I cupped my hands around my face, blocking the glare from the electric lights until I discerned a silhouetted man standing on a ledge. He wore a greatcoat, hem billowing in the wind. But other than that, and the long hair that whipped about his head, he stood so still that he might have been a statue.
The glass fogged. I wiped it with my sleeve, but when I looked again the figure was gone.
I turned from the window, this time noticing a dining cart and chair behind the dressing table. Had they been there before? A covered tray sat atop the cart, as did a pitcher, drinking glass, smoking kit, and a large sealed envelope. I left the window and raised the cover on the tray: bread, cheese, smoked meats. I covered them again, sat in the chair, and inspected the smoking kit. The case was mine, as were the contents. I took out the pipe, filled its bowl, and turned my attention to the envelope. Inside, I found a letter written on a single sheet of foolscap, folded twice. The handwriting was of a size comparable to the paper: large, elegant, and executed without a single blot or amendment.
It read:
Dear Mr. H:
If you are awake and reading this, then my efforts to restore you have succeeded. You no doubt have many questions, as do I. To that end, I propose a test, one which may commence whenever you are ready.
The procedure is simple.
I would like you to dress as soon as you are able. Leave your room and descend the staircase at the end of the hall. From there, you will make your way to a lighted chamber on the ground-floor. One of my servants will be waiting. Do not let his appearance alarm you. He will give you no worry as long as you move directly to the chair that awaits you.
You are to sit in the chair and remain in it until the conclusion of our interview, which will commence shortly after you are seated. The chair will be partitioned from the rest of the room by a velvet rope. Under no circumstances are you to venture beyond the rope.
If these instructions seem eccentric, I apologize; but I assure you they are absolutely necessary. Perhaps, soon, you will understand my reasons for them. In any event, your cooperation is not requested, it is absolutely required.
You may be wondering about the personal items in your room. Many of them are indeed yours, sent here at my request by your brother Mycroft. One of the exceptions is a pharmaceutical case. Considering your condition, I thought it prudent to supply something for your pain.
The food is from my private stores, the water the purest in Switzerland.
There is no need to thank me for any of these things. Nor do I expect thanks for having pulled you from the Aare. Indeed, it is I who am indebted to you for an opportunity to test my procedures, and possibly to untangle a knot that I have been wrestling with since the night of your fall.
In light of such considerations, I remain…
your host, caregiver, and
most humble servant,—
M Adam
The clothes were indeed mine.
I dressed slowly, favouring my right leg, hip, and shoulder, which I realized, once I had removed my nightshirt, were badly bruised. I found a pocketbook in the jacket pocket. It was new, as were the banknotes inside. A heavy weight in another pocket proved to be a Webley revolver. I had begun carrying one like it in response to threats from the man who had become my obsession, the man I had last seen smashed on the rocks at the base of the falls.
I did not bother with the pharmaceutical case. My pain was severe, but anything strong enough to take away its edge would certainly do the same to my wits.
Leaving the case on the table, I left the room.
More electric fixtures burned in the hall, positioned to illuminate a line of paintings, large reproductions of familiar masterworks. I paused beside one, resting my leg, studying what appeared to be a watercolor of God creating the first man. In it, God hovered in the air, bending low to exhale the breath of life into his creation. I stepped closer, drawn by the expression on God’s face. He looked terrified. An inscription in the painting’s corner read:
“Elohim Creating Adam”
by M Adam, 1888
after W Blake 1795
The other paintings featured similar subjects. In each, the face of God was the same: slender, pale, apparently terrified.
I reached the stairs and gripped the banister, slowing my pace until I reached a long hall where the only light came from a doorway thirty feet on. I moved toward it and stepped inside.
A creature greeted me. It was of human size, except for its arms and head, which were disproportionately large. It resembled an orangutan. Yet it was hairless and dressed like a servant, and its fingers, when it raised them to indicate the waiting chair, were long and delicate.
The chair stood beneath an overhead light, the beam focused so precisely that the rest of the room remained in darkness. I looked again at the servant, recalled the assurance of M Adam’s letter, and sat in the chair. The overhead light expanded as I settled back. More lights came on illuminating the room which turned out to be a small library lined with books and paintings. Across from me, perhaps fifteen feet distant, a second chair sat beside a closed door.
I leaned forward, peering across the velvet rope that stretched in front of me. A wave of vertigo ensued. The room shifted before me. I felt myself falling.
“No, sir!” The servant grabbed me. “You must not move, sir.” It spoke with a disarmingly sweet voice, almost singing. “Master Adam told me to make sure you—”
A latch clicked from across the room.
I sat back. My vision cleared. Then, across the room, the far door swung wide.
A dark man entered, bowed slightly, and extended his hands. “Please,” he said. “Don’t get up.” He spoke English, seasoned with the vowels of a man more accustomed to French. “Stay seated and save your strength.”
I did as he said, watching as he took his seat across from me.
He was of average height, yet his form conveyed a sense of stature, immense size. He wore his hair long and straight, like the Indians of the American plains. His skin, too, was uncommonly tanned, though lighter than his lips, which were as black as his hair. But despite such features, there was something noble about him, almost beautiful, and somehow familiar.
“I’m relieved to see you looking so well,” he said, his diction recalling the tone of his letter: clear, precise, confident. “How is your pain?”
“It lingers,” I said, startled by the thinness of my voice. It seemed as atrophied as my limbs. “How long have I been here?”
“Since I pulled you from the flood.”
“That was yesterday?”
“No.”
“How long?”
His gaze narrowed, as if studying me from across a great distance. At last, he said: “Nearly four weeks.”
I flinched.
“Not four weeks from your perspective,” he added quickly. “Time is for the living, and you, Mr. Holmes, have spent nearly a month in the realm of the dead.”
“I’m not sure I understand.”
“I think you do, Mr. Holmes. My words are plain. You were dead. Your suicide was successful.”
“My suicide?”
“Excuse me if I speak candidly, but there’s no need for pretence. I found your suicide note.”
“But I didn’t—”
“Please. There’s no need to argue. Perhaps if I start the story at the beginning, it will be easier to follow.”