The House Of Silk

shuddering halt and my travelling companion was leaning across me, opening the door.
    ‘We will go straight into the house, Dr Watson,’ he said. ‘These are my instructions. Pray do not linger outside. It is a cold and a nasty night. If you do not go straight in, I fear it might be the death of you.’
    I glimpsed only a massive, uninviting house, the front draped in ivy, the garden overrun with weeds. We could have been in Hampstead or Hampshire, for the grounds were surrounded by high walls with heavy, wrought-iron gates which had already been closed behind us. The building itself put me in mind of an abbey with crenulated windows, gargoyles and a tower stretching above the roof. All the windows upstairs were dark but there were lamps burning in some of the rooms below. A door stood open beneath the porch, but there was nobody to welcome me, if such a place as this could ever, even on the most sunlit summer’s evening, be described as welcoming. Urged on by my fellow passenger, I hurried in. He closed the door hard behind me and its boom echoed down the gloomy corridors.
    ‘This way, sir.’ He had taken up a lamp and I followed him down a passageway, past windows of stained glass, oak panelling, paintings so dark and faded that, but for the frames, I might barely have noticed them at all. We came to a door. ‘In here. I will let him know you have arrived. He won’t be long. Touch nothing. Go nowhere. Show restraint!’ And after having delivered this strange directive, he backed out the way he had come.
    I was in a library with a log fire burning in a stone fireplace and candles arranged on the mantel. A round table of dark wood with several chairs occupied the centre of the room and there were more candles burning here. There were two windows, both heavily curtained, and a thick rug on the otherwise bare, wooden floor. The library must have held several hundred volumes. Shelves rose from the floor to the ceiling – a considerable distance – and there was a ladder, on wheels, that could be tracked from one end of the shelves to the other. I took a candle and examined some of the covers. Whoever owned this house must be well versed in French, German and Italian, for all three languages were evident as well as English. His interests encompassed physics, botany, philosophy, geology, history and mathematics. There were no works of fiction as far as I could see. Indeed, the selection of books put me very much in mind of Sherlock Holmes, for they seemed quite accurately to reflect his tastes. From the architecture of the room, the shape of the fireplace, the ornate ceiling, I could see that the house must be of Jacobean design. Obeying the instructions I had been given, I sat down on one of the chairs and stretched my hands in front of the fire. I was grateful for the warmth for, even with the blanket, the journey had been merciless.
    There was a second door in the room, opposite the one I had entered, and this opened suddenly to reveal a man so tall and thin that he seemed out of proportion to the frame that surrounded him and might actually have to stoop to come in. He was wearing dark trousers, Turkish slippers and a velvet smoking jacket. As he entered, I saw that he was almost bald, with a high forehead and deep, sunken eyes. He moved slowly, his stick-like arms folded across his chest, clinging on to each other as if they were holding him together. I noticed that the library connected with a chemical laboratory and that was where he had been occupying himself while I waited. Behind him, I saw a long table cluttered with test tubes, retorts, bottles, carboys and hissing Bunsen lamps. The man himself smelled strongly of chemicals, and although I wondered about the nature of his experiments, I thought it better not to ask.
    ‘Dr Watson,’ he said. ‘I must apologise for keeping you waiting. There was a delicate matter that required my attention but which I have now brought to a fruitful conclusion. Have you been offered wine? No? Underwood, assiduous in his duties though he undoubtedly is, cannot be described as the most considerate of men. Unfortunately, in my line of work, one cannot pick and choose. I trust that he looked after you on the long journey here.’
    ‘He did not even tell me his name.’
    ‘That is hardly surprising. I do not intend to tell you mine. But it is already late and we have business to attend to. I am hoping you will dine with me.’
    ‘It is not my habit to take dinner with