The Big Book of Sherlock Holmes Stories (117 page)

“Yes, yes, I know,” answered Holmes, “we've come on his behalf. I am Mr. Sherlock Holmes, and this is my companion, Dr. Watson.”

“Well, I'm glad he finally had the sense to see a doctor,” the old man snorted. “I told him something like this would happen if he didn't take better care of himself.”

I opened my mouth to explain but a look from Holmes silenced me.

“Yes, well, my colleague here has reason to believe Mr. Huntley may have ingested something—hazardous.”

“Hmmp! Not very likely—he hasn't ‘ingested' much of anything in the last few weeks!”

“You serve him his tea, do you not?”

“Indeed I do, as I have for the last eight years. That's one thing, at least; I've never known Mr. Gerald to refuse a good cup of tea, if it's made the way he likes it, and I know just the way he likes it.”

“Yes, yes, I'm sure you do,” said Holmes, trying unsuccessfully to bury the edge of impatience in his tone. “I wonder if you would grant me a very great favor—”

“If it'll help Mr. Huntley get better, I'd be glad to.”

“Would you show me how you make him his tea? I—uh, that is, Dr. Watson here wants to assure that Mr. Huntley's routine remains undisturbed during his—convalescence.”

McPearson seemed pleased by Holmes's interest in his tea-making skills. He bent closer and spoke in a conspiratorial whisper.

“Do you know you're the second man who's asked me about my methods in the last week?”

“Oh, really?” Holmes said casually.

“Aye; Mr. Huntley has always said no one could brew a cup quite like myself, and if I do say so—”

“You said another gentleman inquired earlier in the week—?” Holmes interrupted, his tone one of absent-minded disinterest.

“Aye, and a strange one he was at that. I fancy I have a fair eye for a man, and he was a right odd laddie. Said he was a stagehand here, but I can't say as I ever noticed him around. A fellow like that would be hard to miss, too—”

“What was he like?”

“Well, first off he had this yellow hair—it was really more like straw than hair, and so pale that it was almost white—as though he had been scared by something. It weren't the white hair of an old man—he was just a young laddie. And he spoke with a stutter, which was so bad that sometimes I was wantin' to finish the word for him just so's we could get on with it.”

As our garrulous Scotsman described his visitor, Holmes's eyes narrowed and his lean face tightened.

“What did you show him?”

“I just showed him how I make the tea—my little ‘secret,' if you can call it that, is that I put just a wee bit of water in at first and let it steep in that and then add the rest of the water straight from the kettle right at the end. That way it's strong and hot and warms you up, and Mr. Huntley swears the flavor is better, too. I learned the trick off a Norwegian sea captain by the name of Olaf Niels.”

Holmes glanced around the dressing room.

“Is that your teapot?” he said, pointing to a stout blue willow pot which looked as though it had seen years of service.

“Aye—they keep the kettle down the hall, so I have to go down there twice to fill the pot.”

“And you generally leave the pot unattended while you wait for it to steep?”

“Aye, I've other things to do than hover around waiting for tea leaves. I usually lay out Mr. Huntley's dressing gown and then go back for the tea.”

“I see. Do you mind if we have a look at the kettle?”

“No—in fact, if you like, I'll make you gentlemen a cup of tea right now.”

Holmes was already out the door, so I answered.

“Thank you, Mr. McPearson; that would be very nice.”

We followed Mr. McPearson down narrow hallways to the communal tea area. A few stagehands lingered around a much-used kettle, smoking and playing cards. Ignoring them, Holmes pulled out his magnifying glass and began poking around. McPearson did not comment on this but set about to making the tea. Suddenly Holmes stiffened and a muffled cry escaped his throat.

“Ha! Watson—it is a sloppy workman who leaves behind traces such as this!” With a flourish, he pulled out the small leather pouch he always carried and swept something into it. “Thank you, Mr. McPearson; you've been enormously helpful,” he said, pulling me after him toward the exit.

“What about your tea?” McPearson called after us in a hurt voice.

“Another time, perhaps—” I called back as Holmes swept me out the door and into a hansom cab.

“What is it, Holmes?” I said as the cab rattled through the streets. “What did you find there?”

“I'm not certain, Watson, but I may have
found what I was looking for. First, however, some experimentation is required.”

I had some business to attend to at my neglected surgery, and so agreed to meet Holmes later in the evening.

When I entered the front hallway Mrs. Hudson was there to greet me.

“Oh, Dr. Watson—he'll drive me batty with those experiments of his! See if you can't take his mind off of his work for a while.”

“I'll do my best, Mrs. Hudson,” I said dubiously, as a bitter odor drifted down the stairs toward us. Rolling her eyes, Mrs. Hudson bustled me into my old sitting room, closing the door behind her with a click.

The lamp by the window lit the room with its yellow glow, and I saw the lean frame of my friend bent over his improvised lab table, sheathed in the green smoke which swirled about his head. His thick black hair, usually impeccably neat, fell in unruly locks over his forehead. At first I thought Holmes had not heard me enter, and was startled to hear him address me without turning to look at me.

“Ah, Watson, your timing is, as usual, impeccable. Come have a look.”

I stopped by the door to remove my coat.

“Come, Watson, come—it won't last forever, you know!” His face, in the lingering azure smoke, was pale and taut.

“What is it, Holmes?”

“Poison, Watson—a rare South African curare derivative I had the notion to write a small monograph about once.”

I bent over the beaker from which the green smoke emanated. Immediately I began to feel weak and dizzy. Holmes evidently noticed this, because I felt his strong grip on my shoulder.

“Not so close, Watson—not so close! It is a very concentrated tincture. Come, let us get some fresh air.”

With that he guided me over to the window, where he opened the shutters wide to let in a breeze. Even the thick air of London was a welcome relief to me after inhaling the stultifying fumes of Holmes's experiment.

“What is the connection, Holmes?”

“Curare, as you may know, acts in part as an agent of paralysis—you may perhaps have heard of its use in certain voodoo rituals to paralyze the victim.”

“Yes, I have heard of it, but—”

“This particular derivative, Watson, owes its effectiveness to its ability to localize its effect, thus paralyzing only a single muscle or group of muscles. Administered as a drink—”

“Huntley's vocal cords—paralyzed!”

“Precisely, Watson. Fortunately for Mr. Huntley, the effect will eventually wear off, but someone evidently took great pains to remove him from the picture temporarily.”

“But why, Holmes? And who would—?”

“The why is not yet entirely clear to me, Watson. But the who…” A shadow passed over my friend's stern face, and I fancied I saw him shudder. He rose and walked to the window, looking out into the night, where a soft rain had started to fall.

“The gentleman described to us by Mr. McPearson is well known to me. His name is Freddie Stockton, and he is an agent of”—here Holmes paused and drew his hand across his brow—“Professor Moriarty.”

“Good God, Holmes.”

“Yes. These are deeper waters than I at first suspected, Watson, and we must watch our step if we do not wish to find ourselves at the bottom of the river.”

“But Holmes, how is Moriarty involved—?”

“That is exactly what I intend to discover. I suggest you disassociate yourself from me for a while, Watson. It will be better if I proceed on my own from now on.”

“Don't be ridiculous, Holmes. I wouldn't think of abandoning the chase now.”

Holmes suddenly looked very tired and worn. His shoulders drooped and he looked as if he could hardly stand.

“You don't understand, Watson,” he said in a weary voice. “Moriarty is no ordinary villain; he has half the criminals of London at his beck and call. And I would never forgive myself
if something should happen to you through my carelessness. No, it really would be better if I go on alone from here. I can't put you at risk.”

“Holmes, since when have you ever known me to abandon you in times of danger? I beg you not to speak of this again unless you wish to risk seriously insulting me.”

Holmes looked at me and then laughed softly.

“Good old Watson, stalwart to the last,” he said with an unaccustomed softness in voice. “All right; I admit I did not expect you to budge for a moment, but I had to try—surely you can understand that.”

“Yes, I suppose so. Now, what is our next step?”

“To penetrate the web, Watson, that surrounds the spider.”

“And how do we do that?”

“We might start by interviewing some of the flies.”

And so I soon found myself seated next to my friend in a hansom, revolver in my coat pocket, the thrill of the chase tight in my throat. Holmes sat back in the shadows of the cab, his long fingertips pressed tightly together, hat low over his eyes. If I did not know better I would have said he did not draw a breath during the entire ride, so still he sat.

Finally we arrived at our destination: the heart of London's East End, teeming with vermin of both the animal and human variety. We wound our way through stalls of vegetable sellers and past women selling another kind of ware, until finally we reached a squalid alley. The sign said
PLUMMER
'
S COURT
, and although I instinctively shrank back from entering the narrow, dark corridor framed by a brick wall on one side and a shuttered building on the other, Holmes strode forth with such confidence that I was ashamed not to follow him. As we walked along the flagstone pavement I thought I heard scurrying noises at our feet. We stopped at a doorway which to my untrained eye looked boarded up and deserted, but when Holmes rapped three times with his stick there were answering sounds from within. Presently a latch was drawn and the door opened slightly. An unshaven face appeared, and a gruff voice asked, “What is it you want?”

“I want to speak with Mr. Freddie Stockton.”

“And who might you be?”

“I am Sherlock Holmes.”

The name evidently had an effect, because I could hear muffled voices from within. In response to something said to him, the man at the door opened it wide enough to admit us, closing it quickly after we entered.

The room was dark and smelled of horses—it had evidently until recently been used as a stable. Four men sat around a thick oaken table, smoking cigarettes and drinking. They were a rough-looking lot, none more so than the one with the stiff white-blond hair. He had thick shoulders and a snarling mouth, which curled in disgust when Holmes addressed him.

“So, Mr. Stockton, we meet again. I trust all has gone well for you since you were a guest of Scotland Yard after that unfortunate incident involving the jewelry theft. Pity they did not see it your way, really it is. Still, you seem none the worse for wear.”

The surly fellow rose from his chair and put his face close to Holmes's. My hand closed round my revolver as he spoke.

“You got a lotta nerve c-c-comin' here. You—”

“Come, come, Mr. Stockton; there's no need to be uncivil. I just would like you to deliver a message to the Professor from me. If you like I can come back at a more convenient time—”

Stockton's bloodshot eyes narrowed.

“What kinda m-m-message?”

“Simply that I'm on to his game, and that he should be more judicious in his use of poisons. I have a bit of expertise in the various forms of curare, I'm afraid, and I saw through his little charade.”

Stockton's already florid face reddened, and it was then I saw the long curved dagger hanging from his belt. Holmes certainly had seen it, and yet he was as cool as always. He turned to leave.

“Oh, and one more thing. He really should send someone a little less—memorable—than yourself on such public errands. Good day, gentlemen.”

And before any of the men could intervene, Holmes pulled me along with him and we were out the door. As we hurried back down the narrow street I glanced over my shoulder nervously, but evidently no one had followed us.

“That was awfully risky, Holmes. Why did you do it?”

“To put the fear of God into Moriarty, Watson. The more closely he believes he is being watched, the more likely he is to make a mistake. Besides, I knew we were in no great danger. Moriarty's men do nothing without instructions from him, and if he wanted to abduct us he could do that anytime he wished.”

In spite of Holmes's brave words, I could not help feeling we were in danger, and it was with regret that I turned off in the direction of my surgery once we were back in familiar territory. I pleaded with Holmes to take a cab to Baker Street, but he refused, saying the night air would clear his brain. As I watched his tall, spare form recede, I felt a shiver go down my spine, and I almost ran after him.

The next morning my fears were realized when I was awakened before dawn by a telegram from Mrs. Hudson summoning me urgently to Baker Street. I arrived unshaven and barely dressed, so great was my dread. Mrs. Hudson greeted me at the door.

“They brought him in last night, Dr. Watson. I begged him to go to hospital, but he would have none of it.”

“What's happened? Where is he?”

“He's upstairs, Dr. Watson. I'd like to get my hands round the villain that did this to him.”