Читать книгу The Watches of the Night - Darcy Lindbergh - Страница 7

In the first weeks of sharing rooms with Holmes, I frequently thought that if only I were privy to the conversations he held with his perplexing array of clients, I might better understand his business, and thus more of Holmes himself. Even his title – a consulting detective – failed to satisfy my curiosity, so when at last he invited me to join him for a case, I was thrilled that I might finally uncover his mysteries.

How wrong I was!

Oh, I did better understand his work; indeed, once he laid out his reasoning, it seemed astonishing that I had been so blind. But the enigma of Holmes himself only deepened – how had he learned such skills? How had he the abilities to walk with police as comfortably as ruffian children? How did he so easily lay traps for murderers and wrestle them into submission?

Holmes listened intently as Jefferson Hope recounted his tale, but I could scarcely pay attention to it; I confess I was, instead, entranced by Holmes himself, wondering what conclusions he was drawing from each word, wondering whether he had some secret to know if they were the truth. If he could look into the darkness and tease out the light.

My nerves, I suddenly realised, were calm; when Holmes looked back at me, his eyes were bright.

The most irritating thing about Sherlock Holmes' vanity, I thought afterward, when the papers began publishing their accounts of the Jefferson Hope murders, was how very deserved it was. Watching Holmes in action on the case, I had been surprised and impressed; now, having understood his meticulous analysis of the facts, I knew he deserved more credit than he had got. 'Credit doesn't concern me,' he told me one night, flinging another paper that had made no mention of him down into a stack. 'It's only the work that matters.'

It might have been convincing, but for the scorn in his voice.

He also said, when I threatened to put down an accurate account of the case, that I ought to do as I liked. I hadn't taken it seriously at first, but watching him now, it struck me that perhaps I ought to take him at his word. My notes on the matter were not entirely complete, but I was sure if I thought carefully, I could remember enough about the case to write an account out well enough to be published, and I might even make an admirable job of it.

And concerned with credit or not, I knew from experience that Holmes could be flattered; surely, I thought, a little acclaim would ease away some of that bitterness.

'How do you decide which volume they go into?' I asked a few evenings later, picking up one of the scraps Holmes was pasting into his complicated filing system. My curiosity in his methods was piqued, and I wanted to know more. 'Vampirism in Hungary – under V? or H?'

'It depends upon which part one is more likely to require,' Holmes instructed easily, his pride in his index evident. 'As a singular topic, Hungary is too broad to be of any real use. Vampirism, on the other hand – ' He looked up, questioning. 'Isn't that only a myth, a superstition?'

'Yet men are superstitious. I suppose I would file it under V.'

Holmes was visibly delighted. 'Precisely! That's precisely it. And so it goes, always with an eye toward the detecting business. Then you'll always be able to find what you're looking for.'

'And if what you're looking for isn't here?'

'Then you look elsewhere, Watson. Everything is discoverable. One must only not give up too early.'

'I shall try not to,' I promised.

Holmes studied me a moment. Quietly, almost shyly, he added, 'Then I shall be very glad to trust you.'

I thought of my fledgling attempt to write an account of his work, hidden away in my room, and hoped he meant with more than just his books.

'Watson?'

Holmes' voice was soft in the dark, tinged with concern. I squeezed my eyes shut, hoping he would think me asleep and go away, but instead he crept closer toward my bed. 'Watson, are you all right?'

I sighed, caught out; the summer had grown long and hot, and I was not faring well in it. 'Just a headache. Some nausea. It will pass.'

'The enteric fever,' Holmes deduced. 'It still flares up sometimes.'

'It's not unusual.'

'No,' he agreed. 'Is there anything I can do for you?'

I looked up; in the moonlight, Holmes' eyes were pale with worry. 'No,' I managed, though he seemed in earnest. 'I can only wait for it to pass.'

He shifted on his feet. 'I could bring you a cup of tea.'

'Mrs Hudson will have gone to bed already.'

'I'm sure I can manage,' he insisted, indignant at the implication that he could not, and went to prove himself.

He did, in fact, come back some time later – and if it was much later than it would have taken Mrs Hudson, I chose not to mention it. He set a cup on the bedside table and pressed a cool cloth to my forehead. 'Thank you,' I said.

'You're quite welcome,' Holmes said softly. 'I hope that by tomorrow you are feeling better.'

My tomorrow was not, in fact, any better.

'Oh, for God's sake – ' I slammed my book shut in disgust as I looked up at the clock again. It was half past eleven in the evening: only three minutes later than it had been since the last time I had checked.

There was still no sign of Holmes.

He'd set off hours ago, disguised as a dock worker and intending to situate himself in a few disreputable pubs to listen to the gossip, hoping for some word of the whereabouts of some notoriously dangerous criminal. Although by now quite familiar with his work, tonight I worried: he would be in danger if he were caught, and there was no one to aid him. Once again, I cursed my health – would that I could've been a trustworthy fellow to have at his back.

Finally I heard the turn of the latch-key in the door, and was on my feet in an instant.

'Watson,' Holmes exclaimed when he saw me, clapping his hands together. 'Good, you're awake. I must tell you everything.'

He was fine, of course. 'I'm ready to hear it,' I managed, trying to hide my relief from Holmes' attention. I could not tamp it down entirely, though – for the first time all night, I felt as though I could breathe.