His smile was obviously intended to be encouraging, and though the expression looked out of place on his thin, rat-like face, I appreciated the effort, and the offer of sleep. It had been a long night, and in the distance I could hear bells chiming two o’clock.
Holmes, however, was predictably keen to press on. “There will be plenty of time for sleeping later,” he announced, jumping to his feet. “Just now, we must make the most of the time we have to prepare Watson’s defence.”
“Thank you, Holmes, but I fear none of us are in any condition for such a task,” I said with a yawn. My whole body ached with tiredness and it was all I could do, now the immediate danger had passed, to keep my eyes open.
Holmes stared at me for a long moment, then nodded his head briskly and began to speak. “Quite right, Watson,” he admitted. “It has been a trying night for you, and perhaps rest is the best preparation for tomorrow.”
He shrugged on his coat and took his hat from the stand. “For myself, there are certain papers back at Baker Street which I might profitably consult in the meantime. Take advantage of Lestrade’s kind offer and I shall return in a few hours having, I hope, made some progress in your most interesting case.”
Had I not been so exhausted I might have made some small jest at the speed with which Holmes had relegated my arrest on suspicion of brutal murder to an interesting intellectual exercise, but instead I confined myself to bidding him farewell and slumped back in my chair as he left the room. I think I must have been in shock, for even as Lestrade murmured something about arranging for a bed, my eyes had closed, and within seconds I was fast asleep.
Chapter Three
The following morning, I was woken by Holmes’s voice close to my ear.
“Wake up, Watson. Potter is on fast on my heels, and I have a question to ask you before he arrives.”
I struggled to sit, feeling every muscle protest as I uncoiled myself from the chair in which I’d passed the night. Holmes stood before me, still wearing the clothes in which I had seen him the previous evening, and carrying a carpetbag which he placed on the floor by the desk.
“What is it, Holmes?” I asked. “Have you discovered something already?”
“Too early to say,” he replied shortly. “But quickly, before Potter arrives. What do you know of Major Sir Campbell John McLachlan? He is a proud Scotsman, currently a Member of Parliament, having previously served with the army for many years in Afghanistan and India. Did your paths ever cross during your own army service?”
The name was unfamiliar, though I could not say with certainty that we had never met. I had treated many officers while in Afghanistan, but retained few names in my memory. I said as much to Holmes, who nodded as though expecting such a response.
“Very well,” he said. “Potter will be here in a moment, possibly with news that the lady of whose murder you are accused was a relation of Major McLachlan. If you have no knowledge of him, it can only work to our benefit. But give the name some thought. It would reflect badly on you if you were to deny knowing the man, only to have Potter uncover some past acquaintance, however slight, which had unfortunately slipped your mind.”
With that, he took a seat, just as the door swung open and Inspector Potter entered the room.
He was as immaculately dressed as before; my own trousers still bore specks of blood, as did the cuffs of my jacket. He strode across the room, took a seat behind the desk and, with an irritated glare at Holmes, flipped open a folder he had carried in with him. He wasted no time on polite greetings, but launched himself into what I felt sure was a prepared speech.
“Dr. John Watson, you have been charged with the murder of a person unknown, said event taking place at number 16 Linhope Street, London, on the evening of 4 November 1898. You will be taken from this place to appear before a magistrate, who will then decide whether the gravity of the alleged offence, and the evidence implicating you in its commission, provide sufficient cause to detain you in custody while further investigation is carried out.” He slowly closed the folder, and looked up at me for the first time. “Do you understand what I have just told you, Doctor?” he asked.
I glanced across at Holmes, wondering at Potter’s failure to mention the MP, McLachlan, then nodded towards Potter. “I do,” I replied, hastily swallowing the bile which had risen in my throat as the charge against me was read out. I had every faith that our legal system would soon acquit me of guilt, but to hear the charges against me read out so coldly was an uncomfortable experience.
“Very well. That being the case, I must ask you to ready yourself for transport to court. In view of your professional status and standing in the community, it has been decided you will not be manacled, but I should stress that any uncooperative behaviour on your part will cause that decision to be reversed.”
Potter did not look at all pleased as he spoke. Had it been his decision, I had no doubt I would be shuffling into court in a full set of irons. I wondered to whom I owed my thanks that I would not.
“I have brought Dr. Watson a fresh suit, and such toiletries as he will need to make himself presentable. I assume that is in order?” Holmes was already opening the bag with which he had arrived. He handed me a neatly folded jacket and trousers as Potter retrieved his folder and walked towards the door.
“Five minutes, and not a moment longer,” he said with a scowl. “Once five minutes are up, he’s leaving with me, whether he’s had time to brush his hair or not! Constable!” he shouted through the open door, then waited until a uniformed policeman came running up.
“Keep an eye on the prisoner while he changes, and tell me as soon as he’s ready to go. Or in five minutes’ time, whichever comes first. Mr. Holmes,” he continued, “is to be escorted from the station immediately. You may have friends in high places, Mr. Holmes,” he concluded, “but that does not give you the right to do as you wish in my station. If you will follow me?”
The familiar half-smile on Holmes’s face was enough for me to know that he was pleased with Potter’s reaction to his presence, and he willingly followed the inspector from the room, pausing only for an instant to assure me that he would be present in court.
The door closed firmly behind the two men and, under the watchful eye of the constable, I made my toilet with as much haste as I could manage. I had no wish to appear at anything less than my best before the magistrate.
* * *
My court appearance was, in fact, remarkable only for its brevity.
Although Holmes and I had led many men and women into the embrace of our legal system, I had rarely concerned myself with what happened next; how the criminals we had exposed were treated and how they passed through the courts on their way to sentencing and conviction. So it was that, while I had a vague sense of what was to occur, I was still surprised to be whisked into an all but deserted courtroom and, within two minutes at most, informed that I would be held in custody while the police carried out further investigation.
“The gravity of the offence being such that no thought of bail might reasonably be expected,” in the words of the magistrate.
With no opportunity to speak for myself, I was led from the court and back down the corridors and passageways through which I had entered. From there, I was placed in one of the so-called Black Marias – police carriages specifically designed for the transport of prisoners, with the rear carriage converted entirely into a series of secure cages, each entered separately from the outside. Holmes strode across as my door closed behind me and whispered a swift warning. “Speak to no other prisoner, if you can avoid it, Watson, but if you are forced to do so, take note of them in detail, for your life may depend on your knowledge of your fellow inmates. There is more than one man inside our prisons who has reason to curse the names of Sherlock Holmes and John Watson. You will be allowed no visitors on your first day, but rest assured that I shall come to see you tomorrow. With positive news, I feel sure.” His voice fell away as the Maria moved off.
It is a mark
of my disturbed state of mind that I welcomed the enclosure provided by the Maria. It concealed me from the potential embarrassment of public scrutiny and left me alone for the first time in almost twenty-four hours. I considered Holmes’s words and recognised the sense in them. I knew that people believed the old saying that there is no smoke without fire, and though I had no doubt that Holmes would uncover a flaw in the case against me and I would be set free, the fewer people who knew of my predicament in the meantime the better. Exhausted as I was, the steady motion of the carriage soon lulled me into deep sleep.
* * *
For the second time that day, I was woken by a hand on my shoulder. A police constable stood before me in the doorway of my enclosure.
“Up you get now!” he ordered roughly. “Don’t make me drag you out of there!”
Over his shoulder I could see an imposing brick building, the interior portion of Holloway Prison, to which I knew all prisoners awaiting trial were brought. I stepped from my temporary cell and, in the company of my fellow detainees, followed the constable through the imposing gateway and into the prison itself.
“Males? To the left,” a voice rang in my ear before I had a chance to take in my surroundings.
On either side of me stretched a long passageway, lined with what I took to be cells. I shuffled in procession to the left and allowed myself to be placed at one corner of a square of prisoners, facing a bored-looking guard who immediately began to recite a set of rules and regulations in a dull monotone. That completed, another guard called each of us forward and handed us two grey sheets, in addition to our cell number.
Thereafter came a long period of standing in the cold corridor, while the guards led prisoners, a pair at a time, to have their measurements and weight recorded. When my turn was completed, all that remained was to sign a form listing the few possessions that I had in my pockets (these were taken away for safe keeping), and then I was led to the cell, which was to be my home for the night at least.
If truth be told, it was less spartan than I expected. Measuring about twelve feet by ten, my cell was clean, if cold, and lit by a gas light and a small, rectangular window on the far wall. The contents consisted of a single bed on one side of the room, adjacent to a writing desk and chair, with a battered sideboard, on which rested a water jug and bowl. The door itself was lined with metal on the inside, broken only by a small glass panel through which the guards could check on the prisoners at any time.
“You’ve got good friends, looks like,” the guard remarked as I moved inside and took the seat. “A ‘superior’ already, and you not in the door five minutes.”
“A superior?” I asked in confusion.
“One of the good cells. You, or your mates on the outside, pays a few shillings and you gets one of these. Room to yourself, nice bit of furniture, better grub too. Surprised you didn’t know that. Most do.”
He looked me up and down without embarrassment. “But you’re not the type usually ends up here. Goes to show, though. There’s wrong’uns everywhere.”
With that, he closed the door, and left me alone with my worrisome thoughts.
Though not for long. Within minutes, another guard appeared.
“Up you get, Watson,” he growled. “Governor Keegan wants to see you.”
He stood to one side so that I preceded him along a bewildering array of corridors and stairs and so to the door of the governor’s office. Lestrade had warned me that the governor, though officially only a temporary replacement for his consumptive predecessor, had been in the role for almost two years, and had gained a reputation for severity.
Even so, he greeted me warmly enough, offering me both a seat and a cigarette. I happily accepted, having been forbidden tobacco all day, watching him as he struck a match and held it out to me. A little under six feet in height, he was slim and clean-shaven, with thick black hair that shone in the office light. He was immaculately dressed, in a lounge coat and matching trousers, with one of the fashionable Homburg hats hanging on a rack behind him.
“I must say, Dr. Watson, that gentlemen of your calibre do not often pass through the gates of my establishment.” He laughed. “Indeed, you will not be shocked to learn that most of the men within these walls are poorly educated, violent ne’er-do-wells. The very dregs and leavings of society, you might call them. Sadly beyond redemption,” he concluded, and sat back in his chair, obviously inviting some comment from me.
“Surely not,” I ventured, feeling a genuine sense of relief that I had been delivered into the hands of a sympathetic and learned man. Perhaps my period of incarceration need not be entirely without consolation, I thought.
I could not have been more wrong.
The two simple words I had spoken were, it seemed, enough to cause a change in personality worthy of the pen of Mr. Robert Louis Stevenson. Where he had been all affability and friendship before, now his face purpled and the veins on his forehead throbbed alarmingly.
“You doubt me? Or do you instead believe yourself to be a greater judge of criminal character than I? Has the mere proximity of Sherlock Holmes been enough to render you fit to refute the conclusions of an experienced penologist?”
The transformation was astonishing. Keegan rose from his chair so violently that it fell back with a clatter on the ground. He leaned forward so far that, even with a desk in between us, his face was within an inch of mine.
“Get on your feet, Watson!” he spat. “And stub that cigarette out. You’re not at Baker Street now.”
Thoroughly confused, I ground out the cigarette and rose to my feet. Keegan came round from behind his chair and prodded me in the chest with his finger several times. It took all my self-control not to push him away, but I knew that such a course of action would be disastrous. Instead, I focused my eyes on a point just above his head and waited for his temper to abate.
Whether it would have done so, I was not to discover.
“Shapley!” shouted the governor. The door opened and the same guard who had brought me to the governor rushed in. “Take the prisoner to his cell. And keep a close watch on him. His insolence and contempt for authority is plain to see, and I will not have it infecting the other inmates. Any infraction of the rules is to be reported directly to me.” He swallowed hard and wiped sweat from his forehead. “Now get out!”
This last command was directed at me. In response the guard seized my arm and swung me roughly through the office door. I caught a final glimpse of Governor Keegan, slamming his fist down on his desk in fury, and then I was shoved hard in the small of the back and forced along the corridor, back to my cell.
Chapter Four
Having spent many nights under canvas in the army, a cold room and a hard bed were no great discomfort to me, and my cell was sufficiently remote to shield me from the worst of the prisoners’ anguished cries I heard faintly echoing along the corridors. As a result, I woke next morning refreshed and feeling much more my usual self. I breakfasted on a small bowl of thin porridge and two slices of brown bread, washed down with water served in a rusty tin cup, then sat and waited for Holmes to arrive. A pair of cards on the writing desk laid out the rules of the prison and the few special privileges allowed to the unconvicted prisoner. These amounted, so far as I could see, to the right to wear one’s own clothes, more licence to move around various approved sections of the prison, and a greater number of visitors than would otherwise be the case. The only other information of any great interest was that prisoners were required to take an hour’s exercise at 10 a.m. and would be given lunch at midday. Beyond that, and compulsory attendance at church services, it appeared that the day was my own.
In fact, nobody came to take me to exercise and thus I spent the morning alone with my thoughts. I determined to remain positive, but it was difficult with no means of distraction, save counting the bricks in the cell wall. The arrival of lunch was a welcome break in the monotony, even if the food was of the same poor standard as I had received earlier.
Fortu
nately, I did not have too long to wait after I completed my sparse repast. Promptly at 12.30, a guard came to lead me to the visitors’ room, a spacious if grubby hall with tables and chairs arranged in two lines facing one another, a clear space of a foot or so in between. A guard stood at either end, occasionally taking a turn along the corridor between the chairs. Holmes already sat at one table. To my dismay Inspector Potter sat beside him.
Potter wasted no time on pleasantries as I took the seat opposite the pair.
“Dr. Watson, we have this morning discovered the identity of the lady of whose murder you are accused. Her name is—”
Holmes cut across the inspector as though he had never spoken.
“—Miss Sarah McLachlan, the elderly maiden aunt of Major C. J. McLachlan, hero of Cawnpore, crusading Member of Parliament, English gentleman and, currently, chairman of a parliamentary inquiry into the organised criminal gangs who plague the streets of the capital.”
“I’ll have Lestrade’s badge for this!” Potter hissed, glaring at Holmes who, for his part, raised an eyebrow quizzically.
“Why on earth would you do such a thing, Inspector?” he asked mildly.
“He had no right to divulge confidential police information to you! You may consider yourself an adjunct to the police force, Mr. Holmes, but to my mind you are no such thing. In truth, you are nothing but a self-aggrandising amateur!”
Holmes allowed the insult to pass without comment, though he was quick to correct Potter on the remainder of his statement. “I can assure you that I have not spoken to Lestrade since the very early hours of this morning, nor has he divulged information of any sort to me.”
The Further Adventures of Sherlock Holmes--The Improbable Prisoner Page 3