Game Is Afoot, page 47
“Aye—they keep the kettle down the hall, so I have to go down there twice to fill the pot.”
“And you generally leave the pot unattended while you wait for it to steep?*’
“Aye, I’ve other things to do than hover around waiting for tea leaves. I usually lay out Mr. Hundey’s dressing gown and then go back for the tea.*’
“I see. Do you mind if we have a look at the kettle?’’
“No—in fact, if you like, I’ll make you gentlemen a cup of tea right now.”
Holmes was already out the door, so I answered.
“Thank you, Mr. McPearson; that would be very nice.”
We followed Mr. McPearson down narrow hallways to the communal tea area. A few stagehands lingered around a much-used kettle, smoking and playing cards. Ignoring them, Holmes pulled out his magnifying glass and began poking around. McPearson did not comment on this but set about to making the tea. Suddenly Holmes stiffened and a muffled cry escaped his throat.
“Ha! Watson—it is a sloppy workman who leaves behind traces such as this!” With a flourish, he pulled out the small leather pouch he always carried and swept something into it. “Thank you, Mr. McPearson; you’ve been enormously helpful,” he said, pulling me after him toward the exit.
“What about your tea?” McPearson called after us in a hurt voice.
“Another time, perhaps—” I called back as Holmes swept me out the door and into a hansom cab.
“What is it, Holmes?” I said as the cab rattled through the streets. “What did you find there?”
“I’m not certain, Watson, but I may have found what I was looking for. First, however, some experimentation is required.”
I had some business to attend to at my neglected surgery, and so agreed to meet Holmes later in the evening.
When I entered the front hallway Mrs. Hudson was there to greet me.
“Oh, Dr. Watson—he’ll drive me batty with those experiments of his! See if you can’t take his mind off of his work for a while.”
“I’ll do my best, Mrs. Hudson,” I said dubiously, as a bitter odor drifted down the stain toward us. Rolling her eyes, Mrs. Hudson bustled me into my old sitting room, closing the door behind her with a click.
The lamp by the window lit the room with its yellow glow, and I saw the lean frame of my friend bent over his improvised lab table, sheathed in the green smoke which swirled about his head. His thick black hair, usually impeccably neat, fell in unruly locks over his forehead. At first I thought Holmes had not heard me enter, and was startled to hear him address me without turning to look at me.
“Ah, Watson, your timing is, as usual, impeccable. Come have a look.”
I stopped by the door to remove my coat.
“Come, Watson, come—it won’t last forever, you know!” His face, in the lingering azure smoke, was pale and taut.
“What is it, Holmes?”
“Poison, Watson—a rare South African curare derivative I had the notion to write a small monograph about once.”
I bent over the beaker from which the green smoke emanated. Immediately I began to feel weak and dizzy. Holmes evidently noticed this, because I felt his strong grip on my shoulder.
“Not so close, Watson—not so close! It is a very concentrated tincture. Come, let us get some fresh air.”
With that he guided me over to the window, where he opened the shutters wide to let in a breeze. Even the thick air of London was a welcome relief to me after inhaling the stultifying fumes of Holmes’ experiment.
“What is the connection, Holmes?”
“Curare, as you may know, acts in part as an agent of paralysis—you may perhaps have heard of its use in certain voodoo rituals to paralyze the victim.”
“Yes, I have heard of it, but—”
“This particular derivative, Watson, owes its effectiveness to its ability to localize its effect, thus paralyzing only a single muscle or group of muscles. Administered as a drink—”
“Hundey’s vocal cords—paralyzed!”
“Precisely, Watson. Fortunately for Mr. Hundey, the effect will eventually wear off, but someone evidently took great pains to remove him from the picture temporarily.”
“But why, Holmes? And who would—?”
“The why is not yet entirely clear to me, Watson. But the who . ..” A shadow passed over my friend’s stem face, and I fancied I saw him shudder. He rose and walked to the window, looking out into the night, where a soft rain had started to fall.
“The gentleman described to us by Mr. McPearson is well known to me. His name is Freddie Stockton, and he is an agent of” —here Holmes paused and drew his hand across his brow—“Professor Moriarty.”
“Good God, Holmes.”
“Yes. These are deeper waters than I at first suspected, Watson, and we must watch our step if we do not wish to find ourselves at the bottom of the river.”
“But Holmes, how is Moriarty involved—?”
“That is exactly what I intend to discover. I suggest you disassociate yourself from me for a while, Watson. It will be better if I proceed on my own from now on.”
“Don’t be ridiculous, Holmes. I wouldn’t think of abandoning the chase now.”
Holmes suddenly looked very tired and worn. His shoulders drooped and he looked as if he could hardly stand.
“You don’t understand, Watson,’’ he said in a weary voice. “Moriarty is no ordinary villain; he has half the criminals of London at his beck and call. And I would never forgive myself if something should happen to you through my carelessness. No, it really would be better if I go on alone from here. I can’t put you at risk.’’
“Holmes, since when have you ever known me to abandon you in times of danger? I beg you not to speak of this again unless you wish to risk seriously insulting me.”
Holmes looked at me and then laughed softly.
“Good old Watson, stalwart to the last,” he said with an unaccustomed softness in voice. “All right; I admit I did not expect you to budge for a moment, but I had to try—surely you can understand that.”
“Yes, I suppose so. Now, what is our next step?”
“To penetrate the web, Watson, that surrounds the spider.”
“And how do we do that?”
“We might start by interviewing some of the flies.”
And so I soon found myself seated next to my friend in a hansom, revolver in my coat pocket, the thrill of the chase tight in my throat. Holmes sat back in the shadows of the cab, his long fingertips pressed tightly together, hat low over his eyes. If I did not know better I would have said he did not draw a breath during the entire ride, so still he sat.
Finally we arrived at our destination: the heart of London’s East End, teeming with vermin of both the animal and human variety. We wound our way through stalls of vegetable sellers and past women selling another kind of ware, until finally we reached a squalid alley. The sign said Plummer’s court, and although I instinctively shrank back from entering the narrow, dark corridor framed by a brick wall on one side and a shuttered building on the other, Holmes strode forth with such confidence that I was ashamed not to follow him. As we walked along the flagstone pavement I thought I heard scurrying noises at our feet. We stopped at a doorway which to my untrained eye looked boarded up and deserted, but when Holmes rapped three times with his stick there were answering sounds from within. Presently a latch was drawn and the door opened slighdy. An unshaven face appeared, and a gruff voice asked, “What is it you want?”
“I want to speak with Mr. Freddie Stockton.”
“And who might you be?”
“I am Sherlock Holmes.”
The name evidently had an effect, because I could hear muffled voices from within. In response to something said to him, the man at the door opened it wide enough to admit us, closing it quickly after we entered.
The room was dark and smelled of horses—it had evidently until recently been used as a stable. Four men sat around a thick oaken table, smoking cigarettes and drinking. They were a rough-looking lot, none more so than the one with the stiff white-blond hair. He had thick shoulders and a snarling mouth, which curled in disgust when Holmes addressed him.
“So, Mr. Stockton, we meet again. I trust all has gone well for you since you were a guest of Scotland Yard after that unfortunate incident involving the jewelry theft. Pity they did not see it your way, really it is. Still, you seem none the worse for wear.”
The surly fellow rose from his chair and put his face close to Holmes’. My hand closed round my revolver as he spoke.
“You got a lotta nerve c-c-comin’ here. You—”
“Come, come, Mr. Stockton; there’s no need to be uncivil. I just would like you to deliver a message to the Professor from me. If you like I can come back at a more convenient time—”
Stockton’s bloodshot eyes narrowed.
“What kinda m-m-message?”
“Simply that I’m on to his game, and that he should be more judicious in his use of poisons. I have a bit of expertise in the various forms of curare, I’m afraid, and I saw through his little charade.”
Stockton’s already florid free reddened, and it was then I saw the long curved dagger hanging from his belt. Holmes certainly had seen it, and yet he was as cool as always. He turned to leave.
“Oh, and one more thing. He really should send someone a little less— memorable—than yourself on such public errands. Good day, gentlemen.” And before any of the men could intervene, Holmes pulled me along with him and we were out the door. As we hurried back down the narrow street I glanced over my shoulder nervously, but evidently no one had followed us.
“That was awfully risky, Holmes. Why did you do it?”
“To put the fear of God into Moriarty, Watson. The more closely he believes he is being watched, the more likely he is to make a mistake. Besides, I knew we were in no great danger. Moriarty’s men do nothing without instructions from him, and if he wanted to abduct us he could do that anytime he wished.”
In spite of Holmes’ brave words, I could not help feeling we were in danger, and it was with regret that I turned off in the direction of my surgery once we were back in familiar territory. I pleaded with Holmes to take a cab to Baker Street, but he refused, saying the night air would clear his brain. As I watched his tall, spare form recede, I felt a shiver go down my spine, and I almost ran after him.
The next morning my fears were realized when I was awakened before dawn by a telegram from Mrs. Hudson summoning me urgently to Baker Street. I arrived unshaven and barely dressed, so great was my dread. Mrs. Hudson greeted me at the door.
“They brought him in last night, Dr. Watson. I begged him to go to hospital, but he would have none of it.’’
“What’s happened? Where is he?”
“He’s upstairs, Dr. Watson. I’d like to get my hands round the villain that did this to him.”
I took the stairs two at a time and in an instant was in the sitting room. Holmes was lying on the couch, and standing over him was Dr. Leslie Oak-shott, the surgeon who would soon make a name for himself all over London, receiving a knighthood in the process.
“I’m afraid Mr. Holmes has refused a hospital bed, though I still feel it would be better in his condition,” said Dr. Oakshott.
I looked down at Holmes. His left shoulder was heavily bandaged, and he was unconscious.
“What happened?”
“A gunshot wound to the chest. Missed the heart by only inches. He lost a lot of blood, Dr. Watson; we nearly lost him.”
“Is he—?”
“He has been unconscious for several hours, and needs careful watching. The bullet went clean through but there is always the possibility of infection.” Dr. Oakshott glanced at his watch. “I’ve several appointments awaiting me; I’ve done what I can, and would be grateful if you—”
“Of course; I’ll stay with him as long as necessary. Thank you, Dr. Oakshott.”
“Certainly, Dr. Watson. If he awakens you may need some morphine for the pain. Call me at once if he shows any sign of fever.”
When Dr. Oakshott had gone, I sat down next to the couch and looked at my friend. His face was pale and drawn, and a dark patch of blood had soaked through the dressing on his shoulder. He who prided himself in his mastery and control lay now before me utterly helpless, and I felt a wave of rage at the fiend Moriarty, who was doubtless behind this assault.
Outside the first cries of the pickle-sellers and fishmongers were breaking through the early morning haze, and I settled back in my chair in a sort of reverie, remembering all the times Holmes and I had dashed out of these very rooms at all hours of the day and night, on the track of some crime or another. I bitterly reproached myself for letting Holmes walk home alone on the previous night, knowing all the while that if I had been with him I would have likely been shot too; still. I could not help feeling angry with myself for abandoning him against my better judgement. My daydreaming was interrupted only by Mrs. Hudson coming and going with tea, and I watched the grey light of morning dissolve into the greenish glow of a misty London afternoon. Sometime in the early evening Holmes stirred and moaned. I knelt beside him.
“Watson,” he whispered, his voice very faint. “What time is it? How long have I been out?”
I glanced at the mantel clock.
“It’s six o’clock.”
“In the evening?” He tried to sit up, but sank back with a groan. “Yes, Holmes.”
He paused, and I could see he was breathing hard from the effort of speaking.
“Holmes, don’t try to talk.”
“I must, Watson; it is imperative that we move quickly.”
“Holmes, you’re not moving anywhere.”
“Then you must help me, Watson. A life may depend on it.”
“Very well. Tell me what to do.”
“There is a performance of Carmen tonight. When Moriarty had me attacked, he tipped his hand: whatever is going to happen will happen soon, most probably tonight.”
“What is going to happen?”
“I have several theories. I will follow the mosdy likely first. Kindly get down my volume of Who’s Who.”
I moved to Holmes’s bookcase, extracting the weighty volume, taking care not to drop the many slips of paper Holmes had inserted between the pages over the years.
“Hand it to me, please.”
I did so reluctandy, for I could see from his white face and compressed lips that the effort of holding the book was causing him considerable pain. “Holmes, let me—”
“No, Watson—you must send a telegram by runner to the Royal Albert Hall. Immediate reply requested.”
“What am I to say?”
“Inquire as to who is singing the role of Don José tonight.”
“Is that all?”
“Quite all. Thank you.”
I did as was requested of me, and then sat down next to Holmes. The room was quite cool, and yet beads of sweat gathered upon his forehead, and he breathed with difficulty.
“Holmes, I must take your temperature.”
“No, Watson! Time is of the essence. Read to me,” he said, handing me Who’s Who, “under the entry Farthingale.”
“There are two. Sir Terrance, the conductor, and his brother, Sir Anthony, Member of Parliament—”
“Yes, curious, isn’t it?”
“I don’t see why—”
“No, no, of course not. Now, Watson, you are somewhat more up on operatic plots than I. Refresh my memory as to the story of Carmen, if you would.” He settled back on the couch, but the movement caused him to grimace with pain.
“Holmes, at least let me get you some morphine—”
“No, Watson; I need my mind clear. Now, Carmen, if you please.” “Well, it’s a love triangle of sorts, about a vixen who attracts the attentions of a jealous lover—”
“Don José?”
“Yes. In the end he stabs her outside the bullring—”
“Yes, just as I thought. Now we only await the arrival of our telegram,” he said, leaning his head back and closing his eyes. I was grateful that he was resting and tiptoed about, making myself busy by clearing the tea things. Eight o’clock came and went, with still no answer to our telegram. Finally I heard Mrs. Hudson’s knock on the door, and she entered with the telegram. No sooner had I taken it from her than I heard Holmes’s voice calling me from the couch asking to see it. I handed it to him and he looked at it intendy, then before I could speak, suddenly rose from the couch. He staggered, but waved off my offer of assistance and went straight to his crime files, where he kept notes on criminals from around the world. He emerged with the file labelled “Q” and, after rifling through it, evidently found what he was looking for. After studying it intendy for some moments, he scribbled something on a piece of paper and thrust it at Mrs. Hudson.
“Have that sent to Inspector Lestrade at Scotland Yard immediately.” “Yes, Mr. Holmes.”
Holmes glanced up at the clock.
“Good God, Watson—we must hurry!”
“You’re not going anywhere in your condition, Holmes.”
Holmes gripped me by the shoulders.
“Watson, there is no time to explain, but believe me when I say that I am all that stands between a murderer and his victim!” He relaxed his grip, and I saw that he was about to faint. I helped him over to the couch.
“I believe I will take you up on the offer of some morphine—not too much, just enough to dull the pain, if you don’t mind.”
“Very well, Holmes, I’ll get my syringe, but I cannot condone this—*’ “Watson, I swear to you if there were any other way I would take it, but there isn’t. Please believe me.”
I injected the morphine and helped him get into his coat, then into a cab, with the assistance of Mrs. Hudson. Holmes told the driver to hurry to the Royal Albert Hall. I wanted to ask Holmes what was up, but the sight of his grim, pale face next to me silenced my questions.
When we arrived at the Royal Albert he led me not to the main en-
trance but around to the backstage door, where, fortunately for us, the same man stood guard and recognized us. It did not take Holmes long to convince the man to let us in, and soon we were at the heavy red fire door marked Stage Right. Singers in exotic Spanish costumes came and went around us, and Holmes hovered momentarily just outside the door. Then he pushed it open slowly, and I could see the vast stage of the Royal Albert Hall. I followed him into the darkened wings, where a few stagehands stood with their hands in their pockets. It was quite dark, so no one took particular notice of the two cloaked forms who picked their way over coiled ropes and sandbags toward the stage.
