The Criminal Mastermind of Baker Street

by Rob Nunn

  Chapter 12: Back in Baker Street

  After Watson departed from the ledge above the Reichenbach Falls, Holmes took a deep breath and meant to spend a few minutes contemplating the end of his adventure, only to have a huge rock come falling from above and boom past him. The stone struck the path and bounded into the chasm below. He looked up and saw a man’s head against the darkening sky right before another large stone smashed into the ledge he was laying on, only inches from his head.

  Holmes knew immediately that Moriarty was not the only villain on that cliff. A dangerous man still remained, and he had waited for the right moment to strike. The man’s face peered over the edge again and Holmes knew that another stone would soon be speeding towards him.

  As he scrambled down the wet and dangerous path, another stone sang by Holmes, yet again just missing him. Slipping, torn and bleeding, Holmes eventually escaped the hunter and did ten miles over the mountains in the darkness, finally escaping to Florence. But he knew that there was still a member of Moriarty’s organization out there who knew that he was alive, and this was a dangerous man that Holmes would eventually have to contend with.

  Once he had arrived safely in Florence, Holmes telegraphed Mycroft to alert him to the situation. After a brief and coded conversation, the brothers Holmes agreed that it was all-important that no one else should know that Sherlock Holmes was still alive. Although Holmes deeply regretted the pain he knew this would cause Watson, Mycroft agreed with Sherlock’s assessment that news of his survival would only ignite the criminal underworld like a powder keg. Mycroft sent Sherlock money and said that he would be in touch soon. Once his brother was settled and safe, Mycroft sent for Watson to visit him at the Diogenes Club.

  When Watson arrived, he was in a state of mourning, with which Mycroft played along. The two men consoled each other on their losses, and Mycroft turned to look out the window.

  “Doctor, I am aware of what my brother’s line of work was. As a rule, I did not interfere. This will be my one and only exception to that rule.”

  Taken aback at Mycroft’s bluntness, Watson began to speak, but Mycroft Holmes held up his broad, flat hand.

  “Pardon me doctor, but I must continue. The Moriarty organization is done, but at least two dangerous players escaped capture. I know that one of them is here in London, while the other is abroad. The man in London is not a man to be trifled with, and although I do not know your plans, I would wager that you entertain thoughts of carrying on in my brother’s stead. I can tell you that doing so would put you out of your depth and you could not count on the accommodations I afforded Sherlock.”

  “I had considered it as a tribute to your brother. But to be honest, I cannot say that I am up to such a task at this point,” Watson confessed.

  Softening slightly, Mycroft nodded. “Of course not. You are still reeling from a tragic loss. We both are. And you will excuse my saying so, but you could not carry out the organization’s dealings to meet my brother’s standards. My advice to you, Doctor, is to send word to your former workers that they are in danger from Moriarty’s man and that they should leave London for a time. I believe that your medical practice should sustain you and that if you do not attempt to re-enter the criminal underworld, you shall be safe from the man until he can be brought to justice.”

  Nodding solemnly, Watson replied, “Yes, I agree that will be best. To think that this has all been brought upon by a man I have only seen once in passing! But if only there were a way that I could finish Holmes’ work by eradicating Moriarty’s men...”

  “Doctor Watson, you were my brother’s a trusted friend, but you must not attempt to have vengeance on his behalf. It could only end in disaster for you. You have your wife and medical practice. Other than the succinct reports that appeared in the Journal de Geneve and the Reuter’s dispatch, there has not been, nor will there be any mention of the incident at the Reichenach Falls in the press. Be content with that and your memories and adventures with Sherlock.”

  The two men shook hands and parted, Mycroft returning to his governmental duties and routines, and Watson to a world without Sherlock Holmes.

  While Holmes rested for a few days in Florence, Mycroft arranged a money transfer to him as well as a destination to keep him occupied: Tibet.

  Holmes joined up with Captain Hamilton Bower’s expedition, under the guise of Sigerson, a Norwegian explorer. For the next two years, he helped map the area with Captain Bower, and later with another explorer, William Rockhill, until they reached the boundary around Lhasa, where no Englishman was allowed to pass. That night at camp, Holmes slipped out unnoticed. Through a combination of disguises and diplomatic entreaties, he worked his way into Lhasa, where he studied Buddhism for some time. By happenstance, he was even allowed to spend some time with the head lama, and departed again before overstaying his welcome.

  When his time in Tibet was over, Holmes took on an assignment for the Foreign Office that led him through Persia during its political unrest, and allowed him to look in at Mecca. His time there was brief. The region was in the midst of a civil war, and all outsiders were met with extreme suspicion. After collecting his needed information on the Russian threat there, Holmes escaped the area safely and travelled across the Red Sea to deliver a message to the Khalifaat Khartoum. Not one to take orders, and especially ones that put him in the middle of political conflict, Holmes informed Mycroft that his tenure as an international agent was terminated and he moved onto France.

  Once in France, Holmes settled in Montpellier and found a medical school where he was allowed the use of a small laboratory. Here he spent some months conducting research into coal-tar derivatives. Sherlock Holmes, the criminal mastermind, had died in Switzerland, and Sigerson, the adventurer, had disappeared from public knowledge, but the student of chemistry deep inside Holmes was still alive, and he spent days upon days rekindling the inquisitive spirit that Watson first saw in the lab at St. Bart’s hospital so many years ago. Once he had settled in the southern French city, Holmes reconnected with Mycroft, and it was then he learned that Mary Watson had died. Holmes was saddened by his friend’s loss and took up his pen to write Watson. But fearing Watson’s affectionate regard for him might tempt him to some indiscretion which would betray his secret, Holmes knew that it would be impossible to reach out to his old comrade.

  Although Holmes was enjoying his studies and experiments, he never forgot about the face from the cliff above the Reichenbach Falls. When he learned from his brother that two of Moriarty’s men had escaped capture, he knew that now two men knew that Sherlock Holmes was alive, and must always be alert.

  Holmes enjoyed the French cafes and spent many days reading the papers with some attention there. On one such afternoon in early spring of 1894, Holmes was reading the day’s story of the boulevard assassin, when a man sat down across from him and struck up a conversation, much to Holmes’ annoyance.

  “It’s been a long time since anyone’s seen you, Mister Sherlock Holmes,” the small, bespectacled man sneered.

  Holmes lowered his newspaper and stared coldly at the man. “I believe you are mistaken, sir.”

  The man tittered. “Hardly so. We’ve been watching you for a few days going in and out o’ that lab a few streets over. No, I’d say we know who we’re dealing with, all right.”

  Cocking an eyebrow, Holmes replied, “We? I only see one of you.”

  The waiter set down two cups of coffee in front of the men and disappeared.

  “A man such as Colonel Moran would stick out quite a bit here in France, so he’s stayed home in London. I’ve been in charge of catching up with you here while the colonel sets up shop back in London.”

  Holmes sipped his coffee and smirked at the man. “I can’t imagine your colonel would appreciate you sharing that information, Mr. Morgan.”

  The little man leaned back and ran his hand through his thinning
hair before he took a large drink of his own coffee. “So you are aware of me, Mister Holmes? I’ve not seen anyone following me.”

  “That is what you may expect to see when I follow you.”

  “No matter now,” Morgan continued. “You’ve been found and dealt with. I don’t expect you’ll make it back to London. Hell, you won’t even make it back to you rooms today.”

  “And why do you believe that? Is it because of the cyanide you had delivered to me in this coffee? My, what a blind beetle I have been to fall for such a ruse.” Holmes held up his cup and took another sip.

  Shocked, Morgan leaned forward. “What’s your game, Holmes?”

  Holmes nodded and the waiter returned with a baguette. “My friend here is happy to help me look after my health. I’m afraid our coffee cups may have been switched upon delivery.”

  Realization slowly spread over Morgan’s face. “You devil...”

  Holmes drained his cup and handed it to the waiter, who left the two men alone. Leaning in, Holmes’ eyes contracted into two menacing points. “As the career poisoner you are, it’s a shame that you did not notice its almond-like scent. I can only deduce that is because you were too confident of your own work, or that you are not able to smell such scent. You will know that is the case with many victims. You will also know, that at this point, your body is slowing down, and the tired feeling you are fighting valiantly against will soon overtake you.”

  Morton’s mouth moved groggily, but no sound came out.

  Holmes’ gaze bore down on the little man. “I will leave you now to your own ends, but don’t worry, Mr. Morton. I will meet with Colonel Moran soon. You don’t mind paying the bill, do you?” Patting his pockets dramatically, he continued, “I seem to have left my wallet at the laboratory. And after all, the coffee was your idea.” Rising from the table, Holmes took his bread, nodded to the waiter and slipped out the back door.

  Now that only one enemy remained and was attempting to resurrect Moriarty’s empire in London, Holmes knew that it was time to plan his return. The next day, he opened the newspaper in his rooms to read of an unidentified English man who had quietly died of heart failure in a local street café. That day’s newspaper also told of the death of the Honorable Ronald Adair, second son of the Earl of Maynooth, who had been murdered on March 30, under the most unusual and inexplicable circumstances. Adair had been found dead from a gunshot wound to his head after returning home from a night of playing whist at his club with Mr. Court Murray, Sir John Hardy, and Colonel Sebastian Moran.

  London was immensely interested in the murder of Ronald Adair. Doctor Watson was no exception. On April 5, Watson found himself at on Park Lane, where Adair had lived. He found a group of loafers standing around on the pavement and staring up at the window to the room where Adair’s body had been found. After overhearing some ill-advised man give his theory, Watson drew away from the crowd in disgust, and knocked into an elderly deformed man behind him, knocking down several of his books. Endeavoring to apologize for the accident, Watson was given a snarl of contempt from the old man before he turned and his curved back and side-whiskers disappeared among the crowd.

  Watson returned to his study, and had not been there five minutes, when the maid entered and announced a person to see him. Astonishingly, it was the strange, old book-collector from Park Lane.

  “You’re surprised to see me, sir,” the collector said in a strange, croaking voice. “Well, I’ve a conscience, sir, and when I chanced to see you go into this house, as I came hobbling after you, I thought to myself, I’ll just step in and see that kind gentleman, and tell him that I was a bit gruff in my manner. There was not any harm meant, and that I am much obliged to him for picking up my books.”

  “You make too much of a trifle,” Watson answered. “May I ask how you knew who I was?”

  “Well, sir, if it isn’t too great a liberty, I am a neighbor of yours, for you’ll find my little bookshop at the corner of Church Street. Maybe you collect yourself, sir; here’s British Birds, and Catullus, and The Holy War - a bargain every one of them. With five volumes you could just fill that gap on that second shelf. It looks untidy, does it not?”

  Watson moved to look at the cabinet behind him. When he turned again, Sherlock Holmes was standing smiling at him across the study table.

  For the first and last time in Watson’s life, he fainted.

  “My dear Watson, I owe you a thousand apologies. I had no idea that you would be so affected,” the well-remembered voice said after undoing Watson’s collar and putting brandy to his lips.

  Watson gripped Holmes by the arm. “Holmes! Is it really you? Can it indeed be that you are alive? Is it possible that you succeeded in climbing out of that awful abyss? Tell me how you came alive out of that dreadful chasm.”

  Lighting a cigarette in a nonchalant manner, Holmes answered, “I had no serious difficulty in getting out of it, for the very simple reason that I never was in it. My note to you was absolutely genuine. I had little doubt that I had come to the end of my career when I perceived the somewhat sinister figure of the late Professor Moriarty standing upon the narrow pathway which led to safety. I read inexorable purpose in his grey eyes. I exchanged some remarks with him and obtained his courteous permission to write the short note which you afterwards received. I left it with my cigarette-box and my stick and I walked along the pathway, Moriarty still at my heels. When I reached the end I stood at bay. He drew no weapon, but he rushed at me and threw his long arms around me. It was only the knowledge of the Japanese system of wrestling, Baritsu, which saved me.”

  “Amazing,” Watson whispered.

  “Hardly,” Holmes dismissed with a wave of his hand. “I spent the next three years traveling through Asia and Europe. I was about to return when my movements were hastened by the news of this very remarkable Park Lane Mystery, which appealed to me by its connection with the remaining member of Moriarty’s organization and his attempt to revive it. I came over at once to London, called in my own person at Baker Street, threw Mrs. Hudson into violent hysterics, and found that Mycroft had preserved my rooms and my papers exactly as they had always been. So it was, my dear Watson, that at two o’clock today I found myself in my old armchair in my own old room, and only wishing that I could have seen my old friend Watson in the other chair which he has so often adorned.”

  Softening his features, Holmes continued. “I have heard the sad news of Mrs. Watson. Work is the best antidote to sorrow, my dear Watson. And I have a piece of work for us both tonight which, if we can bring it to a successful conclusion, will in itself justify a man’s life on this planet. If I may ask for your cooperation, we have a hard and dangerous night’s work ahead of us. You’ll come with me?”

  “When and where you like, Holmes. But what is the task?”

  “You will hear and see enough before the morning,” Holmes answered. “We have three years of the past to discuss. Let that suffice until half-past nine, when we start upon the notable adventure of the empty house.”

  The old friends spend the remainder of the evening catching up on each other’s recent histories. Watson shared the sad story of Mary Watson’s death earlier that year, and Holmes entertained Watson with stories of his travels.

  Soon enough, though, it was like old times for Holmes and Watson, as they traveled across London in a hansom. Holmes was stern and silent, while Watson’s heart beat with the thrill of adventure and his service revolver rested in his pocket. The cab stopped at the corner of Cavendish Square, and Holmes led the way on foot from there, taking the utmost pains to make sure that they were not followed. After many twists and turns, the two men arrived at the back of a deserted house. Holmes opened the door with a key, and they stepped in and shut the door behind them. Holmes and Watson moved through the dark house until they were in a large, square empty room, heavily shadowed in the corners, but faintly lit in the center fr
om the lights of the street.

  Leaning close, Holmes whispered, “Do you know where we are?”

  “Surely that is Baker Street,” Watson answered, staring through the dim window.

  “Exactly. We are in Camden House, which stands opposite to our own old quarters. It also commands so excellent a view of our rooms. Might I trouble you to draw a little nearer to the window, taking every precaution not to show yourself, and then to look up at our old rooms - the starting point of so many of our little adventures? We will see if three years of absence have taken away my power to surprise you.”

  Watson crept forward and, as his eye fell upon the window, he gave a gasp of amazement. The blind was down and a strong light was burning in the room. The shadow of a man seated in a chair threw a hard, black outline upon the screen of the window.

  “Good heavens, Holmes!” Watson ejaculated. “It is marvelous. It looks just like you!”

  “The credit of the execution is due to Monsieur Oscar Meunier, of Grenoble, who spent some days in molding the bust in wax. The rest I arranged myself during my visit to Baker Street this afternoon.”

  “But why?” Watson asked.

  “Because I had the strongest reason for wishing certain people to think that I was there when I was really elsewhere. I knew the rooms were watched by my old enemies, Watson. They knew that I was still alive. Sooner or later they believed that I should come back to my rooms. They have watched the rooms continuously and this morning, I recognized their sentinel when I glanced out of my window. He is a harmless enough fellow, Parker, a garrotter by trade. I cared nothing for him, though. I care a great deal for the much more formidable person who was behind him, the man who is attempting to resurrect Moriarty’s empire. He is the second most cunning and dangerous criminal in London. That is the man who is after me tonight, Watson, and that is the man who is quite unaware that we are after him.”