The Falling Curtain (The Assassination of Sherlock Holmes Book 3) by Craig Janacek Page B
Authors: Craig Janacek
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Sebastian Moran was trying to assassinate you and Inspector Lestrade. It was intended to be Moran’s revenge for Lestrade capturing him, with no small assistance from you, Holmes, fifteen years ago.”
Holmes raised his bushy eyebrows. “Was it? I wonder.” He tapped his pip against the arm of his chair.
“What else could it have been?” interjected Shinwell Johnson.
“A test. And perhaps a trap,” said he, enigmatically. “Watson, I should have gone with you to interview Moran. This was a capital mistake. Perhaps I could have prevented his death, or at least delayed it until we obtained more useful information from him. And there is no substitute for direct observations made at the scene of the crime.”
“I described everything to you, Holmes,” I protested.
“You described everything you saw, Watson. That is not the same as everything I would have observed.”
“Then go now,” I replied, with some peevishness at his recitation of my apparent limitations.
He shook his head. “No, I am afraid it is far too late for that. You will just have to tell it again.”
I sighed and proceeded to do so, as his eyelids drooped and he attempted to visualize the scene. When I was finished reciting Moran’s last breaths, however, he simply sighed. “It will not do, Watson. How could you have let him die before your eyes?”
“How was I to know that the cigarettes were poisoned, Holmes! And the speed by which they acted….”
He suddenly sprang upright. “That is it, Watson! Unless there was only one poisoned cigarette, amongst a case of normal ones, then this must have been a new package. Something that was delivered shortly before you arrived!”
I thought back. “There was a woman...”
“What!” he exclaimed. “You only mention this now?”
I shrugged. “How could I have known that the trivial matter of a woman leaving the prison just as I arrived would be of any note?”
Holmes shook his head. “Watson, Watson. How many times must I tell you that there is nothing so important as trifles? We may take it as a working hypothesis that this woman was the vector of Moran’s doom. The question is why?”
I frowned. “Is not the question the nature of her identity?”
“Not at all, Watson.” He turned to the former district messenger boy. “Cartwright, this is exactly the sort of task that you excel at. We shall send you to Wandsworth Prison forthwith in order to determine who precisely had the necessary permit to visit Colonel Sebastian Moran.”
“What if she used a false identity?” I protested.
“Possible, Watson, possible. But Moran was no simple smash-and-grabber. Not just any person could waltz into his cell. They would need a good reason. And from that we should be able to deduce her true self.”
§
Several hours passed before Cartwright returned from this errand, and it proved that there was little deduction needed to be made. For the woman had brazenly signed both her name and provided the location of her London residence. The latter was at 98 Finchley Road, at a Camden inn called the Swiss Tavern, and the former was listed as ‘Patience Moran.’
This was, of course, a name that I recognized, like a specter from the past. “Could it be the same girl, Holmes?” I asked, aghast.
He shrugged. “A girl no more, Watson, for the McCarthy case was twenty years ago. But there are stranger things in heaven and earth.”
“Is she a relative?”
Holmes nodded slowly. “Perhaps a niece. Her father was the local lodge-keeper, was he not? Possibly a by-blow of the late Sir Augustus? At the time of the Boscombe Valley affair, I had yet to determine that Sebastian Moran was serving as the chief lieutenant for Professor Moriarty’s empire of crime, and thus, I took little notice of the girl’s name. In retrospect, that may have been a mistake.”
However, it is difficult to say how Holmes could have possibly suspected the transformation of the girl we found waiting for us in a private
Holmes raised his bushy eyebrows. “Was it? I wonder.” He tapped his pip against the arm of his chair.
“What else could it have been?” interjected Shinwell Johnson.
“A test. And perhaps a trap,” said he, enigmatically. “Watson, I should have gone with you to interview Moran. This was a capital mistake. Perhaps I could have prevented his death, or at least delayed it until we obtained more useful information from him. And there is no substitute for direct observations made at the scene of the crime.”
“I described everything to you, Holmes,” I protested.
“You described everything you saw, Watson. That is not the same as everything I would have observed.”
“Then go now,” I replied, with some peevishness at his recitation of my apparent limitations.
He shook his head. “No, I am afraid it is far too late for that. You will just have to tell it again.”
I sighed and proceeded to do so, as his eyelids drooped and he attempted to visualize the scene. When I was finished reciting Moran’s last breaths, however, he simply sighed. “It will not do, Watson. How could you have let him die before your eyes?”
“How was I to know that the cigarettes were poisoned, Holmes! And the speed by which they acted….”
He suddenly sprang upright. “That is it, Watson! Unless there was only one poisoned cigarette, amongst a case of normal ones, then this must have been a new package. Something that was delivered shortly before you arrived!”
I thought back. “There was a woman...”
“What!” he exclaimed. “You only mention this now?”
I shrugged. “How could I have known that the trivial matter of a woman leaving the prison just as I arrived would be of any note?”
Holmes shook his head. “Watson, Watson. How many times must I tell you that there is nothing so important as trifles? We may take it as a working hypothesis that this woman was the vector of Moran’s doom. The question is why?”
I frowned. “Is not the question the nature of her identity?”
“Not at all, Watson.” He turned to the former district messenger boy. “Cartwright, this is exactly the sort of task that you excel at. We shall send you to Wandsworth Prison forthwith in order to determine who precisely had the necessary permit to visit Colonel Sebastian Moran.”
“What if she used a false identity?” I protested.
“Possible, Watson, possible. But Moran was no simple smash-and-grabber. Not just any person could waltz into his cell. They would need a good reason. And from that we should be able to deduce her true self.”
§
Several hours passed before Cartwright returned from this errand, and it proved that there was little deduction needed to be made. For the woman had brazenly signed both her name and provided the location of her London residence. The latter was at 98 Finchley Road, at a Camden inn called the Swiss Tavern, and the former was listed as ‘Patience Moran.’
This was, of course, a name that I recognized, like a specter from the past. “Could it be the same girl, Holmes?” I asked, aghast.
He shrugged. “A girl no more, Watson, for the McCarthy case was twenty years ago. But there are stranger things in heaven and earth.”
“Is she a relative?”
Holmes nodded slowly. “Perhaps a niece. Her father was the local lodge-keeper, was he not? Possibly a by-blow of the late Sir Augustus? At the time of the Boscombe Valley affair, I had yet to determine that Sebastian Moran was serving as the chief lieutenant for Professor Moriarty’s empire of crime, and thus, I took little notice of the girl’s name. In retrospect, that may have been a mistake.”
However, it is difficult to say how Holmes could have possibly suspected the transformation of the girl we found waiting for us in a private
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