The Murder of Sherlock Holmes

by David Fable

  I had been considering the funeral to be an excellent opportunity to gather information. I resolved to familiarize myself with the faces present and cross-reference them with the information collected from Holmes’s cottage, the bulk of which I had managed to comb through over the past several days.

  The mourners were generally seated in order of importance. The prime minister, Watson, Mycroft and heads of state were seated in the first two rows on the right side of the abbey. Next came the members of parliament, department secretaries, foreign dignitaries and notable celebrities. Then, in the eighth row, were my parents and myself along with leaders of London hospitals and charities to which Holmes had always generously, and anonymously, contributed. I knew of these contributions from records we had recovered at the cottage. One man in our row was Charles Grosvenor, president of an organization that ran three large orphanages in the English countryside where abandoned and delinquent children were raised and taught useful trades in order to be integrated into productive society. Grosvenor was a stout, round-faced man whose venous features spoke to an overindulgence of gin. I had heard nothing but good things regarding Mr. Grosvenor, who stood to gain from Holmes’s estate if Doctor Watson so chose.

  In the rows behind me were a few familiar faces along with dozens I had never seen. Many had been clients of Mr. Holmes. I recognized Reginald Musgrave and Major Murphy. Also in attendance was the French multimillionaire businessman Henri Roualt, who had found his Mexican-actress wife decapitated in bed one morning. Holmes had deduced that the expertise with which the butchery was accomplished pointed to the millionaire’s Spanish cook, who it turned out had been having a lesbian affair with his wife. A year later, Roualt married a French stage actress, who was now seated in the chair beside him wearing a very tasteful black lace dress and fashionable hat I recognized as from a popular new French milliner named Chanel.

  Others in the rows behind me were employees of Holmes’s clients who had had a brush with the renowned detective and hence felt as if they had some special connection. Holmes had that effect on people. He questioned everyone at each case with such thoroughness, taking in every detail so thoughtfully, that people would often mistake his interest in facts for interest in them personally. I scanned each face, row by row, and tried to commit them to memory.

  Those seated on the other side of the aisle presented far more interest. The first five rows were occupied by the top officers of the military and Scotland Yard, with a block of ten empty seats in the middle of the third, fourth and fifth row awaiting the arrival of Moriarty. Behind that came a slew of lords and ladies, including Lord Andrew Fitzroy, a powerful member of parliament, who was given to blustery speeches and unexpected and sometimes random political positions. Many thought his unwillingness to be consistent in his opinions to be a show of character. I considered his inconsistency to be a show of confusion or, worse, corruption. Beside him was his diminutive wife, Lady Emily Fitzroy, looking more like his son in her tuxedo pants and black jacket. Amidst this turnout of aristocracy sat Wiggins and several familiar faces from the Irregulars, including Daisy, Bales, Forest and one I remembered as Wiggins’s main lieutenant, named Creed. Also amongst them, one I didn’t recognize—a man in his thirties looking vaguely Latin with slicked-back hair. Wiggins sat glassy-eyed, staring toward the front of the chapel, probably contemplating his next injection. Beside him was his enormous doorman/bodyguard dressed rather comically in a button-busting white shirt, morning coat and top hat. With the instincts of a mongoose, Wiggins felt my gaze and slowly turned toward me and gave me a gold-toothed smile.

  Just then, there was a stir from the mourners, and Chief Inspector Lestrade entered the abbey from the side, passed in front of the casket and strode to Watson. He bent over for a whispered consultation with the doctor and then moved to the end of the row and sat down. A few moments later a mixture of gasps and murmurs rose from the attendees as Professor James Moriarty entered the abbey, ankles shackled with a two-foot length of velvet-wrapped chain, escorted by his beefy prison guard Freddy, who had put on his best blue suit, and eight sizable Scotland Yard officers all overseen by Inspector Gregson. Very few had been privy to the fact that Moriarty would be in attendance. His villainous existence had been out of the public’s consciousness for over eight years, but not totally forgotten. The straggling mourners walking past Holmes’s casket looked up in alarm at the sight of the infamous criminal and scurried back to their seats.

  With Gregson supervising, the group of officers shuffled Moriarty toward his row. The professor was immaculately dressed in his perfectly tailored, gleaming black frock coat and top hat with black hat-band. Suddenly, Moriarty stopped and turned his head toward the casket. The first instinct of the group was to drag him to his seat, but Gregson halted them and leaned in to say something to Moriarty. The organ continued a strained version of Schubert as the murmuring from the congregation had ceased and all eyes were firmly fixed on Moriarty. He had become the main attraction, which undoubtedly gratified him. He said something in response to Gregson, whose stern expression changed to indecision. Gregson glanced over at Lestrade, who, like the rest of the assembly, was watching with curiosity to glean the content of the exchange. Undoubtedly, every move regarding Moriarty had already been choreographed, every possible escape scenario accounted for, but already Moriarty was trying to alter the plan. Gregson, however, seemed unfazed. As if to emphasize his mastery of the operation, he granted Moriarty’s spontaneous request and directed his men to lead the professor over to the casket so he could pay his respects. The murmuring rose again. Lestrade leaned forward and looked down the row to see Doctor Watson’s reaction. Though I could only see the back of Watson’s head, he sat still and stoic, face turned toward the casket where Moriarty and his group of guards moved en masse. There was something obscene about watching Moriarty hover over Holmes’s coffin, something unbearably offensive in the whole notion that this criminal had survived his heroic counterpart. I was angry at Watson for having made this indecent bargain with Moriarty, regardless of any possible benefit.

  Moriarty stood head bowed and motionless beside the casket as though he were alone in the church. I could not see his face. He might have been praying. He might have been gloating. And suddenly, with one quick movement of his right hand, Moriarty yanked open the top of the casket, gazed down at Holmes’s body, then emitted a primal, soul-searing howl toward the dome of the cathedral. The guards instantly ripped Moriarty away from the casket. Gregson slammed the lid! The group lurched Moriarty toward the exit, bewildered by what had happened and indecisive about what to do next. The horrified congregants gasped and gaped. Watson leaped to his feet to assist. He rushed over to the guards and prevented them from stampeding Moriarty out of the church. He grabbed Gregson, who was absolutely red-faced with rage at this violation, and looked as though he were about to strike Moriarty. The doctor managed to pull Gregson aside and pacify him and, in a matter of seconds, order was restored.

  Watson instructed the guards to take Moriarty to his seat, and with the crisis seemingly over, they consented. For his part, Moriarty became somewhat docile. I could see him mouthing his apologies to Watson and Gregson, and then making as speedy work as he could to sit down and comply. As soon as all the officers were settled in around him, Moriarty turned around in his chair and gazed at the other guests with an unbalanced expression of sheer grief. I felt his behavior during those few minutes to be invaluably revealing. It convinced me that Moriarty had not had a hand in Holmes’s murder and that he, as much as anyone, would not want Holmes dead, for who was he without his nemesis. He had lost his bright mirror, the only man by whom he could measure himself, the man against whom he had sworn ruthless vengeance, and now that opportunity had been robbed from him. Moriarty didn’t want Holmes dead. He wanted him very much alive, so he could inflict punishment on him. It had been a legitimate howl of despair from Moriarty. He was howling about his loss. But, then again, Moriarty was a master at manipulation, and he might ha
ve just put on one of the finest acting jobs I had ever witnessed.

  Freddy, who was seated to the left of Moriarty, seemed to be the most unperturbed by everything that had transpired, undoubtedly being used to Moriarty’s erratic behavior. He was busy craning his neck to get a view of the celebrities in attendance. His attention seemed to be most drawn across the aisle to Ellen McNeill, a wonderful stage actress and admirer of Holmes. At last the service started, and Freddy was compelled to face forward and stop ogling the luminaries.

  The prime minister was the first to speak. He used the occasion to justify his push for “enhanced” militarization in what he termed an “increasingly dangerous and unstable world.” He spent the body of his speech praising Holmes, but in the end found a way to assert that Holmes would have endorsed his policies and, on the way, sprinkled in a couple of quotes that I’m sure he hoped would be picked up by the papers.

  I used the opportunity during the prime minister’s speech to continue my inventory of faces. Behind Wiggins and the Irregulars came Holmes’s solicitor, Pearson, his accountant, his shirtmaker, shoemaker and tobacconist, who procured Holmes’s special blend from Africa. The rows behind them were filled with faces I’d never seen. A hundred seats were reserved for the public and those who wanted to pay respects had waited since early morning to gain a spot in these last ten rows. One of those mourners was a woman in a voluminous black velvet dress with a black lace veil over her face. She sat rigidly, betraying no sign of emotion behind the veil. From the appearance of her hands, fair and slender with nails painted red, I judged her to be a young woman. Beside her was a young man about my own age. His body language and slight lean toward her told me that he, in all probability, had accompanied her. The young man looked familiar though I could not place him. He had dark hair, brooding eyes and hawklike features. He was exceedingly lean and stared with clenched jaw at the pulpit as the prime minister expounded upon world affairs. While I was committing his face to memory, the lady beside him lifted her veil to dab the sweat off her brow. I immediately recognized her as Lilah Church. Her face looked pale and drained, and she was perspiring as if in a fever. Her expression was the same taciturn one that I had seen in the picture from her hospital file. I wanted to announce myself immediately, but it would have been indelicate of me to get up and climb over all the people necessary to get a word with her. I resolved to leap up as soon as the service was over. She dropped her veil and her head swiveled toward me. I felt as if she was staring at me through the lace mesh. There was a stirring as the prime minister concluded and left the pulpit. Many in the church took advantage of this pause to shift or cough, and I turned to watch him take his seat. When I looked back over at Lilah, she was facing straight ahead again, but the young man beside her had fixed me in a piercing stare. I assumed that he was her son, Alexander Hollocks, who had checked her out of the hospital. I nodded to him, and he broke off his glare and turned to listen to Mycroft Holmes, who had ascended to the pulpit.

  Though Holmes frequently declared that Mycroft was the “brains” of the family, he certainly wasn’t the personality. His speech was a fumbling but heartfelt tribute to his brother that referenced the firmament, Pythagoras and the table of elements. He likened the younger Holmes to the constancy and infallibility of immutably universal laws. Though he was always hard to relate to, there was no doubting Mycroft’s emotions. He, like his younger brother, would not be classified as a warm individual, but both had the depth of intellect and character to be deeply empathetic with the human condition. Like Sherlock, Mycroft devoted himself to much selflessness and charitable causes, and, like his brother, tended to keep those things private. Mercifully, his speech lasted only a little more than five minutes, after which Mycroft dismounted the pulpit and retired his substantial bulk to his seat with his usual abstruse gravitas.

  Doctor Watson rose from his chair and solemnly mounted the pulpit. For a few moments he gazed out at the congregation as if he’d forgotten what he was up there for, and then he proceeded to give a most splendid eulogy. He did not deify a man who had already been raised to Olympian stature. He spoke humorously of Holmes’s shortcomings. His disinterest in literature and philosophy, his disorderly habits as a strange contrast to his perfectly orderly thought process, his expertise in violin, boxing and swordsmanship all wielded with a recklessness that sometimes resulted to the detriment of my mother’s Baker Street flat. He spoke of a privacy that sometimes bordered on reclusiveness and a coolness that was sometimes viewed as misanthropy. He spoke of a man endlessly curious, frequently obsessed and steadfastly moral. He told a story of a time when he and his wife, Mary, tried to fix Holmes up with a woman, who by the end of the evening was informed by Holmes that she was allergic to cats, had an incipient stomach ulcer and quite possible a long-lost brother from her father’s extramarital affair. All these things turned out to be true, and the woman was too embarrassed to ever face Holmes again. That was the last attempt Watson ever made to set Holmes up with a potential wife. During this, I glanced frequently at Lilah, who was staring motionlessly through her veil with her scowling son beside her. I glanced at Moriarty, who was leaning forward in his chair as if listening to the eulogy while he studied his perfectly shined tuxedo shoes.

  In conclusion, Watson read a short passage from a personal letter Holmes had left him: “Like all men, I had my faults. I have tried to rectify my mistakes in life to the best of my ability. Whatever recompense I owe, I leave to my maker.” I found that quote strange, as if a vague reference to something specific. Holmes was a man who rarely admitted to any personal failings, and he certainly was not religious. I supposed that in times of such introspection regarding mortality even Sherlock Holmes had felt an inkling of a higher power and a sense of his own imperfection.

  Doctor Watson returned to his seat under the approving and misty gaze of all in attendance. The organist commenced a stirring rendition of “Nearer My God to Thee” and hundreds of voices joined in. It made me recall how my mother used to require me to go to church during my father’s lengthy absences at sea, and so I was familiar with the words of this hymn. I joined in halfheartedly, remembering all those squirming Sunday mornings I spent in the pews of St Mary’s Church. Two verses in, out of the corner of my eye, I saw Moriarty, singing fervently, then straighten up in his seat, raise his right arm and plunge a four-inch paring knife into his guard’s neck! Absolute pandemonium followed.

  I sprung from my seat, but being across the aisle and several rows back and with at least twenty guests and officers to climb over, I could not offer much assistance. I scrambled to get nearer the fray as Freddy slumped sideways, gurgling blood, and Moriarty blissfully continued to belt out the hymn while being pinned to his seat.

  Chairs were thrown aside as Freddy toppled to the floor coughing up great volumes of blood. I fought to get to the center of the action as I heard an ill-advised voice above the shrieks and gasps direct people to, “Give him room!” The Scotland Yard officers stood back and foolishly allowed Freddy to mindlessly grab the knife and pull it out of his neck. This certainly sealed his doom as blood instantly gushed from the wound as well as his mouth. Doctor Watson rushed over and stuffed his handkerchief into the gash. Freddy’s eyes were rolled back as he gagged on his own blood. The organ had stopped. People rushed to the exits. Moriarty was still singing at the top of his lungs, “Darkness be over me. My rest a stone,” as a scrum of officers buried him, unshackled him from Freddy and wrestled him toward the exit with Gregson shouting instructions. Suddenly something occurred to me. I looked back to find Lilah. Her seat was empty. She was gone.

  14

  WATSON

  T he nuns were scrubbing the bloodstains out of the abbey’s limestone floors when Christopher, Gregson, Lestrade, I and several other Scotland Yard investigators congregated the next day to review the disastrous events of Holmes’s funeral. I had made a horrible mistake believing I could control or anticipate Moriarty’s behavior. The barbarousness of the act was only matc
hed by the apparent senselessness of it. Moriarty gave no reason for the murder. He was returned to his cell beneath Bedlam, leaving everyone to wonder what should be done with him next. I for one was in favor of an immediate hanging. I felt horribly betrayed by Moriarty, an admittedly foolish vanity to think his actions were directed at me personally. Moriarty is evil for evil’s sake. His objective is always that which will nourish his black heart, and I, quite rightfully, felt to blame for allowing him to indulge his bloodthirsty nature.

  The morning’s papers were dripping with graphic eyewitness accounts of the funeral. None could explain how Moriarty got possession of the knife. Most accounts began with Freddy already writhing on the floor, therefore the group of us had assembled in the abbey to attempt to piece together the events of the previous day.