Chapter 4 ― The Resolve of Mary Morstan (Part 5)

We cleared the courtroom and ran towards the vestibule of the law courts. By now it was already heaving with adherents of spiritualism, their heads covered in snow. They had learned what had transpired in the courtroom from those who had fled the chaos inside, overwhelmed the cordon of patrolmen, and were now surging toward Madame Richborough.

“Dr. Watson!” they yelled, their hands reaching for me. “What’s going on?”

“Nothing, I tell you, nothing! You must calm yourselves!” I shouted, but my entreaties fell on deaf ears.

If what Stamford and Madame Richborough had stated were correct, then these people had interpreted Holmes of London as some sort of spiritualist parable; they believed that London belonged to the spiritual realm. I was horrified to see the beseeching gaze in their eyes. Entirely unawares I had unwittingly become venerated as an evangelist of spiritualism.

As we struggled to pass through the hordes of spiritualist devotees which crowded the hall, Irene Adler made her way in behind us.

“Dr. Watson! Mary!” she shouted. “Avert your eyes!”

Without thinking I did as I was told, only to hear what sounded like the whoosh of a firework, followed shortly by the cries of the spiritualists. I opened my eyes and saw that the crowd was cringing and clawing at their eyes, blinded by what I could only assume had been some sort of flare.

“Not to worry,” Irene Adler told us, pushing us along, “They are only temporarily stupefied.”

Using the situation to our advantage, we ran pell mell out of the hall. The snow was still falling, and we could just make out through the flurry the heavy-laden branches of the imperial forest.

It was only a short distance from the law courts to Holmes’s abode. We went east along Marutamachi Street then turned south down Teramachi Street. The traffic was scant on such a day as today; the carriageways were blanketed in white, as were the tile roofs of the houses which we passed by. Everything was still, which made it feel like we were trapped in a strange dream indeed.

Mrs. Hudson answered our frantic pulls at the bell, and her eyes opened wide at the sight of the snow-dusted crowd which stood on her doorstep.

“What’s all this, then?”

“Good day, Mrs. Hudson,” said Irene Adler, brushing the snow from her coat. “Is Mr. Holmes in?”

“No,” Mrs. Hudson shook her head, “He went out at noon yesterday, saying that he needed to buy some things for his journey. I haven’t seen him since.”

“Could he have already departed for his tropical island?”

“I’m sure that couldn’t be the case. His valise is still sitting in his room where he left it.”

We climbed the stairs and entered Holmes’s room. The curtains were drawn, and the fireplace was cold. Mrs. Hudson pulled open the shades, and in the faint light which came in through the window we spotted the valise on his bed. Among the things packed inside was the old violin-case. At Holmes’s request, Mrs. Hudson had taken custody of Watson the goldfish.

“What’s this about? Is Mr. Holmes all right?” At the sight of our grave expressions Mrs. Hudson could not help but grow anxious.

I looked around the room. It was hard to believe this emptied chamber had once been the same place where Holmes and I had started so many adventures. The life was gone from it. It was then that I was certain that Sherlock Holmes was no longer in this world.

“Holmes has entered the Chamber of the East of the East,” I declared.

Upon my pronouncement Irene Adler looked at me, biting her lip. She must have shared my epiphany, and yet when she spoke there was a note of defiance in her voice.

“Nothing is decided yet,” she said. “Let us say that he has indeed gone into that room. How does that explain what happened in that courtroom? Nothing of the sort has happened before, neither with William Musgrave, nor Miss Rachel.”

“It is a brand new phenomenon that we are dealing with,” I replied.

“We must inquire with Reginald Musgrave,” suggested Mary.

As we came down the stairs we heard the bell ringing, and the sound of someone desperately pounding on the door.

Mrs. Hudson had come down before us, and no sooner had she opened the door than a girl came bursting in, covered in snow. The blood was drained from her pallid face.

Irene Adler caught her in her arms.

“Miss Rachel! What are you doing here?”

“You must help me!” panted Rachel Musgrave. “Something is happening at Hurlston, something dreadful!”

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The sun had nearly set by the time we arrived at Higashiyama Station. The snow fell from the grey clouds as incessantly as before, and all the souvenir shops in front of the station which were so bustling in the autumn were shuttered.

“I can hardly recognize the place,” Mary murmured.

At the station gates a brougham with the Musgrave crest was waiting , lamplight glowing within its windows. Standing beside it was a man with a square lantern, who upon seeing our approach nimbly bounded through the snow towards us.

“William!” cried Miss Rachel, dashing towards him.

The groundskeeper’s face was haggard and gaunt. He smiled at Miss Rachel, then turned to us.

“Thank you for coming,” he said. “Master Reginald is unable to leave the estate at the moment. Things have taken a turn for the worse.”

“Holmes has entered the chamber, hasn’t he?” I asked. “What’s happening there?”

“Master Reginald will tell you everything. We should depart immediately.”

Ushering us inside the brougham he jumped up to the driver’s seat. Immediately the carriage leapt away from the station and over the Togetsukyo Bridge. The surface of the river glinted a dull silver, silently swallowing up the snowflakes that fell upon it. In the darkness, snow-covered Higashiyama loomed over us like an enormous white whale. Everything was so quiet that it was as if all creation was holding its breath. We were in the calm before the storm.

Leaning against Mary I slumped into the seat. Irene Adler and Miss Rachel sat across from us. I mutely gazed out the windows. The carriage rolled over through the ancient roads toward Hurlstone, past glowing inns and farmhouses. The buildings gave way to vast fields buried in snow, and for a moment I saw someone standing in a meadow.

Holmes!

There could be no mistaking it―the ghostly figure was exactly that which had appeared in the courtroom, and there were no footsteps leading from the edge of the field. As it receded into the distance it transformed into the form of Professor Moriarty. I gasped.

“You saw it, didn’t you, Dr. Watson?” whispered Miss Rachel. Her face was white as a sheet.

The borders between reality and fantasy were falling away.

Madame Richborough’s ghastly voice resounded in my ears: This world is but a shadow of London.

The carriage rolled onward through the dark bamboo forest. As it approached the manor the bamboo stalks gave way to the pale light of the open sky. The lawn was a sheet of pale white, but an awning had been erected in the garden, underneath which we saw the glowing light of lamps and fires. It was as if people had fled the manor house and taken shelter there.

It was immediately apparent that something strange was happening in the mansion. Every window was luminous with what appeared to be pale moonlight, and I could hear the sound of the babbling of many tongues coming from inside its walls, every voice mingling until it sounded as if the building itself was groaning.

The carriage stopped by a bonfire, letting us out into the snow.

Reginald stood alone in front of the fire beneath the swirling snowflakes. Taking his sister’s hand he nodded at us, with the hopeless look of a man adrift.

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“Holmes came here yesterday afternoon,” said Reginald Musgrave as he gazed into the fire. “His visit was a surprise, to be sure, but a welcome one. I had been worried for him ever since his retirement announcement early in the year. I insisted he stay the night, and after dinner we retired to my study to chat in front of the fire. He was in a much improved frame of mind, positively bursting with energy, compared to the last time I saw him. I could hardly believe that he had retired.”

Holmes had talked of nothing but his impending departure for the South Pacific, but as the night wore on his expression became earnest. “There is one last case I must resolve before I go,” he had said. All of his pending cases he had entrusted to Irene Adler, save one, for that case was one which could not be solved by even the most skilled detective.

It will come as no surprise to my readers that he spoke of the mystery of the Chamber of the East of the East.

“It is like a sunken rock, lurking in wait to shipwreck passing vessels,” Holmes said, “I cannot allow Miss Adler to take on such a cursed thing. I will finish it once and for all.”

“How do you intend to do that?”

“I will go into the Chamber of the East of the East myself,” replied Holmes, leaning forward. “And I will bring Professor Moriarty back.”

“Preposterous! How can you be sure that you will make it out again?” shouted Musgrave in astonishment.”

“Too long I have averted my eyes; I can no longer, not when those close to me are threatened by it. The mystery of the Chamber of the East of the East cannot be solved from without: that was the crux of my failure twelve years ago. Therefore it must be solved from within.”

Musgrave attempted to talk him down, but Holmes’s resolve was firm. After he had left for the Chamber, Musgrave remained in the study to wait for him. Anxiety gathered within him. The seconds ticked by, yet Sherlock Holmes did not return. As night approached, Musgrave’s eyelids fluttered closed. Some time later he awoke with a start. All was still. A sliver of white light shone between the curtains. He got up and pulled them aside to find the world covered in snow.

As he leaned down to stoke the smouldering fireplace, he sensed someone behind him. He turned to find Sherlock Holmes standing there in the study. Yet there was something strange about him. His hair was disheveled, and he was not wearing what he had when he left the study. Most disturbing of all was the hate which filled his glance, as if he looked upon a mortal enemy.

“I can spare you five minutes if you have anything to say, Professor Moriarty,” he said, before transforming before Musgrave’s dumbfounded gaze into Professor Moriarty and saying, “You must stand clear, Holmes, or be trodden underfoot.”

It was then Musgrave realized that what he was seeing was an illusion. He ran out of the study, and in the foyer and on the landing and in the corridor which led to the old wing, he saw the phantoms, Holmes transforming into Moriarty and back again, repeating that same exchange of words he had heard in the study. The words echoed eerily throughout the house, and here and there he heard the yells and screams of the servants. Hurlstone was overrun by the spirits.

None of us could speak or hardly even breathe as we listened to Musgrave’s unsettling tale. Nothing around us seemed real; not a star could be seen in the lightless sky as Hurlstone glowed like a cemetery lantern, moaning in the night. The servants huddled beneath the awning uncertainly, watching over the two Musgraves.

“Holmes entrusted a letter to me,” said Reginald Musgrave, “It’s for you, Dr. Watson.”

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MY DEAR WATSON:

I have given this letter to Musgrave in the event that the worst should happen.

Allow me first to apologize for keeping you in the dark about what I am about to do. My plan is too reckless to involve you. Forgive me.

I can disclose now that I gave up my cases to Miss Adler and announced my own retirement so that I could finish things with the Chamber of the East of the East once and for all. Now that I have settled my personal affairs I can do so with my mind at ease. I must admit, as I prepare to enter the chamber, that a part of me still longs to sail far away to the tropics. But I cannot abandon Professor Moriarty to his fate, and another part of me is irresistibly drawn to the mystery of that chamber. I know that my expedition may be doomed, but nevertheless I must do what I can.

If I do not return, I leave 221B Teramachi Street and all that is in it to you. My belongings are few, but there is that tin dispatchbox, which contains the records of all the cases I handled prior to our acquaintance. I hope they will be of some use to you in your writing career. I am sorry that I will not be able to read any more of your Holmes of London stories. In my opinion they are a masterpiece.

Goodbye, old friend. Give my best to Mary, Miss Adler, and Mrs. Hudson.

Remember, in spirit I will always be by your side.

Your friend,

Sherlock Holmes

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When I looked up, I found everyone staring at me in silence: Reginald and Rachel Musgrave, Irene Adler, and Mary. Firelight flickered on their faces. I looked at Hurlstone manor, still glowing with that eerie moonlight, and issuing forth the moaning sound. I had decided what I must do.

“I am going to rescue Holmes.”

“You can’t, Dr. Watson!” cried Irene Adler. “If that room takes you too…”

“These phenomena which we have witnessed are occurring because Holmes is even now battling to bring back Professor Moriarty. He needs a partner at his side.”

A curious sense of conviction spread throughout my chest. Somewhere, beneath the surface of the water, it was all connected: the ancient mystery of the Chamber of the East of the East; Holmes’s year and a half long slump; the world of London which Professor Moriarty had created; Madame Richborough’s spiritualist revolution. These were not separate events, but all parts of a case unlike any in the annals of detective fiction. And we were now closing in on its nucleus.

Irene Adler put her hand on Mary’s arm.

“What is your opinion, Mary? You must say something.”

Mary stared at me. The crackling firelight sparkled in her limpid eyes. Why must you go? they asked. You are his biographer, nothing more. Have you not suffered enough on his behalf? Why must you accompany him on another of his foolhardy adventures?

But those words were not what she said.

“Come back, my dear. Promise me you’ll come back,” said she, embracing me tightly.

“I promise, Mary,” I said, “I will come back to you.”