Chapter 5 ― The Triumphant Return of Sherlock Holmes (Part 3)

It was then I realized that the boarding-house was unnaturally quiet. I wondered what Madame Richborough and Cartwright were up to. It was as if the entire house was holding its breath, eavesdropping on our conversation. I looked at Holmes and saw that his features were tense and alert.

There was a knock at the door.

“Dr. Watson?” called Madame Richborough’s voice.

Holmes stood up and pressed a finger to his lips. Dousing the lamp flame, he got up on the desk and softly pushed open the window. All the while, Madame Richborough was insistently rapping on the door, and I heard a note of impatience and frustration growing in her tone.

“Dr. Watson? I know you are in there,” she insisted. “You must open the door. There is an important matter I must discuss with you.”

At the windowsill Holmes turned and extended a hand.

“You’ll come with me, won’t you, Watson?”

I clambered onto the desk and followed Holmes through the window. It was a cool night, and moonlight fell on the brick chimneys which thrust up from the gentle slope of the rooftop. Grasping the window frame I glanced back into the garret. It felt like I had taken a leap over the edge of the world. At that very moment the door was opened, and the instant Madame Richborough saw me outside the window she shrieked in astonishment, “What are you doing?”

Holmes began to climb the roof on hands and knees.

“Watch your step, Watson!”

As I followed him up the roof I heard thumping footsteps and the sound of chairs being kicked aside from the garret window.

“Where’s he gone?”

“He’s outside!”

I saw Cartwright lean out the window.

“Dr. Watson!” he shouted. “Come back! Professor Moriarty awaits you!”

When I showed no signs of heeding him the young artist cursed and blew a shrill note on a whistle. The courtyard came alive with glowing lanterns, and there were more shouts and running footsteps. It appeared that the Professor’s henchmen had been lying in wait.

“There he is!”

With all the commotion it was as though a fire had broken out in the house. All around the neighbourhood curious faces appeared at the windows.

At the top of the roof, Holmes ran along the ridge and leaped to the adjacent building.

“It’s almost like we are the criminals!” I panted. “Why haven’t you arrested Moriarty yet?”

“It is part of the game,” replied Holmes nonchalantly. “If we were to arrest the professor, his underlings would scatter like so many spiderlings in the wind, and the case against him would fall apart in court. No, we must scoop the whole gang up in one fell swoop.”

“Well, the way things are, it may very well be us who are scooped up, Holmes.”

The alleyways of London stretched out beneath us like a tightly woven lattice; here little windows burned with light, and there drying racks stood like masts in the vast sea of rooftops and chimneys beneath the silvery moon. In that vast silhouette I imagined hidden mysteries lurking around every corner.

Holmes pointed with his left hand.

“This way, Watson!”

We slid down the sloped roof and jumped to the next building. At the corner of the roof was a doorway which led to a stairwell, which we descended as quietly as we could. The residents appeared to be asleep, and when we reached the ground floor we found ourselves in a second-hand goods store, with dusty odds and ends piled high on the dirt floor. The light of the gas lamps which came in through the window in the door fell on cracked trifold mirrors, old-fashioned wardrobes and tables. We crouched down and picked our way through the miscellanea. Holmes paused to take up a rusty sword which was propped up beside a suit of armour.

A group of our pursuers passed in front of the shop at that exact moment. One of them pressed his face to the window in the door, his eyes keenly roving around the interior of the shop. Holmes immediately pressed himself to the floor, still carrying the saber, while I hid myself in the shadow of a wardrobe and held my breath. Presently our adversary appeared to give up his search and move on. But suddenly our eyes were dazzled by a light from the back of the shop. There stood the old proprietor holding a lantern, croaking, “Who’s there?”

Almost immediately the front door was smashed down, and four men sprang in.

With a shriek the proprietor dropped his lantern and fled whence he had come. Holmes leapt to his feet, and in the twinkle of an eye he had spent two of them sprawling with that rusty blade. I knocked aside the wardrobe and hurled myself at another with all my might, knocking him to the ground whereupon another pile of rubbish collapsed atop him.

The last man scuttled out of the shop, falling over himself in his haste.

“I’ve found them!” he shouted, and from down the alley we heard the threatening drumbeat of uncountable footsteps coming our way.

Holmes and I fled for our lives ever deeper into the labyrinth of streets.

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It was only when we reached Oxford Street that we at last could catch our breath. Even at this hour the street was bustling with people going to and fro in the light of the street lamps and pubs.

With a blast on his whistle Holmes summoned a cab.

“To Scotland Yard!” he shouted, and in a moment we were off. As the carriage flew west down Oxford Street, reminiscences of the adventures Holmes and I had shared whirled through my head. After making my escape from Afghanistan in 1881 I drifted into London, and the despair I felt upon my arrival I will never forget. Cold rain drenched the dreary streets, and the multitudes who rushed in and out of the station all seemed weary and exhausted. Who among them would even notice that an ex-army surgeon rendered infirm by typhus and a Jezail bullet had joined their number? How I would make my way in this besmogged, grimy metropolis, I had no idea.

It was my chance meeting with Sherlock Holmes that transformed everything. After taking up residence at Baker Street it was as though London was a completely different city. Before our acquaintance it had been a cold, aloof, inhuman place; afterwards it was a place of wonder and intrigue where adventure might lurk around any corner.

Grubby dockyards and piers on the banks of the Thames―tangled, labyrinthine streets under the glow of gas lamps in the night―plazas packed with theatre-goers on their way back from a play―under Sherlock Holmes’s magic spell, all of these scenes were transformed into potential gateways to thrilling adventures. Grey old London became glittering Baghdad from the Arabian Nights, and I Caliph Harun al-Rashid, roaming its bewitching streets.

The hansom turned south at Charing Cross.

“The jig is up for the professor,” explained Holmes. “On Monday next the net will close on him and all the principal members of his gang. Then will come the greatest criminal trial of the century, the clearing up of dozens of mysteries, and the rope for all of them.”

“I congratulate you, Holmes. It is a splendid accomplishment.”

“I cannot feel easy until it is all over, of course. Professor Moriarty is desperate to silence me, as you are well aware; I have already been the target of countless assaults. But one must be prepared for retribution if one is to take on such a foe. Even were something to befall me it will be no great hindrance; the evidence has been placed in front of the highest echelons of Scotland Yard, and I have every confidence that Lestrade will carry out his instructions to the letter.”

Inspector Lestrade was another with whom I had a long history. We had first met at Lauriston Gardens, during the investigation which I have chronicled in the brochure entitled A Study in Scarlet, and he had been a fixture in many cases since. While Holmes was not very complimentary of his proficiency in deduction, he considered Lestrade to be as reliable and tenacious as a bulldog. That Holmes had turned to him as a partner in this investigation spoke to the trust that the detective held in the inspector.

“I know that Professor Moriarty is out for your blood,” said I, turning things over in my mind. “But what does he want with me? Even as his ally I doubt I would not be of much use. In fact, I still find it hard to believe that Madame Richborough and Cartwright are in league with him.”

“It took me quite some time to unmask his crimes,” said Holmes, watching the street ahead with gimlet eye. “You know my methods when I am pursuing an investigation. I put myself in the place of the perpetrator, and think as he does. I considered what Professor Moriarty would do in this position, though I am well aware that he must also be placing himself in my shoes and predicting my course of action. He knows my mind as well as I know his, and thus he understands as no one else does how dear to me is John H. Watson.”

A well of emotion sprang up in my breast at his words.

“Without Watson, there is no Holmes…”

“Yes, Mrs. Hudson was right: without my Watson, there is no Holmes,” grinned Holmes cheerfully. “How arrogant I have been! I thought that if our world was a book, I would be the protagonist, and Watson in the role of my faithful biographer. But now I realize that that was a grave error. You have your own life, your own loved ones; it is not right that you be forced to sacrifice yourself on my account. I cannot express the depth of my regret for what happened with Mary. I have spent this year locked in combat with Professor Moriarty, and I tell you that it has been a solitary, grueling year. Many times I have thought to myself that it would all be bearable if you were by my side. I am not Sherlock Holmes without you. I suppose I ought to be grateful to the professor for bringing me to that realization.”

A brisk night breeze whispered across our faces. The hansom rushed through the night, through the uncountable people and carriages which thronged Trafalgar Square, past the stately ministries and magnificent offices of Whitehall. On the right I saw the Naval Department and the Ministry of Finance flash by. The closer we came to Scotland Yard, the more pronounced the tension became in Holmes’s expression. I am sure that the impending operation weighed heavily on his mind, and each time we passed a street-lamp I saw a youthful glimmer of uncertainty in his eyes.

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We lit from the cab before the door of Scotland Yard. Here the damp night air was close; the banks of the Thames were shrouded in fog, in which the lights of the street-lamps floated like pale hazy orbs. Over by the Westminster Bridge loomed the shadow of the clock tower.

Quickly we made our way through the hushed stillness toward the wide, brilliantly lit brick facade. But abruptly Holmes stopped in his tracks.

“That’s strange.”

“What’s wrong?”

“It’s too quiet, don’t you think? It’s like the place is deserted.”

Holmes was right. Even this late at night, Scotland Yard was never this quiet. Inside we found the lobby and reception desk empty; not a single officer was on duty.

“Anyone there?” called Holmes, approaching the desk, but his voice only echoed hollowly back from the high ceiling. He frowned and knocked on the counter.

“Let’s try the investigation headquarters,” said he. We entered the hallway on the right side of the lobby and took the stairs up to the second floor. But it was eerily still there as it had been downstairs. There was an interminable row of grey doors set into the cold plaster walls; I opened one of them to peer into the room beyond. Every corner was crammed with weathered cabinets and desks, and at the far end of the room was an office with the placard of some detective. The lights were burning brightly, and yet the room was deserted. It was as though something had caused the entire department to flee in terror.

Holmes stopped in front of one of the doors.

“Here it is,” he said, and opened the door.

The moment I stepped inside I was seized with astonishment.

The headquarters was dark and desolate as a midnight moor. In its center was a desk atop which burned a single green-shaded lamp, and behind it sat a man. Though he faced us, his head buried in his hands, and it was clear that he was nearly insensate. Outside the window, the mist gathered and undulated over the Thames. It was a scene out of a nightmare.

“What’s happened here?” I murmured in amazement.

Upon hearing my voice a start went through the man’s frame, and he looked up. In the light of the lamp I saw that it was Inspector Lestrade looking back at me. His gaunt, unshaven face was as pale as a cadaver, and in his expression I saw utter despair.

“Dr. Watson,” he whispered in a disappearing voice. “What can I do for you?”

I rushed up to him.

“Get a hold of yourself, man. Where is the headquarters for the investigation?”

“Dissolved.”

“What?”

“I tell you it is dissolved. The investigation has been terminated,” he said in a hopeless voice, getting to his feet. Slowly he walked out of the lamplight and melted into the darkness. I approached him once more, but he flapped his arms at me and continued to back away, as though he wished to hide himself from view.

“But what of Moriarty’s crimes?”

“Moriarty’s crimes? There are no such things,” he replied, his voice quivering and low. “The Commissioner of Police, the Home Secretary―they are merely puppets controlled by the professor. He is Britannia itself. And you would demand we arrest such a man? No, the investigation has been terminated, and the evidence destroyed.”

“You have gone mad, Lestrade!” I said sharply.

“It is the world that has gone mad. We are all putty in the hands of Professor Moriarty. His agents are everywhere. They are always watching. I can trust none of my colleagues. I would reach out to Holmes for aid, but he is nowhere to be found. I am alone now, alone against the world. Will you tell me now to struggle on alone?”

“Nowhere to be found? Why, he is right here!” I turned around and was met with yet another shock.

The room behind me was empty.

I felt as though I had been tossed into a bottomless chasm.

“Holmes? Where have you gone?”

“Have you just woken from a nap, Doctor? Holmes went missing two weeks ago. Either he has already fled the country, or he is at the bottom of the Thames.”

“Don’t be absurd.”

“I am sure you find it difficult to accept. But you are being self-indulgent. Where were you when Holmes was laying his life on the line? Do not come out of your burrow now and presume to lecture me on what is absurd.”

In anger I rushed at him, and he at once fell on his rear end, quivering in fear. His face retained that doleful expression, and he made no attempt to get up, as if he were a marionette whose strings had been cut.

If the investigation had been halted, then that meant Professor Moriarty’s gang were free men, and Holmes’s plan was all for naught. The tables had turned. I backed away, and yelled again for Holmes. But there was no reply.

Leaving Lestrade there I fled the room. I did not find Holmes in the empty corridor either. It was as though he had never been there at all.

I wandered the entire building, calling out his name, and when I returned to the lobby it was to find I had fallen into the clutches of the enemy. The entire room was filled with inspectors and uniformed officers, silently waiting for me. In their midst of the assembly stood a slender, well-dressed young man.

“Good evening, Dr. Watson,” said he, reaching up to doff his hat. One glance at his fair features and I immediately recognized him as the young man in front of the book shop who had eagerly told me that he had attended my reading, and who had been watching me from beneath the eaves of the tobacconist on Oxford Street. No doubt he had been spying on me all along at the behest of Professor Moriarty. A gesture from him, and the waiting policeman surrounded me.

I could only stand there in helpless bewilderment as he walked up to me.

“I come bearing an invitation from Professor Moriarty.,” he said, handing me a card. The paper was strong and stiff, and embossed in white on backing the colour of darkest night were the words: THE BLACK GALA. I turned it over to find it continued on the back: The Criterion Theatre―Piccadilly Circus. This then, would mark the inaugural gathering of all the members of Professor’s Moriarty organization.

“Why―?”

“You are Sherlock Holmes’s biographer, are you not?” smiled the young man. “You must be there to witness his end.”

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The mysterious youth directed me out the way I had come in. The mist had thickened, and the opposing bank of the Thames was so shrouded that I could not help but imagine what ghosts and spirits must teem within. A four-wheeled brougham awaited us outside the gates of Scotland Yard, pulled by a pair of beauties; lamplight glowed within its windows.

“To the Criterion,” called the young man to the driver, beckoning me to enter the carriage.

The bells of Big Ben echoed out over London as we set off for Piccadilly Circus. I had heard those chimes uncountable times before, but tonight they reverberated with a strange, hollow chord, one which seemed to me altogether not of this world.

I’m here to fetch you back to reality, Sherlock Holmes had said in my garret. But was this reality? Scotland Yard in the clutches of Professor Moriarty, and Sherlock Holmes vanished like smoke, and me in a carriage on my way to a “Black Gala”―was this truly reality? I had awakened from the dream of The Triumphant Return of Sherlock Holmes, and yet I felt like I had blundered into a nightmare.

In his seat across from me the young man took off his top hat. He was clean-shaven, and when he removed his barrette his flaxen hair flowed down his back. It was only then that I realized with whom I had been dealing with all along.

“Irene Adler!”

“I am honoured that I have a place in your memory.”

How could I forget the name of Irene Adler? She had been the only woman to ever get the best of Holmes, such that ever after he would only refer to her by the honourable title of the woman. It was only fitting that I gave her pride of place in The Triumphant Return of Sherlock Holmes as his rival in detection. Yet I had only met her once, during the case I have recorded under the title A Scandal in Bohemia. I suppose I could not be blamed for failing to recognize her in that practised male costume.

She sank down lazily into the opposing seat. Under the lamplight I observed that her pale beauty had not faded, though there was something in that beauty which brought to mind a fragile porcelain doll; why, if I were to grab her by the shoulders and shake her I would hardly be surprised if she fell to pieces in front of me.

“How long it has been, Dr. Watson.”

“The last I heard of you, you were living a quiet, peaceful life somewhere on the Continent.”

“That was what I wished you all to think,” she grinned. “And I see you were completely taken in. Think of it: nothing had been resolved, and yet both his Majesty the King and Mr. Sherlock Holmes considered the matter finished. They thought that I had found true love and gone off to a fairy-tale ending, never to trouble them again. Godfrey was a useful tool, but a dull companion; neither of us loved nor was loved by the other. What person of sound mind would wish for such a thing? ‘Love’ is a mere sophism, useful only to distract one from one’s own defects, and nothing more. I wished to become strong enough that no one could ever again tell me what to do.”

“And so you joined forces with Professor Moriarty.”

“Precisely,” she replied with an air of indifference, looking out the window.

The brougham passed through Trafalgar Square and onto Regent Street. I noticed that every window in every building on both sides of the street was draped in black.

“To commemorate the Professor’s victory,” said Irene Adler in response to my unspoken query. It was like that unsettling, unbroken parade of ebony banners was shepherding us toward the Black Gala which lay at the end of our drive.

“Professor Moriarty is the greatest man on earth,” said Irene Adler with a tinge of boastfulness in her voice as she looked up at the flags. “He can calculate all there is to know, and bend anyone to his will. The sole exception being Sherlock Holmes. He alone stood in the way of the Professor’s ultimate plan. For too long he put up a futile resistance, but now his defeat is all but assured.”

“That remains to be seen.”

“And what do you propose he can do?” Irene Adler’s voice rose to a shrill shriek of laughter. “The adventures of Sherlock Holmes are over. Didn’t you yourself wish it to be so? You hated him. Not once during the six months that we have been watching you did you move to help him. That was a prudent decision, Dr. Watson, for his time is over, and the age of Moriarty is nigh. The Professor is the sole power in the land; he is the British government itself. Yet that is only the first step. During tonight’s Last Lecture we anticipate that he will reveal the full majesty of his great master plan.”

Eventually the brougham entered Piccadilly Circus. Despite the lateness of the hour the spacious plaza was flushed with a festival-like exuberance. The air was filled with curses and shouts as carriages streamed in from every direction, discharging their cargoes of shirtfronted men and beshawled, bediamonded women, all of them dressed in black.

The crowd was such that our carriage was forced to circle round, until at last it was forced to come to a halt.

“Never mind. We’ll walk,” said Irene Adler peevishly, calling to the driver to let us out. The carriage was stopped in front of the fire office, and we had to weave our way between the stalled hansoms in order to reach the Criterion Theatre. Every window in that famous facade was blazing with light, and the whole edifice reminded me of a fairy-tale castle. A stream of shadows passed in front of those windows, briefly blotting out the glowing squares like ants swarming over a heap of sugar cubes. Beneath that bright incandescence a stream of black figures streamed forth, laughing and conversing as they passed between those ominous banners to be swallowed up into the doorway.

Irene Adler beckoned me to step forth.

“Welcome to the Black Gala,” she said.