“That is not possible. I saw him only last evening.”
The desk sergeant at New Scotland Yard could only shrug.
“I don’t know what else to say, Dr Watson. I asked after Inspector Tovey, but apparently he left early this morning.”
“For Cornwall? Why there?”
“An important case, by all accounts, and one that requires his…” The sergeant chose his words carefully, “…own particular methods.”
I gripped my new cane hard, trying not to take out my frustrations on the poor man before me. He was merely the messenger.
I had travelled straight from Queen Anne Street to the Yard, intending to inform Inspector Tovey about my disagreeable callers, sure that he would help get to the bottom of their warning, and yet now found that Tovey was already hundreds of miles away, rushing towards a new investigation. It made no sense. Tovey was a tenacious sort, the kind of man who was incapable of resting until a task was completed. For him to abandon London after the events at Abberton Hospital was unthinkable, and yet it had happened nonetheless.
“What of Inspector Gregson?” I asked, clutching at what few names I still knew at the Yard. In days gone by, I would have asked for Lestrade, God rest his soul, but I was sure that Tobias Gregson was still active, although he too would be reaching retirement.
“I’m afraid that Inspector Gregson is also unavailable, sir,” the sergeant said, matter-of-factly.
I frowned. “You know that without checking?”
“He is currently investigating a crime in the East End, and we won’t be expecting him back until sundown. I wish there was something I could do for you.”
“Well, you could tell me who else I can see, unless every detective in the Metropolitan Police Service is currently occupied.”
“Crime does not rest,” the sergeant replied, without a hint of irony. “And neither must we. Now, if you leave me your details, I can enquire about the possibility of an appointment—”
“An appointment?”
“Do you have a telephone, sir?”
“Of course I do, however—”
“Then if you leave me your number, I’ll make sure that someone contacts you as soon as they’re able.”
I was flabbergasted. To think of all the times I had assisted Scotland Yard in their investigations, and here I was being dismissed like a stranger; no, worse than that, I was being treated like an irrelevance.
“Sergeant, I don’t think you understand. Not one hour ago, I was assaulted by a pair of ne’er-do-wells in my own medical practice. I have reason to believe that this intrusion has everything to do with an investigation being carried out by Inspector Tovey, an investigation that he invited us to be a part of.”
“Us, sir?”
“Sherlock Holmes and myself.”
“Ah, but Inspector Tovey is not here…”
“So you have said—”
“So, if you leave your telephone number, I will make sure that he gets back to you as soon as he returns.”
“From Cornwall.”
“From Cornwall, yes.”
I could feel my blood pressure preparing to erupt. “Oh, this is intolerable. They threatened me, Sergeant. Worse than that, they threatened my wife. Do you see? They said that they would hurt us.”
“Did these ne’er-do-wells of yours specifically use those words, Doctor?”
“Not exactly, but their meaning was clear.”
“I see. Then, until we get in touch, I suggest you go home and make sure Mrs Watson is safe. I’ll send someone presently to take a statement.”
It was clear that I could protest as much as I wanted, but the sergeant would remain unmoved. Reluctantly, I left my details as instructed and traipsed back out into the drizzle, fuming that I had been dismissed out of hand. If this was how people were treated when they turned to the police, no wonder that crime flourished on every street corner.
I consulted my watch. It was just turning ten. I would heed the sergeant’s advice, exasperating though it had been, and check on my wife. But first, as I was in town, I decided to visit Holmes and see if there had been any improvement in my friend’s condition. Not fancying the four-mile walk in the rain, I hailed a cab and sat brooding in the back, more injured by my treatment than by any trauma suffered at the hands of Burns and Hartley earlier that morning. At least the day could only get better, I considered. If Holmes was awake, we could discuss what had happened and make sense of it together.
It was a vain hope. On arrival at the hospital, I made my way to Holmes’s room, but was astounded and not a little dismayed to find the bed without an occupant, the sheets neatly made.
“Oh no,” I gasped, fearing the worst, and looked around for assistance. “Nurse? Nurse!”
A blonde nurse immediately ran up. “Can I help you, sir?” she enquired, her accent cheerfully cockney. “Are you all right?”
“No, no I am not. My friend, Mr Sherlock Holmes. What has happened to him?”
A look of confusion passed over the girl’s pretty young face. “I don’t know what you mean, sir.”
“The patient who was in this room, where is he?”
She shook her head. “I’m afraid I don’t know. I’ve just come on duty, and there’s been no one in there all morning.”
“But that’s impossible. Dr Gibbs, is he here?”
“Dr Gibbs?”
“Yes, he was treating my friend. He’ll know what’s happened.”
“I’m afraid Dr Gibbs is on holiday, sir.”
“On holiday?”
“So I believe. Taken his family to the coast I’ve heard, lucky souls. I hope the weather’s treating them better than us.”
She smiled, but my head was spinning. “He didn’t mention he was going away,” I said. “I was talking to him here, last night. There was another nurse with him, older than you perhaps, with dark hair.”
“Nurse Eddison?”
“Maybe, I don’t know.”
She smiled again. “Let me check for you. I’ll be right back. Why don’t you sit down for a moment? You look as though you could do with taking the weight off your feet.”
I had to admit that she was right. My mind was racing, imagining all kinds of horrors: that Holmes had deteriorated in the night, his injuries proving too great, the swelling in the brain, internal bleeding. It was too much to bear.
I was roused from my fears by the light footsteps of the returning nurse. “I’m sorry, Dr Watson, but there’s no sign of Nurse Eddison, and no one seems to know anything about a patient in that room. Are you sure you’re not mistaken? Was it definitely this room?”
“Yes,” I cried, rising from the seat, frustrated beyond belief. “I sat right here, waiting for Dr Gibbs to examine Holmes.”
“But Dr Gibbs is on holiday, sir.”
“Well, he wasn’t last night,” I bellowed, the concern on the nurse’s face disappearing with my outburst.
“Doctor, please. This is a hospital.”
“It is,” I replied, incensed. “And one, it seems, that loses its patients!”
The nurse crossed her arms, and it was clear that I had exhausted her goodwill. Not that I cared one jot.
“Sir, I am going to have to ask you to leave. There’s obviously been some mistake, and I’m afraid I can’t help you. We have no record of your friend, and even if we did, your tone is not helping.”
“Very well,” I said, incensed beyond measure. “But don’t think for one moment that this is at an end. I shall be writing to your council of governors. Sherlock Holmes has served this country all his life, and for him to be treated in such a manner in his hour of need is an outrage.”
The nurse indicated the exit at the end of the corridor. “Good morning, Doctor.”
I took my leave without another word, storming from the corridor and, minutes later, from the hospital itself. First Scotland Yard and now here? Doors were slamming in my face, and, worst of all, I now had no idea where to find Holmes. For that damned nurse to suggest that he had never been in the room in the first place, why, it was preposterous. I had seen him there with my own eyes, lying in that bed. If Tovey hadn’t fled for the West Country, he could have attested as much. I had half a mind to go back to the ward and read the riot act to the girl. She obviously had no idea who she was dealing with.
Then it struck me. She did know who I was. “Dr Watson”, that was what she had called me, using both my name and my title, and yet I had never introduced myself properly, I was sure of it. She knew who I was, and yet still she claimed to have no knowledge of Holmes.
I staggered, dizziness washing over me. A passer-by stopped, ready to be a good Samaritan, grabbing my arm, asking if I needed to sit down. That was the last thing I needed. I thanked him, sending his fine intentions on his way. He couldn’t help. Perhaps no one could. Everything had suddenly become clear. The louts in my surgery, Inspector Tovey’s sudden absence, and now Holmes’s disappearance; these events had to be connected to the case, to the amputated hand, the attack in the hospital, the mutated bone, that blood-stained operating theatre. Whatever we had stumbled upon had led to my being threatened and turned away by the authorities. And if that had happened to me, what of Holmes, in his weakened condition?
With no one else to turn to, I knew there was at least one man I could rely on, one man who would never turn me away. Stepping into the road, I hailed a cab.
“Where to, guv?” the cabbie asked, scratching absently at well-established ginger whiskers.
There was only one destination left open to me. “The Diogenes Club,” I instructed. “And hurry.”