them, letting go of my friend. The horde encircled Death, crowding in and raining down blows that I did not think would have any effect, but evidently did. They were backed by the power of those trapped between life and … and whatever was on the other side. It suddenly dawned on me then exactly why Holmes had wanted to wait a day. It was October 31st, All Hallows’ Eve — the time of year when these spirits would be at their most powerful.
“Now, Watson!” shouted Holmes, limping away from the scene. “Bring me back now!”
I snapped out of my daze, not wanting to let go of Holmes’ hand because I wished to witness the last of this, wanted to see Death’s end. But, of course, I should have known that Death is never, ever truly gone. How could it be? It is the other side to the coin of life. I saw the dark figure being smothered by the ghosts, then let go and watched as the vision faded. As I worked — injecting Holmes with the antidote, then pounding on his chest to get his heart beating again, I heard a faint voice. A voice made up of so many more. “
I couldn’t see the ‘spirit Holmes’ any more, couldn’t see any evidence of the battle that had taken place, but that did not matter to me at that time. I beat on Holmes’ chest one final time, and he sat bolt upright, taking in a lungful of night air. He began to cough, though whether it was the result of coming back or the fog still surrounding us, I had no clue. I held on to him anyway, until he was strong enough to sit up on his own. “Rest a little, Holmes,” I warned him.
“I’m… I’m fine,” he told me. “Thank you, Watson.” And he clasped my arm.
I nevertheless had to half carry my friend through the graveyard and through the fog, into a more public place where we could hail a cab to return us to the relative safety, and sanity, of Baker Street.
Holmes spent the next few days recuperating, enjoying the ministrations of both myself and Mrs. Hudson. When Lestrade called on us once more, I was able to inform him of the conclusion of the case. “You should not see any more deaths like those,” I assured him. I could not promise him the madness of the population would not continue, as indeed it did in the final days of the 19th century until everyone was certain the world would not end. Of the murders committed by loved ones and subsequent suicides, there were no more. Due note had obviously been taken of the repercussions. As I already mentioned, the matter was put down to the singular time of the year and our calendar. I would not be pressed further on what had been amiss with those people, in spite of Lestrade demanding answers from both myself and later from Holmes. For one thing, I did not know where to start; for another I was positive he would have us both committed if we spoke of what we’d uncovered. Nor did Holmes and I talk about what had happened and what we had seen that day. To do so seemed somehow to invite the premature return of the culprit.
So you see, it is only now, with my friend passed on and myself nearing the end of my years, that I am committing this to paper. Even now, I doubt very much whether it shall see the light of day. Instead it will probably be dismissed, I fancy, as a work of fiction less credible even than those by Mr. Stoker or Mr. Verne. The final ramblings of an aged adventurer.
But I know the truth.
Holmes once spoke about his greatest foe without realizing it, long before he ever encountered the thing, during a case a long time ago.
Because although he may have prevented more innocents from going the way of Judith Hatten and the others, spared future ‘murderers’ from the blame and guilt of something they had not done, Holmes had far from solved the mystery of exactly what Death was — nor what happens when we take our final breath.
The spectre had been right, of course. It
* * * * *
PAUL KANE is the award-winning author of the novels
The House of Blood
by Tony Richards
He knew the man was real, but Lieutenant Vince Capaldi could scarcely believe it. That famous narrow face, framed against the background of a hotel window, with its hooked nose and very watchful eyes.
“My God,” he breathed. “You can’t have aged a day since Victorian times.”
Holmes nodded.
“So you really are immortal?”
“I found it out after the Reichenbach Falls, when I suddenly returned to life with no sensible explanation. A definite case in point, Lieutenant—” and the great detective favoured him with a quirky half-smile— “of the last remaining solution to a puzzle, however improbable, being the correct one. I never thought that
“And now,” he went on quickly, “what is this murder you have come to me about?”
Capaldi’s eyes widened. “I never said anything about any…”
“You have been wearing tight latex gloves recently,” Holmes pointed out. “I doubt that you would do that for a mugging. There is a smear of luminol on the edge of your left shoe, a substance for detecting blood. And the gravity of your expression speaks of no lesser a crime than murder most foul.”
“In fact,” he continued before the policeman could break in, “I would hazard you have come to me about a fourth in the series of killings that began last week. I’ve, naturally, been following them on the TV news and in the press. And let me hazard at something else. Something you have contrived to keep from the newshounds and the general public. All the victims so far have been completely drained of their vital essence.”
The color disappeared from the lieutenant’s features, his mouth falling open.
“Luminol, my good fellow, is used to find mere trace elements of blood. So why would you use it around a freshly murdered human corpse except to discern if there was any blood at all?”
When he saw that he had rendered the man speechless, Holmes allowed himself another little smile.
“You’re as bad as Lestrade,” he commented. “You mean well, but you do not really think.”
Then he encouraged his visitor to bring him up to date on the whole situation.
Stammering, Capaldi tried to get his thoughts together. He went over what had happened to the first victim. A certain Harriet Ellison, of Boise, Idaho, who was still fresh in his memory. She had won a massive jackpot from a slot machine ten days ago, been photographed with her reward, and then become surrounded by well-wishers and hangers-on with whom she had been partying. Halfway through the evening, she had headed off to the restrooms, only to mysteriously vanish. Her corpse, clad merely in its underwear, had been found in the desert on the edge of town next morning.
Lawrence Mark of Trenton, New Jersey, had been the next one. His case followed the same pattern. After a huge run of luck, at the craps tables, he had disappeared, only for it to be proved that he had suffered the same fate.
Daniel Besset of Oxford, Maryland, had been the third. He had recently won sixty thousand dollars, by means of his skill at Texas Hold’em.
