The convalescent home had a decent view over the wintry South Downs from its veranda, where the patients spent much of the day. Watson wondered if this particular establishment had been deliberately chosen to torment him, to remind him of where his former friend had once cultivated his bees and his honey. Most of the other occupants of the converted mansion were wounded soldiers, for the most part missing limbs or gas-blinded. Watson felt something of a fraud. All he had lost, he thought, sitting in his bath chair, blanket over his thighs, was his will to live. That and about three stones in weight.
He was scanning the advertisements in the Argos when the matron announced he had a visitor.
‘Who is it?’
‘A Mr Holmes.’
‘Mycroft Holmes?’
‘I believe it is.’
He carefully folded the paper and laid it on the table next to him. ‘Very well. Show him in, please.’
Mycroft stepped from the shadows of the day room and onto the glassed-in veranda and pulled up a chair, taking his time in sitting, showing the care of a man cautious with his ageing joints.
‘Watson,’ he said once he had settled.
‘Mycroft.’
‘How are you?’
‘Getting stronger, despite myself.’
‘That water was very cold. The shock to a body of our vintage . . . it takes time to heal.’
Watson didn’t answer.
‘You might like to know that a Red Cross investigation team, operating under the Geneva Convention, is at Harzgrund. The Germans have agreed to co-operate fully, to hand over any evidence of wrongdoing on the part of prisoners and to deliver the perpetrators to British military authority. Men will be hanged for what they did in that camp, Watson.’
‘The thought gives me little pleasure.’ In truth, there was little in life that gave him much pleasure these days.
‘I have something for you.’ Mycroft handed over a parcel.
‘What’s this?’
‘Notebooks. Pencils. You have a story to write.’
Watson threw the package on top of the newspaper. ‘I don’t want to write any of this. Not Harzgrund. Not that bloody bridge.’
Mycroft was not surprised by the mix of venom and despair in Watson’s words. The mental scars of that day would clearly take even longer than his body to heal. ‘No, not that. The Harwich Von Bork affair. It turns out that Mrs Gregson sold that story, and the promise of several others, to Greenhough Smith to finance her little escapade. He wants to call it “His Last Bow”.’
Watson nodded his approval. The Von Bork affair would probably be Holmes’s last official appearance, at least chronologically. There were still earlier adventures to relate, he supposed, ‘The Girl and the Gold Watches’, for one, but the tale of that night in August 1914, when he bested Von Bork, would be a fitting place to end his tenure in the public eye. ‘How much did she get?’
‘Two hundred pounds, so he says.’
‘Well done her.’ Watson looked the older man in the eye. ‘It was more than an escapade, you know. Wrong-headed, perhaps, but at least she tried.’
‘And so did we.’
‘By positioning a sniper to kill Sherlock?’
It was Mycroft’s turn to be silent.
‘And a very poor sniper at that. Missed his bloody target completely.’
Watson could sense that something was troubling Mycroft, something he didn’t quite know how to express.
‘Didn’t he?’
‘That’s not entirely true. At least, we don’t believe it is.’
‘Tell me,’ demanded Watson.
‘Perhaps when you are a little better.’
Watson gripped Mycroft’s arm. ‘Tell me.’
‘The sniper – our sniper, that is – was under orders to shoot only if Sherlock was in German hands. We had a plan in place to make sure that didn’t happen.’
‘The Holland.’
‘It was Churchill’s idea.’
‘Churchill is full of . . . ideas,’ said Watson slowly. ‘Not all of them good.’
Watson had discovered once he and Holmes had been dragged onboard that the Holland was an experimental class of submarine, most of which had been lost or scrapped. Holland 6, though, a minelayer designed for penetration of estuaries and rivers, was still extant. Churchill had persuaded Jackie Fisher of the Board of Invention and Research to release it for a special mission, which involved travelling through neutral waters, to emerge on the German side of the Meuse at the appropriate time.
‘It worked,’ said Mycroft. ‘The marines did a good job of pinning down the enemy while you were fished out of the river. It is a shame we were late – a small tug that had been depth-sounding for us missed a mud bank. We were grounded for a few minutes.’
A few very precious minutes, thought Watson. ‘You were saying about the sniper.’
‘Churchill had a man named Bloch released. German sniper. He was promised freedom no matter what happened, but if Von Bork had my brother in custody, he was to shoot Sherlock. At least, that’s what Churchill told me.’
‘And you believe him?’
Mycroft hesitated. ‘It’s possible he told him to shoot Sherlock the moment he crossed over to the German side.’
‘That sounds more like Churchill.’
‘But without Winston we wouldn’t have had the Holland. I wouldn’t have been on board to help save you. It was a belt-and braces approach. Give him credit for that.’
‘The sniper?’ prompted Watson. ‘What happened to him?’
‘Dead.’
‘How?’
‘Throat cut.’
‘By whom?’
‘The one who took his place on the tower. As far as we can ascertain, that is.’
Watson leaned forward. ‘You are talking in riddles.’
‘Miss Pillbody was on the tower. It was she who pulled the trigger.’
Watson reacted as if he had been given electro-therapy at full voltage; his body arching into spasm.
Mycroft reached over and poured him a glass of water. ‘Nurse!’
‘No, no . . . I’m all right.’ He took the water and gulped, spilling some down his front. ‘Miss Pillbody? That damned woman again. How?’
Mycroft explained about the escape from Holloway and the subsequent murder of two men in Venlo, including his own agent. ‘She killed a local man and took his hunting rifle. We think she was looking for a suitable spot to shoot at the bridge when she saw the tower and instinctively knew that it was the location we would choose to try and silence Sherlock. Her training would tell her that.’
‘So Mrs Gregson’s death wasn’t an accident? Miss Pillbody meant to kill her.’
‘Possibly.’
Watson remembered the moments after the bullet struck, how he had turned round and punched Von Bork so hard his nose had split, and then tossed him into Hersch. His run over the bridge towards the body and his confusion when a Dutch worker had come straight at him. The shock of recognition when he was confronted with Holmes. The anger when Sherlock wouldn’t let Watson go to the crumpled, lonely figure of the woman he . . . the woman who, by filling his imagination and dreams, had kept him alive through his incarceration.
The tussle that took them over the bridge to the waters where Holland 6 had already broken the surface and was disgorging a line of Royal Marines, marksmen every one. The volleys that kept the Germans’ heads down while they were extracted from the water. The delirium, the total physical collapse that followed. Yes, he could recall every hideous moment.
Mycroft passed him a handkerchief, ostensibly to mop up the spilled drink from his waistcoat, but also to dab away the tears on his cheeks.
‘The other shots, after the one that . . . after the first one?’
‘Again, mostly Miss Pillbody with the hunting rifle. Less than accurate. We had no idea who or what she was aiming at till now. I’m afraid she got clean away, though. She could be back in Berlin, for all we know. But rest assured, when this war is over we will run her to ground. You might be pleased to hear that Von Bork is to face a military trial for overstepping his authority. That’s the story they are giving the Red Cross, anyway. The plan to ensnare Sherlock was all the work of a rogue officer, pursuing a personal vendetta.’
Watson was only half listening. ‘I never got to say goodbye to Georgina. Not properly. He denied me that, your brother.’
‘When this is over we’ll bring her body back for a proper burial and service. But the Dutch were furious about their neutrality being compromised. Although the Holland 6 was in German waters, technically at least, when it picked you up, it had to pass through Dutch sections of the river to get away.’
‘I don’t give a fig for Dutch neutrality.’
‘I realize that. My brother did it for the best, you know.’
‘I didn’t even get to see her face!’ Watson snapped. ‘Just for a second would have been enough.’
Mycroft sighed. ‘I appreciate that you must miss her. Even I understand that.’ Mycroft indicated the newspaper. ‘That’s not the way forward, though.’
‘What isn’t?’ Watson asked suspiciously.
‘A séance. Or any other bogus way to contact the dead. Wherever they are, the dead are always beyond us.’
Watson looked puzzled. ‘How did you . . . ?’
‘When I asked Matron how you were doing, she said you were strong enough to consider a trip to Brighton this Saturday. I see from the newspaper there that there is a public meeting of the British Society for Psychical Research, with a famous author or two speaking on the matter of life after death, on that very day. It will be very busy. You aren’t alone in hoping this life isn’t the end. Not by a long chalk.’
‘I don’t believe. And yet, there was one case in the camps that I keep wondering about.’ Watson outlined the details of Brevette and the séance where he apparently told Hulpett that the captain had not made it home. Hulpett, apparently, was not one of those who knew the truth about the fate of the men who entered the trick coffins. He was onboard solely for his experience as a solicitor. And so he had told Lincoln-Chance about his qualms, sealing Archer’s fate and, for good measure, the medium’s fellow voyagers to the afterlife.
‘It could be a coincidence,’ offered Mycroft when Watson had finished.
‘Do you believe in coincidence?’
‘On the 30th of June 1916, The Times crossword had clues that gave the answers “Somme”, “offensive” and “Albert”. And the next day the Battle of Albert began, the first part of the Somme Offensive. The poor man who set the clues was hauled off and virtually hung by his ankles. Turned out to be a complete coincidence. So, yes, sometimes the stars do align and coincidences do occur. Look, you know that Harry Houdini has spent much of the last few years debunking mediums and the like. Sherlock has done his fair share of explaining supernatural phenomena. Good Lord, man, you were there for most of them.’
Watson’s chin dropped onto his chest. ‘I know. I am a foolish old man.’
‘And, as I said, you miss her.’ There was a touch of impatience in the voice. ‘It might have been for the best, you know, that you didn’t see her on the bridge. She was already dead,’ said Mycroft, putting a hand on Watson’s knee. ‘Sherlock knew that. He wanted to save the living . . . there was no time for mourning.’
Watson did not answer.
‘If you insist on exploring the possibility of the continuation of sentience, there was always one case that baffled Houdini and every other investigator, including Madame Curie.’
Watson turned and looked at Mycroft. ‘Don’t mock me.’
‘It’s true. A woman in Paris, Eva Carrière, has received some acclaim, although I also hear she is something of a sexual exhibitionist. Personally, I am not convinced, but I think it might be more interesting than the hysteria that will ensue in Brighton. People want to believe so badly, you see. It doesn’t make the dead come calling.’
‘Well, thank you all the same. I shall do some research on this Carrière woman. But perhaps you are right. It is just so hard to accept that I will never see her again.’
‘That is the worst part.’
Watson’s head flicked up. ‘Until now?’
‘What?’
‘You said, about the shots on the bridge, the wild firing. You said you had no idea what she was firing at “until now”.’
‘No.’ Mycroft chewed his lip. ‘This is . . . difficult.’
The matron appeared with some tea and biscuits, interrupting them. When she had left, Watson asked: ‘How is it difficult exactly?’
‘To reopen old wounds.’
‘The old wounds are not yet healed, Mycroft, they will reopen easily enough. What do you have?’
Mycroft reached into his jacket pocket and extracted a piece of paper. ‘Three days ago the body of one of Kell’s men was discovered in his London chambers. He had hanged himself. Robert Nathan. You know him?’
Watson indicated he didn’t.
‘I met him briefly. Competent enough fellow, although rather in thrall to—’ Mycroft pulled himself up short and cleared his throat. ‘He was assisting Mrs Gregson. He left a note. Much of it is rambling – he had drunk a fair quantity of alcohol before he did the deed. But this is the relevant page.’
Watson took it and, with a shaking hand, read the scrawl, which was blobbed with water stains. Tears, he guessed, dropping as the man wrote.
Some say evil is a contagion. That it can infect others, like influenza or typhoid. I believe that now. I believe the woman Pillbody to be a creature of pure evil, capable of corrupting all who come into contact with her. Why else would I have conceived of such a wicked plan? Wicked and foolish. It was I who arranged her escape in Holland. I who gave her the means of picking the locks to the manacles that bound her. I did not know she was going to kill Farleigh and Buller. That was not my intention. Before I released her, I gave her a price, which she agreed to. Kill Dr Watson on the bridge. Oh, how depraved it seems now. But at the time it seemed the perfect solution. If Watson were dead then there would be no exchange – Sherlock Holmes would not fall into German hands. And Mrs Gregson would be free of her infatuation for the man. And I would be free to pursue her without
Watson refolded the paper and handed it back, struck numb by the words. ‘I wish Pillbody had killed me, not Mrs Gregson,’ he said. ‘The man was right. It would have solved the dilemma at a stroke.’
‘He is also right about Miss Pillbody being evil,’ said Mycroft. ‘Cruelty is her currency. She had one accurate shot. By killing Georgina, she struck at both you and at Nathan.’
‘It was stupid of him. You might as well try and control a hungry tiger as Miss Pillbody.’
‘Those shots on the bridge, from the hunting rifle, I suspect they were meant for you. Mrs Pillbody probably thought she might as well kill you as agreed. So Sherlock saved your life by pulling you into the water before she got her range.’
Mycroft concentrated on drinking his tea, biding his time until Watson had composed himself and dried his tears once more.
‘How is he?’ Watson asked at last. ‘Sherlock?’
‘Back in London for the time being. He, too, suffered from his submersion. And from the events on the bridge.’
‘He knows about this Nathan and what he did?’
‘I told him this morning.’
Watson remembered his tea and took a sip. It was almost cold.
‘He’s outside,’ said Mycroft softly.
‘Who is?’
‘Sherlock.’
A shake of the head. ‘I don’t want to see him.’
‘He said you wouldn’t.’
‘It’s all too painful.’
‘He said that too.’
‘Then why did he come?’ asked Watson tetchily.
Mycroft frowned. ‘He said the most extraordinary thing to me when I pointed that out.’
‘Which was?’
‘I quote: “I am not always right, you know, Mycroft. And on this occasion, I would very much like to be in the wrong.” Imagine that. Admitting to me that he was fallible.’
‘Imagine,’ Watson repeated sourly.
‘There is something else you should know,’ said Mycroft cautiously, as if tiptoeing through a minefield. ‘There is a case he needs help with.’
‘A case? Isn’t he past taking cases?’
‘An old adversary has apparently reappeared,’ he replied solemnly.
‘Really?’ Watson tried to feign disinterest, but he knew Mycroft would have picked up on the signs of his curiosity being pricked. Some time passed before he could wait no longer. ‘Which one?’
‘He didn’t say. I am merely his brother, not his . . .’ Mycroft let Watson’s exact status hang in the ether.
Watson drank the rest of his tea in silence. Eventually, he put down the cup and saucer and picked up a biscuit. He felt a strange mixture of emotions. The weight of years and shared experiences, a near-lifetime with Holmes, pressed down on him physically like a great weight, but somewhere deep inside he could feel something – his soul? His spirit? – floating with a lightness he had not known for many weeks now.
‘All right, Mycroft. It would give me considerable pleasure to prove the Great Detective wrong.’ He took a bite of the ginger nut to mask his smile. ‘Send him in, will you?’