“I made no such threat,” I said at once.
“No, but you cannot say that it did not occur to you, at least as a wistful lament that my age and infirmity stand between you and a burst of violence that would, at least, make you feel better in the moment.”
“You are being rude, sir.”
“I am often perceived as such, Doctor, but surely you of all people can recognize that a statement made based on observation, insight, and logical supposition stands apart from—and perhaps above—the niceties of common conversation. Your many accounts of the investigations of your late friend build a case in support of my point. Even Poe was keen enough to perceive that much.”
I said nothing, not trusting my voice.
Dupin offered another small bow. “Nevertheless, Doctor Watson, allow me once more to apologize. I intended no reference to your late wife. No, monsieur, not at all. My intention was only to provoke thought and memory, not pain.”
“Then perhaps,” I said tightly, “such a process might benefit from more straightforward statements rather than cryptic questions or obscure remarks.”
He laughed. “Mon dieu, doctor, but you remind me of an old friend, long passed, who often said as much to me. And I will confess that to a logician in a world of those who do not prize rational and informed analysis, a sense of drama is perhaps inevitable. An ugly and even cheap habit, to be sure, but I never claimed to be a saint among men. Nor, I suspect, did your late friend, Mr. Sherlock Holmes. His love of drama was well known. Were his death faked and he alive, I would not put it past him to break the grassy sod upon his grave and spring forth with a dramatic flair. And the world who, through your writings, came to adore him, would think it all a fine performance worthy of ovation.”
“What a vile thing to say!”
“Would you claim that Holmes never fooled you in some cruel way if it served his love of the dramatic revelation? How would you feel if a conductor on a train or a beggar on the street suddenly revealed himself to be none other than your friend, not dead but quite alive? Would that not be in keeping with M. Holmes’s theatricality?”
“There were limits,” I said, “even for him.”
“Indeed,” said Dupin diffidently. “Perhaps I am in error.”
“I believe you are, sir.”
“Then you will have another apology from me.”
“No,” I snapped, “I don’t want another apology. What I want is an answer to your riddle about the edelweiss.”
“Ah.”
“You say I should know this particular species of that flower. Tell me your thoughts on that, because a graveyard is an ill place for a child’s guessing game.”
He rose again and bent carefully to pick up one of the flowers from the bouquet on the grave, then came back and held it up so that we could both see it. I joined him.
“First,” he said, “I will tell you a bit of history.”
“More drama?”
He shrugged in the way Frenchmen do, the kind that allows for so many interpretations. “Context will encourage understanding.”
“Go ahead then, but please be quick about it.” I said it with bad grace, not feeling that this strange gentleman deserved more than the shallowest civility, his many apologies notwithstanding.
“There is an organization operating through Europe,” he said as he took my arm and led me back to the bench. “A criminal organization that is as subtle as it is vast. It has operatives by the hundred, though I doubt that many of them know they are part of something larger than their own local gang. From the basest petty street thief to the most sophisticated stock swindler, the underworld of Europe has been sewn like threads into a tapestry of corruption, evil, and criminality. The replacement of priceless art with brilliant forgeries in the Louvre is but one example. The sale of stolen military secrets in Russia and England has been attributed to spies working for foreign governments, but those spies are actually under the employ of this organization of which I speak. Jewel thefts and quiet murders, apparent suicides and arson, intimidation and blackmail . . . these are all the tools of this empire.” He cut me a shrewd look. “I can see by your expression that you know something of which I speak.”
“No . . .” I began but did not pursue what would have been a lie. Dupin nodded.
“You think I am mistaken, perhaps?”
“The organization to which you refer was the creation of Professor James Moriarty,” I said, “and he is dead.”
“He is,” agreed Dupin. “Though his body was never found. Nor was, I believe, that of Mr. Holmes. Both men smashed upon cruel rocks and whisked away by an unforgiving river.”