The Falling Curtain (The Assassination of Sherlock Holmes Book 3) (8 page)

Before I could even note it, Holmes and Johnson had melted into the crowd, such that even I could no longer spot the real man amongst his doppelgängers. At some unseen cue, the crowd sprang into action and began to vacate the hotel from all possible means of egress. A handful of ‘Holmes’ and ‘Johnsons’ and other ‘Watsons’ joined me in hailing hansoms, but I made certain that I was the occupier of the fifth one to arrive. As my cab pulled away, I was still laughing at Holmes’ subterfuge, and wondered from precisely where Holmes had managed to find so many willing actors and identical suits?

Although my driver had clearly been instructed to take a roundabout track to the neo-Gothic railway station at St Pancras, it was a span of less than fifteen minutes before I found myself deposited at what appeared to be my first destination. Disembarking, I looked about in vain for Holmes or Johnson, but could not spot them. I stood there for a moment, unsure of what I should do, when a ragged young news-vender approached. Although I had weightier subjects upon my mind than the events of the day, I purchased a copy so as to have something to do while awaiting the arrival of my friends. I thought it would appear more natural than standing there idle. Imagine my surprise when the lad did not immediately move off, but instead spoke to me in a low voice. “I recommend the story on page four, Doctor.” Before I could look up and ask him what he meant, he had vanished into the crowd. I shrugged and followed his advice, where I found a message scrawled in Holmes’ familiar hand instructing me to proceed to a black brougham on the nearby corner of York Way and Caledonia Street.

This proved to be a rather plain conveyance, though heavy velvet draperies blocked the windows such that its occupants could travel unseen. Before I could knock upon the door, it swung open to briefly reveal Mr. Johnson, before he reached out and hauled me rather roughly inside. “Sorry about that, Doctor. Instructions from the boss.”

“Yes, well,” said I, rubbing my injured shoulder suggestively. “Where is Mr. Holmes?”

“Right here, Watson,” replied my friend as he slipped into the brougham after me, which immediately sprang into motion. “I was watching you to ensure that you were not followed, but I think we are in the clear.”

“So where are we going, Holmes?” I asked, somewhat crossly that he had kept me in the dark about all of his preparations for so long.

He chuckled. “I apologize, Watson. We are headed to an inn situated upon Hampstead. From there we will wage our offensive against Mr. Mortlock.”

“And who exactly is that?”

“All in good time, Watson. All in good time. Much will be revealed tonight.”

Finally, after climbing for some time up the ridge where I knew Hampstead to lay, the brougham ground to a halt and the three of us bundled out. I looked about for a moment before recognizing Parliament Hill, the highest point on the Heath. I had been there many times on fine summer days, when the hill was teeming with laughing clerks, tittering seamstresses, courting couples, off-duty soldiers, and folks from every other walk of life. They came up here for the clear air and fine views, to look back over the often dismal yellow-laden, smoke-covered city from which they had temporarily made their escapes. But in the late hours of the night, those merry-makers had fled back down to the river-side city below, leaving only a deserted landscape of hills, fields, and woods. I knew that Holmes had chosen this locale primarily for its topography which would make it impossible for us to be tracked by an unseen foe.

After surveying the area, Holmes set off briskly across the heath, Johnson, and I trailing close behind. The last slivers of the setting sun were fading to black, and the long, sloping plain in front of us was still tinged with hints of bronze, deepening into rich, ruddy brown where the faded ferns and brambles caught the evening light. But the glories of the wonderful autumnal panorama were wasted upon my companion, who was sunk in the deepest thought.

A walk of a mile or so across the wind-swept heath, the air filled with the crisp snap of advancing winter and its trees alive with the evening calls of the birds, brought us to a rear-gate that opened into the grounds of the public house. A path led us through a small tea garden, and we circled the building where, from the front window upon the left of the door, there peeped a glimmer of a feeble light.

At the reception desk, we were met by a rosy-cheeked young lass, who welcomed us to Wat Tyler’s House. Speaking for all of us, Holmes engaged three rooms, giving Mr. Johnson’s true name, but registering himself as Mr. Harris of Bermondsey and myself as Mr. Price of Birmingham. We had nothing in the way of baggage, so there was no need to immediately visit our rooms. Instead, Holmes motioned for us to follow him into a back room, which seemed to be a leasable space for a private party. However, to my great surprise, the room was already filled with six individuals.

Holmes smiled at the sight of them and waved his arm as if to include them in our group. “Dr. Watson, Mr. Johnson, may I introduce you to the New Irregulars.”

As I studied them, I realized that several faces seemed familiar. The first was a slender young man in his mid-twenties, with a clean-shaven face and a wise look in his brown eyes. His coat-less attire and well-stained apron suggested that he was the keeper of this establishment.

“Is that little Billy?” I cried. “Not a boy in buttons any longer, I see.” For there was little doubt that this was our former page at 221B Baker Street.

He smiled abashedly. “It is mighty fine to see you again, Dr. Watson. Even considering the circumstances.”

“What has become of you, lad?”

With a nod of his head, he indicated the roof above our heads. “You are looking at it, Doctor. With the money I earned from you and Mr. Holmes, I had enough to settle down and purchase this little inn.”

“Congratulations, Billy. It is very well deserved.”

I glanced over at the second man, who also appeared to be an old acquaintance. Although no longer a youth of fourteen, he still had a bright, keen face. His blue eyes were active, and his entire body quivered with energy. He wore a modest suit and though his head was uncovered, I immediately pictured him wearing the blue flat-topped cap that was once an essential part of his uniform.

“Cartwright?”

“The same, Dr. Watson.”

“Are you still working for Holmes, after all these years?”

“Only after a fashion, Doctor,” he replied. “I took over the district messenger office from Mr. Wilson, when his gout proved to be too great to continue.”

“And we are glad to have you back in the Firm, faithful Cartwright,” interjected Holmes, clasping the man on the shoulder. “Your appreciation for detail is excellent, Watson, as always. Can you also recall the names of these two lads?”

I looked over the pair of thin, hard-faced men, both well into their thirties. One was slightly taller and older than the other, and he carried himself with an air of longing superiority. He had black hair and dark brown eyes that bespoke of hardness and want, though the fine cut of his suit suggested that those days were long past.  The other had sandy-colored hair, and blue eyes, but seemed nonetheless to be a spiritual twin to the first man. I could not for the life of me place them.

“I do not believe that I have had the pleasure,” I replied, holding out my hand to the elder of the pair.

Holmes chuckled. “All, well, it has been a few years, to be certain. And both Mr. Wiggins and Mr. Simpson have come a long way from their former insignificant and disreputable situations.”

“By Jove!” I exclaimed. “You don’t mean to say that these are your original Irregulars?”

“I do indeed, though they are street Arabs no longer.” Gesturing to the taller man, Holmes said, “Wiggins here, who always had a fine eye for color, secured an apprenticeship under the artist Hughes. He is now an illustrator at Newnes Publishing.” He then motioned to the second individual. “And you may recall that Simpson here was a sentinel extraordinaire, who would stick to a man like a burr. With a reference from me to Mr. Merryweather, the chairman of directors, Simpson obtained a position at the Coburg branch of the City and Suburban Bank, which certainly needed some additional protection. Due entirely to his own merits, he has subsequently risen to the post of chief guard.”

The two men nodded to me silently, as I vainly tried to reconcile their adult appearances with the ragged waifs of my memory. Meanwhile, Holmes had moved on to a man whom I was certain I had never met. He was a hearty, full-blooded man of a similar age to Holmes and me. Despite his advancing years, he seemed full of spirits and energy. Under his Burberry overcoat he wore a suit cut in a fashion that I knew to be unique to tailors who resided only in the far eastern edges of our colonies. He had a shock of grizzled hair, a brown weather-beaten face, and eyes which were keen to the verge of fierceness. Yet, when he greeted Holmes, his tone carried a note of kindness.

“Holmes, I have long owed you a great debt. Now that I am returned to Norfolk after many long years abroad, I am happy to have the opportunity to finally repay you.”

Holmes shook his head. “Say no more of it, but I am glad to have you here, Trevor. Watson, let me introduce you to Victor, one of the oldest friends from my college days, albeit one I have not seen for three decades.”

I shook his proffered hand with great delight at finally meeting this man, of whom I had once heard such an extraordinary story. Finally, Holmes turned to the last man, also about the same age of us, thin, high-nosed, and large-eyed, who stood up in the corner. His hunting outfit was covered by a dark Mackintosh. He carried with him a finely-made mousetrap fowling piece.

“Ah, Cavalier,” said Holmes, warmly. “I am glad that you brought something more practical than your old battle-axe.”

“Yes, well, I could not be certain from your terse telegram, Holmes, however I expect we may be hunting larger game than pheasants,” the man replied. “Since the principal is the same, I raided my gun-room, even bringing with me a few extra for the other lads here.”

“Excellent! Watson, may I present to you my old acquaintance, Sir Reginald Musgrave, baronet of Hurlstone.”

Just as Holmes had once described him to me, his manner was exceedingly aristocratic, languid, yet courtly. His pale, keen face and the poise of his head put me in the mind of a venerable feudal keep. With time, his natural diffidence seemed to have faded, only to be replaced with the assured self-confidence that comes with years of public speaking.

“So, Holmes, are you going to explain this rigmarole to us?” Musgrave asked.

“Indeed, but first, unlike Napoleon, who always feasted after a battle, and who was eventually brought low, we shall dine now in hopes that it begets us greater fortune.”

Having lived with Holmes for upwards of seventeen years, I was well-aware that his periods of self-starvation while embroiled in an investigation alternated with rare but lavish feasts of epicurean delight. At this moment, Holmes had clearly arranged in advance for some of his favorites to be served. Amongst the choices were a couple of brace of cold woodcock, a pheasant and a partridge, and a
foie gras
pie. The repast was crowned with a fine Montrachet and a rare Beaune.

While we dined, Holmes would speak of nothing save shared past experiences. Even the less-than-literary Mr. Johnson had read my prior published stories and thus all were familiar with the terrible events of both the
‘Gloria Scott’
and the Musgrave Ritual. The loyal service of Cartwright amongst the grim mires of Dartmoor was roundly toasted. They knew of the roles played by Wiggins and Simpson in such affairs as the vanished
Aurora
and the treacherous Colonel. However, Wiggins’ timely locating of the messenger boy Ned, which saved an innocent man from being hanged, was a new tale to our companions, as I have neglected to organize my notes on that peculiar case. Finally, none were aware of Billy’s heroism during the matter of the barren grave, for Holmes has yet to give me permission to publish the details of that horrifying mystery, though I have it ready in the vault of Cox & Co. for the day when I hope to persuade him otherwise.

Therefore, our meal proved to be a merry one. Not since the early days of our association have I known him to be so dazzling a conversationalist. This intense humor marked the pendulum swing from his dark despair of the prior night. By the time that the table was cleared, Holmes stood and, like a general, looked over the eight men that served as both his
de facto
chief of the staff and entire army. It was an interesting lot, three old men, perhaps limited in strength, but long in experience; two former lads of the street, whose endurance once allowed them to thrive in the harshest conditions; two former servants, with unwavering loyalty to Holmes; and one former convict, now walking the path of light. Could this ragged band be the ones to bring down the mysterious Mortlock and his terrible gang?

Holmes’ demeanor was somber, as if he knew the stakes against which we struggled, however, when he spoke his voice retained its typical jaunty gallantry. “Gentlemen, I wish to thank you all for coming. Save only Watson here, who was savagely beaten by members of the gang, none of the rest of you has any qualms with them, other than your long acquaintance with their primary target…. me. Once you hear what is ranged against us, I will hold no ill will to any man who wishes to leave.”

“Get on with it, Mr. Holmes,” growled Simpson. “We ain’t here for a holiday. We all know what’s at stake, so let’s not blather on.”