done, we gradually began to settle down and to accustom ourselves to our new surroundings.
The seeming normality of this arrangement, compared with the past six months of my life, was so welcoming to me, that I actually began to enjoy living at 221B. Sherlock Holmes was certainly not a difficult man to share with. He was quiet in his ways, and his habits were regular. Frequently he would have breakfasted and gone out before I rose, and he was very often in bed by ten at night, while I regularly stayed up until after midnight, reading, smoking and enjoying a brandy nightcap.
It was about a week after I had taken up residence in Baker Street that I received my first summons. It came through the post. The message just gave a date and time and location: “Today, 12 March. 11.30 a.m., the corner of Wigmore Street and Duke Street.” Making a mental note of the details, I threw the note on the fire and watched it burn until it turned into fine black ash.
At the appointed hour, I stood at the corner of Wigmore Street, when a hansom drew up and a voice from within beckoned me to join him.
“It is good to meet you, Doctor Watson,” said the shadowy figure, once I was seated. “I am Colonel Sebastian Moran, the chief of staff for Professor Moriarty.”
He took my limp hand and shook it. “Shall we go for a little ride?” He tapped the roof of the cab with his cane, and we set off at a steady trot.
“The purpose of this meeting, as I am sure you are aware, is merely to receive a progress report on the arrangements regarding Mr Sherlock Holmes. How are things between you? Have you settled in quite amicably? And more importantly, do you think that Mr Holmes has any idea of your... how shall I put this... your ulterior motives?”
These questions did not surprise me. I had been expecting some kind of inquisition, and so I was prepared. Naturally, I had taken great pains toobserve Holmes in the few days that we had been living together, and already I was building up a picture of the man. In all fairness, because of my natural curiosity and my penchant for writing from life, I believe I would have done this anyway had I not a reason to do so. There were many aspects of Holmes’ character and behaviour that puzzled me, but one thing I was sure of was that he had no suspicions concerning me. For all his reported brilliance as a detective, I was — and remained — his one blind spot.
There had been three callers at our new address enquiring for Mr Holmes: a young girl, fashionably dressed, who arrived in an agitated fashion and stayed about half an hour; a white-haired gentleman with the air of the cleric about him; and a sallow, rat-faced man who was introduced to me as Mr Lestrade. The latter fellow called twice, and behaved in quite a shifty manner on encountering me on both occasions. When these visitors arrived, Holmes requested the use of the sitting-room for privacy. I agreed and took myself off to my bedroom.
I was intrigued by all these comings and goings, but I knew I had to be patient. Despite some desultory conversations over dinner, Sherlock Holmes had not yet divulged to me what his profession was, and I thought it politic, at this early stage, not to appear too inquisitive. I was sure that in his own good time he would reveal all.
I conveyed all this information to Colonel Moran, who listened in silence until I had finished.
“Capital,” he said at last. “I think you are quite right to stalk your prey at a distance for the time being. A bond of trust and reliance must be established between you, and this can only occur when Holmes feels at complete ease with you. I am a practised hand at tracking tigers in India, Watson. I’m an old shikari, and I know the value of patience and allowing your prey to feel relaxed and confident in its safety.
“You ought to know that Lestrade, the fellow you described as rat-faced, is a Scotland Yard inspector who has been using Holmes for somemonths. When he gets stuck
The seeming normality of this arrangement, compared with the past six months of my life, was so welcoming to me, that I actually began to enjoy living at 221B. Sherlock Holmes was certainly not a difficult man to share with. He was quiet in his ways, and his habits were regular. Frequently he would have breakfasted and gone out before I rose, and he was very often in bed by ten at night, while I regularly stayed up until after midnight, reading, smoking and enjoying a brandy nightcap.
It was about a week after I had taken up residence in Baker Street that I received my first summons. It came through the post. The message just gave a date and time and location: “Today, 12 March. 11.30 a.m., the corner of Wigmore Street and Duke Street.” Making a mental note of the details, I threw the note on the fire and watched it burn until it turned into fine black ash.
At the appointed hour, I stood at the corner of Wigmore Street, when a hansom drew up and a voice from within beckoned me to join him.
“It is good to meet you, Doctor Watson,” said the shadowy figure, once I was seated. “I am Colonel Sebastian Moran, the chief of staff for Professor Moriarty.”
He took my limp hand and shook it. “Shall we go for a little ride?” He tapped the roof of the cab with his cane, and we set off at a steady trot.
“The purpose of this meeting, as I am sure you are aware, is merely to receive a progress report on the arrangements regarding Mr Sherlock Holmes. How are things between you? Have you settled in quite amicably? And more importantly, do you think that Mr Holmes has any idea of your... how shall I put this... your ulterior motives?”
These questions did not surprise me. I had been expecting some kind of inquisition, and so I was prepared. Naturally, I had taken great pains toobserve Holmes in the few days that we had been living together, and already I was building up a picture of the man. In all fairness, because of my natural curiosity and my penchant for writing from life, I believe I would have done this anyway had I not a reason to do so. There were many aspects of Holmes’ character and behaviour that puzzled me, but one thing I was sure of was that he had no suspicions concerning me. For all his reported brilliance as a detective, I was — and remained — his one blind spot.
There had been three callers at our new address enquiring for Mr Holmes: a young girl, fashionably dressed, who arrived in an agitated fashion and stayed about half an hour; a white-haired gentleman with the air of the cleric about him; and a sallow, rat-faced man who was introduced to me as Mr Lestrade. The latter fellow called twice, and behaved in quite a shifty manner on encountering me on both occasions. When these visitors arrived, Holmes requested the use of the sitting-room for privacy. I agreed and took myself off to my bedroom.
I was intrigued by all these comings and goings, but I knew I had to be patient. Despite some desultory conversations over dinner, Sherlock Holmes had not yet divulged to me what his profession was, and I thought it politic, at this early stage, not to appear too inquisitive. I was sure that in his own good time he would reveal all.
I conveyed all this information to Colonel Moran, who listened in silence until I had finished.
“Capital,” he said at last. “I think you are quite right to stalk your prey at a distance for the time being. A bond of trust and reliance must be established between you, and this can only occur when Holmes feels at complete ease with you. I am a practised hand at tracking tigers in India, Watson. I’m an old shikari, and I know the value of patience and allowing your prey to feel relaxed and confident in its safety.
“You ought to know that Lestrade, the fellow you described as rat-faced, is a Scotland Yard inspector who has been using Holmes for somemonths. When he gets stuck
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