Page 72 of The Hollow of Fear
“Did Sherlock Holmes predict this... departure?”
This question was addressed at “Sherrinford” Holmes, who said, “I wasn’t on hand for the case, but I don’t believe he was surprised that she left.”
Fowler finished his cup of tea. “Would it be at all possible to speak with the great consulting detective in person?”
“Outside of his intimates, Sherlock hasn’t received callers since his unfortunate accident,” said “Sherrinford” Holmes. “But he understands this is no ordinary visit on your part. Please come with me and please excuse the dimness of his room—he cannot tolerate strong light.”
So it would be a counterfeit then, passed off with the help of smoke and mirrors. Treadles breathed a sigh of relief.
He shouldn’t have been so worried in the first place—until she had investigated Lady Ingram’s murder to her satisfaction, Charlotte Holmes needed all the illusions she’d built around the character of Sherlock Holmes to remain intact.
Which begged the question of why he had fretted so in the first place.
You are irrational at times—more so than you want to admit.
He didn’t pursue that thought—it was a discomfiting one. And because they had now arrived before Sherlock Holmes’s room.
He held his breath. Would this deception pass muster?
The corridor already smelled medicinal. When the door opened, the odors of camphor and carbolic acid immediately rushed out. Inside the room it was indeed dim. Treadles’s eyes were first drawn to a lamp that had been placed on a shelf, which was crowded top to bottom with bottles of tinctures and compounds.
And then his gaze came to rest on the man on the bed—and he very nearly gasped aloud.
The man’s face was a horror, a crisscross of deep welts that made Treadles think of red clay soil that had been drunkenly plowed. One scar cut straight across his nose. Another pulled back his upper lip to reveal missing teeth.
Beside Treadles, Chief Inspector Fowler, who must have seen no end of disturbing sights in his life, seemed barely able to hold his revulsion in check. Even Treadles, who knew that it was all playacting, couldn’t help some very real twinges of fear and pity.
This was powerful theater, not something pulled together without both forethought and expertise. It made Treadles wonder what else had Miss Holmes arranged.
What else had she prepared for.
“Sherrinford” Holmes went to the man’s bedside. “Sherlock apologizes that he is no longer able to communicate except via touch, in a simplified Morse Code. He offers his greetings and asks whether there is anything he can do for you.”
“We are most grateful that he has received us, and sincerely sorry to disturb his repose,” Fowler managed. “If he has some insight he would like to share with us, we would be most appreciative.”
“Sherrinford” Holmes took the hand of the man on the bed and waited for some time. “Cisterns. That was his message.”
“Would he be referring to the cisterns at Mrs. Newell’s house that broke, sending her guests to Stern Hollow?” asked Fowler.
“That is correct,” confirmed “Sherrinford” Holmes.
“Thank you, Mr. Holmes,” said Fowler. “Now, if I may ask one more question. We have spoken to both Lord Ingram and Miss Redmayne about Lady Ingram’s case. But neither, thus far, has mentioned a name. Surely, Lady Ingram must have given you a name for you to begin your investigation.”
As she had done before, “Sherrinford” Holmes took the man’s hand. After half a minute, she glanced at him, a brow raised.
Then she turned back to the policemen and said, “According to Sherlock, the man’s name is... Moriarty.”
“Sherrinford”Holmes bade the police good night in the parlor. “I will remain with my brother tonight.”
When Chief Inspector Fowler and Treadles emerged from the house, Lord Ingram was waiting for them under the porch, in the company of a young copper who had been dispatched from the local constabulary. Lord Ingram was not smoking, but the scent of cigarette lingered.
“I apologize for keeping you away from your friends, my lord,” said Fowler. “Will you care to say a few words to Sherlock Holmes? We can wait in the carriage.”
Lord Ingram shook his head. “Sherlock Holmes is already doing what he can. He knows my situation and he knows my gratitude.”
As they climbed into the coach, Treadles couldn’t help but wonder whether, all things being equal, he himself would be as grateful. After all, would Lord Ingram be under as much suspicion if he hadn’t been seen with Miss Holmes in the summer? If the fact that he was in love with her didn’t carry such weight against his struggle to prove his innocence?
As if he heard Treadles’s thoughts, Fowler said, “We have already sent a message to be published in tomorrow’s London papers. We hope Miss Holmes will come forward promptly.”
