Part III

Chapter XVIII: What Sir Edward Revealed

I was stunned as I tried to grasp the implications of what Holmes had just read. Perhaps it was already too late. Baron Meade, from all accounts an intelligent, if misguided and dangerous, man, now had a more powerful weapon to aim at Britain than a simply-constructed though massive-in-scale targeted explosion at the center of our government.

Simply-constructed, I thought to myself. As if his earlier plan, designed to kill hundreds – if not thousands! – of important men and women, as well as to destroy incredibly important and symbolic landmarks, was nothing. Yet compared with the potential death of a war caused by the rediscovery of an idol, it was nothing.

“Wake him up,” said Holmes tightly.

“What?” I asked, my thoughts interrupted.

“Wake Sir Edward up. We must question him immediately.” Then, turning to the gathered inspectors, he said, “Do you understand what this means?”

I didn’t see their reactions, as I had turned to aid the damaged man, but Lanner said, “Well, I don’t. It’s obvious that this Baron – ”

“Shut up, Lanner,” muttered Lestrade. Then, louder, “We do, Mr. Holmes,” he continued. “It’s hard to believe that this thing which we’ve heard so much about in the last few days can cause so much pain and destruction, but we understand.”

“Then you know what to do,” said Holmes.

“Right,” said Lestrade. “Come along, Lanner. We need to hear what you’ve already done to locate the Baron. And then we need to do it the right way this time, or England will be at war in less than a fortnight.”

I laid Sir Edward back in the chair, in order to make him as comfortable as possible. I could hear Holmes pacing behind me. Suddenly, a thought occurred to me. “Holmes!”

I looked over my shoulder. My friend had stopped, his thoughts broken. “Get one of the constables in here.”

Without questioning me, he nodded and left the room, stepping around the Earl, who was still collapsed upon the floor. I looked around for a decanter of brandy, found it, and poured a generous amount. Sir Edward was going to need it for the pain. It was times like this that I regretted not carrying my medical bag. I shook my head – a doctor without his supplies, but armed with a gun.

I heard Holmes return with the policeman, who was saying, “We found the servants, what there are of them, locked in the cellar. They don’t know anything, except that a man was suddenly among them, a stranger, and he herded them in and locked the door.”

“Watson,” said Holmes.

I stood and turned. “Lest anyone forget in the confusion,” I said, “I wanted to make sure that Crye the butler is checked, and also that an ambulance is called. Several in fact, enough to transport all three of the injured men. I assume that none of the servants locked in the cellar need medical attention?”

“That’s correct, Doctor,” said the officer. I recognized him now as Hewlitt, a solid man who had been to see me a year or so earlier for a broken thumb, obtained when a miscreant had fought back with enthusiasm, bending the constable’s grasped truncheon the wrong way.

“Excellent.”

He touched a couple of fingers to his hat and departed. At that moment, Sir Edward gave a great groan, and I placed the glass to his cracked lips. He sensed it was there, even though his eyes were closed, and started to raise an arm to take hold of it. The pain was immediate and intense, and his eyes flew open, even as he shrieked.

“Do not move,” I said softly but firmly. “Your arms have been dislocated from your shoulders, and there is a great deal of nerve and muscle damage there as well.” I didn’t tell him that it was unlikely that the greatest surgeon alive would ever be able to repair what had been done, and that the pain he felt now would never entirely abate. I had seen men with less wreckage than this quickly turn into alcoholics or morphine addicts in an effort to escape it, an effort that was inevitably doomed to failure – and often led to suicide.

Sir Edward nodded and closed his eyes. Tears ran freely down his cheeks. I helped him take a sip, and then another.

Holmes stepped closer. “Sir Edward,” he said. “This is Sherlock Holmes. Do you recall meeting with us this morning?”

The man swallowed and nodded again. He tried to speak, but nothing came out. He licked his lips and tried again.

“Yes,” he said. “Before Baron Meade came into the house.”

“You know him?”

“We’ve met.”

“He has taken the idol,” said Holmes.

“I know. Ian had brought it down with him – he needed to be with it constantly. Ever since he arrived here, he’s carried it around from room to room like a child with a doll. It was here when the Baron came in, sitting upon the desk. He didn’t know what it was, and didn’t care at first, but when he forced me to tell him why you’d been here, he became more interested. I warned him about it, and he became very excited.” He gasped, and gave a little cry, sliding down in the seat. I helped to reposition him. Beads of sweat were popping out on the man’s forehead.

“You helped Ian hide the carving for all of these years,” Holmes stated. “You were the one who came up with the plan to let the Museum keep the imitation, while Ian had the real idol.”

He nodded with a grimace. “It was my idea to go after it as well, all those years ago. Jimmy didn’t care anything about it at first. I talked him into buying the map, and then financing the expedition. Then, after the fire killed Jimmy, and Ian arrived, I was able to convince him to continue what Jimmy had started.”

“But why?” asked Holmes. “What purpose did it serve?”

Sir Edward shook his head. “Nothing then. Just a distraction. I had nothing of my own. It amused me to manipulate them into situations of my choosing. Knowing that I had gotten them to fund an expedition into the desert was… entertaining.” He winced.

“And later?” asked Holmes. “When you realized you’d discovered something of importance?”

“At first it was nothing to me. But then I saw what it meant to Ian, and I pressed him to see how far he would go.”

“And when the Earl’s father wanted to place it in the Museum’s keeping…?”

“I knew by then how much it was already preying on Ian’s mind. He believed in its power, you see. I thought it was all nonsense, but through the use of it, I found that I could influence Ian.” He gasped, and I gave him another sip of brandy. Half of the glass was now gone. I wanted to ease his pain, but I didn’t want him to become too intoxicated to answer Holmes’s questions. Still, I believed that a combination of sharp intense pain and a long tolerance to the fiery liquid would leave him unaffected for quite a bit longer.

“Influence him? How?”

“After the idol was stolen from the Museum, and I knew how much it haunted Ian’s thoughts, I convinced him to have the counterfeit made and substituted. I had no money of my own then – that was before my father died – but I was able to convince Ian what to do. He’s always listened to me. Ian paid Williams at the Museum to accept the false idol as the real thing after you recovered it, and then Ian kept the real one. He was never very smart, and was glad of my advice.”

“And you stole from him without his knowledge along the way, no doubt.”

A tear rolled down Sir Edward’s cheek, from the pain I was sure, and not from any guilt. “It was my skills that increased his wealth. He believed it was due to the magic of the idol – but it wasn’t. He was very happy with the arrangement. Later, when my father died and I came into my own fortune, I was able to do even more with our combined funds, benefitting the both of us.” He grimaced and coughed, and then continued. “By letting him think we were both tapping its magic.”

“And Dawson,” said Holmes. “I take it that he was really in your employ all along, and not the Earl’s.”

Sir Edward tried to nod, nearly retched, and then gasped. “He was originally my own servant. He was with us in the desert when we found the idol. Afterwards, it seemed best to put him put in a place where he could keep an eye on Ian.” He licked his lips, and I gave him another sip. “Dawson understood. Ian was never very strong, and not very intelligent either. He needed a minder. Dawson helped to keep him on track.”

“Then why did Dawson kill Williams?” asked Holmes.

“I don’t know.” His eyes widened. “But wait! You said this morning that Ian killed him.”

“I wanted you to think that was my conclusion. However, I already knew the truth from the evidence, which indicated that Dawson stabbed him while Ian was retrieving the idol. Ian confirmed that to me a few minutes ago.”

“How… how did he tell you that? Where is he?”

“Here. In this room, unconscious on the floor over there. He was hit on the head by your attacker, the Baron, and then dumped at my doorstep, to lead me back here so that I would know what had happened, and that it has been taken.”

“The man seemed excited when he discovered what it was. Is he another one of those fools that believes in its magic?”

“Not at all. But he intends to give it to those that do, hoping to unleash a conflict that will somehow grow until it embroils England within its coils.”

“A war? But… why?”

“It would take too long to explain. Did he give any indication where he was going?”

“No, not at all. But then, I… I passed out, and don’t know what happened after that.”

There was a noise from the doorway. It was Lestrade. “We’ve sounded the alarm,” he said. “The entire force will be looking for the Baron, even though we already were. The military will be involved. The train stations and all the ports were already being watched as well by policemen now, to be augmented by soldiers. He can’t get away.”

“Ah, Lestrade, if only it were that easy. Baron Meade is a clever man, and has avoided capture for several days now.”

“But the effort directed toward finding him has multiplied,” insisted the inspector. “And before he was only in hiding, probably staying close and biding his time in order to do more mischief. Now he will be on the run, trying to get the idol out of the country and back to where it can do the most damage. We will find him.”

Holmes looked doubtful. “He won’t need to leave the country at all. There are agents here already that have been seeking the statue for their own purposes, and they will happily take receipt of the thing and easily carry it away on their own.”

At that moment, the Earl, still resting on the floor near the doorway, began to stir, and there were footsteps in the corridor leading to the study. It was another constable, this time one that I didn’t know. “Ambulances are here, Doctor,” he said.

I nodded as I walked over and knelt beside the Earl. I examined him, believing that he would eventually make a full recovery, unlike his friend behind me, breathing raggedly in the chair.

I watched as Holmes’s eyes cut down to the floor and the bloody footprints there. Then he walked out of the room, disappearing for a few moments, and apparently following the trail of those same prints that had led us here from the front door, and then deeper into the house.

“The butler has awakened,” added the constable, and I realized with a terrible feeling that I hadn’t yet fully examined that injured man after the dreadful discovery we had made here in the study. I stood and made my way toward the front of the house.

Crye was now seated in a chair, holding a handkerchief to his head. I briefly examined him and found that, except for a headache, he was going to be all right. Still, I believed that further examination at the hospital wouldn’t hurt, and told him to go with the ambulances.

While I directed the attendants toward the back of the house, Holmes returned and leaned in to speak with Crye. By the time I had supervised the loading of both Sir Edward and the Earl onto stretchers, Holmes seemed to have finished with the butler. The man was led out by an attendant.

“He knows nothing,” he said. “He was surprised by a stranger, obviously the Baron, who struck him. After that, all is a blank until he was awakened a few moments ago.”

He turned and began walking to the front of the house, careful to avoid the bloody footprints on the floor, even though they had clearly been stepped in by the other men – inspectors, constables, and ambulance attendants – that had been going back and forth in the house.

He stopped by the body of Andrew, being watched over by a constable. “We haven’t touched him yet,” said the man. “Inspector Lestrade said you’d want to look at him first.”

Holmes nodded and dropped to his knees. He passed his hands over the corpse. “Watson?”

I leaned in to examine the unfortunate dead man. The left side of his head was massively caved in, obviously by a single blow of some curved object long enough to stretch from the front to the back of the skull.

“The idol?” I asked, although I already knew that to be the right answer.

“Undoubtedly. The footprints tell the story. As his letter informed us, after the Baron entered the house, to see what it was that had brought us here and how it related to him, he encountered Crye, whom he disabled. Then he locked up the other servants, without any great difficulty, as there are so few of them. He discovered Sir Edward and Ian in the study, overheard enough of their conversation to become interested, and took them prisoner before torturing out the story of the idol.

“He was leaving this way when he encountered Andrew, who had returned to watch the house. There must have been a suspicion among Daniel and his brothers, not shared with us, that either Ian or the statue were here, given both our interest and Sir Edward’s past associations with the Earl. Andrew, watching outside, saw Baron Meade enter suspiciously, and then decided to come inside in order to discover what was going on. They encountered one another unexpectedly here in the hall. He was then killed before he could defend himself.

“It seems that it was only at this point that the Baron decided to write the letter. Perhaps seeing Andrew recalled to his mind that he had observed him earlier this morning, when we were driven away for our meeting with Daniel, and realizing a connection between us, he decided to taunt us with the knowledge that he now has the object. He tracked Andrew’s blood back to the study, where he wrote the note. The footprints, much fainter by that time, depart the study and move on through the house and out of the rear door, where they fade while heading toward the stables. Ian’s footprints are intermingled with those of Baron Meade’s after they departed from the study, as he was a prisoner by then, taken to be deposited in Baker Street.”

“And after that errand was accomplished, the Baron could have gone in any direction. He could now be anywhere.”

“Exactly, Watson. And God help us.”

Chapter XIX: Dawson’s Story

Holmes rose and indicated to the constable that he was finished examining the body of the unfortunate Andrew. He and I then stepped outside, where he peered up and down the street. “What are you looking for?” I asked.

“To see if Daniel has anyone else on duty.” He continued to turn his head this way and that, before exclaiming, “There!”

But he did not point. Instead, he moved away from the house with purpose, headed directly for an alley-way that seemed to lead to a mews several houses up the street. I glanced back to see that Lestrade, Gregson, and Lanner were carrying on a discussion nearby while watching Holmes’s actions. I followed my friend.

He walked directly to the alley entrance, where a boy, probably about ten years of age, was standing, having shifted out of the shadows upon Holmes’s approach. He was dressed in rough and worn English clothing, but he was clearly foreign. And he had the family’s characteristic light eyes.

“Are you waiting to hear word from Andrew?” Holmes asked gently. As I had seen before when he had dealings with those Irregulars who were his eyes and ears around London, and to whom he humorously referred at times as the Baker Street Division of the detective police force, he had a way of talking with them that was quite remarkable in both the respect that was offered and given.

The boy nodded, nervous, but making an effort to stand up straight. “What is your name?” asked Holmes.

“Luke. Andrew is my cousin.”

Holmes nodded. “Luke, I have some bad news, and I need you to relay a message to Daniel. Tell him that Andrew has been killed.”

The young man’s eyes dropped. “I feared as much,” he said softly. “Earlier, we saw a man enter the house, acting in a very strange manner. Andrew said he was the same evil man who left a bomb at your door. After a few moments, he told me to stay here, and then he crossed the street and went into the house as well. He did not return. I waited, and argued with myself as to whether or not I should follow. Sometime later, I saw a carriage coming out of the mews. It was driven by that man, the evil one. There was another man slumped inside who looked to be asleep. He was clearly not my cousin. I did not know what to do, and did not know where Andrew was, so I waited. Then I saw all of you arrive, including what seemed to be the same man again who had been a passenger in the carriage. Then the police came. I still did not know enough to report to Cousin Daniel what had happened. And I waited.”

I could see that he wanted to ask questions, to find out more. But he simply watched us, confident Holmes would make the next move.

“Take the message to Daniel,” said my friend, his voice quiet. “Tell him that Andrew has been killed by the man that you saw, known as the Baron, and that I will have more to share with him if he will make his way to Baker Street. He will know where. We will be there in two hours.”

Clearly, Holmes had nothing left to add, although the boy wanted to know more. The news had shaken him, but other than to repeat his earlier comment in a whisper, “I feared as much,” he gave no other reaction. He solemnly nodded to each of us and departed, making his way down the street in the opposite direction, so as not to pass Sir Edward’s house or the police congregated in front of it.

We crossed and joined the inspectors. Lanner clearly looked shaken, as he had now been initiated into a terrible club, educated by the others about what the Baron’s actions and intentions meant. I was struck with the curious and incongruous thought just then that, although we got along well enough, I doubted that Lanner and I would ever be friends. It was odd, as there was no reason that we shouldn’t be. We were both about the same age, and had some of the same background. He was intelligent and competent, and had certainly shown none of the disrespect toward Holmes that was apparent at times from some of his peers. And yet, there was just something about him, his current reactions towards the news about Baron Meade being the most recent instance, that I simply could not warm to.

Lestrade spoke. “Lanner has been telling us what has been done so far to locate the Baron. I must say that he seems to have left no stone unturned, so to speak, even if he was wrong to think that the man had fled the capital.”

Gregson nodded. “As you and I discussed this morning, Mr. Holmes, all eyes are on the lookout for the man. The full resources of both the Yard and the Foreign Office are pulling together in harness on this.”

“And yet,” said Holmes, “it has been of no avail so far.” Lanner started to speak, and then stopped himself. Gregson’s lips tightened, and Lestrade simply narrowed his eyes. “I imply no criticism,” Holmes added charitably. “I don’t believe the lack of success reflects negatively in any way upon any of your efforts. Baron Meade is a different sort from what we have faced before.”

“God’s truth,” muttered Lestrade, fishing out a cigarette.

“What next, then?” asked Gregson, glancing at the smaller man beside him. In the early days, Gregson and Lestrade had been friendly rivals, with the emphasis more on the rivalry. There was no sign of that now. There was no place for that now.

“Keep a weather eye. In the meantime, Watson and I will interview Dawson, something that I should have done sooner. I don’t believe it will advance the search for the Baron one iota, but it will fill in some of the blanks in the meantime. I suspect that he can confirm some of my suppositions. Where is he being kept?”

“At the Yard,” said Gregson.

“Has anyone attempted to visit him?”

Gregson merely shook his head.

“Very good. I would advise that you keep the injured men, both Sir Edward and the Earl, as well as the butler Crye, under guard and in isolation after they have been treated for their injuries.”

The inspectors nodded as one, and Holmes continued. “We then plan to return to Baker Street after that. If you would be so good as to keep us informed regularly of your progress, or even the lack thereof…”

With that final parting instruction, we set off on foot to find a cab.

“The Baron has been cleverer than I would have thought,” said Holmes. “In spite of our efforts to the contrary, I never saw him follow us this morning to Sir Edward’s residence.”

“It is a pity that he has allowed his bitterness to overwhelm him.”

“Quite. Until the death of his son, the man led an honorable and useful life. He was involved in many behind-the-scenes negotiations and transactions that have been of great benefit both to England and other countries within the Empire. For instance, he was vitally important in the secret give-and-take that went on in ’86 concerning the Ireland Bill.”

“Holmes, that was generally considered to be a fractious disaster.”

“But it could have been much worse. It was Baron Meade’s influence and mediation that salvaged what could be saved from the situation.” He pulled out his pipe and worked on lighting it. “Of course,” he continued, “the fact that he has been so involved within the workings of government has given him a level of knowledge that is dangerous to us now. For instance, he will probably have no trouble finding a way to get the idol to the very people that should not receive it.”

I pondered that thought while we walked in silence, before I was prompted to comment, “Holmes, this knowledge of the Ireland Bill is yet another example of you knowing far more about something than you should, considering that you’ve stated in the past that you ignore facts that might crowd out something else from your brain attic.”

“I assure you that, except for noticing it in passing in the newspapers of the time, I knew nothing specific about the Government of Ireland Bill until I was researching the particulars of the Baron’s background. It was just one of a full list of valuable accomplishments in his vitae, a long chain that began during his university days, right up to the death of his son late last year. In fact, having identified his plot for what it was, it took a great deal of effort on my part to overcome the disbelief and outright hostility in certain quarters that came my way when I first revealed his plan.”

I glanced at Holmes as we walked, finally nearing Berkeley Square, where several cabs could be seen. “And can he be stopped?” I finally asked.

My friend turned his head my way, his expression blank. “You know the motto of the firm, Watson. We can but try.”

He had said the same thing, earlier in the day following our trip to Limehouse. But now Andrew was dead, and the Baron had the idol. We would have to try harder.

Taking the second of two cabs, to the irritation of the driver of the first, we set off for Whitehall and Scotland Yard.

“Surely there is something more useful we might accomplish right now than questioning Dawson,” I said, sitting back tiredly.

“What would you suggest?” asked Holmes peevishly. “For it is now up to the Yard, and the Foreign Office. Perhaps in a few hours, after we’ve had a chance to speak to Daniel, and begin to receive reports on the search for Baron Meade, I might see something that will be useful. It will be maddening to sit in Baker Street like a spider in the center of a web, waiting and hoping to feel the vibrations upon one of the strands, but to rush around without purpose would accomplish nothing. In the meantime, we have a free hour or so, and speaking with Dawson may help fill in a few of the unpainted corners.”

We wended our way down to Piccadilly. Seeing how crowded it was, Holmes knocked and told the driver to turn down by way of St. James and so on a parallel route. We did so, immediately leaving the throngs behind us. Moving along the much quieter Pall Mall, I had no idea, not yet having met Mycroft Holmes, that we were passing the Diogenes Club at No. 78, about halfway between Marlborough Road and St. James Square, and across the street from Mycroft’s lodgings. I would visit it for the first time later that year, in September, during the curious doings related to Mycroft’s neighbor, Mr. Melas, and the bizarre incidents related to the Greek visitors to our shores.

It is only now that I realize Holmes must have been working closely with his brother during the search for the idol. I heard references throughout the events to meetings between Holmes, the police, and representatives of the Foreign Office, to which I was not invited. Due to his importance within the government, the older brother’s connection to the events must have been certain. But during all the years since, I have never thought to ask Mycroft about it, as my subsequent and numerous meetings with the man have always been of immediate urgency relating to this or that other difficulty on hand at the time. Too, we have never had the level of friendship between us to simply sit and reminisce. And yet, on that day when Holmes and I traveled Pall Mall on the way to the Yard, I am certain that I did not observe any indication that my friend’s eyes gave a single glance toward the Diogenes Club on the right as we passed. Knowing Holmes as I do, I doubt that he gave the Club a second thought just then, as it wasn’t important in that moment to what we were doing.

The cabbie dropped us in front of the main door to the Yard, that rabbit’s warren of buildings then occupied by the Metropolitan Police. This was a year or so before their move to their digs in the curiously handsome-looking buildings overlooking the Embankment and the Westminster Dock. Holmes strode toward the entrance, and it was a mark of his ever-growing stature within the organization that his presence was not questioned. Nor was mine as his associate. In fact, a constable held the door while respectfully touching his helmet with the other hand.

Inside, we quickly ascertained where Dawson was being held and dropped down into the dim bowels of the building. It was cold inside, and I was reminded how my former home in Kensington had felt earlier, when I stopped to inspect it and make certain that Dr. Withers’ possessions had been safely delivered. Could that have only been a few hours earlier?

Holmes and I waited in a low-ceilinged gas-lit room for several long and silent moments before Dawson was led in. During that time, Holmes paced, his thoughts apparently racing, only interrupted when the prisoner arrived. The small man was unshackled, but held firmly around the arm by a burly policeman who guided him to a chair. Dawson sat and his guard left, pulling the door shut behind him.

“Cigarette?” asked Holmes, pulling one of the other empty chairs toward himself with a screech, the legs dragging over the raw stone floor, the noise echoing painfully around the brick chamber. The old man eagerly nodded, and Holmes retrieved his cigarette case from his pocket. Both he and I were still in our overcoats, although we had removed our hats. Dawson was in the same shabby clothes that he had been wearing when we discovered him in the Essex house, although his braces appeared to have been taken from him, as his pants did not seem to fit exactly right. In spite of the frigid conditions of the room, wherein our breath fogged before our faces, the little and ill-tempered man didn’t appear to be discomfited. He still looked like a fairy-tale figure, a burly Rumpelstiltskin.

Holmes held out a match to the prisoner who then gratefully inhaled, consuming half the cigarette in one steady draw. He would likely need another very soon.

Dawson kept his eyes on Holmes, focusing them keenly from underneath his shaggy brows. Sometimes he would glance my way, off to the side, turning his whole body to shift his curiously fixed head, but he knew who the important one was. He had a slight foxy grin on his face, and seemed much more confident and intelligent than he had at the Earl’s house, where he had then appeared to be a scattered and slightly mad eccentric. Now, he was nothing if not crafty.

“What can I do for you, gents?” he asked, dropping the very short stub of the spent cigarette to the floor with a swaggering attitude. Holmes glanced at it, still smoking, and reached out with his foot to extinguish it with a twist of his shoe.

“We’ve come to get some more information about what happened the day before yesterday, when Williams came to the Earl’s house.”

“You know all that I do,” Dawson replied. “This Williams brought word that the counterfeit in the Museum had been discovered, and the Earl panicked. He had been afraid of such a thing for a long time, you know.”

“The idol has surely preyed on his mind.”

“That’s right. For longer than you know.”

“Really?”

“It’s the truth. It may interest you to find out that I was with those gents that found it, back in the seventies when they went on their tour.” I started to mention that Sir Edward had told us that very fact not long before, but held my tongue. It was clearly in our best interest to let the butler think that he was providing a version of the story to his benefit that we would believe.

“Right from the start,” Dawson continued, “the Earl – only he wasn’t the Earl then – was taken with the thing. He believes that it’s magic, you see, right from when he first heard of it, and that it helps him, poor fool. When his father wanted to give it to the Museum, he nearly couldn’t stand it. So it wasn’t too long before he found a way to keep it.”

“By having a duplicate made and swapped?”

Dawson nodded. “Exactly. A bloody copy.” He glanced away from Holmes’s eyes, which he had met with remarkable forthrightness up to that point, considering he wasn’t telling the whole story. But he didn’t know that we knew that. “What about another smoke, Guv?”

Holmes produced his cigarette case, and the process of lighting and quickly inhaling it was repeated.

“So all these years,” said Holmes, “the Earl kept the real idol, believing it gave him good luck.”

“Oh, more than that,” said Dawson. “He would take it out and pray to it, or rub its belly or some such, whenever he thought he needed something. You never saw the like of it. Whether it was a business decision, or a reversal of something or other that would favor him over an enemy. It would have been silly to watch, if he didn’t believe in it so much.”

“And that went on, year after year?”

“It did. I was with him, even before his father died. And I must admit that there was something odd about that. The death, I mean. The old man was in the best of health. Should have lived for years and years. But the old Earl fell into a pit while walking one evening on the estate. It was a foggy night – no reason to be out. And it wasn’t even where he normally walked – no reason to go there at all. Broke his neck, he did. The new Earl was broke up about it, he were. I don’t think he wished any harm on his old dad, but there you go. He inherited what would have gone to his brother, if the brother had lived, and much earlier than he might have expected it.”

“And did he credit the idol with that bit of good fortune as well?”

Dawson laughed, dropping the second scrap of cigarette to the floor, deliberately on the opposite side, away from Holmes’s foot. He looked slyly to see if we’d noticed. “He did. He talked himself into thinking that it was doing things on its own to take care of him – doing what it thought best, whether he wanted it that way or not.”

“If he believed so devoutly in the magic of the thing,” asked Holmes, “then why were you allowed to know about it as well? It seems that if a man had such a magical talisman in his possession, he would do everything to protect it, including keeping it a secret from his servants.”

Dawson shook his head, trying to think of an answer. “I suppose I don’t know,” he finally said. “I would guess because I’ve been around since it was found. The other servants, what few there were, certainly didn’t know about it. Only me. All the time I knew him, he was never very strong, if you know of what I speak. And he was always looking for someone to give him an answer, about anything. He couldn’t decide where to go or what to do, or even what to eat, and it was only getting worse. He thought that the idol was guiding him, most times. Go left, go right. Up, down, stop, go. It made it easier for him, somehow.”

“He was doing something right. He certainly had some financial successes, did he not?”

“That he did,” agreed the prisoner.

“But he wasn’t the only one.”

“The only one what?”

“To have financial successes along the way.”

Dawson looked suspicious now, in a sly animal way. And rightly so. He sensed that Holmes was advancing toward a goal, but indirectly.

“I’ve heard that the Earl’s good friend, Sir Edward Malloy, has also been quite fortunate over the years.”

“Lucky, you mean. That’s true enough.”

“If you were with them when the idol was found, you must have known Sir Edward from long ago too.”

“That’s right.”

“Then perhaps you’ll be interested to learn about his injuries earlier today.”

Dawson cocked an interested eyebrow. “Injuries? How?”

“He was attacked today by a man who broke into his home.”

Dawson’s eyes widened slightly for just a second before returning to their normal state. “Is he all right?”

Holmes cut his eyes toward me. “Doctor?”

“He was tortured,” I said. “His arms were violently dislocated from his shoulders. There is severe damage to the tendons and ligaments. The structure of his arms will likely not be reparable. In addition, the numerous nerves in that area were likely extensively damaged.” I shook my head. “I wouldn’t wish it on any man. He’ll be a cripple for the rest of his life, unable to make much – if any – use of his arms. And the pain will be constant and terrible.”

Holmes nodded, looking back at Dawson. “Unfortunate indeed. I suppose, Dawson, that under different circumstances, you might have had to make a choice.”

“What? A choice? What do you mean?”

“I neglected to mention that when Sir Edward was attacked, he was in the company of your current master, the Earl. At the Earl’s house in Mayfair.”

“What? You’ve found him then?”

“We did.” Holmes toyed with the cigarette case, but made no offers.

“He’s crazy, you know. The Earl. Like I told you. Any man that talks to a stone like that isn’t right.”

“So far he hasn’t done much talking at all.”

“Was he injured too?”

“He was only hit on the head. But he’ll recover. Aren’t you curious as to why he was there?”

“Umm, I reckon that’s where he would have run when he left the house after killing Williams.”

“You reckon that? Interesting, as I believe that you knew exactly where he was going. You probably gave him the idea yourself, when you sent him on his way after Williams’s death.”

“Well, then, what of it? He needed to flee. I would have taken care of things at the house, only you showed up too early. I wasn’t expecting anyone. No one ever comes out to the house. It’s too far, and we’re long past the days when the Earl receives any visitors.”

“No doubt. But as I was saying, you might have had to make a choice. Between rejoining the Earl, or switching your allegiance back to Sir Edward, following his grievous injuries.”

“Switching my allegiance? Back? What are you talking about?”

“Yes, switching back. You see, we had a chance to question Sir Edward. He told us about how you were originally his servant, and not the Earl’s. And about how he arranged for you to become associated with the Earl as his keeper, letting the Earl play at holding the ‘magical’ idol while he was being manipulated by Sir Edward.”

“Oh, he told you that, did he?” Dawson snapped. “And what else did he share with you?” He looked again toward Holmes’s hands, as if he would dearly love another cigarette, but still no presentation of one was forthcoming. Holmes had put the case away. He could keep an adversary unbalanced with the smallest of efforts.

“There has also been some mention along the way that the Earl was not the killer of Williams in that vault after all.”

Dawson’s eyes widened, and then a look of anger flew across his face. “What? He would accuse me? After all that I’ve done? Oh, he knows better than that! Let me tell you this, Mr. Detective, he’d better not be telling that tale, for there are a few that I could tell myself! About them!”

“Really,” said Holmes, in a disinterested and rather non-believing voice. “I’m sure.”

Holmes’s apparent indifference provoked the small man. “If he’s trying to sway you into putting this on me, and away from his idol-worshiping idiot friend, then he’s not going to get away with it! I can tell you what really happened. All along, up and down the line, I can tell you. I was there. I saw it all.”

“Really?” said Holmes again, now almost goadingly offensive, with contempt for a liar almost oozing out of that one word.

“I can. You’re right. About me being there when they found it, when they were all just young men on holiday. None of them had inherited anything yet. I was there with young Sir Edward, when they all went out with the Earl’s older brother. Now there was a true wastrel for you! If he had lived, he would have been a failure ten times over before he was ever thirty. He would have lost everything, and probably died a drunkard as well.”

“Go on.”

“At least in those days the older brother still had a bit of sense. When that old man showed up with the map, Master Jimmy didn’t even care. He just laughed and ignored him. But Sir Edward – he was just Edward then – seemed interested, and he thought it would be a lark to buy it and see where it led. He’s always been that way, with a sneakiness to him, getting others to waste their money and working his ways to get them to do something for his own fun. He talked Jimmy into paying the old man something, just a fraction of what was asked. Even after they had the map, Jimmy didn’t care. But Edward was bored, and he had a way about him, you see. He didn’t believe there was any treasure. I heard him saying so to that poor fool that had come along with them, Herbert Conner. But he wanted to do something to break up the same old day-after-day, and he managed to get Jimmy to pay for it.

“So we all set off into the desert, and we hadn’t gone far before Jimmy got tired and wanted to go back. He was hot and thirsty, and he was going to call it all off. And here’s the part you need to know, Mr. Detective – This is what you have to understand: The man that is trying to blame me for this new crime committed one of his own then, the first of all of them maybe, and I heard and saw all of it.

“It was night, and Jimmy had decided to turn everyone around and start back the next day. But my master, Edward, had, for some reason, gotten the fever by then. I don’t know why. He’s never believed in the magic of the idol, but he wanted to find it nonetheless. He and Jimmy began to argue quietly. Jimmy didn’t want any part of it. To him it was decided – it was his money paying for the trip, and he was done. He told Edward to get out. He just wanted to drink and fall asleep, like he did every night. I heard him say so. But something he did – and I couldn’t see, only hear, as I was outside the tent – something he did set my master off. I heard the sound of a blow, a heavy smack, a faint cry, and then – nothing.

“I stepped around and into the tent, where I found Edward leaning over Jimmy’s body, a terrible wound on his head. My master looked up and saw me, and in that moment, he understood what I had seen and what I knew, and that from then on we had an arrangement, the two of us. A connection.

“So to cover up what he had done, he set a fire that looked accidental, and Jimmy’s death was blamed on it. And I kept my silence.

“Afterwards, he wanted to keep looking, following the map, but it wasn’t practical. We had to do something about the body, so we returned, and then Jimmy’s father, who was still the Earl then, and his son came out. And my master Edward knew of something in young Ian that he knew he could control. He’s always been like that. If he can use you, he will, and if you’re dangerous to him, he’ll find a way to destroy you.”

Dawson shook his head then, with a laugh. “You probably know the rest, or can figure it out. My master managed to talk the brother, Ian, into staying and going again on the search for the idol. And then they found it! I couldn’t believe it. The d---ed thing really existed!

“We managed to get it back, but by then, it was becoming obvious that Ian was fascinated with it. Too fascinated, in an odd sort of way. And so were a lot of other people as well, the locals and the ones that also believed in the thing’s magic and that didn’t like it that we’d looted the tomb. When it became known that we had found it, there were offers to buy it, and visits from officials trying to take possession of it. There were break-ins, and a few times we were attacked in the streets. It finally became a running battle, but we made it back to England.

“And along the way, my master Edward realized that he could now truly control Ian.”

“By influencing him through the idol?” asked Holmes.

“Right.”

“How did he do it?”

“Oh, simple things. Saying at first that he thought it might be suggesting some investment or other. Eventually Ian began to rely on my master, now Sir Edward, more and more, until such time as Sir Edward really had control over everything belonging to Ian. His money, his estate, all of it. Sir Edward used to make something of a joke about it. Often when he would give me instructions, about this or that to do with the Earl, he would refer to himself by some strange foreign word. It was Musta… Musta – ”

“Mustashar?” asked Holmes.

Dawson looked up sharply. “That’s it. Sir Edward told me that it meant ‘counselor’. He would laugh and say that he was the Earl’s counselor.’

Holmes nodded. “And you had been put in place to watch over the Earl, who was in fact the Earl by that time.”

Dawson nodded. Holmes continued casually, “And of course this was arranged by Sir Edward when he killed Ian’s father to advance him into the title.”

Dawson’s mouth flew open. “How – ?” he asked. “How did you know that?”

“I surmised it,” said Holmes, “the same way I expect that Sir Edward killed his own father for much the same reasons.”

Dawson inadvertently nodded, before angrily realizing what he had done. Then, deciding to acknowledge it, he said, “Well, it’s all true. He did the same thing to that Conner lad and his people as well, fixing things so that he could take over what was theirs without anyone spotting it. I’ll swear to it all from my own knowledge. I was there, and he had no secrets that he could keep from me. I may look old and decrepit now, but I’ve always been able to take care of myself. I was safe, you see. I knew what I knew, and had made arrangements for it all to come out if anything happened to me. Now, if he’s going to try to throw me over and make me swing for Williams’s death, then he’ll pay as well.”

“Oh, it won’t be Sir Edward who makes you swing,” said Holmes. “You’ve done that by your own actions. You see, I already knew that you were Williams’s killer before we ever met with Sir Edward, and certainly before he was injured. Sir Edward never told us a thing about it. It was already apparent from the moment I inspected the vault at the Earl’s Essex house.”

Dawson jumped to his feet while Holmes was still speaking. As I had never sat down, I was able to take a step forward, my hand significantly at my overcoat pocket, where my pistol still rested. Holmes didn’t turn a hair. He continued to sit, his head only slightly more inclined than before as he looked into the wild eyes of the small man standing before him, fists clenched and chest heaving.

“You lie!” hissed Dawson.

“Not at all. Your footprints gave you away. The Earl never approached the back of the vault where Williams was killed. You did. Later, the Earl himself confirmed my supposition, believing that you must have killed Williams because he was going to return to the Museum and inform them of the switch.” Holmes leaned a bit closer to the angry man. “Is that actually why you killed him, then? Or was there another reason? Perhaps you thought that you had time to arrange things so that both men would be in your power.”

With a roar, the butler raised his misshapen arms, intending to club them down upon my seated friend. But I had by now removed my pistol, and it was but a small effort to bring the weight of the thing down upon a specifically chosen target upon the man’s misshapen head. He gave a groan and collapsed to the floor.

Only then did Holmes stand, looking down at him as if he were a pile of empty and filthy clothing. There was no need to question if I had overly injured the murderer – Holmes knew that I was quite careful. “As I said before we came here,” said Holmes, “this doesn’t advance us a single step toward our goal of locating the Baron or the idol. But it certainly gives us a new perspective upon Sir Edward. I wonder if he will mount a vigorous defense before his hanging, or if the grievous and relentless pain from his injuries will take all the fight out of him and make his execution a mercy?”

“Then this turned out to be a constructive accomplishment after all, while your message makes its way to Daniel in Limehouse,” I added.

He nodded and stepped around the crumpled man. I leaned down and determined that his pulse was firm and strong. He would live long enough to be hanged as well.

Holmes pounded on the door, which was opened immediately. The guard looked curiously at the unconscious figure behind us, but wordlessly and without concern let us out. Holmes nodded his head back into the interrogation cell. “After he is seen to,” he explained to the guard, “he can be treated as any common prisoner. He, and not the Earl, killed the man in Essex.” Holmes patted his coat for his cigarette case. “He is more important, however, because he can testify as to who committed several other murders in the past. Guard him well. His testimony will be quite useful.”

He found the case as he started to walk away. I nodded to the man at the cell door and followed. As we reached the corner, I heard the call, tinged with irritation rather than concern, for the prison doctor.

Chapter XX: Betrayal

Outside in the street, Holmes stopped. “Interesting,” he muttered.

“What is it?”

“How one thing leads to another. We had him on shaky ground, thus manipulating him into also revealing that Sir Edward additionally murdered Herbert Conner and his family. That would have been a long shot to connect, although I suspected it.”

“Indeed.”

“Dawson will need to be treated carefully to tease more information out of him. Many specific details must be established. I wonder how many other deaths from the last decade or longer that he’ll lay at Sir Edward’s feet before all is said and done.”

Holmes let two cabs go by before stepping into the street and snaring the next. Inside, we began that steady meander that would bring us back to Baker Street. We were silent the entire way, each pondering our own thoughts. As to what Holmes was thinking I cannot say, but my own mind wandered between affairs of global importance and imminent danger, and issues of more personal concern.

As we stepped up to our front door, and so on in, Holmes checked his watch. “Still a few minutes before Daniel and Micah should be arriving. They will be punctual.”

“You expect both of them, then?”

“It seems likely.”

And so it proved. In a bit, Mrs. Hudson led the two men into our room. Daniel was composing himself well, I thought, having just learned of the death of his brother. However, Micah seemed to be in much worse shape. His remaining eye was red, and he opened and closed his fists regularly, as if seeking an identifiable target upon which to inflict his strangling anger.

After an offer of tea was made and refused, I directed the men toward chairs by the fire. “We are sorry about the loss of your brother,” I said as the two men were seated, Daniel in the basket chair, and Micah in another drawn up beside him.

“Luke told us a little about it. What can you add?”

Holmes explained his reconstruction of events – how we had learned two days earlier the Earl had fled to Mayfair with the idol, returning to stay with the man who had directed his actions for so long. He related some about Baron Meade and the man’s vendetta against the British government, and how we had unfortunately led him, through our visit that morning, to Sir Edward’s house. Then he told how the Baron had broken in, curious to find out our purpose, an action which had allowed him to lay his hands upon a potential weapon of much greater use to him, more valuable to his own cause than the explosives that he had forfeited several nights earlier during his arrest. Finally, he shared how Andrew had followed the Baron inside, as told to us by Luke, and had then been killed by the Baron with the stone carving when the two encountered one another.

Daniel shook his head. “Monstrous.”

“This man,” said Micah in a choked voice. “This Baron. He had nothing to do with any of this, until he involved himself? Because of you? And he used the idol to kill my brother?”

“That is what he said,” snapped Daniel. Then, controlling himself, he asked Holmes in a softer voice, “And now what will you do?”

“The police and the Foreign Office are doing all that they can to seal the borders, in order to capture the Baron and prevent him from escaping. But we all know that he doesn’t need to go anywhere to accomplish his purpose. He simply has to establish contact with John Goins.”

Holmes then leaned forward, taking on that predatory expression that he had when in the middle of a case. When he was like that, he looked more like a hawk than a man, his eyes sharp and dark, and staring with hot predatory focus at his quarry. “In our previous discussion, Mr. Goins was barely mentioned. You said that he is still in this country, keeping his eyes open for just such an opportunity. Do you know where to find him?”

Daniel dropped his gaze, obviously prevaricating. “He might be anywhere. Why would I know?”

“London is not that big of a place. One might argue that your knowing is a logical conclusion. It is either him or someone else. Occam’s Razor suggests that you should be able to locate him.” Holmes sat back, crossing his legs and steepling his fingers before his face. “After we met this morning, and when Dr. Watson went about his own business, I asked a few questions in the right places, and found that Goins is still very much a factor in all of this. It wasn’t difficult to track him down. After ten years, both his presence and purpose are no more of a secret than yours, if one just knows where and whom to ask.”

“How did you know that I hadn’t told you everything?”

“Why should you have told me? I wouldn’t have expected it. Our paths had only just crossed, yours and mine, and then only because you brought us to your lair this morning to find out what we knew. I’m glad that you did so, as I might have remained ignorant that both you and Goins are involved. In any case, it was to our mutual advantage to agree to work together, but I certainly never believed that you didn’t also have your own separate agenda, as do we. Even before I confirmed Goins’s involvement, I could have listed seven different reasons, possibly even eight, that made me suspect that you knew far more than you were telling.

Daniel nodded. “As I said, he is of our family, but from a branch that traveled far long ago. His band settled in the northeastern corner of Tennessee.”

“The Melungeons,” said Holmes, repeating the name that he had mentioned only that morning.

“Yes. The Melungeons. Long misunderstood by those who live around them, they have guarded the secrets of our people for generations beyond counting – and there are more secrets in our past than just the idol of Heka. Our brethren in America have been the most faithful at keeping those secrets, and honoring the old ways – and also the most tenacious at defending them.

“When the idol was initially returned to England, and we tried to find a strategy to retrieve it, we sent word to various members of our family in different parts of the world, asking for help to fulfil our pledge to guard it forever. As I mentioned this morning, the group that settled in the American wilderness has long had a fascination with the Eye, and when our request for help arrived, one of their members, John Goins, responded, offering to travel to England in order to attempt the idol’s rescue. He had it in his hands, but then you stopped him. We, my brothers and I, then realized that it was our responsibility. We came to England not long after, without realizing at first that John Goins and his own band had never left.

“For he had decided to find the idol for his own reasons – to use its supposed power to elevate our people to a position of power, little understanding or caring what might be done with it instead. He has never stopped looking for a way to get at it, for over a decade, even as we have kept watch as well in opposition. He has waited for the idol’s reappearance at any time when it might be more easily accessible. Our paths in London have often crossed over the years, but there has always been an uneasy truce between us. Just yesterday, however, it was reported to me that he is now active again, somehow as aware as I am that there is a chance to recover the object.”

“But you intend to protect it when it is found,” said Holmes, “whereas Goins will attempt to remove it from the country as fast as he can arrange transport, in order to put it into the hands of those that will use it to incite a war.”

“As you say, Mr. Holmes.” Daniel cleared his throat. “This Baron, then? Is he the kind of man who can find Goins?”

“He can, especially if Goins is as accessible as I have heard. Baron Meade is not stupid. He intentionally alerted us that he has the idol. He will know that we are watching for him to make a move. Even before he began his own personal vendetta, he was quite well connected within certain circles. It has given him knowledge of how things work. Although he has forfeited those associations, there is no doubt from what I’ve learned of his past that he probably knows whom to seek already.”

“Then we must be prepared that he will be able to approach Goins. It will not be difficult at all, as you know from your own questions. Among the right places, his location is common knowledge. A word dropped here or there will put them in touch with one another.”

“You must provide to me any additional information that you hold about the man. His habits, his associates. I must know where Goins is – specifically so that I can set a watch, in addition to whatever measures you’ve already taken. Or instead of simply watching, I may have him arrested preemptively.”

“That will do no good, Mr. Holmes. Goins is the head of the snake, and he will certainly want to carry out this thing himself, but any of his lieutenants will be able to accomplish the task if he is removed from the board. This Baron of whom you speak only has to find any one of them, and the deed is as good as done.”

Holmes glanced at the man’s brother, Micah, who had remained staring into the fire, tightening and loosening his fists as if he were repeatedly choking someone. “Do you agree with your brother’s assessment of the situation, Micah?” asked Holmes.

Micah’s eyes jerked toward Holmes. “What?”

“Do you agree that it is useless to attempt to arrest John Goins, as one way or another the Baron will find him or his men and start the idol on its journey to those who would use it?”

“What? I do not know. Why do you ask me this?”

“But surely, in the years in which you’ve been here, helping your brothers in this cause, you have gathered enough information to form your own opinion.” His tone sharpened. “Do you or do you not think that it is worth the effort to try to stop Goins or his men from meeting up with the Baron?”

Micah set his jaw stubbornly, as if the question irritated him to the point that he would refuse to answer. He was obviously deeply upset by the death of his brother, and I wondered why Holmes kept pushing him. Soon I understood.

“The fact,” Holmes continued softly, “that the idol was used to kill your brother disturbs you.”

“What? What nonsense is this? Of course it disturbs me!”

“But possibly you are also torn?”

“What do you mean?”

“Possibly,” pressed Holmes, leaning forward again, “you are of two minds on the subject.”

“Eh?” said Micah, while Daniel glanced between his brother and my friend, uncertain as to where this was going.

“Two minds. You want to take vengeance against Baron Meade, the man who, just hours ago, took the idol for which you have lusted from afar for years, and used it to cruelly smash in the head of your brother, Andrew.”

Micah growled softly in anger at this brutal description, but Holmes continued. “On the other hand, there is also your other task – your secret task.”

“Mr. Holmes?” said Daniel softly, but Holmes ignored him.

“Your other quest, Micah,” he pressed. “Why don’t you tell us more about that.”

“Mr. Holmes? Please. What are you saying?” Daniel was looking with growing puzzlement from Holmes to an increasingly agitated Micah.

“You know of what I speak, Micah. You really haven’t hidden it very well, you know. After our meeting this morning, when you inadvertently let your feelings show about the idol, for just an instant, I was suspicious. So was Dr. Watson, for he saw it too. After we parted, when I took the time to send word to a few old acquaintances about Goins, I also asked about you. They confirmed what I suspected. You have been playing both sides of the fence.” His voice became more dangerous. “It was easy to do while the idol was in a place where it couldn’t be taken, and both camps spent years entrenched in proximity to one another, in a state of uneasy truce.

“But when word came, by way of your brother Andrew, regarding Williams’s suspicious actions the day before yesterday, you suspected that something was finally happening, and you managed to notify your secret leader, thereby causing him to put his own pieces into play.

“So that is what I’m asking about, Micah. How you can accommodate your divided responsibilities? Do you choose to seek vengeance against the Baron, who killed your brother with the idol – a life for a life – or do you let him go about his business, allowing him to roam free before placing the murderous thing into the hands of John Goins, and doing whatever you can to assist so that Goins can then deliver it to those that would use it? Is the belief in the foolish and imaginary magic of a stone, and the very real war and death it will cause, worth allowing your brother to go unavenged?”

Daniel looked then in horror at Micah, who did not reply at all. He simply scowled at Holmes, his hands – which had been working regularly, opening and closing – now firmly pulled into dangerous fists, the flesh tight and white and bloodless, resting lightly upon his thighs. His light-colored eye blazed

“I see that my speculation isn’t wrong,” said Holmes. “Just how long have you believed in the ridiculous notion that the idol is some type of magical talisman?”

“It is not foolish!” the man roared, now erupting to his feet. “It has power! None of you can understand! The old ones knew it, and used it, and then feared it to the point that they finally had to hide it away. They knew! They knew of the secrets of old that have been lost. In those days, they channeled the energies of the gods themselves, as revealed to them by Heka. It was he who made the idol, to give the power to men, in defiance of the other gods. And just because it was later hidden by the weak mortals who feared it does not mean that it should not be used again!”

“Micah…” said his brother faintly, his voice filled with anguish, only to be ignored.

“But it is tainted, you know,” sneered Holmes. “This cold bloody rock, described for the gullible as a tool for using and channeling the gods’ magic, was used to kill your own brother. The very stone is now probably still streaked with his gore and blood, the blood of your own family. How can you countenance letting it be used by Baron Meade, when Andrew died to protect it from his dark purpose?”

“The Eye is greater than this weak Englishman who now holds it. After he delivers it, my brother will be avenged, this I swear. But until then, he has his own part to play, and must fulfill his purpose. Later, when The Eye of Heka is returned, it will be purified, cleansed by the power that its possessor wields, burning through it and purging our land!” He raged like a man in a fit. “The power of the very gods will pour through it like lightning! Man after man will rise up with a fire inside them such as they have never known. One will inspire the next, and then dozens, and hundreds will march, and then thousands and millions! Our revenge will come!”

Micah’s breathing was ragged, and there were flecks of foam bracketing his lips. He was exalted in that moment, and quite mad, and whatever veneer that had covered this had been stripped away as the emotions connected with the loss of his brother, along with the goading of Holmes, had forced him to acknowledge his perfidy. He backed up a step, knocking his chair aside. Daniel looked at him, unspeaking, his face stricken and aghast. Holmes and I were frozen as well, seeing now, raw and unmasked, the crazed passion and hatred that infected the man, and imagining how it might be when multiplied and spread by and through a million other souls. Could the simple belief in a dead stone’s mythical power, coupled with the accumulated resentment and anger of suppression and opposing viewpoints, be enough to cause such a reaction? Apparently so.

Micah’s hot gaze slowly cooled into something much more dangerous, and he dropped the focus of his remaining eye toward Daniel, while the empty socket, bisected by the hideous scar, was now red and throbbing with his rapid pulse. There was no hiding the passion within him now, and neither could he cover the contempt he so obviously felt for his brother.

“How long?” asked Daniel, still seated stiffly in the basket chair. He swallowed and tried again, “How long have you betrayed us?”

“If you mean how long have I known the truth, for only a few months,” replied Micah, his voice roughened with emotion. “Since the riots.”

“Last November?” I asked. “Bloody Sunday?”

Micah turned his attention my way, his expression curling with disgust. “I saw the truth then for the first time. Ten years we’ve been here, my brothers and I, living amongst you. Trying to fit in and be good citizens.” This with a sneer and a bitter hiss. “I have watched each of those days as all of you follow the worst of the ways of men. Your women are temptresses and harlots. Your religions are ignored. Your people commit the vilest of sins, and your greed destroys you as your rich grow ever richer upon the backs of the poor.”

“As one would find the same across the width and breadth of the world as well,” said Holmes with a sardonic tone. “People are the same everywhere, my judgmental friend, and it has been ever thus. Those great and ancient works and structures that dot the planet were not built by happy volunteers, you know.”

Micah grimaced, a look of hatred across his face. “You will not mock me, Detective. Here, with your false values, you wallow in your licentiousness, your greed, and now you defile the rest of the world that does not want you. The true ways, the old ways, will lead those who believe to a paradise on earth, and then to the one beyond. The Eye of Heka will let us root out what pollutes us, with fire and with blood. It simply takes one who is strong enough to wield the power, and willing to do what must be done. You, my brother,” he continue, as if it were a barbed jibe, shooting a dark and contemptuous look at Daniel, “have been happy to wait, year after year, letting the idol of Heka die in an English Museum – ” Here, his voice twisted with contempt. “ – rather than make an effort to retrieve it and return it to where it belongs.”

“The riots,” interrupted Holmes, causing Micah to suddenly return to the present, from whatever hellish vision he had been seeing play out behind his eyes. “You were speaking of the events of last November. It is interesting that the Baron’s rage grew out of the same event. I wonder what other ripples will return from that single day. Apparently, you and our own homegrown criminal have that much in common. What happened then that gave you your sudden change of heart?”

“I was there,” said Micah, suddenly and dangerously lowering his voice. “I saw the way that your soldiers and policemen rode down their own people.”

“That woman,” Daniel whispered with a look of understanding flashing across his face. “It was that woman that you cared for. Something happened then. You would not say, but I could tell that she had been injured somehow – ”

“You lie!” Micah cried. “It had nothing to do with her! I did not care for her, any more than this corrupt society cared for her. To let her be trampled in the panic. To let her be crippled for the rest of her life, when it had nothing to do with her. Just because she was in the wrong place – ” He seemed to be watching a scene play out that none of the rest of us could visualize. Then, he refocused on Daniel. “Is this, then, my brother, the society that you would trust to keep watch over The Eye? Where you would let it remain, in their cold and dead Museum, with so many of our other stolen treasures, rather than returning it to where it can accomplish so much that is great and necessary?”

“Your John Goins did no better,” said Holmes.

“He did!” countered Micah. “He has never relaxed. He has been ever vigilant!”

“Micah,” said Daniel sadly, “I remember when you returned from the riot, and you were so deeply affected. But I had no idea how much. You kept it hidden from me. Still, you must see that allowing the idol to be used by evil men to ignite a war would be infinitely worse than what happened last November. Not just a square full of people, but whole countries, all swept up in the advancing flames of these devils. They have no regard for the innocent, or those who, while not actively opposing them, are yet in the way as weeds to be trampled. You know that the people in the path you are advocating want nothing more than to feed their families and raise their children in peace. Why enable those who would destroy that, thus ruining the lives of so many??

“You speak of lives ruined and destroyed? What I see are lands now ruled by others, treated as colonies by those who would be happy to have us abandon our past and our gods and our culture, and remain cast down forever, while they reap the benefits and wealth that is being produced from the labors of our backs – wealth that could be used for our own people.

“Yes!” he hissed angrily. “The evil shall be cast out. The Eye of Heka will give us both the power and the motivation and the reason!”

Daniel stood then, after having been sitting stiffly in his chair throughout the entire confrontation with his brother. He rose painfully, as if he had aged half-a-century in just the past few minutes. Turning and planting himself firmly before the much larger Micah, he spoke. “You are a fool, my brother. This object is neither magical in and of itself, nor will it convey any power upon a person. I had thought that you knew this truth all along, as did Andrew, and as do I, but was mistaken.

“However, set that aside. It is dangerous, in that it can set in motion events which will lead to misery for countless men, women, and children. And in spite of the sacred trust placed upon our family for millennia, you have chosen to turn traitor simply because your head was turned by a madman.”

Micah started to protest, but Daniel spoke louder, his voice overriding the sputtering and beginning to ring with passion. “John Goins is an evil man to pursue this. Evil.

“But what saddens me most is how he provided the opportunity for you to betray your family, your duty, and your trust. What he will do, should he get the idol, will be monstrous. But what he has done to our own brother is unforgiveable. How you can assist in his cause, knowing that even now the blood of Andrew stains his purpose, is incomprehensible to me. I beg you, Micah, before it is too late. Return to yourself and your promise. Find yourself! You will do a greater service to us all by helping to suppress the evil influence of this thing, rather than encouraging its reappearance into the world.” And he drew silent then, his arms hanging and hands before him, looking to see if his words had made a difference.

For a moment, I actually believed that Daniel might have influenced his brother. Micah stood there, as if considering all that Daniel said. But then, his face settled into its customary scowl, and his remaining eye seemed to slowly flame all over again with angered passion. He looked as if he wanted to speak once more, either to continue with his tirade, or perhaps loose additional words of rage personally directed at his brother, whom he had pretended to aid and serve for so long. Instead, with a wordless cry of rage that began with a small moan and grew to nearly a tearing, ripping scream, he turned upon his heel and made a dash for the door. Throwing it open, he ran down the stairs. In seconds, I heard the front door open, and then slam shut behind him.

I stood up only then, wondering why I had not done so earlier, and looked for my coat, wherein still resided my gun. Holmes held up a hand. “Let him go, Watson,” he said quietly. “At this point he can make things no worse than they already are.”

And yet, having said that, Holmes himself seemed to think better of his own advice, setting himself into motion toward the door. I heard him rush downstairs, and then came the sound of the front door again being thrown open. I looked over at Daniel, but he was lost in his own thoughts, and understandably so. I assumed that Holmes was following Micah, but in a moment, I heard the front door close more quietly, and then Holmes climbed back to rejoin us.

He shook his head. “He was already gone.” He walked back to where we stood by our chairs. “I had thought to follow him myself, or have one of the Irregulars do so.”

I sank into my seat, while Daniel also sat and dropped his head into his hands with a groan. Then he gave a sob. My initial medical instinct was to rise again and see to his condition, but I was simply too stunned.

“Luke was waiting downstairs,” Holmes added. “He saw Micah run down Baker Street to the south, but he didn’t know what was taking place, so he let him go.” My friend then turned toward our remaining visitor. “Sir!” he said sharply, in order to get the man’s attention.

Daniel looked up at us, his eyes red and rimmed with tears. “Yes?”

“Can you tell us how to locate your brother? So that he may be followed. Will he now go to John Goins?”

The words didn’t seem to have any impact for a moment, but then, an almost imperceptible nod was followed by another, and Daniel replied, “I believe so. If I make haste, I can perhaps head him off. I do not think that he will leave our home without… retrieving certain possessions of his own that are important to him, that are still located there, under my control. I will stop him.”

“That,” said Holmes, “may not be the best course. Do you know where Goins is located?”

“Only vaguely. He has maintained several lairs from where he directs his men. You think my brother will lead you to him?”

Holmes nodded. “With these new developments, Goins may well drop from sight. If we can track Micah to Goins, we may be able to monitor any upcoming meeting with Baron Meade, when the idol would be delivered.”

Daniel nodded. “I understand.” Holmes handed him a pad, instructing him to write down the addresses. He did so, and then climbed wearily to his feet. “I must hurry, if I am to outmaneuver him.” He looked down again, and then, lifting a hand to wipe his eyes, he said, “Today, I have lost two brothers. I will do all that I can to help you find John Goins.”

Holmes nodded and flipped to a new sheet, where he wrote something on a piece of paper. Then he tore it loose. “After you have located your brother, and are having him followed, do not let him know it. Send word to us here, and also to this address. It is a place with connections to the government. They will know what to do with the information, and will make good use of it, I promise you.”

Daniel took the paper and, without looking at it, pressed it into a pocket. “I will do as you say, Mr. Holmes.” He nodded then, almost a bow, and turned and did the same toward me. He shuffled toward the door, looking decades older than the already careworn scholar who had entered the room just a few minutes earlier. Turning once before he stepped out, he said in a low voice, “I curse the day that these Englishmen came and found the idol. It has been a threat ever since. I have given the better part of my life to prevent what my own brother is now trying to accomplish.” He shook his head. “And I also curse the fools who believed in such a thing in the days of old, and those who continue to believe now and encourage others to do so.”

He sighed. “Such a waste.” It was so soft that I could barely hear it. Then, reaching for the door, he gently took hold of the knob, turned it as if it pained him, and then stepped through before pulling it silently shut behind him as he departed.

Chapter XXI: The Raid

Following Daniel’s departure, Holmes sat for quite some time, curled into his chair, pulling on his cherry-wood pipe and gradually filling the room with a low-hanging bluish fog. Finally able to stand it no longer, alternately coughing and blinking tearfully, I stood and made my way to the tall windows overlooking Baker Street, whereupon I opened one as far as I dared, balancing the cold rush of outside air against the asphyxiating cloud.

Down below, the usual throngs made their way here and there along the pavement, some looking around alertly, others so heavily defined by their own cares and worries that they never could face up and engage the world through which they passed. Some of them made their way on their chosen directions straight and true, while others had to constantly and tiringly dance and weave either to the right or left to avoid obstacles, human or otherwise, in their paths.

They had no idea that I watched them, from my vantage just one floor above. I could have been one of the gods of old, peering down at the never-ending, and yet never-new, unfolding story of humanity. But unlike those gods, I had no way to know the specifics of each person’s story, and how the separate threads of each of their lives tangled and knotted and strangled. I didn’t know their names, and never would. Back before my marriage, Holmes had once told me that “life is infinitely stranger than anything which the mind of man could invent. We would not dare to conceive the things which are really mere commonplaces of existence.” He and I had been sitting before the fire when he said that, in this same room we now occupied, but without any concerns before us, just two young men with bright futures having a friendly conversation. “If we could fly out of that window hand in hand,” he had said, gesturing over his shoulder to this very spot upon which I stood, “hover over this great city, gently remove the roofs, and peep in at the queer things which are going on, the strange coincidences, the plannings, the cross-purposes, the wonderful chains of events, working through generations, and leading to the most outrè results, it would make all fiction with its conventionalities and foreseen conclusions most stale and unprofitable.”

I had known he was right then, and nothing I had learned since had caused me to change my mind. But I was burdened at that moment with dread, cursed with the understanding that events were conspiring beyond our control, and beyond the awareness of the people on the street below me – events that could indeed change their lives in ways that they did not yet imagine. Perhaps the old gods were standing somewhere higher still, certainly higher than that first-floor window above Baker Street with a broken-hearted doctor in it, nudging the lumbering structure that was our reality onto a jittery new course, watching this latest complication in the story, wherein the idol would be placed into the hands of those who would start an entertaining war for their jolly enjoyment. It would certainly make for some interesting events for their jaded diversion, should it come to pass.

Behind me, Holmes continued his cogitations. I had seen this before. His nets were cast, the players in this game were making their unknown moves, and there was nothing left for him to do but wait.

Yet I still wondered what we should do next. Scotland Yard and the Foreign Office were following their typically unimaginative but dogged procedures. Daniel was on his way to see about locating his brother, hoping that would provide a trail to John Goins, and he might or might not be successful. And us? Apparently we who sat and waited would also serve.

I suppose that I expected something to happen immediately, but that night, we had no word from anyone. Holmes was like a tightly strung wire, with an almost audible pitch emanating from him as he did his best to wait patiently. Finally, as I knew would happen, he began to throw on his Inverness. I offered to go with him, but he demurred. “I need you here to act as a clearinghouse for whatever information should arrive.”

“And what shall I do with it?”

“Whatever you think best. If it requires action, notify someone at the Yard. They will know how to proceed. I’ll make sure as I leave that several runners are downstairs, should you need them.” Then he pulled on the fore-and-aft, tugging it low over his eyes, and with a grim nod departed.

I saw him intermittently over the next two days. He would stop in to curtly report that no progress had been made toward locating the Baron. On more than one occasion, Daniel came to hold a council of war, attended also by one or the other inspectors from the Yard. As I had feared, he had unfortunately been unable to find where his brother had gone – the man had apparently abandoned his treasured possessions still in Daniel’s control after all – but Daniel had some of Goins’s known agents under clandestine observation. So far, they were following their normal routines. “It is indicative, Mr. Holmes,” he said, “that the idol hasn’t yet been delivered by Baron Meade. If it had been, and if it had already left the country, there would be no reason for these men to remain here. Their mission complete, they would either be packing to leave, or already be gone.”

“So it is your opinion, then, that there is still hope?”

Daniel shrugged. He looked weary and bitter, but with a determined tightness to his lips that had been absent on his scholarly face just days earlier. “Who can say? But one should never lose hope, even when all is hopeless.”

Lestrade, present at that particular meeting, cleared his throat, and I wasn’t sure if it was due to a real need, or if he was doing so to avoid rolling his eyes at Daniel’s sentiment. He is a practical man, our friend Lestrade, and talk of hope and the lack thereof sometimes rolls off him like water from his pea-jacket.

At one point, I received a note from Miss Withers, asking me to join her and her father for tea at their hotel. I considered ignoring the note altogether, but in the end sent a polite response refusing the offer.

On the second day after the events that led to Baron Meade’s acquisition of the idol, Holmes was back for a while in Baker Street, and he and I were finishing lunch. Rather, I was finishing, while my friend was winding up his time in front of a still-full plate where the food had been pushed from side to side, the boundaries between items blurred and combined, but not in any way consumed or made more appetizing. I knew that Mrs. Hudson would have a judgmental sigh when she came to collect the dishes.

I was wiping my lips, anticipating perhaps a cup of hot coffee on such a cold day, when there was a frantic peal at the front bell, followed by a steady and regular ascension of someone on the stairs.

“Gregson,” muttered Holmes, feeling no need to mention the thought that he hoped the man brought news.

And he did, of sorts. “That Daniel,” he began. “One of his people has given us word that he tracked an associate of Goins’s to someplace that none of them have ever been known to visit before. It’s possible it has something to do with the idol, or perhaps a meeting is being arranged between Goins and the Baron. We’re on the way there now. It isn’t far. I assumed that you would both want to come with me.”

He was correct, and within seconds, Holmes and I were donning protection against the bitter weather and making our way downstairs, my anticipated cup of coffee forgotten.

As we drove away in a growler, Gregson explained that we were going to Park Crescent Mews, just blocks away on the south side of Marylebone Road and Crescent Gardens. “Some of the old stables there have been converted and rented out to different people in recent years – a few for storage by merchants, when not used by nearby residents, with others taken by costermongers and such as a place to keep their wares.”

“I believe that I know the location,” said Holmes. “One of them was where Landers’ head was found, back in ’79.”

Gregson looked at him with both respect and a raised eyebrow. “That’s right.” He gave a chuckle. “The things you know, Mr. Holmes.”

My friend waved a hand. “Irrelevant. It isn’t likely to have any bearing on today’s business – although Goins was certainly in London when Landers was killed.”

Gregson now raised both eyebrows. “You don’t think that he – ”

Holmes smiled and shook his head. “No, Gregson. Landers was undoubtedly murdered by both his brother and wife, who were obviously having an affair. It was only through the carelessness of the official force – that is to say, through unfortunate circumstances in the way that the evidence was handled – that they were able to get away with it at all. I was more than satisfied at the time that they were the guilty parties, but it was never my case. In any event, I believe that justice was served in the end.”

Gregson formed a speculative expression. “It was. An anonymous letter detailing some of the brother’s other unsavory activities was delivered to the murdered man’s employer, Everett, himself a killer many times over, throwing them all into such an argument that Everett ended up killing the wife and brother, only to be later hanged himself, after an anonymous tip led to his arrest – a neatly constructed anonymous letter, as I recall.”

“And thus justice was served,” said Holmes. “But I shall be surprised indeed if the vault where Landers’ head was found turns out to be the same as that possibly being used by Goins.”

And such was the case. After mention of the old murder, we had ridden in silence until arriving at our destination, each with our own thoughts. I saw Gregson glance covertly at Holmes several times throughout the remaining minutes of the journey, as if preventing himself from asking a question, while the consulting detective simply leaned forward, his chin resting upon his folded hands that were themselves supported by his stick.

I was surprised when we did not continue to the passage in question, but rather turned into Brunswick Place, a block north and west of our goal. The reason was soon revealed, as we were met there by a constable, standing with a youth, luckily for his sake better dressed for the cold than I was.

“What’s the story?” asked Gregson as we all huddled in a doorway out of the wind.

The constable jerked a thumb toward the lad. “This is Benjamin. He’s one of these lads what works for Daniel.” The boy was about twelve, and had a very intelligent look about him. Incidentally, he seemed to be constantly laughing at some joke known only to himself. As we talked, I understood that this was his normal attitude when meeting the world.

“He’s been helping with us these last few days,” said the constable. “He found me this morning to let us know that one of Goins’s associates was seen going to this location twice last night, one trip right after the other, and each visit with a loaded cart. He originated at the rooming house that some of this Goins’s men have been using in Stepney.

“We’ve been keeping an eye on that house as well, but no sign of Goins, or anything strange from the other men who live there. Benjamin here was watching the Stepney house last night when he saw one of those men come out and begin loading the cart, carrying out boxes. Both times the man came here, and Benjamin followed him, watching while he unlocked the door to one of the old stables in the mews and carried in the items. He had no help at either place, so each trip took an hour or so to load and then unload. It started about nine o’clock and took a good portion of the night. After he finished carrying the last of it inside, he locked up and returned to Stepney, where he appears to have settled in.”

Gregson frowned. “The lad could have told us all that himself.” Looking at the boy, he said, “Are you mute?”

With a grin, Benjamin, just shook his head.

“Then why are we just now hearing about it this morning?”

The constable started to answer for him, but stopped himself, nodding toward Benjamin, who then responded in most excellent English. “I waited to find out what was happening before I went looking for one of the policemen. I did not want to summon him for no reason. I saw that the man was finished, after he had returned to Stepney and put away the cart and horse. He went inside, lit a lamp in the upstairs bedroom, and then put it out again in a few minutes. That is when I told someone.” He nodded to the constable beside him, a mischievous light in his eyes.

“Quite right,” rumbled the constable.

“You could have found someone sooner,” Gregson grumbled. “What if the man had done something more suspicious?”

“That was not my task,” said Benjamin. He didn’t seem to be intimidated by the inspector in the least. “I was supposed to keep watch on these men to see if there was any sign that they were arranging a meeting with the Englishman who has the idol. I saw no meeting. While I did realize that his behavior was strange, I felt that I could learn more if I stayed with him. On both trips, I watched him carefully, and he traveled so slowly, perhaps to avoid attention, that I was able to keep up with him each time.

“It did not seem worthy of finding and telling the policeman then. We do not have a great quantity of our own people here to help us, and just then there was no one else that I could call upon to assist me.”

“Do I take it,” interrupted Holmes, “that you are the last of the five people who are here to keep watch over The Eye? That group being Daniel, Andrew who is dead, Micah who has betrayed you, the other boy Luke, and yourself?”

The smile was wiped from Benjamin’s face. “That is true.”

Gregson snorted. “We were led to believe that Daniel had a true organization in place here. Do you mean to tell me that he has been carrying out his part with the aid of just two children, both of whom are definitely known to the brother who went over to the other side, and probably to all the rest of John Goins’s people as well?”

“It would seem so,” said Holmes.

“Are there not any others that Daniel could have called upon?” asked the inspector.

“There are other brothers and cousins,” answered the boy. “But not here. They are involved in the family rug business. I am ashamed to admit that it was never truly believed, at least not by some of them, that guarding the idol was ever really necessary, or would require more than the few who had been in England these last years to fulfill our duty.

“And you and Luke?” I asked. “You were a baby when it was brought here. Luke probably wasn’t even born yet.”

“Sometimes one or the other family member sends a young man such as myself to assist cousin Daniel, as a part of our greater education.” There seemed to be no irony in Benjamin’s assertion that he was already a young man.

“Heavens preserve us,” muttered Gregson. “How much has been missed because we were relying on Daniel’s help, and the only foot soldiers that he commanded were kiddies?”

The constable interjected. “The lad has proven to be a rather sharp individual – ”

“There has been nothing to see,” interrupted Benjamin patiently, not angry, but not smiling now either. “I have made no errors in judgment. The man that I was following did not seem to be doing anything illegal, and nothing that appeared to be related to either meeting the Englishman or obtaining the idol. It was simply strange. However, it may only appear that way because we do not know his true purpose. Possibly he has simply been moving boxes of laundry.”

Gregson’s eyes narrowed. “You would joke about it?”

The young fellow shook his head earnestly, but his eyes now had regained their impish flicker. “Oh, no, sir. Not at all.”

“Then what made you think that it might be laundry?” Gregson was clearly trying to balance his impatience at the idea that we might be on a wild goose chase with the knowledge that something atypical had indeed happened.

“I did not really mean that,” said the boy quietly, only now seeming to realize that the inspector did not have a sense of humor.

“Did you try to get a look at them? At the parcels the man was moving?”

“Not at all. I did not want to reveal myself, or to be caught looking into one of them when the man returned from inside for another to carry.”

Gregson nodded. “And you didn’t try to see inside the building, either?”

“No. I do not think that would have been wise.”

The inspector shook his head and looked addressed the constable. “Are the men ready?”

“They are.”

“Well, I’ve got the warrant. You,” he said to Benjamin. “I suppose you’ll stay to report on what we find to Daniel. But keep out of the way.”

“Most assuredly, sir,” was the reply.

Gregson turned away with a disgusted snort, walking in front of us and back into Marylebone Road. He raised a hand, and almost magically a plethora of officers seemed to appear out of the shadows. He assigned positions to them, some to circle around and come up the mews from the south. Confirming from one that there was no sign of anyone around our destination, he set a time five minutes hence when all would move forward.

Then, nodding to Holmes and me, we waited in silence until it was time to begin. It passed quickly, although I found my mind wandering as I glanced at the early afternoon passers-by, especially the occasional married couples. I wrenched my thoughts back to our purpose as Gregson looked at his watch, put it away, and waved us into motion.

We set off, rounding the corner and walking quickly up to the third door on the right, painted black like all the rest. “Not the Landers vault,” whispered Holmes as one of the constables paced up with a pair of long-handled bolt cutters, snipping through the strengthened steel of the padlock as if it were a rotten vegetable marrow. The hasp was thrown back, and the inspector and one of the constables cautiously entered the chamber.

As I stepped forward, I looked right and left, seeing that the doors to each vault along the row were all double wide, but with some wider than others. Our destination was one of the more narrow doorways. The buildings themselves were low, only two stories, and all of dissimilar styles that stretched side-by-side down the west side of the lane. They had clearly been built to service the adjacent houses behind them in Harley Street, or perhaps the larger and more auspicious homes in Park Crescent to the east.

Just after the inspector and the constable had entered without fanfare, Holmes and I joined them. Although the structure had been converted for storage, it still had the musty reminder that it had once been a stable. It was quite dark after stepping in from the cold sunshine outside, and I was thankful that someone had had the sense to bring lanterns. There were nearly a dozen of us all told, and the chamber quickly had a crowded feeling. “Open up those cartons,” said Gregson, gesturing left and right.

One of the constables had found another pair of lanterns hanging on the wall, and soon the room was well lit indeed. I could see now the plain brick floors and walls. All around us, stacked in some places higher than our heads, were boxes of varying sizes, but most two or three feet to each side.

Several were being opened by different men simultaneously, and we moved up to see into the closest one. Gregson reached in before I could tell what was inside and took hold of something. There was a metallic clink.

Withdrawing his arm, he pulled out a great silver serving tray. As the light reflected from it, I could distinguish something engraved on the surface, but I couldn’t make out any details. Setting it on a nearby pile of cartons, Gregson reached in again and grasped a large silver pitcher by the spout. It was somewhat tarnished, but one could detect that it was very heavy from the effort that he made to support it.

“It’s the same in these boxes, Inspector,” said one of the constables, holding up a handful of silver forks, their handles edged in what appeared to be gold.

“What is all this?” asked Gregson, frankly puzzled. He looked around until he found Holmes. “There’s far too many boxes here to have just been brought in last night’s three loads.”

“That is correct, Inspector,” piped up Benjamin from the doorway.

“If they’re all full of silver and plate, there must be a fortune in here.”

“I think you’ll find,” said Holmes, opening yet another box to reveal many silver cups, “that this is the accumulated loot from all of the burglaries over the past year or so that have focused only on silver items.” He placed the cup he was holding back in the box, where it made a muffled ringing sound. Then he shifted that box aside and was preparing to open the one underneath it when Benjamin suddenly cried from outside, “Inspector! It’s him! It’s the man from last night!”

We seemed to be frozen for just a moment before we all managed to make ourselves move. There was a confused pushing amongst the men inside before Gregson and I broke free and made it out to where the boy was waiting. We were immediately joined by Holmes. We looked left and right before seeing a man, sitting on a cart and holding the reins of a tired looking beast hitched to it, farther down the mews to the south. Even as we saw him, he sat up abruptly and flicked the reins before seeming to realize with the same breath that it would do him no good – should the weary old horse be goaded into the motion that he so urgently needed to effect his escape, the only direction that he had to go would be toward us. There was no easy way in the narrow mews to turn around. Therefore his only choice was to jump down from the cart and flee by foot. And that is precisely what he did.

The mews curved to the right and out of sight, and he was instantly beyond our view. Even as Gregson was yelling, “After him!” young Benjamin was already springing into motion. I was reminded of the sudden burst of speed shown by a rabbit when one comes upon it unawares, disappearing in the distance with its ears laid back flat in what seems to be only three or four powerful kicks from its back feet before it’s gone.

We followed as quickly as we could, and thankfully didn’t have to go far. Rounding the curve, we found that somehow Benjamin had caught the man, tripped him up, and was now sitting astride his legs, contriving to keep him from either rising or rolling over. Our quarry, not a very big fellow, was thrashing from side to side, but his face was solidly pushed in the accumulated detritus at the side of the lane, where it remained until he was hauled to his feet effortlessly by two of Gregson’s biggest officers.

Benjamin hopped up with a nimble bounce, a big grin on his face. Gregson clapped him on the shoulder while catching his breath – something that I was trying to do as well. Holmes seemed to have already recovered, as he was stepping around us to get a look at our prisoner in the face.

“Good job, lad!” puffed Gregson, his big fat hand steadying itself on Benjamin’s slender frame. Meanwhile, I was watching the captive as he glared at Holmes, eyes narrowed, He would dearly have loved to try and make another attempt at escape, but with his arms solidly gripped, he was going nowhere.

He was short and wiry, and as near as I could tell, somewhere around thirty years of age. He was wearing very conventional clothing, and except for his features, particularly a pair of notably light-colored eyes, he would have looked like any working-class Englishman.

“Well?” wheezed Gregson. “What do you have to say for yourself?”

The man shook his head. “I have done nothing. I was simply waiting for you to move out of my way so that I could drive on through to Marylebone Road.”

Gregson smiled and shook his head. “No good, my friend. If that’s all it was, then why did you run? That won’t do. This lad – ” and he nodded toward Benjamin, while squeezing his shoulder “ – saw you bringing some of those boxes here last night. Isn’t that right?”

Now the merriment that had always seemed to be uppermost in the boy’s expression was gone, replaced by something quite serious indeed. “That is so, Inspector. Both trips.”

The man scowled. “You would betray us to them?” he hissed.

“You are betraying all of us to an evil purpose,” replied Benjamin without hesitation.

“Bah, you know nothing! You are but a child.”

“Are you going to tell us?” asked Gregson.

“I have nothing to say to you.”

“Perhaps not,” drawled Holmes, crossing his arms, “but I fancy we can infer a bit. Clearly the items you have been collecting here are the accumulated loot from the silver robberies. A little sideline, perhaps, while you and your brethren passed the time here in England, waiting for something to happen in relation to The Eye of Heka?”

At the mention of the idol, the man’s expression went rapidly from surprise to anger to a complete blank. “I know nothing of what you say,” he replied.

“Oh, of course you do. It would be a waste of time to pretend otherwise. My only question is whether John Goins is aware of this activity and approves of it, or if you are carrying this out without his knowledge.”

That was what it took to make a fleeting look of fear pulse across the man’s face, before he attempted to return to that state of neutrality he had shown just seconds earlier.

“Ah, then Goins is not aware of your treasure hoard. Interesting. Perhaps he favors a severe approach along the lines of that espoused by the Mahdi a few years ago. Let me see now – what is the punishment for a thief? Why yes, I believe it involves the cutting off of your hands. That should make things a bit difficult for you while breaking rocks in Her Majesty’s Prison on Dartmoor.”

The man swallowed then, clearly trying to catch up on just how things could have gone so badly for him in such a short space of time. “Stealing from such as you is not stealing,” he rationalized, with almost a whine in his voice.

“Are you trying to convince us? Well, that is one interpretation, I suppose,” said Holmes. “Perhaps Goins would have even agreed with you and approved. That is, if he had known about it to begin with, and if you had intended to cut him in for a share. As it is, I suspect that he may not be so understanding, as I have the impression that he doesn’t know about your extracurricular enterprise. What do you think, Gregson? Shall we send a message to Goins and ask him?”

“No!” cried the prisoner, wrenching from side to side and surprising the constables who grasped his arms, this new fear breaking past his control. “Please! You mustn’t!”

“Indeed? And why not?”

“He will… you don’t understand. He will be… displeased! He always insists that the reason for our being here in this awful place is the idol, and that we should be completely devoted to its rescue, and that there should be no distractions.”

“Is that so?” asked Gregson. “Well, I’m thinking more and more that we should get in touch with this Mr. Goins. It’s the least that we can do, seeing as how he might want to arrange for your defense when the case comes to trial.”

“No, please!” the man cried. “He must not know!” He seemed to be collapsing in front of us. How quickly he had been reduced.

“I think that he will know, one way or the other. What is your name?”

“Abraham.”

Gregson said nothing for a while. Then, “Well, Abraham, perhaps we can work out an arrangement. That is, if you’re forthcoming with us about Goins’s plans for the idol.”

“What?” A suspicious look came into his eyes. “I know nothing of his plans.” He wasn’t a very skilled liar.

Gregson snorted. “I’m not going to waste my time, Mr. Abraham. Take him to the Yard. And keep hold of him – he’ll definitely be trying to get away.”

The man seemed divided, as if he wanted to stay there and tell more, and yet would not – or could not. One of the constables produced his darbies and shackled the prisoner, who was led back up the street toward his cart and the cache of stolen silver. Gregson pounded Benjamin on the shoulder with enthusiasm, now completely won over now by the enthusiastic lad. “Not exactly the break we were looking for, Mr. Holmes, but not too bad of a haul. Not too bad at all.”

Holmes nodded, but he worried at a fingernail, clearly disappointed that this encounter hadn’t advanced us any further toward locating Baron Meade and the sculpture. I stood to one side, with very little to do, as Holmes went back inside and puttered around amongst the boxes while the police organized their removal. Soon, several wagons were arranged to carry the loot back to the Yard, while Gregson and a couple of constables departed for the same location in a growler.

As I watched the cartons and boxes being systematically loaded with a military-like efficiency, as ants divide a morsel of food and transport it back to their lair, Holmes walked up to me, clearly not happy. “Benjamin has gone to report to Daniel,” he said. I realized that I hadn’t seen the boy leave. “While this is certainly a coup for Gregson, and will close the books on a long list of robberies, I had certainly hoped for more. But perhaps this will be a wedge that we can use to pry out some detail of Goins’s plan. I’m going to follow Gregson to the Yard for the interrogation. Do you wish to join me?”

I had already decided that I would rather return to Baker Street. I didn’t see anything that I could add to the situation.

“Very well,” said Holmes. “I should be back in a few hours.” And with that, he rejoined the group that was loading the final boxes from the shed. In a few moments, everyone would be gone, and there would be no signs that anything amiss had taken place here.

I meandered slowly back along Marylebone Road, craving the time alone, even while feeling the cold working up from the ground. The wind was out of the west, and although I was facing it, there was a distinct feeling of the promise of warmth to it. Suddenly, for no reason, I was reminded of a few days earlier, when I had made my way along the Serpentine into a much stronger breeze. Why did that suddenly feel as if it were so long ago, as if it were already an ancient memory, packed away in a tin box and not to be entirely or objectively trusted?

I reached the Baker Street corner, and turned toward 221. Thoughts of my late wife were yet again dancing in the periphery of my awareness, but I pushed them back. It would be too easy to return to my chair and spend the rest of the afternoon in despondency. Instead, as I put my key into the door, I resolved to do something more useful.

In passing, I asked Mrs. Hudson for tea, and then settled in upstairs with my journal, attempting to list the facts of the case while they were still fresh in my mind, and hoping that doing so would reveal something that had been missed. However, while I was successful in recalling what had happened point-by-point over the past week, I didn’t gain any new insight.

I was just setting aside my labors when I heard Holmes return. He climbed the stairs slowly, and was clearly in a pensive mood as he sat down across from me, reaching for his pipe.

Before I could ask, he said, “Abraham was convinced of the very real threat that his betrayal of Goins’s ideals would be made known, one way or the other, if he didn’t cooperate. He gave us several details regarding the silver thefts, which he has been carrying out with a small gang that he organized on his own, completely separate from the other half-dozen men here with Goins.

“He provided names, and the police will be picking them up as quickly as they can. It was really well done – Abraham found skilled cracksmen from very separate walks of life, and brought them together for specific jobs. One is a sailor, who is not even in London at any certain time, and therefore would not necessarily be associated with the crimes. Enough of the lot, the common stuff, was fenced from the older robberies, after the initial efforts to locate it had died down, in order to pay the members of the gang for participating, but Abraham was hoarding the greater part of it to sell later – and what a hoard it was! – believing that the wait for the idol would go on for a long time, possibly years. Suddenly he was out of time, as Goins now seems to believe that he will soon have it.

“When it was confirmed to him by his master that the talisman is in motion, Abraham was prompted to start consolidating the silver from his various rat holes, caching it in one place, while he desperately tried to figure out how to sell it quickly. He is expecting to be leaving England at any time, once Goins has The Eye and gives the order to depart. Goins has in fact been contacted by the Baron, as we feared, but there is a great deal of distrust between the two parties, especially on Goins’s side. He has said, according to Abraham, that the actions of a traitor to his country, as Baron Meade is correctly understood to be, cannot be accepted at face value. Goins therefore believes that the Baron’s offer must be studied before an agreement between them can be reached.”

“Still, it must be just a matter of time,” I said. “Until Goins receives the idol. I’m surprised that he would have waited so long already before taking it.”

“Apparently he suspects a trap, and he also wants to verify the Baron’s incredible assertions that he really wishes to bring destruction upon England. It shouldn’t take long, and as Goins is desperate to finally get it, he’ll certainly accept the Baron’s offer soon.”

“I don’t suppose Baron Meade is trying to sell it. I expect that he’s simply offering it to him, gratis.”

“Quite. That is doubtless part of what Goins cannot understand, and thus can’t bring himself to trust. He doesn’t realize yet that the Baron really wants is to do as much damage to this country as possible.”

“And so what can we do?”

Holmes sighed. “What we’re already doing. Wait. Hope. Try. The police and agents of the government are looking everywhere. I have my own force on the lookout – the Irregulars, and others. What is left of Daniel’s group may be small, but it must not be discounted – look at what Benjamin was able to accomplish today.”

He became withdrawn. I thought that he might say something else, and I tried to think of a question to continue the conversation, but there was nothing else to say or do. We would have to wait for word to come, one way or the other. We could only hope that it wouldn’t be a notification that the idol was on a ship bound beyond our reach.

Chapter XXII: An Opportunity

I considered other times like this, when Holmes had set himself to wait, as there was nothing else to accomplish until some way forward presented itself. Sometimes he would approach such a situation patiently. Others would cause ever-increasing frustration, with sudden bursts of energy and impatience and pacing. Occasionally he would distract himself with chemical experiments, treating the current problem and its awaited solution as just another observable reaction that must percolate and conclude in its own time.

Once in a while, when a case had a long period of waiting that involved setting it on the back burner, he would take on additional unrelated investigations. These were never hard to come by. Most days, there were numerous rings of our front bell as people brought him their problems. Often these visits weren’t worth mentioning, reporting or recording for posterity, as my friend would simply listen to the caller’s problem, offer his suggestions, and then pocket his fee. Only occasionally would he have to get up and move about and see things for himself. As his fame grew, and the puzzles brought before him became more complex, there was more moving around, but that didn’t stop the regular callers who came seeking help from that man in Baker Street who was even then becoming something of a living legend.

Holmes always had some ten or twelve cases on hand at any given time, overlapping and twisting like threads in a tangled knot. I wondered what he would do now if, while he was deep in contemplating the various what’s and where’s of the current crisis, a new case were to present itself for his consideration.

I thought for a moment that I might have a chance to find that out, as late that afternoon I noticed a hansom turn out of the flow of traffic and stop before our door. The flash of a woman’s dress was visible as she extricated herself from within, and I pondered, if only for a brief second, what her business might be. And then, the woman turned, looked up, saw me, and I recognized her. It was Miss Withers, calling here at Baker Street. She gave a half smile, but no other acknowledgement, turning instead to the door. Seconds later, the bell rang, and I heard Holmes harrumph in his chair behind me.

Without turning, my mind working furiously, I said flatly, “It is Miss Withers,” as if that explained it all. And I suppose that it did.

Out of the corner of my I eye, I observed that Holmes turned his head, but the angle was wrong for me to see him well, or to discover his expression. Then he uncurled from the chair and stood, turning to face me directly, showing as much surprise as he ever did. The beginnings of a smile started to form at my discomfort, in spite of the fact that just a moment before, he had been furiously pondering those events that might lead to a global war.

“Holmes,” I said, a low note of warning in my voice. I was not in the mood for his pawky teasing. He had long realized that Miss Withers had set her cap for me, and it amused his odd sense of humor to think of my discomfort. A man with his disregard for the social niceties could never understand the impropriety or unpleasantness of her suggestions that she and I ought to consider a future together. It seemed to do no good to further explain to Holmes, who worked so hard to conceal the fact that he had emotions like the rest of us, that I was still too heartbroken over my loss to even consider such a thing?

It was all for naught as two sets of footsteps, one light, and the other solid and steady, reached the top of the stairs, and there was a knock on the door. “Come!” called Holmes firmly, and Mrs. Hudson allowed Miss Withers to enter.

As our landlady pulled the door shut, she gave me a curious look. Was she also aware of the awkwardness of this visit? Had Holmes been gossiping with her about my situation? No answers were forthcoming as Mrs. Hudson vanished from sight.

Miss Withers looked curiously at Holmes, as did he toward her. I suddenly remembered that this was their first meeting, although each had heard something of the other. Holmes was frankly watchful, almost to the point of rudeness. She, on the other hand, had a neutral look toward him, although there were unconcealed flashes of what must certainly be disdain in her slightly narrowed eyes.

Holmes politely identified himself, and she likewise. I realized that I should have made the introductions, but I had forgotten to speak. To make up for my lapse, I stepped forward and offered Miss Withers a path to the basket chair before our fire.

Behind her as she passed, Holmes offered the barest of an impish grin, which vanished instantly once he knew that I had seen it. “If you’ll excuse me,” he said, “I will retire so that you can visit.” He stepped over and started to reach for his violin, but as I imparted a questioning, “Holmes?” This encounter would not go easier while trying to talk over his violin practice. He turned, saw my expression, and instead resumed his original course to depart. He crossed the few steps to his own room and closed the door, sans musical accompaniment.

She watched him go impassively, and then turned back to me. “Shall we sit?” she asked, taking control.

In our chairs, I asked if she would care for any tea, but she stated that she had introduced herself downstairs to Mrs. Hudson, who had made the same offer, which she had refused. I nodded, and then we fell into a momentary and increasingly awkward silence, which gradually coalesced into a knowing smile upon her face.

“You didn’t accept my invitation to tea.”

“My apologies. Holmes and I are involved in a rather complicated investigation at the moment.”

She glanced at his door, and then around the room. “I see. I am sorry,” she continued, “that I missed your visit the other day at the hotel. Father should have let me know that you were there.”

“That’s quite all right,” I said, recalling the quiet conversation that seemed to have occurred so long ago now. “You were no doubt weary from the events the previous day, when your father was – ”

“When he was shot!” she finished. Her mouth tightened. “Still, I would have liked to have joined you both, as I believe that I would have had something constructive to offer.” I speculated as to her meaning, but she quickly answered my unspoken question. “I know, you see,” she related, “what it was that you and my father discussed. It is really no different than what I had broached to you earlier.”

I nodded, uncertain as to what else to do.

She glanced again around the room, her eyes narrowing further at the tables and shelves so full of odd curios and stacks of documents. I, who knew the tales behind many of the unusual items there, but nothing about some of the others, could only imagine how it must look to someone who was seeing it for the very first time. Still, I was quite used to it, and thought nothing of it any longer.

“Your own home in Kensington had none of this clutter,” she said. “Is all of this Mr. Holmes’s, or is some of it yours?”

“A portion of it belongs to me,” I said. “Some of the books. The portraits of General Gordon and Reverend Beecher.” I gestured with my head. “That is my desk there, and most of what is upon it is mine.”

“Most? Does Mr. Holmes even make use of your own desk?”

“You must remember that I’ve only been back here for a few weeks,” I said. “When I… when I married, I left some things behind, and now that I’ve returned, I assume that I will resume ownership of them, although truth be told, I can take or leave much of it. Some of my other personal possessions, things that are more important to me, are upstairs in my own bedroom.”

She nodded. “You left behind a great deal in Kensington. Abandoned it, really. But I did notice that nothing of a truly personal nature was forgotten there.” She looked more intently then, her eyes boring in. “You took items related to your late wife, I suppose.”

I nodded, my throat suddenly tight. I wanted to respond Of course, but could not. She went on. “It isn’t unusual, you know. For you to feel this way. That is the kind of man you are. I know that you loved her. You still do. I can see it in your face. Some marriages are just for convenience – on both sides of a bargain. But others are true partnerships. It’s obvious that yours was that way.”

“Miss Withers – ” I started – she really had no business addressing me on this subject – but she interrupted me.

“I understand.” She began to speak more hurriedly, and for the first time, I noticed a desperate tone in her voice, as if she had finally begun to realize she might lose this argument, and was attempting to overwhelm my objections with one overwhelming plea that would drown them. “I truly do, John. But as you’ve just learned from going through the death of your wife, life is short and precious. It shouldn’t be wasted. Not even a bit of it because of some meaningless rule or custom that says propriety must be satisfied.”

“Miss Withers – ” I tried again, but to no avail.

She leaned forward, her voice lowering with greater intensity. “I know how I feel about you! You will also come to feel that way about me, if you don’t already. You will! I believe that you already do, although you cannot make yourself admit it to me yet.”

“Miss Withers,” I interrupted, rather harshly. “Miss Withers. You simply do not understand!”

She stood up suddenly then, surprising me, her face suddenly flooded with anger. “Don’t call me ‘Miss Withers’,” she snapped, “as if it can be placed as a barrier of formality that you suddenly throw up between us!” Her fists were tight, the knuckles white and her arms were pressed flat against her sides. “I know what I want, John! There is no need to waste more time!”

I saw something there that I hadn’t witnessed before. I had seen her beauty, and her obvious intelligence. But did I detect, perhaps, just a spark of mania? Or worse. “Miss Withers,” I said again pointedly, and then softened my voice. I considered standing to face her eye to eye, but chose to remain seated. I willed myself to relax. Taking a deep breath, I said, “Miss Withers. It’s not about propriety, as you said. It’s not that at all, I assure you. You are a wonderful girl…”

She gave a little involuntary sob in her throat then, and realizing that I had heard it, clenched her jaw. I continued. “You are strong. Independent,” I continued. “A worthy partner for some man with whom you can face life together. But, Miss Withers.” I paused to make certain she was listening. “You simply have to understand. I don’t know any other way to tell you. I loved my wife. I still love her. Painfully so. So much that it threatens to… to twist me apart inside.” I threw up my hands then, and finally I had to stand too. “I simply don’t feel that way about you. I simply don’t.”

She started to object, but I continued, now almost harshly. “And I won’t.” As a doctor, I recognized that sometimes the treatment must be harsh and swift, and regretted that I had played the gentleman for too long, avoiding doing something any sooner to prevent or entirely avoid this confrontation now. “I’m not sure what you see in me. Perhaps I remind you of your father in some way. He’s a good man. You may be recalling when you saw his pain when he lost your mother, and believe that the quickest remedy for me will do the most good. But that is not what I want.

“You are a lovely girl,” I said gently, “but I doubt that I shall ever marry again. That’s it then, really. I’ve come to that realization, and it’s not fair to let you think for a minute that there is a chance otherwise. Someday I may regret it.” I lifted my arm and turned over a hand. “But that… but that is how I feel. I can’t tell you any more plainly than that. You have to listen. You simply must.”

I had nothing left to add, but kept my gaze locked with hers, trying to make her accept it. Then she finally seemed to let her face change just a bit, going from a terrible intensity to something more puzzled, as if this place, this ending, was truly something she had never contemplated. She began to look like a lost child.

“Father told me that he spoke to you at the hotel, and what he said,” she whispered softly. “He thought that you were coming around.”

“I’m sorry.”

“And then today, when I went to the Kensington house to check on the deliveries, a boy from a neighboring house introduced himself – ”

“Lyndon Parker, perhaps.”

“I believe so. He said that you had been back for a visit the other day. I thought… I thought that you were having second thoughts. That you were feeling sentimental, perhaps. That you finally understood the opportunity, and that you might be considering…”

“Did your father not tell you that part?” I interrupted. “That he had simply asked me to check the house and make sure that all was well after your possessions had been delivered?”

“No. No, he didn’t tell me.” She dropped back into her chair. “I thought that you were changing your mind.” She looked back up at me then, and a single tear was pooling in the corner of an eye. “The house seems so empty. I sat in the front parlor before I came here, thinking how it could be a home for all of us – father as well,” she said. “So many plans.” The tear chose that moment to break free and roll down her cheek.

I was trying to imagine how she could have thought that she and I would live there as a family with her father, but before the idea had progressed very far, she spoke again, this time her voice taking on a ragged edge. “I should have known,” she said, sinking back into her chair. “You only went back there because you were asked to go. You wouldn’t have wanted to go on you own, would you? Any more than father wanted to keep our home when mother died – the only home I had ever known, where mother and I had lived when he was away in the Army. After she died, he was too weak to be able to stay there, and you’re too weak now!

“It is just a place of death now to you,” she continued, almost talking to herself, rocking slightly. “That’s all. It has even taken on the smell of death, you know. It hangs in the air there. I noticed it as I sat there today. A foul, creeping odor that I hadn’t ever noticed before. From her! The one you’re still tied to, even after she’s gone. It seemed to waft up from the very floorboards underneath me! It – ”

At that moment, when she seemed to be building toward some sort of crisis or fit, she was abruptly interrupted, when we were both shocked by Holmes’s door, which flew open as he stepped through, brusquely stating, “Miss Withers! About that odor…”

She looked at him in complete surprise, while I turned on my heel. “Holmes!” I cried. “This is intolerable. Have you been listening to our private conversation?”

“Watson,” he said, waving me aside, “would you have me sit in there with my fingers in my ears whilst mumbling nursery rhymes?” He stepped briskly toward us until he was directly in front of Miss Withers, planting his feet on the bear-skin hearth rug. “The odor, Miss Withers. I give you credit for not imagining it. Describe it, please.”

“What? Are you mad?” She glanced toward me, as if for guidance, and then looked back at him with what could only be expressed at best as dislike.

“Not at all. What you tell me now may be the confirmation of a long-shot of an idea that suddenly coalesced and expressed itself within my mind. Please describe the odor. And be quite clinical. I assure you that your choice of words will not shock either the Doctor or myself.”

She rose to her feet, moving to stand beside me, facing Holmes squarely while looking up at his greater height with an antagonistic bend to her back. “Describe it, Mr. Holmes?” She turned her head quickly toward me, and her eyes flashed with a bitter anger. “Then I can only say it strongly reminded me of a horse paddock. A filthy one, long uncleaned.” She then pivoted completely in my direction, with anger throbbing in her voice. “That is your house of death, Doctor, with its smell of filth!”

I dropped my gaze while Holmes smiled and nodded, seeming to be oblivious to her tone. “Exactly. Would you say, perhaps, that it was an odor reminiscent of ammonia?”

My eyes widened at this statement. Surely Holmes couldn’t think that – It wasn’t possible. Baron Meade could never be so bold, or so foolish, as to hide in that least likely of places. And yet… something about it seemed to hold a glimmer of truth.

Miss Withers turned to look back at him, her anger now chased away for the moment as he seemed to know what she meant, as if he had been there and smelled it along with her. She nodded, and said with an almost puzzled tone, “Yes. Yes, I believe that it was.”

Holmes nodded. “I thought so. With your extensive medical background, you would certainly have recognized that. The strong uric content of ammonia would, without doubt, remind you of certain aspects of a horse enclosure.” Turning, he moved toward the door to the landing. Opening it, he called, “Mrs. Hudson! Mrs. Hudson!”

Then, without waiting for a reply, he turned to his own desk and hurriedly began to write on several telegram forms, one after the other.

Our long-suffering landlady arrived, well past being surprised or offended by any of my friend’s abrupt behaviors. He turned to her, holding out the forms. “Please have the boy dispatch these immediately!”

Then, facing back to our visitor as if she had been there all along to consult with him and not me, he proceeded to take her arm and show her out of the sitting room. “I shouldn’t go back to that house right away, Miss Withers. It might not be safe. Perhaps what you smelled is a gas leak. And thank you for coming by. It was truly a pleasure to finally meet you, and you may have the satisfaction of knowing that, even as your errand ended in unpleasantness and disappointment for yourself, you may have helped to provide the link that saves us all from a disastrous chain of events. Good day!”

And with a confused look over her shoulder toward me, and a soft questioning “John?” when she reached the doorway, she was nearly pushed out and onto the landing, whereupon the door was firmly shut in her face. As Holmes walked back toward me, rubbing his hands and with an intense concentrated look upon his face, I could hear nothing on the landing, and I wondered if I ought to go after her. But it was certainly best this way. Finally, her light footsteps descended, and in a moment, the front door opened and closed. I stepped to a window overlooking the street and saw her on the pavement, looking neither right nor left, but facing away from our building. I believe she might have turned then, perhaps to look up toward me, but I stepped back.

I did not know how long the unpleasant conversation would have continued, as I tried to convince her of the firmness of my resolve, but somehow Holmes had cut through the Gordian Knot that she was trying to use to ensnare me, and I didn’t want a meeting of our eyes between window and street to start the reattachment of even one new thread.

“Holmes,” I said, “that was really too much. Even for you.”

“What?” he said, pulling his eyes back to the present from whatever variables and eventualities that he had been considering. “Did you want her to stay, then, so you could keep fencing with one another, trying to convince her ‘round to your position, while she did the same from the opposing side?”

I shook my head. “No. No, I suppose I should thank you, although it truly was abominable behavior on your part. Even as she seemed to be bitterly accepting my viewpoint, I knew that she would simply retreat and then talk herself into again thinking that we should be together. And perhaps she still will. But this was a welcome break from an unexpected contest of wills that I wasn’t prepared to face at this time. I need to prepare my arguments better for next time, should she try again – and I’m afraid that she will. I must convince her truly that I shall never marry again.”

Holmes looked at me then for a long moment. I was about to speak, and fall victim to his old trick of letting the uncomfortable party try to fill the awkward silence, when he said softly, “Don’t be too sure, old friend. Don’t be too sure. I know how you feel right now, and I agree with you. Miss Withers is not the right girl for you. You need someone more stable. But someday…” He waved his hand toward the door. “Someday someone is going to walk in when you least expect it, and she will be the right girl.” He smiled then. “You will marry again, my friend. And it will be as unexpected and life-changing as if you’ve had been hit by a Jezail bullet on the battlefield. But this time you won’t have a friend like Murray who will throw you on a pack horse and carry you away. No, when it’s right, this friend will happily let you fall to your fate.”

I swallowed, not sure what to say. It was certainly an interesting way of putting it, as only Sherlock Holmes could. But before I could acknowledge Holmes’s sentiment, such as it was, one of the times that he had revealed that great heart he strove to hide under his giant intellect, he turned away, heading toward the mantel and his pipe.

“Surely you know what she revealed to us, Watson,” he said. “What an opportunity this might mean.”

I joined him, sinking into my chair, suddenly weary, as if I had just run a long race. I nodded.

“The Baron, Watson,” he said, the old light glinting in his eyes. “There is a good chance we know exactly where he has gone to earth!”

Chapter XXIII: “So it’s to be tonight, then?”

As I reflected upon Holmes’s assertion, I realized that he could possibly be right, but I had to remark, “That is one of the longest shots I have ever heard you make. You believe that Baron Meade has hidden himself at my house in Kensington.”

“Former house,” Holmes corrected. “And yes I do. Why not? Consider. The man has identified you as his enemy, and he would certainly go to lengths to learn more about you. It would be easy to determine that, until just weeks ago, you resided at your practice. He could quickly discover that you are no longer there, and in the process realize that the building was now uninhabited. He was in dire need of a place to hide. It fits, considering his new obsession with you.”

He saw a thought flash across my face. “What is it?”

“The other day, when I was there – ”

“Yes?”

“Dr. Withers asked me make sure that the delivery of some of his possessions was carried out satisfactorily. He was unable to do so himself following the attack. I went to the house. Before I went in, I was stopped on the street by a boy from the neighborhood, asking me if it was true that I was moving away. He happened to mention that a man had asked him only the day before where I was. Now, it may be that the man was simply a patient who didn’t realize that I had moved, but – ”

“But that man could have been Baron Meade, reconnoitering your haunts, and finding a bolt-hole for himself in the process.”

Another thing surfaced in my mind. “When I was there, I walked a bit around the downstairs, shutting several doors as I went, including the cellar door. As far as I know, there was no reason for it to have been open. It is normally kept locked – it was locked when I was previously there with the Doctor and Miss Withers. They didn’t go down there then, or even open that door. And there would have been no reason for the movers to open it up. In fact, they wouldn’t have been able to do so. They wouldn’t have had that key. And yet it was open.”

Holmes was silent for a moment. Then, “My dear Watson, it is a long shot, as you said, but I begin to believe that you have had the most narrow of escapes. If, as I seriously believe, the Baron has in fact set up camp in your old house, you were very fortunate indeed, as your visit there was at a time when he was not in residence. Rather, while you were doing a favor for Dr. Withers and verifying that his deliveries had been made, the Baron was likely in Mayfair, possibly already torturing Sir Edward.”

“Holmes,” I said, “after I left the house, I walked back through Mayfair. I even considered adjusting my route so as to pass Sir Edward’s house – for no particular reason. It simply crossed my mind, though we had only been there a few hours earlier.”

“Thank heavens you did not, my friend,” said Holmes earnestly. “I hesitate to imagine what might have happened if your path had intersected Baron Meade’s while he was either approaching or departing.”

“But I might have managed to intercept him as he took the idol.”

“Unlikely. And the connection between the Baron and The Eye had not yet been made in your mind. The unlikeliness of seeing him there might have paralyzed you long enough for him to inflict an injury.”

We each sat and pondered this for a moment, before I said, “Miss Withers mentioned the ‘smell of death’ coming from within the house when she was there. You narrowed it down to ammonia. Is Baron Meade again up to his old tricks?”

“I’m certain of it,” he replied. “That is, if he is truly there at all. One of the wires that I just sent was to a supplier of coal oil and fertilizers, the same one that the Baron used before. We need to determine if the man has started to rebuild his stock, but this time in a location where he thinks he’ll be safe and undisturbed.”

“That smell, Holmes? Why then did I not notice it?”

“Undoubtedly because he had only begun to accumulate the materials needed for his next attempt at blowing something up.”

“Good Lord,” I said, another thing occurring to me. “Do you think that Miss Withers was in danger when she was there? Could the Baron have been in the house at that moment?”

“It’s very likely. He would do well to stay out of sight, and if he has established a hidey-hole there, then he was possibly on the premises during her visit. But it’s more likely that he was out and about, trying to establish a further contact with John Goins and his people. Miss Withers was probably in no danger even if he was hiding there – how would harming her, or even taking her hostage, further his cause at this point? No, if he is there, he’ll want to draw as little attention to the place as possible, and accosting her in any way would have been very counterproductive.”

We examined the implications of the idea that the Baron was hiding in Kensington. Eventually our ruminations were interrupted when the front bell rang forcefully, and Holmes nodded. “The police, I suspect. Another of the wires I sent was to request their presence, in order to catch them up.”

Holmes was correct. Lestrade and Gregson tramped wearily into the sitting room. When they came in and shut the door behind them, I asked, “Where is Lanner?”

“At the Yard,” said Gregson. He glanced toward the sideboard, and Holmes gestured for him to go ahead. The big blonde man stepped over and began to pour. “Doctor? Mr. Holmes?” We both nodded. “I know what Lestrade’s answer is.”

“After this day, of course you do,” said the smaller man, sinking into his accustomed place before the fire. Gregson, carefully maneuvering across the room with the four glasses in his thick hands, joined us.

Taking a sip, Lestrade licked his lips and said, “What’s this, then, Mr. Holmes, about Baron Meade being found at the Doctor’s old house? That was faster work than I would have thought, even for you.”

“I indicated that I may know,” corrected Holmes. He went on to explain his reasoning concerning the Baron’s possible awareness of the empty Kensington house.

Gregson nodded. “It could be. His other options are closed to him. This location presented itself, and he does have this new fascination with the Doctor.”

“Have you placed the house under observation?”

“It’s happening now,” said Lestrade. “With some of our best men.” My friend started to speak, but Lestrade raised a hand. “I know what you’re going say, Mr. Holmes. But these are good men, and they will not be seen.”

“You mistake me, Lestrade,” responded Holmes. “I was simply going to add that, if we are in agreement, then we too shall have to quickly get into position for whatever may come. I may be wrong. We may already be too late. But I would hate to be caught here in Baker Street, waiting to get word from one source or the other, and then arrive only to find that the bird has flown.” Turning to me, he said, “Watson? Is there any place nearby that we can use in order to watch for the Baron or a meeting with John Goins?”

I answered without hesitation. “Two doors to the east and across the street. The Parker house. Mrs. Parker was a good friend to Constance, and that house extends a bit closer to the street than the others, allowing a view from a side window.”

“Perfect,” said Holmes. “I suggest we make our way there, with haste and discretion. I’m taking a toothbrush and a fresh collar. I suggest you do the same. We may be there for a day or so.”

All of us were subdued as we crossed London. Holmes suggested that we leave the growler several blocks from my old address in Vicarage Gate, and that he and I approach the Parker residence cautiously from the rear. Lestrade and Gregson agreed, and we decided on a shadowed part of Uxbridge Road, not far from Notting Hill Gate. The inspectors settled into the corners of the cab to try and stay warm as best they could until one of us returned with the all clear.

I led Holmes south through a short maze of streets and mews while he kept an eye out, on the chance that we might accidentally cross Baron Meade’s path. I have no doubt that, if his attention wasn’t taken up with that task, Holmes could have used his encyclopedic knowledge of London to find a better path than I did.

“Why,” I asked, as we paused in a shadowed doorway before crossing an unavoidable open space, “do we not simply have the police raid the house, as took place days ago in the Brixton Road?”

“This has become about more than just retrieving the idol, or preventing a bombing.”

“It seems to me as if that’s what it has always been about. Why has it changed?”

“Because I have a different plan.”

I looked at him silently, and then repeated, “A different plan.”

“Yes. This cycle needs to be broken.” And in a few terse words, he explained how he proposed to do so.

“It’s a great risk, Holmes. Are you certain?”

“Absolutely. If Baron Meade is holed up here in Kensington with The Eye, then he likely won’t be going anywhere with it until such time as he tries to pass it to John Goins. We’ll make sure of that. But if we can also put a stop once and for all to Goins’s ongoing efforts to retrieve the object in question, and the threat that it represents, should we not try?” He tensed, and I sensed he was ready to move again. “I assure you that my plan has already been discussed and approved by those in the highest authority. All that was needed was to locate Baron Meade. If he is truly within your former house, then just a few revisions as to the details are necessary, and all should be concluded quite satisfactorily.”

And then he was walking quickly to the next corner, and I followed, with no chance to question him further.

We found our way to the rear door of our destination, where we were admitted by a rather confused cook. In moments, we were in the presence of the lady of the house, Florence Parker. I hadn’t spoken to her since Constance’s service, and then she had only been one of many faces who passed before my grief-stricken figure. Yet I knew that she had been of substantial comfort to my wife during the times of her illness, and that she had helped with some of the final arrangements.

She was a few years older than I, but still a handsome woman. She did well managing the house, which sheltered three rambunctious boys, Lyndon being the youngest. Her husband, Charles, was a civil engineer, associated with a firm nominally located in London, but carrying out most of their projects in the north, requiring him to travel a great deal of the time.

“John?” she said, glancing curiously between me and my companion. “What is the matter? Why did you arrive at the back door?”

“Let me explain,” said Holmes, whereupon I interrupted him, effecting introductions between them.

“We need your help,” I added, deferring back to my friend.

“Yes?” said Florence, waving us to chairs.

Holmes proceeded to lay out some of the isolated details of the past week, revealing enough of what was going on, without confusing the issue. He explained who the Baron was, his earlier attempt to gather explosive materials and the subsequent disruption of the plan, followed by the man’s irrational fixation upon me.

Without complicating things further by tossing in mentions of either the idol or the various opposing factions, Holmes related how we believed Baron Meade might be hiding within my old house. It is a credit to Florence that she accepted this statement without wasting time demanding proofs or explanations. “What can I do?” she asked.

“In a moment, we wish to speak to your son, Lyndon.”

“Lyndon? But why?”

“Based on something he told me the other day,” I said, “he may have seen this man.”

“Oh. Are we in danger?”

“Not immediately,” said Holmes. “But if Baron Meade is gathering more explosives, as I believe, then every house on this street is in peril.” He leaned forward, his gaze intent. “Have you seen any indication of a stranger at that house?”

“Yes,” she said. “I believe that I have. A few days ago, there was a man waiting on your front steps, Dr. Watson, when a wagon arrived. I happened to glance at the clock, and it was ten sharp. I assumed it was the new doctor, or perhaps someone who worked for him, moving more items into the house, as they did several days ago.”

“That delivery contained the new doctor’s possessions,” I explained. “I came by the day after that to make sure they had been settled properly. It was at that time that I talked to Lyndon.”

“And I recall that we waved to one another,” Florence added. “Then there were men there yesterday weren’t the same as the first group, and instead of delivering boxes and furniture, they brought barrels and large cartons.”

Holmes nodded. “I expect that would be components of Baron Meade’s explosives, as we thought.”

“Then there were a great many of them,” she said. “And there were other deliveries of the same sort throughout the morning.”

“How many?”

“Two others besides the first.”

“That you saw.”

“I saw them all, Mr. Holmes. They were acting suspicious, and I kept my eye on them.”

“Did they see you?”

“No. Our house has a side window which allows a view of the street in that direction. I watched from behind the curtains.”

“Excellent. May we see that room?”

“Certainly.” She led us through the house to a front parlor, where the small window that I had earlier described was located. Holmes peeped through the lace, and then moved aside for me to do the same. The street was empty, and my old house appeared to be closed up tight.

“Now may we speak to your son?”

Back in the front room, Lyndon stood before us, looking nervous. His two older brothers had attempted to join us, but were sent on their way, with instructions by their mother to remain upstairs. Having once been part of a pair of young brothers myself, I doubted that they would be satisfied to follow her instructions.

“Master Lyndon,” said Holmes to the wide-eyed boy, “what can you tell us about the man you spoke to the other day, the one asking about Dr. Watson.”

He looked at me, and then said, “He asked where you were, Doctor, and I said that you had gone to live somewhere else. Just as I told you.”

“Very good,” said Holmes. “And there was nothing else?”

“No…” he said, with a bit of uncertainty. Then, “He did ask if anyone else was living there in your house right now, since you had gone to Baker Street.”

“And what did you tell him?”

“Just that a new doctor was going to be moving in, but not yet.”

Holmes looked at me, and then back at Lyndon. “Describe this man.”

Lyndon closed his eyes for a moment, and then began to relate what he could remember. As a ten-year-old, he couldn’t be expected to notice certain things, but his general description of the man’s height, hair, and face all matched Baron Meade. Holmes’s further questioning brought out details about the man’s clothing corresponding with what the fugitive had been wearing since going into hiding. And finally, Lyndon was able to add other bits, such as the man’s musty odor, his obviously fragile emotional state, and his barely suppressed impatience.

“Thank you, Lyndon,” said Holmes. “You’ve been very helpful indeed.” With a grateful look toward Holmes, and a similar glance my way, the boy scampered out, leaving the door open. His mother smiled, hearing Lyndon’s footsteps joined by several others in the hallway as they all ascended the stairs. She rose and shut the door.

“Does that help, Mr. Holmes?”

“It does. The description matches the Baron, and confirms his interest in the place, as well as his knowledge that Dr. Watson is no longer there. Your observations of what is likely the same man supervising the delivery of suspicious materials makes it even more certain.” He thought for a moment, pulling at his lip, and then said, “I’m afraid that we need more of your help, madam. A great deal more.”

“What can I do?”

Holmes explained that not only would we need to set up camp within her house, along with a gathering of policemen, but that she and her family would need to be evacuated for their own safety. “The same will be done for all the nearby houses. The chance, though unlikely, that the explosives might be set off accidentally cannot be ignored.”

“How,” she asked, “will you be able to get all those people out without alerting this Baron?”

“Very carefully,” said Holmes, with a wry smile. Turning to me, he said, “While you help the Parkers get ready, I’ll go back and inform Lestrade and Gregson.” Then, with a nod to our hostess, he was gone.

It is a credit to Florence Parker, her sons, and her staff how quickly they efficiently prepared for departure, and by the time the inspectors had returned with Holmes, all were ready to leave. Lestrade awkwardly explained that they would take care of her house, to which she replied with a smile, “I have no doubts of that, sir.”

I turned to Lyndon, the youngest of the three brothers, but just then the man of the hour. Leaning down a bit, I said, “Thank you for your help. It was invaluable. Now take care of your mother.” I stuck out my hand, which he shook gravely.

“I will, Dr. Watson.”

Over the next few hours, the secret evacuation of the neighborhood took place with military precision. Watching from behind the lace curtains in the front room, I never saw anything suspicious in the empty street. Yet the police, as well as augmented forces from the Foreign Office, approached all the neighboring houses surreptitiously from behind, explained the situation, and spirited away both residents and staff through side streets and various mews to quite comfortable temporary lodgings, provided for them by a benevolent and grateful government. Men were placed out of sight at either end of the short thoroughfare to observe approaching visitors, of which there were thankfully none. The postman was replaced by a government agent, and he made his rounds throughout the day without giving anything away. By late afternoon, all the surrounding houses on that street and the one behind were completely empty, except for the Parker house, and possibly the one that had formerly been my own. For despite all of this effort, it was still uncertain as to whether the man responsible for all of this was even really there.

Holmes had not been idle. After thoroughly briefing the inspectors, he had departed to obtain a certain necessary item from Baker Street. Then he had proceeded to visit his contacts within the Foreign Office, as well as to confer with both Daniel and Dr. Withers. I had half-heartedly offered to slip away to meet with the doctor, in order to explain exactly what was occurring within and around his newly purchased property, but Holmes decided it would be better if he carried out that function, and I agreed with no little relief.

Holmes returned as the sun was setting, relating to me the substance of that meeting. “A very solid man,” said Holmes. “Very likeable indeed. He welcomed me graciously, although his daughter did not seem quite so glad to see me, and she quickly left the room.”

“You did send her packing quite abruptly this morning,” I said.

“She has had hours to recover,” he replied with a twinkle in his eye. “It reveals something dark in her character that she is willing to hold a grudge.”

I waved that away. “What are Dr. Withers’ thoughts on these doings?”

“He was somewhat skeptical, but willing in the end to assume that I might know of what I spoke. He is rightly concerned that we prevent his new investment from detonating, and I assured him that we will do our best. Like you, he wondered why we don’t simply raid the place and be done with it. I left him with the impression that doing so is our plan.”

“As there was no need to explain what you’re really intending to accomplish with your rather more complicated scheme.”

“Precisely.”

“And Daniel? Did he contribute any facts or opinions?”

“Simply that there appears to be no sign of increased activity within John Goins’s camp, as might be expected. They do not seem to have realized yet that one of their own, Abraham, has been arrested.”

“So now we wait.”

“Not exactly. When it is fully dark, I shall reconnoiter.”

And he did. No one was more capable than he for what he proposed, and there was no argument from Lestrade or Gregson, or Lanner either, who had joined us late in the afternoon.

Before he slipped out, Holmes, already in dark clothing, covered his face in lampblack. Satisfied that he would be invisible, he paused in front of me, and I fished in my pocket for the key to the house, given to me the other day by Dr. Withers when he wanted me to check on his deliveries. “I may need it,” he said

“Don’t take any chances.”

“Of course not.” And then, after picking up the heavy dark bag that he had brought back with him from Baker Street, he was gone.

The various men hidden in the Parker house waited in silence. At least we didn’t have to sit in the dark. Although the shades were all drawn, Holmes had insisted that lights be lit, both in that house and the others nearby, to give the impression that life continued as normal up and down the street. Constables made trips to the neighboring structures to do so, finding their way in by rear entrances, but otherwise the street was kept clear. However, there were many men in hiding in all directions, ready to take notice if a visitor arrived for Baron Meade, or conversely if our prey decided to leave.

Holmes was barely gone fifteen minutes before returning. In fact, he was amongst us before we even knew he was back, so silent was his arrival. Gregson smiled, and Lestrade shook his head, while Lanner seemed somehow offended that he had been caught unaware.

“He is there,” said Holmes, before we could ask. “I observed him by looking through the dining room window, which has been blocked, but not successfully.” He set down the dark bag that he had taken with him, now noticeably lighter, and began to wipe the lampblack from his face with a handkerchief. “He is sitting alone, staring straight ahead at nothing.”

“Did you find the idol?” asked Lestrade.

Holmes nodded. “It was standing on a table, down in the cellar.”

“Did you also see that through a window?”

“No, I discovered it when I entered the building.”

The inspectors looked mildly surprised, although I had known that this was his intent.

“Holmes,” I said, “the key that I gave you only works for the main doors. How did you get into the cellar?”

“I shinned in through the coal chute.”

“And you weren’t worried that Baron Meade might detect your presence? Going into the house like that?” asked Lanner. Holmes simply gave him a look of disdain.

Lestrade rubbed his chin. “So you didn’t bring it back with you, then? Even though you were right there?”

“That’s right. I had it in my hand – ”

“What?” exclaimed Lanner.

“ – and before I escaped back through the coal chute, I left it where it can be found when we return.”

“And the explosives?” queried Gregson. “If you saw The Eye, I’m betting you found them too.”

“They are also in the cellar, which is why I wanted to get in there as well. I knew they would be, since Miss Withers didn’t actually see them, but she smelled them. The raw smell of ammonia coming from his cache is almost overpowering. I don’t know how he can stand to be in the building. It’s no wonder that Miss Withers noticed it so strongly when she visited this morning.”

“I still don’t understand,” said Lanner. “If we know he’s there, why don’t we just go in and get him? Or lure him out, so he can’t set off the explosives.”

Lestrade had a vexed look upon his pinched features. “We’ve told you, there’s more to this now than just securing the idol. We’re going to try to nip this weed once and for all.”

“But… what about this, then? Why couldn’t we go ahead and arrest the Baron, and then let someone else take his place? Mr. Holmes could do it! With one of his disguises.”

“We don’t know enough,” answered Holmes. “What previous messages have passed between John Goins and Baron Meade – if any? We might say or do something that would spoil everything. We have to let them meet for the transfer of the statue.”

“What now, then?” I said. “It seems as if both sides are simply waiting. We can’t hide here forever, while they decide whether to trust one another.”

“We must somehow take control of events, but we cannot rush things,” said the consulting detective. “An opportunity will present itself. We must be patient.”

And so we were. Nothing happened for the rest of that night, and morning found all of us gathering back in the front room, having slept to better or worse degrees throughout the house. Holmes, I knew, had been the exception to that, smoking long into the night as he considered the different options, variations, and risks within his plan.

We had all made do with a cold breakfast when word came that a telegram had been intercepted, intended for my former address, no name given. As all communications that might be relevant were being monitored, the document was soon within our hands: Agreed. Bring object to Giles Street 8pm tonight. JG

“No way to track back and see who handed the message in at the other end,” said Lestrade.

“Or to find out exactly where in Giles Street that Baron Meade is supposed to go,” added Gregson.

“Hmm,” Holmes muttered. “They must have discussed it previously. Giles Street is a short passage, only a few blocks from Daniel’s hide-out in Bere Street.”

“Is that surprising, Holmes?” I asked. “They’ve been in an uneasy truce for over ten years. Having nearby quarters is not so unusual in that rat’s nest.”

“True, Watson. Just an interesting association.”

“Is this what you were waiting for, then?” Lestrade questioned.

“I believe it will do to let us take the reins. We just need to alter the message a bit and get the revision into the Baron’s hands, and then do the same with his reply when it’s sent.”

And thus it was done. A new message for Baron Meade was fixed up at the local telegraph office, saying instead: Agreed. Will arrive 8pm tonight your location to retrieve the object. JG

One of Holmes’s agents was carefully briefed, and sent on by a roundabout way to approach from the front and then deliver it into the Baron’s hands. In moments, he had gone and returned to rejoin us, by way of the back door.

“Any problems, Walters?” asked Holmes.

“Not a bit of it, sir. He took the message like he’d been expecting it. He didn’t like what he read, but he wrote out a reply and sent it with me.” He handed Holmes a form, which we crowded to see: Why change of plan? Will expect you 8pm. It was addressed to No. 6, Giles Street.

“So we now send John Goins a message, telling him to be in this street tonight at the appointed time, and hopefully they’ll both trust one another just enough to agree without sending more messages, and let matters take their natural course.”

“I only hope it goes that easily,” murmured Lestrade.

The reply was prepared and sent on to Limehouse. We waited, and before long, notification that another telegram for Baron Meade was intercepted, simply saying: Agreed. JG. It was decided that this one needed no revision, and was delivered to Baron Meade post-haste by a disguised Walters without further delay. When reporting back to us, Walters said, “Same as before. I knocked, and after a few minutes he came to the door. He looks to be in terrible shape, Mr. Holmes. His clothes are wrinkled, he hasn’t shaved, and if you hadn’t warned me about that terrible smell in the house, I might have thought that it was coming from him. It fair rolls out the door.”

“But he didn’t seem suspicious?”

“Not at all.”

“Excellent. Satisfactory.”

“So it’s to be tonight, then?” prompted Gregson.

“Yes, and high time.”

Chapter XXIV: The Curtain Rises

Darkness had well fallen as the appointed hour approached. Throughout the day, there had been no other signs of activity at my former home. I had taken more than my share of the watches from the front parlor window, with its view of the steps leading to my old front door. I had never seen the place from this perspective before, and I wondered at how viewing something by moving off to the side can make it look completely foreign. The more I studied the house, the more it seemed as if it were a place that I had never ever been.

Holmes often said that circumstantial evidence might look a certain absolute way when viewed from the front, with only one absolute interpretation, but simply shifting one’s viewpoint would reveal it in a completely new manner. I was seeing the same thing as I watched that building. While I would always have my memories there, all from the inside looking out, I was now a step removed, in a different direction, and encapsulating the experience in a covering of scar tissue, even as I was realizing a bit more than I had at any time up to that moment that I would truly be able to move on.

Holmes was in and out, tightening his plans, confirming facts. He left at one point, bringing back Daniel, as well as Luke and Benjamin. My initial reaction was to chastise Holmes for involving the boys in what could be something dangerous, but they had already been a part of it for quite a while, and Holmes himself was no stranger to using lads of similar ages for equivalent purposes.

“I found and spoke with the delivery men that were seen by Mrs. Parker,” said Holmes. “Baron Meade is stubbornly consistent. Coal oil, fertilizers, and metallic machine parts, just as before.”

“So delivering the idol, with the hell that it might unleash, isn’t enough,” I said. “He still wants to blow something up.” I waved my hand. “A substantial part of Kensington?”

“No. These same men were hired to return, two nights from now, to move the materials elsewhere, although they weren’t told where.”

“And they weren’t suspicious about the nature of these deliveries, or the location?”

“It was just another job for them, probably no more unusual or eccentric than others that they have had. And bear in mind that, besides not knowing what the combination of these materials would accomplish if detonated, they were all delivered by separate crews from different vendors. The coal oil men had no knowledge of the other deliveries, and so on.”

“Well, I suppose it’s a comfort that this plan, like the last one, will fail before it even begins.”

“True. Baron Meade is already finished – he just doesn’t know it yet.” And then he gave that peculiar silent laugh of his that I have seen occasionally, always signifying that an evil day was coming for some foul miscreant.

That was one of the very few conversations that I had with Holmes, or anyone really, on that day. My companions mostly left me to myself during those introspective hours. I was vaguely aware of whispers passing at times in the hallway outside the front parlor where I kept my vigil. There seemed to be a constant tension, as would be expected when a group of men are crowded together in such a situation, waiting for a trap to be sprung, but forced to while away the long hours until something happens, and aware that some unexpected factor might still make itself known at any time and spoil everything.

And yet, the hours finally crept by, and the sun started to drop in the southwest. The window which gave the best view upon the Baron’s bolt hole faced roughly that way, and for a while there was nothing to be seen in that direction but the blinding sunset. I left the room then, and no one replaced me, as it was thought that somehow, with that side of the Parker house so illuminated, there might be the slightest chance that Baron Meade could see someone there, watching.

There were still men stationed in hiding at the different approaches to the neighborhood, and Holmes had arranged for his Irregulars, along with Daniel’s two remaining assistants, to be placed with them, in order to act as runners – the idea being that, when John Goins and his men arrived, no matter from which direction, we would be notified. And that was what happened.

A few minutes before eight, when the winter sun had finally left the sky completely, one of the younger Irregulars, Fred Peake, appeared among us to say that a carriage had parked around the corner where Vicarage Gate curved to the north, and two men had exited. By the time Fred had left, they were simply standing there beside the carriage, waiting. Before that information could be fully assimilated, another Irregular, young Levi, came in as well, reporting that five other men had appeared from different directions out of the shadows, taking stations up and down the street. Luckily our men were hidden even better, thanks to Holmes’s excellent planning. In another life, I have no doubt he would have been an excellent military campaigner and tactician.

Just before the hour of eight, Holmes, Daniel, and I slipped out the back and around the house toward the street, where we remained hidden, waiting for John Goins to make his approach. It wasn’t exactly a trap, at least not for him, as it was part of Holmes’s carefully crafted plan that Goins be allowed to go free in the end. But Baron Meade would not escape from us, one way or the other.

We didn’t have long to wait. From down the street, we saw two men stealthily approach, no doubt those who had first arrived in the carriage. I wondered who the second man with Goins might be, but I wasn’t surprised that he would bring someone, if only to function as a bodyguard. He seemingly and understandably had trouble believing the Baron’s motives, offering to simply give the idol, sought by him for so many years, away free and clear with no strings. No doubt in their previous communications, those to which we had no access, Baron Meade had intimated to some greater or lesser degree why he wished to provide the object to one who would use it to harm England, but someone of Goins’s background would not take that at face value, even with Micah’s counsel, and could likely only believe the Baron’s motives when he truly had the idol in his hands.

The two men mounted the short steps and rang the front bell. Almost immediately, it was opened, and they stepped inside.

“The curtain rises,” whispered Holmes, and we began to move, keeping to the shadows as we approached my former front door.

Not wanting to alert any of Goins’s men in the street, those that were doubtless watching to detect or prevent a trap, we were careful not to show ourselves. Luckily, the night was dark with building clouds, and Holmes and I were experienced at this sort of hunting. Daniel seemed a little more awkward, but did nothing to give away the game. We reached our goal without any indication from the surrounding street that we had been seen, and even as we took to the steps, Holmes was pulling my old key from his pocket while shifting his stick to the other hand. He slid the key into the door, which had in fact been locked by the Baron after the entry of his visitors. Turning the works silently, he eased the door open, and we crept inside.

I fished my gun out of my coat pocket. The smell of ammonia was almost overpowering, making my eyes water, and giving me the barely controlled urge to cough. Holmes gently closed the door behind us, cutting off the last of the fresh air. He didn’t lock it, and then he paused beside us as we each listened to the sound of voices coming from the room on our immediate right – my old consulting room.

“What is so hard to understand?” asked someone in a low and cultured tone. I knew that it was Baron Meade, but it surprised me, as this was the first time that I had heard him speak when he wasn’t venting anger. “I don’t require any payment at all. It is a gift. You could have had it yesterday, or the day before, if only you weren’t so suspicious.”

“You must admit,” said a second voice, with a slight cough, as the fumes trapped inside the house apparently affected him, “that what you offer is… surprising. I have never heard of you, and to then receive word that you have managed to obtain that which I have sought for so many years, having been forced to remain in this terrible country while hoping for some sort of mistake on the part of my enemies that would give me this chance.”

His voice was also low and deep, but with a sly and sibilant pulse winding through it, like the sound of a serpent’s scales rasping as it pushes its way through dead leaves. It held intelligence and bitterness and contempt all at once, and I knew that this must be John Goins.

“The other day was like all the rest that we’ve spent here in this prison,” Goins continued. “Just another of many in this land of cold and rain and fog, where you consider it to be excessively hot when the temperature climbs to something barely tolerable. I foresaw no immediate cessation of our ongoing exile, when suddenly I received a note, explaining that not only is the object of my quest is now in the hands of an Englishman, rather than locked and buried in the British Museum, but that you wish to give it to me without condition. How could I not be suspicious of a trap?”

“But there is a condition,” replied Baron Meade. “I’ve made that clear. You must take it to those who will use it to ignite the fuse against this country.”

“Of course I will take it. But why do you hate your own land so much? I find it hard to trust someone who could be such a traitor. I could much better understand if someone like you had found yourself in possession of the idol and were willing to sell it to the highest bidder.”

“All that you need to know is that this country needs to be punished for what it has become, and for what it allows to happen to the poor souls who believed in it, and served it, and are then crushed underfoot as if they were valueless insects.”

“Life is cheap all over. You still haven’t convinced me, Englishman.”

“What else is there to say? There is no trap. Here is The Eye. Take it!”

There was the sound of movement, and then the reptilian voice gave a satisfied and surprised “Ah!” sending a chill up my spine. I looked to Daniel, standing beside us in the dark, and intentionally ignorant of the greater part of Holmes’s plan, wherein the idol must be given to Goins, or at least be seen by him. Our companion appeared stricken at the thought of his old enemy taking possession of that which his family had guarded for so long. Holmes noticed Daniel’s expression as well, and nodded, as if to indicate that everything was still well under control.

“I would have paid you a fortune to take and use it,” continued the Baron, “if I still had access to my funds. Unfortunately, I am now considered a criminal by these people, and only have the limited money that I’d already hidden elsewhere, and that must be used for other important work – cleansing work – here in England.”

There was a silence for a long minute, and I strained to determine if Goins and his unknown companion, now having the object of their quest, would simply turn and leave. But in a moment, the sibilant voice resumed.

“Strange,” he said. “This is something that has been a legend for generations, and the purpose of my own life for so many years, and yet I only saw it once before, when I took it from the Museum, long ago. To have it here, now, seems almost – anticlimactic.”

“When you return with it,” said Baron Meade, “you will see its importance. You will see when you reveal it, and set in motion the war that the leaders of this country so fear. And I will be working from this end to destroy their complacency, while you will attack from the other side. It will be glorious!”

“The other side?” said Goins, with a sneer. “And what gave you the idea that there will be another side to your little war?”

The resulting lack of response from Baron Meade was overwhelming for just a few stretched seconds, and I could hear Daniel beside me as he swallowed. Then, the Baron said, “That is what you have wanted. That is what I was told that you wanted when I obtained the idol. To whip up a burgeoning army to destroy the British. That is what I was told. It is why the Government has been so afraid for so long that it might fall into your hands.”

Goins laughed. Chills ran up and down my spine. “Why should I want to start a war? How would that benefit me? To have destruction burn across the world, destroying it for the sake of saving it? No, my naïve but generous new friend, my plan is a bit more conservative that. I have no interest in saving anything. Maybe I once did. But now I am older. I have realized that there is no need to use the idol for cleansing. I’m much more interested in what I can do for me.”

“But,” said a new voice, much rougher in tone, but with a wounded sound, as if a child had been told that there is no Father Christmas, “that is why we are here: To take The Eye of Heka home, and use it to free our people from the foreign filth!”

Daniel, having been concentrating on the conversation while staring intently at the floor, looked up with a start. Holmes noticed it as well. Then, before we could stop him, Daniel had charged forward toward the sound of his brother Micah’s voice in the next room. This was not part of the plan. Holmes and I went after him.

Micah was saying, almost plaintively as we entered, “You must use The Eye’s power!” Then our arrival was realized. Daniel stopped awkwardly in front of his brother, standing as he was to our right in the group of three. Holmes and I placed ourselves before them, guns drawn. At our far left was Baron Meade, looking even more disheveled than when I had seen him last, running down the Strand after his failed attempt to kill me. The surprise on his face was only matched by that on the tall man in the center of the group, clutching the idol to his chest with both long bony hands.

He was extremely thin. His bald head was oddly shaped, with protruding knobs of bone in unexpected places. His supra-orbital ridges were greatly pronounced, leaving his strangely light eyes, especially in that dim room that was lit only by one lantern on a table behind the Baron, glowing with sinister light. His thin dark lips, in an expression of shock as we ran in, pulled back in a snarl over his twisted teeth – he clearly recognized both Daniel and my friend. I could see that his lower jaw jutted out to a point in front of his long flat nose. The lower mandible was atypically narrow from side to side, the sides of the U-shaped bone running too close together, causing each side of the arc of his lower teeth to be especially tapered, leaving very little room in between for his tongue. Perhaps this explained his hissing manner of speech, which was much more apparent to us, here in front of him, as an impediment. He glared at the Baron, saying, “It was a trap, then!”

Baron Meade shook his head, confused. “No. No, it wasn’t. I didn’t know… I don’t know how they found me…” His face hardened from uncertainty to rage.

Daniel spoke, his voice accusatory. “Here, then, is my traitorous brother! Here I’ve found you. Are you satisfied? You, who betrayed your family, who abandoned your birthright, to stand beside the man who killed your own brother, and this other who has been our enemy for so long. And now you don’t even have that to grasp any longer. This man for whom you abandoned everything has no plans to liberate our lands with the dark magic that you crave. He is simply a greedy villain, nothing more than a common criminal, intending to fool and control the gullible while he lines his own pockets!”

At first, Micah had seemed to collapse a little with each of Daniel’s bitter words, turning his head from side to side as though he was being repeatedly slapped. But then, his expression darkened as he found his resolve, his one eye tightening until it was barely a slit, while his lips pulled back to reveal his clenched teeth. Then, as if he were himself an explosive reaction that had been held and compressed in a vessel for just that much too long, he erupted.

Without warning, he turned to Goins, standing at his right, and before the tall man could react, Micah had wrested the idol from his grasp. He lifted it above his head, holding it so tightly in his shaking hands that his knuckles turned to ivory. By chance, he had taken it in such a way that the empty and ancient countenance on the thing was facing forward, looking down at Holmes, Daniel, and me. Daniel took a step back, an almost fearful look on his face, in spite of his earlier statements that he did not believe its power.

A scream tore from Micah’s throat as he shook the carving toward the sky. He didn’t know how to control it – did not know how to activate it. But he was awash in his rage, and he shrieked some unknown word that made Goins beside him flinch and take a cringing step away.

We all looked at the stone object, raised before us, dark except for the reflected lantern light. And then – nothing happened. There was no fire from above, no explosions or waves of force, or shaking of the earth to knock us from our feet and crack the walls and foundations of the house. The empty expression of the thing never varied in the least, and the jewel in the middle of the forehead remained cold and dark and dead.

Micah waited, and then, when he realized the emptiness of his gesture, he screamed and shook the thing again and again, with the same result. Goins, who had been bent into something of a fearful crouch, stood back up with a look of surprise. Daniel, on the other hand, slowly smiled, as if his long belief that the thing was nothing more than a stone had finally been proven true.

“False,” he said, taking a step toward his brother. “False. A lie. You destroyed yourself for nothing!” And he made as if to reach and take hold of the idol, still held above Micah’s head.

Micah, who had been looking up as if still expecting something to happen, saw the motion and reacted without apparent thought. With no sound or warning at all, he whipped both arms down, bringing the stone carving onto the center of Daniel’s unprotected head with a terrifying and terrible wet crack.

My gun, which had never left my grip, seemed to fire on its own. It was far too late to save Daniel, and Micah, already looking in horror at what he had done, was certainly no threat, but my reflexes disobeyed me, and I put a bullet into his shoulder, spinning him around before he collapsed into the puddle of blood already pooling around his fallen brother’s crushed skull, his own flowing to join it.

Goins screamed a wordless cry. I looked away from the men on the floor to see him with bared teeth, hissing, “Sherlock Holmes! For this you will die!” And he made a dive for the idol, still buried in dead Daniel’s head. I was closer, hesitant to shoot yet again while knowing that we wanted him alive. I tried to kick out at him but missed. He wrenched the carved stone loose, and then rolled back into an awkward sitting position, pushing himself away from us with his legs in a desperate crab-like crawl. Reaching the wall behind him, he pushed himself up, keeping an eye fixed upon my gun while beginning to smile. “The fool did not know how to use it,” he explained, his breath coming in wheezes. “He was nothing but a foolish amateur. The Eye of Heka must be wielded by one who knows, one who believes!”

Then he lifted it before his face, not quite so high as Micah had done, as if he were trying to see through it, and gave it a great shake. There was no need to cry special words to try to activate it. No need, because – whatever Goins thought that he was doing – nothing whatsoever happened for him as well.

He tried again, giving another wave of the inert block, this time with a frustrated whimper, and then looked up for just an instant like an old man, his odd face turning gray while he slumped against the wall, realizing his purpose had failed. In that moment, Holmes took two decisive steps forward, swinging his weighted stick as he did so and bringing it down precisely upon the knotted skull. With a crack, the stick shattered and Goins was instantly unconscious, dropping to the floor like a sack of grain, the idol rolling out of his limp hands. Holmes kicked it away from him, where it came to rest against the two fallen brothers.

Holmes stepped toward Goins. I glanced to the side and thought that just perhaps I saw the movement of labored breathing in Micah’s chest. I squatted to check on him, and it was then that Holmes cried, with a note of panic in his voice, “Watson!”

I rounded to see that Baron Meade, momentarily ignored, had grabbed the lantern, the only light in the room, and was already at the door, running toward the back of the house, skidding as he changed direction in the hallway. Holmes was following, and I rose to join him. I knew where the Baron was headed.

By the time I reached the hall, the Baron was already gone, and Holmes was turning to barrel down the stairs to the cellar. I could see the light bobbing as the lantern jerked up and down with the Baron’s movements. I wished that I had asked Holmes where the explosives were placed in the cellar in relation to the stairs, in order to know how much distance the Baron had to cover before he and the lantern reached the barrels of fuel. In seconds, the answer to that question wouldn’t matter.

I regretted the impending deaths of the policemen outside, told to wait for our signal that hadn’t come. I knew with a sinking feeling that they had probably heard my gunshot, and would just be entering the house when the explosion occurred. I could only take comfort in the fact that the families in the immediate vicinity had been evacuated and would survive, even though their dwellings and possessions would soon be destroyed. But what about those still in the other neighboring streets, I wondered, those who had not been moved? The fire following this explosion – and who knew how big it might be? – would immediately spread. Surely other innocents would be lost as well.

But at least, one way or another, the idol would be destroyed, for I could not imagine that it would survive the explosion. It might be worth it if the thing became part of the debris following the destruction, prevented from continuing its destiny of heartache and grief.

Even as these thoughts were crossing my mind, my body had continued to hurl itself down the steps. Upon reaching the uneven cement floor, I looked madly back and forth before realizing that the light was coming from my right. That was the section partitioned off for coal, where Holmes had entered last night through the chute. I thought of his stealthy mission then, and what he had discovered, and how it did not matter now, with Baron Meade seconds away from setting off his conflagration.

The lantern light waved and bobbed as I found them, struggling. The Baron was attempting to get closer to the barrels of coal oil, whereupon he would toss the lantern in. In less time than could be comprehended, the highly flammable fuel would be set ablaze, and with that much of it radiating out in an explosion, it would set off the nitrogen compounds in a sympathetic detonation. The resulting force would expand outward faster than the human mind could follow, pushing the bits of metal with it, destroying the house around us, and also the others.

But it hadn’t happened yet. Holmes, the strongest man that I have ever known, for all of his wiry frame, had so far prevented Baron Meade from releasing his lantern. They were locked together, one of Holmes’s hands gripping the Baron’s arm like an iron band, while the other twisted in the madman’s coat, keeping him from approaching the fuel or swinging the lantern. But even as Holmes matched strength against strength, the sheer maniacal power of his opponent was slowly overcoming him. In the space of the heartbeat or two that passed after I raced into their presence, Holmes was forced back a step towards the pile of coal. And when he reached it, as he could not see behind him, his foot rolled on several of the loose pieces and he began to fall.

With a wordless howl, our foe wrenched himself free then, and started to turn toward the fuel barrels. I screamed at him to stop, my voice in that low-ceilinged cellar sounding muffled in my own ears compared with the pounding drum of my pulse, and he paused, just for that instant, to look over at me with an expression of dawning realization, and then complete hatred. It was when he started to laugh, as he realized that I would die here with him, that he cocked back his arm with deliberation to hurl the lantern, and so I pulled the trigger of my gun one more time, avoiding the ambiguity of firing into the man’s body, so charged with adrenaline that he might not be stopped, even if I squarely hit his heart, and instead aiming with long practiced precision between his tormented eyes.

He spasmodically kept hold of the lantern, even as he sank to the ground. I hadn’t the time to consider that he might have simply dropped it to shatter on the floor, throwing blazing kerosene in every direction, onto both the coal where Holmes was picking himself up, and into the explosive barrels. Somehow, of all the possibilities that could have gone wrong, in this one instance things worked out for the best.

But not for Baron Meade, who died there, his soul full of overwhelming malignant hate in the instant that he passed beyond. Would he be met by his wife and son – the lad he had sought to avenge? Would he be forgiven, and his terrible pain taken into account? He had, after all, been prevented each time from carrying out his greater plan. But he had tried, over and over again, in a misguided attempt to punish a whole nation for an event whose blame could not be accurately fixed. And he had murdered gentle Andrew.

And what about blame for me? Had I had a choice? Was there anything that I could have done, other than to kill him, there at the last? I like to think that I did what had to be done in the split second when given the opportunity, but I still recall to this day, so many years later, how I felt when pulling the trigger, at the same time purging the very last of my anger and despair from those past weeks. But not my grief. I shed one particular darkness, but the rest of the pain would stay with me for quite a while longer. I could only hope that my poor Constance, who had herself died in a bed two floors above where I then stood over the body of my latest victim, could see fit to understand and forgive me.

Chapter XXV: Ancient God

I slowly became aware that Holmes had joined me. He didn’t say anything. We simply stood there, looking at the dead man while our breathing slowed. Then the sound of many heavy footsteps on the floor above became obvious. Holmes looked over at me. “We still have work to do.” I nodded.

We were on our way back upstairs, Holmes having retrieved an item propped against a side wall, as Lestrade began to call, “Mr. Holmes! Dr. Watson!”

We met them in the hall, the inspectors and a bevy of constables who were fanning out in all directions. Two went to the cellar, where Baron Meade was waiting for his official discovery. “We ran when we heard the shots. You never gave your signal,” said Lestrade, while Gregson moved up behind him. I felt comforted knowing they were there, even after the immediate danger had passed. The best of the Yarders, Holmes often called them, and he was right.

Holmes pulled a police whistle from his pocket with a rueful smile. “We never had time,” he answered. “Not long after we entered, Daniel heard his brother speaking and charged in, setting things in motion.”

“His brother?” asked Lanner.

“No matter,” said Gregson. “We were here quickly, regardless.”

“Quickly?” I said. “It feels as if an hour has passed.”

“No, Doctor. It has only been about ten minutes since you both slipped out of the Parker house.”

I nodded. “I’ve felt the same thing in battle, the same skewed passage of time. It distorts itself.”

A constable leaned out of the consulting room. “Two of them are still alive in here.”

“Two?” I said. “Then that means…”

Realizing that I had forgotten the indications that Micah might not have died – that I might not have killed him after all – I rushed into that room where I had spent so much time over the last year, building up a business before suddenly deciding never to return. I had been unable to bear the idea of treating patients there while knowing Constance was gone from the rest of the house. And yet, here I was, kneeling over a wounded man who had been rolled back from his brother’s dead body.

I had feared that I might have killed him, and as I had fired at Baron Meade downstairs, I had believed that I would have two souls on my conscience this night. I was more thankful than I could express that one of them would live after all. He had my bullet in his shoulder, in a spot not very different from where Dr. Withers, and myself for that matter, had once been injured. But he was strong, and the injury was not serious.

As I finished applying pressure to the wound, Micah started to regain consciousness. Behind me, Holmes said, “Watson.”

I stood and turned, seeing that John Goins was propping himself up, while Holmes was kneeling and pressing his own handkerchief against the blood flowing from the man’s scalp wound. When Goins was alert enough to snarl and take the cloth and apply pressure on his own, Holmes stood, making sure that constables were watching both of the injured men, and gestured toward the hallway. Lestrade, Gregson, Lanner, and I joined him.

He explained to them what had happened after we entered the house. The conversation, Daniel’s interruption, and Micah’s attempt to use the idol. His murder of his brother, Goins’s actions, and then the Baron’s desperate attempt to set off the explosives and how he was stopped. “For the plan to work, we will have to let them all go. Including Micah.”

“But he killed his own brother!” said Lanner. “We can charge him with that, at least.”

“We’ve discussed this already,” said Gregson wearily. “We didn’t know then that he would kill someone, but for this to work, they all have to go back. We didn’t lure them in and go through all of this mummery to start arresting them now and then keep them in an English prison.”

“They all have to return home and tell what happens here,” Holmes added in a low voice. “Certainly Micah committed murder, but punishing him will be nothing compared to what we will gain by releasing him. And as you know, Lanner, I have been given the authority to speak for the Government in this problem.”

Lanner looked as if he wanted to say something else, but stopped himself. “Lestrade,” Holmes continued, “have all the other men that arrived with Goins been rounded up?”

“They have. As soon as you all went inside, we brought them in.”

“And is that every one of them?”

“It is. We compared the names with the list that we have from Abraham, the one who was arrested. And he’s been brought here as well.”

“Excellent. Gather them outside for the performance, and we will be with you momentarily.” He started to turn, and then added, “And don’t forget to bring Luke and Benjamin. They must be told about Daniel’s death, and how it happened – but I will do it.”

“Very good, Mr. Holmes.”

I went with him back into the consulting room, where he gestured toward the prisoners. “Get them up.”

I started to protest that Micah’s wound might begin to bleed again if he were forced to participate in what Holmes had planned, but I bit my tongue. This had gone too far to stop now, and the man had brought it upon himself.

Goins was jerked to his feet by his free arm, the other still holding the sodden handkerchief to his unusual skull. He glared at Holmes with something beyond hate, but it seemed to wash off my friend unnoticed while he stepped past the wounded men and leaned down, grabbing and lifting with one hand the idol resting against Daniel’s corpse. His other hand still held the heavy object that he had retrieved before we ascended from the cellar.

“No, you can’t – ” hissed Goins as he started to comprehend, but a shake of his arm stopped him.

“Outside,” Holmes said to the constables.

We followed them out. Both of the wounded men were led to the center of the empty street, where they were placed with the other conspirators that had arrived with them not that long ago. The houses surrounding us were all empty, their families removed for their own safety, and the windows, most dark but some lit to give the impression of occupancy, all stared down on our strange little drama.

By the foot of the steps were the two boys, Daniel’s nephews, along with a constable. I saw that it was the same solid man who had introduced us to Benjamin the other day in Brunswick Place. His hands were resting paternally on both boys’ shoulders.

Holmes briefly retold what had happened inside. The two lads, far older in experience than their actual years, took the news of the death of Daniel at Micah’s hands in stoic silence. One way or the other, they had tragically lost all of them: Daniel, Andrew, and Micah, the only adult members of their band.

“In spite of his crime,” Holmes said, “we are releasing Micah, as soon as he has had medical attention. Will you go with him?”

Both nodded, and Benjamin spoke. “We must see to the burial of our Uncle Daniel, in the same cemetery where Andrew was placed the other day. Then Micah will take us home. It is his duty. He knows this. After that, his fate will be up to our family.”

I glanced over at Micah, surrounded by constables. One of them was helping Micah to stand, but the man seemed alert, with a haunted expression on his face.

Holmes nodded and dismissed the boys with his thanks. They were led into the street, near – but not part of – the group of prisoners.

Holmes, still carrying the idol in his right hand and the tool he had brought from the cellar in his left, took a deep breath and walked to an open space on the pavement in front of the gathering. The streetlights illuminated him as if he were on a stage. Clearing his throat, he raised the malign effigy, still covered in Daniel’s blood and gore, high above his head and spoke in a commanding tone.

“The Eye of Heka. You’ve all been looking for it, one way or the other, for a long time. Here it is!”

Some directed their gazes toward it, straining to get a good look in the dim light, a combination of streetlights and what spilled from the house behind Holmes, as well as that coming from those neighboring windows that happened to be illuminated. The stone in his hand was dark, and Holmes rotated to display it from several angles.

While many of the men were looking up, others were looking with curiosity and growing consternation at the object held in Holmes’s other hand – a heavy hammer, fastened to the end of a long oak handle. It had once been mine, left behind when I walked away from the house. Goins had seen it inside, and knew what the detective intended.

“This idol has been spoken of in legend for generations. It has been guarded by one group, to prevent its supposed evil from being released back into the world by another. It was buried and hidden to protect those who would try to use it from themselves.” He paused and looked pointedly at Goins, who grimaced with rage. Micah watched impassively, while the other men and boys began to realize with certainty what was going to happen.

Holmes bent, setting the idol on the ground in front of him, laying it on its side, as if it were asleep or dead. “After it was brought here a decade ago, it was possessed by a man who gave it the credit for his successes. He was a fool. He was being lied to by another who made him believe in its false magic. Owning it obsessed him. It has destroyed him. But he wasn’t the only one. You, John Goins – ” And here Holmes raised the long hammer and pointed toward the primary prisoner. “ – followed it here and waited for years, wasting a part of your life, trying to obtain it in order to selfishly advance your own wealth and power. Without ever having it in your possession, except for the few hours when you originally stole it, you have allowed it to control you, a loss which you will never get back.” At this, Goins growled in rage. The constable beside him shook his arm.

“And on the other side,” said Holmes, turning toward the two boys, “was the noble family that guarded the thing, also spending years of cumulative service. And for what? An empty satisfaction? Pride? In the end, it comes to this. I will free them, and all of us – all of you – from its threat.” He turned back to the larger grouping. “Freed from the temptation of using such a thing for wealth or power at the expense of the innocent who would be fooled by it, or the ones who would have their lives destroyed by following after it, or by being victimized by those who believe in it.”

He took a step back, raising the long-handled heavy iron hammer in his hands as he did so. His voice rang and echoed from the nearby houses. “Let this end!” He swung the hammer high, as if it were an axe poised to split a log, and then started it on a downward trajectory with all his might. A sound between a sigh and a moan rose from the witnesses.

The prisoners tried to surge forward then, even if they already knew it was too late, realizing that what they had feared Holmes would do was true. But the policemen, and there were many of them there indeed, had all been briefed, and they held the captives in check.

I hoped that the stone was not too strong. That the impression that it gave of an impenetrable solidity was indeed only an illusion. I knew that it did not have any power, other than what men were willing to invest in it, but for this to work, it had to be destroyed. The hammer could not glance off, leaving it unbroken, with no disfiguring mark at all. The idol’s undoing had to be seen.

I need not have worried. At the first blow, the thing shattered into three large pieces, and countless smaller ones as well. Several chips flew off into the darkness. A unified cry went up behind me, but I didn’t turn to look, watching as Holmes again raised the hammer. Down it swung, and one of the larger pieces was pulverized. And again. And again. Finally there only remained the segment with part of the face still remaining, and the ruby. Holmes rolled this into position with the toe of his boot, the gem on top, and he attacked it one more time, one hand fixed at the base of the hammer handle as a pivot point, the other sliding from the metal end down toward the base as it rotated around him and full into its target.

Holmes had obviously put an extra effort into that blow, and the hammer bounced back, leaving nothing on the ground but black gravel. Almost unbelievably, the ruby was literally gone, the force striking it in just the right place to completely disintegrate it, its dust joining that of the more common rock in the street around it. Holmes straightened, kicking back and forth with his foot, dispersing the remnants. Just then, the wind, which had been picking up for the last few minutes, no doubt a result of the rain clouds that had slowly been accumulating overhead all afternoon, gusted down the street, assisting his efforts by scattering and carrying away a great portion of the smallest pieces. He couldn’t have planned it better for dramatic effect if he’d tried.

He looked up then at all the men in front of him, some watching with disbelief, others with anger, and all realizing that there was nothing else for them to do. Their talisman was gone, out of their reach forever.

Holmes’s gaze found Lestrade and Gregson, standing to the side with Lanner, and said quietly, “Get them out of here.”

Although that was the plan, it wasn’t quite that easy, as a Black Maria had to be called from the side streets, where it had been waiting for quite a while – in fact, since some point following Goins and Micah’s initial arrival. The conveyance pulled into the street, followed by several other wagons, all there to carry away the explosives in the cellar.

Holmes watched as Goins’s men were loaded, to be taken to a ship that would immediately remove them to their homeland, as was part of the plan. No charges would be filed, as it was felt that getting them out of the country and back home, where they could spread the story of the idol’s ultimate destruction, was the best solution to the problem.

Holmes, leaning on the hammer, watched without expression as Goins was led away with the others. The man turned often to look at Holmes, his face filled with hatred. He stumbled several times as he kept his eyes fixed toward my friend instead of where he was going, but the constable’s firm grip on his arm kept him upright and moving in the right direction. He was the last to be loaded, and as the door slammed shut, Holmes murmured to me, “We will have trouble with him again.”

I wanted to say, “Surely not,” but I knew better. And Holmes was right, but that is another tale.

As the Maria left, we could hear Goins intoning, over and over again like a mantra, my friend’s name in that sinister hissing rasp, the sound of it floating on the wind. “Sherlock Holmes! Sherlock Holmes!”

Micah, looking like a broken man, was not loaded with the other prisoners, but rather helped into a growler, along with his two nephews. They would also be departing immediately after seeing to the injured man’s bullet wound, but not on the same ship as the others.

“Daniel’s death was unfortunate,” said Holmes to me. “But perhaps that was his destiny.”

“Like that of his brother, Andrew,” I added.

“Both good men, indeed. Their part of the world needs such as them. As does ours. I hope there are others to take their place.”

“There are, Holmes, there are.”

Holmes glanced toward the wagons, now pulling up in front of the door in the space vacated by the Maria. “I don’t know what happened in ancient times, the times of legend. About how much evil was truly associated with this idol. But the fact that its existence led to the deaths of those two men is unforgiveable.”

I started to reply with some vague metaphysical insight when I was interrupted. “Dr. Watson?” called a constable from the perimeter of the activity.

I looked that way and saw the man. Standing beside him, being prevented from approaching closer, was Jenny Withers. She was waving an arm, calling, “John! John!”

“Oh, dear Lord,” I muttered.

Holmes’s eyes narrowed. “This is no longer amusing.”

“I agree. It ends now.” Louder, I said, “Let her through, Constable!”

Hearing that, she ran toward me while Holmes went inside the house. Her arms spread as she got closer, as if she intended to throw herself into my embrace. My own arms came up as well, not to fold around her, but pushed out in front, to grip her by the shoulders and stop her.

She looked surprised, and the expectant look on her face became peevish.

“Miss Withers, what are you doing here?”

“Father told me about the man who was in the house. About why he was so obsessed with you, and the plan to stop him. I slipped out to make sure you were all right.”

“You should not be here.”

My hands were still gripping her upper arms, as several times she had made small motions, as if to wiggle free and approach me. She looked from side to side with irritation at her trap. I released my hands, taking a step back from her as I did so. She started forward, and I took another. She finally seemed to realize that I did not want to be clasped to her. She looked confused.

“Is everything well?” she asked.

“Yes, the man has been captured, and the explosives are being removed as we speak. The house will need airing out, but it should be ready for you to move in within days.”

“No, is everything well between us? Why do you push me away?”

It was then that I truly began to fear that she was mad. Not in the sense that Baron Meade had been, allowing his obsession and hatred to run rampant to unimaginable degrees. But she was obsessed in her own way, and convinced that when she wanted something, it would be hers, no matter what.

“Miss Withers,” I sighed, and then I began to grow more irritated. Could I have made it any clearer? “Miss Withers.” This time it came out sharply, and her eyes widened. “There is no us. What do I need to do to make you understand?”

“But John, you are not thinking. You are trapped by conventional thinking – “

“Miss Withers! That’s enough of that! You say that over and over, but it has nothing to do with any worry that I might have about what society would think if I were to remarry again too quickly! I know that she’s gone, but I still love my wife. I can’t end that as if I’ve finished a book and put it on the shelf, pulling out the very next one. I still love her, and I do not love you!”

I thought about saying something else. Rephrasing it to make it easier, or in words that might make sense to her. I could tell her that she was beautiful, and that it was my fault and not hers, and that she would find someone else. That she didn’t know me enough to love me. I might try to shock her by pointing out that my similarity to her father was possibly a disturbing factor and a cause of her obsession. I might have done any of that, but that would simply keep intact this tangled web of back-and-forth that I had somehow found strangling me, continuing to perpetuate a cycle of emotions that I simply did not want or need. God help me, I still loved my wife, my dear departed sweet wife, and that was the end of it.

And maybe this time she finally saw all of this in my eyes. Certainly her expression changed as she let out her breath and settled back on her heels. The wide hopeful expression that she had arrived with faded to a neutral – if still calculating – look. Before she could rally and come up with yet another new argument, I shook my head with finality. “Goodbye, Miss Withers.” And I walked into the house.

I didn’t stop to see when she left, and I was glad that she didn’t follow. I hoped that this was over. It’s true that many men wouldn’t have looked at it that way at all. To them, a wife was an essential part of the machine that makes up a household, and if that part was broken, it was to be quickly replaced, in order to get the machine up and running again. I’ve never viewed a marriage that way, and while Jenny Withers would no doubt make a fine, intelligent, and beautiful wife for someone, she would not for me.

Inside, the house was quiet, except for noises from downstairs. I noticed various and sundry wheel tracks running along the floor from the front to the cellar door, where dollies had been pushed, carrying out barrels and boxes and cartons while I had been talking to Miss Withers. I wondered if we would ever know what his final target would have been. Parliament, repeating the failed efforts of Guy Fawkes and his band? Trafalgar Square, where his son had been injured, later to die? The Palace, and the Royal family he had once so ably served? Possibly he had written it all down somewhere, but more likely it was contained within his head. Perhaps he wouldn’t have decided until the day that the materials were to be moved. It was likely that we would never know.

Down in the cellar, I was relieved to see that the Baron’s body had been removed, although his blood still stained the floor. Would the new tenants realize what it was? Or would they think it was just another of the patches that darkened and blemished the ground here and there?

I noticed that there were two barrels left, both with the last of the flammable oil. Men were loading one of them onto a dolly, while the other barrel stood to the side. Another worker with a second dolly broke away from the group and started toward it, but Holmes said, “Leave that one for a few minutes.” The man nodded and went back to help the men with the first.

As they rolled it to the steps, Holmes said, “This is the last of it.”

“Where will it go? Woolwich Arsenal?”

Holmes laughed. “For what purpose? Separated, there is nothing more deadly here than nitrogen, oil, and machine parts. It will all be dispersed where it can be best used, as a donation from Baron Meade. The nitrogen compounds will doubtless be used to fertilize flower gardens in one of the parks, the fuel to heat Scotland Yard, and I arranged for the machine parts to be sent to the warehouse in Rotherhithe, where the Baron, while pretending to be Mr. Walthrop, first told us that such things were being stolen when trying to decoy us away from his last cache.”

“That seems so long ago. It’s difficult to believe that it is finished.”

Holmes looked speculatively at the workmen, who had pulled the loaded dolly up one step at a time. Their feet were disappearing as they reached the floor above. “Not quite finished,” he replied softly.

He stepped to a side table, which I noticed had some clean towels placed upon it, obviously cadged from upstairs. “Those are Dr. Withers’ property now,” I said. “You’re going to ruin them.”

“I’ll send him some more.” He looked toward me as he started to remove his coat. “That is, unless it would be a bad idea to reopen communications with the two of them.”

I nodded. “Perhaps you’re right. I have no doubt that Miss Withers will want to buy her own towels, and not use the ones that I’ve left behind.”

“Miss Withers?” Holmes was rolling up his right shirt sleeve, pushing it as high on his arm as it would go. “Not Jenny?”

“Definitely not.”

He nodded with a smile, and then moved to the last remaining barrel. It had a fresh-looking scratch on the side. I pointed toward it. “Is that how you knew which one?”

“Yes. I made the mark last night. I only had a moment to act, after I swapped the idols.”

I reached for a towel, as he would soon need it. “And the real one really was too heavy or awkward for you to bring back with you?”

He nodded, contemplating what he was preparing to do. “After I found the real idol here in the cellar, I opened the bag and pulled out the fake that has rested in the Museum for so long. I had hoped when I retrieved it and brought it back with me to Baker Street that I might find some use for it, and luckily a plan presented itself, as you just witnessed.

“Last night, I quickly exchanged the false object for the real thing standing upon the table, and then planned to bring the true Eye back with me to the Parker’s house. But it was too heavy, and I feared that I wouldn’t be able to climb back up the coal chute – especially as I heard the Baron begin to move about upstairs. I thought this barrel would be as safe a place to leave the real one as any. After all, who would think to look here?”

He removed the lid from the barrel and then bent over it, plunging his lean arm into the oil. He grimaced, either from the unpleasant sensation or from the cold, and moved his arm back and forth for a moment before his expression changed to one of success. Straightening up, he lifted out an object in his firm grasp, shiny and dripping with oil. It was The Eye of Heka.

Even in the light of a single lantern, I could see the difference between this one and the ersatz object that Holmes had just destroyed in the street, for the benefit of his audience. That one, having acted for years as the Earl of Wardlaw’s decoy in the British Museum, before being brought to Baker Street by Holmes and then on to the Parker house the previous day, had been a cold and dead rock. This… this seemed to have some sort of glimmer, as if it were only partly here, while translating back and again instantaneously from some other place.

And then there was the ruby, the Eye itself, in the center of its forehead. It had a fire of its own that glowed and shifted in a way that was more, in some curious way, than could be simply caused by the motion given to it by Holmes’s grip. This, then, was what had undoubtedly fascinated Ian Finch for so long. Was it possible that only some people could see what I now detected? Was its power, in fact, real?

Realizing this, I wondered how anyone could have ever been fooled by the spurious figure. Daniel and Micah hadn’t known any better, I suppose, having never seen it, and the same was true for the others. But Goins had held the real thing in his hands a decade ago, when he had managed to steal it while working in the Museum as a janitor. Surely he had seen then what I saw now. How could he not have seen it? He had earlier given every indication upstairs that he believed that one to be the true idol, both when Micah had attempted to use it, and again when he himself had made the attempt. He had believed it then. But then again, had he really?

When he had first received it from the Baron, and had held it, we had heard him say that there was something almost anticlimactic about it. Did he somehow realize the truth then without knowing it? And would his brooding ruminations through the endless hours and days while returning to his homeland allow him to arrive at the realization that he had been tricked? Manipulated into believing that he had seen the true idol destroyed, in order that he would return home and quash for all time the legends of The Eye?

Even as I questioned whether Holmes’s elaborate scheme would succeed or fail, my friend was turning the thing from side to side, having lowered it down to his eye level. Was it my imagination, or did Holmes himself appear to take on the same glimmer I thought I had seen? It seemed to pass down his arm, and so on to the rest of him. Did my friend’s eyes start to glow with the same power that emanated from The Eye? Did the best and wisest man I have ever known begin to grow while the room darkened and diminished around him?

But then the spell was broken as Holmes gave a merry laugh and shook some of the dripping oil away. A drop hit the lantern’s glass chimney and sizzled and smoked. I gave a start. Looking my way, Holmes said powerfully, “No ancient gods need apply, eh, Watson?”

I took a deep breath, feeling as if I had become a statue myself for a moment and was only coming back to life with a great effort. I walked the few steps awkwardly toward him, as if from a faraway place, handing over the towel that I held so tightly in my hand. “As you say, Holmes. As you say.”

Chapter XXVI: Manageable Pieces

Morning found us in Baker Street. The clouds of the previous night had continued to build, and sometime late the rains had started. Although the temperature was noticeably warmer, it was obviously miserable outside, and both of us were glad to be in for the moment.

After Holmes had dried himself and The Eye the night before, he had rolled down his sleeve, put on his coat, and then wrapped the thing in some more of the towels, carrying it discreetly up and out of the house. He let the men outside know that the last barrel in the cellar was ready to be removed. When they had done so, he handed me my old key, and I locked the house behind me and walked away without looking back.

The last wagon departed, and Holmes and I found ourselves standing in the empty street. I knew that the inspectors were busy carrying out final details elsewhere, getting the witnesses to Holmes’s charade from both camps to the ships that would carry them away – Micah and the boys in one, Goins and his people in the other – notifying the residents of the neighborhood that they could return, and making reports to their superiors. There were criminal cases to build and prosecute against Sir Edward Malloy and his ally, Dawson. Perhaps charges would also be filed against Ian Finch, the Earl of Wardlaw, but I knew that, whether or not he was found guilty of any crime, he was as finished as if he had been pulled down in a maelstrom.

There was no doubt that the inspectors would be visiting Baker Street later on to confer, so this would be a late night. I checked my watch, and found that it was still actually rather early, and we would arrive home really no later than if we had spent a night at a theatre performance. I knew that Mrs. Hudson would be willing to provide us with something tasty with a great deal of hot coffee.

And so it proved. Lestrade, Gregson, and Lanner arrived, explaining that everything had taken place without a hitch. Although some in the government wanted to question them, it was felt best that the all the men rounded up the previous night should be taken to the docks and sent on their way as soon as possible for the ruse to succeed. A formal arrest had been made of the hospitalized Sir Edward, with the unraveling of the strands of his web only beginning. Charges against Dawson were revised, and the Earl of Wardlaw’s involvement was being considered. Gregson and Lestrade were both in an expansive and celebratory humor, but Lanner seemed especially subdued, as if he was a bit ashamed of any inner doubts that he might have had about the plan. Holmes seemed to understand, and went out of his way to be gracious.

And now it was the next morning, he and I were in our chairs before the cheery fire, and all was right. Yet I still felt a sense of dissatisfaction. Some of it was related to that sense of loss associated with the reason that I was living back in Baker Street in the first place. A part of it could not be separated from how I had been forced to treat Jenny Withers. And even now I was uncertain as to whether she actually understood what I had told her the previous night. With the first morning’s post had come yet another invitation to tea, this time from Dr. Withers himself. I located a heavy envelope and placed the key to the Doctor’s new residence inside, along with the invitation. I rooted around in my desk until I found one of my old cards. I boldly underlined in ink the address shown on the front, 221b Baker Street, shoved it into the envelope and sealed it up with no other response. Dispatching it by way of the page boy, I settled back in my chair and hoped that this would finish it.

Yet the dissatisfaction remained, and it seemed as if the largest part of my dour mood was related to how some of the events of the previous evening had turned out, with the death of Daniel and the ruin of Micah. I had been forced to kill a man, in spite of the fact that I knew he had left me no choice.

And then, as I looked up above my chair at The Eye of Heka, sitting and staring into eternity on our scarred mantel, I wondered again if Goins and the others had truly been fooled by Holmes’s elaborate plan.

Of course, my friend saw me glance up and knew exactly what I was thinking. “Even if he doesn’t really believe it,” said Holmes, “he will never find a way to confirm it for sure. Later today, I will deliver The Eye into the hands of the Foreign Office, and it will be hidden away for good, never to see the light of day again.”

“That sounds as if something much more secure than a vault at the British Museum has been planned.”

“This time, it has.” After a pause, he added, “Or so I’m told.”

I thought about that. Then, “Would we have tried so hard – ? No, that’s not what I want to ask. Would it have mattered as much if we had known that Goins never really intended to start a war? That he only cared about influencing the people for his own greedy advancement?”

“I believe so. Just because Goins’s personal intention over the years had become a quest for his own wealth and power didn’t diminish the overall power of the legend in others’ eyes. And Goins would eventually been tempted to use the idol’s influence and reputation for bigger things. Just the knowledge that it existed would have inflamed those who had wanted to use it all along for what we feared. If Goins himself hadn’t used it to achieve those purposes, someone else would have taken it from him and done so instead.”

I stood up and looked at the thing more closely. I knew for certain that I would never ask Holmes about what I had seen – or imagined that I had seen – last night, as I supposed now in the light of day must have been the case. Then, it had seemed… well, I’m not sure how it had seemed, but today it was only a crude carving, nothing more. Although it looked better-crafted than the substitute commissioned long ago by the Earl, and the ruby was undoubtedly real, it was only cold and lifeless, a stub of polished rock.

In spite of how we had wiped it down the previous night, it had left a ring of oil on our much-damaged mantelpiece. But that was nothing worse than many of the other indignities that the poor woodwork had faced, pierced on a daily basis by Holmes’s jackknife to hold correspondence, and a constant repository for all sorts of criminal relics, each with its own dark history. Soon the idol would be taken down from there and gone, locked away, and this adventure would just be another series of connected links in a long chain, to be recalled, and perhaps written about, boiled down to manageable pieces that could be organized and examined from a distance while the sharp details faded smooth. And every day that progressed, the same thing would happen with the pieces of my former married life as well.

But that is how one moves on. It is a terrible feeling to know that the little things, the everyday smiles and words of comfort and even the irritations and vexations, will eventually be forgotten. But it happens, every day, as the mind prunes old growth, and to stay sane one must accept it and travel forward. If one does not, if one broods and picks at it and spirals around and around, then all can become madness. It had happened to Baron Meade, that poor tortured man. I would mourn for him, in spite of his crimes, and not let it happen to me.

The rain seemed to blow harder at that moment, hitting the window like shot. “I don’t envy your trip to the Foreign Office.”

“My trip?” said Holmes with a smile. “Certainly you mean our trip. I expected you to accompany me as my bodyguard.”

“I plan to sit here with my feet up and have a sip or two of something warm.”

“I’m afraid I must insist.”

“And I insist that when you return, you clean up some of these papers.” I gestured toward his desk – and mine as well – where the piles and stacks, leaning precariously on and across one another, still threatened to topple onto the carpet. “Your precious filing system will be worthless if those fall and the dust that lies atop it is scattered.”

He glanced that way. “I suppose I do have just enough room for some of it.” He stood abruptly and crossed to his bedroom. I heard the familiar sliding and tugging, and then he was back with the old tin trunk, that repository of the records relating to so many of his old cases. Opening it, he sighed. Then, with a sudden interested expression on his face, he reached in and withdrew a folded woolen cloth. Inside was a small test-tube, closed with a stopper. A reddish liquid inside it flowed back and forth as he upended it several times, bottom over top.

“What is that?”

“This, Watson, is a vial of blood from Eldridge, the Brighton Fiend.”

“A vial of a man’s blood? Why on earth did you save that?”

“It is a curiosity, and the clue that solved the case. I obtained this sample myself. It is more than nine years old, and yet, as you can see, it has refused to clot or dry up.”

“What? Impossible.”

“Clearly not, as you can easily observe. I assure you this is the same blood that I took from the man himself.” He held it up to the light, pouring it again back and forth, and then suddenly directed a sly gaze toward me. “Would you like to hear the story?”

I snorted. “I see what you’re doing, Holmes. You’re trying to distract me again. Well, I won’t put up with it. Not this time. I – ”

I was interrupted from further remonstrations when the front bell rang, rather frantically. Holmes and I both looked at each other, and he quietly replaced the vial in the trunk before shutting the lid. He then set about taking it into his room.

By the time he had returned, having changed out of his dressing gown to something more suitable, Mrs. Hudson had shown a lovely young woman of about twenty into the sitting room. She was veiled and soaked and chattering with the cold, but I could see that she was terrified as well. Clutched in her hand was a thin red ribbon, to which was tied a bone that I recognized as a human distal phalange – undoubtedly the tip of a thumb.

I directed her to the basket chair, where she could avail herself of the fire’s warmth, while Holmes sat and took the bone from her grasp. As she raised her veil and I took a position nearby, he said, “Hmm, a butcher’s thumb. Not very old. The signs are obvious. It arrived by this morning’s post.” He glanced at the girl. “Dorset, undoubtedly. This ribbon is faded, but only in spots, where it has been long creased. Most surprising is your unspoken conviction that you know the man who owned this thumb.” He waited for some acknowledgement, but the poor girl remained quiet. Then, warily, she nodded.

Leaning forward with his fingertips pressed together before his chin, the grave expression of a bird of prey was noticeably etched upon his lean features, contradicting the excitement dancing in his eyes.

“Now, Miss – how can we help?”