“No,” I said truthfully. “Well, physically, yes—thanks to you, and to Dr. Maison. But in other ways, no.”
Watson nodded. “I know. Or at least, I know in part. You’ve been the speculation of Paris—you and this Harold Silence … heirs to a criminal empire.” He laughed bleakly. “I have to wonder what sort of man I rescued.”
I sat up—the wound in my chest ached to do it, but I wanted to look Watson straight in the eye. “The papers have it wrong. I’m not trying to become a crime lord. I’m trying to stop Silence from becoming one.”
Watson blinked thoughtfully. “I’d suspected as much. A good doctor has intuition about his patients—those who are telling the truth and those who are lying. You were unconscious, of course, on the day that I saved you, but the woman—Anna—she was a truth teller, and she loved you, and in her eyes I knew you were a good man.” A gentle smile creased his face, but the look dissolved a moment later into sadness. “How is it that you got tangled up with Moriarty—?”
“Well, uh—it was because of Anna. She was his daughter.”
Watson clenched his jaw. “Yes, I’d read as much.”
How much should I tell him? How much could he absorb
before believing me to be insane? Guardedly, I told him about that first day: “I met her in Meiringen, Switzerland, and fell in love with her. She took me out to the Reichenbach Falls”—Watson stiffened—“and we witnessed a murder.”
“The murder of my friend Sherlock Holmes,” Watson supplied.
“Yes,” I responded, “and the death of her father, too. Anna was traumatized. She hadn’t known what her father was planning. I tried to whisk her away, only to get shot in the shoulder.” I pulled down the neck of my hospital gown to show him the wound. “It was one of Moriarty’s henchmen—the one you read about. To him, Anna and I were just loose ends—Anna because she was Moriarty’s heir and I because, well, because I loved her. We escaped him at Reichenbach, but the man caught up to us at the Gare Saint-Lazare station, and, well, you know the rest.”
“Yes. I know. I was on that train. I had tracked that man to Bern and followed him onto the train, but I lost him then. He had assumed the disguise of a porter, which I later found out, but not before you were stabbed.”
I nodded grimly.
“But why have you been giving all these interviews?” Watson asked, his eyes wide and almost feverish. “Why have you been—filling the papers with all these stories?”
What to tell him? “Are you a religious man, Doctor?”
His hale features flushed. “Not less than any other good Englishman—but not more, either.”
“Do you believe that spirits live on after death?”
“I do,” he said with a firm nod. Watson seemed to stare beyond Les Invalides, beyond Paris to some dusty battlefield. “I was in Afghanistan, and I saw thousands of men die. Sometimes … I could feel the uncanny creep of the spirit up into the air.”
“Then I will tell you what I saw a week ago. I saw my Anna die, and I saw the evil soul of her killer rise from his body and take hold of Harold Silence. Do you understand?”
“I do,” Watson said, as if in a trance. “I had the most … preternatural experience …” He turned to me, his eyes lit by an inner flame. “When I was in my stateroom on the Paris Express from Bern, I felt a presence. I felt a mind—
the
mind—the greatest mind of the nineteenth century there with me, prodding at me, almost laughing, telling me not to grieve or fear, telling me that he was still alive. Do
you
understand? I mean the mind of Sherlock Holmes!”
I stared in shock at the good doctor and could not find words.
Watson waved a hand before his own face, and his eyes clouded. “I know! I know! Fantastical tales. Faerie stories. Holmes is dead. I know that. I must accept that.” He slowly lifted his face, and the flame had returned to his eyes. “But for a moment on that express train, I knew that he was alive. In some land of the dead, my friend Sherlock Holmes was still alive. And so, Mr. Carnacki, I
very much
understand what you are saying.”
“That’s … that’s good. But you had the opposite experience to me,” I said. “You felt the soul of a good man return to you from beyond. I saw the soul of an evil man enter Harold Silence and remain here on earth. And I want to stop him, if for no other reason than to avenge Anna.”
Watson sat for a long while, considering.
“Silence is planning a heist at the Louvre,” I said.
Watson paled. “I’d hoped that postcard was a hoax!”
“I’m afraid not. He plans to steal the greatest works of Western art and fence them on the black market. I want to stop him, but I need your help.”
Watson bit his lip but then said, “Why do you need me?”
“You’re the partner of Sherlock Holmes—the greatest detective who ever lived!”
“Quite.”
“I need your expertise,” I said, looking him straight in the eye. “Will you come with me to the Louvre for a final confrontation?”
Watson drew a long, slow breath and said, “Yes.”
EXORCISM
Dr. John Watson felt certain reservations about his new companion—this callow lad who had so readily deceived the press. So proficient a liar as Thomas Carnacki could in fact be lying once again.
But Watson believed Carnacki, for a number of reasons.
First of all, the lad loved Anna, and he was trying to avenge her. He wouldn’t lie about something like that.
Secondly, Watson was certain that Carnacki was no crime lord. Thomas was capable of caprice, yes, but not malice. He was a scamp, not a murderer. During the Afghan campaign, Watson had learned to take the quick measure of a man and decide if he was friend or foe. Watson had guessed wrong only once, and it was the reason he took a bullet and was retired from the service. He felt certain he was guessing right about this man.
But perhaps the most compelling justification for Watson’s trust was that Carnacki was just the sort of man that Holmes would have trusted. Carnacki could have been a graduate of the Baker Street Irregulars—a bright-eyed, streetwise rogue with hands dirty from hard work and a back strong from heavy lifting. He would have scored well with Holmes, and so he scored well with Watson.
“I trust him,” Watson told himself. “But I still want to see him in action.”
The first measure of Carnacki’s tactical skill would be his escape from Les Invalides. Dr. Maison had decided to bill young Thomas for a great many things: a four-hour surgery, a week of aftercare, personal damages to Dr. Maison’s cheek (caused by the slap of a gendarme), property damages to Les Invalides (caused when Harold Silence broke a window to escape), and ethical damages to Paris itself (caused by the rabid reporters and their sensational stories).
Watson could have paid to get him out, but instead he planned to test the young man. Carnacki was the only patient in the entire ward, the ward had no low windows or easy egress, and he could not move very quickly. If he succeeded in this small matter, perhaps Watson would throw in with him in the Louvre operation.
Thomas had a plan, and the first step was to summon the reporters of Paris. Watson arrived to watch the show.
“Gentlemen of the press,” Thomas Carnacki said, his voice ragged and his face ashen as he glanced weakly around his sickbed. “Thank you for coming … to witness my death … my murder!”
That got them. The whole flock of reporters scratched and scribbled furiously.
“Thank you for writing about me … . I’d hoped … that your words could save me … but my enemy was too strong. He has killed me.”
“Harold Silence!” hissed one of the reporters, his voice charged with disbelief and anger.
Flash powder went off, casting the scene in stark light and spectral shadows. The dry scratch of lead on paper trailed off, and one or two reporters swallowed.
“Silence has silenced me at last … . I was under his thumb … . Lived and died by his whim … . My only hope was blackmail. Yes. That’s what they call it … . But it
was not blackmail for money. It was for my life.”
“What did he do? Why are you dying?” one reporter asked.
“Look at my face,” Thomas said, raising his blue-white visage toward them. “Cyanosis. Cyanide!”
That caused a sensation. Reporters wrote down that terrible word and nattered about the horrible crime.
“How could Harold Silence get past Dr. Maison?” asked one reporter.
Thomas fixed the man with a terrible look. “Harold Silence is Dr. Maison!”
The room erupted in angry cries. In the welter of emotion, Thomas slumped back gently into his pillow, let out a last long breath, and stared with fixed, dead eyes. The reporters froze. More flash powder went off, and Thomas did not blink.
“
Il est mort
,” one reporter said, “
assassiné
par
Harold Silence
—
par le docteur Maison!
”
“
Est-ce que quelqu’un a dit mon nom?
” came a voice from the doorway.
Watson glanced over to see a most unfortunate Dr. Maison standing at the threshold and smiling with curiosity that quickly turned to dread.
The reporters rushed him, yammering, and Dr. Maison fled into the hospital. Waving pencils and notepads, the journalists went for him like hounds after a fox.
When the last one vanished beyond the door, Watson stepped to Thomas’s bedside, extended a hand to him, and helped him stand. “I have a carriage waiting.”
“Let’s go, then.”
They could not go quickly, even after Watson took the heavy contraption that Thomas insisted on bringing along. Out the far door of the ward they went, finding their way through the rooms beyond. At last, they reached an exit and passed through it to climb into a waiting hansom.
Watson knocked on the roof of the coach, and the hatch popped open. “Take us to the Louvre, please, driver.” The hatch closed, and the carriage lurched into motion. Watson fixed Thomas with a steady stare. “That diversion was deftly done, my boy. You
are
a confidence man. It proves the truth of the old saying, ‘Better not make a friend of an actor.’”
Thomas replied with a smile, “I’ve always heard it the other way: ‘Better not make an enemy of one.’” Thomas produced a handkerchief and used it to wipe the blue pigment from his face.
“Your clothes are in the bag there.”
He lifted the stack of clothes from the corner, dragged off his hospital gown, and pulled a new shirt over his shoulders.
“So, what’s the rest of your plan—the plan for the Louvre?” Watson asked.
“It’s simple. I’ll be me and you’ll be you, and we’ll walk through the Louvre and wait for Silence to confront us. He’s there; I have no doubt.” Thomas pulled up his breeches and fastened them. “If he sees me, he’ll try to kill me. If he sees you—the famous Dr. Watson—he’ll size you up to decide why you’re there. Whoever is approached first should cough twice loudly, thereby signaling the other to give aid.”
“Give aid?” Watson asked. “How?”
“Knock him out.”
“With what?”
Thomas blinked, looking at his empty hands. “Well, see, I’ve got a left jab and a right hook. Did you bring either of those?”
“A pugilist, aye? I happen to have a haymaker that’s a legend in three counties. Nothing wrong with a good clean fight.”
Carnacki nodded. “Guns have turned
fight
into a dirty word.” He paused a moment and added hopefully, “You don’t happen to have a gun—”
“No such luck,” Watson replied, staring out at the Parisian apartments that rolled past. “Once he’s knocked out, then what?”
“Then we use this on him.” Thomas lifted the strange contraption he had carried beneath his arm. “Give me your bag.”
“My bag?” Watson said dully even as he surrendered it. Thomas took the bag, opened it, and dumped the surgical supplies on the seat beside them. “What are you doing?”
“Knives are useless against this man. Only this”—he pushed the contraption down through the mouth of the bag—“only this can stop him.”
Watson gingerly plucked his scalpels and clamps off that leather seat where hundreds of hindquarters—French hindquarters—sat daily, and slipped the implements into his coat pocket. “If you don’t mind my saying, this plan seems a bit ragged.”
Thomas gave a smile and slapped a hand on his comrade’s back. “I’m no Sherlock Holmes. My plans are a bit rough and ready.”
Beyond the cab windows, the great palace of the Louvre loomed up. Magnificent walls of stone held row on row of enormous windows.
As the hansom pulled to a stop, Watson said, “How will I recognize Harold Silence?”
“Ah, now, there’s the roughest part of my plan,” Carnacki allowed. “You see, Silence is a master of disguise, so it would be no good telling you what he looks like, because you would then know only the one man
not
to look for.”
“Sounds like my old friend Holmes,” Watson said offhandedly.
Thomas gave a startled look. He then lifted the medical bag and stepped out the hansom door. “Pay the cabby, would you?”
A graduate of the Baker Street Irregulars, indeed
, thought Watson.
After counting out the fare, Watson rushed down the pavement to catch up with Thomas at the entrance to the Louvre. He was just in time to pay a shilling and sixpence for each of them to enter.
Just beyond the ticket booth, a map on the wall displayed the layout of the museum.
“There are parallel galleries throughout this place,” Thomas said, pointing. “See here. I’ll start in Roman sculpture while you wander through Greek. At the end of each gallery, there’s a door that connects them. Each time you come to such a doorway, linger nearby until we can make visual contact. Then move on.”
“That sounds fine,” Watson said, “but let’s also pick a meeting spot a few galleries down.”
“Look here—this worn spot on the map, here in the middle of the Renaissance paintings …”
“What of it?”
“A hundred fingers tap that spot every day. That’s where the
Mona Lisa
must be. That’s the one painting we know Silence is after.”
Watson nodded. “Then let’s make our way toward the great lady.”
Thomas headed off into a gallery of Roman statuary, while Watson lost himself among the Greeks. It was a haunting feeling to wander among all those ancient figures carved by dead hands—all the while knowing that a killer stalked among them.
Watson reached the end of the first gallery and looked through the doorway but did not see Thomas. Pretending interest in a bust of Agamemnon, Watson waited until Thomas appeared. When he did, the coconspirators nodded ever so slightly to each other before moving along.
In the next gallery, Watson walked among medieval altar
paintings, with their jewel tones and their gold-leaf halos—icons, emblems, codes in the clothing and in the posture. All of it spoke of Christ and his death and his power. At the end of that gallery, there was Thomas standing beyond the door.
Onward, then, through a hall of Renaissance paintings. Watson was mesmerized. Here was art through a different eye, through a modern, scientific eye. Every person in the paintings looked at something within the frame or beyond, and often the most important person looked at the viewer. So staggered was Watson by the masters’ works that he lost track of time, and when he arrived at the doorway between the galleries, Thomas was not there.
Perhaps Watson was ahead of him. He settled in beside the Raphael painting
The Virgin in the Meadow
. Mary was on a grassy field, apparently sitting on a hay bale, her red dress and blue robe framing the naked figure of the infant Jesus, who clutched a long thin staff. John the Baptist bowed before him. The composition was centered and balanced, the hues without hint of blackness, and the babe naked and unashamed. Raphael’s brushwork was so fine Watson could not make out a single stroke. He stepped up closer.
“
Reculez s’il vous plaît
,” said an old guard, moving up beside him.
Watson did not understand much French but did understand that he had gotten too close. “
Pardonnez-moi
.”
The old man smiled at Watson’s accent, but his own was just as thick when he switched to English. “Raphael was a genius, yes?”
“Yes,” Watson responded, shooting a look through the doorway and still seeing no sign of Thomas. “It all seems so balanced, so perfect.”
“Raphael had an eye for composition,” the old man said—for old he was, with white hair jutting from beneath his cap
and wrinkles around his spectacled eyes and a white mustache and beard around his mouth. He rocked back on his heels, clasped his hands behind his back, and chuckled. “Yes, Raphael achieved the perfect balance in the end, but do you know that he sketched many versions to compose this one painting? He kept at it until he got it just right.”
“Thank you,” Watson said, not wanting to be rude but beginning to fear what had happened to Thomas. When the old guard frowned, Watson continued, “Really. It’s quite remarkable. I have an altogether deeper appreciation for Raphael’s work.” With a smile and a nod, he stepped onward, crossing through the huge double doorway into the gallery where Thomas should have been.
He was nowhere to be seen, but Watson’s eyes did lock on a familiar face—one that he knew better than his own. The
Mona Lisa
hung nearby. It was not a large painting, not given a spot of any particular prominence, but those eyes that had burned their way through Leonardo’s mind would not let Watson look away. He wandered across the gallery toward the
Mona Lisa
and stood there before her and let her peer into him. What strange eyes, dipping into shadow at their corners, and what a strange smile, doing the same.
“Magnificent, no?” said a voice, and Watson startled, turning to see the old guard behind him. “The effect is called
sfumato
—hiding details in shadow. Da Vinci knew that whatever expression he might have given to her face would not be as satisfying as the expressions we would have given, so he left the key parts in shadow, left us to project on her what we wish to see—”