Who Killed Sherlock Holmes? (23 page)

‘Yes, yes, I see what that means . . .’

‘Who else recruits gangs of weird criminals? He’s meant to have written
The Dynamics of an Asteroid
. That’s why he’s got one named after him! Sefton said there
wouldn’t be a ghost of Moriarty, but what if there was, just a tiny one, only it got pumped up by “Holmesmania”? It’s had its nature changed by all those people in the
audience thinking about it, so it’s now someone who leaves clues and puzzles, like those actors said! I’d been being followed, I knew that, so I went to where Moriarty appears in the
books and I was finally attacked!’

‘You didn’t tell me about that.’

‘That’s not important! Aren’t you
listening
?! If Moriarty thought it was worth killing Holmes, because he got too close, then Moriarty must think there’s a
possibility that the ultimate crime can be solved, reversed!’

‘And that would get all those people out of Hell?’

‘She’s getting it! Finally!’

‘But . . . this “ghost” of a fictional character, he can’t have been responsible for putting them all in Hell in the first place, can he? This can’t be a crime he
committed. So why does he care about Holmes investigating it? Why does he even know?’

Quill stared at her. He could feel himself shaking with sudden anger. He was so tired; his limbs felt so tense, like he had an actual burden on his shoulders. He took a moment to walk in a
circle, to calm himself. ‘They’re connected. The Smiling Man and Moriarty. They must be. They might even be the same being. Or maybe Moriarty is some sort of evil force in the human
imagination that the Smiling Man used to do it!’

‘But Holmes didn’t believe in the occult, so most of his media versions don’t, so how come he’s investigating this?’

He couldn’t believe how she kept putting things in his way, when the only thing he needed, what he depended on right now, was a clear path. ‘If Holmes got the first idea of what the
real London is like, he’d have to start believing in the supernatural, wouldn’t he? Like us, he wouldn’t have any choice! Why do you keep
questioning
me?’

‘Because I’m worried about you.’

‘I don’t need worry. I need help. Get out of my way. Don’t you get it? If I can catch Moriarty, I can find out the secret about the ultimate crime; then I can reverse it. Then
Laura can move to London.’

There. He’d laid it all out simply in front of her. Now she would definitely see it.

‘Why does that mean Laura can move to London?’

Quill shook his head, made himself sigh theatrically. Oh no, he couldn’t go there. He had to cover that by making it look like Sarah couldn’t keep up with him. ‘Logic,’
he said. ‘It’s all about logic – one, two, three, like dominoes.’

‘Logic? OK, then.’ She went to his drawing of the star field and looked at the numbers round the sides. ‘These say “R.A.” and “Dec”. I think that must
stand for where the telescope was pointing to get this picture. Agreed?’

‘Agreed.’ He was breathing hard. Let her work through it. Let her see and agree.

For the next half-hour, as Quill paced, Sarah did some work on her phone, making notes on what was left of the kitchen pad after Quill had used most of it for his drawings. ‘OK, well, the
asteroid called Moriarty is supposed to stay in what they call the plane of the ecliptic, where all the planets orbit the sun, but this picture is of higher up, near the pole, part of the Great
Bear constellation. If these numbers are right, Moriarty could never be in this picture.’

Quill shook his head. ‘Lot of numbers there. Can’t be right.’

‘What about everything else that was at that murder scene? The hole in the slipper?’

‘I reckon they fought and the blade caught it.’

‘The photo of Irene Adler?’

‘A clue left for us that she’d be Moriarty’s next victim. Her ghost is probably out there too.’

‘The pile of correspondence with the letters snipped out?’

‘All sent by Moriarty, full of clues.’

‘Even though they were in the museum before? Never mind. Why did he melt the wax head?’

‘Holmes set it up as a target, like in one of the stories. Moriarty comes in, attacks the fake Holmes; the real one leaps out; the wax head goes flying, into the Bunsen burner on the desk.
Moriarty only has a few moments after the murder to put everything straight—’

‘Why bother?’

‘Because he knows only the Sighted can see the murder, he wants to leave the majority none the wiser.’

‘The curator didn’t hear this fight.’

‘Do ghosts fighting make any noise?’

‘What about the biro lines between the bullet holes?’

‘That’s another message for us, maybe about the number of forthcoming victims. He’s a serial killer in the new versions, so there have to be victims.’

‘What about Henry Ward Beecher and General Gordon?’

‘Heroes of Holmes’s who were victims of the ultimate crime, not suspects, now in Hell unjustly.’

‘The missing books would be . . . ?’

‘Full of notes by Holmes implicating Moriarty.’

‘And where the hell is Watson?’

He stopped, had to take a deep breath again. ‘That I don’t know.’

She paused, as if she was wondering how she could put something to him. ‘You said you were following logic. I know I can get through to you with logic if I keep trying, and I’ve just
proved all this huge pile of “facts” you’ve put together, it’s full of holes—’

Get through to him?
He grabbed her arm. Maybe a bit too roughly. ‘Look. Look, just come and see it, OK?’ He hauled her to the front door, saw Jessica look up from the front
room where she was playing, gave her a smile to show her it was OK, and then they were at the step, and Sarah was angrily whispering to him to let go of her, keeping her voice down for
Jessica’s sake. He opened the door, and now she’d see, and he was sorry if it scared her, but it was necessary.

He pointed to the corner of the close. ‘There,’ he said. ‘There’s the shadow. Wait.’ She waited, to give her credit. There was that slight lengthening of the
shadow. She must have seen it. Had
he
seen it this time? Yes, he must have. It must be there. ‘There it goes,’ he insisted.

‘Quill . . . I . . . Please don’t get angry.’ She was actually afraid now. Afraid of him.

‘Come on, this is me.’

‘There’s nothing there.’

‘You can’t see it like I can see it. I should have realized that. I should have got that. Sorry.’

‘So this is something you’re seeing with the Sight?’

‘I . . . didn’t think it was, or I wouldn’t have shown it to you. But I must have been wrong. There, I admit it – I was wrong.’

‘If I put Jessica to bed, can we talk about this?’

He closed the door. ‘We’ve talked about it. You don’t listen.’

‘For a start, wouldn’t it be a good idea to go and see the others, or at least get them to come over here, so you can show it to them? If there’s anything there, they’ll
be able to see it.’

‘There
is
something there! I’m being followed! I told you how it all fits together!’ He was shouting now. He heard Jessica suddenly crying. He couldn’t deal. He
coiled round himself, head in his hands. ‘Could you . . . could you, please . . . ?’

Sarah went to reassure Jessica, took her up to bed, with a look on her face that said to Quill there was going to be more of this when she got back down, worse and worse. He managed to nod and
smile at his little girl, who he was trying to save from Hell. He didn’t want his colleagues coming over here and joining in with getting in his way. He got out his phone and called
Lofthouse, pleased he got her voicemail, easier. He left a message saying he was going to take some leave. Then, steeling himself for the next conversation with Sarah, he went to sit against the
fridge.

He liked the feeling of coolness and solidity against his back.

‘Jimmy’s done what?’ The next morning, Ross had been surprised to find Lofthouse waiting for them in the Portakabin. She’d waited until Costain, and,
amazingly, a still rather pale-looking Sefton, had arrived before sharing the news. The friends of Danny Mills, Ross had learned on the way over, had given typically varying descriptions of the man
in the pub who’d bent Mills’s ear about the ‘reality-show contest’. Forensicating his room had revealed nothing.

‘Does Jimmy know—?’ began Sefton, then waved aside the end of his sentence.

Ross shared the sentiment. How could Quill know about what happened to Sefton and not come in? ‘I’m going to see him,’ she said.

‘We all will, I’m sure,’ said Lofthouse. ‘But taking some time away is Jimmy’s prerogative, and God knows he’s been under enough strain. It does come,
however, at an unfortunate time. Especially considering the fact that I’m going to be away at a conference for the next few days.’ Ross didn’t remember Lofthouse ever having
shared a detail like that with them before, but with Jimmy gone, perhaps she felt she had to stay closer to the team. ‘So the detective sergeant’ – she nodded to Costain –
‘will be leading the investigation. Now, our second issue is, Kevin, should you be up and about?’

‘I’m fine. Completely.’

‘The healing potion worked out,’ said Costain.

‘I think you bringing the healing potion . . . if we’re going to call it something that makes this sound like
World of Warcraft
. . . I think that was the Trickster’s
doing.’

Costain frowned. ‘But we decided to do that.’

‘Or maybe he just wanted me to think he’d done me a favour.’

‘So who is this “Trickster”?’ asked Ross.

He’d given her just a few details of what he’d seen before Joe had taken him home. Now he related his encounter in detail. Including, incredibly, who the being had claimed to be.
Ross’s astonishment increased with every sentence.

‘He wants to . . . go out with me?’ she said when he’d finished. ‘Him being not just one of your Gods of London, but also, actually, really, the real Gilbert
Flamstead?’

‘This is a thing that can happen?’ asked Lofthouse.

‘First time,’ said Ross.

‘Yeah,’ said Sefton. ‘Sorry. He also said that you doing that would be in return for him healing me, so—’

‘
We
did the healing,’ said Costain, incredulous. ‘What, you want her to offer herself up, because . . . ?’

‘OK,’ said Ross, clearly a bit freaked out by what Costain had just said, ‘if this is actually a real thing, not a hallucination . . .’

‘It wasn’t a hallucination,’ said Sefton.

‘Then this is worth doing. We could learn loads. How do we find him?’

‘I gave him your phone number.’

‘You were pretty sure I’d be up for this.’

‘I was pretty sure I’d just been bitten by a dirty great snake and was going to die. The problem is, from what I’ve been reading overnight—’

‘You did research last night?’ asked Lofthouse.

‘I was
fine
. From what I read, this Trickster figure pops up in a lot of the world’s religions and he’s always trouble. He’s usually the villain.’

Ross allowed herself a glance at Costain. ‘I can handle trouble.’ Costain remained stoic in response.

Lofthouse wished them well and headed back across to her regular duties on the Hill. Costain, a little awkwardly, led them back to the ops board. ‘So Mills wasn’t a law-abiding
citizen, continuing that pattern of the murders, but Sefton, being not just a copper but a fine upstanding one, breaks the pattern, like Holmes did. Maybe that’s not a factor in why
they’re killed. Maybe it’s just that these days a lot of people have done a lot of shit.’

‘Maybe,’ said Ross.

Costain opened his copy of Conan Doyle. Ross found she wasn’t as resentful of that now he was meant to be in charge. ‘The next few stories are “The Engineer’s
Thumb” . . .’ He looked to Ross.

‘No death. And neither is there one in “Noble Bachelor”, “Beryl Coronet” or “Copper Beeches”.’

‘“Silver Blaze” . . .’

‘Set on Dartmoor.’

‘And “The Cardboard Box” . . .’

‘Love that title,’ said Sefton.

‘The death in that one is in Liverpool,’ said Ross. ‘The next one we have to look out for is “The Stockbroker’s Clerk”, in which a watchman is murdered in the
City, in Lombard Street, in a building with a big safe.’ She went to the ancient PC and found the street on Google. ‘The name of the business in the story is Mawson and Williams, but of
course that’s fictional. It’s a pretty short street, but a lot of companies along it could fit the bill.’

‘Security guards working there who’ve played Holmes, though, that’s a pretty small Venn diagram,’ said Sefton.

‘Although,’ said Ross, ‘we’ve seen that the victim having played Holmes is the only completely required paradigm – all other circumstances are variable – so
we shouldn’t limit the possible victims to security guards.’ She set out a possible plan, and Costain nodded. It was actually a relief to have that speed of agreement and action once
more.

They began to call the companies on Lombard Street, asking to meet with their security representatives in person, as soon as possible. By lunchtime, they had a dozen or so appointments. As Ross
went to the kettle to make her fifth cup of strong, sweet tea that morning, her phone rang. Even though she was expecting to hear at some point the familiar, cultured voice on the other end of the
line, she still froze up a bit.

After she finished the call, she composed herself and turned to Sefton. ‘You weren’t hallucinating,’ she said. She looked back to Costain, and just for a moment he looked
angry. Just for a moment she wanted to reassure him. Then she scolded herself for that impulse and went back to work.

Flamstead had asked Ross to go out that same evening, showing what she assumed was the usual disregard for convention of celebrities and/or gods. By the afternoon, the team had
finished calling around businesses and had set up interviews with security staff for the next day. The organizations they’d called had been forewarned that this was to do with the
‘Holmes murders’, that they should ask all their employees if they’d ever played Holmes, and if the answer was ‘yes’, not allow them near their places of work.
They’d also warned them against contacting the media. As soon as the press realized the connection between the victims, and what the locations were about, the team would find themselves
competing with journalists to stake out the next attack.