“Which I appreciate, Holmes, but when do you intend to sleep?”
“You know me better than that, Watson! I have trained myself to manage with very little sleep when required. A few days without will not impair my faculties. But quiet now!”
The warning was unnecessary. I too had seen the guard approaching. Like Holmes he was escorting a prisoner.
“Afternoon, Andrews,” he called cheerfully. “What you doing in?”
“Pulling a double, ain’t I?” replied Holmes with a sour grimace. The two men stood and chatted for a period, and I glanced across at my fellow prisoner, who nodded in greeting.
To my surprise, it was Isaac Collins, but he gave no indication that he knew me. He eyed me curiously for a second then turned his attention to his right boot, which he rubbed against the back of his calf. I thought to say something to him, to ask why he had tried to kill me and for whom, but as I opened my mouth he frowned in warning and shook his head sharply in a tiny, quick movement, then resumed the buffing of his filthy boot.
The moment passed and Holmes bade his colleague goodbye. We moved off towards the infirmary.
Only once we were far enough from the other guard not to be overheard did I speak.
“That prisoner was Isaac Collins, Holmes!” I exclaimed.
“I am aware of that fact, Watson. I have kept an eye on him since your first encounter with him. He is no more than a small-time handler of stolen goods, though with a reputation for violence. He is on his way back to the punishment cells, having been found with a home-made knife in his cell. But here we are at the infirmary! I shall hand you over into the custody of the doctor there, then I must be off to attend to other matters.” He pulled out a battered pocket watch. “I shall return in thirty minutes to take you back to your cell.”
He stepped past me to open the door, but I placed my hand on his arm to stop him. “Wait a moment, Holmes,” I whispered urgently. “The busy turn of events had driven it out of my mind, but I meant to ask – what progress have you made in your investigation into Miss McLachlan’s murder? You said last night that you had had some success.”
“Forgive me, Watson,” my friend immediately apologised. “I have allowed myself to become too much caught up in the role I am playing, and forgotten that you are not at my side at all times, as is more usually the case in our investigations.” He glanced down the corridor, then pulled me to one side, so that we would have a moment’s warning should someone open the infirmary door from the inside.
“I have discovered what happened to the girl who led you into the murder room. As yet, I have been unable to identify her, but I have hopes of doing so very soon, and knowing how she contrived to evade recognition until now has opened up a most profitable avenue of investigation. It is not too much to say that that fact, combined with her identity, will lead me to the solution to the case, and your freedom. In the meantime, be wary of Galloway and if—”
Just then, the door to the infirmary swung open and in an instant, Holmes was Andrews once more.
“Thank you, sir,” he muttered obsequiously to the doctor who stood in the doorway. “I were just about to bring this prisoner in to see you. He’s complaining of a busted ankle, and the governor’d like you to take a look at him, if you’ve time.”
The doctor looked me up and down and nodded wearily. “As if I didn’t have enough to do,” he muttered, then, “Leave him with me. It shouldn’t take more than ten minutes to strap him up. You needn’t wait. One of your colleagues is already inside, about to return another man to his cell. I’ll have him stay a little longer and kill two birds with one stone.”
He kicked the door wide open, and gestured inside. “In you go then,” he said, without looking in my direction. “Have a seat and I’ll take a look at your ankle in a minute.”
I did as I was bidden, and shuffled to a seat. Within, however, I exulted at Holmes’s words. Perhaps my nightmare would soon be over!
Chapter Twenty-Four
It has been my experience that, no matter how unpleasant, eventually every situation becomes commonplace. So it proved over the next week in Holloway.
For one thing, our meeting with the governor had turned out not to be entirely disastrous after all. As a result of the formal warning issued by Holmes to Keegan that a fresh attack might well take place, May – the guard who, alongside Shapley, had taken me to the treadmill – had been assigned to keep watch over me. Needless to say, this action was motivated entirely by self-interest and not at all by concern for my well-being, but it did mean I could relax a little. Unfortunately, it had the disadvantage of preventing Holmes from exchanging more than the briefest of formal greetings with me. A week passed in this manner, then “Andrews” disappeared completely and I, unable to draw attention to our relationship by asking after him, had simply to trust that he was working on my behalf outside the prison.
In any case, I spent most of the next few days moving back and forth from my cell to a private room where Osmont Marcum detailed his intentions for my legal defence.
“It is my opinion, Dr. Watson, that the very prospect of this trial is a terrible indictment of the judicial system in this country!” he muttered disapprovingly. “It would not occur in Scotland, I assure you. Why, there a gentleman such as yourself… but I ramble, and time is pressing.”
He flicked through the pages of his notebook without reading a word, then caught and held my eye. “As you know, the evidence against you is circumstantial and rests in large part upon an anonymous note and your presence in a room locked from within, with a mutilated body adjacent to you. The note is of little weight, in my opinion; juries mistrust any communication to which a man is afraid to put his name. But the matter of the key… that is not ideal, not ideal at all. I suppose you have had no thought as to how the room came to be locked and the key on the inside? No? Well, never mind, we must proceed with the facts as we have them.
“I shall call you to speak in your own defence, if you are willing? A professional man, with a degree of popular fame, and wounded in defence of his queen, no less. Yes, the jury will like that, they will like that a great deal. Naturally, I shall be at pains to contrast your good, upright self with your craven, faceless accuser! Yes indeed, there is much cause for hope even before I raise the name of Alistair McLachlan, the ravisher of serving girls!”
I shifted uncomfortably at the mention of McLachlan but Marcum moved on before I could again re-state my belief in his innocence.
“There it is then! My intention is to discredit the anonymous IOU letter and to present John Watson as he undeniably is – a solid and honest member of the community, with ties to the police force and links to the gentry and even the aristocracy. It is a pity, a great pity indeed, that I cannot do more than hint at your service to the Crown itself, but there you are.
“I shall allude to Mr. Holmes, although I shall not call him to the stand, and Inspector Lestrade has agreed to speak to your good character. I shall avoid, as much as I may, all mention of the murder room itself, except to stress the lack of time you had to commit the killing and the identity of the knife used in the bloody deed. That will then naturally lead on to a discussion of Alistair McLachlan’s inheritance and his lack of an alibi, at which point I shall task the prosecution with providing a motive other than that proposed in the, by then worthless, IOU.”
He sniffed loudly and closed his notebook. “Does that meet with your approval, Doctor?”
I nodded. Put like that, it seemed impossible that any jury could believe me to be the killer, but I knew that the prosecution would place a far blacker slant on each item of evidence, and could call on a Scotland Yard detective of their own who was certain of my guilt.
In the absence of further discussion with Holmes, I was forced to seek other avenues of news. Fortunately, unconvicted prisoners were allowed to purchase the better quality newspapers and thus it was in The Times that I discovered we had saved the life of Adams, the individual nominated for death by Galloway
some days before. The report was a small one, but I cut it out and have it still.
WOULD-BE KILLERS CAPTURED ran the headline, and underneath appeared an account of the arrest of two masked gunmen who had broken into the home of George Adams, one of London’s foremost collectors of fine art. An anonymous telegram alerting Inspector Lestrade of Scotland Yard of the potential attack had led to the arrests, which were believed to be the work of notorious gang leader Matthew Galloway, the report concluded. I allowed myself a small smile at the irony.
I remembered Lestrade’s description of the man who had informed on Galloway – a rival, he had said – and wondered at the heights to which the capital’s criminal leaders aspired.
According to the date of the clipping, that was the twenty-eighth of the month, exactly one week before the date set for the commencement of my trial. I had still received no word from Holmes. I could only hope that he neared a breakthrough, but if he did, he was cutting things fine. I continued to seek out what information I could regarding Galloway, and attempted, late at night in my cell, to construct a chain of events and movements which would put him, or one of his men, in the cell alongside poor Hardie. The thought of the little shake of the head he had given me on the stairs, gloating in the knowledge of what he had done, burned inside me. He believed himself untouchable, and perhaps he was right. Certainly, he had the free run of the prison, and who knew how many warders were in his employ. I slept fitfully, increasingly consumed by the idea of his never-ending immunity from punishment.
I have heard condemned men describe the days preceding their execution as passing by in a trice, while the night before dragged on for an eternity. So it seemed to me in the final week before my trial.
The first few days came and went in a blur and I am unable to pick out a single memory that I can definitively place in that short period. I know that each day passed in similar manner to the ones before, in an unchanging series of meals eaten alone in my cell, hours spent in worship or exercise, but all I can say with certainty is that whenever I was not locked inside I obsessed over Matty Galloway. In chapel, I made sure to sit somewhere behind him, so that I might better watch him. In the yard, I stood by the wall, shifting my back along the brickwork so that he was always in view. Even on the way from my cell to the visitors’ room to meet with Marcum, my eyes were in constant motion, seeking out Hardie’s killer to the exception of everything else.
Only after Marcum shook my hand on a cold Friday afternoon and said that he would see me in court on Monday did events finally slow from the blur of the previous week to a more comprehensible speed. I had seen Holmes neither as himself nor as Andrews, though in my obsession I had barely noticed his absence, but now, as my senses returned to something approaching their normal state, the lack of any word filled me, perversely, with optimism. No news was good news, they said, and I knew my friend would only desert me at this time if he were following a promising path from which he could not deviate. In his absence, all I could do was prepare for court.
It was while I lay in bed considering what I could do to help myself that my guardian angel, Mr. May, opened my cell door one night and slipped inside. It was past midnight, and there was no reason why he should be there. I sat up and pushed my blanket away, but before I could speak, he held a finger to his lips.
“Quietly, Dr. Watson. I have something which I think might be of interest to you.”
He gently closed the door behind him and took a seat on the spare bed.
“I’ve bin watching you, Doctor, as you know, on the orders of the governor, and I don’t reckon there’s much evil in you. Not enough to do the terrible things they say you did, anyway. And I got to thinking that mebbes I could do you a good turn, on account of I don’t like to see a good man done down like you’ve bin.”
His little speech done, he fell silent and stared across the empty space at me. And a speech it definitely had been, rushed out in a single breath, as though rehearsed but imperfectly remembered, and the speaker keen to get the lines out before he forgot any more.
There was a full moon that night and by its light I could see sweat glistening on May’s top lip. His fingers drummed on his thigh and his foot tapped against the floor in an uneven rhythm. He was plainly nervous, which was to be expected if he was breaking the rules to do me a kindness – but perhaps too nervous if all he intended was to pass me information in my cell and then be gone. Whatever he intended, he did not believe he could easily explain it if he were caught during its execution.
“A good turn?” I said carefully. The more I could entice him to explain, the better armed I would be in the coming days. For there was no doubt that I intended to go along with whatever he proposed. Only a fool would not expect a trap, but better willingly to enter the trap than remain in darkness and risk being taken completely unawares later.
“I can show you proof that Matt Galloway is a killer.”
Trap or not, May spoke now as though he believed what he was saying. His fingers and foot had stilled, and his voice was natural and unforced. If this was the bait, it was at least convincing. I slipped my feet into my shoes and stood. May also rose, suddenly tense.
“If that is true, Mr. May, then you shall have my undying thanks. But I take it that you do not have the proof on your person?”
He shook his head. “No, not on me. But if you come with me, I can take you to where it is. It’s hidden in the governor’s office.”
I was almost offended that I should be considered sufficiently dim-witted that I would fall for so transparent a ploy, but I had already decided to go along with May. “Very well,” I said. “Will you lead the way, or should I go in front?”
He hesitated, then pulled open the door. “It’d be better if you go in front, Doctor,” he muttered.
I stepped out into the corridor and noticed the door at the end was ajar. I turned towards May – and a blinding pain arced across my head as a heavy cosh struck the side of my face. I stumbled forward, one arm outstretched for the wall, but before I reached it, everything turned black.
Chapter Twenty-Five
When my head cleared, my first thought was to wonder that I was still alive. My second was to consider how long I was likely to remain in that happy state.
I knew at once where I was. The abandoned attic room in which I had seen Galloway order the killing of George Adams was unchanged, save that the late hour had necessitated three lamps to be lit and instead of a box in the centre of the room, there was now a chair, to which I was securely tied. I could taste the iron tang of blood in my mouth, and one eye throbbed painfully and was swollen shut, so that I could only squint through the other at the assembled gang who surrounded me. My head, too, ached and every breath was painful – the earlier damage to my ribs had obviously been exacerbated by new injuries.
A voice spoke from my left, the side on which my vision was impaired, so that I was forced to twist my neck round to confront the speaker. As expected, it was Matty Galloway.
“I hope you will accept my apologies, Dr. Watson,” he said, moving round until he stood directly in front of me. “The lads can get a bit… over-enthusiastic.” He smiled, but there was no warmth in it. “Still, you’re a man of the world, and I’m sure you realise that any discomfort you currently find yourself in is only temporary in nature.”
From behind me I heard the laughter of Galloway’s men and their hope that my death would be a painful one, but I felt no fear, only anger with myself that I had failed Albert Hardie, and that his murderer would also be my own. I strained at the ties that bound me to the chair, and instantly recognised the futility of the action. The rope was too tight around my wrists and ankles to allow even the most minute of movements. Instead, I concentrated on keeping my head held high and holding Galloway’s gaze. Whatever transpired, I was determined that I would show no fear. That I would deny my killers.
Galloway seemed to understand. “Plucky, I called you once, Doctor, and I’ll say it again. It’s a pity that you’ve
proven so bent on my destruction, for I’d be happy to have you in our little enterprise. A man like you’d be a useful addition to our company… but there it is. You’ve no more control over your role in our relationship than I do. One of us was bound to be the victor and the other the victim. And I’ve too many men rely on me to risk an outcome other than the one we’re engaged in now. You can see that, I hope?”
I assumed the question to be a rhetorical one, but Galloway paused, as though waiting for a reply.
“Just business is it, Galloway?” I said finally, unable – and unwilling – to keep silent. “Was it just business when you slit the throat of a mere boy, too? Do you tell yourself that? Is that how you live with the memory of your own butchery?”
I was becoming enraged again, I knew, and I struggled to prevent myself screaming in fury at the bloodless creature before me. Better to give Galloway no satisfaction whatever, to add nothing to his victory, but the sly smile that played across his lips almost caused me to abandon that resolution.
“Perhaps it is true what everyone says, eh? That Sherlock Holmes keeps you around as a plaything; that it amuses him to see you dance attendance on him and understand nothing. You surely don’t continue to labour under the idiotic delusion that I had Hardie killed? Why would I?”
“Because I made a terrible mistake!” The words were forced from my throat. I could not hold them in. “Because I failed to stop him spying on you!”
The Further Adventures of Sherlock Holmes--The Improbable Prisoner Page 19
