The Last Sherlock Holmes Story Page 11

  At Holmes’s suggestion I had equipped myself with a pair of rubber-soled tennis shoes, and mine was thus a soundless progress along the dreary streets. I kept my eyes fixed on the pavement before me. My wound still throbbed uncomfortably, and another such mishap would incapacitate me for several minutes at least. As I reached the next corner I glanced up, only to find that Holmes had vanished from sight. Moriarty I could just make out as he passed beneath a lamp, walking straight ahead towards Bishopsgate. To my right rose the walls of the market. Looking to my left, I was astonished to see Holmes’s tall figure hurrying towards the next street. Even as I watched he turned the corner, so that he was now headed back in the direction we had come. Utterly mystified, I hastened after him. The street, however, once I reached it, proved to be empty but for three vagrants perched on the kerb swilling beer from a can. I tried to collect my scattered wits. Even at a run, Holmes could not have gained Commercial Street again before I rounded the corner. He must therefore have entered one of the houses or courtyards in the street. But which one? And for what reason?

  I had got myself into a fine mess with my brave initiative. Moriarty was lost to us, and now Holmes too had disappeared. For my part, I was faced with the choice of waiting there in the hope that Holmes might reappear, or returning contritely to the police station and enduring Lestrade’s sarcasms. The latter prospect was sufficient to induce me to stay. I found a deeply recessed doorway in which to conceal myself, and crouched down there. It was a relief to take the weight off my leg, and my refuge was out of the wind. For a minute or two I sat there quite content. Then a very unpleasant thought struck me. What if Holmes had perceived that he was being followed? Would he not naturally assume that his pursuer was one of Moriarty’s accomplices? Might he not slip down to the next street, enter a house, pass over the wall into the adjoining property, and thence regain the other street in safety, leaving the professor’s ruffian to mark down an empty house? It seemed exactly the style of thing Holmes would be likely to do, whereas to abandon the chase for no apparent reason was utterly foreign to his nature. I had virtually convinced myself that this was indeed the true state of affairs, when I heard a door shut close by. I peered out. Some three or four houses back, a man had stepped out on to the pavement. I quickly pulled my head in again as he turned towards me. His soft footfall neared. There was a lodging-house adjacent, and as he passed his face caught the light from its lamp. I almost gave the game away then and there by my sharp intake of breath. The face was familiar. The man was Holmes.

  The face was familiar and yet quite strange. Had I not been half-expecting to see my friend, I doubt I would have known him. He was a master of disguise, of course, but this one, like all great inspirations, was simplicity itself. He had darkened his complexion slightly, and added a fine moustache, curled at the tips. The effect was to give his face a distinctly Semitic appearance. This was accentuated by his dress, which might best be described as elegantly sumptuous. He wore a dark felt hat and a long fur-trimmed coat, beneath which I caught sight of a white collar and black tie retained from his original costume. He had a pair of kid gloves in one hand and a small package in the other, and carried himself in such a way as to appear a good six inches shorter than his full height. The general impression was of a prosperous man of commerce, ‘something in the City’, whose tastes still smacked of the bazaars and counting-houses from which his forefathers had come. It was a truly masterful impersonation, for he had not tried to impose alien features on his own by dint of trickery. Rather, with a few deft touches, he had exposed an alien Holmes, one I had never before seen, but who now seemed to have been there all the while in that face I had come to think of as so characteristically and essentially British.

  This instant of recognition was succeeded by an acute sensation of doubt as to my own position. My natural impulse was to run after Holmes, confess my wrong-headedness, and throw myself on his mercy. I quickly thought better of this, however. These were deep waters, and it was by no means certain that Holmes would welcome my presence in them. On the other hand, I could hardly go off and abandon him. What if the message I was to have given Lestrade formed a vital element in his calculations? He had spoken of these unpatrolled streets as ‘the open door of the trap’. Had my message been the signal to close that door? I began to appreciate how horribly short-sighted my insubordination had been. Had Holmes not praised me for my soldierly dependability, for my readiness to follow orders without question? What a hideous irony it would be if my failure in that respect proved his undoing! But it was too late now for second thoughts. All I could do was to follow my friend discreetly, and stand ready to lend such aid as I could if the need arose.

  Holmes was evidently in no hurry now, and I was able to keep pace with him quite easily. Before we had gone very far, however, it occurred to me that my very presence, even at a distance, might constitute a danger. Our association was well known to Moriarty, as was my appearance. Holmes had disguised himself to perfection, but what about me? I decided to attempt a little elementary camouflage. I pulled off my coat, turned it inside out, and put it on again. I then removed my necktie, placed it in my hat, and threw both over a wall. This was good, but it needed some finishing touch. I walked nearer to the kerb and pretended to slip, precipitating myself into the gutter. I then rolled from side to side, distributing the mud about my person, before rising unsteadily. To complete the picture I rubbed a handful of dirt down my face. The cold night resounded with peals of laughter from the trio of inebriates. I ignored them and resumed my progress with some pride in my ability to emulate Holmes’s methods. No one now, I thought, would stop to question that I had merely started to celebrate the Lord Mayor’s accession a little early.

  The rain, which came and went all night, had largely emptied the streets. The bleak buildings rose up on either side as sheer and forbidding as cliffs of basalt. We might have been lost in some monstrous abyss through which the wind gusted and howled with the primal force of a mountain torrent. The guttering lamps provided just enough illumination to make the desolation of the scene fully apparent. On and on we walked through the streets we had earlier patrolled side by side. Holmes kept moving steadily ahead, never pausing in his stride, never looking back. I kept to the opposite pavement and hung back at every corner, but clearly my friend had no inkling that he was being followed.

  We seemed to have been walking for an hour or more when we encountered the man and the girl. My wound was by this time giving me considerable pain, and it was only with difficulty that I was able to maintain Holmes’s pace, moderate though this was. I was in fact wondering how much longer I would be able to keep up this relentless march, when all at once the situation changed dramatically. The first thing I noticed was that Holmes had stopped at a street corner. A moment later a man passed by in the cross-street. He was somewhat stout, and was shabbily dressed, with a ‘wide-awake’ hat. I did not remark him particularly, for we had passed and been passed by many persons in the course of our promenade. Holmes stopped at the corner for a minute or two, and then turned to the right and disappeared. I hastened to reach the corner, and there beheld a strange scene. Walking towards Holmes was a young woman dressed in a dark skirt and a shawl. She was evidently a prostitute, although rather younger and more attractive than most specimens of that class we had encountered. She seemed a little the worse for drink, and her gait was unsteady. As she came up to Holmes I was astonished to see my friend place his hand upon her shoulder in familiar fashion. He then made some remark at which they both laughed. All this was indeed a cause for wonder, but my attention was drawn elsewhere, for a little further along the street I spied the man who had passed by a minute earlier. This disreputable-looking individual had stationed himself under the lamp of a public house, from which vantage point he was keeping a surreptitious eye on my friend and the young woman. Suddenly the affair began to assume a distinctly sinister aspect. Was it indeed by sheer coincidence that the man and the girl had happened to pass one another at t
his spot? Why had the man remained? Why was he showing such a marked interest, in a district where indifference was a cardinal virtue, in matters that were none of his business? Even as these thoughts were running through my head, Holmes and the young woman moved off together. As they passed by the watcher under the lamp I saw him look closely at Holmes, as if to make sure of his man. Then, as the couple turned the corner, he left his post to follow them.

  I now had no further doubts. The man and the girl were clearly accomplices of Moriarty. Her task must be to lure Holmes to a suitably secluded spot where the man could strike him down. What a hideous accomplishment if this fell plan were to succeed! How Moriarty would gloat! What a brilliant exclamation mark to set to his gory monogram! But the game was not yet lost. The Professor’s henchman had not observed my presence in the shadows, and while he stalked Holmes, I in turn marked him down. I was armed and ready, and my intervention would be all the more effective for being unexpected. Thus, in solemn procession, we passed through the gloomy corridors of Whitechapel. In the van was Holmes with the young woman, unaware that twenty yards back the stout man was skulking along on his trail, while the latter was in turn blissfully ignorant that bringing up the rear was one whose head was clear – despite appearances to the contrary – and whose untrembling fingers grasped the trigger of a loaded revolver. In this fashion we returned to the same squalid street from which I had followed Holmes in the first place. He and the girl came to rest at an archway between two houses. The stout man also stopped. On the other side of the street I stepped into a gateway from which I was able to command an excellent view of the proceedings. To anyone acquainted with the character of Sherlock Holmes, these were quite startling. The woman stood up against the arch, addressing him in the vulgar and piercing tone of her ilk. It was my friend’s response which astonished me. His words were inaudible, but I plainly saw him lean forward and kiss the woman’s face! They continued to converse together for a minute or two, before going in under the arch together. At once the stout man shook off his lethargy and marched boldly up to the archway. He looked into the passage, then he too vanished from sight.

  Here, then, was the crisis! The girl had somehow induced Holmes to enter a dark alley, where the stout man was now about to assault him – no doubt striking the first blow while my friend’s back was turned. There was not a moment to lose! I made for that archway with all the speed I could muster, given the state of my throbbing Achilles’ tendon. But in the event it was as well I was not swifter, for as I was on the point of entering the passage I caught the sound of someone coming out. No sooner had I flattened myself in the doorway of the adjacent house than the stout man reappeared! He looked briefly up and down the street, and then proceeded to cross over to the lodging-house opposite, beneath whose lamp he took up his position as before.

  I now had to revise my ideas. Evidently the ruffian was not himself going to attempt Holmes’s life. His job was merely to keep watch, pending the arrival of some third party. It was no extraordinary feat of deduction to conclude that this would prove to be none other than Moriarty himself. The Professor was coming to settle accounts in person with his arch-enemy. Of course! It was absurd to think that at this supreme climax to the most audacious series of killings in history Moriarty would permit another the privilege of striking the fatal blow! He would come himself! He must come! This being the case, it only remained for me to gain entrance to the passage and warn Holmes of the danger in which he stood, and we might yet turn the tables on this inhuman genius. But how was I to get by the watchdog? For a moment I thought of simply drawing my revolver and taking the man in charge, but it soon occurred to me that it would not do for Moriarty to see that his Cerberus was missing. That would alert his suspicions, and he might make good his escape. How was I to manage it? I turned the question over in my mind without arriving at any conclusion. In the end, chance smoothed the way for me. A man came down the street and turned into the lodging-house. As he did so he caught sight of the stout man, with whom he was evidently acquainted. The two fell into conversation, in the course of which my adversary turned away, allowing me to slip from cover and enter the narrow vaulted passage. Once inside, the darkness wrapped me in a cloak of invisibility.

  The alley led into a small unlit courtyard consisting of two rows of mean cottages facing each other across a gutter. I was wondering which of these dwellings might contain Holmes and the girl, when I was greatly startled to hear my friend’s voice, seemingly at my elbow. I then noticed for the first time a door set in the wall to my right. Again I heard Holmes speak, although I could not make out the sense. I moved stealthily around the corner of the house, and soon discovered that it was possible to see through a chink in the curtains covering one of the two windows. I peered in.

  The room was very small and cramped, although it contained only the barest modicum of furniture. A candle on the table before the window provided the only light. A mass of wood and coal was piled unlit in the grate. Some clothes lay scattered at the foot of the bed, upon which the female sprawled tilting a spirit-flask to her lips.

  ‘Don’t down it like blue ruin, woman!’

  The voice was Holmes’s. He was seated in the only chair in the room, his back to the window. The girl stared at him for a moment, her head swaying in befuddled puzzlement.

  ‘You want some?’ she asked finally.

  Holmes had taken a snuffbox from his pocket, and was shaking the powder on to the back of his wrist. I was surprised at this, for I had never known him to take snuff. He drew the powder up into his nostrils, and then shook his head and laughed.

  ‘No, I have rarer pleasures. “I am fire and air; my other elements I give to baser life.” I meant only to point out that what you are drinking is fine cognac, not max at threehalfpence a measure.’

  The woman shrugged and tossed the flask down on the bedcovers.

  ‘It all goes the same way home, don’t it?’ said she with a giggle.

  Just then I heard footsteps in the passage. My heart raced. Was Moriarty already upon us? I waited tensely, my back to the wall. Then the figure passed by and I saw that it was only an old woman. She disappeared into one of the cottages further down the yard. A false alert, but it had served to remind me how exposed was my position at the window. Anyone leaving the courtyard could not fail to see me there, and the resulting alarm might well ruin everything. Either I had to enter the room and warn Holmes, or conceal myself somewhere in the yard and await developments. After a moment’s consideration I chose the second course. I found a spot for my bivouac at the end of the yard. From there I had a clear view of the only door to the room in which Holmes was waiting. The light rain had returned, but to an old campaigner the hardships of the post were slight and easily endured. I settled down with my back to the wall and my coat wrapped around me, basking in the inner satisfaction of knowing that for the first time since disobeying Holmes’s original order I was once again in control of events. My friend was in no present danger, and I was well placed to challenge any future threat. I felt deeply relieved at having brought the affair to this happy stage.

  I was deceived, of course, but it is not of that I am now ashamed. My errors were honest, and the truth an inconceivable abomination. No, what I blush to confess is my unforgivable weakness in falling asleep on my watch. For this there can be no excuse. Even if my conjectures had been correct it would have been a monstrous dereliction of duty. And who shall say what might have happened had I been awake to hear the voice that cried murder? But enough! The facts are that after lying huddled in the corner of that yard for over an hour, my body aching and my brain exhausted, I simply dozed off.

  I awoke chilled to the bone, from what I thought at first to have been only a brief nap. I was aghast to discover, on consulting my watch, that it was almost five o’clock! For a moment I lay incredulous on the cobbles where I had slumbered for close on two hours! Then, with a thrill of mortal terror, I remembered where I was. Holmes’s words suddenly echoed through my sku
ll. ‘He must kill twice on the same spot!’ Two victims: Holmes and the young woman! What could be simpler or more effective? It would be a typically economical and elegant solution to the ‘pretty problem’ my friend had mentioned. Moriarty would at once put an end to his duel with Holmes and dispose of a witness who might otherwise embarrass him in the future, while still fulfulling the requirements of his diabolical design.

  I struggled to my feet and moved silently and swiftly up the courtyard to the window through which I had earlier spied in the room. To my chagrin I found the curtains were now tightly drawn. Then I was stunned to hear someone moving inside the room! I struggled to control my excitement as I realised that though I might be too late to save my friend, I could still avenge him. As I edged cautiously around the corner towards the door I noticed that one of the panes of the other window had been broken, and then crudely stopped up with a piece of cloth. Here was a capital opportunity to reconnoitre before launching my attack. With infinite care I worked the wadding loose. Then I inserted my hand and parted the curtains.

  I was prepared for horrors, but for the sight that met my eyes there could be no preparation. At first glance it suggested some appalling natural disaster. Was it possible, I wondered, for a person to explode? Then, with sickening certainty, I recognised this mess of strewn flesh as the woman I had seen drinking and talking with Sherlock Holmes a few hours before. He was still with her, but not dead. No, much worse than dead. He was alive. Stripped to his undergarments, he seemed a giant in that tiny room. The fire was blazing and his shadow moved hugely over the bed and its monstrous cargo. His clothes had been neatly folded and piled in the chair, safe from the gore that covered his hands and wrists and arms and was spattered over his linen. As he moved, so did his shadow, and then one saw more of the girl. She lay on her back on the blood-drenched bed. Her torso was completely flayed and gutted. The bed-table was covered with her organs. Her arm had been sliced through at the shoulder, and her hand shoved deep into the shambles of her abdomen. Her gaping throat was a horror to behold, but the worst by far was her face. The nose had been ripped away, together with the ears, the skin was cut to ribbons, but a devilish discretion had saved her eyes. Undisturbed, they stared at me from out of the wreckage of her face – a look as impossible to avoid as it was to meet.