*Proof that this case predates 1900, since Otto von Bismarck died in 1898—unless Watson got mixed up with dates, which he did tend to do on occasion.
Frisbee pondered for a moment on his words, then turned toward the door, only to turn around again toward Holmes. "You know, we do have a number of Germans over here. A bit of a sticky thing if there's ever a war. Matter of intelligence, you know."
Holmes knew and so did I. As I let Claymore Frisbee out of our sitting room with a farewell, I thought of what he didn't know. Namely that Holmes' brother headed up the espionage department of the British government and was the second most powerful man in England. Holmes had never told me point-blank of his brother's real function; but ever since I had first met Mycroft Holmes in connection with that Greek interpreter matter in '88, I had realized that he did not just audit books in some of the government departments. I knew what special branch Holmes had in mind relative to Hananish in Gloucester.
Fatigue prompted me to sponge such thoughts from my mind. With the departure of our relieved client, I decided to retire for the night. The prospect of a return trip to Gloucester caused me to mouth a somewhat peevish complaint before doing so. "Most of our time on this case has been spent in train travel, Holmes. It will be a relief to stay in London for a change."
My friend was staring into the fireplace, his mind I knew not where, but he responded. "It all started with a train robbery, you know."
I could summon no retort to this and made my way to the upper story.
Chapter 17
The Return to Fenley
THE BELLS of St. Mary-le-Bow were striking the hour when I suddenly sat upright in my bed. The room was pitch-black and from the state of my bolster I knew that my sleep had been fretful. Something had been prodding at my subconscious, something I should tell Holmes. Then it came to me. The three men on the hill who had fallen before the American's flaming gun were unfamiliar to me. On that morning, not long ago, when I had been spirited away from the entrance to the Red Grouse Inn, I gained but a fleeting impression of the two men who had taken me so neatly and then, by intent, had left a broad trail behind them. But I knew they were not of the trio that had met their fate in Essex and were now being shipped to the morgue in London. This meant that Hananish had other bully boys at his beck and call.
The thought that had plagued me did not seem of importance when viewed with cold logic. Though my logic had acquired no fame, the room was cold—that I could state firmly. I knew that if I huddled under my blankets, sleep would prove the coquette indeed and but flirt with me through the remaining dark hours. Rather than waste my blandishments on the fickle mistress of the night, I searched with inquisitive toes for my slippers. Grateful for their fleece lining, I rose with a creak and a groan and trembled my way to the backless stool and my robe that rested on it. There was that silence that breathed at one, like a tangible thing rather than a total absence. A chill ran across the back of my shoulders, and I clutched my robe around me, stumbling in the darkness toward the door of my bedchamber. Down the back stairs I went with the thought that the dying embers of the hearth fire would be a welcome comfort. There was a dullish glow within the ashes of the back log that I stirred with the poker and then searched out the wood box for a length of birch. The bark of the soft wood was cooperative and soon there was a small but merry flame, which did little to offset the chill of the room but did raise my spirits slightly.
Throughout those untold generations before the wheel, the candle, the coming of the mechanical age, man had sought the healing balm of the unconscious when the sun departed from the western sky, sallying forth from caves when it reappeared in the East. Artificial light and a work cycle that could be altered to suit individual taste had turned night into day; but it was the memory of the genes, the schedule established through the evolutionary curve, that dropped one's metabolism to its lowest ebb during these eerie hours of early morning and prompted disjointed thoughts and errant wisps of vague memory as though from another life. A gleam caught my eye and I noted, in a sudden flaming of birch sap, the chambers and handle of the Colt gun shining at me from its leather holster on the bookshelf where I had placed it. For no reason I found myself composing a clumsy chanty and, more ridiculous yet, I sang it standing bent over the fire like a cackling Scrooge who had gone daft.
Five shots near the mountain,
They did the deed well.
Five shots near the mountain,
Three men went to hell.
Enough of this, I thought, crossing to the sideboard. The great silver urn felt warm to my hand and I poured a cup of coffee almost with anger. Here I was, by training a savior of life and, because of that meeting long ago, now embroiled in the danger and violence that was kith and kin to the profession of my most intimate friend.
In times past those twin footpads, blood and death, that tiptoed behind the world's only consulting detective had been shriveled in my mind's eye by the blinding light of my boundless admiration for Holmes' uncanny ability at observation and analysis, surely equal to the fabled tales of mythological necromancers. Now, had not the inroads of time, advance guard for the grim reaper my friend had mentioned to Frisbee, taken their toll? Fat and short-winded, could I now stand firm on the deck of that police boat roaring down the Thames in pursuit of the launch Aurora—firing my service revolver at that bestial native of the Andaman Islands and his master, the one-legged Jonathan Small? Could I now press the muzzle of a pistol to the head of one such as Patrick Cairns and force him to surrender? My self-doubts had me dizzy with recriminations, and the cup began to shake in my hand. Might I not be placing Holmes in danger? That one moment when he depended on his companion of the years, might I not let him down?
But then, the memory of my old regiment came to me. You're spooked, Watson, I thought, and mouthing ineffable twaddle to yourself. Three men died today. More than three hundred spilled blood in the fatal battle of Maiwand, yours among it. More than three thousand went down in the second Afghan war. The cup stopped shaking, and I laced my coffee with a spot of Irish to mask its acrid taste.
It was then that I heard, in the complete silence, the downstairs door open. My first thought was Lightfoot, the late Moriarty's number one executioner. My second was my Smith-Webley upstairs. But then only Holmes and I, along with Mrs. Hudson, had keys to the street door; and the cunning dead-bolt lock had been set tonight, for I did it myself. But Holmes was asleep in his chamber, or was he? I had not seen him go to bed. Nonetheless, my eyes went to the Colt pistol that I had acquired under such strange circumstances on this day; but there was naught but spent cartridges in it.
I quickly ignited the lamp beside me, raising the wick, and then crossed to the fireplace to stand by the poker.
There was no sound on the seventeen steps leading upward to our first floor chambers, but the cat-footed Holmes wouldn't make any. I spoke out, and my voice had a slight tremor to it.
"Holmes?"
There was the sudden sound of key in lock and the door swept open to reveal my hawk-like friend, who was chuckling.
"The lamplight put me on the alert, Watson, for I noted it under the crack of our door. I was standing without, pondering my next move, when I heard the welcome sound of your voice."