The Prosecutor: And what did you see?
Witness: I saw the whole thing. There was a girl, poorly dressed against this inclement weather, no more than fourteen or fifteen years old. I shudder to think what she might have been doing out in the street at this hour, for this is an area known for all manner of vice. When I first noticed her, her hands were raised and she was quite clearly terrified. She uttered one word. “Please…!” Then there were two shots and she fell to the ground. I knew at once that she was dead. The second shot had penetrated the skull and would have killed her instantly.
The Prosecutor: Did you see who fired the shots?
Witness: Not at first, no. It was very dark and I was completely shocked. I was also in fear of my life, for it occurred to me that there must be some madman on the loose to wish to bring harm to this wee, defenceless girl. Then I made out a figure standing a short distance away, holding a gun which was still smoking in his hand. As I watched, he groaned and fell to his knees. Then he sprawled, unconscious, on the ground.
The Prosecutor: Do you see that figure today?
Witness: Yes. He is standing in front of me in the dock.
There was another stir in the public gallery for it was as clear to all the other spectators as it was to me that this was the most damning evidence of all. Sitting next to me, Lestrade had become very still, his lips tightly drawn, and it occurred to me that the faith in Holmes which had done him such credit must surely be shaken to the core. And what of me? I confess that I was in turmoil. It was, on the face of it, inconceivable that my friend could have killed the one girl he most wanted to interview, for there was still a chance that Sally Dixon could have been told something by her brother which might have led us to the House of Silk. And then there was still the question of what she was doing in Coppergate Square to begin with. Had she been captured and held prisoner before Henderson even visited us and could he have deliberately led us into a trap with this very end in mind? That seemed to me to be the only logical conclusion. But at the same time I recalled something Holmes had said to me many times, namely that when you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth. I might be able to dismiss the evidence given by Isaiah Creer, for a man like him would certainly be open to bribery and would say anything that was required of him. But it was impossible, or at least absurd to suggest, that an eminent Glaswegian doctor, a senior police officer from Scotland Yard and the son of the Earl of Blackwater, a member of the English aristocracy, should all come together for no obvious reason to fabricate a story and incriminate a man that none of them had ever met. That was the choice before me. Either all four of them were lying. Or Holmes, under the influence of opium, had indeed committed a terrible crime.
The magistrate needed no such deliberation. Having heard the evidence, he called for the Charge Book and entered Holmes’s name and address, his age and the charge that had been preferred against him. To these were added the names and addresses of the prosecutor and his witnesses and an inventory of all the articles found in the prisoner’s possession. (They included a pair of pince-nez, a length of string, a signet ring bearing the crest of the Duke of Cassel-Felstein, two cigarette ends wrapped in a page torn from the London Corn Circular, a chemical pipette, several Greek coins and a small beryl. To this day, I wonder what the authorities must have made of it all.) Holmes, who had not uttered a word throughout the entire procedure, was then informed that he would have to remain in custody until the coroner’s court, which would be convened after the weekend. After that, he would proceed to trial. And that was the end of the business. The magistrate was in a hurry to get on. There were several more cases to try and the light was already fading. I watched as Holmes was led away.
‘Come with me, Watson!’ Lestrade said. ‘Move sharp, now. We don’t have a lot of time.’
I followed him out of the main courtroom, down a flight of stairs and into a basement area that was utterly without comfort, where even the paintwork was mean and shabby, and which might have been expressly designed for prisoners, for men and women who had parted company with the ordinary world above. Lestrade had been here before, of course. He swiftly led me along a corridor and into a lofty, white-tiled room with a single window and a bench that ran all the way round. The bench was divided by a series of wooden partitions so that whoever sat there would be isolated and unable to communicate with those on either side. I knew at once that this was the Prisoners’ Waiting Room. Perhaps Holmes had been held here before the trial.
We were no sooner in than there was a movement at the door and Holmes appeared, escorted by a uniformed officer. I rushed towards him and might even have embraced him had I not realised that, in his view, this would have been just one more indignity piled up on so many. Even so, my voice broke as I addressed him. ‘Holmes! I do not know what to say. The injustice of your arrest, the way you have been treated… it is beyond any imagining.’
‘It is certainly most interesting,’ returned he. ‘How are you, Lestrade? A strange turn of events, do you not think? What do you make of it?’
‘I really don’t know what to think, Mr Holmes,’ Lestrade muttered.
‘Well, that’s nothing new. It seems that our friend, Henderson, led us a pretty song and dance, hey, Watson? Well, let’s not forget that I halfexpected it and he has still proved useful to us. Before, I suspected that we had stumbled on to a conspiracy that went far beyond a murder in a hotel room. Now I am certain of it.’
‘But what good is it to know these things if you are to be imprisoned and your reputation destroyed?’ I replied.
‘I think my reputation will look after itself,’ Holmes said. ‘If they hang me, Watson, I shall leave it to you to persuade your readers that the whole thing was a misunderstanding.’
‘You may make light of all this, Mr Holmes,’ growled Lestrade. ‘But I should warn you that we have very little time. And the evidence against you seems, in a word, unarguable.’
‘What did you make of the evidence, Watson?’
‘I don’t know what to say, Holmes. These men don’t appear to know each other. They have come from different parts of the country. And yet they are in complete agreement about what occurred.’
‘And yet, surely you would take my word above that of our friend, Isaiah Creer?’
‘Of course.’
‘Then let me tell you at once that what I have told Inspector Harriman is the true version of events. After I entered the opium den, I was approached by Creer and greeted as a new customer — which is to say, with a mixture of warmth and wariness. There were four men lying semiconscious, or pretending to be, on the mattresses and one of them was indeed Lord Horace Blackwater, although of course I did not know him at the time. I pretended that I had come for my fourpenny worth and Creer insisted that I follow him into his office to make the payment there. Not wishing to raise his suspicions, I did as he asked and I was no sooner through the doorway than two men sprang on me, seizing hold of my neck and pinioning my arms. One of them, Watson, we know. It was Henderson himself! The other had a shaven head and the shoulders and forearms of a wrestler, with the strength to match. I was unable to move. “You have been very unwise, Mr Holmes, to interfere in things which do not concern you and unwise to believe that you could take on people more powerful than yourself,” Henderson said, or words to that effect. At the same time, Creer approached me carrying a small glass filled with some foul-smelling liquid. It was an opiate of some sort, and there was nothing I could do as it was forced between my lips. There were three of them and only one of me. I could not reach my gun. The effect was almost immediate. The room span and the strength went out of my legs. They released me and I fell to the floor.’