“They’re keepin’ this one tight to their chests, they are, an’ all,” Drysdale had said, grinning, before downing his pint of ale.
Two or three — not good odds. That is why Holmes had brought his pistol with him. He had been tempted to contact Watson to see if he would be free for an evening’s adventure, but Holmes felt guilty at the rough and antagonistic way he had treated his friend on their last meeting, and he reasoned that it was unfair to put such pressure on him. There was certainly danger in this nocturnal endeavour, which he felt he had no right to ask Watson to share.
As Big Ben struck midnight, the light went out in the bedroom. The occupant was at last seeking the refuge of sleep. Not, surmised Holmes, that he would get much that night. After a five-minute interval, he saw two shadowy figures steal up the pathway to the porch. There was a brief flash of a lantern as one of the men dealt with the lock. They were professionals all right, thought Holmes, for with the minimum of time, effort and noise, they had gained entry to the house, closing the door behind them.
Now he had to make a decision. Did he go into the house and catch the intruders red-handed, or wait until they emerged with their trophy? Both strategies had their drawbacks. Entering the darkened house, he was placing himself at risk, especially with two men moving in the shadows. But they might quite easily leave by a back entrance while he was left waiting at the front.
Taking a firm hold of his pistol, he approached the front door. As yet, there were no sounds emanating from the house. He entered, and holding his breath he listened intently. Suddenly, he saw a flash of light on the landing and heard a man cry out.
Without hesitation, Holmes rushed up the stairs. The front bedroom door was ajar, and he could see inside the room clearly. A bedside lamp had been lit, providing harsh illumination which projected the figures of the two men into giant dancing shadows on the wall. One of the intruders was holding a cloth over the face of the man in bed. It was obviously doused in chloroform to subdue the victim. His arms were flailing in protest, but gradually as the chloroform took its effect, his body grew limp and his arms dropped to his side.
“That’s it,” said one of the men, with a rasping guffaw. “Time for a big nap.”
“Right, let’s get Rip Van Winkle out of here,” said the other.
“I don’t think you are going anywhere,” announced Sherlock Holmes, striding into the room, pistol in hand.
The two men froze at the sight of the gun.
“Who the hell are you?” asked one of the men.
“I am Sherlock Holmes.”
There was something in the expression on the man’s face that alerted Holmes to his danger. Instinctively he turned round, while stepping to the side, but he was not quick enough. He received a savage blow to the side of his head, and for a moment an explosion of bright light filled his vision. He staggered backwards, his gun going off, the bullet embedding itself in the ceiling. His attacker, the third man, who had come up behind him, kicked the weapon from the detective’s hands.
Sherlock Holmes knew he was now in serious trouble. His only hope of survival was to escape. As the three men advanced on him, he scuttled like a crab towards the window. Snatching up a chair, he jabbed it at the pane, creating a jagged aperture large enough for him to clamber through. By now, one of the men had retrieved the gun and fired at Holmes, but the bullet whistled past the detective’s head. Holmes knew the next shot would be more accurate. Without hesitation he launched himself through the window, catching his jacket on the jagged glass as he did so. He felt a sharp stab of pain as the glass pierced his skin. He was now more than half way out of the window, and he spied a rhododendron bush in the garden below which he hoped would break his fall. Just as he scrambled out on to the ledge, one of his attackers launched himself forward and stabbed Holmes in the leg. The detective gave a fierce gasp of pain, but he would not be stopped now. With a Herculean effort, he wrenched himself free of his attacker and then suddenly found himself spiralling through darkened space.
Twenty-Four
FROM THE JOURNAL OF JOHN H. WATSON
A few days after my visit to see Holmes, Ireceived the urgent message that set in motion a series of events that led to the most dramatic conclusion. The message came from Professor Moriarty. It was terse and to the point: “You have neglected your duties, Doctor! Holmes is interfering in my affairs. You must stop him. Act immediately!”
How was Ito act? Ihad no idea what the Professor expected me to do. But Iwas aware that if Idid not do something, my life, and those of Mary and Sherlock Holmes, would not be worth a pin’s fee.
Without delay, Iengaged myself in a series of subterfuges. By now, through necessity, Ihad become adept at such activities. Iinformed Mary that Holmes was in dire need of my assistance and that Icould not deny his plea for help. Without so much as a frown or a pursed lip, she said that she understood and that Ihad to follow my feelings in the matter. Hurriedly, Iengaged a locum to look after my patients for a few days, spinning some yarn about attending to an elderly aunt in the North who was close to death. Ithen hailed a cab and sped to Baker Street, not knowing what Iwould find there, what reception Iwould receive or how I would explain my arrival.
On entering the sitting-room, I found an old man asleep on the chaise-longue. He was heavily whiskered and had the reddish complexion that one finds in heavy drinkers. His old tweed suit had seen better days, as had his shabby boots, and his hands and nails were thickly begrimed. Despite my appearance, he continued to snore quietly, his chest rising and falling in a regular rhythm.
I looked in vain for my friend. I peered into his bedroom, but the smooth lay of the eiderdown indicated that he had not slept there that night. When I returned to the sitting-room, the old man had awakened and was on his feet. He eyed me with some amusement, and then, just as I was about to challenge him as to his identity, I caught a familiar gleam in the grey eyes. It was Holmes.
“Morning, Watson!” he cried, pulling off his side whiskers with a theatrical gesture. “How good to see you.”
I could not help myself: I burst out laughing.
Holmes grinned and bowed. “Septimus Hitchcock at your service, sir,” he said in a rich Cockney accent.
I shook my head in wonderment. “What on earth...?”
“A long story — one which I will have pleasure in recounting over a late breakfast. I do hope you can stay.”
I nodded.
“Good man,” he said, in buoyant humour, his demeanour bearing none of the irascible bitterness I experienced during our last encounter. “Call down to Mrs Hudson and order coffee, toast and boiled eggs for two, there’s a good fellow. If I know her, she will already be about the task. By the time I’ve shed my ancient persona, and had a wash and shave, our feast will be ready for us and then I will provide you with the details of my latest escapade.”
With a gentle pat on my shoulder, he disappeared into his bedroom. I couldn’t be sure at the time, but I thought that he was limping.
Fifteen minutes later, I was sitting opposite the spruce, clean-shaven and familiar version of Sherlock Holmes. He was encased in one of his dressing-gowns, and he was smoking his old clay pipe. The coffee, toast and eggs lay before him, untouched.
“Have you heard of the Elephant’s Egg?”
The phrase echoed down the corridors of my memory. Unusual and amusingly preposterous as it seemed, I had heard of it before — but I could not place it in context. I shook my head in denial.