“I will leave,” said Holmes smoothly, retrieving the knife from the floor, “in seven days. But do not be sure that you have seen the last of me. In the mean time, I’ll keep this knife as a souvenir of our encounter.” With these words he left and returned to his room upstairs.
Jones closed the door and slumped against it. His face was awash with perspiration and his body was shaking. At length he staggered to a cupboard. Producing from it a gin bottle, he took a long, good gulp. His eye caught sight of a small canvas bag slipped in between the bottles. After another slurp of gin, he took the bag and examined its contents: a dozen sovereigns. He smiled. Despite the recent unpleasantness, it had not been a bad day’s work after all.
Buffeted by the blustery March wind, Henry Stamford trudged up the steps to the entrance of St Bart’s Hospital. His eyes ached and his head thumped. Souvenirs of another late-night card game. Always in the bright light of the morning he wondered why on earth he indulged in such a foolish pursuit: he rarely won, and his tiredness was beginning to affect his work. Last night had been disastrous. He had lost over twenty pounds, an amount a junior surgeon could ill afford to lose. How he would survive before his next pay date, he dreaded to think.
He flinched again as the pounding grew louder. He would have to mix a sedative before going on the wards. As he reached the portals of the great hospital, a tall black man stepped from the shadows and approached him.
“If I may have a word, Mr Stamford,” he said softly, the voice silky and persuasive. “It could be to our mutual advantage.”
Stamford noticed that the man held a white bank-note in his gloved hand.
Some hours later, Stamford, now twenty pounds richer, traversed the lower corridors of the hospital en route to the dissecting-room. He was in search of Sherlock Holmes. He knew Holmes in a casual manner. He had seen him about the hospital, and had indulged in a few desultory conversations with the man. He was unsure what to make of him. Holmes was not on the staff of the hospital, and yet he was able to use their facilities. In all likelihood he was engaged in postgraduate studies. Stamford had gleaned that Holmes was well up in anatomy and appeared to be a first-class chemist, but he had no notion of the purpose of his studies. He found Holmes something of a cold fish, approaching his experiments with such extreme objectivity that he failed to take account of the human quotient in such matters. God help us all, thought Stamford, if the man was thinking of taking up medicine as a career. Holmes would quite easily test out the latest serum on a patient in the pursuit of scientific knowledge, without any consideration of the effects it might have on the poor devil who was acting as guinea pig. Stamford gave a wry grin at the thought and was prompted to admit to himself that, to give Holmes some credit, he would probably take the serum himself if he thought the experiment would aid his findings.
As he approached the dissecting-room, Stamford heard strange sounds emanating from within. He stood by the door and listened. There was what sounded like the violent clapping of hands, followed by a gruff cry of exertion.
Swinging the door open, a most bizarre sight met his eyes. There, lying on the table, was a naked cadaver which Sherlock Holmes, jacket off and sleeves rolled up, was beating with a walking-cane.
“What the devil!” cried Stamford. “Have you gone mad?”
Sherlock Holmes paused, the stick raised in the air, and turned to Stamford. His face was flushed and bathed in sweat.
“Stamford,” he said, “I didn’t hear you”’ He dropped the stick on the table by the corpse, and mopped his brow with his shirtsleeve.
“What on earth do you think you’re doing? Have you taken leave of your senses?”
Holmes chuckled. “Far from it. I have to admit that it must look that way, but I assure you I am carrying out a scientific experiment.”
“Scientific experiment? Beating a corpse with a cane?”
Holmes nodded. “In an attempt to verify how far bruises may be produced after death. Such information can be vital in the cases of murder; and this old fellow,” — he slapped the chest of the corpse — “made no objection to assisting me in my studies.”
Stamford shook his head. “Well, it is bizarre in the extreme.”
“Truth rarely comes simply or by normal channels. I am sorry if I disturbed you by my actions.”
“Well, I must admit I was somewhat shaken, but now that you have explained...”
“You still think I’m demented.”
Both men laughed, and the atmosphere eased between them. “Were you wanting to use the room, Stamford?”
“No, I was looking for you actually.”
“For me?”
“Yes, I’ve heard that you are in search of new digs.”
“How did you know that?”
“One of the registrars told me, I think. Isn’t it true?”
“Oh, yes, it’s true. I have to be out of my current quarters by the weekend.”
“Ah, well, I might be able to help you. I’ve got wind of a nice suite of rooms going begging in Baker Street.”
“Suite of rooms? That sounds rather too expensive for my meagre purse.”
“Still worth a visit, eh? Especially if you are getting desperate.”
“Desperate? Yes, I suppose I am. I really should be trudging the streets now, looking for a new place to lay my head at night, rather than be here, but I was so keen to work out a hypothesis on bruises.”
“Well, why don’t you trudge round to Baker Street now and maybe all your worries will be over? Here, I’ve got the address on a piece of paper: 221B Baker Street. Landlady by the name of Mrs Hudson.”
Eight
FROM THE JOURNAL OF JOHN WALKER
My memory of what occurred immediately following my interview with Professor James Moriarty in the Red Room is somewhat hazy. That is not because I have forgotten, but rather because my mind was in such a ferocious whirl at the time and not really registering details. It was as though I had passed from reality into some dark, fantastic dream and I was unable to wake up.
As I recall, I was given some cash, put up in a private hotel in the Strand and told to wait for a summons. Although I was only ever to see Professor Moriarty once more, many years later, his shadow had now fallen across my life and was destined to remain there for ever.
For the next two days I took very long walks around London, familiarising myself once again with the great city. I did feel pleased to be back on British soil and to be able to wander the streets, anonymous and unnoticed. I had not realised how much I had missed the sights and sounds of England. The rattle of the horse-buses, the bleat of the Cockney costermongers around Covent Garden, the crowds squeezing themselves down the Strand. I was entranced by the grey hubbub of it all, and the simple pleasures such as buying a cup of tea in a small café, or watching children feed the pigeons in Trafalgar Square. In the evening, I went to Wilton’s Music Hall and lost myself in the warm, garish glamour of the show, singing lustily when encouraged by the chairman to join in the chorus of some familiar ditty.
It was on the third day after my meeting with Moriarty that I received my instructions. By then I was really beginning to enjoy myself, having pushed my dark secret to the back of my mind, hoping, I suppose, in some kind of childish way, that if I did not acknowledge it, it would go away. But, of course, that was not to be the case.
On returning from a long walk in St James’s Park, I discovered an envelope waiting for me on my bedside table. It was addressed to John H. Watson. That was the new me. The name in the hotel register. The name on my new bank book. The name by which Moriarty would call me. This is who I had to be for sanity and survival’s sake. As I tore open the envelope, I bid John Walker a final goodbye.
The message inside read simply: “This hotel is but a temporary measure. Remember you are in need of permanent diggings. Help will be forthcoming. Take a lunchtime drink in the Criterion Bar tomorrow. M.”
“How were the rooms?”
Sherlock Holmes was sitting in the caver
nous staff canteen of Bart’s Hospital finishing off his breakfast while perusing a copy of The Times, when the voice broke in to his thoughts. He looked up to see the eager face of Henry Stamford looming over him. He had broad, plump features, with large vacant blue eyes seated beneath a dark tumble of unruly, curly hair.
Before Holmes had time to respond, Stamford drew up a chair and joined him at the table.
“I trust you went along to see Mrs Hudson’s place in Baker Street?”
Holmes smiled and folded the newspaper. “Yes, I did, thank you. The place is ideal in many ways, but unfortunately I’m not able to take it.”
“Oh, that’s a shame. What is the problem?”
“The quarters are somewhat large for one person. Despite my books and my chemical equipment, I think I would be rattling around a little in there. However, that is something I could cope with quite easily, but I am afraid Mrs Hudson is looking for two tenants to share, a fact that is reflected in the rent.”
“Too high.”
“For this man’s pocket.”
“Then you’ll just have to find some chap to go halves with you.”
Holmes’ brow furrowed gently. He had not considered that possibility. “Share the rooms, you mean?”
“Yes. It seems to me an ideal situation. You go halves with the rent and there’s company for you, should you require it.”
“I am not one of those who thrives on company. I am rather a solitary creature. Besides, it would be a hardy soul indeed who could put up with my unusual habits and untidiness.”
Stamford laughed, almost too heartily. “You mean you are a bachelor! Great heavens, man, you would have great difficulty in pointing out any unmarried fellow who does not have what you describe as ‘unusual’ habits and is excessively untidy.”
Holmes gave Stamford a bleak, condescending smile. “You might be right.”
“Too damn sure I am right. What you need is a decent fellow to share with you, and Mrs Hudson’s gaff is yours. By Jove, I’d join you myself if I wasn’t so uncommonly comfortable at my place in Chiswick!”
Holmes thanked some deity for small mercies. He knew little of Stamford, but what little he did know convinced him that he was the last person with whom he would wish to share rooms. It was obvious to Holmes that the man was a hopeless gambler. His clothes clearly indicated the state of his fluctuating wealth: an expensive jacket contrasting with shoes that were in desperate need of repair. Also the bitten fingernails and dark shadows under the eyes told of late nights and desperation. However, Stamford had a point. If he could find someone reasonably compatible with whom to share the very pleasant suite of rooms in Baker Street, it would solve his most pressing of problems. He admitted the fact to Stamford.
“Have you any friends who might be prepared to come in with you?” asked Stamford.
Holmes shook his head. If he were to tell the truth, he would have to confess that he had no friends at all. Friendship was so unscientific, involving as it did emotions and illogical actions, and he shunned it. However, it was also true that at times Sherlock Holmes longed for someone to talk to, to discuss his experiments with or his investigations, someone with whom he could share his thoughts, theories and beliefs.
“Well, I’ll keep an eye out for you. You never know.”
“Indeed”’ said Holmes quietly, picking up the newspaper again to indicate that the conversation was over.
Stamford needed no further prompting. He rose, smiling. “Nil desperandum, Holmes, old chap,” he cried, as he turned and made his way to the exit.
As Stamford disappeared from sight, Holmes lowered his newspaper again and stared off into the middle distance, his sharp penetrating eyes lost in thought.
The Criterion Bar, situated in Piccadilly, was throbbing with noise as Henry Stamford entered just after noon that day. He was later than he intended to be, but his hansom had been caught in the thick flow of traffic around Oxford Circus and so he had decided to walk the rest of the way. He stood by the door, mopping his brow and catching his breath as he peered through the fug of smoke towards the bar. It wasn’t long before he spied the man he was there to see.
“Hello, Doctor!” he cried heartily, approaching one of the men leaning indolently on the bar.
The man he addressed turned abruptly to face him. At first he looked puzzled and then recognition dawned.
“Bless my soul, it’s Stamford!”
“It is indeed, Doctor...”
“Watson,” he came in quickly. “John Watson.” The two men shook hands. “I haven’t seen you in some four years, I should think, since you were a dresser at Bart’s.”
“Still there. Junior doctor now.”
“Congratulations. Let me get you a drink. It’s so good to see a friendly face in this great metropolitan wilderness.”
“A glass of claret would suit.”
While Watson caught the attention of one of the barmen, Stamford scrutinised his old acquaintance. He was certainly thinner than he used to be, and although his skin was tanned, his face was drawn and unhealthy-looking. He looked much older; already grey tints were in evidence at the temples of his black, wiry hair. He thought of the Walker of old — he was Walker then, not Watson — and remembered a robust fellow with a cheery smile and a determined spring in his step. This fellow passing him a glass of red wine was a pale ghost of his past self.
Stamford raised his glass. “To the future.”
Watson nodded shyly, repeated the toast, and then drained his glass. “Look, Stamford, it’s too crowded and noisy in here for a decent conversation. Let’s take lunch at The Holborn; my treat. What d’you say?”
“Oh, I couldn’t....”
“Nonsense. It would be a great pleasure to me to chat about the good old days at Bart’s. You’re the first genuinely friendly face I’ve seen in a long while.”
“Well, I must admit, that would suit me, too. Give me a second to dispose of this undistinguished claret, and The Holborn it is.”
Once ensconced in a cab, Stamford touched Watson on the arm. “I hope you don’t think me rather blunt, old man, but you look as though you’ve been ill. You’re as thin as a lath and appear rather the worse for wear. Whatever have you been doing with yourself?”
“I’ll tell you over lunch.”
Stamford received the amended account of Watson’s experiences in Afghanistan. Watson went into great detail concerning the Battle of Maiwand, but dealt swiftly and sketchily with his injury and his despatch to England after contracting enteric fever. Despite his belief that he had no talent for dissembling, once he had commenced his recital, Watson warmed to the role of story-telling and found himself relishing the task of blending fact with a soupçon of fiction to create an engaging narrative.
“Poor devil,” said Stamford, after he had listened to his friend’s misfortunes. “No wonder you look a little under the weather. Still, that’s all behind you. So, tell me, what are you up to now?”
“Very little! One is somewhat hampered on an army pension of eleven shillings and sixpence a day. My main occupation at present is looking for lodgings. Trying to solve the problem as to whether it is possible to get comfortable rooms at a comfortable price.”
Stamford felt as though he were taking part in some stage play and had just been given his cue. “That’s a strange thing,” he said with enthusiasm. “You are the second man today to use that very same expression to me.”
“And who was the first?”
“A fellow who is working at the chemical laboratory up at the hospital. He was bemoaning himself this morning because he could not get someone to go halves with him in some nice rooms which he had found, and which were too much for his purse. A chap called Sherlock Holmes.”
At the mention of the name, Watson felt the hair on the back of his neck bristle. He was immediately reminded that he was still part of a charade and was being moved like a puppet with great finesse inexorably nearer the goal. It had not struck him until the name of Sherlock Holmes wa
s mentioned that Stamford was in on the game also. Watson had been naïve enough to think that their chance meeting had been just that, and not an arranged rendezvous. He wondered how much Stamford knew of the grand scheme. Very little, he concluded. He was a small pawn, acting merely as a catalyst. But he must have been bribed to play the role. No one, it seemed, could be entirely trusted. With a sigh, Watson played on.
“By Jove!” he cried. “If he really wants someone to share the rooms and the expense, I am the very man for him. I should prefer a partner to living alone.”
“You don’t know Sherlock Holmes?”
Watson shook his head. “Is there anything against him?”
“As far as I know, he is a decent enough fellow. But he is a little strange in his ideas — an enthusiast in some branches of science.”
“A medical student, I suppose?”
“No — to be honest, I have no idea what his calling is. He is well up on anatomy, and he is a first-class chemist; but as far as I am aware he has never taken out any systematic medical classes. His studies are very desultory and eccentric, but he has amassed a great deal of out-of-the-way knowledge which would astonish the professors.”
“Did you never ask him what he was going in for?”
“No; he is not an easy man to draw out, though he can be communicative enough when the fancy seizes him.”
“He sounds fascinating. If I am to lodge with anyone, I would prefer it to be with a fellow who was interesting, rather than a dullard. How can I meet this friend of yours?”
“He is sure to be at the laboratory now. He either avoids the place for weeks or else he works there from morning till night. If you like we could drive round together after luncheon.”
“Admirable,” beamed Watson.
Following their meal at The Holborn, the two men hailed a cab and made their way to Bart’s Hospital. Fuelled by the wine he had consumed over lunch, Stamford suddenly felt the need to tell Watson more about Sherlock Holmes. He felt a sentimental kinship to this troubled and rather weary doctor, and in giving him sufficient warning about Holmes, he believed that he wasn’t breaking faith with the black man who had engaged him to bring about a meeting between the two men. He hadn’t been told to ensure that they liked each other — just to make sure they met over the matter of lodgings in Baker Street.
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