Читать книгу The Devil’s Due - Bonnie Macbird - Страница 8

London could be heaven; London could be hell. I thought I knew the city well following more than eight years of adventures with my friend Sherlock Holmes, but the extremes of my adopted home had never revealed themselves to me so clearly as they did during the adventure I am about to relate.

It was in November of 1890 that Holmes faced one of the worst villains of his career, a monster responsible for a series of high profile, grotesque murders that both terrified and titillated the city. These violent deaths were strung, like so many blood-soaked pearls on a devil’s necklace.

Only Sherlock Holmes could have traced the gossamer thread that tied together anarchists and artists, politicians and prostitutes, grocers, grafters, and even royalty. But in the process, he was nearly consumed himself by the fires of hell. Or in this case, St James’s.

My name is Dr John Watson. At the time of this tale, I had been happily married to our former client Mary Morstan for close to two years, and had resumed my medical practice, now in Paddington. One icy Tuesday morning in November, Mary and I lingered in our quiet dining-room over coffee and the newspapers.

The Russian ’flu, which had kept me monotonously occupied was at last waning and no one awaited me in my surgery. The grandfather clock ticked, crisp toast cooled in its silver rack, and time stretched on. I poured myself a third cup of coffee. It had been weeks since I had seen my friend Sherlock Holmes.

Meanwhile the newspapers reported that just outside our windows, London seethed under the tumult of a rising tide of immigrants from France, Italy, and Ireland, shuddered with terror as anarchists (mainly French) set off bombs, groaned under the weight of poverty and a rising crime rate, and twisted in circles over government intrigue, royal scandal, industrialism, and ‘The Woman Question’. At the same time, the city glittered with new operas and theatrical galas, and art, music and entertainment lit up her evenings.

I flung down my paper and stared at the rain outside our window.

‘Listen to this, John,’ said Mary. ‘There’s a newly installed “Chief Commissioner of the Metropolitan Police” – now there’s a title – named Titus Billings who “promises to make London safe from the hordes of foreign criminals flooding our city”.’

I sighed. ‘Hmm. I am sure there are a few home-grown ones as well.’

‘There is more. He’s planning to do this by “arming the police, putting more boots on the street, and banishing all amateurs from criminal investigations”.’ She handed me her pages in disgust. ‘Looks an awful fellow. You don’t suppose he means Mr Sherlock Holmes?’

I stared at the image of Titus Billings on the page. He was an imperious, military type with a thick black moustache and fierce eyes. It was a case of instant dislike. ‘He’d be a fool if so,’ said I. It would not surprise me if Holmes had already tangled with the man.

‘Perhaps a visit to Mr Holmes is in order?’

‘I am sure he is quite busy, Mary. He is no doubt behind the scenes on that strange Anson case.’

‘The man found drowned in his bed? An impossible death!’ She shuddered.

‘Yes, an odd one,’ said I musing at the image of a wealthy man found dry, clean, and in his nightclothes, upright in his bed, yet drowned, a ‘Devil’ Tarot card in his hand. The reports had been intriguing. Mary was staring at me. ‘Well, yes, it has been quite the season for unusual murders,’ I added.

‘And Danforth, that paper magnate, stabbed to death with a letter opener,’ she urged, regarding me closely. ‘That is an odd one!’

I laughed at the irony of the crime. ‘Oh, indeed,’ I said. Holmes was no doubt enjoying that case.

‘You share Mr Holmes’s morbid humour, John!’ she chided, but I knew she was as fond of Holmes as I. ‘You know, he may have run into trouble there,’ she added. ‘Take a look.’ She laid The Illustrated Police Gazette in front of me. There, on that lurid rag was the headline ‘False Conjurer Sherlock Holmes Fails Spectacularly!’

‘False conjurer? What on earth?’

I quickly read the article, and as I did so, felt a rising anger against the writer, one Gabriel Zanders. He hinted that Sherlock Holmes had ‘an unhealthy affinity for blood and death’, had ‘attempted to misdirect the police in the manner of a carnival magician’, and ‘caused the arrest the wrong fellow in the spectacular Danforth murder’. It ended with: ‘What dark motives are hidden behind that sallow, sinister face? Who can understand the mind of this inhuman automaton who haunts London?’ An unflattering illustration of Holmes appeared next to the article.

Mary began clearing the dishes. She lingered near my chair, looking at the article.

‘John, what about a short holiday? Take some time off. Perhaps go see Mr Holmes. You are the wind under his wings, I think.’

‘The ballast in his hold, more accurately,’ said I, smiling at the image of my friend as a fast moving though slightly unsteady ship. ‘But if I am to take a holiday,’ said I, ‘it must be with you, Mary. I am worried about that cough.’

‘The Trowbridges have suggested a fortnight’s visit to their Cotswold manor, John,’ said Mary.

‘Fresh air. Good idea,’ I said, my heart sinking.

She laughed. ‘Oh, John, you despise the Trowbridges! I will go there, and you go to Mr Holmes. Do not argue.’ She smiled and kissed me on the cheek. ‘We shall both return refreshed.’

What man has ever had a more understanding wife!

With the notice of a holiday posted on my surgery door, and a word to a colleague who would take up any urgent cases, I was off within the hour.