Secret Archives of Sherlock Holmes, The, The

by Thomson, June

  ‘I do not know that either.’

  ‘So you are completely in the dark?’

  ‘Not entirely,’ Holmes replied. ‘Let us say more in the dusk. There are several facts about him which may be deduced.’

  ‘Such as?’ I asked, much bemused as I failed to see how Holmes, for all his detective skills, could have come to any positive conclusions from a few meagre details such as the man was young and was of medium height and build.

  ‘Well, there is the fact that the only other occasion he was watching the house was also a Wednesday.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘Oh, come, Watson! Do try not to be so obtuse!’ he chided me impatiently. ‘I think we may safely assume that the young man has some occupation that keeps him busy all week except Wednesdays. Now what does that suggest?’

  ‘That he does not have to work on that day, of course,’ I replied, thinking that perhaps Holmes’ deductive talents were not as complex as I had sometimes imagined.

  ‘Exactly so,’ he concurred. ‘Now let us take that assumption a step further. He has so far not appeared at the weekends, an important omission as most employees are free at the weekend, if not on a Saturday then almost certainly on a Sunday, with certain exceptions such as …?’

  And here he paused to cock an interrogative eyebrow in my direction. It was then I realised that I had stepped into a little trap that he had carefully laid for his own amusement. I tried to bluff it out.

  ‘Well,’ I began, racking my brains, ‘there are several possibilities.’

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘Oh, Holmes!’ I protested. ‘I am not in the mood for such games. But if you insist; perhaps he has a lady friend whom he visits on a Sunday.’

  ‘Well done, my dear fellow! You have come up with an excellent answer that even I had not considered. A lady friend! Well, he is young, I concede, so it is a distinct possibility but it gives rise to too many other questions, such as: Does he spend the whole of Sunday in her company? And if so, what about the evenings, when one would assume he is also free to go courting? No, Watson, ingenious though your theory may be, there must be a simpler explanation that does away with the need of the dubious delights of courting several young ladies. Whatever his employment is, he is free all day on a Wednesday until the evening. Now, that could suggest a shop assistant who might have a half-day on Wednesday. But a whole day? Consequently, we must think of some other occupation: that of the catering trade, for example. If so, then he may work in a restaurant or a hotel. He could therefore be a chef, or a pageboy …’

  ‘Or a waiter?’ I suggested.

  I do not know what put that word into my head, but as I uttered it, I saw Holmes’ expression light up and he clapped his hands together.

  ‘Excellent, Watson! Congratulations! Of course he must be a waiter. What does he do on a Wednesday but wait outside our house? Never has a man been so suitably employed. In future, we shall call him the Watchful Waiter. Do not you agree?’

  ‘If you wish so, Holmes,’ I replied, rather brusquely for, to be frank, I was becoming a little tired of his flippant attitude. As far as I was concerned, there was nothing amusing about a young man, waiter or not, keeping vigil outside our house for hours on end. To me, it had a sinister quality about it and, had I been in charge of the situation, I would have marched up to the man in the street and demanded to know what was the meaning of his behaviour, rather than spend my time peering at him through a hole in a curtain.

  To give Holmes his due, he was aware of my exasperation and, seating himself once more by the fire, he adopted a much more conciliatory tone.

  ‘Now, Watson,’ said he. ‘What do you think we should do about him? I should like to have your opinion.’

  Flattered though I was by this direct appeal, I declined to be mollified by it and I expressed outright my preference for accosting the man face to face.

  ‘You are right, of course, my dear fellow,’ Holmes replied, ‘but excellent though your advice is, I shall not take it for the simple reason that I think there is some complex motive behind the young man’s actions. Do not ask me why because I cannot give you a rational explanation, except to say that, like Macbeth, my thumbs are giving me warning signals. You remember the quotation: “By the pricking of my thumbs, Something wicked this way comes”?1 Well, my thumbs are pricking and it disturbs me greatly.’

  At this I sat up and regarded him seriously.

  ‘How do you account for that, Holmes?’

  ‘I cannot, Watson. It is a purely instinctive reaction that has no logic behind it. All I can give you in the way of an explanation is my feeling that I have met the Waiter before and that he represents danger. But I cannot for the life of me remember where or when I encountered him.’

  ‘What do you propose doing about it?’

  ‘For the time being nothing at all. I shall stay in the house reading the Morning Chronicle and writing letters. I might even sort and file some of my papers, which no doubt will please you, Watson. You often remark on their abundance and how they encroach on our sitting-room.2 If the Waiter keeps to his usual routine, he will abandon his vigil at about six o’clock this evening. So, all being well, I shall start taking action tomorrow.’

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘To begin with, by sending a telegram.’

  ‘But could you not do that later this evening after he has gone?’

  ‘I do not wish to do so, although I am sure your suggestion was kindly meant, Watson. However, this man is an unknown quantity. I have no idea which way he will jump; neither do you, and I would not wish to place you, or myself, come to that, in any danger.’

  ‘But—’ I began.

  ‘But me no buts,’ Holmes replied, wagging an admonitory finger in my direction, only partly in jest.

  So I held my peace and Holmes and I spent the rest of the day quietly at home, he sorting through the accumulation of papers, which he put away tidily in the box he kept in his bedroom,3 I in a more desultory manner reading through the lists of stocks and shares in The Times and deciding which ones I might invest in should Holmes release my cheque book from its captivity in his desk drawer.4

  The following morning, Holmes set about whatever plan he had in mind for outwitting the Waiter, having first made a preliminary reconnoitre through the slit in the curtain to make sure that, as he had anticipated, the coast was indeed clear, although, with his innate delight in secrecy, he omitted to tell me where he was going or to what purpose.

  His destination could not have been far away, for he returned in less than half an hour, rubbing his hands together with obvious satisfaction.

  ‘That is stage one of my plan completed,’ he announced. ‘If all goes well, the second part should be completed later this morning. By the way,’ he added, as if changing the subject, ‘are you free at lunchtime? You have no prior engagement with your friend Thurston?’

  ‘No; I am free,’ I replied, wondering where all this was leading up to.

  ‘Good! Then we shall lunch together at Marcini’s5 at twelve noon.’

  And with that, he retired to his bedroom, where I heard him playing a brisk little Scottish air on his violin, a sure sign that he was in a cheerful mood.

  However, he said nothing more about the coming arrangement, such as whether or not it had anything to do with the Watchful Waiter, as he had come to speak of him, and when I asked him in the hansom on the way to the restaurant, he merely smiled in an infuriatingly secretive manner and turned the conversation to the gossip in the popular newspapers about the scandal of the Lord Mayor’s recent claim for expenses, including the purchase of a new set of solid-silver buckles for his dress shoes.

  However, his manner remained somewhat unpredictable for, when we had arrived at Marcini’s and were shown to our table, he insisted on my taking the chair facing the door while he took the one that had its back to it.

  This careful arranging of our places at the table warned me that Holmes had more in mind than a simple luncheon for th
e two of us. Even so, I was not prepared for what happened next.

  It was not long after we had seated ourselves that I noticed Holmes smile and half rise to his feet as if to welcome someone who had just that moment entered, and I instinctively turned my head to see who this new arrival might be.

  To my utter astonishment, the person who was approaching our table was Holmes himself! For a moment, I was too shocked to say anything and could only stand there, my mouth wide open, until I recovered my senses and realised the man was not Holmes after all but someone who looked remarkably like him. He was the same height and build and had the same lean countenance and hawk-like nose, as well as the same sharp line to his jaw, but there the similarities ended. Although very nearly a doppelgänger, the man lacked Holmes’ look of alert intelligence. His clothes were not Holmes’ style either. He wore a long, loose coat slung over his shoulders like a cloak and a soft, wide-brimmed black hat that gave him a foppish, theatrical appearance.

  As he joined us at the table, Holmes made the introductions and, on hearing the man’s name, I had to suppress a small smile. Sheridan Irving, indeed! There was hardly any need for Holmes to add in way of explanation, ‘He is an old theatrical acquaintance of mine, Watson, who from time to time has been extremely useful to me.’

  ‘As a double,’ Irving added with a little airy gesture of his hand as if dismissing the compliment.

  ‘And very good he is at it, too,’ Holmes added with genuine appreciation.

  ‘Which, no doubt, is why you have invited me to luncheon today,’ Irving commented without any sign of resentment.

  ‘Indeed it is. But we shall come to that later, Irving, together with the matter of your fee. In the meantime, let us enjoy our luncheon. Business can come with the coffee,’ Holmes replied, beckoning over a waiter.

  It was an entertaining meal. Irving was an agreeable companion and over the tagliatelle con prosciutto he kept us amused with a fund of anecdotes about the theatre. It was not until coffee was served that a more serious mood replaced the laughter and repartee.

  ‘Now, to business,’ Holmes said briskly, putting his elbows on the table and leaning towards his guest. ‘I have been pestered for the last two Wednesdays by a stranger who lurks about outside my house and whose identity I am anxious to discover. With your permission, Irving, I propose using you as a lure. So, as he usually arrives soon after breakfast, I suggest you move into our lodgings next Wednesday early in the morning, say at eight o’clock, if that is convenient to you, and that later in the morning, dressed in my clothes, you leave the house—’

  ‘Alone?’ Irving broke in to ask. ‘I’m afraid when it comes to accepting an assignment, I must be informed of all the details, otherwise one can become involved in heaven knows what kind of embarrassing situations which, I confess, naming no names, has happened to me in the past.’

  Holmes glanced quickly towards me.

  ‘If Dr Watson agrees, I was going to suggest that he accompanies you. Is that all right, my dear fellow?’ he added, addressing me directly.

  The proposal was a surprise to me but I raised no objection, for I could understand his reticence about his plan. Had I known in advance that Sheridan Irving would join us at luncheon, I would not have been so taken aback by his likeness to my old friend and it was this similarity that Holmes had wanted to test. If I were hoodwinked, then the Waiter would accept the subterfuge, especially if I were seen in the company of the bogus Holmes. As he apparently had been watching the house, then he would have been aware of my presence there and also of my friendship with the man whom he was keeping under surveillance.

  ‘Yes, of course, Holmes,’ I replied without hesitation.

  ‘And what about you, Irving?’ Holmes asked, turning to his guest.

  Irving was less positive, partly, I thought, out of a genuine curiosity to know more about the assignment Holmes was proposing, but largely, I suspected, out of a desire to wring the greatest dramatic effect from the situation by not appearing too eager to agree.

  ‘You did say you do not know who this man is?’ he asked, with a doubtful pursing of his lips.

  ‘No, I do not.’

  ‘Nor why he has been watching your house?’

  ‘None whatsoever. He could, of course, be a potential client who is nervous about approaching me.’

  Sheridan Irving looked unconvinced by this suggestion and I realised that, despite the cloak and the ridiculous name, not to mention the hat, he was a great deal more astute than I had given him credit for.

  ‘Or,’ he pointed out, lowering his voice and glancing conspiratorially to the left and right as if expecting our conversation was being monitored by foreign agents, ‘he could be an old enemy of yours who is seeking revenge.’

  ‘Oh, I think not,’ Holmes replied with a shrug. ‘He is a mere youth who I cannot imagine is harbouring murder in his heart.’

  ‘In that case, then,’ Irving said, making a great show of coming to a decision, ‘I shall be delighted to accept your invitation. Next Wednesday, you said? And at eight o’clock in the morning? It is an early start but, as an actor,’ stressing the final syllable of the word, ‘I am used to keeping unconventional hours.’

  Rising to his feet, he draped his coat cloak-like over his shoulders, placed his hat on his head and, with a quick glance at the nearest mirror, adjusted it to a more becoming angle before holding out his hand to each of us in turn.

  ‘Au revoir, mes amis,’ he declared. ‘To next Wednesday at eight o’clock!’

  And with a swish of his cloak, he made his exit.

  I could hardly wait until the restaurant door had closed behind him before I turned to my old friend.

  ‘Really, Holmes—!’ I began. But he was ready for me.

  ‘I know what you are going to say, Watson, and I thoroughly agree with you. I am behaving quite irresponsibly in inviting Irving to take part in my little deception.’

  ‘But it is not a little deception!’ I protested. ‘You have already admitted that the situation could be dangerous …’

  ‘Oh, you mean the business of the pricking of the thumbs?’

  ‘Yes, the pricking of the thumbs!’ I repeated quite hotly. ‘And yet you propose involving Sheridan Irving in what could be a dangerous undertaking without warning him or giving him any choice in the matter!’

  ‘I realise that, Watson,’ Holmes replied gravely. ‘But please let us discuss this in a less public place. We are drawing attention to ourselves.’

  Glancing quickly about me, I was dismayed to discover that two or three customers at nearby tables had turned their heads in our direction, clearly aware that some dispute was taking place between us. It was an embarrassing moment which Holmes neatly defused by murmuring to me sotto voce, ‘If you would call a cab, my dear fellow, I will pay the bill.’

  The journey back to Baker Street was conducted in silence which might have continued even longer, for Holmes took up his position in front of the window with the torn curtain, where he stood silently staring down into the street, as if assuming his old role of keeping watch on the Waiter, even though he knew it was Thursday and therefore the man was unlikely to appear. His arms were tightly folded across his chest and the rigidity of his shoulders warned me that he was deeply engaged in some private deliberation that, knowing him in this mood, I dared not interrupt.

  Then suddenly, without a word being spoken by either of us, he gave a cry and spun round on his heels.

  ‘Of course!’ he exclaimed, striking himself on the forehead with the open palm of his hand. ‘Fool! Fool! Fool! Irving was right!’

  ‘Right about what, Holmes?’ I cried, alarmed by this sudden outburst. ‘Are you ill?’

  ‘No, I have never felt better in my life. Come here, Watson. I want your opinion.’

  Greatly mystified, I joined him at the window.

  ‘Now, look down at the street and tell me what you can see.’

  I peered out.

  ‘Well, nothing much really, Holmes,’ I
replied.

  ‘Look again!’ he urged me. ‘Who is walking down the street?’

  ‘Why, it is only a messenger boy who is apparently delivering a telegram or some similar missive to the house next door.’

  ‘And?’

  He had fixed on me such a hard, bright look that I began to wonder if he had not temporarily lost his reason.

  ‘And what, Holmes? I do not understand,’ I replied, by now totally bewildered.

  ‘What did I say yesterday about the Waiter?’

  ‘You made several comments, including one about feeling you had met him somewhere before.’

  ‘Oh, well done, Watson! You are indeed a star! That is exactly what I meant. I now know who he reminded me of. So let us see how perspicacious you are, my dear fellow. I see a messenger boy and, like a bolt from the blue, I immediately call to mind who the Waiter reminds me of. Does that help?’

  ‘Not really, Holmes,’ I confessed.

  ‘Then allow me to give you a few more clues. Think of mountains and a waterfall.’

  ‘A waterfall!’ I exclaimed. ‘You are surely not referring to …?’

  But I could not bring myself to name the place. My recollection of it was still too raw in my memory and it was Holmes who spoke the words I hesitated to articulate.

  ‘Yes, the Reichenbach Falls,’ he said, quite calmly in almost a matter-of-fact tone of voice.

  I still could not collect my thoughts, nor see the connection between the events that had taken place on that dreadful day in May 1891, five years earlier, in the Bernese Oberland in Switzerland, when I had been convinced that Holmes had died at the hands of his arch-enemy Moriarty. For a dreadful moment an image of the place flashed before my eyes as, it is said, scenes from the life of a drowning man rush headlong through his mind at the point of death. I saw quite clearly the narrow path, the dark rocks glittering with the spray thrown up from the torrent as it poured over the lip of the ravine, and heard its demented roar as it crashed down in a tumult of foam and seething water into the abyss below. And I experienced again that empty, aching loss I had felt then as I came to what seemed the inevitable conclusion that my friend, my better than a brother, had died in that fearful maelstrom.