Free The Falling Curtain (The Assassination of Sherlock Holmes Book 3) by Craig Janacek

there.”
    “Should we split up?” I suggested. “It will be harder to follow three men travelling alone rather than a group.”
    Holmes shook his head. “But even if one man is followed, it will give away the game. Nevertheless, your suggestion is a good one, Watson, and we shall indeed split up. Once we reach the lobby, Watson will engage the fifth hansom cab that appears, while Johnson and I will make our way upon foot. We will meet at St Pancras Station and will then proceed together to our final destination. Any questions? No? I see that you both changed into the suits I provided, yes? And you have the hats? Excellent, let us be off.”
    Earlier in the afternoon, Holmes had sent up to the suite a new suit for both Johnson and I, his brown and mine grey. These were accompanied by hats, an ascot for Johnson and a bowler for me. At the time, I thought that Holmes had simply believed that our previous attire might attract too much attention, as I noted that Holmes had also acquired a new suit and hat. But once we reached the hotel’s lobby, I realized that he had a far deeper strategy in play. For in that magnificent space there was a congregation of men unlike anything I think the Langham had previously witnessed. As I gazed about in confused awe, I counted no less than twenty men dressed exactly like my friend, with an equal number of men who resembled either me or Mr. Johnson in both stature and attire. I could not help but laugh at the brilliance and wonder of it all, and I was certain that the poor employees and guests of the hotel would remain mystified about that bizarre gathering for many long years to come.
    Before I could even note it, Holmes and Johnson had melted into the crowd, such that even I could no longer spot the real man amongst his doppelgängers. At some unseen cue, the crowd sprang into action and began to vacate the hotel from all possible means of egress. A handful of ‘Holmes’ and ‘Johnsons’ and other ‘Watsons’ joined me in hailing hansoms, but I made certain that I was the occupier of the fifth one to arrive. As my cab pulled away, I was still laughing at Holmes’ subterfuge, and wondered from precisely where Holmes had managed to find so many willing actors and identical suits?
    Although my driver had clearly been instructed to take a roundabout track to the neo-Gothic railway station at St Pancras, it was a span of less than fifteen minutes before I found myself deposited at what appeared to be my first destination. Disembarking, I looked about in vain for Holmes or Johnson, but could not spot them. I stood there for a moment, unsure of what I should do, when a ragged young news-vender approached. Although I had weightier subjects upon my mind than the events of the day, I purchased a copy so as to have something to do while awaiting the arrival of my friends. I thought it would appear more natural than standing there idle. Imagine my surprise when the lad did not immediately move off, but instead spoke to me in a low voice. “I recommend the story on page four, Doctor.” Before I could look up and ask him what he meant, he had vanished into the crowd. I shrugged and followed his advice, where I found a message scrawled in Holmes’ familiar hand instructing me to proceed to a black brougham on the nearby corner of York Way and Caledonia Street.
    This proved to be a rather plain conveyance, though heavy velvet draperies blocked the windows such that its occupants could travel unseen. Before I could knock upon the door, it swung open to briefly reveal Mr. Johnson, before he reached out and hauled me rather roughly inside. “Sorry about that, Doctor. Instructions from the boss.”
    “Yes, well,” said I, rubbing my injured shoulder suggestively. “Where is Mr. Holmes?”
    “Right here, Watson,” replied my friend as he slipped into the brougham after me, which immediately sprang into motion. “I was watching you to ensure that you were not followed, but I think we are in