A Study in Satin

by Tigger
© 2000, all rights reserved.

 

Part I: Semper Cogitus

Chapter 5: A Very Dead End

 

Holmes' first challenge was clothing himself. Nothing in his austere personal wardrobe remotely fit him anymore. Although his loss of stature was not so much as to preclude him passing as an adult (albeit a very young adult), the reduction was sufficient to draw undesired attention to him were he to appear so attired in public. The cut of the arms of his coats and the legs of his trousers were obviously too long for his new frame. His waistcoat was now unfashionably loose about his torso and fell several inches below his waist. His day-wear hats, he discovered, looked patently ridiculous on his markedly smaller head.

*What does that indicate about the measure of my brain?!?* he wondered in horror as he stared at the reflection of his famous deerstalker riding low on his forehead, nearly covering his eyes.

Yet another effort of will set that fear aside and Holmes focused on the problem at hand. "What I need is a messenger," Holmes mused. "Unfortunate that I have not kept contact with my Baker Street Irregulars . . . WAIT! Bloody Hell, that's IT!"

Animated by the inspiration, Holmes was shortly examining himself in his mirror. A pair of old work trousers had been shortened and strategically holed using a rough hand and a pair of scissors. A piece of manilla hemp replaced the necessary belt and held the pants in place. His disguise drawer had given up a rough seaman's shirt and a leather vest that hung on him, but served his needs well enough. A ratty, oversized knit beret hung over his eyes effectively masking his features. For shoes he wore a pair of decrepit work boots that threatened to slip off his feet. Coal black from the now cool fireplace dirtied his features and made him look even more the street orphan that he wished to portray.

It would work, he thought with a touch of satisfaction, this time, in any case. He would need better in the future, however. He'd have to visit a few of his disguise apartments and collect the raw materials - including his sewing kit. If he had any hope of presenting and adult appearance, he'd need to alter his clothing. That would be time consuming, but he'd need at least one suitable set of attire before he could call upon the pawn and second hand shops to complete his wardrobe. The proprietors of those establishments would likely consider a lad such as Holmes now saw in his glass to be a thief and would show him the door rather quickly and rather forcefully.

Another thought struck Holmes. He frowned as he tried to find a suitable argument against that particular course of action, but found none. He'd go to his special apartments and collect his few feminine disguises, too. And he would go to the pawns and second-hand shops for women as well.

"DAMN your black soul to HELL, Moriarty," Holmes snarled, and then strode to the servants' quarters and the back door of the Baker Street apartment. Moments later, he returned to his study. Holmes found what he wanted and quietly slipped into the grimy back alley.

~------------~

The trip to the chemist took somewhat longer than Holmes had anticipated primarily because he chose to remain in the shadows of London's many back streets and alleyways. This disguise would be noticeably out of place on the busy lanes of a well-to-do neighborhood. That could draw unnecessary and potentially heated attention. The very last thing Holmes needed was a confrontation with some outraged middle class merchant or worse, one of Scotland Yard's finest. The thought of attempting to explain himself to some contemporary edition of Inspector LaStrade made him shudder.

Holmes arrived at the chemist just as Big Ben was tolling the hour. He stayed in the shadows of a building across the way, waiting for the blinds to open, the "closed" sign to be taken down and the proprietor to unlock the front door.

Thirty minutes later he was still waiting. A frisson of anxiety curled in Holmes' chest as he considered the possibilities. Quickly, he made his way to the back of the small storefront shop and located its delivery entrance. Holmes carefully tested the latch and found the door unlocked. Silently, Holmes pushed the door open and slipped inside.

He didn't notice a fine gossamer thread breaking as the door finished its opening swing.

The back of the shop was deserted, but a dim, thin arc of light directed Holmes to the connecting door into the public areas of the establishment. Holmes abandoned stealth and moved into the main shop where he found precisely what his instincts had anticipated.

The body of the chemist lay in a heap behind the service counter, an oval of well coagulated, rusty red blood about him. He'd obviously been dead for some time. *Moriarty must have visited him immediately after leaving my lodgings. And while *I* was wallowing in emotion, Professor Moriarty was dealing with this man,* Holmes thought. "DAMN me for a FOOL!"

A closer examination of the body revealed a cheap, brown envelope pinned to the man's watch fob. Careful not to step into the sticky blood, Holmes reached over and retrieved the envelope. Holmes opened it and was not surprised to find it addressed to him.

 

My Dear Holmes,

You are, sadly, too late. Not that preventing my little murder of the chemist would have assisted you in any substantive manner. Our dear departed friend only brewed the potion for me using herbs and ingredients I supplied. You won't find any of the necessary compounds here, or anywhere else in this hemisphere.

Did you really think it would be so simple, old enemy? For all you are more than half female, you are still Holmes, and I, for all my advanced years and physical infirmities, am still Moriarty. With each passing day, the hatred that burns in my breast for you grows ever hotter and my need to bring about your death grows ever more intense. However, more than your death, I want your suffering.

Soon, all too soon for you, the withdrawal will begin, and you will suffer, Holmes, you will suffer terribly. And the mental suffering - the knowledge of what is happening and that I have caused it - will far outweigh the physical torment.

Eventually, Holmes, even your iron will begin to erode and crumble before the onslaught, and you will seek the only relief this life might still offer you - oblivion.

Thus I win at last. The hand that takes your life will be your own, Holmes, not mine so the foul Fate which denies me taking your life is satisfied.

Live long and suffer terribly, Holmes, and in the end, endure the total ignominy of your final, greatest failure even as you end your own pathetic existence. We could have been great together had you but chosen to follow me as I offered all those many years ago. Now, I alone will live and, finally freed of your meddlesome presence, will achieve my great destiny.

At last.

M.

 

Rage burned at the back of Holmes' tightly shut eyelids, but all to soon his fury gave way to a rush of despair. He'd lost. Even if the chemist actually had the herbs, Holmes did not know what those were or where they were kept. Nor did he know how to prepare the infusion. All he had between him and Moriarty's promised torment was three days supply.

Perhaps he should just give up now. Hadn't he already intended - ATTEMPTED - to end his life? Why not simply do the deed and be done with it?

"Because Moriarty is alive," Holmes growled, "And so long as there is breath in his body and mine, and so long as I have the slightest grip on my mental faculties, I will oppose Moriarty in every way, in any way available to me." Holmes carefully smoothed the now-crumpled piece of foolscap paper in his hand and quickly reread the letter. "Moriarty has the right of it in at least one area. I am still Holmes and he is still Moriarty. There will yet be a reckoning. Somehow, there will be a final reckoning between us."

Holmes made a quick survey of the room, looking for any clues. A sulphurous black smudge on a nearby wall pointed to the likely position of the murderer when the fatal shot was fired. Muddy boot prints indicated that the killer's point of entry was also from the rear of the building. Holmes examined those prints and was surprised to find they did not match with the fashionable footwear favored by Professor Moriarty. The prints were larger, and their wear pattern was uneven. The left foot print was fully formed whereas the right seemed somewhat elongated in the toe. Another anomaly was that the right heel did not fully contact the floor except for the prints closest to the powder mark, facing the counter where the chemist met his end. All of which seeded to indicate a murderer with a distinctly uneven gait - like a limp. But Moriarty, bent with age though he'd obviously been, had not limped.

Holmes stood idly considering those facts when his eyes strayed to the apothecary's wall of bottles behind the counter. Suddenly, his mind slipped back to the last day he'd seen the chemist alive. Holmes famous eidetic memory vividly reconstructed the picture of the shop owner reaching up to . . "That very bottle!" Holmes cheered.

Scrambling up onto the counter, Holmes reached up and pulled down a large, nearly empty amber bottle. The handwritten label read "Mr. Holmes Cocaine Solution" The preparation date was a mere two days before Holmes had arrived for his final, supposedly fatal package.

Holmes removed the stopper and sniffed delicately at the open bottle. The slightly acrid scent of cocaine was not evident. In fact, what little odor that was in evidence was very subtle, almost undetectable and unlike anything in Holmes' long years of investigative experience. "Herbs," Holmes muttered, "Moriarty said it was brewed from herbs."

Carefully, Holmes re-stoppered the bottle and slipped down from the counter. *Amazing,* he thought, *to be so nimble again. If I successfully discover a means to blunt the final agonies of this withdrawal, this youthful suppleness may provide me some small, as yet undetermined advantages. However, I have not lost all my masculine strength yet, either. One cannot expect a female to be this strong or supple.*

Holmes pulled the door behind him as he left, remembering that while closed, the door had not been locked when he entered. However, there was no way he could have realized it had previously been closed with delicate precision. The pressure he used to ensure the door was seated properly was enough to crush a tiny ball of acid lodged in the doorframe.

That acid, though minuscule in itself, started a chain of events that had most dramatic results. A deafening explosion shattered the pre-noon bustle of the block as the front of the chemist shop went up in a huge fireball that rapidly enveloped the two stores immediately on either side.

The concussion's impact threw the unprepared Holmes to the ground where only blind fate had prevented him from landing on and shattering the precious apothecary bottle.

"And so the game is once more afoot," Holmes said as he watched the flames spread up and down the square. Dispassionately, he watched as men and women who'd been caught in the blast rolled upon the muddy street to quench flames that licked at their clothing. Other bodies simply lay where they'd fallen, their motionless grim testimony to the fury of the initial explosion. Holmes felt something burn at his eye, and he raised his free hand to bat away the tears that began to flow. "He must be stopped," Holmes whispered in an oddly ragged voice, "and in all of his infernal career, only I have ever succeeded in that endeavor. So be it."

Holmes resolutely turned his back on the now fully developed conflagration. There was nothing more he could accomplish here, but there was a great deal he could accomplish elsewhere. These men and women would have justice, he swore to himself, even if they never knew the how or why of it. In the confusion and tumult of the out of control blaze, no one noticed one ill-clothed boy disappearing into the shadows.

Holmes was nearly to the back door of his Baker Street rooms when a large hand locked onto his thin shoulder. "'ere now, and where do ye think yer goin', me fine lad?"

The powerful hand spun his thin frame and Holmes found himself facing a huge, filthy man clad in the rough clothes of a London dockworker. His face had seen rough handling - several scars and missing teeth attested to years of hard living and fighting. A nearly overwhelming stench of human waste, bad rum and cooked onions emanated from man, nearly causing Holmes to wretch. "Oi think Oi asked ye a question, runt."

Swallowing hard and trying to look frightened. "I'm runnin' errands for the housekeeper here," he gasped out. "She sent me to the doctor's for some potion for her master." He held up the bottle, but then became afraid the bounder might think it something that might fetch him a copper or two. "She tells me tis a frightful wicked physic, as the old man she works for can't seem to do it fer 'imself natural anymore."

"Well, ye listen ter me, youngin', and ye might manage ter grow into a man someday. I'm here for a fine young gennulman."

"Ye wants to talk ter this gennulman, sa'ar?" Holmes asked, very deferentially.

"No, runt, Oi want's ter grab 'im. Mother Hell over on the docks will pay five guineas in silver for such a fine, tender little pullet for her whorehouse as some of her customers like it that way, ya see? Oi been told there'd be jest such a one for the 'avin' at this 'ere place if'n Oi was to wait real patient-like - nice an' skinny, with pretty skin and hair."

"I ain't seen the like of that, sa'ar." Holmes quavered.

"Well, ye'll keep yer eyes open and yer mouth shut, lessen ye wants me to close both for yer real permanent like. Ya got that, boy?" Holmes swallowed hard to keep from vomiting in the man's pockmarked face and managed to nod his acquiescence. "Good. Oi'll be around, laddie. Yer see anythin', ye'll be tellin' Old Ned, and Oi might just give ye a coin for it. 'Course, ye don't tell me, and Oi find out?" He shoved Holmes to the ground and turned back to leave the alley. "But then, ye'll be tellin' me so there's no need to go into that."

Holmes watched the man walk away. Only later, back in the relative safety of his room, did the great detective recall that his assailant had walked with a pronounced limp that forced him to drag his right foot.

 

 

 

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© 2000 by Tigger. All Rights Reserved. These documents (including, without limitation, all articles, text, images, logos, compilation design) may printed for personal use only. No portion of these documents may be stored electronically, distributed electronically, or otherwise made available without express written consent of the copyright holder.