The Murder of Sherlock Holmes

by David Fable

  “I had no wish to distress the doctor so, but did you hear what he called me?” said Moriarty coming out of his reverie. “I’ll not have that. I have shown him proper respect. As you witnessed, I did not strike the first blow. There are rules for men like us. Holmes understood that. I think you do, also.”

  I studied him trying to determine the best way to approach my objective.

  “You speak, don’t you, lad?” he said, as if issuing a challenge.

  “Yes, quite well,” I responded.

  “And you have come here, why? To find out the reason I dispatched that slovenly simpleton?”

  “Among other things.” I chose every word very carefully.

  “You know all you need to know.”

  “Meaning the information I already have should lead me to Holmes’s murderer and the reason you killed your guard?”

  Moriarty smiled cryptically. “We considered kidnapping you, you know…when you were a small child. I myself have never had much fondness for children and made the assumption that Holmes didn’t, either. That was my oversight.”

  “And I suppose my good fortune. Why did you kill Freddy?”

  “Why would I kill a cockroach in my cell?”

  “You compare it to killing a cockroach?”

  “Have you read Nietzsche’s Beyond Good and Evil?”

  “Yes.”

  “And what do you think of it?”

  “I think it has some merit.”

  “Do you!” He was delighted. “Give me your thoughts.”

  “I think there are certain arbitrary religious and social norms imposed on the individual to keep him…controlled.”

  “Yes, yes…” he said excitedly. “Long ago I freed myself from all that moral prejudice. That was Holmes’s shortcoming. He was never able to free himself from that false morality. It led to his demise.”

  “How so?” I asked matter-of-factly.

  He started to say something and then stopped as if realizing that he had already said too much. “Have you made a timeline, Mr. Hudson?”

  “I have, yes,” I answered, trying to exude confidence.

  “Then if you have made a proper one, you and Watson know everything you need to know.”

  This was a very powerful statement, indeed, and it made me hesitant to question him any further. I did not want to let on that I knew less than he assumed, and it was quite possible from his words that I knew more than I was aware of. I had a timeline, but it was in my head. What was he referring to exactly? The chain of events that had led to Holmes’s murder? Freddy’s murder? Or was he trying to mislead me? I didn’t think so, but I wanted to review all the facts I had gathered before speaking to him again. “I must leave now, Professor.”

  “Stay awhile. We can discuss philosophy.”

  “I’m sorry, I cannot. I will come again soon.” I thought to myself how strange and cordial this last exchange was.

  He nodded with resignation. “I suggest you be very careful. You are quite clever and therefore you are in danger.”

  “Is that a threat, Professor?”

  “You are in not danger from me, lad.”

  “I am glad to hear it.” I got up from my chair and turned to leave.

  “Please give the doctor my apologies. It’s not true what I told him about his wife.”

  “Yes it is,” I answered and exited the cell.

  I found Doctor Watson, fists dug into his pockets, furiously pacing the lawn in front of the hospital. “Are you all right, Doctor Watson?” I asked gently.

  “I want him hanged!” he said bitterly, eyes red from tears. “Why there should be any resistance at all, I can’t fathom.”

  “Yes, you’re quite right. He should be hanged,” I said in a show of support. I thought it better not to question this reasoning at the moment, though, in all candor, Moriarty was far more useful to us alive and unburdened by the immediate prospect of facing the gallows.

  “Why is Lord Fitzroy implying there might be some justification for this murder?”

  In this morning’s Post, bombastic Fitzroy had suggested that Moriarty was being abused by the guard and therefore self-defense might apply. This was a thin and dubious argument, but the tactic would allow for him to call for an investigation, which would inevitably lead to a panel of inquiry that would delay matters until all interest in the topic died. If Watson had been listening to Moriarty, he would know why Fitzroy was doing this. Lord Fitzroy had secrets and Moriarty knew them.

  “I am going to call on Lord Fitzroy this afternoon,” declared Watson.

  “I think you should,” I said, continuing to rally behind the doctor. “Would you like me to come with you?”

  “No. I have some history with the man. A private conversation is what is called for.” He seemed to be more in control of himself after he resolved to take his grievance directly to Fitzroy. “What did Moriarty say to you after I left?”

  “That you and I knew all we needed to know to solve this case.”

  “He said that?” asked Watson, as if trying to confirm that he had heard correctly.

  “He said, if I have a proper timeline, that we had all we needed. I would very much like you to tell me everything you can remember regarding your initial visit with him. Perhaps when he said 'you and Watson’ he meant that each of us have part of the information.”

  “Yes, perhaps. We can deal with that later. I’ll meet you back at Baker Street. First, I need to catch a cab to Chelsea.” Watson marched single-mindedly toward Lambeth Road to catch a taxi.

  I resolved not to relay to Watson Moriarty’s apology or the professor’s retracted claim of being behind the murder of the doctor’s wife. I didn’t tell the doctor, because I believed that Moriarty’s revelation was true, and I’m sure Watson believed so as well. This was an uncomfortable piece of business. In that moment Watson had been laid bare and the rawness of his reaction both startled and embarrassed him. I don’t think Moriarty had planned to make that disclosure, and I doubt he would have wanted me present for it, but, he, too, had lost his temper and used that long-saved bullet frivolously. This told me how Moriarty could be manipulated by his emotions and where the soft spots might be. I was struck by the sense of indignation he displayed when Watson called him a “dishonorable sack of shit.” The professor did not take seriously attacks on his intellect or station, but the questioning of whatever twisted code of honor he felt he possessed seemed to wound him deeply. I would make use of that weakness to my best advantage.

  I walked Doctor Watson to the road, and he hailed a cab. “Thank you for your assistance back there,” said the doctor, with his eyes averted toward the approaching taxi.

  “Not a problem,” I said, trying to give the incident no emphasis. I was quite sure that is what Watson would have wanted.

  “It was certainly impressive how you handled Moriarty,” he said as the taxi pulled to the side of the road.

  “I rely greatly on the element of surprise. No one expects it from me.” I continued to downplay the event as I intended this to be the last we spoke of it.

  “If you say so.” He managed a wry smile and climbed into the back of a cab. I trudged back across the lawn to my motorbike as it started to rain.

  17

  WATSON

  L ord Fitzroy lived in a ten-bedroom brick mansion situated on the Thames opposite Chelsea. It was built in 1732 and fourteen generations of Fitzroys had lived there since its construction. The rain had diminished to a drizzle when my taxi arrived. I rang the bell unannounced and a gray-haired butler named Phelps, who looked as though he had served at least three generations of the family, greeted me and led me through an entry hall with a marble floor and carved wood ceiling to an elegant living room, walls crammed with paintings of relatives and military figures who were quite likely relatives as well. I sat myself on one of the uncomfortable seventeenth-century couches and asked Phelps for some tea. The tea arrived before Lord Fitzroy. After approximately ten minutes, he descended from an upstairs bedr
oom wearing his smoking jacket. This delay made my temper even shorter than it had been when I arrived. He strolled into the living room and I rose from the couch to confront him.

  “Lord Fitzroy, what motive do you have in advancing a justification for Moriarty’s barbaric actions?” I asked, dispensing with any greeting.

  “My motive is discovering the truth, Doctor Watson.” He seemed surprised by my assault but ready to take up the battle.

  “You witnessed the truth at the funeral,” I continued indignantly.

  “I witnessed the act, but that does not always tell the whole story.”

  “Moriarty’s story is already well known.”

  “My dear Doctor Watson, I’m no fan of Moriarty, but the matter is larger than the man. Our criminal system must be fair from top to bottom. The man was being abused by this guard. It’s tantamount to self-defense.”

  “Who told you that Frederick Carson was abusing Moriarty?”

  “I cannot reveal my sources.”

  “Your sources are incorrect. Freddy was smuggling Moriarty cigars and other comforts. He had no stake in abusing him.”

  “Then why did Moriarty murder him?”

  “Precisely!” I seized on Fitzroy’s own words. “Moriarty murdered him.”

  This silenced Lord Fitzroy for a moment. Out the window, my attention was drawn to a young man walking across the grounds in full equestrian attire. A woman, also in riding attire, with short-cropped dark hair ran up from behind and surprised him. They both squealed playfully and twirled around in each other’s arms. As the young man threw his head back in delight, I realized it was actually Lady Fitzroy, who, from this distance gave every appearance of being a teenage boy. The two women pranced off toward a waiting red roadster, giggling and shaking each other like schoolgirls. Lady Fitzroy got behind the wheel and the automobile skidded off down the gravel driveway.

  “My wife and her friend are going to the country house for a few days to do some riding,” said Fitzroy by way of explanation. None of that was of particular interest to me, but Fitzroy seemed eager to explain his wife’s schedule.

  “Well, isn’t that nice for them,” I said.

  “Personally, I never liked riding the brutes. They scare me to death.”

  “I didn’t come here to discuss horses.”

  “Then what brought you here, Doctor? What would you have done with Moriarty?”

  “I’d have him hanged for this murder.”

  “You’re being unreasonable, sir. The man is entitled to a defense.”

  “He’ll offer none. And I don’t want others with influence to offer it for him.”

  “And why would they do that?”

  “Because they fear him,” I answered pointedly.

  He scoffed. “You attribute too much power to the man. Let justice take its course and he will end up hanged soon enough.”

  “The sooner he’s at the end of a rope, the sooner we can all rest easier,” I said hoping he would understand the implications of that statement.

  He turned away and poured himself a drink from a cart arrayed with a colorful selection of decanters. “Doctor Watson, it is common knowledge that you lobbied for him to go to the funeral, and I understand how you could now feel responsible.”

  “That is true. I do feel responsible,” I replied forthrightly.

  “Well then, my dear Doctor, wouldn’t it make you feel less to blame if you realized this guard was not totally undeserving of his fate?”

  “It might, but I don’t think that to be the case.”

  Fitzroy looked at me as if my lack of cooperation was beginning to bore him. “Doctor, I don’t want to engage in an extended inquiry. My wife and I leave for the States on the Titanic in three weeks’ time. I wouldn’t want to have to cancel my trip.”

  “But you’re going to insist on pursuing this notion that Moriarty was justified?”

  “I’m going to pursue the truth,” he said imperiously.

  “The truth about Moriarty is already known. Maybe some other truths will come to light as well. Good afternoon,” I said bitterly and departed.

  18

  W hen I arrived at Baker Street, Christopher had cleared everything off the north wall of the flat and created a timeline with string, a flurry of shredded paper and adhesive tape. The central event in his swirling galaxy of clues was the discovery of Holmes’s body. All other information orbited around that. This was the first time I had visited the flat in several years. Christopher had hauled many of Holmes’s belongings out of the attic, making the room not dissimilar to what he remembered from his childhood. The familiar confines of the flat had a calming effect on me. On the cab ride to Baker Street, I’d been able to collect my thoughts for the first time in several hours and realized that I’d been behaving like a madman. Moriarty’s claim that he had taken the life of my darling Mary accomplished exactly what he wanted it to. It clouded my mind making all ability to divine the truth behind his lies impossible. I didn’t want to ask Christopher’s opinion on Moriarty’s assertion. In truth, I didn’t want to know. One thing was clear. I was no match for Moriarty. I was ignorant to think otherwise. Holmes had considered him an intellectual equal and that should have been all I needed to remember when believing I could manipulate him into helping me.

  “Do you have anything to drink?” I asked Christopher wearily.

  “There’s an open bottle of Bordeaux there on the cupboard,” said Christopher while adding another scrap of paper to his collage of facts. “My mother will be bringing us up dinner shortly.”

  In the cupboard I found the same wineglasses Holmes and I had employed for years. They were of the finest Irish crystal. I poured myself a glass almost to the brim and took a deep swallow.

  “Would you mind relating what Moriarty said to you on your first visit?” asked Christopher as he stood back and admired his work. I could see that this timeline would be of no help to me. It struck me as a jumble of facts that gained no significance by committing them to paper and sticking them to a wall. Holmes kept all the information in his head, referencing and cross-referencing every clue in the compartments of his brain. It made sense that Moriarty, being a professor, would suggest this academic method. Perhaps he was trying to lead Christopher astray.

  “Please give the wine a chance to work, Christopher. I can’t bear to think about it right now.” I flopped into my old armchair and made more of the wine disappear.

  “I understand completely,” he commiserated.

  “By the way, this matter of Lilah Church still needs to be resolved. I meant to go back by there today but was sidetracked. Will you accompany me tomorrow?”

  “We can go tonight if you’d like.”

  “No tomorrow will be fine.”

  “About Lilah, I was thinking…Don’t you find it odd that Wiggins gave you her address after you had already visited the building?” he said turning toward me.

  “He didn’t know I already had the address.”

  “And you say the landlady tried to make you believe it was the wrong address.”

  “I would have pressed the matter, but I hadn’t the time.”

  “Speaking of which, I should add this event to my timeline.” He scribbled the information on some scraps of paper and triumphantly added them to his masterpiece.