Chapter Twenty-Four

It has been my experience that, no matter how unpleasant, eventually every situation becomes commonplace. So it proved over the next week in Holloway.

For one thing, our meeting with the governor had turned out not to be entirely disastrous after all. As a result of the formal warning issued by Holmes to Keegan that a fresh attack might well take place, May – the guard who, alongside Shapley, had taken me to the treadmill – had been assigned to keep watch over me. Needless to say, this action was motivated entirely by self-interest and not at all by concern for my well-being, but it did mean I could relax a little. Unfortunately, it had the disadvantage of preventing Holmes from exchanging more than the briefest of formal greetings with me. A week passed in this manner, then “Andrews” disappeared completely and I, unable to draw attention to our relationship by asking after him, had simply to trust that he was working on my behalf outside the prison.

In any case, I spent most of the next few days moving back and forth from my cell to a private room where Osmont Marcum detailed his intentions for my legal defence.

“It is my opinion, Dr. Watson, that the very prospect of this trial is a terrible indictment of the judicial system in this country!” he muttered disapprovingly. “It would not occur in Scotland, I assure you. Why, there a gentleman such as yourself… but I ramble, and time is pressing.”

He flicked through the pages of his notebook without reading a word, then caught and held my eye. “As you know, the evidence against you is circumstantial and rests in large part upon an anonymous note and your presence in a room locked from within, with a mutilated body adjacent to you. The note is of little weight, in my opinion; juries mistrust any communication to which a man is afraid to put his name. But the matter of the key… that is not ideal, not ideal at all. I suppose you have had no thought as to how the room came to be locked and the key on the inside? No? Well, never mind, we must proceed with the facts as we have them.

“I shall call you to speak in your own defence, if you are willing? A professional man, with a degree of popular fame, and wounded in defence of his queen, no less. Yes, the jury will like that, they will like that a great deal. Naturally, I shall be at pains to contrast your good, upright self with your craven, faceless accuser! Yes indeed, there is much cause for hope even before I raise the name of Alistair McLachlan, the ravisher of serving girls!”

I shifted uncomfortably at the mention of McLachlan but Marcum moved on before I could again re-state my belief in his innocence.

“There it is then! My intention is to discredit the anonymous IOU letter and to present John Watson as he undeniably is – a solid and honest member of the community, with ties to the police force and links to the gentry and even the aristocracy. It is a pity, a great pity indeed, that I cannot do more than hint at your service to the Crown itself, but there you are.

“I shall allude to Mr. Holmes, although I shall not call him to the stand, and Inspector Lestrade has agreed to speak to your good character. I shall avoid, as much as I may, all mention of the murder room itself, except to stress the lack of time you had to commit the killing and the identity of the knife used in the bloody deed. That will then naturally lead on to a discussion of Alistair McLachlan’s inheritance and his lack of an alibi, at which point I shall task the prosecution with providing a motive other than that proposed in the, by then worthless, IOU.”

He sniffed loudly and closed his notebook. “Does that meet with your approval, Doctor?”

I nodded. Put like that, it seemed impossible that any jury could believe me to be the killer, but I knew that the prosecution would place a far blacker slant on each item of evidence, and could call on a Scotland Yard detective of their own who was certain of my guilt.

In the absence of further discussion with Holmes, I was forced to seek other avenues of news. Fortunately, unconvicted prisoners were allowed to purchase the better quality newspapers and thus it was in The Times that I discovered we had saved the life of Adams, the individual nominated for death by Galloway some days before. The report was a small one, but I cut it out and have it still.

WOULD-BE KILLERS CAPTURED ran the headline, and underneath appeared an account of the arrest of two masked gunmen who had broken into the home of George Adams, one of London’s foremost collectors of fine art. An anonymous telegram alerting Inspector Lestrade of Scotland Yard of the potential attack had led to the arrests, which were believed to be the work of notorious gang leader Matthew Galloway, the report concluded. I allowed myself a small smile at the irony.

I remembered Lestrade’s description of the man who had informed on Galloway – a rival, he had said – and wondered at the heights to which the capital’s criminal leaders aspired.

According to the date of the clipping, that was the twenty-eighth of the month, exactly one week before the date set for the commencement of my trial. I had still received no word from Holmes. I could only hope that he neared a breakthrough, but if he did, he was cutting things fine. I continued to seek out what information I could regarding Galloway, and attempted, late at night in my cell, to construct a chain of events and movements which would put him, or one of his men, in the cell alongside poor Hardie. The thought of the little shake of the head he had given me on the stairs, gloating in the knowledge of what he had done, burned inside me. He believed himself untouchable, and perhaps he was right. Certainly, he had the free run of the prison, and who knew how many warders were in his employ. I slept fitfully, increasingly consumed by the idea of his never-ending immunity from punishment.

I have heard condemned men describe the days preceding their execution as passing by in a trice, while the night before dragged on for an eternity. So it seemed to me in the final week before my trial.

The first few days came and went in a blur and I am unable to pick out a single memory that I can definitively place in that short period. I know that each day passed in similar manner to the ones before, in an unchanging series of meals eaten alone in my cell, hours spent in worship or exercise, but all I can say with certainty is that whenever I was not locked inside I obsessed over Matty Galloway. In chapel, I made sure to sit somewhere behind him, so that I might better watch him. In the yard, I stood by the wall, shifting my back along the brickwork so that he was always in view. Even on the way from my cell to the visitors’ room to meet with Marcum, my eyes were in constant motion, seeking out Hardie’s killer to the exception of everything else.

Only after Marcum shook my hand on a cold Friday afternoon and said that he would see me in court on Monday did events finally slow from the blur of the previous week to a more comprehensible speed. I had seen Holmes neither as himself nor as Andrews, though in my obsession I had barely noticed his absence, but now, as my senses returned to something approaching their normal state, the lack of any word filled me, perversely, with optimism. No news was good news, they said, and I knew my friend would only desert me at this time if he were following a promising path from which he could not deviate. In his absence, all I could do was prepare for court.

It was while I lay in bed considering what I could do to help myself that my guardian angel, Mr. May, opened my cell door one night and slipped inside. It was past midnight, and there was no reason why he should be there. I sat up and pushed my blanket away, but before I could speak, he held a finger to his lips.

“Quietly, Dr. Watson. I have something which I think might be of interest to you.”

He gently closed the door behind him and took a seat on the spare bed.

“I’ve bin watching you, Doctor, as you know, on the orders of the governor, and I don’t reckon there’s much evil in you. Not enough to do the terrible things they say you did, anyway. And I got to thinking that mebbes I could do you a good turn, on account of I don’t like to see a good man done down like you’ve bin.”

His little speech done, he fell silent and stared across the empty space at me. And a speech it definitely had been, rushed out in a single breath, as though rehearsed but imperfectly remembered, and the speaker keen to get the lines out before he forgot any more.

There was a full moon that night and by its light I could see sweat glistening on May’s top lip. His fingers drummed on his thigh and his foot tapped against the floor in an uneven rhythm. He was plainly nervous, which was to be expected if he was breaking the rules to do me a kindness – but perhaps too nervous if all he intended was to pass me information in my cell and then be gone. Whatever he intended, he did not believe he could easily explain it if he were caught during its execution.

“A good turn?” I said carefully. The more I could entice him to explain, the better armed I would be in the coming days. For there was no doubt that I intended to go along with whatever he proposed. Only a fool would not expect a trap, but better willingly to enter the trap than remain in darkness and risk being taken completely unawares later.

“I can show you proof that Matt Galloway is a killer.”

Trap or not, May spoke now as though he believed what he was saying. His fingers and foot had stilled, and his voice was natural and unforced. If this was the bait, it was at least convincing. I slipped my feet into my shoes and stood. May also rose, suddenly tense.

“If that is true, Mr. May, then you shall have my undying thanks. But I take it that you do not have the proof on your person?”

He shook his head. “No, not on me. But if you come with me, I can take you to where it is. It’s hidden in the governor’s office.”

I was almost offended that I should be considered sufficiently dim-witted that I would fall for so transparent a ploy, but I had already decided to go along with May. “Very well,” I said. “Will you lead the way, or should I go in front?”

He hesitated, then pulled open the door. “It’d be better if you go in front, Doctor,” he muttered.

I stepped out into the corridor and noticed the door at the end was ajar. I turned towards May – and a blinding pain arced across my head as a heavy cosh struck the side of my face. I stumbled forward, one arm outstretched for the wall, but before I reached it, everything turned black.