Without another word, Holmes and I swiftly made our way back to 221b Baker Street. Holmes usually controlled manner seemed gone, though perhaps unnoticeable to anyone who hadn't known him as long as I did. His walk was quicker, he nearly tripped on a bit of uneven sidewalk, something I would have believed impossible of Holmes. He checked over his shoulder every twenty seconds to confirm that we were not being followed. It was clear that he was spooked, and anything that could spook Sherlock Holmes was worth being frightened over.
We arrive at his flat and made way into the sitting room where Holmes did most of his work. I had not been in that room for months now, and was surprised to discover that it had been converted from the cluttered-but-comfortable library it once was into what one might immediately assume was the lair of a serial killer. Covering the walls were maps, pictures, sticky notes and push pins and twine connecting to all together is a chaotic spiderweb pattern. The writing desk had been replaced with a cold stainless steel table that seemed space-age and out of place inside a Georgian apartment complex. Resting on a tripod was a hefty video camera, pointed out the window facing the street, wires running down to a television playing a live feed. A makeshift security camera, I realized. Holmes had gone paranoid.
"Holmes, I really must know what this is all about." Holmes ignored me, instead ripping the tape recorder out of the bag and sitting down in his chair, the only surviving element of his old room. He motioned for me to be quiet, and pressed play. The voice was clearly that of Holmes.
"Sherlock Holmes, 8:21 am, November 1st, 1981. Eight Zeppa Minor Four Two Two Two Two. Underground explosion on Linhope Street, right next to the Swan & Edgar. Crater is nearly six feet deep, exposing sewer piping, gas line nowhere near here, no sign of explosives, besides the rubble and bodies I mean. Casualties appear largely civilian, at least one police officer, more than likely all collateral. Location of explosion too random for a terrorist attack, and again, no residual powders, no scorch marks. No immediate connection to Ghatsrow case, but the day is still young. Now approaching an eye witness, middle-aged man, dresses above his means, he's a clerk, pinch on his shirt indicates where he puts his name badge on every day. Excuse me, sir, could you please tell me what you saw here, in as much detail as possible."
The voice changed to that of another man.
"I was walking down the street, on my way to work, when I hear a man running behind me. I turn around, and there's this chubby fellow being chased by another man, dressed in all black, young men, both of them. The chubby one runs across the street and the other guy seems to have him pinned. Suddenly, the chubby guys pulls something out of his pocket, and screams 'you did it! You betrayed the Potters!' And that's when the explosion happened. It was huge, I don't know..."
"Thank you, that'll be all. Potter, yes, Lily and James Potter, both of them on the list, good. Oh, yes, this morning's paper! This confirms a Ghatsrow connection, meaning they should arrive shortly. Marking a trash can for when they arrive. There. Descriptions of the chaser and the chasee too vague to identify, seeking out another eye witness and... See-eye-see, two, oh, double-you, double-you ach no time."
Then some scuffling sounds, and that was the end of the tape. I stared at Holmes, while Holmes stared into the void that hovered in front of his face.
"What does all of this mean, Holmes?" I asked. This seemed to snap him out of his trance. He sprang from his chair, grabbed a newspaper resting on the table, and tossed it to me without saying a word. I began to scan through it until I found a small story on the third page circled in marker. The title read: CAR CRASH KILLS LONDON PARENTS, INFANT SON SURVIVES. I read the story carefully. Lily and James Potter, crashing their vehicle while on vacation to Godric's Hollow, a small West Country village. Their son, Harry, survived and was being placed under the care of relatives.
"Watson, did you notice an alarming number of owls this morning?" Holmes suddenly said. He was carefully taking the micro cassette tape and placing it in an envelope.
"No, I'm afraid I was too busy with the autopsies to step outside."
"Yes, the autopsies. May I see those reports?" I had almost forgotten I still had them, and I quickly passed them to him. He began to scan through them at an ungodly speed. I had no doubt in Holmes' speed reading abilities, but I also knew he would take the time if he had it.
"A finger with an unaccounted for body?" Holmes finally said. "How very interesting. This must be our overweight mystery man."
"How do you figure?"
"Celluloid deposits, one doesn't get fat fingers unless they are really and truly fat. Pinched skin around the knuckle suggests he was once in possession of a ring that he wore most of the time, perhaps a wedding ring, but no cases of missing husbands have filed through yet, so the ring is perhaps a symbol of belonging to an organization."
"A club ring? A school ring?" I offered.
"Perhaps. We need to find this man."
"You think he's alive?"
"I know he's alive. The cut here is too clean to have been caused by the explosion. This man cut off his own finger and left it as the site to convince people he was killed. Somewhere, this man is running about with nine fingers."
"He must be in with something serious if he'd go to those lengths."
"It is indeed serious, if it deals with the Potters."
"What does this family have to do with it?"
"Their direct connection is unclear at the moment" Holmes walked over to one of the walls and pulled down two pictures. They looked like blown up identification pictures. One was of a young man, square jaw, eyeglasses, the name JAMES POTTER printed below. The other was of a young woman with striking eyes, hers was marked LILY EVANS-POTTER.
"Holmes, I'm afraid I'm horribly lost. Why are you acting in this manner? Please, start from the beginning."
"I wish I could, old friend, but I have no recollection of the event. About a year ago, I had begun to realize that my memory of certain cases did not match the facts. Cases where I was convinced that deaths had been caused by natural causes or accidents, only to review the case months later and discover clear evidence of murder, evidence I could not have possibly missed the first go around. Naturally, this worried me, so I went and got a CAT scan." Holmes dug into the pile of papers on his desk and pulled out a x-ray. We had once met an aspiring doctor who said Holmes' skull would be a great piece in any science museum, but I did not expect to see anything here besides a normal brain. What I saw instead where mysterious flakes of black all over.
"What does this mean?"
"I'm not sure, but I believe something has been effecting my memory. Not just erasing memories, but adding new ones. Making me think that an explosion is caused by a gas pipe when it clearly wasn't."
"Hypnosis?"
"Hypnosis is a myth, Watson, pure new wave garbage. Whatever is causing this, whoever is causing this, is something real and something dangerous."
"So you began to record your cases on cassette?"
"Yes, and on four occasions, including this one, I have encountered the same two men. You remember those syllables at the end of the tape?"
"Yes, what was that?"
"My own kind of short hand. Two white-haired older gentlemen in a civilian vehicle, recognizing me immediately, though I had no recollection of them. They've appeared in all four of these occasions, and I have no memory of them at all."
"Holmes, this is very distressing." I could imagine how Holmes must have been feeling. Threaten his life, he won't flinch. Threaten his mind, and you threaten his most prized possession.
"Indeed. So, I began to go over all the cases again, looking for connections, and found one. There was always someone involved that went to a private school called Ghatsrow" Holmes pointed to a list of names on the wall. "This list is of the all students to attend Ghatsrow from as far back as the 17th century."
"That could easily be a coincidence," I said.
"Yes, but it was all I had to go on. In desperation, I tracked down the location of this school and paid it a visit."
"And?"
"Nothing. There was no school there. Empty farm land, Ghatsrow only exists in a legal sense."
"I'm afraid I don't follow."
"If you wish to send your child to, say, a terrorist training camp or some other less than legal establishment, you have to convince the government that that child is elsewhere. There's a lot of common families on this list, Malfoy, Longbottoms, Blacks... and the Potters."
"Are you suggesting an underground organization? Something like the Illuminati?"
"Perhaps something in that spirit. A secret group of powerful people, something goes wrong that exposes them, and they somehow alter the memories of those who witness, including my own. Watson, this is perhaps the biggest game we've ever encountered. I recommend you get your affairs in order." With that, Holmes grabbed his coat and began to pack a bag.
"Why? Where are we going?" I asked.
"Where else but Godric's Hollow?"
