“Truth rarely comes simply or by normal channels. I am sorry if I disturbed you by my actions.”
“Well, I must admit I was somewhat shaken, but now that you have explained...”
“You still think I’m demented.”
Both men laughed, and the atmosphere eased between them. “Were you wanting to use the room, Stamford?”
“No, I was looking for you actually.”
“For me?”
“Yes, I’ve heard that you are in search of new digs.”
“How did you know that?”
“One of the registrars told me, I think. Isn’t it true?”
“Oh, yes, it’s true. I have to be out of my current quarters by the weekend.”
“Ah, well, I might be able to help you. I’ve got wind of a nice suite of rooms going begging in Baker Street.”
“Suite of rooms? That sounds rather too expensive for my meagre purse.”
“Still worth a visit, eh? Especially if you are getting desperate.”
“Desperate? Yes, I suppose I am. I really should be trudging the streets now, looking for a new place to lay my head at night, rather than be here, but I was so keen to work out a hypothesis on bruises.”
“Well, why don’t you trudge round to Baker Street now and maybe all your worries will be over? Here, I’ve got the address on a piece of paper: 221B Baker Street. Landlady by the name of Mrs Hudson.”
FROM THE JOURNAL OF JOHN WALKER
My memory of what occurred immediately following my interview with Professor James Moriarty in the Red Room is somewhat hazy. That is not because I have forgotten, but rather because my mind was in such a ferocious whirl at the time and not really registering details. It was as though I had passed from reality into some dark, fantastic dream and I was unable to wake up.
As I recall, I was given some cash, put up in a private hotel in the Strand and told to wait for a summons. Although I was only ever to see Professor Moriarty once more, many years later, his shadow had now fallen across my life and was destined to remain there for ever.
For the next two days I took very long walks around London, familiarising myself once again with the great city. I did feel pleased to be back on British soil and to be able to wander the streets, anonymous and unnoticed. I had not realised how much I had missed the sights and sounds of England. The rattle of the horse-buses, the bleat of the Cockney costermongers around Covent Garden, the crowds squeezing themselves down the Strand. I was entranced by the grey hubbub of it all, and the simple pleasures such as buying a cup of tea in a small cafe, or watching children feed the pigeons in Trafalgar Square. In the evening, I went to Wilton’s Music Hall and lost myself in the warm, garish glamour of the show, singing lustily when encouraged by the chairman to join in the chorus of some familiar ditty.
It was on the third day after my meeting with Moriarty that I received my instructions. By then I was really beginning to enjoy myself, having pushed my dark secret to the back of my mind, hoping, I suppose, in some kind of childish way, that if I did not acknowledge it, it would go away. But, of course, that was not to be the case.
On returning from a long walk in St James’s Park, I discovered an envelope waiting for me on my bedside table. It was addressed to John H. Watson. That was the new me. The name in the hotel register. The name on my new bank book. The name by which Moriarty would call me. This is who I had to be for sanity and survival’s sake. As I tore open the envelope, I bid John Walker a final goodbye.
The message inside read simply: “This hotel is but a temporary measure. Remember you are in need of permanent diggings. Help will be forthcoming. Take a lunchtime drink in the Criterion Bar tomorrow. M.”
“How were the rooms?”
Sherlock Holmes was sitting in the cavernous staff canteen of Bart’s Hospital finishing off his breakfast while perusing a copy of
Before Holmes had time to respond, Stamford drew up a chair and joined him at the table.
“I trust you went along to see Mrs Hudson’s place in Baker Street?”
Holmes smiled and folded the newspaper. “Yes, I did, thank you. The place is ideal in many ways, but unfortunately I’m not able to take it.”
“Oh, that’s a shame. What is the problem?”
“The quarters are somewhat large for one person. Despite my books and my chemical equipment, I think I would be rattling around a little in there. However, that is something I could cope with quite easily, but I am afraid Mrs Hudson is looking for two tenants to share, a fact that is reflected in the rent.”
“Too high.”
“For this man’s pocket.”
“Then you’ll just have to find some chap to go halves with you.”
Holmes’ brow furrowed gently. He had not considered that possibility. “Share the rooms, you mean?”
“Yes. It seems to me an ideal situation. You go halves with the rent and there’s company for you, should you require it.”
“I am not one of those who thrives on company. I am rather a solitary creature. Besides, it would be a hardy soul indeed who could put up with my unusual habits and untidiness.”
Stamford laughed, almost too heartily. “You mean you are a bachelor! Great heavens, man, you would have great difficulty in pointing out any unmarried fellow who does not have what you describe as ‘unusual’ habits and is excessively untidy.”
Holmes gave Stamford a bleak, condescending smile. “You might be right.”
“Too damn sure I am right. What you need is a decent fellow to share with you, and Mrs Hudson’s gaff is yours. By Jove, I’d join you myself if I wasn’t so uncommonly comfortable at my place in Chiswick!”
Holmes thanked some deity for small mercies. He knew little of Stamford, but what little he did know convinced him that he was the last person with whom he would wish to share rooms. It was obvious to Holmes that the man was a hopeless gambler. His clothes clearly indicated the state of his fluctuating wealth: an expensive jacket contrasting with shoes that were in desperate need of repair. Also the bitten fingernails and dark shadows under the eyes told of late nights and desperation. However, Stamford had a point. If he could find someone reasonably compatible with whom to share the very pleasant suite of rooms in Baker Street, it would solve his most pressing of problems. He admitted the fact to Stamford.
“Have you any friends who might be prepared to come in with you?” asked Stamford.
Holmes shook his head. If he were to tell the truth, he would have to confess that he had no friends at all. Friendship was so unscientific, involving as it did emotions and illogical actions, and he shunned it. However, it was also true that at times Sherlock Holmes longed for someone to talk to, to discuss his experiments with or his investigations, someone with whom he could share his thoughts, theories and beliefs.
“Well, I’ll keep an eye out for you. You never know.”
“Indeed”’ said Holmes quietly, picking up the newspaper again to indicate that the conversation was over.
Stamford needed no further prompting. He rose, smiling.
As Stamford disappeared from sight, Holmes lowered his newspaper again and stared off into the middle distance, his sharp penetrating eyes lost in thought.
The Criterion Bar, situated in Piccadilly, was throbbing with noise as Henry Stamford entered just after noon that day. He was later than he intended to be, but his hansom had been caught in the thick flow of traffic around Oxford Circus and so he had decided to walk the rest of the way. He stood by the door, mopping his brow and catching his breath as he peered through the fug of smoke towards the bar. It wasn’t long before he spied the man he was there to see.
