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‘You went to Fitzsimmons and told him that you were being threatened. Acting on his instructions, you sent Ross to a meeting where he believed he would be paid for his silence. He had left for that meeting moments before Watson and I arrived at The Bag of Nails and by then we were too late. It was not Fitzsimmons or yourself that Ross met. It was the two thugs who called themselves Henderson and Bratby. And they made sure he would not trouble you again.’ Holmes paused. ‘Ross was tortured to death for his audacity, a white ribbon placed around his wrist as a warning to any other of these wretched children who might have the same ideas. You may not have commanded it, Mr Carstairs, but I want you to know that I hold you personally responsible. You exploited him. You killed him. You are a man as debased and as vile as any I have ever met.’

He rose to his feet.

‘And now I will leave this house, for I do not wish to tarry here any longer. It occurs to me that, in some ways, your marriage was not perhaps as ill-judged as might be thought. The two of you are made for each other. Well, you will find police carriages waiting outside for both of you, although they will be taking you their separate ways. You are ready, Watson? We will show ourselves out.’

Edmund and Catherine Carstairs sat motionless on the sofa together. Neither of them spoke. But I felt them watching us intently as we left.

Afterword

It is with a heavy heart that I draw to the end of my task. While I have been writing this, it is as if I have been reliving it, and although there are some details I would wish to forget, still it has been good to find myself back at Holmes’s side, following him from Wimbledon to Blackfriars, to Hamworth Hill and Holloway, always one step behind him (in every sense) and yet enjoying the rare privilege of observing, at close quarters, that unique mind. Now that the final page draws near, I am aware once again of the room in which I find myself, the aspidistra on the windowsill, the radiator that is always a little too hot. My hand is aching and all my memories are skewered on the page. Would that there was more to tell, for once I am finished I will find myself alone once again.

I should not complain. I am comfortable here. My daughters visit me occasionally and bring my grandchildren too. One of them was even christened Sherlock. His mother thought she was paying homage to my long friendship, but it is a name he never uses. Ah well, they will come at the end of the week and I will give them this manuscript with directions for its safe lodging and then my work will be done. All that remains is to read it one last time and perhaps take the advice of the nurse who attended upon me this morning.

‘Nearly finished, Dr Watson? I’m sure there are still a few loose ends that need tying up. Dot the i’s and cross the t’s, and then you must let us all read it. I’ve been talking to the other girls and they can hardly wait!’

There is a little more to add.

Charles Fitzsimmons – I forbear to use the word Reverend – was quite correct in what he said to us on that final night in the House of Silk. He never did come to trial. But on the other hand, he was not released as he had so fondly expected. Apparently there was an accident at the prison where he was being held. He fell down a flight of stairs and was found with a fractured skull. Was he pushed? It would seem very likely for, as he had boasted, he knew some unpleasant secrets about a number of important people and, unless I misunderstood him, even went so far as to suggest that he might have connections with the royal family. Absurd, I know, and yet I remember Mycroft Holmes and his extraordinary visit to our lodgings. From what he said to us, and from the way he behaved, it was evident that he had come under considerable pressure and … But no, I will not even consider the possibility. Fitzsimmons was lying. He was attempting to inflate his own importance before he was arrested and carried away. There’s an end to it.

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