Also when 'tis cold and drear (Part 7 of 10)
Many thanks to Charm and Strange, anatomy expert, who is responsible for Holmes' fancy medical vocabulary in this chapter. (Since I don't even know my trachea from my oesophagus... ;-) )
In case anyone's squeamish, perhaps I should add a warning that someone does get shot here (hence the anatomical vocabulary). It's really not particularly gory, however...
.. .. .. .. .. .. ..
We stood frozen behind the curtains, while Milverton read on oblivious. My heart was racing, as much due to Watson's unaccustomed closeness as to our perilous situation, and I could feel that his heart beat just as strongly. We both started in alarm when the door which led from the garden suddenly opened, and Watson's hand tightened around mine. Milverton appeared to have been expecting the visitor, however, for he glanced up without concern as a young man stepped into the study.
"You're late," he snapped. "Come along, sit down and let me see me this letter you spoke of."
The newcomer was wearing the livery of an aristocratic house, partially covered by a large cloak, though something about the way he was dressed did not quite ring true. It was perhaps simply the fact that the uniform was clearly several sizes too large for him.
His face was of a handsome classical beauty, enhanced rather than marred by the shock of red hair which was only partially obscured by his uniform cap. He did not speak, and I wondered whether the dead-white tint of his face was his natural colouring, or was due to the great emotional strain he appeared to be suffering.
"Well, come along," Milverton said, waving at the chair on the other side of his desk. "I don't intend to sit here all night."
"You are indeed a busy man, Milverton," the newcomer said abruptly, and I was intrigued by the educated tones of his voice, not at all in keeping with his mode of dress. "It must be so fatiguing, to look back on all those lives you have brought to ruin, all those hearts you have broken and torn asunder, all those miserable wretches you have driven to self-immolation. How your heart must swell with pride, as you gaze upon... those memories... " His florid discourse ended in a nervous gulp, as his poetic spirit was overcome by his anxiety.
Milverton had risen to his feet, frowning. The young man stood facing him, and withdrew the hand he had been holding hidden beneath his cloak. It was shaking, but the small ornate revolver it held was pointed directly at Milverton.
"Give me - give me the paper," he said in an unsteady voice.
Milverton's gaze was flickering rapidly between the man's face and the gun. He did not seem overly concerned, however; his narrowed eyes contained more speculation than fear. "And which paper would that be, exactly?"
I noted with disdain that the other man did not appear to have devoted a great deal of time to thinking his plan through before acting. "All of them!" he said wildly, waving the revolver in punctuation to his words. "All the documents in your possession, by whose foul means you hold so many innocent people in your grasp."
Milverton began to smile, a cold, false smile which did not reach his eyes. "On second thoughts, there is no need to tell me. I believe I recognise your 'Titian locks', and your 'sculpted alabaster visage'. I was not certain whether Mr Thaddeus Wright had someone in mind or not, when he penned his imprudent composition, nor whether such a person was aware of his unfortunate inclinations. It seems that was indeed the case. How interesting." His smile widened, though his eyes remained cold and hard. "You know, you truly are a most foolish young man. It is a serious crime to threaten a respectable, law-abiding gentleman thus. I have only to raise my voice, and my servants will be here in seconds, but if you leave now, I am willing to let the whole matter drop. It is fortunate for you that your identity remains a mystery to me. "
I had already noted and memorised the design of the livery the other man wore as disguise, and was quite certain Milverton had not failed to do the same. In the not unlikely event that the fool had worn the uniform of his own servants, it would be a simple task to trace and identify him. Milverton had undoubtedly reached the same conclusion.
"And the paper? Wright's poem?"
Milverton shrugged. "What do you care? But if it truly bothers you, why not furnish him with the money he needs to satisfy me?" He ran his gaze up and down the young man in a calculating manner. "If he does not pay up, you know, he is unlikely to survive the shock of exposure, and you shall have to find - "
His sentence was cut short by the retort of the revolver, as the young man began to empty its barrels into Milverton's torso, his hands trembling but his aim sure. I felt Watson tense in order to spring forward, his instinct to preserve life overwhelming, and threw my arms about him to hold him back. I had no intention of allowing him near that armed and highly strung young man under any circumstances, not even had Her Majesty the Queen been standing before us instead of the villainous Milverton.
The first bullet had shattered Milverton's clavicle, and he staggered, clutching his shoulder. The next lodged somewhere in the region of his liver, but he had not even time to double over before the subsequent bullets punctured his heart. His final expression was one of shock and disbelief, as he crumpled to the floor by his desk, and gasped his last.
The young man stood over him, every part of his body trembling with the strongest emotion, his face drained of all blood and his eyes wide and glazed. He backed slowly away, then took to his heels and fled out the door into the garden.
Scarcely had he disappeared when I was already crossing the room to secure the door by which Watson and I had arrived. I was in no doubt that the entire household would shortly arrive on the scene. I then crossed to the safe, and began pulling papers from it in large bundles, and throwing them indiscriminately into the fire.
Out of the corner of one eye, meanwhile, I watched Watson, who had dropped to his knees by the body. He pressed two fingers to Milverton's carotid artery. "Dead, of course. There was nothing I could have done."
"Justice has overtaken a villain," I said shortly. "Come and help me here, Watson."
Footsteps already sounded in the corridor outside, and within moments someone was rattling at the door-handle. Watson threw the last few papers into the fire while I snatched my lamp and tools, and together we dashed out through the garden door. Some of the male members of the household staff were already in the garden, and they shot after us as we sprinted across it and scrambled up the back wall. For one horrible moment I thought Watson had been caught, but he broke free of the hand grasping at his ankle and we dropped to the ground on the other side. Together we raced along the edge of the heath, and lost our pursuers among the affluent villas of Hampstead.
Had I been alone, I should probably have strode all the way to Regent's Park without stopping, but I was very much aware of the suffering Watson must have been undergoing, in silence as always. As soon as we came to a convenient place, a long, covered flight of steps leading to a small public garden, I came to a stop, pulling Watson with me.
"We shall sit here for a while," I said in a voice that brooked no argument. Watson needed no more prompting than that to sink onto the steps, one hand clutching his thigh. I sat down beside him after ascertaining that we could not be seen from the road.
Two men wrapped in ragged blankets were sitting further down the steps, hunched over the tallow candle which illuminated their mongrel dog and their game of cards. They ignored us, as we them.
From the moonlit outline of his face I could see that Watson was biting his lip. "I'm very much afraid my muscle has seized up," he gasped. "I shan't be able to walk for quite a while."
We sat in silence, catching our breath. After some time, Watson said:
"His name is Faulkner - the young man in the study."
"He is an artist of some kind, I take it?"
Watson nodded. "A poet."
"I'm not surprised." I could not keep a note of disdain from my voice. "And titled, by the livery he wore?"
"Very minor nobility, I believe. He met Wright at some sort of radical political meeting." I was sure I detected a hint of sadness in his voice when he added, "Wright has certainly inspired a very deep devotion in him."
I clucked my tongue impatiently. "I would do the same for you, and a great deal more."
I had spoken without thinking, but when Watson's gaze snapped around to meet mine, his eyes filled with astonishment and something approaching awe, I realised precisely what I had revealed.
Nonetheless, I had not the slightest desire to retract my words. "I meant that," I said, and watched Watson's face break into a smile. After a moment, I felt some further clarifications were necessary, for the sake of my reputation. "That is not to say, of course, that I should have lost my head in such an unseemly manner, nor left without the document I had come to obtain. I should like to think I am a great deal more level-headed than that."
Watson gave a shaky laugh. I felt his hand brush my left hip, then move around to rest on my other shoulder so that I was encircled by his arm. After a moment's hesitation I leant into his embrace.
His hand tightened on my shoulder, drawing me closer. I could feel his breath on my cheek.
"Rather pleasant to be able to do this without that fiend sitting a few yards away, is it not?" he said softly. His lips brushed the tip of my ear. "You know, when we were behind that curtain, I thought I would explode, so tantalising was it to be pressed together thus. Now, however - " He lifted his hand from my shoulder to run it slowly along the line of my jaw. The sensation was breathtaking.
"Watson - " I said in a strangled voice. "Don't - "
He stiffened a little, and pulled away in order to look me in the face. "Holmes, surely you do agree - if I can repeat your words about our excursion to Appledore Towers - that this is something which is a crime in name only, and does not even need justifying from a moral standpoint?"
"Yes, of course."
He relaxed, though the few inches of air between us remained.
"Yet you trust me to commit burglary with you, but you cannot trust me in this? You cannot trust me to be discreet? I'm not a fool, Holmes, and I never do anything to draw attention to myself. It seems to me that you yourself are the only person in the world you truly trust." There was nothing accusatory or angry in his voice, which was filled with sorrow.
His words were almost a physical blow to me. I had never understood why modesty should be considered a virtue, and so had rarely objected to having the epitaph of arrogant applied to me. However, I had never regretted the attribute more than at that moment. Watson was perfectly correct in suggesting that I did not believe anyone else capable of the discretion and constraint I myself practised. And yet how could I have done Watson the insult of categorising him indiscriminately with the rest of the world?
I stared at him, feeling as though one of the central tenets of my life had been overturned. I was utterly incapable of voicing the sentiments which surged through my mind.
Then the dog barked further down the steps, breaking the spell. Watson gave my shoulder a squeeze before releasing me.
"I am chilled to the bone, sitting here," he said lightly, "and I believe I am fit to move again." He began to struggle to his feet.
I sprang up to help him.
"Watson," I said once we were both upright, without releasing him from my grasp. "I beg you to believe me when I say I do trust you."
The words hung in the air between us.
"I know," he said. "Of course I know." He offered me his arm. "Come along, we have a long walk ahead of us."
.. .. .. .. .. .. .. ..
I promise not to keep these poor men apart too much longer...
Please do review!
