Music I listened to while writing :Justice - Murder on the Orient Express - Patrick Doyle
Listen to this music, I beg you... and you will know all the secrets of Arthur's heart.
Author's Note: Here we are... It's the end of this story. You will probably be surprised that it came so soon, but the reason is simple: after posting chapter 13, I was in the mindset of "finishing the story." I had the ending in mind, and it needed to come out.
So, I wrote it in the four hours following the publication of chapter 13 (non-stop, with three large cups of coffee)
When I typed the final period for this epilogue... I have to admit, I felt very sad. And I feel even sadder now as I publish this ending, this final word, because this story had taken such an important place in my life. I poured a lot of myself into it... yes, a lot...
I hope you will enjoy this epilogue and understand why I felt it was so necessary. It's short, but it is the result of much consideration and research.
It spans over 40 years... you'll see...
Weak… dying.
That's how I felt on this July 7, 1930. I shivered in my bed, unable to warm myself.
The end would come soon, I knew it, and I had come to accept it. I had loved the world, but I had never rediscovered the taste I had searched for so long. My entire life had been a long quest for a happiness that had been denied to me, and I was still alive while others, dear ones, disappeared around me.
Despite my success, despite my fame as a writer, I had never been able to be truly happy. I had tried to be, yes, I had tried with all my strength. But looking back at my life only proved my failure.
Throughout all these years, Abberline remained my closest friend and often came to visit me. I loved his presence, and he felt at ease with me, surrounded by my family. We shared so much. He was my faithful friend, my confidant. My link to the past. We could spend hours discussing law, politics, and justice. We connected on every subject, as our vision of the world had always been the same. He brought me a comfort that few others could offer and was excellent at giving me advice, even on my writing, after I had left my medical career behind.
He loved my books. He would smile and laugh while reading the adventures of Sherlock Holmes.
He often lifted his eyes from the novel to tell me now and then:
"This Watson, it's me! Admit it!"
I couldn't help but laugh.
"A little, it's a bit of me too!"
And once, only once, he asked:
"And him? Sherlock Holmes? Who is he?"
I could only smile at him sadly. That brilliant detective, heartless, misanthropic, misogynistic, with perfect deduction, emotionless, dependent on morphine and cocaine. Cerebral, unshakable, calculating… He was the sum of two characters, about whom I had remained silent all these years.
Frederick asked no more. Because I had told him that I never wanted to talk about it again, hadn't I?
Yet at some of our meetings, he seemed on the verge of telling me certain things, but he knew I didn't want to hear them, especially when I spent much of my time caring for Louisa myself in our home. I wanted to be her doctor, against many opinions, perhaps a way to ease my guilt. But also, because she had given me an adorable little girl whom I cherished more than anything.
The first time I saw him about to break our agreement and speak was shortly after my departure from the manor, exactly one month later. He simply handed me the newspaper. The front page spoke of a shipwreck, a vessel that had struck an iceberg under strange circumstances. Below was a list of names.Theywere on the list of survivors. A photo was even published on the center page.
Him…the boy was there, sitting on a wooden crate on the deck of the ship that had rescued them, his leg bandaged, his face scratched, visibly exhausted, his clothes stained and torn. Beside him, his butler sat on the ground, covered in blood and weaker than I had ever seen him. And the boy looked at him with tenderness, almost with kindness.
The survivors spoke of corpses that began to move and attack the passengers. A most strange and grim story. And yet, I managed not to dwell on it despite the curiosity that gnawed at me.
The following summer, I accepted an invitation to dine with J.M. Stoddart ofLippincott's Magazine. He had read my book and had been enthusiastic about my story. I wasn't sure what surprised me more — that my tale was so well-received by the editor of such a renowned English journal or that Oscar Wilde also dined with us, discussing the next novel Stoddart had commissioned:The Picture of Dorian Gray.The story of a young man struck by a curse, whose portrait grew uglier as his soul was corrupted, while he himself remained young.
I had boundless admiration for Oscar Wilde, and the summary of his upcoming novel hinted at a masterpiece, with a theme that could only stir my soul...
"I greatly enjoyed your story, Mr. Doyle," said Joseph Stoddart.
"I am delighted to hear that."
"I must admit I'm not an avid reader ofBeeton's Christmas Annual, and I probably would never have read your story had a certain acquaintance not sent me a copy and insisted I read it. A very persuasive young person, I must say."
My heart clenched, but I let him continue.
"He mentioned that you had met recently. It was the Earl of Phantomhive."
"And why did the Earl insist you read my story?"
"So I would agree to publish the next one, of course!"
"The next one? I'm afraid to disappoint you, but I hadn't planned to write another story about Sherlock Holmes."
"Really?" he said, surprised and disappointed. "That's unfortunate, very unfortunate. Ciel Phantomhive seemed quite attached to the idea. I happen to share his opinion. You have an incredible talent just waiting to be fully expressed!"
"I agree with Mr. Stoddart, Arthur," said Oscar Wilde in his elegant, dandy voice. "This detective has a unique personality, but you've only scratched the surface. He's already incredibly fascinating, but only you can give him the depth he has yet to acquire to become a true literary hero, the likes of which are rare in our literature. He could surpass Edgar Allan Poe's Auguste Dupin, can you imagine? It would be a mistake to abandon this potential."
How could I refuse anything to Oscar Wilde…or to my love?
I accepted, and I wrote. But Sherlock Holmes changed. His personality, as Oscar had suggested, gained a particular depth, as I gave him a darker side he had not possessed before, making him incompatible with the rest of humanity. A selfish, arrogant, and unpredictable being.
WhenThe Sign of the Fourwas published, it was an overwhelming success.
Sherlock Holmes, whose personality I had darkened, making him almost dangerous while retaining his genius, became a hero in Victorian England. So much so that requests for a sequel arrived every day. The public's obsession with these stories flared, and sacks of reader letters were delivered to my office, so numerous that I had to use some of the money I'd earned to hire people to sort through the mail.
I didn't fully grasp the scale of my success; I had trouble accepting it, to the point where I couldn't acknowledge the public's praise.
Then I received a letter from the boy, as I now called him, unable to say his name. After some hesitation, I finally opened it.
"Arthur,
It's a masterpiece.
Congratulations.
Yours,
Ciel Phantomhive."
The letter was short, kind, and polite, but I knew what his use of informal address implied. It was a sign of affection that he extended to very few people. I was deeply moved, and my wound bled anew.
Taking up my pen, I thanked him, courteously, with sober words as I would for anyone else, not wanting to dwell on it further. Yet, I couldn't resist slipping rose petals into the envelope, just like those that had clung to his hair one evening in March.
My success continued to grow. People clamored for more adventures of Sherlock Holmes, and I eventually wrote them as if on autopilot. It became so easy to immerse myself in that universe that it no longer gave me any pleasure. The work became tiresome, for I thought I was exorcising my pain through my writing, yet I couldn't free myself from it despite my efforts. I even made him disappear, killed off this hero who represented the two men who relentlessly haunted me. This drew the public's outrage; people took to the streets wearing mourning bands, and I even received threatening letters. After some time, I resolved to bring him back.
In any case, I could never forget. I couldn't heal—that much was clear.
Time passed, and I clung to rare moments of happiness like a starving man to a piece of bread tossed his way, desperate to drown the shadow that constantly threatened to crush me.
Then, one day, Frederick came to see me, pale.
"Did you know?" he asked, trembling. "About…and his butler? Do you know what they are?"
I wasn't entirely sure what he was referring to, but from the fear in his eyes, I understood that he knew. And I had nothing to say to him.
"You asked me to protect him, but from what? From himself?"
He had wanted to say more, but I left the room without a word. I didn't know what he had learned or how he had learned it, but I refused to share it with him. It was my personal hell, and there was no place for him in it.
After that day, our relationship changed. He remained my friend, my true and only friend, but my refusal to listen weighed on him because he carried a similar burden, one I didn't want to know about. And sometimes, it led him to hate me.
A short time later, he came to visit me, and I saw a deep sadness in his eyes when he looked at me, as if he knew of a tragedy I was unaware of and which he couldn't share. A tragedy, no doubt... And out of fear of suffering, I closed myself off from the world.
I avoided newspapers and street news. It seemed that people spoke of the boyfor a time, but I closed my ears to all revelations, knowing that whatever I might learn would only be deductions and rumors. For whatever had happened to the boy, no one could truly know or understandthe real tragedy that had taken place, if indeed it had occurred as I feared.
I decided to leave London for a while, returning only when his name had disappeared from conversations.
Frederick never truly forgave me for my cowardice.
Years later, after I had moved to East Sussex, far from the bustle of the city, the past caught up with me. One evening, while walking through the countryside at sunset, accompanied by my dogs, I thought I saw a shadow near the forest. Alert, my hounds stood before me, growling, then seemed frightened. I moved forward without fear, passing them.
Slowly, the shifting darkness seemed to take an almost human form, and I recognized a familiar silhouette as the last rays of light pierced the horizon.
"It's you, isn't it?" I murmured, my voice filled with sorrow.
He didn't answer me. I simply saw that pale, beautiful face, framed by black hair in an ethereal, shapeless mist. And the coppery eyes that looked at me were devoid of malice, filled instead with a melancholy that gripped my heart.
"Go away…" I whispered.
Not out of anger, but because I had nothing left to give, nothing left to forgive. I had my own pain to bear.
And the mist dissolved, leaving me alone with my regrets.
It all seemed so far away now, as I lay on my deathbed in my house in Crowborough, East Sussex—literally translated as "the raven's district"... How ironic!
I felt the fatigue numbing me. Yet, I knew that if I closed my eyes, I would not see the morning. I was too weak today, too old.
Suddenly, the curtains in my room stirred. And I thought I saw a shadow. Surprised at first, I stared into the darkness, and I heard footsteps approaching my bed. Eventually, I saw a man.
I recognized that face, immaculate and unchanged, just as it had been almost forty years ago.
"So, you've come? Is today the day my life will end?"
William T. Spears stepped closer to me, standing tall and impeccable in his three-piece suit, the scythe of death in his right hand and a book tucked under his left arm, where my name was surely written alongside today's date.
"You know," I said, despite my dry throat and weak voice. "I often thought of you. When my wife passed, yes... but especially when my son died in the war. I had hoped... that you were the one who came to take his soul, and not that man who must have held such a grudge against me..."
"I cannot answer that question."
His voice, still so cordial and professional. So it's true, immortals never change.
"Yes, I figured as much. But whatever happened, a mad Grim Reaper is better than a demon, isn't it?"
"Indeed."
He looked at me without emotion, but I sensed a kindness in his eyes. After all, I had spent my life following his advice, avoiding the world of darkness. Even though spirituality had drawn me in during my final years, I had stayed in the light with all my strength. And he knew that.
He glanced at his watch and stepped closer.
"It's time," he said.
And I felt my chest tighten, the pain contracting within me. Fear washed over me. I wasn't ready; I needed to know, to get the answers I had avoided my whole life.
"Ciel Phantomhive!" I begged suddenly. And the suffering I had repressed for so many years suffocated me. I hadn't spoken that name in so long that the simple syllables crushed me.
But I continued:
"Please, tell me what happened toCiel Phantomhive!"
Bitter, he leaned down to my ear and whispered the words I had avoided hearing all these years.
It was in pain that my last heartbeat echoed in my chest. And so, I passed away, felled by my love, in a quiet heart attack. Finally, tears flowed from my eyes as I exhaled my last breath. And the sorrow finally began to ease.
For nothing else mattered… I knew… I could die.
The End.
PODCAST to conclude this story (free!): 🔗 My P.a.t.r.e.o.n: TiffanyBrd
Author's Notes:
Most of the events and places in this chapter are true, even the dinner between Arthur Conan Doyle, Joseph M. Stoddart, and Oscar Wilde.
What happened to Ciel Phantomhive? Arthur took that secret to the grave. So, we will wait for Yana to reveal it to us.
And with that, I finish this story. I hope you enjoyed reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it.
I poured so much of myself into this story, so much emotion, pain, and sadness. I filled it with the melancholy that follows me, with the heart that has been pierced. Every feeling laid bare is genuine. Every reference is mine. Ciel is but a puppet I have slipped into.
These pages cost me dearly; they took me into the darkest parts of my being before healing me. To read it again is to plunge back into an old nightmare, one that now feels distant but shaped who I am today. To reread it is to lose ten years. It's to feel each word echo in my mind. It's to feel the skin tighten over my bones. I know exactly which passage will hurl me out of myself. And I read it again to remind myself that it's when I'm devastated by pain that I write my best.
So thank you for reading this story and for sharing this adventure with me.
From the bottom of my heart, thank you all!
Tiffany BRD