The House of Silk_ The New Sherlock Holmes Novel - Anthony Horowitz [70]
The Prosecutor: Did you see who fired the shots?
Witness: Not at first, no. It was very dark and I was completely shocked. I was also in fear of my life, for it occurred to me that there must be some madman on the loose to wish to bring harm to this wee, defenceless girl. Then I made out a figure standing a short distance away, holding a gun which was still smoking in his hand. As I watched, he groaned and fell to his knees. Then he sprawled, unconscious, on the ground.
The Prosecutor: Do you see that figure today?
Witness: Yes. He is standing in front of me in the dock.
There was another stir in the public gallery for it was as clear to all the other spectators as it was to me that this was the most damning evidence of all. Sitting next to me, Lestrade had become very still, his lips tightly drawn, and it occurred to me that the faith in Holmes which had done him such credit must surely be shaken to the core. And what of me? I confess that I was in turmoil. It was, on the face of it, inconceivable that my friend could have killed the one girl he most wanted to interview, for there was still a chance that Sally Dixon could have been told something by her brother which might have led us to the House of Silk. And then there was still the question of what she was doing in Coppergate Square to begin with. Had she been captured and held prisoner before Henderson even visited us and could he have deliberately led us into a trap with this very end in mind? That seemed to me to be the only logical conclusion. But at the same time I recalled something Holmes had said to me many times, namely that when you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth. I might be able to dismiss the evidence given by Isaiah Creer, for a man like him would certainly be open to bribery and would say anything that was required of him. But it was impossible, or at least absurd to suggest, that an eminent Glaswegian doctor, a senior police officer from Scotland Yard and the son of the Earl of Blackwater, a member of the English aristocracy, should all come together for no obvious reason to fabricate a story and incriminate a man that none of them had ever met. That was the choice before me. Either all four of them were lying. Or Holmes, under the influence of opium, had indeed committed a terrible crime.
The magistrate needed no such deliberation. Having heard the evidence, he called for the Charge Book and entered Holmes’s name and address, his age and the charge that had been preferred against him. To these were added the names and addresses of the prosecutor and his witnesses and an inventory of all the articles found in the prisoner’s possession. (They included a pair of pince-nez, a length of string, a signet ring bearing the crest of the Duke of Cassel-Felstein, two cigarette ends wrapped in a page torn from the London Corn Circular, a chemical pipette, several Greek coins and a small beryl. To this day, I wonder what the authorities must have made of it all.) Holmes, who had not uttered a word throughout the entire procedure, was then informed that he would have to remain in custody until the coroner’s court, which would be convened after the weekend. After that, he would proceed to trial. And that was the end of the business. The magistrate was in a hurry to get on. There were several more cases to try and the light was already fading. I watched as Holmes was led away.
‘Come with me, Watson!’ Lestrade said. ‘Move sharp, now. We don’t have a lot of time.’
I followed him out of the main courtroom, down a flight of stairs and into a basement area that was utterly without comfort, where even the paintwork was mean and shabby, and which might have been expressly designed for prisoners, for men and women who had parted company with the ordinary world above. Lestrade had been here before, of course. He swiftly led me along a corridor and into a lofty, white-tiled room with a single window and a bench that ran all the