Part I

Chapter I: An Explosive Encounter

The sound of gunshots meant that something had gone very wrong indeed.

I strained to hear whether my name was really being called, as I suddenly thought, or if it was some trick of the fog, twisting the distant echoes and moving shouts into an illusion that resembled actual words. Cries grew both louder and softer, and running footsteps went by in the street, on the other side of the building from where I was concealed, but never approached my hiding spot. I involuntarily flinched when there was a muffled explosion, but quickly reasoned that it posed no danger to me. Then something, perhaps a piece of wood thrown by the blast, slammed into the wall not two feet from where I crouched in darkness.

There was an escalating panic to some of the voices that I could now hear more clearly, and I was reminded of the pleading I had heard on long-ago battlefields, when men alternately begged for their friends, their mothers, or for me, the doctor. The words blurred then in a different way than how I heard them now. Those cries were continually drowned out by the artillery fire and ricochets that spun around my head like bees from an overturned hive.

But I was long years and thousands of miles from that, my last battlefield on the plains of Maiwand. Instead, here in this dark London night, away from the tumult occurring in the next block, I could not be certain about any of the voices that I was hearing. My friend, Sherlock Holmes, had instructed me to maintain my position here, no matter what happened. But he had also been clear that the disruption of the gang’s activities would be accomplished peacefully, without violence. Something had gone very wrong indeed.

“Baron Meade is a coward at heart, Watson,” Holmes had said confidently as we approached the rendezvous in a hansom cab, not a quarter-of-an-hour before. “The surprise will be enough to force him to surrender.” It was hard to believe that things could have turned so suddenly in such a small amount of time.

We had abandoned the cab a couple of blocks away from the nondescript house off the Brixton Road. Inspector Lanner and his men were waiting in the agreed-upon spot, and it was to be a simple matter of surrounding the building and making our way inside. I knew that the fog was an unexpected complication, but Holmes didn’t seem to mind. However, he did surprise me when he suddenly insisted that I take a spot behind the narrow old house, in the mews that opened off the alley beside it, running on through to the next street. I had thought to go inside with the rest, but he gave me to understand that possibly he was not as confident as he had first appeared.

“Stay alert, Watson,” he had said as he plucked my sleeve. “And don’t leave your post, whatever happens.”

Then he and the others disappeared into the murk. I, along with a young constable assigned to accompany me, found our assigned spot. We reached a darker region of shadows away from the dim gaslight reflecting out of the adjacent streets, about thirty feet behind the building in question. Finding a hiding place, we settled in to wait. I could hear my companion’s breathing, ragged and nervous, and I smiled a bit at my apparent calm. Almost immediately, however, I heard the police whistles and the banging of doors. And then the gunshots began, followed by the unmistakable explosion, and I realized that my breathing had become as that of the young policeman.

Because of the dampening effect of the fog, I couldn’t tell from which direction the shots came, but common sense indicated that since they were occurring simultaneously with the raid on the Baron’s heinous operation, there must certainly be a connection. I struggled to understand what must have happened.

The gunfire stopped. It had never been close enough to leave me with a ringing in my ears, so I immediately began to hear the other sounds that I might have missed otherwise. Dogs barking, police whistles, more running footsteps. It was all happening on the next street over, while I was still crouched here in the alley behind the house, wondering if I should break my orders and join the fray. Even now, after the battle appeared to be over, I felt the need to step across and see if my assistance as a doctor was required, should the confrontation have produced a casualty or two.

I heard a noise and saw my companion, the constable, rise from his hiding place and trot away without a word or backward glance down the alley toward the front street. I had almost talked myself into stepping out of my own carefully chosen shadow when a curious thing happened.

The back of the house that had been the focus of our attention was a blank-faced thing, looming in the blackness, its high edges a penumbra in the gaslight haloing it from the street beyond. As my eyes had adjusted, I had seen the outline of the sole door, reached by a short flight of wooden steps, and the four shuttered windows looking out toward the back alley. But there had been no indication of the other door, a secret door, in the wall along the ground until I glimpsed a deeper darkness begin to widen near the building’s foundation.

It opened ever so slowly, at first no more than a thin vertical bar of deeper Stygian night, infinitesimally emptier than its surroundings. Initially I thought that my eyes were seeing an illusion. I shifted my gaze to one side of the crack, knowing that peripheral vision is stronger in the absence of light. I found that I was holding my breath, threatening to cause spots to appear in my vision before me, and I released it slowly, forcing myself to breathe in even regularity. I was not mistaken – the crack had widened in a place where I had been certain that no door existed.

Perhaps in daylight it would have been more obvious with an extensive examination. Possibly Holmes had spotted it earlier, and this was why he placed me here. Still, an explanation beforehand as to what to expect would have been useful. But none of that mattered now, as I realized it was only I who stood between whomever was slipping away and his freedom. And I was quite certain as to whom that man was.

I don’t know how wide the hidden door was built to open, but after an aperture of only a foot or so was achieved, an arm and shoulder began to slip through. This was quickly followed by the rest of the man as he ducked and wiggled down to pass his head. I could see that the secret door was little more than four feet in height, a fact that had been hidden until then due to the odd lack of perspective in the lightless alley. The man was wearing a dark coat and had a cap pulled low on his head. I couldn’t identify him, but I knew that it was certainly he who had visited our rooms that morning, in a futile attempt to decoy Holmes in the wrong direction.

The man paused to pull the door shut, no doubt to prevent any indication from showing inside how he had made his escape, thus keeping pursuers from getting on his trail any sooner than necessary. There was a small click, barely heard in the muffled alley, as he snicked the door shut. Then he stood to his full height and turned my way.

He pulled up short when he saw me standing there, having emerged from my makeshift hunting blind. Holding my faithful service revolver, I said unnecessarily, and feeling slightly foolish, “Stop.”

With my left hand, I patted my coat for a moment, before cursing silently to myself as I realized that I had forgotten my police whistle. Possibly I was out of the habit, or more likely the events of recent weeks had distracted me, in spite of Holmes’s efforts to help acclimate me to my recent loss. Regardless of all that, I was alone with a desperate criminal, and had to find some way to herd him down the alley toward the street and the authorities.

“Holmes!” I called, although it sounded weak and uselessly muffled in the mist. “Holmes!” Then, without waiting for an answer, I gestured with the pistol toward the passage that led around the side of the house and toward the sounds of the police. “That way,” I said, my voice softer now, feeling and sounding unpleasant to me.

He turned, but I should have noticed that there was no sign of defeat about him. It was too easy, and it was my own fault for not spotting it. He had only gone four or five hesitant steps as I carelessly closed the distance between us when he seemed to pivot on one foot, and before I knew it, he was slamming into my left side, forcing the gun in my right hand in the opposite direction. A chop across my forearm, and it spun away into the darkness.

I think that was all he planned to do. He certainly didn’t want to stay and fight me. Rather, he only wished to run like a rabbit into the warren of streets stretching away to the south. But I instinctively reached out and grabbed his coat, twisting the fabric around with a grip that surprised me. He tried to shrug out of it, but it was buttoned, and the angle with which I held the fabric didn’t give his arms the freedom of movement to work free.

He lurched from side to side, making frustrated mutterings as he attempted to weaken my hold. I was able to right myself somewhat, and – finding that I had both of my feet solidly on the ground – lifted one of them to kick his legs out from under him. He fell heavily with a grunt, pulling me down with him, my fingers still entwined in the cloth. For no special reason, I noticed that it was wool, with a wide herringbone pattern that was visible even in the dark, though just as lighter and darker shades of gray and black.

My knee hit a cobblestone as I landed, bringing tears to my eyes and focusing my thoughts intently on the struggle. The man was attempting to get his arms up to break my grip. Once, twice, he chopped, and one of his arms had gotten between my own as he attempted to reach my face. His fingers were scrabbling about on my chin, working toward my eyes, when I propped and centered myself on the injured knee. With a gasp from my sharp and renewed pain, I pulled up my other leg abruptly, slamming that knee into my opponent. And then, as he twisted beneath me, again.

With a groan, his hands immediately dropped away from their struggles, but he didn’t stop trying to get away, twisting weakly from side to side. He began to curse under his breath, wheezing specific words and phrases of the vilest sort. And then he looked up, our eyes locked, and he spat at me.

I think of myself as several things. I am a doctor. I was a soldier. And for little more than a fortnight now, I had been a widower. The feelings that had remained constrained within me since my recent loss, pushed down with medical detachment and military discipline, found their own secret door just then. A thin black crack in an obscure part of my own dark foundation was all that was needed.

And then I went mad.

If Holmes and Inspector Lanner hadn’t arrived then, I’m not sure what else would have happened. As it was, I was prevented from causing any permanent harm.

Even as I heard the footsteps running toward us from the front of the old house, I released my right hand from its twisted grip in the man’s coat and immediately refolded it into a fist. “That is enough of you,” I muttered, and he looked up at me with suddenly widened and fearful eyes, seeing in my expression just what he had awakened, if only for an instant. It was only Holmes’s cry of “Watson!” that prevented me from punching the villain’s head into the cobbles beneath it, possibly with enough force to fracture his skull and kill him. If I had known then what was to come in the days ahead, perhaps I would have followed through. Instead, I pulled my force at the very last instant, simply hitting him on the intersection of his mandible with his skull. His head whipped around, and the resulting motion, reacting on that delicate mass of brain tissue within, dropped him instantly into a state of unconsciousness.

Releasing my left hand from his coat allowed his now-tensionless upper body to sag to the ground. I painfully rocked back on my knees and pushed myself up to a standing position. Holmes and Lanner were there by then, alternately looking between the unconscious man on the ground and at me. I didn’t need to examine my opponent to know from his regular breathing that he was all right and would be awake soon. I had recognized him for certain at the last minute, just before I hit him. “It’s Baron Meade,” I said, my voice sounding rougher and more winded than I would have liked. “He came out the back.” I swallowed. “There was a secret door.”

Holmes glanced sharply toward the building, but then back to me as several constables entered our immediate vicinity. Lanner directed them to carry the unconscious man toward the street. “My apologies, Watson,” said Holmes quietly, as the others left us. “I should have made sure that the constable assigned to watch with you back here knew to stay put where he was placed. I’m not surprised that you wouldn’t let anything past you, but I had no idea how desperate things might become.”

“The gunshots? The explosion? Was anyone injured?”

“No. One of the Baron’s men panicked and began to fire when we stormed the house. He was subdued quickly, but as you can imagine, the shots escalated the business considerably. And then…” He paused and rubbed his face with uncharacteristic worry, “Then one of the men tried to ignite a barrel of fuel. Inexplicably, there was a flash and bang, but it didn’t set off the cache stacked around it.” He shook his head. “Thank God. The man who tried to kill us all, however, didn’t survive. The rest were much more fortunate.”

Holmes started to turn away, but I stopped him as I had a moment of clarity. “You sent me back here because you sensed there might be danger up front. You were diverting me out of the way.” I gestured toward the house. “You didn’t know there was a secret door. You thought no one would come this way.” It was a statement, not a question.

He at least had the decency to look embarrassed. “Nonsense,” he said, gesturing toward the dark building. “We knew from my reconnaissance earlier today that there was a rear door, and someone had to watch it. The fact that the constable left before the Baron appeared proves that the police could not be trusted to do the job.”

“You forget, Holmes. You told me you spiked their guns earlier today when you examined the house by fixing the known rear door so that it couldn’t be opened from within. The same for the windows. You believed that no one would be able to escape by this route. You placed me here to keep me out of the action.”

“Watson – ”

“I do not need any protection,” I said, a trace of bitterness in my voice, reawakening the anger that had been in me for weeks. Striking Baron Meade had not drained it away.

“Watson, it has been less than a month since…”

“Holmes, thank you for what you tried to do, but do not do it again.”

He was silent for a few seconds, and then said with a nod, “I apologize, my friend. It is fortunate that you were here after all. My efforts to seal the place up appear to have been circumvented, as the rat had a different escape route.”

“Not at all,” I said, willing to let it go for now. I looked around for a moment, retrieved my revolver, and then took a step toward the house. “Let’s see this secret door.” I led him to the foundation of the building and, lighting a match, showed him the line demarking the edges.

“Blast!” said Holmes. “If only I’d had time to fully explore the house earlier today, I would have seen this. But the Baron’s untimely return mean that I had to get out without finishing the job.”

I pushed on the hidden opening, but it refused to yield. However, a kick snapped the weak catch and the passage was visible before us. We found ourselves in the basement of the house. Holmes examined the door from the inside, lamenting again that he hadn’t had the time to make further explorations during the day when he had briefly invaded the building while it was unoccupied. We found our way to the stairs and quickly went up to where the last of Baron Meade’s men were being led out in handcuffs. In the corner was a body, now covered by newspapers, except for the stump of an arm that was revealed flung out beside it in an already congealing pool of blood.

The smell inside the house burned my eyes, matching how Holmes had earlier described it. Lanner was standing nearby alongside a series of many stacked barrels and boxes, his arms akimbo. Hearing our footsteps, he turned. “Are you sure it’s safe like this?” he asked.

“Reasonably,” replied Holmes, “although we should move it out as soon as possible, separating the materials in the different containers from each other. Where are the explosives men from the Special Branch?”

“I’ve sent for them now. They were waiting one street over.” He lifted one of the lids, and then quickly replaced it when the strong ammonia smell washed over us. “What unholy mess is this?”

“A compound of nitrogen-based materials – fertilizers, actually. When combined with these other barrels of coal oil, they can form an incredibly powerful explosive agent.”

“And the crates of machine parts? Screws, and the like?”

“Shrapnel.”

“And he intended to blow up Parliament?”

“Possibly. Or Scotland Yard, or perhaps some other target. With the amount of these materials here, all mixed together and ignited, the blast would have been catastrophic. This is not a puny bomb assembled by your typical radical dynamitard, Lanner, to be left in haste by a wall of the Yard or at the base of Nelson’s Column. Baron Meade is more ambitious than that, and combined with his superior knowledge and malignant motivation, much more dangerous as well.”

“And tell me again, Mr. Holmes, how you got on to him?”

“The Baron’s shoes didn’t fit correctly,” he said, turning away. Lanner glanced toward me in frustration, but with his mouth tight, as if he didn’t trust whatever words might come spilling out.

I moved to the stack of materials and looked into a few of the crates. There were nails, and door hinges, and countless other metallic objects. When combined with the explosive force of the nitrogen compounds and the fuel oil, the deadly destruction would have been incomprehensible.

Through the open front door, we could hear the arrival of the heavy dray wagons, brought to evacuate the potential explosives from our presence. Holmes made sure that the different materials were kept separate and loaded onto their own individual wagons.

I stood to one side on the street and watched the progress of the silent and efficient men. I was wool-gathering in the aftermath of the affair, and unaware at first when the Baron was led nearby, in the grasp of two constables, toward a nearby Maria. I only came back to myself when one of the constables muttered in anger as the prisoner forced himself to a stop.

“Dr. Watson,” he called with menace.

I turned his way. Even in the gaslight I could see a bruise forming on his jaw beneath his left ear.

“I won’t forget this,” he hissed. “Remember, sir – you have brought this on yourself.”

My eyes narrowed. “Take him away,” I said in a low voice, feeling how easy it would have been to reopen that hidden door within myself, seeking the satisfaction of bringing the butt of my gun down on his head.

Holmes joined me, watching the disgraced nobleman being placed in the vehicle while stating that our work was finished for the night. We walked out to the Brixton Road, and turned toward Camberwell New Road, seeking any sign of a cab.

“Lanner would have arranged for transportation,” I said.

“Perhaps. However, I believe that he would like to carry on from here without us.”

The fog seemed to thicken as we incrementally approached the river. “Why here?” I asked. “Why did he not find a house in which to store the materials closer to his targets?”

“This location is out of the way without really being that far from important targets. Up the Brixton Road, pass near the Oval, and so on across the Vauxhall Bridge. Then he would have been just a few minutes from everything. Who would question a few wagons carrying barrels and boxes openly through the city streets? Once in place, he might even have set off this hellfire in Trafalgar Square at mid-day. Imagine the carnage he could have caused.”

“I would prefer not to.” I could not force myself to think of it. “All because of the loss of a loved one,” I said softly. “He blames the Crown for the death of his son.”

“Not just the Crown,” said Holmes. “The entire British people who would tolerate a system that, in his opinion, let his son die.” We walked on in silence for a few more minutes, before Holmes added, “Grief can cause a man to do strange things.”

He was not subtle. “Such as a man giving way to the urge to beat another into a pulp?” I asked. When he didn’t answer, I said, “I only hit him the once, you know.”

“That is true.” Then, “That was enough.”

When he didn’t speak again, I felt the urge to fill the silence. “I admit the motivation was there to do further damage.” I paused. “I’m glad that you and Lanner arrived when you did. Perhaps… I’m not ready yet to be accompanying you on these investigations.”

“Nonsense!” Holmes cried, coming to a stop and facing me, startling me with his loud call in the oppressive fog. “Work is the best antidote, my friend!” And he clapped me on the shoulder, repeating in a softer tone, “Nonsense. I will not tolerate it.” Then, louder, “Look!” He pointed into the distance. “Finally, a cab.”

***

In spite of our adventures, we actually returned to Baker Street at a comparatively early hour. Mrs. Hudson offered to provide us with some refreshments, but instead we deemed that whisky before the warm fire was exactly what the doctor ordered – with me serving as the doctor. There was no conversation, only companionable silence, and eventually I rose and made my way upstairs to my room, leaving Holmes staring pensively into the flames.

I slept far deeper than I would have anticipated, and awoke rather early, refreshed and surprisingly care-free. My mood was not even spoiled by the fact that rains had moved in, threatening to turn to ice as the temperature experienced a bitter January drop. Holmes, expecting few clients that day, started to shuffle through the mounds and stacks of papers that he was periodically forced to address, and I settled myself before the fire, painfully wincing whenever I was forced to move my sore knee.

And so Inspector Lanner found us when he made his way to Baker Street later that morning, to inform us that Baron James Osborne Russell Meade, former politician and philanthropist turned criminal, had escaped from custody late the previous night, not long after his arrest.

Chapter II: A Seemingly Innocent Matter

We had first tumbled into the seemingly innocent matter of Baron Meade only the day before, as revealed by an apparently innocuous client, one of several seen that morning. It was not unusual for any number of callers to visit our rooms in Baker Street on a daily basis. From nearly the first day that I had started sharing lodgings with Holmes, seven years earlier, he had been consulted by a great many of the residents of London about their little problems. “They are mostly sent on by private inquiry agencies,” stated Holmes that day in early March 1881, referring to his many mysterious visitors when first explaining to me his unique position as a Consulting Detective. We had been fellow lodgers at that time for only a couple of months, and the mystery of uncovering Holmes’s profession had served to fill my empty days as I sought to regain something of the health that I had lost the previous July in Afghanistan. “They are all people who are in trouble about something,” he continued, “and want a little enlightening. I listen to their story, they listen to my comments, and then I pocket my fee.”

He also explained that his turns for both observation and deduction, which had initially caused me to scoff in derision at what I believed was an exaggeration, were “extremely practical – so practical that I depend upon them for my bread and cheese.”

I soon became a believer in my friend’s methods, and a frequent participant in his investigations as well. I no longer doubted him – well, hardly ever – and never tired of seeing what he was capable of determining from the trifles that would seem to the rest of us as the merest moonshine.

Holmes, on the other hand, never ceased trying to help me to learn his methods. I must brag that I have had a few successes over the years, as he finally convinced me to look at the knees of a man’s trousers, or the writing on an envelope, for instance, before proceeding hurriedly and directly to the contents of the enclosed letter. I believe that I have been of some assistance to Holmes, as he wouldn’t have had the patience to tolerate my friendship for this long if I had not. And yet, when our latest visitor departed the previous morning, I’d had no sense that there was anything more serious about the man’s problem than an insignificant theft from a warehouse.

I began to perceive that there was something of more concern about our visitor’s tale when, after the withdrawal of the fellow, Holmes slipped out of the room to the landing and had a word with the page boy. Then he returned and sank back into his armchair, tapping his lips with the stem of an unlit pipe, and cogitating furiously while staring at the floor past his outstretched legs. Finally, he seemed to return to himself most abruptly and, reaching for the tobacco in the nearby Persian slipper mounted below the mantelpiece, he said, “You saw that he was lying, did you not?”

I cast my mind back. The man, the third to climb the steps that morning, had identified himself as a Mr. Walthrop, manager of a warehouse south of the Thames, not far downriver from the Tower. His clothing was worn, but not overly shabby. His speech was plain and unremarkable. But I had shaken his hand, this supposed manager of a warehouse, and recalled now the smoothness of his palm and fingers. And then, as I cast my mind’s eye over him again, I saw it.

“His shoes!” I exclaimed.

“His shoes,” Holmes agreed, scratching a light for his pipe.

“They did not seem to fit his feet.”

“Clearly,” said Holmes, “they were not his shoes at all. They were too short for his feet, and his toes could be observed pushing uncomfortably along the top leathers, and not fitting at all into the stretched and established spaces where the toes of the true owner have previously rested.”

“But surely the fact that he’s wearing incorrect shoes is not enough to say that he was lying. There must be countless explanations why he would be in the wrong shoes – ”

“Yes. Seven immediately come to mind.”

“ – but that doesn’t necessarily negate what he told you.”

“Nevertheless. You might also recall that his clothes did not fit either. He was trying to disguise himself. Also, his hair was freshly barbered, and he still had the subtle smell of the scented lather that had left him so clean-shaven, highlighting the lighter skin by his ears and on his lip, where were previously covered by side whiskers and a mustache. No, he was clearly not who he wished us to believe, as the man inside did not match the outside. He is too refined to be the warehouse manager he impersonates, and his entire story becomes suspect.” Now, with the pipe well-lit, Holmes asked, “When did Mr. Walthrop state that the barrels first disappeared?”

“Just last night. He said they were catalogued as part of the inventory yesterday afternoon for today’s shipment, and that they were missing this morning when the warehouse opened.”

“And don’t you find it unusual that he immediately high-tailed it to our door to seek our assistance? Do you not believe that barrels of building materials have gone missing at warehouses before, even those supposedly managed by the worthy Mr. Walthrop? Was this a significant enough occurrence for him to specifically seek out my services?”

I agreed, seeing his point.

“So why now? Why make the journey this morning, specifically to arrange for me to be watching at the warehouse tonight for the delivery of a similar set of barrels, on the shaky assumption that since the first barrels were taken – somehow – the next set will be as well?”

“When you explain it that way – “

“Did he give any indication that he believed that some supernatural occurrence was responsible for the theft, or perhaps it was caused by the participation of some international gang of barrel thieves?”

“No, he did not.”

“He offered nothing unique at all about this random and superficially insignificant warehouse theft. Yet he patently wants to ensure that we will be at a certain place at a certain time tonight, but for no particularly good reason. Therefore, I think that we should be anywhere else but at his warehouse. The question now is to determine where else in the world we should be.”

As Holmes finished speaking, a knock was immediately followed by the entrance of the page boy, whom I had heard slipping up the stairs seconds earlier. He was out of breath, but struggling to speak clearly. “I had to jump on the back of the carriage, since I didn’t see any of the other lads at first,” he explained. “We were nearly to Portman Square when I gave the sign to Morton, and he managed to take my place. He’ll stick with them. Bates was with him too, and was keeping up, last I saw. I came back to report.”

“Well done,” said Holmes, reaching into his pocket and pulling forth a monetary reward. “We shall await developments.”

And they were not long in coming.

Within the hour, the front bell heralded the arrival of Bert Deacon, rampsman-turned-cabbie by way of being cleared by Holmes of a murder he did not commit back in ‘82. The big man paused upon entry to the sitting room, catching his wheezing breath. I had a chance to examine him, from his large smiling face to his inwardly turned left foot. I was surprised to realize that I had already identified our visitor as he climbed the stairs, before even seeing him, from the sound that foot made as it dragged awkwardly on every other tread. Perhaps Holmes’s methods were rubbing off on me after all.

“I have a message from one o’ your lads,” he began.

“Morton?”

Deacon nodded. “He fetched up at a house on the Surrey side, just off the Brixton Road.”

“Not in Rotherhithe?” Holmes glanced meaningfully at me. The warehouse in question had been described as on the river, in the East End, and definitely not in Brixton.

“No, sir. Morton had waved a couple o’ the other lads to follow the carriage as they went south, and when they caught up with him, he told them to keep watch on the house where the gentleman stopped. Then he saw me on my way back towards the bridge and flagged me down.” He paused to pull a wadded tear of paper from his waistcoat pocket. “This would be the address.”

Holmes unfolded it, muttered, “Excellent,” and flipped a coin toward Deacon. Catching it, the big cabbie muttered, “Thankee,” and then, seeing the denomination, repeated more clearly, “Thank you, Mr. Holmes.”

“Mmm,” said Holmes, deep in thought. Then, rising suddenly, he instructed Deacon to wait for him downstairs. “I’ll be with you momentarily.” Over his shoulder, he added for my benefit, “Watson, I must reconnoiter the enemy camp.” He passed into his bedroom.

“You think of this Mr. Walthrop as an enemy, then?”

“Better to be safe than sorry,” he called through the open doorway, “as we have had cause to learn in the past, and sometimes painfully.” I could hear drawers opening and closing. “Any man who would disguise himself, more ineffectively than he realized, and take time to try and decoy us elsewhere is certainly up to no good.”

He returned to the sitting room, dressed as the common loafer that he so often favored when venturing out as someone else. Crossing to the door, he said, “Please remain available, as I don’t know when I shall return. I hope to have the threads in hand before we’re expected at Mr. Walthrop’s warehouse later tonight.” And with that, he was gone.

I spent a dull afternoon watching the skies cloud over through the sitting room windows. I tried to distract myself with a novel, but to no avail. Mrs. Hudson brought tea, and seemed as if she wanted to stay and talk, but apparently something in my visage sent her back down the stairs. I was relieved. After the events of a few weeks earlier, I was very glad for all that she had done to care for me since, but I was not yet ready to discuss it.

Holmes returned a little before six. I could smell the cold air that came in with him. It was a bitter January so far, which was only another factor in my despondent mood. “I took the liberty,” Holmes called from his bedroom as he resumed his normal guise, “of having Mrs. Hudson bring up something to eat a bit earlier than usual. We will be going out soon.”

“Not to Walthrop’s warehouse, I expect.”

“Correct. Although I did take the time to outfit a couple of willing acquaintances to fill those roles. They will appear in suitable Holmes and Watson clothing, pulled from stores that I maintain in one of my hidey holes, in order to give them some semblance of appearance to the two of us. As we speak, they are loitering in the shadows, but not too shadowed or hidden to be ignored, near the warehouse, giving the impression that both you and I are diligently, though incompetently, on the job, ready to catch the wicked thieves of Mr. Walthrop’s next barrel shipment – a thing that I suspect will not occur.”

I didn’t want to dwell on the idea that Holmes had a double of me out on the streets of London. Rather, I asked, “What did you determine?”

Mrs. Hudson, whom I had heard climbing the stairs, chose that moment to enter with a loaded tray. It was only an hour or so since she had served tea, but she brought enough food to nourish me as if I were starving. At least, I assumed that a great deal of it was for me, as she must have known that even a hungry Holmes would eat very little indeed.

I joined my friend at the table, reaching for the makings of a sandwich. He said, “First, I have determined that Mr. Walthrop does not exist.” Slathering mustard over folded bread and ham, he continued, “The manager of the warehouse is a certain Oswald Brinker. Our visitor this morning is actually someone else, a completely different man that you may have read about: Baron James Meade.”

Enlightenment was sudden. “You will recall that he has been somewhat vocal of late,” Holmes continued. “Since the riot.”

I nodded. The fellow had been quite vociferous in recent weeks, making numerous public speeches, as well as providing written commentary in the form of pamphlets and letters to the editors, criticizing both the Government and the Crown. Previously a patriotic member of society from a long-standing and wealthy family, he had almost overnight become a bitter opponent of the established order following the death of his only son the previous November, just a couple of months earlier. At the time of the events that came to be known as “Bloody Sunday”, this son, a young officer in a famous and noted regiment, had been in London, simply watching the unfolding and escalating events from a location beside one of the buildings facing Trafalgar Square. He wasn’t a part of the four-hundred soldiers or the two-thousand police officers who were assigned to break up the protest that day.

Things quickly descended into a tumult, and when the authorities rode into the ten-thousand protesters on horseback, a wall of fleeing people were forced to surge past where the Baron’s son was standing, knocking him to the ground. He suffered several seriously broken bones, but appeared to be otherwise unharmed and was expected to make a guarded recovery, until later the next day, when a bit of marrow from his fractured femur dislodged and entered his bloodstream, forming a blockage that resulted in his immediate and untimely death.

“A tragic affair,” I said. “But why would Baron Meade be decoying us away from a warehouse?”

“A warehouse where he has no connection at all,” reminded Holmes. “But I’m telling things out of order, which is a bad habit indeed.”

I allowed that obvious dig at my own small efforts to pass unremarked. “Tell it, then, the way you wish.”

He took a bite of the sandwich, swallowed, and said, “Deacon first delivered me to the house off the Brixton Road, whereupon I made myself visible until Morton approached. He explained that the man he had followed had gone into the house for only a few minutes, and then had departed, walking up the street to a nearby pub. He was still there, drinking beer after having previously consumed something for lunch.

“I looked across the street to the house. It was obviously untenanted. The street was deserted, and the chance was too good to miss. Leaving Morton and his compatriots on watch, I made my way to the house and slipped inside. What I found was puzzling at first, but suddenly I realized what I was looking at.

“There were no furnishings, and it had obviously been empty for quite a while. In fact, the only items there whatsoever were countless crates and barrels. I had smelled the strong scent of ammonia when I entered, far too much to simply indicate that tramps had found a way to get in and hide in this empty house. I quickly ascertained that the smell was coming from many of the barrels – but not all of them. Piled nearby were vast amounts of coal oil, also adding their own powerful scent to the mix, and boxes and barrels of metallic objects, such as nails, screws, and even hinges and other metallic hardware.

“I see that you are puzzled, Watson. In spite of being exposed to some of the worst that society has to offer, you have thankfully not seen everything. Certain types of nitrogen-based compounds, such as that contained in the ammonia-smelling barrels, when mixed with fuels, make a terrible and violently powerful explosive.”

He let that statement hang in the air between us, and I had a terrible realization. “Guy Fawkes,” I breathed. “He intends to fulfill his new hatred for the Crown and blow up Parliament.”

“If not Parliament, then some other place, in order to exact his revenge.”

“Good Lord!” I breathed. I set down the rest of my sandwich untouched, my appetite gone. “But how do you know it’s Baron Meade? I don’t believe that his image has been in the newspapers.”

“Because afterwards, I followed the man in question back to his home,” replied Holmes. “But to continue: While I was in the house, I realized dimly what he was planning. Knowing that a police raid would be needed to take possession of these materials, I set about sealing the back door and windows so that entry and – more importantly – exit can only be effected from the front of the building. But before I could explore further, I heard Morton’s unique whistle, indicating that our man was returning from the pub. I slipped out the front door, which was screened by some bushes from the walk, and just made it to a side alley when our man went inside. He was only there for a few minutes before leaving and locking up. Rather than go back in, I chose to follow him, and when he found a hansom, I was in Deacon’s right behind him. I trailed him all the way to Bayswater, where he was driven to the front door.

“That in itself was unusual for a man in working garments, but I already knew that they weren’t his clothes, and that he was likely to be a gentleman. When the front door opened upon his arrival, and he was greeted by his man, I managed to be nearby, and I knew from the murmured conversation before the door shut that he held a position of authority, and that he was certainly entering his own home. It took no great effort to then determine that the residence was that of Baron Meade, and that the man’s description fit that of our visitor.

“I proceeded to Scotland Yard, where I discussed the events with Inspector Lanner, who I think can be trusted to handle things effectively. He then liaised with Special Branch, and the upshot is that we will be joining them in a couple of hours for a raid on the house.”

That simple statement did not fully encompass all that then occurred. Later, as darkness was falling while we rode in a hansom over the river into Lambeth, Holmes explained that the police would also be helping watch the warehouse where our doubles were stationed, to protect them in case any unlikely attacks were made against their persons.

We arrived at our destination, a dark street a block over from Baron Meade’s empty house, and met up with Inspector Lanner. He was in his mid-thirties, trim and capable, and a fast-riser in the Force following his return a few years earlier from military service. He carried himself with pride and a typical good humor, and I knew that he was one of the men of the Yard that Holmes had some use for, although he often despaired for all of them when he was frustrated about how they frequently handled an investigation.

Lanner greeted us warmly and informed us that, as an added complication, the Baron and a few others – “His men,” as Lanner put it – currently seemed to be on the premises, and their activities indicated that the materials were to be moved that very night, probably to the location where they would be detonated. “There are several heavy wagons parked in front. Very lucky, indeed, Mr. Holmes, that you were able to direct us here when you did.”

“Not at all,” said Holmes. “The Baron himself started our countermove in motion when he visited me this morning and attempted to distract me. I must admit that some of my contacts within the government have noticed his revolutionary talk these last weeks, and had already consulted me on the subject. Therefore, I wasn’t entirely unaware of the man, and possibly he was aware of my new interest in him as well, causing him to come up with this plan to try and divert my attention in a different direction tonight. But really, I had no suspicion that he was up to something of this nature before today, and if he had simply left me out of it and gone about his nefarious business, he would certainly have gotten away with it.”

Lanner nodded. “Be that as it may…” he said, and then he turned away and proceeded to give additional instructions regarding the positioning of his men for the raid. I ended up behind the house, as I have previously described, and so the night went, with the plot averted, and Baron Meade in custody. And then the next morning, Lanner had traveled through the winter rains to inform us that the man had escaped.

“I am sorry,” said the inspector, sitting in the basket chair and trying to warm himself before our fire. “He was initially taken to one of the smaller stations south of the River, to avoid his being seen at the Yard and possibly causing a public spectacle. As he was being led from the carriage toward the building, he wrested himself away from us and fled down the street, his hands still fixed in the darbies. He was gone into the maze before we could organize ourselves.”

There didn’t seem to be anything left to discuss, although Lanner seemed to think that Holmes would smoke a bit and then tell him just where to place his hands on the fugitive. However, after several awkward minutes, in which it became obvious that the policeman had already been dismissed, Lanner departed with a promise to keep us informed of further developments.

We spent the rest of the day in our rooms. Holmes sent several wires at different times, as new thoughts would occur to him. There were no callers, but the fact didn’t seem to cause my friend any dissatisfaction for a change. He seemed to be considering something, and I could only assume that it related to the difficulty at hand. Finally, I asked if that were true.

“I’ve been pondering the nature of the Baron’s plot and subsequent escape. However, I believe that it can best be handled by the police at this time. I have, of course, put out the word with my various associates to keep an eye out for the man. I expect we’ll hear from him again, but for now he will likely try to lay low.”

As the day turned toward evening, I ventured to suggest that Holmes might employ the next two or three hours before we ate in making our room a little more habitable. He tried to offer excuses, and insisted that, as he’d now finished pasting cuttings into his scrapbook, he had planned on conducting a chemical experiment. I pointed out that he was likely to asphyxiate us, as we could not adequately ventilate the room on this cold January day, and that he should do something more profitable. He could not deny the sagacity of my request, so with a rather sour and rueful face, which raised an unexpected laugh from me, he went off to his bedroom. I heard him knocking around for a few minutes, and then he returned, pulling his large tin box behind him. Placing it in the middle of the floor, he pulled over a short three-legged stool and squatted down in front of his burden. He threw back the lid, and I could see that it was already partially full of bundles of paper, tied up with red tape.

But, instead of putting things away, he started pulling out the packages, stating, “Here’s the record of the Tarleton murders, and the case of Vamberry, the wine merchant, and the adventure of the old Russian woman, and the singular affair of the aluminium crutch, as well as a full account of Ricoletti of the club-foot, and his abominable wife.” Then he reached deeper into the box and, shaking off a ribbon-tied bundle that tried to stay with it, he pulled out a small wooden box with a sliding lid. “Ah, now, this really is something a little recherché.”

Inside the box was a crumpled piece of paper, an old-fashioned brass key, a peg of wood with a ball of string attached to it, and three rusty old disks of metal. “Well, my boy,” he asked, “what do you make of this lot?” He seemed very pleased with himself, seeing that I was interested.

“It is a curious collection,” I remarked wryly, with a long-acquired ease of noncommittal engagement. I realized what he was doing – attempting to distract me from the cleaning and sorting that he had obligated himself to do before our dinner was served. And yet, I allowed myself to be swept into his little game.

“Very curious, and the story that hangs round it will strike you as being more curious still.”

“These relics have a history then?”

“So much so that they are history.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“These,” he said, with the sly smile of a fisherman who knows the hook has been set, “are all that I have left to remind me of the adventure of the Musgrave Ritual.” And then he proceeded to tell me the tale.

Chapter III: Past Adventures and Fresh Memories

Sherlock Holmes leaned forward in his chair, taking a sip of cold tea after speaking steadily for the better part of an hour, recalling those events of nearly a decade earlier. He tossed another lump of coal onto the fire, and turned his face back toward me. The light from the flickering flames grew as the weight of the black nugget shifted the hot embers. The flare of ignition caused shadows to dance across the plains and hollows of his lean countenance, giving him a look of ageless knowledge and understanding. And then he spoke, the spell was broken, and he was again simply my friend, a grin forming on his face.

“What did you think, Watson? Was the quest to find the meaning of Musgrave’s riddle a fine tale for a cold winter’s evening?”

“Absolutely,” I responded sincerely. It had indeed been a fine tale. I had heard him casually mention the events connected to this Musgrave Ritual on previous occasions, but never to the depth that it had just been explained. As I have related the story elsewhere, I do not propose to take time, space, and effort to retell it here. Suffice it to say that it serves as a good example of how Holmes’s abilities were sharp, even in those earlier days when he was still first establishing himself as a consulting detective.

“Speaking as a former military man,” I added, shifting in my chair and glancing at the mess on the floor between us, “both as an active participant in, and also as a student of, certain well-known battles, your story certainly served as a fine diversionary tactic, as you no doubt intended.”

With a snort, Holmes slapped his knee and settled back in his chair. “I deny any such charge!” he cried, waving his hand toward the large tin box resting at his feet. “Did I not show every intention of fulfilling my duties as a fellow lodger, taking time from my busy and demanding schedule in order to organize my documents? I was simply following your suggestion to sort through my papers, intent on the task at hand, when you expressed an interest in one of my old cases. It was only polite to stop what I was doing and relate to you the dark details of the Musgrave Affair.”

“You knew exactly what you were about,” I replied, glancing at the clock to see if there was enough time for a warming brandy before dinner. There was not. “I will admit some responsibility as well, as I allowed you to tell me what happened, but we both know that you really had no real intention of sorting through this… this disjecta membra of your past.” I waved a hand at the shambles spread around us. “You distracted me as if I were a child that was given a watch on a fob as a temporary plaything.”

Holmes smiled. “I admit to nothing,” he said. Then he glanced ruefully at the floor, where the box was surrounded by items that he had removed from it before discovering the relic that reminded him of the Ritual. “But I must say that things look worse now than before. At the very least, this trunk will need to be repacked tonight. I’m sure that Mrs. Hudson will have something to say about it, and I certainly don’t want anything kicked over or disturbed when the fire is lit in the morning.”

He was still sitting there and considering the task of replacing the various tied bundles in the trunk from whence they had come when we heard the sound of footsteps on the stairs. Holmes sat up abruptly as if he had been stung by a bee, a look of panic on his face. I will be the first to admit that I am not my friend when it comes to observing and deducing, but I could see the thoughts run across his face as clearly as if he had shouted them. Mrs. Hudson’s tread, always steady and even, was slower on those regular occasions when she was bringing our meals. This was one of those moments. I could tell that Holmes was calculating the amount of time he had left before Mrs. Hudson reached the door, opened it, and then entered to discover the unholy mess on the floor.

Three steps had already been climbed, and Holmes leaned forward to grasp a bundle of tied sheets in each hand. He placed them quickly and with purpose into the tin box, not simply tossing or dropping them. But one of them immediately slumped to the side. Obviously, the box would need to be repacked more carefully than this, and there was no time for that. Two more steps climbed. I smiled with a satisfaction that sadly didn’t speak well of me as I watched Holmes slide to the front of his chair, obviously considering dropping to his knees in order to speed the process.

Mrs. Hudson had reached the landing in the mid-point of the stairs, with its window looking out on the small back yard where she sometimes grew herbs in the summer, near the lonely plane tree located there. She made the turn and started up the final climb. Holmes looked at me, a fleeting dash of panic in his eyes, perhaps a mute plea for help, before resignation washed over him, and he settled again against the back of his chair, ready to take his medicine. He covered his eyes with his fingers. The door was slowly opened.

Mrs. Hudson made her way into the room, eyes on her goal – the dining table in the corner by one of the tall windows. Then, she saw and observed the new stacks of papers stretching across the floor, like a wave frozen in its path along a beach. She stopped, only for the time it would take for the next step, and scowled at Holmes as if he were a boy caught writing something naughty on the wall.

“Mrs. Hudson.” He raised his head. “I lost track of the time – ”

“I’m sure that you did,” she replied coldly. Setting down the tray, she turned and, placing hands on hips, she scolded in her most Scottish tones, “You will have that cleaned up tonight, Mr. Holmes. I won’t have the tweeny breaking her neck tomorrow morning when she tries to climb over it to light the fire.”

Holmes nodded, and then she turned to me with a look on her face that made it perfectly clear that she unfairly considered me to be an accomplice in the business. Rather than uselessly trying to explain that it wasn’t my disarray, I simply and tacitly accepted responsibility as well, nodding my agreement instead of prolonging the encounter. Often, this is the simplest way. I have stated elsewhere that I have an experience of women stretching over three continents, although this has been somewhat subsequently exaggerated over the years. However, I do know enough to realize when it is the time to say nothing at all. Apparently, in spite of his regular insistence that the fairer sex is my department, my friend somehow, on this occasion, had comprehended the truth of this as well.

Mrs. Hudson, having made her point quite well, turned and left the room. We were able to wait until we knew that she had descended the stairs all the way to the bottom before our laughter burst forth.

It was surprising that I could laugh, in that January of 1888. Only weeks before, on the next-to-last day of December, my wife, Constance, had unexpectedly contracted diphtheria. We had only been married at that time a little over a year. As Holmes and I stood from our chairs to move toward the table and the food left there, an unexpected vision of my late wife suddenly appeared in my imagination, and I almost faltered. I found that happening quite often that winter.

Constance and I had met in the spring of 1885, when I had been summoned to San Francisco, working to pay off my brother Henry’s debts while nursing him back to health from an illness of his own making. Having gone there, I had set up a practice to earn money, doing what I knew best, and Miss Constance Adams had been my first patient. When I returned to England just a few months later, I could not forget her. After journeying back to the United States the following year to assist Holmes in one of his cases, I asked her to be my wife, and she accepted. We were married in November 1886 and settled into our domestic arrangement, with my days spent in the ground floor medical practice of our Kensington home, the lease newly purchased.

I stepped around the stacks of paper and made my way to the table, already realizing from the smell that Mrs. Hudson had made curried chicken, perfect for such a cold January night as this. My mind turned back to my late wife.

Constance had always suffered from bouts of poor health, and I only came to realize when it was too late that bringing her to the unhealthy climate of London had exacerbated the problem. The sea fogs of San Francisco were much different than the poisonous coal-saturated particulars of the British capital. A series of ever-worsening illnesses left her weak, her condition only improving when she was able to travel away from London with her mother, who – having no ties left in America – had moved to England at the time of our marriage. Of course, these occasions when Constance was traveling allowed me to continue to participate in a great deal of Holmes’s adventures and, as always, I made notes of them, with the hope of someday having something published.

Holmes and I ate in companionable silence. Mrs. Hudson had again prepared one of my favorite meals. It had been that way since my return to Baker Street several weeks earlier. Holmes, of course, cared nothing for what was being served. Food to him was only a fuel, and if he was in the middle of a case, he considered it a distraction. Still, he could not be unaware of the effort that Mrs. Hudson was making for me.

I reached for the pepper, moving aside the tall silver goblet that had been resting on the table for the last several days. It had been used in a particularly brutal murder in Chipping Ongar, and after the killer was caught, following an evil night hiding beside the Motte of Ongar Castle, Holmes had kept it as a souvenir. In the days since then, it had stood unmolested on the table, until such future time as it might find its way to a different location in the sitting room.

I smiled to myself. In the time that I had been married and living elsewhere, I had actually forgotten what it was like to reside at 221b Baker Street. I had always wanted to write about the adventures that Holmes and I shared, but how could I ever explain something like this, and how it really was, during those days?

My wish to publish something to honor Holmes had recently been realized, although not as I had first envisioned. It was a narrative about our initial meeting and first investigation together. Working with a friend who acted as my literary agent, and who also contributed a lengthy middle section to the tale detailing the historical background of the case, it had been made public in late 1887. I had stopped by Baker Street to present a copy of the slim volume a couple of days after Christmas, and unexpectedly found myself involved in yet another of Holmes’s cases. After a chase around London, stretching from a pub in Bloomsbury and thence to an unlikely vendor of geese in the fruit and vegetable market of Covent Garden, and finally back to Baker Street again, I had returned to my Kensington home to discover my wife suffering from a fever. Three days later, she was dead.

Holmes was a tower of strength during that period, immediately inviting me to stay in my old rooms, as both he and Mrs. Hudson knew that I should not be alone during that time. I quickly realized that I had no interest in returning to the Kensington practice, and within days I had put it up for sale, as it was clear that I was welcome to return to Baker Street permanently, should I so choose. And I did.

Those weeks had not been without interest. Already Holmes and I had traveled down to Birlstone, where the awful events in the room overlooking the moat had played out. And then there was the strange medallion of the gypsy, Pitt, who had apparently known Holmes since both were boys, although when I pressed for details, they only grew quite serious, with Pitt shaking his head, and Holmes declaring that the world was not yet ready for such a tale – an excuse that I had heard before, and would often hear again.

Now, on this cold rainy night, with thoughts of my departed wife never far away, and just a few weeks after her death, I found that I was able to smile and even laugh. I did not know yet what to make of that fact, but I resolved not to think upon it too much.

Later, I was back in my chair before the fire, enjoying the brandy postponed by our meal. Holmes was doing what he should have done hours before, carefully replacing the papers removed from the trunk, and sorting others from around the room to join them. That was when a question occurred to me.

“You said,” I opened, “that the Musgrave Ritual was the third case that was brought to you through the introduction of old schoolfellows. What about the other two?”

“Hmm?” said Holmes, his attention fixed on a knife lying across his knees, the tang wrapped only in a material that looked like bandages. The blade was either rusty, or covered with dried blood – in the firelight, I could not tell – but it certainly looked ominous.

“You said that when you were first starting out, and living in Montague Street, you sometimes had cases brought to you by former fellow students, and that the third of these was the incident of the Ritual, when you were visited by Reginald Musgrave.”

“That’s right.”

“Then what about the other two?” I asked. “Heaven knows I don’t mean in any way to distract you from what you’re doing, as happened earlier today, and I certainly don’t want to be the cause of Mrs. Hudson’s wrath falling about your head, but I would enjoy hearing about these other cases as well.”

I knew that I was taking a chance asking about Holmes’s former investigations, as often he did not feel the need to discuss past events, considering them to be a closed book, unless some aspect of a distant investigation might have some related and comparative association to a current case. And yet, that particular January, Holmes had been more willing than ever before to share with me the stories of some of his old adventures. I believe that, as my friend, he was trying to distract me from the recent death of my wife, and it was much appreciated. Already, he had told me about the Skinless Serpent – not the cold-blooded variety that one might expect! – and the Bigamistic Banker, and the painful matter of the Montague Street Butcher. I had also learned of other bits of his history, such as what happened at Arnsworth Castle, and even the investigation that had convinced him to become a consulting detective, a sordid tale of blackmail and family secrets in Norfolk that had stretched over decades.

To hear of these adventures only now, after all this time, having known Holmes since the first day of January 1881, was still something of a surprise to me, considering how reticent he typically was. It must be recalled that at this point in time, almost exactly seven years after I had first met him, Holmes still hadn’t told me of the existence of his brother, Mycroft. That would only happen later in that year of 1888, during the early days of the awful Autumn of Terror. But that was still in the future, and, looking back now from a distance of so many years, we didn’t know what we were going to face.

Holmes placed a last tied bundle into the tin trunk, closed and fastened the lid, and stood, stretching like a cat. Then he reached for my glass, walked to the sideboard, and refilled it, pouring another for himself. He returned to the fire, handed me my brandy, and settled into his chair.

“Surely one story was enough for today,” he said. “Even the king did not require more than that from Scheherazade.”

I laughed. “That is true. However, you are singularly unoccupied at present, as we are allowing the police to search for Baron Meade, and before some new client wanders in and you hare off in a new direction, I propose to get another tale from you.” I crossed my legs and took a small sip, holding it in my mouth for just a moment and feeling the welcome heat. “Feel free to begin at any time.”

“Ha!” he said, pulling his feet into the chair, and twisting them in something of the manner of the fakirs that I had seen in Afghanistan and India. “Another tale you want? Then a tale you shall have. Gather round for the story of The Eye of Heka, and one man’s foolish belief that he ought to own it.”

The wind picked that moment to rattle the glass in our windows. A glass of brandy, a warm fire, a dark night, and a story. I was going to enjoy this.

Chapter IV: The Adventure of the Museum Theft

“The Eye of Heka?” I asked. “Sounds rather eastern.”

Holmes took a sip of the brandy and said, “Don’t tempt me into telling a story the wrong way around, as you did with your recently published effort.”

He gestured to the small octagonal table beside his chair, where a copy of Beeton’s Christmas Annual still rested in the same location that he had tossed it when I first gave it to him, just after the holiday. It contained my labors, and those of my friend Conan Doyle as well, to honor and bring to public notice my friend’s singular gifts. The story it told, with the admittedly fanciful title of A Study in Scarlet, recounted the first time I had seen my friend in action, having just learned that he earned his living as a “Consulting Detective”.

Holmes placed his brandy next to the small journal, and I wondered about his comment, which implied that he might actually have read the story, thus giving him enough data to decide that I had told it in a manner not to his liking. The fact that he would certainly disapprove of how I had related the events was no surprise to me at all. The volume certainly looked untouched, but I knew that he treated all documents, books, and so on with such exaggerated care that, even if he had read it as I hoped and was starting to believe, there would be no indication of it, either shown by wear or turned-down pages.

“Do feel free to begin at the beginning, then,” I said.

He nodded. “As I only want to tell one more tale tonight, I will refrain from giving you the particulars of the second case brought to me by an old University chum. Suffice it to say that it involved a map, a bottle, a key, a killing, and an excursion into the grates leading down beneath Charterhouse Square to the lost Fleet River and beyond. For now, you will have to make do with a much simpler case that involved a visit to my humble rooms in Montague Street (those same rooms that I earlier described to you at the beginning of the Musgrave affair), this time by Ian Finch, the Earl of Wardlaw.

“I met Ian at University,” he continued, “in the early days. We were not friends then, nor at any time thereafter for that matter. Rather, we were thrown together often by a common course of study. He was a second son, and was learning something to serve him in good stead when he took an administrative post in the east, as had been planned for him by his father.

“The fact that we knew each other at school is unimportant to this story, except that he was aware, like many of my compatriots, of those special skills which you have had cause to observe from time to time. When I came up to London to follow my profession, I never gave Ian Finch another thought.

“Sometime after that, his older brother was killed while visiting Africa. This brother had been on a grand tour, seeing the world before returning to his duties at the family estate in northern Essex. Their mother was long dead, and Ian had been somewhere on the Continent when it happened. He had met up with his father, still the Earl then, at some out-of-the-way rendezvous, and then they continued on together to bring back the body. While there, Ian had decided to stay behind while the Earl and his dead older son returned to England.

“Of course, I knew nothing of this at the time. It was only later that I learned what had happened, along with other pieces that Ian shared with me. As I said, I was living in Montague Street, spending my time in a constant trot, attempting to learn all that I might need to prepare me for my profession. I had yet to completely define the parameters of what would be expected, as well as what I would expect for myself, but I knew enough to associate with certain individuals that might be considered questionable by the more law-abiding segments of our community. By gaining their trust to a degree, I was able to begin learning special skills, such as how locks work, or patter from the criminal argot, that I knew would be handy later.

“When not studying the ways of our criminal brethren, I took myself a great deal into the British Museum, across the street from my rooms, reading on a variety of subjects. And occasionally – and truly, not often enough in the early days – a case would come my way, either by referral from someone whom I had previously helped, or from the police, who were already finding their way to my door with increasing regularity.

“The house where I lived, at No. 24, was leased by a woman who had been widowed by one of my father’s first cousins. She and I had an uneasy truce at best, and I tended to avoid her as often as possible. This wasn’t too difficult, as in those days, my rooms were at the very top of the building, on the third floor. She offered a shabby breakfast each day to her tenants as part of the rent. However, if I was able to earn enough from my own work, I was able to eat elsewhere and avoid her to an even greater degree than normal. Therefore, it was worth it to me to find employment and have a few extra coins in my pocket each month.

“As I recall, it was in the latter part of May, in ‘78, that I found myself unoccupied with paying work for a period that had lasted a couple of weeks. I had been involved in several cases earlier in the month, but had found nothing to challenge me since then. I planned to spend the day in the Museum, intending to broaden my perspective on some of the archeological explorations that were going on around the world. Does that surprise you, Watson?”

“Hmm?” I said, not expecting that Holmes would interrupt his narrative with the request for an interactive response. “Why should it?”

He gestured toward the Beeton’s containing my effort on the table beside him. “I gather that you thought that I was serious when I talked about only taking in what knowledge is absolutely necessary.” He reached for the small journal and picked it up. Proceeding to turn the pages, he quickly found what he sought and read to me: “‘I consider that a man’s brain originally is like a little empty attic, and you have to stock it with such furniture as you choose. A fool takes in all the lumber of every sort that he comes across, so that the knowledge which might be useful to him gets crowded out, or at best is jumbled up with a lot of other things so that he has a difficulty in laying his hands upon it. Now the skillful workman is very careful indeed as to what he takes into his brain-attic. He will have nothing but the tools which may help him in doing his work, but of these he has a large assortment, and all in the most perfect order.” He looked toward me under his lowered brow, deepening his voice and reading with dramatic emphasis: “‘It is a mistake to think that that little room has elastic walls and can distend to any extent. Depend upon it there comes a time when for every addition of knowledge you forget something that you knew before. It is of the highest importance, therefore, not to have useless facts elbowing out the useful ones.’ “

He closed the volume and held it in his lap. “Apparently you believed me when I said that.”

“I know better now. It is an accurate record of what you said at the time, and considering that I had only known you a little over two months then, and that it was the same day you also revealed your perfectly unique profession, it is not surprising that it would make an impression on me.”

He nodded and tapped a long finger against the spine of the book. “Your ability to recall and accurately record conversations is really quite a gift, you know. Although I deplore the idea that my investigations should be presented as some sort of penny dreadful,” he said, replacing the Beeton’s on the table, “I cannot fault you for the precision of your reportage.”

“At least,” I responded, “the question of whether you have read the d---ed thing has been answered!”

He smiled, and I prompted, “So you were planning to spend the day in the Museum then, finding appropriate furniture for your brain-attic?”

“Correct. I was attempting to establish in my own mind a general feel for recent archeological discoveries in Greece. As I recall, the day before was spent determining what I could about the previous year’s uncovering of ‘Hermes and the Infant’, as found in the ruined Temple of Hera at Olympia. Certain aspects of my reading had suggested another path to explore. I was considering where to begin my next excavation, so to speak, as I entered the Great Court of the Museum from Great Russell Street. Normally I am the most observant of men, but that day, it completely escaped me that I had been noticed by another fellow, walking quickly away from the Museum and towards me and the street.

“‘Holmes!’ he cried, coming to a stop in my path. ‘Holmes! Is that you?’

I saw that the past few years had not been kind to Ian Finch. He was always a big man, and his clothing looked as prosperous as ever, if not more so. But there was a dissipated look about his face, and his gait seemed the slightest bit forced, as if he suffered from a form of rheumatism that should not have been present in a man of our age. As he reached me, I observed that his eyes were yellow, and that his breath had the sour smell of last night’s alcohol. He was clean shaven, but there were a couple of missed patches along his jawline, and his collar was clearly from the previous day.

“‘Just the man I need!’ he cried.

We had never been close, and I greeted him with a reserved formality. He appeared not to notice, as he planted himself a little too close to me and, in a suddenly quiet tone, began to speak.

“‘I’ve heard that you have set yourself up as some kind of detective.’ He glanced back and forth across the courtyard to ascertain that there was no one nearby.

“It was a statement rather than a question, but I acknowledged the fact. ‘Just what I need, then. I’m not quite sure what to do, and you can take charge of things.’ He turned and looked over his shoulder toward the Museum entrance. ‘These fools want to call in the police.’

“‘Perhaps,’ I said, ‘we should discuss the problem further. Shall we step into the Museum?’

“‘No!’ he erupted, and then he quieted again. ‘I told them I’ll handle it, and if we go back inside they will be trying to interfere. Besides, there is no privacy in there.’

“I smiled. ‘Then I suppose the Alpha Inn across the street would also be unsatisfactory, should they be open this early.’

“He simply glared, and I quickly added, ‘My rooms are just beside us, in Montague Street. We can talk there.’ And turning, I led him out the gate into Great Russell Street, and so on around the corner and back to No. 24.

“He seemed wary when we reached the building, but I held the door and then followed him into the narrow hall. He made toward the large parlor that opened to our left, with its unusual painting above the fireplace. However, that was part of the landlady’s territory, and I indicated the narrow, steep, and curving stairs at the rear of the hallway which led up and on up to my room. I listened with a secret smile to his increasingly labored breathing as we ascended to the first and second floors, and when we started up to the third, with the stairs more like a winding ladder, his perturbed grunts became even more amusing.

“My room in those earlier days was on the top floor. In my last year there, before abandoning the place completely to move to Baker Street, I was able to afford something a little bigger and closer to the ground, but in those days I lived nearer the angels. Unlocking my door, I allowed Ian to precede me into the small room, where he immediately took the better of the two chairs, while I sat in the other.

“We each prepared to smoke, he a foul cigar and me with my pipe. Then, with a final sour look at my humble lodgings, the walls close upon him to both the left and right, he began to speak, explaining that an object that had recently been donated by his family to the British Museum had ended up stolen, just that morning. He elaborated that he had brought it back from northern Africa two years earlier, at the time of his brother’s death, when both he and his father had gone out to bring the body back home.

“He described the stolen object as a figure of a lesser-known local deity, identified popularly as ‘Heka’, about a foot in height. It was of a polished and heavy stone – smooth, dark, and with lighter streaks running through it. But what made it unique was a carving of a severe but rather plain face on the front, upon which was placed a large ruby, centered in its forehead above the eyes. It was this jewel which gave the idol its curious sobriquet, ‘The Eye of Heka’. Ian added vaguely that this stone was meant to represent the focus of the effigy’s power. ‘It was the very devil getting the thing home,’ explained Ian, ‘but we finally managed it. Took it on to the family estate, out in Essex, but my father has never been comfortable with it there. Finally, he insisted a month or so ago that it be sent to the Museum.

“‘Frankly,’ he continued, ‘he made the initial overtures to the Director behind my back. I’m the one who brought it back here to England, and I should be able to keep it, but my father holds the purse strings, so I can’t protest against him too much – for now. But I made sure that we still retain ownership, and that the arrangement with the Museum is simply a long-term loan. When I’m the Earl, I’ll bring it back home.’

“I couldn’t resist asking, ‘Isn’t its home actually where it came from, rather than either your estate or the British Museum?’

“He scowled at me, and then spit a piece of tobacco from his tongue onto my rug. ‘I can see you’re one of those who would give back the Empire, a tiny piece at a time.’ He waited for my expected defense, but when I simply continued to watch him, as one waits to see the next response in an inevitable chemical reaction, he settled back in his chair with a shake of his head.

“‘Doesn’t matter,’ he said. ‘I still need your help. As I said, the thing has been stolen.’

“‘Ah,’ I said, finally getting to it. ‘From the Museum, you said?’

“He nodded. ‘I just found out a few minutes ago. They haven’t even had it for a full day. Yesterday morning, the thing was crated at the estate, and I, along with two of my friends, brought it up to London.’

“‘Who knew that you would be bringing it?’

“‘My father and my two friends, Conner and Malloy. Our old butler, Fisk, knew something about it as well, but he wouldn’t share any secrets.’

“‘What about these two friends of yours?’

“‘Completely trustworthy. They were with me when I brought the thing back to England two years ago.’

“‘What about any other servants? Who crated the idol for shipment?’

“‘Did it myself. I didn’t trust anyone else to do it. After I finished, I put it away for safekeeping, and then yesterday morning we set out early. I’d cabled ahead and had a growler waiting at Liverpool Street Station. We then brought it over through the Holborn to the back of the Museum over there, where an assistant curator named Williams took possession of it. It was supposed to be examined, photographed, catalogued, and so on, before being placed in the collection this morning.’

“‘Isn’t that somewhat sudden?’ I asked. ‘To have an exhibit publicly displayed so quickly after its acquisition?’

“He nodded. ‘One of the conditions my father arranged. He wanted to make sure that it was clearly known that it was no longer at the estate. We’ve… we’ve had a few instances of someone breaking into the house over the last couple of years, and we’re convinced it was someone trying to retrieve the idol.’

“‘What made you think that?’

“‘On one occasion, we disturbed an intruder. The man escaped, but it was clear from what he left behind, matches and fuel and such, that he was trying to start a fire and burn us out. In addition to the other materials, a shoe was left behind by the intruder. More of a sandal, really, such as what they wear down there.’

“‘Do you still have it?’

“‘No. I threw it into the fireplace.’

“‘Unfortunate. Can you describe it?’

“‘It was just a shoe, Holmes!” he said with impatience. But after I let my question hang, he continued, “It was old and dusty, with a crack from left to right across the center, where a foot would bend it while walking. I couldn’t tell if it was a right or left sandal, but that’s typical of the kind they wear. And it was odd in that it was lost in the middle of winter, when that attempt took place. My father reasoned that only a foreigner unprepared for the journey would have been wearing that type of shoe in the cold English winter.’

“‘And what did you think? Do you believe it was left by someone who followed the idol here?’

“Ian seemed troubled. ‘I suppose it could have been. As I said, it took some effort to bring the statue here. There were several attempts to take it from me then, before we even departed, and we had never had any break-ins at the Essex house until after the idol came there.’

“‘Why didn’t they find it?’

“‘Because it was in a vault that defeated them,’ he said. ‘My father had it built years ago, a big walk-in contrivance, such as one might find in a bank. He never liked the idol from the beginning, and insisted that it be kept locked away, instead of on display. Truth be told, it turned out that he was correct, as I had initially wanted to show it prominently, which would likely have led to its theft on the very first attempt.’

“‘And so eventually your father wanted it out of the house completely, and arranged to have it sent to the Museum.’

“‘Exactly. After signs that someone was still coming around the house, he wanted it gone. So I brought it up yesterday and left it with that Williams at the Museum, thinking that they knew their business, and then I went on to the Langham with my friends. I didn’t want to travel all the way back to Essex just for the night, only to come back today and see how they have the thing set up.

“‘I went to the Museum this morning to look at my idol, but when I arrived, there was some embarrassed shuffling, and then the man who met me at the door hemmed and hawed before finally leaving me, only to bring back Williams and the Director himself. Both apologized, telling me that not fifteen minutes before, they had discovered that it was missing from its designated resting place.

“‘I insisted on looking around, and quickly saw that they had ignored my concerns and placed the thing in a very insecure glass case, centered right in a public passageway. It was one thing to give in to my father and let the Museum keep it, but another for them to offer it so easily to the first thief that walked by. The glass on the top of the case had been cut, not broken, and whoever had stolen the idol had simply reached in and taken it. I looked for any sign of who could have done it, but I didn’t see a thing.’

“‘Perhaps I’ll see something that you missed,’ I said, standing up.

“Ian blinked once or twice, and then said, ‘You want to go over there?’ When I nodded, he stood as well, following me out and down the twisting steps to the street, his cigar clenched in his teeth.

“Stepping across to the Museum, we entered, and Ian led me, in a roundabout way, to an upstairs gallery. The high windows revealed row after row of artifacts, carefully organized. Cases contained pottery and tools, and in the distance were what seemed to interest the general public most of all, the mummies.

“As we got closer, I saw our goal. There, in the main aisle, stood four men around a glass case. On either side of it were several other cases filled with various bits of ancient detritus.

“Ian stepped up and, without any word of greeting, explained who I was to the men by the case. ‘This is Sherlock Holmes. He’s my detective, representing me.’ He glared at them all with belligerence.

“I repeated my name, and said that I was pleased to see them. I already knew two of the men, and was quickly introduced to the others.

“Williams, the assistant who had initially taken possession of The Eye the day before, was a slight man with thinning sandy hair. The Director, whom I had met on past occasions and seen many times from a distance, was a much more forceful personality than his subordinate, and even though in this instance he was very deferential to Ian, he did find it in himself to initially ask, ‘No offense to Mr. Holmes, but is there really a need to bring in an outsider?’ However, a glare from Ian instantly silenced him. The third man turned out to be Hayes, the supervisor of the Museum guards, while the fourth was an acquaintance of mine, Inspector Plummer, who was quite supportive of me in those early days as I was finding my footing in my new profession.

“A quick examination of the case revealed that a fair-sized hole had been cut in the top, as Ian had said. The circular piece was resting in the case beside a small satin-covered plinth, which had obviously been the resting place for the idol. Centered in the circular glass cut-out was a mashed knob of plumber’s putty, used to grasp and lift the piece when it was freed.

“‘They cut the top out instead of the side,’ said Plummer, painfully pointing out the obvious.

“I nodded. ‘Although it is a little more awkward, the thief was able to cut a much smaller hole and lift the idol straight up. A cut on the side would have required a much bigger area to remove the object.’

“Plummer nodded. ‘And whoever it was left the cut-out piece of glass inside, rather than placing it on the floor or propped against the case, where it might have been noticed.’

“‘Do you not have guards to walk through at night?’ asked Ian. ‘How could they not see this?’

“Hayes, the guard supervisor, took a step forward. ‘We do walk through here regularly, sir. But as you can see, the suddenness of this exhibit’s installation has meant that the lighting has not yet been adjusted to favor this area. Also, to be honest, I must confess that the men were not alerted specifically to be aware of this new exhibit, and if the theft occurred early last night, they may have only seen an empty case, not realizing that there was something already missing, as they might have believed it was empty all along and still being prepared for exhibition.’

“‘We’ll need to speak to those guards from last night,’ I said.

“‘They are being fetched now,’ replied Plummer. ‘Their shifts ended several hours ago.’

“I continued to examine the case, seeing one or two features of interest nearby. Before I could follow up on them, the guards arrived.

“Well, Watson, to keep this story from being any longer than it needs to be, the guards were unable to provide any relevant information, except to confirm what the supervisor had theorized. They had seen the case containing the empty plinth, and that it had been that way from the beginning of their shift. As they had not been notified that the idol was to be located in that case, they had no reason to suspect that it was gone. It was not an unusual thing for empty cases to appear without explanation as new exhibits were constantly being prepared. The men had no other information to give us, but Plummer asked that they stay for a while in case we had further questions.

“Ian began to harangue the Director and Williams, evenly dividing his ire between the loss of the idol and the subsequent summoning of the police. Then he turned to Plummer. ‘Since you’re here,’ he said, ‘the milk can’t be put back in the cow. What are you going to do?’

“Plummer didn’t seem to be fazed by Ian’s outburst, stating calmly, ‘We will continue our interviews. I intend to put out the word to keep an eye out for your idol. The usual places will be examined – pawn brokers, jewelers, and the like, in case someone tries to sell it or remove and break-up the ruby. And of course, we’ll also check with the ships that are leaving soon, in case someone is trying to take it back from whence it came.’

“Ian, listening to this litany of unimaginative but necessary routine, was working himself up to an apoplectic fit. This was especially evident when Plummer mentioned the possibility of cutting up the ruby. However, before my acquaintance could further vent his anger, I said, ‘We may be able to take a short cut, Inspector, although I certainly cannot argue with making sure that all other eventualities are covered as well.’ Turning to the Director, I said, ‘Might I trouble you to examine the files concerning your employees?’

“The Director nodded and led me to the Museum offices, where I looked over several documents. While the others remained puzzled, Plummer smiled as he saw my trail. I wrote down a name and address, handing them to the inspector. With a nod, he turned and said, ‘I’ll summon a cab.’

“Five minutes later, Plummer, Ian, and I were racing east toward Hackney, our cab followed by another filled with constables. Plummer asked, ‘What did you notice?’

“‘The floor around the display case had not been mopped recently, although other areas nearby had. The oblique reflections of the light showed the streaks and marks of the water elsewhere on the floor, but not around the case. However, immediately next to the display case, well away from the mopped areas, was a fresh dried ring, most likely left by dampness from the bottom of the mop bucket. Additionally, there were several dried drops across the floor leading to and from the mopped area, showing the path to the display case by which the bucket had been carried.’

“‘So you’ve decided that one of the cleaning people has stolen the idol?’ asked Ian.

“‘He probably carried it out in the bucket,’ said Plummer.

“‘A review of who was working last night, compared with the records, provided me with a likely suspect.’

“Plummer glanced at the paper. ‘John Goins.’ He looked back up, curiously. ‘An American. He hasn’t been over here for very long.

“‘We would have questioned him,’ said Plummer to me. ‘Calling in the cleaning staff was already being taken care of. This Goins would have been of special interest, being foreign and having recently arrived from outside the country.’

“‘Ah,’ I said, ‘but would he have come to you when called? Would he have answered your summons? How long would you have waited before determining that he was not coming? And how long before you have examined his records to determine that he has only been employed at the Museum for less than two weeks?’

“‘Two weeks!’ said Ian. ‘That’s around the time that my father first reached out to the Museum about letting them keep The Eye.’

“‘Someone,’ I said, ‘has been keeping tabs on your activities, and knew about the statue’s transfer. If they couldn’t get to it in your house, then it was worth it to them to make a try at this other end.’

“Plummer smiled and shook his head. ‘I have to give you credit, Mr. Holmes. You are correct in stating that it might have taken some time before we attached any significance to Goins, and he would likely have been long gone by then. Assuming, of course, that you’re right.’

“‘We’ll soon know,” I said, as our cab turned from Homerton High Street and into a sordid cul-de-sac.

“The inspector’s men surrounded the building, and it was Plummer himself who kicked in Goins’s door. It was all very anticlimactic. The man himself was still there, although we saw that he was preparing for imminent departure.

“He was a most unusual fellow, Watson. Tall and thin, his great bony head seemed too heavy for his thin neck. His skin was tanned, and his hair thick and black. The area around his eyes looked bruised. His arms were long and thin, like the rest of him, with oversized hands that each seemed to be curled around some invisible object. He looked sickly, and yet as if there were hidden depths of strength within him.

“But it was his eyes that were the most disturbing. As the door was forced open, he straightened where he had been standing, but made no other motion with his body. Those eyes, however sunken, were a startling light blue, and seemed to shine with an inner light. They were compelling and intelligent and enraged, darting from one to the other of us, as if memorizing all of our features for the someday when we would be on the other side of this offense. He gave me my share of attention in those long seconds, but it was at Ian that he peered most intently. I know that it sounds fanciful, but I was glad when this odd scarecrow of a man turned his attention away from me.

“The idol itself was standing on a rough deal table in the center of the room, in front of our prisoner, the ruby glinting from its forehead like some third eye. I must confess, Watson, that the thing seemed to draw the focus of the room in an unusual way, even more than one would expect from such an unusual artifact.”

“Holmes,” I said, with some amusement. “You almost sound as if you believe the thing had some power.”

Surprisingly, he didn’t answer immediately, but glanced toward the fire, which was slowly burning itself out for the night. “An object may be simple stone and crystal, Watson, and still have power, if only that which is invested in it by those that believe and are willing to commit acts in the object’s name.” He looked up then, his face very serious. “As I learned after the fact, the carving was coveted by a group of obscure zealots that refused to stop trying to get it back. John Goins was their agent. It turned out that Ian seemed to have some reverence for the idol as well. He had no intention of returning it to its original home, but he did realize after these events that he had no business keeping it for himself either. He continued the arrangement for it to remain at the Museum, but in a much more secure setting than before. Even after his father died and he became the Earl, I understand that he left it here in London, rather than taking it back to Essex as he’d originally planned.”

With a sudden deep breath, he stood up and looked at the tin trunk nearby. “So, two tales in one day. I leave it to you to judge which was the more interesting, this one or that of the Musgrave Ritual.”

“I’m not sure,” I meditated from my chair. “The second has untold possibilities, and your part seems to have been workmanlike – “

“ – but negligible?” he finished for me. “You are correct about that. Inspector Plummer was right in the sense that the foreign cleaner would eventually have been identified, although I did help to make sure that he was caught in time.”

“Whatever happened to this John Goins?”

“I don’t know. I assume he was jailed, or deported.”

“Were there ever any other attempts to steal the idol?”

“I’m not aware of any, although there is no reason that I should be. I’ve seen Ian, now the present Earl of Wardlaw after the death of his father, in passing over the years, but we’ve never conversed since that morning when he regained it. He slipped me a very stingy fee that was something of an embarrassment, and I was glad to be shed of him.

“However,” he added, bending to reach for the tin trunk, “discussing the episode has reawakened a desire to see The Eye of Heka again, since I was only able to view it just the once. Seeing as how the Museum is under some obligation to me for several other little problems that have been resolved in the years since, I don’t think there would be any difficulty in viewing it. What do you say to a little excursion tomorrow to Bloomsbury?”

It seemed to promise a peaceful trip, and I remarked that it seemed a fine idea indeed, little realizing the events that would follow. With my agreement to accompany him the next day, he wished me good night, leaving me there in my chair, watching the fire die while the room cooled around me. Soon my eyes were unfocused as I stared into the cryptic flames, recalling and reliving scenes from a previous life, now gone forever. But I only allowed those visions to go on for a few minutes before, with a sigh, I stood and made my way upstairs to my own room.

Chapter V: Old Haunts

Holmes and I each had separate errands to take care of the following morning, and we agreed to meet at noon in front of the Museum, whereupon we would take a look at the idol, and then have a late lunch.

I stepped out into the bright January sun, grateful for my heavy coat. Although the rains had ceased, a much colder spell had settled over the capital since the day before, and I felt the usual concern for those who were not as fortunate as I. In particular was the constant worry about the lads of the street, the Irregulars as we called them, those that assisted Holmes in his investigations. I knew that some came from meagre homes and would find relative warmth and shelter there. But others were not so fortunate, and I could only hope that they would survive the bitterly cold weather unscathed.

Adjusting the loosely stitched mourning band upon my sleeve, I hailed a hansom and directed the driver to Kensington. We set off to the south at a brisk pace, and I tugged my scarf tighter around my throat. Turning west at Oxford Street, making better time than I would have thought, we passed along the northern rim of Hyde Park, before eventually alighting at the small street where my former home and practice stood.

I was a few minutes early and, having paid the cabbie, found myself standing on the pavement, facing the steps leading up to the front door. I had been back here several times since Constance’s death, but it was still too soon, and I was numb. This empty building had been both a home and a future, and was now simply a grim reminder of what had been taken from me.

When Constance had accepted my proposal of marriage, I had only a vague idea in mind for our path. My work in San Francisco had shown me that I could establish and manage a practice, something that I had tried to do only once before. After I had graduated with my medical degree from the University of London in ‘78, I had set myself up in harness in Southampton Place in Bloomsbury, but my heart wasn’t in it, and soon after I had joined the Army. Upon my invalidation back into civilian life, I had spent time working in hospitals, mostly Barts, and also assisting as a locum tenens with several willing physicians. But setting up my own shop in the United States had taught me what needed to be done, and that I could do it.

After Constance agreed to be my wife, I had returned to London, ready to transition myself from Baker Street to the life of a married physician. I had carefully scouted until I found a suitable Kensington location, not far off the High Street. Through a combination of a fortunate inheritance, along with careful nurturing of various fees and rewards that I had shared with Holmes by way of assisting him with his work, I had accumulated enough resources to purchase the lease on a building with an existing practice from a retiring doctor, and when Constance and her mother arrived in England, I was already set up, although still living in Baker Street, as I didn’t want to take possession of the residential portion of the house before Constance had also claimed it as her own.

Our marriage, in November 1886, was a happy event, with my friend Holmes standing with me as best man. Constance and I settled into our lives in Kensington, as she and her mother went about making the house into a home – not including the parts set aside on the ground floor for my ever burgeoning professional domain. In the meantime, I was fortunate in that I still had free periods here and there to assist Holmes with his investigations.

But Constance’s health quickly began to deteriorate, and she and her mother were forced to travel to better climes, while I remained in London, building what I believed to be our future. And then, in a matter of days, she was gone.

The service was well attended, or so I’m told, although I have little memory of it. My mother-in-law left England soon after, her heart broken, and I fear that she held some resentment toward me, the doctor who could not save his own wife, and the man who had dragged her poor daughter so far from her original home to a land that only seemed to make her ill.

Several friends at a few of the hospitals put out the word that I wished to sell, and it didn’t take long at all for a prospective buyer to approach me. Apparently I had selected a good area in constant need of a doctor, and had made the place much more successful than I’d realized. The price that I set was met without any disagreement, and soon the whole business would be finalized.

I was pulled back from my reverie by the sound of hoof beats. I hadn’t realized that I was daydreaming, and the cold from the pavement had transmitted itself up through my ankles. I was quite stiff as I turned to view the approaching cab.

As expected, the arrival was the man purchasing the practice, Dr. Colin Withers. About ten years older than I, he too had served in the military, although he had voluntarily resigned in order to raise his daughter following his wife’s death many years earlier. Never remarrying, he had built a successful Portsmouth practice, but had recently decided to move to London as his daughter became older. We had met twice before, following his initial letter to me expressing interest in buying the result of the labors that had so occupied me during the past fifteen months. On each of the previous two occasions that we had encountered one another, he had been both sympathetic for my loss and understanding regarding my feelings, even though his wife had died over a decade before. He was also quite enthusiastic about setting up in London, envisioning his plans for what he would like to accomplish.

I stepped forward to greet him, and he waved, but then turned back toward the hansom. Reaching up, he paid the driver, and then assisted a young woman down to the ground. I had not realized that his daughter would be joining us.

As when I had met her once before in the company of her father, I was immediately taken aback by her beauty. I knew from conversations with Dr. Withers that she was about twenty years of age, but she radiated the poise of one much older. She was wearing a stylish but heavy coat against the cold, and a warm hat which protected a great deal of her face without hiding that she was very lovely indeed. Taking her arm, Dr. Withers stepped forward. “Dr. Watson. Good to see you again.” He nodded to the girl. “You remember my daughter?”

She offered a dainty gloved hand. As I reached for it, she glanced up, murmuring some greeting, and I could see again in her eyes, in just that instant, that she had the bright light of intelligence shining within her. Clearing my throat, I said, “Miss Withers. My pleasure indeed.”

She took a step closer, keeping my hand. “Call me Jenny. Thank you for showing us the house once more. I thought of some more questions as I planned how we would arrange it.”

“Not at all,” I said, dropping my hand from hers. I was grateful that she was so forthright, and didn’t try to offer still more comforting words, as so many had done over the past weeks. There was nothing else to say – no need to fill conversations with empty platitudes such as, “She is in a better place,” or “It was a blessing, after all.”

Dr. Withers cleared his throat. “Perhaps we should go inside and get out of this cold.”

I agreed and led them up the steps, pulling out my key as I did so. “I’m afraid that, as before, it will not be much warmer inside. There has been no fire since… since…” I found that I couldn’t complete the thought, and simply went about the process of unlocking the door.

The place already had that musty smell of an empty building, in spite of the fact that it had been a home just weeks before. As I had foretold, it was nearly as cold inside as out, and we chose to stay in our coats and gloves.

Withers and I were scheduled to settle the purchase the next day, but he had reached out to me a day or so before about taking another look around. “I have no worries about the soundness of the building,” he had assured me when writing to make the appointment for this morning, “but I want to fix in my mind the layout of the place.” There had been no mention of his daughter.

I led them from room to room on the ground floor, pointing out this or that feature that I might have forgotten before, and answering questions when asked. I mentioned a few of the more interesting and memorable patients, and indicated that I would certainly be available for consultation if the doctor had any further queries in the future. Miss Withers only had minimal interest in the areas that would make up the medical practice, although she did examine with greater scrutiny the kitchens and back rooms of the ground floor. And then we had seen all there was to see down there, and it was time for them to explore upstairs.

I found that I did not want to go up there, to the floor where my wife had recently died. I do not believe in ghosts, and I have been around death more times than I can count – quiet deaths and violent ones, deaths that follow long illnesses as if they are the granting of a prayer, or those that arrive quickly and unexpectedly. I have held men and women dying from old age and sickness, and murder and war, and most importantly my own wife as she departed this world. Death held no mystery or terror for me.

But I did not want to go upstairs.

The doctor and his daughter seemed to understand, and left me there, in the dark and cold ground floor hallway, while they made their way up. I heard them moving around, ascending on to the next floor beyond, mostly silent, but with muted conversations sometimes that still sounded too normal for this house of pain. I forced myself not to check my watch, or to wonder too much about what was taking them so long.

Finally, a light creaking from the stairs told me that one of them was returning. I knew that it was the daughter and not the father. The footsteps on the carpeted boards were lighter, and sounded like those made when Constance used to come down the steps. Involuntarily, I shivered.

Miss Withers walked from the base of the stairs toward me, where I waited near the front entrance, and stopped two or three feet away. My back was to the door and I could see her in the glow coming in through the fanlight behind my head, although I doubtless appeared to her as a haloed blackness. She held her hands clasped in front, and her eyes were too shadowed to reveal themselves clearly. “My father told me more,” she said, almost whispering. “About how your wife died. Without warning.”

“The diphtheria was too much for her,” I said, my voice rough from lack of use, and from standing there reliving memories. I cleared my throat. “But she had been ill for quite some time. She was originally from San Francisco. It is similar to London in some ways, quite foggy and damp and cold at times, but the atmosphere was cleaner. The move to the foul air here in the capital did something to her. Perhaps if I had realized it sooner – if I had picked up and moved to a healthier location…”

She stepped forward and placed a hand on my arm, light as a feather, heavy as an anchor. “You mustn’t blame yourself,” she said quietly. I could see her eyes now. One glistened as a tear formed on the lower lid. “I can see that you do, you know. You’re so like my father. He was the same way when Mother died. The illness was different, but he felt that if he had tried harder, or been more aware sooner of her symptoms, or simply been a better doctor, she might have been saved.” She dropped her hand then, although I still seemed to feel its weight. “He spent years punishing himself. In some ways he still is. It achieves nothing. It was your wife’s time to pass, as it was my mother’s when she died, and that is the way it was supposed to be. It accomplishes nothing to keep thinking of it.”

She glanced into the dark sitting room with its closed drapes and shutters, untouched by the bright morning sunlight outside. I realized that I had been holding my breath, and took a small step back from her. My wife was dead less than a month, just weeks really, and I found myself hypnotized, like a mouse before a cobra. A wave of guilt washed over me. I felt that I was committing a betrayal. “Was your wife happy here?” she asked. “Were you happy here?”

I nodded and swallowed. “Yes.” Clearing my throat again, I repeated, “Yes, we were. But there were so many plans. Dreams that will now never come true – “

I stopped, and she seemed to know enough not to prompt me with questions or offers of any further comments. Anything else would have likely devolved into the mere phrases of comfort that I had been so grateful not to receive when we had met earlier in front of the house, those that are offered to the grief-stricken when one doesn’t know what else to say. She had no doubt heard too many of those when her mother died.

A sound at the top of the stairs alerted us that her father was returning. As he came down the steps, I saw with some little surprise that he limped, a fact that had previously gone unnoticed. It appeared to relate to some stiffness in bending his knee. When he reached the floor of the hall and left the steps behind him, he walked toward us and the limp went away. That, I realized, was why I hadn’t seen it before.

Still, it had been disconcerting to see him limping on the stairs, as I so often do when my old Afghan wound is bothering me. I looked at him more closely, as well as I could in the dim light, and realized how similar we were in other ways. His hair and moustache were more grizzled than my own, but were trimmed in quite the same style. We had similar builds, and even equivalent styles of overcoats. He moved, as he rightly would, like a man in his mid-forties, a decade older than I, but then again, I believed that I was probably moving more that way myself during these last few weeks, as I often found myself at frequent and unexpected moments recalling and feeling pressed down by my wife’s death.

I found that Dr. Withers was speaking, expressing pleasure at taking ownership of the house the next day. He asked his daughter if she had any questions, and she responded succinctly that she believed she had seen enough to continue planning how to lay out the house to their mutual satisfaction. She spoke more brightly at the possibility than she had just moments before, when she was offering calm words of comfort to me after finding me lost in thought in the dark.

With nothing left to do, we went outside, and I turned away to lock the door as they went down to the pavement. Joining them, we confirmed our arrangements for completing the transfer of ownership, and they set off toward Kensington Church Street. I let them go on, as I didn’t feel like walking with them and making more idle conversation.

It would be easy to let myself fall once again into a brown study as I stood alone by the street, my recent companions making their way to the distant corner. I shivered and stamped my feet a couple of times, forcing myself back into the present.

It was only then that I had, just for the slightest instant of time, the feeling that I was being watched.

It passed instantly, but I did not negate it. I had learned over the last decade, first in the Army, and mostly in the company of Sherlock Holmes, that I should trust my instincts. And I had learned as well never to go unarmed. I patted my hand softly against the bulge of my service revolver, carried under my coat.

I assessed the sensation, and still found it to be valid. But I didn’t have that feeling of being a target, another impression with which I have been intimately familiar. So rather than make any obvious motions, such as hiding suddenly or looking in vain for my observer, I forced myself to remain still, cool, and normal.

When Dr. Withers and his daughter were far enough ahead and turning the corner, I casually glanced at my watch, realizing that more of the morning had passed than I had thought. I had just enough time to make my appointment with Holmes in Bloomsbury.

Going a different way to the main road, but not walking in any sort of hurry that would indicate that I believed myself to be observed, I found a cabbie that I knew, with the odd name of Giles Styles, waiting at the usual stop in the High Street. He greeted me with quiet reserve, knowing of my recent bereavement. Nodding back to him, I told him our destination, and we set out at a brisk trot.

The sensation of being watched vanished with every hoof beat.

Chapter VI: We Examine an Artifact

The London streets had become more crowded since I had come this way earlier in the day, but we still made good time, and soon turned up Bloomsbury Street, and then almost immediately into Great Russell Street, which I shall always associate most with the odd investigation of the Three Split Bones, and not necessarily the overwhelming Museum, as one might expect.

Arriving at our destination and stepping down from the cab, I could see that Holmes was having a conversation with one of the guards at the great gates. I paid Styles with a good tip. I knew his regular haunts were in Kensington, and I didn’t know how or when or even if I would see him very often in the future, but I wanted to honor his service. A veteran of Maiwand like myself, he had been the one to fetch the additional physician I requested when I first returned home just weeks before and found my wife near death. The servant who had run to find Styles and then given him my message had later told me of the man’s relentless tracking of the specific doctor that I desired, when the man wasn’t immediately available at the most likely place. Styles was a good fellow, and I would miss him.

I joined Holmes, who was explaining, “Nonetheless, Fletcher, you would do well to trust your wife a little more. It is obvious from your boots that she still loves you.” Turning my way, he said, “Shall we go inside?”

Unacknowledged – but certainly noticed by my friend, who noticed everything – Fletcher touched a respectful pair of fingers to the bill of his cap in a salute. Holmes and I then navigated across the Great Court, and so on inside, my eyes blinking to adjust from the bright but cold sunlight we had left behind to the sudden darkness. Holmes unerringly led me through several turns to a bank of offices that would always remain unknown to most casual visitors. Almost immediately, we were shown into a vast room with high windows. Stepping from behind a massive desk was the Museum’s Director himself, Sir Quinton Havershill, happily reaching for our hands. “Holmes! And Watson as well! To what do we owe the pleasure?”

My welcome, as ebullient as that for Holmes, spilled over from the Director’s obvious high regard for my friend. Holmes explained that we had been discussing his old cases the night before, and the circumstances relating to the short and quickly solved theft of The Eye of Heka had come up. “I mentioned to Watson that there was a chance to have a look at it, and he agreed.”

“Certainly, certainly. Anything for the man who so quickly resolved the question of the Ptarmigan Egg.”

I raised my eyebrows. “Before your time, Watson,” said Holmes. “And it was a jewel, not a real egg, as you might have understandably thought. Somewhat bigger than the ruby in The Eye of Heka, but with a much less colorful history.”

Sir Quinton had leaned out into his anteroom while Holmes was speaking and issued instructions. Soon, we were joined by a somewhat disheveled man in his late forties, his light and thin sandy hair, combed loosely over his shining crown, doing nothing to disguise the fact that he was going bald – in fact, his journey to that condition was essentially complete. His face was sallow, and there were dark circles under his eyes – not those of illness, but rather a natural feature of his weary countenance.

“Holmes, You remember Clement Williams?” said the Director.

“Ah, yes. You were present that morning when The Eye of Heka went missing.”

“Yes, sir. I trust you have been well since then?”

“Quite, thank you. And yourself?”

Williams glanced at the Director. “Still plugging away,” he said.

There was an unspoken tension in the answer, which did not pass unnoticed by Sir Quinton. “Williams is a valuable member of our staff,” he said after the slightest awkward hesitation. “He’s a hard worker, and quite good at his job,” he added.

“Thank you, sir,” Williams said softly.

“Well, then, Williams,” Sir Quinton stated in an overly hearty voice. “History repeats itself.”

“Sir?”

“Mr. Holmes has returned regarding The Eye of Heka.”

Williams’s eyes widened. “I trust there isn’t a problem?”

Sir Quinton shook his great head. “No, no. He and Dr. Watson would simply like to have a look at it.”

Williams looked from one to the other of us for a moment, and then repeated, “The Eye of Heka, sir?”

“Yes, the Eye.” Sir Quinton seemed a trifle vexed. “Just a routine viewing for some friends of the Museum.” He turned to Holmes. “As you know, after the last incident, we do not publicly display the item. Originally, the Earl – that is, the Earl at that time – was anxious for it to be publicly visible, so those that had been attempting to steal it from his estate would realize that it was no longer at his home and leave them alone. However, following the attempt here, only hours after we acquired it, we learned more about the… umm, shall we simply say ‘nature’ of The Eye, and it was agreed that a less public area would be best all around for its safe-keeping.”

His reference to this “nature” sounded intriguing, as did his mention of a colorful history, and I resolved to question Holmes more thoroughly about it when we had the chance, possibly at lunch following our viewing of the thing.

“Do you receive many requests to see The Eye?” asked Holmes.

Sir Quinton glanced at Williams, who simply shook his head. The Director frowned slightly, possibly expecting a more extensive verbal answer followed by a “Sir”. Turning back to Holmes, he said, “There have been one or two representatives of the Foreign Office who have checked on it over the years, I suppose to make sure that it is still locked away, but that is all. Its presence here is not common knowledge, as you know.”

“And the current Earl? He was quite… attached to the idol, and at one time vowed to bring it back to Essex once his father died. I understand that he decided to leave it here after all, but does he not occasionally want a look at it?”

“I’m not aware of a single instance in all the years since it was left with us that the Earl has asked to see it. Williams?”

“That is correct,” said Williams. “I believe that once he realized he couldn’t safely bring it home without encouraging the attempts to steal it, he decided simply to let it go.”

“Hmm,” said Holmes. “I must admit that surprises me. He was quite fond of it.”

“It was undoubtedly the wisest course,” said Sir Quinton. “This is certainly the safest place for it to be kept.” He glanced toward his desk, which was a smooth and completely uncluttered expanse. “If there isn’t anything else that I can do for you, gentlemen, I must get back to my duties. I’ll leave you in Williams’s capable hands.”

With that, and a round of handshakes, we were led out of the office and through a maze of exhibits at a brisk pace. Williams wasn’t inclined to carry on a conversation, walking several steps in front of us. He seemed tense, and I wondered what about this request had affected him so. Perhaps there was some unknown factor between himself and the Director that contributed to the man’s immediate behavior. One certainly had the impression from the brief snippet of conversation that Williams felt he should have advanced to a higher position than he currently held. I would be certain to question Holmes about his thoughts on the matter after we had departed.

We detoured to an office, where Williams retrieved a set of keys from a locked safe. Again taking the lead, he led us onward. Considering what I had just learned about the security needed for the idol, I wasn’t surprised when we left the main halls and entered a much less ostentatious hallway, deep within the building. Then we went down several flights of stairs into a series of confusing interconnected cellars. Not far down a final narrow hallway with a low ceiling, Williams stopped before a heavy iron door, like that of a vault, and pulled the ring of keys from his pocket. Turning the solid-sounding lock, he ushered us inside, reaching past us to activate an electric light, as there was no indication that gas had been laid on here.

I could see that it was necessary in this musty windowless chamber. Any sort of flame in here would have quickly become distinctly unpleasant. However, I knew that before the Museum had been wired for electricity, just such a lantern light would have been used here by necessity on a regular basis.

Williams walked straight to a set of heavy steel drawers on the facing wall, each with its own sturdy individual lock. Selecting another key from his ring, he unlocked one at waist level and pulled it out silently. Inside was a bundle, wrapped in a red velvet cloth.

We stepped closer as Williams lifted it out, still wrapped. Then, carefully cradling it in his arm as if it were a very young child, he pulled back the folds of rich material, as though exposing the infant’s face to a group of admirers in the park.

“I’m afraid I cannot let you handle it, gentlemen,” he said. “It was cleaned before storage, and I neglected to bring any of the white cotton gloves that we use to routinely handle exhibits. However, I can tilt it this way or that as you require to give you a better view.”

I leaned in, eager to have a look at this figure that had led to numerous robbery attempts. I have to admit that at first glance, I was rather disappointed. Having seen quite a few truly magnificent artifacts, both great and small, during my time in India and Afghanistan, this simple stone carving, not much more than a foot in length, seemed rather… ordinary at best.

As I had been led to expect by Holmes’s description, it was made of something like marble, mostly black, with white or gray streaks running lengthwise. It was polished to a smooth shine, and there was a simple face carved at the top of its foot-long body. And then, of course, there was the ruby, fixed in the forehead and centered above and between the two eyes.

Williams shifted the object slightly, and the light from the electric bulb played about it at different angles. I was able to get a better look at the face. It consisted of a leering mouth, only a couple of inches wide, lips protruding slightly from the smooth outer surface, with something of a twist. There was a raised teardrop of a nose, nubbed outward above the smooth cheeks, and then the two eyes, which were not modeled to actually look like eyes at all. Rather, where they would have been were simply two holes, dark in their emptiness, and very small, about the diameter of a pencil. I couldn’t tell from where I stood how deeply they extended into the carving.

And above them was the ruby, blood red in the artificial light of the storage vault. It was roughly oval-cut, and the flat planes of the surfaces showed an unevenness, betraying that it had been prepared by an unskilled craftsman from long ago. It was quite large, perhaps the diameter of a shilling, but it was unclear how deeply it penetrated into the carving, or what held it there. No indication of any sort of fixtures to keep it in place, such as one would find on a pendant, were obvious. The stone would have been valuable on its own if separated from its resting place, and certainly it could have been recut to a finer shape, even if that meant losing some of its size and weight in the process. But removing it from the statue would have somehow diminished it. Like so many historical museum pieces, its greatest value was as a part of the whole.

I recalled what Holmes said about objects having power simply because someone believed in them and invested them with value and importance. But looking at this example of a sculptor’s art, I simply did not understand the attraction. It was just cold stone, with a prominently displayed cold gem. I was unimpressed.

I stepped back, but Holmes continued to peer at the effigy, shifting from foot to foot and angle to angle, attempting to avoid blocking the light as he did so. Williams made some minor efforts to accommodate him, but seemed instinctively to move the wrong way every time Holmes tried to get a better view. Finally, after resting his gaze on the thing for another long minute, the dead silence of the vault broken only by the sounds of our breathing and the rasping of the cloth of Holmes’s Inverness when he moved, my friend straightened his back, saying, “Thank you for your time, Mr. Williams. Upon recalling the idol yesterday to my friend here, I was suddenly of a mind to see it again, after so many years. It is certainly amazing how much one can forget over so long a time.”

Williams, in the act of rewrapping the statue and replacing it in the drawer, said, “Think nothing of it, Mr. Holmes. Simply part of my job.”

Before Williams could complete his task, Holmes turned. “We will show ourselves out, then.” And he strode to the door, leaving me to follow. Nodding a quick thanks to an obviously surprised Williams, I hurried to catch up.

Outside, Holmes led me back to the main galleries. Then, as I was able to walk side-by-side with him as he strode down through a connecting hallway, and out into the Museum proper, I said, “Holmes! Must you – ”

“Not here, Watson!” he hissed, and I resigned myself to staying even with him.

Once we had exited the building, although still on the wide terrace behind the tall columns, Holmes turned quickly left, toward the Montague Street side of the great courtyard. I followed, struggling to adjust my coat in the sudden cold. Finding a sheltered spot in the shadows, Holmes paused and turned to face me.

“What is it, Holmes?” I asked. “Why are you suddenly so distressed?”

“Because that was not the real idol, Watson. Someone has substituted a clever fake!”

Chapter VII: Set Into Motion

“A fake!” I cried, but softly. “How can you tell?”

He patted his coat, and I knew that he was considering lighting a cigarette. Then he stopped himself. “Because I took the trouble, a decade ago, to examine the true idol when I had the chance. And I assure you that this simulacrum, no matter how well conceived, is not the real thing.”

“Holmes, surely a plain stone object such as that would not have enough specific identifying features that you could recall them after all these years. It was simply a crude and rather ordinary sculpture, fashioned by some long-dead craftsman.”

“Ah, Watson, but it did have identifying features. I had a chance to look it over quite carefully long ago, when we first recovered it in John Goins’s Hackney rooms. There was a definite white streak on the front, near the base but centered below the face, that looked distinctly like a wavy letter ‘H’. I thought with some fanciful amusement at the time that it looked like the initial from my own last name, as if it were spelled out in smoke. I tell you that the mark was not there on the statue we just saw.

“But there is more. If you were to have seen the thing, the real thing, you would feel that it had… weight. A presence, one might say, or a sense of its history.”

I looked at him in astonishment. This was not the sort of description that would normally be given about something by Mr. Sherlock Holmes.

“What we just examined was nothing,” he continued, “but a stone carving, such as might be found in some curio shop down by the docks. It might as well have been a newel post or a doorstop. Granted, a great deal of effort, and probably expense, has been expended to make this look like the real thing. This is no casual substitution.

“But finally, and most telling of all, was the ruby. Surely you could see that the one we just saw was a reproduction? Oh, it was crafted intentionally to look crude, as if it had been fashioned by a native and not a modern gem cutter, but it was clearly a counterfeit, nonetheless. Even in that poor electric light, the real Eye of Heka would have shone with an inner light. This thing was simply a dead lump.”

His description of the stone figure was quite unusual, considering that my friend generally had no respect for what he called “superstitious clap-trap”. And yet, he seemed completely serious about this business.

“Surely Williams must realize that the idol he showed us is not the real thing?” I said. “The man is a specialist. He has worked at the Museum for years, and the Director said he is very good at his job.”

“Exactly! I’m certain that he does know it is spurious. And unfortunately, he also realizes now that I know it as well. I tried to be circumspect with my inspection, but I’m afraid that I let my surprised reaction show for just for the fraction of an instant, and Williams, who clearly did not want to display the idol to us at all, was watching for the slightest twitch that might reveal that I had spotted the fraudulent nature of the object.”

“What should we do, then?” I asked. “Do you intend to notify Sir Quinton? Should we send a message to your acquaintance, the Earl, notifying him of the situation?”

Holmes started to answer, and then, with a surprised hiss, he pulled me deeper into the shadows. As I followed him, I pivoted to see what he had observed in the courtyard.

It was Williams, without a doubt, coatless and propelling himself toward the gates at a near trot, looking neither left nor right. Holmes did not hesitate for an instant before deciding on a course of action. Shedding his Inverness and fore-and-aft cap, he dropped into a slouch, immediately taking six inches off his height. Handing me his bundled outer garments with one hand, he used the other to reach up and brush his hair forward into a messy tangle down his high forehead.

“Wait for me at the Alpha,” he said, loping off in pursuit of Williams in a manner which would never suggest that he was the well-known detective.

“Holmes,” I said, quietly and rather ineffectually since he was already beyond the hearing of my still-conversational voice. “You’ll freeze without your coat.” But by then he had passed out of the gate and was gone. “You’ll make yourself ill,” I added.

I followed more slowly through the gate, expecting Fletcher, the guard, to ask me about Holmes’s unusual departure. But he simply nodded, having either been unaware that Holmes had gone by, or more likely not surprised at my friend’s odd appearance. I walked at a much more leisurely pace than Holmes had just done, and crossed Great Russell Street to the Alpha Inn, that fine old establishment on the corner just across from the Museum. I had been a frequent visitor there in my student days, given its proximity to both the University of London slightly to the north and my later short-lived practice in Southampton Place just a few blocks east. Seeing no one I recognized inside – and not expecting to, as I assumed that some changes had obviously taken place during the ten years that had passed since I was a resident of this neighborhood – I made my way to the bar. Finding the place to be surprisingly well occupied, I asked for a pint of beer and a sandwich before settling myself at a table near the back, my old favorite actually, and looking out through the windows into Museum Street.

I had time to finish my abbreviated meal and most of the beer when I saw Holmes through the window, making his way quickly toward the pub’s door at the corner. Downing the last swallow from my glass, I stood as he reached my small table.

He had brushed his hair back into its regular neat arrangement, and he was now standing at his usual lean height, somewhat over six feet. For the most part, his features were pale with the cold, contrasting greatly with both the redness of his nose and the bright look in his eyes. A faint smile played around his lips. “The game is afoot!” he whispered.

Obviously he felt no need to eat anything himself. He reached for his Inverness and hat, slipping into them without a word. I put myself back into my own coat as well and then followed him out into the street. Very quickly we were ensconced in a hansom, rapidly making our way west. “30 Wellington Square, Chelsea,” he had called to the driver, who acknowledged with a nod.

Holmes then gave further explicit instructions, telling the driver to avoid the Strand, running to the south of us and parallel to our current route. “I followed Williams down that way,” he said, “and the streets there are quite jammed with the mid-day traffic.”

“Did you choose to let him go, or did you lose him?”

“Watson, please. Mr. Williams revealed what I needed to know, and I had no further need for him.” He reached into a pocket and handed me a blank telegram form, smudged with dirt. Tilting it back and forth in the poor light from the cab’s window, I could see that writing was imprinted into the surface of the paper.

“I followed him several blocks straight south, until he neared the Strand. He seemed to know where he was going, and led me straight to a telegraph office,” Holmes explained. “He didn’t recognize me, and I was able to stand immediately behind him while he filled out the form. After he paid and left, I let him go. Then, approaching the counter, I sent the clerk on some false errand while I obtained the blank sheet directly underneath the form that had been used by Williams.

“Outside, I found that I did not have a pencil to bring out Williams’s message. But some dirt from the pavement, rubbed into the surface of the sheet, served the purpose just as well, and revealed the writing.”

He pointed to the top of the form. “It is addressed to the Earl’s residence in Essex.”

I glanced up. “If Williams is aware that the idol is a forgery, and has been keeping that knowledge to himself, why would he immediately get in contact with the Earl as soon as he realized that you had perceived the truth?”

“Exactly. Now look at the rest of the message.”

It said “Holmes knows of substitution.”

The implications washed over me. “Then the Earl is aware of the substitution. He found a way to take it home with him after all, and he’s allowed the Museum to go to the trouble of guarding the fraudulent object for all these years as a decoy.”

“Obviously. But this is more serious than you realize.”

“In what way? Because Williams is actually in the pay of the Earl, and willing to lie to his employers at the Museum?”

“No, my friend, it is very much worse than that.” And then he drifted into that taciturn state that did not invite further conversation.

We eventually worked our way west and south, into and through Sloane Square, and onto the King’s Road. Shortly we found ourselves turning into the short U-shaped Wellington Crescent, with its elegant white houses lining both sides, all facing a well-kept and tree-filled little park in the center. No. 30 looked like all the rest, four stories rising solidly above us. We mounted the four shallow steps to the small porch, and Holmes rang the bell while I looked down into the areaway, noticing the darkened windows through the iron railings.

“This is Ian’s city home,” he said. “When in London, he doesn’t live in Mayfair or Belgravia, as one might expect. I have never been inside, but I had reason to be aware of it when it was mentioned in a newspaper article about a charity function that took place here.” He glanced to the right and left, no doubt seeing more than I ever could. “I expect that he’s at his Essex estate, where Williams sent the telegram, but I don’t want to overlook the opportunity to speak to him here, on the off-chance that he’s in town.”

Holmes rang again, and then knocked. I remarked, “I don’t believe that anyone is at home.”

“And I believe that you’re right.” He turned. “The postman is making his rounds. Speak to him and determine if the Earl is currently in residence. I’ll ask a neighbor.”

The postman, a friendly and garrulous sort of chap, confirmed that not only was the Earl away, but his entire staff was as well, and that the house had been closed for over a month. Managing to extricate myself from the enthusiastic civil servant, who had progressed to gossiping about other residents of the Square, I rejoined Holmes in front of No. 30, where we stood near the door while he told me that he had found a neighbor who confirmed the postman’s statement.

“I had hoped to find Ian here,” he said. “We have no choice but to proceed to his country home.”

“Could you not send a wire?”

“I would prefer to arrive unannounced. Williams has already notified him that I know of his deception regarding the substitution of the idol at the Museum. Now I need to speak to him in person, rather than engage in an endless series of explanatory telegrams on my part followed by denials on his.”

We returned to the hansom. “Liverpool Street Station,” Holmes told the cabbie.

“Holmes,” I asked. “Why the urgency? Why travel to Essex, without even making the effort to send the Earl a telegram, asking him what’s going on?”

“Because we’re already playing catch-up,” my friend replied tersely. “Williams has informed Ian that I know about the substitution. That, I’m afraid, will set things in motion.”

“Things? What things? What is it about this idol that concerns you so?”

“Because of Ian’s belief in it. His belief, and many others besides him. And believing in something gives it power. Now, Watson, I beg of you to let me get my thoughts in order. I assure you that I will explain things shortly.”

We crossed London slowly, and I could sense my friend’s frustration. However, he kept it to himself, and it was only when we were entrained and headed to Chelmsford, where we would change to a northern line and the Earl’s home, that he began to speak.

“I told you last night about Ian’s visit to my Montague Street rooms, back in ’78, about how he described the statue, and that he had faced some difficulties bringing it to England.”

“You related that he said he had a devil of a time getting it back.”

“That’s right. However, in telling the story to you last night, there was no need to elaborate upon some of the details that Ian provided at the time regarding his experiences. Now, that part has become relevant to your understanding more about the idol.

“As I told you, I had brought Ian to my room, as he didn’t want to return to the Museum or join me across the street in the Alpha in order to tell his story. As we smoked, and before he shared the details of the recent theft of the idol from the Museum, he also related about how he had first acquired it.

“‘You may have heard,’ Ian told me, ‘that when my brother died a few years ago, my father and I went out to bring him home.’ I nodded. ‘It was rough on the old man. His elder son, and all of that. I’d never been particularly close to Jimmy, but I went along nonetheless. My duty, you know.

“‘Father and I met up halfway, and then proceeded on together. There wasn’t a lot of conversation between us, but I knew what he was thinking. I’ve always been something of a disappointment to him, and now I was the heir. Realizing what he so obviously felt didn’t make me any happier, as you might imagine.

“‘We arrived and took possession of the body. Simple enough on the surface. But it was a bit odd, in that no one could tell us much about Jimmy’s death, except that he’d died in a fire while on a trip into the far desert. However, we simply accepted it as a given that there would never be an adequate investigation.

“‘After meeting up with Jimmy’s friends, Malloy and Conner, I managed to learn some more. When Jimmy had died, they had all been away from their hotel, having traveled somewhere out into the distant wastelands for several days to look for relics. It was something of a lark. They hadn’t gone to any of the usual tourist spots. Instead, they’d headed toward a remote valley far to the south that had no reputation for that sort of thing.

“‘Before they arrived at their goal, while camping one night, an accident happened, and Jimmy’s tent caught on fire. The officials who spoke to us suspected that he was too drunk to escape, although they didn’t come right out and say it that way.

“‘The night before my father and I were to return to England with the body, Conner and Malloy visited my room to give me additional information, making it clear that their visit was a secret, and that they didn’t want my father to learn of it. They explained that their visit to the remote valley had been more than some drunken distraction. They had previously obtained knowledge of the location of a hidden artifact in the desert, the finding of which might make their fortunes.

“‘I could understand their interest in such a thing. Conner and Malloy were both second sons like me, and until Jimmy’s death, I was facing the same bleak future that they were, packed off after completing school to work in a dead-end and thankless civil service job in some fly-specked country. In fact, truth be told, these fellows had always been more my friends than Jimmy’s, and had only accompanied him on his trip because I myself had no interest in joining him and visiting that part of the world. Quite frankly, I also didn’t want to spend that amount of time with my brother, either.

“‘It turned out that Jimmy had been the financing partner in their amateur archeological expedition, and now, with him dead, they wondered if I might be willing to take his place and go back into the desert. At first I was skeptical, as you might expect, but their descriptions of the item were enough to get me interested, at least. Enough so that I told my father the next morning that he would be returning with Jimmy’s body alone to England.’”

“Your acquaintance, the Earl,” I said, interrupting Holmes’s narrative, “continues to sound like a singularly unpleasant individual.”

“That is certainly the most accurate way to describe him,” replied Holmes.

“And this object they were searching for. The idol?”

“Exactly. And it was at this point I asked Ian more specifically about what they had been searching for.

“‘It’s a stone carving. They call it “The Eye of Heka”,’ he replied, looking for a place to stub out the remains of his cigar.

“‘Heka?’ I asked, attempting to recall some fact or other that I had read. ‘Isn’t that one of the minor deities? An obscure god of magic?’

“‘Right. Magic.’

“‘And this ‘Eye’? I take it, then, that there is a jewel involved. There is always a jewel.’

“He smiled, a rather unpleasant smile, I must say. ‘So I was given to understand at the time. I didn’t know much more than that about it then, although I’ve learned a great deal since. Several days before Jimmy’s death, Conner had been in the Bazaar when he was approached by a wizened man, an odd-looking old chap with light blue eyes who looked more European than local. He offered to sell a parchment map that would supposedly lead him to a treasure bestowing great power. Conner had bought the map for nearly nothing, thinking it would make an amusing souvenir and nothing more. Later, at the hotel, he showed it to Jimmy and Malloy. While they were looking it over, a hotel employee delivered some drinks to their room, and Malloy impulsively asked him if he could translate the writing. The fellow couldn’t, but directed them to the university, where he had an uncle who would know about such things.

“‘The next day, they found their man, a little scholar who became quite excited when examining the document. He told them that it revealed the way a remote valley far out in the desert – he wasn’t even sure that it was on any official map – where the tomb of an ancient merchant was buried. This man’s most valuable possession, which was buried with him, had been a statue representing this Heka, the God of Magic. The map also contained a warning, stating that the object must remain buried with the dead man, as it was too powerful to be allowed to continue causing harm in the world.

“‘My brother and his friends didn’t believe anything about the statue having any powers – my brother never much believed in anything – but they talked amongst themselves, and worked themselves up, and were tempted by the fame that might come from unearthing a lost treasure. I gathered that they were already bored, and this would be something new. I could certainly understand that. And it didn’t hurt that the old man also said the statue had a great ruby mounted in its forehead, rumored to be as big as a child’s fist. This jewel was there to channel – to focus – the Magic of Heka, which could tap into the power of ka – what some of them call the soul – in order to bestow the ka of the gods to its possessor.’

“Ian saw my look of skepticism at this point, and with a sheepish look, began to pat his coat, looking for another of his rotten-smelling cigars, having puffed through the first in unusually swift fashion. ‘I know it sounds silly. But when you’re sitting in the middle of a foreign country, and hearing something like this whispered to you in nervous confidence, it begins to take on a bit more substance.’ He pulled out the cigar, lit it, and continued.

“‘Conner and Malloy told me that the old man at the university seemed lost in the books and scrolls that filled his little office, and as exciting as the possibility of finding the statue was to my brother and the others, it was soon forgotten by the old man when he began to look through his documents for something about a similar legend. They left him there as they found him, and set about organizing a small expedition to the remote valley.

“‘Conner and Malloy said that they felt as if something were wrong about it from the very beginning. The night before they were to leave, they were set upon in the street, but they managed to fight off their attackers. They returned to their rooms to discover that they had been ransacked. The hotel employee who had first directed them toward the old man was acting suspicious, and seemed to be watching them more than he ought. It was then that they noticed that he had the same light eyes as the old man who had sold them the map. It was almost with relief that the expedition began.

“‘By the fifth day, they were part of the way there, and had settled into camp for the evening when a little old man was led into their presence. He also appeared very similar to the fellow who had sold them the map – dark features, and very light eyes. When they asked him his name, he ignored the question, instead entering into a sing-song warning about not opening the tomb, as the evil that had been sealed with such an effort by his ancestors would be unleashed once again.

“‘Jimmy, as the leader of the group, tried to question the stranger, but could get nothing useful out of him, except for a vague agreement that the evil being described by the old man referred to the very same idol that the expedition was there to seek. The natives, who hadn’t been told why they were hired, seemed somewhat unnerved by the old man’s assertions, but they were poor and their loyalty could be bought for pennies. When Jimmy directed that the old man be thrown out of the camp, they complied.

“‘When the sun set, everyone separated. And only a few hours later, after the winds had turned and picked up, the cry of fire rang across the camp. Of course, it was from Jimmy’s tent, and he was dead when they finally put out the flames and pulled out his body. Conner and Malloy knew that they had to bring him back to civilization, but they were also concerned that, now that the existence of the tomb had been revealed, someone else would find it and take the carving before they could get back. However, they had no choice, and they took some comfort in the fact that the men they had hired seemed to have been unnerved by the old man’s story, and after his departure, they had been noticeably reluctant to continue onward to the tomb, as if even discussion of it radiated unpleasant vibrations that only they could sense. Jimmy’s death only seemed to make all of this certain to them.

“‘After Conner and Malloy finished telling me their story, I spent an hour or so pondering it before deciding that I wanted to find the idol as much as my brother had. I told my father that he would be taking Jimmy back to England alone, and that I would follow in a few days. We had something of a row, but that was nothing new, and after I saw him off, I set about arranging a new expedition to the valley shown on the map.

“‘We set out, and after a week, we reached there without incident, traveling with many of the same hired men that had gone out with the first group. They were reluctant, but money overcame any of their fears. No one appeared to warn us away this time. We found the valley, and then the tomb, as shown on the old map: Two knobs of stone, jutting from a short hillside. These marked the hidden door.

“‘The native laborers dug down, beneath and between the stone knobs, to find the outline of a wall. Then they chipped out one of the stones, a large one, leaving a tunnel-like hole into a void beyond. I wiggled in first, followed by Conner and Malloy, and then some of the natives. It was a simple tomb, or so I’m told, with something like a plain coffin, stacked on a table of rock, sealed with pitch, and showing none of the characteristic decorations that one expects in that part of the world. And there didn’t seem to be any statue or great ruby anywhere either.

“‘But I remembered some of the wording that I had been told, where the old man had translated about sealing the evil and powerful statue away, and I had the idea to break into the pitch-covered coffin. Cutting and scraping through the old tar that bound it shut, I finally burst through to reveal a body – not a mummy, but just a desiccated husk – and a smaller item in a plain wooden box.

“‘The natives were becoming upset at this point, and it was only through threats by Malloy that a near-riot was prevented. As all this was going on, I took hold of the box and opened it, revealing the object of our quest: The Eye of Heka.’

“At this point,” Holmes said, “Ian described the idol’s physical characteristics in greater detail, as I related to you last night. But I didn’t mention what else he said.

“While he was telling me all of this,” Holmes continued, “Ian’s eyes took on an odd cast, as if he were looking far beyond the walls of my small Montague Street rooms. He held his cigar in his hand, forgotten, as the smoke twisted lazily toward the ceiling.

“‘They say it channels power, Holmes,’ he muttered, his voice low and hard to hear. He was speaking more to himself than to me. ‘The inner power that all of us have. Call it magic, or, your soul, or whatever you like. It’s said to be a connection between the little spark in each of us that is part of something greater, and that same power rests within the gods as well.’ Then, he seemed to realize that he was speaking aloud, or sharing too much, because he visibly pulled himself back to my room and straightened in his chair with a laugh. ‘It was the very devil getting the thing home,’ he added, ‘but we finally managed it.’ Then, for the rest of the conversation, he simply told how they came back to England, and about the way the idol was subsequently stolen from the Museum, as I’ve previously related.”

We were silent for some minutes while he smoked and I pondered what he had told me. Then I spoke. “It’s apparent that the Earl gives weight to the stories about the talisman’s supposed powers. It’s no surprise that the superstitious folk also believe in it to some greater or lesser degree. But you, Holmes? You uncharacteristically seem to ascribe some importance to the object as well. May I ask why?”

He kept looking out of the window for so long that I thought he hadn’t heard me, or was choosing to ignore the question. Then, with a sigh, he shifted and faced back into the compartment.

“When I found the time during the months following the idol’s recovery,” he said, “I managed to research what I could about it. I didn’t pursue the question actively, you understand. But here and there I managed to put together enough puzzle pieces to create a recognizable picture.”

“Then first,” I asked, “please elaborate on this ‘Heka’. This fellow has heretofore passed by me unnoticed.”

He nodded. “Heka is a lesser-known deity, mentioned in ancient documents, although that does not make him any less important. Although Ian described him as the ‘God of Magic’, he is more accurately defined as the embodiment of magic, and also the activator of magic and its related uses within a person. This magic, known as ka, was considered to be an essential and basic part of the make-up of each person. This is somewhat along the same lines of what we call a soul. In ancient beliefs, each person’s ka is linked to the much greater and more powerful ka’s of the other gods, and Heka was the connection that enabled one to access both the magic within one’s self, and also to channel the gods’ powers. Heka was thought to be the son of the creator god, and because of his ability to draw upon and direct the other god’s powers, he was considered very powerful and supremely important. He was known for being very influential and omniscient, and if a mortal could gain control of him, he could use his powers for his own purposes.”

“Hence the idol,” I said.

“Quite. As I said, I was able to learn some about it, after the fact. Apparently, Ian’s discovery and subsequent removal of it from its ancient hiding place stirred ripples that are still washing back toward us. After he and his friends returned to England, word spread, and many people were curious about what he had discovered. What he said about having ‘the very devil getting the thing home’ wasn’t exaggeration. When he and the others took it out of the tomb, several of his workers demanded that it immediately be resealed within the chamber, lest its evil be released into the world, as the old man from the earlier expedition had predicted. When one of the workers became violent, Ian shot and killed him. The other workers backed off, but there was a great deal of grumbling and anger, and Ian’s party considered themselves lucky to make it back in one piece.

“There were several instances where one or the other of the party was waylaid, but they always managed to fight their way clear. On the last day, as they rode to the docks, a small mob attacked the wagons carrying them and their luggage. More shots were fired, and two locals were killed. It seems that Ian bribed the police, and he and the others were allowed to board the ship and depart with their prize. It was learned after the fact that the mob and the two dead men were from a village near where the idol had been found. They had lived with the legend of the object and its burial for countless generations, and after Ian departed, they set about spreading the word that the evil was again loose in the world. Most people ignored them, but there is always a contingent that is like an empty bowl, its only purpose to be filled with such a bitter brew. A cult seems to have sprung up in the last few years around the idea of this tool being used to access the power of Heka, and these men and women have been demanding its return to the land of its fathers. It has become obvious that they don’t wish to reseal it into the tomb, or to use the power that is supposedly granted by it to a sole possessor. Rather, they wish to use it for more nationalistic purposes.”

“Presumably while being wielded by some kind of savior. Like the Mahdi.”

He nodded.

“You said that if someone could gain control of the god, Heka, through possession and use of the statue, he could use the god’s powers for his own purposes.”

“That’s the tale that is now being told. Who knows what the idol was originally designed to represent so long ago? It certainly doesn’t favor the traditional visage of Heka, usually pictured with entwined arms that might either represent grain or serpents.”

“Entwined serpents? Sounds rather like the caduceus, or the Rod of Asclepius.”

“Fitting in a way, since Heka is also associated with healing. However, the caduceus, as you well know, is more closely associated with Hermes Trismegistus, a combination of the Greek god Hermes and the Egyptian god Thoth. The Rod of Asclepius only has a single wound serpent, and is solely associated with the Greek god Asclepius. Despite that, the fetish, as you could see from the fraudulent copy that we examined a few hours ago, has nothing about it suggesting serpents. It is a simple polished stone cylinder, just inches wide and a foot tall.

“I should mention,” he added, “that my sources have been unable to find a reference to an idol dedicated to Heka in any of the more important translated texts.”

“It sounds to me as if your sources are fairly well placed, even if they haven’t been able to obtain definite information about the thing. You’re certainly well informed about what happened following its discovery and removal to England.”

“I have certain contacts within the government and the Foreign Office who understood the concern I felt after hearing both Ian’s explanation, as well as seeing glimpses of his strange obsession with the idol.”

From my current vantage, with many years behind me, I know Holmes must have then been referring to his brother. But even upon meeting Mycroft Holmes later that year, I wasn’t told immediately that the man, with his incredible ability to take in vast amounts of disparate knowledge and find previously unobserved connections and patterns, was sometimes considered to be the British government. Holmes was never one to reveal more than necessary, and I believe that he only informed me of his brother’s existence in the first place in order to prove a conversational point that there was someone with even greater powers of observation, deduction, and induction, than he himself had.

“Any object such as this,” Holmes continued, “with a fascination powerful enough to the malleable masses to cause them to rumble into motion, must be watched with caution. Hence, the Foreign Office’s interest in it, and Williams’s statement that the only visitors to check on it have been government representatives.

“Over the years, the story of the talisman and its supposed powers has only grown in the telling in certain regions. There are certain evil men in power to wish to manipulate the faction that would like to regain it, believing that, through its use, wars can be started. To their benefit, the British might be thrown out of Africa.

I nodded in understanding. Since we had defeated the Egyptian Army in ’82 and made that country a protectorate, newspapers both there and all over the world had regularly featured stories of the rising resentment throughout the region. The same would be true in all of our colonies. We had seen it before in the Great Indian Rebellion of 1857.

“I think that I understand why you speak of its power. It doesn’t matter what the object is. It could be a stone cylinder with a face and a jewel, or a supposed bone from a legendary leader – ”

“ – or a Holy Grail or a fragment of a ‘true’ cross,” Holmes finished.

“If it is an object that can be rallied around, then it has power.”

“And no magic need apply.”

“But the British have only been influential in that area since 1882,” I said. “That was several years after the idol was found and removed. Surely there hasn’t been enough time for such resentment to build against us.”

“Nevertheless, the story about the statue’s powers had started growing from the time it was found by Ian and his friends. Now it has become a symbol of the downtrodden to many in the remote wastelands. They are disorganized and purposeless now, but less so with each day. Suppose knowledge from those who wish for war is released, and it becomes known that the carving has been liberated from the man who had stolen it? Word spreads that it is coming home. The directionless meanderings will suddenly be much more focused. Borders mean nothing, and as the war-mongers become organized, others might join in, swept along by the building momentum. Right now the movement is contained, and the disaffected masses are lying around like dry tinder, full of dangerous possibility, but inert. A match will be all it takes to light it ablaze. You know how quickly the Mutiny took hold in India. This could sweep north, and then into the regions far to either side as well. Like one domino into another, along the Mediterranean, and so into eastern Asia.

“A few victories on their part would just enhance the idea that the idol is responsible – that it deserves the credit for being able to influence events and channel a great power for those who hold it. The movement would build upon itself, and soon the whole region might be involved in conflict. Our interests, and those of our allies as well, would be jeopardized as the whole of the region spiraled into war. And that might only be the beginning. Some in our government, some whom I trust, believe that even then it would not be contained. As the varied European governments found themselves being frustrated regarding their own concerns, tensions would rise, leading to unpleasant escalations that could undermine peace elsewhere in the world. The strangling treaties of Europe would pull in one country after another. Then America. It would be a world war.

“The fact is, Watson,” he added, “that there are men in power all over the globe, our enemies and our supposed friends, who have no belief in a magical idol, but who will seize any opportunity to cause disruption and chaos. They know that in such circumstances, they will be positioned to obtain incredible wealth and power. It is in their interests to encourage the worst possible outcome. They always look for such chances, with a dozen conflicts maturing at any given time. This one is a perfect opportunity.”

I could see it in my mind. The world, with all its dangers and inequities, was essentially a fragile place. All of that could be upset in an instant if one inflamed group was holding an object that they believed was able to give them the magic of the gods, letting them have the divine power to overcome their enemies.

“But,” I said, as something occurred to me, “perhaps there is nothing to worry about after all. Just because a decoy idol was in the British Museum, and the actual object is apparently still in Essex at the Earl’s estate, as evidenced by Williams’s telegram there, does not mean that the real one is likely to fall into the hands of those who would use it to start a war. Surely those who seek it must still think that it’s in the Museum’s vault.”

Holmes worried at a thumbnail with his teeth. “That is all true,” he said. “But that is not my only concern.”

After he failed to continue, I finally asked with a touch of exasperation, “Then what is it?”

“The men after the object are not the only ones who clearly believe that it has some type of power. It was obvious when he was first telling me about it, in my rooms in Montague Street, that Ian himself gave the story of the thing’s potential a great deal of credence. It seems apparent, based on Williams’s actions, that Ian had the false idol constructed at some point in the last ten years, and with Williams’s help, he swapped it out and regained the original.”

“Again, what does it matter? As I said, if they think that it’s still locked beyond their reach, deep within the Museum, its power to be a symbol is neutralized.”

“Neutralized for them, perhaps.” said Holmes. “But Ian believes in it as well. He has had an incredible rise in good fortune and attainment since he was a young man, and from what I’ve heard, he isn’t very discreet about showing it. Of course, the first instance of his advancement was when his brother was killed, elevating him to the position of heir. That occurred before he had even found the idol. Since then, beginning with the untimely death of his father, he has had an incredible run of successes, especially financial. I don’t believe that the object has any power. But I do think that Ian’s belief in it has given him the confidence to make his own luck, sometimes using very questionable, immoral, and even illegal methods.”

“But even if he believes in it, and if he’s committing crimes to advance his position in life, based on his sense of confidence and entitlement as given by possession of the thing, he wouldn’t reveal that he has the effigy, knowing that there are those waiting for its reappearance so they can try to take it back.”

“Not under normal circumstances. But now he does know that his deception has been uncovered. Today, I mistakenly let Williams see that I knew about the false idol. Williams then immediately notified Ian, as he had apparently been ordered to do if anyone caught on to the ruse. Now Ian may be prompted to act out… somehow, and do something foolish – I know not what. But if he’s careless in the least little bit, now that he has been spooked and flushed, the seekers of the idol, both for its supposed magical powers and its use as a tool to cause global destabilization, will become aware that it is in play once again, and they will make a move. The thing could very well be lost to us before we could stop it. The match might be lit that would lead to a global confrontation.” He closed his eyes.

“And all of that, Watson, would be my fault.”