The Further Adventures of Sherlock Holmes - Revenge from the Grave E-Book

David Stuart Davies

• Herausgeber: Titan Books
• Kategorie: Krimi
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022

Seitenzahl: 316

Beschreibung

A brand-new Sherlock Holmes mystery from acclaimed Sherlockian author David Stuart Davies, featuring the return of the sinister Moriarty gang...When Professor James Moriarty plunged over the Reichenbach Falls the world believed that Sherlock Holmes was also dead. Three years later, Holmes has returned – but so, too, has a deadly threat. With Moriarty's criminal empire still very much alive, Holmes and Watson are forced to ask themselves if their greatest foe really did perish…

Leseprobe

Contents

Cover

Available Now From Titan Books The Further Adventures of Sherlock Holmes Series:

Title Page

Leave us a review

Copyright

Dedication

Prologue

Part One

Chapter One

Part Two

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Part Three

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Part Four

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-Two

Chapter Thirty-Three

Chapter Thirty-Four

Chapter Thirty-Five

Finale

Chapter Thirty-Six

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Chapter Thirty-Nine

Chapter Forty

Chapter Forty-One

Chapter Forty-Two

Chapter Forty-Three

Chapter Forty-Four

About the Author

AVAILABLE NOW FROM TITAN BOOKSTHE FURTHER ADVENTURES OF SHERLOCK HOLMES SERIES:

THE GRIMSWELL CURSE

Sam Siciliano

THE DEVIL’S PROMISE

David Stuart Davies

THE ALBINO’S TREASURE

Stuart Douglas

MURDER AT SORROW’S CROWN

Steven Savile & Robert Greenberger

THE WHITE WORM

Sam Siciliano

THE RIPPER LEGACY

David Stuart Davies

THE COUNTERFEIT DETECTIVE

Stuart Douglas

THE MOONSTONE’S CURSE

Sam Siciliano

THE HAUNTING OF TORRE ABBEY

Carole Buggé

THE IMPROBABLE PRISONER

Stuart Douglas

THE DEVIL AND THE FOUR

Sam Siciliano

THE INSTRUMENT OF DEATH

David Stuart Davies

THE MARTIAN MENACE

Eric Brown

THE CRUSADER’S CURSE

Stuart Douglas

THE VENERABLE TIGER

Sam Siciliano

THE GREAT WAR

Simon Guerrier

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THE FURTHER ADVENTURES OF SHERLOCK HOLMES:

REVENGE FROM THE GRAVE

Print edition ISBN: 9781789097924

E-book edition ISBN: 9781789097931

Published by Titan Books

A division of Titan Publishing Group Ltd

144 Southwark Street, London SE1 0UP

www.titanbooks.com

First edition: January 2022

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead (except for satirical purposes), is entirely coincidental.

© David Stuart Davies 2022. All Rights Reserved.

David Stuart Davies asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

To Steven T. Doyle and Charles Prepolec

Two of my favourite American Sherlockian scholars and dear friends

Prologue

France, January 1891

Monseigneur Charles Aubert drew back the curtains to the large French windows in his study and looked out across the moonlit gardens of the château, the shadows forming interesting patterns across the smooth surfaces of the extensive lawns. He consulted his watch. It was one minute after midnight. The she-devil was late. No doubt a ploy on her part to unsettle him.

With a sigh of irritation, he returned to his desk and withdrew a leather bag from the top drawer and fondled it, the coins within chinking gently as he did so. Placing the bag on his desk, he poured himself a glass of wine, checked the time once more and grimaced. It was then that the thought struck him that perhaps the creature would not come after all. This notion caused his heart to beat faster. He had to have those letters. They must be destroyed, otherwise his life would be ruined. With some agitation he returned to the window and gazed out once more. All remained still and silent.

Where the hell was she? He had capitulated to all her demands. Offered her the ridiculous price for the letters… This blasted woman who called herself Defarge.

Suddenly, he heard a noise behind him. He turned abruptly and, staring into the shadows at the far side of the room beyond the orange flickering flames of the fireplace, he glimpsed a figure.

‘You,’ he croaked.

‘Good evening, Monseigneur Aubert,’ came the reply, as the figure moved forward into the dim light. ‘You were expecting me.’

The young woman was dressed in a long cloak with a hood so that only her pale features were visible. But there was no doubt that this was his blackmailer, Madame Defarge. She seemed to have materialised out of thin air.

‘You have the letters?’ he barked, snatching up the leather pouch.

She smiled. ‘Will you not offer your guest a drink?’

‘Let us conclude this business. I have no wish to prolong matters any more than is necessary. This is not a social occasion.’ Now that the fiend had put in an appearance, Aubert grew in confidence. It was clear to him that she was ready to finalise the bargain. He was not prepared to put up with her sarcastic prevarications. He thrust his hand out. ‘The correspondence, please.’

Her smile broadened. ‘My fee, please,’ she responded.

Aubert snatched up the leather pouch and, untying the fastening, tipped the gold coins out on to the desk. They glinted in the candlelight. ‘There’s your blasted blood money. Now hand over the letters.’

Madame Defarge withdrew a packet from the folds of her cloak and dropped it to the floor. Without a moment’s hesitation Aubert rushed forward and bent down to retrieve it. As he did so, the woman, with a swift practised movement, slipped behind him and, producing a vicious and slender dagger, slit Aubert’s throat. Blood gushed and sprayed the package with a dark crimson sheen. Aubert gurgled, eyes wide with terror and shock. He managed to crawl a few yards on his hands and knees before slumping forward, the darkness of death overpowering him. She smiled with satisfaction. His removal was essential, for she knew that he would not let the matter lie. Aubert would compromise her, hound her, seek her out for revenge. With his death the trail ended here.

Madame Defarge stood for some moments staring down at her bloody conquest before picking up the packet of letters and dropping it into the fire where the eager flames quickly consumed it. She scooped up the gold coins from the desk and made an exit through the French windows.

*   *   *

On her return journey to Paris in her private carriage, Madame Defarge contemplated her future, one she had been considering for some months. Now she was ready to implement her plans. For a few years, using the pseudonym of Madame Defarge, courtesy of Mr Charles Dickens, she had built up a small but efficient criminal network which operated in Paris. As leader she had organised a series of daring robberies and blackmail scenarios, with the odd financially beneficial murder on the side. But now it was time for a change. France was getting too hot for her. She sensed the authorities were close on her heels. Now it was time to spread her dark wings. Now it was time to return to England.

Part One

Prelude

Chapter One

From the journal of John H. Watson, May 1894

The emotional blow I experienced following the death of Sherlock Holmes after his encounter with Professor Moriarty at the Reichenbach Falls was consolidated some six months later by the death of my wife, Mary. The loss of these two major figures from my personal landscape devastated me. For some time, the world darkened and I felt adrift from life and society. I began living a lonely pointless existence with, I am afraid to say, too much reliance on alcohol. It was only a surprise encounter with Stamford, my old friend from my days at Bart’s, that helped to drag me back to the straight and narrow. It would be true to say that he ordered rather than advised me to return to general practice. ‘Helping other poor souls recover their health and normality will soon help to ease your own traumas,’ he said with some force. ‘You are a doctor, Watson, and a good one; you should use your skills for the sake of your fellow man. Moping in bars at lunchtime is no way to exist.’

I mulled over Stamford’s words and through the haze of self-pity, I saw that he was right. And so, I set about what I thought of whimsically as the ‘Resuscitation of John Watson’. I set up a small medical practice in Kensington and gradually I had a comfortable patient base to set me on an even keel financially. While I could not claim to be completely happy, I did feel I had returned to humanity and was doing my best to help others and be respected for my endeavours.

True happiness came about when a strange visitor, claiming to be a decrepit old book collector, entered my consulting room on a May evening in 1894. Pulling off his false whiskers and false nose, he revealed himself as Sherlock Holmes.

My friend had returned from the dead, although, as he assured me, he had never actually died. He described to me in detail his encounter with Moriarty at the Falls and his remarkable escape. He had rid the world of the foremost criminal of the age and took advantage of the opportunity to disappear himself.

‘If the world were convinced that I was dead, that I too had perished with the Professor in that cauldron of foam, it would remove my shackles – I could take a rest from crime. I could travel around the world without the burden of responsibility which I had given myself: Mr Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective. I wanted not to be consulted, for a time at least. I wished to follow my own desires, to fill my mind with other things, refresh my jaded intellect – to absent myself from the bleat of the distressed client. So rapidly does the brain work in moments of heightened tension that I had resolved to disappear – to die for a while, if you like – almost before Moriarty’s body had reached the bottom of the abyss.’

I was hurt that he had not confided in me and accepted his apology for causing me the pain of believing him dead for three years. ‘Always I feared your affectionate regard for me might tempt you to some indiscretion. I simply could not risk it,’ he had explained.

I sighed heavily. ‘You were probably right. But, Holmes, why now? What has prompted this sudden reappearance?’

My friend pursed his lips. ‘To be honest, I was feeling that it was time for me to return to detective work. However, while I was contemplating this course of action, I received a communication from brother Mycroft expressing concerns about the growing criminal activity in London. He sensed that there was an organisation similar to that of Professor Moriarty on the rise again. That simple statement was enough to convince me that now was time to return to Baker Street. I packed my bags and came over at once to London. So it was that I was soon sitting in my old, battered armchair in my old rooms wishing that I could have my old friend Watson in the other chair opposite which he had so often adorned.’

My heart swelled at this observation. ‘It is my dearest wish, old fellow.’

Holmes beamed. ‘So it shall be. We’ll have you moved in swiftly – but something else must happen first.’

‘What is that?’

‘To capture that marksman who had accompanied the Professor on that fateful Swiss sojourn. Now, I suggest we get some victuals down us before the rigours of the evening. What do you say to supper at Marcini’s?’

In less than an hour we were seated at a discreet table in Marcini’s restaurant. The old place had not changed at all from the days when Holmes and I were regulars there. Even, the head waiter, Gyles, was still in situ and greeted us like old friends. We both settled for sea bass with new potatoes and a salad, accompanied by a bottle of Montrachet. We ate mostly in silence, both savouring the quiet intimacy of our reunion dinner, but when the cigars and brandies were being consumed, I could contain my curiosity no longer.

‘Tell me Holmes, what on earth have you been doing these last three years?’

My friend gazed at me with a serious expression for some moments before replying. ‘I stretched and grew,’ he said simply. ‘I travelled to Tibet. I visited Lhassa and spent some time with the Dalai Lama. Confronting a man of such refined wisdom is intoxicating. The head spins, the spirit soars, ghosts are exorcised and the mind expands. The worn-out timbers of my brain were renewed and polished to a radiant sheen after a mere week in his company.

‘Then I passed through Persia, looked in at Mecca and paid a short but interesting visit to the Khalifa at Khartoum. I even spent some months researching coal tar derivatives in Montpellier in the South of France. I had a marvellous time, although, as I intimated previously, I was acutely conscious that in my joy and mental rebirth, I had left you mourning a friend who was not dead.’ He paused a moment and sighed heavily before continuing. ‘And then I read of the passing of your wife – a real death this time. I reasoned that a letter of condolence from me would hardly be appropriate.’ He gave me a bleak smile. ‘I received a communication from Mycroft expressing his concern about the rise in crime in the city, which was the final prompt I needed to ensure my return.’

I listened with fascination to Holmes’ recital, which he delivered with consummate ease. ‘But tell me, why disguise yourself as a bookseller?’

‘Ah, this was prompted by my investigations earlier today. At the present, I cannot go snooping around dressed as myself – I would be far too easy a target. Once I had carried out my enquiries in this persona to my satisfaction – about which I will tell you later – I decided to surprise you in your study. You know I cannot resist a touch of the dramatic.’

‘And nearly gave me a heart attack.’

‘Sometimes I do overstep the mark.’

‘In this instance I forgive you. I cannot tell you how happy I am to see you again.’

‘The feeling is mutual, old fellow.’

*   *   *

It was that night that we entered ‘The Empty House’, as I referred to the affair in my written account of the evening’s dramatic events and, with the assistance of Inspector Lestrade, apprehended Colonel Sebastian Moran. It was my first encounter with this remarkable villain, but it was fated that it would not be the last.

It was after midnight when we found ourselves back in the sitting room of 221B Baker Street, satisfied with the knowledge that Moran was in the care of Scotland Yard. Our old chambers had indeed been left unchanged, through the supervision of his brother Mycroft and the immediate care of Mrs Hudson. As I entered, I saw, it is true, an unwonted tidiness, but the old landmarks were all in their place. There were the chemical corner and the acid-stained, deal-topped table. There upon a shelf was the row of formidable scrapbooks and books of reference which many of our nefarious fellow-citizens would have been so glad to burn. The diagrams, the violin-case, and the pipe rack – even the Persian slipper which contained the tobacco – all met my eyes as I glanced around me.

‘And now, Watson,’ said Holmes, shrugging off his outer coat, ‘let me see you in your old seat once more.’

I was glad to acquiesce to my friend’s request. He took his chair opposite me and we sat in companionable silence for some time. It pleased me greatly as I observed my friend’s lean features in the firelight to realise that once again Mr. Sherlock Holmes was back in Baker Street and was free to devote his life to examining those interesting little problems which the complex life of London so plentifully presents.

*   *   *

I moved back into my old Baker Street quarters within twenty-four hours of our adventure in the empty house and it was at breakfast time the following day that we had a visit from Inspector Lestrade. He burst into our sitting room as though the very devil was on his tail. His face was flushed and his eyes were wild and troubled. Without ceremony he loured over our breakfast table and announced. ‘He’s gone, Mr Holmes. Slipped through our grasp.’

‘Moran?’ cried Holmes, half rising from his chair.

‘Yes.’

‘But how?’

Lestrade paused to mop his brow before replying. ‘He was kept in a cell at the Yard and yesterday evening some Inspector, a fellow calling himself Pearson, turned up with documents and two constables to escort him away to Wandsworth Prison to await trial. The sergeant on duty was completely taken in by these imposters and their fake documents. So convincing were they that he passed Moran into their custody. The blighter is free again.’

Holmes banged his fist on the table in frustration. ‘It is my fault. I should have warned you that his confederates may make an attempt to rescue him, though I assumed…’ My friend shot an accusatory stare at the unfortunate policeman, who had the grace to look crestfallen.

‘And that’s not all, Mr Holmes. This Inspector Pearson left an envelope to be passed on to you.’

‘To me?’

‘“To Mr Sherlock Holmes Esq”, it says.’ Lestrade withdrew the envelope from his pocket and passed it to my friend. Holmes took it and extracted a sheet of paper from within. In reading the contents, his eyes widened and his mouth gaped in shock.

‘What is it, Holmes?’ I asked.

Without a word, he passed the message to me. It was written on stiff, expensive cream paper with firm angular writing in black ink. A tingle of fear ran up my spine as I read the words written there:

‘Just to let you know, Mr Holmes, that I have returned and I am ready to exact my revenge. Take care. Take very great care. Yours sincerely, Professor James Moriarty.’

Part Two

The Game Begins

Chapter Two

From the journal of John H. Watson

Within an hour of receiving the note, Holmes had retired to his room, emerging some time later having donned a disguise as a street beggar, with a suitably grey and grubby visage. As he made his way to the door, he waved and wished me good morning before exiting without any explanation. It was early evening when he returned. Without stripping his disguise, he dropped down into his chair by the fire with a heavy sigh. ‘Would you be so kind, Watson, as to pour me a brandy and soda.’

‘Certainly, Holmes. You look all in.’

‘A little weary, at least.’

‘Was your mission successful?’

‘In a way. I learned what I wanted to know – but it was information I did not particularly want to hear.’

‘You are talking in riddles,’ I said, handing him his drink.

‘I am sorry, my dear fellow. I will explain. While I cannot believe that my old adversary is still alive – that note was no doubt an attempt to disconcert me now that I have returned to detective work – I needed to satisfy any niggling uncertainties that the message prompted. The intelligence that Mycroft passed on to me regarding the increase in organised crime in the city and the clever escape of Moran now leads me to believe that perhaps there is a remnant group of the old Moriarty gang still in operation. I set out today to find out what I could. That meant visiting Soapy Sanders.’

It was a name I had not heard before. My puzzled expression no doubt indicated as much.

‘He’s an old lag,’ explained my friend. ‘Quite a successful burglar in his day. Retired now. Age and rheumatism put paid to his larcenous endeavours. I first encountered him when I began operating as a detective – before your time. I have helped him on a few occasions to escape the clutches of the law when he has been wrongly accused. Despite his nefarious activities, he is an affable fellow with a keen nose for what is going on in the criminal underworld. He has provided me with some particularly useful information in the past – information that could not be dragged out of him by a Scotland Yarder even if they used hot irons to persuade him, but he is always happy to chat with me. The last time I saw him he was living in Shoreditch, so that is where I headed today. I soon discovered that he is no longer in residence at his old address, a decrepit slum dwelling off Blanchard Road. So, I had to begin the weary trudge around all the ale houses and gin shops in the area in search of him. I made enquiries at all the venues he used to frequent but people down that way are very suspicious of questions, even from a raddled old beggar like me.’ Holmes threw out an arm to indicate his tattered and dusty ensemble.

‘Well, to cut to the chase, I did find Soapy eventually, huddled in a dark corner of a grubby drinking den. The man is now a mere skeleton in rags. I fear he is not long for this life. He certainly brightened up on seeing me – when I convinced him who I really was.’ Holmes chuckled at this notion. ‘I bought him a glass of ale and a mutton pie which he consumed with relish. I am pleased to say that despite his poor condition, he still keeps his ear to the ground and his misty eyes open.’

‘What was he able to tell you?’ I asked, eager to hear the news.

‘Rumours rather than facts, I am afraid, Watson, but nevertheless useful to file away for future reference. It certainly seems, as I suspected, that there has been some kind of resurrection of the Moriarty network. Friend Moran is heavily involved but there also seems to be a mysterious woman in the mix somewhere. Some say she is Madame Defarge.’

‘What! That dreadful woman from A Tale of Two Cities?’

Holmes smiled at my naivete. ‘Not quite, Watson. It is a pseudonym for a woman who ran a gang of criminals in Paris a few years ago. She disappeared mysteriously. Some say she is dead; others that she moved her base of operations and took on a different persona. Soapy told me that there are those who suspect that she is now in league with Moran. But there are no definite facts. Just rumours.’

‘Well, your suspicions that the phoenix of the Moriarty Organisation is rising from the ashes is something to concern us, surely.’

Holmes nodded. ‘Up to a point, but a venomous creature without a head is not quite as dangerous or effective. Moriarty was the genius that shaped and controlled and inspired his nefarious crew. You need such a fellow to fully resuscitate and lead such an organisation.’

‘Surely there is no belief that the Professor is actually still alive… that he survived?’

Holmes closed his eyes, his features taking on a pained expression. ‘Rumours again. Wishful thoughts. I cannot contemplate such a scenario.’

The words were uttered in such an emotional fashion that I knew it would be best not to press the matter further.

After a moment, Holmes opened his eyes, gave a heavy sigh, shaking off his air of gloom with a tight grin. ‘In the meantime, I have my networks on the lookout, the Irregulars are briefed and we must wait for further developments while being like old Soapy: keeping alert and watchful. Now a wash, a change of clothes, and a light supper, I think.’

*   *   *

Despite the efforts of the police and some discreet enquiries made by Holmes, there had been no sign of Colonel Moran since his escape from custody. ‘He’s lying low somewhere, maybe on the Continent,’ said Holmes, ‘but he will emerge eventually and be about his mischief once more, and I will be ready for him.’ These words were uttered with a sense of finality that told me that Holmes did not wish to discuss the matter until further information presented itself.

Those first few weeks of my return to Baker Street and taking up my old quarters again were very strange to me. It was like winding back the clock and returning to my previous life. At times it seemed that I had never been away from those familiar rooms. The years of Holmes’s absence were simply a peculiar dream and I had just woken up to discover life as it had always been. Remarkably Holmes and I soon settled back into our familiar ways with ease and while there was something comforting about this, at the same time there was also, to my mind, something surreal about the experience. To some extent I put this down to the delayed shock of seeing my friend again after spending three years believing that he had perished at the Reichenbach Falls. Of course, the return from the dead of someone close to you is a universal wish fulfilment. Indeed, in the dark hours when my mind was fogged with sleep, I wondered if one day my Mary might walk through the door again. How wonderful that would be.

It did not take long for the word to get around that Mr Sherlock Holmes was back in London and in the detective business once more. Clients began to arrive at regular intervals with a range of conundrums for him to solve. There were no really interesting cases at first, but he was happy to tackle these mundane problems in order, as he put it, ‘to help me get back into the old routines again.’

Nevertheless, I knew that the note claiming to be from Moriarty continued to haunt Holmes. On first receiving it, he had examined it carefully, sniffing it and holding it up to the light before placing it carefully on his chemical bench. Late that night I saw him performing various tests and examining the fine grain of the heavy paper both with his lens and under the microscope. It tantalised him, and I had refrained from questioning him about it too much as I could see that his mind was whirling.

On one occasion when I returned from my club, I caught him staring at it as a wary zookeeper might look at a particularly deadly snake.

‘Well, what have you learned?’ I asked.

‘First, tell me what you make of it,’ he replied, handing it to me with reverential distaste.

‘I cannot say with any certainty. I have not looked at it in detail and with such an expert eye as yourself.’

‘But your impressions, my dear fellow. I would find them most useful. There is something about it which eludes me. A fresh perspective…’

Taking hold of the note and studying it for a few moments, I attempted to emulate my friend’s methods.

‘The paper is obviously expensive – its weight and fine grain say as much. There is a faint watermark which I cannot decipher. I cannot tell whether the handwriting is that of a man or a woman, but they have made no attempt to disguise it, and it has a marked quality of aggressiveness. The pressure of the nib on the paper has made indentations in places – particularly when writing your name.’

Holmes shuddered. ‘Well observed. And you are correct about the paper, Watson. It is costly but not extravagant in design. No borders, subtle marbling or any of the touches of the nouveau riche. The watermark is the insignia of Maquet. It is a French manufacturer of luxury stationery, established in Paris in 1841 by the Maquet brothers, Hector and Charles.’

‘So the author is French?’

‘Not necessarily. The paper is obtainable in this country at exclusive stationers. However, my enquiries regarding customers at such establishments have been unsuccessful.’ Holmes glanced at the note again. ‘The handwriting is interesting. It is a model of economy. It was written with speed. Notice the innovative, fluid shortcuts the writer has used. This person has moved far from the confines of classroom manuscript exercises and developed a most distinctive hand. We are dealing with someone of intelligence, clarity of thought and drive to succeed. However, these positive traits are tempered by the large signature in comparison with the main body of the writing, which speaks of arrogance, and the angular characteristics indicate a lack of warmth, and extreme selfishness, perhaps extending to violence.’ Holmes paused and pursed his lips thoughtfully. ‘I have to say the odd squareness of the vowels are to my eyes quite reminiscent of the writing of a certain Professor.’

‘You do not think that you might be thinking too much of Moriarty and applying what you know of the man to this correspondent?’

Holmes gave me a wry smile. ‘Perhaps, though I try never to let my strong feelings about the Professor interfere with my judgment.’ He smiled. ‘I would be a poor detective indeed if I allowed the persistent vision of his oscillating head to obscure the facts.’

He returned to the note, taking it from my hand and twirling it between his long fingers. ‘I have analysed the ink. It is a fine blend of iron gall, less used these days due to the introduction of aniline dye inks and the steel nib. Our note was written with a quill, as iron gall ink clogs and corrodes the modern metal nibs. It is a choice, a studied and peculiarly old-fashioned statement, favoured by those with a leaning towards the past and having a taste for expensive antiques, the pen and ink drawings of the old masters, leather-bound books and manuscripts. Ink can be made from very few components in anywhere from the smallest back room to the largest manufacturers. I have identified hundreds of separate types of ink in this country alone, and have begun to extend my researches into Europe. The particular balance and chemical composition of this ink suggests that it is also French, or possibly German. The gender of the writer is a puzzle. It is in general a masculine hand but there are certain female touches in the flourishes.’

‘Can we track the writer down?’

Holmes shook his head. ‘There is too little to go on here. However, the information may come in useful at a later date. In the meantime, we shall have to wait. If this is some fellow pretending to be the ghost of Professor James Moriarty, he is playing very accurately pitched psychological games, and I am happy to wait until he shows his hand further.’

Chapter Three

From the journal of John H. Watson

One evening in early June as we sat quietly in our rooms, Holmes consulting one of his old files and me riffling through the pages of the latest issue of The Lancet, I returned with a touch of trepidation to the topic of the note.

‘Do you really think there is any possibility that Professor Moriarty could be alive? I sense that you have been harbouring such thoughts.’

Holmes stared at me for some moments with an intense expression on his hawk-like features before responding to my query.

‘I have turned this matter over in my mind many times since receiving that wretched missive and hearing about the rumours that Soapy mentioned. However, the notion of Moriarty’s survival is ridiculous. I saw him tumble over the precipice. I watched him fall, heard him scream all the way down until the thick spray hid him from view in a watery shroud.’ He paused for a moment and turned his gaze to the empty grate, clenching his fists as he did so. ‘And yet…’ he continued, slowly measuring out the words, ‘and yet they never found a corpse. There is no physical evidence of his death.’

‘But no man could survive such a drop,’ I said. ‘His body would have been smashed to pieces in the rocks at the base of the Falls.’

Holmes nodded. ‘Of course. And yet that cursed message introduced a note of doubt in my mind which I am finding difficult to shake off.’ He gave a wry grin. ‘The Professor haunted me for some time before his death and now it seems he is doing so from beyond the grave.’

‘Remember, your old adage,’ I said solemnly, ‘In detective work “no ghosts need apply”. I suggest you apply that maxim to this matter. Corpse or no corpse, Moriarty is dead and let that be an end of it.’

‘Wise words, Watson. I can always rely on you to provide a down-to-earth practical solution. I will take your advice and endeavour to cast such thoughts from my mind. In truth my brain needs stimulus to crowd out such considerations. I need a challenging case, a seriously tangled skein to engage my mind; a real three-pipe problem.’

*   *   *

We had not long to wait for such a mystery to present itself.

The following day, Billy brought up a visiting card from a lady requiring Holmes’ assistance in ‘a desperate matter’, the boy said, repeating her words. Holmes asked for the visitor to be admitted.

Some moments later, an elderly woman with a slightly stooped frame entered our sitting room with the assistance of a stick. A frilly bonnet sat uneasily on her lank grey hair. Her face was gaunt, but she wore an expression of strong determination. It was clear to me that in her youth she must have been quite a beautiful woman, but age had wrought its cruel way with her features. She was breathing heavily, as though the assault of the seventeen steps up to our rooms had been a great strain on her constitution. I moved forward and, gently taking her by the arm, led her to a comfortable chair.

‘Thank you, young man,’ she said, once she was seated, her voice husky and strained. ‘I have come to see Mr Sherlock Holmes…’

‘I am Holmes,’ said my friend, taking a seat opposite the lady. ‘How may I be of assistance?’

‘By saving my brother’s life.’

At the delivery of this melodramatic statement, Holmes’ expression did not change. He had heard many similar pleas in his time as a detective. ‘Perhaps you had better give me all the details,’ he said quietly, steepling his fingers.

‘Allow me to introduce myself: I am Elizabeth Courtney. I am a spinster and live in the family home, Ashtree House in Chiswick, with my brother, Arthur. He also is unmarried.’ At this point she allowed herself a little smile. ‘Indeed, I do believe that some of our neighbours are under the impression that we are man and wife, despite the fact that my brother is some fifteen years younger. Although Arthur and I are close, we are quite different characters. I am a shy, introverted individual who has spent a lifetime keeping my own counsel and being happy to do so. I suppose it is because of my quiet nature that I have never married, although I have to say, Mr Holmes, that it is not something I have ever desired. One of my blessings is that I am content with my own company. By contrast, Arthur is an outgoing society animal. He was a wild young man, burning the candle, as you might say, at both ends. He indulged in many amorous affairs, although none resulted in wedlock. He was also reckless at the gambling table and began associating with a decadent crowd, which led him further astray. Despite my efforts, taking on the role of motherly guardian rather than sister, to try to help keep him on the straight and narrow, I feel I have been far from successful in this matter. I am afraid to say that even the onset of middle age has not lessened his rash proclivities. Indeed, they seem to have increased in the last few years. I am ashamed to say that he has added drug-taking to his peccadillos, spending nights away from home in one of the opium dens in the East End. Despite my pleas to control this habit, it would seem that the drug has him in its power.’

‘What is his employment, his source of income?’ enquired Holmes.

‘Our parents left us very well provided for financially and although Arthur squanders most of his allotted monthly income, he does occasionally find himself in funds from his gambling. He veers from abundance of cash to penury on a regular basis. When the latter state occurs, he comes to me for assistance, which, of course, I provide. Despite his dissipated behaviour, he is my brother and I love him.’

I sympathised with the plight of this sensitive old lady but I could not help thinking that her actions, her kindness towards her brother, had only encouraged his reckless ways. Sometimes it is wise to be cruel in order to be kind. I could see from Holmes’ expression that he shared the same view.

‘Telling you all this is very difficult for me,’ Miss Courtney continued. ‘Washing my dirty linen in public, as it were. I have never discussed Arthur’s indiscretions with anyone before.’

‘If I am to help you, I must know everything, but be assured that what you say to us in this room will go no further,’ said Holmes.

‘I thank you for that,’ she said before turning to me. ‘I wonder if I could trouble you for a glass of water.’