The Falling Curtain (The Assassination of Sherlock Holmes Book 3) (7 page)

By the time I arrived, I found Holmes hovering anxiously over the supine form of Stanley, who appeared much shaken and sooty, but otherwise intact. The Fire Brigade was already upon the scene and doing its heroic best to both evacuate the nearby buildings while simultaneously fighting the flames that were roaring from every window. I took a moment to examine Stanley, and recommended that the man be observed in a hospital overnight for signs of smoke inhalation. Holmes used his influence with one of the nearby constables to ensure that this was promptly carried out, and then he turned and stared morosely at the burning building. I tried to imagine what was going through his mind. Inside were all of the notes gathered upon this investigation, but Holmes’ memory attic was of a prodigious size and I doubted that he would fail to reconstruct those in a matter of hours. And then I realized that his beloved Stradivarius had been sent up from South Downs by his housekeeper. It was not just that a financially-valuable instrument had been destroyed, for Holmes had picked it up for a mere fifty-five shillings on the Tottenham Court Road, and with the money he had earned over the years, he could easily afford to replace it. I think it was the realization that a great masterpiece, something unique and truly irreplaceable, had just been lost to the realm of man. It was, perhaps, a metaphor for death itself. What would happen to the world when Holmes himself breathed his last breath? Truly, something far too dreadful to bear considering.

§

I shook off these morbid thoughts and placed my hand upon his shoulder. “Where to now, Holmes?”

He shrugged and scowled. “I don’t know, Watson.” He sighed heavily.

“What about one of those small refuges that you maintain throughout London?”

“They are hardly fit for prolonged habitation. And are they secure? Mortlock has clearly been watching me. Does he know of them? Will he just send men to slit our throats as we sleep?” said he, bleakly.

“Then we take shifts!”

He smiled wearily. “Good old, Watson. No, if your shoulder is to heal, you will need more than a hard pallet above a warehouse in Wapping. We might as well do as you suggested some time ago.”

And that is how we found ourselves taking a suite of rooms at the grand Langham Hotel. Unfortunately, I was far too exhausted to take more than a superficial notice of the rich golden glow that resonated from its stone facings or the opulence of its marbled lobby. Shortly thereafter, as I lay back in my bed, my last thought before I rapidly passed into unconsciousness, was that it truly was a room fit for a king.

The following morn, I discovered that the adrenaline of the prior evening had worn off, and the pain in my shoulder was rather substantial. When I was a man of eight and twenty, I could stand a bit of Jezail lead being introduced into my body at high speeds, but as a man of seven and fifty, a dislocated shoulder proved to be a more significant matter. Nevertheless, I slowly arose and made my way out into the common room of our suite. The door to Holmes’ room was ajar, but before I could look in to see if he had gone out, there was a knock upon the set of double doors that led to the hotel’s hallway. Before opening it, I carefully inspected the eyehole to ensure that there was not a murderous band of thugs waiting on the other side. I could only see a young boy dressed as a hotel porter, and decided he appeared to be an honest lad. After I threw back the locks, the boy held out an envelope and departed as soon as I deposited a shilling into his outstretched palm.

I gazed at it with some confusion, wondering if Holmes had informed Mycroft the location of our temporary abode of the prior night. However, as the envelope was addressed to me, I shrugged and started to tear it open. Just then, Holmes erupted from his room, like tiger springing upon its prey.

“Drop it, Watson!” This instant, I say!” he cried with such vehemence that I dropped the envelope upon the floor.

“What is it, Holmes?” I protested.

“If you value your life, do not open it, Watson!” he commanded.

“Whatever is the matter, Holmes?”

“My correspondence is, as you know, a varied one. I have lost count how many packages sent to me contain some subtle poison. Knowing that I am upon my guard for such a stratagem, our adversary is therefore forced to seek some other method that may introduce a contagion into the room. You are the logical choice for an addressee of such a parcel.”

I studied my friend, and excepting only the time that he feigned being struck down by his mythical Tapanuli fever, I could not recall seeing him in a worse state. His hair and attire were disheveled and his long white fingers trembled slightly. His face had taken on a terrible gauntness, as if food had not passed his lips for many days, which might well be the truth. But the sign that sent a chill to my heart were his eyes. His pupils were mere pinpricks, and it was with considerable horror and dismay that I realized what this signified. Long ago I had weaned him from a terrible practice, but it was now clear that the fiend had only been hibernating for all these years. Despite many trials and tribulations following his return from Tibet, his iron will had prevented any waking of the beast. But the calm had now vanished, as this terrible storm threatened to reduce Holmes to a drug-addled creature. “Holmes! Tell me that you are not using the seven-percent solution again!”

He shrugged as if it was of no concern. “It is clarifying for the mind, Watson.”

I shook my head. “I thought you had rejected that fallacy?”

“Yes, but perhaps I was wrong to do so. Some of my greatest triumphs occurred during those numinous days.”

“Correlation does not imply causation,” I replied, appealing to the eminent logician that I knew lurked in the brain behind the dulled windows of his eyes.

He did not reply, but instead sank into one of the plush armchairs and leaned back, lost in gloomy speculation. As I watched him, I knew that his inner being had been terribly shaken. Inspector Patterson, a good man, had been killed for little reason other than to serve as the lure that would draw Holmes out of retirement. Did the man not have some wife and children who would never again see him walk through the door and hold them tightly to his breast? Stanley, a man whom Holmes had known for close to half-a-century, had escaped a terrible death by the smallest of fractions. Even my own wounding, slight as it may be, would pile up in his mental inventory as another innocent person who was harmed solely because of Holmes.

Despite our long and close association, due to his natural reticence, some small part of Holmes remained a mystery to me. But I suspected that the logical machine, the brain without a heart, was but a façade, and like any man, Holmes surely must have terrors that come to him in the small hours of this night. Had he always secretly dreaded that his actions might lead to the harm of those rare individuals he considered to be friends? Had this sudden realization of his worst fears bring on this black melancholy? Never had I seen him so utterly despondent, even after when we had witnessed some horror enacted by one man upon another, or after those rare times when Holmes failed one of the clients who had entrusted their lives to him.

He finally sighed and looked up at me. “Well, Watson, I do not jest when I say that we seem to have fallen upon evil days.”

“It is during such moments when the great man rises to the occasion,” I said, quietly. “There is nothing more stimulating than a case where everything goes against you!”

He snorted. “Who said such nonsense?”

“You did, Holmes.”

He chuckled sadly, and then shook his head. “We are in the grips of some inexorable evil, a relentless persecution, not by one man, but an entire society of those who wish me harm. But I can find no thread that leads me towards the foul mind that is the prime mover.”

“We can but try! Compound of the Busy Bee and Excelsior!”

He finally smiled. “I don’t know quite what to do, Watson, and I should value your advice.”

“You must act, Holmes!” said I, a heat rising into my voice. “It is not like you to be so defensive. I had thought you would go on the attack.”

“Attack against whom?”

“I don’t know, Holmes.” I looked around the room, searching for an inspiration, when my eyes landed upon the envelope that Holmes had previously dashed from my hand. “Perhaps this contains some critical clue,” said I, stooping to pick it up.

He glanced at it with some interest. “Let me see it first, Watson.”

I handed it over and he inspected it closely, even going so far as to sniff it multiple times. “I can see no signs that it has been tampered with. If they introduced a poison, then they must have infiltrated the messenger offices. I think, on the whole, the odds suggest that you can safely open it, though it is likely just a message from your concerned wife.”

I was barely listening to him, however, for the enclosed message was unusual in the extreme. I little knew what it meant, but I thought that perhaps Holmes might see some hopeful sign therein. Before I could speak, Holmes snapped. “Out with it, Watson! What is so interesting? Your face is an open book!”

Holmes read this with growing excitement, and suddenly sprang out of his chair. His inexorable eyes gleamed out of his haggard face. I could now read in them a set purpose to devote his life to the quest, until the men who had already been harmed should be avenged, and until no further danger awaited any of us at the hands of Mortlock. “You are absolutely right, Watson. We have been passive for far too long. Now that we know the name of our enemy, it is time to take the fight to him.”

“We know the name of our enemy?” I asked with some confusion.

“Oh, yes.”

§

However, Holmes would say no more at the moment. He informed me that he would need to go out for a short while in order to perform the few tasks that would be required to prepare for the coming battle. Upon his return we would be decamping from the luxury of the Langham. He instructed me to rest my shoulder as much as possible while we still maintained our comfortable quarters, and to not let anyone through the door until Shinwell Johnson arrived.

He smiled at my question regarding the necessity of this action. “Shinwell is a blunt instrument, of course, Watson. But he is as loyal as he is intimidating. He will ensure your safety while I am occupied. It is a temporary measure only until you have regained some use of your arm and are able to defend yourself. Do not take it as any denigration of your use, Watson. In fact, without your little visit to the National Gallery, we might still be in the dark.”

The rest of the day was quiet, with only the arrival of Mr. Johnson, some packages, and a light supper to break the monotony. Nevertheless, the rest did wonders for my shoulder, which admittedly had hardly felt up to the task of waging war against the forces of Mortlock. By the time Holmes returned, however, a series of hot packs applied by the surprisingly solicitous Mr. Johnson had me feeling, if not normal, at least upon my way towards being whole again.

Holmes did not identify our group’s destination, but before he led our way out of the hotel, he gave Johnson and I a series of instructions. “We can be certain, gentlemen, that our adversary has already deduced our current location. As we are retreating to a new base of operations – whose location I would for the time being prefer remains a secret – we must ensure that they do not follow us there.”

“Should we split up?” I suggested. “It will be harder to follow three men travelling alone rather than a group.”

Holmes shook his head. “But even if one man is followed, it will give away the game. Nevertheless, your suggestion is a good one, Watson, and we shall indeed split up. Once we reach the lobby, Watson will engage the fifth hansom cab that appears, while Johnson and I will make our way upon foot. We will meet at St Pancras Station and will then proceed together to our final destination. Any questions? No? I see that you both changed into the suits I provided, yes? And you have the hats? Excellent, let us be off.”

Earlier in the afternoon, Holmes had sent up to the suite a new suit for both Johnson and I, his brown and mine grey. These were accompanied by hats, an ascot for Johnson and a bowler for me. At the time, I thought that Holmes had simply believed that our previous attire might attract too much attention, as I noted that Holmes had also acquired a new suit and hat. But once we reached the hotel’s lobby, I realized that he had a far deeper strategy in play. For in that magnificent space there was a congregation of men unlike anything I think the Langham had previously witnessed. As I gazed about in confused awe, I counted no less than twenty men dressed exactly like my friend, with an equal number of men who resembled either me or Mr. Johnson in both stature and attire. I could not help but laugh at the brilliance and wonder of it all, and I was certain that the poor employees and guests of the hotel would remain mystified about that bizarre gathering for many long years to come.