The House Of Silk

Correction alive. The coroner’s court has been set for next Thursday, but Holmes will not be there. His enemies will not allow it. They plan to kill him while he is in jail.’
    I was horrified. ‘How?’
    ‘That I cannot tell you. Poisoning or strangulation would be the easiest methods, but there are a hundred accidents they could arrange. Doubtless they will find a way to make the death appear natural. But trust me. The order has already been given. His time is running out.’
    I picked up the key. ‘How did you get this?’
    ‘That is immaterial.’
    ‘Then tell me how I am to get it to him. They won’t let me see him.’
    ‘That is for you to arrange. There is nothing more I can do without revealing my part in this. You have Inspector Lestrade on your side. Speak to him.’ He stood up suddenly, pushing his chair back from the table. ‘There is nothing more to be said, I think. The sooner you return to Baker Street, the sooner you can begin to consider what must be done.’ He relaxed a little. ‘I will add only this. You have no idea how keenly I have felt the pleasure of making your acquaintance. Indeed, I quite envy Holmes having such a staunch biographer at his side. I, too, have certain stories of considerable interest to share with the public and I wonder if I might one day call on your services. No? Well, it was an idle thought. But, this meeting aside, I suppose it is always possible that I may turn up as a character in one of your narratives. I hope you will do me justice.’
    They were the last words he spoke to me. Perhaps he had signalled with some hidden contrivance, for at that moment the door opened and Underwood appeared. I drained my glass for I needed the wine to fortify me for the journey. Then, taking the key, I stood up. ‘Thank you,’ I said.
    He did not reply. At the door, I took one look back. My host was sitting on his own at the head of that huge table, poking at his food in the candlelight. Then the door closed. And apart from one brief glimpse at Victoria Station, a year later, I never saw him again.

FIFTEEN
Holloway Prison

    My return to London was, in some respects, even more of an ordeal than had been my departure. Then I had found myself little more than a captive, in the hands of people who quite possibly meant harm to me, being carried towards an unknown destination on a journey that could have lasted half the night. Now, I knew I was returning home and had only a few hours to endure, but it was impossible to find any sort of equanimity. Holmes was to be murdered! The mysterious forces that had conspired to have him arrested were still not content and only his death would suffice. The metal key that I had been given was clutched so tightly in my hand that I could have made a duplicate from the impression squeezed into my flesh. My only thought was to reach Holloway, to warn Holmes of what was afoot and to assist in his immediate exit from that place. And yet how was I to reach him? Inspector Harriman had already made it clear that he would do everything in his power to keep the two of us apart. On the other hand, Mycroft had said I could approach him again ‘in the most urgent circumstances’, which was what these surely were. But just how far would his influence extend, and by the time he got me into the House of Correction, might it already be too late?
    With these thoughts raging in my mind, and with nothing but the silent Underwood leering at me from the seat opposite and darkness on the other side of the frosted windows, the journey seemed to stretch on for ever. Worse still, part of me knew that I was being deceived. The coach was surely going round and round in circles, purposefully exaggerating the distance between Baker Street and the strange mansion where I had been invited to dinner. It was particularly vexing to reflect that had Holmes been in my place, he would have taken note of all the different elements – the chime of a church bell, the blast of a steam whistle, the smell of stagnant water, the changing surfaces beneath the wheels, even the direction of the wind rattling against the windows – and drawn a perfectly detailed map of our journey at the end of it. But I was most certainly not up to the challenge and could only wait for the glow of gas lamps to reassure me that we were back in the city and, perhaps half an hour later, the slowing down of the horses and the final, jolting halt that signalled we were at the end of our journey. Sure