The Fourth Circle (25 page)

6. SHERLOCK HOLMES'S LAST CASE (2) GHOST

"BUT MORIARTY IS dead!" I said in amazement.

The look that Holmes shot me was enough to make me doubt the accuracy of that statement, one that I had until now considered to be beyond any reasonable doubt, and I hastened to add:

"Isn't he?"

He did not reply but turned towards the window and looked through the gap between the curtains into the night. Even on my way here, the fog had been closing in, and by now it lay heavily all around so that the glow from the nearby street-lamp seemed blurred and subdued. All looked hazy and unreal, this late London autumn.

As he clasped his hands behind his back, Holmes tugged the fingers of one hand with the other, causing a characteristic cracking sound. He would do this from time to time when he was deep in thought, probably because it helped him to concentrate. People tend to have such mannerisms—usually they drum on the table or on the armrest of the chair—not caring one whit that it gets on the nerves of others. I was indeed irritated by this cracking of his knuckles; I had mentioned it to him several times, but he continued to make the noise, probably quite unaware that he was doing so.

"But Holmes," I said, addressing his back, "I was personally present when Moriarty's corpse was taken out of the lake. The water was very cold, so that the body had remained well preserved. There was no doubt whatsoever; it was him all right. What's more, I assisted later at the autopsy. His lungs were full of water—"

"I know, I know," Holmes interrupted, continuing to stare vacantly into the foggy night. "But never underestimate Moriarty."

This statement startled me. Had it not been made in an extremely serious voice, I would have thought that Holmes was in a playful mood and was pulling my leg. That would not have been unlike him; he enjoyed seeing my confusion and bewilderment when he proposed some inconceivable idea. However, not infrequently it would happen that the impossible turned out to be possible after all, so that in such circumstances I had always to be careful. One never really knew where one was with Holmes.

"Come now," I said, not wishing to deny him the pleasure of the surprise I thought he might have prepared for me. "You are not going to tell me that you
believe in ghosts?"

He turned and looked at me with a piercing gaze in which superiority and contempt battled for dominance.

"What do
you
know about ghosts, Watson?"

"Well, I...don't know...." I blustered. "I mean, some people believe...but science...."

"Science is only a small vessel, a cup perhaps, with which a quite negligible volume of positive knowledge has been lifted from a veritable ocean of ignorance," he said, in the tone of a teacher who is lecturing an unruly pupil. "However much that vessel may be enlarged, it will never contain the whole ocean."

What could I say to this? Had I countered in any way whatsoever, we would have embarked upon one of those long, futile arguments, entirely devoted to matters of principle, which he vastly enjoyed, having assigned me the role of the naive, rather thickheaded interlocutor who ought to be enlightened but first exposed to mockery—the Socrates syndrome.

But this was not an appropriate moment for that game: if Moriarty truly were behind the letter—though I still could not see how that was possible—then there was no time at all for fruitless debate. Fortunately, Holmes seemed to be aware of this too, for he soon changed the topic of conversation.

"Besides," he went on, in a rather more moderate voice, "who said anything about ghosts?"

"How else could someone who has been dead for weeks post a letter unless he is a ghost? Not that I can really see how a ghost could post a letter, either, but—that's another matter."

"Didn't I tell you not to underestimate Moriarty, Watson? In fact, it does not take any particular ingenuity to see how it could have been carried out."

This sting was, of course, aimed at me, because I was still unenlightened. I decided therefore to risk airing a thought that had just come to me, though it sounded extremely silly, even to me.

"Reincarnation," I said, or rather whispered, in an almost God-fearing tone.

"What?" said Holmes, in genuine disbelief.

That was what I had been afraid of. I had not guessed correctly, and now I would have to offer an explanation.

"I mean...you mentioned it yourself...the ancient Egyptian
Book of the
Dead.
..and that cult in Tibet, what was its name...the soul coming back to life in a new body...."

Holmes interrupted me angrily. "I know what reincarnation is, but Moriarty
did not go in for that, at least not that we know of. There are, admittedly, several hazy patches in his biography, when he was lost to the world for weeks at a time, but I don't think he reached Tibet. Although...."

He paused for a moment, as if sidetracked by a sudden thought that threatened to undermine his previous self-assurance, but did not allow it to gain momentum; he briefly shook his head and continued: "No, I give no credit to such a thought...And if he was involved with local amateurs vainly attempting to imitate the Dalai Lama, then he could, at best, have returned to life as a radish or a ladybird. But radishes and ladybirds do not send letters, Watson."

I had, therefore, once again imprudently jumped the gun. Never mind, it was not the first time. There was nothing else for it but to ask contritely for an explanation. Indeed, this was what Holmes was waiting for, and we ought to please our friends, ought we not?

"So, what did happen?" I asked meekly.

"Occam's razor, my dear chap, Occam's razor. When assumptions begin to swarm, choose the simplest one."

He must have repeated this sentence at least a hundred times before, in various situations, just as he had told and retold the story of the remarkable William of Occam. Only, what was the good of that, when I had as yet proved less than dexterous in wielding that "razor?" Very well, all the glory belongs to the adroit Holmes. Let us hear the rest.

"Moriarty did send the letter, Watson, but not while dead; he did it while he was still alive. I assume he did the following: he paid someone to deliver the letter to my address on a certain day, namely today, and in an anonymous manner—by sliding it under the front door, so as not to give me the opportunity of questioning the bearer. This arrangement would have been cancelled only if he personally went to the bearer and withdrew the original instruction, which, I surmise, he would indeed have done had he not perished in the lake. Since his arrival in person did not occur for self-evident reasons, the letter was delivered and—here it is. Simple, is it not?"

It really was simple, seen in this
post festum
light. So it always was with Holmes's elucidations. I had indeed good reason to feel sheepish. Reincarnation!

Really!

"Splendid, Mr. Holmes," I said sincerely. "The matter is therefore resolved."

"Nothing is resolved, my dear Watson," replied Holmes quietly.

I looked at him, perplexed. "But we know who the sender was, and the method of delivery too."

"Indeed. But these are marginal details. The real problems are only just beginning to appear. We must first discover why Moriarty wanted the letter to reach me only in the eventuality of his death. Then we must establish the meaning of the message."

"You mean—this circle?"

"Yes, but please do not embark upon rash and unfounded reasoning again,"

said he in a voice that brooked no objection. "The matter is far more serious than one might conclude at a glance."

I had no intention of embarking upon anything. I recalled vividly how he had flared up at my initial comment about the circle. I had no desire to provoke such a reaction again.

"What are you suggesting, then?" I asked dutifully.

"Tell me, what do you know about the circle?" he riposted with a question.

I considered this for a moment. It is strange the trouble one can find oneself in at such times when you are caught out in ignorance about some quite simple matter. What is there to be known about circles, anyway? I attempted to recall knowledge I had acquired a long while ago at geometry lessons, but very little managed to float up to the surface.

"Well...it is a geometrical body..."

"Figure," he corrected me. "Figure, Watson. Figures have two dimensions, bodies have three."

"Figure, of course." I accepted the correction readily. "Well, figure, then...It's perfect, as you said...and connected with it is a constant, signified by a Greek letter...I think it's 'phi' or 'mu' or some such...I am not sure...It is obtained by multiplying something, but surely you don't expect me to remember what? The last time I attended a mathematics lecture was a good forty years ago, and in the meantime I have not had much reason to concern myself with circles, nor is the discipline one of my strong points,"

"Pity," replied Holmes tersely, in his usual tone of cold contempt. "A real pity.

Can you surmise how many entries related to the circle there are in the
Encyclopaedia Britannica?"

Of course I could not, but so as not to disappoint him, I ventured a modest estimate.

"Five?" I said in a half-questioning tone, giving him an opportunity to show his superiority by proving me wrong immediately, which he, of course, did not fail to do.

"Forty-three, my dear Watson, forty-three! And only the first three or four are mathematical. The others have nothing to do with the discipline in which you, it
is clear, are not well versed. The Greek letter is
?π
,
and it happens to be the constant that is obtained by dividing the circumference of the circle by its radius."

"Really?" I asked ingenuously. "I shall have to memorize that. One never knows when it might come in handy. But, what are all those other entries about?"

Holmes's gaze drifted somewhere above me but without really focusing on the upper parts of the walls or the ceiling. It had sailed off to uncharted, distant lands as was usually the case when he was preparing for some philosophical discourse. To me, this pose seemed artificial, even comical, but he clearly enjoyed it.

"You cannot even begin to imagine to what extent the circle is integrated into the very foundations of human history. Its secrets were known even in prehistoric times. Evidence of that is everywhere, even in our vicinity, not far from London."

"You mean...?"

"Yes, Watson! Splendid! Stonehenge!"

I had not thought of Stonehenge at all; something entirely different had been on my mind, something that may not have been prehistoric at all—I wasn't sure about that point—but naturally I did not admit to this. I only nodded my head to suggest that we were in full agreement. Sometimes it can be very useful not to finish one's sentences.

"Everything at Stonehenge revolves around the circle as a symbol, starting with the cyclical chronometer that Stonehenge, among other things, is, and ending with the very shape of that megalithic monument."

"I know, I've been there," I remarked with some self-confidence. Holmes gave me a look, probably only exchanged by initiates in knowledge of the arcane, and continued.

"The
Encyclopaedia
mentions the circle as the basis of many other sites of ancient civilizations. The Aztec settlements, for instance, were built as groups of concentric circles, the shrines of the first inhabitants of the islands of Japan have a circle—the Sun—as their fundamental symbol, and even the primitive cave paintings of earliest man from equatorial Africa contain strange circular ornaments. Then we cross into historical times...."

But I did not allow him to cross, seizing the opportunity to interrupt him at a moment when he paused for breath; he was, undoubtedly, carried away by the theme, and at such times he would begin to speak faster, even to clip off parts of words, which at moments left him breathless.

"This is all very interesting, Holmes, but I fail to see how it is linked to Moriarty's letter."
He winced, frustrated because by interrupting I had denied him the chance to expound, as was his habit and as all unfulfilled storytellers are wont to do: but his voice was surprisingly conciliatory as he answered.

"I also fail to see it, but some link there must be. Moriarty has sent me the ultimate challenge, one from beyond the grave, and it would be foolish to expect that we shall get the better of him without vast effort. A great task therefore awaits us, Watson, perhaps the greatest and most difficult of all we have faced until the present moment."

"Us?" I asked in puzzlement. "I do not know how I could help here...I mean, my grasp of the secrets of the circle is, to say the least, insuff—"

"Worry not, my friend," replied Holmes cheerfully. "You will not be bypassed in this case above all cases. There are tasks for you, entirely in accordance with your very meager cognizance of these things."

He rummaged absentmindedly through his pockets for a few moments, looking for something. He finally found it not there, but on the writing table where it had been compiled. It was a longish list of books, written in his nervous, cramped handwriting, with many letters omitted and many words abbreviated. It seemed that only I, apart from Holmes himself, could extract any modicum of meaning from those hieroglyphics.

"Here," said he eagerly, "I would ask that tomorrow morning, at the very moment of its opening, you be at the British Museum Library. You will look for Sir Arthur, the director. He will make an exception in my case and allow you to take these books out. Hurry straight back here with them. We have no time to spare, Watson. The Great Clock is striking!"