Secrets From the Deed Box of John H Watson, MD (The Deed Box of John H. Watson MD)

by Ashton, Hugh

  “What do you mean, Holmes?” I asked, curious as to what he had in mind.

  “I am sure that Inspector Gregson is correct as far as one of the motives for this little comedy is concerned. My reputation would no doubt have suffered were I to be convicted and sentenced—”

  “An outcome which I can promise you will not take place, since the police will withdraw charges in the magistrate’s court tomorrow,” broke in Gregson. “You have proved to my satisfaction that the charges against you are demonstrably false.”

  “Thank you.” Holmes inclined his head. “There is a secondary purpose to all this, though, I am sure, and that is to keep me away from Baker Street while Morden, or Masters as I suppose we must call him now, or those close to him, enter and search for any evidence I may have uncovered with regard to this business.”

  “I had already informed my wife before I came here this evening that I might very well be absent for the whole night,” I told Holmes. “I will be happy to act as the watchdog of your interests in this regard.”

  “That shows an excellent sense of foresight,” he replied. “I knew I could rely on you. Good old Watson.” This simple phrase, delivered in a tone of the utmost sincerity, showed the human side of Holmes’ nature that he typically kept hidden, and indeed, few suspected its very existence.

  “And I will be happy to help in any way within my power,” added Gregson. “It has been a long day, but I dare say I could provide assistance if there is to be a chance of setting this business straight.”

  “Excellent!” said Holmes. He leaned forward, his elbows on the table, and his eyes shone. “Do you, Watson, stay in the unlit room. Leave the front door and the door to my rooms unlocked. I have no wish to cause Mrs Hudson unnecessary trouble as a result of the thieves having to break down any barriers. You will find my revolver in the middle drawer of the bureau, and cartridges in the drawer below that, but I do not think you will require their use. The lead-weighted riding crop should prove a sufficient deterrent should you need one. On the entry of our visitor – which I expect to take place around two or three o’clock in the morning – give three sharp blasts on your whistle. Gregson, that will be the signal for you and your men to apprehend the villains.” He yawned. “And now, if I may, I will avail myself of the hospitality of the Metropolitan Police, and return to my cell.”

  Gregson pulled at a bell-rope that hung behind his desk, and a uniformed constable knocked at the door and was admitted. “Take the prisoner to his cell,” he commanded. It was hard for us to realise that Holmes was indeed a prisoner in the eyes of the law, and when he had departed, after bidding us a good night, Gregson and I looked at each other and burst out laughing.

  “He is a rare one, to be sure,” said Gregson. “It is as if he were in a hotel, the way he behaves, demanding to be taken to his cell in that way, and ordering us about as if we were his servants.” There was no malice in his words, and his face creased in a broad smile beneath his moustache. “Do you believe that he is correct in his guess?”

  “I have no way of knowing the answer with any certainty, of course, but in my experience, when Sherlock Holmes makes guesses of this nature, they are usually correct.”

  “We must be off, then. You to Baker Street, and I to procure the services of two of our plain-clothes men. You have a whistle? Mr Holmes seemed to assume that you had such a thing in your possession.”

  “I do indeed. I will bid you farewell – a temporary farewell, I hope, since we expect to see each other in a matter of a few hours.”

  “I hope so,” replied Gregson, pleasantly.

  -oOo-

  I returned to Baker Street to find all lights extinguished, Mrs Hudson having retired. Mindful of Holmes’ instructions, I left the front door unlocked, and mounted the stairs to Holmes’ rooms, which I unlocked using the key with which Holmes had permanently entrusted me, and quietly closed the door after me. I refrained from turning on the gas lights, but made my way to the bureau, relying on the light from the window, whose curtains remained open. I was in two minds as to whether to take the revolver, but eventually decided to leave it in its resting place, but had no hesitation in taking the riding crop to which Holmes had alluded. It was a more formidable weapon than its appearance would suggest, with the hollow handle being filled with lead, allowing it to be reversed and used as a life-preserver.

  Nonetheless, I had no desire to be placed in a situation where I would be forced to use it. I settled myself in an armchair from which I could observe the door of the room, but where I would initially be hidden by the door itself from the view of anyone entering the room.

  It was a long wait, and a cold one. The fire had not been lit, or even laid, it appeared, and the absence of any light combined with the events of the day conspired to produce a sense of fatigue. More than once I found myself awaking with a start as a cab or some tradesman’s wagon clattered along the otherwise deserted street. On the last of these occasions I started awake, but could hear nothing outside the window. I listened more carefully, and was rewarded by the sound of at least one pair of feet climbing the stairs outside the door slowly and carefully. My nerves on edge, I watched the handle of the door turning in the moonlight streaming through the window, and the door slowly opening.

  I strained my ears to catch a faint whisper. “This door’s open as well,” I heard. “This is too blooming easy, George.”

  “Just be thankful there’s no Sherlock Holmes about tonight, then,” came another voice.

  I reached for the riding crop, and fingered the whistle that hung from a lanyard around my neck. Two dark shapes entered the room.

  “Where do you think it would be?” came the whisper.

  “Search me, Bill. There’s too many papers for my liking.”

  “We can start with the desk. Open the lantern. Carefully, mark you.” I had already smelled the hot metal that informed me a dark-lantern was being carried by the housebreakers, but before they could fully open the slide, I had blown three sharp blasts on my whistle. The effect was instant – the two criminals froze in their tracks, illuminated by the half-open lantern, while a thunder of boots up the stairs told me that Gregson and his men were arriving on the scene, as previously arranged.

  I was informed by the flash of light through the doorway that the police had arrived, with Gregson at their head.

  “We’re nabbed, Bill,” said one of the burglars, seemingly resigned to his fate. “Seems like you was expecting us, sir,” he nodded to me, having observed my presence with the aid of the police lanterns. “I take it you’re Mr Sherlock Holmes himself?”

  “I am not,” I replied. “But it is Sherlock Holmes who is responsible for your arrest, even though he is not present in this room. Who sent you here?” I asked him.

  “I’ll make my statement at the station, if you don’t mind,” was the reply, delivered with a certain degree of dignity.

  “You’ll be there soon enough, my lad,” Gregson said to him good-humouredly. “You’ll be joining us, Doctor?” he said to me.

  “I will come along as soon as I have finished calming Mrs Hudson, whom I fear we have woken,” I replied. I went downstairs, and called through the door leading to Mrs Hudson’s apartments, reassuring her that no damage had been occasioned, and that she was in no danger. She seemed reassured by my words, and I returned to the now empty room and locked the door, remembering the old proverb about stable doors and bolting horses, before leaving the house and locking that door as well. The police four-wheeler was waiting for me in the street outside, and we were soon on our way to Scotland Yard.

  -oOo-

  On arrival at Scotland Yard, the two criminals were led to a room for questioning by the plain-clothes men who had arrested them, and Gregson and I entered his office to confer.

  “I think,” said Gregson, smiling, “that we will not disturb Mr Holmes’ sleep. I intend to bring these two into court tomorrow, to face the music before Holmes appears and we drop the charges. If what Sherlock Holmes s
uspects is true, there may be some friends of theirs in court to see him, and it will be interesting to observe their faces when these men appear.”

  “That would seem to be an excellent plan,” I said, “and I concur with your idea of leaving it as a surprise.”

  “And now,” he added, yawning widely, “I suggest that we attempt to sleep. I have a camp-bed in the next room which I use on such occasions. You are welcome to it, should you wish. Alternatively, we could offer you a cell for the night.”

  “I am an old campaigner,” I assured him. “I would have no difficulty sleeping on the floor, if that were all that were available. However, I will not deprive you of your cot. A cell will provide me with the shelter I need for the night. I trust you will be able to provide me with hot water and a razor in the morning?”

  “Of course.” There was a knock on the door, and one of the plain-clothes men who had been questioning the burglars entered.

  “We found out that our precious pair, whom we’ve seen several times before in court, were employed by a Mr Edward Masters to search for any documents belonging to Mr Holmes relating to the City brokers Knight and Conk-Singleton.”

  Gregson and I exchanged glances. “Our friend Morden makes another entrance,” commented Gregson drily. “Very good, Saunders. Ensure that they appear at Bow Street tomorrow immediately before Mr Holmes makes his appearance.”

  The officer left us, and Gregson rose to his feet. “I will show you to your cell, Doctor. Believe me, our cells are less inhospitable than you might imagine from the name alone.”

  As he said, the bed, although hard, was clean. Truth to tell, I was sufficiently fatigued to have passed the night comfortably on a bed of nails, such as those used by Indian faqirs to demonstrate their supposed spiritual powers.

  I was awakened by a uniformed constable bearing a mug of hot water, some soap and a razor, along with a towel. “Inspector Gregson’s compliments,” he smilingly informed me as he handed me the shaving tackle, “and he would like to invite you to share his breakfast when you are ready.”

  “Thank you. Please inform the Inspector that I shall be ready in a few minutes.” I discovered a small hand-mirror wrapped in the towel, and I made a hasty toilet before meeting Gregson.

  “Ah, Doctor,” he greeted me. “I trust your night was not too uncomfortable?” I reassured him on that score, and he hospitably waved me towards a steaming pot of coffee, accompanied by porridge and kippers.

  “I have taken the liberty of sending portions to Mr Holmes in his cell. Hardly standard fare under the circumstances, but I feel I can do no less.”

  “He has suffered worse in his time, I can assure you,” I told him, and fell to with a good appetite.

  “The hearing of the two beauties we bagged last night should begin at 9:15. Mr Holmes appears immediately following their hearing,” he informed me. Gregson looked me up and down. “I have a clean collar here, should you feel in need.”

  I accepted gratefully. Although I do not consider myself to be overly concerned with my appearance, I feel that it is somewhat incumbent upon me to set some sort of example, especially in official business of such a nature as was to be transacted in a few hours.

  On finishing our repast, I accepted the proffered collar, and we went to see Holmes.

  “I have a surprise for you this morning,” remarked Gregson to Holmes, his eyes twinkling. “I will not tell you about it, but I think it will amuse you. As regards your own trial, of course, you need have no fears. Speaking on behalf of the police, I will drop all charges against you. Will you be laying any counter-charge against your accuser for laying false information against you?”

  “I think that will probably be unnecessary. I am almost certain that I can procure evidence that will allow you to arrest him on a somewhat more serious charge.”

  “As you wish,” replied Gregson. “Do you wish to shave and make yourself look a little more presentable prior to your appearance before the magistrates?” he enquired solicitously.

  “I will do so, though I do realise that my chances of conviction or otherwise are not dependent upon my appearance. Thank you.”

  “Doctor,” Gregson said to me, as Holmes left the room. “You can be of great assistance to us by going to the court early, and keeping your eyes open for familiar faces, especially for Eric Morden. My guess is that he will be there in order to observe the fruits of his labours – that is, he will wish to see Holmes remanded until the next Assize sessions. If you see Morden, I would like you to observe him as closely as you can during today’s proceedings, and note his reactions to today’s events. It is likely that he suspects that his hired guns have misfired, to use a metaphor, but I am almost certain he will not expect to see them in the dock today.”

  “I will be happy to do this,” I replied. “The more so, as I believe it will add to the evidence that Holmes needs to solve this case involving the City.”

  “Good man,” said the policeman. “Let us meet after Holmes’ case has been dismissed, and you can report to us then.”

  I made my way to Bow Street Magistrates’ Court, an institution with which I was happily unfamiliar, and ascertained from one of the porters there which courtroom would be used for Holmes’ hearing, and hence that of Morden’ two accomplices. On arrival, I took a seat near the back of the almost empty room, commanding a view of the whole area. I had not long to wait before a man whom I recognised as Morden entered, and took his seat two rows directly in front of me. I had my hat pulled well down, and my coat collar turned up in order to avoid his recognising me, but in any case, he appeared not to be interested in me or any others in the courtroom, but sat back in his seat, almost with the air of a theatre-goer awaiting the rise of the curtain on a favourite drama.

  The other spectators of the day’s proceedings appeared to be members of the legal profession, mixed with some younger men whom I took to be law students, and some seeming indigents, whose interest was almost certainly not of a forensic nature, but was due to the fact that the courtroom was well-heated, and formed a shelter from the light rain that had started to fall outside. At the front of the court, in the area reserved for witnesses, was a pale young man, whose face, including his nose, was swathed in bandages. He turned, his eyes searching the room, until they alighted on Morden, to whom he gave a signal of recognition which was returned, as far as I could judge from the back of his head. It took little effort on my part to judge that this was the victim of the attack supposedly carried out by Holmes.

  At length the magistrate and clerks entered, and we all rose. There were two cases to be heard before the usher called for William and George Stoker. The visitors of last night entered the courtroom, flanked by two policemen, and I noticed Morden give a visible start as he recognised the names and faces of the men whom we believed he had hired to steal Holmes’ papers. Now that I could see the pair in broad daylight, it was obvious that they were related; almost certainly brothers, if their physiognomy was any guide.

  The evidence given by the plain-clothes man was uncompromising. Gregson had obviously given instructions that my name not be mentioned as part of the proceedings leading up to the arrest, and indeed, even the name of Sherlock Holmes was not pronounced in court – only the address of 221B Baker Street being given. Likewise, the information concerning Morden that had been obtained through the confessions of the two men remained hidden from the court, with solely the mere facts concerning the breaking and entering being put forth. In a matter of minutes the magistrate had determined that the two should be remanded in custody pending the next Assize Sessions, and they were led away back to the cells. I seemed to notice a sense of relief on the part of Morden, as the whole of the hearing passed without his name being mentioned.

  “The next case,” announced the usher, “is that of Sherlock Holmes, charged with assault upon the person of one Michael Frignall, occasioning grievous bodily harm.”

  Holmes was led to the dock, and a stir of excitement ran through the spectators, as
they saw in the flesh, more than likely for the first time, the figure whose name had become a byword in parts of the popular press.

  Inspector Gregson stepped forward, asking and receiving permission to address the Bench.

  “Your Worship, the Metropolitan Police would like to request that this case not be prosecuted further, owing to severe doubts concerning the reliability of the testimony provided by Michael Frignall, and would further request that all charges pending against the prisoner be dropped.”

  “You are sure of this, Inspector?” asked the presiding magistrate.

  “Quite certain, Your Worship.”

  “Very good. So be it. Mr Sherlock Holmes, you are a free man. There is no charge pending against you.”

  The effect of this on Morden was dramatic. With a loud cry of “No!”, followed by an obscenity that I refuse to repeat here, and which brought the court ushers hurrying towards him, he sprang from his seat and made for the door, passing close by me. His face had turned almost black with rage, and was tortured into a scowl that was terrifying to see. It was clear that the double shock of seeing his henchmen in the dock, and his opponent set free in this way had affected his nerves. I waited a minute or two and followed him out of the courtroom. Gregson and Holmes were already waiting for me there.

  “Congratulations,” I said to Holmes, shaking him warmly by the hand. “I am delighted to see you a free man.”

  “Perhaps not as delighted as I,” he replied with a chuckle. “I saw friend Morden just now as I was entering this vestibule. He failed to notice me. I take it that the dismissal of the charges against me was not to his liking?”

  “He was livid, Holmes. I have rarely seen a man in a state of such extreme fury.”

  “Excellent. Men in that state of mind are likely to make mistakes. And now,” turning to me, “to work. May I ask you, Watson, to trouble yourself to visit the offices of Knight and Conk-Singleton, and make enquiries as to the possibility of your putting some business that way?”