The House Of Silk

a short distance away. As I was leaving, I heard the sound of gunshots and the constable’s whistle and turned my way south to see if I could assist. By the time I arrived, Constable Perkins was in command and doing an admirable task. I will be recommending Constable Perkins for a promotion. It was he who informed me of the identity of the man who now stands before you. As you have already heard, Mr Sherlock Holmes has a certain reputation. I am sure many of his admirers are going to be disappointed that the true nature of the man, his addiction to drugs and its murderous consequences, should have fallen so far from the fiction which we have all enjoyed.
    ‘That Mr Holmes murdered Sally Dixon is beyond question. In fact, even the imaginative powers of his biographer would be unable to raise a shred of doubt in the minds of his readers. At the scene of the crime I observed that the gun in his hand was still warm, that there were residues of powder-blackening on his sleeve and several small bloodstains on his coat which could only have arrived there if he had been standing in close proximity to the girl when she was shot. Mr Holmes was semi-conscious, still emerging from an opium trance and barely aware of the horror of what he had done. I say “barely aware” but by that I do not mean that he was completely ignorant. He knew his guilt, your honour. He offered no defence. When I cautioned him and placed him under arrest, he made no attempt to persuade me that the circumstances were anything other than what I have described.
    ‘It was only this morning, after eight hours sleep and a cold shower, that he came up with a cock-and-bull story proclaiming his innocence. He told me that he had visited Creer’s Place, not because he was drawn there to feed his unsavoury appetite, but because he was investigating a case, the details of which he refused to share with me. He said that a man, known only to him as Henderson, had sent him to Limehouse in pursuit of some clue, but that the information had turned out to be a trap and that as soon as he had entered the den he had been overpowered and forced to consume some narcotic. Speaking personally, I find it a little strange when a man visits an opium den and then complains that he has been drugged. And since Mr Creer spends his entire life selling drugs to men who wish to buy them, it is unaccountable that on this occasion he should have decided to give them away free. But we know that this is a barrel of lies. We have already heard from a distinguished witness who saw Mr Holmes smoke one pipe and then demand a second. Mr Holmes also claims that he knows the murdered girl and that she, too, was part of this mysterious investigation. I am willing to accept this part of his testimony. It may well be that he had met her before and in his delirium he somehow managed to confuse her with some imaginary master criminal. He had no other motive for killing her.
    ‘It only remains for me to add that Mr Holmes now insists that he is part of a conspiracy which includes me, Constable Perkins, Isaiah Creer, Lord Horace Blackwater and, quite possibly, your honour yourself. I would describe this as delusional, but actually it’s worse than that. It’s a deliberate attempt to extricate himself from the consequences of the delusions he was suffering last night. How unfortunate for Mr Holmes that we have a second witness who actually saw the killing itself. His testimony will, I am sure, bring an end to these proceedings. For my part, I can only say that in my fifteen years with the Metropolitan Police, I have never encountered a case where the evidence has been more cut and dried, the guilty party more obvious.’
    I almost expected him to take a bow. Instead, he nodded respectfully at the magistrate and sat down.
    The final witness was Dr Thomas Ackland. I had barely examined him in the darkness and the confusion of the night, but standing in front of me now, he struck me as an unattractive man with curls of bright red hair (he would have been assured of a place in the red-headed league) tumbling unevenly from an elongated head and dark freckles which made his skin seem almost diseased. He had the beginnings of a moustache, an unusually long neck and watery blue eyes. It is possible, I suppose, that I exaggerate his appearance for, as he spoke, I felt a deep and irrational loathing for a man whose words seemed to place the final seal on my friend’s guilt. I have gone back to the