The House of Silk_ The New Sherlock Holmes Novel - Anthony Horowitz [87]
I knocked on a door which stood inconspicuously beside the outer gate and it was opened almost at once by a surprisingly bluff and even jovial officer, dressed in dark blue tunic and trousers with a bunch of keys hanging from a wide, leather belt. ‘Come in, sir. Come in. It’s more pleasant in than out and there’s not many days you could say that with any truth.’ I watched him lock the door behind us, then followed him across a courtyard to a second gate, smaller, but no less secure, than the first. I was already aware of an eerie silence inside the prison. A ragged, black crow perched on the branch of a tree but there was no other sign of life. The light was fading rapidly but as yet no lamps had been lit and I had a sense of shadows within shadows, of a world with almost no colour at all.
We had entered a corridor with an open door to one side, and it was through here that I was taken, into a small room with a desk, two chairs and a single window looking directly on to a brick wall. To one side stood a cabinet with perhaps fifty keys suspended on hooks. A large clock faced me and I noticed the second hand moved ponderously, pausing between each movement, as if to emphasise the slow passage of time for all those who had come this way. A man sat beneath it. He was dressed similarly to the officer who had met me, but his uniform had a few trimmings of gold, on his cap and shoulders, denoting his senior rank. He was elderly, with grey hair cut short and steely eyes. As he saw me, he scrambled to his feet and came round from behind the desk.
‘Dr Watson?’
‘Yes.’
‘My name is Hawkins. I am the chief warder. You have come to see Mr Sherlock Holmes?’
‘Yes.’ I uttered the word with a sudden sense of dread.
‘I am sorry to have to inform you that he was taken ill this morning. I can assure you that we have done everything we can to accommodate him in a manner appropriate to a man of his distinction, despite the very serious crimes of which he is accused. He has been kept away from the other prisoners. I have personally visited him on several occasions and have had the pleasure of conversing with him. His illness came suddenly and he was given treatment at once.’
‘What is wrong with him?’
‘We have no idea. He took his lunch at eleven o’clock and rang the bell for assistance immediately after. My officers found him doubled up on the floor of his cell in evident pain.’
I felt an ice-cold tremor in the very depth of my heart. It was exactly what I had been fearing. ‘Where is he now?’ I asked.
‘He is in the infirmary. Our medical officer, Dr Trevelyan, has a number of private rooms which he reserves for desperate cases. After examining Mr Holmes, he insisted on moving him there.’
‘I must see him at once,’ I said. ‘I am a medical man myself …’
‘Of course, Dr Watson. I have been waiting to take you there now.’
But before we could leave, there was a movement behind us and a man that I knew all too well appeared, blocking our way. If Inspector Harriman had been told the news, he did not look surprised by it. In fact, his attitude was quite languid, leaning against the door frame, with his attention half-fixed on a gold ring on his middle finger. He was dressed in black as always, carrying a black walking stick. ‘So what’s this all about, Hawkins?’ he asked. ‘Sherlock Holmes ill?’
‘Seriously ill,’ Hawkins declared.
‘I am distraught to hear it!’ Harriman straightened up. ‘You’re sure he’s not deceiving you? When I saw him this morning, he was in perfect health.’
‘Both my medical officer and I have examined him and I assure you, sir, that he is gravely stricken. We are just on our way to see him.’
‘Then I will accompany you.’
‘I must protest—’
‘Mr Holmes is my prisoner and the subject of my