Free The Last Confession of Sherlock Holmes by Kieran Lyne

see reason? Colonel Sebastian Moran, the right hand man of Professor James Moriarty, the man you yourself labelled the Napoleon of crime, he is your man!” Mycroft exclaimed, slamming his cigar down with surprising force. “Moran may not be Moriarty, but he is still capable of damage upon a great scale; a scale that will be significantly increased if he is able to dispose of you while you are chasing shadows around the East End, protecting prostitutes from some deranged savage with a knife!”
    â€œThe sharpness of your mind always did contrast with the occasional bluntness of your tongue Mycroft,” I replied in slight amusement at my brother’s little outburst. “But fret not; you do not have to delve into your political tool-box to reason with me. As you have correctly stated, my continued existence is dependant upon my capturing Colonel Moran; however, such an exploit does not necessitate abandoning my hunt for Jack the Ripper.”
    Before Mycroft had chance to retort, he was interrupted by a knock on the door, and Geoffrey entered with a perplexed look on his brow.
    â€œI am sorry to disturb you sir, but there is a letter addressed to you. It says that it is urgent,” he said, placing the correspondence upon the table before swiftly turning upon his heel and making his exit.
    â€œThank you, Geoffrey,” said Mycroft. “I do apologise, Sherlock, but occasionally my colleagues do need advice upon matters of importance.”
    My mind had rather drifted into the pleasures of my smoke and the intricacies which had began to develop when I was abruptly interrupted by the concerned tone of my brother.
    â€œSherlock,” Mycroft said gravely. “This is intended for you.”
    Rather shocked, I took the offending document from my brother, struggling to deduce what could have caused his dumbstruck expression. The letter resembled an authentic dispatch of the British Government, but clearly it was not another tiresome offer from the Prime Minister; the only remarkable feature judging by the gauge and texture of the paper was that it appeared to be from the Central News Ltd printing press. It read:
    â€˜I cungratulat yu on servivin the perils of Rykenback Mr Homes but I also mus’ apologis for not bein the firs’ to welkom yu bak…’ The rest was blank, apart from two small words written using red ink in the bottom-right corner of the page, ‘ To Hell. ’
    I confess that my actions upon finishing the letter were rather rash. I leapt from my chair, Mycroft unable to so much as twitch before I had cast from my shoulders the shelter and protection which I had so readily sought. I reached the threshold, but could see nothing through the great dark cloud which had consumed London. I frantically searched the area: there was a small stone by the door, which had not been present upon my arrival; there were also the unmistakable signs of footprints. I ran to the boundary of Mycroft’s property, but could see only a handful of office-clerks, rushing through the fog back to their nearby lodgings. Then I saw a most disturbing sight.
    Upon the street corner, a man stepped out of the darkness. I could not see his face, for it appeared to be covered by some kind of sheath and was dressed in shadow; only his eyes could be seen, glowing demonically in the reflection of a nearby street-lamp. He wore a long black coat and top hat.
    For a moment, neither he nor I could act, other than to simply remain motionless, glaring into each other’s eyes. I began to run toward the man, but he simply stepped back, instantly vanishing into the darkness. I reached the corner in a matter of seconds but he had disappeared; Jack the Ripper had slipped back into the night.
    I stood for a moment, transfixed; I could not comprehend how this man could possibly have known of my return. If it were Moran, then I could not help but wonder why I was still alive. A man of such ability could have