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“Any theories?” I asked.
“Facts, Wilson, I must have facts.”
“But you must have some notion of why a healthy young sportsman should just suddenly disappear?”
“I must think on it,” Holms answered.
As I feared he now turned to that one addiction which he required in order to finely tune his superb brain and the one that most annoyed me. He reached below his armchair and pulled from there a ratty old musical instrument.
“No, Holms,” I pleaded ineffectually, “Not the banjo!”
The following day, aboard the Virgin train to Manchester, Holms and I fell to discussing what had brought us to the 21st century from the Victorian era into which we had been born.
“That brute Moriarty and his infernal time machine!” I complained.
“An idea he got from a novella by a certain Herbert George Wells. But, I don’t know, Wilson, old boy, I quite like this modern age,” Holms confessed.
“But to throw us into the future just so he could continue his criminal career,” I insisted, still yearning for my dear and long-gone Mary.
Holms grinned broadly, a rare sight. “Which he never did.”
“But how can you know?” I demanded.
“Because mention of him would be in the historical record,” Holms explained.
“And there is none?”
“Quite the contrary. According to Wikipedia, Professor Moriarty perished by eating an excess of shish kebabs in a Turkish restaurant in Soho on the 12th of July 1897.”
“But that is the very day we were propelled into the future!” I exclaimed.
“Exactly, the good professor did not live long enough to relish our demise and his criminal enterprises ended with him. He seemingly went out to dine after luring us into that metallic cabinet and the cuisine of our oriental friends proved too much for him.”
“I shall relish shish kebabs all the more because of this,” I said triumphantly.
“I’d rather you didn’t,” was Holms’ only comment, “you’re putting on weight.”
We thundered through the grey countryside, the diesel electric putting the steam machines of my own era to shame by way of speed. In comfort too they were far superior and in the buffet car we dined on comestibles unknown in our own time. Ere long we had pulled into Piccadilly station and took a cab directly to the Carrington training ground where Fergus Alexander was waiting for us.
His welcome was warm. “You came, thank God.”
“I always answer my country's call,” Holms answered patriotically, but the thought of our overdue rent was uppermost for me. “Was there any mention of a deposit, towards expenses?” I asked meekly.