By some miracle, I made it to the top without incident and ambled across the landing and into the sitting room. Holmes remained in the armchair, drumming his fingers together impatiently. I deposited the tuba on the table and dropped into the sofa with sweet relief.
Delight spread across my friend’s thin, Grecian features, and he approached the table in wonder. “Certainly an exquisite piece of craftsmanship,” he declared, patting the instrument affectionately.
He lifted it - quite easily, I am loathe to add - and carried it to the chair by the hearth. Then, to my incredulity, he began playing. His cheeks balled as the low, robust sound boomed across the room. Without accompaniment, it was a most unattractive noise and I could not fathom his enthusiasm. I proceeded to watch the performance with a sort of blank incomprehension.
“What has inspired you to purchase this... this?” I said, pointing bewilderedly at the golden beast of an object.
Holmes had taken a breath and was about to deploy it in another full-throated warble when he decided to answer me instead. “My mind, Watson,” he told me tolerantly, “is like a racing engine, tearing itself to pieces because it is not connected up with the work for which it was built. The work which you told me not to involve myself during convalescence. Doctor’s orders, you said.”
It was typical of him to use my own words as a weapon against me. He pressed his fingers against the bell with satisfaction.
I could hardly protest, but I endeavoured to do so anyway. “Surely, you require silence in which to recover. You cannot have it while tootling away on this dreaded thing.”
Holmes’s mouth pursed petulantly, like an aesthete with a delicate temperament. “Without such sounds to distract my mind, I feel restive and empty. And since you will not even let me read the agony column, I can do little else.”
He returned his attention to the tuba. I shall not describe what he did as playing, nor shall I grace it with any other term usually associated with musical performance. Instead, the burly brass instrument produced low, discordant rumbles of the kind I had only heard in an underground train station.
How such a great mind could, when searching for a suitable distraction, settle upon this noise instead of anything else, I failed to comprehend. Holmes, I had long since realised, was a man of impulse. His mood changed fast and often and his plans were altered accordingly. It was often the case, when in the company of my friend, to suffer a sudden sense of disorientation. Plans were abandoned as though they were never conceived and new ideas were hungrily seized upon. Often, I found myself going places and doing things of which, barely a minute earlier, I had no conception. In an abstract fashion, it was as though I were living the day out of its natural order and I was suddenly in another hour and another situation.
Many was a time in which I had made preparations for my colleague, Jackson, to oversee my surgery while Holmes and I were to leave London, only to discover at the last moment that my friend was in bed and refusing to stir. He would remain there for days, sometimes, and our rooms would become my own. I would take advantage of his absence and tidy the place anew, though he would inevitably arise and return it to its customary chaos.
Such were Holmes’s contradictions, of course, that his slovenliness was only matched by the neatness of his dress. Likewise, those long and languorous days of pipes and papers could, at any point, be replaced with days of urgency and adventure. There were moments, too, in which he could appear conceited, while at others - such as when he spoke admiringly of his brother, which came easily and sincerely and with no apparent envy - he was humility itself.
Minutes later, Holmes drew away from the mouthpiece and gave a thin, triumphant smile. I recognized it from the countless other moments in which my friend had been proven correct.
“Indeed,” he murmured, “exquisite.”
I could not bear it much longer.
“I surrender!” I said, standing up and raising my hands. “You have infested my home with rats. You have imperilled my job. You have driven me to distraction with this intolerable music. As your doctor, I am ordering you: Go back to work!”
This outburst seemed to take my friend by surprise. He stared at me serenely for a long moment and then smiled again - this time, with a strange sort of pride.
“Excellent, Watson!” he enthused. He rose from the chair and discarded his gown, like so many things, with an impatient contempt. It was as though he felt such inanimate objects should have guessed he was done with them and act accordingly instead of leaving it to him. “We must begin immediately.”
“You have a case?” I frowned.
“Of a sort,” he said. “However, when you gave me the strictest instructions not to work, I had to take the most elaborate means to ensure that you would swiftly rescind them.”
A smile slowly spread across my face. “Of course!” I said with delighted relief. “Learning the tuba and examining rats? Ludicrous ideas! Even, if I may say so, for you. So what is it?”
His plan was a success. I did not mind in the slightest that he was to work again.
“Professor Moriarty has returned to London,” he declared.
I creased in confusion. “But... Moriarty has been dead for nearly four years. What are you talking about?”
The bulky instrument now on the floor, Holmes leaned forward in his armchair, his eyes bright with excitement.
“Since his death, Moriarty has been become a figure of folklore. Throughout London, there are men who claim to have worked for him, sitting in the smoke of taverns and telling of his crimes and masterful manipulations. He is an idol to such wretches - a martyr! And I use this religious terminology advisedly, Watson. Like such disciples, they claim relics. One of which is for sale. Nobody quite knows what this grizzly thing is worth, and the matter can only be settled by an auction.”
This surprised me. “How can they do that? These people can’t walk into Christie’s, surely?”
“We must never underestimate the criminal fraternity, Watson,” he cautioned.
“What is for sale?” I asked with a strange mixture of both eagerness and trepidation.
“The head of Moriarty,” said Holmes simply, as though such a thing were to be expected.
I felt my stomach tighten nauseously. “I can’t...” I tried, repulsed, but was unable to find a suitable response.
Stunned, I settled back in my chair and reflected on what all Holmes had told me. The notion that the professor was idolised in disreputable quarters was somewhat understandable. There will always be those who admire and aspire, in every place and profession. To be morbidly interested in acquiring something so intimate, however, was surely beyond the pale. Yet I could not help but consider the religions with which Holmes had alluded, and the relics which were so prized among their followers. The practice was at least a thousand years old. Indeed, I knew of people myself who revered sporting champions and operatic tenors and kept tickets for posterity. Holmes, similarly, kept portraits of some of the finest criminals on his bedroom walls. A couple of years hence, the Bronze Head of Queen Idia was brought back from the Benin Expedition and itself sold at auction.
“How do you suppose they found it?” I asked, once I had sufficiently recovered from the shock.
Holmes poured himself a cup of tea and cocked an indifferent eyebrow. “Perhaps someone saw him fall into the water, or maybe a fisherman found him. Either way, his body must have been crushed, with only the head salvaged.”
I swallowed dryly. “The auction is today?”
Holmes nodded. “I wish to discover just who will purchase it. For such a person, I am convinced, will do so in order to signal his own status among criminals. He shall fashion himself as Moriarty’s successor, and we should be wise to keep a watch on him.”
Outside, we boarded a hansom and Holmes settled somnolently into his seat. His head was rested back,
his aquiline nose more prominent than ever, and his eyes were closed as he looked inward. I knew not to disturb my friend when he was so clearly focussed. For many minutes, I was lost in thoughts of my own - of Mary and our holiday on Hayling Island in ’92 - when Holmes finally folded back his eyelids and surveyed me unfavourably.
“I may not be the only detective to be present at this auction, Watson. There are, I know, more of them in London since I took my sabbatical.”
I knew this already, but had not wanted to speak of such others for fear of offending him.
“There’s Mr. Barker, of course. And that other man Blake. He even tries to look like me, walking about the place in a dressing gown and pipe. He shall be taking rooms in Baker Street next. And what’s the journalist called?”
“Martin Hewitt,” I said, a little too readily. “A stout, clean-shaven man - and a lawyer, no less. He did a most remarkable job on the Quinton Jewel case, according to Truth.”
Holmes tilted his head back. I do believe he was sulking. For a few moments, all I could hear was the clapping of hooves without. “There was once a time when I was the only consulting detective in London,” he said wistfully. “I believe it is you who is responsible, Watson.”
“Me?” said I in surprise.
He lowered his head a fraction in lazy confirmation. “You brought me so much attention with your sensational little scribbles in The Strand. Now others are trying to emulate my success.” He seemed to cast such efforts away. “Of course, it is a fool’s errand.”
“You do enjoy the better cases,” I pointed out in an effort to cheer him. Often, I could not care less if my friend chose to remain in a dark mood. At such times, however, I was not expected to share a cab with him.
Holmes paused. He seemed to be considering my argument, his brows corrugating thoughtfully.
“It depends how one would define ‘better’,” he said, the matter clearly intriguing him. He stared intensely without, his eyes no longer half-hooded and the mind behind it focussed and fertile. “In my own view, the cases which warrant my attention are those which are unusual, yet not wholly reliant upon spectacle. The Dr. Grimesby Roylott case, for example, certainly held such features of interest. There were questions which taxed the mind and it is these which compensated quite pleasingly for its more gothic grandiloquence. Or the death of Willoughby Smith, for another. That was quite the study in observation and deduction, of which I remain proud. No perplexing job advertisements, I grant you. No diamonds hidden in plain sight. The cases of which you would consider notable, Watson, no doubt, include something rather more melodramatic. The kidnapping of Silver Blaze, I dare say.”
I cocked an indifferent brow. “One of your more famous successes,” I reminded him.
“Pah!” said Holmes in disgust. “The public interest in that case was due exclusively to the horse in question being a champion, and their own desire to see themselves profiting from their wagers. The subtle intricacies of the matter were lost on them.”
“What about the Grant Munro case?” I suggested. “I have always had a fondness for that one.”
“Underrated,” said Holmes at once. “Though you did overstate the sentiments of its ending. Despite that, a curious matter which did not rely upon the folly of government for its interest.”
I stared at my friend questioningly. “You look unfavourably towards a case such as the Prime Minister’s stolen document?”
“And the disappearance of the Naval Treaty,” he said, warming to his theme. “These are simply trifles with which I would ordinarily not trouble myself. Politicians would do better to look after such important papers to begin with, instead of punishing me for their own foolish mistakes.” He looked at me shrewdly. “I read your account of the forgery case, by the way. You left it by the hearth after finishing it last night.”
“And what do you think of it?” I asked, and braced myself for the outcome.
“As I recall, you rather clumsily avoided disclosing the name of the university town. I hardly think it would have mattered, Watson, had you told your poor readers that it happened at Oxford.”
“It would have caused embarrassment,” I said with dignity.
Holmes gave a disdainful shake of the head. “You pay too much mind to such things. If you make mention of the place, no such incident will occur there again.”
My reply was stern, for I was tiring of my friend’s rather difficult mood. “I chose not to, Holmes,” I said, “just as you have the choice to write such records yourself.” I could feel my irritation beginning to grow. “Aside from seeking permission for which cases I should record, all decisions are mine.”
“You make it sound as though I exercise some control over your literary endeavours.” He said it with a smile, but it was one of defiance and not humour.
I have never been a man who enjoys confrontation - it was an irony, therefore, that I sought it on the battlefield - and I avoided it now by shifting my gaze uncomfortably to the window. I have sometimes found it easier to protest when refraining from eye contact.
“I try to do what you want,” I said coolly. “And not only in my writing either, but in general life, too.”
Holmes’s surprise was too crudely theatrical to be genuine. “Which instances do you have in mind?”
I barely needed to pause. “I let you play the violin,” I pointed out. “It is not as though you do it particularly well, after all.”
I forced myself to look at him and saw his eyes flash with something like anger. I was not sure if he was truly stung by this indelicate jibe. Indeed, he seemed, perversely, as though he were enjoying the exchange. “And in return I end with a piece you enjoy,” he said with satisfaction.
“After which, I don’t enjoy it anymore.”
His smile curved wider. He was, I now realised, pleased. “Your irritability is a virtue,” he said, “and one I make continued efforts to encourage.” It was true that Holmes had tried to influence my outlook. Indeed, barely a week went by without some attempt to poison me with his cynicism. “Of course,” he went on, “my musical practice is only one matter. In all others, I attempt to compromise.”
I could not tolerate this. “What of the mess? There’s so much of it I can barely tolerate being indoors at all! And that is another thing, Holmes: You never go out, unless I pester you to do so.”
My friend’s face was so surprised, anyone would think I was speaking untruths.
“I accompany you for walks occasionally,” he said.
This was true, but I did not wish to admit it. All too readily, he seemed to be winning this particular argument.
“What about the times in which I wish to visit the Alhambra Music Hall in Leicester Square? You steadfastly refuse to join me!”
Holmes shrugged. “Only because I don’t care to mingle with prostitutes,” he said wryly. “But perhaps some patrons consider that an attraction.”
I recoiled in shock. “That is beneath you, Holmes!”
He didn’t reply, and his reticence suggested he had regretted the remark.
I felt the need to explain myself. “I go because I enjoy George Robey’s performances.”
Holmes rolled his eyes. “It is infantile nonsense! Any self-respecting churchman would be aghast at the way he wears that clerical costume.”
“It is supposed to be amusing,” I responded. “I would have thought a deductive artisan such as yourself would have gathered as much from the song. It is about a pimple, after all.”
He had barely heard me. “The man has brows like Dan Leno,” he muttered. “I can’t be any more damning than that.”
“If we are discussing entertainment,” I said, with sudden inspiration, “what about all the symphonies to which I accompany you?”
“It is quite a different matter entirely,” he said. “You enjoy those.”
I sneered incredulously. “I enjoy the naps it occasions me to have. I’m fit for nothing else after seeing patients all day.”
Our hansom, at this point, jerked to a crawl. I had quite forgotten we were in it at all.
This curtailed our somewhat spirited discussion and the two of us settled on an unspoken amnesty. Indeed, it was in silence that we disembarked from the cab, and I supposed it would be a while before we spoke again. It was often as such - though, as is the way with such intimate associates, Holmes and I could begin conversing again without any mention of our previous squabbling and there was never any memory of it. It was, indeed, refreshingly civilised and a manner which recalled in me the relationship I enjoyed with my late brother.
With a not unpleasant surprise, I observed ourselves to be in Limehouse, one of the most insalubrious districts in all of London. The street was damp and dirty - a cemetery, in effect, with crumbling houses for tombstones - while a stubborn chill slipped beneath my Norfolk jacket and settled into the seams. The sky seemed lower here, with grey clouds sinking onto battered roofs and merging with the soot and smoke. I had seen such godless places before and even knew of gentlefolk who visited for thrills and curiosity. Part of me was glad to see what our celebrated city had hidden away, if only because it made me feel fortunate to possess whatever wealth I did. However, I was also sickened by the state with which such wretched people were forced to survive. It twisted my stomach and weakened my belief in the righteousness of our social order, which persistently proposed that every man has his place and is satisfied with it. I doubted that the people whom Dickens had described as “houseless rejected creatures” were anywhere near satisfied.
Holmes did not seen to share my dismay, but walked quite easily forward as though he were perambulating through Covent Garden itself. I followed him meekly, wondering where he was leading me. Ahead of us, there stood another dilapidated building, streaked jaggedly with dirt, its windows boarded and shut with shame.
The MX Book of New Sherlock Holmes Stories - Part IX Page 43
