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!
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
© L. Guy Campbell
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