“What do you mean ‘not allow myself’? What are you speaking of?”
“It’s rather revealing of a man’s character, how he treats women. And, oh, John… what a mess you are… It’s almost sweet! Any fool can see what you want, but you won’t allow yourself to ask for it, will you? Tell me, John Watson, can you even conceive of a world where one indulges their desires and yet remains a good person?”
“If I’m honest, no. I cannot.”
“A shame, since that’s the only world you could be happy in. But that’s you in a nutshell, isn’t it? Long-suffering John Watson: the sole architect of all his misfortune.”
“You pretend to know me, madam, but you don’t. I was shot, did you know that? In the army—”
But she cut me off. “Were you conscripted?” she asked. “Or did you enlist voluntarily?”
“Well, I… I enlisted, but… you have no idea the things I’ve seen and done on my adventures with Holmes!”
“And tell me, Doctor, did he force you to come? Holmes—gentle and kind—how did he inflict his fate on you?”
“He didn’t, I suppose…”
“No. Those are all misfortunes you brought upon yourself. Some people are born with worse, you know. That urchin you had announce your ‘accident’ could probably tell you something of what it feels like to lead a life bereft of choices. So could I. Perhaps before you sit in judgment of me, John Watson, you ought to learn something of the challenges arrayed against me, from the moment I came into this world. And yet, with only my mind, I have conquered them all!”
I must have rolled my eyes, for she laughed and conceded, “Very well. And my looks. But really, those almost spoil the fun. The table is tilted. The game’s too easy. Nevertheless, I intend to win. That is what we are here to discuss. Are you ready?”
From the other room came a rattling clatter as Holmes accidentally pulled down a shelf.
“By God, he’s taking forever,” I muttered.
“Oh, let him have his fun. Besides, Holmes is already neutralized. We’re here for you today, John. I’m going to tell you what I’m doing. Then you are going to walk out of here, alive, which is better than you deserve. The price you’ll pay is this: you are not going to interfere with my plans.”
“You think so?”
“I do. Now, what do you know of Moriarty’s great quest?”
“Immortality, according to Holmes.”
“Partly. More than that, though. He wants to exist at every point in history, in every dimension. He’s seen enough of the worlds to know just how much a person misses out on. He can’t bear to not know a thing. He can’t stand that he’ll only die once. If by cancer, then he’ll never know what it’s like to be impaled by a spear. If a spear, then what is it like to be eaten away by acid? What did it feel like to kiss Cleopatra? What did it feel like to be Cleopatra? And those are only some of the things he wants to know of this world. There are thousands of other worlds, it would seem, and he wishes to know everything that has ever occurred in any of them. He wants omniscience, more than immortality. He is a creature of great knowledge, who wishes to know all.”
“Admirable, in its way,” I admitted.
But Irene shook her head. “Foolish. When I was young, he took me into his confidence—just as I am taking you into mine. I learned from Moriarty. I let myself be almost his daughter. For years, I thought him the wisest, strongest, most unstoppable force in the universe. Yet, as I grew, I came to realize he was wrong.”
“How?”
“What if he didn’t like it? What if he knew everything, everywhere, ever, and there was no joy in it? That was his flaw: to assume that everything was enough. Perhaps what he ought to be looking for was a thing that did not exist at all: the answer to the human question. How can we make ourselves happy? Fulfilled? How can we win this strange game we find ourselves thrust into? That is my quest, John. It’s not such a bad thing, is it? I’ll confess, if the answer turns out to be a thing only one person can enjoy, then that one person shall be me. But if it’s a thing I can share with all mankind, I happily will. You should not be opposing me, John. You should be cheering me with every fiber of your being. We should be friends.”
I shook my head. “You keep killing people.”
“Oh, so what? Honestly, you’re so frustrating! I could kill you, you know! I could even make Holmes do it.”
“Then why don’t you?”
She gave me a funny little smile. “Because he likes you too well. I can’t have him getting sad and accidentally destroying the world before I’ve solved my riddle. Luckily for you, John, I need you right where you are: by Holmes’s side, keeping him happy and docile. So, despite your multiple defeats, you get to live. Isn’t that nice?”
My look must have been defiant, for the merry gamester look returned to her face and she teased, “Or perhaps your brilliant plan will thwart me and I’ll be in your power. I must say, though, it isn’t seeming likely. How long is that second move supposed to take?”
“Not nearly this long,” I admitted. “Honestly, I’m a bit horrified. If things had gone differently…”
“Oh, you’d have been in terrible danger,” Irene agreed.
From the other room came another crash and a frightened yelp. What was Holmes doing in there?
“Would you care for tea, while we wait?” Irene asked.
“You know, for the first time I can remember, I’m not actually in the mood for tea.”
“No? What are you in the mood for?”
I could tell she was teasing me—picking at my inexperience in the ways of the heart. But it mattered not. As I stumbled over my reply, my second card turned. The smoke-lie. From outside a voice shouted, “Halp! Oh, halp! Fire! Briony Lodge is on fire!”
“That sounds like your wonderful little urchin,” Irene noted. “I’m glad he had more to do. A friend like that should never go underused.”
Behind me, the sitting-room door burst open. There stood Holmes, amidst billowing white clouds of smoke.
“Hello,” he said. “Well… mixed news. I’m afraid I was unable to locate the items we were looking for, Watson. I’m sorry. Yet, I am even more sorry for you, Miss Adler. In my search it seems I have clumsily set fire to your home. Really, just… a thousand apologies.”
“No, that’s all right. It’s rented, you know.”
Holmes blinked, surprised at her lack of concern.
“Besides,” Irene noted, “I can’t help but notice the distinct odor of potassium chlorate. That’s what smoke bombs are made of, isn’t it? It seems as if I’m being duped.”
“Oh. Well, it certainly doesn’t feel like you’re being duped,” said Holmes.
I couldn’t help but agree. “I really had only five— perhaps ten—seconds to plan, so…”
Irene smiled at us and suggested, “Now, Mr. Holmes, why don’t you take a seat next to Watson, there? We must discuss the terms of your surrender, mustn’t we?”
I shifted over a bit to make room and Holmes sat sheepishly down beside me. He stared down at his lap and mumbled, “I’m sorry, Watson. But… er… you know, there is—”
“Hush, Holmes.”
“Well, I will, but—”
“There’s no use.”
The first billows of smoke wrapped around my ankles. I coughed once or twice, but smoke had no power to make me any more miserable than I already was.
“Now, are you sure you gentlemen wouldn’t care for some tea?” Irene asked.
“No, thank you,” I said.
“I don’t really… er… drink,” said Holmes.
“Very well, then we shall begin,” Irene said, pleasantly. “Now, my present plans take me far from England. Nonetheless I may, in the future, find myself in need of a powerful sorcerer or a resourceful agent…”
“Er… Hey, Watson, do you have a moment?” said Holmes.
“Holmes! We must pay attention! We must seek every opportunity to turn this situation to our advantage, or at least ameliorate the
damage.”
“I see that, but—”
“But what, Holmes?”
“You know how I was supposed to sneak out, set off the smoke rocket and pretend the house was on fire?”
“Yes! Everybody knows that, Holmes. Everybody!”
“Right, but… would you be angry if… if I really, accidentally did set the house on fire?”
And there it was: my third move. My only real chance. The twist.
Irene thought she knew Holmes, did she? Then wouldn’t she know that was exactly the sort of mistake he was likely to make? How deeply did she trust her own intellect? How deeply did she disdain Holmes’s? How certain was she that she’d predicted every aspect of my plan? I had to keep my eyes on Holmes. I had to keep my expression incredulous and angry. I must give her no clue. Just in the corner of my eye, I saw Irene Adler experience a moment of doubt. Her eyes flew to—was it the window? No… The painting over the mantel!
Yet, in an instant, my hope was gone. Even as she dropped into that ready-to-run crouch, she caught herself. A moment of realization spread over her face and she turned slowly towards me.
“Oh, well played, John,” she said. She seemed genuinely pleased. “A twist. You’ve acquitted yourself very well, I must say. By God, it’s fun to play against somebody who can challenge me, from time to time. Oh, you gave me a fright. Look at me, my heart’s pounding!”
I wilted. Until that moment… I don’t know… there’d still been hope. Remote? Absolutely. A hope only a fool could cling to? Well, yes. Yet even that was enough to cheer me. Just having a card still left to turn meant that I’d still been in the game. But now, my game was up. Except…
Holmes cleared his throat. “Right, well… We all know I was supposed to set off the rocket. Then I was supposed to come in here and pretend the house was on fire. Then, when that didn’t work, I was supposed to pretend I didn’t just pretend to light the house on fire. But… um… what if I really did really did light the house on fire?”
“No!” cried Irene and I, together. “What?”
“I couldn’t get it lit!” Holmes explained.
I threw a furious glance at Holmes and Irene Adler threw one at me, as we both wondered, “Double twist?”
“So I used a little demon-fire. But then it turns out it was rather a lot of demon-fire, so…”
Any doubt that remained was extinguished by that first whiff of definitely-not-potassium-chlorate-smoke-but-actual-wood-and-plaster-smoke smoke. Over the sound of distant crackling—just becoming audible—we heard a voice cry, “Oh, bugger! It really is! Halp! Actual fire! Briony Lodge is on not-pretend fire! Aw, criminy! I’m out of here!”
“Damn it!” Irene and I howled. I glanced about for the best escape route, but Irene had other concerns. She rushed to the mantel, grabbed her own portrait with both hands and yanked. She threw the excellent painting in the corner and reached for what lay behind: a built-in wall safe.
“Holmes! Get the safe!” I cried, beginning to choke on the first clouds of black, very-actual smoke.
“What do you mean?”
“Magic! Grab it!”
Holmes raised both hands towards the safe and bent his fingers. The plaster around the safe crumbled. Irene gave a cry as the safe tipped forward and fell out of the wall. It would have crushed her foot if she hadn’t yanked it clear at the last second. Even worse, the wall deformed all the way to the ceiling. With a groan, the ceiling bowed down for a moment, then collapsed, showering the far corners of the room with burning floorboards and bedclothes. For a moment, all was chaos, the room filled with swirling dust and smoke.
“The fire is upstairs, too?” I howled.
“By now?” said Holmes, with a shrug. “I’d bet it’s practically everywhere.”
“Damn it, Holmes!”
“What? I tried to tell you!”
“Where’s Irene?”
Sure enough, she was gone. She must have made her move the very instant the ceiling fell in. There wasn’t enough wreckage to have buried her. At least we had the safe. And I’d been right, her treasures had been concealed in this very room the whole time. I ran to the safe, grabbed it, and pulled. No good. The thing was so heavy it had gone halfway through the floor. There was no hope I’d be able to carry it out on my own.
“Leave it, Watson! You’re in danger!”
“I don’t care! Get the safe!”
“Oh, very well,” said Holmes, with an exasperated sigh. Suddenly the safe rose and floated, hovering in the air before me.
“Not like that!”
“Well how then, Mr. Choosy?”
Over the sound of the dying house, I could just hear the first constable’s whistle as the alarm was raised.
“You don’t think two men leaving the scene of a burning house with a levitating safe might command a bit of attention?”
“I’ve no time to debate the point, Watson. I’m afraid it’s time to go.”
With that, Holmes flicked his hand sideways and the safe flew through the front window and bounced out into the garden. Disappointed as I was with his lack of subtlety, I had to admit Holmes had a point. The house was becoming truly dangerous and this sudden route of egress was not unwelcome. I cut my hand on a windowpane on the way out, but overall our exit was pleasantly expedient. As soon as we were out on the lawn the safe bobbed helpfully up into the air again.
“Damn it, Holmes!”
“Well, you want it, don’t you?”
Cursing, I removed my jacket and threw it over the hovering steel box. Yes. That was better. Now I would just… er… pretend that I had bought a large square bag of groceries and was carrying it home with my jacket over it, in case it should rain. Was I muddied, bloodied and coughing from smoke inhalation? What of it? It had been a lively day at the grocer’s—that was all—and it had nothing to do with the burning building just behind me. That was certainly what we’d try to convince the constables of when they arrived. Which, by the sound of things, could not be more than one or two minutes hence. So…
Back streets and all haste—always a fine way to get to 221B. I was winded and sweaty as I followed the hovering safe up the stairs, through the sitting room and into my chamber. When Holmes lowered it to the floor, the heavy clunk drew a gasp of surprise from my wardrobe. Apparently, His Majesty had been sleeping. But he pushed the door open with his foot and asked, “Have you got it? My picture?”
“We’re not sure,” I told him. “We certainly have divested Miss Adler of some of her treasures, but it will take time to determine the full scope of our victory. I must examine the—”
I was about to say “locking mechanism” but before I could, the safe gave out a terrible shriek, then a little pop, and the main dial ripped out, sailed just past my head, rebounded off the ceiling and clattered across the floor.
“Damn it, Holmes!”
“Oh come now, Watson,” Warlock scoffed. “We both know you’d have been at that thing for months. Besides, compared to the amount of magic it took to levitate the thing here, the transgression is minor. Now, hurry and open it up! What did we get? What did we get?”
The door swung open to reveal a brown paper parcel that clearly contained a cabinet-sized photograph and— my heart caught in my throat—the battered leaden case Irene Adler had stolen from us. Moriarty’s prison. Yet, even as I lifted it free, I could tell something was wrong. There was no gentle flutter as there had been before, no vibration of life from within the box. Hopefully, and yet ruefully, I slid the catch and bent up one corner of the lid.
There was nothing.
Well… I mean there was no disembodied spirit of Holmes’s great nemesis. Only a slip of paper. Drawing it out, I found a picture of an elderly wizard—Merlin, I fancied—lifting up his robes to me and proudly displaying his droopy old buttocks. Apparently, to Irene Adler’s list of artistic accomplishments, I would need to add “lewd sketch artist”. I staggered back and sat heavily down upon the corner of my bed.
Outmaneuvered, again
.
And I was not to be the only one. As soon as Holmes untied him, Von Ormstein pounced upon the parcel and tore away the paper. As soon as his eyes fell on the portrait within, he gave a cry of alarm and flung it away, crying, “Ugh! By God! She flaunts it in my face: the only drawback to a match with a human! Not a single tentacle, anywhere.”
A solitary piece of paper fluttered to the ground—a parting note from Von Ormstein’s old flame:
Your Majesty is foolish to presume I would use the items at my disposal to thwart your match to House von Saxe-Meiningen. Did you imagine I would choose to expend my leverage upon you before you had a claim to the throne of Scandinavia? Really, Willie, think these things through. Perhaps one day you will have something I want badly enough that our paths may meet again. Until then, I wish you joy in your upcoming nuptials.
Give Clotilde my regards.
And my sympathy.
Irene Adler
I reached for the photo Miss Adler had included and— much like Von Ormstein—recoiled when I saw it, yet for quite a different reason. The picture was of Irene, dressed in… well… I suppose “a slightly undersized doily” would be the best description. Though it had been presented to Wilhelm, it was clearly intended for me. I could tell, because she’d signed it:
With fond memories of my doctor, who will, I trust, be able to identify the pertinent anatomy.
Really, just…
What a woman! I remembered her joy when I let Von Ormstein’s involvement slip out. She’d said she wished she could see our faces, because she had been so very clever. And yes, she certainly had. To read the clarity of thought in her note to Von Ormstein, one could easily be forgiven for assuming her to be only a mind—a creature of disembodied ideas, always scheming, always three steps ahead. Yet then, in the next instant—gazing salaciously at that picture—it was easy to think of her as nothing but a body, an object of temptation. Indeed, hundreds before me had made exactly that mistake, granting Irene Adler a deadly advantage.
Warlock Holmes--My Grave Ritual Page 30
