'Inspector Harriman has either been paid well or is at the very heart of the conspiracy that you and I have uncovered. I suspect the latter. I thought of going to Hawkins. The chief warder had struck me as a civilised man and he had taken pains to ensure that my stay at the House of Correction had not been any more uncomfortable than it had to be. However, to have raised the alarm too soon might have been to precipitate a second, more lethal attack, and so instead, I requested an interview with the medical officer and, after being escorted to the hospital, was delighted to discover that we were already acquainted, for it made my task considerably easier. I showed him the sample of the soup that I had kept back and explained to him what was afoot, that I had been falsely arrested and that it was my enemies' intention that I should never leave Holloway alive. Dr Trevelyan was horrified. He would have been inclined to believe me anyway for he still felt himself to be in debt to me following that business in Brook Street.'

'How did he come to be in Holloway?'

'Needs must, Watson. You will recall that he lost his employment after the death of his resident patient. Trevelyan is a brilliant man, but one whom fortune has never favoured. After drifting several months, the position at Holloway was the only one he could find and, reluctantly, he took it. We must try to help him one day.'

'Indeed so, Holmes. But continue ...'

'His first instinct was to inform the chief warder, but I persuaded him that the conspiracy against me was too entrenched, my enemies too powerful, and that although it was critical for me to regain my liberty, we could not risk involving anybody else and it would have to be achieved by other means. We began to discuss what these might be. It was obvious to Trevelyan, as it was to me, that I could not physically force my way out. That is, there was no question of digging a tunnel or climbing the walls. There were no fewer than nine locked doors and gates between my cell and the outside world, and even with the best of disguises, I could not hope to walk through them unchallenged. Clearly, I could not consider the use of violence. For about an hour we spoke together and all the time I was anxious that Inspector Harriman might reappear at any moment for he was still continuing to interview me to lend credence to his empty and fraudulent investigation.

'And then Trevelyan mentioned Jonathan Wood, a poor wretch who has spent most of his life in prison and who was about to end it there for he had fallen grievously ill and was not expected to survive the night. Trevelyan suggested to me that when Wood died, I could be admitted to the prison hospital. He would conceal the body and smuggle me out in the coffin. That was his idea but I dismissed it with barely a second thought. There were too many impracticalities, not the least of which must be the growing suspicions of my persecutors who would be wondering already why the poison administered in my evening meal had failed to finish me and who might already suspect that I was wise to them. A dead body leaving the prison at such a time would be too obvious. It was exactly the sort of move they would expect me to make.

'But during my time in the hospital I had already taken note of the orderly, Rivers, and in particular the good fortune of his appearance: his slovenly manner and bright red hair. I saw at once that all the necessary elements Harriman, the poison, the dying man were in place and that it would be possible to devise an alternative scheme, using one against the other. I told Trevelyan what I would need and to his eternal credit he did not question my judgement but did as I requested.

'Wood died shortly before midnight. Trevelyan came to my cell and told me personally what had come to pa.s.s, then returned home to collect the few items which I had requested and which I would need. The following morning, I announced that my own illness had worsened. Trevelyan diagnosed severe food poisoning and admitted me to the hospital where Wood had already been laid out. I was there when his coffin arrived and even helped lift him into it. Rivers, however, was absent. He had been given the day off and now Trevelyan produced the wig and the change of clothes which would allow me to disguise myself as him. The coffin was removed shortly before three o'clock and at last everything was in place. You must understand the psychology, Watson. We needed Harriman to do our work for us. First of all, we would reveal my extraordinary and inexplicable disappearance from a securely locked cell. Then, almost immediately, we would inform him of a coffin and a dead body that had just left the place. Under the circ.u.mstances, I had no doubt that he would jump to the wrong conclusion, which is precisely what he did. So confident was he that I was in the coffin, that he did not take so much as a second glance at the slow-witted orderly who was seemingly responsible for what had occurred. He rushed off, in effect easing my pa.s.sage out. It was Harriman who ordered the doors to be unlocked and opened. It was Harriman who undermined the very security that should have kept me in.'

'It's true, Holmes,' I exclaimed. 'I never looked at you. All my attention was focused on the coffin.'

'I have to say that your sudden appearance was the one eventuality that I had never considered and I was afraid that at the very least you might reveal your acquaintanceship with Dr Trevelyan. But you were magnificent, Watson. I would say that having both you and the warder there actually added to the sense of urgency and made Harriman more determined to chase down the coffin before it left.'

There was such a twinkle in his eye as he said this that I took it as a compliment, although I understood the role I had actually played in the adventure. Holmes liked an audience as much as any actor on the stage and the more there were of us present, the easier he would have found it to play the part. 'But what are we to do now?' I asked. 'You are a fugitive. Your name is discredited. The very fact that you have chosen to escape will only help to persuade the world of your guilt.'

'You paint a bleak picture, Watson. For my part, I would say that circ.u.mstances have immeasurably improved since last week.'

'Where are you staying?'

'Have I not told you? I keep rooms all over London for eventualities just such as this. I have one nearby, and I can a.s.sure that it is a great deal more agreeable than the accommodation I have just left.'

'Even so, Holmes, it seems that you have inadvertently made many enemies.'

'That does indeed seem to be case. We have to ask ourselves what it is that unites such disparate bodies as Lord Horace Blackwater, scion of one of England's oldest families, Dr Thomas Ackland, benefactor of the Westminster Hospital and Inspector Harriman, who has fifteen years unblemished service in the Metropolitan Police. This is the question that I put to you in the less than congenial surroundings of the Old Bailey. What do these three men have in common? Well, the fact that they are all men is a start. They are all wealthy and well connected. When brother Mycroft spoke of a scandal, these are the very sort of people who might be damaged. I understand, by the by, that you returned to Wimbledon.'

I could not possibly conceive how, or from whom, Holmes could have heard this but it was not the time to go into such details. I merely a.s.sented and briefly told him of the circ.u.mstances of my last visit. He seemed particularly agitated by the news of Eliza Carstairs, the rapid decline in her health. 'We are dealing with a mind of unusual cunning and cruelty, Watson. This matter cuts very deep and it is imperative that we conclude this business so that we can visit Edmund Carstairs again.'

'Do you think that the two are connected?' I asked. 'I cannot see how the events in Boston and even the shooting of Keelan O'Donaghue at a private hotel here in London could possibly have led to the horrible business with which we are now occupied.'

'But that is only because you are a.s.suming that Keelan O'Donaghue is dead,' replied Holmes. 'Well, we shall have more news of that soon enough. While I was in Holloway, I was able to send a message to Belfast-'

'They permitted you to wire?'

'I had no need for the post office. The criminal underworld is faster and less expensive and available to anyone who happens to find themselves on the wrong side of the law. There was a man in my wing, a forger by the name of Jacks whom I met in the exercise yard and who was released two days ago. He carried my enquiry with him, and as soon as I have a reply, you and I shall return to Wimbledon together. In the meantime, you have not answered my question.'

'What connects the five men? The answer is obvious. It is the House of Silk.'

'And what is the House of Silk?'

'Of that I have no idea. But I think I can tell you where to find it.'

'Watson, you astonish me.'

'You do not know?'

'I have known for some time. Nonetheless, I will be fascinated to know your own conclusions and how you arrived at them.'

By good fortune, I had been carrying the advertis.e.m.e.nt with me and now unfolded it and showed it to my friend, relating my recent interview with the Reverend Charles Fitzsimmons. 'Dr Silkin's House of Wonders,' he read. For a moment he seemed puzzled, but then his face brightened. 'But of course. This is exactly what we have been looking for. Once again I must congratulate you, Watson. While I have been languishing in confinement, you have been busy.'

'This was the address that you had expected?'

'Jackdaw Lane? Not exactly. Nonetheless, I am confident that it will provide all the answers that we have been searching for. What time is it? Almost one o'clock. I would imagine we would do better to approach such a place under cover of darkness. Would you be amenable to meeting me here again in, shall we say, four hours?'

'I would be happy to, Holmes.'

'I knew I could count on you. And I would suggest you bring your service revolver, Watson. There are many dangers afoot and I fear it is going to be a long night.'

EIGHTEEN.

The Fortune-Teller There are, I think, occasions when you know that you have arrived at the end of a long journey, when, even though your destination is still concealed from sight, you are somehow aware that when you turn the corner that lies just ahead of you, there it will be. That was how I felt as I approached The Bag of Nails a second time, just before five o'clock, with the sun already down and a chill, unforgiving darkness descending on the city. Mary had been asleep when I returned home and I had not disturbed her, but as I had stood there in my consulting room, weighing my revolver in my hand and checking that it was fully loaded, I wondered what a casual observer would make of the scene: a respectable doctor in Kensington arming himself and preparing to set out in pursuit of a conspiracy that had so far encompa.s.sed murder, torture, kidnap and the perversion of justice. I slipped the weapon into my pocket, reached for my greatcoat and went out.

Holmes was no longer in disguise, apart from a hat and a scarf which he had drawn across the lower part of his face. He had ordered two brandies to brace us against the bitterness of the night. I would not have been surprised if it had snowed, for there had already been a few flakes blowing in the breeze as I arrived. We barely spoke, but I remember that as we set the gla.s.ses down he glanced at me, and I saw all the good humour and resoluteness that I knew so well, positively dancing in his eyes and understood that he was as eager as I to have this done with.

'So, Watson ...?' he asked.

'Yes, Holmes,' I said. 'I am ready.'

'And I am very glad to have you once again at my side.'

A cab carried us east and we descended on the Whitechapel Road, walking the remaining distance to Jackdaw Lane. These travelling fairs could be found all over the countryside during the summer months but came into the city as soon as the weather turned and they were notorious for the late hours they kept and the din that they made indeed, I wondered how the local populace could possibly endure Dr Silkin's House of Wonders, for I heard it long before I saw it; the grinding of an organ, the beat of a drum, and a man's voice shouting into the night. Jackdaw Lane was a narrow pa.s.sageway running between the Whitechapel and Commercial Roads, with buildings, mainly shops and warehouses, rising three storeys on either side with windows that seemed too small for the amount of bricks that surrounded them. An alleyway opened out about halfway down and it was here that a man had imposed himself, dressed in a frock coat, an old-fashioned four-in-hand necktie and a top hat so beaten about that it seemed to be perched on the side of his head as if trying to throw itself off. He had the beard, the moustache, the pointed nose and the bright eyes of a pantomime Mephistopheles.

'One penny entrance!' he exclaimed. 'Step inside and you will not regret it. Here you will see some of the wonders of the world from Negros to Esquimaux and more besides. Come, gentlemen! Dr Silkin's House of Wonders. It will amaze you. It will astonish you. Never will you forget what you see here tonight.'

'You are Dr Silkin?' Holmes asked.

'I have that honour, sir. Dr Asmodeus Silkin, late of India, late of the Congo. My travels have taken me all over the world and all that I have experienced you will find here for the sum of a single penny.'

A black dwarf in a pea jacket and military trousers stood next to him, beating out a rhythm on a drum and adding a loud roll every time the penny was mentioned. We paid over two coins and were duly ushered through.

The spectacle that awaited us took me by quite surprise. I suppose in the harsh light of the day it might have been revealed in all its tawdry shabbiness but the night, held at bay by a ring of burning braziers, had lent it a certain exoticism so that if you did not look too closely you really could believe that you had been transported to another world ... perhaps one in a storybook.

We were in a cobbled yard, surrounded by buildings in such a state of disrepair that they were partly open to the elements with crumbling doorways and rickety staircases dangling precariously from the brickwork. Some of these entranceways had been hung with crimson curtains and signs advertising entertainments that a further payment of a halfpence or farthing would provide. The man with no neck. The world's ugliest woman. The five-legged pig. Others were open, with waxworks and peep shows providing a glimpse of the sort of horrors that I knew all too well from my time with Holmes. Murder seemed to be the predominant theme. Maria Martin was there, as was Mary Ann Nichols, lying with her throat slit and her abdomen open just as she had been when she was discovered not far from here, two years before. I heard the crack of rifles. A shooting gallery had been set up inside one of the buildings, I could make out the gas flames jetting and the green bottles standing at the far end.

These attractions and others were contained in the outer perimeter, but there were also gypsy wagons parked in the courtyard itself, with platforms constructed between them for performances that would continue throughout the night. A pair of identical twins, orientals, were juggling a dozen b.a.l.l.s, hurling them between them with such fluidity that they made it seem automatic. A black man in a loincloth held up a poker that had been made red-hot in a charcoal burner and licked it with his tongue. A woman in a c.u.mbersome, feathered turban read palms. An elderly magician performed parlour tricks. And all around, a crowd, far larger than I would have expected there must have been more than two hundred people there laughed and applauded, wandering aimlessly from performance to performance while a barrel organ jangled ceaselessly around them. I noticed a woman of monstrous girth strolling before me and another so tiny that she could have been a child, but for her elderly appearance. Were they spectators or part of spectacle? It was hard to be sure.

'So, what now?' Holmes asked me.

'I really have no idea,' I replied.

'Do you still believe this to be the House of Silk?'

'It seems unlikely, I agree.' I suddenly realised the import of what he had just said. 'Are you telling me that you do not think it is?'

'I knew from the outset that there was no possibility of it so being.'

For once, I could not hide my irritation 'I have to say, Holmes, that there are times when you try my patience to the limit. If you knew from the start that this was not the House of Silk then perhaps you can tell me why are we here?'

'Because we are supposed to be. We were invited.'

'The advertis.e.m.e.nt ...?'

'It was meant to be discovered, Watson. And you were meant to give it to me.'

I could only shake my head at these enigmatic answers and decided that, following his ordeal in Holloway prison, Holmes had returned entirely to his old self secretive, over-confident and thoroughly annoying. And still I was determined to prove him wrong. Surely it could not be a coincidence, the name of Dr Silkin on the advertis.e.m.e.nts, the fact that one had been found concealed beneath Ross's bed. If it was meant to be discovered, why place it there? I looked around me, searching for anything that might be worth my attention, but in the whirl of activity, with the flames of the torches flickering and dancing, it was almost impossible to settle on anything that might be relevant. The jugglers were throwing swords at each other now. There was another rifle shot and one of the bottles exploded, showering gla.s.s over the shelf. The magician reached into the air and produced a bouquet of silk flowers. The crowd, standing around him, applauded.

'Well, we might as well ...' I began.

But then, at that very moment, I saw something and my breath caught in my throat. It could, of course, be a coincidence. It might mean nothing at all. Perhaps I was trying to read some significance into a tiny detail simply to justify our presence here. But it was the fortune-teller. She was sitting on a sort of raised platform in front of her caravan behind a table on which were spread out the tools of her trade: a deck of tarot cards, a crystal ball, a silver pyramid and a few sheets of paper with strange runes and diagrams. She had been gazing in my direction and, as I caught her eye, it seemed to me that she raised a hand in salutation, and there it was, tied around her wrist: a length of white, silk ribbon.

My immediate thought was to alert Sherlock Holmes but almost at once I decided against it. I felt I had been ridiculed enough for one evening. And so, without explanation, I left his side, wandering forward as if drawn by idle curiosity and then climbed the few steps to the platform. The gypsy woman surveyed me as if she had not just expected me to come but had foreseen it. She was a large, masculine woman with a heavy jaw and mournful, grey eyes.

'I would like to have my fortune told,' I said.

'Sit down,' she replied. She had a foreign accent and a manner of speech that was surly and unwelcoming. There was a footstool opposite her in the cramped s.p.a.ce and I lowered myself onto it.

'Can you see the future?' I asked.

'It will cost you a penny.'

I paid her the money and she took my hand, spreading it in her own so that the white ribbon was right before me. Then she stretched out a withered finger and began to trace the lines on my palm as if she could smooth them out with her touch. 'A doctor?' she asked.

'Yes.'

'And married. Happily. No children.'

'You are quite correct on all three counts.'

'You have recently known the pain of a separation.' Was she referring to my wife's sojourn in Camberwell or to the brief imprisonment of Holmes? And how could she possibly know of either? I am now, and was then, a sceptic. How could I fail to be? In my time with Holmes I found myself investigating a family curse, a giant rat and a vampire and all three turned out to have perfectly rational explanations. I therefore waited for the gypsy to reveal to me the source of her trickery.

'Have you come here alone?' she asked.

'No. I am with a friend.'

'Then I have a message for you. You will have seen a shooting range contained in the building behind us.'

'Yes.'

'You will discover all the answers that you seek in the rooms above it. But tread carefully, doctor. The building is condemned and the floor is lousy. You have a long lifeline. You see it here? But it has weaknesses. These creases ... They are like arrows being fired towards you and there are still many more to come. You should beware lest one of them should hit ...'

'Thank you.' I took my hand back as if s.n.a.t.c.hing it from the flames. As sure as I was that the woman was a fake, there was something about her performance that had unnerved me. Perhaps it was the night, the scarlet shadows writhing all about me, or it could have been the constant cacophony, the music and the crowds, that were overwhelming my senses. But I had a sudden instinct that this was an evil place and that we should never have come. I climbed back down to Holmes and told him what had just transpired.

'So are we now to be guided by fortune-tellers?' was his brusque response. 'Well, Watson, there are no other obvious alternatives. We must see this through to the end.'

We made our way past a man with a monkey that had climbed onto his shoulder and another, naked to the waist, exposing a myriad of lurid tattoos which he animated by flexing his various muscles. The shooting gallery was before us, with a staircase twisting unevenly above. There was a volley of rifle shots. A group of apprentices were trying their luck at the bottles, but they had been drinking and their bullets disappeared harmlessly into the darkness. With Holmes leading the way, we climbed up, treading carefully, for the wooden steps gave every impression of being on the edge of collapse. Ahead of us, an irregular gap in the wall it might once have been a door loomed open, with only darkness beyond. I looked back and saw the gypsy woman sitting in her caravan, watching us with an evil eye. The white ribbon still dangled from her wrist. Before I reached the top I knew that I had been deceived, that we should not have come here.

We entered the upper floor which must once have been used for the storage of coffee for the smell of it was still apparent in the grimy air. But now it was empty. The walls were mouldering. The dust was thick on every surface. The floorboards creaked beneath our feet. The music from the barrel organ seemed distant now and cut off and the murmur of the crowd had disappeared altogether. There was still enough light reflecting from the torches which blazed all around the fair to illuminate the room but it was uneven, constantly moving in such a way as to cast distorted shadows all around us, and the further we went in, the darker it would become.

'Watson ...' Holmes muttered, and the tone of his voice was enough to tell me what he desired. I produced my gun and found comfort in its weight, in the touch of cold metal against my palm.

'Holmes,' I said. 'We are wasting our time. There is nothing here.'

'And yet a child has been here before us,' replied he.

I looked beyond him and saw, lying on the floor in the far corner, two toys that had been abandoned there. One was a spindle top, the other a lead soldier standing stiffly to attention with most of its paint worn away. There was something infinitely pathetic about them. Had they once belonged to Ross? Had this been a place of refuge for him before he was killed and these the only souvenirs of a childhood he had never really had? I found myself drawn towards them, walking away from the entrance, just as had been intended, for too late did I see the man step out from behind an alcove, nor could I avoid the cudgel that came sweeping through the air towards me. I was struck on the arm below the elbow and felt my fingers jerk open in a blaze of white pain. The gun cluttered the ground. I lunged for it, but was struck a second time, a blow that sent me sprawling. At the same time, a second voice came out of the darkness.

'Don't either of you move or I'll shoot you where you stand.'

Holmes ignored the instruction. He was already at my side, helping me to my feet. 'Watson, are you all right? I will never forgive myself if they have done you serious injury.'

'No, no.' I clasped my arm, searching for any break or fracture and knew at once that I had only been badly bruised. 'I'm not hurt.'

'Cowards!'

A man with thinning hair, an upturned nose and heavy, round shoulders stepped towards us, allowing the light from outside to fall across his face. I recognised Henderson, the tidewaiter (or so he claimed) who had sent Holmes into the trap at Creer's opium den. He had told us that he was an addict, and that must have been one of the only true parts of his story, for he still had the bloodshot eyes and sickly pallor that I remembered. He was holding a revolver. At the same time, his accomplice picked up my own weapon and shuffled forward, keeping it trained on us. This second man I did not know. He was burly, toad-like, with close-cropped hair and swollen ears and lips, like those of a boxer after a bad fight. His cudgel was actually a heavy walking stick, which still dangled from his left hand.

'Good evening, Henderson,' Holmes remarked in a voice in which I could detect nothing more than equanimity. From the way he spoke, he could have been casually greeting an old acquaintance.

'You are not surprised to see me, Mr Holmes?'

'On the contrary, I had fully expected it.'

'And you remember my friend, Bratby?'

Holmes nodded. He turned to me. 'This was the man who held me down in the office at Creer's Place, when the opiate was forced on me,' he explained. 'I had rather hoped he might be here too.'

Henderson hesitated, then laughed. Gone was any pretence of the weakness or inferiority that he had displayed when he had come to our lodgings. 'I don't believe you, Mr Holmes. I am afraid that you are all too easily gulled. You did not find what you were looking for at Creer's. You haven't found it here, either. It seems to me that you will go off like a firework ... in any direction.'

'And what are your intentions?'

'I would have thought that would be obvious to you. We thought we'd dealt with you at Holloway Prison, and it would have been better for you, all in all, if you'd stayed there. So this time our methods are going to be a little more direct. I have been instructed to kill you, to shoot you like a dog.'

'In that event, would you be so kind as to satisfy my curiosity on a just a couple of points? Was it you who killed the girl at Bluegate Fields?'

'As a matter of fact it was. She was stupid enough to return to the public house where she worked and it was easy enough to pick her up.'