The House Of Silk

was fortunate to escape the noose. Lord Ravenshaw went into his study with a revolver and blew his brains out. There may have been one or two other suicides, too, but Lord Horace Blackwater and Dr Thomas Ackland both escaped justice. I suppose one has to be pragmatic about these things, but it still annoys me, particularly after what they tried to do to Sherlock Holmes
    And then, of course, there is the strange gentleman who accosted me that night and gave me such an unusual supper. I never did tell Holmes about him and, indeed, have never mentioned him again until now. Some might find this odd, but I had given my word and even though he was a self-acclaimed criminal, as a gentleman I felt I had no choice but to keep it. I am quite certain, of course, that my host was none other than Professor James Moriarty, who was to play such a momentous role in our lives a short while later, and it was the devil’s own work to pretend that I had never met him. Holmes talked about him in detail shortly before we left for the Reichenbach Falls, and even then I was fairly sure it was the same man. I have often reflected on this unusual aspect of Moriarty’s character. Holmes spoke with horror of his malevolence and the vast number of crimes in which he had been involved. But he also admired his intelligence and, indeed, his sense of fair play. To this day I believe that Moriarty genuinely wanted to help Holmes and wanted to see the House of Silk shut down. As a criminal himself, he had learned of its existence but felt it inappropriate, against the grain, for him to take action personally. But it offended his sensibilities and so he sent Holmes the white ribbon and provided me with the key to his cell in the hope that his enemy would do his work for him. And that, of course, is what happened, although to the best of my knowledge Moriarty never sent a note of thanks.
    I did not see Holmes over Christmas for I was home with my wife, Mary, whose health had by now become a serious concern to me. However, in January she left London to stay a few days with friends and, at her suggestion, I returned to my old lodgings once again to see how Holmes was bearing up after our adventure. It was during this time that one last incident took place which I must now record.
    Holmes had been completely exonerated, and any record of the accusations made against him annulled. He was not, however, in an easy state of mind. He was restless, irritable and, from his frequent glances at the mantelpiece (I did not need his powers of deduction) I could tell that he was tempted by the liquid cocaine that was his most lamentable habit. It would have helped if he was on a case, but he was not and, as I have often noted, it was when he was idle, when his energies were not being directed towards some insoluble mystery, that he became distracted and prone to long moods of depression. But this time, I realised, it was something more. He had not mentioned the House of Silk or any of the details associated with it, but reading the newspaper one morning, he drew my attention to a brief article concerning Chorley Grange School for Boys which had just been closed down.
    ‘It’s not enough,’ he muttered. He crumpled the paper in both hands and set it aside, then added: ‘Poor Ross!’
    From this, and from other indications in his behaviour – he mentioned, for example, that he might never call upon the services of the Baker Street Irregulars again – I gathered that he still blamed himself, in part, for the boy’s death, and that the scenes we had witnessed that night on Hamworth Hill had left an indelible mark on his consciousness. Nobody knew evil like Holmes, but there are some evils that it is better not to know, and he could not enjoy even the rewards of his success without being reminded of the dark places to which it had taken him. I could understand this. I had bad dreams myself. But I had Mary to consider, and a medical practice to run. Holmes found himself trapped in his own particular world, forced to dwell on things he would rather forget.
    One evening, after we had taken dinner together, he suddenly announced that he was going out. The snow had not returned, but January was as glacial as December had been, and though I had no desire at all for this late expedition, I nonetheless asked him if he would like me to accompany him.
    ‘No, no, Watson. It’s kind of you. But I think I would be better alone.’
    ‘But where are you going at this late