The House of Silk: The New Sherlock Holmes Novel

TWELVE The Evidence in the Case

Never before had I attended a police court and yet, as I approached that solid and austere building on Bow Street in the company of Lestrade, I felt a strange sense of familiarity, as if it was right that I had been summoned and that my coming here was somehow inevitable. Lestrade must have seen the look on my face for he smiled mournfully. ‘I don’t suppose you expected to find yourself in a place like this, eh, Dr Watson?’ I told him that he had taken the very thought from my head. ‘Well, you have to wonder how many other men have passed this way thanks to you — by which, of course, I mean you and Mr Holmes.’

He was quite right. This was the end of the process which we had so frequently begun, the first step on the way to the Old Bailey and then perhaps the gallows. It is curious to reflect now, at the very end of my writing career, that each and every one of my chronicles ended with the unmasking or the arrest of a miscreant, and that after that point, almost without exception, I simply assumed that their fate would be of no further interest to my readers and gave up on them, as if it was their wrongdoing alone that justified their existence and that once the crimes had been solved they were no longer human beings with beating hearts and broken spirits. Never once did I consider the fear and anguish they must have endured as they passed through these swing doors and walked these gloomy corridors. Did any of them ever weep tears of repentance or offer prayers for their salvation? Did some of them fight on to the end? I did not care. It was not part of my narrative.

But as I look back on that iron-cold December day when Holmes himself faced the forces that he had so often unleashed, I think that perhaps I did them an injustice; even villains as cruel as Culverton Smith or as conniving as Jonas Oldacre. I wrote what are now called detective stories. By chance, my detective was the greatest of them all. But in a sense he was defined by the men and, indeed, the women he came up against, and I cast them aside all too easily. Entering the police court they all returned very forcibly to mind and it was almost as if I could hear them calling to me: ‘Welcome. You are one of us now.’

The courtroom was square and windowless, with wooden benches and barriers and the royal arms emblazoned on the far wall. This is where the magistrate sat, a stiff, elderly man whose demeanour had something wooden about it too. There was a railed-off platform in front of him and it was here that the prisoners were brought one after the other, for the process was rapid and repetitive so that, to the onlooker at least, it became almost monotonous. Lestrade and I had arrived early, taking our places in the public gallery with a few other onlookers, and we watched as a forger, a burglar and a magsman were all remanded in custody to await trial. And yet the magistrate could also be compassionate. An apprentice accused of drunken and violent behaviour — it had been his eighteenth birthday — was sent away with the details of his crime placed in the Refused Charge Book. And two children, no more than eight or nine years old, brought in for begging, were handed over to the Police Courts Mission with the recommendation that they should be looked after either by the the Waifs and Strays Society, by Dr Barnardo’s orphanage or by the Society for the Improvement of London’s Children. It was odd to hear the last of these three named for this was the organisation responsible for Chorley Grange, which Holmes and I had visited.

Everything had proceeded at a pace, but now Lestrade nudged me and I became aware of a new sense of gravity in the courtroom. More uniformed policemen and clerks entered and took their places. The usher of the court, a plump, owl-like man in his black robes, approached the magistrate and began to mutter to him in a low voice. Two men that I recognised came in and sat down a few feet apart on one of the benches. One was Dr Ackland, the other a red-faced man who might have been in the crowd outside Creer’s Place but who had made no impression upon me at the time. Behind them, sat Creer himself (Lestrade pointed him out), wiping his hands as if attempting to dry them. They were all here, I saw at once, as witnesses.

And then Holmes was brought in, wearing the same clothes in which he had been arrested, and so unlike himself that had I not known better I might have thought that he had deliberately disguised himself so as to baffle me as he had so often done before. He had clearly not slept. He had been questioned at length and I tried not to imagine the various indignities, all too familiar to common criminals, which must have been heaped upon him. Gaunt at the best of times, he appeared positively emaciated, but as he was led into the dock he turned and looked at me and I saw a glint in his eye that told me that the fight was not over yet and reminded me that Holmes had always been at his most formidable when the odds seemed to be stacked against him. Beside me, Lestrade straightened up and muttered something under his breath. He was angry and indignant on Holmes’s behalf, revealing a side of his character I had never seen before.

A barrister presented himself, a well-rounded, diminutive sort with thick lips and heavy eyelids, and it soon became clear that he had assumed the role of prosecutor, although ringmaster might be the better description from the manner in which he directed the proceedings, treating the court almost as a circus of the law.

‘The accused is a well-known detective,’ he began. ‘Mr Sherlock Holmes has achieved public renown through a series of stories which, though gaudy and sensational, are based at least partly on truth.’ I bristled at this and might even have protested had Lestrade not reached out and tapped me gently on the arm. ‘That said, I will not deny that there are one or two less capable officers at Scotland Yard who owe him a debt of gratitude in that, from time to time, he has helped direct their investigations with hints and insights that have borne fruit.’ Hearing this, it was Lestrade’s turn to scowl. ‘But even the best of men have their demons and in the case of Mr Holmes it is opium that has turned him from a friend of the law into the basest malefactor. It is beyond dispute that he entered an opium den which goes by the name of Creer’s Place in Limehouse just after eleven o’clock last night. My first witness is the owner of that establishment, Isaiah Creer.’

Creer took the witness stand. There was no swearing-in at these proceedings. I could only see the back of his head, which was white and hairless, folding into his neck in a way that made it hard to see where one ended and the other began. Prompted by the prosecutor, he told the following tale.

Yes, the accused had entered his house — a private and legal establishment, my lord, where gentlemen could indulge their habit in comfort and security — just after eleven o’clock. He had said very little. He had demanded a dose of the intoxicant, paid for it, and smoked it immediately. Half an hour later, he had asked for a second. Mr Creer had been concerned that Mr Holmes, for it was only later that he had learned his name and, he assured the court, at the time of their meeting he had been a complete stranger, had become agitated and aroused. Mr Creer had suggested that a second dose might be unwise but the gentlemen had disagreed in the strongest terms and, in order to avoid a scene and to maintain the tranquillity for which his establishment was noted, he had provided the essentials in return for another payment. Mr Holmes had smoked the second pipe and his sense of delirium had increased to the extent that Creer had sent a boy out to find a policeman, fearing there might be a breach of the peace. He had attempted to reason with Mr Holmes, to calm him down, but without success. Wild-eyed, beyond control, Mr Holmes had insisted that there were enemies in the room, that he was being pursued, that his life was in danger. He had produced a revolver, at which point Mr Creer had insisted that he leave.

‘I was afraid for my life,’ he told the court. ‘My only thought was to have him out of the house. But I see now that I was wrong and that I should have let him remain there until help arrived in the shape of Constable Perkins. For when I released him onto the street he was out of his mind. He didn’t know what he was doing. I have seen this happen before, your honour. It is rare, freakish. But it is a side effect of the drug. I have no doubt that when Mr Holmes gunned down that poor girl, he believed he was confronting some grotesque monster. Had I known he was armed, I would never have supplied him with the substance in the first place, so help me God!’

The story was corroborated in every respect by a second witness, the red-faced man I had already noticed. He was languid and overly refined, a man of exceedingly aristocratic type with a pinched nose that sniffed at this common air with distaste. He could not have been more than thirty and was dressed in the very latest fashion. He provided no fresh revelations, repeating almost verbatim what Creer had said. He had, he said, been stretched out on a mattress on the other side of the room, and though in a very relaxed state was prepared to swear that he had been perfectly conscious of what had been taking place. ‘Opium, for me, is an occasional indulgence,’ he concluded. ‘It provides a few hours in which I can retreat from the anxieties and the responsibilities of my life. I see no shame in it. I know many people who take laudanum in the privacy of their own homes for precisely the same reason. For me, it is no different to smoking tobacco or taking alcohol. But then I,’ he added, pointedly, ‘am able to handle it.’

It was only when the magistrate asked him his name for the record that the young man created a stir in the court. ‘It is Lord Horace Blackwater.’

The magistrate stared at him. ‘Do I take it, sir, that you are part of the Blackwater family of Hallamshire?’

‘Yes,’ replied the young man. ‘The Earl of Blackwater is my father.’

I was as surprised as anyone. It seemed remarkable, shocking even, that the scion of one of the oldest families in England should have found his way to a sordid drug den in Bluegate Fields. At the same time, I could imagine the weight that his evidence would add to the case against my friend. This was not just some low-life sailor or mountebank giving his version of events. It was a man who could quite possibly ruin himself by even admitting he had been at Creer’s Place.

He was fortunate that, this being a police court, there were no journalists present. The same, I hardly need add, would be true for Holmes. As Sir Horace stepped down, I heard the other members of the public muttering to each other and perceived that they were here only for the spectacle and this sort of salacious detail was bread and butter to them. The magistrate exchanged a few words with his black-robed usher as his place was taken by Stanley Perkins, the constable whom I had encountered on the night in question. Perkins stood stiffly, with his helmet at his side, holding it as if he were a ghost at the Tower of London and it was his head. He had the least to say, but then much of the story had already been told for him. He had been approached by the boy that Creer had sent out and asked to come to the house on the corner of Milward Street. He had been on his way when he had heard two gunshots and had rushed to Coppergate Square which was where he had discovered a man, lying unconscious with a gun, and a girl lying in a pool of blood. He had taken charge of the scene as a crowd had gathered. He had seen at once that there was nothing he could do for the girl. He described how I had arrived and identified the unconscious man as Sherlock Holmes.

‘I couldn’t believe it when I heard that,’ he said. ‘I had read some of the exploits of Mr Sherlock Holmes and to think that he might be involved in this sort of thing … well, it beggared belief.’

Perkins was followed by Inspector Harriman, instantly recognisable on account of that shock of white hair. From the way he spoke, with every word measured and carefully delivered for perfect effect, it could be imagined that he had been rehearsing this speech for hours, which may well indeed have been the case. He did not even attempt to keep the contempt out of his voice. The imprisonment, and indeed the execution of my friend, might have been his only mission in life.

‘Let me tell the court my movements last night.’ Thus he began. ‘I had been called to a break-in at a bank on the White Horse Road, which is but a short distance away. As I was leaving, I heard the sound of gunshots and the constable’s whistle and turned my way south to see if I could assist. By the time I arrived, Constable Perkins was in command and doing an admirable task. I will be recommending Constable Perkins for a promotion. It was he who informed me of the identity of the man who now stands before you. As you have already heard, Mr Sherlock Holmes has a certain reputation. I am sure many of his admirers are going to be disappointed that the true nature of the man, his addiction to drugs and its murderous consequences, should have fallen so far from the fiction which we have all enjoyed.

‘That Mr Holmes murdered Sally Dixon is beyond question. In fact, even the imaginative powers of his biographer would be unable to raise a shred of doubt in the minds of his readers. At the scene of the crime I observed that the gun in his hand was still warm, that there were residues of powder-blackening on his sleeve and several small bloodstains on his coat which could only have arrived there if he had been standing in close proximity to the girl when she was shot. Mr Holmes was semi-conscious, still emerging from an opium trance and barely aware of the horror of what he had done. I say “barely aware” but by that I do not mean that he was completely ignorant. He knew his guilt, your honour. He offered no defence. When I cautioned him and placed him under arrest, he made no attempt to persuade me that the circumstances were anything other than what I have described.

‘It was only this morning, after eight hours sleep and a cold shower, that he came up with a cock-and-bull story proclaiming his innocence. He told me that he had visited Creer’s Place, not because he was drawn there to feed his unsavoury appetite, but because he was investigating a case, the details of which he refused to share with me. He said that a man, known only to him as Henderson, had sent him to Limehouse in pursuit of some clue, but that the information had turned out to be a trap and that as soon as he had entered the den he had been overpowered and forced to consume some narcotic. Speaking personally, I find it a little strange when a man visits an opium den and then complains that he has been drugged. And since Mr Creer spends his entire life selling drugs to men who wish to buy them, it is unaccountable that on this occasion he should have decided to give them away free. But we know that this is a barrel of lies. We have already heard from a distinguished witness who saw Mr Holmes smoke one pipe and then demand a second. Mr Holmes also claims that he knows the murdered girl and that she, too, was part of this mysterious investigation. I am willing to accept this part of his testimony. It may well be that he had met her before and in his delirium he somehow managed to confuse her with some imaginary master criminal. He had no other motive for killing her.

‘It only remains for me to add that Mr Holmes now insists that he is part of a conspiracy which includes me, Constable Perkins, Isaiah Creer, Lord Horace Blackwater and, quite possibly, your honour yourself. I would describe this as delusional, but actually it’s worse than that. It’s a deliberate attempt to extricate himself from the consequences of the delusions he was suffering last night. How unfortunate for Mr Holmes that we have a second witness who actually saw the killing itself. His testimony will, I am sure, bring an end to these proceedings. For my part, I can only say that in my fifteen years with the Metropolitan Police, I have never encountered a case where the evidence has been more cut and dried, the guilty party more obvious.’

I almost expected him to take a bow. Instead, he nodded respectfully at the magistrate and sat down.

The final witness was Dr Thomas Ackland. I had barely examined him in the darkness and the confusion of the night, but standing in front of me now, he struck me as an unattractive man with curls of bright red hair (he would have been assured of a place in the red-headed league) tumbling unevenly from an elongated head and dark freckles which made his skin seem almost diseased. He had the beginnings of a moustache, an unusually long neck and watery blue eyes. It is possible, I suppose, that I exaggerate his appearance for, as he spoke, I felt a deep and irrational loathing for a man whose words seemed to place the final seal on my friend’s guilt. I have gone back to the official transcripts and can therefore present exactly what he was asked and what he himself said so that it cannot be claimed that my own prejudices distort the record.

The Prosecutor: Could you please tell the court your name.

Witness: It is Thomas Ackland.

The Prosecutor: You are from Scotland.

Witness: Yes. But I now live in London.

The Prosecutor: Will you please tell us a little of your career, Dr Ackland.

Witness: I was born in Glasgow and studied medicine at the university there. I received my medical degree in 1867. I became a lecturer at the Royal Infirmary School of Medicine in Edinburgh and later, the Professor of Clinical Surgery at Edinburgh’s Royal Hospital for Sick Children. I moved to London five years ago, following the death of my wife, and was invited to become a governor at the Westminster Hospital, which is where I am now.

The Prosecutor: The Westminster Hospital was established for the poor and is funded by public subscription. Is that right?

Witness: Yes.

The Prosecutor: And you yourself have given generously to the maintenance and enlargement of the hospital, I believe.

Magistrate: I think we should get to the point, if you don’t mind, Mr Edwards.

The Prosecutor: Very well, your honour. Dr Ackland, could you please tell the court how you happened to be in the vicinity of Milward Street and Coppergate Square last night?’

Witness: I had been to visit one of my patients. He is a good, hard-working man, but of a poor family, and after he left the hospital, I was concerned for his well-being. I came to him late because I had earlier attended a dinner at the Royal College of Physicians. I left his house at eleven o’clock, intending to walk some of the way home — I have lodgings in Holborn. However, I became lost in the fog and it was quite by chance that I entered the square a little before midnight.’

The Prosecutor: And what did you see?

Witness: I saw the whole thing. There was a girl, poorly dressed against this inclement weather, no more than fourteen or fifteen years old. I shudder to think what she might have been doing out in the street at this hour, for this is an area known for all manner of vice. When I first noticed her, her hands were raised and she was quite clearly terrified. She uttered one word. “Please …!” Then there were two shots and she fell to the ground. I knew at once that she was dead. The second shot had penetrated the skull and would have killed her instantly.

The Prosecutor: Did you see who fired the shots?

Witness: Not at first, no. It was very dark and I was completely shocked. I was also in fear of my life, for it occurred to me that there must be some madman on the loose to wish to bring harm to this wee, defenceless girl. Then I made out a figure standing a short distance away, holding a gun which was still smoking in his hand. As I watched, he groaned and fell to his knees. Then he sprawled, unconscious, on the ground.

The Prosecutor: Do you see that figure today?

Witness: Yes. He is standing in front of me in the dock.

There was another stir in the public gallery for it was as clear to all the other spectators as it was to me that this was the most damning evidence of all. Sitting next to me, Lestrade had become very still, his lips tightly drawn, and it occurred to me that the faith in Holmes which had done him such credit must surely be shaken to the core. And what of me? I confess that I was in turmoil. It was, on the face of it, inconceivable that my friend could have killed the one girl he most wanted to interview, for there was still a chance that Sally Dixon could have been told something by her brother which might have led us to the House of Silk. And then there was still the question of what she was doing in Coppergate Square to begin with. Had she been captured and held prisoner before Henderson even visited us and could he have deliberately led us into a trap with this very end in mind? That seemed to me to be the only logical conclusion. But at the same time I recalled something Holmes had said to me many times, namely that when you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth. I might be able to dismiss the evidence given by Isaiah Creer, for a man like him would certainly be open to bribery and would say anything that was required of him. But it was impossible, or at least absurd to suggest, that an eminent Glaswegian doctor, a senior police officer from Scotland Yard and the son of the Earl of Blackwater, a member of the English aristocracy, should all come together for no obvious reason to fabricate a story and incriminate a man that none of them had ever met. That was the choice before me. Either all four of them were lying. Or Holmes, under the influence of opium, had indeed committed a terrible crime.

The magistrate needed no such deliberation. Having heard the evidence, he called for the Charge Book and entered Holmes’s name and address, his age and the charge that had been preferred against him. To these were added the names and addresses of the prosecutor and his witnesses and an inventory of all the articles found in the prisoner’s possession. (They included a pair of pince-nez, a length of string, a signet ring bearing the crest of the Duke of Cassel-Felstein, two cigarette ends wrapped in a page torn from the London Corn Circular, a chemical pipette, several Greek coins and a small beryl. To this day, I wonder what the authorities must have made of it all.) Holmes, who had not uttered a word throughout the entire procedure, was then informed that he would have to remain in custody until the coroner’s court, which would be convened after the weekend. After that, he would proceed to trial. And that was the end of the business. The magistrate was in a hurry to get on. There were several more cases to try and the light was already fading. I watched as Holmes was led away.

‘Come with me, Watson!’ Lestrade said. ‘Move sharp, now. We don’t have a lot of time.’

I followed him out of the main courtroom, down a flight of stairs and into a basement area that was utterly without comfort, where even the paintwork was mean and shabby, and which might have been expressly designed for prisoners, for men and women who had parted company with the ordinary world above. Lestrade had been here before, of course. He swiftly led me along a corridor and into a lofty, white-tiled room with a single window and a bench that ran all the way round. The bench was divided by a series of wooden partitions so that whoever sat there would be isolated and unable to communicate with those on either side. I knew at once that this was the Prisoners’ Waiting Room. Perhaps Holmes had been held here before the trial.

We were no sooner in than there was a movement at the door and Holmes appeared, escorted by a uniformed officer. I rushed towards him and might even have embraced him had I not realised that, in his view, this would have been just one more indignity piled up on so many. Even so, my voice broke as I addressed him. ‘Holmes! I do not know what to say. The injustice of your arrest, the way you have been treated … it is beyond any imagining.’

‘It is certainly most interesting,’ returned he. ‘How are you, Lestrade? A strange turn of events, do you not think? What do you make of it?’

‘I really don’t know what to think, Mr Holmes,’ Lestrade muttered.

‘Well, that’s nothing new. It seems that our friend, Henderson, led us a pretty song and dance, hey, Watson? Well, let’s not forget that I half-expected it and he has still proved useful to us. Before, I suspected that we had stumbled on to a conspiracy that went far beyond a murder in a hotel room. Now I am certain of it.’

‘But what good is it to know these things if you are to be imprisoned and your reputation destroyed?’ I replied.

‘I think my reputation will look after itself,’ Holmes said. ‘If they hang me, Watson, I shall leave it to you to persuade your readers that the whole thing was a misunderstanding.’

‘You may make light of all this, Mr Holmes,’ growled Lestrade. ‘But I should warn you that we have very little time. And the evidence against you seems, in a word, unarguable.’

‘What did you make of the evidence, Watson?’

‘I don’t know what to say, Holmes. These men don’t appear to know each other. They have come from different parts of the country. And yet they are in complete agreement about what occurred.’

‘And yet, surely you would take my word above that of our friend, Isaiah Creer?’

‘Of course.’

‘Then let me tell you at once that what I have told Inspector Harriman is the true version of events. After I entered the opium den, I was approached by Creer and greeted as a new customer — which is to say, with a mixture of warmth and wariness. There were four men lying semiconscious, or pretending to be, on the mattresses and one of them was indeed Lord Horace Blackwater, although of course I did not know him at the time. I pretended that I had come for my fourpenny worth and Creer insisted that I follow him into his office to make the payment there. Not wishing to raise his suspicions, I did as he asked and I was no sooner through the doorway than two men sprang on me, seizing hold of my neck and pinioning my arms. One of them, Watson, we know. It was Henderson himself! The other had a shaven head and the shoulders and forearms of a wrestler, with the strength to match. I was unable to move. “You have been very unwise, Mr Holmes, to interfere in things which do not concern you and unwise to believe that you could take on people more powerful than yourself,” Henderson said, or words to that effect. At the same time, Creer approached me carrying a small glass filled with some foul-smelling liquid. It was an opiate of some sort, and there was nothing I could do as it was forced between my lips. There were three of them and only one of me. I could not reach my gun. The effect was almost immediate. The room span and the strength went out of my legs. They released me and I fell to the floor.’

‘The devils!’ I exclaimed.

‘And then?’ Lestrade asked.

‘I remember nothing more until I awoke with Watson beside me. The drug must have been extremely strong.’

‘That’s all very well, Mr Holmes. But how do you explain the testimonies we have heard from Dr Ackland, from Lord Horace Blackwater and from my colleague, Harriman?’

‘They have colluded.’

‘But why? These are not ordinary men.’

‘Indeed not. Were they ordinary I would be more inclined to believe them. But does it not strike you as strange that three such remarkable specimens should have emerged, out of the darkness, at exactly the same time?’

‘What they said made sense. There was not a single questionable word spoken in this court.’

‘No? I beg to differ with you, Lestrade, for I heard several. We might start with the good Dr Ackland. Did you not find it surprising that although he said it was too dark for him to see who fired the shot, in the same breath he testified that he could see smoke rising from the gun? He must have a unique sort of vision, this Dr Ackland. And then there’s Harriman himself. You might find it worthwhile to confirm that there really was a break-in at a bank on the White Horse Road. It seems to me a touch providential.’

‘Why?’

‘Because if I were to rob a bank, I would wait until after midnight when the streets were a little less populated. I might also head for Mayfair, Kensington or Belgravia — anywhere where the local residents might have deposited enough money to be worth stealing.’

‘And what of Perkins?’

‘Constable Perkins was the only honest witness. Watson, I wonder if I could trouble you …?

But before Holmes could continue, Harriman appeared in the doorway, his face thunderous. ‘What the devil is going on here?’ he demanded. ‘Why is the prisoner not on his way to a cell? Who are you, sir?’

‘I am Inspector Lestrade.’

‘Lestrade! I know you. But this is my case. Why are you interfering?’

‘Mr Sherlock Holmes is very well known to me—’

‘Mr Sherlock Holmes is well known to a great many people. Are we going to invite them all in to make his acquaintance?’ Harriman turned to the policeman who had brought Holmes from the courtroom, and who had been standing in the room, looking increasingly uncomfortable. ‘Officer! I’ll take your name and your number and you’ll hear more of this in due course. For the present, you can escort Mr Holmes to the back yard where a police van is waiting to take him to his next place of residence.’

‘And where is that?’ Lestrade demanded.

‘He is to be held at the House of Correction at Holloway.’

I blanched at this, for all of London knew the conditions that prevailed at that grim and imposing fortress. ‘Holmes!’ I said. ‘I will visit you—’

‘It distresses me to contradict you, but Mr Holmes will not be receiving visitors until my investigation is complete.’

There was nothing more that Lestrade or I could do. Holmes did not attempt to struggle. He allowed the policeman to raise him up and lead him from the room. Harriman followed and the two of us were left alone.