The Last Confession of Sherlock Holmes (21 page)

Chapter X - Baker Street

It was a treacherous morning. The rain pounded upon the pavement with such continuous velocity that it appeared the elements were vying to be reunited in an attempt to break through their artificial constraints. A terrible, glooming grey had submerged the city into a sombre mourning; it was difficult to believe upon days like this that we should ever again be blessed with the soothing grace of the sun.

It had been two days since Holmes and I had vacated Whitechapel, and he had been asleep ever since. Quite how he managed this feat, to sleep so soundly and for such duration, only hours after unveiling his own brother as one of the most infamous criminal minds, is a notion beyond my own comprehension. What is more, the public backlash was rather overwhelming. In their eyes, not only had we failed, but Constable Smith had needlessly lost his life. It was a tremendous burden to carry the light of illumination and comfort, yet be forced to leave so many desperate souls standing shivering, tormented in the darkness. We could not even attempt to console Smith's family with the truth. Yet for Holmes, none of this appeared to be of consequence. It would seem that, as long as a revelation is satisfactorily revealed, and a case can be argued not only from start to finish but also from finish to start, he was content to rest.

I could still not quite comprehend all that had passed. I had never been particularly fond of Mycroft, but never would I have dreamt of him committing a crime, let alone the atrocities to which I heard him confess. I was deeply troubled in my conscience. How could I live with myself if he ever chose to indulge his demonic appetite once again? Some may agree with his callous remarks, that women living in the hell of Whitechapel are better off dead; but I am not so inclined. I will not have the innocent blood of any person upon my hands, no matter how deprived their life may be. I cannot say that I was overly surprised to note that it was upon this most woeful of days that marked Sherlock Holmes' emergence from his room. It was as if his very existence thrived in the uncertainty of others, for after all, a life without crime is no life for a consulting detective.

“Have you been asleep this entire time, Holmes?” I enquired as he emerged from his quarters wrapped in his old dressing-gown, and scrutinising a single sheet of paper.

“Certainly not, dear fellow, I enjoyed twenty hours of sleep after our return, and have since been immersed in a most unusual case. See these hieroglyphics,” said he, passing me a sheet of paper, upon which was a series of strange child-like drawings of bizarre little men, dancing across the page. “Mrs Hudson delivered them while you were still asleep. They were sent to me by a Mr Hilton Cubitt, of Riding Thorpe Manor in Norfolk. The drawings were accompanied by a letter, and I am expecting our guest within the hour.”

“Holmes, if I may momentarily distract your attention before the arrival of Mr Cubitt.” I was unsure how to approach this subject, for I had scarcely thought that it would arise so promptly, but I knew Holmes would not divert his attention once immersed into another case. “Why was it that after you explicitly said before Mycroft that the Ripper would most likely strike in the school, did he then act exactly as you had predicted?”

“It was all part of the game, dear fellow: Mycroft was of course unaware that I knew his true identity, and so wished to beat me once again, by successfully striking in the exact location which I had predicted. If he were to be unsuccessful however, and therefore suspected I had discovered his secret, he knew I would confront him alone. In either scenario, it was a somewhat low risk for him to take.”

“But how was it that you were able to work the phonograph in that school?”

“Electricity, Watson,” said he, with a look which told me he was only to be asked matters of interest.

“But the recordings of Mycroft, the confession with which the security of your case depends upon, are you sure they are safe?”

“Safe?” said he, seated next to the fire, enjoying what looked to be his first meal in well over a week. “How on earth can they ever be safe?”

“You cannot tell me that you are going to trust Mycroft's moral compass as the only guarantee to prevent the return of Jack the Ripper?”

“Of course not. You saw the look upon his face; he knows that his little escapades into the streets of Whitechapel are at an end. I assure you that even had he the desire to try and steal the recording, he would find it quite impossible.”

“What do you mean?”

“I destroyed the evidence,” said he, casually sipping his tea.

“You destroyed it? Holmes, what could have possessed you to do such a thing?”

“Come with me, dear fellow,” said he, rising and ushering me into his quarters. He pointed me in the direction of one of his great shelves; placed between two other rather curious objects was the strange contraption I had last seen in Whitechapel. The exit station for the sound looked like an expanded and deformed hollow flower.

“Here, listen to this; scrutinise it closely, and all shall be revealed.”

I did as Holmes asked, and placed my ear as close as was comfortable to the device and listened intently to the recording, keen not to miss any point of subtlety which was so often key to Holmes's little demonstrations. It was of a conversation he had recorded between himself and Mycroft regarding the logistics of their operation. At first, everything sounded completely natural, but toward the end it began to sound rather strange. Mycroft's tone was slightly inconsistent, his pitch not quite perfect.

“Dear God, Holmes that is you! That is what you were doing when I heard your theatrical performances! I must admit I am rather relieved; I thought you were going mad!”

“Ha! Oh no, I knew that if I could convince Mycroft I had such a recording, it would prevent him from acting unwisely; not of course that he would need to, now that Moriarty, Moran and their empire have been successfully buried. Should he attempt to steal the evidence, we may rest assured that he will never find it. It is quite the neat little problem, to destroy that which does not exist. But, regardless, the success of my little performance has no relevance upon the case. Mycroft has had his fun with me these last few years; I merely thought it prudent that I should at least be allowed, as they say, the last laugh. One day, perhaps such methods will indeed exist and aid the more unimaginative and lazy investigators to trap their prey, but for now, we must rely on more unconventional methods of ingenuity.”

“Will we ever be able to chronicle this account, Holmes? Even your innovation toward recorded evidence is of sufficient importance for the public to benefit from, and surely they have a right to know that Sherlock Holmes did indeed save them from the tyranny of Jack the Ripper?”

“No, Watson, they cannot be informed. Even if such a method were possible at this point in time, such an invention in the hands of the wrong person could be used to devastating effect. We have already proven its hypothetical role in advancing the role of blackmail, and I have no intention of speeding up this process. Unfortunately for our dear citizens, they must endure the terror that somewhere, lurking in the shadows, is an unstoppable demon: a spectre which can never be seen and never be caught. One day, you and I shall sit down together in our retirement and scribe this most disturbing of tales but alas, I do not believe that the public will be ready for the shock until long after our deaths. The empire may well have fallen, itself a matter only for the historian, before the world is ready for the horror of my singular confession.”

“But what about the Bagatelle-Quartet?” I urged, “What in God's name was the plot that drove Mycroft to resort back to such extremes?”

“Oh, that is of little importance! Blackmail, politics, secret-intelligence, it is all very mundane and shall be dealt with in a most discreet manner. But, unless I am mistaken, I can hear a heavy yet purposeful foot upon the stair. Come Watson, I believe we have work to do, if we are to discover the cause behind these rather absurd dancing men.”

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