What do you suppose Mr. Sherlock Holmes did after drying off the article and reading it? I imagine he clamped his teeth around his pipe stem, nearly biting it in two. Coarse language would have been on the tip of his tongue, but being the Victorian gentleman, I assume he refrained. The name Moriarity was enough to ruin his digestion for days. Not to mention the cow’s.
But to business. Within a day, he would have used his dunces at Scotland Yard to gather information on the Seattle killings. He would have heard of the useless efforts to catch the killer. How many policemen would enjoy chasing fanatical ghosts? One in ten? Three in fifty?
Certainly within the next two days he assembled various disguises, acquired a quantity of cocaine for the road, and headed off to the docks in Liverpool. Once there, he would have boarded a ship bound for New York. He doubtless inquired about recent departures for America, and then spent an inordinate amount of time in his cabin pouring over the manifests of other ships. He also would have brought along all his files on John Moriarity, his arch enemy. To be sure: in some dark and filthy corner of his mind he could admit to himself his crimes! He had pushed my brother over the Reichenbach Falls to his death (it was not suicide, Mr. Holmes!).
The celebrated sleuth would then have turned his attention to the other family members.
Would there be a photograph of me? Perhaps the American authorities in Boston (that hellhole) could find one. But the best likeness could be found in Moriarity’s effects, if Sherlock Holmes cared to investigate. He would hear of my early genius (a doctor by the age of twenty) and the jealous comments concerning my experiments. The mystery of my public disappearance should tantalize him like the scent of an unseen wisp of tobacco.
Finally, on a stormy day in March 1889, the afternoon train steamed into the station on Railroad Avenue, bearing confidence men, Bible-thumping preachers, prostitutes, and Mr. Sherlock Holmes.
I almost missed him. For years, I had been aware of his finesse at disguise and mimicry. Once, I’d seen him masquerade as a woman, albeit a rotund woman. And I’d of course heard of his famous frolic of impersonating a dance hall performer. Sometimes I wish I’d spent a more active role in tracking the man. But back to the story-I will try to avoid further digressions.
Propped against the wall just to the right of the ticket counter, I held the Daily News in front of my face. Like one of the casualties of the recent Indian wars of the West, I appeared to be missing a leg and the will to live. Occasionally I would groan to demonstrate my pain. A tin cup before me awaited donations.
Thin slits in the paper, between an advertisement for Murberger’s Hair Oil and an anatomically incorrect article on gout, allowed me to track Mr. Holmes as he meticulously made his way across the crowded boards toward the street. My, what an impressive disguise. I whistled an aria under my breath, ascending and descending in minor keys. Celebration, celebration! The cymbals clamored and the violins rejoiced. My prey passed by so close, I could have gripped his ankle. While the music whispered within me, I admired his disguise.
In a bushy white wig and matching Mark Twain eyebrows, Holmes shuffled along tapping a gold-tipped cane from side to side. He peered through thick spectacles as if examining the ground for ants.
Music, sweet music. There, he has bought a newspaper.
I crawled around the corner of the building. To the consternation of several prim citizens, I reversed my coat and put both legs into their respective pant legs, then hurried to the street. Following Mr. Sherlock Holmes to his new lodgings would be exquisite. I brought him here, after all.
As I strode by, Holmes tucked the newspaper under his arm. The headline blared: Prohibitionist Mary Jones Cartright Latest Cannibal Victim!
Holmes hailed a cab. I faded into the crowd and watched until his carriage rounded the next corner.
Would he read of last evening first? A most logical killing it was.
Insanity and music. How many times have I heard that refrain?
Music is a rainbow of color born of undeniable honesty. Have you ever bathed in a melody that caressed your senses until your skin tingled and you forgot to breathe? The music would release you, each tone fluttering, alive. The notes would bow, complimenting each other, joining in a blood tie of temporary harmony. In playful ecstasy or destructively lyrical, the notes have substance. Whenever the music demands, I obey.
It rained heavily that night, drenching me in anticipation. The raindrops fell like bullets in a fast staccato, drowning out the boulevard traffic. But in the alley behind the Orpheum Theatre, the music could still be heard.
Minor keys bled aloud, speaking of human misery. Each time the notes would tremble and wail, I felt their pain, always connecting, never holding.
The air held a winter chill that seemed alive in its own right. I leaned against the dirty wall and waited. Steam rose from the heating grates. Rats with hot eyes scurried for dry places while the blues wallowed in the darkness, asking me to stop the pain.
The woman entered the alley like a cat sniffing cream. Her steps hesitant, she drew closer. When she saw me, the caution vanished. Mary Jones Cartright, angel to the downtrodden, had spent years working with the whores and demented relics of the war. The music lamented with impatience. Soon, she stood before me smelling faintly of roses.
Without a word, I obeyed, thrusting the knife upwards, carefully avoiding the kidneys and liver. Drink had never passed her pristine lips.
Into the dark passages the music rushed, sinuously sliding and scheming, violating the walls of reason.
I heard a saxophone bleat from a saloon across the street.
Yes, I accept applause.
The next morning dawned blurry, like peering through a veil of snow that would never melt. I wallowed in the luxury of knowing that time had conspired to bring my emotions and desires to this day. If I knew my brother’s nemesis, he would be awake. Heavens! He might even be afoot already.
I arrived too late at the Tate Hotel. A tall man in a disreputable tweed coat and reeking of pipe tobacco had hailed a carriage not five minutes ago. Holmes had assumed his natural appearance, although the doorman did not know it as such.
“Which direction did he go?” I asked, with a coin visible between my fingers.
The doorman snatched it away, flipping it into the air. “You mean the hop-head old Limey? He told the cabbie to take him to the Orpheum.”
Ah. I dropped an extra coin between his shoes and disappeared.
From the other side of the brick wall, I could see the top of Orpheum’s sign. With peeling paint and broken windows, the theater looked as frayed as an elderly dance hall queen in the light of early morning. I lay still, able to hear quite clearly the conversation from the other side of the wall.
“…Certainly I did, Mr. Holmes. The chief heard from the mayor too. Bless his heart.”
Sounds of footsteps, then a match scratched the bricks and lit. The smell of sulfur is pleasant in the morning.
“Sergeant Gordon?” Holmes asked. The man must have nodded, because he continued, “In the envelope in your pocket, you’ll read of my credentials. You’ll also read why we are most likely not dealing with a cannibal.” His voice turned disdainful. “No matter how romantic the thought.”