There followed an uncomfortable pause during which I felt I was expected to comment on Moran’s claim, but I did not know what to say or, rather, what I was expected to say. At length I said awkwardly, “Is that all for now?” I desperately wanted to escape from the dark confines of the cab and the company of this unpleasant man. Such a conversation only reminded me in bleak terms of the reality of my situation, the lie I was living. For the past week I had relaxed and been content, observing my fellow lodger out of a spirit of curiosity rather than with such a degrading ulterior motive as spying on him.
“In essence, Watson. But please do not be so petulant. You are being paid well for your labours. Remember that.”
I leaned forward, anger welling up inside me. I wanted to say that I had been given no choice in the matter. The whole scenario was forced upon me, but as the words came to my lips, they died away. I knew it was useless to complain. I was the proverbial fly caught in the web, and the spider was certainly not going to let me go.
Moran handed me a piece of paper. Glancing at it in the dim light, I noticed that it contained an address in West London. “The Professor would like you to compile regular reports on your activities with Sherlock Holmes. They are to be posted to this address on the first of the month. If there is some urgent business you think the Professor should know about, you are to send a telegram to that same address. Do you understand?”
“Yes.”
“Good. Now memorise the address and hand the paper back to me.”
I did as he asked.
Moran tapped the roof of the cab with his cane again and the vehicle drew to a halt.
“This is where you leave us, Watson. We are not far from your lodgings.”
As I rose, Moran offered his hand again. With some reluctance, I took it. “It’s been good to meet you. We expect great things of you, Doctor. Be sure that you do not disappoint us.”
Without responding, I quickly departed the cab, glad to be out in the cold, fresh air once more.
Ten
Revenge was a flame which had burnt with a steady and fierce intensity in the heart of Jefferson Hope for twenty years. Never in all that time had his determination to murder the two men who had ruined his life and brought about the death of his beloved Lucy wavered for one instant. He had dedicated the rest of his days to the task, and once it was complete, he would be happy to meet his maker with a clear conscience. As he looked out of the grimy window of his lodgings at the gathering dusk and the hurrying silhouettes of the passers-by below, he felt good. He knew, at long last, that he was near to reaching his goal. He had finally tracked Drebber and Stangerson to London. He had always believed that it was just a matter of time before he got his hands on them, but now that time was very short. He prayed that his failing health would not let him down at the last moment. Fate could be cruel; indeed, it had been cruel to him, but surely it could not be that cruel — after all this time.
He held up the key against the glow of the gas mantle and examined it as though it were a precious stone, and smiled. It had chanced that, some days before, a passenger in his cab had been engaged in looking over some empty houses in the Brixton Road and had dropped the key to one of them on the floor of the cab. It was claimed the same evening and returned, but not before Hope had arranged for a duplicate to be made. Now he had access to one spot in the whole city where he knew he would be free from interruption to carry out his grisly plan. However, the problem remained of how he could get Drebber there.
That night the dream came again to Jefferson Hope. He was escaping to Carson City with his beloved Lucy and her father. They were fleeing the clutches of the Mormons, crossing the great mountain range that isolated Salt Lake City from the civilised world. In the dream he could feel the scorching power of the sun, and the raging thirst that dries the throat and causes the tongue to swell; and then, as they rose higher in the mountains, reaching nearly 5,000 feet, the air grew bitter and keen, cutting through their clothing with the viciousness of sharp knives. But his concerns were for Lucy, his beloved Lucy. In the dream, as in life, he cursed himself for leaving her. It was their second day of flight and they had run out of provisions. As an experienced hunter, Hope knew there was game to be had in the mountains, and so, choosing a sheltered nook for his loved one and her ailing father, he built a fire for them with a few dried branches, and set off in search of food.
As Hope tossed and turned in his troubled sleep, the vivid dream unfolded steadily, as it had done countless times. After two or three hours’ fruitless search, he began to despair, and then he spied a lone sheep — a bighorn. It did not take him long to despatch the creature, but it was too unwieldy to lift, so with the practised skill of an old hunter he cut away one haunch and part of the flank. Flinging these over his shoulder, he hastened back to the makeshift camp.
As the climax of his dream grew closer, Jefferson Hope began to moan aloud in his tormented slumbers. Scrabbling over the cold dry rocks and slithering down narrow ravines, he eventually reached the spot where he had left Lucy and her father. All he saw was the glowing pile of ashes that had once been the fire. There was no living creature nearby: Lucy, her father and the horses were gone. He stood there in horror as the fierce silence of the mountains pressed in on him.
As he approached the camp, he saw signs of numerous hoofprints, indicating that a large party of men had overtaken the fugitives. No doubt this gang had been led by Drebber and Stangerson, eager to capture the girl, eager to get their greedy hands on her father’s property. A little way off, on the far side of the camp, Hope observed a low mound of reddish earth. There was no mistaking it for anything but a newly dug grave. With faltering steps he walked towards it, his body shuddering with apprehension. He saw a sheet of paper nailed to a crudely made cross placed at the head of the grave. The inscription on the paper was brief:
JOHN FERRIER
FORMERLY OF SALT LAKE CITY
DIED AUGUST 4TH, 1860
They had killed the old man. What creed, what religion would allow such an act? Hope felt a prickle of tears — tears of frustration and despair. He looked around wildly to see if there was a second grave. He half hoped that there would be one. One containing his darling Lucy. At least then her pain and torment would be over. He searched in vain. There was no other grave.
It was clear then: Drebber and Stangerson had snatched the girl, and when her father attempted to stop them, they had killed him. Lucy would be well on her way back to Salt Lake City now, to fulfil her original destiny: to become a bride of either Drebber or Stangerson—whomever of the two the Elder favoured — and forced to join one of the accursed Mormon harems. He knew now that he was powerless to prevent this from happening. He had lost the love of his life. Jefferson Hope sank to his knees and wept.
He woke with a start — as he always did when he reached that part of the dream — his body bathed in sweat and his hands clenched tightly by his side. He lay there, taking large gulps of air, desperately trying to calm his rapidly beating heart. The doctor had warned him that any abnormal strain could be the end of him. The aortic aneurysm from which he had suffered since the loss of Lucy had worsened drastically in the last few months, to such an extent that he knew he had little time left. Indeed, the doctor had warned him only the week before that he was living on borrowed time.
At length, he rose and stared out of his window, gazing at the rooftops which were slowly taking form and detail in the early morning light. He could not wait any longer. Another night, another dream, and he might not survive. He had to act now. He had to act that very day. Leaning his damp forehead against the cold window-pane, he smiled. His torment was nearly at an end.
Eleven
FROM THE JOURNAL OF JOHN WALKER
As is sometimes the way, Fate stepped in to help break down Sherlock Holmes’ reserve regarding his chosen profession. It was last Tuesday. As usual, Holmes had left our lodgings before Ibreakfasted, and so, having nothing better to do, Itook myself to Regent’s Park t
o observe the effects of the burgeoning spring upon the gardens there. Seeing such new life budding forth was such a contrast to the hot and arid wastes of Afghanistan. However, half-way through the morning, the skies clouded over and Iwas caught in a heavy shower. Isheltered for some time under a large oak tree, but when the dark grey clouds had completely obliterated any trace of blue, Irealised that the rain was set in for some time. Iran to the street, hailed a cab and returned to Baker Street, arriving shortly before noon.
The sight that met me as Ientered our shared sitting-room made me gasp. Sherlock Holmes was slumped in the basket-chair, his feet sprawled out across the hearth rug. His left sleeve was rolled up, and a hypodermic syringe dangled precariously from his limp hand. At the sound of my entrance, his eyes opened slowly and his head lolled in my direction.
“The good doctor has returned somewhat early,” he mumbled, attempting to sit up, but not succeeding.
I strode over to him and took the syringe from his hand before it fell to the floor.
“You did not confess to me that you ill used yourself in this fashion, when we were in the business of discussing our failings.”
“Confess. Ill use. Failings. Such emotional language, Watson.”
“What is it?” I asked. “Cocaine? Morphine?”
He screwed up his face. “Morphine. Pa! It is cocaine, my dear Watson. A wonderfully soothing preparation — a seven per cent solution. Just enough to stimulate the imagination and relieve the boredom, without deadening the faculties.”
“I would have thought you required neither,” said I, shaking my wet raincoat and hanging it on the stand.
Holmes gave a cry of annoyance and this time managed to pull himself up into a sitting position.
“What on earth do you know about such things? My life is devoted to the avoidance of boredom and, oh, how easily I am bored.”
I sat opposite him, realising that in this state he might well reveal more about himself than he would do under normal circumstances.
“Why is that? Why are you so easily bored?”
He smiled dreamily. “Because I rarely get the brain food I need. My mind rebels at stagnation. Give me problems, give me the most abstruse cryptogram or the most cunning murder, and then I am alive and have no need for artificial stimulants.”
“Murder?”
“Yes, murder or robbery or forgery. You see, Watson, I am a detective. That is my profession. I am the only unofficial consulting detective in London. Here in London there are lots of government detectives, and a fair number of private ones, and when these fellows go astray, they come to me for advice.”
“They come in their droves,” I observed sarcastically.
“No, they do not come in their droves. Not yet. That is my problem. But they will when I have established myself. At present, I have no cases on hand and my brain is lying idle. But when I am famous, I will be able to take my pick of the cases.”
The lethargic Holmes had now disappeared: here again was the bright-eyed enthusiast, engaged upon his favourite topic.
“You see,” he continued, “I possess a great deal of special knowledge, and I have trained myself to see and deduce from what I observe. This is what makes me unique. You do not seem convinced.”
“It is an audacious statement.”
“Proof, eh? You need a demonstration of my powers. That is easy. I remember that you appeared surprised when I told you on our first meeting that you had just recently come from Afghanistan.”
“You were told, no doubt.”
Holmes dismissed my comment with an irritated wave of his hand. “Nothing of the sort. I knew, I knew you came from Afghanistan. From a long habit, the train of thoughts ran so swiftly through my mind that I arrived at the conclusion without being conscious of the process. To me it is akin to tying one’s bootlaces in the morning. The procedure is carried out automatically, without any thought as to what one is doing. It is second nature.”
“So, how did you know about Afghanistan?”
“My train of reasoning ran thus: here is a gentleman of a medical type, but with the air of a military man. Clearly an army doctor, then. He has just come from the tropics, for his face is dark, but that is not the natural tint of his skin, for his wrists are fair. He has undergone great hardship and probably sickness. Where, currently, in the tropics would an English army doctor be pressed into service that would cause such hardship? Why Afghanistan, of course. The whole train of reasoning did not take a second.”
I listened with amazement to this analysis.
“Why, that is brilliant!” I said, with genuine admiration.
“Elementary.”
“As explained by you, the process seems simple enough, but I doubt if I or anyone I know could perform such a diagnosis.”
“That is because I have trained myself to perform such a diagnosis, as you put it. I perhaps ought to add that I had read in The Times of an army officer called Watson who had been invalided out of the army and had just arrived back from Afghanistan. Information that merely confirmed my deductions.”
Such a revelation removed much of the magic from his previous claim, and it was the first hint I was to obtain that sometimes Sherlock Holmes pretended to be more brilliant than he actually was. My expression must have revealed my thoughts.
“The end result is the same. In solving crime, one must use every facility at one’s command to reach a satisfactory conclusion. The press is a valuable source of information. I scour the papers every day. Luckily I am blessed with a photographic memory, and I can remember the most obscure and outré pieces of information and store them in my brain attic until I should require them. I am sure that in the days to come there will be ample opportunity for me to demonstrate my detective powers in order to convince you of my abilities and to prove that I am no charlatan. However, for now, let me add that this morning you visited Regent’s Park, sheltered under a tree when it came on to rain and then caught a cab back here.”
I opened my mouth in astonishment.
“Adhering to the soles of your shoes are traces of mud and grass which indicate that you have been walking in one of the parks. As Regent’s Park is the nearest, it is fairly safe to assume that to be the one. Also, there is a fragment of an oak leaf caught in the left turn up of your trousers. As it came on to rain heavily and suddenly, it is most likely that you took shelter under one of the giant oaks in the park. It is still raining heavily, but your raincoat is damp rather than soaking wet, so you obviously did not walk back to Baker Street. Observation and deduction, Doctor Watson.”
With these words, he slumped back down in his chair and closed his eyes, shutting me and the real world out of his drug-induced slumbers.
Working as a cab-driver in London, Jefferson Hope had been able to trail Stangerson and Drebber wherever they went. He took satisfaction in dogging their heels, knowing that they were ignorant of his presence. On some occasions, he had even driven the men in his cab. With his full beard and hat pulled low over his brow, he had no fear of being recognised. It was twenty years since they had set eyes upon him, and, he reckoned, no one really looks at cab-drivers in any case. In a strange perverted way, he wished they had recognised him. He could not wait to see the look of shock and horror on their faces when they realised that their nemesis was at hand. That day would come, but it would come when he had planned for it — not before.
Hope had traced Drebber and Stangerson half-way across the world, from St Petersburg, to Paris and then on to Copenhagen. Somehow, they sensed that they were being followed, and their restless sojourning was a clear sign of their guilt. Finally catching up with them in London, Hope had discovered them living in a boarding house in Camberwell. The two men never went out alone, and rarely after dark. This was a stumbling-block for Hope. He knew that he could not tackle both of them at once. He had to wait to catch each one on his own.
However, now he knew he could wait no longer. He could not risk his heart giving out on him — not now that he was so clo
se to his dream. He resolved that today had to be the day. Desperate measures were needed. But then luck was on his side. It was late afternoon as he drove down Torquay Terrace, the street in which the two men were living, when he saw a cab draw up to their door. Presently, luggage was brought out, and after a time Drebber and Stangerson appeared. They stood on the pavement, engaged in a heated conversation. As always, on seeing the two men, Hope’s pulse quickened. They were the devils responsible for the death of John Ferrier and his darling Lucy, and twenty years had done nothing to dispel the deep hatred he felt for them.
Drebber was the taller of the two. He walked with a swagger, and his slicked-back hair and thin moustache enhanced his air of arrogance. In contrast, Stangerson was short, with stooped shoulders, and bore a constant furtive expression.
As they talked, a red-faced young man in shirtsleeves rushed down the path towards them. He was shouting in a threatening manner at Drebber, who responded by shaking his fist at him. Further angry words were exchanged, and within seconds the two men were locked in a vicious embrace. Hope was too far away to catch the nature of the argument, but both men were hot in temper and threw punches at each other in a wild fashion.
With some effort, Stangerson dragged the two of them apart and pushed his colleague into the cab. With further harsh words hurled at Drebber, the young man returned reluctantly to the boarding-house.
It looked to Hope as though the pair had been evicted from their lodgings for some misdemeanour perpetrated by the arrogant Drebber, and now they were on their travels again. He gave a groan of dismay when he heard Drebber give the driver instructions to take them to Euston Station. No doubt that meant they were planning to take the boat train and leave for the Continent. Once there, he might easily lose them again. With a gnawing feeling of despair in the pit of his stomach, Hope followed them at a safe distance.
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