Porlock and the boy returned to their room, but Holmes pointed to a closer exit and we found ourselves outside, blackened by the smoke but unhurt. We watched helplessly as the hotel, the flimsiest edifice of dry wood and paper, burned away in minutes.
The Paris Fire Department contained the flames but could do nothing to save the hotel. In its burning rubble, they found the charred remains of Porlock, but the boy was gone. There was no sign of Piperno or other guests.
Holmes suggested that we speak to the head of the French Sûreté before returning to London. It was in speaking to Monsieur. Beauchard that we learned that a gigantic explosion had taken place in Jersey City, not far from New York, where the largest number of explosives had been stored for shipment to Britain. The place was known locally as Black Tom. It was notable, also, said Beauchard that the explosion in America coincided exactly with the destruction of the Hotel Demesnes, and an attempt to kill the well-known composer Sir Edward Elgar.
Holmes thanked Inspector Beauchard, and we left.
“Moriarty wins this round, hands down,” he said ruefully. “Porlock, Holmes, Watson, and the boy . . . Elgar, and finally Black Tom.”
I could see the anger and frustration that he felt pass across his face.
“Come along, old boy, we have a lot to do to stop him. It will be difficult, Watson; we have lost Porlock, no mean ally. Let us return to London and lick our wounds. One day, I shall force Moriarty into the light of day, where he will surely perish. There’s a cab,” he said as he waved his arm. “Let us return soon to this beautiful city.”
A DEATH IN VENICE
HOLMES HAD AWAKENED EARLY THAT MORNING IN an uncharacteristically jovial mood. It was a few minutes before six when I heard him bustling about just as the first dull silver light of the London dawn began to come through my window. He hummed an old Scottish tune, which he punctuated with mutterings to himself and an occasional quiet chuckle.
It was a raw grey December day outside, and as I peered sleepily through the curtains, I saw that a mixture of snow and icy rain had already clogged the London streets. Despite the great temptation to linger on a morning such as this, I jumped out of bed, curious as to why Holmes appeared to be so unusually cheerful.
We breakfasted at seven. The conversation was lively, mainly about political events of the past week. When he had finished his tea, he took immediately to his violin while I went over to my desk and immersed myself in some business matters that I had neglected for too long a time.
Holmes addressed me as he began to bow. His spirits were high, he explained, because the violin had gone well the day before, and, with my acquiescence of course, he wished to continue to devote again the fresh hours of the morning to intense practise. I told him that I had no objection whatsoever, and that I would be most happy with this, particularly since my work was entirely routine.
He began with some difficult exercises, then moved to a series of pieces by Paganini, which he played over and over again for the next several hours, slowly at first, then at a more rapid tempo. There was a rare joy in his playing, and, as I sat at my desk, I was delighted at the enthusiasm with which he attacked the instrument.
Towards the end of his practise, however, I noticed a gradual change in his expression. His face darkened and his playing took on that peculiar mournful tone so familiar to me, one that I immediately associated with his frequent bouts of melancholia. He now played portions of the slow movement of the Mendelssohn E-minor concerto. His tone and expression were so beautiful, however, that I looked up from my work to listen. Halfway through he stopped, quietly placed the violin in its case, closed the cover, and moved to his chair, where he sat in his meditative pose, his eyes closed, his hands extended in front of his face, the tips of his fingers touching, the thumbs pulling gently at his tightly pursed lips.
“That was most beautiful, Holmes. I have never heard you play so well.”
“I thank you for the compliment, my dear Watson, but with all due respect to your extraordinary gifts as a medical practitioner, I am compelled by the rules of elementary honesty to say that your musical judgement is insufficiently developed for me to take any comfort in your generous words of praise, however well intentioned they may be. In truth, the Paganini pieces were fairly disastrous, ein Umstern, as the Germans would say. As to the Mendelssohn, the merest tyro can play it with a bit of concentration. No, Watson, the violin is one of the sources of the black malady that often overwhelms me, not its cure. It is, in fact, one of the reasons why I chose to become a consulting detective.”
Holmes reference to my somewhat inexperienced ear failed to offend me, for I had, after so many years, grown accustomed to his cutting words and had learned to ignore them. I continued to prod him about the violin.
“But surely you could have chosen a career as a musician had you wished.”
“No, Watson. A certain talent is present, no doubt, from the French blood inherited from my maternal ancestors, the Vernets. But I became aware early on that I had just enough of this talent to play well but not, unfortunately, supremely well. It has always been my judgement that one’s life should be devoted to what one can do at the very limits of one’s capabilities, the determination of which should occupy the better part of one’s youth. It was during the early period of my life that I came to know that I could not reach the highest peaks of musicianship, no matter how much a strong inner desire suggested such a possibility. In music, the hands, the brain, the will, all must be at one. My character I judged to be other. Rather than a single talent, mine was a group of talents that, skillfully employed, could be put to a supreme use: the struggle against the criminal. And so, I abandoned any notion of a life of music and devoted myself to the exploitation to the fullest of my greatest talents: observation and deduction. Thus, I created, almost single-handedly, the profession of consulting detective.”
“But surely, Holmes, you could have been mistaken about your musicianship. It is a road not taken, its end unknown. Who knows, had you tried, you might one day have become the greatest of living virtuosi.”
“I make few errors, Watson. In my line of work, I can ill afford them. I will admit, however, that youth can often mistake its path and that judgement of one’s own gifts is at best a difficult one. My original determination, however, may be confirmed once again by experiences in the future. Indeed, our next client may provide us with the occasion.”
“And who might that be?” I asked.
“I am expecting a distinguished guest this morning, Watson, who may need our services. You will recognize him instantly. It is through individuals like him, who have reached the highest rung of artistry possible, that one can evaluate, or re-evaluate one’s talents whatever they might be.”
“Very well, Holmes, I look forward to meeting him. I trust you plan to keep his identity secret until he appears—for drama’s sake no doubt.”
“Precisely, old boy. Now go about your business until Mrs. Hudson announces his arrival.”
It was impossible for me to concentrate on my picayune business matters now that Holmes had alluded to a special visitor. As we waited, I mused for a moment, reviewing mentally those cases that I had shared with him during the early days of our friendship. Our most recent case had come to us a few months earlier from the Andaman Islands, and I entitled it “The Sign of Four” in my chronicles. This adventure also provided for me a wonderful woman, Miss Mary Morstan, who was to become my bride in a few months.