by Otto Penzler
But the rooms were in darkness, and there was no familiar figure to welcome me. I lit the gas brackets and poured myself a stiff whiskey. It warmed my throat, but it could do nothing to assuage my fears.
I paced the floor uselessly, turning over every possibility for action, both sensible and absurd, until I realised that they were all ineffective unless I knew what had happened. There was no purpose in contacting Harris. I would only drive the poor man to despair, and maybe needlessly. There was nothing I could tell Lestrade, and I would only further endanger Naomi’s life if the kidnapper were to learn of it.
It was a quarter past three in the morning. I was no longer cold, but in every other respect I had never felt worse. I tried to remind myself of every adventure I had shared with my friend, how many had had moments when it had seemed all was lost, and yet he had always managed to pull victory from defeat. He was brilliant, endlessly perceptive, full of imagination, and had the greatest intelligence allied with courage of any man I know. Even his brother, Mycroft, could not match him for vigour of mind.
With morning light he would return with Naomi, and chide me for my lack of faith in him.
—
But with morning came a messenger carrying a handwritten note addressed to me. I tore it open.
“Dear Dr. Watson,
I am afraid I deceived you. There was no kidnap on Monday. Naomi is safe and well.
However, today there is! If you wish to see Sherlock Holmes again, you will pay ten thousand pounds for that privilege. You have seen the distasteful neighbourhood of the Duck and Dragon. You will not disbelieve a man could disappear there and not ever be seen again.
I will allow you two days to raise the money, and bring it to me. I think the front of the Duck and Dragon will do this time. Again, do not contact the police. Surely it is not necessary to spell out for you the consequences of such an action?
I enclose an authorisation in Holmes’s own hand, so you may raise the necessary funds.”
It was unsigned.
Folded inside it was a torn piece of paper, on one side of which was written in Holmes’s hand:
“This is to entitle Dr. John Watson to redeem on my behalf all such stocks and securities as I hold, to the value of ten thousand pounds, to be paid to him in cash upon his demand.
Sherlock Holmes”
It was dated that day.
I found myself shaking almost uncontrollably. I wanted to rush out and find that unspeakable villain Harris, and beat him with my fists until he regretted the day he was born. But I realised that that would only place Holmes in greater danger, perhaps even bring about his injury or death.
Calm was required, a cool and intelligent mind, logical thought, deduction.
What a blackguard Harris was! He had played upon Holmes’s good nature and abused it to extort money! His words about affection for anyone providing a hostage to fortune came back to me with bitter irony. He had placed me in exactly the position he claimed to be in himself.
I had never felt more bereft, or helpless. And Holmes’s very life rested upon my skill!
I paced the floor trying to compose my thoughts. It was far too early to attempt to contact banks and houses of finance in order to raise the amount demanded. I thought for a moment of going to see Mycroft to ask his assistance. He was the only man clever enough to find a solution to this without jeopardising Holmes’s life. I was as far as the front door when I recalled that Holmes had told me Mycroft was on a trip to Italy, he did not specify where, and would not return for at least three weeks.
I realised with horror that it depended entirely on me.
I climbed back up the stairs with a feeling of such desolation I hardly knew what to do with myself. The price of my failure was far higher than shame, inadequacy, even the world’s blame and contempt, it was the life of the best friend and the finest man I ever knew.
I sat down in my favourite chair and willed myself to think…clearly and rationally. What would Holmes do were our positions reversed?
I was well enough acquainted with his affairs to know he did not possess ten thousand pounds, even were he willing to have it paid in ransom to a villain like Harris. The note he had sent must have been at gunpoint.
He also knew that Mycroft was in Italy, and there would be no one to whom I could turn. I could not imagine that even the fear for his life would make him lose control of his intellect so as to forget such things.
Then why had he written the note?
I stood up and went over to where I had left it, and read it again. Then I turned it over and looked at the other side. It was quite obviously torn from a letter, only portions of which were visible. There was no date, and no address of the sender. It was the top left-hand quarter of the paper. It must surely be from the very woman we had believed we were rescuing, and about whom we had ascertained so much, independently of anything Harris had told us.
“Dearest Papa,
Thank you very much for your I am so glad that you are Naturally spring here is not so as far south as you are. Nevertheless tulips are beautiful. Yesterday Rose Donald said that the whole Black they are going to widen the road, but Did I tell you that we saw most wonderful dolphins! What greatest happiness! I wish you were”
I stared at it, reading it over and over. It was all I had! Had he sent me this intending me to learn from it some fact that could help him?
The phrase “hostage to fortune” kept beating in my mind. Harris had used it speaking of his love for his daughter. I had thought then that I heard anguish in his voice, and an honesty.
I was caught in exactly the trap he had claimed to be in. Except that I had no Sherlock Holmes to turn to!
But that was not true! Surely I, of all men, could turn to the years of friendship and the shared experiences of the past? What would Holmes say were he here? Use what I have. Look at the clues and read them!
I turned over the piece of paper again. It had to be a letter from Naomi! I did not know when it had been written, but it was safe to assume it was recent, or he would not have been still carrying it. Had it been an old one, but of sentimental value, then he would not have been willing to tear it for Holmes to use.
Did Harris love Naomi as he had told us? Perhaps she was truly his one vulnerability? If so then I had to use it. I had no compunction. Did he care what she thought of him? Assuredly. All his actions toward her were witness of that.
Where was she? If I put my mind to it, surely there was information I could use. She had indicated that she was to the north, but that must include most of England, and all of Scotland. The tulips were out and she had spoken of roses, but with a capital letter. Possibly Rose was a person.
The tulips were long since out in London. Perhaps her climate was noticeably cooler, and the season later.
And it must be country, or a village, she had spoken of widening a road, something impossible in a city where houses would prevent it.
That still left half the nation. I began to see the futility of what I was proposing.
But Holmes had sent this pointless message. He must mean me to read the back, and deduce something! It could only be where Naomi was. Perhaps in his arrogance Harris had allowed him to see even more clearly his regard for his daughter, imagining Holmes could do nothing to turn it to his advantage.
Dolphins. Beautiful, joyous creatures. I had admired their grace and seeming humour in foreign waters many times. We did not see them around our own coasts.
But she had written of seeing them. I strode to the bookshelf and took down a natural-history encyclopedia. My fingers fumbled as I turned the pages and found the reference to dolphins. I skimmed their history and attributes and read eagerly where they might be found. There were two places in Britain: Cardigan Bay in Wales, and the Moray Firth, lying between Invernessshire and the Black Isle.
Black! Could that be the “Black” in Naomi’s letter?
This time it was a detailed atlas that I sought. I examined the Black Isle minutely, not sure
what I hoped to find, except somewhere where one might view dolphins. That was absurd! An island had nothing but sea coasts!
But it was not a true island, instead it was a long isthmus with water to the north, south, and east. The north coast faced onto the almost enclosed Cromarty Firth, an unlikely place for such seagoing creatures. The south coast was far more open, and following it round I saw the small town of Rosemarkie. There was my “Rose.”
I was in a fever of hope. Now at last I had something to do! A plan was already beginning to form in my mind. It was desperate, but I had nothing else. Harris himself had indicated the weapon—if he had spoken the truth about Naomi, and I now believed he had, because he had invited Holmes to verify it, and every evidence showed that he was indeed devoted to her.
I seized pen and paper and wrote to Harris.
“I have your letter, and the authorisation from Holmes to raise the necessary funds, however, I require to add some of my own in order to reach the amount in the form you wish. Therefore you must allow me greater time. I shall need at least another day, possibly two.
I shall contact you when I have succeeded. Should any harm whatever have befallen Holmes while in your care, you will receive no money whatever, and my eternal enmity. I fancy you will understand this very well.
John Watson”
I felt a certain satisfaction with this. It held an irony that pleased me. I addressed it and posted it immediately, then I packed a small bag sufficient to last me for three days, which was all I had, and set out for Euston Railway Station to take the very next train to Inverness.
It is a long journey, some eleven and a half hours, and I sat impatiently while the countryside streamed past me. We stopped at York, Durham, and Edinburgh. I was desperately impatient to continue, but all the while I attempted to define more clearly in my mind exactly what I should do when I reached Rosemarkie.
We proceeded north, and beyond Stirling moved into the Highlands, and some of the most beautiful country I have ever seen. But even the mountain grandeur and the light on rivers and lochs could not lift my heart or hold my attention this time.
As soon as we reached Inverness I leaped off the train. It was now half past nine in the evening, and quite dark, even this far north where the sun in midwinter barely shines for more than the middle of the day, but in summer sets in a glory across the sky, leaving a rim of fire above the mountains that remains the brief hour or two until dawn.
I contained myself with difficulty, finding lodgings for the night where I was able to enquire about a ferry at sunrise, and some means of transport once I had arrived at North Kessock on the Black Isle. I had already settled upon my story, that I was seeking the daughter of a friend who was in most serious difficulty and my need to find her was urgent. Should any harm come to Holmes, I intended to make that the truth.
I was given every assistance by those most hospitable people. I could not say I slept well, but that was no lack of comfort or warmth, simply my own rising fears for Holmes’s safety, and my own ability to affect his release.
I rose early, ate an excellent breakfast of fresh herrings rolled in oatmeal, a delicacy of the area, and toast and Dundee marmalade, then thanking my host, I set out as he directed.
It was mid-morning when I drove my hired pony and trap into the picturesque village of Rosemarkie. It was a beautiful day, sharp and sweet with the peculiarly clear light of the north making all the outlines of crowstep gables and budding trees sharp against the blue sky. I had no time to spare for subtlety. I had to find Naomi straight away. I was considerably hampered by not knowing her married name, but there was no help for that. I stayed with my story. I was seeking a young Englishwoman named Naomi, whose father was in serious trouble of which she was unaware.
I asked first at the local grocery store, and met with a courteous reticence. I met with nothing better at the apothecary or the hardware store. I then decided in a flash of desperation to trade upon my profession. I enquired for the nearest general practitioner, and there, after repeating my tale, I was successful. I blushed to use a colleague in such fashion, but Holmes’s life hung in the balance, and nothing would have shamed me into silence.
She lived with her husband a little way inland, at Upper Eathie, and I was given her address willingly. I thanked them and followed their directions.
It was late morning when I finally met Naomi MacAllister. She was a charming, sensitive woman with most beautiful hair, and only a fleeting resemblance to her father in colouring and pattern of speech.
I had already decided to remain with the story, which had served me so well.
“Good morning, Mrs. MacAllister. My name is John Watson, Dr. Watson,” I introduced myself. “I have come as speedily as I could from London.” I saw her instant look of concern, and I admit I felt a stab of guilt. But there was no alternative, no kinder way to use her, as I intended to.
“Is my father ill?” she asked in a voice already sharp with anxiety.
“He is not ill,” I answered. “But he is in most serious trouble…which may yet be averted from its worst outcome, if you will give me your assistance.”
“Anything!” she almost cut my words off in her eagerness. There was a warmth in her face and a softness about the lips, which can only have come from her mother. I wondered fleetingly what that lady could have been like, and if Robert Harris would have sunk to this appalling depth were she still alive. But the instant passed. There was no time for speculation.
“I am afraid we must return to London,” I answered, prepared to offer all manner of safeguards to her reputation, even to her husband accompanying us as a last resort, although his presence must hamper my plan to end this matter without harm to her. Then another idea came to me. “Mr. Sherlock Holmes is involved in the affair, and it is his effort, and mine, to prevent your father from suffering in a dreadful crime that would devastate the whole of his life, if not indeed end it.” This was the truth, although hardly in the way I implied. If Holmes were to die at Harris’s hand, I would see to it myself that Harris ended his days at the end of a rope.
She was very pale, and put her hand to the door post to steady herself. But she certainly did not lack courage.
“Of course I will come, Dr. Watson. Mr. Holmes’s reputation is beyond doubt or question. Even as far north as this, we have heard of him. And of course I visit London to see my father frequently. We must catch the train from Inverness. Please come in. I must make arrangements. Tell me what you need me to do.”
“Simply to be there, Mrs. MacAllister. If our plan succeeds, your presence will in itself be sufficient,” I answered.
She did not question me further, but set about filling a small valise with the needed toiletries and clean linen in order to accompany me. She informed her neighbour of the necessity for her departure, and wrote a letter for her husband, who was not expected home until the following day, having taken a trip in the course of his business, over the mountains to Ullapool on the West Coast.
We left late in the afternoon, hoping to find seats on the night train to Euston, and were fortunate to do so.
Several times she expressed her concern, and asked me to tell her more of the nature of her father’s predicament, and the danger that threatened him, and I was obliged to think very rapidly. I confess I hated lying to her. The longer I was in her company the greater became my regard for her. She was intelligent, generous of spirit, and I believe, in other circumstances, would have had a marked sense of humour. At moments, forgetting our cause, it flashed through in wry observation of others at the railway station as we boarded the train. At one awkward moment she stopped to assist an elderly woman with too much luggage, and a crying child, a very simple act of kindness, and done with such grace it seemed most natural to her.
But it was my growing conclusion of her integrity that most moved me. It was the quality upon which my plan depended, but it wounded me that I was making such use of her.
Fortunately for my feelings, and perhaps my nerve,
it was a night train, and therefore most people made some attempt to sleep. I find it difficult, but I kept my eyes closed as if I were deep in slumber, to avoid the necessity of speaking with her again. I fear it was a cowardly thing to do. My excuse is that I also needed time to think.
We arrived at Euston station about eight o’clock in the morning, and immediately disembarked and set about finding a hansom cab to Baker Street. The rooms were strangely empty. I felt the silence, the fresh air without the odour of Holmes’s tobacco, like a desolation.
I could no longer put off action. I faced her frankly.
“Mrs. MacAllister, your father is about to embark upon a course of action that will lead him very possibly to physical harm, most certainly to moral destruction. His motives may be good”…that was a lie I was prepared to tell for her sake…“but the act is not. I believe his love for you is great enough that if you write to him, begging him not to go ahead, then he will desist. I shall write a covering letter, and deliver it where I must. It is dangerous and unpleasant, I cannot require that you accompany me.” Though I relied upon her spirit and her devotion to her father that she would.
I was not mistaken.
“I most certainly will come with you, Dr. Watson.” Honest to the last, she made no claim to be unafraid.
“Thank you,” I said with total sincerity.
I sent a message to Harris at his home that I had the full value he had requested, and would meet him in front of the Duck and Dragon, but would pass it to him only if he had Holmes with him, alive and well. Then I awaited his answer.
It came by return, with the same messenger. He was willing. I could almost feel his eagerness in the scrawl upon the paper.
Accordingly, Naomi and I set out before midnight in the damp and blustery weather and rode in tense silence. There was no sound but the rattle of the wheels over the cobbles and the clatter of the horses’ hooves as we moved from the dim circle of one gas lamp to the next through ever narrower and grimier streets.
Naomi was worried, I saw the fear in her face as we passed through each patch of light, her eyes straining forward, lips pressed together. How could she have felt anything else? She was in the dreariest of places with a man she knew only by repute, and her father was in the utmost danger. How I admired her courage, and my rage was almost beyond control that all her love was for someone as unworthy as Harris. I found myself caring profoundly, not merely that I should rescue Holmes sound and well, but that I should be able to force Harris to a more honourable path.
