The House Of Silk

first I thought I recognised him, just as – it occurred to me now – his name had also been familiar to me. He was pale and emaciated, with sandy whiskers that seemed to be dying on his cheeks and cumbersome spectacles. I would have said he was in his early forties but the experiences of his life wore heavily upon him giving him a pinched, nervous disposition and ageing him. His slender, white hands were folded across his wrists. He had been writing and his pen had leaked. There were blotches of ink on his forefinger and thumb.
    ‘Mr Hawkins,’ he said, addressing the chief warder. ‘I have nothing further to report to you, sir, except that I fear the worst.’
    ‘This is Dr John Watson,’ Hawkins said.
    ‘Dr Trevelyan.’ He shook my hand. ‘It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance, although I would have asked for happier circumstances.’
    I was certain I knew the man. But from the way he had spoken and the firmness of his handshake, he was making it clear that, even if we were not meeting for the first time, this was the impression he wished to give.
    ‘Is it food poisoning?’ Harriman demanded. He had not troubled to introduce himself.
    ‘I am quite positive that poison of one sort or another is responsible,’ Dr Trevelyan replied. ‘As to how it came to be administered, that is not for me to say.’
    ‘Administered?’
    ‘All the prisoners in the wing eat the same food. Only he has become ill.’
    ‘Are you suggesting foul play?’
    ‘I have said what I have said, sir.’
    ‘Well, I don’t believe a word of it. I can tell you, doctor, that I was rather expecting something of this sort. Where is Mr Holmes?’
    Trevelyan hesitated and the warder stepped forward. ‘This is Inspector Harriman, Dr Trevelyan. He is in charge of your patient.’
    ‘I am in charge of my patient while he is in my infirmary,’ the doctor retorted. ‘But there is no reason why you should not see him, although I must ask you not to disturb him. I gave him a sedative and he may well be asleep. He is in a side-room. I thought it better that he be kept apart from the other prisoners.’
    ‘Then let us waste no more time.’
    ‘Rivers!’ Trevelyan called out to a lanky, round-shouldered fellow who had been almost invisible, sweeping the floor in one corner. He was wearing the uniform of a male nurse rather than that a prisoner. ‘The keys …’
    ‘Yes, Dr Trevelyan.’ Rivers lumbered over to the desk, took up a key-chain and carried it over to an arched door set on the far side of the room. He appeared to be lame, dragging one leg behind him. He was sullen and rough-looking, with unruly ginger hair spilling down to his shoulders. He stopped in front of the door and, taking his time, fitted a key into the lock.
    ‘Rivers is my orderly,’ Trevelyan explained in a low voice. ‘He’s a good man, but simple. He takes charge of the infirmary at night.’
    ‘Has he been in communication with Holmes?’ Harriman asked.
    ‘Rivers is seldom in communication with anyone, Mr Harriman. Holmes himself has not uttered a word since he was brought here.’
    At last Rivers turned the key. I heard the tumblers fall as the lock connected. There were also two bolts on the outside that had to be drawn back before the door could be opened to reveal a small room, almost monastic with plain walls, a square window, a bed and a privy.
    The bed was empty.
    Harriman plunged inside. He tore off the covers. He knelt down and looked under the bed. There was nowhere to hide. The bars on the window were still in place. ‘Is this some sort of trick?’ he roared. ‘Where is he? What have you done with him?’
    I moved forward and looked in. There could be no doubting it. The cell was empty. Sherlock Holmes had disappeared.

SIXTEEN
The Disappearance

    Harriman rose to his feet and almost fell upon Dr Trevelyan. For once his carefully cultivated
sang-froid
had deserted him. ‘What game is going on here?’ he cried. ‘What do you think you’re doing?’
    ‘I have no idea …’ the hapless doctor began.
    ‘I beg of you to show some restraint, Inspector Harriman.’ The chief warder imposed himself between the two men, taking charge. ‘Mr Holmes was in this room?’
    ‘Yes, sir,’ Trevelyan replied.
    ‘And it was locked and bolted, as I saw just now, from the outside?’
    ‘Indeed so, sir. It is a prison regulation.’
    ‘Who was the last to see him?’
    ‘That would have been Rivers. He took him a mug of water, upon my