第 34 页

“On the other hand, if the world was convinced that I was dead, sooner or later I could destroy those who pursued me. Then it would be time for me to announce that I was still in the land of the living. I stood up and examined the rocky wall behind me. A few small and slippery footholds presented themselves and I was able to very slowly and somewhat painfully climb my way out of the abyss. More than once, when my foot slipped in the wet notches of the rock, I thought that I was gone. But I struggled upward and after several hours I reached the path again. I took off as fast as I could, did ten miles over the mountains in the darkness, and a week later found myself in Florence, with the certainty that no-one in the world knew what had become of me.

“I had only one confidant, my brother Mycroft. I owe you many apologies, my dear Watson, but it was all important that it should be thought I was dead, and it is quite certain that you would not have written so convincing an account of my unhappy end had you not yourself thought that it was true. Several times during the last three years I have taken up my pen to write to you, but always feared less your affectionate regard should tempt you to some indiscretion, which would betray my secret and possibly even bring danger upon you.

“For that reason, I turned away from you this evening when you upset my books, for I was in danger at the time, and any show of surprise and emotion upon your part might have drawn attention to my identity. As to Mycroft, I had to confide in him in order to obtain the money which I needed. The course of events in London did not run so well as I had hoped, for the trial of the Moriarty gang left two of its most dangerous members, my own most vindictive enemies, at liberty despite all the evidence I had supplied to the police.

“I travelled for two years in Tibet, pursuing those who had fled there and even visited Lhassa where I was lucky enough to spend a few days with the head lama. You may have read of the remarkable explorations of Sigerson, but I am sure that it never occurred to you that you were receiving news of your friend. I then passed through Persia, looked in at Mecca, and paid a short but interesting visit to the Khalifa at Khartoum, the result of which I have communicated to the Foreign Office.

“Returning to France, I spent some months in a research into the coal-tar derivatives, which I conducted in a laboratory at Montpellier, in the south of France. Having concluded this to my satisfaction and learning that only one of my enemies was now left in London, I was about to return when my movements were hastened by the news of this very remarkable Park Lane mystery, which not only appealed to me by its own merits, but which seemed to offer some most peculiar personal opportunities.

“I came over at once to London, called in my own person at Baker Street, threw Mrs Hudson into violent hysterics, and found that Mycroft had preserved my rooms and my papers exactly as they had always been. So it was, my dear Watson, that at two o’clock today I found myself in my old armchair in my old room, wishing that I could have seen my old friend Watson in the other chair which he has so often adorned.”

By now John was in quite a state. Many issues were flooding into his brain all at once and the effect was overpowering. He felt faint again, and rushed over to the window, flinging it open and savouring the rush of cool air which blew in. Holmes came over to him and placed a hand upon his shoulder.

“I really am so sorry Watson, you are still in shock and I have been unnecessarily dramatic in my account of things. I should have given you time to adjust to the news but I had no idea that you would be so affected. A thousand apologies, I underestimated the depth of your feelings.”

He paused and looked around the large and beautifully furnished room. “I fear that perhaps I have always underestimated you Watson.”

John started to feel very sick. All that pain, all we had gone through for nothing. Holmes would have been scrambling away across the mountains as John was dealing with the death of his unborn child. Knowing this was simply too much information for him to accept, too overwhelming.

He thought of me, lying in a hospital bed swollen with his child. He wondered, why had Holmes not asked about me, not even enquired whether John knew where I was or what had become of me?

Other realisations suddenly came to him as he stood looking out of the open window breathing in the fresh air, forcing it into his lungs. He realised that I hadn’t been hallucinating or suffering from delirium after all, somehow I must have found out that Holmes was alive. That’s why I was pounding on the door at Baker Street. It was Holmes who had inadvertently put his pregnant wife in hospital and John didn’t know whether to be angry, whether to feel guilty or what to do next. He felt really sick now, he could feel the bile rising in his throat and he gagged slightly, holding his hand to his lips.

“I’m sorry, excuse me, I must...”

He hurried from the room and rushed upstairs to the bathroom where he vomited violently, a physical release of a whole day of stress and shock.

Afterwards, he splashed cold water on his face and felt himself slowly start to calm down. He sat on the edge of our bath and wiped his face with a towel. He tried to think logically, the most important thing of all was my health and the safety of the baby. He knew that my blood pressure was very high and that the shock of seeing Holmes could be too much for me to take. It was imperative that he keep Holmes away from me for as long as possible.

He was thinking clearly now, calm again. He would go along with whatever Holmes wished them to do that night, it would keep Holmes occupied and focused, no time to ask too many questions, until John could find opportunity to slip away and go to the hospital. He had to act normally, pretend everything was fine. He pulled back on his coat, gloves and rushed back downstairs.

Holmes hurried to his side as soon as he entered the room. “Watson, I have been so thoughtless and selfish. My desire to see you again clouded my judgement and I should not have broken the news to you in the way that I did. I will go now and leave you in peace. You must not come with me tonight for you are clearly not in a fit state which is my entire fault.”

“Quite the contrary Holmes, I have my coat on already and am most eager to discover what adventures the night may bring, just like old times.”

Holmes regarded him curiously, still unsure of his readiness for duty, but that old sparkle had returned to his eyes and the prospect of sharing an adventure together again was so comforting.

“Well, if you are quite sure. And once our work is done we can perhaps return to Baker Street together, I can see you back in your old chair. We have three years worth of news to discuss. I am aware of your sad bereavement Watson and I am sorry that I could not have been with you at that time, but come, I am back now and I hope most sincerely that our friendship can survive the challenges I have thrown in its path. We must leave at once, if you are sure, as the game is afoot!”

“I am ready as ever Holmes.”

John managed a weak but convincing smile and they set off into the night.

It was indeed like old times when John found himself seated beside Holmes in a hansom, revolver in his pocket, the street lamps illuminating Holmes’ austere features. His brows were drawn down in thought indicating that the master huntsman was in pursuit of his prey. Except now, everything was different, and John was the only one who knew the truth.

The hansom took them to Cavendish Square where they disembarked and continued on foot, Holmes leading the way through a bewildering maze of backstreets and alleys while constantly checking that they had not been followed.

John felt quite disorientated, albeit very curious, when Holmes stopped outside a gate which he opened. They walked quietly through it into a deserted back yard. They passed through the yard and made their way into a house which was completely in darkness. Inside it was clear that the house was empty.

They entered a large room and Holmes led John towards the window whispering, “Where do you think we are?”

“Baker Street, I think,” John replied as he looked out of the window and along the street which he suddenly recognised as being the location of his former home.

“Exactly. We are in Camden House, which stands opposite to our own old quarters and provides an excellent view of that picturesque pile.”

John drew closer to the window and looked across to see the familiar site of 221B but was astonished to see the shadow of a man looking exactly like Holmes against the drawn blind in the sitting room window. The light in the room was very bright and the image clear, an unmistakable profile of his friend. So very alike in fact that he had to reach out and make sure that the man himself was really standing beside him.

“I trust that age doth not whither nor custom stale my infinite variety,” said Holmes, “it really is rather like me, is it not?”

“I should be prepared to swear that it was you.”

“The credit of the execution is due to Monsieur Oscar Meunier, of Grenoble, who spent some days in doing the moulding. It is a bust in wax. The rest I arranged myself during my visit to Baker Street this afternoon.”

“But why?”

“Because, my dear Watson, I had the strongest possible reason for wishing certain people to think that I was there when I was really elsewhere.”

“And you thought the rooms were watched?”

“I knew that they were watched and the man who is after me tonight has no idea that we are now after him.”

They stayed by the window, hiding in the shadows and listening to the silence for the next few hours. It became clear from Holmes’ increasingly anxious expressions that he had started to fear his plan would fail.

John found himself back under the intoxicating spell of Sherlock Holmes, his brilliant mind and often surreal world drawing him in, away from his own private thoughts and situations. He couldn’t help but gasp when the silhouette at the window suddenly moved, he was so drawn in to the unfolding drama that all thoughts of the link between the man crouching in the shadows with him and his own wife were momentarily forgotten.

“Of course it has moved,” Holmes responded, with slight irritation in his voice, when John questioned whether his eyes were deceiving him. “Am I such a farcical bungler, Watson, that I should erect an obvious dummy, and expect that some of the sharpest men in Europe would be deceived by it? We have been in this room two hours, and Mrs Hudson has made some change in that figure eight times, or once in every quarter of an hour. She works it from the front, so that her shadow may never be seen. Ah!” Holmes cried, suddenly noticing something which caused his whole manner to change. He became rigid with concentration.

John heard a door being opened and realised that someone had entered the house. Holmes pulled him quietly back into the darker recesses and they silently watched as a figure entered the room, strode over to the window and raised it half a foot. He had in his hand what looked like a stick but was in fact a highly specialist air-gun. He rested the barrel on the ledge of the open window and took his aim.

In that instance, Holmes sprang upon him and forced him to the floor but he managed to struggle free and grabbed Holmes by the throat. John had experienced all possible emotions towards his friend that night, not least great anger, but upon seeing him in danger he instinctively reacted to help him and struck the attacker over the head with the butt of his revolver. Once free, Holmes blew sharply upon a whistle and two policemen and a plain-clothes detective rushed into the room.

“That you, Lestrade?”

“Yes, Mr Holmes. I took the job myself. It’s good to see you back in London, sir.”

The prisoner was now being tightly held by the two policemen who stood on either side of him.

His huge moustache quivered and his fierce eyes fixated on Holmes.

“You fiend!” he cried, “you clever, clever fiend!”

“I have not introduced you yet,” said Holmes, “this, gentlemen, is Colonel Sebastian Moran, once of Her Majesty’s Indian Army, and the best heavy-game shot that our Eastern Empire has ever produced.”

Holmes handed Lestrade the air-gun. “An admirable and unique weapon”, he said, “noiseless and of tremendous power: I knew Von-Herder, the blind German mechanic, who constructed it to the order of the late Professor Moriarty. For years I have been aware of its existence, though I have never before had the opportunity of handling it. I commend it very specially to your attention, Lestrade, and also the bullets which fit it.”

“You can trust us to look after that Mr Holmes,” said Lestrade, as Moran was dragged towards the door, his face ruddy and contorted with sheer fury. “Do you have anything else to say?”

“Only to ask what charge you intend to prefer?”

“What charge, sir? Why, of course, the attempted murder of Mr Sherlock Holmes.”

“Not so, Lestrade. I congratulate you! With your usual happy mixture of cunning and audacity, you have got him.”

“Got him! Got whom, Mr Holmes?”

“The man that the whole force has been seeking in vain, this is Colonel Sebastian Moran, who shot the Honourable Ronald Adair with an expanding bullet from an air-gun through the open window of the second floor front room of No.427 Park Lane upon the thirteenth of last month. Adair had discovered that Moran, his partner at cards, had cheated during their last victory and threatened to expose him causing him ruin. Adair was working out how much money he should personally return when Moran shot him. He had locked his door so that the ladies of the house would not walk in and enquire what he was doing with all that money on his desk and a list of names. That’s the charge, Lestrade, and the motive. Now, do with him as you will.”

John couldn’t ignore reality any longer. The adrenalin of the capture had absorbed his thoughts and this new revelation even more so, but now that the adventure was over he could not help but think that this would probably be the last one he would ever share with Sherlock Holmes. He was about to murder a friendship. It seemed strange to be so close to where it all began on the day it would probably all end, to be opposite the house they shared and the rooms where so many of their adventures had begun.

He was angry with Holmes for what he had done, for three years worth of believing in a lie and for the terrible hurt his decision had caused. But he still felt a great sadness when he remembered arriving in London all those years ago still hurting from his family feud and battered by a military campaign, feeling fragile, alone, but finding solace in Holmes and his strange world which had touched him once again that night.

All he wanted now was to be with me and to reach me before Holmes did, to protect me. He hoped that now he would be able to make his excuses and leave but the drama was about to intensify beyond his control.