Epilogue

I would rather be the man whose house was burned, than the man who burned it.

- Jack London (attributed)

As Sherlock Holmes had predicted, no arrest was ever made of the woman called Maisie Trilling. Despite our lingering suspicions that she was, in fact, Grunya, the daughter of the Russian who supposedly headed the Assassination Bureau, no one to our knowledge has seen her since - at least, not in England.

As for Jack London, I received a typed letter from him the following summer. I showed it to Holmes, of course; and I reproduce it here as the final correspondence the man ever shared with us:

Beauty Ranch

Sonoma County

Sep 3, 1913.

Dear Mr. Holmes and Dr. Watson: -

I don’t know if you’ve heard the terrible news from here. I’m so miserable I still can’t bear to work at my desk, so I’m sitting up in bed to write. But write I must, for since the tragedy is so much a part of the twisted story we’ve been following together all these years, I feel that you should know what’s happened.

About a week ago, Wolf House, the home of my dreams - almost completed but not yet moved into - was burned to the ground. I have yet to overcome the unrelenting grief and horrific shock this monumental tragedy has brought upon me.

I helped design it, gentlemen, a twenty-six-room mansion not far from our present ranch. It was an artistic creation - my ideal of utility and beauty fused into one. All the building material was local - stone walls, volcanic rock, redwood rafters, Spanish tiles - everything from around here to make the house look rustic and handsome. It was shaped like a U and had a concrete reflecting pool in the center that I was planning to fill with mountain bass and trout and maybe even swim right along with them. My second-floor study, the place where I planned to do all my writing, was set apart from the rest of the house. It was to be my retreat.

But then, just over a week ago, on the night of August 22, the place was destroyed - gutted - ruined - by fire. Officials tell me the blaze started around midnight. And because the house was located in a hollow, the fire went unnoticed until the sky turned red and people all over the countryside could see the glow. By the time Charmian and I were awakened and got out to the place, it was too late. With no water to fight the blaze, the house was gone in three hours.

My wife Charmian thinks I’ve behaved like a stoic, but I can assure you that I shed real tears. It wasn’t just that it was my house. It was appreciated by everybody who saw it. The Oakland paper called it a “forest castle,” and a famous architect said it was “the most beautiful house in America.” But mainly it was mine, and I’m convinced its destruction was a message sent by forces out to get me. My chief contractor was supposed to inspect the house every evening to be sure all was in order, but would you believe that for whatever the reason there was no one watching the property that night in particular? Somebody fired the place. I just know it.

What’s more, I’m not the only one who thinks so. Charmian said she couldn’t put a name on them, but she believes the place was torched by my enemies. Some think that maybe my brother-in-law played a role. After all, my sister’s divorcing him, and on the day of the fire he was angry enough to be waving a gun around, and I had to throw him out.

Others blame it on farmers who fear a Socialist moving in - me! I’d have laughed it off if I could because - ironically enough - suspicion also falls on radical anarchists and Socialist agents who are claiming I built a rich man’s castle on the backs of the workingman. On the backs of the workingman! Hell, I paid workingmen with my own wages to build the place! And while we’re looking for suspects, let’s not forget the character claiming to be me who’s running around the country and signing his checks with my name.

But empty charges all, gentlemen - I’m sure you’ll agree. I’m writing to you both because only the three of us know who’s really behind this evil. The Assassination Bureau is out to get me, and I fear the house is only the start. It’s why I’m not asking for any sort of investigation into the cause of the fire. Let sleeping dogs lie. Charmian and I were scheduled to move in the day after the place burned down, but - who knows? - maybe they thought I was already inside. I’ve talked a little about rebuilding. But I can’t for the life of me imagine spending the time to do it again. Why, it takes 18 months just to cure the redwood! And what’s the point anyhow if that damned organization keeps coming after me?

$80,000 lost in the inferno. That’s what the house cost. I’ve taken to calling it a “beautiful fire” in the sense that there was so much destruction of beauty. All that’s left now is the skeleton of the structure. I look into the blackness of the ruins and see my future. Next time it might not only be a house they eliminate-

Jack London

Wolf House was never rebuilt, and three years after the conflagration Jack London was dead. Just as questions haunted the destruction of the building, so suspicions swirled round the death of its owner.

According to the authorities, Jack London died from an overdose of morphine. But who could be certain of the details? He had been taking the drug for medicinal reasons, so one may rightly wonder if his death had simply been a terrible accident. And yet one may also ask whether the overdose had been intentional? Had he committed suicide? Or, as London himself had indirectly predicted, had someone entered his room and poisoned him with the drug? Recalling the Assassination Bureau’s list of targets, I suspect the latter.

Much has already been written of the murder of the heir to the Austro-Hungarian throne less than a year later. In spite of the warnings offered by Holmes, Archduke Franz Ferdinand was shot dead in his automobile in Sarajevo. As my friend had accurately foreseen, the consequences of the Archduke’s untimely death put into play the violent forces that erupted in August of 1914 into the conflagration we now call the Great War.

Like the analyses of so many other assassins over the years, countless theories have been offered about the Archduke’s killer and his confederates. It is believed that Gavrilo Princip, the shooter, most probably had connections with one or more clandestine organisations. The notorious Black Hand and even Gorgianno’s Red Circle are but two of many accused. Those of us familiar with the Assassination Bureau’s self-righteous calling, however - not to mention the rumours of a Russian young lady with curly black hair having been seen with Princip - may draw other conclusions.

As we all know, following the entry of the United States into the fray, the Great War eventually ended with the defeat of Germany. Thanks to America’s resulting emergence as a world power, there are many prognosticators who believe the new century will be dominated by the United States. A peaceful world should indeed be the consequence of so terrible a conflict. No less an observer than Bertie Wells, my old friend from Brede Place, referred to the titanic struggle as “the war to end war”.

Those self-proclaimed predictors of peace, however, remain ignorant of an important consideration. Despite the resolution of the international hostilities - or, perhaps, because of it - there is a small group, myself included, who recognise a burgeoning America as fertile soil for the continued growth of the Assassination Bureau.

Though such views may continue to remain speculative, Jack London correctly understood that even the most modest of hints regarding the existence of so deadly an organisation continues to fascinate people. In his own day, it was London’s appreciation of such interest that served as the catalyst for beginning his own novel about the group. Today, close to twenty years after London put away his unfinished manuscript, crime writers who also understand the appeal still toy with the idea of completing it. I feel certain that someday an author will. For that matter, perhaps in the not too distant future, a brave cinema company will produce a film of the tale.

One final word remains to be said. The Great War ended more than ten years ago. Yet even I, a mere chronicler of the events surrounding the evil group thought to have set it off, do not feel immune. Whether the organisation is real or not, I worry none the less that its mercenaries may be coming for me. Such is the unspoken power of the Assassination Bureau. I have never forgot the incident of the car that had almost run me down. Innocent though I am, even now I look over my shoulder with trepidation whenever I hear at my back the clatter of crisp footfalls on the pavement or the echoes of heavy boots in a hallway - especially if the steps seem to be hurrying in my direction.

THE END