My Dearest Holmes (21 page)

'Pour ou, m'sieur?' he demanded roughly.

I realised that I had only the name of the hotel, and neither the street nor the district. I showed my precious notepaper with Holmes' writing upon it, and stammered out the name in my imperfect French. 'Hotel des Deux Mondes,' he repeated to the driver, who nodded, to my relief, in a perfectly sanguine manner.

'Deux Mondes, bon, m'sieur. Montez!'

'Merci, m'sieur!' shrilled the urchin, having hoisted my portmanteau onto the rack, and held out his hand with an endearing lack of subtlety. I pressed some coins into it, and he seemed satisfied. I climbed into the cab and we rattled off.

I had never travelled in foreign parts alone before, I realised. It was quite amusing. My time in the Army had made me a seasoned traveller, but it came to me as something of a shock that neither then nor in my subsequent travels with Holmes had I really had to take care of myself in a foreign land. My French being only just passable, I began to wonder how well I would succeed in making myself understood, should I find no one waiting for me at the hotel. Holmes of course had spoken perfect French, the result of long holidays with his French grandmother during his boyhood and early youth.

I glanced out at the gas-lit streets and unfamiliar shop-fronts, the furled awnings and dark windows. Here and there the light streamed out from a restaurant or club, and I heard loud, harsh voices and bursts of laughter. There were leaves on the pavement, under the gas lamps. In a surprisingly short time we had reached the hotel. Light from its porch flooded the pavement, and a footman hurried out to take my portmanteau while I entered upon a painful negotiation with the driver about the fare. When all was finally completed, I followed the man into the red-carpeted vestibule, plushly furnished in gilt and velvet, and made my way to the desk, feeling conspicuous in the glare of the lights, and mentally rehearsing my enquiry.

The first exchange was straightforward enough; no, there was no Englishman by the name of Mr Sherlock Holmes staying at the hotel; nor had there been; nor was he expected.

So that was that. My heart sunk slowly to my boots.

But who was enquiring? Did I wish a room for the night? My friend would perhaps be arriving tomorrow?

I gave my name and said that yes, I would like to take a room. I was exhausted. The desk clerk turned to the ledger before him and gave an exclamation of surprise. My name again? Dr John Watson, from London? But yes, I was expected. A room had already been reserved for me, since yesterday. But my friend, Monsieur Sigerson, was expecting me--did I not know?

I must have looked extremely stupid. The man repeated the information in broken English. 'Monsieur Sigerson. 'E place a room for you. I 'ave 'ere ze key.'

'Sigerson?' I repeated blankly.

'Mais oui, monsieur. Vous ne le connaissez pas? Monsieur Sigerson. From Norvege,' he added.

From Norway? But I knew no Norwegians. It was true that Holmes had once worked on a case for the King of Scandinavia, but he had never mentioned the name Sigerson. The connection of Holmes with Norway in my mind, slight though it was, prompted me to make no further difficulties in my present situation.

'Ah, Monsieur Sigerson!' I said, as though the name had registered with me for the first time. 'Bon. Merci, monsieur.'

I accepted the key from the bemused clerk and allowed the page to lead me to my allotted room.

It was very comfortable, luxurious even; I immediately began to worry about the bill. But there was little I could do in the present circumstances. The reservation had been made for me; presumably all I had to do was wait. I enquired of the page which was Monsieur Sigerson's room. It was just two doors along the corridor from my own, he replied. Was he in? I asked calmly; no, he usually came in very late, sometimes not at all.

That sounds like him, I thought.

Dazedly I began to unpack, wandering now and then to the window to look out. It overlooked a spacious boulevard, lined with trees. The gas lamps shed pools of light onto the pavement. There was a small, wrought-iron balcony, probably intended for decoration rather than for the weight of a grown man; I decided that it would be unwise to try and stand upon it. A light supper was brought for me, but I could not eat much of it. I sat on the edge of the bed, holding my aching head in my hands and wondering when and how Mr Sigerson would reveal himself to me. Was he Holmes, under an alias? He used to have so many. But if it were he, the question remained--not only 'How?', but more importantly,' Why, why, why?'

I paced the room, ate, unpacked, ran my fingers through my hair. I ordered a large brandy and drank it. When eventually I looked at my watch, I saw that it was three o'clock in the morning. There was nothing I could do but try and get a few hours' sleep.

I slept for about six hours and dreamed I was travelling through Norway on the Continental express. When I awoke, it took me some time to remember where I was and why; but as soon as I did so, I washed and dressed hurriedly and made my way downstairs. I lingered briefly at the door of his room; it was shut, locked. There was a different clerk on duty at the reception desk. I enquired whether Monsieur Sigerson had come in last night, and if so whether he had come down yet. Yes, the man replied, he had come in during the early hours of the morning; but he had risen early and had left the hotel about an hour ago. I sighed.

I gave the clerk my name and asked whether Monsieur Sigerson had enquired for me before he went out. Yes, came the reply, he had, and had been told of my arrival.

I decided that it would be sensible for me to have some breakfast, and made my escape in the direction of the
salle-a-manger.
I seated myself at a small table near the window and ordered a coffee and croissant. When it arrived, I sipped at the coffee but found that I was too shaken to eat.

He was here, and he knew that I was here. Why had he gone out? Was he avoiding me? Was he perhaps as nervous as I was?

I let my gaze wander blankly round the room and out of the window. There were pleasant gardens outside and a spacious avenue, lined with poplars. The autumn sunlight played among the dark leaves. I felt suddenly drawn to the outside, to the sunlight and air; I felt that I should go mad if I just went back to my room and waited. I rose hurriedly and made my escape, leaving my breakfast untouched upon the table.

I wandered out into the hotel grounds and soon found myself in the avenue, which was nearly deserted. I walked the length of it, slowly, calmly, half mesmerised by the flicker of light and shade as the sun moved above me behind the trees. Ahead of me I saw the boulevard, full of noise and colour and bustle. I toyed with the idea of walking on and losing myself in the city, wandering down to the river perhaps, taking in the sights, the atmosphere. But a surge of panic at the thought of wandering too far from the hotel caused me to turn back. As I retraced my steps, I saw a figure detach itself from one of the trees ahead of me, and begin slowly to advance towards me; a tall figure, dressed in black. I stopped in my tracks. I registered its approach, in top hat, frock-coat and gloves. Every line, every movement cried out to me.

He moved slowly through light and shade, light and shade, between the trees, along the path towards me. My heart beat wildly and I trembled in every limb, but I could not move. My tongue was dry in my mouth. Closer and closer he came, through bars of sunlight and shadow. At one stage he seemed to stay static, though still pacing, neither advancing nor retreating. I blinked away the illusion, and realised that he was very close now. I could almost see his face; then I could see it. White, a white face, with hooded eyes. I could see the firm line of his mouth. I could see the hollows under his cheekbones. He reached up, and removed his hat. I could see the line of his brow, his black hair, smooth in the sun. He had almost reached me; he stood before me.

I think I would have fallen if he had not caught me by the shoulders. I looked into the tired, white face, the clear grey eyes which glistened with tears. I noted the new lines around them and around his mouth; the sunken cheeks; the higher expanse of brow. I felt his grip upon my shoulders, and reached up to grip his in turn. Without knowing what I did, I drew him toward me and kissed him.

--
X
--

H
E DID NOT attempt to disengage me at once; and when he did, he took me gently by the arm and led me slowly back along the path. He looked round discreetly, I in alarm; but the avenue was nearly deserted. Looking behind I saw two people staring after us; but we walked slowly and calmly away from them.

I held tightly to his arm, for I was still weak and trembling, and could not walk fast. He sensed this and matched his pace to mine.

'Back to the hotel, my dear fellow,' he said quietly. 'You need a brandy.'

I turned to look at him; he had replaced his hat, and looked straight in front, his head held high. He turned to me briefly. The tears still shone in his eyes, and he looked away again as they met mine.

'Where did you go this morning?' I asked. I was surprised by the calmness of my voice.

'Nowhere. I followed you.'

'I didn't see you,' I said.

'That is what you should expect, when I follow you.' He smiled briefly. 'I thought it would be better to wait for you outside.'

'Yes.'

We walked on slowly in silence.

'I knew you would come,' he said.

'Yes.'

'Did you have a good crossing?'

'Yes, thank you.' I swallowed hard. It was strange; there was so much to say, that I could think of nothing.

'You are--using the name of Sigerson,' I said at last.

'Yes.'

'Why?'

'Because I am in danger. But not for much longer, I hope. I will explain, at the hotel.'

I moistened my lips. Danger? He was still in danger?

'How long have you been in Paris?' I ventured.

'For nearly two months.'

'Oh.'

I could not trust myself to ask him anything further. We reached the hotel in silence. Holmes led me to the bar.

'Ah, vous vous etes trouves, messieurs!' said the desk clerk happily as we passed.

'Oui, et merci monsieur,' responded Holmes, as he guided me across the vestibule. I tried to smile.

We found a secluded table in a corner of the bar and Holmes ordered coffee and brandy. He reached into his coat for his cigarette case; I took out his old silver one, which he had left with the note at Reichenbach, and slid it across the table to him. He picked it up and stared at it numbly.

'Thank you.'

He looked up suddenly, into my face. His own was pinched and drawn with anxiety. 'I thought it would be--better to give you time to settle in,' he said. 'Was I right?'

'Yes,' I said gently, though I would not have relived the last twelve hours for anything in the world.

'You look thin and ill,' he said falteringly, his eyes still fixed upon my face.

'How did you expect me to look?'

His eyes pleaded with me.

'You don't look well yourself,' I added more kindly; and indeed there was a dead white tinge to his skin which told me that his life recently had not been a healthy one, and that his cocaine habit had as strong a hold over him as ever.

He waved his hand. 'It's nothing, nothing. It has been dangerous and difficult, that's all.'

Dangerous, again.

The waiter brought our drinks. I ignored my coffee and took the brandy gratefully, swallowing its fire. Now, I will ask him now, I thought, lighting my cigarette.

'What is the danger?'

He seemed relieved. 'Two of Moriarty's henchmen are on my trail. Ralph Spencer and Sebastian Moran.'

I vaguely remembered the names. 'They--weren't at the trial,' I said.

He shook his head, avoiding my eyes. 'No, they both had good connections. They both slipped the net. Spencer is here in Paris. He does not yet know who I am; but he is looking for me and suspects that I am here. I have been lying low; but now I hear that he is dying. A duel, he was wounded in a duel. It may be a mere rumour, of course, a ruse. But if it is true, I will soon be out of immediate danger. Colonel Moran, however, is in England. In London. That is why I cannot return there, yet. If I do, and he hears of it, he will not rest until he has achieved his purpose. He is the only one left. If I bide my time, I will catch him unawares, and put him where he can do no further harm. Then--then I can come back to life.'

Again he raised his eyes swiftly to mine. I swallowed the rest of my brandy.

'Moriarty ...'I said.

'Is dead.'

I just wondered.' Don't, I said to myself, but I could not help myself. He waited. 'Where were you before you were here in Paris?' I decided the only way to approach it was to work backwards.

'Montpellier. Before that, Persia. Lhassa, before that.'

I stared at him. 'That sounds--delightful.'

He swirled the brandy in his glass. His long, nervous fingers picked at the tablecloth. 'No,' he said, 'no, it was not delightful.'

There was a short silence. Then he said quietly, 'I would have contacted you, Watson, if I could. But it was too dangerous.'