Read Online The Falling Curtain (The Assassination of Sherlock Holmes Book 3) by Craig Janacek - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Craig Janacek
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he feigned being struck down by his mythical Tapanuli fever, I could not recall seeing him in a worse state. His hair and attire were disheveled and his long white fingers trembled slightly. His face had taken on a terrible gauntness, as if food had not passed his lips for many days, which might well be the truth. But the sign that sent a chill to my heart were his eyes. His pupils were mere pinpricks, and it was with considerable horror and dismay that I realized what this signified. Long ago I had weaned him from a terrible practice, but it was now clear that the fiend had only been hibernating for all these years. Despite many trials and tribulations following his return from Tibet, his iron will had prevented any waking of the beast. But the calm had now vanished, as this terrible storm threatened to reduce Holmes to a drug-addled creature. “Holmes! Tell me that you are not using the seven-percent solution again!”
He shrugged as if it was of no concern. “It is clarifying for the mind, Watson.”
I shook my head. “I thought you had rejected that fallacy?”
“Yes, but perhaps I was wrong to do so. Some of my greatest triumphs occurred during those numinous days.”
“Correlation does not imply causation,” I replied, appealing to the eminent logician that I knew lurked in the brain behind the dulled windows of his eyes.
He did not reply, but instead sank into one of the plush armchairs and leaned back, lost in gloomy speculation. As I watched him, I knew that his inner being had been terribly shaken. Inspector Patterson, a good man, had been killed for little reason other than to serve as the lure that would draw Holmes out of retirement. Did the man not have some wife and children who would never again see him walk through the door and hold them tightly to his breast? Stanley, a man whom Holmes had known for close to half-a-century, had escaped a terrible death by the smallest of fractions. Even my own wounding, slight as it may be, would pile up in his mental inventory as another innocent person who was harmed solely because of Holmes.
Despite our long and close association, due to his natural reticence, some small part of Holmes remained a mystery to me. But I suspected that the logical machine, the brain without a heart, was but a façade, and like any man, Holmes surely must have terrors that come to him in the small hours of this night. Had he always secretly dreaded that his actions might lead to the harm of those rare individuals he considered to be friends? Had this sudden realization of his worst fears bring on this black melancholy? Never had I seen him so utterly despondent, even after when we had witnessed some horror enacted by one man upon another, or after those rare times when Holmes failed one of the clients who had entrusted their lives to him.
He finally sighed and looked up at me. “Well, Watson, I do not jest when I say that we seem to have fallen upon evil days.”
“It is during such moments when the great man rises to the occasion,” I said, quietly. “There is nothing more stimulating than a case where everything goes against you!”
He snorted. “Who said such nonsense?”
“You did, Holmes.”
He chuckled sadly, and then shook his head. “We are in the grips of some inexorable evil, a relentless persecution, not by one man, but an entire society of those who wish me harm. But I can find no thread that leads me towards the foul mind that is the prime mover.”
“We can but try! Compound of the Busy Bee and Excelsior!”
He finally smiled. “I don’t know quite what to do, Watson, and I should value your advice.”
“You must act, Holmes!” said I, a heat rising into my voice. “It is not like you to be so defensive. I had thought you would go on the attack.”
“Attack against whom?”
“I don’t know, Holmes.” I looked around the room, searching for an inspiration, when my eyes landed upon the envelope that Holmes had previously dashed from my hand.
He shrugged as if it was of no concern. “It is clarifying for the mind, Watson.”
I shook my head. “I thought you had rejected that fallacy?”
“Yes, but perhaps I was wrong to do so. Some of my greatest triumphs occurred during those numinous days.”
“Correlation does not imply causation,” I replied, appealing to the eminent logician that I knew lurked in the brain behind the dulled windows of his eyes.
He did not reply, but instead sank into one of the plush armchairs and leaned back, lost in gloomy speculation. As I watched him, I knew that his inner being had been terribly shaken. Inspector Patterson, a good man, had been killed for little reason other than to serve as the lure that would draw Holmes out of retirement. Did the man not have some wife and children who would never again see him walk through the door and hold them tightly to his breast? Stanley, a man whom Holmes had known for close to half-a-century, had escaped a terrible death by the smallest of fractions. Even my own wounding, slight as it may be, would pile up in his mental inventory as another innocent person who was harmed solely because of Holmes.
Despite our long and close association, due to his natural reticence, some small part of Holmes remained a mystery to me. But I suspected that the logical machine, the brain without a heart, was but a façade, and like any man, Holmes surely must have terrors that come to him in the small hours of this night. Had he always secretly dreaded that his actions might lead to the harm of those rare individuals he considered to be friends? Had this sudden realization of his worst fears bring on this black melancholy? Never had I seen him so utterly despondent, even after when we had witnessed some horror enacted by one man upon another, or after those rare times when Holmes failed one of the clients who had entrusted their lives to him.
He finally sighed and looked up at me. “Well, Watson, I do not jest when I say that we seem to have fallen upon evil days.”
“It is during such moments when the great man rises to the occasion,” I said, quietly. “There is nothing more stimulating than a case where everything goes against you!”
He snorted. “Who said such nonsense?”
“You did, Holmes.”
He chuckled sadly, and then shook his head. “We are in the grips of some inexorable evil, a relentless persecution, not by one man, but an entire society of those who wish me harm. But I can find no thread that leads me towards the foul mind that is the prime mover.”
“We can but try! Compound of the Busy Bee and Excelsior!”
He finally smiled. “I don’t know quite what to do, Watson, and I should value your advice.”
“You must act, Holmes!” said I, a heat rising into my voice. “It is not like you to be so defensive. I had thought you would go on the attack.”
“Attack against whom?”
“I don’t know, Holmes.” I looked around the room, searching for an inspiration, when my eyes landed upon the envelope that Holmes had previously dashed from my hand.
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