The Game is Afoot
The elderly man walked out of the building onto the busy London Street, looked at his watch and was delighted to see that he was actually running ahead of schedule. He was supposed to meet his wife for tea, and he knew that, being a woman, she was bound to be late. Given the balmy temperature of the spring afternoon and his need for a bit more exercise, he decided to walk to the tea shop rather than hail a cab. Despite his age, he made slow but steady progress. Even traveling by foot, he would still arrive at his destination with plenty of time to spare.
As he approached the intersection of Marylebone Road and Baker Street, however, he came to a stop. He had a sudden, irresistible urge to walk down that thoroughfare once again and revisit his former digs. He looked at his watch; there was still plenty of time for a detour.
With each step the old man took, another memory worked its way up to the surface. At his age, there were many memories indeed, nearly a century's worth: his schooldays, the years of service in her majesty's Army Medical Department, his first wife, Mary—God rest her soul—and his second wife, Elizabeth, a beloved companion in his old age. Add to these major events and important people the millions of trivial day-to-day memories one acquires during a lifetime, and you have quite a storehouse of information inside a human brain.
Of course, not all his recollections were situated near the surface, ready for easy retrieval. Some were buried in the lower regions and needed a good deal of coaxing to come up to the light. Others, alas, would probably never resurface. It was as though there was some overworked custodian prioritizing his memories, decreeing "names and dates to the rear, faces to the front."
Still, in all his past—both recent and distant or somewhere in between—there was one name he would never forget, even if he lived another handful of years and reached his centennial. It was a name not only he, Dr. John Watson, would recall, but one all of London would likely remember for decades to come: Sherlock Holmes, a man who unquestionably possessed the greatest mind of his generation.
As Watson neared number 221B Baker Street, he was stunned to see a Marks & Spencer—or Marks & Sparks as his wife called it—in place of the building where he and Holmes once shared a flat.
There's progress for you, the elderly doctor thought with a smile as he mentally took those seventeen steps up from the ground floor to Holmes's study. The mighty hand of time is changing the landscape of our past. So much has transpired since Gregson and Lestrade took Holmes and me to that empty house in Brixton to view the corpse of Enoch Drebber.
It had been but the first of some sixty cases that Holmes and Watson had investigated, or rather that Holmes had investigated and Watson chronicled, for what was often elementary to a man of Sherlock's genius, often confounded the hell out of the good doctor.
As Watson visualized Holmes's study—complete with the detective's pipe, violin and deerstalker cap—other names and faces attached themselves to those memories of 221B Baker Street: Inspector Lestrade, Inspector Tobias Gregson and Inspector Jones. They were all dead now, gone to the great Scotland Yard in the sky. Then there was Mycroft Holmes, Sherlock's older brother; he had been killed while on a diplomatic mission during the Great War.
And what of Holmes himself? Watson had not seen his old friend since 1914. Was the famed super sleuth, that icon to deductive reasoning still alive? Surely if he were dead, there would have been a write-up in the news.
Holmes dead?
Suddenly, John Watson felt old and vulnerable, and he longed to see his wife. He quickened his pace toward the tea shop and prayed Elizabeth would be there waiting for him.
* * *
Having learned that Sherlock Holmes was still alive and having ascertained his current whereabouts, Dr. John Watson and his wife set out by train for Windermere where the eminent detective was living in a cottage that had been deeded to him by a grateful client.
Along the journey, Elizabeth Watson badgered her husband with questions about some of Holmes's more scandalous cases. Once her curiosity was sated, she turned to the doctor and asked if there was some protocol she was to observe when she was presented to the great man.
"Good God, woman!" her husband cried in exasperation. "You're not being presented to the king. You're just going to meet an old friend of mine."
With a hmph! of indignation, the insulted woman turned her attention to the lovely Lake District countryside. By the time they arrived at Holmes's cottage, Elizabeth thawed somewhat, but she still had not completely forgiven her husband for the sharp way he had spoken to her.
As Watson stood on the fieldstone path, gazing at the vine-covered cottage, he couldn't imagine Holmes living in such a bucolic setting. What was there here in these pastoral surroundings to titillate the detective's brain?
"Are we going to stand here all day?" Elizabeth barked.
Watson stepped forward and firmly rapped on the door. When the door opened, the doctor was stunned by the detective's appearance. It was not the signs of age that surprised him but rather the wild look in Holmes's eyes.
"Watson!" the renowned sleuth cried excitedly. "I'm glad you're here. I need your help. The game is afoot."
As a physician John had seen senility ravage the minds of the elderly many times, but he had never imagined a brain like Holmes's would fall victim to the insidious disease.
"Who is this?" Sherlock inquired when he spied Elizabeth standing behind her husband. "A material witness, no doubt."
"Oh, how exciting!" the woman exclaimed. "Is it true that you are working on a case right now? Can we be of any assistance? If so, John and I are at your disposal."
"My good woman," Holmes declared, "neither you nor Watson is a match for Moriarity."
The doctor rolled his eyes. It was Professor Moriarity again! Moriarity, Sherlock's nemesis, was as adept at being a criminal as Holmes was at being a detective, and his very existence vexed the sleuth.
"What is the professor up to this time?" Elizabeth asked.
"Murder most foul, I'm afraid."
"Murder, you say?" the doctor asked skeptically. "It's not like Moriarity to get his hands dirty. He's more likely involved with thievery, smuggling or extortion."
"Nevertheless, Watson, he is a murderer, one of the most heinous villains to walk the streets of London."
Unlike her husband, who doubted the detective's mental state, Elizabeth believed that Holmes was on the trail of an actual murderer.
"Who has the professor killed?" she asked.
"Five women that I know of, perhaps more."
The woman gasped, and her eyes widened. Watson, however, shook his head sadly.
* * *
"I don't know how you can be so blasé about murder, John," Elizabeth told her husband once they had settled into their bedroom for the night. "Even if you did assist Holmes on hundreds of cases in the past."
"First of all, my dear," the doctor explained, "it wasn't anywhere near hundreds of cases. It was about sixty. And, second, there has been no murder—not now anyway. The killings Holmes refers to took place nearly fifty years ago."
Suddenly, there was a look of understanding on the elderly woman's face.
"Has Holmes's memory gone?"
Watson noticed she referred to his memory, not his mind.
"I have known Holmes a good many years, and I admire him more than any man I have ever met. He is brilliant, a genius, in fact. He prides himself on his keen sense of logic and deductive reasoning, but he is not infallible. There was one crime, one of the vilest our kingdom has ever known, that stumped even Holmes himself. Holmes read about the murders and volunteered his services to Scotland Yard, but the crime was never solved. He never spoke of the matter, but I suspect he took his failure to apprehend the murderer to heart. Today's reference to the killings only confirms my suspicions."
"You think the poor man's daft, don't you? That he's living in the past, trying to solve a crime that occurred when he was a young man?"
"Yes, I do. And he's no closer to solving the case now than he was back then. In fact, I believe Holmes is the last person who could solve it."
"Why is that? You said yourself he is a brilliant detective."
"There's no doubt he's brilliant, but his mind looks for order and logic, and there was no logic in the brutal murders of those poor women. No, my dear, Sherlock Holmes is not the man to solve the Jack the Ripper murders. Furthermore, I believe my friend in some part of his mind realizes this himself, and that is why he now attributes the murders to Professor Moriarity, the only criminal worthy of being Holmes's adversary."
"The poor man!" Elizabeth exclaimed. "You don't think he'll have to be committed to an asylum, do you?"
"I certainly hope not," Watson replied gravely. "After such a long and illustrious career in crime solving, it would be a bloody shame for him to wind up in Broadmoor."
* * *
When Watson saw the great detective the next day, the doctor was surprised by his old friend's appearance.
"Your eyes are red, Holmes. Didn't you get any sleep last night?"
"Who can sleep when there is so much to be done, Watson? You must contact Lestrade and have him meet us in Whitechapel. I want to examine the crime scenes."
Not wanting to upset Sherlock, the doctor's voice became soft and comforting.
"Lestrade has been dead nearly five years, and you won't find any evidence in Whitechapel since the Ripper murders occurred back in 1888."
The doctor's appeals to Holmes's logic fell on deaf ears, however.
"Moriarity is a mastermind, but that knave cannot elude justice much longer. I will smoke him out if it takes me the rest of my life."
"How do you intend to do that, Mr. Holmes?" Elizabeth asked innocently.
"By discovering his true identity, for I've learned that Moriarity is not his real name. It is but an alias he uses in his underworld dealings."
Watson pursed his lips and wondered if he should discourage Holmes from such an undertaking. Not being of sound mind, the former detective might cause a good deal of trouble should he falsely accuse an innocent man of a crime.
"I think your brain could be put to better use than trying to solve such an old case, hey what, old chap?" Watson suggested. "The Ripper is probably dead by now."
"Have no fear. Moriarity still lives."
The doctor continued to try to talk Holmes out of pursuing a long-dead case, but the master of deduction was adamant.
"How can I walk away from the greatest crime of our time?" he demanded to know.
"But Mr. Holmes," Elizabeth chirped in, "no one has solved the Whitechapel murders in all these years. What makes you think you'll discover the killer now, when all traces of the crimes have no doubt been destroyed."
"Ah, yes. You've hit the nail on the head, my good woman. That is precisely why I couldn't solve the murders at the time: someone destroyed the evidence. But who? Surely not anyone at Scotland Yard. The inspectors wanted to solve the case as much as I did. Who then?"
"Holmes," the doctor cautioned, "as a physician I must insist you stop obsessing with this case. It's not healthy for ...."
Sherlock's eyes suddenly blazed, not with anger but with a feeling of triumph.
"That's it!" he cried. "I don't know why I didn't see it all along. Watson, you're the Ripper!"
The doctor was confounded.
"Where the devil did ever get such an absurd idea?" he sputtered.
"All London assumed the Ripper was a medical man, and you were close enough to the investigation that you could tamper with the evidence. You are indeed a mastermind, Moriarity, posing as a simple-minded doctor to gain my confidence."
Watson took offense at being called simple-minded, but at the same time he realized Holmes was only raving.
"Listen to me, damn you!" the elderly doctor shouted—one of the few times he had ever raised his voice to his friend. "I am not Professor Moriarity, nor am I Jack the Bloody Ripper. I am Dr. John Watson, formerly of his Majesty's Army Medical Department. And if you were in your right mind, you would realize that."
"Very well then," Holmes concluded, visibly deflating like a balloon. "But if you're not Moriarity, then who is? I cannot rest until I discover the fiend's identity."
* * *
After the midmorning meal, Watson and his wife decided to take a walk. Having been born and raised in London, she wanted to explore the British countryside, while he wanted time to consider what ought to be done about Holmes.
"My feet are killing me," Elizabeth complained after an hour of trudging along the footpath. "These shoes are no good for walking."
The elderly couple turned around and headed back. When they entered the cottage, Holmes was nowhere to be found.
"Maybe he's upstairs taking a nap," Elizabeth suggested.
"I've never known Holmes to sleep during the daytime, not even when he was tired. Play his blasted violin, yes, but sleep, no."
"Well, I don't know about your friend, but I fancy a few winks about now. I'm going upstairs. I'll be down for tea."
Watson sat down in the parlor to read the newspaper, but after hearing a sound coming from the study at the rear of the cottage, he went to investigate. When he opened the door, he saw Holmes sitting at a large desk, surrounded by stacks of books and scribbling furiously on a sheet of paper.
"What are you up to now, Holmes? Writing your memoirs?"
"The answer is here, Watson. I know it is. Look, I've been taking notes. Here, in Coleridge's Rime of the Ancient Mariner the albatross brought doom to the crew of the ship. The word albatross has nine letters as does the name Moriarity."
Watson stared open-mouthed at his friend and realized it was not senility that made him act so strange; it was out-and-out lunacy. As much as the doctor hated to admit it, the great Sherlock Holmes was hopelessly insane.
"And here," the detective continued, "in this poem by that American writer, Poe, the Raven is surely Moriarity. And Dickens"—he picked up another book—"this man Fagin, even a fool could see the resemblance to Moriarity."
Watson remained silent as Sherlock cited character after character and some obscure connection they had to the evil professor. Holmes was still rambling on when the door opened and Elizabeth poked her head inside.
"John? Aren't you ...? Is he all right?" she asked, nodding her head toward Holmes.
"No, I'm afraid he's not. He believes he can discover Moriarity's true identity in those books."
Elizabeth walked to Sherlock's desk, picked up a random volume and examined it closely. She put it down and picked up a second, a third, a fourth, and then a fifth.
"These books," she announced with surprise, "are priceless."
"You must be mistaken. How could Holmes afford them if they were? He was always short of funds; that's why we shared a flat on Baker Street, to split expenses."
"I don't know about Holmes's financial situation, but I do know about books. Have you forgotten that my late husband was an antiquarian? He dealt in rare and valuable volumes, and I tell you these books are worth a fortune. Here is an excellent copy of Gutenberg's Bible, rare editions of The Canterbury Tales and Paradise Lost."
"Holmes," Watson called, not caring that he was interrupting the detective's train of thought. "Where did you get these books?"
Sherlock looked confused, and Watson thought he would brush the question aside as being irrelevant, but after several moments of contemplation, he replied, "They were here in the house when I moved in."
"Who left this house to you?" Watson pressed.
"I've already told you: a grateful client. I helped him locate his long lost brother, and in his gratitude, he left me this cottage when he died."
"Did he leave you anything else?"
"The furnishings, the silver, the linens, these books and money, of course," Holmes answered impatiently, "enough for upkeep on the house and to afford me a monthly allowance on which to live. The estate is handled by a solicitor in Keswick. Why do you ask?"
"Because these books are quite valuable."
"Yes, they are!"
The gleam was back in Holmes's eye.
"I tell you, Watson, the answer to Moriarity's identity can be found in these pages."
The good doctor felt a stab of fear in his stomach, and his face paled.
"I do believe you're right, Holmes," he said in a barely audible voice.
* * *
Elizabeth climbed inside the car that was to convey her and her husband to the train station.
"I'll miss the country," she said wistfully. "All the peace and quiet and fresh air."
"I'll take London any day," Watson declared in disagreement.
"What are you going to do about him?" she whispered as though afraid someone would overhear her. "You can't leave him here alone in that condition. He needs to be looked after."
"Don't worry, my dear," her husband replied reassuringly, "I'll take care of everything."
The car moved only a few feet when Watson asked the driver to stop.
"I forgot my medical bag," he claimed.
"I honestly don't know why you insist on carrying that thing around. It's not as though you were still practicing medicine. You retired years ago."
Watson did not bother to explain, he simply told his wife, "You wait here. I'll be back in a few minutes."
After letting himself into the cottage, he walked directly to the study. Holmes was delighted to see him standing in the doorway.
"Good, Watson. You've returned. We must act quickly. The game is afoot."
"I did not come back here to speak to you, Holmes," the doctor declared, reaching for the medical bag that he had deliberately placed behind a chair earlier that morning. "I want to speak to Professor Moriarity."
Holmes's facial expression abruptly changed. It still betrayed his madness, but it was no longer the harmless madness of genius. It was a look far more sinister.
"I applaud you, Watson," the archfiend laughed. "Who would have thought that you, the bumbling physician, would be the one to discover the truth of my existence?"
"How long have you and Holmes been ...?"
Watson did not quite know how to word his question.
"Cohabiting the same body? I have been Sherlock's alter ego since he was a small boy, but it wasn't until he attended university that I embarked upon my life of crime. Oddly enough, my first theft was a book, one I pilfered from a literature teacher by the name of Professor Stephen Moriarity. It was so easy and I enjoyed it so much that I began to steal other things, but I admit I always had a fondness for taking books."
"Does Holmes know about you?"
"Of course not! He wouldn't be able to live with himself if he knew I existed."
"And those awful murders? Were you involved in any way?"
"I needed a diversion. As Holmes's fame grew, he became more confident in his abilities. He was becoming a genius at detection. He nearly discovered the truth of my existence, so I murdered those women in Whitechapel to get him off my trail. Not only did it work, but I also took great delight in taking that insufferable prig down a peg."
"John?" Elizabeth's voice carried through the open window. "Haven't you found that bag yet? We don't want to miss the train."
"I'll be there in a minute, dear."
When Watson returned his attention to his old friend, Moriarity was gone and Holmes was back in control.
"Watson! It's imperative we move quickly. I believe we have Moriarity on the run."
The doctor took a full bottle of laudanum out of his medical bag and placed it on the desk.
"I believe you're right. I think the answer you seek is in these books, and when you discover it, I trust you'll do the right thing."
* * *
After a two-day stopover in the Cotswolds, the Watsons returned to London. Despite her claim that she would miss the country, Elizabeth was happy to be home. With a sigh, she took off her hat, coat and shoes and relaxed in her favorite chair.
Her husband sat down in his own chair and opened the Daily Mail. The lead story jumped out at him: Sherlock Holmes had been found dead of a laudanum overdose.
"Do you think his death was an accident?" asked Elizabeth, who had not been told about Holmes's multiple personality disorder.
"Most likely," her husband replied.
"Well, I prefer to think he was murdered. I'll bet that Professor Moriarity hunted him down and killed him."
"I'm sure a good many people share your opinion," Watson said.
The doctor did not add that he believed just the opposite was true: that Holmes had succeeded in putting the missing pieces together and learned of his other self, and in the end he finally triumphed over his adversary by taking his own life.
Watson liked to believe that his old friend died in peace, taking comfort in the knowledge that he was indisputably the greatest detective the world had ever known.
This story is based on characters created by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. There is no Marks & Spencer at 221B Baker Street, but then there was no 221B Baker Street when Doyle wrote his Sherlock Holmes novels either.
"It's elementary, my dear Salem. It was Colonel Mustard in the conservatory with a lead pipe.
