Paul Gilbert - The Chronicles of Sherlock Holmes

‘“If you are referring to the clumsy attempt upon the life of my brother Mycroft, I must inform you now that it has also ended in abject failure. Your would-be assassin, Parker, I believe, was only successful in eliminating a hapless clerk!”

‘I was gratified to note that, upon hearing this news, his twisted smile soon faded and he turned away towards the window as he answered me.

‘“Your strange use of the word ‘also’ indicates that my theory regarding the loss of the Dying Gaul was sound. I deduced your meddling hand, at the outset, for my reasoning and planning were faultless.”

‘“Surely subsequent events have revealed that statement to be erroneous. Indeed it was merely bad timing that prevented you from falling into my hands at the villa in Tivoli,” I replied without realizing that while his back had been to me he had been extracting a small object from the pocket of his robe.

‘“So it is I who am supposed to have fallen into your hands?” Moriarty asked maliciously, turning round to face me once more. This time his right hand revealed his deadly response!

‘“It is no use. Your pistol changes nothing, Moriarty! Parker, your last accomplice, is now held in police custody, whilst my friend Dr Watson, together with Inspector Lestrade are, even now, beating a path to this very room. The net is closing upon you for the last time.” I stated with feigned bravado.

‘Then a change overtook his countenance, as if he knew that he could never face the ignominy of arrest, trial and the gallows. His eyes rolled up to the top of his head and he turned away from me once more.

‘“Oh, but Mr Holmes, for once at least you are to be proved incorrect. My pistol does indeed change things … most emphatically …” In an instant, before I could even visualize his intentions, Moriarty raised the pistol to his own head and fired a single shot, the deadly, bloody results of which you were witness to when you entered the room but a moment later.’

‘Good heavens, Sherlock! You came within a deuce of losing your life!’ Mycroft suddenly exclaimed.

‘Not for the first time, brother, not for the first time,’ Holmes wanly repeated.

‘Well, I do not know. I may be dealing with matters of international espionage, but I shall feel far safer within the confines of my office than I ever will in your place. Moreover, if I am to avoid the Prime Minister’s wrath I must repair to that institution without delay! Please thank your Scottish woman for her somewhat limited hospitality. I shall send my man for my belongings later on. Good day to you!’

A moment or two later Lestrade followed Mycroft through the door and Holmes and I were left to our own devices.

‘Holmes?’ I ventured, once we had enjoyed a prolonged moment of reflective silence. ‘I could not help but notice that, despite your best efforts at disguising it, there is still something within you that regrets Moriarty’s passing.’

Holmes slowly shook his head while relighting his cherrywood.

‘No Watson, no one in their right mind could possibly lament the elimination of pure evil, which Moriarty, for all his cleverness, surely was. As a perfectionist in my chosen profession, however, it is indeed hard to see how a challenge as stimulating as battling with Moriarty, will ever arise again.’

‘I can understand that,’ I responded, ‘but did you not say earlier that the weaknesses of man, which you have so astutely observed over the years, ensure that there will always be someone prepared to prey upon them. Surely it is gratifying to know that you will be there to prevent that from happening?’

Holmes turned to me suddenly and smiled. ‘As ever you are quite right, Watson. Yet it is equally gratifying to know that you will be there, fighting by my side.’

THE REMARKABLE DISAPPEARANCE OF JAMES PHILLIMORE

‘Among those unfinished tales is that of Mr James Phillimore who, stepping back into his own house to get his umbrella, was never more seen in this world …’

(The Problem of Thor Bridge by A. Conan Doyle)

There was a certain period of time whilst the new century was still in its infancy, when the capital was gripped by an atmosphere of stunned melancholy. Nation, Empire and populace tried to adapt to a world deprived of its revered monarch, now no longer looking down upon and protecting it. We all felt as if we had suffered a parental bereavement and only that long and bloody conflict in Southern Africa diverted us from our sense of loss and confusion.

When I say all were affected, I do so while making one qualified exception, that of my friend and colleague, Sherlock Holmes. Had our new head of state been announced as Attila the Hun, as opposed to King Edward VII, Holmes would have suffered the succession with similar indifference, for as long as he was continually fed on a diet of new and intriguing cases, these were his sole driving force and motivation. Without these he felt as if his intricately engineered mind would surely stagnate and destroy itself.

The fact that the past few months had seen Holmes plagued by the longest dearth of work he had experienced throughout our entire association, made his customary melancholy all the deeper and darker.

Deprived of the solace that his now conquered addiction to cocaine had once provided him with, Holmes’s frustrations became all the more obvious and disturbing. He had even added to the bullet holes already adorning our drawing room wall, a use I had never expected my old army revolver to be put to, and was causing both Mrs Hudson and myself great concern.

With a view to alleviating my friend’s condition, when not in attendance at my surgery, I tirelessly scanned all the morning and evening newspapers in the hope of catching Holmes’s attention with stories of unusual crime and mystery. Holmes’s reaction was to snatch each and every journal from my grasp, crush them into a ball and hurl them on to the fire.

‘Really Holmes!’ I protested on one such occasion. ‘Your recent behaviour has become most insufferable. I understand and sympathize with your frustration at not being gainfully employed, but it simply does not excuse your mistreatment of those around you. Indeed, you almost reduced Mrs Hudson to tears the other morning, simply for her insisting you eat your breakfast! Judging by your pale, gaunt features, it was advice with which I heartily concur.’

I was glaring angrily at my friend in anticipation of an aggressive response, but there was none. It was almost as if the fight, even the very life in him, was being slowly drained away. Attired in his purple robe, Holmes was seated in his favourite chair, legs crossed with his feet tucked under him, in a forlorn, meditative pose. His face, unshaven for three days, was impassive, and he merely nodded slowly without raising his eyes to look at me.

I was unable to contemplate my friend in such condition for another instant and decided to take myself for a refreshing walk. Despite my entreaties, Holmes would not be moved so I struck out, briskly, alone.

The climate and the time of year seemed to fit the prevailing mood perfectly. It was as dark and misty an evening as one would expect for late October, and the few remaining leaves were losing their battle to remain attached to the trees with which Baker Street was adorned. Thankfully, for the purposes of my constitutional, it was dry and relatively mild and each step that I took hardened my resolve to help Holmes in any way that I might.

I paused briefly outside Baker Street Metropolitan station, to see if any of the late editions held anything to assist me in my purpose, and there on the headline board were four words that I was certain would rekindle Holmes’s interest and might just save him from his despair.