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“Holmes, you must sit up and drink.”
Holmes made no reply, but peered at me as I poured some water into a tumbler.
“You must. Otherwise — ” Here I was temporarily thwarted in my journey back to his bedside by a clump of telegrams at my feet. They made an abominable crunching noise as I kicked them aside; I felt slightly guilty, for they were fruits of my friend’s labours. “Otherwise, I cannot guarantee that you will live past today.”
“You exaggerate, Watson,” he replied knowingly; nonetheless, he sat up and submitted to my tipping the tumbler toward his mouth so that he consumed a modicum of water.
“Again,” I said, and he complied. “There, now I have some hope of your recovery.”
“Mere hyperbole.” Even as he said this, he slid back down to the bed and closed his eyes. Then came the words which sent a shiver of dread through me: “Watson, I fear I shall never rise from this bed again.”
At any other time, I would have assumed these to be a sign of temporary fatigue or a sardonic remark, but he appeared so weak that I could not do so this time. “As I said, I have some hope of your recovery,” I hastened to repeat with forced cheer. “You need a great deal of rest, which I am here to ensure that you have.”
I nearly tripped over another cluster of telegrams as I fashioned myself a perch on the edge of the bed. I reached down and retrieved a few of them before I sat down. “It seems the whole of Europe is singing your praises. There must be some pleasure in that.”
Holmes reached out and grasped my left hand, leaving me to browse the telegrams with the other.
“Many congratulations on your exploits…Our world will be the safer for your existence…I shall sleep more soundly knowing that you stand ready to defend us…”
“Hum!”
“I know what you have done and will stop at nothing to — good heavens.” I inadvertently released my companion’s hand in my surprise. “Surely this was not intended for you, Holmes.”
It was not; it was addressed to a Mr Silas Howard, who it appeared was also sojourning at the Hotel Dulong.
Holmes opened his eyes more fully. “Read it out again, please, Watson.”
“I know what you have done and will stop at nothing to make you pay for each one of your sins. 10 o’clock at night, room 205. But Holmes, that’s — ”
“The room adjoining this one. Yes.” My friend seemed to reanimate before my very eyes; in a flash, he pushed himself up on to his right elbow. “It is quite a puzzle.”
“I cannot allow you to exert yourself in this state,” I told him in great alarm.
“Then you will have to exert yourself on my behalf.”
I glanced at my watch; it was about three hours before the appointed time. “What must I do?” I asked, having quickly resigned myself to my fate.
“First, obtain a key to room 205. That should be easy enough — simply going to the clerk and explaining that it is at my behest will do since, as you say, all Europe is singing my praises. You will not need much to convince him that our intentions are pure.”
“Very well. And then?”
“Find Mr Silas Howard and inform him of this missive. I trust that he will know to what it refers. If he is amenable, bring him here to speak to me — ”
“Here? Why, he might be a dangerous criminal.”
“Yes, he might, but you will be here with me, Watson.”
I had some objections to this rather glib rebuff of my worries, but I nonetheless carried out Holmes’ instructions; I knew from all my years of experience that protest would be useless.
From the clerk, I acquired a key to room 205 and the knowledge that Mr Howard was staying in room 310. I made my way to that location as swiftly as I could and knocked on the door.
“Forgive me,” I said to the gentleman who opened it, who I ascertained was a tired-looking youth of about twenty-five. “But I, or rather my friend, received this telegram in error, and we believe it to be an urgent matter.”
Mr Howard blinked. “Do come in. An urgent matter? What does it say?”
I handed it over; Howard frowned at it, then suddenly stood much more upright, rather like how Holmes had arisen at the scent of a mystery. “I apologise, Mr…?”
“Dr Watson.”
“I apologise, Dr Watson. Truthfully, I had been napping before you knocked, being exhausted from my travels. You will excuse me if I am a bit addled.”
“Of course.”
“But as for this telegram, I can assure you that it is nothing to worry about, a mere joke at my expense, from — well, I shan’t bore you.” Howard rubbed at his tired eyes. “I am not in any danger from the author of this telegram.”
I stared at him in bewilderment. “But Mr Howard — ”
“Please.” Howard held up both hands. “I cannot say any more than that.”
I considered entreating him to reconsider or to come with me to see Holmes, but much like my friend, he appeared resolute; his shoulders were tense, and his expression was rigid.
“Very well. Then I will take my leave.”
“Thank you for conveying this to the rightful recipient. I am most grateful.”
A threatening telegram seemed quite a strange thing to be grateful for. I decided that I should consult Holmes on this matter. He would no doubt have an answer, I thought, even as another, shameful part of me worried that he could have expired or taken a turn for the worse during my absence.
Fortunately, although he had sunk back into the depths of the bed, Holmes was very much alive and no worse than how I had left him. “Holmes?” I whispered as I closed the door of our room behind me.
“Yes, Watson? What of Mr Silas Howard?”
“He was — glad to receive the telegram.”
“Glad?”
“Yes, and he would not divulge why. He insisted that it was nothing more than a joke, and that he was not in danger.”
“Most curious.” Holmes beckoned, and I resumed my place at the edge of the bed. “I have a faint inkling as to the truth, but only the faintest. It is no more than a dim light in the distance.”
“Small wonder, for you are exhausted.”
“I know what you have done and I will stop at nothing…I know…”
“Perhaps,” I mused, “given Howard’s insistence that he is in no danger, the matter in question is not overly grave. Or,” I added as a pessimistic disposition temporarily overtook me, “he is the most hardened of criminals, and feels neither remorse nor fear at that which might frighten the ordinary person.”
Holmes remained silent for a moment, then raised his head slightly. “No, I doubt your Mr Howard is a criminal, but the first idea — by Jove!” He sat up so quickly that I nearly tumbled off the bed. “I believe I have the answer.”
“What is it?” I demanded as I gently pushed him back against the pillows.
“It is code, or rather veiled language. I suspect that only the time of the rendezvous is of real importance. Have you the key to 205?”
“Yes.”
“Good; enter it and unbolt the communicating door on that side so that when the time comes, we can ascertain what is happening. If I am wrong and Howard is put in danger, you can intervene.”
Carrying out his instructions was simple enough; waiting for the clock to strike ten proved interminable. I told Holmes in firm tones that he must sleep, so he did, leaving me to ponder alone what the outcome of that night would be. Foremost in my mind was the ease with which Holmes had pronounced Mr Howard safe from peril. I trusted in my friend’s intellect, but had it been impeded in some way by his exhaustion and depression? I asked myself that question a few times, and felt embarrassed each time to have thought of it.
At fifteen minutes to ten, I quietly made my way to the pair of doors connecting our room to room 205. I slowly opened the one on our side, then pushed the other an inch or so, just until the opening afforded me a view into the room. I was surprised to see that it was dark and unoccupied — that is, until I heard the key turn in the lock.
I stepped back into the shadows and watched as a man strode in, luckily paying no attention to where I was concealed, and removed his coat. He lit only one lamp, which did not give me any further insight into his features or mood, and sat down on the bed and clasped his hands in his lap.
Limited though my view was, he did not give the impression of being a dangerous sort, but I could not lower my guard just yet. I continued to watch his movements, or the lack thereof, until a knock sounded at the entrance.
The man immediately stood and went to open the door. He’d scarcely done so when Mr Silas Howard pushed his way inside and shut it behind him.
“My dear — ” he began.
“Hush,” said the unknown man, and he leapt onto Howard’s body with a ferocity I could not dream of in a man my age, kissing him fervently.
It took me longer than I am willing to admit to recover my faculties and end my watch. The two occupants of 205 were too engaged in their activities to notice anything amiss; still, I took care to close both communicating doors silently and to bolt the one on my side before before I returned to the bed, where Holmes now lay awake.
“Well, Watson? What news?”
“You know perfectly well what news,” I retorted, and was gratified to see him smile in response. “You could have been more forthright about your suspicions.”
With a chuckle, Holmes indicated the spot next to him. I kicked off my shoes and joined him, resting my head on his shoulder as lightly as I could.
“I have been mistaken before, Watson. There was always the possibility of it.”
“Unlikely. You are among the greatest minds of our generation, as you have proven once again.”
Holmes pressed terribly dry lips to my forehead — I resolved to address that symptom on the morrow — and made a noise of agreement.