The Consulting Physician

The enclosed papers were the sole contents of a travel-worn and battered tin dispatch box with the name “J. H. Watson” painted on the lid, found in the vaults of the bank of Cox and Co. in Charing Cross. The papers take the form of a manuscript, held together with twine; on the cover of the manuscript is written the following brief preface:

I have written many hundreds of pages for publication in the popular press, knowing full well their falsity. I now commit my last words to this parchment, so that the truth may one day emerge. My solicitors have been instructed to deny all knowledge of this manuscript and this box, and to burn all their records pertaining thereto. I leave it to Providence to decide when the facts recounted herein will see the light of day.

J. H. W.
1930

It was in the spring of 1887 that I first became aware of a vast intelligence controlling the criminal activity of the metropolis. Prior to that date, my activities as a consulting detective had exposed me to a multitude of crimes of every kind, but at no stage had I come across what may be termed a unifying factor or common influence. My first inkling that matters might be otherwise came with the theft of the famous Caernarvon jewels: although the thieves were eventually brought to justice, I could not escape the nagging suspicion that there were some facts that the police had not managed to explain adequately, and of course the jewels were never recovered. A similar pattern obtained in the scandal that befell the Hollingsworth family, and in the murder of the Hon. Rupert Wilbur.

Slowly but inexorably I grew convinced that there was a central agency behind the malefactors in each of these criminal coups. This agency did not participate directly in the criminal act; rather, it merely planned and organized. There was nothing to connect it to the actors, still less to connect it to the crime. But it existed nonetheless, and I felt sure it benefited handsomely from the proceeds of each crime it commissioned.

As the days passed, I began to see evidence of this criminal entity everywhere. In every case where there was a discrepancy between the character of the presumed perpetrators, and the subtlety of the plans involved; every time there were unexplained facts or mysterious external influences; on each occasion when criminals escaped or stolen objects went unrecovered, I suspected the malignant hand of the central planner. Was it an organization akin to the American Ku Klux Klan or the Sicilian Cosa Nostra, with motives other than the merely monetary? Was it a syndicate of master criminals and the heads of the street gangs? Or was it just one man, a Napoleon of crime?

I began to realize that ridding London of this menace would be the crowning glory of my career. If I succeeded, I could consider my life’s work done, and could turn to some more placid line of endeavor. If I failed – but I did not seriously contemplate the possibility of failure.

I was conscious right from the first that I had set myself no easy task. It was clear to me that combating an organization of this size and sophistication would be the work of years. It was also clear to me that my only hope of success lay in anonymity. If the head or heads of the gang once suspected that I was on their trail, I knew I would be struck down immediately and without mercy.

* * *

It was with these thoughts churning restlessly in my head that I visited my old friend Mr. Sherlock Holmes, at his rooms in Baker Street. Ordinarily, a visit to Holmes’ lodgings would be an enjoyable affair: we would dine heartily on his landlady’s good English cooking, and then Holmes would entertain me with his violin while I would regale him with stories of the criminal underworld. But on this occasion something of my distraction must have shown in my manner, for Holmes did not pick up the Stradivarius after the remnants of our meal had been cleared away. He glanced at me quizzically and, as I had done so many times before and since, I found myself telling him all.

“It’s a knotty problem, Holmes”, said I, and I proceeded to lay out the situation I found myself in. I needed to gather information about the great and malignant network which I had stumbled upon, I needed to lay plans to encompass its eventual downfall, and I needed to ensure that its leaders were captured and imprisoned without hope of escape. Most importantly, I needed to accomplish all of this without giving myself away. “I’m dashed if I can see how one man can do it”, I concluded.

“You’re not much of a sportsman, are you, Watson?” asked Holmes.

I confessed that the outdoors were a closed book to me.

“Well, that explains why you haven’t hit upon the answer yourself. What you need, my dear fellow, is a decoy. That, and cover,” said Holmes, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.

I pressed him to explain himself, and he did so with the following fateful words, “You need someone else to draw the attention away from you. And you need to pretend to be someone else yourself”.

No sooner had Holmes uttered these words than the solution sprang fully-formed into my mind. I would be a doctor! Instead of James Watson, advisor to Scotland Yard, I would become John Watson, late of the Army Medical Department. What better camouflage for a consulting detective, than a consulting physician? Both have visitors of every social class, at every hour of day and night; both must needs make professional visits to places high and low; both are allowed, and indeed, expected, to ask questions beyond the bounds of social propriety. In my black doctor’s bag I could carry the tools of my trade – the magnifying glass, the wig and false teeth, the phials of chemicals necessary to identify bloodstains and poison, the jimmy and the lock-pick. Nobody would ever suspect that I was more than I seemed. It was the perfect disguise.

Finding a suitable decoy would be trickier. Scotland Yard was out of the question: I felt sure that my enemy would already have infiltrated that body, and besides, in those days my reputation was not so sufficiently advanced as to command the automatic acceptance of my requests by inspectors Gregson and Lestrade. No, I needed a private citizen. A person who could fool any casual or not-so-casual inquirers into believing he really was a detective, a person who could furthermore maintain this charade for years on end, a person who could face the constant threat of violence to his body with fortitude and equanimity. A person of courage, intelligence and discretion, to play a role more demanding than anything ever seen at the Globe or the Vic.

“In short, you need me”, said Holmes.

At first I thought he must have read my mind, but then I realized that I had muttered my last few deliberations aloud. But Holmes as a decoy? The idea was an attractive one, I confess: Holmes certainly had both the physical courage and the mental acuity to play the role to perfection. Even better, he looked the part, in a way which I admit I did not: his lean figure, his hawkish nose, his strong chin, all combined to give him an air of extraordinary alertness and decision. But no, the entire thing was absurd. Besides, it would be the act of a scoundrel to ask a friend to take on such responsibility on one’s behalf, and I told Holmes so.

“Utter piffle”, said Holmes. “If this criminal mastermind is half the menace you seem to think he is, and I have to say I trust your judgment on these matters, then I would count it a privilege to play a part in bringing him down. Besides, you yourself have as much as admitted that I am the best man for the job”. He leaned back in his chair as if that settled matters.

I was not so sure, and so I closed my eyes to ruminate upon what exactly I knew of Mr. Sherlock Holmes. This turned out to be surprisingly little. I had been acquainted with him for several years, and had always found his company very agreeable; nonetheless I knew little of his background or his family. He was a gentleman, to be sure, with a small private income that sufficed to maintain him in a state of reasonable if unremarkable comfort. His hobbies included music, the theatre, and his own idiosyncratic line of chemical researches; he was widely read and moderately well-traveled. He could best be described as a member of that most English of classes, the amateur.

Could an amateur playing at being a detective really succeed in bringing down the master criminals of his age? Even if I were at his side constantly, there was much that he would have to do on his own, and the slightest slip could prove fatal. It would be a gamble of the most magnificent sort, and heaven knows I am not a gambler. Yet the taking of calculated risks is something that no detective can avoid if he is not to lapse into paralysing caution, and something in Holmes’ strong, frank glance told me that in the final reckoning he would stand true. I decided to venture everything on this mad scheme.

It is a decision I have often revisited in the years since that momentous day. Had I known what the future held in store for us, would I have acted differently? Would Holmes? Was the price paid worth the game? Especially after the events of 1891, not a single day has gone by without me asking these questions of myself; I still do not know their answer.

But I am jumping ahead of myself. At the time it was taken, I did not consider the potentially momentous consequences of my decision; my attention was fully occupied with the details of the subterfuge that we were envisioning. With the identity of the decoy and the cover decided, there remained the question of how best to introduce Holmes and his talents to the public. This did not stump me for long. Through the good offices of my friend Mr. Conan Doyle I was able to submit an account of an early case of mine, the murder of one Enoch Drebber of Cleveland, Ohio, to a firm of London publishers, and they saw fit to print it in their Christmas annual.

The public response to this account was most gratifying, and it furnished me with the opportunity to write many more stories featuring the deductive genius of Holmes. For the most part these stories hewed closely to the truth; indeed, in all our outward dealings with clients and criminals alike we maintained the fiction that Holmes was the master detective while I was merely his biographer and occasional assistant, the Boswell to his Johnson. The truth was known only to Gregson, Lestrade, our landlady Mrs. Hudson, and a few clients it had proved impossible or impolitic to mislead; needless to say, these were all sworn to the utmost secrecy.

* * *

The years that followed saw Holmes reach the very pinnacle of his reputation as a consulting detective. Clients came from all over Europe to ask for his advice or assistance, and rarely were they disappointed. My own reputation as a somewhat slow-witted, but honest and faithful companion, served me well; I rarely strayed from Holmes’ side during those years, and few suspected that it was I who was actually behind the detective’s brilliant triumphs.

When not assisting Holmes with his cases, I threw myself into the outward appearance of a doctor struggling to establish a practice. I say ‘appearance’ for in truth I spent every waking hour trying to infiltrate the network that I had first glimpsed in those early days of 1887. Slowly, step by tentative step, the entire criminal enterprise revealed itself to me, as with infinite care and patience I built my own lattice of spies and informers, evidence and inference, that would do battle with the evil that I had found. Never had I risen to such a height, and never had I been so hard pressed by an opponent.

For it was a single opponent I faced: a man named Professor James Moriarty. He himself sat motionless, like a spider at the centre of a web, but his agents were everywhere. Day after day I unraveled the tangled skein of subterfuge and deception that lay around him; day after day he assiduously wove it anew. An account of our silent contest over the years, if one were written, would take its place as the most brilliant bit of thrust-and-parry work in the history of detection.

Finally, in the autumn of 1890, my investigation was complete. I knew, insofar as it was possible for any one man to know, all the details of Professor Moriarty’s infernal network. And what a network it was! From the lowliest street Arab to Moriarty’s own second-in-command: everything was laid out with a precision – a perfection – that reflected its master’s malign brilliance. It was far more than a mere aggregation of thugs and ruffians; it was a veritable army of crime, with Moriarty as its general. There were captains to commission and sergeants to lead each illicit excursion; armourers to supply guns and knives when necessary; paymasters to handle expenses; provisioners to furnish food and clothing; couriers to relay orders; scouts to gather information; forgers to distribute false documentation; tame witnesses to provide alibis; lawyers to plead for those unfortunate enough to be caught; even two doctors on permanent call, to attend to any who were injured in the course of their ‘duty’. Every crime was meticulously planned and scrupulously executed; every step bore the imprint of its creator’s vile talent.

And yet – here was the genius of it, and the deviltry! – nowhere in the entire chain of command was there anything to link this vast criminal enterprise with the retired professor of mathematics who was its prime mover. I was certain that Moriarty was the instigator of half that was evil and nearly all that went undetected in our great metropolis; but my certainty would be of no use in a court of law. How was I to penetrate the veils of secrecy that Moriarty had drawn around himself, break down the walls that separated him from his organization?

Another of Holmes’ hunting tactics came to my rescue. I decided to flush the game – to chip away at the mighty edifice of Moriarty’s enterprise, arresting his agents, breaking his lines of communication, choking his supplies, freezing his finances; tearing down his structure faster than he could rebuild it, in the hope that this would prompt a mistake. In January I made my first arrests; by February I had disabled large swathes of his organization; in March I knew I had seriously incommoded him, and by the end of April I knew that any trip on Moriarty’s part would deliver him into my hands. And so I sat back to wait.

All through that wearisome winter of 1890 I waited. My trap was primed, and all it needed was one tiny slip by my opponent in order to be sprung. But my quarry proved a foeman worthy of my steel, and it was not till the following spring that the requisite mistake was forthcoming. A bungled robbery; a panicky flight; an address scrawled on a scrap of paper; a nondescript house on Conduit Street; a retired colonel from the Indian service; a messenger dispatched in the dead of night; a professor of mathematics roused from his sleep; more messengers; an alibi provided; a ruffian’s escape from justice – such was the tortuous chain of connections that led to Moriarty’s undoing. But this time there were witnesses at every link, witnesses whom I had carefully cultivated for this very eventuality. All it needed now was three days for the final pieces of the puzzle to fall into place, and I should have it all: not just the small fry at the bottom, nor even the unseen hand at the top, but everything in between, linked with irrefutable proofs and with no possible escape from justice.

* * *

But Moriarty had not been idle the while. He knew full well that the coordinated attacks on his organization were not coincidence, and his own powers of deduction would not long have kept him from the conclusion that someone had penetrated his innermost secrets. Nor would it take him long to find out who that someone was.

Nevertheless I was unprepared for the audacity of his frontal approach to Holmes, in his chambers on Baker Street. The story of that encounter has been published elsewhere, and I still marvel at the skill with which my old friend parried his adversary’s thrusts without once giving away the fact that it was I, and not he, behind the persecution of Moriarty’s gang.

This new development gave me pause. It was one thing to expose Holmes to the risk of detection and retribution when I was merely investigating Moriarty’s organization; it was quite another to do so when that organization was being cut down, root and branch. Holmes, even after his encounter with the professor, was all for carrying on the imposture until the entire gang was brought to justice, but I knew better. Moriarty’s occupation was gone; he and I both knew there was no escape from the noose I had prepared for his neck. In his desperation he might well throw caution to the winds, recklessly defeating all my safeguards to wreak his revenge on Holmes. This I could not allow. I impressed on my friend the need for circumspection, and convinced him, not without difficulty, to decamp for the relative safety of the Continent.

But a man like Moriarty was not to be foiled so easily; nor was he likely to wait quietly for the doom that was fast approaching him. On my cognizance, Scotland Yard had detailed two plain-clothes detectives to follow him day and night, but they were no match for his ingenuity. Disguising himself as a police officer (a distinct touch: my horror at his crimes was lost, as ever, in my admiration for his skill), Moriarty managed to give these two worthies the slip, before eluding the guards posted at every port and crossing over to France himself.

And then he disappeared. The police forces of three countries could find no trace of the absconding Professor. Once again, I found myself conferring with Holmes, and once again, he suggested a course of action that I was loath to take.

“This is the final gamble, Watson. Our luck has held thus far; let us hope it holds for one more roll of the dice.”

“No, Holmes. The risk is intolerable. I will not have it.”

“It is not your choice to make.”

Holmes was adamant. He was determined to cast off all secrecy, to lure Moriarty into making one final attempt on his life, and thus to apprehend the villain in the very act of his villainy. It was a trap I had little doubt would succeed; Moriarty had nothing left to live for, and would not miss a chance to wreak revenge upon the man who had brought him down.

* * *

I shall tell the rest of my tale as briefly as I can; it is not a subject on which I would willingly dwell.

We proceeded on our European tour making no attempt to conceal our identity. Anybody who asked was told that we were English, a consulting detective and a physician, traveling for our health. I felt sure that Moriarty’s network of spies, diminished though it undoubtedly was, would still suffice to bring him this information with little delay.

So it proved. Barely a week into our holiday, near the charming little village of Meiringen in the Swiss Alps, a message came to us that an elderly lady, visiting from Scotland, had fallen seriously ill and required the services of an English-speaking doctor. Having already made enquiries about strangers in the neighbourhood, I knew that no such personage existed. Nonetheless I pretended to believe the courier and turned back towards the village, leaving Holmes standing alone on the path leading to the famous Reichenbach falls. It was the last that I was destined to see of him in this world.

As soon as I was out of sight of the path, I doubled back across the craggy terrain, hoping thereby to take Moriarty by surprise. But it was I who was surprised. For Moriarty had left a sentry to guard his flank: none other than his right hand man, the infamous Colonel Sebastian Moran. Under my breath I cursed Lestrade and Gregson for not informing me that the retired soldier had escaped to the Continent with his paymaster; it was a fatal omission. But there was nothing for it.

A direct approach was out of the question; Moran would simply shoot me down with his air-gun. While I was pondering my options, a sudden gust of wind came to my rescue. The wind loosened a miniature avalanche of rocks and pebbles, which, raining down on Moran, caused him to lose his footing. It was only for a split-second, but it was enough; I was upon him in a flash, and we grappled on the rocky scree. Taking advantage of my knowledge of baritsu, or the Japanese system of wrestling, I managed to throw him down the slope; then, without waiting to see if he would recover, I scrambled down to the very edge of the falls.

But I was too late. Of Holmes and his presumed assailant there was no sign. The awful roaring of the waters was the only sound to be heard. I cast back and forth for some indication of what had happened, when a sudden gleam caught my eye. It came from Holmes’ silver cigarette case, which had been carefully placed on a ledge overlooking the path. As I picked it up a small square of paper fluttered down to the ground. Unfolding it, I found that it consisted of three pages torn from his notebook and addressed to me, in Holmes’ unmistakable flowing hand.

My dear Watson [the letter said],

I write these few lines through the courtesy of Professor Moriarty, who awaits my convenience for the final discussion of those questions which lie between us. The professor considers that I am to blame for his recent travails; I have chosen not to disabuse him of this notion. To do otherwise would be a poor end to this magnificent play that we have staged, you and I.

Foreseeing this possibility, I took the liberty of setting my affairs in order prior to leaving England. You will find the necessary documents in pigeonhole H, done up in a blue envelope and inscribed “Holmes”.

One final thing. You may recall my mentioning that it would be a privilege to free London from the effects of Moriarty’s presence. I still hold to that. Pray also believe me when I add that I found it an honour to work with you over the years, and to consider myself, however humbly,

Your friend,
Sherlock Holmes.

There was nothing more. A few scuff-marks on the ground told their own story; they led all the way to the cliff’s edge, and left no doubt that Holmes and Moriarty had plunged together to a watery doom. Of Moran there was no trace.

All that was left was to inform the authorities of Holmes’ death. I walked with head bowed all the way back to Meiringen, and when I reached the village I had made my decision. I resolved that I would carry my secret to the grave. My pride and ambition had taken Holmes to his death. The only recompense I could offer was to ensure that his name would live on forever: the greatest detective of his age, and the friend whom I shall always regard as the best and the bravest man whom I have ever known.

J. H. Watson
1930