The Last Confession of Sherlock Holmes Page 6

  Irene Adler had proven to be an intriguing companion during my last few months in exile. My initial impression formed from our previous encounter was quite accurate; she commanded a manipulative deviance that few possess, and it had been no exaggeration on my behalf to label her as the woman. However, though she may have considered our relationship to have progressed to that of friendship, I am not foolish enough to leave such a document in the hands of one of Europe’s most capable criminals; and so upon my leave I commandeered her manuscript.

  I journeyed back to England surrounded by the truly awful odour of what one assumed to be cargo destined for Billingsgate fish market. Moran could not search every vessel entering British waters, so I remained confident as to the safety of my passage. As the boat chugged toward London, my eyes were greeted by the charm of dense smoke and the allure of the burning furnaces below. If Watson were the one writing, I am sure he would have described the view as menacing; but having suffered the tedious tranquillity of Europe’s countryside for so long, I was rather taken by the charms of industrial life.

  Naturally my attention had been focused on the rather curious correspondence from Jack the Ripper. It seemed somewhat imprecise, similar in its design to the clumsy nature of a large net, rather than the delicate precision of rod and line. I was certain that, though the ensuing mass panic was intended, I was the true recipient. As to the motive behind such a ploy, I cannot be sure; if it were Moran, I can see no decipherable reason as to why he should choose that moment in time to act. The meticulous temperament of his military background would surely have demanded earlier action, particularly in light of his recently inactive status.

  I remained in full disguise as I departed the boat. Though Moran could never truly be certain as to my return, I was not foolish enough to rely on any complacency on his behalf; it would have been a most unnecessary and potentially fatal risk.

  It was a bitter spring evening, and a thick layer of fog had descended upon London. The street lamps were mere specks of light, which offered little consolation to those troubled by such depths of darkness. Fortunately Mycroft is a creature of frightful routine, and I was assured that it was most likely I would receive his counsel. His lodgings at Pall Mall, the Diogenes Club opposite and Whitehall, just around the corner, are his only usual ventures: only upon matters of national importance have I known him to deviate from these well-oiled tracks.

  Initially the deceptive blanket of fog was a welcome aid in my safe navigation of London’s streets; but once I approached Pall Mall, it caused the unfortunate necessity of approaching my brother’s window, so as to ensure his predicted behaviour of reading by the fire, rather than tending to some unexpected Imperial issue.

  I knocked on the door and swiftly barged past the flustered servant Geoffrey.

  “What is the meaning of this?” he exclaimed. “We do not entertain beggars. Nor do we pander to the whims of vile miscreants. Honestly, I know the French are uncivilised but to ignore the courtesy of invitation!”

  “I believe my time is far more valuable than yours, Geoffrey,” said I, removing my facial disguise. “And I assure you that I had ample reason to presume invitation.”

  “Mr Holmes!” he cried, straightening his impeccable attire. “I apologise, sir, your appearance was so convincing that I did not recognise you for an instant.”

  “No need for apologies, Geoffrey; after all, that is the function of a disguise.”

  I left Geoffrey to recover from his minor ordeal and entered Mycroft’s sitting-room to find him immersed in the documents of Governmental issues. It is a rare occasion indeed that such papers are cast aside, merely to allow for the tedium of guests. Though Mycroft is exceedingly capable of solving his colleague’s many problems, often it is only at the request of the Prime Minister that he will eventually submit. He has a clarity of mind and a prowess for organisation which is second to none, and it is for this reason that he has formed the rather unique position as the central exchange to all Government departments. There are many within the upper-echelons of the British Government who consider him as essential; there are some who consider him to be the British Government, and I am told there are countless instances of his advice defining state policy.

  “Mycroft, how wonderful to see you after so many years,” I proclaimed, stepping into the room.

  “Dear brother, I return your sentiment, and say it is indeed a pleasure to see you looking so alive,” replied Mycroft, his fleshy hand grasping my own firmly. It is fortunate that the sharpness of the mind is not affected by the plumpness of one’s body, for Mycroft still bore all the signs of physical idleness. His misty, watery grey eyes were surrounded by his rather corpulent facial features, while his torso disguised the feats of elegance he has been known to demonstrate.

  “I thank you, Mycroft; although if my situation is as dire as this beyond the grave, I must have done something truly contemptible in my time amongst the living.”

  “Yes, I heard as much from Geoffrey upon your entry; his manner is exemplary around the distinguished, but he is rather curt when attending to the less fortunate,” said he, retaking his seat. “Still I must applaud you for your conquering of the late Professor Moriarty. You have done your country a great service, Sherlock; one for which you should be knighted.”

  “I have no interest in peerage; I do not play for reward, but for the game’s sake. If I accept your offer, I would be hounded further still by every authority in the land over the simplest and blandest of cases, instead of the delightfully intricate little problems which previously Baker Street so frequently provided.”

  “I did not think you would consent; but once the Prime Minister learns of your triumphant survival, he will insist upon my enquiry. Anyway, I am sure we will have plenty of time for pleasantries later; I assume of course, that you have returned due to that charming letter, which has struck terror into the hearts of our poor citizens.”

  “You are correct in your assumptions, difficult as I am sure they were to deduce,” said I, taking a glass of Cognac from the tray Geoffrey had so efficiently produced. “It was my belief that Jack the Ripper was indeed Professor Moriarty; a conclusion, I recall, that we reached together. The rather abrupt end to the Ripper’s activities coincided with my pursuit upon the matter, and Moriarty’s death appeared to have brought a conclusive end to the case.”

  “Quite so, Sherlock, it did seem to be the only logical theory. None of the Ripper cases in your absence have been anything more than pathetic imitations. However, I must point out that although this recent letter is certainly suggestive, it does by no means truly indicate the rise of Jack the Ripper.”

  “You suspect Moran?” I replied.

  “It would appear to me that he has become rather desperate, and has decided to adopt a rather crude method of luring you back into the lion’s den; I deduce no other realistic purpose for such a course of action. But I fear you do not seem satisfied by such a theory?”

  “Moran is no fool, and the use of such tactics appears a touch too simplistic for such an experienced campaigner. And why wait until now to act?”

  I perceived from the hint of bewildered exasperation upon my brother’s face that he was privy to information that he had yet to divulge.

  “Sherlock, I know how much this Ripper business bothered you,” said Mycroft, lighting one of his beautifully fragrant cigars. “He was the most horrendous of all criminals; but come, you cannot tell me that you have returned to hunt down an anonymous man?”

  “That is my purpose,” I said.

  “Sherlock, I implore you to see sense! Moran is the man you should be after.”

  “Moran is not Jack the Ripper,” I replied.

  “For God’s sake, will you no longer see reason? Colonel Sebastian Moran, the right hand man of Professor James Moriarty, the man you yourself labelled the Napoleon of crime, he is your man!” Mycroft exclaimed,
slamming his cigar down with surprising force. “Moran may not be Moriarty, but he is still capable of damage upon a great scale; a scale that will be significantly increased if he is able to dispose of you while you are chasing shadows around the East End, protecting prostitutes from some deranged savage with a knife!”

  “The sharpness of your mind always did contrast with the occasional bluntness of your tongue Mycroft,” I replied in slight amusement at my brother’s little outburst. “But fret not; you do not have to delve into your political tool-box to reason with me. As you have correctly stated, my continued existence is dependant upon my capturing Colonel Moran; however, such an exploit does not necessitate abandoning my hunt for Jack the Ripper.”

  Before Mycroft had chance to retort, he was interrupted by a knock on the door, and Geoffrey entered with a perplexed look on his brow.

  “I am sorry to disturb you sir, but there is a letter addressed to you. It says that it is urgent,” he said, placing the correspondence upon the table before swiftly turning upon his heel and making his exit.

  “Thank you, Geoffrey,” said Mycroft. “I do apologise, Sherlock, but occasionally my colleagues do need advice upon matters of importance.”

  My mind had rather drifted into the pleasures of my smoke and the intricacies which had began to develop when I was abruptly interrupted by the concerned tone of my brother.

  “Sherlock,” Mycroft said gravely. “This is intended for you.”

  Rather shocked, I took the offending document from my brother, struggling to deduce what could have caused his dumbstruck expression. The letter resembled an authentic dispatch of the British Government, but clearly it was not another tiresome offer from the Prime Minister; the only remarkable feature judging by the gauge and texture of the paper was that it appeared to be from the Central News Ltd printing press. It read:

  ‘I cungratulat yu on servivin the perils of Rykenback Mr Homes but I also mus’ apologis for not bein the firs’ to welkom yu bak…’ The rest was blank, apart from two small words written using red ink in the bottom-right corner of the page, ‘To Hell.’

  I confess that my actions upon finishing the letter were rather rash. I leapt from my chair, Mycroft unable to so much as twitch before I had cast from my shoulders the shelter and protection which I had so readily sought. I reached the threshold, but could see nothing through the great dark cloud which had consumed London. I frantically searched the area: there was a small stone by the door, which had not been present upon my arrival; there were also the unmistakable signs of footprints. I ran to the boundary of Mycroft’s property, but could see only a handful of office-clerks, rushing through the fog back to their nearby lodgings. Then I saw a most disturbing sight.

  Upon the street corner, a man stepped out of the darkness. I could not see his face, for it appeared to be covered by some kind of sheath and was dressed in shadow; only his eyes could be seen, glowing demonically in the reflection of a nearby street-lamp. He wore a long black coat and top hat.

  For a moment, neither he nor I could act, other than to simply remain motionless, glaring into each other’s eyes. I began to run toward the man, but he simply stepped back, instantly vanishing into the darkness. I reached the corner in a matter of seconds but he had disappeared; Jack the Ripper had slipped back into the night.

  I stood for a moment, transfixed; I could not comprehend how this man could possibly have known of my return. If it were Moran, then I could not help but wonder why I was still alive. A man of such ability could have quite easily shot me, or had me run down by a carriage the instant I stepped onto the street.

  Aware of my fortune, I quickly returned to the now significantly reduced safety of Mycroft’s lodgings. I did not have time to listen to the moaning of my brother as he awaited my return upon his step; I needed confirmation of what I had seen only moments before.

  “Geoffrey!” I cried, running into the sitting room and forcing him into a chair. “What did you see? Tell me exactly what you saw upon opening the door!”

  “Mr Holmes, what is the meaning of this?”

  “Tell me what you saw, Geoffrey!” I demanded.

  “There was a knock at the door,” he said tentatively. “I opened it, but there was no-one there; I took a quick glance but I could not see anything, such was the thickness of the fog. I noticed a small stone upon the floor, weighing down the letter, and I delivered it straightaway.”

  “You did not see a man?”

  “At first, sir, no but, having picked up the letter, I thought I could just make out the silhouette of a man on the foot of the path. I called out to him but he did not respond.”

  “What did this man look like?” asked Mycroft.

  “I do not know, sir, I only saw him from behind. He appeared to be a fairly normal-sized man, and the only feature I could make out was that he was dressed in evening attire.”

  “Thank you, Geoffrey, that will be all. You may retire for the evening.”

  “Well, Mycroft, an interesting development indeed,” said I, retaking my seat by the fire.

  “Sherlock, please, it must be Moran!”

  “We cannot be certain who that man was until we examine the facts. This letter, for example, is a precise duplicate of a Governmental dispatch, so as to ensure that you would read the contents upon receipt. The man is therefore exceedingly intelligent: why then, did he write the letter upon paper which, though to most not instantly recognisable, is certainly discoverable, and then purposefully confuse the spelling, having previously demonstrated competence in this area? He wishes to conceal his true identity, while perhaps pointing us toward false conclusions. If this was Moran, why was I not disposed of in the street? It would have been far easier and far safer to ensure my death as readily as possible.”

  “Sherlock, think of what you are saying. If that man was Jack the Ripper, yet he was not Moran, or a decoy, you would be forced to conclude there has been a man in London of devilish genius that has completely escaped our attention this entire time. This man would have had to have pulled the wool over both our eyes; it is an absurd hypothesis.”

  “I admit such a feat is highly improbable, but surely you would not be so arrogant as to deny the possibility.”

  “For God’s sake, Sherlock, don’t be absurd. There is only one man capable of weaving this web, and it is Professor James Moriarty!”

  “Moriarty is dead, Mycroft,” I said, gazing into the fire.

  “No, Sherlock, he is not.”

  Such was my shock at the notion of my brother having developed a sense of humour, I turned my attention away from the embers and scrutinised his features. “I would be fascinated to learn of how he achieved such a feat; no mortal could have survived such a fall.”

  “I do not mean he survived, Sherlock,” said my brother, with an irritating hint of elder sibling exasperation. “I am trying to alert your attention to the likelihood that Moran is acting upon a design inherited from Moriarty himself.”

  “You believe that Moriarty ensured I shall meet the end he desired for me, regardless of his own survival?”

  “You know I am correct, Sherlock; that is why you come to me with some of your problems, is it not? Moriarty, in all his infinite deviance, is the only man capable of conjuring such chaos from beyond the grave. I do not doubt for a second that it was he who was responsible for the terrible crimes all those years ago. He knew such a horrifying public taunt would haunt you more than any other; now, he is surely doing the same, before his design reaches its truly terrible conclusion. Though the most dangerous criminal has been vanquished, the most infamous still roams free. Surely you can see the web he has formed around you.”

  “It would seem that you are indeed upon the correct path,” I conceded. “Perhaps you can inform me of whatever it is the Colonel has been scheming, as this is the topic which clearly you are most keen to discuss; though
if Moran has indeed inherited a design crafted by the hand of Moriarty, I am sceptical as to the likelihood of any tangible evidence.”

  “Well, quite,” replied he, lighting a second cigar rather than suffering the embarrassment of acknowledging the minor blemish in temperament which had caused unsalvageable damage to the first. “As I believe you once so eloquently told Dr Watson, I am effectively the broom-cupboard of Government: I know who should be privy to certain information, but more importantly I know who should not. You may believe me paranoid, but you at least should appreciate the cunning of the men we are up against, so I hope you trust my judgment when I tell you that minor snippets of inconsequential information are leaking out of Departments.”

  “Minor details are often the most important, dear brother. Have you not approached any of these suspicious individuals?”

  “They merely state they have heard such things in passing, or at a function where someone has had one too many sherries. Though I know them to be lying, Sherlock, it is a regrettably adequate excuse, and I can hardly interrogate them further upon such matters without sufficient cause. I am not at liberty to harass Ministers or Government employees; nor do I wish to place our adversaries upon their guard unnecessarily.”

  “You intrigue me, but I fail to see any connection between your faulty Governmental plumbing and Colonel Moran.”

  “Until recently, nor could I; that is, until I discovered the existence of a rather disturbing card-club. Every week, a group of gentlemen play at the Baldwin and the Cavendish. The regular attendants are the Honourable Ronald Adair of the Foreign Office; Sir John Hardy of the War Office; and a Mr Benjamin Murray, assistant to the formidable and rather dangerous lieutenant-general of the Intelligence Division, Henry Brackenbury. At these two venues only, this trio are joined by Lord Balmoral, owner of the Central News Ltd, and Godfrey Milner, an insignificant Conservative backbencher. Now this appears to be all rather innocent, but for one peculiarity; the latter two gentlemen, for no decipherable reason, never receive invitation to play with the original trio when they intermittently visit the Bagatelle Club. One man, however, does.”