“Never for so large a sum?” Potter interrupted. “But you have other debts?”
“No more than any man in business,” I answered uncomfortably. “My practice has been less busy than I could wish, and I have been forced to borrow a little now and again. But always from my bank!” I concluded, and for the first time since the nightmare had begun I felt genuine rage swell inside me.
I realised I had allowed myself to become numb as a protection from the unbelievable events which had overtaken me. I had seen similar behaviour in Afghanistan; soldiers who had experienced too much bloodshed, who found themselves in a world they could never have imagined, retreated within themselves, turned cold and distant, capable of little, if any, human emotion. But in that moment my mind cleared of the peculiar fog which had shrouded it and I recognised that I had allowed myself to be quiescent for too long; that the official sanction of arrest and imprisonment had, at some level, caused me to accept whatever happened as my due, as a just punishment for an offence I must, somehow, have committed. But I had not, and it was not.
In a sudden fury, I barked questions at Potter. Why, if I had killed McLachlan to settle a debt, did my creditor still have my IOU? How could I possibly have run up a debt so large? Why would my unknown controller send a threat that named me, and thus condemned me, when it was at the same time insinuated that I had carried out my side of some hellish bargain? In such a situation, what guarantee did he have that I would not now save myself by giving his name to the police?
“Are you ready to do so now, Doctor?”
Potter’s calm voice seemed to come from nowhere. Dimly, I became aware that I was standing a mere foot away from the inspector, so that our faces were uncomfortably close, and I could see my spittle on his face. Only with an effort of will did I manage to bite off my next question, as I belatedly realised the impression I was making.
“No, Inspector, I am not,” I said in a more normal tone. “For the simple reason that there is nothing to tell. I did not kill Sarah McLachlan, nor am I in the thrall of some mysterious killer to whom I owe a small fortune.”
I straightened my waistcoat and ran a hand through my hair, then resettled the scarf, which I had not yet removed, more snugly round my neck.
“Now, if you would be so kind as to lead the way, I believe you mentioned a return to Holloway.”
I turned to Holmes, who had stood in silent contemplation throughout.
“I am relying on you, Holmes. I know you will not fail me.”
He held my gaze for a moment, then nodded once, sharply.
Nothing more need be said. I gestured towards the door.
“After you, gentlemen,” I said and pulled it open.
Chapter Seventeen
The sound of the cell door closing behind me once again filled me with something approaching despair. It was far harder to begin a second spell inside prison walls. I felt as though I had been given an opportunity, a chance to forge the path to my own freedom, but that I had lost that the moment Potter arrived with news of the letter to McLachlan. Worst of all, I had no idea how it could have happened. Someone was determined that I should hang, it seemed, and though Holmes had turned all his great powers towards a solution, and Lestrade was busy tracking down every ne’er-do-well whose path we had crossed, as I sat on my grey bed in that grey cell and stared at the tiny window and the scrap of cloud-covered sky beyond, I believed that their efforts were in vain, and that I would soon enough face a humiliating trial and an ignominious death. I curled up on the bed like a small child, and lay there, my mind empty of thought, until I drifted off into an uneasy sleep.
Hardie had not been in the cell when I was brought in, but it was he who shook me awake sometime later. It was not yet dark outside, but I could hear the noise of keys jangling further along the corridor and knew that the lights would soon be doused for the night. Even so, my spirits were lifted by the sight of the youngster, who greeted me as casually as if I had only been away on a short holiday, from which he had always expected me to return.
“I knew you’d be back,” he grinned, confirming my suspicions. He dropped down onto his own bed and, propping himself up on one arm, reached beneath it for his bottle. It was only a quarter full, but he shared it readily enough and, as the lamps were switched off and we were plunged into the half-light of evening, I described my brief period of liberty.
“You were out and you didn’t make a run for it,” he said with mock scorn. “You must be addled in the brain, John, really you must. You should have been off as soon as your pal the inspector turned his back. A man like you can always make a bit o’ money, writing and doctoring and what have you, and if you were somewhere a bit uncivilised – Africa, maybe, or Scotland – you could live like a king for pennies. Least that’s what they used to tell us.”
He shook his head and took a long pull at the bottle. “I’d have been gone so quick, I’d have left my shadow behind on the ground.”
I smiled at the idea of myself on the run in deepest Africa and accepted the bottle that Hardie now passed across.
“So what now then?” he asked eagerly. “I nosed about a bit while you were away, but everyone’s tight as a drum and nobody’ll say a word about Collins or why he’s got it in for you.”
I considered how much to tell him, and decided that the less he knew the better. “I doubt Collins’s attack was anything more than opportunism. I’ve never crossed his path that I know of, but perhaps he was working for someone else. There is no shortage of people who wish me harm, when all’s said and done.” I passed the bottle back to Hardie, along with a gentle warning. “Stay away from Collins, Albert. Don’t forget that his men put you in the hospital too.”
I heard Hardie snort derisively in the rapidly encroaching dark, and twisted round on my bed so that I could reach out and tap his arm. “Don’t underestimate these people, Albert. Collins would have killed you without a second thought after he’d done with me, and don’t ever think otherwise.”
“What about Galloway, then? He’s been asking about you, wanting to know if I’d heard from you.”
This was worrying news. “What did you tell him?”
“Nothing. Wasn’t nothing to tell. I’d no more idea than he had what you were up to.”
I heard a justified note of recrimination in the boy’s voice. I had not given Albert Hardie a second thought in the days of my freedom. Still, I could minimise any further risk to his safety.
“Stay away from Galloway too,” I ordered. “He’s a dangerous man.”
“I don’t need you to tell me that, John!” Hardie’s voice was scathing. “Fine turn up that’d be, you telling me how to stay safe inside!”
“I’m serious, Albert,” I insisted. “Stay away from him.”
Grudgingly, he acquiesced to my wishes. I feared he might take our disagreement to heart, but fortunately the alcohol had set a warmth aglow in my stomach, and the effect was obviously the same for Hardie, who soon shrugged off any irritation he might have felt. I heard the bottle clink softly on the floor as he placed it back beneath his bed, but I was already half asleep and it was all I could do to return my young friend’s goodnight before I fell into a deep slumber.
* * *
The next morning was another of the cold, dry days that dominated that winter. A banging upon the cell door woke us at the usual early hour and the day proceeded along familiar lines. I had resolved to keep to my cell as much as possible, and with the exception of chapel and one unexpected interview, I did so.
The first notice I had that I was required was a hand on my shoulder as I shuffled along the chapel pews before the day’s services began. Shapley breathed in my ear, ordering me to follow him, which I did eagerly. Perhaps Holmes had already demonstrated the IOU letter to be a forgery, or the journalist Chilton-Smith had recalled something of importance?
The man who sat in the room to which I was shown was a stranger, however, though one I felt I knew from somewhere. It was impossible to gauge his he
ight accurately but he was not a short man, though he was slim of build. A sparse growth of fine, fair hair was carefully stretched across his scalp and held in place by a noticeable quantity of hair pomade. A slackness about his mouth caused it to hang slightly open so that I could hear him breathing before he spoke.
“Please take a seat, Doctor,” he said, in a soft, sibilant voice which seemed well suited to his appearance. “Cigarette?” he asked, pushing a silver case towards me. I glanced at Shapley, but he gave no indication of having seen or heard anything, and so I lit one and inhaled deeply, examining my host while he did the same to me.
I smoked the entire cigarette in silence, waiting for the man to speak further, but he was evidently content simply to observe and so, after discarding it, I was forced to take the initiative.
“You have the advantage of me, Mister…?”
“McLachlan,” he smiled, though not warmly. “Alistair McLachlan. I believe you know my family?”
He posed this as a question, but it was plainly an accusation. This then was the younger brother of Sir Campbell, the nephew of the woman I was accused of killing. The man who we suspected, even hoped, might be the actual killer.
Now that I knew, I could not mistake the familial connection. The shape of his nose was nearly identical and his chin but a weaker version of the one I had seen on the major. In temperament, however, he was clearly altogether different.
He fitted a fresh cigarette into a jet-black holder and eyed me through the smoke.
“You are not as I expected, Doctor,” he said with a hint of amusement.
“Really,” I replied carefully. “What did you expect?”
He laughed, and it seemed out of place, almost joyful. “Oh, a monster, of course. A slavering beast, with my aunt’s blood still fresh on his terrible hairy hands.” He sighed. “Isn’t that the popular image?”
“And you do not perceive that in me? I am relieved.”
More than relieved in fact, for as much as he saw no monster in me, I saw none in him. Even on so short an acquaintance, I could not imagine this languid character committing the atrocity I had seen in Linhope Street.
“I was fond of my aunt, but not overly so,” McLachlan replied, disregarding my question. “She kept me short of money, which is not an action designed to promote affection in any breast, and so forced me to endure the company of my pompous, puritan older brother. But she was a decent enough sort in her own way. Her servants were devoted to her, which says something, I always think.” He laughed again. “Unlike my dear brother! With the exception of that odd little chap he brought back from the wars, he’s universally despised below stairs, you know. Hardly surprising. He treats the servants like natives from his campaigns, and dismisses them without a reference for the slightest infraction. He’d do the same to me, if he could, I shouldn’t wonder.”
I stared at him, sitting smirking before me, but said nothing, which obviously suited him, for he was clearly a man who liked to talk.
“And that dreadful hypocrite wonders that I fell for one of the maids? A common enemy can bring the most disparate personalities together, you know, Doctor. Grievance makes far stronger glue than favour, I find. But that creature Murray discovered our love, and out Mary went. Mustn’t risk a blemish on the family name! Can’t have a McLachlan taking up with one of the staff!”
For the first time his voice betrayed an emotion beyond minor amusement. He lit yet another cigarette while he spoke, but did not offer me one.
“But I digress shamefully. I did not wish my aunt dead, except in the normal way of things, when her withered old heart at last dried up completely. And I cannot deny that I owe her a debt. She has been far more generous to me in death than she was in life; her bequest has allowed me to rid myself of Campbell’s oppressive superiority once and for all. So I have come to see the man accused of her murder expecting, as I said, a being less a man and more a beast. And what do I find but you! A commonplace soul in a commonplace frame, a man such as I might pass in the street any day of the week.”
He pushed back his chair and walked around the table to stand behind me. I could hear his heavy breathing and smell his no doubt expensive cologne, but I did not turn to look up at him. His soft voice whispered above me.
“Do you know who killed my aunt, Dr. Watson?”
I found I had been holding my breath, and now let it out in a small gasp. “No,” I said firmly. “Your aunt was already dead when I was lured into that infernal room. If she had not been, please believe me, I would have done all I could to save her.”
It was the truth and it seemed to satisfy him. He returned to his seat and gathered up his cigarette case and matches. “I am a weak man, Doctor. Or perhaps I am a brave man who simply chooses to express his bravery in unconventional ways.” He giggled and smoothed his hair with the palm of his hand. “But whatever I am, I am no idiot. For what it is worth, I am certain that you are an innocent man, to the extent that any of us can be.”
He stood up again, and brushed invisible lint from his immaculate suit. “I leave for Paris in the morning, but I will send my card to your Mr. Holmes, with the address of my hotel written upon it. Should there be any way in which I can assist you, you may contact me there. For now, however, I shall bid you goodbye.”
He held out a pale hand and I shook it, without standing. Our eyes met and then he let my hand fall and stalked from the room, so quickly that Shapley barely had time to open the door for him. In the vacuum created by his sudden absence, Shapley and I stared at one another, then he made an indistinct sound and jerked his head towards the door.
“Up you get then, Watson. The governor might bend over backwards for them McLachlans, but I’ve got work to do.”
All the way back to my cell, I pondered Alistair McLachlan’s behaviour. The more I did so, the less could I convince myself that he had slain his aunt.
* * *
Hardie was not in our cell when Shapley returned me there, but as services had not finished yet that was not unexpected. With nobody to distract me, I soon found myself dozing fitfully.
For the second time in twenty-four hours, Hardie shook me awake, excitement written across his face.
“I reckon Galloway’s up to something, something big,” he began without preamble.
My head was muddled by sleep, and I struggled to make sense of his words as he continued to speak.
“…followed one of his men to a room at the top of the building. I couldn’t get any closer – there’s a staircase that leads up to it, and someone’s stood on guard there and warned me to clear out when he saw me – so I had to come back. But Galloway’s definitely planning something.”
“You were spying on Galloway? And one of his men saw you?” Anger flared inside me that the boy had so wilfully disobeyed my wishes, but I suppressed it for the moment. It was far more important for me to ensure that he had not been placed in danger, and that there would be no repeat. “Tell me exactly what transpired, Albert! Beginning with how you came to be in a position to spy on Galloway at all. How did you avoid services?”
Hardie grinned, not at all abashed. “It’s easy done, John. You just wait until you’ve been counted in by one guard, then tell another you’ve been ordered to carry out some errand or other. Simple, see?”
“Very clever,” I admitted, “but what possessed you to do such a thing, when you agreed only last night to keep clear of Matthew Galloway?”
“And so I did!” This protest was accompanied by a wide smile, designed to take the sting from his admission. “I followed one of his men, not him, didn’t I? Thing is, I saw a group of them speaking to Shapley and they passed him something, then they cut out of line and nipped up the stairs in the opposite way to their cells. I couldn’t let that pass, could I?”
“You both could and should have,” I insisted, but my desire for the information Hardie had gathered outweighed the need to chastise him for his foolish behaviour. “But laying that to one side for now, what did you disco
ver?”
The boy shrugged, disappointment clear on his face. “Like I was saying, not much, but enough to know Galloway’s up to no good. Him and his boys were holed up in a room up in the gods, with one left at the top of the stair as lookout. It was him that saw me and sent me on my way.”
“Did he know you were spying on Galloway?” I asked.
“Never,” Hardie responded with obvious pleasure. “I said I was exploring. He said he’d slit my throat if he saw me skulking round again. As if that great lump could ever catch me! I’m annoyed I didn’t get a chance to listen at the door, though. There must have been a dozen men in there.”
It was interesting news; there was no denying that. I had noticed that prison regulations were enforced less strictly than I would have expected, especially for the likes of Galloway, but even so, to be allowed to congregate in such large numbers indicated that more than an occasional blind eye was being turned in his direction. But Hardie had placed himself in enough danger, and it was time to reinforce my warning of the night before.
“Thank you, Albert,” I said seriously. “This is very useful information, and it may be that Holmes is able to make use of it. But I need you to promise me that you will let the matter drop now.”
Hardie’s face fell, and he gave a half shrug, as though the matter were of complete indifference to him. My reaction had disappointed him, though, and his childlike attempts to hide that fact only reminded me of how young he was.
“You understand that I am grateful for your help, Albert,” I continued in a conciliatory tone, “but I should never forgive myself if something were to happen to you on my account.”
That was better. Hardie smiled and nodded and threw himself down on his own bunk. “If you say so, John. I’ll not go within ten foot of him. But what about Ikey Collins?”
I shook my head firmly. “As I also said last night, I imagine that Mr. Collins was paid by someone else to attack me. I shall be on my guard now, but I doubt that he will attack me again, especially with Galloway’s protection over me.”
The Further Adventures of Sherlock Holmes--The Improbable Prisoner Page 14
