5"
Death"at"the"Reichenbach"Falls"
In February 1891 a woman called Flora White was
killed with a knife in Whitechapel. Everyone thought
that the murderer was Jack the Ripper. I alone knew
that this was not true. I was sure that 'Jack' had not
killed the last two women to die on the streets of
Whitechapel.
Soon after this, Holmes left for France. He sent me a
strange letter from there which worried me very
much. I could not understand a word of it and
began to wonder if he was taking cocaine again.
This was his letter:
If you remember the Berlin case of 'one in three',
Watson, everything will be clear to you because . . .
the famous German professor in Paris is no longer
alive. I heard he was recently killed while studying
flora in the White Mountains of my favourite island.
Letters and books are appearing soon. Read them
quickly but carefully, as I cannot always follow or
understand him myself. Last night I dreamt and the
next day suddenly understood this problem. The time
comes when he and others will be free - not an easy
escape.
About three weeks after that, I was sitting alone at
home one evening. My wife was away on a visit.
Suddenly, the door opened, and Holmes came in.
He then ran to the window, closed it and locked it.
'Holmes,' I cried. 'What has happened? You look
terrible!' He looked old and ill, and he was shaking
with tiredness. 'What is it?' I asked. 'Are you afraid of
something?'
'Of someone,' he said. 'Did you not get my letter?'
'Yes, but I didn't understand it. What is wrong?'
Holmes looked at me sadly. 'You didn't understand it.
Is your wife here?'
'No, she is a way. Do you want to sleep here? I shall
make sure that you are in no danger.'
He shook his head. 'I cannot rest anywhere. If I sleep,
he will win! I cannot stay here. I would bring evil into
your house. But you can help me, Watson. I must
leave the country tomorrow. Will you come with me?'
'Where are you going, Holmes?'
'Going? I am not going anywhere. I am trying to
escape from him. But he will find me again.
Everywhere I go, he will follow me.'
'Who is he, Holmes?' I asked. 'Professor Moriarty, of
course!' 'But Moriarty is dead,' I said.
'Dead!' he screamed. 'He is trying to kill me! How can
he be dead?'
'But you told me that he was dead.'
'I was mistaken,' Holmes said. 'He is not dead. I told
you that.'
'You told me? But when? Where?'
'In my letter, man! The Berlin case- every third word! A
very easy hidden message, Watson. I thought even
you ... Oh, it doesn't matter. The fact is, Moriarty is
alive and free in London. He killed a woman only
three weeks ago. He will kill again if I do not stop him.
It is a fight to the death between us. Come with me
and help me, Watson. Say that you will come!'
'Of course I will come, old fellow,' I said.
He smiled and lay back in the chair. In a second, he
was asleep. Quickly, I gave him an injection to keep
him asleep. Then, with the help of my cook, I put him
to bed and locked the bedroom door. After that I
had a drink and sat down to think about what I must
do.
Perhaps I did not understand Holmes's hidden
messages, but I did understand what was happening
to the man. He was mad - I knew that now. All that
was evil in him he called Moriarty. The fight with
Moriarty was a battle that was taking place inside his
own head.
I had hoped that Jack the Ripper was dead. He was
not, and now another woman had been murdered. I
felt that her blood was on my hands. The time had
come when I must tell Holmes what I knew about
him. First, I had to be sure that I understood
everything.
I took a cab to Baker Street, and went into HOI2:!e5
S:-~ I did not know what I was looking for, but I began
.c ~ The rooms were untidy, full of old newspapers. I
searched for four hours but found nothing. At four
o'clock in the morning I stopped. I went to the
window and looked out at the dark sky.
Suddenly, I knew what to do. The house opposite,
where Holmes had once seen Moriarty. I ran across
the street and broke the lock on the back door of
the house. Every room was empty, all except one
bedroom. This contained a bed, a cupboard and a
box full of papers. All the papers were about the
Whitechapel murders. Some were cut from
newspapers, others were written by the killer himself.
He described each murder with a sick enjoyment of
what he had done.
Under the papers I found some glass jars of the kind
that are used in hospitals. In them were pieces of
women's bodies. In the last jar was the worst thing of
all- pieces of the body of a little unborn child.
When I saw that, all the friendly feelings I had ever
had for Sherlock Holmes died inside me. Now I could
go straight to Lestrade and ask him to arrest Holmes,
but I chose not to do that. I did not want all England
to know what Holmes, once a good and wise man,
had become. Some evil things are best hidden from
the world. I, and I alone, would face him and his
crimes.
I went out into the cold morning air. I felt strangely
calm, but also excited.
Holmes was still asleep. I search