The
Case of the Amateur Archaeologist |
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While my usual
chronicler does a credible job of illuminating the romantic and sensational, out
of necessity I have taken up my pen to document my loathsome introduction to
the sharpest criminal mind in (But I have certainly been afflicted with
the same ailment that causes my dear Dr. Watson to begin the tale from its
conclusion.) It began with the
appearance of a black umbrella. I came
into the sitting room with the morning paper and was instantly aware of its
presence by the door. Inspecting it
thoroughly—as is my unconscious habit—I noted several interesting facts. It was not new (therefore I inferred that Watson
had not recently replaced his), and its owner hailed most probably from “Good morning, Holmes,” Watson said to me from the doorway. “What do you have there? No doubt the clue that will solve the case,” he said in a mocking tone of voice that in any other man would certainly raise my ire. “A most unique umbrella,” I replied, still running my eyes over the object in my hands. I opened it, “Aha,” I exclaimed. “The owner of this umbrella is a shrewd and formidable man indeed.” “So it is a case then,” Watson said. “And what makes him a ‘shrewd and formidable’ fellow?” he asked. To demonstrate—as it is often my propensity to provide the full effect—I twisted the curved handle and unsheathed a sizable blade. “Good Lord, Holmes,” was all he said as he stared at the weapon. “But I do believe I hear the bell,” I said. “Surely our early morning visitor has come to reclaim this most interesting object.” “A Mr. Josiah Totworth,” Mrs. Hudson announced. We were greeted by a tall, slightly over-weight man in his late 40s who appeared to be a newly well-off man with three adolescent children and a penchant for attending a certain river-side evening club. “Mr. Totworth, I am Sherlock Holmes and this is my intimate friend and associate, Dr. John Watson,” I said. “Please, tell us of the reason for your most pressing fear of physical harm.” “Mr. Holmes…” our guest began then paused. “But how did you know I am in fear of my person?” he asked. “You left by my door a most unique umbrella, Mr. Totworth,” I answered. “Pray tell me, what has this grip upon you?” Not wishing to relate a rather lengthy narrative on the part our guest, I will summarize. Mr. Totworth had (as I had already concluded) recently come into a large inheritance from an ailing aunt. Along with the usual estate, town-house, and stocks, the inheritance included a collection of rare antiquities. An offer was made for this collection several weeks ago by an older gentleman. Our guest refused to sell them, despite the generous price offered, owing to his personal interest in all things archaeological. He thought nothing of it until a letter arrived less than a week later, threatening to do physical harm if he refused to part with the collection. He replied to the address specified, stating that should the matter be pressed the force of law would be brought to bear. Two days later he awoke to find a man in his bedroom, knife in hand, to put a personal touch to the threat. No harm became him of that incident, but he proceeded in arming himself day and night against any further attack. He arrived at our door this morning at the urging of a close friend. “I say, what a jolly strange affair,” Watson said. I smiled at this latest example of his quaint turns of phrase. “Yes,” I said as I looked over at my good doctor in amusement. Returning my attention to my client, I said seriously, “this is indeed a strange business. What precisely is in this collection, Mr. Totworth?” I asked. “All manner of
European and Asian artifacts, Mr. Holmes,” he answered. “Why, there’s bronze from I pondered this at length while Watson took to casual conversation (he is indeed my social ameliorator). Mind half on arranging the facts and half on the surrounding conversation, I heard something startling. “Stop!” I shouted, “Mr. Totworth, please repeat what you just said, precisely as you said it,” I demanded eagerly. “I simply stated that it looked to me—though it was dark, I admit—that the scoundrel who stole his way into my bed-chamber had an interesting scar on his upper lip,” he said. “Most probably the result of corrective surgery for a split palate,” Watson added. The implication of
this new information hit me full force.
I said, “Mr. Totworth, you are unwittingly embroiled with the worst
criminal element in “I believe I’ve told you all, Mr. Holmes,” he answered nervously. I stood, my own anxiety mounting, and ushered our guest to the door. “Mr. Totworth,” I stated. “You must redouble your vigilance and never find yourself alone in your bed-chamber—in fact, it would be best if you re-arranged your sleeping quarters nightly. And, whatever you do, keep your curtains drawn and step no closer than one yard from any window, do you understand?” My words seemed to have a negative effect upon our guest’s confidence. “Good God,” he cringed. I placed a reassuring hand upon his shoulder, in an effort to help bolster him. “Mr. Totworth,” I said in a confident voice. “If you do as I say and place your full trust in my abilities, all shall be well. Contact me if anything new occurs.” “Thank you,” he managed weakly. Watson and I both shook his trembling hand, and he grabbed his once-forgotten umbrella and left. I stood by the door, my mind moving rapidly over the depth and intricacies of this new case. “What do you make of it, Holmes?” “I daresay we are in the thick of it, Watson,” I mused. “Moriarty?” he asked, though he already knew the answer. ~ Leaving Watson shortly
after breakfast, I hastened through the city acquiring any information that
might be relevant to the case. My
sojourn took me from the Watson was dozing on the settee, one of those dreadful sea-novels held loosely in his hand. I shed my over-coat and jacket, unbuttoned my waistcoat, and walked over to the mantle to select a pipe. The old, dark briar took my fancy, so I filled it and sat down opposite the fire. The case temporarily suspended, I lit my pipe and took a pleasant drag as I looked over at Watson. What a fine example of an Englishman, I mused to myself. Middle-height and middle-weight, with muscle left from an adolescence of rugby and a stint in the army. He displays none of my gangly and wiry physique. While I am clean-shaven, he sports a well-kempt moustache perfectly suited to his facial structure and complexion. With my attention drawn to his moustache, the feel of his lips upon mine pleasantly invaded my thoughts. “What are you smiling at?” Watson asked drowsily, shattering my exquisite memory. Likely prompted by my thoughts, I laid down my pipe and went to him, sitting at his side on the settee. Boldly, I leaned in and kissed him gently, but with increasing passion. Before inadvertently discovering my friend’s true feelings, I had never felt such a pleasant and intense physical sensation before. I have often been overwhelmed by the desire to have him as near as possible—and not simply as a matter of physical need. I admit that I have never loved before, and it is still somewhat unsettling to the logical workings of my mind. We slowly parted, after too-short a time in my opinion. Wary of pressing him further (as I was aware of his physical inexperience), I smiled without a word and hurriedly made for my bed-chamber. No doubt my actions seemed a bit cold, but the sensation of such intimacy with him had a most embarrassing effect upon my person, which I did not wish noticed. ~ The next day, I received some vital information. It seems that word of my most recent involvement with Moriarty’s network had become known to him. I debated whether to tell Watson, but decided that I would wait until I knew a move was to be made against me—for there almost certainly would be. So I could do nothing but wait. My nerves soon became frayed, and I paced about the sitting room like a caged lion. I could stand it no more. “Watson, I’m going out!” I exclaimed louder than I had intended. “I’ll be back later.” ~ “Holmes,” Watson shouted as he heard my tread upon the stair that evening. “Holmes, Mr. Totworth has sent you a wire.” I snatched it away with such haste I fear it came off as rudeness. My eyes scanned the telegraph paper hungrily as I incorporated this new data with the existing. When I finished, I handed it over to Watson and compelled him to read it aloud—an act that solidified the new information and often provided a new angle on its meaning. “It reads, ‘Attempt on my life by same scarred man. River-front area last evening. Advice requested. Yours, Josiah Totworth.’” Watson read. “What should we do, Holmes?” My mind working furiously, I hurried down the stairs, calling back, “If you value my life, you must stay here and wait for word.” With that I was out the door, racing for Mr. Totworth’s life, and likely my own as well. ~ Slowly I opened the door and crept inside. I stole silently to the window and drew the heavy curtains. With ears alert and sweat beading on my forehead, I lifted the bed sheets deliberately and clamped my hand over his mouth softly but with firm determination. He startled, ready for a struggle, and then looked with wide, alert eyes at the man that held him. He ceased his resistance and looked into my eyes, puzzled by my actions. I took my hand away slowly and put my finger to my lips gesturing him not to speak. I lowered myself on my elbow so that my lips brushed against his ear as I whispered. “I expect the visit of a highly-skilled assassin this evening, Watson. He will likely confine himself to my bed-chamber and perhaps the sitting room, so I must ask if I might bunk in with you to-night?” I whispered. He nodded; worry spreading quickly over his dimly-lit face. “Thank you.” I settled down beside him, our sides fully touching on the narrow bed. I could tell that he was in a heightened state of alertness by the tension in his muscles and the nearly imperceptible increase in his pulse (my hand had come to rest upon his wrist). In order to calm him, I gave his hand a reassuring squeeze. After nearly an hour, we had both relaxed somewhat. Although the current threat was still foremost in my mind, I began to realize just how physically close we actually were at this moment. We had been forced into such close proximity on other cases, but never had there been a known (and shared) longing. I ran my fingers lightly over his forearm, and he shuddered at my touch, gooseflesh breaking out upon his skin. He looked at me sternly, silently instructing me to stay vigilant against the inevitable intruder. I quickly suppressed any further advances and trained my ear on every sound. We didn’t have long to wait until a soft tread could be heard in the corridor downstairs—it would not have been noticeable had it not been expected. The villain searched within the sitting room first, and then my bed-chamber for a short time (making very little sound) before the same soft padding returned. His entry and exit must have been the corridor window overlooking the back alley. Leaving nothing to chance, I whispered to Watson that, although I thought the danger to be passed, we should keep up our vigil for a time. He nodded in agreement and clutched my hand tightly (seemingly not wanting me to leave if there were any shred of danger left). Surely feeling a great amount of relief, he swiftly leaned over and pressed me to him, his fingers gripping my shirt. It took all of my will to not give over to my long-held passion for this man. I returned his grasp almost instinctively and became aware that, while I was fully clothed, he wore only a night-shift and drawers. Quelling the thoughts that logically ensued, I released him and he followed suit. “We must remain alert,” I whispered. “We may not be entirely out of danger.” Before I took my head away, I kissed his ear lobe briefly and felt him shiver in reaction. I smiled, pleased that I could command such a response. I turned onto my back, placed my right hand behind my head, and took hold of his with my left. We lay there until dawn. Although I cannot attest to my friend, I spent the rest of the night fighting back the swell of desire that threatened to overtake me. ~ Several days later I sat in my chair. I was on my fourth pipe in what I imagine looked to be a state of desperate brooding (but was in fact intense mental concentration). The criminal element had been fully silent in our great city for the last three days; it was as if hell had suddenly called back its minions. I was not fooled, however; this was but the quiet before the storm. The connection was simple: Totworth had in his possession a collection of rare antiquities, which up until the time of the transfer of his family’s estate had remained unknown to the general public. Moriarty had recognized something in that collection which would bring him great money or great personal satisfaction if he could possess it (I had not enough facts to arrive confidently at a single motive). When a civilized monetary transaction proved unsuccessful, his only recourse was to use his criminal arm. And the hot and somewhat untidy manner in which he did it led me to believe that perhaps money was not his aim. The attempt upon my life was a serious one, if hastily planned. The man he sent was one of his close generals, as I came to find out the day following his ill visit. This was not the same man, however, that dogged Totworth. That particular man would be Moriarty’s right hand, Colonel Sebastian Moran. Given this, it seemed that gaining what Totworth possessed was more significant to Moriarty than my removal (again, I leaned more toward a personal motive). With three days of eerie silence, Moriarty would have been planning some move to acquire what he seemingly wanted so desperately. There lies the solution to Mr. Totworth’s troubles—and a potentially valuable piece of bait around which to construct a snare that would bring Moriarty to my feet. The key fact, then, is to cipher what is in this collection of Totworth’s that has struck such a deep chord in my worthy nemesis. I flew up at the instant, struck off my dressing gown, and made for my bed-chamber. After putting on my evening clothes and tending hastily to my toilet (I had not left the house in nearly three days), I yelled up to my good doctor, “Watson! Watson! You must come down immediately!” Sleepily he peeped out from his bed-chamber as I bound up the short flight of stairs to his room. “What on earth is the matter, Holmes?” he asked, “it’s near one in the morning.” “Never mind all that,” I said, much too brusquely. “We must get to Totworth’s at once. Dress quickly. I’ll meet you out front.” I rushed down the stairs and searched wildly for a cab. Watson emerged just
as I found a trap some little ways up “What’s all this about?” he asked as we sat in the trap. He was fully awake now and had shed his sleepy indignation to replace it with the excitement of adventure. A rare creature, indeed, is my Watson. “There is something in Totworth’s collection of antiquities that I believe, though I cannot absolutely confirm, holds some personal value to Moriarty,” I explained. “We must examine this collection closely and find what it is that has forced our great foe to stick at nothing. “There has been no significant criminal movement in our fair city for some three days time—a most uncommon occurrence, for at least some plot is usually being hatched somewhere. I fear that our client is in great peril indeed,” I said as we pulled up to Mr. Totworth’s town-house. I sprang from the trap and ran to the door as Watson instructed the cab-man to wait. I rapped anxiously at the door, rousing nearly every neighbor to anger before an old man-servant opened the door. “My name is Sherlock Holmes. I must see your master at once!” I exclaimed. “It is a matter of life and death, hurry man!” We were promptly let inside. Before the feeble man-servant had moved five yards, Totworth stood on the stair tying his dressing gown. “Mr. Holmes!” he said, surprised by such a late call. His face turned pale. “Is immediate danger upon me, sir?” he asked, displaying quite a keen power of observation. “It has long been upon you,” I said gravely. “However, I am not sure if it is immediate. But I must see every piece in your antiquities collection at once, so that I may diffuse this horrible danger if at all possible.” “Certainly,” he said as he came down the stairs. “Certainly, Mr. Holmes, I keep it all in the back room of my study. It is not a terribly large collection, but I have kept its entirety together and fully catalogued.” We walked through the corridors as he talked. “I have been steward of this collection since my university days, you see. My aunt had been ill for many long years. Her late husband—my uncle by marriage, not blood you understand—was responsible for the compilation of this collection.” I listened with impatient tolerance to this unsolicited family history, when Watson—may all the gods ever conceived bless him—asked the most critical of questions. The answer to which indirectly provided the final key to the solution of the case. (Again, I am guilty of prematurely leaping forward to the
very end of the tale.) “And what was his profession, or private hobby,” Watson inquired curiously, “that spurred him to collect such a variety of interesting artifacts?” “Well,” our client replied, “that’s what’s so hard to understand, you see. You’d think he was a naturalist or an historian, but when in fact he was a devoted professor of astronomy at King’s College for nearly all of his adult years.” Totworth laughed sociably, “You’d think a man with his head always looking up to the heavens wouldn’t take such a keen interest in artifacts acquired from beneath the ground.” I watched my two companions share a small laugh at such a trivial oddity, but my mind was racing. I stopped abruptly just as we reach the study door. Totworth opened the door, and he and Watson strolled in. They were halfway across the room when they turned, realizing I was not with them. “Whatever’s the
matter, Holmes?” Watson asked quizzically.
My mind was working so furiously that I barely heard his voice. I quickly refocused my mind on the current
situation, knowing that I had at present all the information I needed from this
place. I quickly strode over to my
companions, took Watson by the hand with much haste, and said, “We must be
off! Come Watson, there is nothing more
to be learned here at the moment!” I dragged
him back out through the house as he mumbled apologies and a final word of
caution to our good host. I crawled into
the cab and shouted to the cab-man to return us swiftly to “What in the name of…” Watson began, but he was stopped short by a dismissive wave of my hand—I needed no distraction as I formulated my next move. ~ I sat awake in my chair for the remainder of that night, smoking my old briar pipe, and working out the necessary elements of my snare. Just as the day officially began at King’s College, I was ushered into a back room of the library to identify the key that would be Moriarty’s undoing. I recognized it instantly and smiled delightfully to myself. After a brief visit at Mr. Totworth’s, I spent the day laying my trap. A skillfully
challenged hand is often the best played, and Moriarty inspires my talents to
great heights indeed, I mused as I turned the corner to ~ “The Great Sherlock Holmes,” he spoke in a slow, reptilian voice. It was precisely how I imagined his voice would sound. “I had, of course, anticipated such a move on your part.” I said
nothing. He had not anticipated the
whole of my plan (at least, it was not likely).
His mouth turned up in a distorted smile, also reptilian. I smiled at such a fitting twist of
nature. Moran, standing opposite me,
struck me hard across the face. My head
slumped forward as I reeled from the pain.
I was kneeling but being held up from behind by the arms of another of
Moriarty’s henchmen. Blood poured from
my nose directly onto my trousers. I tried
to focus on the warm sensation the blood made upon my knees, so as to distract
myself from the pain splitting through my head.
At that moment, I was infinitely grateful that I had sent Watson on a
fool’s errand, and that he was now on a train to Moriarty’s
finely-crafted boots (from the northern regions of He abruptly struck me in the stomach with the top of his cane. I gasped for air, wanting desperately to lie upon the floor and curl around myself, but the man behind me pinioned my arms ever tighter. I hung like an old rag doll, still bleeding from my nose. “Your client is dead, Mr. Holmes,” Moriarty said evenly. “Does that upset you?” he paused. “No, I imagine the death itself does not affect you over-much; perhaps the sense of professional failure comes closer to your heart.” He again jammed his cane into my stomach, and again I lurched forward struggling for breath. “You know, Mr. Holmes, I am surprised that we have not met in person before; you have long been a most inconvenient obstacle to many of my plans. But no matter, I have what I desire and am pleasantly surprised to find that you come along with it.” As he spoke, he gestured with his hands, taking in the small study and the antiquities displayed therein. His smugness was quite evident, showing that he thought the game was his. I chose this moment to speak. “Have you inspected this collection closely, Professor?” I asked coolly. His eyes fixed mine as realization dawned. My face remained a mask of ice (excepting the blood still trickling from my nose); my features betrayed nothing. His left eye twitched slightly and his nostrils flared, indicating an increase of breath and an elevated heartbeat. He was now nervous and unsure. I raised my voice and said, “Perhaps I shall save you the trouble. The eye pieces have been removed.” His eyes widened and his lips twisted into a gruesome snarl and he barked savagely, “take him out! Now! Now!” Just as I was dragged from the room, a great commotion swept through the house. I struggled in my captor’s arms, and as Lestrade came bursting down the corridor, I stepped to the side, freed my left elbow, and rammed it hard into the man’s ribs. He buckled, and I easily freed myself. I struck him a calculated blow to the face and he fell in an unconscious heap to the floor. Together Lestrade and I bound into the adjoining room, where two men were fleeing through the window. I leapt and took hold of one scoundrel’s ankle, pulling him forcefully back into the study. The other, who had taken to the window first, only narrowly escaped Lestrade’s grasp. Soon we had both men secured, and a small host of insignificant hoodlums awaited us downstairs already in the custody of the regular police force. Neither Moriarty nor Moran was among the numbers taken. “Damn!” I cried as I realized that the two most important fish had slipped my net. “Nevertheless, Mr. Holmes,” Lestrade said, “the capture of these two scoundrels was a great feat indeed.” Our two prisoners (the man in the hall-way and the man dragged from the window) were notorious criminals in their own right, and so my efforts were not entirely wasted. I was, naturally, not at all satisfied. ~ After nearly half an
hour of providing evidence that could not hold until morning, I returned to “I just came from Lestrade!” he shouted hotly. “How dare you! How dare you scheme to send me away! I care not if you are injured! I should like to strike you myself for this! You are an absolute ass, and it is high-time someone told you as much!” His voice was harsh and passionate, and his face was red with anger. He stood in the doorway, fuming, pitching daggers at me with his sharp eyes. I repressed a wry smile at my good doctor’s outburst. He was right, of course. I remained silent. His eyes darted across my body as I sat up and then stood, blood-soaked handkerchief still in my hand. He was assessing my appearance and coming to the conclusion that I was not too severely injured. His passions still running high, he strode boldly across the room and took me by the shoulders. “I will strike you if you ever pull a stunt like this again,” he said very sternly. He gave me a slight shake to reinforce the message. “Do you understand me, Sherlock Holmes?!” His voice was a mixture of anger and anxiety. I admit that it was a devious pleasure to see him in such a passionate state, though I did feel a certain shame in my culpability. “Yes,” I said quietly, nodding in acquiescence. I did not wish to further arouse his fury. He looked at me keenly for a moment, then suddenly leaned in and kissed me with such ardor that I would have gladly succumbed to any whim he dared name. I returned his passion, until I regret that my broken nose could take not the slightest more insult. I retreated, very ruefully, and said in the barest of whispers, “my nose, doctor, will permit no more.” He smiled at me, then said (with a shortness of breath that betrayed his own excitement), “Sit. I will cease this selfishness and fetch my medical bag.” ~ “Since you asked,”
I said, “I shall tell you what the key was, Watson: bronze bears.
Yes, I share your incredulousness, but it was indeed bears; a bronze
plate from “My only regret, of course, is the lamentable fate of our amateur archaeologist,” I said, very much upset by my inability to keep safe my client’s life. “Indeed,” Watson said solemnly. “But how did you finally foil Moriarty’s getting the artifact?” Watson asked after a time. “Your net was secure, but he did manage to counter-act it almost entirely.” This fact had not, of course, escaped me; indeed I had anticipated nearly all of Moriarty’s counter measures. “Yes, except for the bears’ eyes,” I said, smiling with what I admit was a touch of self-pride. “You see, in order for the device to accurately and precisely perform its function during different seasons of the year, certain of the bears’ eyes would have to be closed and certain ones open. In order to do this, all of the eyes contain removable pieces. I had simply to extract and hide these eye pieces, thus making the artifact utterly useless to our estimable foe.” He gave a great laugh and soon said, “Holmes, you are undeniably a genius.” I smiled instinctively. “Thank you,” I said humbly, but I am always
very warmed by his praise. “And I am
sorry for sending you off to “Just don’t do it again,” he cautioned jovially, but I knew it best to heed his warning in future. |
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