My new story starts with something of a teaser. Apart from the Judge, the named characters are of course the invention of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I have adopted the convention that Watson's middle name was 'Hamish', the Scots version of 'James', which explains why his long suffering wife calls him by that name at one point in the canon.
Prologue
Tuesday, 7th September 1920
There was not an empty seat to be had in the crowded Number One Court, in the Old Bailey, London that fine, late summer morning. The case which was the subject of all the attention had been followed in the newspapers with increasing degrees of amazement and hysteria as the details had been reported. 'The Times' had been especially vocal in its condemnation of the Defendant.
The visitors sitting in the public Gallery had listened in awe as, day after day, the awful details of the case had been slowly and painstakingly revealed by the lawyers. Each had doubtless formed their own opinion of the man in the dock, whether he was innocent or guilty; but now matters were drawn to a conclusion. There was only going to be one opinion that mattered – that of the 'twelve good men and true' who had been the Jury in the case.
The room now fell silent as that Jury, tired from their deliberations, filed in and took their place in two rows. All eyes from the public gallery were on them, trying no doubt to see if any would give away, by a look or glance, the result and with it, the fate of the Defendant. But the twelve men sat rigidly, face front, unblinking.
A few moments later, everyone rose to their feet as His Lordship Judge Forrester entered and took his seat. A quiet murmur arose as those present regained their seats, and then silence fell again.
At a sign from the Judge, the Clerk of the Court, resplendent in his white wig and gown, stood and faced the Jury. "Gentlemen of the Jury, have you elected a spokesman?"
One man stood. "We have."
The Clerk deferred to the Judge, who now turned to face the Jury. "Gentlemen of the Jury," he addressed the spokesman, "you have reached a verdict?"
"We have, My Lord," he replied.
"Is it unanimous?"
"It is, My Lord."
So this is what the past six weeks had come to. A reply of one word surely meant death for the Defendant; a reply of two words his freedom.
"Good." A pause. "How do you find the Defendant? Guilty or not guilty?"
The silence during the short pause was charged with electric expectation.
"Guilty."
There was a gasp from the people watching in the public gallery. A few calls of "Hurrah!" were quickly silenced as the Judge called for quiet.
Judge Forrester was a man with the air of supreme authority. In other circumstances he probably would have felt important, being as he was the centre of attention. But not today. It seemed that he now addressed the Jury with sadness.
"Gentlemen of the Jury, thank you for your service over these past six weeks. I know it has not been easy, and many of you have known the pressure of exercising your duty in the full glare of publicity. So my thanks in conducting yourselves so well. You are a credit. You are hereby dismissed."
As the Judge finished addressing them, the Jury were shown out of the courtroom. They would not hear the sentence.
The Judge waited until they were gone before turning to face the defendant in the Dock.
"Sebastian Moran, you have been found guilty of the most serious crime that a human being can commit. To take the life of a fellow human being is unforgiveable and for that reason carries the ultimate penalty. You know this." Moran stared at him, meeting his eyes steadily as he continued, a faint smile upon his aged, scarred face. "It has been proved beyond reasonable doubt by a Jury of your peers that you have committed murder, but notwithstanding this it is with some sorrow that I pronounce my judgement upon you. Your military service record is exemplary, your recent actions in the War for King and Empire peerless. I still struggle to understand what drove you to your crime. However ...." He took a deep breath as if he did not want to say the words that followed. He placed a small square of black cloth upon his head.
"For the murder of John Hamish Watson on the 19th January 1920, I sentence you to be taken from this court to a place of execution. You will be hanged by the neck until you are dead. And may God have mercy on your soul."
"All rise." The Clerk of the Court ordered the procedure as the Judge left the Court. The other officials then made their way from the room, and finally the public Gallery was cleared. A small knot of newspaper reporters were first from the Gallery, hurrying to make their reports. Moran was taken below to start his final journey to Pentonville Prison.
In the end, one man and one woman were left sitting in the gallery. Both had been present for the duration of the proceedings. A single tear ran down the woman's cheek, before she finally rose with a sigh and left the gallery for the last time. As she walked past the man, their eyes met. He nodded curtly, his eyes following her graceful movement as she walked through the open Gallery door and into the sunlit corridor beyond.
The man sat alone for many more minutes, his expression fighting to hide his emotions. At last he left his seat and made his way out into the sunshine. He turned and looked back at the mighty edifice of the Court, the home of English law, the basis of rule in the Empire.
Sherlock Holmes knew that he faced a long, lonely journey back to Sussex. But, he thought to himself, at least justice – of sorts – had been done. So why did he feel so unsettled?