and we seem to be at an impasse.”

  “Perhaps Mortlock has abandoned his schemes?” I ventured, referring to the mysterious individual whose coded
messages portended grim threats against Holmes’ life.

  Holmes shook his head. “Even if that were true, Watson, there is still the small matter of recovering the artifacts removed from the Museum, and the gold liberated from the Bank of England. I cannot desert the field when such a crucial mystery remains unsolved.”

  I smiled at his not-insignificant conceit. “Then what is your plan of attack?”

  “An excellent question, Watson, and one I have been pondering for some time now. But inspiration has not been summoned by the powers of the strings, so perhaps you are right. I shall attempt some other method of stimulating my mind, and if a walk does not serve, then I think a pile of pillows and two ounces of shag tobacco may perhaps do so. Would you care to join me?”

  I waved him off, eager to have some uninterrupted time to myself, so that I might pen a letter. As I noted, we were, at the time, still residents in the Pall Mall rooms belonging to Holmes’s brother, a domestic arrangement which was now marking its fourth week. My understanding wife had, of course, been apprised of the attempt upon Holmes’s life, and while understandably nervous for my own safety, she comprehended that I could not possibly forsake Holmes in his hour of need. Nevertheless, to quell her fears, I sent daily reports of our progress, which was unfortunately, very scant of late.

  After this task was complete, I attempted to emulate Holmes by reading the accounts of the daily newspapers in hopes of spotting some small anomaly or clue which might have escaped his attention but, if located, would give us one more datum for use in pinpointing the identity and location of our secret adversary. After the span of some fruitless forty minutes, I had just thrown the Evening Standard aside when the tall, spare figure of my friend stumbled into the room, his lip cut, an enormous discolored lump upon his forehead, and his left coat-sleeve drenched with blood.