“What do you mean, Holmes?”
“The Elder Gods, or whatever they were, made an unholy bargain with Moriarty,” said Sherlock Holmes. “They have snatched away his humanity, and given him darker things in return. But there is one thing that the Elder Gods cannot offer. It is something which Moriarty gave up willingly, before our encounter at the Reichenbach Falls. And yet it is something which Moriarty clearly desired, and he repented having lost it. Did you mark the expression of longing on his face? Permit me one deduction, Watson: I deduce that, in those final moments in the vortex, Moriarty was suddenly reminded of what he had lost when he squandered his humanity, his life, his very soul.”
We were nearing an inn, where two coach lamps stood sentinel in the front window. Now Sherlock Holmes held something in his outstretched hand, and by the light of the coach lamps I saw in his grasp what had fallen from Jephson Norrys’s pocket. It was the object which had momentarily distracted Moriarty, and which he had sought to retrieve: the hand-tinted Jubilee portrait of Queen Victoria.
“For one moment, Professor Moriarty remembered what it meant to be an Englishman,” said Holmes, pocketing the pasteboard as we approached the inn. “That is what Moriarty gave up in his bargain with the Old Ones . . . and not even all the infinite realms of the Elder Gods could make up for that loss. Come, Watson! I hear piano music in the saloon bar, and voices singing . . . not ‘Tekeli-li’ this time, but rather ‘Knocked ‘Em in the Old Kent Road’ . . . so it is elementary to me that this tavern is open all hours, and we shall find glad company within. Would a pint of bitter go welcome?”
Death Did Not Become Him
David Niall Wilson & Patricia Lee Macomber
It has been many years since the events I now record took place, and even as I run through them in my mind, I’m uncertain if I should continue. There is a question of privacy involved, to be certain. There is more. I fancy that when all is said and done, these words will one day find their way into the hands of others. Still, my purpose over the years has never been to further my own reputation, and certainly I’ve been brutally honest when it comes to others.
Let me begin by mentioning the most glaring oddity of all. In this case, when my friend Mr. Sherlock Holmes admitted his newest client to 221B Baker Street, it was none other than myself, half-crazed and shaking like a scared dog.
Upon my arrival in the neighborhood, the clock in the church tower had chimed eleven. It was later than I had thought, and far too cold for a sane man to be about. All but one light was out in Holmes’s flat and I assumed him to be asleep. It did not matter. The burden of that night was too much to bear alone, and at the very least I needed the comfort of my old friend’s solid intellect.
I paced, until my shoes threatened to wear ruts in the sidewalk. I wanted desperately to turn around and return to my own home, have a brisk shot of brandy, and slide between the cool sheets of my bed. What I most emphatically did not want was to see my relationship with Holmes tainted by the appearance of insanity. Still, there was nothing for it but to plunge ahead, and I finally dashed for the door in desperation, wanting to reach it before my traitorous feet turned away yet again. Before I could raise my hand to the door knocker, the door swung inward, and I found myself stumbling to a clumsy halt, staring into the grinning countenance of Mr. Sherlock Holmes.
“Do come in, Watson,” Holmes said with a twinkle in his eye that set my cheeks burning with embarrassment. “Another few paces and you’ll wear the leather from your soles.” As he took in my own expression, Holmes grew more serious, and he closed the door quickly behind us, taking my coat.
“I’m terribly sorry about the hour, Holmes,” I blurted, “But the matter simply can’t wait.”
“I gathered from the odd slant of your hat and the mismatching of buttons that this was a matter of some importance,” he replied. He turned and disappeared into his study, and I hurried to catch up with him. When I reached the dimly lit room, he was already in his chair, legs stretched out before him and fingers pressed together under his chin. “So tell me what brings you out so late on a cold night.”
“I’ve come to offer you a new client, Holmes.”
“But you’ve come alone. Who, then, would your client be?”
I watched him for a moment, steepling his fingers and staring at me, eyes twinkling. I knew he had already deduced my reply, but I made it anyway. “It is I, Holmes. This time, it is I who seeks your aid.”
The skin around his eyes drew taut and his lips pursed. “Very well, Watson. Why don’t you sit down, take a brandy, and tell me your story.”
I sat back, closed my eyes, and let the events of the evening flow back into my consciousness, telling the tale as best I could. I knew any detail I left out, or forgot, might prove the one thing Holmes needed to see through it all as nonsense, so I was careful. The brandy helped. This is the tale I told.
It was but a few hours before when a knock came at my door. It was later than I was accustomed to accepting callers. I immediately assumed it to be you, Holmes. Who else would call on me at such an hour? My heart quickened at the thought of adventure, and I hastened to open the door.
The man who met my gaze was gaunt, tall, and weathered as if he’d spent long years on the deck of a ship, or working a farm. His complexion was dark, and his coat clung to him like a shroud. I could make out two others standing directly behind him in the gloom.
“Dr. Watson,” he asked, his voice sharp and edgy.
“You have me at a disadvantage,” I countered. “I’m Watson, and you are? My God, man, do you know the time?”
“I am well aware of the time,” the man answered. “My business with you cannot wait.”
The man held forth a sheet of paper, pressing it toward my nose as if I could read it in the dark. “Did you sign this?” he asked sharply.
“I can’t see what it is from here,” I said. “Step inside Mr. . . .”
“Silverman,” he said, stepping hurriedly through the doorway. “Aaron Silverman. My companions are Mr. Sebastian Jeffries and . . . well, read the paper, and you may see who else accompanies me.”
I knew I should have told the men to return by daylight, but I’d invited them in, and the deed was done. I glanced at the other two, who remained silent. The first was a white-haired old chap with ruddy features and wide, bulging eyes. His cheeks were overly full, making his lip drape oddly downward. I didn’t know him. The third wore a dark coat, as did Silverman, and a hat pulled down to hide the features of his face.
I glanced back to the paper and began to read. It was a death certificate. I had signed it only a week before, pronouncing one Michael Adcott dead of a knife wound to the back. Mr. Adcott had been out too late in the wrong part of town, and apparently someone had fancied his wallet.
“What has this to do with any of you?” I asked bluntly.
“Mr. Jeffries,” the first man explained, “is my solicitor. I should say, he is my cousin’s solicitor. I’m not certain if you would have been told, but there was a sizable fortune—a tontine—involved in the death. Michael was one of only two surviving members of the tontine, and upon the declaration of his death, the courts moved to deliver the tontine’s assets to a Mr. Emil Laroche.
“I knew of no tontine,” I said, “but I see no way I can help you in such a matter. Mr. Adcott died, and as I understand such arrangements, that would indicate that the courts were in the right.”
“So you say,” Silverman said, “and yet, you would be—for the second time this week—mistaken.”
I blinked at him. “Mistaken? How—”
Silverman held up a hand, then turned to his third companion.