‘You left that very late, Lestrade,’ Holmes remarked.
‘I was interested to hear what the villain said,’ the same replied. I looked round and saw that Inspector Lestrade was indeed here, and three police officers with him, already entering the room, checking on the men who had been shot.
‘You heard him confess to the murders?’
‘Yes, indeed, Mr Holmes.’ One of his men had reached Henderson. He examined him briefly and shook his head. I had seen the wound. I was not surprised. ‘I’m afraid he will not face justice for his crimes.’
‘Some might say he already has.’
‘Even so, I would have preferred him alive, if only as a witness. I’ve put my neck on the line for you, Mr Holmes, and this night’s work could still cost me dear.’
‘It will cost you another commendation, Lestrade, and well you know it.’ Holmes turned his attention to me. ‘How are you bearing up, Watson? Are you hurt?’
‘Nothing that a little embrocation and a whisky and soda won’t cure,’ I replied. ‘But tell me, Holmes. You knew all along that this was a trap?’
‘I strongly suspected it. It seemed inconceivable to me that an illiterate child would keep an advertisement folded beneath his bed. And as our late friend, Henderson, said, we had already been deceived once. I am beginning to learn how our enemies work.’
‘Meaning …?’
‘They used you to find me. The men who followed you to Holborn Viaduct were not police officers. They were in the employ of our enemies, who had provided you with what appeared to be an irresistible clue in the hope that you would know of my whereabouts and would deliver it to me.’
‘But the name, Dr Silkin’s House of Wonders. Are you telling me that he has nothing to do with it?’
‘My dear Watson! Silkin is not so uncommon a name. They could have used Silkin the bootmaker in Ludgate Circus or Silkin the timber yard in Battersea. Or Silkman or Silk Way or anything that would have us believe we were closing in on the House of Silk. It was only necessary to draw me into the open so that they could finally be rid of me.’
‘What of you, Lestrade? How did you come to be here?’
‘Mr Holmes approached me and asked me to come, Dr Watson.’
‘You believed in his innocence!’
‘I never doubted it from the start. And when I looked into that matter at Coppergate Square it soon became clear that there was something crooked about the affair. Inspector Harriman said he was on his way from a bank robbery on the White Horse Road, but there was no such robbery. I looked in the report book. I visited the bank. And it seemed to me that if Harriman was prepared to lie about that in court, he might be prepared to lie about quite a few other things too.’
‘Lestrade took a gamble,’ Holmes cut in. ‘For his first instinct was to return me to the prison authorities. But he and I know each other well, whatever our differences, and have collaborated too often to fall out over a false accusation. Is that not true, Lestrade?’
‘Whatever you say, Mr Holmes.’
‘And at heart, he is as eager as I to bring an end to this affair and to bring the true culprits to justice.’
‘This one is alive!’ one of the police officers exclaimed. While Holmes and I had been talking, they had been examining our two assailants.
Holmes crossed over to where Bratby lay and knelt beside him. ‘Can you hear me, Bratby?’ he asked. There was silence, then a soft whining like a child in pain. ‘There is nothing we can do for you but you still have time to make some amends, to atone for some of your crimes before you meet your maker.’
Very quietly, Bratby began to sob.
‘I know everything about the House of Silk. I know what it is. I know where it is to be found … indeed, I visited it last night but found it empty and silent. That is the one piece of information which I have no way of discovering for myself and yet it is vital if we are to bring an end to this business once and for all. For the good of your own salvation, tell me. When does it next meet?’
There was a long silence. Despite myself, I felt a surge of pity for this man who was about to breathe his last even though he had intended to kill me – and Holmes with me – just a few minutes before. For all men are equal at the moment of death and who are we to judge them when a much greater judge awaits?
‘Tonight,’ he said. And died.
Holmes straightened up. ‘At last fortune is on our side, Lestrade,’ he said. ‘Will you accompany me a little further? And do you have at least ten men with you? They will need to be steadfast and resolute for, I promise you, they will not forget what we are about to reveal.’
‘We’re with you, Holmes,’ Lestrade replied. ‘Let’s get this over with.’
Holmes had my gun. I had not seen when he had retrieved it, but once again he pressed it into my hand, looking me in the eyes. I knew what he was asking. I nodded and together we set off.
NINETEEN
The House of Silk
We returned to the highest reaches of Hamworth Hill, to Chorley Grange School for Boys. Where else could the investigation have taken us? It was from here that the flyer had come and it was obvious now that somebody had placed it under the mattress of Ross’s bed for the headmaster to find, knowing that he would bring it to us, drawing us into the trap at Dr Silkin’s winter fair. It was, of course, always possible that Charles Fitzsimmons had been lying all along and that he was part of the conspiracy, too. And yet, even now I found that hard to believe, for he had struck me as the very model of propriety with his sense of duty, his concern for the welfare of his boys, his respectable wife, the anguish with which he had greeted the death of Ross. It was hard to imagine that all this had been no more than a masquerade and I felt sure, even now, that if he had been drawn into something dark and evil, it had been against his knowledge or inclination.
Lestrade had brought ten men with him in four separate carriages that had followed each other, silently climbing the hill that seemed to rise endlessly from the northern edge of London. He was still carrying a revolver, as were Holmes and I, but the rest of his men were unarmed, so that if it was the case that we were preparing for a physical confrontation, speed and surprise would be of the very essence. Holmes gave the signal and the carriages stopped a short distance from our target, which was not the school itself, as I had imagined, but the square building on the other side of the lane which had once been a coach-builder’s factory. Fitzsimmons had told us that it was used for musical recitals and in this, at least, he must have been telling the truth for there were several coaches parked outside and I could hear piano music coming from within.
We took up our positions behind a clump of trees where we could remain unobserved. It was half past eight and it had begun to snow, fat white feathers falling out of the night sky. The ground was already white and it was markedly colder up here, at the brow of the hill, than it had been in the city. I was in considerable pain from the blow that had been inflicted on me at the fair, my entire arm throbbing and my old wound twitching in sympathy, and I feared I might have the beginnings of a fever. But I was determined to show none of it. I had come this far and I would see it through to the end. Holmes was waiting for something and I had infinite faith in his judgement, even if we had to stand here all night.
Lestrade must have been aware of my discomfort for he nudged me and handed me a silver hip flask. I raised it to my lips and took a sip of brandy before handing it back to the little detective. He wiped it on his sleeve, drank some himself and put it away.
‘What’s the plan, Mr Holmes?’ he asked.
‘If you want to catch these people red-handed, Lestrade, then we must learn how to enter without raising the alarm.’
‘We’re going to break into a concert?’
‘It is not a concert.’
I heard the soft rattle of yet another approaching carriage and turned to see a brougham pulled by a pair of fine, grey mares. The driver was whipping them on, for the hill was steep and the ground underfoot already
treacherous, mud and snow causing the wheels to slip. I glanced at Holmes. There was a look in his face quite different from any that I had seen before. I would describe it as a sort of cold satisfaction, a sense that he had been proven right and that now, at last, he could seek vengeance. His eyes were bright but the bones in his cheek drew dark lines below them and I thought not even the angel of death would appear quite so menacing when finally we met.
‘Do you see, Watson?’ he whispered.
Concealed behind the trees, we could not be seen but at the same time we had an uninterrupted view both of the school building and of the lane as it ran in both directions. Holmes pointed and, in the moonlight, I saw a symbol painted in gold on the side of the brougham; a raven and two keys. It was the family crest of Lord Ravenshaw and I remembered the arrogant man with the swollen eyes whose watch had been stolen and whom we had met in Gloucestershire. Was it possible that he was involved in this too? The coach turned into the driveway and stopped. Lord Ravenshaw descended, clearly recognisable even at this distance, dressed in a black cloak and top hat. He walked to the front door and knocked on it. It was opened by an unseen figure, but as the yellow light spilled out, I saw him holding something which dangled from his hand. It resembled a long strip of paper but of course it was no such thing. It was a white silk ribbon. The new arrival was admitted. The door closed.
‘It is exactly as I thought,’ Holmes said. ‘Watson, are you prepared to accompany me? I must warn you that what you will encounter on the other side of that door may cause you great distress. This case has been an interesting one and I have long feared that it could lead to only one conclusion. Well, there is no helping it. We must see what has to be seen. Your gun is loaded? A single shot, Lestrade. That will be the signal for you and your men to come in.’
‘Whatever you say, Mr Holmes.’
We left the protection of the trees and crossed the road, our feet already crunching on an inch of freshly laid snow. The house loomed up in front of us, the windows heavily curtained and allowing only a soft rectangle of light to show through. I could still hear the piano playing but it no longer suggested to me a formal recital – someone was performing an Irish ballad, the sort of music that might have been performed in the lowest public house. We passed the line of carriages, still waiting for their owners, and reached the front door. Holmes knocked. The door was opened by a young man whom I had not met on my last visit to the school, with black hair pressed close to his head, arched eyebrows and a manner that was both supercilious and deferential. He was dressed in a vaguely military style with a short jacket, peg-top trousers and buttoned boots. He also wore a lavender waistcoat and matching gloves.
‘Yes?’ The house steward, if that was what he was, had failed to recognise us and regarded us with suspicion.
‘We are friends of Lord Horace Blackwater,’ Holmes said, and I was astonished to hear him name one of his accusers at the police court.
‘He sent you here?’
‘He very much recommended you to me.’
‘And your name?’
‘It is Parsons. This is a colleague of mine, Mr Smith.’
‘And did Sir Horace provide you with any token or means of identification? It is not normally our practice to admit strangers in the middle of the night.’
‘Most certainly. He told me to give you this.’ Holmes reached into his pocket and withdrew a length of white silk ribbon. He held it in the air for a moment, then handed it across.
The effect was immediate. The house steward bowed his head and opened the door a little wider, gesturing with one hand. ‘Come in.’
We were admitted into a hallway that took me quite by surprise, for I had been remembering the austere and gloomy nature of the school on the other side of the lane and had been expecting more of the same. Nothing could have been further from the truth, for I was surrounded by opulence, by warmth and bright light. A black and white tiled corridor, in the Dutch style, led into the distance, punctuated by elegant mahogany tables with curlicules and turned legs resting against the walls between the various doors. The gas lamps were themselves installed in highly ornate fitments and had been turned up to allow the light to pour onto the many treasures that the house possessed. Elaborate rococo mirrors with brilliant silver frames hung on the walls, which were themselves draped with heavily embossed scarlet and gold wallpaper. Two marble statues from ancient Rome stood opposite each other in niches and, although they might have seemed unremarkable in a museum, they seemed shockingly inappropriate in a private home. There were flowers and potted plants everywhere, on the tables, on pilasters and on wooden plinths, their scent hanging heavy in the overheated air. The piano music was coming from a room at the far end. There was nobody else in sight.
‘If you would like to wait in here, gentlemen, I will inform the master of the house that you are here.’
The servant led us through a door and into a drawing room as well appointed as the corridor outside. It was thickly carpeted. A sofa and two armchairs, all upholstered in dark mauve, had been arranged around a fireplace where several logs were blazing. The windows were covered by thick velvet curtains with heavy pelmets, which we had seen from outside, but there was a glass door where the curtain had been drawn back and which led into a conservatory filled with ferns and orange trees with a large brass cage containing a green parakeet at the very centre. One side of the room was taken up with bookshelves, the other with a long sideboard on which were displayed all manner of ornaments, from blue and white Delft pottery and photographs in frames, to a tableau of two stuffed kittens sitting on miniature chairs, their paws pressed together as if they were husband and wife. An occasional table with spandrels stood beside the fire with a number of bottles and glasses.
‘Please make yourselves comfortable,’ the house steward said. ‘Can I offer you gentlemen a drink?’ We both declined. ‘Then if you would like to remain here, I will return very shortly.’ He left the room, his feet making no sound on the carpet, and closed the door. We were alone.
‘For Heaven’s sake, Holmes!’ I cried. ‘What is this place?’
‘It is the House of Silk,’ he replied, grimly.
‘Yes. But what …?’
He held up a hand. He had gone over to the door and was listening for anyone outside. Having satisfied himself, he carefully opened it and signalled to me. ‘We have an ordeal ahead of us,’ he whispered. ‘I am almost sorry to have brought you here, old friend. But we must see an end to it.’
We slipped outside. The house steward had disappeared, but the music was still playing, a waltz now, and it struck me that the keys were a little out of tune. We made our way down the corridor, moving further into the building, away from the front door. Somewhere, far above us, I heard someone cry out very briefly and my blood froze, for I was sure it was the sound of a child. A clock, suspended on the wall and ticking heavily, showed ten to nine but so enclosed were we, so cut off from the outside world, that it could have been any time of the night or day. We reached a staircase and began to make our way up. Even as we took the first steps, I heard a door open somewhere along the corridor and a man’s voice which I thought I recognised. It was the master of the house. He was on his way to see us.
We hurried forward, turning the corner just as two figures – the house steward who had greeted us and another – passed below.
‘Onwards, Watson,’ Holmes whispered.
We came to a second corridor, this one with the gas lamps turned down. It was carpeted, with floral wallpaper and there were many more doors with, on either side, oil paintings in heavy frames which proved to be tawdry imitations of classical works. There was an odour in the air that was sweet and unpleasant. Even though the truth had still not fully dawned on me, my every instinct was to leave this place, to wish that I had never come.
‘We must choose a door,’ Holmes muttered. ‘But which one?’
The doors were unmarked, identical, polished oak with white porcelain handles. He chose the one clos
est to him and opened it. Together, we looked in. At the wooden floor, the rug, the candles, the mirror, the jug and the basin, the bearded man we had never seen before, sitting, dressed only in a white shirt open at the collar, at the boy on the bed behind him.
It could not be true. I did not want to believe it. But nor could I disavow the evidence of my own eyes. For that was the secret of the House of Silk. It was a house of ill-repute, nothing more, nothing less; but one designed for men with a gross perversion and the wealth to indulge it. These men had a predilection for young boys and their wretched victims had been drawn from those same schoolchildren I had seen at Chorley Grange, plucked off the London streets with no families or friends to care for them, no money and no food, for the most part ignored by a society to which they were little more than an inconvenience. They had been forced or bribed into a life of squalor, threatened with torture or death if they did not comply. Ross had briefly been one of them. No wonder he had run away. And no wonder his sister had tried to stab me, believing I had come to take him back. What sort of country did I live in, at the end of the last century, I wonder, that could so utterly abandon its young? They could fall ill. They could starve. And worse. Nobody cared.
All these thoughts raced through my consciousness in the few seconds that we stood there. Then the man noticed us. ‘What the devil you do you think you’re doing?’ he thundered.
Holmes closed the door. At that very moment, there was a cry from downstairs as the master of the house entered the drawing room and found that we had gone. The piano music stopped. I wondered what we should do next, but a second later the decision was taken from us. A door opened further down the corridor and a man stepped out, fully dressed but with his clothes in disarray, his shirt hanging out at the back. This time I knew him at once. It was Inspector Harriman.