Golem's Shadow: The Fall of Sherlock Holmes

Title page

Golem’s Shadow

The Fall of Sherlock Holmes

Petr Macek

Publisher information

2015 digital version by Andrews UK Limited

www.andrewsuk.com

© Copyright 2015 Petr Macek

The right of Petr Macek to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1998.

All rights reserved. No reproduction, copy or transmission of this publication may be made without express prior written permission. No paragraph of this publication may be reproduced, copied or transmitted except with express prior written permission or in accordance with the provisions of the Copyright Act 1956 (as amended). Any person who commits any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damage.

All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. The opinions expressed herein are those of the authors and not of MX Publishing.

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Foreword

Although many years have passed since Sherlock Holmes left public life, readers still ask me to remember the famous detective in a column, article or memoir. Hardly a week goes by in which I do not receive a letter from one celebrated publication or another asking me to set down our other adventures in literary form.

To be perfectly honest, I had no desire to do so. My friend’s peace of mind was for more important to me than the barrage of figures and fat cheques promised to me for a few lines of print. On the other hand, I marvelled at the joy with which Holmes reacted to these requests.

Give the vultures what they want, he would say with a sharp laugh, casting the publishers’ letters into the fireplace, which is where they belonged.

Holmes had a weakness for the tabloids. He said that one always found something interesting in them. He was never much interested in politics or international affairs; he was much happier reading about crime and murder. It was only on the rarest of occasions that he consented to investigate a political affair and that only through the intercession of the highest government office or at the beckoning of his elder brother Mycroft.

Similar thoughts when through my mind as I read another letter from my former publisher, Mr Doyle. He again asked me to reconsider my objections and urged me to accept the handsome fee that he proffered. After much hesitation, I therefore finally decided to return to my memories of those grand days that I had spent alongside the great detective. Not for profit, mind you, but for the warm feeling that I experience while setting down our cases. In recent years, moreover, my contact with Holmes had been restricted to correspondence and occasional visits to his farm. To once again spend time with Sherlock Holmes, even if only on paper, was so appealing that I finally succumbed.

I am going through my notes from that time to see if I can find a case gripping enough to captivate today’s readers. To my surprise, at the bottom of an old trunk I found notes from a case that I have barely thought about in years, despite its tragic nature.

The case is shrouded in such horror that I had to suppress it deep in my subconscious. Now I again summon it to the light of day, where I hope it will lose some of its morbid fascination, knowing full well what inevitably must follow.

John H. Watson, M.D.

April 23, 1924

I. The Jilted Bride

It was a cold and damp early autumn day, some three years after the death of our dear Queen Victoria, and almost ten years after my friend’s return from his great chase after Moriarty. By five in the evening the shadows on the streets were already starting to grow longer and an hour later the new electric lamps shone like small islands of light in a sea of darkness. In the windows of the apartment in Baker Street the first drops of rain appeared.

Sherlock Holmes had been beset by gloom and depression ever since the news of the death of Irene Adler. For weeks now he had wallowed in a kind of stupor of ennui. There was no case on the horizon, and not even the specialist essays or the chemistry experiments that usually filled these barren times succeeded in diverting him.

Despite my beseeching he took refuge in his old vices.

Cocaine once again had him in thrall. My wife and I had to travel outside London, and upon returning I found Holmes unshaven and delirious. His brilliant mind could not stand being idle and succumbed to the drug.

I immediately removed all of his equipment and resolved to fight for his soul.

It took me several weeks but in the end I succeeded in bringing Holmes back to reality. Naturally there were violent mood swings and paroxysms when I cut off the supply of the opiate. He would go into a panic and not know the world around him. But these seemed to be getting weaker and then they apparently subsided.

I again moved in with Holmes and constantly tried to keep him occupied. I ordered our landlady Mrs Hudson to wake us as late as possible and I took him on long walks, which helped lessen his irritability.

One afternoon we were walking about the city where I was trying to distract Holmes with the sight of several new modern-style buildings rising up not far from our lodgings. For a moment he became indignant about their monstrousness, but a moment later he again pushed his cap down over his forehead and with his gaze fixed on the ground marched with his characteristic swaying gait back to the house.

Come, Watson, he mumbled irritably. It is time for the evening edition. God willing we will find something interesting in it!

I turned around and gave up the day’s attempt to rid him of his melancholy.

We returned home and soon dusk turned into evening. Our good landlady, who was also sorely affected by my friend’s condition, tried to lift his spirits in her own special way, by serving us the most delectable meals. The repast concluded with an excellent dessert: a chocolate cake with homemade raspberry jam. This could not leave Holmes cold, and as we sat in armchairs drinking coffee in front of the fireplace he even managed a faint smile.

Still it’s distressing, don’t you think? he said as we listened to the logs crackling in the fire.

What do you mean?

Every second somewhere in the world a crime is afoot, and cruel fate does not so much as send me an ordinary pickpocket, he sighed.

I thought to placate him with a white lie. It even occurred to me to go to Inspector Lestrade’s office tomorrow to see if he knew of a crime with which to divert Holmes.

But suddenly there was an insistent knocking at the door! Holmes’s aquiline profile straightened.

Mrs Hudson hurried downstairs to open the door and the detective listened carefully. We could hear the pattering of quick footsteps rushing up the stairs to our lodgings. At that late hour it could be only a client in trouble!

Holmes jumped up to open the door. Before us stood a young woman dressed in white, her hand frozen in the air in a knocking motion.

The hem of her wedding dress was muddy and the rain had turned her blonde coiffure into a limp and tangled mess. A shawl was thrown over her shoulders and there was a beautiful diamond brooch fastened on her breast. Despite the inclement weather she had a charming air, which captivated me as well as the detective, who was usually immune to female charms.

Mr Sherlock Holmes? she asked breathlessly.

Do I have the honour of addressing Miss Annabelle Watts? said Holmes bowing gallantly. Or is it already Lady St. John-Smythe?

How did you recognise me? asked the bride gasping for breath and accepting our invitation to enter the living room. Have we met before?

Never, he said. "Your unusual attire reveals how you probably spent the day. I read your family’s notice in today’s Times. The Church of St. George was prepared for a number of days for the wedding of the daughter of the wealthiest London coal magnate and the young Lord James St. John-Smythe!"

But there must be dozens of weddings in London every day!

Not ones where the bride has a dress from the best dressmaker in all of England. And judging by the condition of said dress I gather that you got very wet on the way. It started to rain here just a moment ago, and according to the direction of the drops on the window I presume that the wind is blowing the rain from the east, where the Church of St. George is located. But perhaps I am mistaken.

You are absolutely correct!

The woman looked at him with astonishment and took a seat at the fireplace. Holmes poured her a glass of brandy. Despite the brandy and the warm fireplace she was trembling all over.

May I bring you a shawl? I offered.

She shook her head. She removed her wet and muddy shoes, and stretched her feet towards the fire. As a doctor I could not fail to notice the anatomical perfection of her calf.

Tell me why the wedding did not take place, said Holmes.

How did you know that? she cried.

Holmes sighed.

Why would an apparently spurned bride seek me out at the beginning of her wedding night? And leaving all deduction aside, the problem is very clearly attested by the absence of a wedding band on your finger.

Miss Watts stared at the ring finger of her left hand.

Indeed the wedding did not take place, she confirmed, and her eyes welled with tears. I left the church in a daze and wandered the streets aimlessly until it started to rain. Don’t be angry that I bothered you! You must help me!

I will do what I can. But you must tell me exactly what happened.

James never appeared, she said, her lips quivering.

I’m afraid these things happen, my dear, I said. The young man simply lost his nerve. He no doubt loves you passionately and is now sitting at home with his conscience gnawing at him. In a couple of days he will show up at your doorstep to beg your forgiveness. It is embarrassing and unpleasant, but it is not something that we can influence.

It is not so, she cried, looking beseechingly at Holmes. My father immediately drove to his London flat in order to fetch him. But he did not find him anywhere!

Could he be hiding out at a friend’s? asked the detective.

Perhaps, she sobbed. Except that even stranger things have happened! My father then went to the Clariton Hotel, where James’s parents are staying. They came from the countryside for the wedding. But he discovered that Sir St. John-Smythe Sr. and Lady St. John-Smythe had left in the morning immediately after breakfast!

Presumably they intended to return home right after the ceremony, I said.

Except that they never came to the ceremony! My father is furious and I fear what he will do when he finds James. He thinks that I am the victim of a fraud! It seems that James borrowed a lot of money from him before the wedding.

And what would you like us to do? asked Holmes, leaning back in his armchair and lighting his pipe from the embers of the fireplace. He let out a fragrant cloud of smoke and threw the ember back into the fire.

Do you want us to find him first?

She nodded.

It is not the type of investigation that I usually engage in.

Please find him! Otherwise papa will kill him!

Why?I asked. If everything you have told us is true then–

I don’t believe what my father says, she said passionately. I know that James is incapable of these things! Will you help me, gentlemen? Surely something terrible has happened to him!

Holmes and I exchanged glances. On the surface, at least, the story was as bright as day. Annabelle’s father seemed to understand the situation correctly. On the other hand, it could occupy Holmes for some little while and help cure his depression and eradicate the memory of his vice.

The detective threw his head back and exhaled another cloud of smoke. Only those who knew him as well as I did could tell how quickly his brain was working. He was already considering and arranging the facts of the case, which often appeared logical only to him.

Very well, he said after a long pause. I will track down your fiancé.

Oh, Mr Holmes, thank you! Miss Watts cried. If you find him I will be so grateful! Of course I will pay all your expenses and fees, I have money saved up. And if that is not enough, I can give you a deposit.

She removed her diamond brooch and placed it on the table.

Holmes picked it up carefully and looked at it with amusement.

My child, we will discuss payment only if I succeed.

He held the brooch up to the light of the fireplace.

A beautiful piece. A family heirloom, am I right?

Yes, she replied. Years ago my father gave it to my late mother as an engagement present.

The detective examined the remarkable brooch for a moment longer and then returned it.

You would be vastly overpaying me. It no doubt means a lot to you.

He stood up.

Watson, please ask Mrs Hudson to call a coach.

I quickly ran downstairs to fulfil his request. When I returned our visitor was standing at the door ready to depart.

One more small matter, said Holmes. I assume that you have a photograph of your fiancé with you. Could you leave it with me?

Of course; I had completely forgotten!

She took from her purse a rectangular likeness.

This is an official photograph taken on the occasion of our engagement!

In the photograph Miss Watts was sitting in an armchair and standing next to her holding her arm was a handsome young man. He had short, brushed back hair with large trimmed sideburns, a short moustache and a pointed beard. The couple looked happy.

Thank you, that is all I need for now, said Holmes, examining the photograph carefully. "I shall