The Execution of Sherlock Holmes by Donald Thomas Page B

be debated next week at the monthly meeting of the Court of Common Council to be held at the Guildhall on Wednesday.
    Only when I heard the complete story of my friend’s escape did I understand that he was coming down to freedom from the roofs of Newgate Street as the lighted lantern flames touched off the gas filling the condemned cell. The whole truth, to which the newspapers did not have access, was that the door and windows of the condemned cell had been blown clean out into the exercise yard, along with several feet of its wall. Even as I read the newspaper report, it told me a hundred times more than it might have conveyed to any other reader. As a medical man with some experience of injuries from explosion in battle, I could not believe that anyone in that cell itself—or many of those in close proximity—would have survived the ferocity of a blast that did such damage.
    As I sat on the library sofa before the log fire, I knew this was a veiled account of how Sherlock Holmes had escaped from the tightest corner he was ever in. Had all his enemies been destroyed? It seemed at least one might still be tracking him, to judge by the incidents in Pall Mall. Could they tell whether Holmes had perished in the blast or not? Knowing the man they were dealing with, they would not be fools enough to take the explosion for an accident. Had my friend thought his time had run out and had he striven to take them all with him—only to make a lucky escape?
    I flatter myself I came close to the truth, even before hearing his account. As a medical man, I knew an eruption of highly explosive water gas would leave human debris in the ruins. Whether any belonged to their captive would be hard to say. I did not yet know my friend had taken the precaution of locking the metal cuff round the ankle of his dead guard. There was a chance that Crellin might pass as the body of Sherlock Holmes burnt beyond recognition.
    I could only make my way back to Baker Street and await further communications. The next morning brought another copy of the Times . It was two days old, but there was not a page missing.
    Clearing aside the breakfast things, I spread the paper on the table and began to go through it minutely. There was no item of news that could be of the least relevance. I was reduced to running my finger down the first of the Deaths columns and when I reached the foot of it, I felt as if my heart took a final leap and stopped. The corner of the page was torn away. To a casual glance, it might seem that this was damage inflicted by the sharp edge of the letter box or by carelessness. The complete copy of the paper in the club library told me otherwise.
Milverton. Suddenly at Claremont, Cape Town, on the 14th inst., Henry Caius Milverton of The Borders, Windlesham, Surrey. The interment of ashes and a memorial service will be held at St. George’s Church, Windlesham, on a date to be announced.
    In all our dealings with the criminal underworld, there were perhaps half a dozen names never to be forgotten. Milverton was one of them, though which Milverton this might be I had as yet no idea. However, as I read the announcement, the message from my friend could not have been plainer. One other thing I knew from it, whoever Henry Caius Milverton was, he had died a good deal nearer to home than the Cape Province of South Africa! The announcement was clearly intended to appease the curiosity of those who would otherwise wonder how their acquaintance had—more literally than they would guess!—vanished into thin air. Of course, I could not even begin to prove it, but I felt to a certainty that Henry Caius Milverton had been blown to smithereens in that Newgate explosion.
    Next evening I had an unexpected visit after dinner from Mycroft Holmes. His mood was partly one of annoyance at the game his brother seemed to be playing with us all and partly a real concern for the safety of that brother’s life.
    ‘I had it out with Inspector Lestrade this