The House of Silk by Anthony Horowitz
I awoke early the next day and sent a message to Lestrade, urging him once again to help arrange a visit to Holloway, no matter what Inspector Harriman had to say. To my surprise, I received a reply informing me that I could enter the prison at three o’clock that afternoon, that Harriman had concluded his preliminary investigation and that the coronor’s court had indeed been set for Thursday, two days hence. On first reading, this struck me as good news. But then I was struck by a more sinister explanation. If Harriman was part of the conspiracy, as Holmes believed and as everything about his manner and even his appearance suggested, he might well have stood aside for a quite different reason. My host of the night before had insisted that Holmes would never be allowed to stand trial. Suppose the assassins were preparing to strike! Could Harriman know that it was already too late?
I could barely contain myself throughout the morning and left Baker Street well before the appointed hour, arriving at Camden Road before the clocks had struck the half-hour. The coachman left me in front of the outer gate and, despite my protestations, hurried away, leaving me in the cold and misty air. All in all I couldn’t blame him. This wasn’t a place where any Christian soul would have chosen to linger.
The prison was of Gothic design; on first appearance a sprawling, ominous castle, perhaps something out of a fairy story written for a malevolent child. Constructed from Kentish ragstone, it consisted of a series of turrets and chimneys, flagpoles and castellated walls, with a single tower soaring above and seeming almost to disappear into the clouds. A rough, muddy track led to the main entrance, which was purposefully designed to be as unwelcoming as possible, with a massive wooden gate and steel portcullis framed by a few bare and withered trees on either side. A brick wall, at least fifteen feet high, surrounded the entire complex, but above it I could make out one of the wings, with two lines of small, barred windows whose rigid uniformity somehow hinted at the emptiness and misery of life inside. The prison had been built at the foot of a hill and, looking beyond it, it was possible to make out the pleasant pastures and slopes that rose up to Highgate. But that was another world, as if the wrong backdrop had been accidentally lowered onto the stage. Holloway Prison stood on the site of a former cemetery, and the whiff of death and decay still clung to the place, damning those who were inside, warning those without to stay away.
It was as much as I could bear to wait thirty minutes in the dismal light with my breath frosting and the cold spreading upwards through my feet. At last I walked forward, clutching the book with the key concealed in its spine, and as I entered the prison it occurred to me that were I to be discovered, this horrid place could well become my home. I think it is true to say that I broke the law at least three times in the company of Sherlock Holmes, always for the best of reasons, but this was the high point of my criminal career. Strangely, I was not even slightly nervous. It did not occur to me that anything could possibly go wrong. All my thoughts were focused on the plight of my friend.
I knocked on a door which stood inconspicuously beside the outer gate and it was opened almost at once by a surprisingly bluff and even jovial officer, dressed in dark blue tunic and trousers with a bunch of keys hanging from a wide, leather belt. ‘Come in, sir. Come in. It’s more pleasant in than out and there’s not many days you could say that with any truth.’ I watched him lock the door behind us, then followed him across a courtyard to a second gate, smaller, but no less secure, than the first. I was already aware of an eerie silence inside the prison. A ragged, black crow perched on the branch of a tree but there was no other sign of life. The light was fading rapidly but as yet no lamps had been lit and I had a sense of shadows within shadows, of a world with almost no colour at all.
We had entered a corridor with an open door to one side, and it was through here that I was taken, into a small room with a desk, two chairs and a single window looking directly on to a brick wall. To one side stood a cabinet with perhaps fifty keys suspended on hooks. A large clock faced me and I noticed the second hand moved ponderously, pausing between each movement, as if to emphasise the slow passage of time for all those who had come this way. A man sat beneath it. He was dressed similarly to the officer who had met me, but his uniform had a few trimmings of gold, on his cap and shoulders, denoting his senior rank. He was elderly, with grey hair cut short and steely eyes. As he saw me, he scrambled to his feet and came round from behind the desk.
‘Dr Watson?’
‘Yes.’
‘My name is Hawkins. I am the chief warder. You have come to see Mr Sherlock Holmes?’
‘Yes.’ I uttered the word with a sudden sense of dread.
‘I am sorry to have to inform you that he was taken ill this morning. I can assure you that we have done everything we can to accommodate him in a manner appropriate to a man of his distinction, despite the very serious crimes of which he is accused. He has been kept away from the other prisoners. I have personally visited him on several occasions and have had the pleasure of conversing with him. His illness came suddenly and he was given treatment at once.’
‘What is wrong with him?’
‘We have no idea. He took his lunch at eleven o’clock and rang the bell for assistance immediately after. My officers found him doubled up on the floor of his cell in evident pain.’
I felt an ice-cold tremor in the very depth of my heart. It was exactly what I had been fearing. ‘Where is he now?’ I asked.
‘He is in the infirmary. Our medical officer, Dr Trevelyan, has a number of private rooms which he reserves for desperate cases. After examining Mr Holmes, he insisted on moving him there.’
‘I must see him at once,’ I said. ‘I am a medical man myself …’
‘Of course, Dr Watson. I have been waiting to take you there now.’
But before we could leave, there was a movement behind us and a man that I knew all too well appeared, blocking our way. If Inspector Harriman had been told the news, he did not look surprised by it. In fact, his attitude was quite languid, leaning against the door frame, with his attention half-fixed on a gold ring on his middle finger. He was dressed in black as always, carrying a black walking stick. ‘So what’s this all about, Hawkins?’ he asked. ‘Sherlock Holmes ill?’
‘Seriously ill,’ Hawkins declared.
‘I am distraught to hear it!’ Harriman straightened up. ‘You’re sure he’s not deceiving you? When I saw him this morning, he was in perfect health.’
‘Both my medical officer and I have examined him and I assure you, sir, that he is gravely stricken. We are just on our way to see him.’
‘Then I will accompany you.’
‘I must protest—’
‘Mr Holmes is my prisoner and the subject of my investigation. You can protest all you like, but I will have my way.’ He smiled malevolently. Hawkins glanced at me and I could see that, decent man though he was, he dared not argue.
The three of us set off through the depths of the prison. Such was my state of mind that I can recall few of the details, although my overall impressions were of heavy flagstones, of gates that creaked and clashed as they were unlocked and locked behind us, of barred windows too small and too high up to provide a view and of doors … so many doors, one after another another, each identical, each sealing up some small facet of human misery. The prison was surprisingly warm and had a strange smell, a mixture of oatmeal, old clothes and soap. We saw a few warders standing guard at various intersections, but no prisoners apart from two very old men struggling past with a basket of laundry. ‘Some are in the exercise yard, some on the treadwheel or in the oakum shed,’ Hawkins replied to a question I had not asked. ‘The day begins early and ends early here.’
‘If Holmes has been poisoned, he must be sent immediately to a hospital,’ I said.
‘Poison?’ Harriman had overheard me. ‘Who said anything about poison?’
‘Dr Trevelyan does indeed suspect severe food poisoning,’ returned Hawkins. ‘But he is a good man. He will have done everything withi
We had reached the end of the central block from which the four main wings stretched out like the blades of a windmill and found ourselves in what must be a recreation area, paved with Yorkshire stone, with a lofty ceiling and a corkscrew metal staircase leading to a gallery that ran the full length of the room above. A net had been stretched across our heads so that nothing could be thrown down. A few men, dressed in grey army cloth, were sorting through a pile of infants’ clothes which were piled up on a table in front of them. ‘For the children of St Emmanuel Hospital,’ Hawkins said. ‘We make them here.’ We passed through an archway and up a matted staircase. By now I had no idea where I was and would never have been able to find my way out again. I thought of the key that I was still carrying, concealed in the book. Even if I had been able to deliver it into Holmes’s hands, what good would it have been? He would have needed a dozen keys and a detailed map to get out of this place.
There was a pair of glass-panelled doors ahead of us. Once again, these had to be unlocked, but then swung open into a very bare, very clean room with no windows but skylights up above and candles already lit on two central tables, for it was almost dark. There were eight beds, facing each other in two rows of four, the coverlets blue and white check, the pillowcases striped calico. The room reminded me at once of my old army hospital where I had often watched men die with the same discipline and lack of complaint that had been expected of them in the field. Only two of the beds were occupied. One contained a shrivelled, bald man whose eyes I could see were already focusing on the next world. A hunched-up shape lay, shivering, in the other. But it was too small to be Holmes.
A man dressed in a patched and worn frock coat rose up from where he had been working and came over to greet us. From the very 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 request.’
‘I took it but he didn’t drink it,’ the orderly grumbled. ‘He didn’t say nothing, neither. He just lay there.’
‘Asleep?’ Harriman walked up to Dr Trevelyan until the two of them were but inches apart. ‘Are you really telling me he was ill, doctor, or was it perhaps, as I believed from the outset, that he was dissembling – first so that he would be brought here, second so that he could choose his moment to walk out?’
‘As to the first, he was most certainly ill,’ replied Trevelyan. ‘At least, he had a high fever, his pupils were dilated and the sweat was pouring from his brow. I can attest to that, for I examined him myself. As to the second, he could not possibly have walked out of here, as you suggest. Look at the door, for heaven’s sake! It was locked from the outside. There is but one key and it has never left my desk. There are the bolts, which were fastened until Rivers drew them back just now. And even if, by some bizarre and inexplicable means, he had been able to leave the cell, where do you think he would go? To begin with, he would have had to cross this ward and I have been at my desk all afternoon. The door through which you three gentlemen entered was locked. And there must be a dozen more locks and bolts between here and the front gate. Are you to tell me that he somehow spirited himself through all of them too?’
‘It is certainly true that walking out of Holloway would be nothing short of impossible,’ Hawkins agreed.
‘Nobody can leave this place,’ muttered Rivers, and he seemed to smirk as if at some private joke. ‘Unless his name is Wood. Now, he left here only this afternoon. Not on his own two legs though, and I don’t think anyone would have had a mind to ask him where he was going, nor when he was coming back.’
‘Wood? Who is Wood?’ Harriman asked.
‘Jonathan Wood was here in the infirmary,’ Trevelyan replied. ‘And you’re wrong to make light of it, Rivers. He died last night and was carried out in a coffin not an hour ago.’
‘A coffin? Are you telling me that a closed coffin was taken from this room?’ I could see the detective working things out and realised, as did he, that it presented the most obvious, indeed the only method for Holmes’s escape. He turned on the orderly. ‘Was the coffin here when you took in the water?’ he demanded.
‘It might have been.’
‘Did you leave Holmes on his own, even for a few seconds?’
‘No, sir. Not for one second. I never took my eyes off him.’ The orderly shuffled on his feet. ‘Well, maybe I attended to Collins when he had his fit.’
‘What are you saying, Rivers?’ Trevelyan cried.
‘I opened the door. I went in. He was sound asleep on the bed. Then Collins began his coughing. I put the mug down and ran out to him.’
‘And what then? Did you see Holmes again?’
‘No, sir. I settled Collins. Then I went back and locked the door.’
There was a long silence. We all stood there, staring at each other as if waiting to see who would dare to speak first.
It was Harriman. ‘Where is the coffin?’ he exclaimed.
‘It will have been carried outside,’ Trevelyan replied. ‘There will be a wagon waiting to carry it to the undertaker in Muswell Hill.’ He grabbed his coat. ‘It may not be too late. If it’s still there, we can intercept it before it leaves.’
I will never forget the progress that we made through the prison. Hawkins went first with a furious Harriman at his side. Trevelyan and Rivers came next. I followed last, the book and the key still in my hand. How ridiculous they seemed now, for even if I had been able to deliver them to my friend, along with a ladder and a length of rope, he would never have been able to get out of this place on his own. It was only because of Hawkins, signalling at the various guards, that we were able to leave ourselves. The doors were unlocked and swung open, one after another. Nobody stood in our way. We took a different path to that which I had come originally, for this time we passed a laundry with men sweating at giant tubs and another room filled with boilers and convoluted metal tubes that supplied the prison’s heating, finally crossing a smaller, grassy courtyard and arriving at what was evidently a side entrance. It was only here that a guard attempted to block our passage, demanding our letters of authority.