The Final Problem
It is with a heavy heart that I take up my pen to write these the last words in which I shall ever record the singular gifts by which my friend Mr. Sherlock Holmes was distinguished. In an incoherent letter which reached me from Lyons in the May of this year, he told me that he was about to leave that city, and that he desired his papers and effects to be sent to his brother Mycroft. He gave me no address, and it was only by a personal inquiry that I was able to discover that he had passed through the city and had certainly reached Switzerland, where he had remained for some weeks. So far as I know, he has never returned to England.
There was a time when I had every reason to believe that he had perished with his arch-enemy, Professor Moriarty, at the Reichenbach Falls. The circumstances were such that it seemed impossible that he could have escaped, and yet the vague reports which have from time to time reached me from Tibet, Persia, and even Khartoum, have made me hope against hope that he may still be alive.
In any case, the long series of his adventures is at an end. The public has already been told all that could be safely told of his work. It is only now, at this late date, that I am at liberty to disclose the facts which attended his last and most terrible contest.
It was in the spring of the year 1891 that I horned my way into Baker Street with the intention of passing the evening with my friend Sherlock Holmes. His landlady informed me that he had gone to the Continent, and I was about to leave, when I was accosted by a tall, thin man, with a pointed black beard, who had just emerged from the sitting-room.
“You are Dr. Watson, I presume?” said he.
I bowed.
“I am a colleague of Mr. Holmes,” he continued. “My name is Professor Moriarty.”
“Professor Moriarty!” I exclaimed with a start. The name was familiar to me as that of the man who had recently been lecturing upon the binomial theorem.
“Pray be seated,” said he. “I have been waiting for you. I trust that you will not think me intrusive if I say that I have a very high opinion of your friend’s abilities.”
“No man has a higher,” I answered.
“It is a pity,” said Professor Moriarty, “that he should have chosen to direct them against me. You are, I believe, his confidant?”
“I have that honour.”
“Then you have doubtless heard of me?”
“I have heard your name, Professor.”
“And you are aware of my profession?”
“A mathematician, I believe.”
“That is so. But it is not as a mathematician that I am known to your friend. He has done me the honour to observe that I am the Napoleon of crime, Watson. I am the organizer of half that is evil and of nearly all that is undetected in this great city. He is the one man who can stand in my way. He has stood in my way often before. He is standing in my way now. And he will continue to stand in my way unless I remove him.”
“You will never remove him,” said I.
“That remains to be seen,” he answered, with a smile. “You are, I perceive, a man of courage. You are also, if I may say so, a man of some loyalty to your friend. It is a quality which I can appreciate. But it is a quality which may lead you into trouble. I have come here this evening to warn you. If you persist in associating yourself with Sherlock Holmes, you will share his fate.”
“His fate will be an honourable one,” I cried.
“That is a matter of opinion,” said he. “But I will tell you what it will be. He will be utterly destroyed. And you, if you are wise, will detach yourself from him before it is too late.”
He rose from his chair as he spoke, and stood looking down at me with a gleam of something like triumph in his eyes.
“I have given you your warning,” he said. “It is for you to profit by it.”
He turned and left the room without another word. I sat for some time, pondering over his strange message. Then I rose and, finding that Holmes had not yet returned, I left Baker Street and went back to my own rooms.
It was some days before I saw Holmes again. When I did, he was in a state of considerable excitement.
“Watson,” said he, “I have had a narrow escape.”
“From whom?” I asked.
“From Professor Moriarty,” he answered. “He is, as I have had occasion to tell you, the most dangerous man in Europe. He has a colossal intellect, and he is the organizer of a vast criminal machine which has its ramifications in every capital of the Continent. He is a spider in the centre of his web, and that web has a thousand radiations, and he knows well every quiver of each of them. He does little himself. He only plans. But his agents are numerous and splendidly organized. Is there a crime to be done, a paper to be abstracted, we will say, a house to be rifled, a man to be removed—the word is passed to the Professor, the matter is organized and carried out. The agent may be caught. In that case money is found for his bail or his defence. But the central power which uses the agent is never caught—never so much as suspected. This was the organization which I deduced, Watson, and which I devoted my whole energy to exposing and breaking up.”
“And you have succeeded?”
“To some extent. But Moriarty himself has always eluded me. He is a man of such diabolical cunning that he has again and again slipped through my fingers. This time, however, I have him. I have woven my net round him, and it is closing in. In three days—that is to say, on Monday next—matters will be ripe, and the Professor, with all the principal members of his gang, will be in the hands of the police. Then will come the greatest criminal trial of the century, the clearing up of over forty mysteries, and the rope for all of them; but if we are to succeed, Watson, if we are to bring this arch-criminal to justice, it is essential that I should disappear for a few days.”
“Disappear!” I cried.
“Yes, Watson, disappear. It is of the utmost importance. Moriarty is bound to strike when he finds his position desperate. He knows that I am on his track. He knows that I am the one man who can ruin him. He will stick at nothing. He has already made two attempts upon my life. I have been dogged by his emissaries. I have been attacked. I have had to use all my wits to escape. But I shall escape yet, Watson, if you will help me.”
“How can I help you?”
“You can come with me to the Continent.”
“When?”
“To-night.”
“And leave my practice?”
“Your practice, my dear Watson, is not a very absorbing one. Besides, you can leave it in the hands of our friend Anstruther. He is a good man, and he will look after it for you.”
“But why to the Continent?”
“Because Moriarty will hunt me through London. He will have every exit watched. He will have every train searched. He will have every steamer examined. But he will not expect me to go to the Continent. And once there, I can lose myself in the crowd.”
“And what then?”
“Then, Watson, we will wait until the storm has blown over. When Moriarty and his gang are in the cells, we will return to London, and you can resume your practice, and I can resume my studies.”
I hesitated for a moment. The thought of leaving my patients, even for a few days, was distasteful to me. But the thought of Holmes in danger, and of the great criminal organization which he was about to break up, was even more distasteful. I made up my mind.
“I will come with you, Holmes,” I said.
“Good!” he cried. “I knew that I could rely upon you. And now, Watson, we have not a moment to lose. We must make our preparations at once.”
For the next few hours we were busy packing. Holmes, I found, had already made most of his arrangements. He had sent his papers and effects to his brother Mycroft. He had drawn a considerable sum of money from his bank. He had even provided himself with a disguise—a venerable Italian priest—in which he proposed to travel.
At a quarter to nine we drove to Victoria Station. Holmes had taken the precaution of sending his luggage in advance, and we had nothing with us but a couple of small valises. We found the platform crowded with people, and we had some difficulty in making our way to the Continental express.
As we were standing by the carriage door, a porter ran up to us.
“A gentleman for you, sir,” he said to Holmes, touching his cap.
Holmes turned, and I saw his face change. Standing before us was Professor Moriarty himself.
His tall, ascetic figure, his pale, intellectual face, and his deep-set, cunning eyes were all well known to me. He was, indeed, a man of striking appearance.
“You are going on a journey, Mr. Holmes?” he said, with a suave smile.
“Yes,” Holmes answered.
“A long journey, I presume?”
“Very long.”
“And you are taking your friend Dr. Watson with you?”
“Yes.”
“That is very fortunate. I should have been sorry to have missed him. You are, I perceive, in a hurry.”
“Yes, we are rather pressed for time.”
“In that case, I will not detain you. I merely wished to say that I hope you will have a pleasant journey.”
“Thank you,” said Holmes.
Moriarty bowed, and then, turning on his heel, he walked slowly away. Holmes and I looked at each other.
“He is a cool hand,” said Holmes.
“And a dangerous one,” I added.
“Very. But he has made a mistake this time, Watson. He has shown his hand too soon. He has let me see that he knows my plans. And that is a great advantage to me.”
“But he will follow us?”
“Of course he will follow us. But he will not catch us. We shall be too quick for him. And now, Watson, let us get into our carriage.”
We took our seats, and a few minutes later the train steamed out of the station. For some time Holmes sat in silence, with his head sunk upon his breast, and his eyes fixed upon the floor. Then he looked up, and I saw that his face was very grave.
“Watson,” said he, “I have a premonition that this will be a fateful journey for me.”
“Fateful!” I exclaimed.
“Yes, Watson, fateful. I feel that I am on the verge of a great crisis. And I have a conviction that if I can come out of it alive, I shall have done a service to humanity which will outweigh any evil that I may have done in the past.”
I did not like the tone in which he spoke. It was too solemn, too earnest. It was not like the Holmes whom I had known.
“You are not yourself, Holmes,” I said. “You are depressed.”
“No, Watson, I am not depressed. I am merely serious. I have a difficult and dangerous task before me, and I am trying to nerve myself for it.”
We travelled all that night and the next day without any incident. On the evening of the second day we reached Strasbourg. Holmes had intended to go on to Geneva, but he changed his mind.
“We will stop here, Watson,” he said. “I have a reason for it.”
We put up at a quiet hotel, and Holmes spent the whole of the next day in his room. He would see no one, and he would eat nothing. He was, I could see, in a state of great nervous tension.
On the following morning he came down to breakfast, looking pale and worn.
“Watson,” said he, “I have made up my mind. We will go on to Meiringen.”
“To Meiringen!” I cried. “But that is in Switzerland.”
“Precisely. And it is at Meiringen that I propose to end my career.”
“End your career!”
“Yes, Watson. I have come to the conclusion that it is time for me to retire from the world. I have done my work. I have, I hope, been of some service to my fellow-men. And now I wish to spend the rest of my days in peace and quiet.”
“But, Holmes,” I expostulated, “you are still a young man. You have many years of useful work before you.”
“No, Watson,” he answered. “My work is done. And I am tired. I long for rest. And I shall find it at Meiringen.”
We left Strasbourg that morning, and in the evening we arrived at the little Swiss village of Meiringen. It is a picturesque spot, situated in a beautiful valley, and surrounded by lofty mountains. The famous Reichenbach Falls are close by, and it was to these falls that Holmes proposed to make an excursion on the following day.
We started early in the morning, and after a pleasant walk we reached the falls. They are, indeed, a wonderful sight. A great torrent of water, white with foam, rushes down a precipitous gorge, and then, with a deafening roar, plunges into a deep abyss below. The spray rises in a cloud, and the sun, shining upon it, forms a perpetual rainbow.
Holmes stood for some time, gazing at the falls in silence. Then he turned to me.
“Watson,” said he, “I have something to say to you.”
His voice was very solemn, and I saw that his face was pale and set.
“What is it, Holmes?” I asked.
“It is this, Watson,” he answered. “I am going to die.”
“Die!” I cried.
“Yes, Watson, die. And I am going to die here, at these falls.”
“But why, Holmes, why?”
“Because it is my destiny. Because it is the only way in which I can rid the world of Professor Moriarty.”
“Professor Moriarty!”
“Yes, Watson, Professor Moriarty. He has followed me here. He is here now, at this moment, waiting for me.”
“But, Holmes,” I said, “if he is here, let us go back to the village. Let us get help. Let us have him arrested.”
“No, Watson,” he answered. “It is too late for that. He is too cunning, too desperate. He would escape. And then he would hunt me down again. No, Watson, there is only one way. I must meet him here, and I must fight him here. And one of us must die here.”
“But, Holmes,” I pleaded, “think of yourself. Think of your friends. Think of all the good that you can still do in the world.”
“No, Watson,” he said. “My work is done. And I am ready to die. But before I die, I have one last request to make of you.”
“What is it, Holmes?”
“It is this, Watson. When I am dead, I want you to go back to England. I want you to see my brother Mycroft. I want you to tell him what has happened. And I want you to give him this letter.”
He took a letter from his pocket and handed it to me.
“It is for him,” he said. “And now, Watson, good-bye.”
He held out his hand, and I took it. His grasp was firm and strong.
“Good-bye, Holmes,” I said. My voice was choked with emotion.
He turned and walked slowly away from me, towards the edge of the precipice. I stood watching him, with a sinking heart. I saw him reach the brink. I saw him look down into the abyss. I saw him turn and wave his hand to me. And then I saw him disappear.
I rushed forward, and looked over the edge. But there was nothing to be seen. Only the great white torrent of water, rushing and roaring down into the depths below.
I stood there for a long time, stunned and bewildered. I could not believe that Holmes was dead. I could not believe that I should never see him again.
At last I turned and made my way back to the village. I was in a state of collapse. I went to my room and threw myself upon the bed. I lay there for hours, in a sort of stupor.
In the evening a young Swiss boy came to my room. He had a letter in his hand. It was addressed to me, in Holmes’s well-known writing. I tore it open. It ran as follows:
“My dear Watson,
“I write these few lines through the courtesy of Mr. Moriarty, who awaits my convenience for the final discussion of those questions which lie between us. He has been so kind as to outline his intentions to me with a precision which is truly admirable. You will, I am sure, agree with me that it is better that I should go with him than that I should permit him to return to London and to inflict his presence upon you.
“I owe you a deep debt of gratitude, my dear Watson, for your long and loyal companionship. You have been to me more than a friend. You have been a colleague, a comrade, a biographer. You have shared my dangers, you have lightened my burdens, you have brightened my life. I can never repay you for all that you have done for me.
“And now, my dear Watson, I must bid you farewell. The time has come for me to go. But I shall not go alone. Professor Moriarty will go with me. And together we shall explore that undiscovered country from whose bourn no traveller returns.
“Yours, in all affection,
“Sherlock Holmes.”
I read the letter over and over again. I could not believe it. Holmes dead! Moriarty dead! It was too terrible, too incredible.
But there was the letter, in Holmes’s own handwriting. And there was the fact that Holmes had disappeared. And there was the fact that Moriarty had disappeared.
There could be no doubt about it. Holmes was dead. And Moriarty was dead with him.
I sat for a long time, with the letter in my hand, thinking of all that had happened. I thought of Holmes’s wonderful powers, of his extraordinary sagacity, of his indomitable courage. I thought of his many triumphs, of his many services to humanity. And I thought of his tragic end.
It was a sad and bitter thought. But it was a thought that I had to face. Holmes was dead. And I should never see him again.
The next day I left Meiringen. I travelled back to England, a broken and a grieving man. I went to see Mycroft Holmes, and I gave him his brother’s letter. He read it in silence, and then he looked up at me with tears in his eyes.
“It is a great loss, Dr. Watson,” he said. “A very great loss.”
“It is indeed,” I answered.
“But he died as he would have wished to die,” said Mycroft. “He died fighting the greatest enemy of his life. He died a hero’s death.”
“Yes,” I said. “He died a hero’s death.”
And so ended the career of Sherlock Holmes. He was, I take it, the best and the wisest man whom I have ever known.
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