Unquiet Spirits: Whisky, Ghosts, Murder. Bonnie MacbirdЧитать онлайн книгу.
away, rubbing his wrists. I was unable to read his reaction to these last words. Holmes continued.
‘What is so completely odd, St John, is why now? What has sent you here?’ He leaned forward.
St John turned away again coldly. Holmes sighed. ‘You must let this vendetta go. You know that I am not guilty of that which you accuse me. In your heart of hearts, you know this.’
St John remained inscrutable. I scanned his motionless face but read no sign of the man relenting.
‘Once again, in front of witnesses, can you let this vendetta go? If so, then you walk away a free man. If not, it will be to gaol with you, where I will ensure you stay a very long time.’ Holmes then made several strange gestures in the air with his hands. I recognized the motions as French sign language used by the deaf or mute, but had no clue to the meaning.
St John hesitated, and a torrent of emotions passed over his face as he clearly fought to regain control. He made a brief reply in sign language.
‘Fine then, St John, but consider this. If you do not desist, although I am not a vindictive man, you will leave me no choice. I will investigate your personal business, and create as much difficulty as I can for your family. You will bring trouble down on all you love. Do you agree to let this go once and for all?’
St John closed his eyes for a moment, then opening them, he stared fiercely at my friend, then nodded in assent.
‘I need your word.’
‘Let him say it, Mr Holmes,’ said Lestrade.
Holmes shot a glance at Lestrade. ‘He is mute.’ He turned to glare at St John. The man hesitated, then finally, an affirmative ‘Uh huh’ came from him.
‘That will suffice. Gentlemen. I now formally drop my charges against Mr St John for his attempts on my life. For the time being.’ Turning back to St John he said, ‘Take care that you keep your vow. Do you understand me?’
St John slowly raised his eyes to meet Holmes’s. There was a cold rage, now, in that look. The man was ready to kill Holmes, of that I was sure. And yet my friend seemed eager to let him go.
St John nodded one more time.
‘Escort Mr St John back to the Langham Hotel, please.’
St John started at this.
‘Yes, I know your hotel, and a great deal more,’ Holmes said. Then, to Lestrade, ‘It is a lodging well suited to this gentleman’s means and style. He lives on a grand estate just outside Edinburgh, and he is the respected owner and editor of St John and Wilkins, a major publishing house. He has three small children, a growing business, a loving wife, and a brother in delicate health. He has much to lose.’
St John stood, and as he did, one of Lestrade’s deputies approached and took him by the arm, and they moved to the door. As he stood in the doorframe, St John turned to Holmes and elaborated some complex thought with sign language, ending with an aggressive gesture.
Holmes clearly received the message. He sighed and shook his head.
The men departed, Butterby with them.
Lestrade shook his head. ‘Well, Mr Holmes, I have seen some strange things in these rooms, but that gentleman is surely one of the strangest. I do not have a good feeling about your letting him go like that.’
‘Nor do I, Holmes,’ said I. ‘I think you are making a mistake.’
My friend stood peering into the fire. ‘Gentlemen. I am very tired suddenly and need to rest. If you will excuse me, please. Good evening, Lestrade. Watson, would you be so good as to meet me at the Diogenes Club at 9.30 tomorrow morning.’ He shrugged. ‘Or stay, if you like. Your old room is probably habitable.’
Without a further word, he retired to his bedroom and shut the door. As soon as he did so, I realized that I had meant to have a look at the leg where St John had struck him. But he would not be disturbed now. I turned to Lestrade, who was now staring curiously at the still gurgling chemistry mess in the corner.
‘What on earth is that, if you do not mind my asking?’ he said.
‘I promise you I have not the faintest notion, Inspector.’
‘You must have a very forgiving landlady,’ observed the little man tartly. On cue, the saintly Mrs Hudson appeared with his hat, coat and umbrella.
‘Good evening, Inspector Lestrade,’ I said.
As he left, Mrs Hudson sniffed the foetid air and took in the chemistry disaster. ‘Mr Holmes?’ she enquired.
‘He is resting,’ said I.
‘I shouldn’t wonder,’ she said. ‘I shall bring you both some warm soup. Will you be staying, Doctor?’
‘My room—’
‘It has been made up fresh as Mr Holmes requested.’
I smiled. Had Holmes known that Mary was not home and would not miss me? It should not have surprised me. But meanwhile, the weather had grown increasingly inclement.
‘Thank you, Mrs Hudson. I will stay.’ In truth, I felt uneasy at the recent events. Until I was sure that this St John had been dissuaded from his mission, Holmes might well make use of my help.
Thus I decided to stay the night and accompany my friend in the morning to see his brother, Mycroft Holmes. As it turned out, it was lucky that I did.
The thought had in fact occurred to me. ‘Well, not a live one, at any rate. But how did it happen?’
‘It was the act of a madman, a mutual acquaintance, Watson, who has since passed on to meet his Maker.’
‘Strange. But why does this St John think you were responsible? And why attack you now?’
‘Certainly some recent event has served to reanimate his rage. Perhaps a letter. I intend to find out. In any case, it is complicated, and long past. Leave it, I say.’ His tone brooked no argument and I knew it was useless to pursue for the moment. We soon pulled up in front of the Diogenes Club.
‘I shall pay,’ I offered, in an attempt at détente. Perhaps Mrs McLaren had been right and he was in need of cash. I fished in my own pocket.
‘I have it, Watson. You are a bit short of funds yourself.’
It was regrettably true! My practice had suffered recently when a doctor of considerable charm and a decade more experience had hung his brass plate two doors down from my own. But how could he know?
‘What herculean efforts you make to keep track of my personal affairs!’ I exclaimed as we entered the august precincts of the Diogenes. ‘Perhaps better spent elsewhere!’
‘Very little effort at all,’ said he, ‘Watson, you are an open book.’
‘Well, you are wrong about that,’ I insisted.