The Big Book of Sherlock Holmes Stories (126 page)

I turned over the piece of paper again. It had to be a letter from Naomi! I did not know when it had been written, but it was safe to assume it was recent, or he would not have been still carrying it. Had it been an old one, but of sentimental value, then he would not have been willing to tear it for Holmes to use.

Did Harris love Naomi as he had told us? Perhaps she was truly his one vulnerability? If so then I had to use it. I had no compunction. Did he care what she thought of him? Assuredly. All his actions toward her were witness of that.

Where was she? If I put my mind to it, surely there was information I could use. She had indicated that she was to the north, but that must include most of England, and all of Scotland. The tulips were out and she had spoken of roses, but with a capital letter. Possibly Rose was a person.

The tulips were long since out in London. Perhaps her climate was noticeably cooler, and the season later.

And it must be country, or a village, she had spoken of widening a road, something impossible in a city where houses would prevent it.

That still left half the nation. I began to see the futility of what I was proposing.

But Holmes had sent this pointless message. He must mean me to read the back, and deduce something! It could only be where Naomi was. Perhaps in his arrogance Harris had allowed him to see even more clearly his regard for his daughter, imagining Holmes could do nothing to turn it to his advantage.

Dolphins. Beautiful, joyous creatures. I had admired their grace and seeming humour in foreign waters many times. We did not see them around our own coasts.

But she had written of seeing them. I strode to the bookshelf and took down a natural-history encyclopedia. My fingers fumbled as I turned the pages and found the reference to dolphins. I skimmed their history and attributes and read eagerly where they might be found. There were two places in Britain: Cardigan Bay in Wales, and the Moray Firth, lying between Invernessshire and the Black Isle.

Black! Could that be the “Black” in Naomi's letter?

This time it was a detailed atlas that I sought. I examined the Black Isle minutely, not sure what I hoped to find, except somewhere where one might view dolphins. That was absurd! An island had nothing but sea coasts!

But it was not a true island, instead it was a long isthmus with water to the north, south, and east. The north coast faced onto the almost enclosed Cromarty Firth, an unlikely place for such seagoing creatures. The south coast was far more open, and following it round I saw the small town of Rosemarkie. There was my “Rose.”

I was in a fever of hope. Now at last I had something to do! A plan was already beginning to form in my mind. It was desperate, but I had nothing else. Harris himself had indicated the weapon—if he had spoken the truth about Naomi, and I now believed he had, because he had invited Holmes to verify it, and every evidence showed that he was indeed devoted to her.

I seized pen and paper and wrote to Harris.

“I have your letter, and the authorisation from Holmes to raise the necessary funds, however, I require to add some of my own in order to reach the amount in the form you wish. Therefore you must allow me greater time. I shall need at least another day, possibly two
.

I shall contact you when I have succeeded. Should any harm whatever have befallen Holmes while in your care, you will receive no money whatever, and my eternal enmity. I fancy you will understand this very well
.

John Watson”

I felt a certain satisfaction with this. It held an irony that pleased me. I addressed it and posted it immediately, then I packed a small bag sufficient to last me for three days, which was all I had, and set out for Euston Railway Station to take the very next train to Inverness.

It is a long journey, some eleven and a half hours, and I sat impatiently while the countryside streamed past me. We stopped at York, Durham, and Edinburgh. I was desperately impatient to continue, but all the while I attempted to define more clearly in my mind exactly what I should do when I reached Rosemarkie.

We proceeded north, and beyond Stirling moved into the Highlands, and some of the most beautiful country I have ever seen. But even the mountain grandeur and the light on rivers and lochs could not lift my heart or hold my attention this time.

As soon as we reached Inverness I leaped off the train. It was now half past nine in the evening, and quite dark, even this far north where the sun in midwinter barely shines for more than the middle of the day, but in summer sets in a glory across the sky, leaving a rim of fire above the mountains that remains the brief hour or two until dawn.

I contained myself with difficulty, finding lodgings for the night where I was able to enquire about a ferry at sunrise, and some means of transport once I had arrived at North Kessock on the Black Isle. I had already settled upon my story, that I was seeking the daughter of a friend who was in most serious difficulty and my need to find her was urgent. Should any harm come to Holmes, I intended to make that the truth.

I was given every assistance by those most hospitable people. I could not say I slept well, but that was no lack of comfort or warmth, simply my own rising fears for Holmes's safety, and my own ability to affect his release.

I rose early, ate an excellent breakfast of fresh herrings rolled in oatmeal, a delicacy of the area, and toast and Dundee marmalade, then thanking my host, I set out as he directed.

It was mid-morning when I drove my hired pony and trap into the picturesque village of Rosemarkie. It was a beautiful day, sharp and sweet with the peculiarly clear light of the north making all the outlines of crowstep gables and budding trees sharp against the blue sky. I had no time to spare for subtlety. I had to find Naomi straight away. I was considerably hampered by not knowing her married name, but there was no help for that. I stayed with my story. I was
seeking a young Englishwoman named Naomi, whose father was in serious trouble of which she was unaware.

I asked first at the local grocery store, and met with a courteous reticence. I met with nothing better at the apothecary or the hardware store. I then decided in a flash of desperation to trade upon my profession. I enquired for the nearest general practitioner, and there, after repeating my tale, I was successful. I blushed to use a colleague in such fashion, but Holmes's life hung in the balance, and nothing would have shamed me into silence.

She lived with her husband a little way inland, at Upper Eathie, and I was given her address willingly. I thanked them and followed their directions.

It was late morning when I finally met Naomi MacAllister. She was a charming, sensitive woman with most beautiful hair, and only a fleeting resemblance to her father in colouring and pattern of speech.

I had already decided to remain with the story, which had served me so well.

“Good morning, Mrs. MacAllister. My name is John Watson, Dr. Watson,” I introduced myself. “I have come as speedily as I could from London.” I saw her instant look of concern, and I admit I felt a stab of guilt. But there was no alternative, no kinder way to use her, as I intended to.

“Is my father ill?” she asked in a voice already sharp with anxiety.

“He is not ill,” I answered. “But he is in most serious trouble…which may yet be averted from its worst outcome, if you will give me your assistance.”

“Anything!” she almost cut my words off in her eagerness. There was a warmth in her face and a softness about the lips, which can only have come from her mother. I wondered fleetingly what that lady could have been like, and if Robert Harris would have sunk to this appalling depth were she still alive. But the instant passed. There was no time for speculation.

“I am afraid we must return to London,” I answered, prepared to offer all manner of safeguards to her reputation, even to her husband accompanying us as a last resort, although his presence must hamper my plan to end this matter without harm to her. Then another idea came to me. “Mr. Sherlock Holmes is involved in the affair, and it is his effort, and mine, to prevent your father from suffering in a dreadful crime that would devastate the whole of his life, if not indeed end it.” This was the truth, although hardly in the way I implied. If Holmes were to die at Harris's hand, I would see to it myself that Harris ended his days at the end of a rope.

She was very pale, and put her hand to the door post to steady herself. But she certainly did not lack courage.

“Of course I will come, Dr. Watson. Mr. Holmes's reputation is beyond doubt or question. Even as far north as this, we have heard of him. And of course I visit London to see my father frequently. We must catch the train from Inverness. Please come in. I must make arrangements. Tell me what you need me to do.”

“Simply to be there, Mrs. MacAllister. If our plan succeeds, your presence will in itself be sufficient,” I answered.

She did not question me further, but set about filling a small valise with the needed toiletries and clean linen in order to accompany me. She informed her neighbour of the necessity for her departure, and wrote a letter for her husband, who was not expected home until the following day, having taken a trip in the course of his business, over the mountains to Ullapool on the West Coast.

We left late in the afternoon, hoping to find seats on the night train to Euston, and were fortunate to do so.

Several times she expressed her concern, and asked me to tell her more of the nature of her father's predicament, and the danger that threatened him, and I was obliged to think very rapidly. I confess I hated lying to her. The longer I was in her company the greater became my regard for her. She was intelligent, generous of spirit, and I believe, in other circumstances, would have
had a marked sense of humour. At moments, forgetting our cause, it flashed through in wry observation of others at the railway station as we boarded the train. At one awkward moment she stopped to assist an elderly woman with too much luggage, and a crying child, a very simple act of kindness, and done with such grace it seemed most natural to her.

But it was my growing conclusion of her integrity that most moved me. It was the quality upon which my plan depended, but it wounded me that I was making such use of her.

Fortunately for my feelings, and perhaps my nerve, it was a night train, and therefore most people made some attempt to sleep. I find it difficult, but I kept my eyes closed as if I were deep in slumber, to avoid the necessity of speaking with her again. I fear it was a cowardly thing to do. My excuse is that I also needed time to think.

We arrived at Euston station about eight o'clock in the morning, and immediately disembarked and set about finding a hansom cab to Baker Street. The rooms were strangely empty. I felt the silence, the fresh air without the odour of Holmes's tobacco, like a desolation.

I could no longer put off action. I faced her frankly.

“Mrs. MacAllister, your father is about to embark upon a course of action that will lead him very possibly to physical harm, most certainly to moral destruction. His motives may be good”…that was a lie I was prepared to tell for her sake…“but the act is not. I believe his love for you is great enough that if you write to him, begging him not to go ahead, then he will desist. I shall write a covering letter, and deliver it where I must. It is dangerous and unpleasant, I cannot require that you accompany me.” Though I relied upon her spirit and her devotion to her father that she would.

I was not mistaken.

“I most certainly will come with you, Dr. Watson.” Honest to the last, she made no claim to be unafraid.

“Thank you,” I said with total sincerity.

I sent a message to Harris at his home that I had the full value he had requested, and would meet him in front of the Duck and Dragon, but would pass it to him only if he had Holmes with him, alive and well. Then I awaited his answer.

It came by return, with the same messenger. He was willing. I could almost feel his eagerness in the scrawl upon the paper.

Accordingly, Naomi and I set out before midnight in the damp and blustery weather and rode in tense silence. There was no sound but the rattle of the wheels over the cobbles and the clatter of the horses' hooves as we moved from the dim circle of one gas lamp to the next through ever narrower and grimier streets.

Naomi was worried, I saw the fear in her face as we passed through each patch of light, her eyes straining forward, lips pressed together. How could she have felt anything else? She was in the dreariest of places with a man she knew only by repute, and her father was in the utmost danger. How I admired her courage, and my rage was almost beyond control that all her love was for someone as unworthy as Harris. I found myself caring profoundly, not merely that I should rescue Holmes sound and well, but that I should be able to force Harris to a more honourable path.

At last we reached the Duck and Dragon, and I confess, my heart was in my mouth as I assisted her out, and paid the driver. I asked him to wait, but I had little confidence that he would do so.

It was a most gloomy and sinister place, even though it had stopped raining and the wind was not cold. Everything about us seemed to drip and creak as if the entire street were subsiding upon itself. The smell of rotting timber and stale beer filled the air and the occasional shout or cry seemed less than human.

I took her by the arm. “Come,” I said with a cheer I did not feel. “It is only a few steps, and we are in excellent time.” I held her firmly in case she should see her father and run to him. I would use her as bargain if I had to.

The seconds ticked by. I searched the shadows for a sign of Harris, or of Holmes. Suddenly I was desperately afraid Harris would think me a man of too much honour or kindness to use his
daughter in this way. What if he were certain I would never harm her, and he did not come?

Then I steadied myself. Harming her had never been my intent. My weapon against him was to allow her to know exactly what manner of man he was. And I still had his ransom note, written in his hand. I would show it to her, and explain it all, if I must.