Before I knew it, the afternoon had given way to evening and then to night. I sat in my study reading the neat handwriting of Elsbeth Honegger, trying not to think about the fact that Holmes had not yet returned. Eleven o’clock had come and gone. Where was the man?
The grandfather clock in the hallway, a relic of our time in Baker Street, chimed the half hour and, almost as if the person responsible had been waiting for such a cue, there came a rap at the door. Pulling my gown tight around me, I made my way to the door to find on my doorstep a London cabbie. I didn’t know the man, who was dressed in a rather threadbare three-piece suit and was in dire need of a shave, but he knew me.
“Dr Watson,” he croaked, his voice a hoarse whisper. “You need to come with me.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Geller sent me, sir. It’s your friend.”
“Holmes? What’s happened?”
“I don’t know. I’m only doing Geller a favour. Driving his cab, aren’t I?”
Sure enough, Geller’s automobile was parked in front of my house.
I hesitated, just for a moment. Could I trust this fellow? Days of being threatened, snubbed and followed had already shredded my nerves – but if Holmes was hurt? It might be a trap, but I had no choice but to take the bait.
Swearing softly beneath my breath, I told the driver to wait in the cab and rushed back into the house. Grabbing my doctor’s bag, cane and coat, I hurried outside again. In a few short moments we were on our way.
“Where are we going?”
“Holborn.”
“What’s Holmes doing there?”
“’Fraid I can’t tell you, sir. I really don’t know anything about it. Geller just said to get you.”
“What’s your name? Do you know Holmes?”
“Harkness, sir. And no, I’ve never had the pleasure.”
We fell into an uncomfortable silence, and sitting in the back of Geller’s cab I gripped my cane as if my life depended on it. Perhaps it would at any minute. I kept imagining this Harkness screeching to a halt, the door opening and hands reaching in to pull me from the vehicle. The journey seemed to stretch on for ever, even though the streets were empty. Still, we had arrived at our destination by ten to midnight, turning off Eagle Street into a narrow lane. The driver stopped the car outside a bookbinding establishment that appeared to have seen better days, and stepped out, opening my door.
Cautiously, I climbed out of the car, regarding him with suspicion. My distrust must have been obvious.
“Don’t worry, sir. You’re quite safe. Well, as much as you can be after everything that’s happened.”
“I thought you knew nothing.”
At least the fellow had the decency to blush slightly. “Sorry, sir. I’m just doing what Geller said. You’ll understand.”
Now I was convinced that I was walking into a trap. I considered bashing the damned fellow around the head with my cane and making a run for it, but the nagging doubt that Holmes might really be near kept me from fleeing. I looked around. A solitary gas lamp illuminated a pavement strewn with rubbish, discarded newspapers blowing over broken crates. No wonder the bookbinders looked to be on its uppers. Who in his right mind would venture down here?
Who indeed.
“So, where do I go?” I asked.
“This way,” said the cabbie, leading me towards a narrow alleyway alongside the bookbinders.
Into the lion’s den, John, I thought to myself and, steeling myself for attack, followed, my grip on my bag tightening. It was hefty enough that if I took a swing at a chap’s head I could probably do some damage. There was in addition the ace up my sleeve, or more accurately in my coat pocket; my service revolver, recovered quickly from my study desk before I left the house.
I stepped into the shadows, following Harkness to a side door. He knocked once, and then twice more. There was another pause, and then four sharp raps. A code. A minute later came the sound of footsteps and a bolt was thrown. The door opened, not exactly flooding the alleyway in light, but chasing at least some shadows away with the flickering glow of a gas lamp.
Harkness stepped back, indicating that I should enter. Holding my breath, I stepped forward. A large figure was waiting to greet me.
“Oh, thank the Lord,” I exclaimed, finally allowing myself to breathe. It was Geller, standing in the hallway. Harkness had been telling the truth.
“Quick, Doctor, he’s upstairs.”
“Holmes?”
“He’s been asking for you.”
I didn’t wait for Geller to show me the way. I ascended the creaking stairs. The walls were bare and the entire place reeked of damp. My chest tightened. Why would Holmes come here? What had happened?
On the landing were two doors.
“The one to the right, Doctor,” instructed Geller, coming up behind me. Harkness stayed at the bottom of the stairs, lighting a cigarette.
I gripped the door handle and, finding it unlocked, pushed my way into the room.
“Ah, there you are.”
The room was bare, save for a poor excuse of a table, on which sat a bowl of water and a pile of bloodstained rags. Sitting on an equally unsteady chair was Sherlock Holmes. His jacket was gone and his shirt collar was undone; there was a dark red stain on his chest from the blood that had dripped from a laceration on his cheek.
“Good Lord, man, what has happened?” I said, rushing over to examine the wound. There were no other chairs, so I was forced to stand over him, gently taking his chin in my thumb and forefinger to angle it away from me. Close up, his injury was less severe than it had first appeared; nothing more than a deep graze across those sharp cheekbones, although it needed to be thoroughly cleaned before it turned septic.
“A minor inconvenience,” Holmes said, swatting my hand away. “Nothing more.”
I rested my medical bag on the table, which wobbled precariously, slopping dirty water over the side of the bowl.
“Minor? You left for the gallery hours ago, and that’s not to mention all this.” I indicated Geller, who was standing by the still open door, maintaining a respectful silence. “What is this place? One of your boltholes?”
“It is, although I am aware it hardly reaches the standards to which a Harley Street doctor is accustomed.”
I poured disinfectant onto a ball of cotton wool. “I’m a Queen Anne Street doctor,” I reminded him. “And we can discuss the conditions of your hovel after you tell me what really happened.”
Before he could respond, I pressed the cotton wool onto the graze, perhaps with a little more force than was strictly necessary.
“Watson, have a care!”
“Says the man who obviously took none himself.”
“If I explain all, will you desist from torturing me?”
“No, but do it anyway.”
He sighed, wincing as I attacked a further portion of the wound.
“Very well. As I told you, I went to see Woodbead, who was delighted to see me. To be fair, I think he would have been delighted to see anyone, surrounded as he was by nothing but paintings all day.”
“Get to the point, Holmes. You showed him the painting.”
“Yes, and he thought it pretty unremarkable, although he said he would investigate.”
“You left it with him?”
“I did.”
“Mrs Sellman won’t like it being out of your sight.”
“She will if he helps me find her sister.”
The application of further disinfectant brought another sharp intake of breath. “What’s in that bottle, sulphuric acid?”
“So, Woodbead took the painting…” I prompted, preparing a dressing.
“And invited me for lunch. I agreed, assuming that you would be able to occupy yourself for a few hours.”
“How kind of you to think of me.” I applied the dressing to the now clean graze. “Where did you go, or shouldn’t I ask?”
“The Ritz of all places. It appears art historians are paid well.”
“As are retired consulting detectives.”
Holmes ignored the jibe. “We ate a pleasant lunch – I can recommend the halibut – and Woodbead imbibed more than a little wine.”
“While you abstained?”
“I may have enjoyed one or two glasses. The food was good, as, I admit, was the company.”
“And then?”
“And then we said our farewells. Woodbead headed rather unsteadily back towards the gallery, while I decided to walk off my meal before calling a cab.”
“What happened to Geller?” I asked, shooting an accusatory glance at the former Irregular.
“I needed to clear my head,” Holmes cut in, saving the cabbie from embarrassment. “The afternoon had stretched on and I admit that I have less tolerance for alcohol than I possessed in my youth.”
“You make it sound as though you were a drunk,” I said, applying the dressing to his cheek. “If I remember rightly, drinking was one of the few vices you omitted to embrace with vigour.”
“Still, a walk was required.”
“Even after you had been followed for the last few days.”
“A man is allowed to make a mistake.”
“Not you.”
I stepped back, admiring the dressing. Yes, it would do for now.
“None of this explains how that happened,” I said, pointing to his cheek.
“I walked along Piccadilly, enjoying being back in the city, when it veered across the road, dazzling me with its headlights.”
“It? A motorcar?”
“The motorcar, Watson. The Morris Bullnose that trailed us earlier. Now it was doing more than trailing; now it was trying to sandwich me between its grille and the wall.”
“It tried to run you down? What did you do?”
“There was no time to think, let alone react. Fortunately, a passer-by had faster reflexes than I did. He pushed me aside before I ended up beneath the Bullnose’s wheels. I hit the wall, giving me this.” He gave the dressing a tap, flinching slightly. “Safe to say, if it had not been for my guardian angel, a scraped cheek would have been the least of my worries.”
“And the car?”
“Ploughed into Swan & Edgar’s latest window display. The dresser will have a nasty surprise waiting for him when he arrives for work tomorrow.”
“You could have been killed.”
“Maybe.”
“Maybe? From what you have described—”
“Watson, Watson, Watson. Once again, you fail to ask the pertinent question, focusing instead on the trivial.”
“And your well-being is trivial now, I suppose?”
“You stated earlier that it had tried to run me down, as if the automobile itself was in control of its own destiny.”
“Well, the driver then,” I snapped. “You know what I mean.”
“I do indeed. Would you like to know who she was?”
“She?”
“None other than Elsie Kadwell.”
“The singer from the Mallard?”
“Formerly of the Mallard. It appears that she and Albert’s nephew have parted company.”
“I’m not surprised after what she tried to do to the poor fellow, but shouldn’t she be behind lock and key for her part in Pritchard’s scheme?”
“It appears that she was released; that she made a deal.”
“With whom?”
“That is the question. I’m afraid I couldn’t get much sense out of her. Not only was her leg quite broken, there was no mistaking the gin on her breath as she was pulled from the wreckage.”
“So she followed us from Hampstead.”
“I doubt it, from the state she was in. She had obviously been drinking for many hours.”
“Dutch courage, to take her revenge for her ruination.”
“Most likely. She wasn’t driving the Morris earlier today, as she would have had at least two opportunities to finish me off. I spotted the car on my arrival at the gallery and on our walk to the restaurant.”
“A different driver then,” I suggested, “with orders to observe rather than intervene?”
“Which raises the question of how and when my would-be assassin clambered behind the wheel of the car.”
“You said she struck a deal to escape prosecution.”
“If I can believe her drunken rambling. ‘He told me to do it,’ she said over and over again. ‘He wanted to scare you, to warn you off.’”
“The intention was not to kill you then?”
“If Mycroft is behind our surveillance I would certainly hope not. Perhaps this was a warning, like that given by Burns and Hartley.”
“Surely they weren’t sent by Mycroft?”
“At present, we have no evidence to the contrary. At least they were professionals, rather than a frightened girl manipulated by those who should know better. First Pritchard and now the mastermind of tonight’s entertainment. Unfortunately, Miss Kadwell will pay the price for their machinations.”
“So, what happened? The police arrived, I take it.”
“In large numbers. Thankfully, I lost myself in the confusion, slipping away.”
“And the man who saved you?”
“He vanished.”
I attempted to perch on the edge of the table, before thinking better of it. Holmes immediately sprang to his feet, offering his chair.
“Sit down. Your need is greater than mine. Besides, I have been patched up by the greatest doctor in London.”
I didn’t contradict him. “But how did you end up here? Piccadilly is two miles away.”
“That’ll be me,” Geller piped up. “I didn’t like leaving Mr Holmes alone, not after all that’s happened, whether he’d dismissed me or not.”
“Quite right. Good man.”
“I heard what happened, and went looking for him.”
“I admit that I was a little confused. I may have had the wits to avoid the police, but the events of the last forty-eight hours were starting to catch up with me.”
“I am not surprised.”
“And that’s not all,” Geller added.
“What do you mean?” I asked.
“Tell him,” Geller said, drawing a withering look from Holmes.
“I remember when I was the one in charge.”
“Long time ago, Mr Holmes. Long time.”
Holmes relented. “As I blundered into Soho, I once again picked up a shadow, one of the individuals who have dogged our footsteps these last few days. And then he made his move.”
“He attacked you?”
“An old man, befuddled by too much wine and a near-fatal accident? Of course he did. There would never be a better time.”
“And what happened?”
“For that we need to go into the next room.”
“What do you mean?”
Holmes walked towards the door and Geller, limping slightly. “You have the key?”
Geller pulled a chain from his pocket. “He’s not going to like it,” he told Holmes.
“Who isn’t?” I asked, before realising the former Irregular was talking about me. “What am I not going to like?”
Holmes simply stared at me. “I trust you brought your revolver?”
“Shall I need it?”
“There’s every chance. If you wouldn’t mind?”
Shaking my head at his theatrics, I fished the gun from my coat pocket and released the safety catch. “Now, are you going to tell me what’s going on, or should I use this on you?”
Geller unlocked the other door. “I told him this wasn’t a good idea, Doctor, I promise I did.” Without another word, he pushed it open.
The room was as bare as the first, this time boasting no table, decrepit or otherwise. It did, however, contain a chair, on which sat a man in his late twenties, glaring at us with murderous eyes.