Secret Archives of Sherlock Holmes, The, The (21 page)

However, his manner remained somewhat unpredictable for, when we had arrived at Marcini’s and were shown to our table, he insisted on my taking the chair facing the door while he took the one that had its back to it.

This careful arranging of our places at the table warned me that Holmes had more in mind than a simple luncheon for the two of us. Even so, I was not prepared for what happened next.

It was not long after we had seated ourselves that I noticed Holmes smile and half rise to his feet as if to welcome someone who had just that moment entered, and I instinctively turned my head to see who this new arrival might be.

To my utter astonishment, the person who was
approaching our table was Holmes himself! For a moment, I was too shocked to say anything and could only stand there, my mouth wide open, until I recovered my senses and realised the man was not Holmes after all but someone who looked remarkably like him. He was the same height and build and had the same lean countenance and hawk-like nose, as well as the same sharp line to his jaw, but there the similarities ended. Although very nearly a doppelgänger, the man lacked Holmes’ look of alert intelligence. His clothes were not Holmes’ style either. He wore a long, loose coat slung over his shoulders like a cloak and a soft, wide-brimmed black hat that gave him a foppish, theatrical appearance.

As he joined us at the table, Holmes made the introductions and, on hearing the man’s name, I had to suppress a small smile. Sheridan Irving, indeed! There was hardly any need for Holmes to add in way of explanation, ‘He is an old theatrical acquaintance of mine, Watson, who from time to time has been extremely useful to me.’

‘As a double,’ Irving added with a little airy gesture of his hand as if dismissing the compliment.

‘And very good he is at it, too,’ Holmes added with genuine appreciation.

‘Which, no doubt, is why you have invited me to luncheon today,’ Irving commented without any sign of resentment.

‘Indeed it is. But we shall come to that later, Irving,
together with the matter of your fee. In the meantime, let us enjoy our luncheon. Business can come with the coffee,’ Holmes replied, beckoning over a waiter.

It was an entertaining meal. Irving was an agreeable companion and over the
tagliatelle con prosciutto
he kept us amused with a fund of anecdotes about the theatre. It was not until coffee was served that a more serious mood replaced the laughter and repartee.

‘Now, to business,’ Holmes said briskly, putting his elbows on the table and leaning towards his guest. ‘I have been pestered for the last two Wednesdays by a stranger who lurks about outside my house and whose identity I am anxious to discover. With your permission, Irving, I propose using you as a lure. So, as he usually arrives soon after breakfast, I suggest you move into our lodgings next Wednesday early in the morning, say at eight o’clock, if that is convenient to you, and that later in the morning, dressed in my clothes, you leave the house—’

‘Alone?’ Irving broke in to ask. ‘I’m afraid when it comes to accepting an assignment, I must be informed of all the details, otherwise one can become involved in heaven knows what kind of embarrassing situations which, I confess, naming no names, has happened to me in the past.’

Holmes glanced quickly towards me.

‘If Dr Watson agrees, I was going to suggest that he accompanies you. Is that all right, my dear fellow?’ he added, addressing me directly.

The proposal was a surprise to me but I raised no objection, for I could understand his reticence about his plan. Had I known in advance that Sheridan Irving would join us at luncheon, I would not have been so taken aback by his likeness to my old friend and it was this similarity that Holmes had wanted to test. If I were hoodwinked, then the Waiter would accept the subterfuge, especially if I were seen in the company of the bogus Holmes. As he apparently had been watching the house, then he would have been aware of my presence there and also of my friendship with the man whom he was keeping under surveillance.

‘Yes, of course, Holmes,’ I replied without hesitation.

‘And what about you, Irving?’ Holmes asked, turning to his guest.

Irving was less positive, partly, I thought, out of a genuine curiosity to know more about the assignment Holmes was proposing, but largely, I suspected, out of a desire to wring the greatest dramatic effect from the situation by not appearing too eager to agree.

‘You did say you do not know who this man is?’ he asked, with a doubtful pursing of his lips.

‘No, I do not.’

‘Nor why he has been watching your house?’

‘None whatsoever. He could, of course, be a potential client who is nervous about approaching me.’

Sheridan Irving looked unconvinced by this suggestion and I realised that, despite the cloak and the ridiculous
name, not to mention the hat, he was a great deal more astute than I had given him credit for.

‘Or,’ he pointed out, lowering his voice and glancing conspiratorially to the left and right as if expecting our conversation was being monitored by foreign agents, ‘he could be an old enemy of yours who is seeking revenge.’

‘Oh, I think not,’ Holmes replied with a shrug. ‘He is a mere youth who I cannot imagine is harbouring murder in his heart.’

‘In that case, then,’ Irving said, making a great show of coming to a decision, ‘I shall be delighted to accept your invitation. Next Wednesday, you said? And at eight o’clock in the morning? It is an early start but, as an ac
tor
,’ stressing the final syllable of the word, ‘I am used to keeping unconventional hours.’

Rising to his feet, he draped his coat cloak-like over his shoulders, placed his hat on his head and, with a quick glance at the nearest mirror, adjusted it to a more becoming angle before holding out his hand to each of us in turn.

‘
Au revoir, mes amis,
’ he declared. ‘To next Wednesday at eight o’clock!’

And with a swish of his cloak, he made his exit.

I could hardly wait until the restaurant door had closed behind him before I turned to my old friend.

‘Really, Holmes—!’ I began. But he was ready for me.

‘I know what you are going to say, Watson, and I thoroughly agree with you. I am behaving quite
irresponsibly in inviting Irving to take part in my little deception.’

‘But it is not a little deception!’ I protested. ‘You have already admitted that the situation could be dangerous …’

‘Oh, you mean the business of the pricking of the thumbs?’

‘Yes, the pricking of the thumbs!’ I repeated quite hotly. ‘And yet you propose involving Sheridan Irving in what could be a dangerous undertaking without warning him or giving him any choice in the matter!’

‘I realise that, Watson,’ Holmes replied gravely. ‘But please let us discuss this in a less public place. We are drawing attention to ourselves.’

Glancing quickly about me, I was dismayed to discover that two or three customers at nearby tables had turned their heads in our direction, clearly aware that some dispute was taking place between us. It was an embarrassing moment which Holmes neatly defused by murmuring to me
sotto voce,
‘If you would call a cab, my dear fellow, I will pay the bill.’

The journey back to Baker Street was conducted in silence which might have continued even longer, for Holmes took up his position in front of the window with the torn curtain, where he stood silently staring down into the street, as if assuming his old role of keeping watch on the Waiter, even though he knew it was Thursday and therefore the man was unlikely to appear.
His arms were tightly folded across his chest and the rigidity of his shoulders warned me that he was deeply engaged in some private deliberation that, knowing him in this mood, I dared not interrupt.

Then suddenly, without a word being spoken by either of us, he gave a cry and spun round on his heels.

‘Of course!’ he exclaimed, striking himself on the forehead with the open palm of his hand. ‘Fool! Fool! Fool! Irving was right!’

‘Right about what, Holmes?’ I cried, alarmed by this sudden outburst. ‘Are you ill?’

‘No, I have never felt better in my life. Come here, Watson. I want your opinion.’

Greatly mystified, I joined him at the window.

‘Now, look down at the street and tell me what you can see.’

I peered out.

‘Well, nothing much really, Holmes,’ I replied.

‘Look again!’ he urged me. ‘Who is walking down the street?’

‘Why, it is only a messenger boy who is apparently delivering a telegram or some similar missive to the house next door.’

‘And?’

He had fixed on me such a hard, bright look that I began to wonder if he had not temporarily lost his reason.

‘And what, Holmes? I do not understand,’ I replied, by now totally bewildered.

‘What did I say yesterday about the Waiter?’

‘You made several comments, including one about feeling you had met him somewhere before.’

‘Oh, well done, Watson! You are indeed a star! That is exactly what I meant. I now know who he reminded me of. So let us see how perspicacious
you
are, my dear fellow. I see a messenger boy and, like a bolt from the blue, I immediately call to mind who the Waiter reminds me of. Does that help?’

‘Not really, Holmes,’ I confessed.

‘Then allow me to give you a few more clues. Think of mountains and a waterfall.’

‘A waterfall!’ I exclaimed. ‘You are surely not referring to …?’

But I could not bring myself to name the place. My recollection of it was still too raw in my memory and it was Holmes who spoke the words I hesitated to articulate.

‘Yes, the Reichenbach Falls,’ he said, quite calmly in almost a matter-of-fact tone of voice.

I still could not collect my thoughts, nor see the connection between the events that had taken place on that dreadful day in May 1891, five years earlier, in the Bernese Oberland in Switzerland, when I had been convinced that Holmes had died at the hands of his arch-enemy Moriarty. For a dreadful moment an image of the place flashed before my eyes as, it is said, scenes from the life of a drowning man rush headlong through
his mind at the point of death. I saw quite clearly the narrow path, the dark rocks glittering with the spray thrown up from the torrent as it poured over the lip of the ravine, and heard its demented roar as it crashed down in a tumult of foam and seething water into the abyss below. And I experienced again that empty, aching loss I had felt then as I came to what seemed the inevitable conclusion that my friend, my better than a brother, had died in that fearful maelstrom.

I do not think Holmes was aware of my reaction any more than he had been conscious at the time of my feelings as I stood alone on the edge of the Reichenbach Falls, where I believed he had died while he was, in fact, lying hidden on the ledge above me, for he was saying in a brisk, slightly impatient voice, ‘Come on, my dear fellow! Surely it is not difficult? The waterfall, the messenger …’

‘Oh, you mean the boy from the hotel who brought the message from Herr Steiler
6
about the English lady who was dying of consumption, asking me to return to the hotel with him? But surely you do not think the Waiter and the boy are one and the same person?’

‘Indeed I do,’ Holmes replied, sounding relieved that I had at last grasped the point.

‘But Holmes—’ I began in protest.

‘I know what you are going to say,’ he broke in. ‘If the Waiter is the lad from the Swiss hotel, then he must be a member of Moriarty’s criminal gang, one of the few the police failed to round up after Moriarty’s death. We know only too well that some of them escaped the net. There was Parker, the garrotter,
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who laid in wait outside our lodgings in Baker Street for my return. Then there was the affair of the Dutch steamship
Friesland
, which I am convinced was devised by Moriarty as a revenge against me, not to mention Colonel Moran, Moriarty’s chief of staff …’
8

‘Surely you are not suggesting …?’

‘That Moran is still alive? It is not impossible, Watson. We know he is devilishly clever and quite capable of murder. Think of the fate of young Ronald Adair. Although Lestrade arrested him that evening in Camden House and he was brought to trial, he managed to escape the gallows.

‘As for the Waiter being the Swiss youth, the dates could correspond. If the lad was seventeen in 1891, the year of my encounter with Moriarty at the Reichenbach Falls, he would now be twenty-two, which accords with the present age of the Waiter who, judging by his appearance, is in his early twenties.

‘Now let us take the hypothesis a step further. We know that Moran and the Swiss youth were alive in May 1891, the date of Moriarty’s death and the attempt by Moran on my life. I think we may also safely assume that the Swiss youth was a member of Moriarty’s organisation from the part he played at the Reichenbach Falls in luring you back to the hotel, leaving me to face Moriarty alone. Agreed, my dear fellow?’

‘Yes, Holmes,’ I agreed in a low voice, reluctant to be taken back even in memory to that dreadful afternoon in the Bernese Oberland when the Swiss youth came running up the path to the Falls and, like a fool, I did not doubt the letter in his hand was genuine.

I have since castigated myself mercilessly for my gullibility. I should have known it was a trick! Holmes had apparently known this but had said nothing, realising that the time had come for a final confrontation with his arch-enemy. But to me, the message had seemed authentic. The letter bore the address of the hotel, the Englischer Hof, where we had been staying, as well as the signature of Peter Steiler. The contents also had the ring of truth about them. An English lady, in the last stage of consumption, had arrived at the hotel shortly after our departure and had suffered a sudden haemorrhage. Her death seemed imminent. Would I return to the hotel at once? It would be a great consolation to her if she died with an English doctor in attendance.

It was a fiendishly clever appeal. As a doctor how could I refuse, particularly as the patient was a compatriot? So, not without a certain reluctance, I had left Holmes standing there with his back against a rock, arms folded, gazing at the torrent of water as it gushed down into the abyss while the Swiss youth waited nearby, ready to escort me back to the hotel.