He pulls her back from the gaslight into a shadow.
“What clothes are you …?” she asks, then stops. “Oh, yes,” she nods, putting it all together.
“I’m getting closer,” says Sherlock.
“Thank God.” She crosses herself in the manner of her high-church Anglican ancestors, something he has rarely seen her do.
“Mother, it’s past midnight!”
“Yes.” She seems resigned to something.
“But why are you still …”
“It was a very long day, son. There were five daughters in the last home where I taught. The lady is having a birthday celebration tomorrow for her two-year-old son. They all had to memorize songs. I finished just a few hours ago and then I sat outside looking at the sky.”
He hopes that explains her lethargy. There’s no beer on her breath, but her mind doesn’t seem fully engaged. Something is distracting her.
“What is this?” He motions to the piece of paper.
“Oh … nothing, really.”
She puts it into a pocket in her dress.
“Nothing?”
What is she hiding? She is never good at keeping secrets from him.
“I have a job tomorrow. This is the address,” she admits. “The offer came at the last minute – a message delivered by coach to the house. Word of good help spreads quickly around here.” She smiles weakly. “The gentleman wants me to tutor at his house tomorrow.” She swallows as if there is a lump in her throat. Then she shakes her head and her voice sounds stronger. “I must get home.”
“Be careful,” says her son, barely listening because his thoughts are fixed on her sadness.
“Sherlock, I know how to keep safe on the streets. You know that.”
She reaches up and gently brushes the back of her right hand across his cheek down to his chin, and smiles at him. Then she leaves without saying good-bye. She doesn’t need to – that caress always means farewell, every night as she sits on his bed before he goes to sleep.
He watches her walk away. He has a bad feeling. He should have insisted on looking at the paper.
Moments later he is on the roof of the house, moving silently along in the dark London sky. It is cool tonight and feels as if it’s going to rain again. He has counted the number of homes he has to walk over. But when he is still two away, he hears something that makes him drop to the roof tiles.
It is the baying of a hound.
It sounds close and it sounds big: a deep, evil bark that resounds in the throat of a giant dog and threatens anyone who nears with a grisly fate. It echoes in the night and drifts away.
He slowly rises to his feet and silently moves again, up and down on the steep surfaces.
On the roof of the last house before his target, he has to leap over a little passageway. It isn’t far across, perhaps four feet – chances are he’ll make it, but he’ll have to do it well and land quietly. He lies on his stomach and sticks his head out over the edge, looking straight down. The drop is frightening. If he misses he’ll be in pieces on the ground.
Sherlock closes his eyes and says a little prayer. To whom, he isn’t sure: to his mother’s God, his father’s, Mohammad’s?
They are framed by a massive dark head and sharp teeth. The boy hears a growl.
He rams his head back from the opening. Just his luck – the hound is at the house he intends to enter!
He rolls over on his back and stares up at the black sky. What now? He thinks of the property below him, a little yard at the back, surrounded by a high, black iron fence with spears on top that runs up the passage and around to the front of the house. Huge walnut trees tower above the street, hanging out over the roofs. He looks around. Walnuts – there are still some on the roof from last autumn. He stands, gathers up a few, moves back from the edge of the passageway so he can’t be seen, and tosses them gently into the backyard. He hears the hound bound away. Seconds later, he flies through the air and alights as gently as possible on the suspect’s roof.
The next few moments are some of the longest in his life. He listens to the hound running for the walnuts, its heavy breathing, its whimpers as it retrieves its prizes, and its scamper back to its spot underneath the roof. He peers over the edge. The dog is looking up, but not at him. It thinks he is still on the other roof. Perfect. So far, it isn’t barking.
He waits until he can’t wait anymore. No noises come from within the house – they haven’t heard any sounds from the roof. The hound’s breathing begins to subside, it yawns and sits down, still facing the opposite rooftop.
Sherlock rises and walks up to the chimney as if he were treading on glass. He is getting better at this. Down he goes and emerges into another dark dining room, ground floor. The front door is where it should be. Everything is in place.
But this time, he won’t be so lucky. There won’t be any little hall tables with glass eyes in little boxes, no crutches or photographs, no obvious proof of the owner’s innocence sitting around in the outer rooms for him to observe.
Sherlock slips up the grand marble steps to the first floor. He walks down the hall … drawing room on the right, study to the left. The latter is a good place to search … but not the best. He can’t waste time. He has to find the man’s most private room, where he would be most apt to hide things – where he himself would be. Sherlock climbs another flight of stairs like a ghost … and enters the master’s bedroom.
The door is only slightly ajar so he has to push it open a little more. It moves smoothly. The room is crowded with furniture, dimly evident in the moonlight that has peeked between the clouds and slipped through the slight opening in the drapes – writing desk, washstand, cabinet, chairs and other objects he can’t quite distinguish. Another doorway leads to a dressing room. And there, across the room in a big bed with carved posts … is the sound of someone sleeping.
His feet are glued to the floor, their muscles held so tense they won’t function. He takes a silent breath, a deep one, and makes himself move in a crouch. Where should he search? What should he search for? First he’ll try the desk. Maybe there is something there, something the villain might hide from his wife … a letter?
Then he makes a terrible decision. He decides to move quickly to the desk to get this over with. He takes a long stride and stumbles over something – a footstool. He lands on the floor … and rolls under the washstand.
“What?” says a slurred voice.
He can’t believe it. It’s a woman. There is movement in the bed. A body moving and then … another!
He is sure this is the master’s bedroom … but there are two people in the bed.
Sherlock lies under the washstand until his legs feel stiff. There are no more stirrings. Finally, he slides out. He doesn’t care about the desk anymore. He crawls over to the bed and raises his head until his eyes peek up over its foot.
Two people lie there asleep. But he can’t make out anything about them.
He stands up. Sherlock Holmes stands to his full height – and still can’t tell. So … he creeps around to the side of the bed and looks down. He is standing right over the two sleeping bodies. His heart is racing.
It’s the gentleman and his wife … wrapped in each other arms.
Quivering and anxious to leave, he wants this to be proof of the man’s innocence. It seems impossible that this loving husband can be the villain. He wants to go
Sherlock turns and flees the bedroom, moving so fast that it’s difficult to keep his footsteps quiet. Outside the doorway, he lurches to his left, rushes down the hall, and soon finds the top of the stairs. He takes a much wider turn than he should.
His foot catches something, the leg of a piece of furniture.
