The Fourth Circle

by Zoran Zivkovic

  2. THE BOOK

  IT TOOK ME a fraction of a second to recognize him. No wonder: I had previously seen him only once in my life. Moreover, at that time he had been wearing glasses low on his nose, which he did not have now, and he was the last person whom I would have expected to see at the front door of 221-A Baker Street. I think he noticed my momentary confusion, but politely ignored it, because he, too, saw that his unannounced arrival must be something of a surprise.

  "Good evening, Dr. Watson," said he, in a voice in which an unsuccessfully suppressed shortness of breath could be heard. At that moment something caught my eye: a long trail of sweat, which came from somewhere behind his right ear, meandered down his massive neck and disappeared under the high, stiff collar of his shirt like an underground stream. Had we not been in twilight, likely a certain flushed hue could have been discerned on the visitor's face. He had come here in a great hurry, perhaps at a run.

  "Sir Arthur," said I finally. "What a surprise."

  In normal circumstances, the obligations of polite behavior would have demanded a speedy apology and explanation for this 'surprise.' But the circumstances, clearly, were not normal—generally speaking, very few people came to us for normal reasons—so that he omitted all formalities and proceeded at once to what had brought him here with such conspicuous haste.

  "Mr. Holmes...I have to see him right away. He is at home, I hope?"

  "Well...no. He is not. I mean, he is away."

  I have never been a good liar. That is mainly why I chose forensics: I did not have to conceal from patients the truth about the state of their health, because they were beyond caring.

  "Oh, no!" exclaimed Sir Arthur, putting a hand to his mouth. "So, it's happened already! I've come too late!"

  His voice rose into near-hysteria. This jerked me out of my confusion. At the moment there was nobody on the street, but at any instant somebody might come along, and in view of what Sir Arthur had just uttered, this was the last place I would wish to discuss the matter.

  "Please, do come in, Sir Arthur. We will be much more comfortable inside."

  I expected him to rush past me, but he hesitated for a moment, as if wondering what the point might be of entering the house if the man he wanted to find was not there. Then, apparently at a loss for what else to do, he shrugged his shoulders, nodded curtly, and came inside. Before closing the door behind us, I looked first left then right, down the street—more out of precaution, because I believed that Holmes would have done so in a similar situation, than out of any expectation that something might be gained by it. All I managed to observe was a quick movement of the curtain in one large window near the front door of the house next door: inquisitive neighbors.

  Sir Arthur did not advance very far down the corridor but stopped only a step or two in front of me, the reason for which became quite clear when the door closed completely and we found ourselves in almost total darkness. Mrs. Simpson and her absurd habit of not lighting the lamps!

  I mumbled something by way of an apology and hurried forward, overtaking Sir Arthur. I approached the lamp in the middle of the corridor while groping in my pockets in search of a lighter. I did not find it at once—on such occasions, one never finds anything at first try—and this unhandiness had a strange consequence. As I stood under the lamp, impatiently touching this pocket and that in the darkness, I lifted my gaze involuntarily, as people are wont to do when they are at the end of their patience or nerves.

  Two things then happened simultaneously. I finally found the lighter—in the place where I should have searched for it first, because that is where I always keep it, in the right hand pocket of my vest. And just before I hastily struck the flint, I noticed for an instant a pale band of milky radiance in a place where it had no reason to be: in the narrow gap between the door and the threshold of the drawing room above.

  Fearing that Sir Arthur might notice it too, I quickly lit the lamp, flooding the corridor with bright light that entirely did away with the ghostly radiance from above, so that I wondered if perhaps it had been only a hallucination. The eyes are a very unreliable guide in the darkness.

  In any case, this was not the moment to verify my impression—and it is questionable whether I would have gone upstairs without a great deal of hesitation, not to say fear, had we not had a visitor. I took Sir Arthur to the dining room, in which Mrs. Simpson had, only a moment after myself, also lit the lamp. She then beat a hasty retreat into the furthest corner of the room, visibly shrinking from the unknown and unexpected guest.

  I opened my mouth to make the introductions, but Sir Arthur was faster.

  "Mrs. Hudson, I presume? Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, director of the British Museum Library."

  "Mrs. Simpson," I corrected him. He turned to me and looked at me perplex-edly. "Simpson? Is not the name of Mr. Holmes's housekeeper Mrs. Hudson?"

  "I assure you, Sir Arthur, our housekeeper is called Mrs. Simpson, is that not so, Mrs. Simpson?"

  The expected support, however, was not forthcoming from her. The woman stood wordlessly in the opposite corner of the dining room, nervously wringing her hands and gazing distractedly at the new arrival, as if his appearance had deprived her of the faculty of speech. To help her regain her composure, I asked her to make tea for us, a suggestion that she accepted with relief, hurrying off at once into the kitchen. Passing by Sir Arthur, she murmured something, I did not discern what.

  I picked up the chair that I had overturned in my rush to answer the door and sat down, first offering Sir Arthur the seat at the opposite side of the table, Mrs.

  Simpson's customary place. He spent a few moments gazing after her toward the open kitchen door, from which came the muffled clink of the metal and porcelain tea things, then shook his head once or twice and turned to me.

  I looked back at him, without a word, at a loss for what to say. The behavior of this man was so unusual that it required an immediate explanation. However, as I had half expected, instead of explaining himself, Sir Arthur had more questions.

  "Dr. Watson, you must tell me everything! It is imperative that I know. What has happened to Mr. Holmes?"

  I countered with a question: "What gives you the idea that something has happened?" trying to keep my voice as calm as possible, though aware that pretending, like lying, was not my strong point.

  "You said he was absent, is that right?"

  "Yes. He is away on a new, unexpected case and...."

  "Very well, very well," Sir Arthur interrupted me impatiently. "If so, may I have back the books you borrowed for him a few days ago?"

  This demand startled me, and I did not try to hide it. The books, or rather the pitiable remains of them, were in the drawing room above us. If I went to fetch them, I would be forced to rapidly invent a convincing story that would explain the state they were in, but I had failed to invent such a story these four past days, although I had tried strenuously. I had known that this moment, when I should be obliged to return the books, was inescapable, but I had not expected it to come so soon.

  The seconds ticked away, and I continued to stare at him helplessly and dully, like a child caught in some kind of mischief. On his face it was clearly written that he knew perfectly well what was bothering me, besides something deeper. It was this circumstance that finally shook me out of my immobility. Why had he mentioned the books? What did this man, in fact, know? What was his connection with the entire mysterious affair?

  These questions could rescue me from the plight in which I found myself. Sir Arthur certainly owed me an explanation. Not even the police would have burst like this into a respectable home and proceeded with an interrogation from the very doorstep. The moment had come for me to pass from the defensive to the offensive.

  "You will of course get your books back," said I finally, in a tone intended to sound slightly reproachful, though I suspect that Sir Arthur did not heed it. "But I would venture to say that at this moment they are not of paramount importance. I should much appreciate it i
f you were first to—"

  Once more he broke into my sentence, heedlessly, almost rudely. "You have no idea how important they are. Especially...."

  He did not finish that thought. Probably the strangeness of what he had to say was in total contrast to the look of incredulity on my face. He took from an inner pocket of his jacket a lace-hemmed handkerchief with an embroidered initial on it and nervously wiped the sweat from his forehead. The underground stream still glistened on his neck. He shook his head, as if to rid himself of evil spirits. "Forgive me, Dr. Watson. My conduct...I am aware...I must seem like a real madman to you. But if only you knew the things I've been through these past few days...."

  "You are telling me?" I thought to reply, but it would only have complicated the matter even further. We might both have started to confess simultaneously, which certainly would not have been good; only women manage to listen to their companion and carry on talking to her at the same time. In the end, their conversation is reduced to two vast interruptions.

  "Sir Arthur," I said instead, not really knowing how to continue and wishing to calm him a little. Mrs. Simpson came to my assistance by entering with the tea on a large silver tray. The tea service was made of old-style Japanese porcelain, particularly dear to Holmes because on the cups and teapot were ornate Oriental writings, which spoke of cherry blossom, the reflection of the moon on the surface of a lake, spring breezes, and frogs croaking in the darkness. On one occasion Holmes had given me a poetically high-flown translation of it. He had always had bizarre tastes, but save for the inelegant pictographs, the service was very pleasant to use.

  We each took, in silence, a few sips of the hot beverage produced from the pleasant-smelling Ceylonese plant. Mrs. Simpson did not leave, as might normally be expected from a housekeeper. Nobody asked her to— who had the right? She had been for quite some time now up to her neck in this affair, and deeper, if Sir Arthur's unusual method of address was any sign. Since her place at the table was occupied, she retired once more into the corner where she had originally awaited us, even though that meant standing behind Sir Arthur's back.

  The tea seemed to have a remarkable calming effect on our unexpected visitor; better, certainly, than all the words that I could have used. When he spoke again, having drunk perhaps half a cup, his voice was far more composed than before.

  "I think it would be best if I told you everything from the beginning, so you may understand my state, and then...I do not know. Possibly...we'll see." He turned briefly to Mrs. Simpson, not because her presence annoyed him but because he wanted to give her to understand that she ought to sit down. All the signs were that the story would not be short, but she did not budge, choosing to remain standing in the place that she herself had selected.

  "The event with which everything started," Sir Arthur continued, with a small shrug of his shoulders, "happened four days ago."

  I choked and coughed violently, spattering my waistcoat and the lapels of my jacket with droplets of tea. This made a considerable noise, which partly covered the exclamation by Mrs. Simpson. Since she was behind his back, Sir Arthur did not see that she had covered her mouth with her hand. I murmured a few words of apology, ascribing this accident to my clumsiness, and he, after only one suspicious glance, continued.

  "In our Library, in the department of rare and antique books, one volume inexplicably turned up, a volume that absolutely should not have been there, a new book, just printed, in mint condition, so that my assistant who saw it first—which was not very difficult to do, against the background of ancient manuscripts and incunabulae—first thought that somebody had misplaced it. Such disorder, however, is quite untypical of the British Museum Library. We are, as you know, proverbially thorough, particularly in the department of rare and antique books."

  He paused as if expecting me to confirm this proverbiality; a moment later I nodded and said: "Oh, indeed."

  "When he pulled it out of its place and observed it more carefully, a new surprise lay in store for him. Perplexed, he hurried to my office to demand an explanation where he thought he could most naturally obtain it—from me—not because a brand-new book happened to be found among ancient tomes, but rather because my name was given as the author's."

  "You?" I asked bewildered. "But you do not write. At least not as far as I know, I mean, not publicly...."

  "Not publicly, and not in secrecy either. I do not publish under any pseudonym, if that is what you are thinking. But, on that book was no pseudonym. It was my full name and title: Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. It is not impossible that someone else in Britain or the colonies shares the same name, but it is quite certain that we do not share a knighthood. It could only, therefore, have been me."

  "How very strange!" I exclaimed involuntarily.

  "Indeed," he agreed. "Especially since I knew for certain that I had never written the book. At first I thought that someone was playing a game with me, that it was somebody's misguided joke, or worse, a deliberate misrepresentation.

  A man in my position, you know, must always be on the alert. One never knows who might be plotting one's death. Oh, not literally, of course, metaphorically speaking. Careers are, you know, very flimsy things...."

  Sir Arthur paused to take another sip of tea. He drank it rapidly, without savoring the beneficent liquid, as if drinking ordinary water. This was in a sense an insult to Mrs. Simpson, who fortunately did not notice anything, since the visitor now sat with his back half-turned to her.

  "I looked at the name of the publisher; I was of a mind to contact him immediately and clear this matter up. Such things are not done in decent, ordered societies, you know, but it were better that I had not looked. On the title page there were two things that quite bewildered me."

  Sir Arthur paused again, and I thought at that moment that it was a pity that the man really was not a writer; he was undoubtedly a born storyteller, gifted in postponing the denouement, in creating tension, in interrupting the narration at the most exciting places, though that sort of thing generally irritates me.

  "First, the publisher," Sir Arthur continued. "I am, because of my profession, naturally familiar with the publishing world, so that there was no need to look up any source of information to verify that such a firm does not, nor ever did, exist in London, or in fact in the length and breadth of the British Isles. At that moment I had not yet thought of the third possibility."

  "The third possibility? What do you mean by that?" I asked, puzzled.

  "The third possibility, yes. The year of publication clearly pointed to it: a full forty-three years from now. In the future. The publisher who brought out that mystifying book is yet to come into existence."

  I stared incredulously at him and opened my mouth to say something, but not a word came out. The only sound was a brief, wheezing cough from Mrs. Simpson in the opposite corner. If this was too much for me, I can only imagine what effect it must be having on her. Only Holmes, perhaps, would have enjoyed this.

  "I don't understand you, sir. What—future? You do not mean to say...."

  "Exactly that. Yes. But don't demand an explanation, please, I haven't any. It is a complete mystery to me too. I probably should have visited Mr. Holmes at once, as soon as the book came into my hands. Perhaps he could have taken some action, then."

  "Certainly you should have. I am convinced that Holmes would have found some...er...natural solution to the entire matter. You yourself mentioned the possibility that it might be a tasteless practical joke, did you not?"

  "Nobody invests such effort in a bad joke, Mr. Watson. To write a whole book—and a book of superb quality at that—just for the sake of tomfoolery... No, that is quite improbable. Oh, but the contents of the book are such that I could not visit Holmes. Haven't I mentioned its title?"

  "No, I think not. Am I right, Mrs. Simpson?" I looked up at Holmes's housekeeper. If there are faces that eloquently express the state of the soul, hers was such. Fear, confusion, disbelief, an impulse to retreat—all this could be cle
arly read in the small wrinkles around her eyes and in the slight trembling at the edges of her lips. The old woman shook her head briefly.

  "That's because of excitement, Mr. Watson. In such a state, I sometimes omit the essential. The title of the book was— The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes."

  3. VANISHED

  "THE ADVENTURES OF Sherlock Holmes," I repeated stupidly, for lack of anything more intelligent to say. There are circumstances in which a man feels that he must say something but knows that whatever he says will sound foolish.

  "Precisely," replied Sir Arthur. "I quite understand your puzzlement, Dr.

  Watson. You can imagine how I felt upon taking into my hands for the first time a book of which I was supposedly the author and which spoke of the adventures of a man whom I happen to know well. I cannot say we are intimate friends, but Mr.

  Holmes has frequently visited our library, and I have always been at his disposal, so that in time a relationship developed between us, one which is more than mere acquaintanceship."

  He paused, in the manner of one who had sunk into his memories. The silence was now disturbed only by the tiny tinkling of porcelain. A moment or two later I realized that it was caused by the trembling of my hands in which I held a saucer and a cup of tea.

  "Most extraordinary," I said finally, hurriedly placing the cup on the table. "A book purporting to be yours, about Sherlock Holmes, appears inexplicably in the department of rare and antique books in the British Museum Library, looking as if it is from the future—"