The Devonshire Epicurean Society

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And so it was, a good two months almost had passed since the horrific events of that night, when I'd called upon Holmes in our Baker Street flat once again, at his insistence, for a long-overdue "victory celebration," as he'd called it. When I arrived in the evening, I found my friend still wearing a silken sling over his injured arm and customary mourning suit, staring out of the front picture window at a scene he'd apparently found fascinating. The date was now July the Fourth - what the Americans refer to as their "Independence Day" holiday, celebrating that country's secession from the Empire almost a century and a half earlier - and Holmes was looking in the direction of the United States' Embassy in Grosvenor Square. They traditionally observed this hard-fought-and-won victory by shooting off fireworks from a barge on the Thames, with permission of His Majesty, so I understood. They exploded high in the night sky, clearly visible over the rooftops of our humble neighborhood; their colorful flares illuminating Holmes' sharp, angular features as he viewed them.

"Good evening, Watson - and, welcome," he spoke without turning around.

I came alongside of him to watch the spectacular display.

"Still thinking of 'phantoms,' Holmes?" I asked.

He didn't answer straight off. It was obvious he was in one of his "ruminating moods."

"He's not out there, you know - Moriarty's dead! He finished himself off in that burning bakery!"

"They didn't find his body, though - did they, Watson? Not even any charred remains!"

"That's because he was incinerated in both the blast, and the resulting conflagration! No one could've survived that inferno!"

"No onehuman, that is, old friend! He shouldn't have survived Reichenbach - yet, he obviously did!" He turned his eyes towards me. "They found a basement below street-level, and a manhole access-cover in the back alleyway ajar. If he'd been quick enough, though grievously injured, he just might - justmighthave..."

"Holmes,Holmes- get a grip, man, you're obviously still feeling the stressful effects of that evening, and it's completely understandable, given the set of circumstances."

"I'm sorry, Watson. I know it might sound petty, but I just feel that I was - justice was – 'cheated' that night! I had so longed to have him brought forth before a courtroom, and sentenced either to swing on the gallows, or - spend the rest of his wretched life with only a cell-window's view!" He regarded me grimly "He's like a demonic cat, Watson, with nine lives, and more to spare! He could've made it out to a waiting powerboat on the river, with more of his confederates, and be spirited away across the Channel, to the Continent. Even as we speak, he could be hiding out in some secretive spider-hole, spinning his web of nefarious criminal enterprises once again. I fear we'll hear from him again someday, when the time comes!"

I took him by his good arm, gently pulling him away. "Come away from the window, Holmes, and put Moriarty in the past, where he belongs."

He was not to be mollified so easily. I chanced another avenue of reasoning.

"That's not all what's bothering you - is it? There's more to it, than that devil!"

He cast his eyes downward, then briefly looked away before speaking.

"I'm not quite so sure that this was one of our more successful cases, Watson. Our primary mission was a complete and total failure! I still feel responsible for poor Miss Ermine's death."

"But you shouldn't, man - you mustn't! You had no way of knowing that it was to be her fate in the oven that night - no one but those heathens were responsible!"

"Nevertheless, old friend, perhaps you should think twice before writing about this one, in your journals - for the time being, at least!"

"I'll take that under advisement - certainly the gruesome details are not for the squeamish!"

"I've also been thinking, Watson," he continued, "about what Moriarty had said - about this being 'the death of an era,' and the changing social mores and beliefs of this new century."

"Cannibalism, Holmes?" I laughed rather uneasily. "Surely you can't mean that! Such an atrocity will NEVER become acceptable in civilized society! Those were the ravings of a lunatic we listened to that night! Cast them out from your mind, for your own sake!"

"Mad, perhaps - then again, perhaps not so mad?" He gave me the gravest of looks. "All during my career - our careers, Watson - I've seen the very nature of committed crimes changing, along with their perpetrators. At first, it was mainly petty crimes of theft of property, along with the occasional murder or two. Then - somewhat larger criminal schemes, of grand larceny, and killing for hire - Moriarty's level of misdeeds!" He looked intently at me. "I tell you, Watson, as of late, I've seen an increase in crime of a different, more venal kind - what's now being described as 'hate crimes,' crimes of offense against decency - against humanity its very self!" He paused for emphasis; "I've heard rather disturbing rumors recently, from my foreign correspondents in Eastern Europe, about possible atrocities against one of history's oldest scapegoats - the Jew! Why then should sadistically murdering, and eating human flesh be so different?"

"Please, Holmes - this is supposed to be a victory celebration, remember? You were instrumental in putting down this ghoulish 'gourmet-dining club,' vanquishing Moriarty - and, winning the eternal gratitude of the fair Miss Adler to boot!" I added with a sly wink.

Holmes permitted himself a smile, followed by one of his brief, barking laughs. "Ha, yes! I'd not forgotten! She recovered rather nicely from her ordeal, don't you think, old friend? And safely back in America now thank goodness! She's even extended an invitation to come visit her there, whenever I can find the time." He added appreciatively, "Travel always 'broadens the mind,' Watson - I'm living proof of it!" He paused for thought. "I just might take her up on her kind offer, later this summer or fall. I've already seen the state of New York - I think I should like to visit next its' neighbor, New Jersey. Which reminds me..."

Holmes strode over to the top shelf above his work desk of his filed news-clippings, and brought down a new folder from there.

"I've lately been reading some of the most extraordinary news inThe Times, from out of America!" He withdrew a few snippets of newsprint, and began to read. "Seems there's a man there by the name of Ford, rather an uneducated fellow, really - formerly a simple farmer - who's just started a company bearing his name to produce motorcars, using a new process he calls 'mass production.' He claims once his assembly line is up and running, he should be able to produce them at about the rate... "He read with his magnifier, "... of about four or five per working day!" He looked up at me. "Rather an ambitious chap, wouldn't you say, Watson?"

"If you say so, Holmes," I offered. "Can't imagine they'd be that good, though, what with hurrying along like that!"

"He also claims that he should be able to make them much more affordable for the common working man. Says he envisions 'a network of paved roadways,' covering their entire country someday, filled with whole scores of these motorcars!"

"Really, old man, 'motorcars' replacing both the carriage and hansom cab? I somehow doubt it."

"And that's not the least of it!" he selected another clipping, "There's a pair of brothers named Wright - bicycle mechanics from the state of Ohio, if you can believe it - who are building, and preparing to test and fly one of those 'heavier-than-air-craft' later this year!" He looked up. "They call it an 'aero plane' and predict that someday, wholefleetsof these incredible machines will be ferrying paying passengers, across their land - and even beyond! Even have their military interested in the concept, for future use in war-time!"

"Come now Holmes – 'flying machines?' Scores of motorcars? You're beginning to sound like your old friend H.G. Wells, or even that Jules Verne fellow!" I regarded him reproachfully. "They're dreamers, Holmes, these Americans, the lot of them, aside from dear Ms. Adler, of course. We have our own 'boffins' at home - this would all have to prove itself before I'd buy into any of it!"

"Then, Watson, perhaps dreamers are what the world needs more of! For history has proven, time and again, that if you dream long and hard enough, with plenty of necessary practical work, of course, some dreams have a certainty of becoming reality!"

And as very often happens, my readers will note, Holmes' speculations did indeed prove most accurate! "Enough of this talk about dreamers and their fanciful inventions, Holmes - let's sit down to our dinner."

"Agreed, old man!"

We seated ourselves at the dining table, which was laid out with a most bountiful meal, provided courtesy of our own dear Mrs. Hudson. There was more on the sideboard as well, along with a bottle of the Dom Perignon '97 that was "appropriated" from the Devonshire manor house, to serve "a much more fitting purpose," as Holmes had put it, chilled in an ice bucket. As we tucked our dinner napkins in, some troubling thoughts suddenly occurred to me, and my friend and colleague must've read my face, as usual.

"Come, come, Watson, out with it, what's eating away at you now?"

"Just a few, unexplained details about the case, I'm afraid. There's just certain things I still can't quite figure out on my own..."

He put down his knife and fork, folded his hands, and pleasantly observed, "There always are, aren't there, old friend? Out with them, then!"

"First off", I queried, "there's the matter of the locked doors at both the young American woman's hotel room, and Moriarty's demonic bakery."

Holmes smiled, nonplussed. "'Skeleton keys,' Watson! Every common criminal surely knows of them by now! You simply put it, a wax mold on its end, into the lock in question, turn slightly, and,voila'! You have an exact impression of the lock's internal tumblers, from which to make a perfect duplicate of the original key! Moriarty's henchmen most likely included a bellhop at the hotel who used this method, and his 'procurors' entered her room at night, while she was asleep, drugged her, then carried her off and locked the door behind them. And as for the fiend's purloined lair," he looked at me knowingly, "Moriarty obviously didn't want some curious passersby or policeman on his beat to interrupt him, and he knows me -knewme, at least - well enough by now to know that I usually carry my selected set of lock-picks with me whenever I'm on a case, and so, trusted in my insatiable curiosity. 'Elementary' again, dear fellow!"

"Curiosityalmostkilled the cat - three of them, to be exact - this time, Holmes!"

He offered another laugh. "Ha, true, too true!"

"Secondly," I ventured, "when you had a piece of that poor girl's cooked... 'meat' on your fork... you had it halfway to your mouth!" I eyed him most curiously. "Justhowfar were you prepared to carry on this masquerade, Holmes? What would you've done if Lestrade and his men hadn't showed up when they did?"

There was a bit of an uncomfortable silence. Holmes looked down at his dinner plate and fork, then - regarded me in utmost sincerity.

"Let's just say, old friend... that it wasmost providential that he did! I really didn't know what else to do. If we'd refused, or otherwise appeared reluctant to carry on as the rest, we most assuredly would've been exposed as frauds, and, perhaps - have met with the direst consequences ourselves!" He looked me in the eyes as he continued. "It's high time, old chap, that both you and your readership learned that I am, indeed, 'only human,' and therefore, 'fallible' - at times, at least!"

I felt another involuntary shudder at this, as I'd remembered, "Then, at the outset of all this, when I'd remarked on your renewed appearance... you'd mentioned a 'new restorative,' along with a change in diet..."

Sherlock Holmes leveled his gaze at me, brow furrowed - then, regarded me most astonished.

"Why - you don't mean - youreallydidn'tassume, that I - you didn't THINK..." He then looked upwards in merriment, laughing delightedly as he did so! "NOW I understand, Watson, why you always seemed a biton edge throughout all of this!"

He returned his gaze to me, most amused. "You do remember, of course, that period of over three years after Reichenbach, when I was 'officially pronounced dead' - the time I spent expanding my knowledge through my travels?"

"Yes ... I'm listening, Holmes..."

"I'd journeyed as far East as Nepal, where I stayed with a select order of Tibetan monks, who'd practiced both meditation and the achievement of an 'out of body state,' within which to achieve inner peace. With a little persuasion, they taught me some of their secrets - came in very handy more than once, I can tell you! Most recently, through my advanced studies in Oriental pharmacology, I visited a Chinese herbalist in Limehouse, and procured the necessary ingredients for an ancient 'spring tonic.' That, along with a temporary changeover to a strictly vegetarian diet, did the trick! From then on, I was right as rain. And," he paused, with a wink, "much more 'regular,' as well!"

"Well, thank God - that's a relief!"

"Now, then, enough of this 'post mortem.' Let's simply enjoy our victory dinner, shall we?" Holmes lifted the domed lid off of the main course, and I experienced yet another mild "panic spell." He looked inquiringly at me, then down at it - and back up again.

"Why, what's the matter now, dear fellow? You look positively..." He gave me a look of mock dismay. "It's only Beef Wellington, Watson - made from the finest Yorkshire beef cattle of the 'cloven-hoofed variety' I can assure you!"

"Er... that might be all well and good, Holmes, but... for the time being, I think I might like to... stick with the Welsh rarebit, and Yorkshire pudding, if you don't mind?"

He laughed. "As you wish, old friend!"

He heaped my plate, as well as his, of our individual entrée's, laid them down, then picked up the bottle of very fine champagne, filling our glasses with it.

"So, then, Watson - to what shall we drink?"

I thought but a moment. "How about - to the new century?"

"One fraught with both promise, and peril!"

"To fleets of flying machines, and motorcars!"

"To renewed resolve, and old friendships!"

"TO THE FUTURE!" we both declared.

We quickly clinked drinks, downing our toasts, then threw our emptied glasses into the fireplace, smashing them. As I briefly reflected on "another fine mess" that poor Mrs. Hudson would most likely have to clean up later, we returned our attention to our fine dinner.

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THE END

(This story is lovingly and respectfully dedicated to both the memory of the lateSir Arthur Conan Doyle, and his immortal literary creation. May The Great Detective live on forever, if only in our collective imaginations!)