‘What reason?’
He did not answer but struggled a bit more. His pale face grew red with the exertion. Had this been staged for my benefit? Holmes did so enjoy an audience. But, of course, he had not known my return date from Bath, so … no. I moved the chair back away from him, then took a stack of papers piled on my usual armchair and dumped them on the floor. I espied today’s Times and freed it from the clutter.
On the way to my chair I noticed on his chemistry table a black cylinder, perhaps eighteen inches long and six inches in circumference, mounted on a brass and wood device. Connected by cables were two small poles with a strangely shaped glass tube suspended between them. It had a somewhat malevolent look to it.
‘What the devil is this thing?’ I asked.
‘A Ruhmkorff coil,’ said he. ‘It’s a kind of induction coil. I can make tiny bursts of lightning at my desk. No, no, don’t touch! And a Geissler tube.’
I was sorry I had asked. It reminded me of the various quack devices I was constantly solicited to buy for my non-existent medical practice. It looked dangerous.
I sat and opened up the newspaper. After a few moments I glanced surreptitiously at Holmes, whose eyes were now closed in concentration. His struggles were painful to watch. I looked about the room and debated tidying it but decided the task was beyond my reach.
As I flipped through the pages, a review of ‘The Great Borelli’s First London Appearance’ caught my eye. The magician was appearing at Wilton’s Music Hall. A lurid picture had the handsome, moustachioed Italian performer hanging from a similar contraption, but with many straps and padlocks all around, and a beautiful lady standing in attendance.
I heard a groan from across the room but ignored it.
‘This Borelli fellow has received an excellent review in The Times today. “Spectacular! Supernatural? How does he do it?”’ I read aloud. I tapped the advertisement. ‘Of course, Holmes, he is hanging upside down.’
‘That is the next phase.’
‘And there is a beautiful assistant standing by. I wonder what her role is?’
‘That is not his assistant. It is his wife,’ said Holmes, slightly out of breath. ‘And she designed the trick.’
‘Lucky man,’ I said.
A pause.
‘This is bit more difficult than I had imagined,’ he murmured.
‘Try harder,’ I said and returned to my paper. Utterly mad. If I had not been there, the room might have caught on fire and all my things would have burnt up. And oh, yes, Holmes would be dead. I wondered if I could entice Mrs Hudson to bring me a lemonade.
‘Watson, be a good fellow. Go over to the table and read me what’s in those pages spread open. Step three, if you would.’
‘I already was a good fellow and righted the chair. You didn’t like it.’
‘Watson!’
I complied none too graciously. On the table were three pages, spread open, typed with a faulty typewriter in uneven lettering, in Italian, with some diagrams and an English translation pencilled in. ‘Step three,’ I read aloud. ‘The left hand unlocks the lock which controls the sleeve of the right. Take pick and release, then with other arm which out the shoulder – shoulder is spelled wrong – with three fingers, find the fold where are hidden the ties—’
There was a faint metallic clatter. I looked over to see that Holmes had dropped something small onto the polished wood floor.
‘I dropped my lockpick. Hand me that, would you?’ said he.
‘What would you do if I were not here?’
‘But you are here. Hurry, now!’
‘No.’
I was being obstreperous, but a man can take only so much. Instead of retrieving his lockpick, I pocketed it, then picked up the chair and placed it under him again. He could give up this foolish nonsense and step down from there as a sane person might. I sat back in my old easy-chair and once again took up the newspaper. Silence.
He kicked the chair away and struggled on. A few minutes later, his face had grown redder and the struggling more pronounced.
‘You had no idea I would be returning,’ I said. ‘What was your plan, anyway, Holmes? It is clear that Mrs Hudson has given up on this room, the mess you’ve made! And that fire!’
No acknowledgement. I went back to my paper.
I heard the sounds of more struggling, a groan, some clicks, and I put down the paper just in time to see him slip free of the jacket and drop to the floor, landing almost soundlessly like a cat.
I will admit I was astonished. ‘Bravo, Holmes!’ I said.
He smiled in delight, then bowed with a flourish and a groan. He rubbed his shoulder. At thirty-four, Holmes was wiry and fit, far too thin by some accounts, but remarkably athletic in spite of never, to my knowledge, taking exercise for its own sake.
‘All right, how did you do that after dropping your lockpick?’ I asked.
‘The locks are the least of it. Preparation is all.’
He was paper-white, and his face was covered with a thin sheen of sweat.
‘What do you mean, “The locks are the least of it”?’ He was standing oddly, favouring one side. ‘And what is the matter with you?’
‘Well, some of the locks are left in place. One has to more or less dislocate one’s shoulder to escape that particular straitjacket. Borelli spent two years stretching his ligaments to accommodate it. I had only ten days.’
‘Oh, come Holmes! You haven’t dislocated your shoulder. You would be writhing in pain. And you would need me to yank it back in place for you.’
I glanced up at him. His dark hair, usually neatly groomed, was a mess and damply stuck to his skull. He inhaled shakily, then moved to a large bookcase and slammed himself against it. There was the sound of a loud pop.
‘Good God, Holmes!’
He carefully flexed his left arm. Back to normal. He smiled at me in amusement. ‘It worked, didn’t it?’
I threw the paper down. ‘What
