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

body quivered with energy. He wore a modest suit and though his head was uncovered, I immediately pictured him wearing the blue flat-topped cap that was once an essential part of his uniform.
    “Cartwright?”
    “The same, Dr. Watson.”
    “Are you still working for Holmes, after all these years?”
    “Only after a fashion, Doctor,” he replied. “I took over the district messenger office from Mr. Wilson, when his gout proved to be too great to continue.”
    “And we are glad to have you back in the Firm, faithful Cartwright,” interjected Holmes, clasping the man on the shoulder. “Your appreciation for detail is excellent, Watson, as always. Can you also recall the names of these two lads?”
    I looked over the pair of thin, hard-faced men, both well into their thirties. One was slightly taller and older than the other, and he carried himself with an air of longing superiority. He had black hair and dark brown eyes that bespoke of hardness and want, though the fine cut of his suit suggested that those days were long past.  The other had sandy-colored hair, and blue eyes, but seemed nonetheless to be a spiritual twin to the first man. I could not for the life of me place them.
    “I do not believe that I have had the pleasure,” I replied, holding out my hand to the elder of the pair.
    Holmes chuckled. “All, well, it has been a few years, to be certain. And both Mr. Wiggins and Mr. Simpson have come a long way from their former insignificant and disreputable situations.”
    “By Jove!” I exclaimed. “You don’t mean to say that these are your original Irregulars?”
    “I do indeed, though they are street Arabs no longer.” Gesturing to the taller man, Holmes said, “Wiggins here, who always had a fine eye for color, secured an apprenticeship under the artist Hughes. He is now an illustrator at Newnes Publishing.” He then motioned to the second individual. “And you may recall that Simpson here was a sentinel extraordinaire, who would stick to a man like a burr. With a reference from me to Mr. Merryweather, the chairman of directors, Simpson obtained a position at the Coburg branch of the City and Suburban Bank, which certainly needed some additional protection. Due entirely to his own merits, he has subsequently risen to the post of chief guard.”
    The two men nodded to me silently, as I vainly tried to reconcile their adult appearances with the ragged waifs of my memory. Meanwhile, Holmes had moved on to a man whom I was certain I had never met. He was a hearty, full-blooded man of a similar age to Holmes and me. Despite his advancing years, he seemed full of spirits and energy. Under his Burberry overcoat he wore a suit cut in a fashion that I knew to be unique to tailors who resided only in the far eastern edges of our colonies. He had a shock of grizzled hair, a brown weather-beaten face, and eyes which were keen to the verge of fierceness. Yet, when he greeted Holmes, his tone carried a note of kindness.
    “Holmes, I have long owed you a great debt. Now that I am returned to Norfolk after many long years abroad, I am happy to have the opportunity to finally repay you.”
    Holmes shook his head. “Say no more of it, but I am glad to have you here, Trevor. Watson, let me introduce you to Victor, one of the oldest friends from my college days, albeit one I have not seen for three decades.”
    I shook his proffered hand with great delight at finally meeting this man, of whom I had once heard such an extraordinary story. Finally, Holmes turned to the last man, also about the same age of us, thin, high-nosed, and large-eyed, who stood up in the corner. His hunting outfit was covered by a dark Mackintosh. He carried with him a finely-made mousetrap fowling piece.
    “Ah, Cavalier,” said Holmes, warmly. “I am glad that you brought something more practical than your old battle-axe.”
    “Yes, well, I could not be certain from your terse telegram, Holmes, however I expect we may be hunting larger