straightened up and muttered something under his breath. He was angry and indignant on Holmes’s behalf, revealing a side of his character I had never seen before.
A barrister presented himself, a well-rounded, diminutive sort with thick lips and heavy eyelids, and it soon became clear that he had assumed the role of prosecutor, although ringmaster might be the better description from the manner in which he directed the proceedings, treating the court almost as a circus of the law.
‘The accused is a well-known detective,’ he began. ‘Mr Sherlock Holmes has achieved public renown through a series of stories which, though gaudy and sensational, are based at least partly on truth.’ I bristled at this and might even have protested had Lestrade not reached out and tapped me gently on the arm. ‘That said, I will not deny that there are one or two less capable officers at Scotland Yard who owe him a debt of gratitude in that, from time to time, he has helped direct their investigations with hints and insights that have borne fruit.’ Hearing this, it was Lestrade’s turn to scowl. ‘But even the best of men have their demons and in the case of Mr Holmes it is opium that has turned him from a friend of the law into the basest malefactor. It is beyond dispute that he entered an opium den which goes by the name of Creer’s Place in Limehouse just after eleven o’clock last night. My first witness is the owner of that establishment, Isaiah Creer.’
Creer took the witness stand. There was no swearing-in at these proceedings. I could only see the back of his head, which was white and hairless, folding into his neck in a way that made it hard to see where one ended and the other began. Prompted by the prosecutor, he told the following tale.
Yes, the accused had entered his house — a private and legal establishment, my lord, where gentlemen could indulge their habit in comfort and security — just after eleven o’clock. He had said very little. He had demanded a dose of the intoxicant, paid for it, and smoked it immediately. Half an hour later, he had asked for a second. Mr Creer had been concerned that Mr Holmes, for it was only later that he had learned his name and, he assured the court, at the time of their meeting he had been a complete stranger, had become agitated and aroused. Mr Creer had suggested that a second dose might be unwise but the gentlemen had disagreed in the strongest terms and, in order to avoid a scene and to maintain the tranquillity for which his establishment was noted, he had provided the essentials in return for another payment. Mr Holmes had smoked the second pipe and his sense of delirium had increased to the extent that Creer had sent a boy out to find a policeman, fearing there might be a breach of the peace. He had attempted to reason with Mr Holmes, to calm him down, but without success. Wild-eyed, beyond control, Mr Holmes had insisted that there were enemies in the room, that he was being pursued, that his life was in danger. He had produced a revolver, at which point Mr Creer had insisted that he leave.
‘I was afraid for my life,’ he told the court. ‘My only thought was to have him out of the house. But I see now that I was wrong and that I should have let him remain there until help arrived in the shape of Constable Perkins. For when I released him onto the street he was out of his mind. He didn’t know what he was doing. I have seen this happen before, your honour. It is rare, freakish. But it is a side effect of the drug. I have no doubt that when Mr Holmes gunned down that poor girl, he believed he was confronting some grotesque monster. Had I known he was armed, I would never have supplied him with the substance in the first place, so help me God!’
The story was corroborated in every respect by a second witness, the red-faced man I had already noticed. He was languid and overly refined, a man of exceedingly aristocratic type with a pinched nose that sniffed at this common air with distaste. He could not have been more than thirty and was dressed in the very latest fashion. He provided no fresh revelations, repeating almost verbatim what Creer had said. He had, he said, been stretched out on a mattress on the other side of the room, and though in a very relaxed state was prepared to swear that he had been perfectly conscious of what had been taking place. ‘Opium, for me, is an occasional indulgence,’ he concluded. ‘It provides a few hours in which I can retreat from the anxieties and the responsibilities of my life. I see no shame in it. I know many people who take laudanum in the privacy of their own homes for precisely the same reason. For me, it is no different to smoking tobacco or taking alcohol. But then I,’ he added, pointedly, ‘am able to handle it.’
It was only when the magistrate asked him his name for the record that the young man created a stir in the court. ‘It is Lord Horace Blackwater.’
The magistrate stared at him. ‘Do I take it, sir, that you are part of the Blackwater family of Hallamshire?’
‘Yes,’ replied the young man. ‘The Earl of Blackwater is my father.’
I was as surprised as anyone. It seemed remarkable, shocking even, that the scion of one of the oldest families in England should have found his way to a sordid drug den in Bluegate Fields. At the same time, I could imagine the weight that his evidence would add to the case against my friend. This was not just some low-life sailor or mountebank giving his version of events. It was a man who could quite possibly ruin himself by even admitting he had been at Creer’s Place.
He was fortunate that, this being a police court, there were no journalists present. The same, I hardly need add, would be true for Holmes. As Sir Horace stepped down, I heard the other members of the public muttering to each other and perceived that they were here only for the spectacle and this sort of salacious detail was bread and butter to them. The magistrate exchanged a few words with his black-robed usher as his place was taken by Stanley Perkins, the constable whom I had encountered on the night in question. Perkins stood stiffly, with his helmet at his side, holding it as if he were a ghost at the Tower of London and it was his head. He had the least to say, but then much of the story had already been told for him. He had been approached by the boy that Creer had sent out and asked to come to the house on the corner of Milward Street. He had been on his way when he had heard two gunshots and had rushed to Coppergate Square which was where he had discovered a man, lying unconscious with a gun, and a girl lying in a pool of blood. He had taken charge of the scene as a crowd had gathered. He had seen at once that there was nothing he could do for the girl. He described how I had arrived and identified the unconscious man as Sherlock Holmes.
‘I couldn’t believe it when I heard that,’ he said. ‘I had read some of the exploits of Mr Sherlock Holmes and to think that he might be involved in this sort of thing… well, it beggared belief.’
Perkins was followed by Inspector Harriman, instantly recognisable on account of that shock of white hair. From the way he spoke, with every word measured and carefully delivered for perfect effect, it could be imagined that he had been rehearsing this speech for hours, which may well indeed have been the case. He did not even attempt to keep the contempt out of his voice. The imprisonment, and indeed the execution of my friend, might have been his only mission in life.
‘Let me tell the court my movements last night.’ Thus he began. ‘I had been called to a break-in at a bank on the White Horse Road, which is but a short distance away. As I was leaving, I heard the sound of gunshots and the constable’s whistle and turned my way south to see if I could assist. By the time I arrived, Constable Perkins was in command and doing an admirable task. I will be recommending Constable Perkins for a promotion. It was he who informed me of the identity of the man who now stands before you. As you have already heard, Mr Sherlock Holmes has a certain reputation. I am sure many of his admirers are going to be disappointed that the true nature of the man, his addiction to drugs and its murderous consequences, should have fallen so far from the fiction which we have all enjoyed.
‘That Mr Holmes murdered Sally Dixon is beyond question. In fact, even the imaginative powers of his biographer would be unable to raise a shred of doubt in the minds of his readers. At the scene of the crime I observed that the gun in his hand was still warm, that there were residues of powder-blackening on his sleeve and several small bloodstains on his coat which could only have arrived there if he had been standing in close proximity to the girl when she was shot. Mr Holmes was semi-conscious, still emerging from an opium trance and barely aware of the horror of what he had done. I say “barely aware” but by that I do not mean that he was completely ignorant. He knew his guilt, your honour. He offered no defence.
When I cautioned him and placed him under arrest, he made no attempt to persuade me that the circumstances were anything other than what I have described.
‘It was only this morning, after eight hours sleep and a cold shower, that he came up with a cock-and-bull story proclaiming his innocence. He told me that he had visited Creer’s Place, not because he was drawn there to feed his unsavoury appetite, but because he was investigating a case, the details of which he refused to share with me. He said that a man, known only to him as Henderson, had sent him to Limehouse in pursuit of some clue, but that the information had turned out to be a trap and that as soon as he had entered the den he had been overpowered and forced to consume some narcotic. Speaking personally, I find it a little strange when a man visits an opium den and then complains that he has been drugged. And since Mr Creer spends his entire life selling
