A Study in Terror

Chapter VIII A Visitor from Paris

The ensuing days were most trying. In all our association, I had never seen Holmes so restless, and so difficult to get along with.

After our interview with Lord Carfax, Holmes ceased to communicate with me. My overtures were ignored. It then occurred to me that I had intruded further into this case than into any of the investigations I had shared with him. In the light of the chaos I had managed to create, my chastisement seemed just. So I retreated into my customary role of bystander, and awaited developments.

They were slow in coming. Holmes had turned, like the Ripper, into a creature of the night. He vanished from Baker Street each evening, to return at dawn and spend the day in brooding silence. I kept to my own room, knowing that solitude was essential to him at such times. His violin wailed at intervals. When I could stand its scratching no longer, I took myself off into the welcome hubbub of London’s streets.

On the third morning, however, I was appalled at his appearance.

“Holmes! In God’s name!” I cried. “What has happened to you?”

There was an ugly purple contusion below his right temple. The left sleeve of his jacket had been ripped away, and a gashed wrist had no doubt bled copiously. He walked with a limp, and he was as begrimed as any of the street Arabs he so often sent on mysterious missions.

“A dispute in a dark by-way, Watson.”

“Let me attend to those wounds!”

I snatched my satchel from my room and returned. Grimly he displayed the bloody knuckles of his right fist. “I attempted to lure our enemy into the open, Watson. I succeeded.” Pressing Holmes into a chair, I began my examination. “I succeeded, but I failed.”

“You take perilous risks.”

“The assassins, two of them, rose to my bait.”

“The same ones who attacked us?”

“Yes. My purpose was to lay one of them by the heels, but my revolver jammed―of all the accursed luck!―and both got away.”

“Pray relax, Holmes. Lie back. Close your eyes. Perhaps I should give you a sedative.”

He made an impatient gesture. “These scratches are nothing. It is my failure that pains me. So near and yet so far. Had I been able to hold one of those scoundrels, I should have gotten the name of his employer soon enough, I warrant you.”

“Is it your feeling that these brutes are perpetrating the butcheries?”

“Good heavens, no! They are wholesome, healthy bruisers beside the depraved creature we seek.” Holmes stirred nervously. “Another, Watson, a bloodthirsty tiger loose in the jungle of London.”

The dread name came into my head. “Professor Moriarty?”

“Moriarty is not involved in this. I have checked his activities, and his whereabouts. He is occupied elsewhere. No, it is not the Professor. I am certain our man is one of four.”

“To which four do you refer?”

Holmes shrugged his shoulders. “What does it matter so long as I am unable to put my hands upon him?”

The physical strain had begun to wear on him. Holmes lay back in the chair and gazed, heavy-lidded, at the ceiling. But the fatigue did not extend to his mental faculties.

“This ‘tiger’ you refer to,” said I. “What does it profit him to go about killing luckless prostitutes?”

“The affair is far more tangled than that, Watson. There are several dark threads that twist and turn in this maze.”

“That repulsive simpleton at the hostel,” I muttered.

Holmes’s smile was humourless. “I fear, my dear Watson, that you have your finger upon the wrong thread.”

“I cannot believe that Michael Osbourne is in no way involved!”

“Involved, yes. But―”

He did not finish, because at that moment the bell sounded below. Mrs. Hudson was soon opening the door. Holmes said, “I have-been expecting a visitor; he is prompt. Pray remain, Watson. My jacket, if you please. I must not look like a street-brawler who has dropped in for medical treatment.”

By the time he had gotten into the garment and lighted his pipe, Mrs. Hudson was ushering a tall, blond, good-looking chap into our parlour. I estimated him to be in his mid-thirties. He was assuredly a man of breeding; except for a single startled glance, he made no reference to Holmes’s battered appearance.

“Ah,” said Holmes. “Mr. Timothy Went-worth, I believe. You are welcome, sir. Take the seat by the fire. The air is damp and chill this morning. This is my friend and colleague, Dr. Watson.”

Mr. Timothy Wentworth bowed acknowledgement, and took the proffered chair. “Your name is famous, sir,” said he, “as is that of Dr. Watson. I am honoured to make your acquaintance. But I have a busy schedule in Paris, and I tore myself away only because of my regard for a friend, Michael Osbourne. I have been utterly mystified by his unheralded disappearance from Paris. If I can do anything to help Michael, I shall consider the Channel crossing well worth the inconvenience.”

“A most admirable loyalty,” said Holmes.

“Perhaps we can enlighten each other, Mr. Wentworth. If you will tell us what you know about Michael’s sojourn in Paris, I shall pick up for you the end of his story.”

“Very well. I met Michael some two years ago, when we enrolled together at the Sorbonne. I think I was attracted to him because we were opposites. I am myself somewhat retiring; indeed, my friends consider me shy. On the other hand, Michael was possessed of a fiery spirit, sometimes gay, sometimes bordering upon the violent, when he felt that he had been put upon. He never left the least doubt as to his opinion on any subject; however, by making allowances for each other’s short-comings, we got on well together. Michael was very good for me.”

“And you for him, sir, I’ve no doubt,” said Holmes. “But, tell me. What did you learn of his personal life?”

“We were candid with each other. I quickly learned that he was second son to a British nobleman.”

“Was he embittered by the misfortune of second birth?”

Mr. Timothy Wentworth frowned as he considered his answer. “I should have to say yes, and yet no. Michael had a tendency to break out, one might say, to go wild. His breeding and background forbade such behaviour, and caused a guilt to arise within him. He needed to palliate that guilt, and his position as second son was something against which to revolt, and thus justify his wildness.” Our young guest stopped self-consciously. “I’m putting it badly, I fear.”

“To the contrary,” Holmes assured him, “you express yourself with admirable clarity. And I may assume, may I not, that Michael harboured no bitterness against either his father or his elder brother?”

“I am sure he did not. But I can also understand the contrary opinion of the Duke of Shires. I see the Duke as a man of proud, even haughty, spirit, preoccupied with the honour of his name.”

“You see him exactly as he is. But pray go on.”

“Well, then there came Michael’s alliance with that woman.” Timothy Wentworth’s distaste was apparent in his tone. “Michael met her in some Pigalle rat’s-nest. He told me about her the following day. I thought nothing of it, considering it a mere dalliance. But I now see Michael’s withdrawal from our friendship as dating from that time. It was slow when measured in hours and days, but swift enough as I look back upon it―from the time he told me of the meeting, to the morning he packed his clothes in our digs, and told me that he had married the woman.”

I interjected a comment. “You must have been shocked, sir.”

“Shocked is hardly the term. I was stunned.

When I found words with which to remonstrate, he snarled at me to mind my own affairs, and left.” Here, a deep regret appeared in the young man’s honest, blue eyes. “It was the termination of our friendship.”

“You did not see again?” murmured Holmes.

“I tried, and did see him briefly on two other occasions. Word of that sort of thing, of course, cannot be kept secret―a short time later, Michael was dropped from the Sorbonne. When I heard this, I made a point of seeking him out. I found him living in an unspeakable sty on the Left Bank. He was alone, but I presume his wife was living there with him. He was half-drunk, and received me with hostility―a different man by far from the one I had known. I could not even begin to reach him, so I placed some money upon the table and left. A fortnight later, I met him in the street, near the Sorbonne. His appearance cut me to the quick. It was as if a lost soul had returned to gaze wistfully upon the opportunities he had thrown away. His defiance remained, however. When I attempted to accost him, he snarled at me and slunk away.”

“I gather, then, that you have never laid eyes upon his wife?”

“No, but there were rumours concerning her. It was whispered about that the woman had a confederate, a man with whom she had consorted both before and after her marriage. I have no certain knowledge of that, however.”

He paused, as though pondering the tragic fate of his friend. Then he raised his head and spoke with more spirit. “I believe that Michael was somehow put upon in that disastrous marriage, that in no way did he deliberately seek to bring shame upon his illustrious name.”

“And I believe,” said Holmes, “that I can reassure you on that point. Michael’s kit of surgical instruments has recently come into my possession, and I discovered upon examining it that he had carefully covered the emblazoned coat of arms it bore with a piece of velvet cloth.”

Timothy Wentworth’s eyes widened. “He was forced to dispose of his instruments?”

“The point I wish to make,” continued Holmes, “is that this very act of concealing the insignia indicates, not only shame, but an effort to protect the name he has been accused of seeking to disgrace.”

“It is intolerable that his father will not believe that. But now, sir, I have told you all I know, and I am eager to hear what you have to tell me.”

Holmes was markedly reluctant to reply. He arose from his chair and took a quick turn across the room. Then he stopped. “There is nothing you can do for Michael, sir,” said he.

Wentworth seemed ready to spring up. “But we made a bargain!”

“Michael, some time after you last saw him, suffered an accident. At present he is little more than mindless flesh, Mr. Wentworth. He remembers nothing of his past, and his memory will probably never return. But he is being well cared-for. As I have said, there is nothing you can do for him, and in suggesting that you do not see him I am attempting to spare you further distress.”

Timothy Wentworth turned his frown upon the floor, considering Holmes’s advice. I was glad when he sighed, and said, “Very well, Mr. Holmes, then it is over.” Wentworth came to his feet and extended his hand. “But if there is anything I can ever do, sir, please get in touch with me.”

“You may depend upon it.”

After the young man left, Holmes stood in silence, gazing from the window at our departing visitor. When he spoke, it was in so low a voice that I could scarcely catch his words. “The more grievous our faults, Watson, the closer a true friend clings.”

“What was that, Holmes?”

“A passing thought.”

“Well, I must say that young Wentworth’s account changes my opinion of Michael Osbourne.”

Holmes returned to the fire to stab a restless poker at the log. “But I am sure you realise that his hearsay was of far more significance than his fact.”

“I confess I do not follow you.”

“The rumour that the woman, Michael’s wife, had a male accomplice throws additional light upon the problem. Now, who could this man be, Watson, other than our elusive missing link? Our tiger who set assassins upon us?”

“But how did he know?”

“Ah, yes. How did he discover that I was on his trail before I knew it myself? I think we shall make another call upon the Duke of Shires, at his town-house in Berkeley Square.”

We were not destined, however, to make that visit. At that moment the bell again rang downstairs, and we heard Mrs. Hudson again answer the door. A great clatter followed; the caller had rushed past our landlady and was taking the stairs two at a time. Our door burst open, and there he stood, a thin and pimple-faced youth with a great air of defiance about him. His manner was such that my hand moved automatically towards a fire-iron.

“W’ich o’ you gents is Mr. Sherlock ’Olmes?”

“I, my lad,” answered Holmes; and the youth extended a parcel wrapped in brown paper. “This ’ere’s to be given to yer, then.”

Holmes took the parcel and opened it with no ceremony.

“The missing scalpel!” cried I.

Holmes had no chance to reply. The messenger had bolted, and Holmes whirled about. “Wait!” he shouted. “I must speak with you! You shall not be harmed!”

But the boy was gone. Holmes rushed from the room. I hastened to the window, and beheld the youth fleeing down the street as though all the devils of Hell were after him, Sherlock Holmes swiftly in his wake.