The Lost Files of Sherlock Holmes (14 page)

Matthews had been most accurate in his description of Regent Street and its layout, except, perhaps, the
incongruity
of the presence of the ‘Old Grey Horse.’ Despite its obvious decay, it was still an imposing building and
heightened
my sense of foreboding. I decided, however, to put a brave face on it, and throwing away the remnants of my cigarette, strode purposefully through the door of the lounge bar. My gait did not falter as I approached the bar.

‘Good afternoon landlord!’ I boomed, in as cheery a voice as I could muster, ‘a pint of your best stout and a slice of meat pie if you please.’

My bluff was called immediately, for the response was as dour and miserable as the man who offered it.

I will not be colouring the truth if I say Jonathan Blackwood presented one of the most unedifying visions I have yet beheld. A man of his size and build should, by rights, have been a most imposing figure, however, so slothful was he in the manner in which he held himself, that he resembled a huge sack of potatoes tied together in the middle. His evil-smelling and discoloured shirt spilled over his worn leather belt and he wore no jacket. His hair
had not been washed, much less cut, in, what looked like months. He was unshaven and he leaned forward on the bar with the dog-end of a cheap cigar stuck to his bottom lip.

‘Ain’t got none.’ He said, barely glancing at me from the corner of one eye. He then revealed a few blackened teeth by way of a half grimace and half sarcastic smile.

Two strange guttural sounds announced the amusement of one of the equally unbeguiling regulars I now noticed scattered around the lounge. There was something in the manner of this group of singularly unattractive individuals that suggested they shared a common cause. Though I could only guess at the true nature of this. Just the thought of the menace in their eyes and the recollection of Matthew’s narrative, made me shudder and almost balk at proceeding any further.

However, I remembered I was representing Holmes, and Matthews was relying on my assistance, so, once again I attempted to force Blackwood’s hand.

‘Well then, perhaps a pint of ale, if nothing else is
available
.’ I suggested cheerfully.

Blackwood’s manner and expression showed no change; only the cigar fell from his lips onto the bar and this he brushed away with the blackened sleeve of his shirt.

‘Aint got much of nothing ’ave I. Not your lucky day.’

‘Try the “Plough” on the corner,’ A voice from the window drawled.

I glanced in its direction and immediately regretted having done so, for there sat Albert Collins, a notorious safe breaker, whose incarceration Holmes and I had brought about some five years previously. I felt myself flush and hoped his memory was inferior to mine. I turned about immediately and made for the door.

‘Yes, perhaps I will.’ I mumbled as I made my way outside.

The fresh March air immediately cooled my head and I just stood there smoking a cigarette while I collected my thoughts and decided on my best course of action. Thankfully no-one had, so far, followed me through the door. I decided to return to Baker Street and await the long, overdue return of Sherlock Holmes. I was debating between Ladbroke Grove and Kilburn Lane as the most likely place to locate a cab, when I noticed a small alley which ran between the back yards of the Kilburn Lane shops and the side wall of the ‘Old Grey Horse’.

I noticed the cellar doors set in the pavement and, remembering Matthews’s narrative, decided to examine them more closely. I realized that at night, due to the narrowness of the alley, they would be virtually invisible from Regent Street, much less Kilburn Lane. So my mind turned towards the flats above the back of the shops. Even from the vantage of their height, the high walls at the rear of each yard obscured the cellar doors. They were ideal for any nocturnal criminal activity.

Before turning for home, one fanciful hope that the doors had been left unsecured occurred to me. I crawled down and began fingering their edges. Just then I noticed Matthews standing by the side entrance, but his gestures, and calls were not those of greeting, they were a warning! Too late I heard footsteps behind me, and in an instant my head reverberated with a deadening crash. For a moment a sharp light ignited my eyes and I remember raising my hands to my head in an effort to suppress the agony. Then, complete oblivion …

My recollection of awakening is most vague. I had, as I
learned later, been unconscious for at least twelve hours and, on opening my eyes, was painfully aware of the most terrible throbbing pain in my head and ringing in my ears.

I can then recall constant, violent tremors of shivering. A terrible damp chill ran through me and caused, what seemed to be, every muscle in my body to ache most acutely. My leg, of course, was causing me a greater discomfort than I had experienced in some years. My medical knowledge told me that this unhealthy state could not continue for much longer before serious damage was caused.

I tried to think coherently and soon realized that any escape attempt I was going to make would have to be made before my remaining strength ebbed away from me. Clearly this would be no easy task, as both wrists were most securely tied together with a rough cord and I was tightly gagged.

Fortunately for me at that moment the thought of Holmes coping in this situation jolted me out of a stupor of lethargy and self-pity, which, I fear, I had been slowly sinking into. Even unconsciousness was beginning to seem preferable to the pain and discomfort I was experiencing.

Holmes’s fervent mind would already have seized upon a method of escape, whilst I had still to establish my
location
. I let my eyes adjust to the darkness and slowly realized that there was little enough, in the room, for them to take in. My back was propped against a damp brick wall and I was facing another, barely fifteen feet away. Ten feet to my right was another large wall, whilst to my left I began to define the shape of an occasional cask or two.

I was indeed in an ill-stocked and redundant beer cellar and I was in little doubt that it was beneath the ‘Old Grey
Horse’. It was obvious that Albert Collins’s memory had not failed him after all. That being the case, my
predicament
was, indeed, of a most serious nature, for Collins had always played a dangerous game and, I could be sure that his acquaintances were no less unsavoury.

My frantic efforts at loosening my bonds drew no response from the tough cord, however when I was almost resigned to my fate, I thought I detected a slight movement in the dark corner to my right. My initial thoughts were of rats and then even hallucinations, but gradually, and to my great surprise, I made out the indistinct outline of a
prostrate
human form.

A slow laborious kind of snake-like movement, using my elbows and knees, brought me a few feet closer to my fellow occupant and, to my dismay, found Matthews bound and gagged in a like position to myself. From his lack of
recognition
and his slumped position I could tell he had suffered physical abuse I had so far escaped. It was only afterwards that I saw his numerous facial scrapes and bruises.

Nonetheless, I could see the advantage of the two of us working together at loosening our bonds, over my lone, vain attempts. With this in mind, I began gesticulating with my eyes and head in the hope that he might recognise what I required of him. After a few moments he realized my intent and with great difficulty began turning his back towards me. In this position we might work in unison at locating any weakness in the knots, encumbered though we were.

At one stage, I thought I had discovered a flaw in Matthew’s binding and in my determination to pursue this, overstretched, somewhat, and fell over onto one side. Now all hope was lost for, trussed up as I was, I had no means
of leverage to right myself once more. I felt as helpless and awkward as a freshly landed trout.

It was at that precise moment that we both caught our breath, for there, surely, coming from above, was the sound of someone handling the large padlock that secured the outer cellar door. Once more my body trembled violently, though this time it was not due to the damp or cold. I must confess that this was pure fear, for I thought this must be Blackwood and his gang coming down to ‘finish’ the two of us off once and for all.

After a few moments we heard the padlock being unlocked and slowly the doors were opened. The pale light of a street lamp sent a weak silhouette of a figure peering down from the street above. Surely it was not Collins or Blackwood, but it was decidedly familiar …

‘My dear Watson, are you alright!’ To my great surprise and eternal relief Sherlock Holmes was climbing, hurriedly down into the cellar.

Too often in my journals I have reflected on my companion’s inability to lower his mask of cold, hard logic. The machine-like workings of his mind, his complete absorption in his work at the expense of any affection or warmth. I lay there on the cellar floor, my inaptitude and clumsiness exposed to him, expecting the inevitable ridicule and scorn my predicament would surely warrant.

However, to my surprise, neither of these was evident in Holmes’s voice or countenance. Indeed he displayed great sympathy and kindness as he gently undid our bonds and helped us to our feet.

‘You have done remarkably well, Watson, against
impossible
odds. I can only apologise that my own failure in concluding this case earlier has resulted in your capture.
The informer of that fool Lestrade was of no use to me at all and led me a merry dance these last two days. But, more in the cab.’ Holmes finished with his kindest of smiles as he then proceeded to assist both Matthews and myself through the cellar door and to freedom.

Once the cab was well underway, I became aware that we were not proceeding by the shortest route to Baker Street. When I queried this, Holmes replied;

‘It will not be many hours before your escape is
discovered
. Obviously, when it is and knowing your identity as they do, they will soon recognise who perpetrated it and realize that their game is up. It is essential, therefore, that we option reinforcements from Scotland Yard and round up this despicable gang before they make good their escape.’

‘As usual, Holmes, and despite my own personal
involvement
in this case in your absence, you seem to know much more about what’s going on than I do. Yet I fail to see how this can be so.’ I queried.

‘Ah, but you see I have an unfair advantage over you, Watson, for I have been involved in this case for many weeks now. It was mere chance that led you onto the very road I have been searching for for so long. It will be some while before we reach the “Yard”, therefore, before you explain your involvement in this matter, please allow me to fill in a few of my own sketchy details, and you can fill in the gaps.’

‘Agreed!’ I exclaimed, knowing I had certain knowledge to which Holmes could have had no access. I must admit I was still in some physical discomfort, following my ordeal, as I am sure Matthews was also, but my new enthusiasm for Holmes’s narrative and my excitement at the prospect
of the coming adventure overshadowed these
considerations
. Holmes was aware of this, however.

‘I fear I am being most thoughtless, Watson, and am running ahead of myself as usual, at your expense. Surely you are in no condition to embark on any fresh adventures. I should instruct the driver to divert to Baker Street before proceeding to Scotland Yard. You and Matthews are in need of care.’

‘You shall do no such thing!’ I protested, ‘Whilst I agree Matthews here needs attention and can carry on to Baker Street from the “Yard” I would feel thwarted if I were not involved in the conclusion of this affair.’

‘Watson! The very words I was hoping to hear. If you are sure you are well enough, of course you will be invaluable at my side, as always.’ He lit a cigarette, at this moment, and turned to Matthews.

‘I will begin with your companion here, whom I presume is our, or rather your, client.’

‘A moment, if you please, Mr Holmes,’ Matthews quietly interrupted, ‘whilst I appreciate your concern at my
condition
, I feel my time will be better served with you at the “Old Grey Horse” as opposed to languishing in your rooms at Baker Street. I still hold my key to the side-door and my knowledge of the layout of the rooms will, I am sure, prove of value in the dark.’

Holmes looked long and hard at Matthews whilst smoking his cigarette.

‘My wounds are purely superficial, I assure you.’ Matthews added hopefully.

‘A most resolute fellow, your Mr Matthews, eh, Watson? Let me see … from Yorkshire, obviously from your accent. A hard-working farmer for many years, then finally, all
your labour began to bear fruit and you became quite a wealthy man. Wealthy enough to employ others to carry out your work whilst you became quite the landed gentry. Wealth and success were yours. A charming young wife added to your happiness, but then, I fear, tragedy struck, in the form of a fire. I believe a fire which not only destroyed your farm but your wife also.

‘So, homeless, penniless and alone, you journeyed to London hopefully to start a new life and regain your lost wealth. With this in view you began a search for
accommodation
, as close to central London as possible, where the best opportunities may be found, yet affordable within your, now, most limited means. The “Old Grey Horse” seemed to fill those requirements, and there you were employed in the most servile of tasks earning a pittance and a bed. Unpleasant and uncomfortable as this was, all was relatively well, until certain aspects of your employers’s behaviour, manner, and, indeed various unsavoury occurrences led you to believe that something strange was afoot. Hence your visit to Baker Street and your consultation with my colleague here, Doctor Watson!’

I was agog, I must confess, used as I was to my friend’s amazing faculties for observation and deduction, his knowledge of Matthews’s past verged almost on the uncanny. Though, of course, if I had put forward this conjecture, I would surely have incurred his extreme
impatience
, so assertive was he on the fact that his was a cold-blooded scientific study. At the same time, I was annoyed with myself for not seeing what Holmes had seen. In so short a time in Matthews’s company, his knowledge of him was so much greater, than my own. No doubt sensing my annoyance and curiosity, and being aware that he was
about to be bombarded with questions, Holmes quickly continued. He put his finger to his lips and smiled …