that.”
I leaned forward, anger welling up inside me. I wanted to say that I had been given no choice in the matter. The whole scenario was forced upon me, but as the words came to my lips, they died away. I knew it was useless to complain. I was the proverbial fly caught in the web, and the spider was certainly not going to let me go.
Moran handed me a piece of paper. Glancing at it in the dim light, I noticed that it contained an address in West London. “The Professor would like you to compile regular reports on your activities with Sherlock Holmes. They are to be posted to this address on the first of the month. If there is some urgent business you think the Professor should know about, you are to send a telegram to that same address. Do you understand?”
“Yes.”
“Good. Now memorise the address and hand the paper back to me.”
I did as he asked.
Moran tapped the roof of the cab with his cane again and the vehicle drew to a halt.
“This is where you leave us, Watson. We are not far from your lodgings.”
As I rose, Moran offered his hand again. With some reluctance, I took it. “It’s been good to meet you. We expect great things of you, Doctor. Be sure that you do not disappoint us.”
Without responding, I quickly departed the cab, glad to be out in the cold, fresh air once more.
Revenge was a flame which had burnt with a steady and fierce intensity in the heart of Jefferson Hope for twenty years. Never in all that time had his determination to murder the two men who had ruined his life and brought about the death of his beloved Lucy wavered for one instant. He had dedicated the rest of his days to the task, and once it was complete, he would be happy to meet his maker with a clear conscience. As he looked out of the grimy window of his lodgings at the gathering dusk and the hurrying silhouettes of the passers-by below, he felt good. He knew, at long last, that he was near to reaching his goal. He had finally tracked Drebber and Stangerson to London. He had always believed that it was just a matter of time before he got his hands on them, but now that time was very short. He prayed that his failing health would not let him down at the last moment. Fate could be cruel; indeed, it had been cruel to him, but surely it could not be
He held up the key against the glow of the gas mantle and examined it as though it were a precious stone, and smiled. It had chanced that, some days before, a passenger in his cab had been engaged in looking over some empty houses in the Brixton Road and had dropped the key to one of them on the floor of the cab. It was claimed the same evening and returned, but not before Hope had arranged for a duplicate to be made. Now he had access to one spot in the whole city where he knew he would be free from interruption to carry out his grisly plan. However, the problem remained of how he could get Drebber there.
That night the dream came again to Jefferson Hope. He was escaping to Carson City with his beloved Lucy and her father. They were fleeing the clutches of the Mormons, crossing the great mountain range that isolated Salt Lake City from the civilised world. In the dream he could feel the scorching power of the sun, and the raging thirst that dries the throat and causes the tongue to swell; and then, as they rose higher in the mountains, reaching nearly 5,000 feet, the air grew bitter and keen, cutting through their clothing with the viciousness of sharp knives. But his concerns were for Lucy, his beloved Lucy. In the dream, as in life, he cursed himself for leaving her. It was their second day of flight and they had run out of provisions. As an experienced hunter, Hope knew there was game to be had in the mountains, and so, choosing a sheltered nook for his loved one and her ailing father, he built a fire for them with a few dried branches, and set off in search of food.
As Hope tossed and turned in his troubled sleep, the vivid dream unfolded steadily, as it had done countless times. After two or three hours’ fruitless search, he began to despair, and then he spied a lone sheep — a bighorn. It did not take him long to despatch the creature, but it was too unwieldy to lift, so with the practised skill of an old hunter he cut away one haunch and part of the flank. Flinging these over his shoulder, he hastened back to the makeshift camp.
As the climax of his dream grew closer, Jefferson Hope began to moan aloud in his tormented slumbers. Scrabbling over the cold dry rocks and slithering down narrow ravines, he eventually reached the spot where he had left Lucy and her father. All he saw was the glowing pile of ashes that had once been the fire. There was no living creature nearby: Lucy, her father and the horses were gone. He stood there in horror as the fierce silence of the mountains pressed in on him.
As he approached the camp, he saw signs of numerous hoofprints, indicating that a large party of men had overtaken the fugitives. No doubt this gang had been led by Drebber and Stangerson, eager to capture the girl, eager to get their greedy hands on her father’s property. A little way off, on the far side of the camp, Hope observed a low mound of reddish earth. There was no mistaking it for anything but a newly dug grave. With faltering steps he walked towards it, his body shuddering with apprehension. He saw a sheet of paper nailed to a crudely made cross placed at the head of the grave. The inscription on the paper was brief:
JOHN FERRIER
FORMERLY OF SALT LAKE CITY
DIED AUGUST 4TH, 1860
They had killed the old man. What creed, what religion would allow such an act? Hope felt a prickle of tears — tears of frustration and despair. He looked around wildly to see if there was a second grave. He half hoped that there would be one. One containing his darling Lucy. At least then her pain and torment would be over. He searched in vain. There was no other grave.
It was clear then: Drebber and Stangerson had snatched the girl, and when her father attempted to stop them, they had killed him. Lucy would be well on her way back to Salt Lake City now, to fulfil her original destiny: to become a bride of either Drebber or Stangerson—whomever of the two the Elder favoured — and forced to join one of the accursed Mormon harems. He knew now that he was powerless to prevent this from happening. He had lost the love of his life. Jefferson Hope sank to his knees and wept.
He woke with a start — as he always did when he reached that part of the dream — his body bathed in sweat and his hands clenched tightly by his side. He lay there, taking large gulps of air, desperately trying to calm his rapidly beating heart. The doctor had warned him that any abnormal strain could be the end of him. The aortic aneurysm from which he had suffered since the loss of Lucy had worsened drastically in the last few months, to such an extent that he knew he had little time left. Indeed, the doctor had warned him only the week before that he was living on borrowed time.
At length, he rose and stared out of his window, gazing at the rooftops which were slowly taking form and detail in the early morning light. He could not wait any longer. Another night, another dream, and he might not survive. He had to act now. He had to act that very day. Leaning his damp forehead against the cold window-pane, he smiled. His torment was nearly at an end.
FROM THE JOURNAL OF JOHN WALKER
As is sometimes the way, Fate stepped in to help break down Sherlock Holmes’ reserve regarding his chosen profession. It was last Tuesday. As usual, Holmes had left our lodgings before Ibreakfasted, and so, having nothing better to do, Itook myself to Regent’s Park to observe the effects of the burgeoning spring upon the gardens there. Seeing such new life budding forth was such a contrast to the hot and arid wastes of Afghanistan. However, half-way through the morning, the skies clouded over and Iwas caught in a heavy shower. Isheltered for some time under a large oak tree, but when the dark grey clouds had completely obliterated any trace of blue, Irealised that the rain was set in for some time. Iran to the street, hailed a cab and returned to Baker Street, arriving shortly before noon.
The sight that met me as Ientered our shared sitting-room made me gasp. Sherlock Holmes was slumped in the basket-chair, his feet sprawled out across the hearth rug. His left sleeve was rolled up, and a hypodermic
