The Fourth Circle (36 page)

The question was, of course, not directed at me, but as Sir Arthur had fallen silent for a moment, I felt it my duty to say: "I don't really know."

"The answer was there, in front of my eyes," he continued, ignoring my remark. "But very hard to accept, precisely because of a prejudice emerging from respect for Occam's razor. Oh, by the way, Occam is frequently mentioned in the book, but as a Franciscan monk from the fourteenth century and not a Dominican one from the fifteenth, as he is here. Another discrepancy, you see. So, in fact there are no mistakes. London is, like everything else, shown with perfect fidelity; however, not this, our London, but another, different one."

"Sir Arthur," I said, having thought of something I should have demanded much earlier, as soon as that unfortunate volume was mentioned. "Would you show me the book?
The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes?
I would like to see it myself.

You brought it with you, I hope?"

His gaze again drifted to his teacup, which had been empty for some time. He was still making circles in it with the teaspoon, clearly unaware that he was doing so. The monotonous clinking sound spread through the room like the distant, but ominous tolling of a bell.

"I cannot show it to you, Dr. Watson," he said finally, looking up at me. "It has vanished."

"WHAT DO YOU mean, vanished?" I asked with incredulity. "Somebody took it?

Stole it?"

"Oh, no. I literally mean vanished, right before my very eyes. I was actually holding it in my hands at the time, and then—a sudden flash of white light, searing, blindingly bright. Every hair on my body stood up, my skin tightened into goose pimples...I sensed that sparks of some sort were crackling everywhere around, dancing on the surfaces of the surrounding objects in my study, on my clothes and uncovered parts of my body. There was no discomfort, no pain, quite the opposite. I experienced something akin to delight, exhilaration. As if I were...flying...in a trance. Everything was rattling around me, like an earthquake.

It lasted—I don't know—fifteen seconds maybe, no more. When the flash died down and my eyes grew accustomed again to the usual light at my desk—which took some time—the book was just not there. My hands were still in the same position, as if holding it, but the book had disappeared, I simply don't know how.

I felt nothing, no motion...."

I stared at him for a few moments wordlessly, filled with a mixture of disbelief and anxiety. Everything that this man had said since he set foot in Holmes's house sounded absolutely incredible and unreal, and reason was telling me that it was devoid of any sense, that it was lunacy...However, another part of my mind, that which kept reminding me of what had happened to Holmes in my presence, kept emitting signals that tightened my throat, sent shivers up my spine, accelerated my breathing...Being a doctor, I easily recognized the symptoms of catatonic fear.

"Er...when did this happen?"

"Oh," said Sir Arthur, taking his watch from the pocket of his waistcoat. It was a massive watch, on a thick gold chain; when he lifted the lid, the first few notes of "God save the Queen" sounded. "Exactly one hour and twelve minutes ago. The wall clock in my office was just striking four when the—event—occurred."

"But, that was now! I mean, this afternoon."

My talent for stating the obvious was again evident. This time he did not look suspiciously at me. The man seemed to be getting used to it.

"That's right. I made my decision promptly. I simply had to see Holmes about the matter. All the reasons that had previously prevented me from doing so had become immaterial. I left immediately; I tried to catch a hansom along the way,
but unsuccessfully. You know how it is, a free hansom is never at hand when you need it most. I lost count of how many passed me, but every one was taken, as if to spite me, so I was forced to walk all the way from the Library to here, which is, I am sure you will agree, quite an accomplishment for a man of my age and stature."

I nodded in agreement, remembering my own suffering in similar situations.

Sir Arthur was approximately my age and build, so we shared similar problems.

"It seems that I do not partake of sufficient exercise. I was quickly out of breath and managed to keep going only because I so strongly desired to see Holmes. At times I thought my heart would leap out of my chest. Besides, I was burdened by the foreboding that I would not find him here...that I was too late.

As in fact turns out to be the case."

My gaze drifted involuntarily to the underground stream of sweat on his neck. It had dried up, leaving only a dry meandering trace. I felt sorry for him, knowing what an effort he had put into getting here, but I did not quite understand the hurry. There were several incomplete or undivulged elements to his story. For one thing, I did not understand why he had not come to Holmes immediately after the discovery of the book. He would have been too late, of course, since the book's mysterious arrival had, apparently, coincided with Holmes's equally mysterious disappearance, but he could not have known that. He had mentioned something from the book's contents in this regard, but nothing that he later told me of the book, strange though it might seem, could have explained the delay. Quite the opposite: knowing Holmes well, he could easily have imagined that he would be delighted with the entire matter which, to him, would surely have posed the case of all cases, more challenging even than those Moriarty had created for him. And then, after four whole days of restraint, this great, almost panic-stricken urgency at the hour when the key item of evidence had vanished, leaving one with no choice except to trust or not to trust Sir Arthur's word. On top of everything else was his feeling that Holmes would not be here. On what might that have been based? Something did not fit.

Either Sir Arthur was not telling me the whole story, or he was inventing the whole thing. But why would he do the latter? Oh, I could think of several fairly convincing reasons. Adhering to Occam's razor, I would gladly have plumped for some of these, rather than the more fantastic possibilities, if Holmes really had absented himself for some new case. In light of what really had happened to my friend, however, Occam's razor was no longer a reliable guide. Hence I had to assume that he was telling the truth, however incredible it sounded, but also that he was holding something back. He had left out some key element. I did not
know why—perhaps because the entire affair was too unbelievable, and he feared I would not accept it. Or was it because of his unfulfilled storyteller's tendency to delay the denouement, to build up the tension? If it were the latter, I had to let him know that I did not hold much appreciation for that sort of thing. In literature, perhaps, I can tolerate it, though it irritated me there too—so that I frequently read the end of a novel first, which usually made Holmes angry—but in reality, certainly not, and least of all in a situation like this. His last remark gave me an opening to clarify matters.

"What makes you think that you are too late, Sir Arthur? And in what sense too late? If the volume has already...gone, then I see no cause for hurry, particularly as I do not anticipate Holmes's early return. He is, as I say, traveling...out of London, so that...."

"I know where Holmes is," said he in a tone of quiet confidence that brooked no disagreement.

"You do?" I said dully.

"I do...He is out of London, all right, very far outside London. So far, actually, that I myself refused to believe it until the expression on your face at the front door when I asked you if Holmes was at home confirmed for me, finally and fully, that the book was telling the truth."

"The book? I do not understand."

"Aye, the book. The last chapter of
The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes.
The book is so coherent, so unified, except for that closing chapter, which differs completely, in style, point of view, genre, as if written by another writer with an entirely different intention, and not by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle—I mean, not by that other Doyle."

He paused, losing track for a moment at the thought of this strange duality of his person, which gave me time to accustom myself to the new turn of events. The bristling of short hairs on the back of my neck told me clearly that this was not just another divergence. I knew the symptoms: I had experienced it many times while working with Holmes. The unraveling was about to begin; the case would now be solved. The time for unnecessary postponements was finally over. It was then that I envied Sir Arthur: he had had the opportunity to read the whole thing in advance, the end first and then all the preceding chapters; he had not had to exert himself unduly, like me.

"The final section is titled 'Sherlock Holmes's Last Case,'" he continued. "Unlike the rest of the book, it is narrated in the first person: Holmes himself describes his last and most marvelous adventure, a case that is not at all of a detective nature, at least not in the sense that the others are, the ones about which Doyle
writes."

"Not of a detective nature?" I asked perplexed. "Holmes was...I mean...is the greatest detective genius of our age. What other occupation could he have?"

He gave me a look in which there was a hint of rebuke, perhaps even anger.

"How odd that you should ask that, Dr. Watson. One would expect you to know better the man in whose company you have spent so much time. Hasn't it ever crossed your mind that he might be deeply dissatisfied by the fact that he was squandering his unique talents—his intelligence, ingenuity, education, ex-ploratory enthusiasm—on something as trivial as sifting the dregs of human society? And that is what he has been doing, is it not—investigating criminal cases, the most debased expression of human nature, behind which stand such low passions as avarice or sick perversion or pathology. They may have been complex cases, beyond the range of the ordinary police intelligence, but unraveling them soon ceased to give him pleasure, lost the magnetism of challenge. Admittedly, he continued this work but without enthusiasm, by inertia, because it was expected of him."

"You are mistaken, sir," I said energetically, feeling a new wave of anxiety and unease. Sir Arthur had touched a very painful and well concealed place. "Holmes took on new cases with excitement and enjoyed solving them...."

"Because you...helped...him, Dr. Watson." The rebuke in his eyes turned into open accusation.

"Oh, do not overestimate me, Sir Arthur. I was only his companion and assistant, and should not be credited with—"

"I don't mean that sort of assistance. I mean morphine."

He said it flatly, as if stating an ordinary fact. The simplicity of the statement disarmed me completely, so that I did not even try to pretend or to defend myself.

"How...do you know?" I stammered.

"From the book, of course, from the last, confessional chapter. Holmes describes how he sank into ever deeper depression, even hopelessness, from which he was rescued by your injections. They were all that kept him from falling headlong into the abyss of utter despair, which yawned all around him. Time slipped away inexorably, and his life was getting more and more bogged down in the monotony and grayness of banal criminal cases: an occasional mysterious murder, an inexplicable disappearance, a cunningly planned theft, and similar petty matters. Despite the fame he gained by solving them, he began to loathe them, longing for true spiritual challenge. He desired to face some of the great, ultimate questions because they were his match. He felt terribly misused and slighted, and even thought of suicide."
Of course, this description of Holmes's condition fit the truth perfectly, although Sir Arthur could not, should not know it. How did he—I had the most awkward feeling he saw through me. And then, as the icy fingers of panic tightened around my chest, a thought occurred to me, and I clutched at it like a drowning man at a straw and said: "But the book...it is not about this Holmes, you said it was about that other...." I halted, surprised by my own readiness to accept, when in dire straits, this hypothesis that I had thought only a moment ago to be insane.

"Only partly, Dr. Watson. Most of the book does indeed refer to the 'other'

Holmes, the one that flowed from Doyle's pen. But the last, confessional chapter was written by your friend personally—by 'this' Holmes, as you say."

"How do you know? How is that possible?"

"I do not know how it is possible, but I know for certain that it is so. To begin with, there are no discrepancies, everything fits reality as we know it. There is no other London; our London is depicted, this one in which both of us are now. Besides, events are mentioned that we both know truly happened here. For instance, your visit to the Library with Holmes's instructions to fetch certain books for him."

"That does not prove anything yet," I said, interrupting him again but for the moment not caring about courtesy. There was no more time for beating about the bush—open discussion was unavoidable. "I mean, with all due respect, even without this supposed...confession...by Holmes, you knew I came to the Library.

If you wish to persuade me that it is genuine, you must describe some event...some phenomenon...about which you could not have known anything."

This time Sir Arthur's look was conspicuously pitying. That was precisely the way Holmes looked at me when I dared to doubt some of his extravagant theories merely because they sounded impossible to me. I was noticing in general an increasing similarity between the two men—at least in the range of looks at their disposal.

"Gladly, Dr. Watson. Do you wish to start from the very beginning— from Moriarty's epistle containing the circle? On Murratori's paper?"