The House of Silk_ The New Sherlock Holmes Novel - Anthony Horowitz [73]
The weekend had been and gone, two days in which I could do little but fret and wait for news. I had sent fresh clothes and food to Holloway, but could not be sure that Holmes had received them. From Mycroft I had heard nothing, although he could not possibly have missed the stories in the newspapers and, besides, I had sent repeated messages to the Diogenes Club. I did not know whether to be indignant or alarmed. On the one hand, his lack of response seemed churlish and even petulant, for although it was true that he had warned us against precisely the course of action we had taken, surely he would not have hesitated to use his influence, given the seriousness of his brother’s situation. But then again, I recalled what he had said – ‘There will be nothing I can do for you’ – and I wondered at the power of the House of Silk, whatever it might be, that could incapacitate a man whose influence reached to the inner circles of government.
I had resolved to walk round to the club and to present myself in person when the doorbell rang and, after a short pause, Mrs Hudson introduced a very beautiful woman, well gloved and dressed with simple elegance and charm. So absorbed was I with my thoughts that it took me a few moments to recognise Mrs Catherine Carstairs, the wife of the Wimbledon art dealer whose visit to our office had set in motion these unhappy events. In fact, seeing her, I found it hard to make the necessary connection, which is to say, I was quite lost as to how a gang of Irish hoodlums in an American city, the destruction of four landscapes by John Constable and a shootout with a posse of Pinkerton’s agents could have possibly led us to our present pass. Here was a paradox indeed. On the one hand, the discovery of the dead man in Mrs Oldmore’s Private Hotel had been the cause of everything that had happened but on the other it didn’t seem to have anything to do with it. Perhaps it was the writer in me coming to the fore, but I might have said that it was as if two of my narratives had somehow got muddled together so that the characters from one were unexpectedly appearing in the other. Such was my sense of confusion on seeing Mrs Carstairs. And there she was, standing in front of me, suddenly sobbing while I simply stared at her like a fool.
‘My dear Mrs Carstairs!’ I exclaimed, leaping to my feet. ‘Please, do not distress yourself. Sit down. May I get you a glass of water?’
She was unable to speak. I led her to a chair and she produced a handkerchief which she used to dab at her eyes. I poured her some water and carried it over, but she waved it away. ‘Dr Watson,’ she murmured at last. ‘You must forgive me coming here.’
‘Not at all. I am very pleased to see you. When you came in, I was preoccupied but I can assure you that you now have my full attention. Have you further news from Ridgeway Hall?’
‘Yes. Horrible news. But is Mr Holmes away?’
‘You have not heard? Have you not seen a newspaper?’
She shook her head. ‘I don’t interest myself in the news. My husband does not encourage it.’
I considered showing her the piece I had just been reading, then decided against it. ‘I’m afraid Mr Sherlock Holmes is indisposed,’ I said. ‘And is likely to be for some time.’
‘Then it’s hopeless. I have no one else to turn to.’ She bowed her head. ‘Edmund does not know I have come here today. In fact, he counselled strongly against it. But I swear to you, I will go mad, Dr Watson. Is there no end to this nightmare that has suddenly come to destroy all our lives?’
She began to cry afresh and I sat, helpless, until at last the tears abated. ‘Perhaps it might help if you tell me what brought you here,’ I suggested.
‘I will tell you. But can you help me?’ She suddenly brightened. ‘Of course! You’re a doctor! We’ve seen doctors already. We’ve had doctors in