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

the clear.”
    “So where are we going, Holmes?” I asked, somewhat crossly that he had kept me in the dark about all of his preparations for so long.
    He chuckled. “I apologize, Watson. We are headed to an inn situated upon Hampstead. From there we will wage our offensive against Mr. Mortlock.”
    “And who exactly is that?”
    “All in good time, Watson. All in good time. Much will be revealed tonight.”
    Finally, after climbing for some time up the ridge where I knew Hampstead to lay, the brougham ground to a halt and the three of us bundled out. I looked about for a moment before recognizing Parliament Hill, the highest point on the Heath. I had been there many times on fine summer days, when the hill was teeming with laughing clerks, tittering seamstresses, courting couples, off-duty soldiers, and folks from every other walk of life. They came up here for the clear air and fine views, to look back over the often dismal yellow-laden, smoke-covered city from which they had temporarily made their escapes. But in the late hours of the night, those merry-makers had fled back down to the river-side city below, leaving only a deserted landscape of hills, fields, and woods. I knew that Holmes had chosen this locale primarily for its topography which would make it impossible for us to be tracked by an unseen foe.
    After surveying the area, Holmes set off briskly across the heath, Johnson, and I trailing close behind. The last slivers of the setting sun were fading to black, and the long, sloping plain in front of us was still tinged with hints of bronze, deepening into rich, ruddy brown where the faded ferns and brambles caught the evening light. But the glories of the wonderful autumnal panorama were wasted upon my companion, who was sunk in the deepest thought.
    A walk of a mile or so across the wind-swept heath, the air filled with the crisp snap of advancing winter and its trees alive with the evening calls of the birds, brought us to a rear-gate that opened into the grounds of the public house. A path led us through a small tea garden, and we circled the building where, from the front window upon the left of the door, there peeped a glimmer of a feeble light.
    At the reception desk, we were met by a rosy-cheeked young lass, who welcomed us to Wat Tyler’s House. Speaking for all of us, Holmes engaged three rooms, giving Mr. Johnson’s true name, but registering himself as Mr. Harris of Bermondsey and myself as Mr. Price of Birmingham. We had nothing in the way of baggage, so there was no need to immediately visit our rooms. Instead, Holmes motioned for us to follow him into a back room, which seemed to be a leasable space for a private party. However, to my great surprise, the room was already filled with six individuals.
    Holmes smiled at the sight of them and waved his arm as if to include them in our group. “Dr. Watson, Mr. Johnson, may I introduce you to the New Irregulars.”
    As I studied them, I realized that several faces seemed familiar. The first was a slender young man in his mid-twenties, with a clean-shaven face and a wise look in his brown eyes. His coat-less attire and well-stained apron suggested that he was the keeper of this establishment.
    “Is that little Billy?” I cried. “Not a boy in buttons any longer, I see.” For there was little doubt that this was our former page at 221B Baker Street.
    He smiled abashedly. “It is mighty fine to see you again, Dr. Watson. Even considering the circumstances.”
    “What has become of you, lad?”
    With a nod of his head, he indicated the roof above our heads. “You are looking at it, Doctor. With the money I earned from you and Mr. Holmes, I had enough to settle down and purchase this little inn.”
    “Congratulations, Billy. It is very well deserved.”
    I glanced over at the second man, who also appeared to be an old acquaintance. Although no longer a youth of fourteen, he still had a bright, keen face. His blue eyes were active, and his entire