Art in the Blood. Bonnie Macbird

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СКАЧАТЬ seen the dear woman in such a state. ‘Doctor! Oh, Doctor!’ she cried. ‘Thank heavens you’ve come. It’s been terrible these last days, and now this!’ Her bright blue eyes brimmed with tears.

      ‘Is he all right?’

      ‘From the fire, yes. But something, something awful … ever since he was in gaol! He has bruises. He won’t talk, he won’t eat.’

      ‘Gaol! How is it that—? No, tell me later.’

      I raced up the seventeen steps to our door and paused. I rapped loudly. There was no reply.

      ‘Go on in!’ called Mrs Hudson. ‘Go!’

      I flung open the door.

      A blast of cold, smoky air assailed me. Inside the familiar room the sounds of carriages and footsteps were muffled to near silence by the new snow. In one corner, a wastepaper basket lay upended, blackened and wet, with charred paper nearby on the floor and a small area of drapery burnt away, now sodden.

      And then I saw him.

      His hair awry, his face ashen with lack of sleep and sustenance, he looked, quite frankly, at death’s door. He lay shivering on the couch, clothed in a shabby purple dressing gown. An old red blanket tangled around his feet and with a quick movement he yanked it up to cover his face.

      The fire, along with stale tobacco smoke, had filled the study with a sharp acrid odour. A blast of freezing air blew in from an opened window.

      I crossed to it and shut it, at once coughing at the foetid air. Holmes had not moved.

      I knew immediately from his posture and ragged breath that he had taken something, some intoxicant or stimulant. A wave of anger swept over me, followed by guilt. In my newly wedded bliss, it had been weeks since I had seen or spoken to my friend. Holmes had, in fact, suggested we attend a concert together not long ago, but along with married social life, I had been busy with a critically ill patient and had forgotten to reply.

      ‘So, Holmes,’ I began. ‘This fire. Tell me about this.’

      No response.

      ‘I understand that you were imprisoned briefly. What for? Why did you not send word?’

      Nothing.

      ‘Holmes, I insist you tell me what is going on! Even though I am married now, you know that you can call on me when something like … when … if you …’ My voice trailed off. Silence. A sick feeling crept over me.

      I removed my greatcoat and hung it in the old familiar place, next to his. I returned to stand next to him. ‘I need to understand about this fire,’ I said quietly.

      A thin arm emerged from the ragged blanket and waved vaguely. ‘Accident.’

      In a flash, I grabbed his arm and yanked it into the light. It was, as Mrs Hudson said, covered with bruises and one substantial cut. On the transverse side was something more alarming: the clear evidence of needle marks. Cocaine.

      ‘Damn it, Holmes. Let me examine you. What the devil happened in gaol? And why were you there?’

      With surprising strength he wrenched his arm away and curled into the blanket. Silence. Then finally, ‘Please, Watson. I am fine. Go away.’

      I paused. This went far beyond the occasional dark mood I’d witnessed in the past. He had me worried.

      Sitting down in the armchair facing the couch, I vowed to wait this out. As the mantelpiece clock ticked and the minutes turned into an hour, my concern deepened.

      Some time later Mrs Hudson entered with sandwiches, which he refused to acknowledge. As she puttered around mopping up the water left by the firemen he shouted at her to leave.

      I stepped with her on to the landing and closed the door behind us. ‘Why was he in gaol?’ I asked.

      ‘I don’t know, Doctor,’ said she. ‘Something to do with the Ripper case. He was accused of tampering with the evidence.’

      ‘Why did you not call upon me? Or upon his brother?’ I asked. At that time, I knew little of the considerable influence in government affairs that Holmes’s older brother Mycroft commanded, and yet my sense was that some help might have been offered.

      ‘Mr Holmes told no one, he simply vanished! I am not sure that his brother knew for a week. Of course he was released right after, but the damage was done.’

      I learned much later the details of this horrific case and the ill-directed trials it put my friend through. However, I have been sworn to secrecy on this account, and it must remain a matter for the history books. Suffice it to say that my friend threw considerable light on the case, something that proved most unwelcome among certain individuals at the highest levels of government.

      But that is another tale entirely. I returned to my vigil. Hours passed, and I could neither rouse him, engage him in conversation, nor get him to eat. He remained unmoving and in what I knew to be a dangerous depression.

      The morning drew into afternoon. While placing a cup of tea near him, I happened to notice what appeared to be a crumpled personal letter lying on the side table. Unfolding the bottom half silently, I read the signature: ‘Mycroft Holmes’.

      I opened it and read. ‘Come at once,’ it said, ‘the affair of E/P requires your immediate attention.’ I folded the note and put it into my pocket.

      ‘Holmes,’ I said, ‘I took the liberty of—’

      ‘Burn that note,’ came a shrill voice from beneath his cover.

      ‘Too wet in here,’ I said. ‘Who is this “E slash P”? Your brother writes—’

      ‘Burn it, I say!’

      He would say nothing further but remained buried and unmoving. As the evening wore on, I decided to wait him out and remain there through the night. He would eat – or collapse – and I would be there, as his friend and his doctor, to pick up the pieces. Valiant thoughts indeed, but shortly after, I fell asleep.

      Early the next morning, I awoke to find myself covered with that same red blanket I now recognized from my old rooms. Mrs Hudson stood over me with a tea tray and a new letter – oblong and rose-tinted – resting on the edge of the tray.

      ‘From Paris, Mr Holmes!’ said she, waving the letter at him. No response.

      Glancing at Holmes, and the unfinished food from yesterday, she shook her head and threw me a worried look. ‘Four days now, Doctor,’ she whispered. ‘Do something!’ She placed the tray next to me.

      From the rumpled figure on the couch the thin arm waved her away. ‘Leave us, Mrs Hudson!’ he cried. ‘Give me the letter, Watson.’

      Mrs Hudson departed, throwing me an encouraging look.

      I snatched the letter from the tray and held it away. ‘Eat first,’ I demanded.

      With a murderous look, he emerged from his cocoon and slammed a biscuit into his mouth, glaring at me like an angry child.

      I held the letter СКАЧАТЬ