Of course there was one other reason which barred me from declaring my feelings for Mary: Professor Moriarty. I was his slave. His puppet. What would he say if I told him that I was in love and intended to marry? Such an act would inevitably take me away from Baker Street and away from Sherlock Holmes. Such an act would be seen as treachery.
My heart weighed like lead when we reached our destination. The servants had retired hours ago, but Mrs Forrester had sat up awaiting Mary’s return. She opened the door herself, a middle-aged, graceful woman with a caring nature, and it gave me joy to see how tenderly her arm stole round the other’s waist, and how motherly was the tone of the voice with which she greeted Mary.
I was introduced, and Mrs Forrester earnestly implored me to step in and tell her our adventures. I knew Holmes was waiting for me to start the next stage of our investigation, and so reluctantly I had to refuse the offer.
As my cab drove away, I stole a glance back, and as I write this I can still see in my mind’s eye the two ladies on the step, two graceful clinging figures, and the half-opened door, the hall light shining through the stained glass, the barometer and the bright stair-rods. It was soothing to catch even that passing glimpse of a tranquil English home in the midst of the dark business which had absorbed us. It was like a mirage to me, the essence of quiet domestic bliss, which I believed at the time would elude me forever.
However, perhaps I more than most should not be surprised at the unpredictable and fickle way in which Fate plays with our lives. It is as the poet has it — our fate is “Lock’t up from the mortal eye/In shady leaves of destiny.” It was my destiny to be with Mary. I see that now, but then, as the carriage rumbled through the darkened streets and the little tableau of Mary with Mrs Forrester slipped from sight, I felt sick at heart.
Sherlock Holmes, ignorant of the emotional strains I was experiencing, carried on the investigation with relentless vigour. He was in search of the great Agra Treasure, which had been stolen some ten years before by Mary’s father and his co-conspirators, Colonel John Sholto and Jonathan Small. Small, the only survivor of the thieves, had recently arrived in London after escaping from imprisonment on the Andaman Islands, in search of what he considered to be his rightful inheritance. If the truth be known, many of the details of this case escaped me, as most of my thoughts were full of Mary. The published version of this investigation, the novella called The Sign of the Four, had perhaps more inaccurate passages and invented moments than nearly any other bearing my name. I know how my heart soared when we discovered that the treasure was lost and that Mary would not become an heiress after all. However, in my naïvety, I never considered two important things: that in law, the treasure was not Mary’s to keep anyway, and that she was of such a noble character that she would not contemplate calling any part of it her own.
I had arrived at Mrs Forrester’s with the treasure chest to find Mary waiting for me in the sitting-room. With the aid of the poker, I wrenched open the chest — to discover that it was empty.
“Thank God!” I cried out loud, my heart soaring, when I realised that the treasure was now no longer a barrier to our union. How could it be? There was no treasure.
Mary looked at me with a quick, questioning smile.
“Why do you say that?” she asked, but from her tone and expression I was aware that she knew the answer already.
“Because now you are within my reach,” I said, taking her hand. She did not withdraw it. “Because I love you, Mary, as truly as ever a man loved a woman. And the treasure, the possible wealth that it would bestow on you, sealed my lips. I could not as much as give you a hint of my true feelings while there was a possibility that you would become a rich woman. Now there is no threat. That stumbling-block has gone and I can confess that I love you.”
She drew close and smiled. “And that is why you said, ‘Thank God!’”
I nodded.
She kissed my cheek. “And then I say thank God, too.”
For a moment we stared into each other’s eyes, and then I pulled her to me and we kissed.
The elation I felt as I left Mary Morstan on the step of Mrs Forrester’s that night soon dissipated when I remembered that I still faced a greater and more insurmountable hurdle, in the dark shape of Professor Moriarty.
How could I marry Mary and stay true to my accursed bargain with him? But I was not about to give up my romantic dream without a fight. At the earliest opportunity, I wrote to the Professor requesting an interview, and then I waited. Once again, this creature of the underworld held my life and happiness in his hands.
Twenty
FROM THE JOURNAL OF JOHN WALKER
It was two nights after the denouement of the Agra Treasure affair. Ihad dined with Mary, and we had talked at great length about our feelings and our possible future together. Of course, Ihad said nothing about my role in the life of Sherlock Holmes or even breathed the name of Professor James Moriarty. It pained me to begin our close relationship while still concealing those important elements of my existence, but Iknew that Icould never share those truths with her. However, the sheer joy of being able to be with this wonderful woman blotted out most of my concerns. After seeing her home, Icalled at The Butcher’s Arms, an inn on Marylebone High Street, for a brandy nightcap. Iassumed that Holmes would be waiting up at Baker Street, and Iwanted to savour a quiet drink on my own and enjoy the happiness Ifelt in loving and being loved by that darling girl.
As Isat in a private compartment, smoking a cigar, watching in quiet contentment the floating tendrils of smoke ease their way towards the ceiling, a rough-looking fellow with rosy cheeks and dark beady eyes put his head round the corner and grinned at me.
“Beggin’ your pardon, but it is Doctor John H. Watson whom I have the pleasure of addressin,’ ain’t it?”
“Why, yes,” I said, with some surprise.
“That’s good,” continued the fellow, sidling up to my table, “‘cause I got a personal note for you here.”
He pulled out a long cream envelope with my name scrawled on the front.
“I was told to pass this on to you, Doctor Watson.” He handed me the envelope. “My pleasure.” He grinned once more, exposing a row of irregular and yellowing teeth, raised an imaginary hat in a parting gesture, and disappeared from view.
A chill ran down my spine. I recognised the type of enveloped and the handwriting. What unnerved me was not the message from Moriarty, but the nature by which it had come to me. Until fifteen minutes earlier, I had no notion myself that I would be taking a drink at this particular inn — and yet one of the Professor’s minions had found me here. How closely was I being watched? Was there any privacy in my life?