‘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.
All the newspapers had reported on the death of Sally Dixon and the subsequent trial. One account I have before me still, the paper now as fragile as tissue, worn away with age:
A crime of a serious and despicable character was committed two nights ago in Coppergate Square which lies close to the river and Limehouse Basin. Just after twelve o’clock, Police Constable Perkins of the H Division, patrolling the area, heard a gunshot and hurried towards the source of the disturbance. He arrived too late to save the victim, a sixteen-year-old serving girl from a London public house who lived nearby. It has been conjectured that she was on her way home and unexpectedly encountered her assailant who had just emerged from one of the opium dens for which the area is notorious. This man was identified as Mr Sherlock Holmes, a consulting detective, and he was immediately taken into police custody. Although he denied all knowledge of the crime, a series of highly respectable witnesses appeared to testify against him, including Dr Thomas Ackland of the Westminster Hospital and Lord Horace Blackwater who farms a thousand acres in Hallamshire. Mr Holmes has now been moved to the House of Correction at Holloway and this whole, sorry incident once again pinpoints the scourge of drugs in our society and calls into question the continued legality of those dens of vice where they can be freely consumed.
I need hardly say that this made extremely unpleasant reading at the breakfast table on the Monday following Holmes’s arrest. There were also aspects of the report that were highly questionable. The Bag of Nails was in Lambeth, so why had the reporter assumed that Sally Dixon was on her way home? It was also curious that no mention had been made of Lord Horace’s own indulgence in that ‘den of vice’.
The weekend had been and gone, two days in which I could do little but fret and wait for news. I had sent fresh clothes and food to Holloway, but could not be sure that Holmes had received them. From Mycroft I had heard nothing, although he could not possibly have missed the stories in the newspapers and, besides, I had sent repeated messages to the Diogenes Club. I did not know whether to be indignant or alarmed. On the one hand, his lack of response seemed churlish and even petulant, for although it was true that he had warned us against precisely the course of action we had taken, surely he would not have hesitated to use his influence, given the seriousness of his brother’s situation. But then again, I recalled what he had said – ‘There will be nothing I can do for you’ – and I wondered at the power of the House of Silk, whatever it might be, that could incapacitate a man whose influence reached to the inner circles of government.
I had resolved to walk round to the club and to present myself in person when the doorbell rang and, after a short pause, Mrs Hudson introduced a very beautiful woman, well gloved and dressed with simple elegance and charm. So absorbed was I with my thoughts that it took me a few moments to recognise Mrs Catherine Carstairs, the wife of the Wimbledon art dealer whose visit to our office had set in motion these unhappy events. In fact, seeing her, I found it hard to make the necessary connection, which is to say, I was quite lost as to how a gang of Irish hoodlums in an American city, the destruction of four landscapes by John Constable and a shootout with a posse of Pinkerton’s agents could have possibly led us to our present pass. Here was a paradox indeed. On the one hand, the discovery of the dead man in Mrs Oldmore’s Private Hotel had been the cause of everything that had happened but on the other it didn’t seem to have anything to do with it. Perhaps it was the writer in me coming to the fore, but I might have said that it was as if two of my narratives had somehow got muddled together so that the characters from one were unexpectedly appearing in the other. Such was my sense of confusion on seeing Mrs Carstairs. And there she was, standing in front of me, suddenly sobbing while I simply stared at her like a fool.
‘My dear Mrs Carstairs!’ I exclaimed, leaping to my feet. ‘Please, do not distress yourself. Sit down. May I get you a glass of water?’
She was unable to speak. I led her to a chair and she produced a handkerchief which she used to dab at her eyes. I poured her some water and carried it over, but she waved it away. ‘Dr Watson,’ she murmured at last. ‘You must forgive me coming here.’
‘Not at all. I am very pleased to see you. When you came in, I was preoccupied but I can assure you that you now have my full attention. Have you further news from Ridgeway Hall?’
‘Yes. Horrible news. But is Mr Holmes away?’
‘You have not heard? Have you not seen a newspaper?’
She shook her head. ‘I don’t interest myself in the news. My husband does not encourage it.’
I considered showing her the piece I had just been reading, then decided against it. ‘I’m afraid Mr Sherlock Holmes is indisposed,’ I said. ‘And is likely to be for some time.’
‘Then it’s hopeless. I have no one else to turn to.’ She bowed her head. ‘Edmund does not know I have come here today. In fact, he counselled strongly against it. But I swear to you, I will go mad, Dr Watson. Is there no end to this nightmare that has suddenly come to destroy all our lives?’
She began to cry afresh and I sat, helpless, until at last the tears abated. ‘Perhaps it might help if you tell me what brought you here,’ I suggested.
‘I will tell you. But can you help me?’ She suddenly brightened. ‘Of course! You’re a doctor! We’ve seen doctors already. We’ve had doctors in and out of the house. But maybe you’ll be different. You’ll understand.’
‘Is your husband ill?’
‘Not my husband. My sister-in-law, Eliza. You remember her? When you first met her, she was already complaining of headaches and various pains, but since then her condition has suddenly worsened. Now Edmund thinks she may be dying and there is nothing that anyone can do.’
‘What made you think you might find help here?’
Mrs Carstairs straightened herself in her chair. She wiped her eyes and suddenly I was aware of the strength of spirit that I had noticed when we first met. ‘There is no love between my sister-and-law and I,’ she said. ‘I’ll not pretend otherwise. From the very start, she thought me an adventuress with my talons out to ensnare her brother when he was at his lowest ebb, a fortune hunter who planned only to profit from his wealth. Forget the fact that I came to this country with plenty of money of my own. Forget that I was the one who nursed Edmund back to health on board the
Catalonia
. She and her mother would have hated me, no matter who I was, and they never gave me a chance. Edmund had always belonged to them, you see – the younger brother, the devoted son – and they could never bear the idea of his finding happiness with anyone else. Eliza even blames me for the death of her mother. Can you believe it? What was a tragic domestic accident – the flame blew out on her gas fire – became in her mind a deliberate suicide, as if the old lady preferred to die than to see me as the new mistress of the house. In a way, they’re both mad. I wouldn’t dare say that to Edmund, but it’s true. Why could they never accept the fact that he loves me and be glad for both our sakes?’
‘And this new illness …?’
‘Eliza thinks she is being poisoned. Worse than that, she insists that I am responsible. Don’t ask me how she has arrived at this conclusion. It’s madness, I tell you!’
‘Does your husband know of this?’
‘Of course he does. She accused me while I was there with them in the room. Poor Edmund! I have never seen him so confused. He didn’t know how to respond – for if he had taken my side against her, who knows what it would have done to her state of mind. He was mortified, but the moment we were alone he rushed to my side and begged my forgiveness. Eliza is sick, there’s no doubting that, and Edmund takes the view that her delusions are part of the sickness and he may well be right. Even so, the situation has become almost intolerable for me. All her food is now prepared separately in the kitchen and carried straight up to her room by Kirby, who makes sure that it never leaves his sight. Edmund actually shares the dish with her. He pretends he is being companionable but of course he is acting as nothing more than one of those ancient Roman food-tasters. Maybe I should be grateful. For a week now he has eaten everything that she has eaten and he is in perfect health, while she becomes sicker and sicker, so if I am adding deadly nightshade to her diet, it’s a perfect mystery why only she is affected.’
‘What do the doctors believe to be the cause of her illness?’
‘They are all baffled. First they thought it was diabetes, then blood poisoning. Now they fear the worst and they are treating her for cholera.’ She lowered her head and when she raised it again, her eyes were full of tears. ‘I will tell you a terrible thing, Dr Watson. Part of me wants her to die. I have never thought that of another human being, not even my first husband when he was at his most drunken and violent. But sometimes I find myself thinking that if Eliza were to go, at least Edmund and I would be left in peace. She seems intent on tearing us apart.’
‘Would you like me to come with you to Wimbledon?’ I asked.
‘Would you?’ Her eyes brightened. ‘Edmund did not want me to see Sherlock Holmes. There were two reasons. As far as he was concerned, his business with your colleague was over. The man from Boston who was shadowing him is dead and there seems nothing more to be done. And were we to bring a detective to the house, he feared it would only persuade Eliza that she was right.’
‘Whereas you thought …?’
‘I hoped Mr Holmes would prove my innocence.’
‘If it will help to ease your mind, I will be glad to accompany you,’ I said. ‘I should warn that I am only a general practitioner and my experience is limited, but my long collaboration with Sherlock Holmes has given me an eye for the unusual and it may be that I notice something that your other advisers have missed.’
‘Are you sure, Dr Watson? I would be so very grateful. I still sometimes feel such a stranger in this country that it’s a blessing to have anyone on my side.’
We left together. I had no wish at all to leave Baker Street but I could see that there was nothing to be gained by sitting there on my own. Although Lestrade was active on my behalf, I had yet to be given permission to visit Holmes at Holloway. Mycroft would not arrive at the Diogenes Club until the afternoon. And despite what Mrs Carstairs had said, the mystery of the man in the flat cap was far from resolved. It would be interesting to see Edmund Carstairs and his sister again, and although I knew that I was a very poor replacement for Holmes himself, it still might be possible that I would see or hear something that might shed a little light on what was happening and hasten my friend’s release.
Carstairs was not at first pleased to see me when I presented myself in the hallway of his home with its elegant artworks and softly ticking clock. He had been about to leave for lunch and was meticulously dressed in a frock coat, grey satin cravat and well-varnished shoes. His top hat and walking stick were on a table by the door. ‘Dr Watson!’ he exclaimed. He turned to his wife. ‘I thought we had agreed that we would not be resorting to the services of Sherlock Holmes.’