The Falling Curtain (The Assassination of Sherlock Holmes Book 3) by Craig Janacek Page A
Authors: Craig Janacek
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wooden crate that was incongruously sitting midway along the span, a cable protruding from it and through one of the small windows. This opening allowed a rush of bitterly cold air to howl into the enclosed space, but I little felt the chill after my recent exertions.
Rushing towards it, Holmes tore off the lid and peered down into the crate. Joining him, I could see that it was filled with a row of about twenty brown paper tubes. Judging from the depth of the box, I estimated that it went roughly five tubes deep. These were all wired together with a copper filament and via this attached to an ornate silver pocket watch. I glanced at the clock, which was inexorably counting down towards detonation. To my dismay, I noted that there was less than a minute left. “But that is too short!” I protested.
Holmes shook his head ruefully, “It was a mistake, Watson, to think that Mortlock would ever play by the rules.”
“But you can deactivate it?”
He pursed his lips and frowned. “In my little brain-attic I possess some knowledge pertinent to the neutralization of bombs, but I fear that there is not enough time to bring it to bear.”
“Then what shall we do?” I cried.
Holmes looked about the walkway. He nodded towards a larger window nearby. “Throw that open, Watson!” he commanded. “Quickly!”
While I carried out this order, Holmes reached into the crate and pulled the bomb forth, its weight heavy even in his strong arms. He staggered to the window and with a great heave tossed it into the night. We both leaned against the window and watched it fall towards the river. If Holmes had flung it too late, it might explode in the air, and still destroy the roadway and anyone passing over the bridge. I could feel every beat of my heart as it sank towards the waves, and I cheered as the Thames covered it. Seconds later, an enormous burst of fire and steam were thrown into the air, with great sound and fury.
§
Fortuitously, as we soon discovered upon our descent, no serious harm had been done to either man or bridge. However, if I had thought that Holmes would be pleased to have narrowly avoided both his death and mine, not to mention the destruction of one of London’s finest landmarks, I was much mistaken. Despite the fact that our Irregulars had fished Shinwell Johnson out of the frigid river before the bomb fell, and all were safe and sound, Holmes’ mood could generously be described as taciturn. In short, he was cold and aloof for the entire drive back to our headquarters at Wat Tyler’s House, and in turn, this gloom infected me and the rest of our companions. It was a grim lot that finally laid down our heads that night, each of us aware that although one plot had been hindered, Mortlock himself was still at large, and could strike against us at any moment.
In the morning, I found that Holmes had arisen before anyone else, and in a fit of uncommon courtesy, he had repaired outside to the rear garden of the inn. There he had paced back and forth long enough to wear a small furrow in the winter-browned grass, but when he joined us in the war-chamber, I noted that the bright shining of the sun seemed to have erased some of Holmes’s black depression. The bright, eager spirit that greeted us in turn also served to revitalize the mood of the Irregulars.
After acknowledging each of our compatriots, Holmes sat down in the head chair and leaned back. He then proceeded to chuckle, as if he found something hilarious. “I have been terribly obtuse, Watson. I fear that I have not been operating at the heights of my powers, or I would have seen that springing Mortlock’s trap was not in fact the most efficient method to go about our offensive. Instead, we should hunt him down in his bolt-hole.”
“How do you propose to do that, Holmes?” I inquired.
“Tell me, Watson, what was the point of that little escapade outside of Silvester’s Bank four weeks past?”
“Do you mean on top of the Monument? Why,
Rushing towards it, Holmes tore off the lid and peered down into the crate. Joining him, I could see that it was filled with a row of about twenty brown paper tubes. Judging from the depth of the box, I estimated that it went roughly five tubes deep. These were all wired together with a copper filament and via this attached to an ornate silver pocket watch. I glanced at the clock, which was inexorably counting down towards detonation. To my dismay, I noted that there was less than a minute left. “But that is too short!” I protested.
Holmes shook his head ruefully, “It was a mistake, Watson, to think that Mortlock would ever play by the rules.”
“But you can deactivate it?”
He pursed his lips and frowned. “In my little brain-attic I possess some knowledge pertinent to the neutralization of bombs, but I fear that there is not enough time to bring it to bear.”
“Then what shall we do?” I cried.
Holmes looked about the walkway. He nodded towards a larger window nearby. “Throw that open, Watson!” he commanded. “Quickly!”
While I carried out this order, Holmes reached into the crate and pulled the bomb forth, its weight heavy even in his strong arms. He staggered to the window and with a great heave tossed it into the night. We both leaned against the window and watched it fall towards the river. If Holmes had flung it too late, it might explode in the air, and still destroy the roadway and anyone passing over the bridge. I could feel every beat of my heart as it sank towards the waves, and I cheered as the Thames covered it. Seconds later, an enormous burst of fire and steam were thrown into the air, with great sound and fury.
§
Fortuitously, as we soon discovered upon our descent, no serious harm had been done to either man or bridge. However, if I had thought that Holmes would be pleased to have narrowly avoided both his death and mine, not to mention the destruction of one of London’s finest landmarks, I was much mistaken. Despite the fact that our Irregulars had fished Shinwell Johnson out of the frigid river before the bomb fell, and all were safe and sound, Holmes’ mood could generously be described as taciturn. In short, he was cold and aloof for the entire drive back to our headquarters at Wat Tyler’s House, and in turn, this gloom infected me and the rest of our companions. It was a grim lot that finally laid down our heads that night, each of us aware that although one plot had been hindered, Mortlock himself was still at large, and could strike against us at any moment.
In the morning, I found that Holmes had arisen before anyone else, and in a fit of uncommon courtesy, he had repaired outside to the rear garden of the inn. There he had paced back and forth long enough to wear a small furrow in the winter-browned grass, but when he joined us in the war-chamber, I noted that the bright shining of the sun seemed to have erased some of Holmes’s black depression. The bright, eager spirit that greeted us in turn also served to revitalize the mood of the Irregulars.
After acknowledging each of our compatriots, Holmes sat down in the head chair and leaned back. He then proceeded to chuckle, as if he found something hilarious. “I have been terribly obtuse, Watson. I fear that I have not been operating at the heights of my powers, or I would have seen that springing Mortlock’s trap was not in fact the most efficient method to go about our offensive. Instead, we should hunt him down in his bolt-hole.”
“How do you propose to do that, Holmes?” I inquired.
“Tell me, Watson, what was the point of that little escapade outside of Silvester’s Bank four weeks past?”
“Do you mean on top of the Monument? Why,
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