Because, for the life of me, I was certain James Winter was going to feed Garridebs Grub, Treat and Chow to a demon named the True Garrideb.
Certain.
I did not call on Mr. Grub that day, but I went to bed thinking of him and hoping nothing untoward had happened in my moment of indecision.
The next day, I resolved to check in on him. I fabricated an excuse: I’d decided to purchase an Imperial Roman denarius and needed an expert’s guidance. This, however, proved unnecessary. The very moment I arrived home for lunch, Joachim told me, “Thir rethieved a methage earlier.”
“All right,” I said, my hand on my brow, “we need to do something about that accent. Please tell me it is an easily dropped affectation.”
“I’m afraid not, thir.”
“Damn. Well, what was the message, anyway?”
“Winter ith coming.”
“What? But that makes no… Oh! Give me back that coat, please. Tell Mary I shan’t be joining her for lunch. If any of my patients ask, say I have been called away on an emergency.”
“It didn’t theem tho,” Joaquim mused. “That old gentleman ith having a medical emergenthy?”
“If I’m not careful—yes.”
* * *
One cab ride later, I was in Little Ryder Street, hurrying into the shabby building Garrideb Grub called home. Being as the hour was not so late this time and the building—as I said—rather bohemian, the outside door was not locked or even properly closed. I let myself in and walked down the hall to the little stair that led to Grub’s cellar. With the head of my cane, I rapped upon his door and called, “Mr. Grub? Are you in, sir?”
From within, I heard him start in surprise, then his eager voice came to my ears. “Mr. Winter? Mr. Winter, is it you?”
“No, it’s John Watson. We met the other day.”
“Oh, yes of course. How silly. Yes, I spoke to your butler…” Shortly, there came the shuffling, rattling noises of Garrideb Grub trying to figure out his door latch. Finally, the door opened to reveal the old fellow clutching a wrinkled letter. “Look what I’ve got! Word from France! Mr. Winter has collected the other two Garridebs and shall be arriving here tomorrow!”
“But then wouldn’t you have known it was not him knocking on your door just now?” I asked.
Mr. Grub waved away the question. “Oh, I got excited, is all. Just think: tomorrow! Tomorrow!”
“Yes, I might try not to get too thrilled about it,” I muttered.
He was hardly listening. Indeed, I think he only came to tell me of the news because he needed somebody to crow to. By the state of the paper it looked as if he had not let go of the telegram since the moment he’d received it. Rapturously, he declared, “I shall go tomorrow afternoon, at four, to the Southampton docks to receive them. And by evening we shall all be met, right here! Isn’t it exciting?”
“Indeed, but I wonder, Mr. Grub, might I be allowed to meet Mr. Winter and the other Garridebs? And, um… before you bring them to these rather worrisome sigils?”
Grub instantly recoiled. “Why, Mr. Watson! No! I mean… I do not wish to be rude, of course, but this is a private matter. A long-awaited turn of fortune. No, no. This is my purpose, sir! It always has been! Tomorrow I shall know my destiny; I can feel it!”
Though I wheedled and cajoled, Mr. Grub would not be swayed. Still, I became evermore certain that ill deeds were afoot and that it would be unconscionable of me to leave matters to their course. But how could I effect to intrude myself? As I turned to leave, an opportunity presented. There, on the pedestal near the door, sat Mr. Grub’s oft-forgotten keys. As I left, I casually swept them into my pocket.
It was one of two guilts that gnawed upon my conscience as I walked towards home. The other was this: I knew Holmes would not approve of me involving myself in such matters. But come! The man was not my keeper! I was an adult, was I not? Bound and responsible to plot my own course through life.
Still…
He was going to be mad when he found out.
If he found out.
Perhaps he would only know because word might reach his ears in some future day that his old chum Watson had gone and done something inadvisable and gotten himself eaten by a demon.
Was there any danger of that? I had my pistol, which might be of use against human antagonists, or poor demonic ones, such as Bannister or Staples. But what might I be facing?
My hope was to stop things before any demons became involved, yet I had to admit, my expertise in such areas was slight.
Ought I to tell Holmes? Was it simply weakness to think so? Or was it foolhardy to go into danger, ignoring my mightiest ally? I dithered. I wondered. I wandered. Finally, I stepped into the local telegraph office and sent a quick note.
Holmes
Have become convinced that Mr. Garrideb Grub of 136 Little Ryder St W. is going to be fed to a demon tomorrow night. Will be sneaking into his home around 5pm. Come if you wish.
—Watson
* * *
At 5:12 the next evening, with my patients all attended to and my revolver in my pocket, I slid the larger of Mr. Grub’s two keys into the street door of 136 and slipped inside. As I walked the hall, I fired nervous glances at every stair and corridor I passed. I knew Mr. Grub could not have made it back so soon, but was Holmes nearby? Was the landlady? If I should encounter her, would she recognize me? At last I reached Garrideb’s rooms, inserted his other key, swept open his door and stepped inside.
Or I would have,
