SEVEN

Inspiration Atop the London Eye

For two weeks Holmes made little progress on either of the two cases in which he had become involved. The case of the Shakespeare letter languished. The mystery of the musical explosions did likewise. He grew more and more despondent. One morning he brought into our flat a box filled with sundry laboratory equipment, including a Bunsen burner, flasks, phials, beakers, glass tubes, and so on, and in his large bedroom he set up a laboratory. Thereafter he spent most of his days in his room, from which curious and offensive odours often wafted. Every afternoon at about three o’clock he emerged, hands stained with chemicals, and hurried out of the flat with scarcely a word. When I asked him what he was working on he always deflected my question, saying he would explain when he was more certain he would succeed.

One evening I returned from the city and walked directly from Baker Street station to Regent’s Park for a bit of fresh air. I was surprised to see, afar off, the familiar gaunt figure of Sherlock Holmes strolling along one of the paths. He was moving in slow motion, with his head thrown back, breathing deeply, as if immersed in some sort of yogic meditation. Every ten or fifteen yards he would halt, pull a small notebook from his pocket, enter something in it with a pen, then continue strolling and breathing deep. Suddenly he lurched to the side of the walkway, sat down on a park bench, and began writing furiously in the green notebook. As I drew near he greeted me without even looking up, saying, ‘My dear Wilson, you are smelling very Roger et Gallet – are you meeting a lady friend?’

‘No such luck,’ said I. ‘Are you telling me I am too fragrant?’

Holmes closed the green notebook, waved it gently in the air. ‘This notebook contains my own system.’

‘System?’ I said. ‘For what?’

‘I shall perfect it first, my dear Wilson, and then reveal it to you.’

Again the terrible thought struck me that Dr Coleman’s resuscitation might have been only partially successful – and that Holmes, realizing he was sliding backwards and losing his mental faculties, had set about trying to find a way to halt the slide. It was typical of him that he would trust his own innovative abilities and chemical experiments rather than the institutions of modern medicine. I knew he was brilliant, yet his behaviour worried me. One morning he had invited me into his room to hand me a book, and on his dresser I had noticed, amidst the test tubes and flasks, a bottle labelled Strychnine. I feared he was taking great risks.

He now acquired a new habit: late-night walks. These nocturnal excursions began always on the stroke of midnight. I offered to keep him company on several occasions, but always he politely refused. One night he emerged from his chemical-reeking bedroom in a peculiarly cheerful mood.

‘What’s up, Holmes?’ I ventured, looking up from a volume of Catullus.

‘I think I may have discovered the effect I have been seeking,’ he answered.

Before I could ask what effect that might be, he vanished out the front door.

Ordinarily I would never spy on a friend. But at that moment my angst got the better of my delicacy. Perhaps this was because I had just been reading the famous poem by Catullus describing how he visited his brother’s lonely grave and said goodbye to him forever, the poem ending with the words ave atque vale, “hail and farewell”. That phrase added to my fearful mood. I set down my book and, determined to learn the purpose of Holmes’s late-night excursions, I descended our apartment staircase and hurried after him through the dark streets. He moved at so brisk a pace that I had to look sharp to keep up. He darted into Regent’s Park, hurried along one of the shadowy paths. I followed, scarcely attempting to conceal myself, so anxious was I to keep him in range.

But despite all my efforts he suddenly vanished . . . like a fairy melting in moonlight. He was gone in the space of a single shadow.

I paused in the moon-shadow of a tree and gazed across the surreal moonlit scene. I looked out of the corners of my eyes, hoping to see more in this way. And yes, by and by I did see something. It was moving in the grass. I thought it must be a lost dog. Then I realized it was Holmes. He was crawling on his hands and knees. I could scarcely believe my eyes. Could he be hurt? But no, he was moving too quickly and with too much purpose. For four or five minutes I watched Sherlock Holmes crawling with astonishing swiftness across the grass, his face to the ground, moving this way and that, sometimes making little circles, gravitating slowly towards the line of bushes. He vanished. A slight shaking of the shrubbery was the last I knew of him.

For a long while I stood frozen, trying to decide what to do. Finally I turned and walked home, pondering. In the morning I rang up Dr Coleman and told him about Holmes’s bizarre behaviour. I asked point blank, ‘Could he be sliding backwards, his brain degenerating?’

‘His behaviour is certainly bizarre,’ mused Dr Coleman. ‘But then, he has always been a strange individual – is that not so? I recall that when Watson first met Holmes, Holmes had recently been beating corpses with a stick to learn how much bruising could be caused after death. I also recall that Holmes once remarked to Watson, in a bragging vein, “I dabble with poisons a good deal.” No doubt he is pursuing research on some arcane topic, just as he always did. I appreciate your call, Mr Wilson. But Holmes has an appointment with me in a week, and at that time I will evaluate him completely. I suspect that, far from indicating that something is amiss with him, his recent behaviour suggests that he is his old self. Let us hope so, anyway.’

I was not satisfied with this response, but I could do nothing.

One morning at breakfast, Holmes, to my surprise, suggested that we take an early morning walk in order to discuss the mystery of the missing Shakespeare letter. An hour later we were walking through Hyde Park and discussing the crime in all its aspects.

‘You are an excellent sounding board,’ said Holmes.

‘Thank you,’ I replied.

‘Your conventional views often inspire me to greater mental effort.’

‘Indeed?’ I said. His supercilious attitude often nettled me. But I let the insult pass.

Holmes strode upright and briskly, one hand in his jacket pocket as if fumbling for a pipe. We paused on the banks of the Serpentine and silently watched the to-and-fro of ducks on the winking water. The quiet air was punctuated with their little quacks. But Holmes was not one for lingering long in one place, and soon we were striding along the cinder track of Rotten Row.

‘Some small thing is missing, Wilson – an intimation, a hint, an imperceptible thread of colour to make the tapestry complete. Unless I can find that thread, I fear that William Shakespeare’s letter may be lost.’

‘Perhaps Rachel Random will remember something more, now that she has had time to recollect herself in calmness,’ I said.

‘Excellent!’ he cried. ‘Brilliant!’

He was in one of those extreme moods of his, suddenly flying higher than the tower of Westminster. But I knew that in a moment he might plunge into the depths of the Thames. ‘No time like the present!’ said I, and I slipped out my mobile and rang the office of Lashings and Bedrock. A woman’s voice informed me that Rachel Random had taken the day off, and when I asked for Paul Primrose, she said that he also was off for the day. I then requested Rachel Random’s mobile number, and the woman – to my surprise – gave it to me.

By this time Holmes and I were striding down Constitution Hill towards St James’s Park. I rang Rachel’s number and she answered with surprise in her voice. ‘Hello?’

‘Rachel,’ said I, ‘this is James Wilson, your uncle’s old friend . . .’

‘Oh, I know your voice, of course!’ said she. ‘Hello, James Wilson!’

I told her that Holmes wished to talk to her. She said she was just buying her ticket for the London Eye, and she asked where we were. I told her that, as luck would have it, we were very near to her, just passing Buckingham Palace. She sounded very happy to hear from me. But I realized that the joyous note in her voice must simply arise because she was happy at the prospect of seeing Holmes, for she was desperately hoping he could undo her terrible mistake. She said she would wait for us at the base of the great wheel.

Ahead I could see the London Eye high above the trees, the biggest Ferris wheel in Europe glittering like a pretty toy against the gauzy blue sky. As we crossed Westminster Bridge I spotted Rachel, her red hair and upright figure. Holmes and I met her, bought our own tickets, and soon we three were in a passenger capsule containing only ourselves and a group of elderly ladies from Blackheath.

‘Ms Random,’ said Holmes. ‘Have you noticed anything strange or different in your daily life since the letter was stolen?’

‘My whole life seems strange and different since then, Mr Holmes.’

‘You’ve suffered a shock,’ I said, solicitously.

‘I suppose I appear calm and controlled,’ she said, ‘but that is only because I am good at faking. Since the robbery I have felt quite floatingly.’

‘Have you noticed anything different in your colleagues, Ms Random? Any change in their behaviour or attitudes?’ asked Holmes.

‘I think I may say that Mr Lashings and Mr Bedrock have been unusually considerate and understanding. I didn’t expect this of them. As to the rest, Mr Gaston has been his usual aloof and grumpy self. Paul is the ebullient same. Over noon hour last Friday he and I went shopping for clothes for me, just as we always have done. He has a wonderful eye for the “just right” thing. His wife is very understanding – at first I thought she might object to Paul buying clothes for a redhead.’ She laughed.

The London Eye had lifted us till now we looked down from quite a height at the river to the east. I gazed with pleasure at the shining new Hungerford Bridge, so ship-like and nautical with all its bright spars. A silvery train – looking like a toy – slid across the bridge towards the gleaming new Charing Cross Station. I tried to remember what the smoky old Victorian station had looked like, but already I had trouble picturing it. How quickly, I thought, the past slips away!

‘Since the theft,’ said Holmes, ‘has anything occurred in your life that strikes you as unusual?’

‘Unusual, Mr Holmes?’

‘I don’t know exactly what I mean,’ said Holmes. ‘I was hoping you would know.’

‘Just the usual unusual things, I guess I could say. It is unusual to lose something, but I’m always losing things. So it’s not that unusual.’

‘What did you lose this time?’

‘My sunglasses. I’m beginning to think I am a careless person. I get very upset over even trivial losses. You can imagine what losing Shakespeare’s letter has done to me.’

‘Never mind,’ said I. ‘It is normal to be upset. Holmes was very upset when he lost his pipe the other day.’

‘I had owned that pipe a very long time,’ said Holmes. ‘I could hardly avoid being upset.’

Rachel laughed. ‘Well, it is even worse with me, Mr Holmes. I had owned my sunglasses only an hour when I lost them – of course, it was the day after the letter was stolen, so I was flustered already and maybe that explains it. I had just purchased the sunglasses, so I was very conscious of them, and I was trying so hard not to lose them. And I know perfectly well that just before I stepped into the restaurant I had carefully put them into my coat pocket, safe in their metallic case. I remember making sure they were deep in the pocket before I hung my coat. I felt them. After I had eaten lunch I put on my coat and walked into the street, and when I reached into my pocket the glasses were gone. I fretted over that puzzle the rest of the day. The other upsetting thing was that my grocery list went missing from the other pocket. They’d stolen that also. I suppose they’d just rifled through the pockets and grabbed everything. So I had to write out my grocery list all over again.’

‘Oh, look,’ cried one of the elderly ladies from Blackheath. ‘Can you imagine seeing Parliament from so high? It looks quite different, doesn’t it?’

Holmes seemed to have frozen. He stared out the window as we slowly rose higher and higher. He put his finger tips together and raised his prayer-like hands to his lips, and he continued to gaze out over the vast and unfolding city. He had vanished, momentarily, into another realm.

‘Your uncle Percy is very much taken with you,’ I said to Rachel. ‘When I met him in Wales a few months ago, your name was on his lips before we had spoken ten minutes.’

‘He has always doted on me,’ she said. ‘I love my Uncle Percy. If he weren’t my uncle, I think I’d marry him.’ She touched my sleeve and laughed softly as she spoke. She was one of those people who just naturally reach out to touch others. ‘He always speaks very highly of you – telling me how he knew you first at Eton and then at Oxford. He has told me tales of your prowess as an oarsman, your bravery in battle and your brilliance in reporting. He sometimes becomes really quite tedious on the subject of James Wilson.’

‘Heavens,’ I said, ‘the man is deluded by old friendship.’

‘I wonder,’ she said.

‘Tell me,’ said Holmes, turning towards her suddenly, ‘what was the restaurant?’

‘Restaurant?’

‘Where you lost your glasses.’

‘Farnham’s Bar and Fish Emporium. I eat there every Friday with my girlfriend, Jill.’

‘And what coat was it?’

‘The one I’m wearing.’

Holmes looked her up and down. ‘Very lovely. Rather well made.’

‘Paul helped me choose it. He has plans to design his own women’s clothing line – that’s his dream. Meanwhile, he gives himself pleasure and makes a bit of money by doing alterations.’

‘Did this coat require alterations?’

‘Not really,’ she said, laughing. ‘But Paul felt the coat was not quite perfect, and he has a wonderful eye. So I trusted him. He shortened the sleeves and the hem, just ever so little. I could scarcely tell the difference afterwards.’

‘The coat looks very new,’ said Holmes.

‘I bought it only a fortnight before I met you, Mr Holmes.’

‘May I ask where you bought it?’

‘At a little place in Regent Street.’ She opened her purse and looked in. ‘Here, here’s their card.’ She produced it and gave it to him. ‘They only had a few of these coats left, but if you need a gift for a lady, it is quite a nice shop.’

I could see a glitter in Holmes’s eyes. And then, as the wheel slowly lowered us towards the Thames, Holmes sighed a little. At last he turned to Rachel and said, ‘I’m afraid I must soon shock you.’

‘Concerning the stolen letter?’

‘Yes,’ he replied.

Disappointment fell over her face like a veil. ‘Is the letter lost forever!’

‘On the contrary,’ said Holmes. ‘There is every chance of finding it. For I now know who stole it.’

‘Really!’ she said.

‘There can be little doubt,’ he said. ‘But we must hurry. Look, look.’ He waved his hand at the vast city laid out below us like a tourist map, all shining in sun and swept with shadow. ‘There is the city where William Shakespeare worked, and below us is the same broad river that he crossed many a time, and I have no doubt that the rabble of humans below us have the same obsessions as the rabble that Will Shakespeare bumped against so long ago in crowded London streets, and put into his crowded plays. And his letter is out there somewhere if I can but find it! It has taken me too long. What a fool I’ve been! If I fail in this, I shall never forgive myself!’

This speech he delivered with great urgency, and with a passion worthy of a fine actor. He delivered it with such flare and gesture that Rachel looked a little shocked, and the elderly ladies in our car were, for a moment, stilled . . . until one murmured, ‘He does carry on, doesn’t he?’

‘Can you inform us who it is, Holmes?’ I asked. ‘We are most interested.’

He didn’t seem to hear me. He was on another channel. ‘We must act quickly, Watson – Wilson. The criminal hardly matters. The letter we must, at all costs, recapture. How slowly this wheel turns!’

‘Like Fortune,’ said I.

‘Call someone on your mobile, Wilson. Ask them to speed it up.’ He flung his fingers at me imperiously.

‘There is no way to speed it up, Holmes,’ I said. ‘And you can’t jump. So you had best have patience – I know patience is not your strong suit.’

‘I suppose not.’ He laughed nervously.

He was quivering. I realized that as soon as he stepped off the wheel he would dart away like a rabbit, and I – and even the bold-striding Rachel Random – would have trouble keeping pace with him.