Читать книгу The Devil’s Due - Bonnie Macbird - Страница 6

On a recent late September afternoon in London, as torrential downpours skittered down the bow window of my flat on Chiltern Street, I stood looking at the grey wall of water battering the vista below. Off to the right, across Marylebone Road, umbrellas crowded the Baker Street Station tube entrance, collapsing like evening blossoms as their owners, clad in puffy jackets, windbreakers and trainers, dashed into the building.

Those doors first opened more than a hundred and fifty years ago.

I blinked and imagined it was 1890, that same station, but beneath the jumble of umbrellas was a sea of top hats, bowlers and a few flowered bonnets, well-cut suits and the occasional long dress trailing across the muddy pavement.

Deep below street level, noisy black engines belched steam and thundered through the darkness at terrifying speeds. Some superstitious Londoners would not venture into the depths. Who knew what devilish vapours might be swirling around down there?

In 1890, London was the reigning centre of culture and commerce. But even as we romanticize those late Victorian times, we must also acknowledge that this magnificent city had her woes. What astonished me about the tale I discovered that day – inscribed in neat penmanship on a faded schoolboy notebook – was how little things had actually changed. Crime, yellow journalism, mob thinking, homelessness, murder, police brutality, fear of immigrants, dark politics – all in full flower then – and now.

But who better to slice cleanly through the shifting morass of murder, chaos and moral ambiguity than the remarkable Sherlock Holmes? It was time for a dose of his clarity, courage, and intellectual rigour.

So, once again, I sat down with the battered tin box which had been given to me by a mysterious woman from the British Library. What might be revealed today? I opened the box and immediately my eyes were drawn to a glint of gold. A bright coin had been glued to a thick envelope sticking out from the others. I pulled it out to have a look.

The coin was old, two hundred years or more. What could it mean? Its date was long before Watson and Holmes walked the London streets. A small voice inside me said that the time was right to open the package to which this coin had adhered.

As I removed the string tied round the musty envelope, a playing card fell out. On the back was a faded design in blue. I flipped it over. It was no ordinary playing card, but a Tarot card – bearing the image of a monster with a remarkably frightening visage – horns, forked tongue and a lean, muscular body. The Devil.

And then a strange thing happened.

As I stared at it, the power suddenly went off in my flat, silencing a Vivaldi violin concerto mid-arpeggio, and plunging me into near darkness. Outside, the rainy dusk was a dim glow.

I am not the superstitious type. I got up, lit a few candles, and sat back down. I gently eased the dog-eared notebook from the envelope. On the cover, The Devil’s Due, was inscribed in Dr Watson’s distinctive, neat handwriting.

Consuming this by candlelight seemed entirely appropriate. Here is what I read.

—Bonnie MacBird

London, April 2019