第 33 页

“Where to?” he asked.

“Baker Street” I replied.

Chapter Twenty-One

All the way there I thought of that evening three years ago when the train pulled into Euston and I was finally in London after the long, painful journey across Europe. I slipped away from Watson and ran to Baker Street, barefoot and soaked by the rain but overcome with the compulsion to be at 221B. Now it was pulling me once more, dragging me back through the streets and the years.

I jumped from the hansom and threw myself at the shiny black front door of 221B, banging on it with my fists and shouting.

“I know you’re in there, I know it. Don’t hide from me, show your face!”

People started to stare at me but I didn’t care.

“You’ve lied to me, come out and face me!” I screamed as my bruised hands continued to thump the door.

I never did find out how John knew where to find me. I presume someone at the club sent word. He pushed his way through the crowd and grabbed me by the shoulders, trying to calm me but I pushed him away.

“He’s in there but he won’t face me because he’s a coward!” I shouted, continuing my assault on the door.

I heard my husband try to speak calming words but his voice was full of panic. My mind had become a jumble of thoughts banging and crashing into each other fighting for attention.

I suddenly became aware of my throbbing hands and agonising headache. I wobbled and John put his arms firmly around me, trying to pull me away from the door. Then everything went black. I lost consciousness.

The hospital I was taken to was very familiar to John on account of his regular work there as a surgeon, but the circumstances made everything seem unfamiliar. His colleagues treated him differently. They told him to stay calm, not to worry. Words he had used himself so many times to pacify a troubled patient were now being directed at him.

My blood pressure had become dangerously high, something common with pregnancy and known for causing delirium and hallucinations. John presumed this to be the explanation for my irrational behaviour and felt angry for not recognising sooner that I was unwell. He wanted to stay with me but my doctor insisted that he go home, there was nothing more he could do until the morning.

John reluctantly agreed and left the hospital late in the afternoon. He didn’t want to go home to an empty house and wandered aimlessly through the streets, asking himself why, of all the possible hallucinations my condition could have produced, why did it have to be Sherlock Holmes who came into my mind?

Before long, John realised that he was in Park Lane, a fortunate occurrence which provided him with a distraction. One of the handsome properties had become famous of late and this was the perfect opportunity for John finally to see the house which had whetted his curiosity.

Number 247 Park Lane was the home of the Honourable Ronald Adair, or rather it had been until he was murdered within its very walls. He was the second son of the Earl of Maynooth; a quiet, unemotional young man who moved in the best circles and did not have any known enemies or serious vices. His murder had therefore caused quite a stir among the upper classes and had gripped the imagination of London folk in general, including John who had maintained a great interest in crime. He strolled along Park Lane until he came to number 247.

Ronald Adair played cards frequently and, after dinner on the day of his death, he had played a rubber of whist at the Bagatelle club. He had also played there that afternoon. Those who had been present testified that Adair had suffered a small loss of about five pounds but, as his fortune was a considerable one, this was unlikely to have bothered him. He and his partner had won as much as four hundred and twenty pounds in one sitting some weeks before from Godfrey Milner and Lord Balmoral, so a five pound loss was inconsequential.

On the evening of the crime he returned home at ten to a house which was empty save for the servants. He sat in his sitting room on the second floor with the window open to allow smoke to escape from the newly-lit fire. No sound was heard from the room again.

When his mother and sister returned to the house at eleven twenty, Lady Maynooth attempted to enter her son’s room to say goodnight but the door was locked from the inside. No amount of banging or calling out his name could raise a response. Help was summoned and the door forced open.

The young man was found lying near the table, his head terribly injured by one of those expanding revolver bullets. No weapon was found in the room. Two ten pound notes lay on the table and there were piles of silver and gold totalling seventeen pounds ten shillings. There were also figures written on a sheet of paper with the names of other card club members. Nothing had been stolen from the room.

No reason could be given for the locked door. It was initially thought that the murderer could have been responsible before escaping through the open window. But the twenty foot drop and undisturbed bed of crocuses beneath did rather dispel this theory. The grass between the house and the road had also not been disturbed and the window sill did not show any signs of being stepped on. The only possible conclusion was that the young man had fastened the door himself.

If he had been shot through the window it would have taken someone with extraordinary precision to inflict such a wound. But somehow this likeable man had lost his life and all of London was keen to find out how, not least John who knew what fascination a case such as this would have held for the one man brilliant enough to solve it.

I had been so preoccupied and hadn’t really been listening to John, Ronnie and various regulars at the pub who kept referring to the murder. Therefore, I didn’t realise that one of the men who had been playing cards with Adair on the day of his death was Colonel Sebastian Moran. John didn’t tell me, didn’t want to cause me any more worry than the stress I was obviously experiencing.

He knew about the colonel as I had told him everything about our association. We had always suspected that he would still be in London and though I did worry that he would try to find me or reveal the truth to the police, as time passed I could only presume that a degree of honour among thieves really did remain. I suppose that as I had saved him once, breaking him free from his cell and then going on to work closely with him for some years, he just couldn’t quite bring himself to betray me.

A small group of onlookers were standing outside the house looking up at a particular window as a plain clothes detective was explaining his own theory. John listened for a few minutes but the ideas were absurd. He withdrew rather crossly from the crowd knocking against an elderly man who was standing behind him, causing him to drop several books.

John hurriedly picked them up and apologised, glancing as he did so at the obscure titles. These suggested that the gentleman must be a bibliophile who collected such things either to trade or as a hobby. The old man cared not for John’s platitudes and snatched the books from his hand, grunted rudely and scurried away into the crowd.

Observing the house up close failed to reveal anything to advance John’s thoughts on the case. He slipped away from the crowd and walked back to Kensington and Wisteria Gables.

He had not been in the study more than five minutes when our maid, Edith, told him that a caller wished to see him. Tilly had taken a few days off to visit relatives before the birth.

John was still wearing his gloves and outdoor coat when Edith ushered in his visitor. He was astonished to see that it was none other than the old bookseller. The man’s narrow, sharp face was framed by a mane of wild white hair and selections of his precious volumes were stuffed under each arm.

“You are surprised to see me sir,” he stated in a croaky voice.

John conceded that he was very surprised and began to apologise again for knocking into him so carelessly.

“Well, I’ve a conscience sir, and when I chanced to see you go into this house, as I came hobbling after you, I thought to myself, I’ll just step in and see that kind gentleman. I’ll tell him that if I was a bit gruff in my manner there was not any harm meant, and that I am much obliged to him for picking up my books.”

“You make too much of a trifle my friend. I wouldn’t have needed to pick them up if I hadn’t been so absent-minded and knocked you in the first place. May I ask how you knew who I was?”

“Well sir, if it isn’t too great a liberty, I am a neighbour of yours. You’ll find my little bookshop at the corner of Church Street, and very happy to see you, I am sure.”

John decided it was best not to mention his preference for Critchley’s. He urged his strange visitor to take a seat but the old man’s bright, keen eyes had turned to the volumes he was carrying. He started to set them down upon the desk.

“Maybe you collect yourself, sir?” he asked in his rather comical voice.

He started to point at his offerings.

“Here is British Birds, Catullus, The Holy War, a bargain, every one of them. With five volumes you could just fill that gap on the second shelf. It looks untidy, does it not, sir?”

John turned around to look at the cabinet behind him. He felt rather offended that a stranger should suggest his display of books was untidy and turned back around to tell him so, but the old man had gone. Sherlock Holmes was standing there instead smiling wildly. John stared at him for a few seconds in utter amazement and then fainted, for the only time in his life.

Upon regaining his senses, John found his collar ends undone with a lick of brandy on his lips. He was sat in his chair with Holmes standing over him, flask in one hand and grey wig in the other.

“My dear Watson,” he exclaimed in his familiar voice, “I owe you a thousand apologies. I had no idea that you would be so affected.”

John gripped him by the arms. “Holmes! Is it really you? Can it indeed be that you are alive? Is it possible that you succeeded in climbing out of that awful abyss?”

In the initial rush of overwhelming shock, present day reality got swept aside and John didn’t fully grasp the gravity of the situation. In those first moments of reunion, it was as if time had stood still and he was the same man Holmes had last seen in Switzerland, his devoted, faithful friend and biographer. He was simply overjoyed to see again the companion he thought had been lost forever.

“Wait a moment,” said Holmes with genuine concern, “are you sure that you are really fit to discuss things? I have given you a serious shock by my unnecessarily dramatic reappearance.”

“I am all right, but Holmes, I can hardly believe my eyes. Good heavens! To think that you; you of all men; should be standing in my study.” John gripped his friend by the arm. “Well, you’re not a spirit, anyhow,” he said. “My dear chap, I am overjoyed to see you.”

Holmes stood back and observed his friend, unable to fight the emotion he was feeling at seeing him after all this time. It had been a difficult and lonely time spent travelling, hurting and regretting, mourning what was lost.

The size and tasteful grandeur of the house along with John’s expensive suit and cashmere coat suggested to Holmes that Watson’s medical career had advanced greatly in his absence. He already knew about the published studies and how well they had been received, but the new-found confidence and material wealth was beyond anything he had expected. And while he had aged so much since they last met, Watson looked more healthy and youthful than he had ever seen him.

Holmes was intrigued and keen to investigate further but there were immediate matters of far-greater importance and he was able to suppress his emotions, sit opposite his old biographer, light a cigarette and focus on the situation in hand.

“My dear fellow, in the matter of these explanations, we have, if I may ask for your co-operation, a hard and dangerous night’s work in front of us. Perhaps it would be better if I gave you an account of the whole situation when that work is finished.”

“I am full of curiosity; I would prefer to hear it now.”

“You’ll come with me tonight?”

“When you like and where you like.”

“It is, indeed, like the old days. Well then, about that chasm. I had no serious difficulty in getting out of it, for the very simple reason that I never was in it. Well, not exactly.”

Holmes puffed on his cigarette then continued. “My note to you was absolutely genuine. I had little doubt that I had come to the end of my career when I perceived the somewhat sinister figure of the late Professor Moriarty standing upon the narrow pathway which led to safety. I read an inexorable purpose in his grey eyes.

“I exchanged some remarks with him, therefore, and obtained his courteous permission to write the short note which you afterwards received. I left it with my cigarette box and stick, and I walked along the pathway, Moriarty still at my heels. When I reached the end I stood at bay. He drew no weapon, but he rushed at me and threw his long arms around me. We tottered together on the brink of the fall. I slipped, I’m ashamed to admit, despite my far superior physical strength, and over I went.”

John listened with astonishment, still in deep shock to be sharing a conversation with his old friend again. He noticed that Holmes’ hand shook slightly as he held his cigarette.

“But how came you to survive such a horror?”

“I fell upon a ledge, far enough down that the professor could not see me through the mist from the cascading water but not so far as to cause me any serious injury. My ankle was twisted, I was torn and bleeding. I had fallen very awkwardly upon my hip but nothing was broken and I was lucky enough to retain consciousness. I scrambled to my feet as best as I could. I was about to attempt a climb back to the top to tackle the professor once more, when I saw his body falling past me. I couldn’t hear anything except the pounding of the water against the rocks and just watched him fall for a long way. Then he struck a rock, bounded off, and splashed into the water. I can only presume that he slipped just as I had done but his landing was not as fortunate as my own.

“I then realised what a really extraordinary lucky chance fate had placed in my way. I knew that Moriarty was not the only man who had sworn my death and posed a risk to those for whom I cared. There were at least three others whose desire for vengeance upon me would only be increased by the death of their leader. They were all most dangerous men. One or other would certainly get me or get...”

At this point in his narrative, Holmes paused to take a deep drag from his cigarette. His shaky hands and gaunt face were clear signs that deep pain and agitation lay beneath his controlled, focused manner.

Reality was starting to dawn upon John, swirling around in his head like the rushing waters of the falls, flooding his mind. He clasped his hands together to steady himself as Homes’ narrative continued.