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  THE FURTHER ADVENTURES OF SHERLOCK HOLMES SERIES:

  THE ECTOPLASMIC MAN

  Daniel Stashower

  THE WAR OF THE WORLDS

  Manley Wade Wellman & Wade Wellman

  THE SCROLL OF THE DEAD

  David Stuart Davies

  THE STALWART COMPANIONS

  H. Paul Jeffers

  THE VEILED DETECTIVE

  David Stuart Davies

  THE MAN FROM HELL

  Barrie Roberts

  SÉANCE FOR A VAMPIRE

  Fred Saberhagen

  THE SEVENTH BULLET

  Daniel D. Victor

  THE WHITECHAPEL HORRORS

  Edward B. Hanna

  DR. JEKYLL AND MR. HOLMES

  Loren D. Estleman

  THE GIANT RAT OF SUMATRA

  Richard L. Boyer

  THE ANGEL OF THE OPERA

  Sam Siciliano

  THE PEERLESS PEER

  Philip José Farmer

  THE STAR OF INDIA

  Carole Buggé

  THE WEB WEAVER

  Sam Siciliano

  the

  further

  adventures of

  SHERLOCK

  HOLMES

  THE TITANIC TRAGEDY

  WILLIAM SEIL

  TITAN BOOKS

  THE FURTHER ADVENTURES OF SHERLOCK HOLMES

  THE TITANIC TRAGEDY

  Print edition ISBN: 9780857687104

  E-book edition ISBN: 9780857687128

  Published by

  Titan Books

  A division of Titan Publishing Group Ltd

  144 Southwark St

  London

  SE1 0UP

  First edition: March 2012

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  Names, places and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead (except for dramatic purposes), is entirely coincidental.

  © 1996, 2012 William Seil

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  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

  Printed in the USA.

  This book is dedicated to my mother

  Marguerite Seil

  and the memory of my father

  Emery Seil

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Acknowledgements

  Chapter One

  THE EVENING OF TUESDAY 9 APRIL 1912

  In the spring of 1912, at the age of sixty, I was leading a solitary life in rooms in Piccadilly. While continuing to see a few regular patients, I had, for the most part, ended my medical practice. My working time was now devoted almost entirely to writing historical novels. This turn in my writing career had come as quite a surprise — and I must say, disappointment — to my publisher, who would have preferred that I did nothing but record past adventures of my friend, Mr Sherlock Holmes. As a favour to him, and many loyal readers, I occasionally sifted through old notes on Holmes’s cases and produced a new manuscript. But I also was respectful of Holmes’s desire for solitude and anonymity.

  Holmes had long since retired from his illustrious career as a detective and was now living on a smallholding on the South Downs. He rarely came to the city, but several times a year I would travel to his country retreat and inform him of whatever news I had heard about recent criminal investigations. I often called at Scotland Yard to see young Inspector Wiggins, who provided me with detailed accounts of current cases. There were times too when Wiggins, baffled by a particularly complex case, would travel to Sussex to consult his old mentor.

  My visits to Holmes seldom involved talking over old times. He had little patience with nostalgia. Whenever my conversation wandered to decades-old memories of past cases, he would rise from his chair and draw me over to one of the many scientific projects that were in progress in and around his home. I was always reluctant to visit the beehives he kept in his orchard, even when I was fully covered by protective clothing. But I was fascinated by his promising work in the scientific analysis of crime evidence. I recall one day in particular when we travelled to a local inn to purchase drinking mugs — that is, unwashed drinking mugs, taken right off the bar. After giving the landlord a generous payment, Holmes gathered up the mugs with a gloved hand and packed them into a box. At home, he applied various dry chemical mixtures to the glass, hoping to develop a method of bringing out detail in smudged fingerprints.

  I thought about Holmes as I sat at my dining room table late one night, researching the early battles of the Boer War. Outside, the wind howled and heavy rains rattled against the windows. I had just put another log on the fire, and it was engulfed in crackling flames. I welcomed these sounds. My rooms had been much too quiet since the death of my wife six months earlier. I thought back to other stormy nights at Baker Street, when there would be a knock on the door, and a rain-soaked stranger, speaking to us in frightened, confused or demanding tones, would ask our help in solving a problem. But those days were gone, like all the history that lined my bookshelves.

  As my mind wandered, I decided that it was time to abandon my research for the evening. Leaving my books on the table, I walked to the window and looked at the street below. In the glow of the street lamps, I watched as the rain poured on to the cobbled street and rushed along the gutters. Except for the fury of Mother Nature, the streets were quiet. The only sign of life was a small pack of neighbourhood dogs conducting their nightly prowl of the area. I was about to leave the window and retire to my bedroom when I noticed the flash of headlamps approaching up the street. A large, black motorcar came to a stop directly in front of my rooms. The headlamps blinked off and, for several minutes, it appeared that no one was going to leave the car. But then a man stepped out of the driver’s seat and rushed to the back to open the door for a passenger. The man in the back seat, wearing a dark hat and raincoat, climbed out of the car and immediately looked up to the window where I was standing. We watched each other for a few moments, before he lowered his head and walked in the direction of my door.

  I heard his knock, just as I reached the foot of the stairs. I tightened the collar of my dressing gown round my neck, slid back the bolt and opened the door. The gust of cold, wet wind penetrated my body, and I began to shiver. But the stranger stood calmly, as though this were a casual visit on a sunny afternoon.

  ‘Doctor Watson?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘My name is Sidney Reilly. May I come in?’

  ‘It’s very late. Unless this is a medical emergency, I must ask you to come back in the morning.’

  ‘Doctor,’ he said with a half-smile. ‘I have an important message for you from Mr Sherlock Holmes. And by tomorrow morning, I suspect you’ll be on a ship bound for America.’

  I froze for a moment, not knowing whether I should believe this extraordinary statement. But then, the appearance of this stranger at night was worthy of Holmes’s sense of drama. Ten years earlier in Baker Street, I would not have been so fearful of admitting a mysterious late-night caller. But then, ten years ago I would probably have remembered to slip my service revolver into my dressing gown before opening the door.

  I pulled the door back and asked Reilly to follow me upstairs. As we entered the drawing room, I took his rain-soaked hat and coat. Reilly was a dark, trim man in his late thirties. When he spoke he had a trace of an accent, or mixture of accents. He had calm, piercing eyes that seemed to gaze over every feature of the room as he walked towards the fire.

  ‘Doctor, I have been told that you are aware of the high position Mr Holmes’s brother, Mycroft, holds in our intelligence service. I too work for the government, and when Mycroft Holmes picks you up in the morning to take you to the railway station, he will verify that. He would have accompanied me this evening, only he had to make some last-minute arrangements for his brother.’

  ‘Forgive me if I am sceptical, Mr Rei
lly. But let us assume for the moment that what you are saying is true. Why would you expect me to be boarding a ship for America in the morning? Is this something Holmes wishes me to do?’

  Reilly reached into his pocket and handed me a small envelope. It was addressed to me in Holmes’s handwriting. ‘I haven’t read it, but I believe that note will answer at least some of your questions,’ he said.

  I tore open the envelope and read the note, which had been dated that same day:

  My dear Watson,

  I realize that this request comes at a particularly sad time for you, but once again, I am in need of your help. In the morning I will board a ship for America, and will not be seeing you again for some time. The government has asked me to conduct a secret investigation and, after some encouragement from persistent senior officials, I have accepted. I would appreciate it if you could find your way clear to join me on this voyage. My investigation does not begin until I reach America, so the voyage will be relaxing and uneventful. The trip would do you good and I would greatly enjoy seeing you at the start of this adventure. However, after we reach New York, I fear that my mission will lead to our separation, so come at once if convenient—if inconvenient, come all the same. Mr Reilly will provide you with a ticket.

  Very sincerely yours,

  Sherlock Holmes.

  ‘I am convinced, Mr Reilly. I will have my cases packed and be ready to travel in the morning.’

  ‘Very good, Doctor. That concludes our business. You understand, of course, that everything you see and hear — including our meeting tonight — must be treated in the strictest of confidence. Your friend, Mr Holmes, is undertaking a mission that could prove to be a turning point in the nation’s security.’

  ‘During my long association with Holmes and his clients, I have never betrayed a confidence. You can rely on me, completely. Now, can you tell me with what I am getting involved?’

  ‘I regret that I am unable to oblige. Mr Holmes will tell you as much as he can, once you get on board the ship. But I can tell you that your friend is a hard man to bring out of retirement. I’m sure you’re familiar with Winston Churchill, the First Lord of the Admiralty. Well, he and I first visited Holmes’s retreat about a week ago to ask for his help. He listened to us, but wasted no time in turning us down. It was only after we made a return visit with the Prime Minister and Foreign Minister that he agreed to carry out the investigation.’

  I chuckled. Retirement had done little to change Holmes. He remained as independent as ever. Even as Holmes approached his sixties, he could not resist a challenge to his remarkable talents.

  Reilly began strolling around the room, first examining the mantelpiece, then the bookshelves. After perusing everything with a quick sweep of his eyes, he turned to me with a look of disappointment.

  ‘Forgive me, Doctor,’ he said. ‘I’ve read every article you’ve written about your adventures with Mr Holmes. I was expecting to see a few keepsakes from 221B Baker Street... Maybe some of Holmes’s scrapbooks, or a Persian slipper full of tobacco hanging from the fireplace. But there’s nothing here, and I saw very few mementoes at Mr Holmes’s country estate. If you will forgive my curiosity, what happened to it all?’

  I took Reilly by surprise with a hearty laugh. ‘Do you believe in time travel, Mr Reilly?’ I motioned to a closed door next to the sideboard. ‘If you’ll step through that doorway with me, I will take you on a journey into the past that would make H G Wells envious.’

  I struck a match on the mantelpiece and opened the door. Light from the electric lamp over my dining table stretched across the fading twenty-year-old carpet in the adjoining room. ‘This is the one room in the house where I don’t allow electric lights.’ The first match had burned to my fingertips, so I struck a second one and lit two oil lamps that were fixed to the walls.

  ‘Mr Reilly, welcome to 221B Baker Street. If you look around, I’m sure that you’ll find more than enough mementoes to satisfy your curiosity.’

  Until now Reilly had been emotionless to a fault. But suddenly, upon seeing this room, his eyes lit up and he began a whirlwind examination of its furnishings. ‘This is wonderful, Doctor. I can’t believe it. It’s just as you described your Baker Street rooms in the articles.’

  ‘Well, I confess that I never expected to become a museum curator; nor that my past life would end up as an historical display. But when Holmes moved out of 221B, I just couldn’t accept seeing all those memories of happier times being scattered about. So Holmes generously gave everything to me, and bought new furnishings for his country home. Of course, there were a few pieces that he could not part with. For example, if you’ll look over at that side table next to the settee, you’ll see a violin. I had to purchase that at a second-hand shop. Holmes took his with him. But most of the furnishings are original.’

  ‘Back there, in the corner, is that where Holmes conducted his experiments?’

  ‘Yes, smelly old things they were, too. I used to welcome the aroma of Holmes’s tobacco smoke, because it would cover up the smell of sulphur. Here, let me give you a tour.’

  Reilly sat in Holmes’s velvet armchair and, after asking permission, tried on the deerstalker cap that was hanging on the wall rack. He chuckled at the stack of letters that were fixed to the mantel with a jack-knife.

  ‘Tell me, Doctor. The letters VR that are perforated in the wall. Did you reproduce them with a revolver, as Holmes did, or did you use a quieter, more conventional approach?’

  ‘I used a hammer and a spike. I am not as precise a marks-man as Holmes, and the London police these days are less tolerant of the sound of gunshots than they used to be.’

  ‘Mr Holmes was a remarkable man.’

  ‘He still is. Just a little less active.’

  Reilly froze for a moment, his eyes fixed on the floor. When he looked at me again, the cold, commanding gaze had returned to his eyes.

  ‘Doctor, I am concerned about the safety of your friend, and the success of his mission. It is important that when you see Mr Holmes on the ship, you bring certain facts to his attention.’

  ‘And what might those facts be, Mr Reilly?’

  ‘Simply, Doctor, that times have changed. And so has the world in which Mr Holmes will be carrying out his mission. Mr Holmes has confronted opponents who were both cunning and dangerous. Still, most of them had certain standards by which they played the game. I don’t quite know how to define it. You might call it a Victorian ethic...something in their upbringing that tempered their lawlessness. Doctor, believe me when I tell you, that that is not the case in modern espionage. Mr Holmes will be dealing with individuals who care nothing about human life. He will be in grave danger. And unless he is willing to become as cold and ruthless as his opponents, I suspect he will not survive.’

  I did not know how to react to this extraordinary statement. At first, I was offended that this upstart should be so disrespectful of Holmes’s experience and abilities. Still, there was something in his manner that told me that he knew his business, and he did not give idle warnings.

  ‘Mr Reilly, I assure you that Mr Holmes is quite capable of taking care of himself. He may not be as young as he used to be, but his mind is as sharp as ever. And as for cunning opponents, if you’ve read my articles, you must be aware of his confrontation with the late Professor Moriarty. As you may recall, Holmes had laid a trap from which the professor knew he and his cohorts could not escape. When Holmes refused to back away, Moriarty on several occasions sent henchmen to kill him. Holmes and Moriarty had their final confrontation at Reichenbach Falls, where they struggled and Moriarty fell to his death. I could scarcely imagine a villain as dangerous as the professor.’

  ‘As I recall, Doctor, at Reichenbach Falls — before the struggle — didn’t Professor Moriarty allow Mr Holmes a few moments to write a note to you, explaining what was about to take place? I seem to recall from your work that you found such a note under Holmes’s cigarette case when you returned to the Falls.’

  ‘Yes, the professor waited whilst Holmes wrote a brief note. It was a simple courtesy and posed no added danger to the professor.’

  ‘My point, Doctor, is that a professional agent would not have confronted Holmes face-to-face—let alone allow him the time to write a note. He would have killed Holmes quietly, at the first sign of trouble, with a knife in the back or a garrotte around the throat. That’s the type of opponent Holmes will be facing. I’m alive and speaking to you today, only because I have been willing to play as rough as my opponents.’