Chapter 2
Return to Baker Street
It was two days later that I paid another visit to Holmes. The morning rays of the sun sliced through the dingy gray overcast, leaving glistening shafts of light in the misty air. As I rounded the comer onto Baker Street, a single, thin shaft struck the upstairs window of 221 B. An instant later, it faded into nothingness.
Mrs. Hudson admitted me. I gave her a questioning look, and she shook her head in a sad response. I paused a moment at the foot of the stairs, gazing at the door at the top. Then I withdrew my watch from my waistcoat pocket and glanced at the time. Taking a deep breath, and exhaling slowly, I scaled the steps. At the top, on the floor by the door, sat a tray that had gone untouched. I listened for an instant to see if I could hear any signs of activity; I heard none.
I knocked.
No answer.
I knocked again.
“Holmes. Holmes. It’s Watson, Holmes!”
Still no answer. Fearing the worst, I went to the rail and called for Mrs. Hudson to bring a key.
“No need for a key, Watson,” mumbled a voice that was unfamiliar to my ears. “It is unlocked.”
I stopped Mrs. Hudson just as she started up to me. A faint sign of relief came to her face. I turned, and advanced on the door. Hesitantly, I reached for the knob, grasped it, and gave it a slow twist. As I stepped over the tray and entered the room, my nose was assaulted by the smell of burned chemicals. I left the door open behind me, hoping to dissipate the foul odor.
The room was dark, but it would temporarily glow as the spots of sunlight ran their course over the drawn shades. In this half-light I could make out Holmes’ elbow resting on the arm of a large wingback chair, which was angled toward the fire of barely glowing embers.
“Have a seat, old man,” Holmes said mechanically.
I proceeded toward a second chair set closer to the window. As I crossed behind Holmes, I noticed the small wooden box lying open atop the stand next to the chair. Its contents, a vial of the dreadful solution and a syringe, lay next to it. I tried to suppress the feelings of disgust and pity that filled my mind, yet I was heartened by the fact of my friend’s deep depression. He had not yet given in to the desire for chemical stimulation. If he had, he would have been unusually animated and talkative. Indeed, I would most likely not have found him in his room.
We sat in silence for some minutes as I observed Holmes. For his part, Holmes made no attempt to converse. He sat staring blankly at the dying embers. My hand rose to my waistcoat pocket and my fingers played nervously with the watch.
“I’ve committed poor Hatherley’s story to paper,” I said, trying to draw Holmes into idle conversation. He gave no signs that he had heard. “I’m calling it The Adventure of the Engineer’s Thumb.”
This at lease elicited a snort of disapproval.
“The publisher seemed to like it,” I said defensively.
“Your publisher is a git then, isn’t he?” Only rarely had I heard Holmes utter words intended to be hurtful. He must have realized his cruelty, for he quickly lightened his tone. “Makes it sound as if a disembodied thumb had a merry time in the country, don’t you think?” he said through a wan smile.
“Yes, it does, actually,” I said, trying to keep the dialogue going. “But I fear the type is already set so I shall have to live with the rather silly title.”
“Yes, I suppose so,” Holmes said, his mind apparently drifting. “I suppose so.”
I struggled to keep him involved. “If you recall, I’m beginning to set down our adventure at Grimpen Mire.” His eyes brightened a bit at the mention of the mire. “I’m thinking of calling it Hellhound of the Moors. Quite dramatic, don’t you think?” He was drifting back into melancholy. “Or The Bane of the Baskervilles. A bit of alliteration is always good, eh?” But he had fully retreated within himself and we settled into another strained silence.
I was just withdrawing my watch to check the time when we heard a knock at the door below.
“A woman,” said Holmes drolly, “most likely a servant or a wife of a military man.
“How…”
“Simple, sir. The force and rhythm of the knock betrays her.” He waved his hand dismissively, yet I saw the gleam of anticipation in his eyes. “But I must make myself presentable,” he said, rising from the chair with renewed vigor. “Mrs. Hudson is in the basement kitchen this time of day, so we’ll have a few moments before she lets our guest in. Please part the shades and throw open a sash or two, will you, Watson?”
I complied, and a cool breeze quickly swept the worst of the foul smell from the room. From my vantage point I could not see the woman at the front door. There was another knock.
Holmes returned the vial and needle to their case, closed the lid, and placed the box in the pocket of his smoking jacket. He then began arranging the chairs as if he were staging a scene in a play. He swiveled his chair to face the windows, positioning it so it sat squarely in the stream of light that intermittently shone through.
We heard Mrs. Hudson scurrying along the downstairs hall to answer the door.
He moved my chair so it was nearer the windows, facing his, then motioned me to resume my seat.
As Mrs. Hudson greeted the guest, Holmes strode to the door to his room and eased it shut. He listened briefly to the soft tread of footsteps on the stairs before striding back to the windows to lower the sashes. He paused in front of a window to my left, striking an authoritative pose. I imagine he positioned himself thus, knowing the glare of backlight would hide his unkempt appearance.
Three soft raps sounded upon the door in quick succession, followed by a short pause and three knocks of some little vitality.
– End Chapter Two –
