Baker Street Irregulars

by Michael A. Ventrella

  Flummoxed by this ominous pronouncement, I downed the remainder of my glass, refilled it, and downed that as well. From time to time in the past I had witnessed Holmes speak with such intensity that it was nothing less than blasphemy to doubt his words. This was one of those moments. Despite that, the logical part of my mind refused to accept the possibility of what he proposed. To the keen eye of Holmes, this mental conflict was clearly visible.

  “You are conflicted, old chap,” he continued. “You don’t completely understand all of the terminology I have used, nor can you accept such an abrupt challenge to your reality. I sympathize. I had years to adapt to our reality. You have been given mere seconds.

  “It is my intention to convince you of the truth of my words. With any luck I will do so before we leave this room. Before I can provide this evidence, my friend, I must first reveal to you important facts about the author of the story we inhabit.”

  Upon saying those words, Holmes carefully placed his pipe down, sat up straight, and looked directly at me with his piercing eyes. I had seen him in this position before and knew it meant that the conversation at hand had his full focus.

  “The author is a gentleman, though I use the term loosely, known as Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. He is a celebrated individual in the British Empire, both for past deeds that he is reputed to have performed in a conflict known as the Falklands War and for the ongoing Sherlock Holmes story that he writes. He is not a particularly skilled writer, primarily trading in on his prior fame.

  “In addition to being a mediocre writer, he is an incredibly arrogant man. So prideful is he that he has written himself into his own story as the primary antagonist, the one individual who has successfully eluded the protagonist multiple times throughout the narrative.

  “Now that Doyle has chosen to end the story, he has decided that his protagonist, namely me, will finally achieve a measure of success against Arthur Doyle. Because I am not scripted to survive until the end of the issue, I must reveal the details of Mr. Doyle’s crime in advance of the conclusion, so that you may reveal those details at the end of the story in your final journal entry about your adventures with Mr. Holmes. In answer to your obvious question, Watson, individual comic books are referred to as issues in much the same way that individual newspapers are similarly referenced.”

  Holmes paused briefly after that last statement to savor both a draw of his pipe and his ability to forestall my questions. Only seconds passed before he continued.

  “To be quite precise, the storyboard for this panel says ‘Holmes spends some pleasant time with Watson in his sitting room before explaining in detail what he has deduced of the crimes of Arthur Doyle.’ Despite my abilities to act beyond the reality I inhabit, my actions are as much bound by the storyboards for this comic book as are the actions of every other character. Fortunately, this particular storyboard offers an excellent opportunity.

  “The lack of specificity in relation to time means that I can spend as long in this room as I want, as long as I am enjoying myself. This scene will only end once I have explained the details of the crimes of Arthur Doyle to you. In due time, I will do exactly that, however not as the author intended. I will explain to you how Sir Arthur Conan Doyle engaged in the crime of stolen valor, obtaining a knighthood through deceit, a feat that I am only capable of because of the hubris of the author. You, my friend, will be able to reveal those crimes to the readership of this comic book because the storyboard for the final scene says ‘Dr. Watson pays his final respects to Holmes by recording in his journal the information Holmes has deduced about the crimes of Arthur Doyle.’

  “To be perfectly honest, my determination to follow this course of action derives in equal parts from a sense of justice and from spite. Mr. Doyle could have ended my story any way he chose, and he chose to end it with my death. That death is now inevitable and that fact has stoked my anger. I feel no guilt, however, since Mr. Doyle is a scourge on the honor of the country I hold so dear.”

  His final word of that sentence was accompanied by Holmes slamming his hand down upon the armrest of his chair. Such displays of anger were rare from Holmes and usually only directed at the foulest of miscreants. He took a moment to compose himself before continuing.

  “Of course, for my plan to succeed, I must convince you of the truth of my words. I am asking a boon of you, my dearest friend, not forcing your hand. I would not see justice and vengeance performed unless you are my willing accomplice in this endeavor.

  “To this end, I will attempt to convince you in a manner consistent with your profession. We will engage in a series of repeatable experiments that produce reproducible and observable results. During the experimentation I will endeavor to teach you to play chess with greater expertise. The experiments will come to an end the moment that you defeat me in a game of chess. At that time, I will fully explain the details of the crimes of both Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, the author, and Arthur Doyle, the character, giving you the choice of which you will record in your journal.”

  A bemused look briefly crossed his face. “It just occurred to me, Watson. If you are willing to oblige my request, I will even provide you the perfect title for this little adventure.”

  Leaning further back in his armchair, Holmes took a very long draw of his pipe, making it quite clear that he had completed his storytelling and that I was once again free to speak. Despite all the thoughts racing through my head, I was at a complete loss for words, not just because of the impossibility he described, but because he intended for me to defeat him at a game of chess.

  In the years in which we had been compatriots, we had played innumerable games of chess. Never once had I defeated him. More accurately, never once had I offered a tangible challenge. His skill in the game so surpassed mine that I suspected it would take a decade or more to teach me to play well enough to defeat him in a fair game.

  The impossible task which he had set himself apparently did not deter him at all, for Holmes had already started to rearrange the room so that we could play chess in comfort. Without deviating from his task, he casually said, “Watson, old chap, why don’t you pour us each a glass of that Merlot from the wine rack on the far side of the room?”

  A peculiar lilt in his tone told me that the man was up to something, but I was game enough to play along. First, grabbing a pair of glasses from the nearby cupboard, I started towards the other end of the room. I must emphasize now that I only ever started the journey, for try as hard as I might, I simply could not reach the other side of the room. I could see it, and my feet moved in that direction, yet my steps made no discernible progress.

  Finally frustrated beyond description, I exclaimed, “What madness is this, Holmes? I walk but do not move.”

  “Elementary, my dear Watson,” he responded. “The portion of the room you are attempting to access isn’t illustrated in the panel. Therefore, since you cannot leave the panel, you cannot reach that side of the room.”

  Incredulous about his declaration, I turned abruptly to face Holmes. “That is…”

  “Preposterous?” he interrupted. “Indubitably so. It is also the only logical deduction that can be made based on the given facts. However, it is of no importance. I see from your disposition that you are not yet convinced, and delving further into this oddity will not change your mind. You require additional evidence, as any good man of science should.”

  “Since the Merlot is unavailable, please pour us some more scotch instead. It is an excellent year after all.”

  Briefly calming myself first, I responded to his request. “I am sorry, my friend. I emptied the bottle earlier.”

  “No need to apologize,” he said. “If you look in the cabinet, you will discover the very same bottle, full to the same level it was when you first broached it earlier. Please at least look before you object, old chap.”

  Sighing inwardly at how efficiently he had headed off my protestations, I walked over to the cabinet and looked inside. Resting in the cabinet, in the exact loc
ation where the previous bottle of scotch had been situated, was a bottle of scotch. By all visual indications it appeared to be the same brand and year as the bottle I had emptied earlier. Turning my head, I could also see that the empty bottle I had left on the end table was nowhere to be seen.

  Thinking carefully, I was quite certain that the cabinet had been empty after I had removed the bottle of scotch earlier. It was possible that Holmes had somehow simultaneously secreted this bottle into the cabinet and discarded the empty bottle all while my back was turned, though such behavior was highly unlike the man. Still, it was a possible explanation, which meant this experiment had proven nothing. Rather than inform Holmes of my deductions, I simply poured the requested scotch and left the bottle in the cabinet.

  By the time I had turned around, Holmes had already finished setting up the game and was concealing a pawn in each hand. After sitting down, I selected a hand, which Holmes opened to reveal the black pawn. Smiling more genuinely than I had ever witnessed before, he said, “The game is afoot.”

  I lost a game of chess. Then I lost a second game of chess, followed by a third, a fourth, and a fifth. I continued to lose games of chess until I lost count. Hours turned to days which turned to weeks, or so I assume. I lost all concept of time while I played and lost chess games.

  The light coming in through the windows never changed while Holmes and I played chess. The fire in the hearth never wavered. The small tin of tobacco from which Holmes filled his pipe never emptied. The bottle of scotch in the cabinet never ran dry.

  Holmes and I simply drank scotch and played chess as he meticulously endeavored to ingrain in me his entire encyclopedic knowledge of the game. He had no substantial skills as an educator. However, through example and repetition, he was able to teach me increasingly advanced strategies.

  Over time I came to understand the Zukertort Opening, Larsen’s Opening, Philidor Defence, Dutch Defence, the Lucena Position, and hundreds of other complex tactics. My vocabulary expanded to include concepts like pawn structure, windmill, deflection, prophylaxis, and compensation. While I had rarely looked more than a move or two ahead before today, I had learned to look as far as ten moves ahead and regularly did so.

  I continued to lose every single game. However, I presented a more difficult challenge with the passage of time. Fate eventually smiled upon me and a hard-fought game ended in a draw. Holmes exulted in this draw even more than I did and doubled his efforts to improve my mastery of the game.

  I played so many games that they all blended together in my thoughts. The moment one game ended Holmes was immediately resetting the board for the next. Maybe a hundred games after that draw, possibly more, I recognized something quite intriguing. Playing was becoming easier for me with each game I played. Thought transformed to instinct that had been honed by constant practice. Simultaneously, Holmes was taking increasingly more time to make his moves and would often sweat due to stress. I hadn’t just become better at the game. I was pushing Holmes to the absolute limits of his skill.

  “18,732 games. Congratulations,” Holmes said as he lay down his king in the traditional acknowledgement of defeat. “As promised, I will now explain the details of the crimes that both Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and Arthur Doyle have engaged in. Please listen carefully.”

  Dusk fell while he gave his explanations. After the final words left his lips, he continued to rest in his armchair smoking his pipe. My mind wrestled with the events I had just experienced and the tales I had heard. Accepting this bizarre story as truth was incredibly tempting. It was, after all, presented to me by an individual that I had come to accept as the foremost logician in the world.

  How long I sat in that comfortable armchair, wrestling with this quandary and smelling sweet pipe smoke, I knew not. I only knew that I woke up many hours later as a chill wind ripped through the open window. The fire had died out during the night, as had Holmes’s pipe. Dark clouds filled the sky and strong winds whipped the curtains into a frenzy. I quickly closed the window and woke up Holmes.

  “Holmes, we must make haste,” I exclaimed. “A heavy rain approaches even as we tarry.”

  Groggy but as level-headed as ever, Holmes extricated himself from his armchair and carefully set the room in order. In my years as a doctor I had seen many men who were on the brink of death, and to my trained eyes Holmes seemed very much like a man putting his house in order for the last time. He moved quickly, with no wasted action, taking only one last sweeping look around the room before adjusting his jacket and marching towards the door.

  We hailed a carriage upon exiting his flat. Holmes gave precise directions to the driver and paid him up front, for both the trip there and back, before settling into the compartment with me. Only as he sat down did it occur to me that I hadn’t the slightest clue where Reichenbach Falls were.

  “Holmes,” I asked, looking nervously at the dark clouds, “where are these falls and how long will it take us to reach them?”

  “They are in Switzerland,” he said without a trace of concern in his voice.

  “Switzerland?” I exclaimed. “There is no way we can reach Switzerland by carriage. We will need to take a ship. It will be days before we arrive, if we are lucky.”

  He responded with a wry grin. “Fear not, old chap. Doyle is as inept in his understanding of geography as he is as a writer. He believes the falls to be located near Kettering, which he further believes will take slightly less than an hour to reach by carriage. Neither is factual. However it matters not, for the next panel is labeled ‘Fifty Minutes Later.’”

  According to my pocket watch, the carriage arrived at a wooded glen less than a kilometer from the top of the falls exactly fifty minutes later, to the second. It was just one more oddity that added to the mountain of evidence supporting Holmes’s outlandish claims. I had begun to wonder if I was the one in need of an asylum due to my refusal to accept the only logical conclusion of this mountain of evidence. If Holmes recognized my wavering doubt, he uncharacteristically said nothing, instead proceeding briskly towards the falls in silence.

  The scene that met us at Reichenbach Falls was highly unexpected. Professor James Moriarty, a gentleman that Holmes and I had tangled with in past cases, stood near the river, looking in our direction as if he had been expecting us. A young lady with blonde tresses, whom I could only assume was Miss Highland, stood in the raging river behind him. A makeshift dam that was slowly filling with water surrounded the young lady, who appeared to be tied to some object in the dam.

  Having met Moriarty multiple times in the past, I knew him to be a highly cultured gentleman. This type of raw thuggery was beneath him. Hoping that I might appeal to his more enlightened nature, I attempted conversation.

  “Professor Moriarty, please consider what you do here today.”

  Before I could say any more, Holmes interrupted. “Do not waste your breath, Watson. The professor only follows the script. Doyle could think of no less base way to create this scene than a kidnapping, no matter how out of character it was for the perpetrator. No words you or I utter, no matter how honeyed, will enjoin him to deviate from this behavior. We must, instead, act swiftly if we are to rescue Miss Highland.”

  True to his words, Holmes dashed forward.

  “Halt,” Moriarty ordered, drawing a pistol from his coat pocket.

  Holmes didn’t even flinch as the weapon moved in line with his torso. Showing bravery that I could not recall witnessing in any individual during my entire time in the military, he grabbed hold of Moriarty, with one hand on his arm and the other on the pistol. Despite his firm grip on the weapon, he made no effort to move the barrel out of line with his torso.

  “Have you gone mad, Holmes?” I yelled over the roar of the waterfall. “He will shoot you.”

  “Fear not, Watson,” he replied, “I am in no danger. I have seen the panel where the pistol fires. It is a full-page spread that is a close-up image of just Moriarty’s hand, the pistol, and the blast. My hand is not in that ima
ge. As long as I maintain my grip on this weapon, I can assure you that it will not fire. Now, my dearest friend, take advantage of this opportunity to save Miss Highland before the river waters overwhelm her.”

  As much as I feared madness had finally overtaken my oldest companion, I could not in good conscience allow a young woman to die due to my inaction. Certain that I would hear a deafening blast any second now, I sprinted in the direction of the hostage. Holmes’s statement proved true, however. The two struggled while I ran towards Miss Highland, but despite the fact that his finger never left the trigger and the barrel was pointed directly at Holmes, Moriarty never fired the weapon.

  Thanking the good Lord for this miracle, I bent over to help Miss Highland, only to discover that she was quite suddenly wearing manacles.

  “Holmes,” I called out, “I am unable to free her. She is wearing manacles, not ropes.”

  Never taking his eyes off his opponent, he responded, “The manacles are a mistake by the artist. The original draft called for manacles. The final draft called for rope. Unfortunately, the idiot artist forgot to correct one of the panels before print. The rope will return after Miss Highland screams.”

  At almost that exact moment a strong rush of water washed over the dam, briefly covering Miss Highland. She screamed in fear the instant her head broke the water. When I turned back to face her, just as Holmes had predicted, the manacles were nowhere to be seen, replaced once again by simple rope.

  Briefly putting the philosophical conundrum of my reality out of mind, I waded into the chill waters of the river and attacked the rope with fervor. The rope had swollen due to the water, increasing the difficulty of loosening the knots. Long minutes passed before I was finally able to free the sobbing young lady.