The House of Silk_ The New Sherlock Holmes Novel - Anthony Horowitz [85]
With these thoughts raging in my mind, and with nothing but the silent Underwood leering at me from the seat opposite and darkness on the other side of the frosted windows, the journey seemed to stretch on for ever. Worse still, part of me knew that I was being deceived. The coach was surely going round and round in circles, purposefully exaggerating the distance between Baker Street and the strange mansion where I had been invited to dinner. It was particularly vexing to reflect that had Holmes been in my place, he would have taken note of all the different elements – the chime of a church bell, the blast of a steam whistle, the smell of stagnant water, the changing surfaces beneath the wheels, even the direction of the wind rattling against the windows – and drawn a perfectly detailed map of our journey at the end of it. But I was most certainly not up to the challenge and could only wait for the glow of gas lamps to reassure me that we were back in the city and, perhaps half an hour later, the slowing down of the horses and the final, jolting halt that signalled we were at the end of our journey. Sure enough, Underwood threw open the door and there, across the road, were my familiar lodgings.
‘Safely home, Dr Watson,’ said he. ‘I apologise once again for inconveniencing you.’
‘I will not forget you easily, Mr Underwood,’ I replied.
He raised his eyebrows. ‘My master has told you my name? How curious.’
‘Perhaps you would care to tell me his.’
‘Oh no, sir. I concede that I am but a speck on a canvas. My life is of little significance in comparison with his greatness but nonetheless I am attached to it and would wish it to continue for a while yet. I will wish you a good night.’
I climbed down. He signalled to the driver and I watched as the carriage rattled away, then hurried in.
But there was to be no rest for me that night. I had already begun to formulate a plan by which the key might safely be delivered to Holmes, along with a message alerting him to the danger he was in even if, as I feared, I was not permitted to visit him myself. I had already concluded that a straightforward letter would do no good. Our enemies were all around us and there was every chance that they would intercept it. If they discovered that I was aware of their intentions, it might spur them on to strike all the faster. But I could still send him a message – and some sort of code was required. The question was, how could I indicate that it was there to be deciphered? There was also the key. How could I deliver it into his hand? And then, casting my eye around the room, I fell upon the answer: the very same book that Holmes and I had been discussing only a few days before, The Martyrdom of Man by Winwood Reade. What could be more natural than to send my friend something to read while he was confined? What could appear more innocent?
The volume was leather-bound and quite thick. Upon examining it, I saw that it would be possible