It had taken two days of careful negotiation to get what he wanted from his warders. Watson had scratched his offer in the surface of the metal tray, but it was hard to read. So he had cut himself with the edge of the brick shard and rubbed blood into the grooves. The message was small enough to be hidden by the bowl, but at least it was legible. Ten marks for a notebook and pencil, it offered. Ten more for a lamp.
The orderly had replied with scraps of paper, also hidden under the bowl. Fifteen for a notebook. Fifteen for a lamp. Five for matches.
Eventually the man had settled for thirty marks all in, to be paid on Watson’s release. The German had insisted on a furtive handshake. Someone else who believed that an Englishman’s word was his bond, thought Watson. And so it was, at least in this case. Despite being an astronomical sum of money – it was to be paid in real, not camp, marks – Watson would honour the debt. Even when, at the last moment, the orderly wheedled five more marks by offering Watson a clean, empty bucket. That, he decided, was the real bargain in the deal.
And so, with a lamp that seemed to be burning oil hardly worthy of the name, producing more black smoke than an ocean liner, and a hazy light that reminded him of the sun shining through a peasouper, he settled down with the notebook – even more extortionately priced than his other one – to follow Holmes’s suggestion of keeping his brain active. He continued the tale of the man in The Girl and the Gold Watches, picking up from when the Manchester Express pulled into Rugby five minutes late, and a most remarkable state of affairs was discovered.
Holmes leaned forward now, fingers still pyramided together and eyes blazing. ‘Pray proceed, Mr Henderson,’ he said.
In a very different kind of prison some 350 miles away, two burly male warders led Miss Pillbody in manacles into one of Holloway’s stark, green-painted visitors’ rooms. They planted her in the metal chair, which was bolted to the floor, and transferred her hands to the ‘bracelets’ on top of the scratched metal table, which was also affixed to the concrete floor.
She looked thinner, thought Mrs Gregson, more feral and – if this was possible – even more dangerous. On the face of it she was very docile as they transferred her from one set of metal cuffs to another, her face expressionless. But those eyes, they darted around the room, from Mrs Gregson to the door, as if calculating the distance, from her hands to the guards, and back, estimating the odds of success were she to break free. She had clearly decided those odds were against her because as the iron cuffs were snapped shut on her wrists and ankles, she seemed to relax a little, as if she were conserving energy for a time when circumstances favoured action.
Mrs Gregson, in turn, examined the prisoner. Her cheekbones were more prominent than she recalled, the eyes a little sunken, the hair wiry, and the skin coarse. It was hard to imagine that she’d ever successfully passed herself off as a demure schoolteacher.
Mrs Gregson looked up at the warders. ‘Thank you, gentlemen. If you’ll leave us for a few minutes now, I’d be most grateful.’
The senior of the two let his moustache quiver. ‘Can’t do that. Not with this one.’
‘If you check with the Governor . . .’ Mrs Gregson reached into her bag and brought out a document. ‘I have here authorization to interrogate the prisoner alone on a matter of national security covered by the Defence of the Realm Act.’
This was not untrue. She had convinced Robert Nathan that she needed to try to elicit as much information about Von Bork as possible. He had argued that the Sie Wölfe Special Naval Unit, the group Miss Pillbody belonged to, was run by Admiral Hersch, and that Miss Pillbody would therefore have little information about Von Bork. But Mrs Gregson had been most insistent on the need to quiz Pillbody.
‘That’s as may be, ma’am,’ said the warder. ‘But I have a duty to protect you.’
‘If you are privy to what we say, you may end up in one of your own cells, as a risk to national security. How can you protect me then?’ She reached into the bag again and drew out a police whistle. ‘You can wait outside the door. If I feel in any way threatened I shall blow on this. And don’t worry,’ she flashed the warder a smile, ‘I know Miss Pillbody of old. I fully appreciate she cannot be trusted even one of her German centimetres.’
With much huffing the guards left, slamming the door behind them. A hatch slid back on the other side, framing a pair of eyes. They really didn’t trust this prisoner.
‘You took your time,’ said Miss Pillbody. ‘I expected you at the Tower.’
‘I didn’t need to see you at the Tower.’ Mrs Gregson reached into her bag and took out a bar of Fry’s Chocolate Cream, which she pushed across the table, leaving it just within reach. Miss Pillbody examined it suspiciously.
‘It’s not poisoned,’ Mrs Gregson said.
The spy scrabbled at it with her fingertips and pulled the confectionery towards her, closing a fist over it. ‘I’ll save it.’
‘It’ll melt if you hold it too tight.’
‘People in here don’t care whether it’s been melted or not.’
Of course, thought Mrs Gregson. She wouldn’t eat it. She could doubtless pull in some useful favours for a Fry’s Chocolate Cream.
‘So, you couldn’t resist.’
‘Couldn’t resist what?’
‘Coming to gloat.’
Mrs Gregson took out a pack of cigarettes and passed that over. ‘I haven’t come to gloat. I’ve come to help you.’
The eyes narrowed alarmingly and, despite herself, Mrs Gregson found she was glancing at the manacles to check that they were quite secure. ‘Help me with what?’
‘Miss Pillbody,’ Mrs Gregson met her gaze and then dropped her voice so the words barely made it across the space between them, ‘I’ve come to help you escape.’
Across the Channel and over the border in Germany, escape, for the moment, was the last thing on Watson’s mind. He had allowed himself to pass beyond the walls of the vermin-infested basement cell and into the golden years at Baker Street, with the century not quite over and dear Victoria not yet dead. There were pipes and scones, hansom cabs and wild dashes across London. And there was Holmes. The whole confection was as nourishing as beef tea and it was with great reluctance he wrote what would have to be his last sentence for now.
‘Pass the Bradshaw’s, will you?’
Those final words of the new section of the gold watch story he was writing echoed around Watson’s skull as he let the pencil drop from his fingers onto the blanket of his prison cot. When he closed his tired eyes they were there, written on the inside of his lids, like the incandescent bulbs of the Bovril sign in Piccadilly Circus.
The phrase made his heart beat faster even now. Passing the Bradshaw’s was so often the prologue to an adventure, a fast drive to the countryside or perhaps a crosschecking of a client’s account of his movements with the timetable of trains coming to and from London. With The Rugby Mystery, it had been both – verification of the details and a dash for the Manchester Express. He could smell the cinder and smoke that greeted them at Euston, recall exactly the gleam in his friend’s eye as they boarded the train, ‘Feeling alive once again!’ as he had put it.
Oh, Holmes, that it should come to this.
Careful, old friend.
Watson let his body slump down onto the bed. He heard the notebook slap onto the floor. There came the brittle scratching of claws on concrete as, alarmed by the sudden noise, one of his fellow inhabitants scuttled away.
His throat felt tight and he laid a hand on his forehead. The skin was warm at the very least, although without a thermometer it was impossible to judge if it had tipped over into fever. Another coughing spasm came, leaving his ribs hurting, and Watson was forced to spit the contents of his mouth on the floor. Creatures were moving about his hairline, tickling him, and he brushed them away, his fingers touching the cluster of scabs at the base of the follicles from earlier bites. He moved his hand to his jaw, inspecting the tender swellings in his neck. A groan of despair and disgust escaped his lips.
Even if he hadn’t been a physician he could have diagnosed himself. Fever. Congested lungs. Swollen gums. Exhaustion. Muscle ache. He couldn’t give it an exact name, but he knew some malady had him in its grip and it wasn’t about to let go.
He should write a note or two, before it was too late. Holmes. Mrs Gregson. His bank, of course. And a fresh will. There were some modifications he wished to make there. But the very thought of sitting up and the effort of writing made his head spin. He rode out another hacking fit, pushing the accumulated spittle out with his tongue and letting it drain from the corner of his mouth. A tear squeezed from the corner of one eye. Thank goodness Holmes couldn’t see him now. And thank the Lord the voice in his head had the good grace to keep quiet. He rolled over onto his side, slowly pulled his knees towards his chest into a vaguely foetal position and surrendered to the impending delirium.