"Aye, and so did Moran, and that's what convinced him and Moriarty. It was a pretty setup, Moriarty literally champing at the bit at the prospect of murdering both Holmes Brothers in the same evening when they were so close to meeting and reconciling their differences. It was a master plan, worthy of the Napoleon of crime."

I nodded. "Indeed, it was an evil plan. I will never understand the criminal mind as you do. I am just relieved we are all safe and have concluded this Moriarty business once and for all."

At that moment, Moran was dragged past us by two stout bobbies. He shouted, "Why? Why am I being arrested? I did not kill Sherlock Holmes! He is alive and here!"

Lestrade held up his hand. Then Sherlock brought over the air gun and gave it to Lestrade, saying, "Here, Inspector, I believe this rather unique gun will prove to be the weapon used in the murder of the Honorable Ronald Adair."

"Aye, Holmes," Lestrade said, "I'm sure that it will."

"And, Inspector," I added, "that should be quite enough evidence to send Colonel Moran to the gallows. He has eluded the hangman for far too long."

Lestrade nodded. "So it will, Mr. Holmes, eh, Mr. Mycroft Holmes."

Sherlock and I smiled.

Moran struggled and shouted threats.

Lestrade barked to his men, "Get him out of here!"

Sherlock and I joined Watson as he performed the final examination on the body of the late Professor James Moriarty.

"Official cause of death," Watson said, getting up from the corpse, "one bullet in the head. Death was almost instantaneous." Then to the waiting bobbies, "You men can take the body away now."

Sherlock, Watson and I sat in the rooms at 221B an hour later.

"I see you had Mrs. Hudson keep our rooms just as they were. I thank you, Mycroft."

"It was the least I could do," I said.

Sherlock nodded. "It certainly was. Especially after you had your man Burbage set fire to them!"

"Now, Sherlock ... ," I said carefully, "it was really, after all, a very minor fire."

Sherlock laughed. "Fear not, older brother, my anger is gone and I know that in your own way, you tried to protect me, even as you protected your own interests."

"It seemed the best course open at the time," I replied.

"And anyway, we have a celebration! Watson, break out that bottle of Napoleon brandy you have kept for a special occasion. For there can be no occasion more special than this one-the end of Moriarty and the liberation of the world from his grasp-and we have a bonus! The capture and future hanging of Colonel Moran ..."

"Not to mention you saved my life, Sherlock," I added.

"Quite right, Mycroft. Glad to be of service. You and Watson had a good plan, the use of both Holmes Brothers as bait could not fail to bring out Moriarty and Moran where we could finally get at them. Your mistake was failing to realize that no plan, no matter how brilliant, is a solid item. It is fluid, always open to change and amendment. You saw a chance to bring out our enemies; they saw an opportunity to twist your plan against you. However, they neglected to factor in my own action. So the wax bust to mark me as an easy target as I waited to meet you in these very rooms. It was a situation I knew Moriarty could not resist. And while our enemies concentrated on the image in this window, Watson, Lestrade and I, with a triple brace of good London bobbies, were quietly entering the house from the backyard."

"Mrs. Hudson helped," Watson added, pouring brandy and pa.s.sing it out. "She bravely stayed in here moving the wax bust of Sherlock to trick Moran and not make him suspicious."

"Good Mrs. Hudson," Sherlock said, gently sipping his brandy.

"When Moriarty thought you were dead," I said to Sherlock, "he became confident. Even I noticed how he grew lax and did not post a guard, and that is how you were able to move up the stairs undetected. It was the perfect time to make your move," I added. "But even you did not know he would take me hostage with a knife to my throat?"

"Why, Mycroft, you continually surprise me! Actually I did. But the game was up for him no matter what and he knew it. He wanted me dead, not you. He could not get at me with a knife and I had Watson's revolver and knew how to use it. He gave me no choice, so I fired. Your eyes told me what I must do."

I nodded. It was all becoming clear to me now and I gained new respect for my little brother and his great talents.

"But I did not think you had it in you, Mycroft, lowering yourself to actual ratiocination. This uncommon interest in the criminal mind bodes well for you," Sherlock told me with a laugh and a gleam in his eye. "Why, I believe I'll make a detective of you yet."

"Your acid wit has returned, I see," I said.

"It never left, brother," Sherlock replied sternly.

"Well, I think it is time I return to my club; there are matters that need my direct attention," I said.

"Indeed," Sherlock said tartly. "Are you already thinking of a replacement for Moriarty?"

I sighed. I had no anger left in me. "No, Sherlock, that is over. I am truly sorry for deceiving you. These last three years have made me realize much and I hope that the rift I have opened between us can now be mended. I will go back to the club, tidy up a few matters, confer with Captain Hargrove, and then tender my resignation. I believe retirement is in order and, frankly, I look forward to it now."

Sherlock was surprised but pleased. He came over to me and shook my hand, saying, "Mycroft, you did what you thought best. A man, no man, should be chastised for that. I know Great Aunt Julia would have been proud of you for all you have done over the years. I am proud of you for what you did today and for what you just said."

A tear came to my eye then and I saw it mirrored in Sherlock's own eyes.

Sherlock wrapped his arms around me and we hugged each other silently for one brief endless moment as Watson watched in wonder.

"You know, I, too, think I shall retire, some day, Mycroft. Perhaps to the Suss.e.x Downs and a study of bee culture? It can be most fascinating."

"Is that wise, Holmes?" Watson interjected with evident concern as my brother and I both looked at him and smiled.

"With Moriarty and Moran gone," Sherlock answered contritely, "I am afraid that London's criminal element will be reduced to the ba.n.a.l and the inept. Lestrade will be well within his depth, I am sure."

Watson and I nodded, knowing all too well of my brother's opinion of the official police.

"However, Mycroft," Sherlock added seriously, "while I am the first to admit that your 'work' has been a serious bone of contention between us for years, with your retirement I fear the Empire has lost its most successful advocate and protector. Know this, our vaulted 'Pax Britannia' exists in no small part due to your tireless effort. That is a considerable accomplishment, even if it can never be made public. With you gone from the scene, the politicians will be in charge again and G.o.d alone knows what horrors they'll perpetuate upon the body politic. For instance, I see ugly war brewing in South Africa among the Boers in years to come. I see a tragedy coming our way there. But far worse, without your direction of our ship of state, I fear within twenty short years we will find ourselves engaged in a worldwide conflagration the likes of which this world has never seen before."

I nodded. "I am aware of the projections."

"Then you know the politicians will only expand the length and depth of the misery and carnage," Sherlock added.

"Yes, brother, I know that and it saddens me, for I have worked for the Empire all my life and I do not want to see the approaching sunset. Nevertheless, the Empire is changing, and so, too, the world, and we must all change with it. Or be left behind. It is time for me to move on, and for you ... to study bees in Suss.e.x? Indeed!"

I took another sip of Watson's excellent brandy.

"Well, Watson, surely this has been a case worthy of your efforts for the popular press?" Sherlock said.

"Yes, I would like your permission to write it up for the Strand."

"Indeed, certainly, but with certain restrictions. Of course all mention of my brother and his 'government' service must be deleted. I'm afraid you will have to leave Moriarty out of the story as well. Knowledge of his surviving Reichenbach will not only contradict your previously published narrative of this case, making you look rather foolish, but it will cause fear and chaos in the criminal underground and among the public. Moran can easily fit the bill of your villain, and he is the actual murderer of young Adair. But Watson, do not publish the story for at least ten years. I see 1904 as an adequate date for the appearance to the public of such a tale. What do you think?" Sherlock asked.

"Of course, I shall abide by your wishes," Watson replied.

"Good. Thank you, old friend. I rather like the thought of being dead, at least where the public and popular press are concerned. And it certainly will surprise the criminal element who believe that I am no more, when I appear and confront them with their crimes," Sherlock added with a grin.

I nodded. "It sounds like it would make an interesting case, Doctor. I shall look forward to reading it in the Strand ... some day."

"Hah! Ably put, Mycroft!" Sherlock said. "And who knows, between now and then-two Holmes Brothers, retired, on our own and left to our devices-why, we may even join forces on occasion when a particularly complex or interesting problem may arise, eh, Mycroft?"

I smiled at my brother. "I don't see why not, Sherlock. Holmes and Holmes, Consultants. It does have a certain ring to it, don't you think?"

BILLY.

It was pleasant for Dr. Watson to find himself once more in the untidy room of the first floor in Baker Street which had been the starting point of so many remarkable adventures ... . His eyes came round to the fresh and smiling face of Billy, the young but very wise and tactful page who had helped a little to fill up the gap of loneliness and isolation which surrounded the saturnine figure of the great detective.

-"The Adventure of the Mazarin Stone"

by GERARD DOLE.

The Witch of Greenwich.

[To Dave Stuart Smith ].

During the years I had the luck and privilege to be the page boy of Mr. Sherlock Holmes, I ushered many an ill.u.s.trious client into his old study in Baker Street. I also had the chance to witness his amazing reasoning and observational abilities, which made me dream to practice one day in turn as a consulting detective. It was a great honor, then, when in the last years preceding his retirement to Suss.e.x my master asked me to become his a.s.sistant and began teaching me fully the art of detection. Tonight I am looking back and reminiscing about the first case I followed with Mr. Sherlock Holmes that showed me I had the deductive abilities to become a detective myself The master referred to it as The Witch of Greenwich, an astounding story which put Londoners' security at stake. Now that all the other protagonists are gone, I dare to put on paper these lines. I unfortunately do not have the skill and literary style of the late Dr. John Watson, but I shall nevertheless strive to relate all I saw and beard in the most accurate manner.

BILLY "PAGE BOY" CHAPLIN.

PROLOGUE.

Swains Lane, near Highgate Cemetery's side entrance, late at night "Come along, Frenchie!" I said in very low voice, giving the man a slight tap on the shoulder.

Despite the freezing air the stranger was crouching against the rusty gate of the old graveyard, staring blankly at a great tomb of marble which lay a short distance beyond, as if impelled by some sort of morbid fascination. At the touch of my fingers, he gave a violent start and turned round swiftly, clenching his fists, ready to fight for his life.

"Bon sang d'bon soir, Billy!" he cried reproachfully. "Pah! You gave me the creeps, you know!"

I sneered at him. "Keep an eye out, next time. I could have slaughtered you as easily as a sheep, Monsieur Le Villard!"

Le Villard-or to tell the reader his full name, Francois Le Villard-had reached the top a long time ago in the French detective service, and worked with Scotland Yard on many occasions. He had thus built up a deep friendship with my master, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, who said of him that he had all the Celtic power of quick intuition but was deficient in the wide range of exact knowledge which was essential to the higher developments of his art. At the moment the Frenchman was carrying out a most astounding investigation which had brought him to London.

"Mon cher ami-" he went on, but I cut him off.

"Later ... and don't you speak so loud!" I said bluntly, casting a careful glance around. "Let's get away from here while we can."

"But I have to get some proof first," pleaded Le Villard, showing the Kodak he was hiding in his lap.

"A goner doesn't need any. My master told you before it was sheer folly to hang about here late at night, but as usual, Monsieur Le Villard, you didn't listen to him. Now, move on!"

"Mais, Billy ..."

"Sorry, old man, don't harp on it. We'd better stir our stumps!"

I took the French detective's arm in nervous haste and dragged him along down Swains Lane.

"Pray she has not spotted us already," I whispered, looking up anxiously at the great ranges of funereal trees leaning over the long, half-crumbled wall which encircled the cemetery.

Le Villard gave me a wink and patted a bulge in his jacket at heart level. "My revolver, mon bon vieil ami," he boasted, "ready to give six nice kisses from France."

"Hem! A toy gun would be just as useful at the moment, I'm afraid. Once again, we'd better hurry."

We went down Highgate Hill at a very quick pace. Mist had settled over the place, obscuring the faint light of the stars. There was something weird, uncanny, threatening in the aspect of the interminable cemetery wall which lined the lane. And to make things worse, it grew more and more vague and shapeless, until it became part of the haze. Eerily, through the tense silence, a sudden yell rang out in the air.

Le Villard's face fell.

"Hey! What's that cry?" he gasped.

"Who knows? A raven's call?" I replied in uneasy tone.

In fact, I thought of something more abominable. The truly awful feeling that a monstrosity is lying in wait was strong upon me, though my composed, resolute face showed no sign of flinching. I was grimly prepared for the worst but my hope was to gain a hansom before it happened. So I said in commanding tones: "Now run, Monsieur Le Villard! For G.o.d's sake, run!"

The French detective had no time for more than a pa.s.sing glance round as I was already racing down the lane, but what he caught sight of on top of the wall was so ghastly that he hurled himself forward in my wake, awestruck.

We flew down Swains Lane, dashed across Oakeshott Avenue, and attained Highgate Road with heaving heart and panting breath.

"To that cab!" I ordered, pointing towards a hansom waiting close by.

We reached it in double quick time without mishap, and I climbed in with a sigh of deep relief.

The hansom cab was rattling over the cobbled streets through the fog-shrouded night. The streetlamps made great ghostly blurs as they melted in the distance and the pa.s.sing houses were dark and gloomy as so many tombs.

I said to the Frenchman sitting by my side: "Creepy, wasn't it?"

"Tu parles! Never was I so scared in my whole life."

I gave him a nod and asked in a half-voice: "just what did you see, Monsieur?"

Le Villard's voice shook. "Bon Dieu! Billy, I saw a shrouded corpse floating above the graveyard wall ... . Oo la la! Horrible!"

"Countess Vetcha!" I sniffed. "'Diamond of the first water,' her wooers used to whisper when they saw her, their eyes shining with desire. A very fair Hungarian lady indeed who lived in a wonderful mansion at Eltham. The neighborhood, though, gave her another kind of name. 'The Witch of Greenwich,' they used to call her ... .

"In her lifetime, of course!" I added with a shrug.

CHAPTER 1.