Holmes was panting. He seemed lost in the moment, unaware that he had been performing all the actions as he replayed them in his head.

  “I watched as he fell nearly a thousand feet, like Lucifer cast out from heaven. He was clawing at the misty air, flailing madly with an expression of hellish terror on his face, and with a hideous shriek of abject fury, he disappeared into a dreadful cauldron of swirling water and seething foam far below.”

  Holmes paused, slowly transitioning back into the present-day moment, forcing himself to breathe more calmly, then finally inhaling through his nose. He continued to gaze out into the darkness, frowning. He glanced at me momentarily, seeming very self-conscious. “Of course, Winslow, those events transpired much more quickly than it takes me to describe them.”

  I shook my head with wonder. “What an extraordinary moment of triumph you must have felt. But also confusion?”

  “Indeed so,” he said quietly and now devoid of emotion.

  I understood why. “Your principal adversary so suddenly gone. It was a well-earned victory for you yet also a monumental loss.”

  He nodded, once only.

  “Did you feel that emptiness right away?”

  “Perhaps.” He was still deeply immersed within that moment over a century ago as he whispered, almost to himself, “Beware what you wish for.”

  Siri said, “In a quarter mile, bear to the right to merge onto California Route 1.”

  Her voice drew Holmes back into the present. Or, in his case, back to the future.

  Something we were passing caught his eye. “That is the strangest tree I’ve ever seen.”

  I glanced at it and smiled. It was tall, slender, and had a dozen dish antennas peeking out of the faux green foliage. “It’s actually a tower and those dishes are transmitting signals to these.” I held up my cell and also indicated my dashboard screen. “They try to disguise them as trees.”

  “I’m afraid they missed the mark.” Then he glanced in my direction. “Tell me, Winslow, what became of Conan Doyle? Was he able to write those ‘more serious works’ he wanted to?”

  “He did write a couple of novels. But the public’s outcry over the loss of Holmes put continuing pressure on him to bring back Sherlock and Watson. And he was certainly aware that his later novels hadn’t sold nearly as well as the mystery stories. So in 1902 Doyle created a new book to revive Holmes, which I haven’t yet read: The Hound of the Baskervilles.”

  “Ah,” Holmes reacted with a smile of pleasure. “Now that was indeed one of our more fascinating adventures. And I know that Watson had kept a detailed accounting of our investigation. I recall us telling all the specifics to Doyle one long evening that began over dinner at the Eclectic Club.”

  I smirked. “Sounds like the perfect club for you.”

  “It was. Always invigorating, eccentric company. After dinner, Watson and I continued relating the adventure to Doyle as we walked together uptown through the chill, damp streets of Mayfair, past Grosvenor Square, and into Marylebone. We ended in my lodgings on the second floor of 236 Baker Street where they two shared the enjoyment of tobacco, while I took a small injection of cocaine.”

  It struck me how offhandedly he said that, reminding me just how much that casual sort of drug use had been a completely legal, everyday occurrence in those times and in his life.

  Then he asked, “Was his Baskerville book successful?”

  “Resoundingly. But he’d written it as though it were a later memoir of Watson’s, so he hadn’t actually revived you. It was so popular, however, that a couple years later—1904, I think—Doyle published another story, called The Empty House, in which he actually brought Sherlock back to life.”

  Holmes chuckled. “And just how, pray tell, did the dear old Irishman deign to resurrect me? Some elaborate biochemical process such as my own?”

  “No. He simply said that you hadn’t died in Switzerland. That after doing away with Moriarty you faked your own death and went into hiding in Europe because you knew several of Moriarty’s minions were pursuing you to avenge their leader.”

  “As indeed they were,” he acknowledged. “Which you’ve now witnessed yourself. But there was no European excursion. Watson merely sequestered me in a family cottage outside London whilst I endeavored to face the loss of the archnemesis who had been the focal point of my crime-fighting existence. He’d become my raison d’être, and the subsequent ennui and depression was such as I’d never experienced.”

  “Certainly, your seven percent solution wasn’t truly a solution.”

  “No. The effects of cocaine and opium were fleeting. The days got continually darker. And the lack of clients to distract me was further dispiriting.”

  “You were fortunate that Watson’s and Doyle’s concerns prompted them to introduce you to stimulating people like H. G. Wells.”

  “It was a gift of life. And certainly inspired a sea change in me.”

  “Did you tell them what you were going to attempt?”

  He glanced at me mirthfully. “If anyone told you such a thing, Winslow, how would you react?”

  I nodded. “Right. I’d have you sequestered for being a danger to yourself.”

  “Precisely. I feared my benevolent friends would render me that same service.”

  “But the letter I read from your brother shows that—”

  “Mycroft was the only one I told,” he acknowledged. “But I made him take a vow of silence before I revealed my proposed undertaking.”

  We both smiled at him using that word. I said, “Had anything gone wrong, you would have needed an undertaker.”

  “But everything went exactly right! And chancing the adventure has led me forward—in every sense of the word—into this very evening.” A fond smile slowly formed as he gazed ahead while reflecting on his success. Then he drew a breath and asked, “So, when the public read Doyle’s new story, were they happy to have Watson and me back in their company?”

  “Ohh, yes. And Doyle followed up with a series of additional stories. He became Sir Arthur, incidentally. Knighted by Edward the Seventh for his patriotic efforts in the Boer War—and also for all his stories about you.”

  “Ha. Bravo, Lord Doyle. He must have dug back into the treasure trove of many other previous case files that Watson had supplied to him.”

  “Apparently so. Because the world’s most famous consulting detective remained alive and well through to 1917 when the concluding story appeared, His Last Bow.”

  “The final, final curtain. And then he killed me off again?”

  Before I could answer, Siri interjected, “In one mile, turn left onto Reina Del Mar Avenue.”

  “No,” I said to Holmes. “The story was set three years earlier in 1914, at the beginning of World War One. Doyle wrote that you had retired from being a consulting detective and—”

  “Retired?” Holmes was incredulous.

  “Yes. You were contentedly enjoying beekeeping and—”

  “Beekeeping?” His face screwed up in such abject astonishment that I couldn’t help but chuckle.

  “Yes.” I reported, smiling. “In the English countryside. But you and Watson were recruited by the British government to help the war effort by recovering vital documents stolen by a German spy.”

  He nodded. “Similar to that assignment we undertook for the king of Bohemia.”

  “Oh,” I reacted to that with a touch of delight, which I tried to hide, saying, “You know, Holmes, that was the first story I read today.” I kept my eyes focused on the rainy road and turned left as Siri directed, but I was smiling slyly to myself as I prodded, “Isn’t that the case where you encountered a certain American woman?” Out of the corner of my eye, I detected a slight squirm. Perfect. Exactly the reaction I’d hoped for.

  “It . . . may have been.” He was dismissive and definitely vamping. “There were so very many cases that it’s hard to remember all of the minor details, the supporting players that—”

  “I’m sure it was her. The opera singer? ‘The stunning diva who’d dazzled audiences at La Scala’?” I needled him. “How was it Watson described her? Oh yes, the ‘well-known adventuress’?—the one with the sparkling eyes who had a fling with the king of Bohemia. They exchanged clandestine love letters, with which he feared she would blackmail him. Doesn’t sound like a minor detail or a supporting player, Holmes.”

  “Well, she certainly must have been, because I really don’t—”

  “Oh, come on, Holmes,” I chided. “You know damn well who she was. Watson said you always simply called her ‘the Woman’—and the photo in your valise must certainly be the one that the Bohemian king gave you. So naturally I’m curious about—”

  “I’ve never quite forgiven you, Winslow,” he interrupted. “Nor have you apologized for rifling through my personal belongings without my permission.” He suddenly inhaled a huge breath and seemed revitalized—or he wanted to appear so in order to change the subject. “But enough of the past, Winslow.” He glanced at me sharply. “And I can tell you this . . .”—he heaped great derision on his next word—“retirement is clearly not among my plans.”

  He leaned down to slip the Doyle book back into the small bag. “While you’re down there,” I said, “there’s something in that bag for you.” He glanced at me curiously, then felt inside the bag, becoming truly wide-eyed as he extracted a brown tweed double-billed deerstalker cap.

  “Ha! Wherever did you find this?”

  “This afternoon I also read The Boscombe Valley Mystery, which contained an original drawing by Sidney Paget that showed you wearing what Doyle described as an ‘ear-flapped traveling cap.’”

  “Just so,” he said, mildly amused while turning the cap over in his hands. “Good old Sidney. He was a fine fellow with an easy laugh. Quite a talented artist and an aficionado of these peculiar toppers. Thinking back on his other illustrations I believe Sidney put that cap on my head many more times than I ever did. He might even have shown it falling off my head into Reichenbach Falls.”

  “I’ll check on that. But seeing it in the book reminded me that one of my actress patients had been in a theater production about Sherlock. She dug it out of their wardrobe.”

  “Well, perhaps a bit misguided, but—” He paused, looking at me with the warmest expression I’d yet seen, then said quietly, “Very thoughtful of you, Winslow.”

  Our eyes held for more than a second. Then Siri’s voice told us, “In one hundred yards, turn left onto Dardenelle Avenue. In two miles, you will reach your destination.”

  “Well done, Siri!” Holmes said with enthusiasm. “Tonight’s journey may be of immeasurable help to conclusively prove my identity, fully resurrect me into this new world—and hopefully save the life of the good Luis Ortega.” I saw a thought strike him pleasurably. “I’ll tell you what, Winslow, in honor of our inaugural adventure together . . .”

  He removed his newsboy’s cap, gave me a meaningful glance as he straightened his shoulders ceremoniously, then fitted the deerstalker snugly onto his head.

  I inhaled with unexpected revelation. For the first time he completely fulfilled the image of truly being Sherlock Holmes.

  I will always remember that being a magical moment.

  My mind kept trying to process the whole astonishing situation as I drove us further up into the hills above Pacifica, a small upscale town on the ocean. The fog had thickened, and rain was still sprinkling. Dardenelle Avenue curved up between the many posh residences, which became increasingly larger and farther apart until we were finally into an area with nothing but old-growth trees on either side of the road.

  He was squinting to see ahead. “Stop just up there, Winslow.” He was pointing to the corner of a ten-foot-tall stone wall that paralleled the dark road ahead. Another angle of the stone barrier went southward into the forest. I pulled partly onto the mossy shoulder of the road as he said, “Excellent.”

  “Excellent why? What are we doing here?”

  As he surveyed the secluded forested area, he said, “In addition to the information I gleaned at police headquarters today, I found my way to a certain priest at old Saint Mary’s Cathedral. One Father Moriarty.”

  A chill ran through me. “Did . . . did he know—”

  “The identity of the clubfooted boy who sixty years ago had stolen my jewels and identity?” His eyes flashed with delight. “Yes!”

  My blood was freezing up entirely as I looked out warily at the wall extending off into the dark forest. “Holmes, surely you are not telling me that this—”

  “Is the southwest corner of number 196 Dardenelle Avenue, the estate of underworld chieftain James Moriarty Booth.”

  I was startled. But emphatic. “Ohh no. No, no, no!” I began to turn the car around, but Holmes had already popped his seatbelt, opened the door, and was stepping out.

  12

  “Wait a minute!” I said urgently with a hushed, stunned voice as I stopped, grabbed his discarded newsboy cap for my own head, and jumped out of the car into the light rain. “You’re really certain that man Booth lives here?”

  “Correct.” He had opened the car’s back door and was fishing something out of his small cylindrical duffel bag.

  “How in the world did you find that out?”

  “I saw the address on Detective Griffin’s computer screen. Then back at your residence I scouted it out on your computer. What an amazing research asset. Of course, it has its limitations, which is why I need a closer look.” From the duffel, he extracted a coil of rope and what looked like a stack of small boards bound together.

  Numerous fierce concerns tumbled out of my mouth, one on top of another. “Are you out of your— In the history of bad ideas this is the worst I’ve— You cannot just go right up to his front door and—”

  “Does this look like the front door?” His eyes twinkled devilishly. He turned dramatically and headed for the ten-foot wall.

  I was right on his heels, saying forcefully, “Stop! I will not let you do this! You could get—we could both get—arrested!”

  “Should that happen, which I assure you it won’t,” he said while uncoiling the rope, “I shall assume full responsibility.”

  “Ha!” I laughed ferociously. “Big help that would be. You just bring that whatever-it-is and get back in the car!”

  “Calm yourself, Winslow. I’ll merely be exploring quietly to see what I can discern.”

  I was emphatic: “No, Holmes!”

  “May I remind you,” he grumbled, while working with the rope, “that this man stole and likely still possesses my identification and valuables. I also hope to find some incriminating evidence that will bring down the mighty Mr. Booth and—most important to Luis Ortega—I hope to gain the insights needed to save his life!”

  With that he tossed a small grappling hook onto the top of the wall and pulled down hard on it, making certain it was reliably secured.

  “Forget it!” I was apoplectic and determined to take charge. “We are out of here!”

  I reached for his arm, but with the grace of a ballet danseur, he adroitly avoided my grasp and held up his right index finger, saying, “Wait. Allow me to demonstrate that I am an excellent cat burglar, my dear—always in a moral cause, of course.” He was pulling on a second rope, which ran through a pulley on the grappling hook at the crest of the wall. That second rope was raising the pile of boards up to the top of the wall as Holmes continued his lecture. “My tutor was Charles Peace, the best cracksman in London. He gifted me with this little gem. Behold!”

  He pulled a small trip cord hanging from the boards—and they dropped down toward the ground, spaced about a foot apart. It was a collapsible ladder. Quite ingenious.

  Holmes enjoyed my surprise, proud of his criminal toy. “Now then, if you’d be so good as to secure the base for me.”

  “I won’t. And you are not going to go up there!”

  But he’d already started climbing as he sneered back at me, “Thanks ever so for your support.”

  At my wit’s end, I grabbed for his cape with both hands, but he leapt two rungs higher with feline dexterity. I jumped to catch hold, but he was a millimeter out of reach. I shouted. “Come back here!”

  “Winslow!” he whispered loudly, shooting me a dark look over his shoulder. “If you’re not going to help, would you at least keep your voice down!”

  I choked down my volume but ramped up the intensity. “I will not! Holmes!”

  He shook his head at my stubbornness and scampered atop the wall. I called to him in one last desperate attempt, but he just pulled the ladder up, slipped it down the other side, then dropped out of sight. Only the trip cord was left dangling on my side. I gritted my teeth, trying to figure my next move.

  Holmes later told me that on the far side of the wall he had “landed like a panther.” Probably not a complete exaggeration, given his general nimbleness. He quickly surveyed the lush, expansive grounds sloping uphill toward the large estate and began moving.