Read The Falling Curtain (The Assassination of Sherlock Holmes Book 3) Online
Authors: Craig Janacek
The Falling Curtain (The Assassination of Sherlock Holmes Book 3)
The
Falling Curtain
§
Book Three:
The Assassination of
Sherlock Holmes
§
Craig Janacek
Copyright © 2015 by Craig Janacek
All Rights Reserved
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Grateful acknowledgment to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle (1859-1930) for the use of the Sherlock Holmes characters.
Books by Craig Janacek
THE OXFORD DECEPTION
THE ANGER OF ACHILLES PETERSON
THE MIDWINTER MYSTERIES OF SHERLOCK HOLMES
THE ADVENTURE OF THE MANUFACTURED MIRACLE
THE ADVENTURE OF THE FIRST STAR
THE ADVENTURE OF THE SPANISH SOVEREIGN
(THE GRAND GIFT OF SHERLOCK)
THE ASSASSINATION OF SHERLOCK HOLMES
THE ADVENTURE OF THE PHARAOH’S CURSE
THE PROBLEM OF THREADNEEDLE STREET
THE FALLING CURTAIN
THE DR. WATSON TRILOGY
THE ISLE OF DEVILS
THE GATE OF GOLD*
THE RUINS OF SUMMER*
*Coming soon on Kindle
TO OWEN
But soon we shall die and all memory…
will have left the earth,
and we ourselves shall be loved for a while and forgotten.
But the love will have been enough;
all those impulses of love return to the love that made them.
Even memory is not necessary for love.
There is a land of the living
and a land of the dead
and the bridge is love,
the only survival,
the only meaning.
‘The Bridge of San Luis Rey’
Thornton Wilder (1897-1975)
As detailed in the Forewords to
The Adventure of the Pharaoh’s Curse
and
The Problem of Threadneedle Street
, herein we present for your enjoyment a newly discovered tale by Dr. John H. Watson, the friend and biographer of the world’s first and foremost consulting detective, Mr. Sherlock Holmes.
The manuscript was found in a much damaged condition, and in the restoration, a conscious decision was made to adopt American spellings of such words as ‘colour’ and ‘humour.’ Furthermore, for reasons known only to the author, and contrary to his more typical-style, Dr. Watson divided into three separate narratives a unified tale of Holmes’ temporary return from the Happy Isles of retirement.
A synopsis of the first narrative: In late 1909, Sherlock Holmes has been drawn out of retirement by the pleadings of Inspector Lestrade, who is distraught that Holmes’ one-time ally, Inspector Patterson, has been cruelly murdered. With Dr. Watson at his side, Holmes journeys to the British Museum, where priceless items have been vanishing. In the Egyptian Gallery, strange things have been seen and there are whispers of a curse laid down by the mummy of a disturbed Pharaoh. The Director, the Keeper of Egyptian Antiquities, and four guards are all suspects, but one guard has vanished and another proves to be the son of an old enemy of Holmes. When Holmes’ first solution fails to solve the case, Dr. Watson helps to set him back upon the right track. Finally, Parker, the garrotter, and James Windibank, are unmasked by Holmes as the villains. But just when Watson is ready to celebrate the successful conclusion to this final case, a coded message arrives for Holmes. The mysterious Mortlock has asked them a continuation of the riddle of the Sphinx: ‘what has no legs at midnight?’ And Holmes deduces that the answer can only be: ‘a corpse.’
A synopsis of the second narrative: Following closely on the heels of the case of the Pharaoh’s Curse, Holmes and Watson remain in London to attempt to discover the identity of Mr. Mortlock. Becoming flat-mates with Mycroft, Holmes is quickly approached by Inspector Gregson with a report that a vast amount of gold has mysteriously vanished from the vaults beneath the Bank of England. The only clue is that a man claiming to be ‘Sherlock Holmes’ had recently opened an account. Intrigued, Holmes quickly deduces that the thieves tunneled in from the sewers below the Old Lady of Threadneedle Street. Meanwhile, Watson is sent to investigate the theft of goldbeater’s skin from St. Paul’s and the mysterious death of a man upon the fields of Runnymede. The clues that he finds allows Holmes to deduce the villain’s next attack, and they set off to spring the trap. Watson is shocked to find that Colonel Sebastian Moran was attempting to lure Holmes into the open so that he could be shot down. Fortunately, Holmes disrupts this plan and captures Moran, but soon learns that Moran is simply another pawn in this great game against the mysterious Mortlock.
We now conclude, reader, where Watson left off, another message threatening all that they had accomplished together over the years and perhaps even the very life of Sherlock Holmes. But ‘come, my friends, it is not too late to seek a newer world. Push off… for my purpose holds, to sail beyond the sunset, and the baths of all the western stars…’
§
FALLING CURTAIN
A great man is dead. The embodiment of his age, with his passing marks a close to that era. And with this fallen curtain comes the realization that I too may have outgrown my usefulness on this earth. What little remains is for me to attempt to finish the documentation of as many of the adventures that Holmes and I shared together as I have breath to write and, of course, which are not of so sensitive a nature to reveal to the world.
I refer, of course, to King Edward VII, son of our beloved Queen Victoria, who had passed the throne to him a short nine years earlier. The date was 6 May 1910. The King had been ill for months, even collapsing while visiting Berlin and France weeks earlier, though certainly no mention of this was made in the press. He returned to Buckingham Palace, where he
suffered several attacks of severe angina pectoris. But he refused to rest, saying: “No, I shall not give in; I shall go on; I shall work to the end.” What glorious courage!
Two weeks later, Edward VII was buried under the intricate Perpendicular Gothic stone vaulting at St George's Chapel in Windsor Castle. His funeral marks the greatest assembly of rank and royalty ever gathered in one place and, as the sun sets upon the Isles of Scilly, it is well to ponder whether we should ever witness such a thing again.
I know all of this because I was there, accompanying my friend Sherlock Holmes. For he had finally accepted the knighthood that he so richly deserved, and yet had resisted for so long. The incidents of those days which led to this honor are indelibly graven with fingers of fire upon my recollection, and I can tell them without any need for consulting my notes from the time. Although the events that I am about to set down occurred over five months prior, it was not until now that I felt capable of setting it down properly, so wracking was the experience to my mind. But when I went down to Fulworth last week to visit Holmes, he encouraged me to finally lay this adventure before the public. As such support from Holmes for my publications is quite rarely obtained; I will therefore endeavor to do so before his permission is revoked.
The events in question began on a wild, tempestuous night towards the close of November. Several weeks had passed since the capture of James Windibank at the British Museum, and subsequently the arrest of both John Clay and Colonel Sebastian Moran near the Great Fire Monument. But Holmes seemed no closer to discovering the identity of the mastermind who had set these men and their robberies in motion. Holmes’ mood could, generously, be described as foul. I doubted that there were many others who would tolerate such a houseguest, though Mycroft’s long absences at Whitehall and the Diogenes Club likely explained much of his forbearance. Even I, who was long familiar with Holmes’ irascible temperament, found myself longing for a return to Southsea. After some particularly tuneless scratching upon his violin, which had been sent up from his villa by his housekeeper, I forcibly suggested that Holmes take a turn around St James’s Park in order to help clear his mind. Holmes studied me for a moment, and then smiled. “I think I am not the only one who is brooding over the inaction of the last few days, am I, Watson? Every possible lead has dried up, and we seem to be at an impasse.”
“Perhaps Mortlock has abandoned his schemes?” I ventured, referring to the mysterious individual whose coded messages portended grim threats against Holmes’ life.
Holmes shook his head. “Even if that were true, Watson, there is still the small matter of recovering the artifacts removed from the Museum, and the gold liberated from the Bank of England. I cannot desert the field when such a crucial mystery remains unsolved.”
I smiled at his not-insignificant conceit. “Then what is your plan of attack?”
“An excellent question, Watson, and one I have been pondering for some time now. But inspiration has not been summoned by the powers of the strings, so perhaps you are right. I shall attempt some other method of stimulating my mind, and if a walk does not serve, then I think a pile of pillows and two ounces of shag tobacco may perhaps do so. Would you care to join me?”
I waved him off, eager to have some uninterrupted time to myself, so that I might pen a letter. As I noted, we were, at the time, still residents in the Pall Mall rooms belonging to Holmes’s brother, a domestic arrangement which was now marking its fourth week. My understanding wife had, of course, been apprised of the attempt upon Holmes’s life, and while understandably nervous for my own safety, she comprehended that I could not possibly forsake Holmes in his hour of need. Nevertheless, to quell her fears, I sent daily reports of our progress, which was unfortunately, very scant of late.
After this task was complete, I attempted to emulate Holmes by reading the accounts of the daily newspapers in hopes of spotting some small anomaly or clue which might have escaped his attention but, if located, would give us one more datum for use in pinpointing the identity and location of our secret adversary. After the span of some fruitless forty minutes, I had just thrown the
Evening Standard
aside when the tall, spare figure of my friend stumbled into the room, his lip cut, an enormous discolored lump upon his forehead, and his left coat-sleeve drenched with blood.
I sprang up and caught Holmes just as he was about to collapse to the carpet. Calling out for Stanley, Mycroft’s ancient butler, I guided Holmes to the settee. I rolled up his shirt-cuff, exposing his thin, sinewy arm, whose innumerable puncture-scars along its veins were now obscured by the presence of a terrible cut from a serrated knife. Once Stanley appeared, I ordered him to bring me all of the carbolized bandages and alcohol that he could procure. As soon as these were in hand, I proceeded to tend to Holmes’ wound.
Holmes finally stirred and smiled. “Thank you, my dear Watson. I hope this is the last time that I have need of your astute judgment and medical talents.”
“What happened, Holmes?” I exclaimed.
“I was foolish, Watson. I thought I saw someone trailing us yesterday evening, when we left the performance of
Lucia
at Opera House. But I paid him little mind, for we were only coming straight back here, and our base of activity is far from secret, what with the constant comings and goings of Gregson and Lestrade.”
“But why did you not accost the man then, when I was there to assist?”
Holmes shook his head irritably. “No, no, Watson. That would have served little purpose. I knew that the man would be a little more than a flunky, no more entrusted with the true identity of his employer than a barnacle knows the name of the ship to which it is attached. However, this evening I made a critical error. I ignored the crying in my ear.”
While it was not quite as troubling as ‘oysters,’ these nonsensical words were said in all seriousness. Given that Holmes presently had little reason to persuade me that he was dying, I was suddenly much concerned that Holmes had suffered a concussion in the attack. I would need to employ every possible strategy to calm his nerves, in hopes of preventing this damage from escalating to a florid case of brain fever. Such a thing might knock him out of commission for weeks. “It is all right, Holmes. Let me see you to your bed. A tincture of laudanum will help you recover.”
Holmes chuckled softly, wincing at the pain that such laughter brought on. “Do not fear, Watson. I assure you that I am in full possession of my faculties. I suppose that I never told you of the technique that I learned while studying with the grand Llama in Tibet? It is a talent that they have developed, which warns them that an avalanche is about to crash down the mountain. When a skilled local hears a crying in his ear, he realizes that it is time to move away from the dangerous area. I in turn should have recognized that my old enemies are resurfacing and that one would soon make such a move. But I disregarded the warning and went for a walk in the very park where he might expect to find me. That is where I was set upon.”
“Surely your knowledge of boxing and baritsu….”
“Unfortunately, Watson, baritsu is of only partial utility against the attacks of a ferocious hound.”
I frowned in confusion. “This is hardly the mauling of a dog attack, Holmes. This is a cut from a knife.”
“Ah, yes, it was while I was occupied with fending off said hound that his master crept in for the kill. First he landed the vicious backhander which I am afraid has not improved the symmetry of my face. He then flew at me with his knife, and I had to grass him twice, procuring this cut along my arm for my troubles. He had rather more viciousness than I gave him credit for.”
“Who did?”
“Harry Peters, also known as the Rev. Dr. Shlessinger.”
“Peters! I thought he and his hideous wife were in jail?”
“Unfortunately, it seems like that scheming pair must have slipped through the overly-slack net of Inspector Lestrade.”
“So Peters is behind all of these crimes!” I exclaimed.
Holmes frowned. “Do not be absurd, Watson! Peters has a certain crude cunning, sufficient for beguiling foolish old women, but do you honestly think that his small mind could have planned the masterful thefts at the British Museum and at the Old Lady of Threadneedle Street? Do you think that Peters could convince Sebastian Moran to make another attempt upon my life? No, Peters is but another cog in this infernal machine. In order to stop its relentless motion, I need to find the central mover.”
“And who is that?”
He shook his head. “That at present remains a mystery, Watson. But he knows me; that much is now certain. The warning is a useful one. Don’t you see, Watson? I have been dreadfully careless. I am falling into my old patterns. Attending concerts, walking in parks – this is exactly what he expects from me. I have been playing into his hands. I have given him the weather gage. But it is now time to change the battlefield to one more to our liking.”
I gazed upon his aquiline face and saw an inexorable purpose in his grey eyes.
I felt that an evil time might be coming upon those whom Holmes had set himself to hunt down. “As your physician, and your friend, Holmes, I must advise that you delay at least until dawn before you begin your assault. Judging by the quantity of blood upon your sleeve, you have just suffered a severe shock to your system.”
He laughed. “Very well, Watson. But surely even a wounded general can dictate a few telegrams before retiring for the night?”
“I will allow that,” said I, with some reluctance.
“Very good, Watson. If you would be so kind as to send round to the district messenger office for the services of their keenest lad, one that can faithfully take down some legible notes, I will relay to him the information that we require in order to plan our attack.”
§
The greater part of the night’s tempest had cleared by the morning, and the sun was shining with a subdued brightness through the dim veil. When I entered Mycroft’s library
, I knew from the pile of telegrams upon the breakfast table that Holmes had received answers to his messages of the night before, though his mood had little improved. He showed few ill effects of his rough treatment the night prior beyond a healing lip, a fading bruise upon his forehead, and the bandages with which I had wrapped his left arm. As always, I was amazed by his constitutional powers, even as his age advanced in pace with my own.
“No luck, Holmes?”
He sighed. “As I have told you before, Watson, I abhor the concept of luck. A detective needs only knowledge, observation, and deduction to bring a successful conclusion to any case.”
“And have you been successful?”
“Not yet, but I will. It is merely a matter of time. It is no small task, mind you. I have accumulated a vast number of enemies of the years, Watson, as anyone who knew me and my methods might expect.
For every commonplace crime, such as the dilemma of Mr. Hilton Soames, there has been a more serious one. While some, such as Dr. Roylott, Captain Calhoun, Lattimer and Kemp, Jack Stapleton, and Mortimer Tregennis have shuffled off this mortal coil, there are still near a hundred men who have good reason for ending my life. Brooks and Woodhouse may take the lead in the quest for vengeance, but there are many others who stand directly behind them in the line.”
“Pray tell, Holmes, what was the precise nature of your telegraphic inquires?”
“I adopted the obvious method of sending to the various prisons in which my enemies have been locked up, and thereby obtained a list of precisely who is still safely secured and who has been let slip.”
“And the results?”
“Well, you will be happy to hear that Brooks and Woodhouse remain safely ensconced in
Pentonville Prison
, for starters.”
I nodded my gratification at this news, and pondered who else might so desire Holmes’ death. “What of Sir George Burnwell? He was a man without heart or a conscience.”
“Yes, Watson, he was indeed one of the most dangerous men in England. Fortunately, he is no longer in England, for as you recall, he fled to the Continent with the poor Miss Mary Holder in tow.” He waved his hand towards one of the scattered telegrams. “My sources tell me he has yet to return to our shores.”
“How about Alec Cunningham and his father? They were quite the pair.”
“I wholeheartedly agree, Watson. As I recall, if not for you and Inspector Forrester, my windpipe might be a tad narrower today. Fortunately, the old man is dead now, and Mr. Alec, who has all the tender qualities of a wild beast, is still a guest at
Reading Gaol
.”