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

by Janacek, Craig

  “Which is what?” asked Cartwright.

  Holmes smiled. “Harvesting the guano of the native bats.”[136]

  “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.[137] 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.[138]

  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.”

  “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!’”[139]

  “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.”

  “But is this not a trap?” I protested.

  “Of course it is, Watson. As was the little episode at the Monument. The trick is to trigger it in such a way that the spring does not catch our tail, while still absconding with the bait. Can I anticipate what Mr. Mortlock has planned, and prepare for each eventuality? I believe so. It is no different than playing chess against a grand master.”

  “Except in chess, no one dies.” I pointed out.

  He smiled wanly. “Indeed, Watson. It is a four-pipe problem, if I ever saw one.”

  §

  Most of the evening had passed before Holmes summoned his new gang of Irregulars back to the private room that I had come to regard as our headquarters.

  “Gentlemen, we are about to embark upon a most dangerous mission. There can be little doubt that Mr. Mortlock plans to catch me in his explosion, and any man who accompanies me is at risk of soon finding themselves participating in a closed-coffin funeral. So I reiterate that I will perfectly understand if there are any who wish to reconsider now that the stakes are perfectly clear.” He paused and looked around the silent room. “No? Excellent. Then let us proceed. The problem before us is not an insignificant one. Mr. Mortlock has deigned to inform us that something of consequence will occur upon Tower Bridge at midnight. A small advantage working in our favor is that we know conclusively the nature of this threat, in no smal
l part to the fortuitous visit of Dr. Gennery, the overly dramatic theft of the brake-van and freight carriage, and the fact that Mr. Wall heroically managed to remain alive for a sufficient time to make certain that I was made aware of the goings-on at Hornfair House. Mortlock cannot be certain that we have worked out all of these details, but he is a meticulous planner, so we must assume that he is prepared for this eventuality and has taken pains to prevent us from easily disposing of the device.

  “Furthermore, we cannot be certain of the precise location of the explosive. It may be in either one of the towers or even situated in the high-level walkway overhead. Given the amount of gelignite that will be required to bring down one of those mighty structures, the most obvious method of setting it off would be to utilize a timed detonator. However, if Watson is correct about the time of the attack, it would be far too simple for us to arrive before the appointed hour and simply disable it. Of course, Mortlock would never allow his trap to be so simple, thus he must also have an alternate method of detonation. We can presume that he will be nearby, watching for my approach, and ready to prematurely throw the switch that would bring about my doom. There must be a copper cable that connects this location to the device itself. If we can find that cable, we can cut it, and by so doing, we can ensure that the approach to the explosive is safe.

  “We come now, gentlemen, to our greatest advantage, which is in fact you. Save only Watson and Johnson, the odds are that Mortlock has absolutely no conception that the rest of you are aiding me in this endeavor. He will instead be expecting us to either utilize Scotland Yard, where he clearly has spies, or come alone. While they will be on the look-out for the approach of me or Watson, the others should be able to safely reconnoiter the surrounding buildings. Mortlock’s men may have attempted to disguise the cable in some fashion to fool an innocent passerby, but it should be obvious now that you know what you are looking for. Musgrave, you will take Wiggins and Simpson and inspect the north bank of the river, while Trevor, Cartwright, and Billy will inspect the south.”

  “What about me and the Doctor?” asked Shinwell Johnson.

  “Do not fear, Mr. Johnson, you both have an important part to play in this little drama. You see, while Mr. Mortlock does not know to be specifically watching for our friends, you can be certain that he will have men monitoring the cable itself. Any attempt to disable it will be met with resistance. I will therefore provide a distraction. If I can train their attention upon me, then this task will be made much easier. Your job, Mr. Johnson, and Dr. Watson too, will be to guard my back. I will be exposed during this time, and we don’t want them deciding that it is easier to simply shoot me, and skip blowing up the bridge. Once someone has located and cut the cable, you will fire three rapid shots into the air. This will serve two purposes. First, it will inform me that it is safe to proceed to the location of the explosive and disarm the timed detonator that I assume Mortlock will have installed in the eventuality of a cut cable. Secondly, it should bring every constable within four blocks running. We can trust that Mortlock’s men do not wish to engage in a full-scale battle upon the streets of London and will retreat before our reinforcements arrive. That will help clear my path to the explosive. Any other questions? No? Excellent. Of course, gentlemen, I need not warn you to take all the necessary precautions,” concluded Holmes, as he meaningfully slipped his revolver into his pocket.

  §

  Holmes’ gang of Irregulars split into the three assigned groups and we all climbed into dog-carts that were waiting outside the inn, plainly assembled at Holmes’ request. Holmes himself drove the cart in which Mr. Johnson and I sat, his head covered by a close-fitting cap. It was a cold, dark evening, with a sharp wind and a fine rain beating upon our faces, a fit setting for the wild common over which our road passed and the tragic goal to which it led us. Eventually we returned to the familiar streets of Camden Town, and from there, Holmes wound his way down to the City. As we approached St Katherine’s Way, Holmes paused.

  As if sensing the question I was about to ask, he turned back to us and said in a low voice, “We want to give Trevor and Cartwright sufficient time to cross over to Southwark.”

  I pulled my father’s gold watch from my waistcoat pocket and noted that it was twenty minutes to midnight. We did not have a surfeit of time, but I trusted Holmes’ judgment. Finally, after a span of five minutes, he started the cart up again. I watched with some horror as he proceeded to drive the cart onto the bridge itself.

  “Holmes!” I cried as softly as I could manage. “What are you doing?”

  “This is my distraction, Watson,” said he, calmly.

  “This is madness!” I protested. “He will blow the bridge!”

  Holmes shook his head, as he pulled up the horse in the very center of the span. “I think not, Watson. From here it would be a relatively simple matter for us to dive into the Thames, which is presently at high water, and drift to safety. He cannot be certain that bringing down either Tower would be sufficient to ensure my destruction, which you will recall is his primary purpose. No, he will wait until I am in the correct position. By the way, Watson, once we hear the pistol shots that signify the success of one of our colleagues, I will need you and Mr. Johnson to inspect the south tower, while I examine the north. If we do not find it in either locale, then it must be in the overhead walkway, and thus we will meet in the middle.”

  Without waiting for my response, he leapt from the driver’s seat of the cart, and whipped the cap from his head. In the glare of the illuminated bridge, the distinctive clear-cut, hawk-like features of Sherlock Holmes were suddenly discernable to any who knew him. If Holmes was right and Mortlock was nearby, he would now know that we had arrived.

  For several interminable minutes nothing happened. If Holmes was perturbed by this, he gave no notice of it. Instead, he calmly walked back and forth from edge to edge of the sparsely-travelled bridge. Meanwhile, Mr. Johnson indicated with a nudge that I should watch the northern approach for any signs of an assassin, while he monitored the south.

  And then everything occurred at once. Three shots rang out on the northern bank, and Holmes’ face lit up with triumph. But moments later, an identical trio of shots sounded from the southern bank. I could not comprehend what was transpiring, but Holmes knew at once the problem.

  “They were decoys!” he exclaimed.

  “What?” I cried.

  “There is no need for two cables, one upon each bank. They were placed there for us to find and cut. The real cable must be…” his voice trailed off as he gazed about wildly, “there!” He pointed at a small boat that was moored close to the bridge on the eastern side. I had hardly noted it, but once Holmes drew my attention to it, I could see a thin black cable that ran from it to the upper walkways of the bridge. I then realized that the bomb was directly above our heads. The only way to reach it would be to climb one of the towers, but as soon as we did that, Mortlock would blow the explosive and bring the entire thing down upon our heads. He would then float cavalierly away down the river. We were trapped.

  I think even Holmes was momentarily confounded as to the next course of action. Fortunately for us, the brave Shinwell Johnson had no such doubts. With a roar, the man ran as fast as he could in the direction of the anchored boat, whose cabin was plunged in darkness. A solitary man, his head covered by a dark hood, could be seen hunched behind the gunwale on the stern. It took mere seconds for Johnson to reach the edge of the bridge, and he then threw himself off into space. I watched with amazement as he sailed through the air with a grace I thought little possible given his massive frame. His momentum and leap were not quite sufficient to carry him as far as the boat itself, but that did not seem to be his goal. For he reached out and, with his large hands, grabbed the trailing cable itself. This had the effect of ripping a small box from the grasp of the man on the boat, while the cable, detonator, and Johnson himself proceeded to sink beneath the white swirls of the waters.

  I moved to help him, but Holme
s forestalled me. “No, Watson!” he cried. “Johnson can hang onto the cable until the others pull him out.”

  “What of Mortlock? He must be on the boat!” I exclaimed, watching as the hooded man cast off his mooring line. “We could stop him!”

  Holmes shook his head. “There is no way, Watson. We have no police launch at our disposal. He will be out of our reach in moments. But the gelignite will have a back-up detonator, timed to go off in,” he paused and consulted his watch, “ten minutes.”

  “Then there is no time to waste!” I rushed for the slightly closer south tower, where I knew a stairway led to the walkways above our heads. Holmes on my heels, I threw open the door and took the steps two at a time. Fortunately, the task was a lesser one than my frantic climb of the higher Monument, and it took us a matter of only three minutes.[140] As we burst onto the landing of the walkway, I pulled my watch from my pocket. “We have seven minutes, Holmes!” I cried. “We will be there in time!”

  Holmes nodded grimly as he pushed past me and strode onto the walkway towards the north tower. “There it is, Watson,” he pointed towards a wooden crate that was incongruously sitting midway along the span, a cable protruding from it and through one of the small windows. This opening allowed a rush of bitterly cold air to howl into the enclosed space, but I little felt the chill after my recent exertions.