The Great Detective: His Further Adventures. Marvin Kaye

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СКАЧАТЬ I spent several of those years near Galway, on the tiny island of Inis Oírr, studying the Erse language and literature. It was there that I met a Mr. Sean Carroll, President of Anglo-Hibernian.”

      “Why, dear friend, even after all these years, you continue to amaze me. Erse? Why on earth Erse?”

      Holmes poured some more of the whiskey into my tumbler and then filled his glass half full. I had never seen him drink like this, yet I held my tongue lest he mistake any comment as a reprimand and cease to recount what might just be the best story of our career together.

      “Why on earth not? To study one of the world’s most noble languages, of course. All the while hiding in Moriarty’s back yard, where he would never think to look for me.” He drank some more of the whiskey.

      “But how on earth did you wind up in Ireland?”

      “When I fell into the Reichenbach Falls, carrying Moriarty with me, I must have hit my head on a rock. When I came around, I could barely see, for blood from a cut had seeped down my brow and into my eyes. I found myself in the water at the base of the falls, with one arm draped over a fallen branch and Moriarty nowhere to be found. I hoped the fiend had drowned, but I could not take the chance that he was still alive. So I had to go into hiding.

      “With my free arm, I maneuvered myself and the log through the roiling water to the bank where I climbed up into the forest. Finding the necessary ferns and plants, I managed to staunch the bleeding and dull the pain.

      “Fearful of falling asleep and being surprised by Moriarty or his henchmen, as soon as my clothes were sufficiently dry, I made my way to Zurich. After a quick meal of sausage, potato salad, and a pichet of a young white wine, I felt restored and paid a visit to a small, very discreet private bank where I kept a secret account. Upon giving the agreed pass code to the clerk, I was ushered into the vault where I took from my private safe box a substantial amount of pounds, francs, marks, and dollars, along with several passports, a handful of diamonds, and a dozen or so small gold bars. Enough wealth to take me to South America where I would live very comfortably while continuing my study of exotic poisons.

      “After leaving my bank, I went by train to Locarno, where I spent a week recuperating at a lakeside hotel. Thus refreshed and fit enough for a long journey, I crossed the border into Italy. My plan was to take a steamer from Genoa to Brazil, but in order to make sure that I was not being followed by Moriarty or his assassins, I spent several weeks traveling around Italy. I moved through Venice, Padua, Siena, Rome, doubling back and forth, using the different identities my passports provided. It was in Florence that I chanced upon the opportunity of a lifetime. The opportunity to purchase a rare Amati violin.”

      He walked over to his wardrobe closet and took out his battered violin case and tapped it. “This violin.”

      “You mean that old instrument you are constantly fiddling on is an Amati?”

      He nodded and if I had not known better, I would have sworn that his face had flushed slightly with embarrassment.

      “Let us say that this is just another little secret between us. An indulgence that cost me much of the money I had intended for my new life as Senhor Gustavo Peres of Salvador, Brazil. Still, I had other passports in other names and other interests that would take me to other countries. If I could not slip half a world away from Moriarty, why not then hide in his own garden? So I made my way to Galway, this time as Gerard Murphy, and on the Aran Island of Inis Oírr, I hid away while all the world believed Sherlock Holmes was dead.

      “Yet, it wasn’t enough to just burrow on that tiny rock in the Atlantic, monkishly pouring through ancient tomes. I had to complete my identity as Murphy. And reclusiveness among that small band of clannish people would only raise suspicion. I could not afford wagging tongues. So every few weeks, like the other islanders, I would take the ferry to Galway to buy provisions and books and read the newspapers. I had to watch out for any diabolical crimes that would indicate Moriarty had resurfaced.”

      “God, Holmes, you could have contacted me, your old friend who always helped you.”

      “I could not take the chance, for I feared that Moriarty, if he had also survived the fall at Reichenbach, was having you watched. Besides, I had my studies, not only was I reading ancient Erse, but I was writing poetry in that most wonderful tongue.” As he spoke, for the first time I saw true emotion on his face. Wistfulness, at least.

      “And then there were the Saturday nights. When the weather wasn’t foul, I would take a fishing boat to a little village called Doolin and go to O’Connor’s Pub and fiddle.” He opened up his violin case and took out his prized Amati. “With this, dear fellow. The one thing I brought to Ireland with me.”

      “You mean you played Irish reels and such with that magnificent instrument? Suppose it had become damaged?”

      “Not I, old friend, for Sherlock Holmes no longer existed. It was Gerard Murphy, bearded and speaking Erse like a true son of County Clare or Galway that drank his pint of stout and dram of whiskey by a roaring fire and much to the delight of everyone, especially myself, fiddled away while the wind and rain howled outside. I was a new man, in body, soul, and identity. For Gerard Murphy was no longer just a name on one of the passports I carried with me when I escaped into Italy. He was a hard-fiddling, hard-drinking Irishman who could compose a poem in Erse as quickly as he could recite an old one.” He emitted a deep sigh.

      “But alas, even old bearded Murph is no more. The reasons for my reemergence as Holmes are well known to you and I shan’t waste time going over them. Suffice it to say that an end had come to the happiest period of my life.”

      A thin smile suddenly crept over his lips and disappeared so quickly that I wasn’t sure that I had actually seen it. He picked up the Amati and expertly rosined his bow and struck off such a jolly tune that I wanted to get up and dance. When he finished, he set the instrument lovingly back in its case, poured another dram and continued.

      “It was during a night of fiddling at O’Connor’s that I first met Sean Carroll. He was also a fiddler and while we were playing he kept glancing at my Amati. ‘That’s a strange fiddle, Gerard,’ he said when we were done playing. ‘Perhaps it is more suited for the London Symphony.’ He then explained to me that he owned an insurance company and was well-versed in the value of rare musical instruments, and that he knew the violin was quite valuable but did not know its provenance. When I whispered that it was an Amati, he asked to play it. ‘Just a little,’ he said, and I let him. He swore he would tell no one and in that island of deep secrets I and my violin became just one more.”

      “So he never knew who you were? Then how did he contact you?”

      “Dear friend, have you never heard of newspapers? Or magazines? Such as the Sherlock Holmes Mystery Magazine in which you tirelessly promote my cases. Do they not have photographs and etchings of me for the entire world to see?”

      “But you said you were wearing a beard in Ireland.”

      “That little subterfuge was only meant for the villagers on Inis Oírr, it would never fool a clever man like Sean Carroll, nor was it meant too.” Holmes looked at the clock on the mantle and suddenly stood up. “You had better get packing, our train leaves from Paddington in thirty minutes. I’ll fill you in on the rest of the story during the trip.” He looked quickly around, jammed the cork back into the whiskey bottle and unsnapping his valise, placed it inside.

      “The night could be cold,” he said. I did not argue with him.

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