Kevin Kiernan has come across an old manuscript which reveals the truth behind Sherlock Holmes’s miraculous reappearance after his death plunge with Moriarty at the Reichenbach Falls. The aftermath is equally surprising.
Sidney Paget, Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons
I was on the Glacier Express, the pride of Swiss railways, returning to London after my encounter with Professor Moriarty at the Reichenbach Falls. I was in the 3rd class compartment (which had an odour all of its own) because I liked to record what the ordinary person was wearing. In many of my cases, I found it useful to loiter near the home of a suspect to gather clues. You had to wear whatever the average loiterer or ragamuffin was wearing, no matter how ghastly. The one problem here was the popularity of Alpine Hats (a sort of green trilby with a large feather), so very, very not on trend.
It had been a few months since that fateful day. The London press had reported (and still believed) that we had both fallen in that death plunge, the truth was somewhat different.
On the day itself, Moriarty had arrived , as we had agreed, at the famous viewing spot overlooking the impenetrable gorge beneath. Unbeknownst to him, I was disguised as a member of the local yodelling team. The uniform was full lederhosen with the dreaded Alpine Hat. Of course, I swapped this for my trusty deerstalker. The yodelling team had just started one of those local dances HäneknieundBoomphenGänseblümchenhich which involved slapping hands, thighs and bumping into each other with our bottoms. In England it is known as hands, knees and boomps-a-daisy.
The team had invited Moriarty to join the dance. He did so and, luckily, he had not spotted me. All was well until he and I were paired up for the third reel. His eyes flashed when he saw my hat and also my pipe (not normally a common accessory when yodelling). However, Moriarty did not fully realise that the dance troupe were gradually moving to the gorge edge – a custom based on a mixture of foolhardiness and derring-do. It was only when we reached the boomps-a-daisy stage and he turned his back on me to enact the required boomps, that he realised how close he was to the edge. I gave him a strong boomps, as if I was sending a large boat down the slipway to the sea. He fell to his death. In the ensuing melee I took the opportunity to slip away unnoticed. The yodelling team assumed that we had both fallen.
I later read in the local paper, the Berner Zeitung, that the Swiss Police were happy to accept that it was an accident. As they say ‘What can you expect? When you are on the Reichenbach Falls, the clue is in the name.’ Given the nature of the gorge’s terrain, no attempt was made to recover the bodies. The paper had identified Moriarty as one of the victims, the other was simply ‘man in deerstalker hat’, which, of course, the British Press assumed was me.
So after a precautionary lying low for a few months, checking that the dust had settled, the coast was clear and I had my ducks in a row, I was on the train reflecting on my eventual triumphant return to London Society. However I had written to Mrs Hudson, my housekeeper, to ask that, initially, I wanted a low key return. Of course there would soon be a grand City Banquet, perhaps some serried ranks of white gloved Peelers and Inspector Lestrade in full ceremonial gear. … the Home Secretary…..The Queen herself? I had toyed with the idea of a black and white silk deerstalker to go with full evening dress. Perhaps in due course.
I eventually reached London and, as I walked up Baker Street from the Metropolitan Line Station, the sound of the train’s steam whistle ringing in my ears, I realised how much I missed the clear Alpine air. It had been replaced by London’s fog. Not so much a pea souper, more a Brown Windsor. The odd gust of wind dispersed the fog occasionally to reveal the shops on each side of the road. Previously they were the usual collection of newsagents, drapers, milliners. haberdashers and the inevitable mongers (iron, fish, cheese and coster). Of course, much further up the road towards the badlands of Camden Town, there was another monger (Fear, Rumour, War and Scare) – the onetime secret lair of Professor Moriarty RIP. I noticed that these Baker St shops were now all dedicated to Sherlock Holmes memorabilia. Many in poor taste. For example, in my various guises, I had never dressed up as a teddy bear with a deerstalker.
I located the flat entrance, 221B. I inserted my key and went in. To my horror I was immediately confronted by a turnstile with a request to pay 1s and 6d. The lady in the turnstile booth was none other than Mrs Hudson, my housekeeper. She looked a bit sheepish and explained that, following my ‘death’, my estate, now owned by my brother Mycroft, a top Government official, had received probate and substantial life insurance. On Mycroft’s instruction, they had invested it to turn the flat into a museum and both Mrs Hudson and my friend, Dr Watson, had become minor celebrities. Mrs Hudson as well as her museum curatorial duties, had set up a Baking competition. The Great Victorian Bake off. They had erected a huge tent in Regent’s Park. Each entrant would bring along their own cook and kitchen staff as well as house maids, and footmen to attend to their Mistress’s needs, while the cooking was in progress. All in all, a team of about 30 per entrant. Why a Bake off, I asked? Mrs Hudson replied ‘The clue is in the name, Baker St – Bake Off’. It was then that Mycroft, my brother, appeared. His suit shouted Savile Row,…. not his usual ‘off the peg from the Civil Service Stores’. ‘Ah Sherlock’, he said, ‘sorry to confine you to the afterlife. But it is administratively and financially more convenient. You will still have plenty to do. We have been selling tickets for evening visits to the museum where you will appear as a ghost. During the day you can wander freely around town dressed as a ne’er do well.’
Dr Watson entered. I noticed his bespoke suit rather than his usual look ‘country doctor who does a bit of farm work on the side’. He had set up a practice on the same staircase as my flat, specialising in foreign diseases. Since the Empire had reached its zenith the prevalence of exotic diseases reaching these shores had mushrooomed. Cures were few and far between, but there was always a bottle of snakeoil that Watson could sell for 5 guineas a tincture. As Dr Watson said, the one cure he hoped would never be found would be the cure for patient gullibility. He had also set up an events agency, organising mini tours eg ‘in the footsteps of Jack the Ripper’. On Mycroft’s advice he also included a guide to public conveniences, ‘the Privy Counsel’ including the new 50 seater at Piccadilly. Why an Events agency, I asked?
‘The clue is in the name‘, he replied, ‘What’s on’.
I groaned, donned my ragamuffin disguise and left.
