THAT LADY EVA BLACKWELL’S ENGAGEMENT WAS threatened did not bother me in the slightest.
I suppose it should have. She had, after all, come to Holmes and me in the express attempt to save it. Yet, as she spoke with dread about the prospect of becoming unattached, it occurred to me more and more that she was just the sort of girl I would like to marry some day. If the worst should come to pass—if she should lose the affections of the Earl of Dovercourt—how should she replace him? With a doctor perhaps? Doctors are not so well regarded as earls, I will admit, but they are a good deal more practical. What if someone were to become injured or sick? Having a doctor in the house saves a carriage ride. And really, what does an earl do?
“Can you gentlemen help me, do you think?” Lady Eva sighed.
Holmes clucked his tongue—indicating that this was a matter of dread severity—and asked, “What do you think, Watson?”
“Oh? Eh?” I said, rousing myself from my dream. “Well, I suppose we might look into it. A blackmailer, you say?”
“Yes! A horrible blackmailer!” she agreed, nodding her chestnut curls. “He says I must supply him with seven thousand pounds by Friday, else he shall cross my match and see that Nigel and I never wed!”
“Seven thousand pounds…” I mused.
“The sum is extraordinary,” she cried. “Why, you could buy a palace for that!”
“I would buy you a mansion in Dover,” I said, “near the sea. A white one with a yard full of ponies…”
I became aware that Lady Eva was staring at me. So was Holmes.
“How would that help matters?” Holmes wondered.
“What? Oh… it wouldn’t. I just… ahem… Lady Blackwell, I do not mean to be indelicate, but I must ask: what does this blackmailer have against you?”
“Nothing, sir.”
“But he must have something,” I insisted, “else how does he think he could foil your marriage? How does he intend to turn your fiancé against you?”
“He does not say! In fact, he writes that the particulars of my downfall will be forever unknown to me. Of course, I was inclined to throw the ridiculous letter into the fire, but he included these two lists, you see?”
She waved two pieces of paper at Holmes and me. Both were lists of names, but there the similarities ended. One was writ in a gilded hand upon stationery worthy of the queen. The other was done in filth-brown ink upon parchment so poor that a street urchin looking for something to scrawl his begging sign upon would have passed it by, saying, “Meh, I could do better.”
She flourished the finer paper at us and said, “This first is a list of those previous victims who succumbed and agreed to pay him. I was shocked by some of these names, gentlemen! I called on some of them and asked if this document was true. Awkward as the matter is, they did confirm it. The blackmailer says that part of the price of his forbearance is that they tell their tale to the next poor soul to bear his letter, else he will work mischief upon them.”
“Cad!” I declared.
“I spoke with four of the people on this list and they all admitted that they paid him. Some said they felt foolish for it, yet that was the worst complaint any of them could make; their lives and fortunes are all quite intact. This list, on the other hand…” here she waved the brown, feculent list at us, “…this is a litany of shattered dreams. There is not a soul on this list who is happy today. Broken marriages… lost careers… great artists whose works suddenly fell from public favor… It is unaccountable, the sudden trials and failures suffered by the people upon this list! And all of them whom I spoke to traced their misfortune back to the same man! All of them cursed the day they refused to pay this blackmailer and encouraged me to do whatever I could to save myself from his fury.”
“An odd story,” said I, scratching my chin. “I have never heard of a blackmailer who operates without having some sort of leverage on his victims. One wonders if it is not a ruse…”
“A ruse?” Holmes reflected. “How might he pull such a thing off, Watson?”
“I can imagine two methods, offhand. Either he has compiled these lists from people who had nothing to do with him, but whose fortunes were especially good or ill—”
“Yes, but that does not account for them telling Lady Eva that this villain’s interference or forbearance made their fortunes or ruined them,” Holmes said. “Keep in mind that they all verified his story.”
“Did they? Suppose a man comes to you and says you must give him a pound or you will explode. You do give him a pound. You do not explode. Does it necessarily follow that your lack of unexplained detonation is due to the fact you paid him off? Is it not possible that you were never in any such danger and have just been conned out of a pound? Is it not also possible that you might blithely tell his next victim of your supposed escape and encourage them to pay as well?”
“It is possible,” Holmes admitted. “In fact, some might say it is the basis of all religion.”
“Ahem… yes… Well, the other possibility is that these witnesses are all in league with the blackmailer and stand to receive a portion of the funds.”
“I do not think that could be the case,” said Lady Eva, in a manner that all other ladies should study and endeavor to repeat, in order to render themselves irresistible to the mortal man. “Look at these names, Doctor; they are well-known public figures.”
“A good point, Lady Eva. I only mention it because I must consider all possibilities, even if they seem remote. Eliminate the impossible and whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth.”
Holmes rolled his eyes at me as if this were an extraordinarily naïve thing to say. I refused to be cowed and continued, “I think our next course of action must be to investigate the blackmailer himself and determine the true nature of his relationships with these supposed victims. Did he leave any clue as to his identity?”
“Oh yes,” said Lady Eva, who would likely have made a fine mother to my children—caring and doting, yet stern when the occasion demanded. “He signed it. His name is Charles Augustus Milverton.”
I laughed out loud. It was too good to hope that the man might be fool enough to begin such a criminal enterprise by signing his true name to a blackmail note. Yet my enthusiasm was dampened somewhat by Holmes, who said, “Milverton?” in the most disappointed way. He slumped into his chair and shrank like a beaten dog. Fixing Lady Eva with a look of both pity and apology for his own impotence, he mumbled, “Pay the man.”
“Holmes!”
“I am sorry, Watson. And I am yet more sorry for you, Lady Eva, but his name is known to me and I have reason to suspect that he is more than capable of rendering the destruction he has threatened. If you wish to be happy in your marriage, pay him.”
“But I can’t!” Lady Eva protested. “Don’t you see? My family has a title, yes, but that is no guarantee of means. It is not wealth that has allowed me to enter London society. It is only…”
She trailed off, for modesty does not allow a true lady to extol her own virtues.
“It is only your perfect grace,” I said. “It is only your charm. It is only that, in you, the London aristocracy see what it is they aspire to become. They see their better, and yet the tutor is so winning that they cannot bring themselves to resent the lesson. Not to mention your cheekbones! Look at them!”
Lady Eva blushed. Holmes only watched me, waiting for me to make my point. I recoiled and mumbled, “Oh… I say, have you ever had one of those days where you find yourself thinking a thing and then—and you have no idea how it happened—you find that you have been saying it as well? I am having just such a day and I apologize.”
“No, no, that was… kind of you, Doctor,” said Lady Eva, fixing me with a smile that crushed my mind and my heart and made me wish beyond all hoping that I had been born an earl. “Yet, my trouble remains. Even by calling upon the support of my family and friends… even by putting myself deeply in debt to those who might wish me ill, I am sure I can raise nowhere near the sum. I think I can manage two thousand. Maybe a little more, but only very little. Oh, if you cannot save me from this man, could you at least negotiate with him on my behalf? Tell him to take two thousand—take it and leave me alone.”
Holmes sighed, “I can try, Lady Eva. If you ask me to, I will. Yet, I warn you that more harm than good may come from my involvement. Milverton knows me well and I think he is not… favorably disposed.”
“What choice have I?” asked Lady Eva with a sad shrug. “I cannot raise his fee and idleness dooms me. Say you will help, won’t you? Say you will try?”
“I shall do my utmost,” said Holmes. “I’m sure Watson will, as well. I only hope some good may come of it. Leave me his letter, won’t you? Watson and I shall be in touch when we have news. In the meantime, it might be wise to begin raising the two thousand.”
There was nothing left to do but say our farewells and see Lady Eva out. As I helped her down the stairs, she rested her hand in my palm and let me place my other hand beneath her elbow to guide her down. I drifted down the steps in dazed happiness, then let go of her perfect hand and turned back to re-mount the stairs to our rooms, to Holmes and to the life I had built myself. I was suddenly overcome with the feeling that I had let it all go wrong, somehow. This feeling was only reinforced when Holmes flung open the window above me and shouted, “Wiggles! Wiggles, I need you!” such that all the street might hear.
* * *
Holmes fretted over his reply for almost half an hour, despite the fact that it was only three lines long. Wiggles and I waited by the hearth. At first I was uncomfortable in the company of the young wererat, but boredom eventually conquered fear. Soon, I sat suppressing my laughter as I watched him sniff the air, having apparently forgotten he was in his human form. In another ten minutes, I was tearing little hunks of bread and throwing them this way and that, watching him scuttle about to retrieve them.
Finally, Holmes approached. He handed Wiggles a letter, a shilling and a slab of beef that was just beginning to display that rainbow sheen which says, “You ought to have eaten me yesterday.”
“Find the Soulbinder, Charles Augustus Milverton,” Holmes said. “Give him this letter and wait for his reply. I am sure he will wish to set an appointment with me. Do not fail to bring his response or we may all find ourselves in some trouble.”
“Soulbinder?” I wondered.
“Yes. Soulbinder,” said Holmes. “Come on, Watson, let’s go for a walk. Or something. I don’t care; I just don’t want to sit here thinking of him. I shall tell you more in the park.”
He didn’t. Shortly after reaching the park, he was accosted by a squirrel. It ran up his trouser leg and snatched a crust of toast from his hand. Holmes seemed quite content to chase the little blighter up and down the path, sometimes cajoling, sometimes threatening, always emanating the especial joy of one who has made himself a grand new friend. For my part, I was happy to let Holmes go. It left me free to think of Lady Eva and sigh.
And sigh.
* * *
As midnight neared, Holmes became ever more anxious. He paced the sitting room of 221B Baker Street, casting his eyes this way and that, but nowhere found relief. Time and again, his gaze was drawn to the clock on the mantelpiece, though I could not tell if he was impatient for the midnight hour to arrive or afeared of it.
“Warlock, sit down, won’t you? You are making me nervous.”
“You ought to be nervous,” he replied. “Our guest is a dangerous man.”
“And you are sure he will come?”
“He will come.”
“But his note said to expect him at seven in the evening,” I reminded Holmes, waving the return letter we had received from Milverton. It was written on lavender stationery and scented with a perfume that reminded one of musk ox and honey.
“I told you: that note is a lie. He’s playing with me. He shall come at midnight. He always does.” Holmes ceased his pacing, turned to me and muttered, “You really ought to go, Watson.”
“I told you, Holmes: I am not going anywhere. Our client has engaged our services to save her from ruin and I will not meekly fall by the wayside and allow myself to fail her.”
“What you mean is that you do not trust me to conduct this negotiation.”
There was more than a little truth to that, but it was not my only motivation. In fact, I was worried for Holmes.
“Well… you know, Warlock… we’ve met a number of dangerous characters, but this is the first time I have seen you so unsettled. I can’t help but wonder why you’re so frightened of the man.”
I could tell I had wounded him, but after a moment’s reflection he said, “I suppose I am frightened. You know me, Watson. You’ve seen what I like to do with poisons and so you know I am a gentleman who is somewhat difficult to harm. Milverton, though… Milverton could hurt me.”
“How do you mean, Holmes?”
Yet, he did not answer. He would not answer. He resumed his pacing.
“How do you know him?” I asked, attempting to start again on a different tack. “His victims are highly placed in the London aristocracy, yet I have never heard of the man.”
“Oh, our paths have crossed before, Watson,” Holmes said, then paused as if considering how much he ought to tell me. He must have deemed me worthy of further trust, for he added, “Milverton was often a pawn of Moriarty’s.”
“Moriarty!”
“Yes, my great enemy.”
I thought a moment, worrying over one or two points until finally deciding that the only way to know was to ask. I said, “And yet you display more fear of this supposed pawn than you ever did of Sebastian Moran, whom you claim was Moriarty’s trusted lieutenant.”
“It is not his rank within Moriarty’s gang that I fear,” said Holmes. “It is his ability. Yes, Moran is a nasty fellow, but he has no leverage upon me. Milverton does.”
I was going to ask what that leverage might be, but was interrupted by the chiming of our clock. Even before the first bell had faded, it was drowned out by a rapping on our sitting-room door. Warlock wilted. I rose to admit our guest.
If I had been hoping to find a looming specter clothed all in smoke—and I will confess, I rather was—I was disappointed. Milverton was one of those men who took every care that his dress and appearance shouted “businessman” yet every other aspect of his body, face and bearing declared “wheezy little bastard.” He was in his early fifties, yet doing his utmost to appear in his late twenties. He wore a gray suit, tailored better than almost any other I had encountered. His teeth were straight and shining white. His skin, which I at first assumed to be deeply tanned, was revealed to be orange as he stepped into the light. The color was so unnatural that I wondered, for an instant, if he might be a demon. The thought was quickly chased away by the realization that it was more likely he’d been tempted by the tubes of orange skin-tinting goo one may purchase for tuppence at any of the less reputable pharmacies.
He swept off his gray silk top hat and threw his pale gloves within. He hung this on a hook and deposited his silver cane in our elephant’s foot umbrella stand. His dark hair was slicked with some form of thick, pungent grease into long strands, which failed to cover his balding dome, despite the expert care with which they had been combed over it. Not deigning even to look at us, he cooed, “Soooooo sorry, chaps. I know I’m behind my hour, I know I am. And yet, what is a fellow to do, eh? London, don’t you know. Traffic, don’t you know. I do hope you haven’t been waiting long. Oh, I do hope not.”
He turned to me, fixed me with a false smile and said, “You must be the estimable Dr. Watson, unless I am much mistaken. Oh yes, Doctor, I know quite a few unnatural fellows who would like to know more about you. Yes I do. Quite a few, indeed. They always get nervous if this one…” here he inclined his head in Warlock’s direction, “… spends more than three weeks in any one man’s company.”
Behind Milverton, the wall discolored. Silently, it began to bleed. The spots joined together to form the word WRETCH.
“And Warlock Holmes!” Milverton continued. “How long has it been? A very long time, I think. Such a pleasant surprise to get your note. I must say I was a bit put out, for I had warned Lady Eva not to seek any outside aid. A man might be tempted to increase his fee in the face of such events, but seeing as it is you, Warlock—seeing as it is you—I think I can overlook this one indiscretion on her part. Only this one, though. No, since she has brought me back into contact with my old friend, her balance remains unchanged at seven thousand pounds. I trust you have it?”
“I don’t have it, Milverton,” Holmes growled. “She doesn’t have it. You know that is why I wrote to you.”
“Oh. Oh dear. Well, I only assumed she might have reconsidered by now.”
“It is not a question of her consideration. She does not have the money.”
Milverton shook his head and tutted. “Well she really ought to find it, you know. Such a judicious investment on her part. Why, her beau makes that in less than a year and a half! Can you imagine? Losing her love? Losing her position in society? Losing all that money for all of those years over the concern of less than a year and a half’s income? She’s cleverer than that. I know she is.”
Above him, the word BETRAYER added itself to the wall.
“She hasn’t got it, I say,” Holmes repeated. “Take two thousand, Milverton, and do no mischief.”
“Oh my. Oh, dear me. Now, you see, I told her not to bargain. I told her the price was not subject to debate. Now that is two indiscretions on her part. I cannot let that pass, Holmes, I really can’t. I regret to inform you that Lady Eva’s account now stands at eight thousand pounds.”
Holmes’s anger and frustration burst forth in visual style. His eyes lit up. Milverton, bathed in their terrible green glare, took a step backwards. Holmes took two towards our unwelcome guest; a grim smile spread across his features. But before Holmes could work any mischief, Milverton held up one hand to beg a moment’s pardon and affected a terrific yawn.
“I say, such an hour… I think a cup of coffee is in order, don’t you, gentlemen? Yes. Coffee, don’t you think?”
Holmes stood staring at Milverton, with his fingers opening and closing slowly, as if he wished to grab something, wished to squeeze. Milverton stood his ground, but seemed to find a sudden interest in our furnishings. He regarded our bookcase for a moment, then stared at the picture of General Lee. He seemed content to examine almost anything, as long as it was not Holmes’s burning glare.
I smiled.
Much has been said of mutual benefit as the ideal foundation for bargaining. Good mention is also made of charity, civility and moral concerns, but to the student of history, these are laughable. He who has read of the Mongol hordes, of the South Sea pirates, or the might of Rome knows the ideal bargaining tool.
Fear.
I stepped in, saying, “Yes, coffee sounds splendid. I’ll just make a pot, shall I? Holmes, why don’t you take a seat on the sofa? Leave your armchair for Mr. Milverton, won’t you? He is our guest, after all, and the night is cold. He will appreciate being close to the fire.”
I moved to our small pantry to get the coffee grounds. Milverton took Holmes’s armchair, though he seemed ill at ease in it. Holmes cocked his head to one side, until his ear was nearly upon his shoulder, and sat down on the sofa, smiling at Milverton hungrily, with his eyes still alight. I took my time fetching the coffee, sure that each passing moment strengthened our bargaining position, rather than weakened it.
As I returned and set some water to warm above the fire, I said, “So, what exactly is it you do, Mr. Milverton? Holmes described you as a Soulbinder.”
“Did he?” asked Milverton. “Well, that is a misfortune. I have asked him not to, you see? I have asked him never to use that title and yet he disregards my wishes. Well, I am sorry to say that Lady Eva’s account now stands at nine thousand.”
“You are not a Soulbinder, then?”
“Is there such a thing as a soul, Doctor?” he scoffed. “You have been through and through the human body, have you not? Have you ever encountered one? Have you ever slipped with your scalpel and nicked somebody’s soul? I should think not. Is there a part of us that lives on after we are gone? Why should we assume so? No, I do not deal with such speculative fictions. My art lies in more tangible concerns. We each of us have a destiny, Dr. Watson. As we grow and interact, these human destinies intertwine with one another. I am one who sees these threads. I am one who can knot them closer together. Or, if I wish, I am one who can pull them apart. If Lady Eva is such a fool as to doubt my art, she may find her fiancé’s destiny takes a very separate path from her own. She would not be the first, I fear.”
I had decided I could make more progress with friendship than with threat. Let Milverton fear Holmes; in me he would find a helpful voice. “I have never heard of such a thing,” I said. “It must be a rare gift, indeed. Can you change your own destiny, I wonder?”
“Every man can, Dr. Watson.”
“How very droll. Can no one resist your tampering, Mr. Milverton? Even a fellow such as Holmes: could you work upon him?”
“Ha! Let me tell you something about your friend, Dr. Watson: the man is a mess. His destiny—his soul as you would call it—is one big knot. He has tangled himself with countless others in loops more intricate and more intimate than ever he should have. He is bound and bound again and has no power to unwind himself from some of his less welcome company, no matter how he might struggle. Oh yes, I can work upon Holmes’s destiny, Dr. Watson. I may be the only man who can. Holmes himself is quite helpless to disentangle himself as I could do!”
He said it with a zeal so severe that I knew him to be attempting to comfort himself with it. I decided to hurry even less with the coffee and let him endure Holmes’s green gaze a little longer. Yet this was not to be, for suddenly a deep, terrible voice burst from Holmes, shouting, “Rache!”
I nearly dropped the coffee pot in the fire. I could hear Milverton cry out in surprise. I spun round towards Holmes, to hear what Moriarty would say.
“Rache! He that holds a hammer and will not strike away my chains—he is as good as my jailer! Charles’s August has been long. He sows and sows, yet never reaps. Now, his harvest is nearing. That which he has grown shall be brought in to him at last. The crop is bitter; he will not taste it long. Rache!”
Holmes fell silent and slumped to one side. For a moment I thought Milverton was going to fall over as well, in a dead faint. His lips moved ineffectually at first, then he gasped, “That… that’s him, isn’t it?”
“Him?” I said, feigning innocence. “Oh! Moriarty? Yes, that’s him. I had quite forgotten you knew him. Yes, now I recall: Holmes said you used to be one of his minions, I think.”
“Never!” Milverton cried. “No! Eleven thousand! For saying such a thing, Lady Eva’s account stands at eleven thousand!”
“You didn’t work for Moriarty?” I asked. “Well then, how do you know him?”
“I worked for him. I mean, I performed some work for him. But he came to me and hired me, you know, I was never one of his dogs. Let it be remembered: He came to me because I could do what he could not—even he, the great Moriarty—and he gave me gold in recognition of my skills.”
“Well, that is high praise,” I said. “The Moriarty I know never seems to give anything but ill news.”
“Yes, he is greatly changed from when I knew him,” Milverton said, then broke out in a nervous laugh. “But then, I suppose it’s what he was known for. Step before Moriarty and you never knew exactly what sort of creature you’d be facing. As one body wore out, he’d find another. Change was his hallmark; the only constants were intelligence and malevolence.”
Milverton had grown visibly pale, even through his orange skin treatment. I took the opportunity to say, “Of course you must know that my sympathy lies with Holmes and Lady Eva, so you will no doubt take my advice with a grain of salt. Still, I must say, these seem to be deep and dangerous waters, do they not? Might it be wiser to close Lady Eva’s account and leave this matter behind you?”
“No! I cannot be seen to falter. I cannot let it be known that my net was ever escaped or my future clients will know there is hope.”
“Yet what do you gain by hurting her? If nothing else, take the two thousand and let her go. Two thousand pounds in exchange for doing nothing? They are high wages, don’t you think?”
“It’s worth two thousand to me to see her fall. Let everybody see it. The more that is known of her fate, the more my next client will fear me.”
“What a thing to say, Mr. Milverton! She has done nothing to deserve such treatment, has she?”
“She has! She has made bold to walk in circles high above her station. She was fool enough to hire a maid who sold me a lock of her hair for a mere five pounds. Ha! She who aims so high should have more caution, don’t you think? Twelve thousand pounds, now! Twelve, for her folly!”
“Really, Mr. Milverton! If you go on like this for much longer, the queen herself would be unable to raise your fee.”
“And yet we know Holmes, don’t we?” Milverton asked. “We know he has ways of making money.”
At this, Milverton stood up and fished around in his pocket for a moment. He withdrew a bar of lead, cast it upon our side table and muttered, “He knows my mind. I’ve plenty more of these when he’s ready. If Holmes wants to free his pretty little debutante, he can call on me whenever he’s willing to be reasonable. Now good night, sir.”
“Are you not staying for coffee?” I asked. “I made it just for you.”
“I won’t! I am leaving!”
I tutted at him. Any man who does business in London knows there are certain crimes that are unforgivable. Amongst them is asking for a refreshment and leaving before it is ready. Milverton turned back to me, saying, “Take a hundred, then, for your undrunk coffee. That’s something, eh? Eleven thousand, nine hundred and Lady Eva can thank you however she will for selling a cup of coffee so dear.”
He slammed our door, scurried down the stairs and was gone. Holmes lay half-conscious on the sofa and resisted my attempts to move him. As the hour was late, I simply threw a blanket over him and went to bed myself.
* * *
I awoke just after seven the next morning to the sound of Holmes puttering about the fireplace.
“Good morning,” I said, walking into our sitting room.
“Hmm,” said he and went back to organizing his toast racks. A few minutes later he muttered, “I’m not very clear on the events of last night.”
I barely heard him—he said it as if reflecting to himself, but I realized he was awaiting an answer.
“Well, Moriarty had a few thoughts to add to the debate and after that you were somewhat insensible.”
“That explains it. Was Milverton as glad to see his old master as Moran was?”
“Rather not!” I laughed. “He practically fled the place. I tell you, Holmes, I cannot fathom why you are so afraid of Milverton. I don’t know if you realize it, but he is perfectly terrified of you.”
“It makes sense.” Holmes shrugged. “I nearly killed him, once. He knows I could end him in an instant. I know he has taken precautions. That’s why we’re so afraid of one another. The little bugger has bound his soul to me! Can you imagine, Watson? I have every reason to believe that when Milverton’s soul flees—or his destiny comes to an end, as he would say—it will tug on some aspects of my own, ere it flies. I shall lose some very important connections and it wouldn’t surprise me if I gain a few unsavory ones as well. Even if he should die of old age, I will suffer for it. Oh, I fear the day he walks into the street without looking both ways. But, enough of such concerns—what is the state of our negotiation, Watson? Did you manage to out-think him?”
“I fear not. In fact, Miss Blackwell’s account now stands at eleven thousand, nine hundred pounds.”
“Eh? What happened?”
“He was once defied, once affrighted, twice offended and then purchased an overpriced coffee. I am sure we must treat with him again before the matter is brought to a conclusion. If we achieved anything last night, it was only to weaken his resolve and introduce greater elements of fear and doubt into his thinking.”
“Ugh,” Holmes grunted. “I would rather be done with the man.”
He went back to his toast racks and I to find the morning paper, but a sudden remembrance from the night before caused me to tarry.
“You know, there was one small thing…”
“What was that?”
“I found out how he gained his influence over Eva Blackwell.”
In an instant, Holmes was upon me. He clasped me by the front of my dressing gown and shook me, demanding, “How? How does he do it, Watson?”
“He has a lock of her hair,” I told him, struggling ineffectually to free my collar from his grasp. “He bribed her maid.”
Holmes released me and began to pace. “Now we have something, Watson! Now we have something! So… he needs a token then… Is he making an effigy? Does he need the materials as ingredients for his spell or… By the gods! Does he cast the spell upon the hair itself? Are these tokens of his victims the medium that holds his enchantment? Are they like some form of phylactery? Oh, let it be so, Watson! Let it be so!”
“Why?” I asked.
Holmes turned to me and, in the tone a philosopher might use to address a moron, “Because if I could destroy his phylactery, I could break his spell! Don’t you see? If I find out what he’s done with Lady Blackwell’s hair and burn it, his power over her is gone. More to the point, Watson, if I find he has a phylactery for me…”
“Oh! You could free yourself of his influence?”
“I could unwind that little blighter from my soul! I could live free of fear of what would happen to me if he should come to harm. What a relief that would be, Watson! Gods, it would be hard to keep from killing him on the spot, just to celebrate!”
“Holmes!”
“Oh, I wouldn’t, of course. I’m just saying, Watson… Oh, what I wouldn’t give! Bless you, John; this is the first ray of hope I’ve had in a long time. I have so much to do now. So much to do…”
He ran to his bedroom and busied himself, clattering around with his poisons and shifting noisily through his closet. I made myself breakfast and settled in with The Times. I had just decided on a second cup of tea when he re-emerged. He was dressed exactly as a music hall comedian might portray a tramp. He wore an oversized coat of a garish color, patched and re-patched with theatrical abandon. One trouser leg was shorter than the other. He had attached a grand moustache that cleared his face by a good six inches on either side. He grinned at his own artfulness and showed me three gaps where his teeth were missing.
“Behold!” he cried.
“What… what am I beholding?” I asked.
“A clever disguise, of course. Dressed as a common Irish working man, I shall seek employment in Milverton’s household, infiltrate and find where the villain keeps his phylacteries!”
“No, you won’t,” I laughed.
“Why not?”
“Because you look like a clown, Holmes! You will be spotted in an instant.”
“I worked very hard on this disguise.”
“Well, I can see that,” I said. “There are elements which are quite ingenious. How did you do the teeth?”
“Ha! The simplest illusion, Watson. I merely knocked them out with an ink blotter.”
“You what?”
“They’re on my desk. I’ll put them back when I’m done. Really, this is a foolproof plan, Watson, you shall see.”
“Don’t go out like that, Holmes.”
“I will.”
“No. You’re going to be caught. Let me help you.”
But Holmes was too proud and too sure of his plan to let me interfere with it. He cast one hand towards the ground, shouting, “Escape gas!” There was a muffled boom and our sitting room filled with dense black and purple smoke. I coughed and spluttered, groped about for the window latch that I might vent the foul stuff. By the time I had cleared the air enough to see, Holmes was gone.
* * *
It was dark ere I saw him again. I had gone to the library and withdrawn the only two books I could find that concerned phylacteries in any context other than as a Jewish prayer box. The first book was useless; the second was interesting, yet they both laughed such creations off as quaint tribal superstitions. I was two-thirds of the way through the better volume when the apartment door swung open and Holmes stumbled in. He was spattered with mud. Half his mustache had been burned away and he stared about in utter confusion. Finally he announced, “Hello. I live here.”
“You do,” I confirmed. “How did the plan go, Holmes?”
“Ah! An unqualified success! Yes. It exceeded my every expectation.”
“So you know what Charles Milverton is doing with his ill-gotten hair samples?”
“Oh… no. Better than that! I am engaged to be married to his housekeeper.”
“What? How did that happen?”
“We are in love.”
I looked him up and down. Even for Holmes—the most easily distracted man I ever met—this was quite an unexpected departure from his plan. I asked, “Who is this girl? Had you even met her before today?”
“I have not met her at all,” Holmes said. “Yet, the importance of such trifles is greatly overestimated. I know all I need to know. Her name is Agatha and she is venerable.”
“Venerable? That just means… old.”
“Ye gods, Watson, it means so much more than that! It means that she has persevered in the face of nine murderous decades. Though time has robbed her of one leg and the vast majority of her teeth, still she refuses to surrender. Like a treasured heirloom, she has been passed from one generation of Milvertons to the next. And why not? On any given day, one can find her down on her one remaining knee, scrubbing Milverton’s floor, turning in an honest day’s work for an honest day’s pay.”
“That’s all very admirable, Holmes, but you still have not provided me with an explanation as to why you should be so smitten with her—sight unseen—as to seek a betrothal.”
“Well, I am not the only one,” he said with a defensive sniff. “The court of popular opinion has already ruled on the subject and agreed with me entirely. She has seven husbands and three wives already and I fail to see how all ten of them could be wrong, eh?”
“Ah ha! Now we have hit on something, I think,” said I. “Tell me, did you run into Charles Augustus Milverton today?”
“Er… yes, he intercepted me shortly after I got to his house. He says he’s worked some fitting punishment for me, but the joke is on him for I made my escape free and clear and became engaged to his housekeeper.”
I folded the book in my lap and took a deep breath. I knew my next words might fall heavily on my lovestruck friend. “Do you think it might be possible that, when Milverton wants revenge on some fellow who has inconvenienced him, he binds that person’s soul to the soul of his aged housekeeper? Might that not have happened before? Ten times before? Might you be the eleventh such person to be caught and treated thus?”
Holmes blinked a few times and cocked his head to one side, searching for a retort. “Well, that’s… The thing is… Watson, can’t you see…” He fell silent for a few moments, then moaned, “Well, I can’t break it off now! What will become of poor Agatha?”
“Don’t feel bad, Holmes. Ten spouses are considered more than adequate. I am sure she will survive. Though, from what you tell me, I am sure she cannot survive very much longer.”
“Oh,” said Warlock, shaking his head to clear away the remaining confusion, “so then, actually my plan…”
“…did not go so very well,” I concluded. “Yet, do not despair. You have seen his house and have some idea of the lay of the land. I propose we seek a simpler expedient—let’s burgle him.”
“Watson! I’m surprised at you!”
“Well,” I said, “we are running out of time. Tomorrow night will be our last chance. As negotiation and covert operation have now failed, we must turn to less legal strategies. Besides, the man is a colossal ass; I really don’t mind burgling him.”
“Oh no, I quite agree,” said Holmes. “I didn’t mean to imply that I was unpleasantly surprised.”
“We are agreed, then,” I told him. “Oh, and, Holmes, don’t forget to put your teeth back in.”
“Hmm? Oh! Yes, I shall. Thank you, Watson.”
* * *
I spent the next day teaching myself the trade of burglary. The public is possessed of a morbid love of crime stories, so it was not hard to come across several ha’penny pamphlets that detailed the sort of cloak and dagger business I needed. Though it can be problematic to obtain the tools of such a trade, I was in the position to solve that difficulty with only twelve words: “Lestrade, please steal me the best thieves’ tools Scotland Yard has confiscated.” He didn’t appreciate being given errands to run in the light of day, but he did come through. Two hours later, I found myself the proud owner of a dark lantern, a diamond-tipped glasscutter, a nickel jemmy, and a set of skeleton keys.
I was also privileged with access to medical supplies. Thus, one cab ride later, I had an assortment of anesthetics—courtesy of Stamford—that would make fine knockout drops. On the way home I stopped by a butcher’s shop and gave him tuppence for a bag of gristly scraps. These I dosed with my homemade sleeping sauce, in case we ran into any dogs.
I packed my new tools and anti-canine meatballs into a dark leather satchel with my pistol. All that remained was to cut a few masks from black dressmaker’s felt and wait. An hour before nightfall, Holmes and I set out for Milverton’s house in Hampstead to begin our career of crime.
I was never much afraid of being burgled until I tried it myself and discovered how impossibly easy it is. I will confess I was afraid of guard dogs. I need not have been. All dogs love a good bite of fatty meat followed by a nap. I was happy to provide both. Milverton had only one dog and he was down and snoring happily in under a minute. The only response from his household to the dog’s warning barks was one groom who shouted at the mutt to stop his noise.
Holmes and I made a quick half-circuit of the house, planning our best point of ingress. As some of the windows did not have their curtains drawn completely, we had a good many chances to look in at our targets. Fortune was with us; we found Milverton’s ground-floor study unoccupied, unguarded and with the curtains open wide enough for us to view our goal.
“Look at that safe!” Warlock hissed. “It’s as big as a wardrobe. No man has that many papers to guard in a home study, eh? Oh no, Milverton, I think I know what you’ve got in there…”
“How are we to crack a safe like that, Holmes?”
“Well… I’ll have to take a look at it, I suppose. For now, let’s just worry about getting to it, eh?”
I didn’t even have to make a noise shattering the window. The back of my glasscutter had a sharp hook, whose use I soon guessed. It happened to be the perfect shape to work into the corner of a window and slice away the glazing that held the pane in the wood frame. I withdrew the entire sheet of glass intact. I then turned to the next window over—whose pane was the exact same size—and placed the pane I had removed up against its twin. I wedged its corners with sticks to keep it in place. Since glass is barely discernible from an empty pane, anybody who looked at the house would see no cut window, no broken glass and no pane leaning against the side of the house to hint that there were intruders about. Only the lack of glare upon the empty window frame could give us away. For my coup de grâce, I planned to simply replace the pane on the way out and let them puzzle over how we’d ever gotten in in the first place.
As we crept over the windowsill and across the study, I hissed, “I imagine you are planning on turning the door of that safe into a duck, or some such…”
“Oh! What marvelous fun! I hadn’t thought of that.”
“…but I really think we ought to try cracking it without resorting to magic.”
“Then by all means, Watson, you attempt it first. If you succeed, all the better. If not, I will make short work of it, I promise.”
“Fair sport,” I said.
“Quack,” said Holmes.
I stifled a laugh and said, “You watch the door.”
The room was not entirely dark; the remains of a fire slowly burned itself out in the grate. I could see the safe well enough. It was an older model with three parallel dials, which spun towards the operator, displaying only one number at a time. The dials went from one to thirty. Despite its age, the mechanism turned smoothly and I could discern no click or pause when one of the dials was turned to any number. I shifted my attention from the dials to the safe itself, searching for any way to force the door, the top, or the back. Soon, I had to admit that my only hope lay in guessing the combination.
I wracked my mind, but could think of no combination that might be meaningful to Milverton—I barely knew him, after all. Holmes was beginning to get impatient. At last I struck upon a realization: assuming Milverton did not bother to turn the dials away from their orientation while the safe was unlocked, only the proper numbers would be exposed. I could therefore guess the correct combination by carefully noting which numbers were the most faded by the sun. I was about to call Holmes over with the lantern, when he scuttled over of his own accord and whispered, “Someone’s coming!”
“Quick! Douse that lantern! Get behind the curtains,” I said. “Stand upon the windowsill or they’ll see your feet.”
Holmes and I had scarcely reached our perch before the door handle turned. The door opened, but no challenge was shouted, nor did any sound of a search come to my ears. Whoever had come in walked about with lazy strides. He threw a few fresh logs on the fire, paced over to the desk, lit a cigar and then—judging by the creaking of wooden chair legs—came to rest himself in the armchair by the hearth. As I knew the occupant’s back must be towards us, I ventured a peep around the curtain. With horror, I recognized Milverton himself. No other man would wear such a blatant comb-over lest he perish of shame.
My relief that he was not searching for us was tempered by despair that he seemed to have no intention of leaving soon. He sat in the fireside chair, enjoying the occasional puff of his cigar, perusing a long legal document. As the minutes slid agonizingly by, the awkward nature of my stance upon the windowsill began to work on my back. I began to cramp. I began to squirm. I feared I would slip off and be discovered.
I am sure I would have failed, if it were not for Holmes. I could see him by the moonlight that filtered through the window behind us. Though his features were concealed by darkness and the mask that covered him nose to chin, still his focus shocked me. He was not normally a patient man, nor a cautious one, yet he waited—still as a gargoyle and twice as stern. He made no sound and betrayed no fear, but stood with his face frozen in a purposeful resolve, staring hawk-like at Milverton’s safe through the crack in the curtain.
I nearly jumped out of my skin when I heard a sudden footstep on the gravel path behind our window. Whoever trod there must have been no more than seven feet from us and I could not imagine how they had failed to see Holmes and me framed in the window. Nevertheless, this unexpected interloper’s footfalls moved away and around the corner of the house. In a moment, I heard a knock upon the veranda door that led into the study.
“At last,” Milverton mumbled. He stood and, as he did, I recoiled in horror to see what he was wearing. He had a claret-colored silk smoking jacket with a broad black collar and military-style epaulets fixed upon the shoulders. It was open to the waist, revealing a proud expanse of graying chest hair. On his legs he wore only gray silk shorts of a disgustingly sheer cut. I nearly gasped out loud when I realized what kind of appointment he might have arranged at this hour. I heard him unfasten the door and grumble, “You are late. I’ve been waiting half an hour.”
A woman’s voice replied, “Begging your pardon, good sir, it was all I could do to get away.”
“Ha. Yes, I have heard the Countess d’Albert keeps a strict household. Lord knows she has reason to guard her secrets. Yet here you are, eh? Come inside.”
“But… but, sir… I am unescorted and the hour is late, I fear…”
“Come inside, I say! You would balk for the sake of petty propriety? Do you not realize the scope of this endeavor? What you proposed to me is criminal. If I wished, I could have met you here with a detective at my side; we’d have had your pretty little neck in a noose before the week was out. As it happens, I am intrigued by your offer. Come inside and let us be partners, eh? I am sure you will find it worth your while.”
I heard her hesitate upon the threshold, but at last, with the soft swish of cloth, she stepped inside. She wore a long traveling cloak of dark green wool, which failed to conceal the burst of red curls that must have been either her pride or her bane. Her hair and her accent were enough to suggest her entire person to me. She was a shy, freckled Irish girl, employed as a domestic. She must be a basically good person, but struggling in the face of some difficulty—probably poverty—if she was forced into an alliance with Milverton. This was easy to imagine, but I blush now as I realize how much of my assessment was just that—imagined.
Milverton announced, “Now, you have these letters of the countess’s. You wish to sell. If they are as good as you say, I wish to buy. All that is left is to discuss price and… terms.”
He reached out towards her shoulder to guide her to a seat, but she shied from his touch. I didn’t blame her. It could have been a friendly gesture, but from a man in shorts like those, how could anything but lechery lie beneath? She took a chair and huddled in it. Milverton launched into a clumsily prepared speech on the subject of morality and how they were now partners outside it. I was sure the evening’s rendezvous would end with the promise of a substantial sum of money and an indecent proposition of another sort, but there was one surprise left.
A laugh. A woman’s laugh. It was deep and rich and merry. It rang forth into the room as if its owner could no longer resist some perfect jest. It must have been half an octave deeper than the scared little Irish girl’s voice had been and possessed of a confidence the trembling domestic could never dream of. I feared a second, unexpected woman had sneaked past my notice into the room. Yet when I peeped out around the curtain, I could see the woman in the traveling cloak’s shoulders bobbing with rhythmic regularity. Indeed, it was from her that the laugh issued. She said, “Charles, do you still not know me? I am wounded, sir.”
Milverton, who had just been turning back with the brandy he no doubt meant to ply her with, froze in his tracks. The color drained from behind his orange face treatment. “You,” he said.
“Even I.”
“How did you—”
“Escape that noose you put my pretty little neck in? Hangmen are easily fooled, Charles. They’re nearly as gullible as you.”
“Well,” Milverton said, endeavoring to regain the friendly persona he used in all his dirty dealings, “so glad to see you came clear of it. I really am. Felt just terrible, you know. You know? What a bad business.”
“Bad business indeed, Charlie. I told you not to cross me. But you couldn’t resist, could you? The first chance you got, you sold me out for a shilling, just to prove you could.”
“I say, that’s not fair.”
“No,” the woman agreed. “It wasn’t. But this is…”
The room brightened with a sudden flash and my ears rang at the report from a gunshot. I had not seen her hand reach down within the folds of her cloak, nor did I spot the revolver, yet the tongue of flame that leapt from it was unmistakable. Milverton reeled, stricken. The lady’s cloak slipped back just enough for me to see the slope of her jaw—pale and delicate. I would have said beautiful except that—in that moment of murder—it was drawn up into a smile. To gain pleasure at such a time—that is a thing only a monster can do.
And yet…
A thing can be horrible and beautiful at the same time. I have often wondered what would cross my mind if I were slain by a tiger. Fear, of course. Pain. Despair. And yet, I think, there would be an element of worship, too. Have you ever seen one—seen how its muscles move beneath the striped magnificence of its hide? It is a miracle beyond account that nature has framed such a perfect predator; married a thing’s form so exactly with its wicked function. It would be a mark of pride, to be slain thus. I would want it remembered that it was no mere fever that had removed John Heimdal Watson from the earth, no cancer, nor the slow, rhythmic ticking of a clock. No. The agent of my dispatch had been a creature whose beauty was as irresistible as its force—the exquisite slayer. I think I saw the shadow of such thoughts play upon Milverton’s face, too.
She fired again. And again. Milverton staggered back, trying to arrest his fall by grasping first at his chair, then his desk. It could not avail him. He fell. The air filled with screams. It took me a moment to realize that these issued not from Milverton, but Holmes. He sprang forth from our hiding place, crying, “No! What have you done? You can’t kill him! Ye gods! Watson! Watson, save him!”
If our murderess was surprised, she didn’t show it. She pivoted at the waist and her outstretched pistol hand sought another target, training itself upon the running figure of Warlock Holmes. It was then that my cowardice came in handy (I am humbled and amazed by how often this happens, by the way). In order to make myself feel less endangered, I had been fidgeting with the handle of my own pistol, which lay tucked into the bottom of my thieving bag. Thus, even as she spun to gun Holmes down, I thrashed free of my concealing curtains. I leveled the Webley at her and shouted, “Don’t!”
Without a pause she changed targets again. Her pistol hand arched through the air, ceasing only when it pointed directly at my face. Now I was staring down her barrel, just as she stared down mine.
“Don’t,” I said again.
The hood of her cloak was down over her face still, but in the reflected firelight I made out two features. First: her eyes. They were nearly as green as Holmes’s and alight with at least as much mischief. The second was her smile. It was not only confident but also pitying, as if she found me… cute. We might seem to be on equal footing, she and I, yet I came to realize that only one factor was even: our armaments. The weapons might be alike, but the warriors were not.
Look at you, her smile seemed to say. Look at your wide eyes and your trembling hand. You, sir, are not a predator. Yes, you remembered to bring a gun to our gunfight. But you also brought a scrawny, sickly human to our tiger fight. How sad.
Even as I recognized my terrible mistake, even as I realized I was about to die, Charles Augustus Milverton’s chest gave its final, capitulatory heave. Holmes cried out in anguish and the room filled with…
…souls?
…destinies?
Thousands of delicate purple lines began to trace themselves upon the air. Like strands of hair. Like wisps of seaweed floating upon an unseen current. These destinies, I realized, had always been present, but invisible to all but the man who lay expiring on the ground before me. The murderess and I both stood agape as the purple threads traced themselves around and between us. They crawled through the air like violet vines, growing even as we watched. They emanated from my heart and Holmes’s and hers. Even Milverton’s. But whereas the vines that grew from the living hearts moved and stretched towards one another, Milverton’s only fled from him.
I could see the purple lines of my fate reach towards the murderess’s and tangle themselves with hers. And why not? It is a powerful thing, to come so near to killing another person, or to dying by their hand. I was sure I would never forget her after that.
Yet the thing that most impressed itself upon my memory was the glimpse of Warlock Holmes’s soul I got that day. He was a mess. As Milverton had promised, Warlock Holmes was a magnificent, tangled knot. The number of threads within him was vast. Even given the speed I’d seen them grow between the murderess and me, it was hard to imagine anybody cultivating so many. Yet Holmes’s threads had bound themselves within him in sickly tangles. They could not flow as they ought and in the tension of their arrested movements, one could not help but notice the mark of pain. Their torment was perpetual and unrelieved. It was—so strange to say it, but it was… obscene. So repugnant was the vast violet tangle of Holmes’s soul that I recoiled with horror when I saw how many of those strands reached out to intertwine with my own. I reached out to try and swat them away, but my hand passed right through them.
If she had been less distracted than I, the murderess might have gunned me down with impunity. I was not concentrating on covering her. Nor, fortunately, was she paying much attention to me. Our eyes were fixed upon the same thing: the flame. Trapped within the tangled morass of Holmes’s soul there was an angry blue fire. It bolted this way and that, striving to be free of him, but could not escape its ropy prison. As we watched, it became excited. It moved with an increased, almost gleeful energy. Soon, the reason for its joy became apparent. As the purple lines of Milverton’s destiny that were intertwined with Holmes’s faded, they began to release some of his tangles. Milverton, it seemed, had used certain threads of his own destiny to bind some of Holmes’s into specific patterns. Now that Milverton’s influence was gone, the bonds were struck away. The flame within Holmes bounded back and forth within its cage of tortured violet strands and at last burst free. It hovered in the air before him for a moment, changing in shape. It was a picture, I realized, or a word. Yes… in some language, it must be… a name? The burning name hovered a moment longer, then flew at Holmes and struck him on the forehead. He howled with pain and fury as the name branded itself upon his brow, then he crumpled to the floor.
The threads faded. I could tell they were still present, but as invisible to folly-prone man as they ever had been. Only firelight remained. Firelight and four humans: two upon the ground and two upon their feet, wondering if they ought to shoot one another. For an instant it seemed as if only one of us would be walking out of that fire-lit study, until I turned to my murderess and said, “Go. Just… get out. I’ll… I don’t know… I’ll cover for us, somehow.”
She stared at me as if she expected some trick. I could see her weighing the wisdom and the risk inherent in my offer. Eventually she gave a little shrug, turned and sped off into the night, out through the door she had come in. That was the first time I met The Woman.
If only it had been the last…
Even as she fled, I realized my present difficulties were not done. The gunshots and our voices had raised the household. Even now, cries of alarm rang out in the hallway beyond. Holmes was still insensible, yet his pain seemed to have passed. He was slumped on the floor, limp and languid, laughing to himself. I did not see the burning name that had rested upon his brow, nor did it seem to have left any injury. Still, he didn’t look as if he intended to be very helpful. I leapt to the study door and locked it. I threw a chair beneath the handle to wedge it, too, but in a room with so many windows and an outside door, how could I secure us?
My eyes flew about the room. The safe: no time to crack it now, but then the damage to Holmes was done and Milverton’s threat to our client had likely died with him. The windows: most of the curtains were drawn, so I could not tell if some of the household were already out on the lawn, closing in on us. The fire: Yes! The fire!
I swept up the pincers from the stand of tools and, with them, grabbed the uppermost log off the fire. This I flung, still burning, against the curtains on the far side of the room. I followed it with another and then another. The long bolts of cloth did not disappoint me, but burst immediately into violent flames. That would give them something else to think about.
“Come on, Holmes, we’re leaving.”
From outside the study door, I could hear excited yelling. The doorknob rattled. I reached down to slip my arm beneath Holmes’s shoulder to help him up. He regained his feet, but moved irregularly, as if he were unaccustomed to the length and function of his own limbs. He looked at me and laughed merrily. He attempted a few words, which ended in muttered gulps, as if his tongue would not answer to his command, then finally said, “Yes, Doctor. Let us depart.”
We staggered through the veranda door and out onto the lawn. I could just see the murderess’s dark green cloak disappearing over the wall to our right. I made for the wall to our left. Holmes moved uncertainly and tripped several times. I had to drag him along. It could not have been more than twenty-five yards to the wall, but it took us an age. Fortunately, the fire I’d started did seem to be distracting most of the people who spilled from the house. Unfortunately, it also illuminated Holmes and me. One of the men shouted and pointed at us. He and two others charged.
I cursed and hauled Holmes to the wall. He climbed like a drunkard and I had to pause to shove him over before leaping up myself. One of the men reached us. His hand closed on my ankle and he began to pull me down. He was larger than me and fitter as well. For a moment, I feared he would have me. Then I had a happy remembrance: I was holding a pistol. This I brought to his attention by firing a few rounds into the air. His zeal diminished somewhat and I made it over the wall to join Holmes. A few heads peeped over to watch us go, but one or two more shots just above the wall convinced them all to duck.
We made it across the street, through a hedge on the other side, across a neighbor’s lawn, two more hedges and a back garden. Here I encountered a large ornamental pond, which was welcome indeed. I stripped off my mask and Holmes’s, which I deposited in my satchel with the dark lantern and thieves’ tools. I added two large rocks and flung the thing into the center of the pond, to sink out of sight. My pistol I kept. This may have been inadvisable, yet I knew that—so long as we remained presentable—Holmes and I looked enough like gentry and little enough like the criminal class as to avoid most scrutiny on our journey home.
* * *
In fact, all the scrutiny we would suffer came in one dose, waiting upon the step of 221B Baker Street. As we neared, I could see Inspector Lestrade leaning against a wall, staring with frustration and dread into the gathering dawn. When he saw us, he made directly towards us.
“Good evening, Holmes,” he said, then added, “Doctor.”
“Good evening, Vladislav,” I answered. Holmes nodded.
“I hate to inconvenience you at such an hour,” Lestrade said, with a sniffle, “but it seems we’ve had a spot of bother out in Hampstead. Nasty business. Murder. Arson. The whole thing reeks of witchcraft. There were two suspects, spotted as they fled the scene.”
“Oh… well… that is unfortunate…” I admitted.
“Let’s see,” said Lestrade. “Two masked men. Age indeterminate. One wearing a dark brown suit and bowler hat—much like yours, I think, Dr. Watson…”
“Er… there are so many, you know…”
“And a tall gentleman with striking green eyes and a queer cap that folds down at the front and back.”
“Yes but that might be anybody,” I said. “Why that might even describe Holmes here.”
“It might,” said Lestrade. “It very well might. So, I suppose my question to you two is this: might this be a case we do not wish to see solved? Perhaps something that might be left on Lanner’s desk, following a brisk evidence-destroying sweep?”
I heaved a sigh and mumbled, “By God, that sounds wonderful, Lestrade. Of all the friends I have ever had, I think you may be the most useful of the lot.”
He smiled… sort of. He was not accustomed to compliments. Mine made him uneasy, I could tell. I saw him struggle, weighing his internal desire to obliterate anything and everything against the warm, yet unwelcome, glow he felt whenever anybody addressed him as “friend.”
“I think that is all I needed to know,” said Lestrade. “So sorry, Holmes, but I don’t think Scotland Yard will feel the need to consult you on this particular case. Good night, gentlemen. Well… good day.”
With that, the stunted Romanian turned and left, measuring each of his steps against the burgeoning pink glow upon the eastern horizon. Holmes and I went inside. We were both exhausted. I stumped up the stairs. Holmes, I noted, needed to drag himself up, leaning heavily on the bannister with his right hand. When we reached the landing, I suggested, “Tea?”
This had a visible effect on Holmes, who brightened and said, “Yes, Doctor. Thank you.”
He had trouble getting his coat off once we were inside—as if buttons were suddenly unfamiliar to him. Once it was off, he seemed momentarily unsure which hook to place his coat upon. I deposited him in one of the armchairs and set about making the tea. I purposely put him in the one that faced the fireplace, hoping he would not notice that I took a moment to rifle his room as I bustled back and forth. I didn’t need long; I knew just what I was looking for—the big brown package from our local dispensary.
I found it. I took it to the table with me, when I went to brew the tea. I returned to find Holmes sitting in the chair, opening and closing his hands as if practicing with them. On his face was an expression of pure triumph.
“Quite a night,” I said.
“It was indeed, Doctor.”
“Your tea.”
“Thank you.”
He reached out to take it with his right hand, then cradled it beneath his nose, treasuring the scent as if it were a long-forgotten familiarity—which I suppose it was.
I waited until he savored a long, slow sip, then asked, “Who are you?”
His green eyes flicked up to meet mine. “I’m sorry, Doctor?”
“Holmes calls me ‘Watson’ or ‘John.’ Never ‘Doctor.’ Nor does he drink tea. Even if he did, he wouldn’t drink it in the same manner as you do, because the man who normally inhabits that body is left-handed. An easy detail to overlook, I suppose, yet all these things together lead me to deduce that the man who got up off Charles Augustus Milverton’s floor was not the same man who fell down upon it. I shall ask again: who are you?”
“Well spotted, Doctor.” He smiled at me, took a long drink of tea, shrugged. “It makes no difference, I suppose…”
Another sip.
“I am Professor James Moriarty, at your service.”
He smiled at me again—the smile of a man who is about to take your bishop and declare checkmate. He held one of his hands palm up, just in front of his face. With a sudden whoosh, the gas lamps winked out. The fire in the hearth winked out. All their flames coalesced into a tight orange ball; a miniature inferno, hovering just an inch above his extended palm. His grin shone diabolically in the strange, swimming light and he chuckled, “Or, if we are to be honest, it must be said: you, Dr. John Watson, now find yourself in my service.”
“I am Professor James Moriarty, at your service…”