The House of Silk: The New Sherlock Holmes Novel Page 18

  Carstairs knocked gently at the door, then entered his sister’s bedroom to see if she would receive a visit from me. I waited outside with Mrs Carstairs. ‘I will leave you here, Dr Watson,’ said she. ‘It will only distress my sister-in-law if I go in. But please let me know if there is anything that you notice that has a bearing on her illness.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘And thank you again for coming. I feel so relieved to have you as my friend.’

  She swept away just as the door opened and Carstairs invited me in. I entered a close, plushly furnished bedroom built into the eaves with small windows, the curtains partly drawn and a fire burning in the grate. I noticed that a second door opened into an adjoining bathroom and the smell of lavender bath salts was heavy in the air. Eliza Carstairs was lying in bed, propped up with pillows and wearing a shawl. I could see at once that her health had deteriorated rapidly since my last visit. She had the pinched, exhausted quality that I had all too often observed in my more serious patients, and her eyes stared out pitifully over the sharp ridges that her cheekbones had become. She had combed her hair, but it was still dishevelled, spreading around her shoulders. Her hands, resting on the sheet in front of her, might have been those of a dead woman.

  ‘Dr Watson!’ she greeted me and her voice rasped in her throat. ‘Why have you come to visit me?’

  ‘Your sister-in-law asked me to come, Miss Carstairs,’ I replied.

  ‘My sister-in-law wants me dead.’

  ‘That is not the impression she gave. May I take your pulse?’

  ‘You may take what you wish. I have nothing more to give. And when I am gone, take my word for it, Edmund will be next.’

  ‘Hush, Eliza! Don’t say such things,’ her brother scolded her.

  I held her pulse which was beating much too rapidly as her body attempted to fight off the disease. Her skin had a slightly bluish tinge which, along with the other symptoms that had been reported to me, made me wonder if her doctors might be right in suggesting cholera as the cause of her sickness. ‘You have abdominal pain?’ I asked.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And aching joints?’

  ‘I can feel my bones rotting away.’

  ‘You have doctors in attendance. What drugs have they prescribed?’

  ‘My sister is taking laudanum,’ Carstairs said.

  ‘Are you eating?’

  ‘It is the food that is killing me!’

  ‘You should try to eat, Miss Carstairs. Starving yourself will only make you weaker.’ I released her. ‘There is little more I can suggest. You might open the windows to allow the air to circulate, and cleanliness, of course, is of the first importance.’

  ‘I bath every day.’

  ‘It would help to change your garments and the bed linen every day too. But above all, you must eat. I have visited the kitchen and seen that your meals are well prepared. You have nothing to fear.’

  ‘I am being poisoned.’

  ‘If you are being poisoned, then so am I!’ Carstairs exclaimed. ‘Please, Eliza! Why will you not see sense?’

  ‘I am tired.’ The sick woman fell back, closing her eyes. ‘I thank you for your visit, Dr Watson. Open the windows and change the bed clothes! I can see that you must be at the very pinnacle of your profession!’

  Carstairs ushered me out and, in truth, I was glad to go. Eliza Carstairs had been rude and scornful the first time we had met her and her illness had only exaggerated these aspects of her character. The two of us parted company at the front door. ‘Thank you for your visit, Dr Watson,’ he said. ‘I understand the forces that drove my dear Catherine to your door and I very much hope that Mr Holmes will be able to extricate himself from the difficulties which he is in.’

  We shook hands. I was about to leave and then I remembered. ‘There is just one other thing, Mr Carstairs. Is your wife able to swim?’

  ‘I’m sorry? What an extraordinary question! Why do you wish to know?’

  ‘I have my methods …’

  ‘Well, as a matter of fact, Catherine cannot swim at all. Indeed, she has a fear of the sea and has told me she will not enter the water under any circumstances.’

  ‘Thank you, Mr Carstairs.’

  ‘Good day, Dr Watson.’

  The door closed. I had received an answer to the question that Holmes had put to me. Now all I needed to know was why I had asked it.

  FOURTEEN

  Into the Dark

  A note from Mycroft awaited me on my return. He would be at the Diogenes Club early that evening and would be pleased to see me if I would like to call upon him at around that time. I was almost worn out by my journey to and from Wimbledon on top of the activity of recent days … it was never possible for me to exert myself to any great extent without being reminded of the injuries I had sustained in Afghanistan. Even so, I decided to go out once again after a short rest for I was acutely aware of the ordeal that Sherlock Holmes must be enduring while I was at liberty, and this outweighed any consideration of my own well-being. Mycroft might not give me a second opportunity to visit him, for he was as capricious as he was corpulent, flitting like some oversized shadow through the corridors of power. Mrs Hudson had laid out a late lunch which I ate before falling asleep in my chair and the sky was already darkening when I set out and caught a cab back to Pall Mall.

  He met me once again in the Stranger’s Room but this time his manner was more clipped and formal than it had been when I was there with Holmes. He began without any pleasantries. ‘This is a bad business. A very bad business. Why did my brother seek my advice if he was not prepared to take it?’

  ‘I think it was information he required from you, not advice,’ I countered.

  ‘A fair point. But given that I was able to provide only the one and not the other, he might have done well to listen to what I had to say. I told him that no good would come of it – but that was his character, even when he was very young. He was impetuous. Our mother used to say the same and always feared that he would find himself in trouble. Would that she had lived to see him established as a detective. She would have smiled at that!’

  ‘Can you help him?’

  ‘You already know the answer to that, Dr Watson, for I told you the last time we met. There is nothing I can do.’

  ‘Would you see him hanged for murder?’

  ‘It will not come to that. It cannot come to that. Already I am working behind the scenes, and although I am finding a surprising amount of interference and obfuscation, he is too well known to too many people of importance for that possibility to arise.’

  ‘He is being held at Holloway.’

  ‘So I understand, and being well cared for – or at least as well as that grim place will allow.’

  ‘What can you tell me of Inspector Harriman?’

  ‘A good police officer, a man of integrity, with not a spot on his record.’

  ‘And what of the other witnesses?’

  Mycroft closed his eyes and lifted his head as if tasting a good wine. In this way did he give himself pause for thought. ‘I know what you are inferring, Dr Watson,’ he said at length. ‘And you must believe me when I say that, despite his reckless behaviour, I still have Sherlock’s best interests at heart and am working to make sense of what has happened. I have already, at considerable personal expense, investigated the backgrounds of both Dr Thomas Ackland and Lord Horace Blackwater, and regret to tell you that as far as I can see they are beyond reproach, both of good families, both single, both wealthy men. The two of them do not club together. They did not go to the same school. For most of their lives, they have lived hundreds of miles apart. Beyond the coincidence of their both being in Limehouse at the same time of night, there is nothing that connects them.’

  ‘Unless it is the House of Silk.’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘And you will not tell me what it is.’

  ‘I will not tell you because I do not know. This is precisely the reason why I warned Sherlock to stay away.
If there is something, a fellowship or a society, at the heart of government which is being kept from me, and which is so secret that even to mention its name has me summoned instantly to certain offices in Whitehall, then my instinct is to turn and look the other way, not to place damn fool advertisements in the national press! I told my brother as much as I could … indeed more, perhaps, than I should have.’

  ‘So what will happen? Will you allow him to stand trial?’

  ‘What I allow or do not allow has nothing to do with the matter. I fear you place too high a value on my influence.’ Mycroft produced a tortoiseshell box from his waistcoat pocket and took a pinch of snuff. ‘I can be his advocate; no more and no less. I can speak on his behalf. If it really becomes necessary, I will appear as a character witness.’ I must have looked disappointed, for Mycroft put the snuff away, rose to his feet and came over to me. ‘Do not be disheartened, Dr Watson,’ he counselled. ‘My brother is a man of considerable resource and even in this, his darkest hour, he may yet surprise you.’

  ‘Will you visit him?’ I asked.

  ‘I think not. Such a thing would embarrass him and inconvenience me to no discernible advantage. But you must tell him that you have consulted me and that I am doing what I can.’

  ‘They will not let me see him.’

  ‘Re-apply tomorrow. Eventually, they must let you in. They have no reason not to.’ He walked with me to the door. ‘My brother is very fortunate to have a staunch ally as well as such a fine chronicler,’ he remarked.

  ‘I hope I have not written his last adventure.’

  ‘Goodbye, Dr Watson. It would upset me to have to be discourteous to you, so I would be obliged if you did not communicate with me again except, of course, in the most urgent circumstances. I wish you a good evening.’

  It was with a heavy heart that I returned to Baker Street, for Mycroft had been even less helpful than I had hoped and I wondered what circumstances he could have been referring to if these were not urgent already. At least he might have gained me admittance to Holloway so the journey had not entirely been wasted but I had a headache, my arm and shoulder were throbbing and I knew that I was close to exhausting my strength. However, my day was not over yet. As I left my cab and walked over to the front door I knew so well, I found my path blocked by a short, solid man with black hair and black coat who loomed at me out of the pavement.

  ‘Dr Watson?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes?’

  I was anxious to be on my way but the little man had imposed himself in front of me. ‘I wonder if I might ask you, doctor, to come with me?’

  ‘On what business?’

  ‘On a matter that relates to your friend, Mr Sherlock Holmes. What other business could there be?’

  I examined him more closely and what I saw did not encourage me. To look at, I would have taken him for a tradesman, perhaps a tailor or even an undertaker, for there was something almost studiously mournful about his face. He had heavy eyebrows and a moustache that drooped over his upper lip. He was also wearing black gloves and a black bowler hat. From the way he was standing, poised on the balls of his feet, I expected him to whip out a tape measure at any moment. But to measure me for what? A new suit or a coffin?

  ‘What do you know of Holmes?’ I asked. ‘What information do you have that you cannot tell me here?’

  ‘I have no information at all, Dr Watson. I am merely the agent, the very humble servant, of one who does, and it is this person who has sent me here to request you to join him.’

  ‘To join him where? Who is he?’

  ‘I regret that I am not at liberty to say.’

  ‘Then I’m afraid you’re wasting your time. I am in no mood to go out again tonight.’

  ‘You do not understand, sir. The gentleman for whom I work is not inviting your presence. He is demanding it. And although it pains me, I have to tell you that he is not used to being denied. In fact, that would be a horrible mistake. Could I ask you to look down, sir? There! Do not start. You are quite safe, I assure you. Now, if you would be kind enough to come this way …’

  I had stepped back in astonishment for, on doing as he had asked, I had seen that he was holding a revolver, aimed at my stomach. Whether he had produced it while we talked, or whether he had been holding it all the time, I could not say, but it was as if he had performed some unpleasant magic trick and the weapon had suddenly materialised. He was certainly comfortable with it. The person who has never fired a revolver holds it in a certain way, as does the man who has used one many times. I could easily tell to which category my assailant belonged.

  ‘You will not shoot me in the middle of the street,’ I said.

  ‘On the contrary, Dr Watson, I am instructed to do exactly that should you choose to make difficulties for me. But let us be frank with each other. I do not wish to kill you any more than you, I am sure, wish to die. It may help you to know – and I give you my solemn word on this – that we mean you no harm, although I suppose it may not seem that way at the moment. Even so, after a while, all will be explained and you will understand why these precautions are necessary.’

  He had an extraordinary manner of speaking, both obsequious and extremely threatening. He gestured with the gun and I observed a black carriage standing by with two horses and a coachman in place. It was a four-wheeler with windows of frosted glass, and I wondered if the man who had demanded to meet me was sitting inside. I walked over and opened the door. The interior was empty, the fittings elegant and of rich quality. ‘How far are we travelling?’ I asked. ‘My landlady is expecting me for dinner.’

  ‘You’ll get a better dinner where we’re going. And the sooner you get in, the sooner we can be on our way.’

  Would he have really shot me down outside my own home? I quite believed he would. He had an implacable quality. At the same time, were I to climb into this carriage, I might be carried away and never seen again. Suppose he had been sent by the same people who had killed both Ross and his sister and who had dealt so cunningly with Holmes? I noticed that the walls of the carriage were lined with silk – not white, but pearl grey. At the same time, I reminded myself, the man had said that he represented someone with information. Whichever way I looked at it, it seemed to me I had no choice. I climbed in. The man followed me and closed the door whereupon I saw that I had certainly been foolish in one respect. I had assumed that the opaque glass had been placed there to prevent me looking in when, obviously, it was actually there to stop me looking out.

  The man had climbed in opposite me and at once the horses were whipped up and we set off. All I could see was the passing glow of the gas lamps and even those fell away once we left the city, travelling, I would have said, north. A blanket had been placed on the seat for me and I drew it over my knees for, like every other December night, it had become very cold. My companion said nothing and seemed to have fallen asleep, his head rolling forward and the gun resting loosely in his lap. But when, after about an hour, I reached out to open the window, wondering if I might see something in the landscape that would tell me where I was, he jerked up and shook his head as if chiding a naughty schoolboy. ‘Really, Dr Watson, I would have expected better of you. My master has taken great pains to keep his address from you. He is a man of a very retiring nature. I would ask you to keep your hands to yourself and the windows closed.’

  ‘For how long are we going to travel?’

  ‘For as long as it takes.’

  ‘Do you have a name?’

  ‘I do indeed, sir. But I fear that I am not at liberty to reveal it to you.’

  ‘And what can you tell me of the man who employs you?’

  ‘I could talk my way to the North Pole on that subject, sir. He is a remarkable person. But he would not appreciate it. All in all, the less said the better.’

  The journey was almost unendurable to me. My watch showed me that it lasted two hours, but there was nothing to tell me in which direction we were going nor how far, as it had occurred to me that we might
well be going round and round in circles and our destination could in fact have been very close. Once or twice the carriage changed direction and I felt myself swinging to the side. Most of the time, the wheels seemed to be turning over smooth asphalt but occasionally there would be a rattle and I would feel that we had passed onto a paved causeway. At one point I heard a steam train passing above us. We must be under a bridge. Otherwise, I felt swallowed up by the darkness that surrounded me and finally dozed off, for the next thing I knew we had come to a shuddering halt and my travelling companion was leaning across me, opening the door.

  ‘We will go straight into the house, Dr Watson,’ he said. ‘These are my instructions. Pray do not linger outside. It is a cold and a nasty night. If you do not go straight in, I fear it might be the death of you.’

  I glimpsed only a massive, uninviting house, the front draped in ivy, the garden overrun with weeds. We could have been in Hampstead or Hampshire, for the grounds were surrounded by high walls with heavy, wrought-iron gates which had already been closed behind us. The building itself put me in mind of an abbey with crenulated windows, gargoyles and a tower stretching above the roof. All the windows upstairs were dark but there were lamps burning in some of the rooms below. A door stood open beneath the porch, but there was nobody to welcome me, if such a place as this could ever, even on the most sunlit summer’s evening, be described as welcoming. Urged on by my fellow passenger, I hurried in. He closed the door hard behind me and its boom echoed down the gloomy corridors.

  ‘This way, sir.’ He had taken up a lamp and I followed him down a passageway, past windows of stained glass, oak panelling, paintings so dark and faded that, but for the frames, I might barely have noticed them at all. We came to a door. ‘In here. I will let him know you have arrived. He won’t be long. Touch nothing. Go nowhere. Show restraint!’ And after having delivered this strange directive, he backed out the way he had come.

  I was in a library with a log fire burning in a stone fireplace and candles arranged on the mantel. A round table of dark wood with several chairs occupied the centre of the room and there were more candles burning here. There were two windows, both heavily curtained, and a thick rug on the otherwise bare, wooden floor. The library must have held several hundred volumes. Shelves rose from the floor to the ceiling – a considerable distance – and there was a ladder, on wheels, that could be tracked from one end of the shelves to the other. I took a candle and examined some of the covers. Whoever owned this house must be well versed in French, German and Italian, for all three languages were evident as well as English. His interests encompassed physics, botany, philosophy, geology, history and mathematics. There were no works of fiction as far as I could see. Indeed, the selection of books put me very much in mind of Sherlock Holmes, for they seemed quite accurately to reflect his tastes. From the architecture of the room, the shape of the fireplace, the ornate ceiling, I could see that the house must be of Jacobean design. Obeying the instructions I had been given, I sat down on one of the chairs and stretched my hands in front of the fire. I was grateful for the warmth for, even with the blanket, the journey had been merciless.