The Adventure of Ex-President Murillo's Papers
XI: The Locked Room
When consciousness did return, it brought with it a fevered throbbing in my head and a feeling as though a number of tiny devils were pounding away with hammers on the back of my eyeballs. For a long time, I lay where I was, prone and face-down on the floor, trying to remember how I had ended up in this inglorious position.
Investigation seemed to be the key to discovering my predicament, but I soon discovered that the greatest of care was required. Every movement, however minute, took time to complete least over-exuberance disturb the grumbling ogre currently lodging in my skull, who awoke with a vengeance at my lack of consideration to send waves of blinding pain through my head and souring my stomach with an overwhelming sense of nausea.
Some gentle probing later, I discovered the reason for the stiff, crackling sensation on the side of my face was due to a quantity of dried blood that had caked on my skin. With the most tentative of touches, I followed its trail to an epicentre of pain on the back of my head where the hair was matted, the skin broken and all excruciatingly tender beneath my questing fingers.
I would have been a poor doctor indeed if I had been unable to diagnose my own condition. I have been concussed before and it was entirely unpleasant then as it was now. With my memory finally creeping back, I vaguely remembered the jarring blow that had left me in this state. On the floor behind the chair in which I had been sat was a broken spelter figure on a white marble base, one corner of which I could just about discern through my blurred vision carried browning traces of blood.
I wondered that he had not killed me with such a blow. A more unsettling thought was that that was exactly what he had intended. Blood spots on the bare floorboards showed how heavily my wound had bled, which must have gone some way to convincing him that he had done me serious harm. Nor were my hands tied, a sure sign that he did not expect me to put up further resistance.
As grateful as I was to the kindly providence that had thought to spare my life, I saw that a little effort was expected from me if I were to extricate myself from this unconscionable mess. Several minutes of squinting at the dancing hands of my watch finally revealed that it was nearly a quarter to twelve. I had been unconscious for over four hours. Any time soon, Entwhistle might be back.
With the first order of business being the necessity of standing up, I inched my way towards an upright position using the chair as a support. No sooner was I up than I was down again and violently ridding myself of the contents of my stomach.
Given a choice, blinded as I was by a crippling headache, sick beyond belief and seeing double, I would much have rather stayed where I was. Only the knowledge that Entwhistle would return to finish what he had started drove me to another attempt.
This time, I made it up and stayed up. Several unsteady paces across the floor brought me to the door, which resisted my feeble effort at opening. The wood was somewhat decayed, but the lock was strong enough and the glimmer of space I saw through the keyhole told me that Entwhistle had had the sense to take the key with him.
Glancing around, the only other means of escape from the room was a small window through which streamed a shaft of moonlight. Had I been a skinny child of five, I would have been through that window and long gone. Being a rather stouter man of considerable years, I would be lucky to get my arm through the opening, let alone the rest of my body.
My attention was thus focused back on the door. It occurred to me that I had several options. I could wait for Entwhistle to return and rush him in the hope of overpowering him. On a good day, that would have been a distinct possibility; given my current condition, however, I did not give much for my chances, especially if he brought with him his gun. The only alternative was to effect a means of escape before he came back, which was going to prove easier said than done.
I took up the chair and tried using it as a battering ram. The door held, and a ferocious and debilitating thumping began in my head. It occurred to me that I was hopelessly trapped, and no one in the world knew where I was. In all probability, I was going to die this night and left in the street as the victim of an accident, who just happened to be carrying incriminating documents on his person.
I did not see how it could really get much worse.
As I rested my hand on the back of the chair, something made a crackling sound within my pocket. I pulled out a crumpled piece of paper, made crisp by the lines of writing. I could just about make out the name that had caught my attention earlier: Mr Sherlock Holmes.
If anything, it only served to depress my spirits even more. I thought of his distress when I had forced him to accept treatment and how he had implored me to remain with him. I thought of him dying alone in a friendless world, slowing slipping from life in the company of strangers. I thought of myself, making promises that I could not keep, neither able to keep myself out of danger nor take care of my ailing friend.
What anger it fired within me I do not care to describe. The sheet of paper was screwed into the tiniest ball my fist could manage and it flew across the room to end up back on that pile of accursed files. I glared at them, willing them and their contents to the fires of hell, and then it struck me that they might yet prove my salvation.
If I could not force the door, then perhaps I could weaken it enough to allow me to break out. With neither the strength nor a weighty object to hand, I would have to trust the task to fire.
I returned the balled sheet to my pocket for safe-keeping and began to shred the pages of the uppermost file. Destroyed or returned, the papers of ex-President Murillo would not be falling into the wrong hands again. With this impromptu kindling, I wedged it around the base of the door and then fished out my match case. Co-ordination seemed to have deserted me until, after several wasted matches and a good deal of frustration later, the flame caught and began hungrily to consume the paper.
With hindsight, I can say with all sincerity that it was not the best idea I have ever had. The fire spread rapidly, first to the door, where the paint began to crack and peel with alarming haste, then to the door jambs and then to the rapidly blackening floorboards. Whatever substance had been used to paint the woodwork began to fill the confines of the room with an acrid, foul-smelling smoke that left me choking. With the oxygen rapidly running out, I put my elbow through the glass of the window to gain a little fresh air and stop my imminent asphyxiation.
The little breeze that entered through the broken pane only served to fan the flames and distribute hot ash about the room. The assorted clutter was as dry as tinder and it took only one stray fiery fragment to spread the fire further. I was now trapped in a locked, burning room. If anything, my situation had worsened.
Before I went up in flames with the rest of the contents of room, I was determined to give that door one last try. I stuffed what remained of the files down the front of my waistcoat, picked up the chair and charged at the door. Weakened by the fire, a sizeable crack appeared down the centre. I was half-choked, my eyes were pouring with water and my head throbbed, but I could not afford to waste this opportunity.
Once again I tried my weight against the door and, to my sheer and utter relief, it gave.
Traces of blackened wood clung to the hinges and the lock remained in place, but the opening was large enough for me to escape. I pulled my coat up over my head and rushed through the flames. The smell of scorching material accompanied my passage and no sooner was I out than I was forced to peel off my smouldering coat and stamp on it to put out the fire.
Finally free of the room, I was now in a smoke-filled attic, whose rafters glowed an ominous red as the fire spread ever further. It was patently obvious that I had added arson to my long list of crimes. The best I could do now was to warn the members, evacuate the club and hope the governors of Cloades would understand that there had been mitigating circumstances when considering my actions in destroying their building.
For the moment, however, I could not afford to linger. I hurried to the best of my ability down the stairs, bursting out into the corridor where panicked members near knocked me from my feet in their headlong flight from the smoke that had drifted down from the upper storeys. The building was rapidly emptying and my fears that anyone would be caught in the blaze were mercifully unfounded.
I followed the others out into the street, where a dull rain moistened my grimy face and stung my sore eyes as I looked up at the burning roof of Cloades. The clatter of bells heralded the arrival of the fire brigade and we were soon being told to stand back out of harm's way.
We made quite a sight that night. Gentlemen shivering in damp evening wear, the old doorman sat on the pavement watching the blaze with great interest, and a number of idlers, who had come to watch the building burn. One fellow, a short man with hair and whiskers as red as the fire above and an angry boil on his bulbous nose, particularly caught my attention as he moved almost furtively amongst us, looking from one face to another. He came to me and our gaze met as I stared back into the startled eyes of Entwhistle.
The most consummate actor may transform his appearance in a number of ways; indeed, Holmes has done so on many occasions. What even he has never been able to change, however, is that particular look of the eyes. Alter what one may, but the eyes remain the same, those mirrors of the soul that give to each face individuality and distinctiveness.
I looked back at Entwhistle and he saw that I had recognised him. Whether it was his surprise at seeing a walking corpse or alarm at what I might do, he began to back away. I reached to grab him, the architect of my recent venture into criminality, and he danced away further still, out beyond the crowd, out into the road, his wide, terrified eyes never leaving my face. One step further and he was in the path of an oncoming hansom cab.
In my consternation, I called out a warning to him. Too late, he turned in time to see the terrified horse stand up on its back legs. Iron-shod hooves flailed wildly and Entwhistle went down without a sound.
A cry went up from the crowd and another dimension of horror was added to the evening. Despite my revulsion for the man, my professional instincts drew me to his side. A pool had already collected around his head and the reflected light of the flaming roof gave him a fiery halo. I checked his pulse; not unexpectedly, I found nothing.
One side of his head was a bloody mess where the horse's hooves had dealt him a fatal blow. The impact had ripped away the false nose and whiskers and I was left staring down into what was left of the face of the doorman I had seen that night outside Cloades, a rare glimpse of the real man who had lived a lie all those years as Sir Ernest Entwhistle.
There was a certain irony in the manner of his death being the same as he had planned for me. However, with his blood on my hands and the sight of that battered face before me, I felt no sense of triumph or gloating satisfaction at his end. As strange as it may sound, my mind instead revolted against the senseless waste of it all.
I could hate him for what he tried to do to me, for what he had planned to do to Holmes, but a more detached viewpoint made me question what had driven him to plot and scheme and had ultimately led to his miserable death on the street on a drizzle-soaked London night. Greed is a terrible temptress, with its promise of wealth and independence that those grubby secrets contained within the files of a fallen dictator could provide and which languished now against my pounding heart. They were the very means of damnation, and I was heartily sick of them.
I longed to be free of their malign influence, but a greater longing held sway over my soul. A day and a night had passed since I had last visited Holmes, and with all that had happened between then and now, it felt much longer.
I was gripped by the overwhelming desire to see him, if necessary to force myself into the ward of the sick and dying to sit with him and let him know that he had not been abandoned or forgotten. If go he must, then it would be with a friend at his side who would be forever grieved by his departure a second time from his wretched life.
With this in mind, I set my face against the rain and started the long walk to the hospital.
Continued in XII: The Hospital
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