“You don’t know Sherlock Holmes?”
Watson shook his head. “Is there anything against him?”
“As far as I know, he is a decent enough fellow. But he is a little strange in his ideas — an enthusiast in some branches of science.”
“A medical student, I suppose?”
“No — to be honest, I have no idea what his calling is. He is well up on anatomy, and he is a first-class chemist; but as far as I am aware he has never taken out any systematic medical classes. His studies are very desultory and eccentric, but he has amassed a great deal of out-of-the-way knowledge which would astonish the professors.”
“Did you never ask him what he was going in for?”
“No; he is not an easy man to draw out, though he can be communicative enough when the fancy seizes him.”
“He sounds fascinating. If I am to lodge with anyone, I would prefer it to be with a fellow who was interesting, rather than a dullard. How can I meet this friend of yours?”
“He is sure to be at the laboratory now. He either avoids the place for weeks or else he works there from morning till night. If you like we could drive round together after luncheon.”
“Admirable,” beamed Watson.
Following their meal at The Holborn, the two men hailed a cab and made their way to Bart’s Hospital. Fuelled by the wine he had consumed over lunch, Stamford suddenly felt the need to tell Watson more about Sherlock Holmes. He felt a sentimental kinship to this troubled and rather weary doctor, and in giving him sufficient warning about Holmes, he believed that he wasn’t breaking faith with the black man who had engaged him to bring about a meeting between the two men. He hadn’t been told to ensure that they liked each other — just to make sure they met over the matter of lodgings in Baker Street.
Stamford lolled back in the cab and said, “You mustn’t blame me if you don’t get on with him — this Holmes character. I know nothing more of him than I have learned from meeting him occasionally about the hospital. Remember, you proposed this arrangement, so don’t hold me responsible.”
“If we don’t get on, it will be easy to part company. But tell me, it seems to me, Stamford, that you have some reason for washing your hands of the matter. Is this fellow’s temper so formidable, or what is it? Don’t be mealy-mouthed about it.”
“It’s not all that easy to express the inexpressible.” Stamford’s speech was now slightly slurred, and his eyelids flickered erratically. He gave a little laugh before continuing. “It’s just that Holmes is a little too scientific for my tastes. Cold-blooded... like a lizard. I could imagine him giving a friend a little pinch of the latest vegetable alkaloid, not out of malevolence, you understand — oh, no — but simply out of a spirit of enquiry in order to have an accurate idea of the effects. However, to do Holmes justice, I believe that he would take the stuff himself with the same readiness.”
“He appears to have a passion for definite and exact knowledge.”
“Quite right, Watson, but...” Stamford pulled himself forward, and leaning close to Watson’s face, lowered his voice to a whisper “... but it may be pushed to excess. When it comes to beating the subjects in the dissecting-room with a stick, his thirst for knowledge takes a rather bizarre route.”
“Beating the subjects?”
“Yes. Supposedly, to verify how far bruises may be produced after death. I saw it with my own eyes.”
“Very strange.”
“Still, you must make up your own mind, Watson. I just thought you should know... Ah, here we are: good old Bart’s.”
Stamford led Watson through the labyrinthine passageways of the great hospital to the chemical laboratory where he felt sure Holmes would be working. It was familiar ground to Watson, and he really needed no guiding, but nevertheless he dutifully walked several paces behind his companion.
At last they came upon a long corridor with a vista of whitewashed walls and dun-coloured doors. Near the far end, a low-arched passageway branched away from it and led to the chemical laboratory. This was a lofty chamber, lined and littered with countless bottles, each containing a rainbow hue of coloured liquids. Broad, low tables were scattered about, which bristled with retorts, test tubes and little Bunsen lamps with their blue flickering flames.
There was only one occupant of the room, a tall young man who was bending over a bench, absorbed in his work. At the sound of their steps, he glanced round, and recognising Stamford he sprang to his feet with a cry of pleasure.
“I’ve found it!” he cried, his high-pitched reedy voice filling the chamber. He ran towards us with a test tube in his hand. “I’ve found, it, Stamford. I have discovered a reagent that is precipitated by haemoglobin and nothing else.”
Undeterred by this news, Stamford set about the business of his visit. He took a step back and held his arms out to each of us.
“Gentlemen,” he said, with comic formality, “Doctor Watson, Mr Sherlock Holmes.”
Somewhere across the city, Professor James Moriarty was sitting, staring at a large chessboard. With a smile, he reached forward and made his move, lifting one of the pieces in the process.
“Rook takes knight,” he said. “My game.”
Nine
“Doctor Watson, Mr Sherlock Holmes.”
And so, at last, I came face to face with Sherlock Holmes, the man with whom my own destiny was now entwined. He was very tall, a little over six feet, and excessively lean. His black hair was swept back from his face, which was pale and gaunt, with high cheekbones and the most startling grey eyes, which shone out either side of a thin hooked nose.
He gave me a quick glance, almost distractedly, I thought, as though I was of little consequence and he was impatient to explain about his chemical discovery. But then he took my hand and gave it a firm shake with a strength that belied his slender physique.
“How are you?” he said cordially. “You have been in Afghanistan, I perceive.”
My blood ran cold. Was the game up before it had even started?
“You know me?” I gasped.
Holmes chuckled. “Of course not. I deduced it from your appearance. But that is of no consequence. The question now is about haemoglobin. No doubt you see the significance of my discovery?”
My mind did not register fully his question. I was too concerned as to how this man knew I had been in Afghanistan. Someone must have told him, but who? I glanced at Stamford, but his pasty face gave no clues.
“Come now,” Holmes was saying. “As medical men you should be able to see the potential of this reagent.”
“Well,” I said awkwardly, “it is interesting, chemically, no doubt, but as to its practical uses...”
The grin on Sherlock Holmes’ face informed me that I had responded to his query in exactly the manner he had wished. It gave him the opportunity to explain the potential of his discovery in detail.
“Why, man,” he cried enthusiastically, “it is the most practical medico-legal discovery for years! It gives an absolutely infallible test for bloodstains. Come over here now!’ Seizing my coat-sleeve in his eagerness, he drew me over to the table at which he had been working. ‘Let us have some fresh blood,” he said, and without flinching he dug a long bodkin into his finger and drew off the resulting drop of blood into a chemical pipette. “Now, take note, I add this small quantity of blood to a litre of water. The proportion of blood cannot be more than one in a million. I have no doubt, however, that we shall be able to obtain the characteristic reaction.”
As he spoke, he threw a few white crystals into the vessel and then added some drops of a transparent fluid. The effect was instantaneous. Immediately the contents assumed a dull mahogany colour and a brownish dust precipitated at the bottom of the glass jar.