The House of Silk: The New Sherlock Holmes Novel

SEVENTEEN A Message

My wife returned to London the following day. She had sent me a telegram from Camberwell to inform me of her arrival and I was waiting for her at Holborn Viaduct when her train drew in. I have to say that I would not have left Baker Street for any other reason. I was still certain that Holmes would attempt to reach me and dreaded the idea of his making his way to his lodgings, with all the dangers that would entail, only to find me not in. But nor could I consider allowing Mary to cross the city unattended. One of her greatest virtues was her tolerance, the way she put up with my long absences in the company of Sherlock Holmes. Never once did she complain, although I know she worried that I was putting myself in danger, and I owed it to her now to explain what had happened while she had been away and to inform her that, regretfully, it might be a while yet before we could be permanently reunited. And I had missed her. I looked forward to seeing her again.

It was now the second week in December and, after the bad weather that had begun the month, the sun was out and although it was very cold, everything was ablaze with a sense of prosperity and good cheer. The pavements were almost invisible beneath the bustle of families arriving from the countryside and bringing with them wide-eyed children in numbers that might have populated a small city themselves. The ice-rakers and the crossing-sweepers were out. The sweetmeat and grocer shops were gloriously festooned. Every window carried advertisements for goose clubs, roast beef clubs and pudding clubs and the very air was filled with the aroma of burned sugar and mincemeat. As I climbed down from my brougham and made my way into the station, pushing against the crowd, I reflected on the circumstances that had alienated me from all this activity, from the day-to-day pleasures of London in the festive season. That was perhaps the disadvantage of my association with Sherlock Holmes. It drew me into dark places where, in truth, nobody would choose to go.

The station was no less crowded. The trains were on time, the platforms filled with young men carrying parcels, packages and hampers, scurrying around as excitably as Alice’s white rabbit. Mary’s train had already arrived and I was briefly unable to locate her as the doors opened, pouring yet more souls into the metropolis. But then I saw her and, as she climbed down from her carriage, an event occurred that caused me a moment of disquiet. A man appeared, shuffling across the platform as if about to accost her. I could only see him from the back and, apart from an ill-fitting jacket and red hair, would have been unable to identify him again. He seemed to speak briefly to her, then boarded the train, disappearing from sight. But perhaps I was mistaken. As I approached her she saw me and smiled and then I had taken her in my arms and together we were walking towards the entrance where I had told my driver to wait.

There was much that Mary wanted to tell me of her visit. Mrs Forrester had been delighted to see her and the two of them had become the closest of companions, their relationship of governess and employer being long behind them. The boy, Richard, was polite and well behaved and, once he had begun to recover from his sickness, charming company. He was also an avid reader of my stories! The household was just as she remembered it, comfortable and welcoming. The whole visit had been a success, apart from a slight headache and sore throat that she had herself picked up in the last few days and which had been exacerbated by the journey. She looked tired and, when I pressed her, she complained of a sense of heaviness in the muscles of her arms and legs. ‘But don’t fuss over me, John. I’ll be quite my old self after a rest and a cup of tea. I want to hear all your news. What is this extraordinary business I’ve been reading about with Sherlock Holmes?’

I wonder to what extent I should blame myself for not examining Mary more closely. But I was preoccupied and she herself made light of her illness. And I was thinking also of the strange man who had approached her. It is quite likely that, even had I known, there would have been nothing that I could do. But even so, I have always had to live with the knowledge that I took her complaints too lightly and failed to recognise the early signs of the typhoid fever which would take her from me all too soon.

It was she who brought up the message, just after we set off. ‘Did you see that man just now?’ she asked.

‘At the train? Yes, I did see him. Did he speak to you?’

‘He addressed me by name.’

I was startled. ‘What did he say?’

‘Just “Good morning, Mrs Watson.” He was very uncouth. A working man, I would have said. And he pressed this into my hand.’

She produced a small cloth bag which she had been clutching all the time but which she had almost forgotten in the pleasure of our reunion and our necessary haste leaving the station. Now she handed it to me. There was something heavy inside the bag, and I thought at first that it might be coins for I heard the clink of metal, but on opening it and pouring the contents into the palm of my hand, I found myself holding three solid nails.

‘What is the meaning of this?’ I asked. ‘Did the man say nothing more? Can you describe him?’

‘Not really, my dear. I barely glanced at him as I was looking at you. He had chestnut hair, I think. And a dirty, unshaven face. Does it matter?’

‘He said nothing else? Did he demand money?’

‘I told you. He greeted me by name; nothing more.’

‘But why on earth would anyone give you a bag of nails?’ The words were no sooner out of my mouth than I understood and let out a cry of exultation. ‘The Bag of Nails! Of course!’

‘What is it, my dear?’

‘I believe, Mary, that you may have just met Holmes himself.’

‘It looked nothing like him.’

‘That is exactly the idea!’

‘This bag of nails means something you?’

It meant a great deal. Holmes wanted me to return to one of the two public houses that we had visited when we were searching for Ross. Both had been called The Bag of Nails, but which one did he have in mind? It would surely not be the second one, in Lambeth, for that was where Sally Dixon had worked and it was known to the police. All in all, the first one, in Edge Lane, was more likely. For he was certainly afraid of being seen; that much was implicit in the manner he had chosen to communicate with me. He had been in disguise and if anyone had seen the approach and tried to apprehend Mary or myself on the station platform, they would have found nothing but a cloth bag with three carpenter’s nails and no indication at all that a message had been passed.

‘My dear, I’m afraid I am going to have to abandon you the moment we are home,’ I said.

‘You are not in any danger are you, John?’

‘I hope not.’

She sighed. ‘Sometimes I think you are fonder of Mr Holmes than you are of me.’ She saw the look on my face and patted my hand gently. ‘I’m only being pleasant with you. And you don’t need to come all the way to Kensington. We can stop at the next corner. The driver can bring in my bags and I can see myself home.’ I hesitated and she looked at me more seriously. ‘Go to him, John. If he resorted to such lengths to send a message, then he must be in trouble and needs you as he has always needed you. You cannot refuse.’

And so I parted company from her, not just taking my life in my hands but almost losing it as I slipped out in the traffic, coming close to being run over by an omnibus in the Strand. For it had occurred to me that, if Holmes was afraid of being followed, I should be too, and it was therefore vital that I should not be seen. I dodged between various carriages and finally reached the safety of the pavement where I looked carefully about me before turning back the way I had come, arriving in that forlorn and sorry part of Shoreditch about thirty minutes later. I remembered the public house well. A rundown place that looked little better in the sunlight than it had in the fog. I crossed the street and went in.

There was one man sitting in the saloon bar and it was not Sherlock Holmes. To my great surprise and somewhat to my mortification, I recognised the man called Rivers who had assisted Dr Trevelyan at Holloway Prison. He was no longer wearing his uniform, but his vacant expression, sunken eyes and unruly ginger hair were unmistakable. He was slouching at a table with a glass of stout.

‘Mr Rivers!’ I exclaimed.

‘Sit down with me, Watson. It’s very good to see you again.’

It was Holmes who had spoken — and in that second I understood how I had been deceived and how he had effected his escape from prison in front of my very eyes. I confess that I almost fell into the seat that he had proffered, seeing, with a sense of haplessness, the smile that I knew so well, beaming at me from beneath the wig and the make-up. For that was the wonderment of Holmes’s disguises. It wasn’t that he used a great deal of theatrical trickery or camouflage. It was more that he had a knack of metamorphosing into whatever character he wished to play and that if he believed it, you would believe it too, right up to the moment of revelation. It was like gazing at an obscure point on a distant landscape, at a rock or a tree which had taken on the shape, perhaps, of an animal. And yet once you had drawn closer and seen it for what it was, it would never deceive you again. I had sat down with Rivers. But now it was obvious to me that I was with Holmes.

‘Tell me—’ I began.

‘All in good time, my dear fellow,’ he interrupted. ‘First, assure me that you were not followed here.’

‘I am certain I am alone.’

‘And yet there were two men behind you at Holborn Viaduct. Policemen, from the look of them, and doubtless in the employ of our friend, Inspector Harriman.’

‘I didn’t see them. But I took great care leaving my wife’s carriage when it was halfway down the Strand. I didn’t allow it to come to a complete stop and slipped behind a barouche. I can assure you that if there were two men with me at the station, they are now in Kensington and wondering what became of me.’

‘My trusty Watson!’

‘But how did you know that my wife was arriving today? How did you even come to be at Holborn Viaduct at all?’

‘That is simplicity itself. I followed you from Baker Street, realised which train you must be meeting and managed to get ahead of you in the crowd.’

‘That is only the first of my questions, Holmes, and I must insist that you satisfy me on all counts, for it makes my head spin, simply to see you sitting here. Let us start with Dr Trevelyan. I assume you recognised him and persuaded him to help you escape.’

‘That is exactly the case. It was a happy coincidence that our former client should have found employment at the prison although I would like to think that any medical man would have been persuaded to my cause, particularly when it became clear that there was a plan to murder me.’

‘You knew of that?’

Holmes glanced at me keenly, and I realised that if I were not to break the pledge I had given to my sinister host, two nights before, then I must pretend to know nothing at all. ‘I expected it from the moment I was arrested. It was clear to me that the evidence against me would begin to fall apart as soon as I was allowed to speak and so, of course, my enemies would not permit it. I was waiting for an attack of any description and took particular care to examine my food. Contrary to popular belief, there are very few poisons that are completely tasteless and certainly not the arsenic which they hoped would finish me. I detected it in a bowl of meat broth which was brought to me on my second evening … a particularly foolish attempt, Watson, and one that I was grateful for, as it gave me exactly the weapon that I needed.’

‘Was Harriman part of this plot?’ I asked, unable to keep the fury out of my voice.

‘Inspector Harriman has either been paid well or is at the very heart of the conspiracy that you and I have uncovered. I suspect the latter. I thought of going to Hawkins. The chief warder had struck me as a civilised man and he had taken pains to ensure that my stay at the House of Correction had not been any more uncomfortable than it had to be. However, to have raised the alarm too soon might have been to precipitate a second, more lethal attack, and so instead, I requested an interview with the medical officer and, after being escorted to the hospital, was delighted to discover that we were already acquainted, for it made my task considerably easier. I showed him the sample of the soup that I had kept back and explained to him what was afoot, that I had been falsely arrested and that it was my enemies’ intention that I should never leave Holloway alive. Dr Trevelyan was horrified. He would have been inclined to believe me anyway for he still felt himself to be in debt to me following that business in Brook Street.’

‘How did he come to be in Holloway?’

‘Needs must, Watson. You will recall that he lost his employment after the death of his resident patient. Trevelyan is a brilliant man, but one whom fortune has never favoured. After drifting several months, the position at Holloway was the only one he could find and, reluctantly, he took it. We must try to help him one day.’

‘Indeed so, Holmes. But continue …’

‘His first instinct was to inform the chief warder, but I persuaded him that the conspiracy against me was too entrenched, my enemies too powerful, and that although it was critical for me to regain my liberty, we could not risk involving anybody else and it would have to be achieved by other means. We began to discuss what these might be. It was obvious to Trevelyan, as it was to me, that I could not physically force my way out. That is, there was no question of digging a tunnel or climbing the walls. There were no fewer than nine locked doors and gates between my cell and the outside world, and even with the best of disguises, I could not hope to walk through them unchallenged. Clearly, I could not consider the use of violence. For about an hour we spoke together and all the time I was anxious that Inspector Harriman might reappear at any moment for he was still continuing to interview me to lend credence to his empty and fraudulent investigation.

‘And then Trevelyan mentioned Jonathan Wood, a poor wretch who has spent most of his life in prison and who was about to end it there for he had fallen grievously ill and was not expected to survive the night. Trevelyan suggested to me that when Wood died, I could be admitted to the prison hospital. He would conceal the body and smuggle me out in the coffin. That was his idea but I dismissed it with barely a second thought. There were too many impracticalities, not the least of which must be the growing suspicions of my persecutors who would be wondering already why the poison administered in my evening meal had failed to finish me and who might already suspect that I was wise to them. A dead body leaving the prison at such a time would be too obvious. It was exactly the sort of move they would expect me to make.

‘But during my time in the hospital I had already taken note of the orderly, Rivers, and in particular the good fortune of his appearance: his slovenly manner and bright red hair. I saw at once that all the necessary elements — Harriman, the poison, the dying man — were in place and that it would be possible to devise an alternative scheme, using one against the other. I told Trevelyan what I would need and to his eternal credit he did not question my judgement but did as I requested.

‘Wood died shortly before midnight. Trevelyan came to my cell and told me personally what had come to pass, then returned home to collect the few items which I had requested and which I would need. The following morning, I announced that my own illness had worsened. Trevelyan diagnosed severe food poisoning and admitted me to the hospital where Wood had already been laid out. I was there when his coffin arrived and even helped lift him into it. Rivers, however, was absent. He had been given the day off and now Trevelyan produced the wig and the change of clothes which would allow me to disguise myself as him. The coffin was removed shortly before three o’clock and at last everything was in place. You must understand the psychology, Watson. We needed Harriman to do our work for us. First of all, we would reveal my extraordinary and inexplicable disappearance from a securely locked cell. Then, almost immediately, we would inform him of a coffin and a dead body that had just left the place. Under the circumstances, I had no doubt that he would jump to the wrong conclusion, which is precisely what he did. So confident was he that I was in the coffin, that he did not take so much as a second glance at the slow-witted orderly who was seemingly responsible for what had occurred. He rushed off, in effect easing my passage out. It was Harriman who ordered the doors to be unlocked and opened. It was Harriman who undermined the very security that should have kept me in.’

‘It’s true, Holmes,’ I exclaimed. ‘I never looked at you. All my attention was focused on the coffin.’

‘I have to say that your sudden appearance was the one eventuality that I had never considered and I was afraid that at the very least you might reveal your acquaintanceship with Dr Trevelyan. But you were magnificent, Watson. I would say that having both you and the warder there actually added to the sense of urgency and made Harriman more determined to chase down the coffin before it left.’

There was such a twinkle in his eye as he said this that I took it as a compliment, although I understood the role I had actually played in the adventure. Holmes liked an audience as much as any actor on the stage and the more there were of us present, the easier he would have found it to play the part. ‘But what are we to do now?’ I asked. ‘You are a fugitive. Your name is discredited. The very fact that you have chosen to escape will only help to persuade the world of your guilt.’

‘You paint a bleak picture, Watson. For my part, I would say that circumstances have immeasurably improved since last week.’

‘Where are you staying?’

‘Have I not told you? I keep rooms all over London for eventualities just such as this. I have one nearby, and I can assure that it is a great deal more agreeable than the accommodation I have just left.’

‘Even so, Holmes, it seems that you have inadvertently made many enemies.’

‘That does indeed seem to be case. We have to ask ourselves what it is that unites such disparate bodies as Lord Horace Blackwater, scion of one of England’s oldest families, Dr Thomas Ackland, benefactor of the Westminster Hospital and Inspector Harriman, who has fifteen years unblemished service in the Metropolitan Police. This is the question that I put to you in the less than congenial surroundings of the Old Bailey. What do these three men have in common? Well, the fact that they are all men is a start. They are all wealthy and well connected. When brother Mycroft spoke of a scandal, these are the very sort of people who might be damaged. I understand, by the by, that you returned to Wimbledon.’

I could not possibly conceive how, or from whom, Holmes could have heard this but it was not the time to go into such details. I merely assented and briefly told him of the circumstances of my last visit. He seemed particularly agitated by the news of Eliza Carstairs, the rapid decline in her health. ‘We are dealing with a mind of unusual cunning and cruelty, Watson. This matter cuts very deep and it is imperative that we conclude this business so that we can visit Edmund Carstairs again.’

‘Do you think that the two are connected?’ I asked. ‘I cannot see how the events in Boston and even the shooting of Keelan O’Donaghue at a private hotel here in London could possibly have led to the horrible business with which we are now occupied.’

‘But that is only because you are assuming that Keelan O’Donaghue is dead,’ replied Holmes. ‘Well, we shall have more news of that soon enough. While I was in Holloway, I was able to send a message to Belfast—’

‘They permitted you to wire?’

‘I had no need for the post office. The criminal underworld is faster and less expensive and available to anyone who happens to find themselves on the wrong side of the law. There was a man in my wing, a forger by the name of Jacks whom I met in the exercise yard and who was released two days ago. He carried my enquiry with him, and as soon as I have a reply, you and I shall return to Wimbledon together. In the meantime, you have not answered my question.’

‘What connects the five men? The answer is obvious. It is the House of Silk.’

‘And what is the House of Silk?’

‘Of that I have no idea. But I think I can tell you where to find it.’

‘Watson, you astonish me.’

‘You do not know?’

‘I have known for some time. Nonetheless, I will be fascinated to know your own conclusions — and how you arrived at them.’

By good fortune, I had been carrying the advertisement with me and now unfolded it and showed it to my friend, relating my recent interview with the Reverend Charles Fitzsimmons. ‘Dr Silkin’s House of Wonders,’ he read. For a moment he seemed puzzled, but then his face brightened. ‘But of course. This is exactly what we have been looking for. Once again I must congratulate you, Watson. While I have been languishing in confinement, you have been busy.’

‘This was the address that you had expected?’

‘Jackdaw Lane? Not exactly. Nonetheless, I am confident that it will provide all the answers that we have been searching for. What time is it? Almost one o’clock. I would imagine we would do better to approach such a place under cover of darkness. Would you be amenable to meeting me here again in, shall we say, four hours?’

‘I would be happy to, Holmes.’

‘I knew I could count on you. And I would suggest you bring your service revolver, Watson. There are many dangers afoot and I fear it is going to be a long night.’