The Fourth Circle (33 page)

I locked the drawing room and took the key with me, which suited her well, because she could now pretend that the room did not exist. Thus was her stay in the house made easier, particularly at night when she remained alone, but of these periods I knew very little because she, respecting our taboo on any conversation about the extraordinary event and anything associated with it, never mentioned them.

Only once—on the second day, I think—I noticed, by her visible agitation when I arrived, that she had experienced some strange unpleasantness, but although I gave her an opportunity to tell me more about it, she hesitated and considered and finally avoided saying anything. I did not press her much on the subject, so that the matter remained unexplained; even more so because the old woman soon, in my presence, pulled herself together. Why did I not do so, despite the curiosity that was gnawing at me? Because I was unready to face what she might have said? Because of cowardice? Perhaps. I do not know.

We did not report Holmes's disappearance to the police. What could we have told them anyway? That behind all this was that madman Moriarty who, purely as a matter of interest, happens to have been dead for several weeks? That the greatest detective genius London had ever known had simply vanished into thin air from a closed room? Of course they would never have believed us, even though, for them, an aura of other-worldliness had always existed around Holmes. This would have been too much, even where Holmes was concerned, so that questioning would have inevitably followed, becoming increasingly awkward for us as we became more entangled in unsuccessful attempts to offer at least a minimally reasonable and acceptable explanation of something that we ourselves did not understand.

As for the constable who had assisted us in putting out the fire, there were no great difficulties there, either. He readily accepted my explanation that the cause of the fracas was my clumsiness and lack of skill in handling Holmes's laboratory
equipment, which had almost caused an explosion and a much larger fire. He rebuked me mildly, saying that I might be scientifically trained, but that I shouldn't interfere in things that were beyond my skill; and when I discreetly let him know that I would appreciate his keeping the whole affair a secret, especially from Holmes, he nodded understandingly and even offered to help me to tidy up the drawing room. I somehow diverted him from that and thanked him profusely, assuring him that I could deal best with the matter myself.

When I met him the following day on the street, while I was on my way to the house, he asked me quietly, almost conspiratorially, whether Mr. Holmes had noticed anything and when I gave him a negative answer, he gave a brief sigh of relief. Clearly in the meantime he had begun to regret that he had agreed to hush the matter up, fearing that if the damage were extensive, he might have to share responsibility with me. The trouble with London constables is that occasionally they find themselves in a dilemma between excessive zeal and certain gentlemanly considerations—especially if they happen to have a treacherous lump on their forehead, a lump similar to one that adorns that of the first on the list of suspects....

Mrs. Simpson had prepared lunch for me, glad that she finally had someone who adhered to house rules and ate at the proper time. Holmes almost never did that; he ate only when hunger began to gnaw at him in a really serious way, which could happen at any time of day—or, not infrequently, of night. This ir-regular behavior created a great many problems for his housekeeper, and she complained increasingly about the matter, but Holmes acted as though he didn't notice.

My problem with Mrs. Simpson's cooking consisted only in the ampleness of the meals she prepared for me. Although, unlike Holmes, I am one of those people who enjoy their food—which could be plainly seen from my wais-tline—the luncheons that awaited me in the home of my vanished friend were well in excess of my usual measure.

I refrained from telling my new hostess this, however, since it was bound to hurt her feelings; it was clear, from the way she regarded me while I ate, that she was enjoying herself almost as much I was (or at least, as she presumed I was): finally she could prepare meals for someone who appreciated her culinary abilities and did not just mechanically ingest food as if it were some unpleasant, though ineluctable, chore.

The immediate consequence of the overabundant meals I was receiving from Mrs. Simpson was an inevitable drowsiness after lunch, which she was not slow to take advantage of. She would begin long monologues, which consisted mostly
of the histories of the illnesses of her various relatives and friends; what was expected from me was not so much to give medical advice as to pronounce my general agreement with her views regarding the diagnosis and the treatment.

Although my attention would begin to flag because of the rush of blood to my overloaded stomach, I recall extensive monologues concerning the discomfort of internal hemorrhoids, the woes of people who had suffered from ulcers for many years, the pitfalls awaiting women of advanced years in first child-birth—"Especially in Wales, where the air is so full of coal dust..."—and inflam-mation of the sinuses in children, which could be best cured by inhaling the vapor from tea brewed from Scottish highland elder; then there were the horrendous and often lethal diseases brought by the colored people "who are pouring into England like rats from the overseas colonies...."

Once or twice I dozed off, but Mrs. Simpson ignored this, never halting the flow. This was not primarily out of considerateness. The torrent of words pouring from her compensated for the lack of opportunity for female conversation, which she obviously missed greatly, so that my attention, in fact, was not essential. My mere presence sufficed, even if I was asleep; the main listener was herself. That could be discerned by the specific sort of dialogue that she, not rarely, had with herself, asking questions and then answering them.

It was only when I would, thoughtlessly, begin to snore, that she would give a discreet cough, but she would then continue her story immediately, saving me the embarrassment of apologizing for this awkward lapse. The flood of words would begin to abate only at teatime; by then, my stomach would have won the battle with the over-copious food, and my concentration would have fully returned, accompanied by a certain alertness characteristic of the period following an afternoon nap.

Our communication could have become a real dialogue, and yet it did not. Put simply, it became clear that we had no interests in common. The most obvious potential topic was Holmes and what had befallen him, but since we avoided that area, little else remained. Mrs. Simpson would have liked to begin again with the medical anamneses, but she lacked fresh material, having used so much in the earlier monologue. (Though by the next day she would have armed herself with a plentiful supply of new cases.)

On these occasions, I would try to interest her in unusual cases from forensics, or tell her some anecdotes from my younger days on the cricket field, but the former was too distasteful for her, even disgusting (for which I do not blame her), while the latter left her totally indifferent (which peeved me considerably).

And so, after we had taken tea, we would sink into silence. My thoughts
would return to Holmes, and hers too, I assume—since the hour of my leaving was slowly approaching, and with it, her utter solitude. At first I had toyed with the idea of suggesting to Mrs. Simpson that I move into the house for a while, but I realized that my doing so would have evoked the suspicions of the neighbors who were accustomed to Holmes's sudden absences but to whom my unexpected residency in Holmes's house would give rise to much unpleasant conjecture and gossip.

On the fourth day after Holmes's disappearance, we were once again sitting at the dining-room table, in the silence that settled on us after the tea had been drunk. The muffled noises of passing hansoms and the infrequent voices of passers-by reached us from the street. Children could be heard as they ran squealing towards the nearby park. The thin cries of evening birds came from the bare tops of the horse-chestnut trees. All of a sudden I remembered, who knows why, the strange paper of
Signore
Murratori, with which this whole sad story had begun. The paper still lay in the locked drawing room, in the center of the enigmatic circle perfectly drawn by fire on the carpet. If I were to go upstairs, perhaps, and take it....

But I was not destined to do this. The hammering of the door-knocker sounded so sharply and unexpectedly that both Mrs. Simpson and I started from our seats. She quickly put a hand to her mouth to choke back an involuntary scream. We remained motionless for a few moments, looking wordlessly at each other, with expressions more eloquent than any words spoken at that moment could have been, while the thunderous sound of the brass knocker echoed through the dark house, seeming to come from all directions at once. Somebody was clearly in a great hurry to be admitted. Could it be, perhaps...This belated thought, which glimmered simultaneously in Mrs. Simpson's eyes, sent a cold shiver through me, but also jerked me from my immobility, and I strode quickly, almost at a run, to the front door, in the process clumsily knocking over the dining-room chair on which I had been sitting.

IT TOOK ME a fraction of a second to recognize him. No wonder: I had previously seen him only once in my life. Moreover, at that time he had been wearing glasses low on his nose, which he did not have now, and he was the last person whom I would have expected to see at the front door of 221-A Baker Street. I think he noticed my momentary confusion, but politely ignored it, because he, too, saw that his unannounced arrival must be something of a surprise.

"Good evening, Dr. Watson," said he, in a voice in which an unsuccessfully suppressed shortness of breath could be heard. At that moment something caught my eye: a long trail of sweat, which came from somewhere behind his right ear, meandered down his massive neck and disappeared under the high, stiff collar of his shirt like an underground stream. Had we not been in twilight, likely a certain flushed hue could have been discerned on the visitor's face. He had come here in a great hurry, perhaps at a run.

"Sir Arthur," said I finally. "What a surprise."

In normal circumstances, the obligations of polite behavior would have demanded a speedy apology and explanation for this 'surprise.' But the circumstances, clearly, were not normal—generally speaking, very few people came to us for normal reasons—so that he omitted all formalities and proceeded at once to what had brought him here with such conspicuous haste.

"Mr. Holmes...I have to see him right away. He is at home, I hope?"

"Well...no. He is not. I mean, he is away."

I have never been a good liar. That is mainly why I chose forensics: I did not have to conceal from patients the truth about the state of their health, because they were beyond caring.

"Oh, no!" exclaimed Sir Arthur, putting a hand to his mouth. "So, it's happened already! I've come too late!"

His voice rose into near-hysteria. This jerked me out of my confusion. At the moment there was nobody on the street, but at any instant somebody might come along, and in view of what Sir Arthur had just uttered, this was the last place I would wish to discuss the matter.

"Please, do come in, Sir Arthur. We will be much more comfortable inside."

I expected him to rush past me, but he hesitated for a moment, as if wondering what the point might be of entering the house if the man he wanted to find was not there. Then, apparently at a loss for what else to do, he shrugged his
shoulders, nodded curtly, and came inside. Before closing the door behind us, I looked first left then right, down the street—more out of precaution, because I believed that Holmes would have done so in a similar situation, than out of any expectation that something might be gained by it. All I managed to observe was a quick movement of the curtain in one large window near the front door of the house next door: inquisitive neighbors.

Sir Arthur did not advance very far down the corridor but stopped only a step or two in front of me, the reason for which became quite clear when the door closed completely and we found ourselves in almost total darkness. Mrs. Simpson and her absurd habit of not lighting the lamps!

I mumbled something by way of an apology and hurried forward, overtaking Sir Arthur. I approached the lamp in the middle of the corridor while groping in my pockets in search of a lighter. I did not find it at once—on such occasions, one never finds anything at first try—and this unhandiness had a strange consequence. As I stood under the lamp, impatiently touching this pocket and that in the darkness, I lifted my gaze involuntarily, as people are wont to do when they are at the end of their patience or nerves.

Two things then happened simultaneously. I finally found the lighter—in the place where I should have searched for it first, because that is where I always keep it, in the right hand pocket of my vest. And just before I hastily struck the flint, I noticed for an instant a pale band of milky radiance in a place where it had no reason to be: in the narrow gap between the door and the threshold of the drawing room above.

Fearing that Sir Arthur might notice it too, I quickly lit the lamp, flooding the corridor with bright light that entirely did away with the ghostly radiance from above, so that I wondered if perhaps it had been only a hallucination. The eyes are a very unreliable guide in the darkness.