Neil Gaiman: Shadows over Baker Street

“He spoke in Hebrew,” Holmes answered at once. “The words were very clear, and, I suspect, appropriate. I believe that Adcott’s soul managed to make use of the same power that the elder Silverman would have used to animate clay. He used his will, and his faith, and he spoke the only words that could bring him peace.

“He said, ‘It is done.’ ”

I stared at Holmes for a long time, watching for doubt, or belief, anything in those wise eyes that would prove a clue to the mind beyond, but he had turned his gaze to the fire once again, and grown silent.

“I wonder,” I said, rising and retrieving my coat, suddenly very tired and ready for my own home, and my bed, “who got the money.”

Holmes didn’t look up as I departed, but I sensed the smile in his answer.

“To the living go the spoils, Watson. Always to the living.”

Shaking my head, I opened the door and made my way into the late-evening fog.

Thunder tears the air asunder. Half of Europe, it seems, is afire. Nations shrink back before a Pentecostal wind. Today, the London Times brings news of the sinking of the Lusitania by the Hun. Over a thousand innocent lives lost. While yet more newsprint carries the dreadful litany of tens of thousands of our soldiers consumed by the war—this war to end all wars. In the midst of global conflict, the cases of my friend Mr. Sherlock Holmes might appear of little importance now. Last night, however, I was roused from bed by three visitors. I will not identify them for obvious reasons; although two of them would be widely known from king to barrow boy. Suffice to say: one gentleman holds a very senior post in His Majesty’s government, the second a high rank in the army, while the third is a leading light in the clandestine and anonymous world of our secret service.

Clad in dressing gown and slippers, I invited them into my sitting room.

The military gentleman said: “Dr. Watson. We apologize for calling on you at this time of night, but you will appreciate the fact that we are here on business of a most important nature that concerns not only the security of the Empire but the preservation of all nations.”

“I understand, gentlemen,” I replied. “How may I help you?”

The military man said, “We have two matters to put to you. Firstly, do you know the whereabouts of Sherlock Holmes?”

I shook my head. “I understand he is traveling.”

“Do you know where?”

Again I shook my head. “I’m afraid not.”

“Has Mr. Holmes contacted you?”

“I received a telegram from him perhaps three weeks ago.”

“Are you able to divulge the contents of the message?”

“Normally not. But as it’s you, gentlemen . . .” I cleared my throat. “Holmes simply wrote, ‘Watson, the game is afoot.’ ”

“I see . . .”

The third gentlemen then spoke. “Thank you, Dr. Watson. That brings us to our second matter. We have brought with us a phonograph recording made several years ago, which my agents retrieved, from a Home Office vault. We should be grateful if you would listen to this recording and identify the voices you recognize.”

Assembling the phonographic equipment with its horn speaker and wax cylinders took but a few minutes. Then the intelligence officer wound the clockwork motor before pushing a brass lever that set the audio mechanism in motion.

The chimes of midnight from the church across the square died on the air as the wax cylinder yielded the sound of a man’s voice to the hushed room. This, then, is what I heard.

Now, pray . . . are you in the mood for a little sport? Perhaps you might care to guess my name? What’s that you say? Is it a name of some importance? Will history have even recorded that name? Or, as with countless billions of men and woman who have swarmed upon the surface of this planet like so many maggots, will it be forever lost to the four winds?

You require a clue?

A certain amateur detective who can perform tricks with clues with all the cack-handed dexterity of a Barbary ape juggling apples, described me as “the organizer of half that is evil and nearly all that is undetected in London.” Evil? The man’s interpretation of the word is unutterably blunt. I admit I have the ability to acquire that grubby medium called money and to exert my will on men without the handicap of conscience. Moreover, the term evil is merely a rather clichéd insult directed by the weak against the strong. And you will be patently aware that the strong are not forgotten by history. Some might accuse Rome’s Julius Caesar of evil, but he will never slip from memory. The seventh month of the year is named after him. His successor, Augustus, a powerful man of scant conscience, made posthumous claim to the following month, August. Perhaps one day my name will be similarly honored in the calendar.

Ah . . . Do you have my name yet? That same aforementioned detective also bestowed upon me the title “the Napoleon of Crime.” A laughably inaccurate one, I should add. Napoleon ultimately lost, whereas I shall be the victor. Still, you may have guessed by now. No?

Dear, oh dear. Then I’ll delay no longer because I only have precisely one hour to preserve this account of my singular endeavor for posterity. My name is Professor James Moriarty. Never one to fail to exploit the cream of new technology, I am recording my voice on a phonograph. These wax cylinders will preserve this verbal testament for all mankind. After all, I don’t wish anyone hearing this to believe that I merely somehow stumbled upon the greatest discovery made by man through sheer luck. Believe me, luck is for fools. Effort mated with intelligence brings success, not mere chance. What I have uncovered is the result of twenty-five years of painstaking labor and applied thought. Indeed the purpose of my criminal career, as the ignorant might term it, has merely been to fund important research work; although I have to admit that devising all those nefarious strategies did reward me with a modicum of entertainment. I daresay I could have netted the required capital via legitimate commerce, but how deadly dull those long years would have been. Indeed, I would never have had the opportunity to engage in those cerebral duels with that aforementioned detective, one Sherlock Holmes (a name, I daresay, soundly forgotten by history).

Now here I am, Professor Moriarty, sitting alone in a most elegantly appointed carriage that is drawn by a privately chartered locomotive. It is the first day of November, 1903. On the throne of England and commanding the British Empire is that idiot wastrel King Edward VII.

No doubt during the pauses between my words you can hear that clickety-click of iron wheels against track. Isn’t it an evocative sound? A symphony for the traveler! The time is ten minutes before midnight. We are passing through a forbidding moor that is ill lit by a gibbous moon. In a short while . . . there . . . did you hear it? The train’s whistle? The driver has signaled that we are but a few miles from a most singular destination. Even now I see ocean away to my right.

Yet what unfurls beyond the windows on this fiercely cold winter’s night is of far less importance than what lies on the desk in front of me. In this snugly warm carriage is the product of twenty-five years of the most demanding labor imaginable. If through the medium of these wax cylinders you could see what this singular object is, you might not immediately be moved to excitement. “It is merely a book,” you might say. Ah, but what a book. Not just any book. Hear that? That whispery sound? Like the voices of a million ghosts revealing secrets from beyond the grave? Ah . . . That sound you hear, my friends, is the pages of this great and glorious tome. And if you could see the title—that strange and darkly powerful title that has filled many a man with dread— you still might not understand its importance. But I proclaim here and now that this, indeed, is the Book of books. It is the bridge between worlds . . . it is the Necronomicon .