Chapter 29: Gavel and Grindstone
The TV didn't sleep, and neither did Harry. When all the lamps went out, only the telly and the fairly lights on the Christmas tree still glowed, and when Mr Wright kissed Harry's forehead good night, she barely murmured a good night in return. She was wrapped in a blanket on the sofa, a mug of tea cooling in her hands, waiting for news.
'Darling, go to sleep,' said Mrs Wright, petting her head from behind the sofa. She reached over her niece's shoulder and took the mug out of her hands.
'No.'
'It's gone midnight.'
Harry made no answer. The remote lay on the armrest, untouched for hours. She had already discovered that BBC broke stories before any other channel, and so on BBC it would stay.
'Nothing will happen until morning. Get a few hours, at least, love. You can get up bright early, before the session even resumes.' When met again with a wall of silence, she tried one more tactic. 'I'm sure he's sleeping now, too.'
'He's not,' said Harry.
'I'm sure he is . . .'
'He's not, Auntie. How could he sleep tonight, knowing what he must do tomorrow?'
Ten days earlier, she had been preparing dinner for the family when she first saw the footage, but she didn't comprehend it at first. All she knew was that there had been some sort of attack at a train station in London. There was always bad news out of London, so nothing of particular interest. Then, she learnt that it had been a ward, one of her own, who had been the victim, and that was when her attention was piqued, and she set aside the cheese knife and turned to face the telly.
It was Mr Holmes she recognised first, as the security officers pulled him off the curled body on the ground. At first, she thought Mr Holmes was the attacker, which alarmed her. The camerawork was shaky—handheld mobiles—and in her surprise at seeing Mr Holmes, she almost did not register the broken face of her dear little brother, John. Her scream brought Auntie Charlotte running, thinking Harry must have chopped off a finger while preparing dinner.
Later that day, Mr Holmes called her. She was beside herself crying and had to pass the phone back to her aunt, who spoke to Mr Holmes for some twenty minutes. Auntie Charlotte relayed all Mr Holmes had told her, about a former vengeful host and a kidnapping and Mr Holmes' repeated assurances that all would be well in the end. She understood now why John had been unreachable, why Mr Holmes kept putting her off. He had been looking for his lost ward. She felt like she was shrivelling up inside, like the edges of burning paper, for that was precisely what John had been to her for far too long: a lost ward.
She watched every second of footage online she could find—one her auntie's laptop when she found the videos blocked on hers—a dozen times at least. She read every article in every paper that printed even one word about John, and she refused to turn off the telly. When the hearing was announced, she was awash with relief, believing the courts would sort it all out and that John would be calling her that very night to explain that it had all just been some grave misunderstanding. But then, the reports: the magistrate was undecided; he had more questions, and he wanted to question John directly.
The media went into a frenzy. Some decried the order as illegal. More knowledgeable commentators explained that, while not illegal per se, questioning wards in a courtroom was bad practice. Wards couldn't be relied upon to give truthful testimony. Ever since the twin cases, both occurring within the same year in 1976, when one ward, possessing a bitter and vengeful spirit, spun outrageous lies against her gracious host with the aim of seeing the woman in prison; and when another obsequious ward told lies of a different sort, fabricating all manner of witness statements and alibis to ensure that his arsonist-murderer host did not see the inside of a prison cell. In either case, the public outcry had been that too much credence had been offered to ward testimony, and because of it, the wrong verdicts had been rendered. Since then, ward testimony of any sort in any kind of case had been disallowed in trials and hearings, though not—strictly speaking—by law.
What was the magistrate doing?
And for that matter, what were the public to make of the testimony already proffered? People were tallying up the points, weighing one host against the other, and arguing their results. Lord Magnussen was clearly the frontrunner, some said. He was rich, obscenely rich, whereas Holmes's income was unpredictable and suspect; Magnussen held an important position in the British government, whereas nobody really understood what a 'consulting detective' even was; Magnussen's flat was grand, richly furnished, boasting every amenity imaginable, whereas Holmes occupied a comparatively tiny flat that didn't even claim a ward bathroom! With Magnussen, the ward would have the company of other wards, whereas with Holmes, he would be alone. The answer was obvious.
But then, there was this: the edited footage. Posters had zoomed in, cropped, highlighted, and slowed down the various videos from the train station. There was Sherlock Holmes, in a bewildering display of defence, falling upon the ward to save him from the blows of the baton. There, in the shadow beneath both their bodies, someone had spotted it, the two hands coming together, the host's and the ward's. And when officers pulled Mr Holmes off, the last thing to part were those same two hands. Then, there was the footage of the ward himself. While the crowd buzzed around them, the hosts argued, and the officers debated, the ward's eyes remained locked on Sherlock Holmes. No one could describe the expression. Amazed, some said, while others claimed Needy and Hopeful and Yearning and Telepathic and Smitten. Sherlock Holmes had declared his love of the ward in the courtroom, but the nature of that love was as debated as anything. The meaning of that look, likewise. The one thing that did not stand in question, however, was to whom the ward looked. That was as clear as crystal.
'Things will turn out all right, Harriet,' said Mrs Wright, sitting beside her niece.
But her words were hollow assurance, and Harry could not stem the flow of tears. 'What if they don't, Auntie?' she cried. Mrs Wright gathered her into her arms. 'If they send him to Storage, if the Lord Commissioner takes him back . . . What will happen to him then? I've only just found him. How can I stand to lose him again?'
Earlier that evening, one of the officers poked his head into the cell. 'You read?'
John, who had been lying on his back, studying the cracks in the ceiling, propped himself up on an elbow. 'Yes?'
'Got some letters here for you. Sergeant says there's no sense in holding them any longer.'
He stepped into the room, and John saw he was holding three large stacks of envelopes, each bound by an elastic band. 'Lights are on for another hour,' he said, passing them over. Then he left.
At first, John was perplexed. What were all of these? Letters? From whom? His heart skipped a beat, thinking one might be from Mr Holmes, or Harry, but after a quick flip-through of each return address, his heart sank. These were all strangers. That only added to his confusion. Who would be writing to him?
But he was excited. For days and days now, he'd had nothing at all to read, and he felt like his brain was getting stiff, like an unworked muscle. This hour was a gift. So he began to read, and he was stunned by what he read. They were letters, all addressed to him and calling him John, letters of support and encouragement, wishing him well, hoping for the best. They were from all over the country, and a few from abroad—New France, America, Japan—all of them saying they were thinking about him, praying for him, and threatening to throw a fit if things didn't turn out well for him.
I'm writing my MP . . .
If they send you to Storage, I will personally drive a lorry over the judge . . .
Ever since seeing the video, I haven't been able to sleep. That might have been me. Tomorrow, it might very well be me . . .
Wards. Some of these letters, a dozen at least, were written by other wards. He marvelled. He wept. He wished he had a pen and could write back.
Then he came to this one:
It was a white envelope, nondescript but for the instruction on the flap:
To whom it may concern, please read this letter aloud to the ward
Curious, he tore a finger through the seal.
Dear John,
I'm not sure this letter will be welcome, and I understand if it is not. Though I fear it is far too little, far too late, I feel compelled to offer an apology. I can't help but feel it is my fault, and the fault of my family, that you ever found yourself in that train station. I'm so sorry for what happened to you there. Words can never make up for it, I know, but I offer them anyway, in the hopes that, in time, I might be forgiven for the cruelty I inflicted on you as a child.
You are called John now, and I am happy you have such a good name. I would be happy to believe that you have forgotten you were once called Twitch, though I doubt you could possibly forget. My older brother and used to tease you relentlessly. No, I suppose tease is not the right word. Torment. That's what we did. I knew it then, and I know it now. The way we treated you, a child, was unconscionable, from how we talked to you, and didn't talk to you, to the jokes we played and the way we bullied and belittled you. It was wrong. I was wrong. You didn't deserve such unkindness from those who were supposed to be your family.
I look back on the boy I was with disgust, and I have long lived with the shame of my actions. I am an adult now, as you are. I have a family of my own. My wife is a good woman, and she had made me into a better man. I have two sons of my own, and a ward their age, and every day I try to treat him as a son, too, as true as any, as if I can make up for the way I treated you.
My parents are both passed. Mum died of heart failure, Dad was struck by a car. Wendell took his own life five years ago after losing his battle with depression. Goldberry was cleared for Storage when she began to lose her memory. I'm the only Hastings left, and I'm afraid my legacy will be that of malice. As you can imagine, we didn't do much better with the ward who replaced you. I've lost track of him now, and I mean to apologise to him, too, if I can find him.
I was both thrilled and appalled to find you, John. At last, I have a chance to say I'm sorry. I had hoped your life had improved after leaving us, but what I saw shows me that you are still suffering at the hands of those who were supposed to do better by you.
I have put in an application to become your host, if the magistrate judges the contending parties to be unsuitable. That is, if you would have any desire to return to me. I don't want you to wind up in Storage. I promise, I am not the same person as that kid from twenty years ago. I would do well by you. My family would love you. You would be welcome with us, all the days of your life. I have no expectation of a reply to this letter, and like I said, I understand if you are displeased to hear from me again. Your feelings against the Hastings surely run very deep. But just know that I deeply regret my actions and any lasting impact they might have had on you, and I am willing to do whatever I must to make things right.
Your brother,
Peter Hastings
They had turned out the lights, but John couldn't sleep. Only hours ago, they had brought him dinner, and he had had no appetite. He was thinking more thoughts at once than he had ever thought before. He was feeling more emotions than he thought he could contain. Come morning, he would be taken into the courtroom and interrogated by the magistrate. 'He'll ask you some questions,' the clerk had said, 'and you'll answer truthfully. Easy enough, yes?' But it didn't seem easy at all. What kinds of questions? Who would be listening? What if he said something wrong? He was always saying the wrong things, and being punished for them, even when he thought he was speaking the truth. Only Mr Holmes had ever listened. Only Mr Holmes had known when to stop asking.
Easy? Nothing had ever been.
Be brave, John. Be brave.
The lock screeched. John, lying on his side facing the wall, began to turn, when suddenly he felt himself pinned at the shoulders to the concrete slab that served as a cot, and the bright light of a torch burst through the dark, shining in his face and blinding him.
'Don't move,' a deep voice hissed at him.
He froze. His eyes streamed against the brightness of the light, beyond which all was black. He could not see the faces of his attackers.
'Listen carefully. Tomorrow, at the hearing. Say one word against Lord Magnussen, and you'll get what's coming to you. Say one word that incriminates him, and there'll be a blood-letting, you got me?'
Be brave!
John trembled and nodded.
'What will you say tomorrow?' asked the other man.
'Lord Magnussen n-never hurt me.'
'What else?'
'Lord M-magnussen was a good host.'
'Make them believe it. Because, Tiro, if you don't?' A dark hand reached around his throat and squeezed. It lasted only a second. Then the light disappeared, the footsteps retreated, and the locked screeched again, closing him in. He shot upright to sitting, holding his throat and gasping for air. Black spots swam before him in the sudden absence of light. He curled over his knees, still gasping, wishing to be strong but feeling like he would break. He grasped his hair in both fists and trembled. Why can't you be brave!
The courtroom hushed as the doors opened and two security officers escorted the prisoner to the witness box.
Colonel Moran was a tall man with a torso like a triangle and a face like a Doberman who had lost its pack. He was shackled at the wrists but wore a suit and tie, the bestowal of Lord Magnussen, Sherlock surmised, now observing him properly. He had at least seven stones on John, which made Sherlock's fingers curl so tightly his nails left deep imprints in his palms. His own bruises had faded, but he was still smarting himself from the blows of this man's baton.
'State your name and occupation,' said the magistrate.
'Colonel Moran. I am Lord Magnussen's man.'
'Being a man is not an occupation. What is it you do for Lord Magnussen?'
The Colonel, so-called, turned his head toward his former host as though beseeching help.
'Mr Moran,' said the magistrate, 'you will look at me, and me alone. You will address me, and me alone. Are we clear?'
'Yes sir.'
'You are in a court of law, and in this court, you have sworn to tell the truth. Do you understand?'
The Colonel nodded.
'Speak up, Mr Moran, so the court can hear.'
'I understand, sir.'
'Very well, then let us try this again, more slowly. You have been in Lord Magnussen's employ for how long?'
'Since spring, sir. Beginning of May.'
Sherlock frowned. He was sitting slightly behind the Colonel, who faced the magistrate, and could see less than a quarter of his face, but the man looked straight ahead, but his skin around the temples had begun to shine. He was nervous. His address lacked defiance and his tone was docile, quite unlike what he had expected of a man who could wail on a helpless ward like he had.
'And before that?'
'Before that'—his upraised chin fell a few degrees—'I was warded to Lord Magnussen, sir.'
'But you were emancipated.'
'Yes sir.'
'And you stayed with your former host?' The magistrate frowned. 'Are you aware that an emancipated ward is required by law to depart his host's residence and provide for himself?'
'I do not live in Lord Magnussen's flat anymore, sir. I have my own place.'
'Indeed? Where?'
'A bedsit, couple tube stops away.'
'And how many hours a week do you work for Lord Magnussen?'
The Colonel pursed his lips, looking trouble. He dipped his head, and Sherlock observed his fingers tapping air, one at a time.
'You'll answer the question, Mr Moran.'
'I am trying to count them, sir.'
'Try it this way: how many hours a day do you work?'
'All . . . all of them? Twenty . . . four?'
'You work around the clock?'
'I work when I am needed, sir. I work hard. I am a good worker, no complaints or nothing. I am glad to work.'
God, Sherlock thought, he sounded just like John, so desperate to please, to get it right, to be worth something to someone. He stole a glance over at the opposing table to where Lord Magnussen sat, reclined in his chair, hands folded in his lap. He looked like he had just swallowed a lemon.
The magistrate, too, looked displeased, his first show of actual expression, either hot or cold, since the hearing began. 'What is your wage?'
'Rent.'
'Pardon?'
The Colonel spoke slower this time, as though becoming aware that he had said something wrong. 'Rent, sir?'
'Your employer pays your rent?' At the witness's nod, the magistrate balked. 'Are you saying that you earn no wages?'
'I haven't need of any.'
'So your employer pays your rent, pays for your food, pays for your clothes, and pays for all other necessities. You do not manage any of your own money.'
'Yes, sir, he is a very good boss, sir.'
The magistrate kept a very straight face, but his pen was moving quickly on the page in front of him. 'And what is the nature of your work?'
'I manage the wards in Lord Magnussen's care, sir.'
'What do you mean, you manage them?'
'I . . . manage the discipline in the flat, sir. According to the statutes and guidelines of the WSC, sir, and for any at-home infraction, sir, I keep the peace, sir, for the welfare and happy state of the wards residing there, sir.'
He said this all very quickly, and in the manner of one who had memorised his lines.
'Do any of the wards in your care require a firm hand?'
'All the wards are very well-behaved, sir. Only Tiro gave me any trouble. He was a violent ward, sir, and he broke my hand when I attempted to placate him.' He lifted his plastered right hand as proof.
Placate, thought Sherlock, is not a word native to this man's vocabulary. He's definitely been coached.
'How did that happen, precisely, this breaking of your hand?'
'The ward was hurting himself. He had thrown himself at a window. I grabbed him to stop him, I overbalanced, and we fell. He got up first and stomped on my hand.'
Sherlock didn't know how much of this was true, if any of it. John would not have hurt himself like that. But the thought that he had been responsible for breaking this man's hand did cause the corner of his mouth to turn up. Quickly, he schooled his expression, lest the magistrate notice his pleasure and misread its cause.
'And it was this violence that prompted Lord Magnussen to agree to send the ward to the Permanent Shelter?'
'I was not involved in that decision, sir,' said the Colonel.
'How long was the ward in residence before this decision was made?'
Two elbows planted on the table in front of him, Sherlock leant forward, listening closely. The timeline was not in dispute. The records were pretty plain with respect to when John had been registered and when the request for Permanent Placement had been submitted. The magistrate would not have forgotten it, either, so there must have been another purpose to the question.
'Erm, it was . . . a day or two. I'm not sure.'
'That's pretty quick, wouldn't you say?'
The Colonel murmured his response. 'I don't know.'
'How much did you observe of the ward in that time?'
'. . . Only a little.'
'Why is that? If he was posing a threat, if he was constantly a danger to himself, why weren't you on him around the clock? That was your job, wasn't it?'
'I . . .' He turned his head again toward Lord Magnussen, but at the reprimand from the magistrate returned facing front. His shoulders lifted with a long inhalation. 'Tiro was unhappy. Not . . .' He floundered a little. 'Not dangerous.'
'Oh?'
'Didn't seem like it. To me. When he talked to me, he was . . . polite.'
'You talked with the ward?'
'Only a little.'
From the corner of his eye, Sherlock watched Lord Magnussen shift in his seat. His hand came down on the armrest, as though bracing. Clearly, this line of questioning had not been anticipated, let alone planned for. Maybe he hadn't even known his man had shared a private conversation with his stolen ward.
'What did you talk about?'
'Nothing much. Only . . . well, we had . . . known each other from . . . before.'
Yes, Lord Magnussen was definitely itching now. His hand turned into a fist around the edge of the armchair. Even Sherlock was amazed at this unexpected revelation.
'Did you now?' said the magistrate with interest. 'When?'
'I . . . I don't think I should be talking about this.'
'Why not? You're a free man, Mr Moran. Aren't you?'
For a long moment, the silence in the courtroom stretched out as the magistrate—and all attendees—held their breath and waited for an answer. At last, the Colonel spoke.
'Am I going to prison, sir? For hurting the ward and the free man?'
'That is a decision for the crown court. This is a civil hearing. But I can tell you this: Even if you are found guilty of assault, the judge will weigh many things in making a decision: the severity of the crime, your level of culpability, any past convictions, and the victims' statements. Prison time is a possibility, not a foregone conclusion. You may, instead, be fined and given a community order. I hope this has all been explained to you.'
'If I don't go to prison, I will go back to work for Lord Magnussen?'
The magistrate frowned, a little sadly. 'That's up to you. There is no law whatsoever to force you into anyone's employment.' A pause. 'Do you wish to return to work for him?'
The Colonel didn't answer.
'Please answer the question, Mr Moran.'
'I . . . I don't . . . I think I'd rather go to prison, sir.'
The courtroom couldn't contain its murmuring; it roiled like a storm until the magistrate restored order. Sherlock, however, was riveted on the reddening face of Lord Magnussen. By contrast, his beard had never seemed so white.
'Why is that, Mr Moran?' asked the magistrate.
'Because, sir . . . I don't want to hurt wards anymore. I shouldn't have hurt Tiro. I don't want to hurt Cici. I don't want to take any more wards to Storage. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I don't know what I am to do. I don't know . . . what I am . . .'
The Colonel couldn't hold himself together any longer. He bowed his head and cried.
Beyond the courthouse, and so beyond the notice of either magistrate on the bench, the two claimants sat at their tables, the witness in the box, the press in the gallery, or the ward in the holding cell, a news story was breaking. The excitement in the reporter's voice was scarcely disguised.
'Scientists at the Metropolitan Police Forensics Science Laboratory have just confirmed that a jacket—the one worn by the ward JW, seen here on the viral footage from December 2—has been tested and found to have trace amounts of semen on the sleeve. A DNA test reveals that the semen tested as a positive match for Charles Augustus Magnussen, Lord Commissioner or Emancipation, and host to the ward in question. All public servants, like all private citizens and warded persons, have their DNA on file as a matter of record, and while a warrant is required for scientist to match evidence to a private citizen, neither public servants nor warded persons are permitted such legal protections.
'The test results were leaked within the past hour by an anonymous source, but we can confirm that these results are accurate. Lord Magnussen is, at this very moment, sitting in a hearing regarding the custody of the ward and is not, as far as we know, aware that such testing was even taking place. What the police will do with this information is yet to be seen, but almost certainly they will wish to question the Lord Commissioner about just how his semen ended up on the ward's jacket . . .'
When they led Colonel Moran away, it was because he was in no state of mind to answer any more questions. His face was puffy and red, his eyes brimming with confusion and fear. What had he said that he ought not to have said? What would become of him? Surely, Sherlock was not the only one in that room who felt the man's anguish. He had stumbled into a crisis of conscience, a crisis of self, witnessed by an entire audience of critical observers, not least of all the man who had caused it. Sherlock glared at Magnussen from across the aisle, revolted that they shared the same air. He felt very differently toward Mr Moran at that moment than he had only an hour prior.
The magistrate excused himself to his chamber, but he had not excused the room. So there, they waited, wondering, reflecting. Ten minutes passed, then twenty. The gallery was growing restless. Their whispers were increasing in volume, to the point that, if he concentrated well enough, Sherlock could make out and follow half a dozen conversations at any one time. Some were sympathetic by Moran; others were put off by him; others still questioned why he had been interrogated at all. No one mentioned Lord Magnussen. He was, after all, still in the room.
Then, the magistrate returned, and the room hushed at once. He resumed the bench, nodded to the officers in the back, and the double doors were opened. Everyone twisted in their seats to see it: the ward, JW, being escorted into the courtroom.
He was straight-backed and square-shouldered. He had taken care with his appearance, inasmuch as he could. His hair was neatly parted and his shirt—a soft blue chequered collared-shirt Sherlock didn't recognise—was buttoned all the way to the chin and carefully tucked into his trousers. Sherlock had seen this before. This was what John did when he was steeling to say something important, but difficult. He held his arms straight down at his sides, but his fists were balled. He looked dead ahead, seeing no one, not even Sherlock, though Sherlock tried to catch his eyes, if only to communicate I'm here. They marched him directly to the witness box, and left him there.
You can do this, John. This is the last stretch, then we go home.
Sherlock shot one more look at Lord Magnussen, who, since the Colonel had been led away, had regained mastery over his expression.
At the prompting, John swore an oath to tell the truth, and the magistrate began.
'That oath you just swore to, JW, means that you will tell the truth, and only the truth. Okay?' The magistrate spoke as one would to a child, his tone a little pitched, his words a little slowed, and with simple words. 'It doesn't mean that you tell me what you think I want to hear, or that you say something false to protect someone.'
'I know what truth means,' said John. 'I can spell it and everything.'
Sherlock gasped though his nose, and behind him, the courtroom tittered. The magistrate frowned. The pitch dropped instantly.
'Are you being cheeky?'
'Not at all, sir,' said John, unruffled. 'I say that only because I am proud of it. You see, just a year ago, I couldn't spell at all. I couldn't read or write even my own name, which is John, by the way. But now, I read whole books, and I can write almost anything. I owe that to Mr Holmes.'
Sherlock expected immediate censure. John had come out of the bullpen kicking, while he was puffing with pride, he was also bracing for backlash. Surely, the magistrate would not appreciate this as he did.
'That's quite impressive,' said the magistrate without intonation. 'But also, unusual for an adult ward to be entirely illiterate.'
'None of my previous hosts took any care for my education, sir. Mr Holmes does.'
'Your records indicate a rather long list of previous hosts.'
'Yes sir. Seventeen, before Mr Holmes.'
A soft grumble of reaction rippled through the gallery.
John raised his voice over them. 'Seventeen hosts, sir, who cared not at all for my education, or health, or happiness. It's Mr Holmes who cares. He's been the only one, sir. The only one.'
'JW,' said the magistrate, a note of warning in his voice, 'of course you are not stupid. This hearing is to determine which of these two men can provide you with the best home, including environment, resources, and overall competence in caretaking. Clearly, you yourself have a preference, which is normally not taken into consideration. Ward loyalties can be manipulated. So I want you to consider, as I make my determination, that you will find it difficult to compare a whole year with Sherlock Holmes to one week with Lord Magnussen. You do not yet know for yourself that Lord Magnussen's residence would not be, in the end, a better fit.'
John's chest swelled with a long breath. He closed his eyes, and when he opened them again, he stated, 'You are working with an incomplete data set, sir.'
Sherlock couldn't help it this time: tears of pride sprung to his eyes, just to hear him say something so beautiful.
'Am I?'
'I have known Mr Holmes for a little over a year now, as you say. I have known Lord Magnussen for over six years.'
The gallery instantly voiced its surprise. But it hushed quickly: everyone's attention was riveted, and no one wanted to miss a syllable.
All but one man.
'My lord,' said Lord Magnussen, rising to his feet, 'you have instructed the ward to tell the truth, but in less than a minute, I am already hearing lies! I never met the ward before this very month! I would like to renew my objection in admitting the testimony of a ward—I fear he intends to slander me!'
John was undeterred. 'It is true Lord Magnussen fears what I have to say. Or he would not have sent two men into my holding cell last night to threaten me into silence.'
'Absurd!' Lord Magnussen decried.
The magistrate ordered him back into his seat and to hold his tongue. To John: 'That's a serious allegation, young man.'
'I've got worse.'
'Tell me about this threat.'
'Two security officers came into my cell in the middle of the night. They pinned me down, shone a torch in my face, and said that if I spoke ill of Lord Magnussen, there'd be a blood-letting. My own, I presume.'
'Preposterous,' Lord Magnussen spat.
The magistrate ignored him. His eyebrows pinched together, and he leant into the bar. 'Who were these men?'
'I couldn't see their faces, owing to the light in my eyes, which I'm sure was the point. But I know their voices. I bet they didn't count on that. I've been held in this courthouse for over a week. I know the names, faces, and voices of every security officer on any shift. I've a good memory for things like that, sir. When you don't know how to read, you rely a lot more on memorising those kinds of details. They didn't disguise their voices, so I recognised them both.' He turned around and pointed straight to the back of the gallery at the officers flanking the double doors. 'Officer Sanders and Officer Patel.'
The courtroom erupted into cries of shock and outrage. The officers in question looked stunned, then angry, and began to shout denials. In the chaos, while the magistrate shouted for silence and other security officers tried to re-establish order, John took advantage of facing the gallery to look to Sherlock. He didn't smile, he didn't nod. But Sherlock read the resolution in his eyes, the almost reckless abandon that, to hell what happened next, if he was going down, he was taking the world with him.
The courtroom doors were still closed to the outside world, but the outside world did not stand idle.
'. . . reminder that no decision has yet been rendered. The court requests that the public stop submitting applications to host the ward.'
'Now, more breaking news on the Ward JW affair: Accusations lobbed against Charles Magnussen for inappropriate relations with a warded person do not end with the Lord Commissioner. In fact, fifty-seven men and nine women, all prominent figureheads, have likewise been accused of sexually violating the very same ward over a period of some five years while the alleged victim was warded to a Mr Sebastian Wilkes of London, illegal proprietor of what is unsurprisingly being described as a Topside-Downside bordello . . .'
Meanwhile, even as the story broke, police were riding the lift to the very top floor of a very tall building. Below, a bevy of WSC officers waited for their turn. They were there to remove every ward from Lord Magnussen's residence, and remand them to temporary hosts until a full investigation could be conducted. Even more police were en route to Lord Magnussen's Sussex estate. News editors all over the city debated whether to adopt the term scandal or corruption in the headlines. Wards up and down the country sat glued to their TV screens. Some MPs were on the phones with their legal teams, even as others were speeding their way to Heathrow, not yet knowing they would never clear security. And half a world away, a British man was being escorted out of a five-star Bangkok hotel in shackles.
Unflappable, and seemingly oblivious to the fires erupting all across the country, Mycroft Holmes lifted a phone in the deserted Strangers Room of the Diogenes Club and order the tea trolley.
'My lord, this is outrageous! I object to these proceedings! I object on the very same grounds as I did yesterday: a ward's testimony cannot be relied upon!'
'Lord Magnussen—'
'His accusations have no basis in fact. To accuse two perfectly innocent men of such scheming, to smear their names as a way to smear mine, it's utterly reprehensible behaviour, and I am appalled that the court is entertaining it.'
'I will ask you, once again, to take your seat—'
The two officers, Sanders and Patel, had been removed from the courtroom. To be detained? To be questioned? To be sent home to wait for it all to blow over? Sherlock had no idea. All he knew was, they were gone, the gallery was up in arms, and it had taken a full ten minutes for any semblance of order to be restored. Even so, Lord Magnussen was beside himself with fury. His dignified comportment was crumbling, his carefully constructed mask of cool confidence had slipped, and he was on a tirade.
'He means to discredit and slander me, and is exercising astounding feats of imagination to do so. My lord, the ward has this past year lived with a man who is brother to one of my own staff who despises me—a thing I was entirely ignorant of, by the way, when I paid good money for him. What lies were spoken in that household against me, from the start? What picture of me was crafted that has inspired such hatred of me in this ward? How have they conspired together to defame my good name? This cannot be tolerated in a court of law. He lies, my lord, he lies and perverts the course of justice by concocting such fantastically false accusations!'
'Am I to understand,' said the magistrate, his patience wearing thin, 'that you wish to withdraw your petition to reclaim him, and cede him to Mr Holmes?'
The Lord Magnussen blinked. 'I . . . n-no . . .'
'But why should you want him, if he is all the things you say he is? A liar and a conspirator, among other things.'
'To shut me up,' said John, still in the witness box. 'I should have thought that obvious.'
'This hearing is a farce! To give any credence to his lies makes a mockery of this court. I'll not stand for it. My lord,' cried Lord Magnussen, 'you have before you testimony enough, my own and Mr Holmes', to render your decision. Your decision should have been rendered yesterday. Any further delusions and fabrications and confusions presented by Mr Moran or this warded person only serve to muddy the waters, and—'
'Lord Magnussen,' roared the magistrate, 'if you cannot control yourself, I will have you removed from the courtroom, and in your absence I will still hear the testimony of the witness. Is that what you wish? Choose now: excuse yourself, be removed, or be silent.'
Chest heaving, Lord Magnussen's mouth contorted like a fish out of water. There was nothing he could say. Object, and ejected. And what terrible words would be spoken of him in his absence? How then could he launch a proper defence? Sherlock refrained from smirking, but it was at great strain on his self-control.
'I insist that I be allowed to defend myself against any slanderous lies this witness might spew,' he said at last.
'That is your right. But it is my courtroom, and I decide the order of things. Now take your seat, and be silent.'
Lord Magnussen tugged is suitcoat straight again. Then, slowly, he sank back into his chair. The magistrate returned his attention to John, who, through the course of all of this, had stood stalwart and unmoved.
'Are you prepared to continue, JW?'
'I am.'
'And you understand that it is an offence to lie to a court magistrate?'
'I have told no lies, nor shall I.'
'You say you have known Lord Magnussen for six years.'
'Yes.'
'But he was never your host, not until this month.'
'No.'
'Tell me, then: under what circumstances did you come to know him?'
Sherlock's heart was pumping blood so fast he thought it might rupture. He could only imagine what John's was doing.
'I was warded, then, to a man called Sebastian Wilkes. He had bought me on the black market in Pimlico, where I had been warded to a man called Ernst Crider, who ran a Downside for ward sport, where I endured nightly humiliations for approximately fourteen months . . .'
'Ward sport? In Pimlico?'
'Yes sir. I was not a fighter. I was . . . entertainment. But one night, Mr Wilkes bought me, took me to an empty flat, and—'
Sherlock shifted in his seat, wishing he could reach across the table, across the room, and into the witness box to hold John's hand. You're okay, John. You've got this. You said it to me. One more time, and it's all over.
'Mr Wilkes himself ran a Downside,' said John, 'and kept me there, all alone, and at the mercy of men who . . . who would pay for the pleasure of . . . having sex with a twink. Lord Magnussen'—John faltered, and behind him, Sherlock continued his vain attempts at telepathy. John swallowed, took two long breaths, and lifted his chin—'Lord Magnussen was Mr Wilkes' first client, and the first man ever to rape me.'
'Lies,' Magnussen seethed between clenched teeth while the gallery rumbled with gasps and whispers.
The magistrate ignored him. The lines of the old man's face deepened with his frown, creating trenches and crevasses through the distressed and weathered skin. 'This is . . . a very grave revelation, if true.'
'I wish it were not,' said John, his voice sounding strangled. 'But I lived it for five years, sir. It's true.'
The magistrate made a note on the page in front of him, but even after his pen stopped moving, he didn't look up for several seconds. He seemed to be contemplating his next questions carefully.
'Mr Wilkes is not present to defend himself against this allegation. Do you have any proof that this Downside existed?'
John thought. 'I can give you the address. The windows are still boarded to block out the light, to keep anyone from seeing what went on in that flat. I can show you the bullet wound in my shoulder, from where Mr Wilkes shot me, on the day I tried to tell someone what he was doing to me. The floorboards in the ward room are newer than those in the rest of the flat because the blood stain wouldn't come clean and he had to replace it. A year ago, I took photos of my body, to show the police the bruising and damage done to me, but Mr Wilkes found those before I could show anyone. I don't know whatever became of them. But the clients, some of them took photos, too. Somewhere out there, maybe some still exist. I don't know what other proof I can offer, except my word.'
The magistrate tapped his pen, still frowning. 'The matter of a Downside is for the crown court, not a magistrate's court.' He paused again, looking troubled. 'These accusations require police investigation, and any charges can be tried only in criminal court. Any convictions or punishments must likewise be managed by a higher court. However . . .' He seemed decided. 'The purpose of this hearing to determine whether either of these claimants is a suitable host, and which, if either, should have claim on you. Therefore, I will let you, JW, make your case. You have a preference, do you not?'
'I do, sir. I wish to live with Mr Holmes.'
'Your preference is noted. So first. Tell me of your history with Charles Magnussen.'
John nodded once, as though in slow motion, and from where he sat behind and to the left, Sherlock could see the cord of muscle in his neck bulge. He was literally bracing.
'I did not know his name, all the time I worked for Mr Wilkes, though he was a frequent visitor. He came at least twice a month, sometime twice a week. Mr Wilkes only ever called him my favourite guest, as a joke, I think. I was afraid of him. I believe that is why he kept coming back. He told me on the day I first met him that he liked us scared, and that he liked to be the first. So I know, sir, that there have been others. Maybe many others, probably those he has hosted himself—'
'JW, please speak only of that which you know for yourself, from your own experience. You may tell me only what you have seen and heard for yourself, not what you suppose.'
'Then, sir, I know for myself that he is a bad man. A very bad man. He . . .' John took a shuddering breath. 'More times than I can count, he made me strip, touched my naked body, hurt me with his own two hands, and had sex with me. And I could never say no. He raped me. Again, and again, and again, and Mr Wilkes let him, and I could never say no.'
Sherlock couldn't see John's face, not from this angle, not straight on. But he saw the bead of a tear capture the courtroom overhead lights, and it shone as it tracked down his cheek.
'I tried. When Mr Wilkes stole me off the streets and sold me Lord Magnussen, I believed it was because he wanted to . . . he wanted me again, for himself, for his own enjoyment. And I tried to fight it. For several days in a row, I resisted him, even when he sent his man after me, to punish me for saying no. I fought back. I even broke his man's hand. But then he brought in a girl, a young girl named Cici, and he told me . . . it was me or her.' He sniffed and scrubbed under his eyes. 'I couldn't let him take her,' he whispered. 'I gave in.'
When it seemed that John was unable to continue, the magistrate gently prodded. 'To be clear, JW, do you mean to say that Charles Magnussen sexually assaulted you in his own flat just two weeks ago?'
'The night before the train station,' John choked. 'And again, in the morning, in the car, on the way to the station.'
Sherlock felt like he was on fire. His eyes were burning, his throat felt scorched, his heart was ablaze. He forced himself to remain in his seat, lest he launched himself across the aisle and take Lord Magnussen by the throat. The bastard, the utter, reprehensible, inconceivable bastard. He barely felt the damp on his own cheeks.
Suddenly, the hideous voice cut into the silence. 'I deny and roundly refute these accusations,' said Lord Magnussen. He spoke steadily, and without the passions of earlier, almost indifferent, as though John had claimed to have seen Father Christmas and no one could possibly take him seriously.
But before the magistrate could reprimand him for talking, John said forcefully, 'I gave my jacket to a police officer.'
There was a beat. 'What was that?' asked the magistrate. Sherlock started in his seat.
'The jacket I was wearing that morning. It has Lord Magnussen's semen on it. I gave it to a policeman as evidence of what he had done.'
Lord Magnussen shot to his feet. 'This testimony is outrageous! How dare you listen to it, sir! The police have accused me of nothing! I have not consented to any testing!'
The magistrate didn't miss a beat. 'This may bode very poorly for you, Lord Magnussen,' he said. 'How will you explain semen on the jacket of a ward in your care?'
'It cannot be mine! It might be his own!'
'I am a cas,' said John, 'as he well knows.'
'Then Colonel Moran's!'
'He was driving the car while Lord Magnussen assaulted me,' said John.
'I've heard enough. Lord Magnussen, I have no power to issue an arrest warrant against you. But I told you repeatedly to keep silent until I addressed you, and you have consistently violated the order of this court. I therefore find you in contempt of court, and I will have you removed immediately.'
'My lord!'
But the magistrate had spoken. Two security officers came forward to remove him.
'I have proof!' Lord Magnussen cried. 'Photographic proof that Sherlock Holmes has abused this ward, proof that Sherlock Holmes has sexually assaulted him!'
'Tell it to the judge,' said the magistrate with a dismissive wave.
For the second time, it was several minutes before the gallery could settle down and the hearing proceed.
Under escort, Lord Magnussen had barely taken two steps outside the courtroom when he was stopped cold by a wall of officers from the Metropolitan Police.
'Charles Magnussen,' said a detective-inspector in plain clothes, stepping forward, 'you are under arrest on suspicion of ward endangerment, assault of a warded person, aggravated sexual assault of a warded person, and conspiracy to commit abduction of a warded person. You do not have to say anything, but it may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned something which you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence.'
They cuffed his hands together, spun him to face the exit, and marched him toward the courthouse doors, beyond which gathered a mob or reporters, protestors, activists, and voyeurs. Like ravenous wolves to their prey, they were all eager to see him.
The magistrate, for the first time, looked upon the ward in the witness box with a sad sort of half-smile, saying, 'I believe we are coming to the end of it. So now, at the last, is there anything you wish to tell me of Mr Holmes, before I render my judgement?'
John wiped his eyes with a sleeve. 'My lord,' he began, 'I have somewhat more to say.'
'Say on.'
'Sir, I have been a ward . . . all the days of my life. I have had . . . nineteen different hosts. While in their care, I have been'—he gasped for air, if only to have breath enough to speak his next words—'starved, ridiculed, beaten, belittled, mutilated, ostracised, and tortured. I have slept in filth and on a cold hard ground for weeks and months at a time. I have been called stupid and ugly and worthless, and it was all true. When I have disobeyed, I have been harshly punished. When I have acquiesced, I have been beaten, still. When I ran away from my tormentors, I was blamed for running. When I stole food to eat, I was called a thief. My name has been impermanent. My battered and famished body has gone unseen. My wretchedness has been assumed as my normal state. I have been both stolen and abandoned, blamed and punished for crimes I did not commit, exploited for my labour and despised for simply existing. All that time, I have had not one soul to call my friend. Until Mr Holmes.
'He saw me. He saw an unnamed man and gave him the dignity of a real name. He saw a starved man and fed him. He saw a frightened man, and made for him a place of safety. He saw a lonely man, and made of him a friend. Mr Holmes doesn't see a mere ward. He sees . . . a man without limitation. I came to him illiterate, and today I can read and write, because he has taught me how. He has taught me about the solar system and the oceans, about anatomy and chemistry, about history and literature. We go to museums and parks. We play games and cook meals. We listen to music and dance. With him, I am intelligent and strong. With him, I am not afraid anymore. I sleep warm at night with a full belly. I'm happy. I'm . . . home. Mr Holmes, he's my friend. He's my . . . family.'
'And it is your desire,' said the magistrate, 'to go home to your family.'
'Yes sir,' said John, nodding emphatically.
Behind him, Sherlock heard sniffling, and whispers. Sherlock's heart was throbbing so violently he thought it might burst.
'What you have described to me,' he said, 'is just and proper. This is the love of family. And I want to be clear on something. What Lord Magnussen has been accused of is a perversion of the relationship between host and ward, or free person and any ward. What we should have is the love of brother for brother, or father for son, or friend for friend. We understand, do we not, that love between ward and host is not the love reserved for lovers. Hosts should not feel such affection, and wards cannot. Yes, what I see you feel for Mr Holmes, and what I have heard Mr Holmes express for you, that is appropriate love. Anything more would be perversion.'
The magistrate laid down his pen. 'I am sorry,' he said, 'for the things I have heard you testify of today. That you were ever made to suffer them is not, in my eyes, a consequence of being born, for we must all endure the trials of a mortal existence. Rather, it is the failing of a programme that should have done better by you. I am sorry you were left unprotected. Were it in my power, I would order all the wrongs done against you be rectified. As it is, my powers are limited to this court. So I will do what I can for you. JW—John—it is the finding of this court that Mr Sherlock Holmes henceforth be named your rightful and proper host, and that your permanent residence as a ward be 221B Baker Street, London. Mr Holmes, the ward is yours. That is the order of this court.'
With that, the gavel fell.
