The Big Book of Sherlock Holmes Stories (125 page)

I am afraid in the pursuit of the truth when assisting Holmes in one of his cases, I appear to have become rather good at telling lies myself. It is a habit I shall have to watch very carefully.

So it was that a little after eleven o'clock Holmes and I set out to keep our rendezvous at the yard behind the Duck and Dragon. Holmes had with him the six thousand and four hundred pounds of Harris's money—he had declined to take anything for himself, although he had not told Harris this. I admired him for it, although I was not in the least surprised. I had expected he would do so. His only concern was to get Naomi back. After that he would wish next to pursue in some way the evil man who had abducted her. His own purpose would be well served by that alone. He never thought greatly of money; it could not buy the intellectual challenge he loved, the music,
the learning or the thrill of the chase. Nor did it ever buy friendship.

It was a most insalubrious area. In spite of the pleasant spring evening, the mild air was filled with a cloying mist, and the odours of inadequate drains, uncleared rubbish, and cramped living were all about us like a suffocating hand.

The darkness away from the lighted thoroughfares was relieved only by glimpses of candles through filthy windows, and the occasional reflection of distant gas lamps on wet walls. I fear I heard the slither and rattle of rats' feet, and now and again a pile of refuse collapsed as some creature within it moved.

“What a godforsaken place!” I said under my breath. “The sooner our business is completed, the better.”

“That would be equally true, were we in flowered walks by the river,” Holmes retorted. “It is an evil matter to kidnap, Watson, to try and sell human life and trade on one person's love for another. It outweighs the theft of any material object, be it the crown jewels.”

I agreed with him heartily, but knew I did not need to say so.

We felt our way forward carefully. The stones were slimy under our feet, and although we had both brought bull's-eye lanterns, we were loath to draw attention to ourselves by using them. And I freely admit, I did not greatly wish to see what might lie around us.

The Duck and Dragon was thirty yards ahead, its sign faintly lit by a lamp hanging above it, but so grimy as to serve its purpose ill. So far I could see no one in the shadows beneath.

“Are we early?” I asked, fingering the revolver I had insisted upon bringing. After all, Holmes was carrying a great deal of money, and I had no intention of our being robbed of it before we could effect the rescue of Naomi.

“They will no doubt ascertain who it is before they show themselves,” Holmes replied. “They will be expecting Harris himself. It is my task to convince them I am acting on his behalf.”

I had considerable misgivings as to his ability to do that, now that we were come to the point. I looked around me. The shadows seemed to move. I had a hideous vision that they were all alive, the isolated and rejected of society crouched in doorways, cold and hungry, perhaps riddled with fever or tuberculosis, waiting for death to take them.

I heard a hacking cough and started in momentary terror.

Somewhere a glass or bottle dropped and smashed on the stone. How could this hell on earth exist so close to the warmth of homes with fires and food and laughter?

Holmes was several yards ahead of me. I hurried to keep up with him. This was not the time to indulge in morbid thoughts, and leave him unguarded as he met the kind of men who would kidnap a young woman.

Please heaven they had not held her anywhere like this! She would be half-mad with fear by now.

I strained my eyes to see through the gloom and discern a human figure ahead of us, all the while keeping my hand steady on my revolver.

Holmes walked silently until he was directly under the feeble light above the sign of the Duck and Dragon, then he stopped, signaling me to remain a few yards away, almost concealed.

The dampness condensed and dripped from the eaves. I could hear its steady sound amid the creaking of rotting wood and the slither and scamper of rodent feet. Nothing on earth would have induced me to remain here, but the knowledge that the life of a young woman depended upon us.

Still nothing moved but the wavering shadows as the wind swung the lantern.

Then I saw him, a huge bulk in the gloom, appearing as if from nowhere, his hat drawn down to conceal his features, his coat ragged at the skirts but high-collared. He beckoned to Holmes as if he recognised him. Holmes walked across the slick cobbles toward him, and I moved also, now drawing my revolver out so I could fire it at any moment, should this highly unsavoury man offer any violence.

Holmes reached him and they spoke together
so quietly I did not hear the words. Then the man nodded, as if he had agreed to something, and the two of them moved toward an alleyway.

I was apprehensive. Anyone might lurk in the darkness under those dripping eaves, but I had no alternative but to follow, all the while doing my best to mark the way we had come, so I might be able to return.

We emerged from the alley onto a cross street. Ahead of me, Holmes was still talking softly to the huge man, inclining slightly toward him as if listening.

We plunged into more darkness. I felt my way, one hand before me. I wished profoundly that Holmes would charge the man to remain still until they had reached an agreement, but I did not interrupt in case I should destroy some moment of trust.

Once again I came out into relative light. But no one was visible ahead of me. I looked left and right, but there was no sign of either Holmes, or anyone else.

I swiveled around to look the way I had come, but saw only the gaping entrance of the alley. Surely I could not have passed them. I looked again to see if there were any openings that I had missed, but there was nothing! What had happened to Holmes?

Panic swelled up in me. My revolver was useless against someone I could not see! Should I cry out? There was no one to ask. In the short space that I could see, there seemed to be no living soul but myself.

Then dimly I made out the slumped, motionless shapes of men asleep huddled in doorways, trying to gain some few minutes' rest, starved and homeless men who lived on the refuse even this desperate neighbourhood did not want. There was little purpose in disturbing them. I already knew had I been sufficiently close behind Holmes I would have seen him when I first emerged had he been on this street. He and his guide must have gone through some doorway hidden in the darkness of the alley.

I turned back, lighting my lantern, now not caring if I were seen, and began to make my way back.

But I did not find him, or his companion. There were doorways surely enough, and wide broken and boarded-up windows, but no indication which of them they had gone through. There were no footprints on the glistening cobbles, no obvious way cleared through the scattering of rubbish, and no one to ask.

Had he lost me on purpose? Was he even now inside one of these damp, creaking buildings negotiating the release and safety of Harris's daughter?

I had no way of knowing.

What should I do? Wait until he reappeared? Go and look for him? But where?

Time dragged by, five minutes, ten, fifteen. There was silence except for the incessant dripping, and now and then the creak of rotting wood, as if the houses shifted their weight. I found myself shivering violently. The cold ate into my bones, and I confess it, a mounting fear that something terrible had happened to Holmes.

I had let him down. What should I do? It was pointless waiting here any longer, and I had no idea in this foetid warren where I should begin to search for him. At least I knew the way I had come, and could return to Baker Street.

I moved more and more rapidly, in the hope that I should find him there, and we should laugh together over the adventure, and I should regard in hindsight my present fears as ridiculous. By the time I was within a hundred yards, I was at a run.

But the rooms were in darkness, and there was no familiar figure to welcome me. I lit the gas brackets and poured myself a stiff whiskey. It warmed my throat, but it could do nothing to assuage my fears.

I paced the floor uselessly, turning over every possibility for action, both sensible and absurd, until I realised that they were all ineffective unless I knew what had happened. There was no purpose in contacting Harris. I would only drive the poor man to despair, and maybe needlessly. There was nothing I could tell Lestrade, and I would only further endanger Naomi's life if the kidnapper were to learn of it.

It was a quarter past three in the morning. I
was no longer cold, but in every other respect I had never felt worse. I tried to remind myself of every adventure I had shared with my friend, how many had had moments when it had seemed all was lost, and yet he had always managed to pull victory from defeat. He was brilliant, endlessly perceptive, full of imagination, and had the greatest intelligence allied with courage of any man I know. Even his brother, Mycroft, could not match him for vigour of mind.

With morning light he would return with Naomi, and chide me for my lack of faith in him.

But with morning came a messenger carrying a handwritten note addressed to me. I tore it open.

“Dear Dr. Watson
,

I am afraid I deceived you. There was no kidnap on Monday. Naomi is safe and well
.

However, today there is! If you wish to see Sherlock Holmes again, you will pay ten thousand pounds for that privilege. You have seen the distasteful neighbourhood of the Duck and Dragon. You will not disbelieve a man could disappear there and not ever be seen again
.

I will allow you two days to raise the money, and bring it to me. I think the front of the Duck and Dragon will do this time. Again, do not contact the police. Surely it is not necessary to spell out for you the consequences of such an action?

I enclose an authorisation in Holmes's own hand, so you may raise the necessary funds.”

It was unsigned.

Folded inside it was a torn piece of paper, on one side of which was written in Holmes's hand:

“This is to entitle Dr. John Watson to redeem on my behalf all such stocks and securities as I hold, to the value of ten thousand pounds, to be paid to him in cash upon his demand
.

Sherlock Holmes”

It was dated that day.

I found myself shaking almost uncontrollably. I wanted to rush out and find that unspeakable villain Harris, and beat him with my fists until he regretted the day he was born. But I realised that that would only place Holmes in greater danger, perhaps even bring about his injury or death.

Calm was required, a cool and intelligent mind, logical thought, deduction.

What a blackguard Harris was! He had played upon Holmes's good nature and abused it to extort money! His words about affection for anyone providing a hostage to fortune came back to me with bitter irony. He had placed me in exactly the position he claimed to be in himself.

I had never felt more bereft, or helpless. And Holmes's very life rested upon my skill!

I paced the floor trying to compose my thoughts. It was far too early to attempt to contact banks and houses of finance in order to raise the amount demanded. I thought for a moment of going to see Mycroft to ask his assistance. He was the only man clever enough to find a solution to this without jeopardising Holmes's life. I was as far as the front door when I recalled that Holmes had told me Mycroft was on a trip to Italy, he did not specify where, and would not return for at least three weeks.

I realised with horror that it depended entirely on me.

I climbed back up the stairs with a feeling of such desolation I hardly knew what to do with myself. The price of my failure was far higher than shame, inadequacy, even the world's blame and contempt, it was the life of the best friend and the finest man I ever knew.

I sat down in my favourite chair and willed myself to think…clearly and rationally. What would Holmes do were our positions reversed?

I was well enough acquainted with his affairs to know he did not possess ten thousand pounds, even were he willing to have it paid in ransom to a villain like Harris. The note he had sent must have been at gunpoint.

He also knew that Mycroft was in Italy, and there would be no one to whom I could turn. I
could not imagine that even the fear for his life would make him lose control of his intellect so as to forget such things.

Then why had he written the note?

I stood up and went over to where I had left it, and read it again. Then I turned it over and looked at the other side. It was quite obviously torn from a letter, only portions of which were visible. There was no date, and no address of the sender. It was the top left-hand quarter of the paper. It must surely be from the very woman we had believed we were rescuing, and about whom we had ascertained so much, independently of anything Harris had told us.

“Dearest Papa
,

Thank you very much for your I am so glad that you are Naturally spring here is not so as far south as you are. Nevertheless tulips are beautiful. Yesterday Rose Donald said that the whole Black they are going to widen the road, but Did I tell you that we saw most wonderful dolphins! What greatest happiness! I wish you were”

I stared at it, reading it over and over. It was all I had! Had he sent me this intending me to learn from it some fact that could help him?

The phrase “hostage to fortune” kept beating in my mind. Harris had used it speaking of his love for his daughter. I had thought then that I heard anguish in his voice, and an honesty.

I was caught in exactly the trap he had claimed to be in. Except that I had no Sherlock Holmes to turn to!

But that was not true! Surely I, of all men, could turn to the years of friendship and the shared experiences of the past? What would Holmes say were he here? Use what I have. Look at the clues and read them!