My Friend and Colleague - Chapter Seven - Ye Olde Tumblin' Dice and The Gypsy Underground

Sherlock Holmes
MY FRIEND and COLLEAGUE
THE EXTRAORDINARY FINAL PROBLEM
by
Dr. John H. Watson
and
© L. Guy Campbell
 __________________________________

Chapter Seven
Ye Olde Tumblin’ Dice and The Gypsy Underground
_________________________

    It crossed my mind that I had an old army chum, Charles Watts,  who was Station Master at the Tottenham Court Station at one time, and as stout a soldier as one could hope for when things got rough in Afghanistan during the war.  I made up my mind to look up my old friend Charlie, and see if he might be able to fill me in on any odd goings-on ‘round the station.  After some lengthy inquiry, I was shown to Charlie, who was attending to his duties and a warm feeling fell immediately upon me at seeing my old friend.  “Excuse me, Lieutenant Watts, have you any time for an old army chum?”    

    Charlie looked up, and seeing me, broke into the most engaging laughter I have ever heard.  “Hello old man!” spoke Charlie out from under the most impressive, large, but well groomed moustache.  “I supposed you’re on one of your cases with that detective character you chronicle in The Strand?”  He laughed aloud, turning a bit red in a face that was no stranger to drink!  Balding, with a slight red glow about his prominent cheek bones, Charlie was impeccably dressed, and his smile beamed from under that snow white moustache of his.  “Well, this is not the place to speak of such things but, if you have a moment, I’d like a word with you.”  I spoke softly near his ear.  “As much as I wish this was a social call, I am on important business.”

    Fifteen minutes later we found ourselves in a private compartment, speaking low and a little hurried.  “James, what has got you so stirred up?”  asked Charlie, who was the only person except my dear,  late wife, Mary, who ever called me James!  I might add that Mary, ever the soul of discretion, never called me James when others were present.  “I’m unable to explain everything to you right now, old chap, but Holmes has me on a mission to find out if there is anything connecting an icon of organised crime with this railroad station, Tottenham Court in particular.    Holmes hopes for some news of an underground meeting place nearby where they might conduct some of their horrid business in public, but virtually unnoticed.”   I then pressed further upon my old friend.   

    Charlie thought for a few moments, scratching his head in one of the few spots still sporting some hair, and said, “Well James, there is a basement pub a few streets from ‘ere where some rather nasty looking scoundrels huddle in corners whispering among themselves.  A stranger who passes too close to them is met with some awfully threatening glances that ne’re fail to send them quickly in another direction.  It’s a popular pub for the roaming gypsies that have their encampments along the banks of the Thames.  There’s a gypsy musician that has gained favour with many a folk here abouts, named Jean Baptiste, and he draws quite a crowd when he’s in town.  All those scoundrel looking fellows hole up in there when ‘e’s playing.  You can’t miss it.  You just follow your ears.  But it’s called Ye Olde Tumblin’ Dice over on Westerfield Road between Seven Sisters and W. Green Roads.  But I don’t know if this will help you on your quest, old man, I’m afraid.”  I thanked my dear friend and bid him goodwill and set about getting a look at this pub.  Round a few corners and down a lane I came across a crudely fabricated sign hanging from one end that read Ye Olde Tumblin’ Dice, very poorly scripted.  I’d heard of a few of these pubs catering to a clientele that I’d not come across in my own travels, so I looked inside in order to avail a good report to Holmes upon my return.  Opening the door I was taken aback by the billows of tobacco smoke and odour of stale ale that had soaked into the very fibre of this establishment.  I took an opportunity and stepped inside, then took a seat in the shadows of a table in a corner to observe the many patrons within.
   
    Within moments I felt as if all faces were turned towards me in expression of disapproval.  A lanky barmaid who looked more like a burlesque dancer approached me and took a seat right upon my lap!  Shaken by the woman’s audacity and forward nature, I shifted, as if uncomfortable, in order to make her stand up.  “ello sir! Me name’s Anita, can I bring you something to ease your thirst?  Ol’ Reef’s behind the bar this afternoon, Reef Richards that is, an’  ‘e owns this fine establishment. You’re new to this pub, I can tell by your uneasy nature.  ‘spose we folk ain’t as good as what your used to minglin’ with, judging by your fine suit and expensive shoes!  I’ll ‘ave you know that once upon a time I was a beautiful model who attended parties at fine estates filled with important, you ‘ear, important people!”  She spoke in an accusational tone.  Trying to think fast and divert further attention to my presence, I said, “Pleasure to meet you Anita.  Yes, please bring me a glass of your finest ale.”    

    Wooden beams the likes of which I’ve seen on sailing vessels supported the ceiling and rafters.  In fact, the whole place looked as if it was constructed from the remnants of a shipwrecked schooner and were ages old, and weathered almost as much as ol’ Reef was.  Reef was haggard beyond his years if I am any judge of character.  Deep crevices, head wrapped in some kind of gypsy scarf that appeared to have been haphazardly wrapped around a shock of greying hair,  with signs of having been black in his youth.  Reef swaggered ‘round as if he’d had one or two pints of ale too many and about to fall, but never broke stride as he worked his way around the patrons, who all appeared fond of the old salt. 

    Overhearing some discussion coming forth from a table nearby I caught bits and pieces of stories about Reef being friendly with the band of gypsies, and occasionally joining in with the gypsy lute player that Charlie spoke of, Jean Baptiste.  Gypsies had a bad reputation around London and most of the farmers and ranchers out toward the countryside near the Thames hated them, because whenever the gypsies came round, livestock and eggs, dried meats and pelts always ended up missing.  There were few gypsy-friendly Londoners, and even fewer farmers, so a place where they were welcome was indeed unique.  Many of these caravaning gypsies came over from France, via Belgium and settled.  They made a living collecting discards and things they could refurbish and sell at a profit, along with hosting musical and comedy acts off the rear of their caravans.  They fabricated small makeshift stages off the read entrances of their brightly coloured caravans and their performances were something to see, so I’ve been told. 

    My attention, or should I say eavesdropping, came to an end when Anita returned with a large glass of dark brown ale with a huge head on top.  I thanked her and gave her a generous tip, to which she replied, “Well, you are a gentleman, and to be sure, not many of your type ‘ang their ‘ats in Reef’s place, but you are surely welcome anytime.”   “Anita?”   I whispered in one last attempt to gather information, “Have you ever heard, among the patrons of Ye Olde Tumblin’ Dice, anyone at all ever mention the name of Moriarty?” 

    With that, Anita turned a whiter shade of pale, and refused to speak with me at all, storming off to the crowded bar amongst a group of men who listened to her speak for a few seconds and then looked directly at me in a very threatening way.  I finished my ale abruptly and departed without drawing anyfurther attention, other than what my foolish question had already stirred. 

    The trip home, on the 5:15, was uneventful with the exception of the continuous questioning of my actions that I repeatedly did to myself.  A fool for certain, Holmes will surely find me.  However, I couldn’t help feeling, as the hansom arrived at Baker Street, that somehow, someone had followed me home.

© L. Guy Campbell    
   

My Friend And Colleague - Chapter Six - Voices In The Night

Sherlock Holmes
MY FRIEND and COLLEAGUE
THE EXTRAORDINARY FINAL PROBLEM
by
Dr. John H. Watson
and
© L. Guy Campbell
 __________________________________

Chapter Six
Voices In The Night
_________________________

    Looking down, I noticed my drink was untouched and cigar had long burned out, and suddenly felt exhausted and ready for bed.  Holmes took a sample of my cigar’s ash and put it in an envelope, reminded me that he might have visitors bearing information during the night and so would sleep on the sofa in anticipation of that possibility and an early departure on his investigation in the morning.  I bid him goodnight and went to my room.  So much about this case still unknown and yet so much information to digest, I found it hard to fall back asleep even in my exhausted state.  Shortly though, I began to drift off and dreamt of violins playing softly in the background.  Was it truly a dream, or was Holmes playing his beloved Stradivarius?  Holmes told me that his violin was made by the renowned violin maker, Antonio Stradivari. Holmes believed it to be worth at least five hundred guineas, which he had purchased for some fifty-five shillings on Tottenham Court Road.  Quite a bargain I thought to myself as I drifted further and further into sleep and dreams.  Dreams?  I wonder!

    I bolted upright, fumbled in my sleepiness for a book of matches and lit a candle.  I’d had quite a shocking dream and was completely disoriented.  Looking at my watch I saw that it was 3:45 a.m., and wondered if any visitors had yet come to see Holmes and whether he had indeed left upon his mission.  It was then that I heard voices coming from the parlour and strained to hear what was being said.  I could not make out a single word of a whispered and apparently agitated conversation between Homes and someone.  Not wanting to alarm them, nor intrude upon a private conversation, I was nonetheless curious enough to slip out of my bedroom door, down the short but familiar corridor until I could see the room dimly lit.  When I dared not go a step further without revealing myself, I heard the unmistakable sound of Sherlock Holmes’ older brother, Mycroft, speaking in a hurried and animated manner.  Holmes, head in hands kept his head low and face obscured.  I saw Holmes shake his head in what appeared to be disbelief.  Seeing my friend so obviously shaken, I instinctively wanted to go to his side and see what was disturbing him so.  This was not such a time, I quickly decided, and returned ever so quietly to my room. 

    Lying in bed for what seemed like hours, I tried to deduce what they could have been in such heated discussion over.  I must have drifted off back to sleep because I woke with a start again as Holmes was preparing to leave, and decided to confront Holmes about what disturbed him so.  As I entered the room, Holmes and Mycroft each looked my direction in surprise and obvious agitatation!  “Holmes, what’s been going on?”  I asked. “Can I be of any assistance?”  Exchanging looks with each other, both Holmes and Moriarty began to speak.  Holmes raise his hand to stop his brother short, and spoke, “No, Watson, not until we meet again at day’s end.  We can share information then.  Mycroft arrived with some much needed clarity on a few things and thus we are off early, as I suspected.  Get as much information regarding London’s underground from Scotland Yard or London Maintenance as you can.  There is great evil to put an end to, Watson!  Get some rest, old man, we’ve a busy day ahead.”  Quite tired and ready for sleep, my last conscious thought was  “Why had Holmes sent Wiggins to the banks of the Thames to aid him?  Why not I?  The Irregulars could certainly get the information about, and in fact, may know very well themselves about the underground tunnels and sewers, as easily as I.”  With that, though deeply puzzled, my exhaustion again overtook me and I feel completely asleep.

    Holmes must have alerted Mrs. Hudson to our unusual schedule this morning and, as such, I was pleasantly surprised that after shaving and dressing, I came out to find a wonderful breakfast already laid out, steaming hot,  and waiting for me.  Holmes had left a note for me that Mrs. Hudson had under my silverware.  “A change in your plans for today has become necessary, Watson,”  the note read, “and I need you to do everything you can to connect Moriarty’s stronghold and the neighborhood surrounding Tottenham Court Station by Oxford Street, where Wiggins lost track , I’m quite certain, of Moriarty and his henchmen.  We must find a connection of some kind that link these locations together.  It is discovering how Moriarty conducts his criminal doings so well out of sight that will lead us to his door, and ultimately, his demise.” 

    After reading the early edition of The Times, and breakfasted, I set out, flagging the third hansom that was passing Baker Street, and sent the driver to the West End location that Holmes and I watched Moriarty descend the steps into, that foggy night so few hours ago.  How different it would look in the light of day, I was thinking to myself as the beautiful beast drawing the carriage trotted along.  The horse was  a Shire, one of the largest examples of Shire I have ever seen.  They are massive beasts and just beautiful, even beyond description.  Such power and beauty would be hard to match.  Unique to the British Isles, the Shire horse is in demand in many countries and breeders now make a good living with the interest that breeders, and members of American aristocracy, have developed.  A fine animal in any case!  

    

Slightly familiar cobblestone streets passed by as the hansom wove its way through the narrow and terribly rough roadways of this downtrodden side of London.  No picture postcards of these avenues were sent to loved ones with “wish you were here” sentiments scribbled upon them!  The alleys reeked of urine and garbage, the decadent love nests of drunkards and prostitutes in the wee hours, where and  when no respectable English Gentleman or Lady would be found about.  These rows of identical boxes, these tenements of London’s poor and suffering were what society should be judged upon, not the social positioning of the aristocratic among us.  It’s the plight of the weak, poor and suffering that a society should be judged, and how well it cares for the unfortunate among them!  Any society can sweep its unfortunate, discarded population under the carpet for a picture postcard impression that belies the truth.  That is what I thought about the things  I witnessed as I rode down these filthy avenues of humanity and it’s dreadful decaying sorrow.

© L. Guy Campbell

My Friend and Colleague - Chapter Five - Wiggins and The Baker Street Irregulars

Sherlock Holmes
MY FRIEND and COLLEAGUE
THE EXTRAORDINARY FINAL PROBLEM
by
Dr. John H. Watson
and
© L. Guy Campbell
 __________________________________

Chapter Five
Wiggins
and
The Baker Street Irregulars
_________________________

    The ride home was a delight after the past twenty four hours when Holmes and I spent much of our time in the filthy places of London’s alleys and underground sewer tunnels, not to mention Moriarty’s stronghold with its dank, mouldy and  rotting masonry.  The open-front hansom was a delight as fresh air blew through our hair and cooled us from the damp, soggy atmosphere we’d spent our day in.  There were brightly dressed ladies, strolling to and fro about their business, oblivious to how beautiful they were.  Seeing them twirling their parasols with their full skirts bustling in the breeze was quite a relief to the experiences of the last day.  I was reminded of a popular song titled “When It’s Sunny” by a crooner named Douglas Davies who came from Muswell Hill. It had a very catchy melody and lyric about ladies looking pretty in their summer dresses.  I smiled to myself, knowing that Holmes could not, and would not, share this light hearted moment with me.  I was fortunate that I could put aside our cases and enjoy things, unlike Holmes whose single mindedness often made him oblivious to other enjoyable things in life.
  
    Holmes broke his silence, “Watson, we’ve got much work ahead of us.  We need rest, much rest. Tomorrow we’ll go our separate ways.  I’ll need you to research the underground ways of London at the library.  If you cannot find what we need there, you’ll have to get Scotland Yard to aid you in acquiring building diagrams and maps from the building and maintenance departments.  See if you can get Gregson or Lestrade to help you.”   “Where are you bound, Holmes?” I inquired.  “I’m not certain, Watson, but I may not return until very late.  And do not worry if you find that I am already gone when you awake in the morning.  I’ve got more than just Wiggins on tasks that may necessitate my departure at any time.  I believe I’ll sleep on the sofa in order to be easily roused if any news comes in during the wee hours of night.”  With that, Holmes turned aside and back to his thoughts, with a blank gaze toward the busy streets of late afternoon.

    Upon our arrival at Baker Street , Holmes began to research every book and resource we had in our rooms to see what he could find about the underground of London, it’s tunnels, maintenance depots, and the sewers, in an attempt to find something that connected them to Moriarty’s stronghold.  I could sense the great importance the tasks of the next day held.  Little did I know at this time that Holmes had found something of great  importance, in fact, greatly disturbing, in Moriarty’s dungeon that had set fire to the already substantial urgency in his manner.  “Mrs. Hudson!” Holmes shouted loud enough to be heard on the streets below, “Has Wiggins returned with any news.”  The dear lady opened the door with a tray laden with our evening meal, hot and steaming.  “No, Mr. Holmes, not since morning when he scurried away after I gave him your instructions.”   After the table was spread with our meal, Mrs. Hudson pointed out to Holmes that the latest edition of the newspaper was laid out.  “Thank you, Mrs. Hudson!” Holmes said with the tone he uses when dismissing someone whose presence is no longer required.  Mrs. Hudson turned about, and  with a wink towards me, closed the door behind her.  A quick glance at the paper, opened to the entertainment page, made perfectly clear her reasons and the sly wink my direction.

    After only a minute at the dinner table, Holmes exclaimed, “Ah, dear old Mrs. Hudson!  I see that she thinks I need a evening off from my investigation, and correct she may be.  It is, without a doubt, an evening not to be missed!  Tomorrow night, Watson, we dine out and see my favourite violinist and orchestra perform!  Will you accompany me?”  “My dear Holmes, I’d be delighted,” I assured him.  “I think I’ll enjoy seeing you get some relaxation as much as I will the music.  But you mentioned that you might possibly return rather late tomorrow evening!”  Holmes laughed out loud,  “And miss a performance of Mendelssohn's Violin Concerto in E minor, Op. 64,”  Holmes verily shouted,  “by the Scottish Chamber Orchestra featuring Declan Lewis as solo violinist?  Lewis is yet to be embraced by the socialites of Britain, but Watson, this young violinist is destined to become one of the great practitioners of the art of the violin!”  Of course, I had no idea who this young man was, but I looked forward to an evening out, some fresh air in my lungs, and the distraction from this case that has been obsessing Holmes, and, myself.

    When our meal was finished and table cleared, Holmes and I took our chairs by the fire.  Holmes rose and, oddly, fiddled with his choice among the several pipes located on the mantlepiece until he found the one that fit his current mood.  It was rather odd the way he went about it, though.  It was as if he was looking for something that was not there.  I shrugged it off as one of his many oddities and lit a cigar I’d found it at the tobacconist, The Olde Humidor,  around the corner.  The proprietor had ordered them special for me from Cuba.  It was an unusual cigar that comes in what is called a coffin, a cedar box with a sliding lid that contains three cigars, banded and twisted together unlike any other cigar I have ever smoked.  The coffin contained three twisted Culebras, which means snake in Spanish, tied together with red silk on each end, looking as if they would be impossible so smoke successfully.  The tobacconist, Naomi, a Japanese immigrant, also makes cigar box lutes and sells them in her shop. Always filled with gentlemen connoisseurs and ruffians alike, her shop is a centre for news and gossip.  She  assured me that they were a smooth and even draw despite their odd shape.  I’ve enjoyed them fairly often, though when offered to Holmes, he declined any interest in any of my cigars, except for the ash when I was done smoking.  Attentive readers will remember that Holmes had published an academic paper on over 140 varieties of tobacco ash and was a leading authority on the matter. I was pleased to be part of his ever expanding expertise on the subject.

    I asked, “Holmes, would you like some cognac or sherry with your after dinner smoke?”
He nodded without so much as looking up.  So I poured two glasses of cognac for us and settled into my chair across from him.  “Watson, I’m going to investigate what may be of great consequence in finding Moriarty.  He is, without a doubt, using the dark of night as a cover for his criminal deeds, but I have reason to believe that the stronghold we discovered is only one of  several hideaways he is using.  I also think there is a good chance that these hideaways may be linked, connected by underground ways of some kind, allowing movement and shelter from observing eyes.   I am going to the banks of the Thames and see what, if anything, I can find.  It is a shame that the dim light and heavy fog prevented a clear view the other night.  I’ll prepare myself to fit in with the locals along the banks of the river and see if I can get them talking more freely than they’d like to.”  “Holmes?” I inquired, “What do you hope to find?  Surely there is no way it’s possible for an underground tunnel from the Thames to Moriarty’s dungeon in the West End!”

    Holmes exclaimed, “Hello!  I can tell by the footsteps that Mrs. Hudson is bringing young Wiggins to our door!”  Up and out of his chair, Holmes threw open the door, much to the surprise of Mrs. Hudson, grabbed Wiggins by the hand and drew the boy inside.  “Thank you, Mrs. Hudson!”  shouted Holmes as he shut the door almost right in the poor woman’s face. Pulling one of the dining room chairs between us for Wiggins so sit on, Holmes nodded at the boy indicating he was ready to hear what he’d found.  “Well. Mr. Holmes, it was much as you expected.  The locksmith you sent me to couldn’t identify the lock after much thumbing through his manuals.  He tried three different times to make a key that he thought would open the lock from the drawing you gave me.  He said to try them, but it was out of his league, and, as you expected, sent me to the docks along the shipyards where I’d find a tiny shop with no name on the sign or door, but an odd marking much like  you drew.  The gentleman there sir, like to have nearly  scared me out of my wits.  A very disagreeable face he had, to be sure, Mr. Holmes, but when I mentioned your name he smiled and no longer looked so foul, and then told me a story about how you’d saved him from the gallows once and that he’d changed his ways after that and has been on the straight and narrow.  That’s what  he said, sir!”  Holmes patience with the boy was extraordinary, unlike his ways with anyone else in my experience with him, even toward myself!  It was, again, very apparent that Wiggins was held in high regard and that his attention to detail was of much interest to Holmes.  “The first locksmith gave me the three keys he made, even though he thought them useless,” Wiggins continued, “ I paid him right proper as you said to.  But the locksmith at the shipyard, Mr. Alec Entwistle is his name. as he told me, sir, refused your offer of compensation.  He said he owed you a lifetime of service, and so it was that he made me two keys from the diagram.  He said the diagram you drew looked like it  was from an old ship’s cargo hold, and not common anymore, due to all them ship’s being made of steel nowadays.  He said to tell you that if you have trouble, use some graphite in the lock and work it ‘round.  He said, “Old locks like those are like women, and need to be worked on a bit before they open themselves up!”  With that Holmes burst out laughing like I’ve never heard him do before.  The poor lad know nothing of what he’d said and was shocked at Holmes’ outburst.  Holmes’ laughter went on until it was contagious and we were all laughing so hard and loud that Mrs. Hudson came to the door wondering if we were alright!

    Quickly Holmes recovered himself and spoke to Wiggins.  “I need your help, Wiggins, and that of the Irregulars.  See what you can find about any underground tunnels, hidden caves, anything that you can of any means of travel from the Thames to the West End or anywhere near the train station where you followed those men for me.  Anything that you and the other boys know or can discover will be of great help.”  Standing up and reaching into his pocket, Holmes handed Wiggins a one pound note.  The boy about fainted!  “There’s a boy!  No need to collapse now, there’s work to be done.  The game’s afoot and you are of great help to Watson and I.”  Holmes had caught the lad mid-fall, set him on his chair and finished speaking, “Here, hold out both your hands.”  Wiggins obliged, cupping both hands together.  “Here are 20 half-crowns.  Will that be enough to give one to each Irregular?”  The lad could hardly believe his eyes and ears! Holmes spoke to the lad, “Come back when you have news, and tell all the lads that there’s more where that came from if you can return with news before Watson and I leave for the evening tomorrow night.  Again, if we are not at home, leave word with Mrs. Hudson so we know how to reach you upon our return.  And Wiggins, let all the Irregulars know that this is a nasty bit of business and you cannot be too careful.  Try not to be seen.  Our foes are active under the cover of night, and that is unfortunately the best time for your work.  Decide for yourselves if it is best to work night or day.  Each has its drawbacks.  Make sure you work in groups of two or three.  If one of a group runs into trouble, send someone to find Watson or myself immediately.”  With that, Holmes looked the boy in the eye in a manner that could only be described as a warning against the danger they would face if caught by Moriarty’s gang of criminals.  Wiggins nodded in an understanding way as Holmes escorted him to the door, silently closing it behind him.

© L. Guy Campbell

 
 

MY FRIEND and COLLEAGUE - Chapter Four - Moriarty’s Stronghold

 Sherlock Holmes
MY FRIEND and COLLEAGUE
THE EXTRAORDINARY FINAL PROBLEM
by
Dr. John H. Watson
and
© L. Guy Campbell
 __________________________________

Chapter Four
Moriarty’s Stronghold
____________

    And so it was that I found myself the next morning, alongside Holmes, in an hansom on our way through many of the same streets we traveled last evening.  Holmes explained, “Wiggins has become invaluable to me, Watson!  If I am not mistaken, the investigation by the resourceful lad will prove to be Moriarty’s eventual downfall.  I do hope you brought along your service revolver, we’re going to be going into deep and dark, evil places before this day is done.”  I assured Holmes that, indeed, my revolver was in hand, “But where are we going today, Holmes?  Is it not wiser to travel under the cover of night?”  Holmes laughed out loud and then, lowered his voice to a whisper and said, “Where we are going, no amount of light or darkness will favour us well. It is to the unfathomable depths of crime that we are to venture.”

    Ancient odours permeated the mildew, the dark and dank masonry literally oozed of some ancient evil of the kind concocted by the mind of man.  Thick, dark mould and moss encrusted the masonry, brick by mortared brick, and a foulness I’ve never felt before accosted my senses.  Light shone from a single glass pane high above in the roof.  Precious little light was afforded,  but enough to see that this was truly a house of horrors hidden beneath the busy streets of London and the passing people above who were, blessedly so, ignorant of the evil below them.

    Holmes paced about the room, though it less resembled a room than a dungeon.  Evil had truly had it’s way upon many souls in this horrid place.  Circular in shape, and several meters in height, there was not a corner among the walls that could prevent a full view from Professor Moriarty’s desk, if you could call it such a thing.  Massive in size and covered with carvings that represented evil from time out of mind, it was more like a towering lectern from which judgement on poor innocent souls was put down.  I shudder to think of the misery that may have been bestowed upon the citizenry of England in this Godless place.  Gargoyles and demons adorned Moriarty’s lectern, carved with intricate detail and precision, adding to the sense that this chamber was indeed the stronghold of, as Holmes often called him, the Napoleon of Crime.

    I had a sense of urgency to leave this foul and stagnant place, but Holmes, unlike myself, appeared to have no apprehensions about lingering and investigating this whole dark dungeon to his complete satisfaction.  Two entrances only, or, one entrance and one exit, were to be discovered.  The entrance we took was found through complex maneuvering through the maze of tunnels and putrid waterways of the London sewers.  We utilised all but two of the remaining matches in the matchbox that Holmes insisted we bring along, and many times I’d wished we brought a candle, but Holmes was wary of a continuously burning flame in the sewers.  Enough light was to be afforded by the glass panels in the roof above for Holmes’ purpose, and apparently he gave no concern for the return trip through the dark, stagnant, and wasted filled sewer tunnels.

    The other door, found high at the top of a circular wrought iron stairway to the right of Moriarty’s lectern, was of great interest to Holmes.  Holmes made close inspection of the door’s hinges and the door’s lock, making an outline of the keyhole.  These were of great interest to Holmes, though not a word was spoken during this investigation.  The door was made from the cover of a ship’s cargo hold, heavy and thick, immobile without the aid of a key’s entry. This hollow, vacant space made for every sound’s amplification and echo.  The rattling of the door’s hardware was a cacophony of sound as Holmes attempted, unsuccessfully, to find a way to gain entry.   There was no doubt that, however much this dungeon of evil was Moriarty’s stronghold, the inner sanctum behind that door at the top of the stairwell was of even greater interest to Holmes, and sure to be Moriarty’s private quarters. 

    While Holmes’ interest in gaining access to Moriarty’s inner sanctum occupied him, I noticed how like a magistrates courtroom this chamber of horrors resembled!   Moriarty had certainly passed judgement and sentence on his prey here in this very space.  I swear that I heard the tortured wails and cries of his victims emanating from the mouldy stone and masonry.  I shivered to think of the horrors that had been done in this dungeon!

    Holmes whispered, “Watson, take notes on every item in this room. Pay close attention, old fellow, to the titles and authors of the books and manuscripts you come across.  They may prove to be of great importance!”  There were, upon close inspection, numerous academic periodicals, books and papers.  I noted as much information as I could with trembling hands and little light.

    I quietly observed as Holmes silently, as only Holmes can, observed other details and clues among the sparse surroundings.  Many notes filled his own notebook, which I’m sure were  much more detailed than my own, however much I tried to utilise what I’d learned from observing Holmes’ deductive reasoning and attention to detail.  I climbed the stairwell and asked Holmes if I should strike a match to afford some additional light.  “No, Watson.” Holmes whispered, “Our labours are done here, for now.  We must preserve this dungeon, before our departure, so that even Moriarty cannot detect our having been present here.”

    With that, we set about inspecting everything we had touched, and examined the sparse furnishings meticulously, assuring that nothing was left out of place.  I paid particular attention to arranging the books and things that I handled and thumbed through. Satisfied, Holmes motioned to the same door, off the sewer entrance that we’d arrived through, and we made our way breathing as little as possible, through the winding corridors and tunnels of sewage until we exited upon the alley from which we’d entered. 

    Wiggins was waiting, as instructed, across the alley and rushed over to us.  “I got your message from Mrs. Hudson, and hurried here just as you asked, Mr. Holmes!” said Wiggins.  Holmes smiled at the boy, handed him a scrap of paper with the diagram of the lock to Moriarty’s inner rooms.  Whispering instructions in the boy’s ear, Wiggins then took off at a full gallop and disappeared through the alleyways.  

© L. Guy Campbell

My Friend and Colleague - Chapter Three - Moriarty: A Narrative of Crime

 

 Sherlock Holmes
MY FRIEND and COLLEAGUE
THE EXTRAORDINARY FINAL PROBLEM
by
Dr. John H. Watson
and
L. Guy Campbell
 __________________________________

Chapter Three
 Moriarty: A Narrative of Crime
____________

    It was in the year of 1881 that Sherlock Holmes, at the age of 27, took up lodging in Mrs. Hudson’s upper Baker Street residence, London, located at 221B.  Holmes’ elder brother, Mycroft, possessed of similar deductive reasoning, if less disciplined, maintained a high, yet secret, position with the British government.  Not known as a man of action, Mycroft was a constant figure at the Diogenes Club, of which he was co-founder. One of his associates described Mycroft as “Heavily built and massive, having a suggestion of uncouth physical inertia in his figure, but above this unwieldy frame there was perched a head so masterful in its brow, so alert in its steel-gray, deep-set eyes, so firm in its lips, and so subtle in its play of expression, that after the first glance one forgot the gross body and remembered only the dominant mind.”

    My introduction to these two great minds changed the course of my life forever, taking me on paths never before dreamed of.  Dr. John Hamish Watson is my full name.  It is to the following facts that I intend to report:

    I first met Holmes when searching for lodgings in London after my injury and return from military service as a surgeon in Afghanistan. "How are you?"  Holmes said cordially upon our first meeting, gripping my hand with a strength for which I should hardly have given him credit. "You have been in Afghanistan, I perceive."  From that moment onward Holmes and myself would often be sharing rooms together, and our lives intertwined in more ways than one.  Though I later married Mary Morstan, whom I met during the case of The Sign of Four, and, on occasion indulged my medical practise from my own residence, more years than not Holmes and I occupied the rooms at 221B together, and the numerous cases we solved occupied all my time.

    There was one thing that, despite all the other cases and criminals that occupied Holmes’ attention, commanded his attention more than any other.  That was, indeed, the man Holmes often referred to as the Napoleon of Crime, Professor James Moriarty.

    Holmes described Moriarty as follows, ”Moriarty is a man of good birth and excellent education, endowed by nature with a phenomenal mathematical faculty. At the age of twenty-one he wrote A Treatise on the Binomial Theorem, which has had a European vogue. On the strength of it he won the mathematical chair at one of our smaller universities, the University of Leeds, and had, to all appearances, a most brilliant career before him.  Moriarty also wrote The Dynamics of An Asteroid, described as "a book which ascends to such rarefied heights of pure mathematics and that there was no man in the scientific press capable of criticising it. But the man had hereditary tendencies of the most diabolical kind. A criminal strain ran in his blood, which, instead of being modified, was increased and rendered infinitely more dangerous by his extraordinary mental powers. Dark rumours gathered round him in the University town, and eventually he was compelled to resign his chair and come down to London, where his diabolical career in crime began.”

    It is true that, in all of my narratives on cases that Sherlock Holmes and I worked on together, Moriarty has only been known to have been involved in very few.  However, it has also been noted that Holmes has suspected Moriarty’s involvement behind many more, and has said so openly to Scotland Yard.  Inspector Lestrade, habitually inept at the art of detecting, paid very little attention to Holmes on these occasions.  Add to the fact that no one, not even Holmes, was sure what Moriarty looked like.  Scotland Yard’s inability to believe in anything they cannot hold in their pitiful grasp, went a long way in making Moriarty appear like a figment of Holmes’ imagination.

    Yet, for all this information, it appears that Holmes and his brother Mycroft are the only men in Britain to be completely aware of Moriarty and his underground criminal entourage. 

My Friend and Colleague - Chapter Two - A Study by Fireside

Sherlock Holmes
MY FRIEND and COLLEAGUE
THE EXTRAORDINARY FINAL PROBLEM
by
Dr. John H. Watson
and
© L. Guy Campbell
 __________________________________

Chapter Two
A Study by Fireside
________

    By the time Holmes' narrative came to an end, it was again grey with the fog of late afternoon, the light fading as the street-lamps came alight one by one and shone though our window shades.  Indeed, my notes were extensive and my pencil sharpened down to a nub.  I had written, as best I could, the details of the incredible events that Holmes shared.  I became familiar with the criminal Adam Worth, American astronomer Simon Newcomb, Carl Friedrich Gauss, who, while only in his twenties, had written a paper on asteroids that was highly regarded in the scientific community, as well as Jonathan Wild, the arch-criminal of London during the eighteenth century, in addition to two boys named Moriarty from Stoneyhurst College.

    Nothing appeared to be in chronological order in my mind.  As I said, Holmes’ muttering may or may not have even been intended for my ears, though I somehow believe my dear friend was counting on me to be keenly interested, nonetheless.  The fire had long ago burned out, so we sat in the dim candle light, as Holmes’ recital appeared to be coming to an end.  I noticed my own ravenous appetite returning and thought of how long it had been since Holmes had dined, and so ordered our evening meal from Mrs. Hudson.  I then re-lit the fire by stoking the embers with an old poker, and began to further question Holmes so that I could make better sense of the incredible story in which I’d been entranced for the duration of a whole day.  “Holmes! I have so many questions to ask and would like to know more about all these people and names.”  I pleaded.

    Holmes would have nothing to do with further discussion, begged my pardon, and sat by the last bit of waning daylight peering through the draperies, playing his violin as if not a care in the world had he.  A most amazing creature, this complex man I called my friend.  Ever unpredictable, yet ever so precise in his habits, however scattered and random they appeared to the casual observer.   

    A sense of melancholy came over me as Holmes played, bowing the violin’s strings with delicate finesse.  An odd mixture of odours permeated these humble rooms that we shared.  Years and years of smoke from the fireplace and Holmes’s pipe-weed had penetrated into the very essence of the place.  A distinct trait that no paint, new flooring or wall-papering would ever be able to disguise.  Of course, the odd experiment that Holmes became occupied with, and the chemical residue that often sent poor Mrs. Hudson into an uproar, were at odds with the various smoke residue for most prominence.  I chuckled to myself and relaxed into my armchair by the fire and began to review my notes. 

    The next thing I knew Homes was waking me from my slumber to see a wonderful feast laid out by Mrs. Hudson.  It seems that I’d fallen asleep for an hour or two.  I woke with a ravenous appetite and immediately took a seat at the table.  I was pleased to see that Holmes had a renewed appetite as well.  We ate in silence for many minutes, before conversation returned.  I could barely keep the numerous questions revolving around in my mind from interrupting Holmes as he poured over the not insubstantial number of newspapers stacked beside his silverware.  Suddenly I blurted out, like an impatient child,  several names of interest that Holmes had mentioned during his mumbling upon our return earlier this morning.  ”Holmes!  My curiosity is on edge, and I cannot go on with our meal without some further understanding of some of the names and places you spoke of whilst smoking your pipe by the fire.  Please, tell me more about Wild and Gauss, George Boole and so many persons I noted in your muttering.  I’ve no idea if you were speaking to me, or recalling events to yourself, but, Holmes, please advise me upon these matters.” I exclaimed with some noticeable urgency!   ”Well, Watson!” said Holmes with obvious aggravation,  ”So much for a quiet and peaceful supper!”

    Then without warning, Holmes shouted  ”Mrs. Hudson? Mrs. Hudson!”  Moments later the sound of her weary footsteps climbing the seventeen steps of our stairwell toward our door could be heard, and even before the door opened, Holmes was instructing her.  ”Mrs. Hudson, would you ask Wiggins to come upstairs as soon as the boy returns?”  The poor woman, however accustomed to Holmes’ eccentricities, could barely disguise her displeasure with him.  Nonetheless the dear lady nodded to Holmes and headed downstairs to check on Wiggins’ whereabouts.  ”Holmes! Weren’t you a bit rude to the old woman?” I asked.  But Holmes heard not a word I’d said, his lips pursed, eyes closed and hands folded in deep thought that no one, save Mycroft, might even fathom.  I wondered if even Mycroft found his brother Sherlock an enigma.   

    Wiggins was, of course, Holmes’ favourite and most trusted ”Irregular” and had been of assistance on many cases.  One of a group of street urchins who, when not employed by Holmes on one of his cases, might as easily be found picking the pockets of some unsuspecting bystander who, by happenstance, became distracted in a crowd.  However, when in the employ of Mr. Sherlock Holmes, the Baker Street Irregulars, and Wiggins in particular, were the most  trustworthy co-conspirators as could be found.  It was some time before Mrs. Hudson announced Wiggins’ arrival, and he was ushered in immediately.  I could see by Holmes’ excitement that there was some anticipation that news was to come forth from the young lad.

    Wiggins appeared as if he’d gone for days without a change of clothes or washing, and a good meal was certainly in order.  Dear Mrs. Hudson needn’t be told this and intuitively returned in short order with some milk and table setting for the lad.  ”Well, Mr. Holmes, I did right as you asked of me, and followed those men in the carriage as your note explained,” said Wiggins between rushed gulps of the rarely offered, and thoroughly enjoyed glass of milk.  ”The carriage had three men in it, just like you said, and I followed it through the streets for what seemed the longest time.  It appeared to me, sir, that they were purposely going round and round the same streets as if they suspected they were being followed, if you understand my meaning.”  Holmes sat patiently listening to the boy tell his tale.  His usual impatience with those who lay their stories out for his audience was non-existent, and it was apparent to me that Holmes held great fondness for the lad.  In addition to this fondness, however, was a respect for the boy’s unerring attention to detail and ability to follow Holmes’ directions to the letter.

    After a few more bites of gravy soaked bread and meat, Wiggins resumed his tale.  ”Well, sir, I was in a proper fix, having forgotten my notepad, and unable to remember every turn and corner I went round following that carriage, but I do know that it stopped finally at the Tottenham Court Station by the platforms under Oxford Street, west of St Giles' Circus.  The driver scurried off without coming to a proper stop and the three gentlemen went off in different directions and disappeared into the crowd.  I’m sorry, sir, but I’d lost them, and no searching through the station could make me find them.  I do believe they took different trains though!  So I hurried back here as quickly as my tired feet could go.”  All during Wiggins’ narrative Holmes listened as if transfixed, appearing pleased with his work.  ”Wiggins,” asked Holmes, ”Did you get a close look at any of the three men?  Did anything stand out about any of them?”

    Finishing his meal, the dear boy looked up at Holmes with exhaustion all over his face, and replied, ”Sir, they were, as you know, in the carriage where I could not see them well.  Chasing round from behind, and on foot, made it impossible to get even a sidelong glance.”  I couldn’t help but smile inwardly at how well spoken this child of London’s streets was.  His few years working with Holmes had gone a long way toward an education that he otherwise might never have received.  I wonder if Holmes was even aware of his own humanitarian efforts, or oblivious due to his own particular single minded nature?

    Wiggins continued, ”But, Mr. Holmes, one of the men appeared to be giving directions to the other two, and was always kept between them, as if they were guarding him somehow.  The were all dressed in black overcoats and hats, and the one who appeared to be in charge was tall, sullen, and seemingly dark in character.”  Holmes was obviously pleased by this news and let loose with an almost inaudible shriek of pleasure.  ”Wiggins, you’re a good boy.  Go take some rest and return tomorrow, when you are refreshed.  If Watson and I are not in, Mrs. Hudson will have instructions for you in our stead.  Oh! Here is a little something for your efforts!”

    Holmes handed the boy a half-crown, eliciting a shriek of joy from the lad.  Perhaps the lad had never seen so much money, but, in any event, Holmes was generous toward the boy, and no mistake.  Wiggins scurried out of the door and could be heard, voices coming through our windows from the street below, showing the other Irregulars his good fortune.  Holmes and I laughed aloud together, though the levity of the moment would be short lived.  The table cleared and Mrs. Hudson thanked for her gracious service, Holmes quickly closed and locked the door, shut the windows, and closed the blinds. 

    Settling into his chair by the fireplace, a lit pipe in hand, Holmes began to enlighten me with a tale of some many years earlier, regarding a man that has possessed him to this very day.  He leaned forward toward me, eyes intensely afire, and drew deep upon his Calabash, blowing three smoke rings into the air, and said but one word.

© L. Guy Campbell 2013

MY FRIEND and COLLEAGUE - Chapter One - Midnight Sleuthing

Sherlock Holmes
MY FRIEND and COLLEAGUE
THE EXTRAORDINARY FINAL PROBLEM
by
Dr. John H. Watson
and
L. Guy Campbell
 __________________________________

Chapter One
Midnight Sleuthing
_________________________

    Mr. Sherlock Holmes and I had walked the irregular, cobblestone alleyways and back streets of London’s West End since the last bells of midnight stopped echoing.  Never before had I witnessed such urgency in his manner.  The fog was so thick that the dim yellow light from the gas-lamps afforded little help, yet Holmes was unyielding in his determination to search out the one criminal mind that has escaped him for so many years.  Holmes seemed frail, yet driven with an intensity that belied his physical condition.  I longed for our rooms at 221B, a warm fire, and some much needed rest for myself.  But I feared even more so for Holmes.  I also feared, in fact, that the night would be very long, indeed. 

    Holmes dauntlessly paced, with great speed, through the cobblestone alleyways in silence.  Only  occasionally would he emit one of his signature squeals that told me he’d discovered something of interest, though he shared not a word.  Otherwise, we traveled in silence with the exception of the lonesome echoes of our footsteps.  My friend’s agility at avoiding obstacles along our pathway in the poor light was astonishing.  Around rubbish bins and rubble in the narrow streets and alleys we sped.  Men and women, awash with drink and filled with lust and lechery barely noticed us as we passed them by during their passion filled grunting and groaning.  The fog had become so dense as to be a light rain, making us both damp and cold, yet our hearts were pumping wildly at the pace with which we wove our way through the night.

    Without warning, Holmes suddenly stopped in his tracks.  I nearly stumbled into him in the foggy mist.  Instinct and years of companionship caused me to remain silent beside my dear friend despite my inclination to ask the many questions I had.  He crouched low and motioned me to nestle closed to him in a large doorway on our left.  Both of us held our breath and tried to calm our rapidly beating hearts in the stillness.  A piercing silence penetrated the darkness with a feeling of evil.  For minutes that felt like hours, we crouched in the night, awaiting something that only Holmes might know.  I started to fall asleep in the doorway, I was so exhausted.

Whether Holmes heard the approaching carriage and the clip-clop of the horses footsteps before I, or had anticipated it’s arrival, I had no idea, but he seemed not surprised.  Holmes undoubtedly had led us easily to this location, though the maze of streets and alleys left me at a loss to know where we were.  I recognised nothing in the fog-laden dim of night, but was now sure it was shortly before dawn, noticing the early morning light penetrating through the fog.  The carriage stopped across the avenue from our hiding place and three figures descended quickly, then down a stairwell into an open doorway from which amber light shone out of the basement windows.  The carriage left as hastily as it arrived, leaving Holmes and myself in the grey silence.  My friend’s face, barely visible in the light, looked pale and hollow.  Yet in his eyes there burned an unmistakable excitement.  It was apparent that Holmes was satisfied with what we’d witnessed, though a certain resignation seem to lay about him.  It was clear to me now  that our evening’s labours were at an end, as Holmes turned heel to leave without so much as a glance backward, and little apparent care about being recognised.   

    However much an indecipherable maze our journey there had been, Holmes, in the ever increasing light of dawn, took a far more direct path back to our rooms.  Familiar streets and landmarks now recognisable to me were comforting as Holmes led us homeward with great haste.  Ever graceful, Holmes’s pace was fast, yet to the casual observer, unhurried.  Holmes had not spoken so much as a word in explanation to me in regards to our night’s journey, though I hoped that I’d not have to wait long upon our return home for an explanation.

    We arrived at Baker Street just in time to find Mrs. Hudson setting the table for our breakfast with delicious, and much needed, sustenance.  Eggs and bacon accompanied scones and ample portions of creamy butter.  A hot teapot brimming with steam called to my ravenous, and exhausted appetite, but Holmes would have nothing to do with our meal.  Even Mrs. Hudson’s pleading for Holmes, who looked ever so pale and gaunt around the cheekbones, to break bread was of no use!  I set about having my breakfast, patiently awaiting my dear friend’s next move.

    Pacing between the drawn blinds of the windows looking out on Baker Street, Holmes peered out to catch a glance of anyone who may have followed us on our retreat from the West End location from whence we came.  Satisfied that we’d arrived without detection, Holmes relaxed into his chair and heaved a great sigh.  His eyes closed and head resting on the back of his chair, Holmes sat silently for some minutes before lighting a pipe from the embers still aglow in the fireplace, and began to mutter out loud.  It was some time before I realised that Homes was indeed speaking to me, and so began taking notes.

©L. Guy Campbell 2013