"Sounds like Moriarty," I said jokingly, but he took it seriously. "Yes, remarkably like him."
"Oh, Holmes, you can't mean — "
"No, no," he hastened to add. "Watson's account was accurate enough; the man is dead. No, this feels very like another Moriarty, come on us unawares. I think the time has come for me to renew my contacts with the criminal world in this fair city." His eyes gleamed at the prospect, and my heart sank.
"Today? Surely your brother here — "
"Mycroft moves in circles rather more exalted than those I have in mind. His is the realm of espionage and political backstabbing, with only a peripheral interest in the world of retired bombers and hungry street urchins. No, I must go and ask questions of certain friends."
"I shall join you."
"That you most definitely will not. Don't look at me like that, Russell. I am not protecting your gentle virtue, although I admit that there are sights to be seen underground in London that might give even your eyes pause. It is a job for a specific old man, a man already known to be an occasional visitor to the dregs of London society. A companion would cause comment, and tongues would not flap so freely."
"But your back?"
"Is very well, thank you."
"What did Watson say?" I persisted.
"That it was healing more quickly than I deserved," he said in tones that said very clearly that the matter was closed. I gave in.
"You wish me to remain here today?"
"That will not be necessary, as long as you are not followed. In fact, it is probably best if you are not here, and if they are aware of that. How shall we — ah, yes," he breathed, with the satisfied air of genius operating. "Yes, that will do nicely. Where did we stash the box of makeup last time, Mycroft?"
His brother heaved his weight from the relieved chair and padded off. Holmes squinted at me.
"Russell, if I have learnt nothing by seven o'clock, there will be little point in persisting, and it is an Italian night at Covent Garden. Shall we agree to meet there, at seven-forty-five? After that, depending on what the day's results are, we can decide to come back here or to go home for our Christmas preparations." This last I took as a symbol for carefree frivolity rather than any actual possibility.
The previous year we had both spent Christmas Day dissecting a poisoned ram. "You will, I trust, have a greater than normal caution during the day, stay in crowds, double back occasionally, that sort of thing? And you will keep your revolver close to hand?" I reassured him that I would do my best to make our rendezvous that evening, and he gave me spécifie instructions both for shedding the disguise in which I would make my escape, and for getting to Covent Garden.
Mycroft came in carrying a bulky carpetbag, which he set down in front of Holmes, and looking vaguely worried.
"You will take luncheon before you go, please, Sherlock. Do not drag Miss Russell out into the cold again without allowing her to eat first, I beg you."
It was barely two hours since the breakfast things had been cleared away, but Holmes answered his brother soothingly.
"But of course. The preparations alone will take an hour. Order some lunch, while I make a start."
"But first," I said, "the telephone." I made Holmes speak with Mrs. Hudson. It was a long conversation, cut off once by the exchange and threatened twice more, but in the end she agreed to stay where she was for a few days, and not approach the cottage or the hospital. My own conversation with Veronica Beaconsfield was briefer and even less amicable; lies to friends are usually less successful than lies to strangers or villains, and I did not think she believed in my sudden emergency. I returned saddened to the meal that arrived while Holmes was making his disguise.
Sherlock Holmes had invented his profession, and it fit him like a glove. We watched in admiration that verged on awe as his love of challenge, his flair for the dramatic, his precise attention to detail, and his vulpine intelligence were called into play and transformed his thin face by putty and paint into that of his brother. It would not stand up to close supervision, but from a few yards the likeness was superb. He removed the putty pads to speak, and I hurriedly swallowed the last of my lunch.
"Fortunately, if uselessly, Watson has sacrificed his moustache for his own masquerade, or we should have to glue some hair under your nose, Russell. Mycroft, would you kindly go and lift the trousers and coat worn by our friend from his bed, and also find us some suitable padding and a large quantity of sticking plaster?" Under his hands I felt the putty fill out my cheeks, hair was added to my eyebrows, lines and creases painted on. He eyed me critically. "Don't move your face too much. Now, I'll tear up some of these blankets while you tape yourself to reduce your height. Take off your shirt, Russell," he said absently, and so matter-of-fact was his command that I had my hand on my shirt-collar when Mycroft cleared his throat gently behind us.
"Is that really necessary, Sherlock? Perhaps the sticking plaster could be put on over her clothing?"
"What?" Holmes looked up from his bundles and scraps and realised what had just happened. "Oh, yes, I suppose so." He looked slightly flustered. "Come here, then."
Layers of padding gave me Watson's outline; his hat, scarf, and gloves left only my made-up face exposed; and his spectacles were close enough to mine in appearance to allow me to retain my own, a great blessing.
Holmes added similar padding to himself, and we stood resembling two obese Egyptian mummies risen from our rest. He worked himself carefully into his brother's clothing and gave his make-up a final adjustment.
"Now to review our plan — Ah, Watson, you're just in time."
"Holmes? Is that you? Where are my trousers? What are you doing?" Watson's puzzled, sleepy voice brought home the absurdity of this entire venture, and I started to giggle. Holmes/Mycroft looked askance, but the real Mycroft joined in, and soon even Holmes was smiling half willingly.
"My dear Watson, we are making our escape. The enemy followed you here, I'm afraid, or were here already.
If they followed you, they may not yet realise that I am at liberty, and assume that only Russell is here. There are too many 'ifs' here for my pleasure, but there's no helping that.
Yet. I will leave here now, dressed as my brother. Russell will leave in twenty minutes, dressed as you, Watson. I shall turn to the right out the door, as my disguise is the more realistic. Russell will turn left, so they will see her clearly only from a distance. Twenty minutes after she leaves, the two of you shall depart, together, hatless, and stroll slowly down the street to the right. You will both have revolvers, but I believe they will be more interested in catching up with us than they will in committing double murder in broad daylight. You go with Mycroft, Watson, and you will be quite safe. We will meet up when we may."
He put Mycroft's hat onto his head, where it slid down to his eyebrows. Imperiously ignoring our smiles, he put multiple layers of sticking plaster inside the brim and returned it to his head. Mycroft's thick scarf went around his neck, leather gloves puffed up his hands. Holmes' own eyes looked out from Mycroft's face.
"Seven-forty-five, then, Russell, at the theatre. You know what to do. And for God's sake, be careful."
"Holmes?" It was Watson, very, very tentative. "Old friend, are you going to be all right? The pain, I mean. Do you want something? I have a bottle of morphia in my bag — " He trailed off uncomfortably. Holmes looked astonished, then began to laugh uncontrollably, until his make-up threatened to flake off.
"After all the times — " he spluttered. "You offer me morphine. My dear Watson, you do have a talent for reducing things to their proper perspective." He softened and raised one mocking eyebrow. "You know I never indulge when I'm on a case, Watson." He slipped the putty forms into his cheeks and was gone.