Holmes turned to the landlady again. “Did you know of his drug use?”
“Most decidedly not! I was shocked to find him the way I did. But was I surprised, Mr. Holmes? No! He had this friend, a girl. She came by two, three times.” Mrs. Henslow nodded upwards to Aherne’s rooms where Fran still was. “She is trouble, I can tell. I made myself quite clear. She was welcome to stop by for afternoon tea, but I wanted her out of my house by sunset.”
Holmes lowered his eyelids in deep understanding. “Well, I’m afraid we must be off,” he said. “Inspector Lestrade will see to it that all proper steps are taken.”
With that we took leave of Mrs. Henslow and the O’Malleys and retraced our steps down Morton Road. I looked back once and saw them walking in the opposite direction.
“Did you notice anything about Mr. O’Malley?” asked Holmes when we were out of earshot.
“He seemed upset.”
“Anything else?”
I shrugged, and Holmes shook his head in desperation.
“Watson, Watson. How often must I tell you, don’t see. Observe! Didn’t you notice the edge of a telegram receipt sticking out of his coat pocket?”
“So he and his wife were coming from the telegraph office. And crossed paths with their landlady, who buttonholed them, so as to persuade them to accompany her on commending a soul.”
“Precisely.”
“Accompany her to the wrong kind of church, according to the O’Malleys, I would assume.”
“Hence the need for persuasion, perhaps.”
“But to whom did they send a telegram?”
“Later, Watson. Think. Anything else about O’Malley?”
Holmes tapped his cheek with his fingertip.
“His firemark!” I exclaimed. “It wasn’t visible. He must have covered it.”
Sherlock Holmes nodded, but said no more. Rather, he stomped along, staring into the distance. My friend’s energetic mind was sifting through possibilities, discarding some, setting others aside for further contemplation, considering various avenues for proceeding. The question of the firemark lingered in my mind, but was then pushed aside by another line of thought that had been preoccupying me.
I have always striven to render lifelike the scenes or characters I was describing. Though I believe that by and large I have succeeded, it cannot be gainsaid that my efforts have been helped immensely by the work of a young gentleman by the name of Mr. Sidney Paget. He is a very pleasant individual, with a keen perception and an enviable artistic talent. When The Strand began running my tales, the editor sent Paget by my practice in Paddington. We all thought Holmes dead at the time, his body irrecoverable at the bottom of the gorge of the Reichenbach Fall. I showed Paget photographs of Holmes, which Paget used as the basis for his sketches. Over the years, Paget then on his own initiative visited some of the locales where Holmes and I had been and created drawings of crucial scenes based on my descriptions. His drawings, I have come to believe, have established the image of Holmes more firmly in the public’s mind than my words could have done, had they been unaided by the visual arts. The efforts Aherne had gone to so as to approximate his own appearance to Holmes’s would have been impossible without these drawings as models. But yet, my responsibility...
At this point, Holmes thrust a moleskin notebook out in front of me.
“Could you please go through this, Watson? I need to conduct a little experiment when we get back.”
I took the notebook, looking rather dumbfounded, I am afraid.
“I saw you giving it to Lestrade.”
“Not this one. Your mnemonic mind almost got us into trouble this time, Watson. In passing, I would like to mention that the case that inspired Aherne’s construction of a hiding place is one I should not altogether mind forgetting. Be that as it may, you will recall that I was in Aherne’s laboratory when Lestrade congratulated you so warmly on finding the object in question. Luckily, beside Aherne’s Bunsen burner there lay a moleskin notebook, which he had been using to keep track of his experiments. There was also a dish with a little mercury fulminate. I quickly set up a contraption with the fulminate and some hydrochloric acid. When I joined you all in the sitting room I saw to my relief that the notebook you had discovered was of the identical manufacture as the one from the laboratory. I ensured that I had the sitting room notebook in my hands when the explosion occurred. Of course, everyone’s attention was momentarily diverted, and it was easy to give Lestrade the laboratory notebook.” He pointed to the one in my hand. “That one may turn out quite interesting.”
“I wonder if my readers would believe such a lapse by Sherlock Holmes. Beaten to the treasure by me.”
Holmes raised a wry eyebrow, but did not comment. Instead, he waived for a passing cab.
Once we were rattling towards Baker Street, Holmes reached into his coat and extracted the flask of cocaine solution.
“I also had a chance to lay a hold of this.”
“Lestrade will surely notice that it has disappeared.”
“Let him. He can have it again very soon.”
Back in our quarters, Holmes set to work at his chemistry bench. For a moment, I wondered whether he would be tempted by the substance now in his possession. Our addictions stay with us for life, even if we no longer heed them. Then, however, my mind was set at rest by the notion that Holmes was now in thrall to his other addiction, a mystery that demanded a solution.
I sat down with Aherne’s notebook. There were many quotes from my narratives addressing detective work. There were also quite a few passages unrelated to my writings. These passages, I soon realised, formed a tale, in parts both strange and frightening. Before returning the notebook to Lestrade, who passed it on to the evidence room of Scotland Yard, I transcribed them and some paragraphs that added flavour into my scrapbook. These excerpts I now present here:
Aug 22
Think I found a place finally. Like the arrangement of the rooms. 18 guineas a week! Not cheap this city. Landlady a little humorless, but nice enough. Runs the place together with her son. Decent fellow. Offered to help me lug up my stuff. Might buy some furniture. Pretty much made up my mind. Sometimes you just get the feeling, this is it. Taken up boxing again. Very British in a way - hit the other guy, but be a gentleman.
Aug 29
Set up lab. Pushing myself with the weights. Have lost almost a stone over the past month, would like to lose another. London, what a city! The world is here. Could walk around forever. Wish I knew more people. The work at the office would bore anyone to tears. How do people do this for decades? They stand around debating weather reports from Egypt and worry about the price of cotton. I don’t give a fig about the price of Egyptian cotton, nor about that of Russian grain or Swedish iron ore. Nor for that matter about the cleverest way to avoid paying import duties. Reading quite a bit, lots to learn.
Sept 1
Set the alarm today. Not used to this anymore, but wanted to be first in line at the W.H. Smith to get the new Strand Mag. Wasn’t the first, two guys ahead of me. But got my copy. Fantastic chapter of “The Hound of the Baskervilles” - can’t wait for Holmes to show up!
Worked on “Irene’s safe” very quietly. Should be ready tomorrow.
Sept 3
What an evening! Just in the door. Meant to go to the theater, but ended up in a show of dancing girls. Well, I suppose it’s something I had meant to do. Then walked around the West End. Was passing a side street and saw three louts heckling an old homeless woman. One of them poured a bottle of beer over her head. Suddenly found myself walking toward them. One of them pushes me with both hands, tells me to “piss off”. Don’t know how it happened, just put a straight right on his chin. Next one rushes at me. Blocked his punch, followed with an upper cut, and he’s on his pants. The last one backed off. The other two were scrambling to their fe
et. They start cussing me, but then disappear round a corner. The old woman thanked me. Felt very awkward. Gave her a few shillings. Can’t sleep now, my heart is still racing.
Sep 9
Reading people on the Tube again today. Two gentlemen, bowler hats, suits, clean shoes, about fifty. They got off at Marble Arch. Had them down for bankers. Decided to follow. They ended up going into a law office. Close!
Sep 12
Making progress with chemical studies. Will never achieve H.’s level of ingenuity, of course, but really think I’ve got some talent. Irish couple moving in across from me. Just talked to them. He’s more chatty. Henslow was helping, his mother also there. That woman would have been right at home on Plymouth Rock in 1649. Grumbled about how I’ve been coming home late. None of her business, and she got her rent. That’s all she cares about anyway. Pretty sure she’s overcharging me. Anyway, surprised the Irish would want to live on the third floor. Must be pushing seventy, seem in good shape though. Left the old country decades ago, he said. Hope they won’t mind when I torture the violin. No hope for me there. But I can see why H. does it. Easy to let the mind drift.
Sept 16
Saw them both today! Was walking along Baker Street, tried shortly before noon this time. Was wearing a hat, different coat from last times. In any case, might just be someone who often runs errands in the area. Was maybe eighty yards from 221, on the opposite side, when the door opens. H. steps out, W. follows. They get into a cab. Maybe one day I’ll pay my respects, doubt it though. Last thing I want is to be a nuisance.
Sept 21
Can’t read the cases often enough. You learn something every time. Just had another look at ‘The Adventure of the Speckled Band.’ Amazing how H. did it, but absolutely logical.
So glad I’m away from Boston. Another prim tea party at my parents’, think I might have burped and picked my nose. Also the college crowd. The nonsense that goes on there! If I want to drink, I’ll drink, happily. I’m Irish. But those stupid games, not sure I could have taken it much longer. Wonder what they’d all be thinking if they knew I’m two generations away from a papist spud farmer. But of course they know! We must be the only Unitarian Ahernes on the planet. The power of the Silver Dollar makes a lot go away. No matter how it was made...
Sept 25
Asked Henslow for a good pharmacy. Gave me the address. Only fifteen minutes away. Run by a father and son team. Very British John Bull types, complexions like broiled lobsters. Sold me the stuff, no questions asked. Didn’t want to get it through the wholesaler, though it’s all above board. It’s sitting here now. Holmes no longer takes it, of course, but I’m curious. Not sure what I’ll do.
Sept 30
Second time I’m seeing something like this. On the way back from Piccadilly, I passed a stretch where the sewer is still open, stinks to high heaven. Looked down and saw a dead cat in the garbage. But it hadn’t died there. Could tell because there was only a stump where the front left paw had been. Clambered down some steps, used a stick to push the body. Stiff as a board. A tomcat. Poor critter. He looked strong, in his prime. Someone had also driven a nail through his other front paw. Was suddenly sweating. Probably whoever had done this had hoped the sewage would wash the body away. Or maybe it had washed up here. This has to be connected with what I saw two weeks ago. Also the body of a tomcat, under some bushes in the park nearby. Someone had hit him over the head with a blunt instrument. Bloody, one ear almost shorn off. Looked like he’d dragged himself there to die. Maybe some stupid boys, kids can be cruel. Dad would have given me the thrashing of a lifetime if he’d caught me doing something like this.
Oct 2
My hands feel electric, watching my right moving the pen. It took two, three minutes or so after I injected myself. Only 600ml. Could feel there was something in my blood. Then the charge in my brain. For a moment like the sound of chalk over a blackboard. Jumped up. Not sure how long I’ve been pacing around. Can’t write now, need to go outside.
Oct 6
Met O’Malley in town by accident. Invited me over for tea. They’re from Limerick originally. Worked as a shipping agent, seems to have made good money. Said they owned a small house in the East End, but sold it when the children moved out.
Should write to mom. Had a letter from her yesterday: Hope you’re keeping well, dress for the weather, etc. She thinks I’m still twelve. Just couldn’t face the office today. Dread the day when I have to go into Aherne & Sons.
Oct 8
I met a girl! Was in The Little Kettle, studying “Silver Blaze” - very important case. When I looked up, there she was, sitting at the table across from mine. She was holding her cup of tea in both hands and looking out the window, a smile on her face. Before her on the table the last Strand Mag! Felt a ball of warmth in my stomach. Tried to go back to “Silver Blaze” but couldn’t. Had to do something, it was a sign from the fates. Maybe there was still some of the drug from yesterday in me. She turns her face and I catch her eye. “What did you think of the Holmes?” She grins. “I think the man on the tor is Holmes.” “How so?” “Female intuition.” And then: “I hope you’re also enjoying the sights of London Town. Holmes might give you the wrong impression. It’s really quite peaceful.” It gets on my nerves that I can’t open my mouth here without people knowing where I’m from. “I have all the time I need, I’m not a tourist.” “Do you work here?” “Yes, I do.” “What do you do?” and I thought I now detected some curiosity in her voice.
Still can’t believe what I did then. Got up, stepped over to her table, and sat down opposite her. “Miss, I’ll be happy to tell you all I know about myself, but I won’t shout it across the room.” Her eyes open wide. “Why, yes, sir. Please, do sit down by all means.” She wasn’t flustered at all. Her name is Fran, short for Francis. She works in a haberdashery. She’d been making deliveries and had popped into The Little Kettle for a cup of tea and to read “The Hound of the Baskervilles”. I’ve never met a girl I found so easy to talk to. The waiter brought over my tea set, and we chat away. About Boston and where she’s from, Norwich. Will have to look it up. Her father is a sheep farmer. I felt bad telling her about where I’m from and all, but oddly I knew she wouldn’t think the less of me for it. She’s been in London for almost two years. Her life can’t be easy. But she’s full of spirit. And she sure knows her Holmes! She never believed he was dead after “The Final Problem” - like me! When the clock on the mantelpiece chimed, she gasped. “I must go.” “Oh, yes, why?” I stutter, stupidly. She puts some coins on the table, takes her magazine. “How... when can we meet again?” She bites her lower lip. “Well, Mr. Yankee, I take it this is your favorite London saloon. I’ll meet you here.” With that she’s walking to the door. Once outside, she looks back through the window and gives me a wave.
Oct 9
Was in The Little Kettle till they closed. She didn’t come. Think they’d love to fire me in the office. Of course, they won’t. Not that I’d mind though. Can’t sleep. She didn’t tell me which haberdashery she works in, but I suppose I could find out.
Just heard something, like a child wailing. Looked out the window, but the sound came from farther away, hard to say which direction. It’s never completely quiet here, but this sound was odd. Debating whether I should make use of the pharmacist’s dispensation. Then I’ll be lucky if I sleep tomorrow night, but it would take my mind off things. Not in the mood, really. Wonder what that cry was. Maybe she was busy the whole day.
Oct 10
Rowed ten miles this morning. Fingers almost fell off. By one, I was in The Little Kettle. Tried to read, but caught myself looking at the same sentence over and over again. Once, I thought I saw her in the crowd outside. Looked down because I didn’t want her to see I was waiting for her. But must have been mistaken, for when I looked again she wasn’t there. Think she’s not going to come...
My mind isn�
�t working right. Case in point: When I came back from rowing my door was open! Thought Mrs. Henslow was in, but it was O’Malley. Said my door had been open. Must have forgotten to close it. Good thing I always hide the CO among the chemicals. O’Malley ribbed me a bit. Asked what it’s like to have such a loudmouth as president. As if it’s my fault! A small dosage. Going to work in the lab now. Definitely getting better at proving blood residue on fabrics. Things can’t go on like this.
Oct 11
She came! She tapped me on the shoulder while I was staring out into the street. When I spun around, there she was, a grin on her lips. “Mr. Yankee,” and looking down at my cup: “Are we turning you into a tea drinker?” “You leave me no choice, your coffee is so awful.” I have my moments. She laughs, sits down. “I didn’t notice you coming in.” “How would you, engrossed in your reading as you were?” She can raise her left eyebrow independently, which she now did. “Yes... I guess... I just thought...” “Actually, I came in through there.” She nods to a half-open door at the back of the room. “I know one of the women in the kitchen. Speaking of work, yours hardly seems to leave you a free minute.” “I am thinking of changing my career.” “I see. Some people here make a living tasting tea. So keep developing your palate.” “That might be too nerve-wracking for me. Are you coming back from making deliveries?” She rolled her lips inward, which I’ve noticed is something she does when there’s a thought going through her mind. “I work for a nice elderly lady. She lets me take a break if there’s nothing much to do and there’s an American who needs some help with the local customs.” She ordered a cup of tea and some chocolate cake. We chatted for almost an hour, then she had to leave. She told me a few things about herself. She’s the oldest of five siblings, her mother died in childbirth three years ago. I wanted to reach across the table and touch her hand. We said we’d meet again on Monday. She’s taking the train to Norwich tomorrow and will stay the weekend. I can see her face in front of me now.
Oct 13
Didn’t really want to, but ended up taking 700ml in the afternoon. Worked like a fiend till almost eleven. Completed two series of tests for alkaloids. Then just had to get out of these digs. London at night is very different from Boston. In Boston after a certain hour, you feel you’re the only person awake in the entire city. Not here. After the pubs close you hardly see anyone, but there’s always light behind some curtains. Life, at least in some quarters, is continuing. Walked through Hyde Park, then Westminster. My temples were still beating after all these hours, but the cold and damp were slowly bringing me around. The substance is amazing! You feel not quite human, like the ancient berserkers must have felt going into battle. Near Trafalgar Square I ran into a bobby. Asked if I was lost. “Just can’t sleep.” “Have a nightcap when you get home, lad.” The law encouraging you to drink! The Abigail Bunyans of Beacon Hill would be chattering in their corsets, if they only knew! Then something happened that will be with me till my dying day. Was about half-a-mile from home when I heard what sounded like someone being sick. The sound came from an alley I’d just passed. Hesitate, walk back. The alley narrow, can’t see a thing. Then the sound again, more purposeful if that makes any sense, followed by a scraping sound. Take a few steps into the alley and can now make out some low shapes at the rear of a house. Garbage cans. The sounds seem to have come from behind them, and I see a shadow moving in spasms. The scraping noise was of shoes against pavement, I suddenly understand, and the sound of someone being sick, that of a person gasping for breath. I run forward, idiot that I am. The guy was crouching, and just as I reach the garbage cans he lunges forward and rams his fist into my stomach. Been training my stomach muscles, but wasn’t prepared. Now I know what it means to have your breath knocked out of you. The air bursts from my mouth and I’m on the pavement. Couldn’t breathe. The figure coming for me. I’m pushing backward. He gets ready to kick me in the face, I lunge to the side, his boot rushes past my ear. Then he takes off. I turn, and he’s disappearing round the corner. In no condition to follow. Get to my feet and manage to breathe, though I tasted blood. Walk toward the garbage cans. Behind them a figure. Dead, I think, but when I bend down I hear breathing, and then: “Who in blazes are ya? Are ya going to stick me. I’ll give ya a good fight awright.” “You’ve got the wrong guy. Whoever put you on your pants took off.” “Now has he, the yellow bastard! I showed him, by the living jingo! Help me up, if ya please.” He sways back and forth. “Let’s go back to the street,” I say. He holds on to my shoulder. A lamp on the corner, and when we reach it I can see he’s some toff as they call them here, silk cravat and all. Has a shiner. I think there were strangulation marks around his neck, and he was bleeding from a cut at the side of his throat. Lipstick on his cheek and I could smell lady’s perfume. “Did you see the guy’s face?” I ask. “We should call the police and you might need a doctor.” “No, no, my good man. Too many questions I shouldn’t like to answer.” He presses his cravat against the cut, then looks at the blood like it’s something he’s never seen before. Grabs the lamppost and points down the street. “Let’s go back to Madame Rose’s, my dear fellow. It’s all on me.” And he’s laughing so loud I think windows will start opening. Luckily, a hansom is coming along. Cabbie says he’ll take one last fare. Bundled in Madame Rose’s patron. He drawls out a Mayfair address and off they go.
The MX Book of New Sherlock Holmes Stories - Part X Page 33