There was a second door in the room, opposite the one I had entered, and this opened suddenly to reveal a man so tall and thin that he seemed out of proportion to the frame that surrounded him and might actually have to stoop to come in. He was wearing dark trousers, Turkish slippers and a velvet smoking jacket. As he entered, I saw that he was almost bald, with a high forehead and deep, sunken eyes. He moved slowly, his stick-like arms folded across his chest, clinging on to each other as if they were holding him together. I noticed that the library connected with a chemical laboratory and that was where he had been occupying himself while I waited. Behind him, I saw a long table cluttered with test tubes, retorts, bottles, carboys and hissing Bunsen lamps. The man himself smelled strongly of chemicals, and although I wondered about the nature of his experiments, I thought it better not to ask.
‘Dr Watson,’ he said. ‘I must apologise for keeping you waiting. There was a delicate matter that required my attention but which I have now brought to a fruitful conclusion. Have you been offered wine? No? Underwood, assiduous in his duties though he undoubtedly is, cannot be described as the most considerate of men. Unfortunately, in my line of work, one cannot pick and choose. I trust that he looked after you on the long journey here.’
‘He did not even tell me his name.’
‘That is hardly surprising. I do not intend to tell you mine. But it is already late and we have business to attend to. I am hoping you will dine with me.’
‘It is not my habit to take dinner with men who refuse even to introduce themselves.’
‘Perhaps not. But I would ask you to consider this: anything could happen to you in this house. To say that you are completely in my power may sound silly and melodramatic, but it happens to be true. You do not know where you are. Nobody saw you come here. If you were never to leave, the world would be none the wiser. So I would suggest that, of the options open to you, a pleasant dinner with me may be one of the more preferable. The food is frugal but the wine is good. The table is laid next door. Please come this way.’
He led me back out into the corridor and across to a dining room that must have occupied almost an entire wing of the house, with a minstrel’s gallery at one end and a huge fireplace at the other. A refectory table ran the full distance between the two, with room enough for thirty people, and it was easy to imagine it in bygone times with family and friends gathered round, music playing, a fire roaring and an endless succession of dishes being carried back and forth. But tonight it was empty. A single shaded lamp cast a pool of light over a few cold cuts, bread, a bottle of wine. It appeared that the master of the house and I were to eat alone, hemmed in by the shadows, and I took my place with a sense of oppression and little appetite. He sat at the head of the table, his shoulders stooped, hunched up in a chair that seemed ill-designed for a frame as ungainly as his.
‘I have often wanted to meet you, Dr Watson,’ my host began as he served himself. ‘It may surprise you to learn that I am a great admirer of yours and have every one of your chronicles.’ He had carried with him a copy of the Cornhill Magazine and he opened it on the table. ‘I have just finished this one here, the Adventure of the Copper Beeches, and I think it very well done.’ Despite the bizarre circumstances of the evening, I could not help but feel a certain satisfaction, for I had been particularly pleased with the way this story had turned out. ‘The fate of Miss Violet Hunter was of no interest to me,’ he continued. ‘And Jephro Rucastle was clearly a brute of the worst sort. I find it remarkable that the girl should have been so credulous. But, as always, I was most gripped by your depiction of Mr Sherlock Holmes and his methods. A pity that you did not set out the seven separate explanations of the crime that he mentioned to you. That would have been most insightful. But, even so, you have opened the workings of a great mind to the public and for that we should all be grateful. Some wine?’
‘Thank you.’
He poured two glasses, then continued. ‘It is a shame that Holmes does not devote himself exclusively to this sort of wrongdoing, which is to say, domestic crime where the motives are negligible and the victims of no account. Rucastle was not even arrested for his part in the affair, although he was badly disfigured?’
‘Horribly.’
‘Perhaps that is punishment enough. It is when your friend turns his attention to larger matters, to business enterprises organised by people such as myself, that he crosses the line and becomes an annoyance. I rather fear that recently he has done precisely that, and if it continues it may well be that the two of us have to meet, which, I can assure you, would be not at all to his advantage.’
There was an edge to his voice that caused me to shudder. ‘You have not told me who you are,’ I said. ‘Will you explain what you are?’
‘I am a mathematician, Dr Watson. I do not flatter myself when I say that my work on the Binomial Theorem is studied in most of the universities of Europe. I am also what you would doubtless term a criminal, although I would like to think that I have made a science out of crime. I try not to dirty my own hands. I leave that for the likes of Underwood. You might say I am an abstract thinker. Crime in its purest form is, after all, an abstract, like music. I orchestrate. Others perform.’
‘And what do you want with me? Why have you brought me here?’
‘Other than the pleasure of meeting you? I wish to help you. More to the point, and it surprises me to hear myself say it, I wish to help Mr Sherlock Holmes. It was a great pity that he did not pay attention to me two months ago when I sent him a certain keepsake, inviting him to look into the business which has now caused him such grief. Perhaps I should have been a little more direct.’
‘What did you send him?’ I asked, but I already knew.
‘A length of white ribbon.’
‘You are part of the House of Silk!’
‘I have nothing to do with it!’ For the first time he sounded angry. ‘Do not disappoint me, please, with your foolish syllogisms. Save them for your books.’
‘But you know what it is.’
‘I know everything. Any act of wickedness that takes place in this country, no matter how great or small, is brought to my attention. I have agents in every city, in every street. They are my eyes. They never so much as blink.’ I waited for him to continue, but when he did so, it was on another tack. ‘You must make me a promise, Dr Watson. You must swear on everything that is sacred to you that you will never tell Holmes, or anyone else, of this meeting. You must never write about it. You must never mention it. Should you ever learn my name, you must pretend that you are hearing it for the first time and that it means nothing to you.’
‘How do you know I will keep such a promise?’
‘I know you are a man of your word.’
‘And if I refuse?’
He sighed. ‘Let me tell you now that Holmes’s life is in great danger. More than that, he will be dead within forty-eight hours unless you do as I ask. I alone can help you, but will only do so on my terms.’
‘Then I agree.’
‘You swear?’
‘Yes.’
‘On what?’
‘On my marriage.’
‘Not good enough.’
‘On my friendship with Holmes.’
He nodded. ‘Now we understand each other.’
‘Then what is the House of Silk? Where will I find it?’
‘I cannot tell you. I only wish I could, but I fear Holmes must discover it for himself. Why? Well, in the first instance because I know he is capable and it will interest me to study his methods, to see him at work. The more I know of him, the less formidable he becomes. But there is also a broader point of principle at stake. I have admitted to you that I am a criminal, but what exactly does that mean? Simply that there are certain rules which govern society but which I find a hindrance and therefore choose to ignore. I have met perfectly respectable bankers and lawyers who would say exactly the same. It is all a question of degree. But I am not an animal, Dr Watson. I do not murder childre
n. I consider myself a civilised man and there are other rules which are, to my mind, inviolable.
‘So what is a man like myself to do when he comes across a group of people whose behaviour – whose criminality – he considers to be beyond the pale? I could tell you who they are and where you can find them. I could have already told the police. Alas, such an act would cause considerable damage to my reputation among many of the people I employ who are less high-minded than me. There is such a thing as a criminal code and many criminals of my acquaintance take it very seriously. In fact, I tend to concur. What right have I to judge my fellow criminals? I would certainly not expect to be judged by them.’
‘You sent Holmes a clue.’
‘I acted on impulse, which is very unusual for me and shows how annoyed I had become. Even so, it was a compromise, the very least I could do in the circumstances. If it did spur him into action, I could console myself with the thought that I had done very little and was not really to blame. If, on the other hand, he chose to ignore it, no damage had been done, and my conscience was clear. That said, you have no idea how sorry I was that he chose the latter course of action – or inaction, I should say. It is my sincere belief that the world would be a much better place without the House of Silk. It is still my hope that this will come to pass. That is why I invited you here tonight.’
‘If you cannot give me information, what can you give me?’
‘I can give you this.’ He slid something across the table towards me. I looked down and saw a small, metal key.
‘What is this?’ I asked.
‘It is the key to his cell.’
‘What?’ I almost laughed aloud. ‘You expect Holmes to escape? Is that your master plan? You want me to help him break out of Holloway?’
‘I do not know why you find the notion so amusing, Dr Watson. Let me assure you that there is no possible alternative.’
‘There is the coroner’s court. The truth will come out.’
His face darkened. ‘You still have no conception of the sort of people you are up against, and I begin to wonder if I’m not wasting my time. Let me make it clear to you: Sherlock Holmes will never leave the House of Correction alive. The coroner’s court has been set for next Thursday, but Holmes will not be there. His enemies will not allow it. They plan to kill him while he is in jail.’
I was horrified. ‘How?’
‘That I cannot tell you. Poisoning or strangulation would be the easiest methods, but there are a hundred accidents they could arrange. Doubtless they will find a way to make the death appear natural. But trust me. The order has already been given. His time is running out.’
I picked up the key. ‘How did you get this?’
‘That is immaterial.’
‘Then tell me how I am to get it to him. They won’t let me see him.’
‘That is for you to arrange. There is nothing more I can do without revealing my part in this. You have Inspector Lestrade on your side. Speak to him.’ He stood up suddenly, pushing his chair back from the table. ‘There is nothing more to be said, I think. The sooner you return to Baker Street, the sooner you can begin to consider what must be done.’ He relaxed a little. ‘I will add only this. You have no idea how keenly I have felt the pleasure of making your acquaintance. Indeed, I quite envy Holmes having such a staunch biographer at his side. I, too, have certain stories of considerable interest to share with the public and I wonder if I might one day call on your services. No? Well, it was an idle thought. But, this meeting aside, I suppose it is always possible that I may turn up as a character in one of your narratives. I hope you will do me justice.’
They were the last words he spoke to me. Perhaps he had signalled with some hidden contrivance, for at that moment the door opened and Underwood appeared. I drained my glass for I needed the wine to fortify me for the journey. Then, taking the key, I stood up. ‘Thank you,’ I said.
He did not reply. At the door, I took one look back. My host was sitting on his own at the head of that huge table, poking at his food in the candlelight. Then the door closed. And apart from one brief glimpse at Victoria Station, a year later, I never saw him again.
FIFTEEN
Holloway Prison
My return to London was, in some respects, even more of an ordeal than had been my departure. Then I had found myself little more than a captive, in the hands of people who quite possibly meant harm to me, being carried towards an unknown destination on a journey that could have lasted half the night. Now, I knew I was returning home and had only a few hours to endure, but it was impossible to find any sort of equanimity. Holmes was to be murdered! The mysterious forces that had conspired to have him arrested were still not content and only his death would suffice. The metal key that I had been given was clutched so tightly in my hand that I could have made a duplicate from the impression squeezed into my flesh. My only thought was to reach Holloway, to warn Holmes of what was afoot and to assist in his immediate exit from that place. And yet how was I to reach him? Inspector Harriman had already made it clear that he would do everything in his power to keep the two of us apart. On the other hand, Mycroft had said I could approach him again ‘in the most urgent circumstances’, which was what these surely were. But just how far would his influence extend, and by the time he got me into the House of Correction, might it already be too late?
With these thoughts raging in my mind, and with nothing but the silent Underwood leering at me from the seat opposite and darkness on the other side of the frosted windows, the journey seemed to stretch on for ever. Worse still, part of me knew that I was being deceived. The coach was surely going round and round in circles, purposefully exaggerating the distance between Baker Street and the strange mansion where I had been invited to dinner. It was particularly vexing to reflect that had Holmes been in my place, he would have taken note of all the different elements – the chime of a church bell, the blast of a steam whistle, the smell of stagnant water, the changing surfaces beneath the wheels, even the direction of the wind rattling against the windows – and drawn a perfectly detailed map of our journey at the end of it. But I was most certainly not up to the challenge and could only wait for the glow of gas lamps to reassure me that we were back in the city and, perhaps half an hour later, the slowing down of the horses and the final, jolting halt that signalled we were at the end of our journey. Sure enough, Underwood threw open the door and there, across the road, were my familiar lodgings.
‘Safely home, Dr Watson,’ said he. ‘I apologise once again for inconveniencing you.’
‘I will not forget you easily, Mr Underwood,’ I replied.
He raised his eyebrows. ‘My master has told you my name? How curious.’
‘Perhaps you would care to tell me his.’
‘Oh no, sir. I concede that I am but a speck on a canvas. My life is of little significance in comparison with his greatness but nonetheless I am attached to it and would wish it to continue for a while yet. I will wish you a good night.’
I climbed down. He signalled to the driver and I watched as the carriage rattled away, then hurried in.
But there was to be no rest for me that night. I had already begun to formulate a plan by which the key might safely be delivered to Holmes, along with a message alerting him to the danger he was in even if, as I feared, I was not permitted to visit him myself. I had already concluded that a straightforward letter would do no good. Our enemies were all around us and there was every chance that they would intercept it. If they discovered that I was aware of their intentions, it might spur them on to strike all the faster. But I could still send him a message – and some sort of code was required. The question was, how could I indicate that it was there to be deciphered? There was also the key. How could I deliver it into his hand? And then, casting my eye around the room, I fell upon the answer: the very same book that Holmes and I had been discussing only a few days before, The Martyrdom of Man by Winwood Reade. What could be more natural than to send my friend something to rea
d while he was confined? What could appear more innocent?
The volume was leather-bound and quite thick. Upon examining it, I saw that it would be possible to slip the key into the space between the spine and the bound edges of the pages. This I did and, taking up the candle, I carefully poured liquid wax into the two ends, in effect gluing it in place. The book still opened normally and there was nothing to suggest that it had been tampered with. Taking up my pen, I then wrote the name, Sherlock Holmes, on the frontispiece and, beneath it, an address: 122b Baker Street. To a casual observer it would appear that nothing was amiss but Holmes would recognise my hand at once and would see that the number of our lodgings had been inverted. Finally, I turned to page 122 and, using a pencil, placed a series of tiny dots, almost invisible to the naked eye, under certain letters in the text so that a new message was spelled out: YOU ARE IN GREAT DANGER. THEY PLAN TO KILL YOU. USE KEY TO CELL. I AM WAITING. JW.
Satisfied with my work, I finally went to bed and fell into a troubled sleep punctured by images of the girl, Sally, lying in the street with blood all around her, of a length of white ribbon looped around a dead boy’s wrist and of the man with the high-domed forehead, looming at me across the refectory table.
The House of Silk Page 19
