The Further Adventures of Sherlock Holmes: Dr Jekyll & Mr Holmes (17 page)

‘That may be so, but what kept you from identifying yourself when I hailed you? That was shabby treatment indeed, Holmes!’

He regarded me warmly for a moment, then leant forward in his armchair and patted my knee. ‘Watson, Watson,’ said he, sincerely. ‘I apologise for leaving that impression. I would never presume to treat in a shabby manner one upon whose friendship and loyalty I have come to depend. Had I revealed myself to you, you would then and there have asked all the questions which you are now asking, and in the meantime Hyde would have been halfway across London. Come now; what would you have done in my place?’ His grey eyes twinkled.

‘I suppose that I would have behaved exactly as you did,’ I responded, after a moment.

‘Of course you would have!’ He sat back, puffing upon his cigar. ‘Emotion is a cross which we all must bear, but there are ways of circumventing it when it is most troublesome. Not that doing so helped us in this instance, after my own incompetence in the driver’s seat cost us our quarry.’ His tone was one of bitter self-reproach.

‘You must not blame yourself,’ said I. ‘Had fortune smiled upon us instead of upon Hyde, it would have been he piled up on that corner in Piccadilly. Your driving was impeccable.’

He waved aside the compliment listlessly, but a faint smile told me that his good humour was returning. ‘My teacher was the best who ever lived. But remind me to tell you about Fyodor the coachman and the singular adventure which we shared at some later date; it is a most interesting narrative. Had he but been wielding the whip today, Hyde might be in custody at this very moment.’

‘It’s a pity that neither of us got the number of his cab.’

‘Really, Watson, your comments this evening are the most unsettling mixture of honey and vitriol,’ he snapped. ‘The number is 5312; have my faculties slipped so far that you think me capable of missing such a fundamental scrap of information?’

I sat up. ‘Do you mean to say that you have known the number all this time and done nothing about it?’

‘On the contrary, the driver of the vehicle in question is being sought even as we speak.’

‘By whom? We came straight home from Piccadilly.’

‘We made one stop, you will recall.’

I thought. ‘Yes, you stopped to speak with a crowd of ragged street Arabs. I imagined that you were testing your disguise.’

‘Why should I test it when it had already served its purpose? As for those “ragged street Arabs,” have you forgotten the Baker Street Irregulars so quickly?’

‘I remember that they were of some use in the Drebber murder case. But surely you have not entrusted them with the task of locating this particular murderer’s cab? That is a job for Scotland Yard.’

He made a noise of derision which I found most ungentlemanly. ‘I make use of Scotland Yard only upon those rare occasions when they have stumbled across some information which I do not already possess. When it comes to laying my hands upon a witness or an article of evidence which is floating about this great city, I shall throw in my lot with Wiggins and his crew every time. Your disbelief in their abilities is shared by most people, and that is their main strength. A detective whom no-one takes seriously is a valuable tool. They located Jefferson Hope’s cab in short order; I have little doubt but that they will soon repeat their triumph in the case of cab number 5312. That’s them now, I should wager.’

The jangling of the bell-pull floated up from the floor below. Holmes unfolded himself from his seat and strolled over to the bow-window, where he stood looking down into the dusty street, hands in the pockets of his old blue dressing-gown. ‘It’s our man, all right,’ said he. ‘I must say that it’s a relief to see the old girl standing still for a change. I am referring to the cab, Watson. There are no ladies in this case, thank heaven.’

Whilst he was speaking a small altercation had broken out at the foot of the stairs, in which I detected both Mrs. Hudson’s Scottish burr raised in outrage and the higher, cockney speech of Wiggins, the boy whom Holmes had placed in charge of his unofficial brigade of barefooted waifs, attempting to placate her. She plainly did not care for the youth’s presence in her tidy household. But accustomed as she was to such things as indoor target practice and all sorts of strange characters parading in and out of 221B, the landlady at length surrendered to this fresh invasion, and presently the tread of two distinctly different pairs of feet was heard upon the stairs. I answered the door after the first knock.

Wiggins, his round face grimy as ever despite the cleansing influence of the snow falling outside, stood grinning from ear to ear beside a large, stoop-shouldered man with a beetling brow and a great promontory of a chin dotted with circles of sticking-plaster. He was dressed for the weather in a muffler and a worn black great coat which extended nearly to the tops of his cracked boots. His hands were gloved, the ends of his fingers protruding through holes in the brown jersey material and gripping the crown of a shabby top hat which he held before him in the manner of a supplicant. A soggy red feather drooped from the band.

‘Good work, Wiggins!’ cried Holmes. ‘Here is a shilling for you and each of the others. Run along, now.’ When the boy had left, clutching the fistful of coins which the detective had given him, Holmes turned his attention to our visitor. ‘So you are the driver who eluded us so expertly this afternoon in Piccadilly. Pray come in and be seated. I am Sherlock Holmes and this is Dr. Watson, who will be taking notes during our conversation.’

Apprehension flickered in the big cabby’s expression at the reference to his earlier activity, but at Holmes’s cordial invitation he relaxed somewhat and took the seat indicated. He fingered the brim of his hat nervously.

‘Albert Horn is my name, sir, and very pleased to meet you both, I’m sure,’ he ventured. ‘May I ask which of you was driving today?’

Holmes inclined his head in a humble bow.

Horn nodded enthusiastically. ‘Begging your pardon, sir, but I guessed as much. You have that masterful air about you which says that you’re a born handler of horses. I’ve driven in this city many a year, and I never saw anyone put a cab through its paces like you did today. There was one man, though, years ago, who taught me the basics — a Russian gentleman —’

‘Ha!’ Holmes slapped his knee. ‘I might have known. Coincidences, Watson; life delivers them by the bushel. Now, Mr. Horn, there is a half-sovereign in it for you, on top of your regular fare for the journey here, if you will tell us where you dropped off your passenger this afternoon after we separated.’

As he spoke, he offered the cabby a cigar from his case. Horn took two, placed one inside his coat, and bit the end off the second. Apparently deciding that there was no way for him to get rid of the end gracefully, he took it out of his mouth with his fingers and deposited it inside a coat pocket. Then he lit the cigar from the match which I held out for him. For a few seconds he savoured the smoke. Then:

‘I’m sorry, sir, but that’s a question I cannot answer.’

‘Cannot — or will not?’ shot Holmes. His eyes glittered.

‘I would if I could, sir, believe me. Half-sovereigns these days are few and far between. But when I got to the address which he gave me and climbed down to collect my fare, he was gone!’

‘Gone, you say? How could he alight without your knowledge?’

‘It must have been sometime when I had slowed down for a crossing and had my eye on the traffic coming the other way. ‘It’s happened to me before, but not when my passenger was a toff, like this time. And after him promising me a sovereign if I lost the other cab. I don’t mind telling you that I was fair put out.’

‘What makes you think he was a toff? His dress?’

‘Well, clothes like them he was a-wearing plays their part right enough, but there was more to it than just that. A gentleman through and through he was, or so I thought till he left me holding the sack. A fine figure of a man; tall, poised, soft-spoke —’

‘Good heavens!’ I cried, looking up from my notes. ‘That hardly sounds like a description of Hyde.’

‘Rather like Jekyll, I should say,’ reflected Holmes, contemplating his cigar-end. He tossed it away. ‘You are certain of this description?’

‘I was as near him as I am to you.’ The cabby was indignant. ‘I should think that I’d know a gentlemen when I see one. He come out of that door like a blooming lord and hailed me with his stick. A driver can’t be too careful these days, so I took thorough measure of him before I let him in. I won’t carry no ruffians.’

‘No-one is doubting your word,’ Holmes assured him. ‘But it is curious.’ He began to pace, unconsciously reaching inside his dressing-gown pocket for his meditative pipe. It was charged and lit before he spoke again. ‘Where did he ask you to take him?’

‘Wigmore and Harley.’

Holmes swung round.

‘That’s Lanyon’s address!’ I exclaimed.

‘Yet you went past the address,’ prodded the detective.

Horn nodded. ‘We was just round the corner from it when my passenger rapped on the roof with his stick and told me to circle round to where I’d picked him up.’

‘Did you not think that a strange request?’

‘Mr. Holmes, I’ve driven cabs a long time, and I’ve taken on all sorts of passengers. Very little surprises me any more.’

‘Tell me, did you notice anything odd about your passenger’s voice upon this occasion?’

Horn’s brow puckered. ‘Yes, it seemed greatly changed.’

‘Changed how?’

‘It sounded much harsher. More like a grating whisper. I remember thinking that perhaps he had suffered some kind of attack and had changed his mind about visiting because of it.’

‘Hardly likely. Why, then, would he turn his back upon the doctors’ quarter, where medical help was everywhere? But all this is beside the point. Pray continue.’

He shrugged. ‘That’s all there is to tell. Not long afterwards he rapped again and made me that offer of a sovereign if I got rid of the cab what was following us. You saw the rest.’

‘Thank you, Mr. Horn. Here is the half-sovereign which I promised, plus a little more which should take care of your fare. You have been a great help.’

When the cabby had departed, thanking him, Holmes turned to me. ‘Well, Watson? What do you make of that?’

‘I am at a loss to explain it,’ said I.

‘Come, come; you must have formulated some theory which will cover the facts as we know them.’

‘I have nothing to offer, other than the obvious conclusion that Jekyll and Hyde switched places somewhere along the journey.’

‘The probability lies in that direction, to be sure. The snow was falling heavily, and behind its veil such an exchange was eminently possible without my witnessing it. But why? Tell me that.’

‘I cannot guess.’

‘Of course you cannot, and neither can I, nor will I try. Imagination becomes useless when it is compelled to cross into the realm of fantasy. We simply do not have enough facts. Let us attack it from a different angle. What did you learn during your conversation with Lanyon?’

I gave him a detailed account of the interview, including my conviction that the physician knew more than he was willing to divulge. He listened in moody silence, smoke drifting lazily upwards from the bowl of his pipe. When I had finished he went over and knocked its contents into the grate.

‘I think,’ said he, ‘that we are dining upon pheasant tonight. I smelt scorched feathers earlier and now a most delicious and familiar aroma is floating up from Mrs. Hudson’s kitchen.’

‘Is that all you have to say?’ I was irked by his irrelevance. ‘What has supper to do with solving this mystery?’

‘It has everything to do with it,’ said he smiling. ‘An engine cannot run without fuel. How is your memory these days, Watson? Good as ever, I trust?’

‘I trust. Why?’

‘We shall need it to find our way about tomorrow. I should not wish it voiced abroad that Sherlock Holmes became lost upon the grounds of your old
alma mater
, the University of Edinburgh. Perhaps a dash of clear British academic thinking will show us the way out of these very deep waters in which we seem to be floundering.’

A
CADEMIA

T
he journey by rail from London to Edinburgh, apart from the invigorating experience (in my own case) of viewing scenery which I had not beheld in more than a dozen years, was a physically exhausting one, with the result that for two days after our arrival neither of us stirred from our room at the inn. Holmes put that time to use placing the finishing touches upon a monograph in which he catalogued some sixty-seven common deadly poisons, along with brief case histories recounting the various methods by which all of them had been applied to evil purpose by some of our fellow citizens. Not once during that period did he allude to the mission which had brought us there, other than to state, when I pressed him upon it, that further progress was out of the question until more data became available. Inspired by the literary atmosphere, I set to work once again arranging my notes concerning the Drebber case into that chronicle which was eventually to introduce the world-at-large to the remarkable talents of Sherlock Holmes, only to find that I was too pre-occupied with the current turn of events to do justice to that tangled skein, and at length I put away my materials and settled back to read what others had written. It was a grey January day when, rejuvenated at last, we stepped onto the grounds of one of the finest institutions of higher learning which the Western world has to offer.