I continued to bring my reservations to Holmes’s attention, only from a different perspective.
‘Holmes, how is it that you can be so certain of Diego’s guilt? After all, to travel halfway round the world and then to infiltrate one of the bastions of British gentility to avenge the untimely demise of his former employer, does appear to be something of an excessive reaction. Especially when you bear in mind the fact than he was only in Cassales’ employ for a relatively short period of time.’
‘Watson,’ Holmes’s voice dropped to barely a whisper. ‘There are many other forms of attachment between two men. The esteemed and now infamous Mr Wilde has most recently brought one of these under the public gaze.’
I fully understood Holmes’s meaning, yet could still not understand why he felt the need to take such drastic and unethical action merely to ensure the mental well-being of a man who had behaved so scurrilously in the first place. I soon regretted having voiced these concerns.
‘Questions! Questions!’ Holmes slammed the arm of his chair, while his eyes spat fire. ‘You both seem to have lost sight of the fact that our main objective is nothing less than the apprehension of an attempted murderer! Now unless you intend to search the length and breadth of our expanding metropolis for a single man who has already displayed much ingenuity, I strongly suggest that you both make the necessary arrangements.’
Holmes would evidently not be dissuaded, so Morrison and I had little choice but to do his bidding. I had maintained the acquaintance of two former colleagues of mine who had diversified into the relatively new science of psychology. The combination of Morrison’s influence and Holmes’s fame meant that the arrangements were soon in place.
Morrison was proving to be almost invaluable. He arranged for the press to be notified to Holmes’s total satisfaction and he saw to it that the constabulary, nearest to St Jude’s, would set aside a room for our use should Holmes issue an urgent summons.
We checked the papers in the morning and after a light breakfast proceeded to Hanwell via Scotland Yard. As Morrison joined us in our cab he was immediately struck, as I had been earlier, by the startling change in Holmes’s appearance. Gone was his normally dapper and customary black frock-coat, the shiny black shoes and the slicked-back hair. His hair was now in a dry, tousled state of disarray, his face was made up to appear older and more worn, while his garb was now the coarse light-blue uniform of a porter.
‘Good morning, Inspector!’ Holmes’s familiar voice cheerily greeted Morrison, perhaps to reassure him that he had climbed into the right cab.
‘I must say, Mr Holmes, that I really would not have known you!’
Holmes could barely suppress a self-satisfied snigger, but then composed himself long enough to light a cigarette and to reacquaint himself with the arrangements that had been put in place.
‘Dr Watson and I will be safely ensconced at the local constabulary, which we shall pass in a few moments and which is situated but a few hundred yards away from St Jude’s. At the very hint of danger the head porter, who is now alert to your reasons for being there, will immediately dispatch a messenger to fetch us,’ Morrison offered reassuringly.
‘That is indeed most gratifying, Inspector.’ Morrison was not quite sure how to accept this comment from Holmes and we all sank back into our seats, sitting in silence for the last few moments of our journey.
It was only as we drew closer to St Jude’s that I suddenly became aware of the charming rural landscapes that were unfolding all around us. Vast swathes of lush pastures, which were intermittently bordered by some magnificent birch and elm, were spread out before us, as far as the eye could see. The occasional farmhouse appeared at the summit of gentle rolling hills and small groups of cattle gathered around tiny pools of muddied water.
Then the Gothic wrought-iron gates of St Jude’s unkindly blemished this vista as it slowly came into view. Its dark austerity could not have created more of a contrast had it been the portals of Hades guarding the entrance to Nirvana. Yet this was our destination and my feelings of misgiving increased with each yard of our progress. The huge gateway appeared to be all-embracing.
Each one of its weatherworn, blood-red bricks seemed to have etched, upon its gnarled surface, a tale of fear and terror from within.
We decided that it would be for the best if we pulled up some way short of the entrance. Our mission would be better served if a supposed porter were not observed arriving to work by way of a London cab! As our driver turned us around in the direction of the constabulary, I looked back at Holmes in his blue uniform, moving slowly towards the gateway and his unknown, potentially hazardous fate.
The intervening period was spent both anxiously and tediously. Our meagre evening meal of broth and rough bread was soon consumed and cleared away. By the time that Morrison and I were into our fourth pipes the endless speculating had come full circle. The thought of Holmes, alone and in that dreadful place, chilled me to the core. Yet exhaustion eventually took over and I collapsed on to my small bunk, which seemed to be cushioned with rocks.
My sleep was both troubled and restless and therefore it was no great surprise that a sharp rapping on my ground floor window had me awake in an instant. I looked out through bleary eyes and blackened curtains and gasped at the sight before me! At first I could not be certain that the vision was reality or the remnants of a dark and vivid dream.
A white, spectral face returned my gaze and an unfamiliar tousled fringe of hair was caked in the congealing blood that had been oozing from a large gash just above the left eye. By now I was in no doubt that both the hair and the blood belonged to my courageous friend and my urgent fingers fumbled with the window lock. I flung it open noiselessly and Sherlock Holmes fell from the sill directly on to my bunk. I raced from the room to fetch some water so as to discover the seriousness of his wound.
Holmes was motionless while I cleaned his forehead and then suddenly he sat upright and irritably swiped aside the dripping sponge.
‘Watson!’ he snapped. ‘It is merely a scratch.’
‘It is somewhat more than that and, therefore, tells of some dreadful confrontation.’
‘Hardly a confrontation, although I will admit to having endured a somewhat arduous evening. Watson, could I trouble you for both a cigarette and a match?’ Holmes asked humbly.
I furnished him with both. ‘Should we not first rouse Morrison and return to St Jude’s with all speed?’ I asked, suspecting that the Diego business was still unresolved.
‘That will not be necessary as the matter has already reached its conclusion. Besides I do need to take stock of the evening’s outcome before we involve anybody else.’
‘Concluded?’ I repeated, feeling somewhat disappointed at not being involved in the culmination of the case.
Holmes was standing by the window, his dishevelled outline silhouetted by the three-quarter moon that was slowly emerging from behind a distant bank of trees. Further beyond I could just make out the imposing arched entrance of St Jude’s.
‘Oh, Watson, I should not have doubted you, for that is indeed a most dreadful place.’ Holmes said quietly, as if he had been following the line of my gaze. He gestured for another cigarette, upon which he drew long and hard before continuing.
‘I do not mind admitting that during the long walk from the gateway to the main entrance, there was more than one occasion when I considered retracing my steps and the abandonment of all of our plans. However, Nathaniel Brewer had followed your instructions to the letter and was well prepared for my arrival and intentions. To avoid any owner of unwelcome eyes becoming suspicious of my motives he immediately furnished me with a mop and bucket and I spent the remainder of the day in the cleansing of those endless corridors.’