Chapter 1 ― The Wanderings of James Moriarty (Part 3)

―――Sherlock Holmes has fallen into a dreadful slump!

It was the case of the Red-headed League which made that fact plain to all of Kyoto.

Late the previous fall, a man with a head of fiery red hair by the name of Jabez Wilson had shown up on the doorstep of 221B Teramachi Street with a most unusual account. He was the proprietor of a small pawnbroker at the corner of Shijō and Yanaginobanba Street, he said, and had by a curious turn of events recently become a member of an organization called the Red-headed League, which had been founded upon the bequest of a millionaire in order to provide easy berths for red-headed men―said berth being the nominal task of copying the entirety of the Heibonsha World Encyclopedia, for which they were paid a princely sum. Mr. Wilson could hardly believe his luck at being inducted into the league, and settled into his odd but well-compensated work with no complaint.

But on that morning of that fateful day, Mr. Wilson had arrived at the office of the Red-headed League as usual, only to find a notice nailed to the door:

It was as if a tanuki had played a great trick on him. And so Mr. Wilson came to Holmes' door requesting him to get to the bottom of the matter.

Holmes and I set out to investigate the scene at once, and soon discovered that the back of Mr. Wilson's shop on Yanaginobanba Street just so happened to abut the vault of a large bank on Shijō Street, separated only by a wall. And it also so happened that this bank had only just received a considerable sum of golden French napoleons.

Perhaps this Red-headed League was merely a ruse, to extract the reclusive Mr. Wilson for a certain period every day and allow some unknown party to carry out its dark designs in his unattended office. Having ascertained that his pawnbroker's shop was adjacent to the vault of the neighbouring bank, it became clear that the plot must involve the digging of a tunnel in order to plunder the gold napoleons. And the dissolution of the League of Red-headed Men must signify that there was no longer any purpose in drawing Mr. Wilson out from his office, meaning that the tunnel had been completed―such was Holmes' thesis.

"There is no doubt about it. They will make their attempt on the bank tonight."

I did not question his theory for a moment. The chain of reasoning seemed entirely sound from start to finish.

We took our story to Inspector Lestrade at Shinchō Yard, obtained the assent of the director of the bank, and marched down into the cellar of the bank. There we spent the night in steadfast vigil, intending to apprehend the perpetrators as soon as they emerged from their tunnel. We waited for a very long time, there in that freezing subterranean vault. But the criminals never appeared.

We later established that the note claiming that the Red-headed League was dissolved had been nothing more than a simple prank by a disgruntled applicant to the vacancy which Mr. Wilson had instead filled. Improbable as it seemed, the Red-headed League did in fact exist. The tunnel―and the plot to steal the gold―did not.

"I may have been overhasty," Mr. Wilson sheepishly admitted the following week, having shown up to the office on Teramachi Street to deposit the paltry fee for which we had gone to so much trouble. I suppose he may still be found at the office of the Red-headed League, copying down entries about Tanuki and Tatami and Tengu.

Mr. Wilson got off rather light, but the incident took a far greater toll on poor Holmes. The extraordinary Red-headed League, the little pawnbroker's shop neighbouring the grand bank, the coincidental arrival of the gold napoleons: each of these disparate elements fit together perfectly when viewed through the framework of a heist. Perhaps too perfectly, for Holmes was by his own flawless conclusion led astray. He exerted a significant effort, persuading the bank director and arranging for a number of constables to lie in wait, and yet at the end of it all he failed to catch so much as a mouse in the trap he had so carefully laid.

Pride cometh before the fall, and when it hit the ground Holmes' pride shattered into a thousand fragments.

The following week, the impeccably informed Daily Chronicle published a exposé of the affair with the thunderous headline SHERLOCK HOLMES IN SHAMBLES. The piece thoroughly savaged Holmes' aptitude as a detective, and ended with a scathing quotation from none other than Lestrade: "Mr. Holmes' amateur pretensions have severely hindered the official police investigation."

Holmes had proceeded directly to the offices of the Daily Chronicle in Karasuma Oike to protest their publication of such an irresponsible article, but this only provoked the editors further. Shortly afterward the paper carried a considerably embellished account of his visit; SHERLOCK HOLMES GOES MAD was the headline. Holmes' face went white as a sheet when he read the article, and he promptly thrust a revolver loaded with Eley's No. 2 into his pocket and attempted to pay the newspaper another visit. It was all Mrs. Hudson and I could do to stop him.

Meanwhile, the article reverberated throughout Kyoto, and Holmes' reputation began to take a turn for the worse.

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It was morning when Holmes and I returned to Teramachi Street. The early morning light washed the street a pale, bleached white. Plodding along on our weary feet, we were overtaken by wagons laden with vegetables which rumbled over the cobbles toward Nishiki Market.

Both he and I were utterly exhausted.

"This is the last one," I said, stooping and plucking a fallen flower from the ground before the door of 221B Teramachi Street.

Professor Moriarty had already gone inside. After gazing up at his third-floor window for a moment, we opened the front door and dragged ourselves up the staircase to Holmes' quarters on the second floor.

While Holmes stirred the embers in the fireplace, I threw open the curtains to let the light inside. I needed to be back at my medical practice before Mary stirred, but I could hardly bring myself to take another step. My body was entirely frozen over; I had seldom felt so miserable.

Our pursuit of Professor Moriarty had gone on for the whole night. He had traced the river up to Demachiyanagi, crossed the Kamo Bridge, and continued east along Imadegawa Street. In the dead silence of night, the streets of the university town were like the stone corridors of a labyrinth. Yet it appeared that the professor had no business there tonight.

Once he reached the path to Ginkaku-ji, the professor turned north and proceeded for a long ways along Shirakawa Street, after which he struck west down Kita-ōji Street. Upon crossing the Kamo once more his route became truly haphazard. He wandered around Imamiya Shrine and Daitoku-ji, passed by Kinkaku-ji, swung around Kitano Tenmangū, and meandered by the jostling textile factories of Nishijin before then heading south down Senbon Street, and by the time he reached Nijō Castle light was creeping over the eastern horizon.

"A fine goose chase you've led us on!" Holmes groaned from his armchair. "An entire night's pursuit, and the professor as docile as a lamb, unless you consider being in impeccable health proof of some crime!"

I threw myself down upon the settee, too exhausted to emit even a groan.

What's the matter with you, Watson?

Only a year ago I had undertaken one grand adventure after another alongside Holmes. It was as though we had merely to step out of 221B Teramachi Street to stumble upon one thrilling intrigue or another. But now? We had spent the whole night stumbling around after a reclusive old man.

The morning sun shone bright upon the cream-coloured blinds, hearlding the dawn of another day was dawning, yet this only drove me deeper into my melancholy. Downstairs there was a ring at the bell.

Holmes glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece and scowled. "Is it too much to expect people to call at a more reasonable hour?"

The bell continued to clang insistently, and at last aroused from her slumber Mrs. Watson clattered down the hall to answer it. We heard her exchanging words with the visitor at the door.

"A telegram, perhaps," Holmes mused.

It was not. Shortly we heard footfalls coming up the stairs, fury reveberating in each thump.

I bounded up like a spring, my fatigue instantly forgotten. It was Mary!

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My wife Mary always called Sherlock Holmes "that man".

It was an indication that she intended to keep him at arm's length, but it was more than mere disapproval, for that would admit the possibility that they might still be on speaking terms. No, in Mary's eyes Holmes was beneath words now.

At first he had been "Mr. Holmes", before becoming "Holmes", and subsequently simply "that man". Each of these changes in his appellation had coincided with his undergoing some sort of transformation in Mary's eyes. Now Holmes was no longer her husband's colleague, or even his friend. My excoriation by the readers of The Strand Magazine, the dire straits of my medical practice, the discord which threatened our conjugal bliss―each of these maladies could be traced directly back to Sherlock Holmes. She was convinced that Holmes was not a human being composed of flesh and blood, but a pestilence which brought all kinds of evil in its wake.

I sprang from my chair and grasped Holmes' arm. "We are undone, Holmes! That's Mary coming up the stairs!"

"And what about it? I don't see what the fuss is about."

"I promised her I would no longer keep your company. She wasn't supposed to know I was here!"

"Really, Watson," said Holmes in disgust. "What a foolish thing to do. Did you think she is blind and deaf?"

"I was hoping she wouldn't catch on. What do we do now?"

"Gird ourselves for the worst, I suppose," said Holmes. "Stand up and face it like a man!"

"You can face if it you like, but leave me out of it!"

"What do you mean, leave you out? You're the centerpiece of this mess, not me!"

A rap at the door interrupted our squabbling. After a moment's silence, Holmes called out, "Come in!" and Mary quietly entered the room. She was wrapped up in a grey coat, and her face was extremely wan and tired.

"Hello again, Holmes," said she, before turning her icy gaze upon me. "And what are you doing here?"

"Well, you see―"

"I'd thought that you were going to play billiards with Thurston?"

"And we did. By sheer chance, I happened to run into Holmes at the same bar."

"And then what?" Mary's charming eyebrows arched upward.

"It had been so long since we had last seen each other, that we couldn't pass up the opportunity to have a little chat about the future. Now I know exactly how this must seem to you, and perhaps I took a somewhat liberal interpretation of your wishes...but you must understand that we were trying to find a way out of this slump, in our own way..."

As I began to falter, Holmes took over the thread.

"And it just so happened that we received an urgent request."

"A request?" Mary frowned. "What sort of request?"

"I am perfectly well acquainted with your opinion of our collaboration, but this was a case of great significance to Her Majesty's government. I will beg your forgiveness, but I simply could not do without Watson's assistance. "

"You see, Mary? I couldn't simply walk away."

"Yes, of course. It all makes perfect sense," Mary nodded, before asking a question which took me completely off guard. "And what exactly does sneaking around after an old man have to do with Her Majesty's government?"

Holmes and I were dumbfounded. I asked her how she knew about the old man.

"I'd noticed you had been acting strangely, so afterwards I paid a visit to the club. I found Thurston, who informed me that you had left a message begging off from tonight's appointment. That made it perfectly clear in my head that you were going to Teramachi Street. No sooner had I arrived here than I witnessed you two leaving the house, and so I quietly followed along. I believe I am entirely within my rights as a wife; after all, it is you who have lied to me."

"Followed along?" I said, aghast. "The entire night?"

"I was a member of the school paper in my boarding school days, you know. I can play detective if I feel like it, and so I tailed you both the whole night! But you have not answered my question. What is so important about sneaking around after an old man?"

Mary split her glare equally between Holmes and me. There was nothing I could say. I had been so focused on Professor Moriarty that the possibility that we were being followed in turn had never crossed my mind.

"You win, Mary," said Holmes, his capitulation quick. "We were following Moriarty, who has just moved in. He's not a criminal, or anything of the sort, just a retired college professor."

"In other words, you were following him for sport."

"I suppose that is true."

"Mr. Holmes, I must ask something of you," Mary declared, in the severe tone that she had learned to wield during her tenure as a governess in the household of Mrs. Cecil Forrester. It was the tone that indicated she was gearing up for a fight. "I want you to sever ties with John."

"You don't mince words, my dear."

"It's the only way you will listen."

"Mary—" I attempted to interject, but Mary cut me short with a curt gesture.

"Quiet, John. Let me handle this." She gazed evenly at Holmes. "Mr. Holmes, I'm well acquainted with my husband's feelings about the matter. You were his colleague, and his roommate, and, what's more, the reason he and I met. It is not a small debt which we owe to you. But now you have become hindrances to one another. You both ought to find your own paths, move forward under your own power. Yet when you are together you only waste time in commiseration. Just look at what you did last night, pretending to be detectives and following around an innocent old man for your own silly amusement. You surely must have realized this by now, Mr. Holmes. My husband has lost his grip upon reality. He is infatuated with all the adventures he had at your side, and as long as he is tagging along he will never be able to let go of his regrets. If you truly wish the best for my husband, you will end this unhealthy relationship. It is what is best, both for him and for you."

"Your point is well taken."

"Then—"

"But this is between Watson and me. As his wife you may of course discuss this with him to your heart's content. But it is not your place to tell me how I ought to live. It is clear that Watson here is very important to you, but he is also my dear friend. The slump that has afflicted me this past year is the greatest case of my life, and if I am to have any hope at all of solving it I cannot go without his assistance."

I could not remain unmoved by his plaintive words.

"Don't listen to him!" Mary snapped. "How many times will you let him lead you astray with his silver tongue?"

Light poured over the tense scene through the window over Teramachi Street. From this very room Holmes and I had set out on so many adventures. Where once the city of London had seemed such a grim, dismal place in our modern Victorian age, it had become a fount of limitless intrigue, and the cause of this transformation lay in none other but Holmes. I could not but be drawn to him by his ability to seemingly conjure up an adventure out of thin air. No matter how many times he disappointed me I could not bring myself to relinquish the hope that one day the Sherlock Holmes of old would make his triumphant return.

Holmes walked over to the window and raised the blinds.

"Will you give me a little more time, Mary?"

"I will not see John suffer any further."

"He is not the only one who is suffering."

"If you wish to suffer that is your prerogative," said Mary, a tired note in her voice as she averted her face. "But John But John has his own life to live. He is more than your personal biographer!"

Holmes said nothing, pressing his chin against the windowpane.

"Are you listening to me, Holmes?"

"Just a moment, Mary," said he, putting up his right hand. "There appears to be a commotion outside."

As he spoke, I heard a growing hubbub from the street below. It was now the time of day where the streets would normally begin to stir, but this was not the normal morning commotion. Holmes threw open the window, letting us hear the voices more clearly.

"My God!"

"Don't do it!"

Holmes leaned out the window and twisted his torso to look upwards. Immediately he drew back and ran to the door. "To the roof, Watson! There's not a moment to lose!"

"What's the matter?"

"It's Professor Moriarty. He's going to jump!"

In another moment Holmes had swept through the door and was running up the stairs like a gale.

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When I had lived in 221B Teramachi Street with Holmes, I would often ascend the stairs to the roof whenever I was puzzling over how to depict the particulars of a case. It wasn't much of a view, what with the chimneys that sprouted up like mushrooms, and the drying racks, and the little shrines to Benzaiten. To the east, beyond the Kamo River, I could see the belt of crop fields below Higashiyama, and to the west were the soot-covered rooftops of the great city.

I emerged onto the roof below a overcast sky after Holmes.

"Professor Moriarty!" Holmes shouted as he dashed ahead. The professor was standing atop the parapet facing away towards the street, his head despondently drooping low. With his black cloak draped around him he reminded me of an enormous crow.

Holmes sprinted past a Benzaiten shrine towards the professor. From the tremendous speed he was running at it was evident that he did not intend to patiently persuade the professor down from his perch. His judgment was sound. Hearing Holmes' footsteps approaching, the professor turned around. There was a strange expression on his face, halfway between a smile and a sob, but I had only the briefest moment to behold it before he began to fall backward. A cry rose up from the crowd below on Teramachi Street.

Holmes sprang to the parapet, leaned over, and grasped the professor's cloak with both hands. There was nothing keeping Holmes from being pulled over himself―he had acted with utter faith that I would be right behind him.

Without hesitation I grabbed on to his waist, but the force being exerted on me was tremendous. Holmes was being stretched like a rope. My sturdy legs had spent many days carrying me on my rounds, and now they were all that stood between Professor Moriarty and Holmes, and oblivion.

I felt a pressure around my waist; warm breath tickled my neck. Mary had come at last, and she was holding on to me for dear life.

"Hang on, John!" she shouted. "Don't you let go!"

Holmes was hanging on to Professor Moriarty, I was hanging on to Holmes, and Mary was hanging on to me―it was like the tale of the enormous turnip, and it was Mary who was keeping us all from falling over the edge, if only just.

Holmes swung the professor up like a hammer thrower. The professor sailed onto the roof like a black ball, and we all collapsed in a heap.

Spent mentally and physically, we lay there gasping for a while. I heard cheers come up from the distant street below. At last, Holmes roused himself and asked, "I hope you are not hurt, dear professor?"

"I am utterly worthless," sobbed the professor, who was curled up in a ball. "My God-given talent has gone from me!"

Holmes walked over to him. "May I trouble you to tell me more? I may just be able to help you."

Professor Moriarty sat up, and haltingly related his tale.

His slump had begun in the autumn of the previous year. His mind was as full as mathematical ideas as ever, yet none of them came to anything. In his distress he became an insomniac, and in an attempt to resolve his slump had retired from public life. The research he had been engaged in on the third floor, in short, was to resolve his slump.

Yet his efforts bore no fruit, and his malaise only worsened. In his despair he had resolved to throw himself into the Kamo River the previous night, but perplexed by the constant presence of Holmes and myself had not found the opportunity to do so. Thus he had wandered the entire night before returning to 221B Teramachi Street, where he had decided to throw himself off the roof before being thwarted yet again.

"What can it be, this devil that afflicts me?" the professor groaned, his head bowed, his voice breaking. "Suppose I make a mathematical discovery. At a glance, it appears unassailable. It is a joy like no other, I tell you, the joy of discovering a new truth with your own hands. But the following day, I discover a slight defect in the theorem. I attempt to repair the defect, yet my careful exertions only succeed in making the flaw ever larger, and after a vehement I realize that the 'truth' which I had previously rejoiced over is fit only to throw out with the refuse."

Holmes replied with great sympathy, "I understand perfectly how it is you feel. In fact I am even now grappling with precisely the same issue."

Professor Moriarty looked up at him in astonishment. "You mean you are in a slump as well?"

"Yes, and it is the greatest case of my life," said Holmes, and he held out his hand to the professor. "Working together we may yet solve this mystery. What do you say, professor?"

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Mary and I went out to the Kamo River.

It was a chilly morning, and the hansom rattled onward beneath the cloudy sky. Mary kept stifling yawns as the cab swayed back and forth, apparently too tired to speak. It seemed all the excitement with Professor Moriarty had put the matter of Holmes and I out of her mind, for now. Our playing detective had not been for nothing after all, for we had ended up saving the professor's life.

I thought back to all those flowers the professor had dropped on his path.

"So that's what it was," I murmured. "He was leaving them as a goodbye to the world."

"You're wrong, John," Mary said, still not moving an inch. "He wanted someone to pick up those flowers. He was crying for help."

I looked at her. Her face was childishly scrunched up in thought as she gazed out upon the passing scene. I could see the chill of the morning air, and the fatigue of the previous night's excursion, in her pale cheeks. Teardrops glistened, jewel-like, in the corners of her eyes.

"I suppose I can be angry at you another time." Her eyes fluttered shut, and her head sank down to rest upon my shoulder.