Work Text:
One day in late September, in the year 1894, I had been out since breakfast time, completing some of the final details of the sale of my practice to young Dr Verner. I returned in the evening, comfortably expectant of an excellent dinner from Mrs Hudson. Holmes was curled on the couch, reading through a stack of old papers, still clad in his blue-coloured dressing-gown, a sight at once so wonderfully familiar and yet so unexpected that I paused in the doorway, unable to restrain a smile.
Holmes glanced up at my entrance, his face quite cold and expressionless. "Really, Watson -- really!"
"What is it?" was my not unnatural query.
"These romances of yours. I have been reading through your collection of the Strand, and I really cannot congratulate you on the result."
"Try it yourself, Holmes," I replied, not a little nettled.
"And besides, my dear Watson," said he, sitting up, "I thought we had an agreement? I permitted you to publish that account of the murders of Drebber and Stangerson, on the understanding that no further accounts were to appear until I gave you permission; and I yielded to your entreaties, much against my better judgement, to permit you to bring out the story of the Agra treasure; but I do not recall giving you permission to print this series; and the two concerning Mr Hatherley's thumb and the case of the naval treaty in particular are quite injudiciously chosen."
"Really, Holmes!" I cried, in some heat. "In case you had forgotten, I believed you to be dead."
"You should have consulted my brother Mycroft, who would, at the very least, have advised you to make your selections more wisely."
Somewhat cast down from my earlier mood, I sat down at the already-laid table, picked up a copy of the evening paper, and pretended to read the leading article.
A moment later, and I felt a light touch on my shoulder. "My dear fellow, I really must apologise for speaking so sharply. Of course, you did not know the full circumstances." It was rare for Holmes to set himself out to charm, but he was completely irresistible when he did so.
"I apologise for my part," I said with alacrity. "I should indeed have consulted your brother."
Holmes withdrew his hand, pointing to an article on the page I had been ostensibly reading. "Have you observed this?"
It was entitled, 'Mystery Crime Wave Sweeps London'. "No."
"The account is somewhat sensational, but essentially factual." Holmes swept the newspaper out of my hands, and sat down across the table from me. "Over the past month, there have been a succession of unusual burglaries -- so unusual, in fact, that did I believe in ghosts I would suspect Professor Moriarty of having crept back from Reichenbach Falls on purpose to torment me." He said this with a quick smile, but I could see that the dreadful experience had not -- perhaps never would -- cease to haunt him. "Watson, each of these thefts has occurred behind locked doors; some with locks so intricate not even I, who have studied the practice of safe-breaking, could guarantee to open them inside twenty-four hours. Yet these locks have been opened and locked again all within at the most, twelve hours; and often less. There was a safe with a patent lock at the residence of the Count of Morcar, that was guaranteed uncrackable; a guarantee which has cost the maker some money, since it was opened and the contents removed in at the very most an hour, between the Count and his lady leaving for dinner and their unexpected return home. Clearly, there is someone with a criminal genius for locks at large in London, and yet why have I not come across him before?"
"Because he had but recently arrived here from abroad?"
"Excellent, Watson! But surely a man with his talent would not have remained unrecognized in any part of the world, and I have spent six hours today in failing to find any trace of him in five separate continents."
There was a ring at the doorbell, and Holmes leant back in his chair. "A client at this time of night? Well, whatever it is, I trust that it will not delay our dinner."
There was the sound of footsteps on the stair, and a man entered the room. He was in his middle thirties, unobtrusively and correctly dressed in black, carrying his hat in his hand. He was tall, compactly built, with a pale face, a long, sardonic nose, and dark, penetrating eyes. His hair was dark brown, and neatly if somewhat oddly cut.
He looked from one to the other of us. "Mr Sherlock Holmes?"
Holmes rose, politely indicating the couch. "Please be seated, Mr -- "
"My name is Avon. Kerr Avon." He sat down, and appeared uncertain how to proceed.
"How can I help you, Mr Avon?"
Our client glanced at me.
"Dr Watson is my confidant and helper. You may trust him as you may trust me."
"Oh, if he is the Dr Watson of the memoirs, I withdraw all objections," said Mr Kerr Avon, with a slight smile. "Mr Holmes, I was recommended to you, a master of deduction, as someone who might solve my problem."
"Beyond the obvious facts," said Holmes with, I felt, some satisfaction, "that you have but lately arrived in London but you are familiar with the metropolis, that English is your native tongue but you have travelled considerably, and that your antecedents are most probably Scottish, I can deduce nothing."
Our client grinned. "Mr Holmes, as for my antecedents I cannot answer, but for the rest, you are perfectly correct."
"Very simple," said my friend, chuckling. "Your attire is in the latest London fashion, and it is obviously completely new. Therefore you have just arrived, and have immediately purchased new clothing to suit your surroundings. Since you have no luggage with you you have clearly already found yourself rooms at a hotel, and therefore cannot be completely ignorant of London geography. From the ease with which you speak it, English is your native tongue, but the overtones are unplaceable, which means that you must have travelled widely in English-speaking countries, probably in your youth, to so smooth out all traces of accent. As for your antecedents being Scottish, that is only a supposition, but Kerr is more common a name in Scotland than in England."
"I see my informant did not exaggerate," Mr Kerr Avon murmured.
"And who is your informant?"
Our visitor's dark eyes became impenetrable. "I cannot tell you that."
Holmes shrugged, clearly not greatly interested, and sat down in his armchair by the fireplace. "Well, well. What is your problem?"
"One would assume, given your profession," our mysterious caller began smoothly, "that you keep abreast of local criminal activity. Have you noticed anything unusual?"
Holmes did not respond immediately, studying the man from beneath half-hooded lids. "By 'unusual', you refer to...?"
Now it was our visitor's turn to pause, and when he spoke, he seemed to choose his words with undue care. "Let us say, any indication that someone with a larcenous streak and an unsurpassed talent for picking locks is at large in your city."
I endeavoured to hide my surprise. The very outbreak of thefts to which Holmes had drawn my attention! Could this gentleman be connected with such audacious crimes? My reflections were interrupted by Holmes himself. "Imagine, for the moment, that I have noticed such indications; of what interest would it be to you?"
"It's possible I might be acquainted with the individual responsible."
My friend leaned forward, his eyes suddenly keen with interest. "As I thought. You wish to locate this individual without involving the local authorities."
"Precisely." Mr Avon looked almost relieved. "If I give you all the assistance in my power to help you lay hands on him -- and if I guarantee that he will be no further trouble to this city once you do find him -- will you then give me your word not to involve the police?"
"I am completely unofficial, Mr Avon. So long as this involves no crime of violence, I think I may promise to keep the professionals out of it. Now, the full story?"
At this point, Mrs Hudson entered with a tray from which tantalising smells floated. Holmes glanced up with an expression of impatience, clearly about to tell her to take the food away, when he caught my eye, and, with a quick humorous grimace, asked instead "Mr Avon, have you dined?"
Our visitor shook his head.
"Then I suggest that you join us at table, and you can tell us your story over Mrs Hudson's excellent soup."
A new place was laid, and our companion began his story.
"As you observed, Mr Holmes, I and my companion travel considerably. We had decided to come to London together, a couple of months ago, when by a series of unfortunate mischances we were separated. On making enquiries at the docks, I discovered that the ship which my companion must have travelled by arrived in London a month ago, to be precise, on the 29th of August."
"The name?" Holmes enquired.
"The Blue Dolphin . He cannot have had a great deal of money to begin with -- I was always the custodian of our purse -- and by the time he landed in this country, he was most probably destitute. And before we became travelling companions, I happen to know that he was a most accomplished thief."
"Indeed? And his name?"
"Vila Restal. He is a slight man, not above five foot eight in height, with receding brown hair and brown eyes."
"Villa? He is of Spanish origin?"
"No..." Avon hesitated. "No, the name is spelt V I L A."
"Ah." Holmes nodded, steepling his fingers before his face and completely ignoring his soup. "Do you have any idea where, in London, he might have gone? He had not been here before?"
"No." He hesitated. "No, to the best of my knowledge, my companion knew less than nothing about London, and had almost certainly never even been to England before." Another pause, while he appeared to be weighing up both Holmes and myself in the balance of his judgement. "He has probably drifted to a district where people reside who... are not fond of the law, nor the law fond of them."
"Unfortunately," Holmes remarked, smiling, "London is wide, and such districts as you describe are also wide, and, sadly, fully populated. However, I will do my best for you. What was he wearing, when you last saw him?"
"Is there any point in describing it? It has been two full months since last I saw him, and he will have wasted no time in acquiring more suitable clothing for this, er -- climate."
"You describe our London fogs very tolerantly, Mr Avon." Holmes was half-smiling. He glanced down at his soup-plate, still full, and looked at me. "Watson, please ring for Mrs Hudson and ask her to clear away."
"Holmes," I ventured to remonstrate, "you really must eat -- "
"Eat? I am not hungry. Mr Avon, if you have completed your meal, perhaps we could remove to the fireside."
Having settled our visitor on the couch again, Holmes seated himself in his own chair, waited for me to make myself comfortable, and repeated his original question. "What was your companion wearing, Mr Avon?"
Our guest shrugged. "To the best of my recollection, a light blue tunic and trousers."
"Belted?"
"Oh, yes. The belt was the same colour and of the same material as the tunic."
"Details, Mr Avon -- details! My friend Dr. Watson will tell you I thrive on details."
"Well, what more can I tell you? His shoes were laced -- grey, I think. He wears a thin metal chain around his neck, and probably a grey bracelet on one arm -- "
"Which?" Holmes demanded.
"The left. But he may be carrying it, and not wearing it. He has a tattoo in the crook of his left elbow: in red, a pattern of no significance. His eyebrows are slightly crooked. He usually goes cleanshaven. Apart from his lockcracking skills, he is a sleight of hand artist, a good cardplayer, and a masseur of some skill."
At this odd collection of talents, I could hardly suppress a laugh, and Holmes glanced at me with cold irritation.
"Is he armed?"
"No. Nor likely to be. He prefers to talk his way out of awkward situations."
"Excellent." Holmes stood up and began to pace restlessly about. "Well, Mr Avon, I will do what I can for you. If you would return tomorrow morning, perhaps at half past eleven -- ?"
"Very well." He stood up, collected his hat, and moved to the doorway. Holmes leapt to his feet and went rapidly towards the door, apparently stumbling over the rug. Our guest caught hold of him and preserved his balance; murmuring apologies and thanks, Holmes showed him out.
Returning, he appeared exhilarated. "A very singular case! Tell me, Watson, what do you make of it?"
"It seems odd that such a well-spoken gentleman should have a travelling companion who is a burglar."
"Yes, indeed. Quite an odd collection of talents his companion has. He did not give me the name of his hotel," my friend added. "I asked him for his address, and he repeated that he would visit us tomorrow. You will have noticed, of course, that he bought his clothes from no London tailor?"
"No, Holmes, I can't say I did."
"Imitations of the latest London styles; very skilfully cut. When I tripped and he caught me, I obtained a small sample of the material of which these clothes were made -- there is something strange about it which merits investigation. But the question is -- why would he wish to wear such imitations? And why didn't he call a cab?"
"Didn't he?"
"He turned to the left, and walked away. I have not heard any whistle or shout. All the hotels in that direction are far enough away that any reasonable person would call a cab, especially on a night like this." Holmes said this absently, and concluded as he sat down at the table. Although it was still early, experience with Holmes' experiments made me decide to retire at once.
The next morning when I awoke, Holmes had already gone out; the morning paper lay folded open to one page, with an article circled in red ink. I read it, over a solid breakfast; I had known Holmes long enough to realise that this might well be my last opportunity for a meal for some time. The article was unsigned, but from the style I guessed it to be by Mr James Moriarty, who had always claimed that his brother the Professor was completely innocent of the crimes Holmes ascribed to him.
The content, therefore, puzzled me. The crime-wave that was sweeping London was described in detail, and it was hinted that the method resembled that of the alleged master criminal, the late Professor Moriarty.
While I was reading, the door opened behind me. I had learned from Holmes the use of a well-polished silver coffee-pot. A shabby sailor-man came in, his white greasy hair flopping over his forehead, dressed in shore-going slops with a pea-jacket. "Good morning, Holmes," I said smoothly.
He straightened, shedding several years and gaining two inches of height, and disappeared into his bedroom; I heard only his delighted chuckle as the door closed behind him.
When Holmes reappeared, more seemly clad, I poured him a cup of coffee. "I deduce you have been investigating the docks, Holmes."
He looked at me with a twinkle in his grey eyes. "Amazing, Watson. I never get your limits. What do you make of that article in the Times ?"
"I find it very odd that Mr James Moriarty should suddenly have changed his tune on his brother's innocence."
"You're certain it is by the younger Moriarty?"
"Quite sure, Holmes. The style is unmistakable."
"I thought so too, but on this subject if on no other, I am glad to have you concur in my opinions." Before I could work out if that came to a compliment or not, he swept on. "And if you read with more care, he says not a word as to whether he believes the late, great, and much-maligned Professor Moriarty is indeed guilty of the crimes of which he was accused. Since the Professor was never tried in a court of law, he is of course completely correct to do so. But I am intrigued by this connection with our mysterious visitor; particularly as I established one thing from my visit to the docks."
"What was that, Holmes?"
"Mr Vila Restal could not possibly have arrived on the Blue Dolphin . The crew are Lascars, there were only five white men aboard, and I have spoken to all of them except the Captain. I assume that Mr Restal, as described, could not have disguised himself as a man above six feet tall, well-known in that area of London for thirty years."
"Could Mr Avon not have been mistaken?"
"He was at great pains to tell us ship and date. I wonder, was he trying to throw me off the track?"
"Did you come to any conclusions about the material you were examining last night?"
"I came to several, Watson, all improbable. But the scientific facts are indisputable. Mr Avon's suit is not made from wool, or cotton, or any animal or vegetable matter at all."
I stared, and he waved a long hand impatiently. "Oh, come, Watson, surely you remember the childhood game of Animal, Vegetable, or -- ?"
"Mineral. But how is that possible?"
"Obviously it is possible," Holmes said with annoyance, "since it has occurred. Mr Avon is wearing a suit woven from a substance derived from hydrocarbons. Certain very plastic materials have been produced in laboratories, but I was not aware that they had yet been developed to such a degree of usefulness. Indeed, it is not possible -- " he stopped for an instant, and his face took on a look I was accustomed to, and constantly frustrated by; the look on Holmes' face when he has all the threads of a solution gathered into his hand, and merely needs to tug at them to reveal the whole. It is a look of, at once, the wonder of a child, the satisfaction of a scientist, and pure mischievous glee.
Without a word more, he stood up and went to the window, taking his violin and nestling it beneath his chin, and began to play; the curious almost discordant airs that I had learned echoed his thoughts. I did not venture to call Mrs Hudson to clear the breakfast table, nor even to move; I rested my elbows on the table, my chin on my hands, and watched my friend against the window's morning light.
I had fallen into a reverie, thinking of a certain private matter, when Holmes said briskly "Ah, I believe this is our client arriving," and I realised that the violin had fallen silent for this little while.
The doorbell rang, and a couple of minutes later Avon reappeared in our rooms. He glanced over the breakfast table, and made an imperturbable apology for interrupting our meal.
"No apologies, Mr Avon. I'm afraid my friend Watson is inclined to be a late riser."
I had grown accustomed to being maligned on occasion by Sherlock Holmes whenever he felt it would serve the purpose of the case on hand, and knew he would apologise later on, so I merely pushed the toast aside and stood up, finishing my stone-cold tea. "I shall ask Mrs Hudson to clear away," I said with dignity, and went to the door.
When I returned from the stairs, Holmes was seated in his accustomed chair, and our strange visitor was seated in mine. Resigned, I sat down on the couch, and listened. For his own reasons, no doubt, Holmes had evidently not mentioned his own visit to the docks.
"Have you studied the newspapers at all this morning, Mr Avon?" he enquired.
"No, I came directly here."
"There has been another theft. At the Duke of Denver's London residence."
"Another?" our visitor said sharply. "How many thefts have there been, over the past month?"
"Eight," said Holmes. "The burglary at Denver's house is the ninth."
"These were all major thefts?" Avon asked, his voice sharpened almost as if by anxiety. "Goods of considerable value were stolen?"
"At minimum, at each household, I would say at least one thousand pounds worth. Perhaps more. Certainly the take from the Count of Morcar's home must have been upwards of ten thousand. Does this surprise you, Mr Avon?"
"Considerably," the man muttered. "Mr Holmes, my companion is either not responsible for all of these thefts -- "
"Unlikely," Holmes interjected.
"Or else someone else is using him, and his talent for lock-cracking, and he's in greater danger than I feared."
Mrs Hudson entered, with a reproachful look at Holmes -- which he ignored -- and began to clear the table. There was silence until she had left. Holmes cleared his throat. "What enemies might you have made in London?"
"None," Avon said emphatically. "It isn't possible."
"Not possible?" my friend murmured. "Dear me, my dear sir, you astonish me. I am the most retiring and mild-mannered of men," -- I snorted, and he shot me a dark warning glance -- "and yet I possess enemies."
"It is not possible."
"Nor is it possible that you wear on your back a coat made of no material manufactured in this world, Mr Avon -- and yet, you do."
Mr Kerr Avon chuckled, but I thought that I could perceive a flash of horror in his eyes. "Really, Mr Holmes, do you believe that I have come from the Moon?"
"Perhaps I should say, Mr Avon, from no material manufactured in the world at this time ." His voice rang out on the last words, and I stared at him, but the effect on me was far less than the effect on our client. He sprang to his feet with a strange oath, and stared down at Holmes, a dark and dangerous expression on his face. Holmes looked back at him with perfect equanimity; I restrained myself from reaching for the poker. "It is a maxim of mine," Holmes continued in a voice of iron, "that once you have eliminated the impossible -- "
"Whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth," Mr Kerr Avon completed, sarcastically. "It's become a cliché in my time. I counted on your being aware that according to all the laws of physics known up to the twenty-third century, time travel is impossible."
Holmes laughed. I saw a muscle jerk in Mr Kerr Avon's jaw, and was confirmed in my belief that this was a dangerous man under incomplete control. "Forgive me, Mr Avon," he said then. "I was not certain of my hypothesis, until you now confirmed it for me. From how far in the future do you come?"
"Holmes, this is madness!" I interrupted.
"Be quiet, Watson. Mr Avon, you are still my client. How did you arrive here, and how was your companion lost? Will you sit down?"
After a moment, our mysterious visitor seated himself again, looking from Holmes to me with a strange smile. "In your dating, I'm from the 29th century, I believe. There has been a change in calendars, and something of a hiatus, in between your time and mine."
I stared; I am not ashamed to admit it, quite bewildered. On the face of it, it seemed far more likely that this man had escaped from a madhouse than that he came from a thousand years in the future. Or possibly that he should be committed to one. But my friend had made none of the unobtrusive signals to me that we have had occasion to use with very dangerous visitors; I could only watch and wait.
"The transportation we use is called a teleport."
"From the Greek tele, meaning far, and port, meaning travel," I said to Holmes, who gave me an annoyed look.
"Thank you, Watson. Far-travel."
"Instantaneous far-travel," said Mr Avon. "Unfortunately, this involves a certain amount of time-manipulation, the physics of which I cannot explain to you either. Probably not even in my own language," he added with a faint smile. "An unfortunate combination of circumstances led to my companion teleporting to the place where he intended to go, but not to the correct time. We managed to freeze the time-slip eventually, so close to the time to which he had been sent that we decided not to risk any further manipulations. But it is vital that we find him."
Holmes nodded. "Yes, of course." He stood up, pacing briskly. "Mr Avon, I must ask you to trust me with the entire truth. Tell me your story again, and this time, accurately." He glanced at me. "If you prefer that Doctor Watson not hear it -- "
Shocked and hurt, I could say nothing. Holmes had never so mistrusted me before. I caught Mr Avon's eyes on me with an odd expression, before he said smoothly, "No. For the sake of the stability of time, it might be better that as few people hear it as possible, but after all, I already know that Doctor Watson never published an account of this problem."
"Yes, of course," Holmes said again. He paused a moment to light his pipe, and continued to pace. "Go on, Mr Avon. Omit no detail, no matter how slight."
"In my time," said Mr Avon, looking as fascinated by Holmes' pipe as if he had never seen a man smoking before, "the ship that we came to this world on -- "
"Where from?" Holmes inquired, looking interested.
"Various places," Mr Avon said. "None of the names would mean anything to you. I come from Earth, not far from here; a region known as Noreurope. The ship in which we came was not built by human beings, and we are sometimes rather bewildered by its reactions."
"You speak as if it were alive."
"By some definitions, it is. It is certainly sentient." Mr Avon shrugged his shoulders. "This is all irrelevant. My companion, Vila Restal, was to be teleported down to Earth to join three of us already there. For some reason that the ship refuses to explain, it did not inform us that a unique twisting of the basic fabric of the universe had caused the teleport to operate in time; approximately one thousand and eighty-seven years, one hundred and three days, and nine hundred and fifty minutes into the past. Or possibly the ship itself did it, for reasons that we have yet to discuss." He said that last with such grimness that the picture of this gentleman talking to a ship quite lost its humour for me. "It had slipped twenty-two days and thirty minutes or so before the teleport operator could freeze it. Unfortunately, in the wrong direction."
"The wrong direction?" I queried, confused.
"If the slippage had been into the past," Mr Avon said politely, "of course we would only have had to wait, and we could have found Vila the moment he arrived."
I nodded. I felt capable of doing nothing else.
With a look of irritation at me, and the world at large, Holmes said "And then?"
"And then, after some detailed research, I came to find you. Mr Holmes, I trust that you now understand how vitally important it is that I should find my companion."
"Indeed I do. Could you pinpoint the exact place where he arrived on a map?"
After a moment's reflection, Avon slid his hand into a concealed pocket and produced a folded piece of paper. Saying "This is the map that was constructed for me by our ship," he unfolded it.
It appeared to be a letter, but in no script that I could recognise, neither Arabic nor Greek nor Hindi nor the common Latin.
With another incomprehensible oath, our strange visitor snatched it back from Holmes' very fingers, refolded it hastily, and tucked it away again. "My apologies," said he hastily but smoothly, "a private letter. This is the map." From another concealed pocket he drew out a second piece of paper. This one he glanced at before handing to Holmes, who turned to the table and spread it out over the clean cloth.
It was a curiously detailed map of the London docks; every building and landmark depicted. Here and there were what I took to be notes, in the same peculiar blockish script. Holmes studied it curiously. I was aware that he knew that area of London as well as he knew our own sitting room, and wondered what he would make of such a map. It seemed beyond human patience to draw it.
"The red star marks where your companion arrived?" I had missed it, until one of Holmes' long fingers pointed it out; marked in red, a tiny star at the corner of a large building that I took to be a warehouse.
"Yes. To within two or three metres."
"For example -- to there?" Holmes marked the interior corner of the next warehouse along with the tip of his pipe.
Avon bent over the table, frowning himself. "Yes, that would be well within the limits of error."
"Then everything is very simple."
"I don't understand," our visitor said grimly. He met Holmes' eyes with his own steady gaze, and I smelt danger.
"That warehouse," said Holmes, quite tranquilly, but his cold eyes burning with an inner excitement, "is the property of James Moriarty."
Our client looked blank for an instant. "But this is eighteen ninety-four -- " and then stopped short, biting his lip. "Professor Moriarty."
"No," said Holmes, "his brother. Professor Moriarty died three and a half years ago. I believe I can find your companion, Mr Avon."
" Where? "
"Ah. I cannot tell you that. But if you would care to visit us this evening, after dark, I believe we may have some more information for you."
"Mr Holmes, as I believe you understand, the longer my companion is lost in this time the greater the danger."
"I do understand this." Holmes looked imperturbably at our client. "Have patience, Mr Avon. I shall restore him to you."
As soon as the door had closed behind Avon, I turned to Holmes with a thousand questions on my lips. He silenced me with a single look.
"Are you ready for a rather dangerous afternoon stroll? We may bend the law a little."
"When you like and where you like," I said instantly.
Holmes laughed with sudden mercurial delight. "You are the best of friends and chroniclers, Watson."
"But may we have lunch first?"
Holmes glanced at his watch. "Oh, very well." He went to the head of the stairs and called down to Mrs Hudson.
Our landlady supplied us with bread, cheese, and a reproachful look. "A lovely meat pie I was making, and you rushing out like this, Mr Holmes, I can warm it up for supper but it won't be the same."
"Blame Watson," Holmes said cheerfully. "Thank you, Mrs Hudson, this is excellent."
He hardly sat down to lunch, but strode the room, consuming a roughly-made sandwich. I made a quick meal, and stood up. "My army revolver, Holmes?"
"A good heavy walking-stick should suffice."
I had expected that our afternoon stroll would be taken through the docks, but to my surprise and relief, Holmes ordered the hansom cab to take us to a quiet and leafy suburb of London. Holmes paid the driver off and we started down the street, turning into another road. Holmes' eyes were sparkling.
"That house with the green door."
"Yes, Holmes."
"Would you kindly ring the doorbell and ask to speak to the master of the house?"
"What about?"
"Oh, anything, my dear Watson -- anything! You are seeking an old friend who used to live there five years ago. Yes, that will do -- a Mr Calverley. Keep the man talking for at least fifteen minutes, longer if you can do so without arousing suspicion. Do not give your name. I shall meet you at the end of the road."
I had learned to obey Holmes without question. Though I could perceive that I was in for an embarrassing quarter of an hour, I merely nodded, and crossed the road to the gate. When I glanced casually over my shoulder, I saw that Holmes had vanished.
The maidservant who opened the door showed no surprise when I could not give her a card; she left me standing in the hall, and presently a man in his late fifties, lean and fidgety, came down from an upper landing.
"I don't think I have the acquaintance, Mr -- ?" he began, fairly politely.
"Dr Winterton," I said. I was trying to remember of whom he reminded me. There was a strange familiarity about his build and features. "I beg your pardon -- is this not the London residence of Mr Calverley?"
"Ah," the gentleman said suavely, "you are indeed mistaken. Mr Calverley did live here, but the house was sold to me three years ago."
"I am sorry to have intruded," said I. "I have been abroad for the past few years. Do you have my friend's present address?"
"I do not. I am sorry I cannot be of more service to you." It was a dismissal; but I held my ground.
"Could I ask your name, sir? I have a reason for inquiring -- "
"James Moriarty."
I was astonished; and I am not ashamed to admit that inwardly I quailed at the prospect of trying to make conversation with a man whose brother I had accused of committing murder. "Ah," I said, and realised that I would have to find a reason for my obvious surprise. "What a coincidence. I don't think that you ever met me, but I was acquainted with your brother. His tragic death was a great loss -- " what was the Professor's academic field of interest? " -- to the world of mathematics."
"You knew my elder brother?" he asked, sounding suspicious.
"Not intimately," I said. "The acquaintance was of the slightest. I read of his death in a climbing accident three years ago, while I was in Switzerland. I have been trying to recall why your features were familiar to me."
He grimaced, seeming displeased, but said "Forgive my seeming coldness, Dr Winterton, but since his death my brother's name has been vilified by a meddling busybody, and the story has been taken up by certain organs of the Press. I have been considerably troubled by reporters. I thought that you were one of them." His voice still held a certain degree of suspicion.
"Certainly not," I cried, thinking it best to profess indignation. "You suggest that a gentleman would insinuate his way into a private house under false pretences? In order to write about it in some cheap journal?"
Moriarty became conciliating. "No offence meant, Doctor Winterton. I am sorry I cannot help you find your friend, but I know nothing of Mr Calverley. I bought his house through lawyers."
"Ah. Perhaps you could give me the name and direction of his lawyer?" I enquired.
Clearly, Moriarty wanted to do nothing of the sort, but just as plainly he wanted to be rid of me. "I may be able to find it," he said, "if you would come through?"
The small room to the right of the hall was his study, and just as in Holmes' quarters, it was covered with papers. Moriarty went to his desk and opened the third drawer down. "Ah -- I have it." He turned and saw me glancing round, and very nearly smiled.
"Order, Doctor Winterton, order and method! I know where every paper in this room is, and can lay my hand on any thing I may require within minutes. Of course, I have to keep the servants out of the room; my housemaid ventured to spring-clean in here one year, and I lost track of several very important documents."
He showed me a letter from a lawyer's office, and I noted down the address, writing as slowly as possible. Holmes must have had his fifteen minutes by now. "Thank you very much, Mr Moriarty. I am sorry to have intruded on you."
"I am glad to have been of help. Goodbye, Dr Winterton." He showed me out himself, and shut the door behind me. I glanced at my watch; it had been twenty minutes since I left Holmes.
At the corner where we had agreed to meet, a four-wheeler waited; Holmes leaned out of it, commanding me with a gesture. I crossed the road and climbed in. At a signal from Holmes, the driver moved off.
"Good afternoon, Watson," said Holmes, smoothly. "Did you have a pleasant visit?"
"No," I said, with some heat. "And since you knew who lived there, Holmes, you might have warned me."
"You are many things, Watson, but that honest face was never meant for an actor's. Had you known, you would not have reacted with the appropriate surprise. You told Mr Moriarty, of course, that you were slightly acquainted with his brother?"
"Holmes -- you were listening?"
"It was hardly necessary. He thought you were a reporter, of course, since Mr Calverley never existed."
"Holmes!"
"Calverley was the name used by Professor Moriarty when he made use of that dwelling. On paper, his brother purchased the house from Mr Calverley, though I suspect any detailed examination of the financial aspects of that transaction would provide some interesting anomalies. Mr James Moriarty believed you to be a reporter bluffing his way into the house."
"Why did you not tell me?" I turned my face away from Holmes. "I trust that you accomplished enough to make the visit worthwhile?"
"I believe so," Holmes said casually.
"You forced me to confront a man whose brother I have accused of murder, under a false name, as if I were hiding myself from him -- as if I were ashamed of what I have written -- Holmes, it was unworthy of you!"
Holmes was silent a moment. "Perhaps you are right. But if he had known who you were -- "
"He would have thrown me out of the house in far less time than you required. I know, Holmes, I know. I trust the visit was worthwhile?" I repeated in a brittle voice. I was not unreasonably angry.
"He would have killed you," Holmes said, quietly, but with an extraordinary urgency. I turned to look at him. "That was why I insisted you use a false name, and that we visit him in daylight. Even in the suburbs, where neighbours keep themselves to themselves, in broad day I did not think he would risk unpremeditated murder."
"Surely you exaggerate, Holmes," I protested.
"Professor Moriarty would have killed me, but disdained to touch you. His brother has made a god of respectability; he had no objection to living on the proceeds of crime, nor to the death of his brother. What he cannot forgive is that you blew away that concealing cloud of respectability, and made his name a household word of villainy. I admit, Watson, it is a revenge I would not have sought."
"Yes," I said, "and I know why. I recognised him."
"Watson," Holmes said, a brief protest, but I continued.
"I recognised a family resemblance."
"You never met the Professor." It was a last-ditch defence. Holmes was gazing into the distance, his face expressionless.
"No," I agreed, looking at him.
"Watson...."
This time I acknowledged the protest in my friend's voice, and we completed the journey to Baker Street in silence. When the cab halted, Holmes knelt down on the floor and leaned under the seat. He pulled out an arm.
I sprang to my feet.
The arm was followed by the rest of the body; a man of middle height, dressed in foreign clothing that might once have been a pale blue in colour, with very dusty fair brown hair. He stared up at us, his brown eyes wide with apprehension. "May I introduce Mr Vila Restal?" Holmes said. "Unfortunately, he speaks not a word of English."
"It was very simple, Watson," Holmes said leisurely, sinking down into his armchair. We had given our guest the couch, and he sat leaning forward, shoulders hunched, plainly frightened; he glanced from my face to Holmes as we spoke, with no evidence of understanding. "Even before Mr Avon suggested it, I suspected something more than simple theft was behind this 'crime wave', as the newspapers call it. The article by James Moriarty in this morning's paper merely confirmed it; he intended to prove wrong your allegations against his brother, if necessary by creating the appearance of another master-criminal in London. Unlike the Professor, Mr James Moriarty has no access to hiding-places in the recesses of London's underworld, so the only safe place for him to keep a prisoner would be the house we visited this afternoon -- there is a rather amateurishly hidden room on the first floor. It has a window, concealed by ivy. The Professor seldom used it. I simply climbed to the window, opened it, and persuaded our guest to come away with me. I needed fifteen minutes undisturbed to be able to do this, and you ably provided it."
"How could you be certain he would be willing to come with you? Particularly as he speaks no English."
"Well, as I knew he spoke no English -- "
"How could you know that?"
"Watson, Watson! This young man was born a thousand years in our future. The language spoken by our Saxon forefathers would be as incomprehensible to anyone but a scholar today, as our language undoubtedly is to him. I was a fool not to recognise that Mr Kerr Avon's lack of accent was because he had learned English as a dead language. I do not know how Mr James Moriarty discovered Restal's talent for picking locks, but he must have induced Restal to obey him somehow, and I suspect that it was by the simplest and most brutal method. Now I possessed one advantage which James Moriarty did not -- the name of someone Restal would trust. He recognises the name Kerr Avon."
Indeed he did; our guest was staring at Holmes, looking hopeful and wary. After a moment he glanced at me. I smiled at him, reassuringly. "Your friend Mr Avon will be joining us in a few hours."
He looked blank. Holmes sighed, and took down a book from the shelf above his chair. "It's of no use, Watson."
The afternoon passed in a rather strained fashion; Holmes, of course, simply read, ignoring both me and our guest; I endeavoured to reassure him, but soon realised that my best efforts were not a success. I could not bring myself to do as Holmes had done, and bury myself in a book; hence Restal and I spent the afternoon in embarrassed silence, he staring past my shoulder at the picture over our mantelpiece, I staring past his shoulder at the window. As the afternoon darkened into dusk, Mrs Hudson came in to light the gas and enquire if she should bring up the tea-tray. Our guest drank the tea so thirstily and was plainly so hungry, that I rang for a jug of ale and more bread and butter.
At last the door bell rang. Holmes set his book aside and sprang to his feet. We heard footsteps on the stairs, and our client, Mr Kerr Avon, entered the room. Our hitherto silent guest leapt up with a cry of "Avon!" and ran across the room, into the gentleman's arms.
When two friends meet who may, perhaps, never have expected to see each other again in this life, some lapse in decorum is forgivable -- indeed, understandable. I glanced away, and met Holmes' gaze with, I hoped, some appearance of equanimity. The look in his eyes was enough to tell me that he too was not unmoved, nor forgetful of that fateful afternoon earlier this year, when I fainted for the first time in my life, overcome by the same flood of joy, amazement and incredulity that, I suspected, was overwhelming our client and our recent guest.
"How can I thank you?" Mr Kerr Avon said presently, and Holmes and I turned to look at them once more. The two friends were standing side by side, Avon's hand resting casually on Restal's shoulder.
"A trifling problem," Holmes said promptly. "I was glad to be of assistance." Nevertheless, he accepted the bag handed to him by our client, opened it, and tipped the contents out on our table. Five diamonds of the first water glinted in the gaslight; any one of them would have made Holmes an enviably rich man.
"I cannot accept it," Holmes said. "These stones, I take it, come from the future?"
"If you care to put it that way."
"I cannot accept them. Take them back with you to the time in which they belong."
"As you wish," Mr Avon said imperturbably. "There seems no way I can repay you, then."
Holmes shrugged indifferently. "My fees are not of the greatest importance in any work of detection. The intellectual aspect is always the first attraction to any problem; and yours, though simple enough to solve, has provided me with much to think about."
"Excellent. It is goodbye, then, Mr Sherlock Holmes."
"You might do me one small service, Mr Kerr Avon. Allow me to watch you leave."
Avon raised his eyebrows. "Very well." He removed two bracelets from the inner pocket of his coat, and handed one to Restal, who slipped it over his wrist. The other went on Avon's wrist, and he raised it to his mouth and said something in a strange language.
He looked at us, at me, and smiled. "I never had time to say how much I enjoyed your memoirs, Dr Watson," our mysterious visitor said. "Goodbye."
A white light surrounded the two men, and an odd buzzing noise, and they were gone, vanished into thin air. I sat down rather hastily. Holmes walked across to where they had stood, and stood gazing down at the carpet, an expression of awe on his face.
"They are gone, then," I remarked rather foolishly. Holmes looked up.
"Yes, Watson. The sooner the better; the longer they stayed, the greater my temptation to question them. My God, what wonders those two men must have seen!"
He fell silent; I stood up again, bewildered, but recognising that Holmes had suffered in his swift dismissal of the strange visitors. I went across to my friend and laid my hand on his shoulder. "You did what you felt was necessary, Holmes."
"Good old Watson," Holmes murmured after a moment. "Yes: though I shall never know if it was necessary." He reached up and covered my hand with his own. "I owe you the truth about Moriarty, Watson."
"Indeed not -- I should not have spoken to you as I did -- "
"Ah. Then you have already guessed the truth." Holmes shrugged, letting go my hand and turning away from me. "The Moriarty brothers are my father's sons. My illegitimate half-brothers. I told you once, did I not, that art in the blood is liable to take the strangest forms?"
End