‘I see a great many people.’
‘Yes. But in this cold weather very few of them wish to linger. There is one man, however, who is doing precisely that. There! He is looking our way.’
The man in question was wrapped in a coat and a scarf with a broad-brimmed, black felt hat and hands tucked beneath his arms so that beyond the fact that he was a man, and did indeed seem to be rooted to the spot, unsure whether to continue or not, there was very little of him that I could see to describe with any degree of accuracy. ‘You think he has come in response to our advertisement?’ I asked.
‘It is the second time he has passed our front door,’ Holmes replied. ‘I noticed him the first time fifteen minutes ago, walking up from the Metropolitan Railway. He then returned, and since then he has barely moved. He is making sure that he is not observed. Finally, he has made up his mind!’ As we watched him, standing back so that he could not see us himself, the man crossed the road. ‘He should be with us in a moment,’ Holmes said, returning to his seat.
Sure enough, the door opened and Mrs Hudson introduced our new visitor, who peeled off the hat, the scarf and the coat to reveal a strangelooking young man whose face and physique displayed so many contradictions that I was sure even Holmes would find it difficult to pin him down. I say he was young — he could not have been past thirty — and he was built like a prizefighter and yet his hair was thin, his skin grey and his lips cracked, all of which made him seem much older. His clothes were expensive and fashionable but they were also dirty. He seemed nervous to be here, yet regarded us with a bullish self-confidence that was almost aggressive. I stood waiting for him to speak, for until then I would be unsure whether I was in the presence of an aristocrat or a ruffian of the lowest sort.
‘Please take a seat,’ said Holmes, at his most congenial. ‘You have been outside for a while and I would hate to think that you have caught a chill. Would you like some hot tea?’
‘I’d prefer a tot of rum,’ he replied.
‘We have none. But some brandy?’ Holmes nodded at me and I poured a good measure into a glass and handed it over.
The man drained it at once. A little colour returned to his face and he sat down. ‘Thank you,’ he said. His voice was hoarse but educated. ‘I’ve come here for the reward. I shouldn’t have. The people that I deal with would cut my throat if they knew I was here, but I need the money, that’s the long and the short of it. Twenty pounds will keep the demons away for a good while and that’s worth sticking my neck out for. Do you have it here?’
‘You will have the payment when we have your information,’ Holmes replied. ‘I am Sherlock Holmes. And you…?’
‘You may call me Henderson, which is not my real name but it will do as well as any other. You see, Mr Holmes, I have to be careful. You placed an advertisement asking for information about the House of Silk, and from that moment this house will have been watched. Anyone coming, anyone leaving will have been noted, and it may well be that one day you will be asked to provide the names of all your visitors. I made sure that my face was hidden before I crossed your threshold. You will understand if I do the same for my identity.’
‘You will still have to tell us something about yourself before I part with any money. You are a teacher are you not?’
‘What makes you say that?’
‘There is chalk dust on the edge of your cuff and I notice a red ink stain on the inside of your third finger.’
Henderson, if that was what I was to call him, smiled briefly, showing stained, uneven teeth. ‘I am sorry to have to correct you, but I am in fact a tidewaiter, although I do use chalk to mark the packages before they are unloaded and enter the numbers in a ledger using red ink. I used to work with the customs officer at Chatham but came to London two years ago. I thought a change of scene would be good for my career, but in fact it has almost ruined me. What else can I tell you about myself? I come originally from Hampshire and my parents live there still. I am married but have not seen my wife for a while. I am a wretch of the very worst sort, and although I would like to blame others for my misfortune, I know that at the end of the day it is entirely my own doing. Worse still, there is no turning back. I would sell my mother for your twenty pounds, Mr Holmes. There is nothing I would not do.’
‘And what is the cause of your undoing, Mr Henderson?’
‘Will you give me another brandy?’ I poured him a second glass and this time he examined it briefly. ‘Opium,’ he said, before swallowing it down. ‘That is my secret. I am addicted to opium. I used to take it because I liked it. Now I cannot live without it.
‘Here is my story. I left my wife in Chatham until I had established myself and took up lodgings in Shadwell to be close to my new place of work. Do you know the area? It is inhabited by seamen, of course, as well as dock workers, Chinamen, lascars and blacks. Oh, it’s a colourful neighbourhood and there are enough temptations — pubs and dancing saloons — to part any fool and his money. I could tell you I was lonely and missed my family. I could simply say that I was too stupid to know any better. What difference does it make? It was twelve months ago that I paid my first fourpence for the little pellet of brown wax to be drawn from the gallipot. How low the price seemed then! How little did I know! The pleasure it gave me was beyond anything I had experienced. It was as if I had never truly lived. Of course I went back. First a month later, then a week later, then suddenly it was every day and soon it was if I had to be there every hour. I could no longer think about my work. I made mistakes and flew into an incoherent rage when I was criticised. My true friends fell away. My false ones encouraged me to smoke more and more. It wasn’t very long before my employers recognised the state into which I had fallen and they have threatened to dismiss me, but I no longer care. The desire for opium fills my every waking moment and does so even now. It’s been three days since I’ve had a smoke. Give me the reward so that I can again lose myself in the mists of oblivion.’
I looked on the man with horror and pity, and yet there was something about him that scorned my sympathy, that seemed almost proud of what he had become. Henderson was sick. He was being destroyed, slowly, from within.
Holmes was also grave. ‘The place where you go to take this drug — is it the House of Silk?’ he asked.
Henderson laughed. ‘Do you really think I would have been so afraid or taken so many precautions if the House of Silk were merely an opium den?’ he cried. ‘Do you know how many opium dens there are in Shadwell and Limehouse? Fewer, they say, than ten years ago. But you can still stand at a crossroads and find one whichever direction you take. There’s Mott’s and Mother Abdullah’s and Creer’s Place and Yahee’s. I’m told you can buy the stuff if you want to at night-houses in the Haymarket and Leicester Square.’
‘Then what is it?’
‘The money!’
Holmes hesitated, then passed across four five-pound notes. Henderson snatched them up and caressed them. A dull gleam had come into his eyes as his addiction, the lingering beast within him, awoke again. ‘Where do you think the opium comes from that supplies London and Liverpool and Portsmouth and all the other outlets in England — and Scotland and Ireland for that matter? Where do Creer or Yahee go when their stocks run low? Where is the centre of the web that stretches across the entire country? That is the answer to your question, Mr Holmes. They go to the House of Silk!
‘The House of Silk is a criminal enterprise that operates on a massive scale and I have heard it said — rumour, only rumour — that it has friends in the very highest places, that its tentacles have spread out to ensnare government ministers and police officers. We are talking of an import and export business, if you like, but one worth many thousands of pounds a year. The opium comes in from the east. It is transported to this central depot and from there it is distributed but at a much inflated price.’