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Murder, My Dear Watson Page 2
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There was of course the usual declaration that to the best of my knowledge, I did not suffer from any illness of a life-threatening nature. I signed without a qualm. After all, I was not doing this for myself. Surely the welfare of my once beloved and her son were more important than the profits of a life insurance company? No-one could ever know that I had by the wildest of coincidences tested myself for Marchant’s syndrome that same day: there had been no witnesses. Thus I rationalised a fraudulent act involving more money than I had ever seen, or indeed would now ever see, in my whole life. I went out to the waiting-room and had two patients who knew me personally witness and date the document as required.
MY HOMECOMING THAT evening was somewhat unusual. I was met in the hallway by Mrs. Hudson.
“Doctor! Is your colleague not with you?”
“I am afraid not. I doubt he will be back before tomorrow at the earliest. Has a client come with urgent business?”
“Not a client, sir, but Mr. Mycroft Holmes. He gave me a sealed note that he made me promise to hand to his brother by six-o-clock tonight, and there is less than an hour left. He stressed that the matter was most important.”
I raised my eyebrows. Mycroft was a rare visitor: we saw him once a year if that, not because of any lack of cordiality between the brothers, but rather because his work was so important, and his habits so fixed, that rarely did he venture farther than the little zone encompassing his residence, his club, and his desk at the Foreign Office. It took something very serious to fetch him further afield. I persuaded Mrs Hudson that in the circumstances she could give the envelope to me, and tore open the seal. The contents were something of an anticlimax. A strip of paper bore the message: “Stock market down ten points. Gold up tuppence an ounce. Use the enclosed.”
The other item was a ticket for an unspecified performance at the Royal Albert Hall at seven o’clock that evening.
I hastened to reassure Mrs. Hudson that even the likes of Sherlock and Mycroft Holmes sometimes leave quite trivial communications for one another. Having soothed her down, it occurred to me that in his absence, I would be doing Sherlock Holmes a favour if I used the ticket myself, and reimbursed him for it when he returned. I had no wish to spend another evening moping alone in our rooms, and the last event I had attended at the Albert Hall had been most enjoyable, one of the famous Promenade Concerts.
The walk across Hyde Park to the Hall was rewarding in itself. There was no moon, but the whole landscape was lit by the ethereal glow from the great comet which hung low in the southern sky like a vast candle flame. At a casual glance you might have mistaken it for a cloud, but as you looked more closely your eye was drawn to the pattern of fine lines of glowing gas which arced out from an invisible centre point, with a hint of further colour and structure beyond that which you could discern. All around I heard the murmur of awed voices and saw upturned faces, for a large crowd of people were strolling in the same direction as myself. By the time I was near enough to the Hall for the comet to become hidden behind its great bulk, I had to slow as the crowd thickened into a queue heading up the steps of the nearest entrance. It edged forward gradually: tonight’s performance was evidently a sell-out.
When I finally reached my seat, however, after wending my way through that maze of cramped little corridors and stairways that make the Promenade-goer feel like a rat in a warren, albeit helpfully directed at every turn by an usher inspecting the seat number on his ticket, I gazed about the Hall in some bafflement. It was obviously not a concert we were expecting, for there was not a musical instrument in sight. The few props visible on the stage floor below (for my seat had turned out to be high up in the Gods) reminded me more of a conjurer’s set.
Before I could speculate further, the electric chandeliers above us dimmed, the audience quietened, and a figure in evening dress took the podium and bowed briefly. I say figure because the young man (as he turned out to be) had long blond hair, and his voice, when he spoke, was so high-pitched that it could equally have been a girl’s.
“Ladies and gentlemen, I am Mr. James Moriarty. Perhaps you are surprised at being addressed by one so young, but I can assure you I am a qualified mathematical physicist. I replace your expected speaker, Professor Morrison because—as you can imagine—my seniors in the department of astronomy are fully occupied at present, in the study of the comet which is at this moment lighting the sky outside. Yet I think I will not disappoint you, for my nominal superiors are perhaps a little set in their ways, a little unimaginative in their teaching methods. I will endeavour not merely to inform you, but to keep you awake.”
There came a titter from the young students who occupied the standing-room on the floor of the hall. I did not approve—even if his words were partly in jest, I believe that one’s elders should be treated with respect—but as he continued, I could not help being impressed by his skill.
He described first how the bodies of the solar system revolve not around the Earth, as the ancients thought, but around the gigantic ball of flaming gases that is the Sun, for the Sun’s mass is a million times greater then the Earth’s—if the latter was represented by a mouse, then the Sun would mass as much as an elephant! As he spoke, one of the electric chandeliers brightened tremendously to represent the Sun, and the others went out altogether.
Then he called the planets into existence one by one. And as he did so, each appeared in the air above us, seemingly hanging in space, and slowly orbiting the chandelier at the appropriate distance. Of course I could guess it was all done with wires, but it was impressive nevertheless. First came a charred little ball representing Mercury, then a larger milky-white one for Venus. Earth herself was represented by a slowly spinning globe: with the opera-glasses provided by every seat, you could clearly make out the continents and oceans. Red Mars was followed by a huge sphere representing Jupiter, and similar ones for the great, cold planets beyond. As each body was revealed, Moriarty described what astronomers had been able to deduce about it. When all were in view, his tones became soft and hypnotic as he described the great age of the solar system, the billions of years for which each planet had followed the same constant, near-circular path.
So could we rest assured that celestial mechanics was always benign, predictable, all but eternal, he almost purred? He implored us to watch carefully. Seemingly from far away, a trumpet note sounded. Then came a hissing sound, growing ever louder, nervously reminiscent of a boiler about to explode. And down from the edge of the ceiling swooped the comet!
It seemed a ball of ice, but it evaporated furiously even as we watched, trailing a cloud of steam very much like a comet’s tail. And it wove a desperately unpredictable path which ever and again took it close to members of the audience. At one point it seemed to head straight for me at incredible speed. I am not a nervous man, yet I could not prevent myself flinging my hands up to protect my face. But whoever was operating the hidden wires was very skillful: again and again, it seemed that the thing must hit some person, but it never did. It would have caused a nasty burn, for it must in reality be a lump of dry ice, solid carbon dioxide whose intense cold can scald skin as badly as boiling water. But in the end, it was against the hanging sphere representing the Earth that the thing collided and stuck. The last of the ice quickly evaporated, leaving a large blemish on the affected globe.
Mr. Moriarty seemed most taken aback at the mishap. He hastened to explain that the chances of a comet striking the Earth in reality were remote—very remote indeed. But the spell had been broken, and the audience were no longer inclined to accept his word without question. For the first time hands were raised, and questions put.
Perhaps one individual comet was unlikely to hit Earth, but how many comets lurked out in the depths beyond Neptune? No-one knew, Moriarty replied, for they were beyond detection by current telescopes at such distances. But some estimates put their number in the millions, or even billions.
This answer left an uncomfortable impression. Someone had the boldness to ask
the obvious: was the great comet currently visible in the skies going to hit the Earth? Its course had been measured with great accuracy, Moriarty replied, and it was expected to miss us by some three-quarters of a million miles. Yet there was some hesitation in his manner as he said this. Clearly honesty forced him to say more, and he admitted that because the gas evaporating from the surface had a rocketlike propulsive effect, comets were the only known celestial bodies which did not always follow a predictable path.
What would be the effect if the comet did hit Earth? After all, although a comet’s tail is so spectacular, it is composed of gas so tenuous as to be almost a vacuum. The solid nucleus is only a few miles across. Surely the damage would be localised.
Not so, said Moriarty. Although the nucleus was small compared to the Earth, its kinetic energy was enormous due to its great relative speed. Even if the comet struck in a remote ocean region, the tidal wave caused would destroy coastal areas right around the world. This would have an immense effect on civilisation, for the vast majority of the human race, and almost all of its factories and industries, are situated close to sea level. But he begged the audience to remember that the chance of impact was very remote. He looked at his watch and announced with obvious relief that there was time for only one further question. A forest of hands went up, and he seemed to hesitate before pointing to a man not far from myself.
“I would like to know, Mr. Moriarty, where you yourself plan to be in one month’s time, when I understand the comet will be at its point of closest approach? Will you be at your post at one of the observatories?”
“I was unable to obtain observing time on any telescope large enough to be of use: they are all booked up. I shall be on holiday in Switzerland.” He said the last words almost in a mumble, as if he did not wish to be heard.
“Indeed.” His questioner rose and pointed accusingly. “You have told us not to worry, sir. Yet what a coincidence that you will be visiting the only European nation which is situated entirely on high ground remote from the sea.”
Moriarty appeared quite at a loss. He muttered an unconvincing denial before returning to his script and bringing the proceedings to a close. It was a silent and thoughtful audience that filed out of the Hall shortly afterward.
I RETURNED TO Baker Street to the sight of a roaring fire just started in the grate. Sherlock Holmes knelt before it with his back to me, prodding logs into position with the poker.
“Watson, at last! What has kept you so late? I have just returned to find our living room cold as ice.”
“I was at a science lecture. Mycroft had left you a ticket and—”
“Yes, yes, I know all about it. He is dropping by here later. He claims to have discovered a mathematician who commits crimes that are not crimes, and has generously announced he will use our rooms as the scene for his grand denouement. He says I will find it an educational experience. But first I have some news that may cheer you.”
He rose from the hearth and took his usual chair. “Watson, it has not escaped my attention that you have not been your usual self of late.”
“I did not think you had noticed.”
“Most assuredly I have, but I did not wish to arouse false hopes until I had got to the bottom of the matter. Would I be correct in assuming that your troubles were not unconnected with events that took place some years ago, in the town of Peshawar?”
“Holmes, how on earth—?”
“I therefore went down to Eastbourne today to interview one Margaret Blackstock.”
I gazed at him, baffled. Then I remembered the name as that of the formidable ward sister who had made life a terror for both the regular nurses and the volunteers.
“Good lord, Holmes, you have got completely the wrong woman! I would hardly—”
He cut me off again. “No, I had the right woman. In a hospital replete with male war heroes and young female volunteers, you and Sarah were not the only pair between whom romance was obviously blossoming.
“On retiring to the south coast on a modest pension, it occurred to Sister Blackstock, who was very much a woman of the world, that although few such affairs lead to marriage, a much higher proportion lead to physical intimacy. She had the brilliant idea of writing to each of the men whose address she could trace a reproachful letter that appeared to come from their former lover. I believe you have seen a sample.”
I gazed at him in amazement. “So it was all a hoax! Holmes, I am once again indebted to you.” But then I hesitated. “I wonder what became of the real Sarah, though. My conscience has been disturbed. Do you think I should seek her out?”
“I thought you might feel that way, Watson. I have already done so, but with more discretion than you might have employed. She is happily married to a chemist in Hove. They have two children, both born well into their marriage. She sends her regards, and bears you no ill-will whatsoever, but under the circumstances you will understand she wishes no further meeting between you.”
“How did you guess that the letter was likely to be a fake?”
“There were several factors, Watson. But the main point was that a single indiscretion rarely creates a baby: the chance is roughly five percent, or one in twenty. On the occasion of a woman’s first experience, it is lower still, no doubt because her body has had no prior warning that it is to prepare for pregnancy. So I investigated.”
I sat back, feeling the burden of guilt lift from me. Then I remembered the far worse news that I had received that morning.
“Holmes, I am unspeakably grateful. But I must tell you nevertheless that I will be able to stay with you only for a limited time.” My voice almost broke on the final words.
My friend looked at me more intently than I could ever remember him doing. When he spoke, his voice was as gentle as when addressing a client in great distress.
“Tell me why, Watson.”
With far less dignity than I had intended, I poured out my story: Dr. Nagel’s letter, the test for Marchant’s, the result. I left out nothing, not even my foolish attempt to claim the now irrelevant insurance for Sarah’s benefit. As he listened, my friend’s face grew ever graver. He questioned me intently on several points. I could see what he was driving at, but there were no loopholes to be found. The test had been described repeatedly in the medical literature: There was no question of its ninety-nine percent reliability. The chemicals I had used could not have been tampered with. This was a problem beyond even my friend’s power—indeed, beyond any mortal power—to ameliorate. Eventually the doorbell rang. Sherlock Holmes sprang up.
“That will be Mycroft. I will tell him to take his business elsewhere. Excuse me just one moment, my dear fellow. Then we will turn our attention to finding you the best specialist in London.”
“No, Holmes, please do not send him away. I assure you, what I need more than anything at this moment is distraction. Your brother’s problems are always entertaining. Pray show him up.”
My friend hesitated, then nodded. No sooner had Mycroft installed his ample bulk in our largest armchair than the bell rang again. The next guest astonished me: he was none other than the astronomy lecturer, the girlish Mr. Moriarty. As he was seated, the brothers gazed at him intently, but more with the air of scientists inspecting a specimen than men greeting a fellow human being.
Mycroft spoke first: “I must congratulate you upon a most effective lecture tonight. I was in the audience; I believe the doctor here was also present.”
“Thank you. I believe the public should be correctly informed about scientific matters.”
“Oh, I did not say that you did that. Rather the reverse, in fact. I believe that you inspired the audience with a wholly excessive fear of the comet which is currently in our skies, just as you intended.”
This was so unreasonable that I sprang to the young man’s defence.
“On the contrary, Mr. Moriarty was doing his best to reassure the audience,” I cried.
Mycroft smiled. “‘The best way to tell a lie effectively is t
o tell the truth badly,’” he quoted. “With the help of a few stooges planted in the audience, and a little misdirection, he has sown the seeds of a real panic.”
The young man hunched in on himself. “Every word I uttered was the truth,” he said defensively.
Mycroft nodded. “That is just what is so diabolically clever about your methods. Tell me, doctor, speaking as a typical member of that audience, what is your impression of the chance that any given comet will hit the Earth?”
I recalled the demonstration I had seen. It had certainly looked very likely that the ice puck would collide with one of the globes suspended in its path, as indeed it had done before long. But perhaps the models had not been to scale? I decided to err on the conservative side.
“I suppose perhaps one in a thousand.” I said
“And what would you say is the chance that the great comet now passing will hit us?”
This time I hesitated for longer. “I know it is predicted to miss us by a good margin. But then given that the motion of comets is unpredictable, as Mr. Moriarty convincingly explained, I suppose there must still be some chance. Say, one in ten thousand?”
“Wonderful. Quite wonderful!”
“I have guessed accurately, then?”
“No. Utterly wrongly. Just as Mr. Moriarty intended.” Mycroft held his arms wide. “Let us consider a comet which is plunging in from the outer reaches, passing close to the Sun before retreating again. If we draw a spherical shell centred on the Sun, whose radius is that of the earth’s orbit, the comet will pass through it as it approaches. What is the area of that sphere?”