As might be imagined, my state of mind after hearing all this was complex, to put it mildly. It all sounded like the febrile fantasies that I have seen hashish and opium spin in many an Oriental mind—and not a few Occidental ones as well. But one look at Holmes’s grim expression told me that he considered this no fantasy.
“What can you tell me about the one who acquired the manuscript?”
“He was strong in appearance, tall, with black hair and beard and intense blue eyes. My impression was that he was in his midthirties.”
“Were there any distinguishing marks—any characteristics or traits that might help one single him out in a crowd?”
She thought for a moment. “Yes. He had a scar on the palm of his left hand—as if a knife had been drawn across it.”
“Ah. Most illuminating,” Holmes commented. He stood. “Very well, Miss Shah; I shall certainly accompany you on your quest, and I hope I speak for my colleague as well”—this last with a glance in my direction. “If you’ll excuse me—I must see to some affairs. I foresee that our inquiry should take no more than a day, perhaps two at most, so we shall need to pack but lightly.” So saying, Holmes left the room.
For a moment Miriam and I stood silently together. My mind was a welter of conflicting thoughts and emotions—not the least of which was that my wife was waiting for me at our home. She was, of course, used to—perhaps “resigned to” would be a more accurate phrasing—my sudden departures from London at Holmes’s requests. This could not help but be different, however, and I could not predict what her reaction to it might be.
Or if even I would tell her.
Such disloyal thoughts did nothing to quell my inner turmoil. I turned to Miriam, feeling the need to say something to break the silence. “I—I don’t believe I ever properly thanked you,” I said to her, “for saving my life those many years ago.” For in fact she had done no less than that, by ministering to me during the long months of my convalescence in Peshawar, after I was wounded on the front lines. During my prolonged battle with enteric fever, on the many occasions when my life balanced on the edge of death, I would often open my eyes to see a young Afghan woman, daughter of one of the tribal chieftains with whom our forces had established a friendly liaison, bending over me, sponging my forehead or otherwise tending to my needs. Initially there were frequent periods of delirium, and it was Miriam who listened to my ravings, who talked to me and gently guided me back to myself. I truly believe that had it not been for her presence grounding me in reality, I would have been lost in madness. And a life without the mind is no life at all.
During the latter months of my convalescence, we had many long conversations. She was well educated, having attended school in Bombay, and she was intelligent and self-possessed to a degree rarely seen in Afghan women—or any woman in my experience, for that matter. Quite a strong friendship developed between us—more than a friendship, if truth be told. The memory I had retained from it, over all these years, was that sense of deep connection—an intimacy that, in many ways, I had not shared with anyone since then, not even my beloved Mary. We had spoken of so many things, Miriam and I, including matters of the heart. Near the end of my recuperation, I asked her to return to London with me. She declined, saying that as the daughter of a chief, she had responsibilities she could not ignore, even for the sake of love.
We both had our obligations, and so parted, but I had, more than a few times over the intervening years, wondered what might have been had we been less faithful to duty.
And now she stood before me—older, as was I, but still in so many ways the woman I remembered. It stirred things in me which had been quiet for no small time.
“No gratitude is needed,” she said, in response to my statement. “For surely your presence in my life did enrich it at least as much as I hope mine did yours. I wish that there were time to speak of such things now. But there is not, and we must act swiftly and decisively, John, if we are to ensure any kind of future at all. If we do not, the world may once again feel the tread of the Great Old Ones.”
Her apparent dismissal of our past seemed abrupt, and I felt a vague disappointment. I wanted to ask her more, to investigate more deeply this mysterious and seemingly dangerous imbroglio that evidently revolved around the possession of the Arab’s manuscript, but she laid a finger lightly across my lips, enjoining silence. “We will speak of the past later,” she told me. “But now you must prepare for the trip, as your friend is doing.”
Something in her manner and tone seemed to reassure me, on a subtle level, that despite the obvious gravity of our mission, the favorable outcome of it was not in doubt. But there was, too, a sense of foreboding, a coldness that continued to waft through the room, as if the warm and cheery fire had suddenly gone out. Miriam was on the one hand the woman who had called to the passion of my younger self, years ago and worlds away; now she was older and different, not quite as I recalled her. I could not help but feel a nostalgic sadness for the path not taken. I nodded and moved down the hall to what had once been my bedroom to assemble an overnight bag.
Packing did not take long; I had, over the years, become quite good at throwing the necessary accoutrements for a short trip into a valise. In less than a quarter hour I was ready, save for three items, which I then included. The first was a small bit of stone, the size of my closed fist, the surface of which was dark and pitted. If one looked closely at it, deep colors appeared to shift beneath its surface, somewhat like the black opals of Queensland, Australia. I had happened across it in Afghanistan and kept it as a souvenir all this time. I had come to think of it as a lucky piece, despite the knowledge that Holmes did not believe in such things and would have ridiculed me for it. But a man who has stood upon the field of battle amidst flying bullets and survived, while those all around him died, knows that Dame Fortune smiles or frowns upon those whom she chooses. It seemed appropriate with Miriam here that I bring the lucky stone.
The second item I decided to keep upon my person was a small, teardrop-shaped leather sack, perhaps five inches long and filled with fine lead shot. There was a loop of leather at the narrow end. It was what the underworld element called a cosh, or blackjack. I gripped it for a moment, slipped the loop over my thumb and slapped it experimentally against my open palm, then dropped it into my coat pocket.
Though there was no need to carry it at the moment, in my bag I included, too, my Webley Bulldog revolver, for, while most of my adventures with Holmes had been without any real danger to ourselves, the sense of foreboding I felt now urged me to err on the side of caution. Should a need arise, I would prefer to have a weapon at hand. After all, it was not just Holmes and myself I needed to protect this time.
As I left the room I encountered Holmes in the hall. He looked even more preoccupied than usual, and I made an attempt at jocularity. “So, Holmes, once again the game’s afoot, eh?”
He did not return my smile. “It is no game this time, Watson.” Before I could ask him what he meant by that, we had rejoined Miriam, and Mrs. Hudson was announcing the hansom’s arrival.
As we waited for the cabbie to tuck our bags into the boot, enduring a sudden chilly and damp wind that threatened to blow away our hats, Miriam said, “Mr. Holmes, it seems as if you already have a destination in mind.”
“Indeed, madam, I do. We shall take the train to Guilford Station, and a carriage across the river to East Molesy. The man we seek is Professor George Coombs, who maintains a house outside of town.”
Miriam looked at Holmes, her expression more one of curiosity than the more common reaction of incredulity. “How can you know this?”