Part 5

The train lurched to a stop at five o' clock in the morning. The train ride was bad enough – I was stiff and banged about the entire night in the small hard seat, but the waiting was, by far, the worst part of all. Wrapped in my topcoat and a scarf up to my nose, I could entertain nothing but ominous visions the entire night. I spent my time in fretting and going over the hastily documented police report while Sherlock Holmes, ever calm, slept placidly.

I shook him awake the instant the wheels ground to a halt. "Holmes," I said urgently, "we are here."

My companion was immediately wide awake and already observing me critically. "Watson," he said sharply, "you haven't slept at all?"

"No," I said, irritably, "I was too worried."

"Don't get offended, dear fellow." He stood up to stretch, smoothed his wrinkled black jacket, and offered me his hand. "You are always saying I must rest – 'How can I possibly work otherwise?' Well, how can you? Besides, I have dreamed out the plan, you see, which I will tell you in detail once I rent a cab. A detective never truly rests."

"Well I have been positively ill," I told him fervently. "Poor Viola Burgess is alone in our flat and her father is in danger, and we are the only ones who – "

"Dr. Watson, you have worked with me for nearly five years. How many times has it been that we miss the criminal? Very few, and you of all people must know that. I don't intend to begin the practice with this particular case, either. Come now, time to get off and 'lay in wait'."

It didn't sound like an inviting prospect. We filed off the train at Kemptown Station, huddled and mixed among the other passengers, coughing from the dusty coal smoke, wispy clouds coming from our frozen breath. Holmes suddenly became averse to riding in a cab at the moment, so he instead ordered a gig which he drove himself; I clambered up onto the box beside him, and with a lash of his riding whip, the horses started at a quick trot down the road.

Holmes skillfully made his way through all the various byroads and alleys, then over intricate winding paths that would have completely mystified me, especially in the strange town of Brighton-and-Hoves. At that early hour, the moon still hung low in the blue-tinted sky, and a few lonely stars remained faint over the horizon. Eventually everything was obscured by a dreadful white fog that drifted from the sea to settle over the neighbouring village. Occasionally, the plaintive cry of a single gull chimed overhead, reminding me that we were near a sea town, along with giving me a sense of sinking foreboding. I shoved my hat down upon my nose and chided myself for my cowardice.

We sat in silence for the space of approximately one hour, with the cold fog creeping in like death and the moon slowly drowning in the sky. I worried over whether Miss Burgess was safe at our apartment, or if she had fainted, or perhaps come down with other medical problems. You could hear dogs howling raggedly through the mist, and every now and then I saw the dull flicker of a lamp in some home far away. As the time wore on I felt as if Holmes was driving terribly slowly; once or twice the horse slipped, and he had to get down to repair some damage; and yet the morning seemed to be coming on so quickly I feared we would be too late – and that I was doing nothing but watching and waiting like, as the note said, a "doll in the game".

Besides his cold manner, the worst thing about Sherlock Holmes was the fact that he would leave me completely uninformed up to the last moment. I knew my asking about the plan would be to no avail, and it was not until we broke out of the fog to see, like a beacon in the distance, the coloured flag waving over the lean brick building of Brighton College that he began to reveal his plot. "I have been going over the plan," he began slowly to catch my attention. I listened raptly with mingled excitement and terror: excitement, that I was to take place in it – it was as if he were describing some dramatic play he had seen, and I couldn't believe I would be a part of it; terror, because I knew the true danger in the actions we might be forced to commit, and all the lives at stake in the bargain.

"And it will all be done with excellent showmanship," Holmes finished grandly. "Now listen closely – Miss Burgess managed to tell me that Lawrence is rather short, with reddish hair, a pointy face, and a moustache." This was particularly important for my part of the plan. "Hullo, it appears we have arrived at the honourable college."

And indeed we had. Holmes threw himself out of the gig and pulled me out; then with great speed, so that I had a hard time keeping up, he led me into the throngs of people gathered on the lawn in front of the university. A stage with a thick velvet curtain had been erected outside for the ceremony, the men who set it up apparently unaware that the temperature was steadily dropping. Scattered among a crowd of scholarly ladies, distinguished teachers, and greedy reporters, the students were assembled on the lawn, stamping to keep warm. I could tell which of the many students were artists, as they had longish hair and orange hothouse flowers stuck in their buttonholes. I couldn't help but think of Viola Burgess.

As I observed all this, Holmes' trained eye carefully swept the great crowd. He was still on tiptoe and looking as he asked me, "You remember everything you are to do?"

"Yes," I said.

Holmes pointed with the end of his riding whip. "Right there, Watson, is your man. Remember everything you were told – it is of utmost importance, life or death. Good bye, my friend; Professor Burgess' life, and Viola Burgess' happiness, is in our hands." And before I could respond Holmes had disappeared in the crowd.

I searched and located the man fitting Miss Burgess' description and pushed my way over to him. He was standing there quite casually, languidly observing the scene, and for a moment I wondered if we were possibly wrong about our criminal. I stood there for a few seconds, hands in my pockets, with a sham interest in the goings-on. Then I turned to the villain.

"Do you teach here at this college?" I asked boisterously, with my best representation of an American accent. Lawrence looked at me for a moment before replying agreeably, "No, I actually work in London."

"Well then," with feigned interest, "what brings you out to these parts?"

"You know, I could ask the same of you," he answered pointedly.

I shuffled, agitated. It was a well-known fact that the criminals were often very complacent, believing they were entitled to the crime they planned to commit. But this man's easy temper was extremely unnerving. "I am visiting my brother, who attends college here," I finally lied.

"My friend is getting an award from a prestigious academic board," said he, motioning to the stage. "He teaches in Bristol."

I nodded. "Awfully interesting, getting an award," I said. "What for? Arithmetic?"

"Art."

"You said you were a professor? What do you teach?" I asked, which was my last question clearly scripted by Holmes.

"Literature."

I knew I had to keep up the conversation for Holmes to complete his part, but what to ask? I couldn't dare to give myself away – I had to appear truly interested, and to catch Lawrence's attention as to sufficiently distract him. Finally, as if in a bolt of Providence, the answer came to me. "I am glad you are a literature teacher, because, believe it or not, I have a question."

He watched me skeptically. "Yes?"

"Well," I said, clearing my throat, "have you ever read Plato's "Oration on Fear" from The Gorgias?"

"Naturally," was the answer.

"In it, Socrates mentioned moral evil as being the only real evil, and that poverty, sickness, death and so on, which are inflicted upon us by man, should not be feared…." From the corner of my eye I saw a flicker of movement behind the stage curtain and tried to hide my increasing emotion.

"Yes, yes, go on," Lawrence insisted.

"Oh, but is that…ah…is that truly possible? If it is I should love to know how it is accomplished – " Another movement behind the curtain. I kept a careful track as the master of ceremonies began his monologue.

"Well, get on with it!" Lawrence said harshly.

"Certainly...because I feel that if only we were able to master those emotions our society would be most highly improved. Do you know anything about it…?"

I turned, and saw Lawrence was ignoring me, as fixedly watching the stage for movement as I was.

I dropped all pretenses, kept my eyes on the curtain, and my heart literally died when I heard the man on stage. "Now we have the honour of an appearance by Professor Edwin Burgess!" I watched carefully as the curtains on the stage parted, and a tall man in tweed stepped out before the audience.

Two premature shots cracked in the air, but they never made it to the platform, only shot up into the leaden sky, because I had flung myself at Lawrence and brought him, furious and writhing, to the ground. "Let me go, you foul devil!" he swore, angry red veins starting from his forehead, eyes darting furiously with none of his previous carelessness – he was thrashing like the very devil himself. But I pressed upon him with all my strength, wrenched the pistol from his grasp, and never let him up. In one swift movement I clamped a pair of handcuffs onto his wrists, victoriously, and stood up relieved, ready to lead him to the police station and to justice.

But the ladies started screaming again and there was a general uproar when suddenly, from the far corner of the crowd there rang another unexpected gunshot, and another, even a third, as someone pressed through the masses, making his way frantically to the stage.

It was Benigan.

Another gunshot came whizzing from the young man's pistol. The man on stage dropped, wounded, and landed on the wooden scaffold with a sickening thud, head disappearing behind the podium. I choked, overcome with rage, emotion and an impression of defeat. Benigan had been completely unforeseen; Holmes hadn't even considered him in the plan. The Irishman forced his way through the shrieking masses, and climbed to the stage, where, triumphantly, he rolled the crumpled professor over with his foot.

But it was not the professor – nay, it was far from Edwin Burgess who rolled over lifelessly, then, to the surprise of myself and the entire audience, sprang up from the stage at his full height, brandishing his riding crop like some vengeful apparition.

It was, you know, Sherlock Holmes.

Then Benigan saw his mistake, then I rejoiced to see my companion alive and well, then I recoiled in horror as I saw Benigan leap from the stage, and disappear into the multitudes as a drop of water in the sea.

"Watson!" Holmes cried feverishly from the stage, "You must not let him get away!"

Without another word I took off at my greatest possible speed, forcing myself through the crowd as Holmes sprang into it, but he was in much better training and he soon overtook me with long strides, hot on the trail of the guilty young Irishman.

Across the lawn, bounding over lounging figures of astonished students and through crowds of more astonished professors, Holmes and I ran as if possessed. We turned corners, ducked under age-old walkways, jumped across streets like stones skidding across water; but Benigan, who had had a start, still managed to elude us.

We raced into the town, where Benigan's long lean outline was hidden by the people milling around by the shops. I could have shot at him – I had my revolver – but I feared hitting an innocent bystander with an unlucky try. He crossed the street, and Holmes and I dodged between two oncoming cabs, determined not to let the villain escape us.

Benigan turned down an alley and disappeared. I thought we had lost him; I briefly took a heaving, panting breath and tried to recover myself when Holmes rushed past me at an inhuman rate. I followed, breathless and thrilled, and was about to turn the corner he had already rounded when I heard a simultaneous snap and gunshot.

I knew one of the two men was forced to surrender, but the question was, which one? I stumbled, breathless, into the space between two high buildings, where the laundry hung between the walls above us and the fog slowly crept in at both ends.

"I have him, Watson, by God I have him!" Such a joyous cry to hear! I ran up, heaving, to see the wondrous sight – Holmes had clenched his hand around the bloody wrist of the Irishman Benigan, and the cruel shining pistol had skidded across the paved walkway, close to the blackened spot of a misdirected bullet. I picked the gun up.

"You used your whip!" I cried, my heart sailing.

"I never shoot unless I have to," Holmes gasped, pulling a pair of steel handcuffs from his waistcoat pocket. "The same cannot be said of Mr. Benigan, apparently. Take note, Watson," he added, clasping the jangling metal object around his captive's wrist, "how long it will take the police to follow. Ah, if you and I had not been here, Doctor, our villain – or rather, villains – would have gotten away. At any rate," he said to the criminal as I checked Benigan's injured wrist, "you will be spending rather a long time in prison for attempted murder, along with your wicked uncle. And it appears to me, although perhaps I don't know much about the matter, that during that interval you won't be wearing cheap, easily identifiable penny cologne."