The House Of Silk

the murder of this young woman, Sally Dixon. You are not obliged to say anything unless you desire to do so, but whatever you do say I shall take down in writing and it may be used as evidence against you hereafter. Do you understand?’
    ‘This is monstrous!’ I cried. ‘I am telling you that Sherlock Holmes had nothing whatsoever to do with this crime. Your witness is lying. This is some conspiracy—’
    ‘If you do not wish to find yourself arrested for obstruction and also quite possibly sued for slander, then I suggest you try to find the wisdom to remain silent. You will have your chance to speak when this comes to court. In the meantime, I will ask you again to step aside and leave me to get on with my business.’
    ‘Do you have no idea who this is and to what extent the police force in this city and, indeed, in this country, are indebted to him?’
    ‘I know very well who he is and I cannot say that it makes any difference to the situation as I find it. We have a dead girl. The murder weapon is in his hand. We have a witness. I think that’s enough to be getting on with. It is almost twelve and I cannot be squabbling with you all night. If you have any reason to complain about my behaviour, you can do so in the morning. I hear a cab approaching. Let us get this man into a cell and this poor little mite to the morgue.’
    There was nothing more I could do except stand and watch as Constable Perkins returned and, with the help of the doctor, lifted Holmes to his feet and dragged him away. The gun that he had been carrying was wrapped in cloth and taken with him. At the last minute, as he was being helped into the cab, his head turned and our eyes met and I was relieved at least to see that some of the life had returned to them and that whatever drug he had taken – or been given – must be wearing off. More policemen had arrived and I saw Sally covered with a blanket and carried away on a stretcher. Dr Ackland shook hands with Harriman, handed him a business card, and walked off. Before I knew it, I was on my own – and in a hostile, insalubrious part of London. I suddenly remembered that I still had the revolver that Holmes had given me, in my coat pocket. My hand closed on it and the mad thought came to me that perhaps I should have used it to rescue Holmes, seizing hold of him and carrying him with me whilst keeping Harriman and the crowd at bay. But such an attempt would have helped neither of us. There were other ways to fight back and, with that in mind and cold steel in my hand, I turned away and hurriedly made for home.

    I had a visitor, early the next morning. It was the one man I most wanted to see – Inspector Lestrade. As he came striding in, interrupting me at my breakfast, my first thought was that he brought news that Holmes had already been released and would be arriving shortly, too. One look at his face, however, was enough to dash my hopes. He was grim and unsmiling and, from the look of him, had either risen very early or perhaps had not slept at all. Without asking permission, he sat down so heavily at the table that I might have wondered if he would ever find the strength to rise.
    ‘Will you have some breakfast, Inspector?’ I ventured.
    ‘That would be most kind of you, Dr Watson. I am certainly in need of something to restore me. This business! Frankly, it beggars belief. Sherlock Holmes, for goodness sake! Have these people forgotten how much of a good turn we owe him at Scotland Yard? That they should think him guilty! And yet, it doesn’t look good, Dr Watson. It doesn’t look good.’
    I poured him a cup of tea, filling the cup which Mrs Hudson had set out for Holmes – she was, of course, unaware of what had taken place the night before. Lestrade sipped noisily. ‘Where is Holmes?’ I asked.
    ‘They held him overnight at Bow Street.’
    ‘Have you seen him?’
    ‘They wouldn’t let me! As soon as I heard what had happened last night, I went straight round. But this man, Harriman, he’s a queer one and no mistake. Most of us at Scotland Yard, those of us of the same rank, we muddle along together as best we can. But not him. Harriman has always kept his own council. He has no friends and no family that I know of. He does a good job, I’ll give him that, but although we’ve passed in the corridor, I’ve never spoken more than a few words to him and he’s never answered back. As it happens, I saw him briefly this morning and asked to visit Mr Holmes,