My Dearest Holmes Page 15

  I leaned back in my chair, and glanced several times from his face to the small brown packet in his fingers. Something in his voice, something in his very reluctance to place the packet in my hands, set every nerve a-tingle. I was sure now that the message had something to do with Holmes. Some instructions he had left, something to do with me, which his brother out of viciousness or greed had hitherto ignored. I held out my hand, palm upwards. My croft sighed again, and placed the packet in my palm.

  Its weight suggested to me that it was some article of jewellery. It was tied and knotted with thin, waxed string. I picked at the knot, then reached for my paper-knife. Resting the packet on the table, I sawed through the string and opened the layers of creased, brown paper. I saw the gleam of a chain.

  I smoothed out the wrapping paper deliberately, and looked at the watch that lay face downward upon a piece of folded notepaper. My hand was shaking now, as I picked it up and gently turned it over so that it rested face upwards in my hand. It was neat and plain, as was always his taste in jewellery. The case was unmarked. The small, neat Roman numerals, the delicate hands, stared up at me from the white face, so utterly familiar. The chain was slim, the clasp unobtrusive; but there, yes, hanging from the chain, neatly pierced, was the gold sovereign which Irene Adler had given him when he, disguised as a groom, had acted as witness to her marriage. He had laughed about it at the time, saying that he would have it pierced for his watch-chain as a keepsake. It had surprised me that he, with his usual dislike of ornaments, had actually done so. It had become rather a joke between us.

  I held the watch and gazed at it until I felt the tears start in my eyes.

  'Where did you get this?' I whispered.

  Mycroft Holmes, watching me keenly, did not reply.

  I lifted it to my ear and heard the light, regular tick. It was working, then. But how had it survived--he had been wearing it when we left Meiringen. I knew that he had been wearing it. He had taken it out to check the time just before I turned back down that fateful path, to check that I would be able to join him for dinner at Rosenlaui. I could see him standing with the Falls behind him, looking at his watch, looking up at me, his grey eyes bleak and anxious; suddenly smiling as he put his watch away, smiling and clasping my hand, trying to reassure himself.

  'In Rosenlaui, then!'

  But he had never reached Rosenlaui. And the watch had plunged with him into the foaming cauldron of the waters.

  I laid it back on the table. I looked at the silent Mycroft. His eyes revealed nothing; not the merest flicker.

  Slowly, hesitantly, I reached for the folded square of thin white notepaper which still lay at the centre of the wrapping. I fumbled with it, aware that my shaking hands, the tear which glided slowly down my cheek, betrayed me utterly.

  There was no message; only an address: 'Hotel des Deux Mondes, Paris.' The handwriting was his.

  It seemed an age before I could speak, or move, or think. The shock dried my tears, and I sat frozen in my chair, holding the note in my numb fingers. Mycroft said nothing.

  At length I looked up at him. He was watching me distantly, curiously, as though observing the behaviour of some exotic animal.

  'Where did you get this?' I demanded again. My voice had shrivelled to a croak.

  I told you in advance, Doctor, that I cannot answer that question. My instructions were simply to give you the package. That I have done. And now, if you please, I must bid you good day.'

  He rose as he spoke, and took his hat from the table. He made no further attempt to shake hands.

  'But instructions from whom?' I pleaded. Mycroft shook his head.

  'Good day, Dr Watson,' he said, and left the room, closing the door behind him. I heard his heavy tread descending the stair. I ran to the door, opened it, and looked over the bannister; I watched him as he let himself out of the front door.

  I turned back into the room, to the note and the watch upon the table. I poured over them for an hour or so, studying them, holding them, raising them to my lips, my cheek. At last I made an effort to pull myself together, pouring myself a generous measure of brandy and lighting a cigarette.

  Who had sent Mycroft Holmes the watch? Who had instructed him--had pressed him, he had admitted that he had brought it to me under pressure--to deliver it into my hands with this note? The obvious answer was impossible; it could not be, it was someone else, someone who wished to communicate with me. But how--? They must have found the body, then. After all this time. Why had I not been told?

  Mycroft. They had told Mycroft, and he had withheld the information from me. But the note? It was recent, it was dry; it was written in soluble ink. I studied it again, every curve, every stroke. It was, it was his hand. It was impossible that anyone else had written it. It was impossible that it had been found, after all that time, in his clothing. It could have been found at Baker Street, of course; but by whom? And the watch . .?

  A second brandy cleared my head. I sat down quietly as dusk crept into the room.

  'When you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth.'

  It was his favourite maxim.

  But my mind could scarcely credit it.

  --IX--

  I LEFT FOR Paris the following morning, on the same Continental express which Holmes and I had taken two and a half years ago from Victoria Station.

  My journey was smooth and relatively swift, although in my agony of impatience every minute seemed unbearably long. I had no idea of who awaited me at the Hotel des Deux Mondes, or how long my stay would be. I had packed and arranged for a fortnight; that seemed a reasonable length of time. Mycroft would no doubt hear of my departure without surprise; would he send news of my expected arrival to Paris? I did not know.

  My trepidation, my confusion, may well be imagined. Again and again, I told myself that there was no way that he could have possibly survived that plunge into the roaring waters; that it could not possibly be he who awaited me. Better to think that it was some message, some clue, some mutual friend.

  And there was another reason for pushing the thought from my mind. He could not--it was unthinkable that he would still be alive and not have contacted me. That he had left me all this time to think him dead; that he had sent me no word, no message, when he knew what I must be suffering.

  I gazed blankly out of the window at the rolling Kentish countryside; at the receding white cliffs and the pitching green waters of the Channel; at the wide, flat fields of the French landscape, some green, some brown, denuded, their harvests gathered. Tall poplars leaned darkly against a pale sky, fruit trees glittered in the late sun. It was late in the evening when I arrived at the Gare du Nord. A small, ragged boy, seeing my air of hesitation and sensing no doubt that my knowledge of French and of French currency was likely to be minimal, took charge of my portmanteau in a most capable manner and led me through the throng to the cab stand.

  'Pour ou, m'sieur?' he demanded roughly.

  I realised that I had only the name of the hotel, and neither the street nor the district. I showed my precious notepaper with Holmes' writing upon it, and stammered out the name in my imperfect French. 'Hotel des Deux Mondes,' he repeated to the driver, who nodded, to my relief, in a perfectly sanguine manner.

  'Deux Mondes, bon, m'sieur. Montez!'

  'Merci, m'sieur!' shrilled the urchin, having hoisted my portmanteau onto the rack, and held out his hand with an endearing lack of subtlety. I pressed some coins into it, and he seemed satisfied. I climbed into the cab and we rattled off.

  I had never travelled in foreign parts alone before, I realised. It was quite amusing. My time in the Army had made me a seasoned traveller, but it came to me as something of a shock that neither then nor in my subsequent travels with Holmes had I really had to take care of myself in a foreign land. My French being only just passable, I began to wonder how well I would succeed in making myself understood, should I find no one waiting for me at the hotel. Holmes of course had spoke
n perfect French, the result of long holidays with his French grandmother during his boyhood and early youth.

  I glanced out at the gas-lit streets and unfamiliar shop-fronts, the furled awnings and dark windows. Here and there the light streamed out from a restaurant or club, and I heard loud, harsh voices and bursts of laughter. There were leaves on the pavement, under the gas lamps. In a surprisingly short time we had reached the hotel. Light from its porch flooded the pavement, and a footman hurried out to take my portmanteau while I entered upon a painful negotiation with the driver about the fare. When all was finally completed, I followed the man into the red-carpeted vestibule, plushly furnished in gilt and velvet, and made my way to the desk, feeling conspicuous in the glare of the lights, and mentally rehearsing my enquiry.

  The first exchange was straightforward enough; no, there was no Englishman by the name of Mr Sherlock Holmes staying at the hotel; nor had there been; nor was he expected.

  So that was that. My heart sunk slowly to my boots.

  But who was enquiring? Did I wish a room for the night? My friend would perhaps be arriving tomorrow?

  I gave my name and said that yes, I would like to take a room. I was exhausted. The desk clerk turned to the ledger before him and gave an exclamation of surprise. My name again? Dr John Watson, from London? But yes, I was expected. A room had already been reserved for me, since yesterday. But my friend, Monsieur Sigerson, was expecting me--did I not know?

  I must have looked extremely stupid. The man repeated the information in broken English. 'Monsieur Sigerson. 'E place a room for you. I 'ave 'ere ze key.'

  'Sigerson?' I repeated blankly.

  'Mais oui, monsieur. Vous ne le connaissez pas? Monsieur Sigerson. From Norvege,' he added.

  From Norway? But I knew no Norwegians. It was true that Holmes had once worked on a case for the King of Scandinavia, but he had never mentioned the name Sigerson. The connection of Holmes with Norway in my mind, slight though it was, prompted me to make no further difficulties in my present situation.

  'Ah, Monsieur Sigerson!' I said, as though the name had registered with me for the first time. 'Bon. Merci, monsieur.'

  I accepted the key from the bemused clerk and allowed the page to lead me to my allotted room.

  It was very comfortable, luxurious even; I immediately began to worry about the bill. But there was little I could do in the present circumstances. The reservation had been made for me; presumably all I had to do was wait. I enquired of the page which was Monsieur Sigerson's room. It was just two doors along the corridor from my own, he replied. Was he in? I asked calmly; no, he usually came in very late, sometimes not at all.

  That sounds like him, I thought.

  Dazedly I began to unpack, wandering now and then to the window to look out. It overlooked a spacious boulevard, lined with trees. The gas lamps shed pools of light onto the pavement. There was a small, wrought-iron balcony, probably intended for decoration rather than for the weight of a grown man; I decided that it would be unwise to try and stand upon it. A light supper was brought for me, but I could not eat much of it. I sat on the edge of the bed, holding my aching head in my hands and wondering when and how Mr Sigerson would reveal himself to me. Was he Holmes, under an alias? He used to have so many. But if it were he, the question remained--not only 'How?', but more importantly,' Why, why, why?'

  I paced the room, ate, unpacked, ran my fingers through my hair. I ordered a large brandy and drank it. When eventually I looked at my watch, I saw that it was three o'clock in the morning. There was nothing I could do but try and get a few hours' sleep.

  I slept for about six hours and dreamed I was travelling through Norway on the Continental express. When I awoke, it took me some time to remember where I was and why; but as soon as I did so, I washed and dressed hurriedly and made my way downstairs. I lingered briefly at the door of his room; it was shut, locked. There was a different clerk on duty at the reception desk. I enquired whether Monsieur Sigerson had come in last night, and if so whether he had come down yet. Yes, the man replied, he had come in during the early hours of the morning; but he had risen early and had left the hotel about an hour ago. I sighed.

  I gave the clerk my name and asked whether Monsieur Sigerson had enquired for me before he went out. Yes, came the reply, he had, and had been told of my arrival.

  I decided that it would be sensible for me to have some breakfast, and made my escape in the direction of the salle-a-manger. I seated myself at a small table near the window and ordered a coffee and croissant. When it arrived, I sipped at the coffee but found that I was too shaken to eat.

  He was here, and he knew that I was here. Why had he gone out? Was he avoiding me? Was he perhaps as nervous as I was?

  I let my gaze wander blankly round the room and out of the window. There were pleasant gardens outside and a spacious avenue, lined with poplars. The autumn sunlight played among the dark leaves. I felt suddenly drawn to the outside, to the sunlight and air; I felt that I should go mad if I just went back to my room and waited. I rose hurriedly and made my escape, leaving my breakfast untouched upon the table.

  I wandered out into the hotel grounds and soon found myself in the avenue, which was nearly deserted. I walked the length of it, slowly, calmly, half mesmerised by the flicker of light and shade as the sun moved above me behind the trees. Ahead of me I saw the boulevard, full of noise and colour and bustle. I toyed with the idea of walking on and losing myself in the city, wandering down to the river perhaps, taking in the sights, the atmosphere. But a surge of panic at the thought of wandering too far from the hotel caused me to turn back. As I retraced my steps, I saw a figure detach itself from one of the trees ahead of me, and begin slowly to advance towards me; a tall figure, dressed in black. I stopped in my tracks. I registered its approach, in top hat, frock-coat and gloves. Every line, every movement cried out to me.

  He moved slowly through light and shade, light and shade, between the trees, along the path towards me. My heart beat wildly and I trembled in every limb, but I could not move. My tongue was dry in my mouth. Closer and closer he came, through bars of sunlight and shadow. At one stage he seemed to stay static, though still pacing, neither advancing nor retreating. I blinked away the illusion, and realised that he was very close now. I could almost see his face; then I could see it. White, a white face, with hooded eyes. I could see the firm line of his mouth. I could see the hollows under his cheekbones. He reached up, and removed his hat. I could see the line of his brow, his black hair, smooth in the sun. He had almost reached me; he stood before me.

  I think I would have fallen if he had not caught me by the shoulders. I looked into the tired, white face, the clear grey eyes which glistened with tears. I noted the new lines around them and around his mouth; the sunken cheeks; the higher expanse of brow. I felt his grip upon my shoulders, and reached up to grip his in turn. Without knowing what I did, I drew him toward me and kissed him.

  --X--

  HE DID NOT attempt to disengage me at once; and when he did, he took me gently by the arm and led me slowly back along the path. He looked round discreetly, I in alarm; but the avenue was nearly deserted. Looking behind I saw two people staring after us; but we walked slowly and calmly away from them.

  I held tightly to his arm, for I was still weak and trembling, and could not walk fast. He sensed this and matched his pace to mine.

  'Back to the hotel, my dear fellow,' he said quietly. 'You need a brandy.'

  I turned to look at him; he had replaced his hat, and looked straight in front, his head held high. He turned to me briefly. The tears still shone in his eyes, and he looked away again as they met mine.

  'Where did you go this morning?' I asked. I was surprised by the calmness of my voice.

  'Nowhere. I followed you.'

  'I didn't see you,' I said.

  'That is what you should expect, when I follow you.' He smiled briefly. 'I thought it would be better to wait for you outside.'

  'Yes.'
r />   We walked on slowly in silence.

  'I knew you would come,' he said.

  'Yes.'

  'Did you have a good crossing?'

  'Yes, thank you.' I swallowed hard. It was strange; there was so much to say, that I could think of nothing.

  'You are--using the name of Sigerson,' I said at last.

  'Yes.'

  'Why?'

  'Because I am in danger. But not for much longer, I hope. I will explain, at the hotel.'

  I moistened my lips. Danger? He was still in danger?

  'How long have you been in Paris?' I ventured.

  'For nearly two months.'

  'Oh.'

  I could not trust myself to ask him anything further. We reached the hotel in silence. Holmes led me to the bar.

  'Ah, vous vous etes trouves, messieurs!' said the desk clerk happily as we passed.

  'Oui, et merci monsieur,' responded Holmes, as he guided me across the vestibule. I tried to smile.

  We found a secluded table in a corner of the bar and Holmes ordered coffee and brandy. He reached into his coat for his cigarette case; I took out his old silver one, which he had left with the note at Reichenbach, and slid it across the table to him. He picked it up and stared at it numbly.

  'Thank you.'

  He looked up suddenly, into my face. His own was pinched and drawn with anxiety. 'I thought it would be--better to give you time to settle in,' he said. 'Was I right?'

  'Yes,' I said gently, though I would not have relived the last twelve hours for anything in the world.

  'You look thin and ill,' he said falteringly, his eyes still fixed upon my face.

  'How did you expect me to look?'

  His eyes pleaded with me.

  'You don't look well yourself,' I added more kindly; and indeed there was a dead white tinge to his skin which told me that his life recently had not been a healthy one, and that his cocaine habit had as strong a hold over him as ever.