CHAPTER TWO

THE MORNING AFTER

Those of you who have read my earlier work will know that I previously claimed not to have seen Holmes at all during the winter and spring of 1891. For this deception I must apologise. While it is unlikely that this manuscript will ever see print, I feel now more than ever that I should commit to paper all the adventures I shared with Sherlock Holmes. This includes that handful of cases which, due to their sensitive or potentially scandalous nature, I have vowed never to enter into the public record.

Of course, as Holmes helped me back to my feet, I had no idea that the affair in which we would soon be embroiled would be one that Holmes’s brother Mycroft would deem inappropriate for publication.

“Holmes,” said I, brushing myself down, “I thought you were overseas.”

“I am, or rather I was. I have been working in France, Watson, at the behest of Monsieur Marie François Sadi Carnot.”

“The President?” Mary exclaimed, recognising the name from the papers.

“The very same,” Holmes replied. “Although please do not ask me the nature of my case.”

“A matter of national security, eh?” I asked, drawing a look of reproach from my friend. “Sorry. Say no more, old chap.”

“The work has reached somewhat of a natural lull, and so I took the opportunity to return to England and deal with several matters at home.”

“Your timing could have been better.”

“Thankfully the crossing was relatively calm, although the journey from Dover was positively hellish. The thought of Baker Street drove me on, and yet on arrival I found 221B’s front door behind three foot of snow.”

“Did you not think to wake Mrs Hudson?”

“And face her wrath? Come, Watson. Not even the residents of Bedlam would attempt to rouse our redoubtable landlady from her slumber. I deduced that it would be far safer to shimmy up the drainpipe and enter through my bedroom window.”

Holmes’s account was interrupted by the sudden appearance of Mrs Hudson at the sitting-room door, and her delight in seeing her prodigal lodger. I could not help but recall the dull October afternoon three years previously when Holmes had occupied his not-inconsiderable mind by attempting to break into every window and door of 221B Baker Street in order to ascertain the security of the house. That was until Mrs Hudson had returned home to find him hanging from the roof. Her expression, and indeed her language, was far more congenial today, although both Holmes and I glossed over the true nature of his ingress.

Energised by Holmes’s sudden appearance, all thought of sleep was banished from my mind. The ladies returned to their respective beds while the two of us sat opposite each other by the fire, talking into the early hours. The conversation was as effortless as ever; Holmes sat puffing away at his noxious black shag while I enjoyed the subtle delights of my own Arcadia mix.

Eventually, when our tobacco pouches were as exhausted as our limbs, we retired to bed, Holmes to his room and I to the settee. This time I slipped easily into the arms of Morpheus, despite the valiant efforts of the storm outside.

* * *

The following morning saw welcome helpings of Mrs Hudson’s renowned kedgeree before Holmes and I braved the weather to scope out the fate of my Kensington home. The wind had subsided although a powdery flurry of snow fell steadily from the grey skies. London was returning to life, the roads already cleared by the enterprising unemployed ready and willing to earn an extra penny from businesses and cab companies keen to get the capital moving once again.

On arrival at my modest practice, I was pleased to discover that the damage was less extensive than I had feared. In fact, I even managed to send a boy to find my usual handyman. Kennet was pleased to raise me to the very top of his list of repairs thanks in part to the chance it offered to meet Holmes. My friend’s celebrity had grown much these last few years, not least since the publication of A Study in Scarlet and The Sign of The Four.

The work in hand, we returned to Baker Street, safe in the knowledge that the house was secured. Mary and I were not homeless, thanks to the generosity of both Holmes and Mrs Hudson, who said we could stay indefinitely.

“Indeed,” Holmes said, “I will be returning to Paris on the first ferry so you can have the place to yourself.”

It was a prediction that would soon be confounded.

While Mary was understandably concerned to return home, our plight was nothing compared to that of the poor wretches who had suffered most at the cruel hands of the great blizzard. According to The Times, the west of England had been most seriously hit. Devon and Cornwall were cut off from the rest of the country, railway lines buried beneath drifts of some eighteen feet or more. Entire trains had been entombed and were being dug out by the army, the rescued passengers understandably shaken after their chilling ordeal. There were also reports of ships lost at sea, and in the weeks to come the cost to the agricultural community would be keenly felt, thousands of animals lost in one abominable night.

I was reading of these terrible events as there came a knock at the front door. I exchanged a look with both Holmes and Mary as we listened to the stately tread of Mrs Hudson in the hall below. How many cases had begun with a sharp rap on the door such as this? I glanced at my watch. It had just turned seven o’clock and the wind had picked up again. The streets outside were abandoned through fear of another tumultuous night. Who had braved the weather to arrive on our doorstep?

There was a cry of alarm from Mrs Hudson, followed by the sound of someone stumbling up the stairs. Holmes and I were on our feet as the door crashed open. A corpulent man lurched into the room, broad shoulders covered with snow and a gloved hand clutching his chest. He was dressed in the red-lined robes of a Catholic priest, a silver cross around a full neck and eyes so wide that they looked as though they were trying to escape from their sockets. Jowls wobbled as the man gasped for breath, a strawberry-tinged birthmark livid against ashen skin. He looked wildly around the room, his gaze finally settling on my companion.

“Signore Holmes,” the priest wheezed in a voice barely more than a whisper. “Il corpe…”

And without another word our unexpected guest pitched forward and landed lifeless at our feet.