Unquiet Spirits: Whisky, Ghosts, Adventure. Bonnie Macbird
I noticed St John staring with vehement anger at my friend.
‘They began a campaign to drive me from the University.’ Holmes’s tone was matter of fact, even light, but the tension in his face spoke of more behind the words. ‘He attempted to persuade students and faculty alike that I had harmed his dog, and had blown up a laboratory deliberately. My position was precarious. Not only did I lose the few friends I had – well, not that popularity was ever my goal—’
On the couch, St John snorted.
‘I very much doubt they got the better of you,’ said I.
St John grunted loudly.
‘You would be wrong, Watson. Of course he could speak then. In fact, St John was President of the Union and a champion debater. His nickname was “The Silver Tongue” and he managed by dint of his extraordinary powers of persuasion to turn an entire college and most of the dons against me.’
Holmes paused, remembering. ‘Eventually I was sent down. Although at that point I had lost the will for … other reasons. In any case, Watson, there is my reason for leaving the University, sitting before you in all his glory.’
I was sure that there was much more to this story. St John stared at Holmes, unblinking and cold. Holmes turned to face him, all pretence of humour gone. The hatred between the two was palpable, an electric current travelling through the air.
‘You were very persuasive, St John,’ said he.
I had long wondered about the reason that Holmes had left university without taking his degree. This seemed an incomplete explanation. I pulled him aside, behind St John, where our captive could not see us. I indicated the tongue, with a gesture demanding an explanation. Holmes just shook his head, ‘Later,’ he mouthed.
There was a noise on the stairs and Mrs Hudson showed in Lestrade and two deputies. The wiry little inspector was as usual, full of energy. ‘Mr Holmes!’ he cried.
‘Ah, Lestrade, I see Butterby has succeeded in something at last,’ said Holmes. ‘He has delivered you in a timely fashion. In a moment I would like you to remove this man, Mr Orville St John.’
‘Ah, a gentleman, he appears, but without manners. To gaol then, Mr Holmes? Butterby claims assault and battery. Him as well as you, and the good doctor,’ said Lestrade, with relish.
‘One moment if you please, Inspector.’
Turning to St John, Holmes said the following slowly and carefully. ‘St John, you are now known in these parts and have tried to kill me three times in the last six days.’
Holmes leaned in and removed a revolver from St John’s outer coat pocket. The man inhaled sharply as Holmes opened it, checking the bullets. He handed it to Lestrade. ‘Recently fired, and the calibre and make will match, no doubt, this bullet found in my wall over there.’
He pointed and I discerned a new bullet hole in the wall, just under my picture of General Gordon.
‘Attempted murder, then, as well!’ said the policeman.
‘Patience,’ said Holmes, and turned again to the man restrained before us. ‘I am going to make you an offer for your freedom, St John. If you agree to my terms, I will not press charges. And Lestrade, I ask that you convince Butterby to drop his charges as well. Release this gentleman’s ankles, would you please, Doctor.’ He handed me the keys to his cuffs. ‘And you his hands, Butterby.’
As he was freed from his restraints, St John looked pointedly away, rubbing his wrists. I was unable to read his reaction to these last words. Holmes continued.
‘What is so completely odd, St John, is why now? What has sent you here?’ He leaned forward.
St John turned away again coldly. Holmes sighed. ‘You must let this vendetta go. You know that I am not guilty of that which you accuse me. In your heart of hearts, you know this.’
St John remained inscrutable. I scanned his motionless face but read no sign of the man relenting.
‘Once again, in front of witnesses, can you let this vendetta go? If so, then you walk away a free man. If not, it will be to gaol with you, where I will ensure you stay a very long time.’ Holmes then made several strange gestures in the air with his hands. I recognized the motions as French sign language used by the deaf or mute, but had no clue to the meaning.
St John hesitated, and a torrent of emotions passed over his face as he clearly fought to regain control. He made a brief reply in sign language.
‘Fine then, St John, but consider this. If you do not desist, although I am not a vindictive man, you will leave me no choice. I will investigate your personal business, and create as much difficulty as I can for your family. You will bring trouble down on all you love. Do you agree to let this go once and for all?’
St John closed his eyes for a moment, then opening them, he stared fiercely at my friend, then nodded in assent.
‘I need your word.’
‘Let him say it, Mr Holmes,’ said Lestrade.
Holmes shot a glance at Lestrade. ‘He is mute.’ He turned to glare at St John. The man hesitated, then finally, an affirmative ‘Uh huh’ came from him.
‘That will suffice. Gentlemen. I now formally drop my charges against Mr St John for his attempts on my life. For the time being.’ Turning back to St John he said, ‘Take care that you keep your vow. Do you understand me?’
St John slowly raised his eyes to meet Holmes’s. There was a cold rage, now, in that look. The man was ready to kill Holmes, of that I was sure. And yet my friend seemed eager to let him go.
St John nodded one more time.
‘Escort Mr St John back to the Langham Hotel, please.’
St John started at this.
‘Yes, I know your hotel, and a great deal more,’ Holmes said. Then, to Lestrade, ‘It is a lodging well suited to this gentleman’s means and style. He lives on a grand estate just outside Edinburgh, and he is the respected owner and editor of St John and Wilkins, a major publishing house. He has three small children, a growing business, a loving wife, and a brother in delicate health. He has much to lose.’
St John stood, and as he did, one of Lestrade’s deputies approached and took him by the arm, and they moved to the door. As he stood in the doorframe, St John turned to Holmes and elaborated some complex thought with sign language, ending with an aggressive gesture.
Holmes clearly received the message. He sighed and shook his head.
The men departed, Butterby with them.
Lestrade shook his head. ‘Well, Mr Holmes, I have seen some strange things in these rooms, but that gentleman is surely one of the strangest. I do not have a good feeling about your letting him go like that.’
‘Nor do I, Holmes,’ said I. ‘I think you are making a mistake.’
My friend stood peering into the fire. ‘Gentlemen. I am very tired suddenly and need to rest. If you will excuse me, please. Good evening, Lestrade. Watson, would you be so good as to meet me at the Diogenes Club at 9.30 tomorrow morning.’ He shrugged. ‘Or stay, if you like. Your old room is probably habitable.’
Without a further word, he retired to his bedroom and shut the door. As soon as he did so, I realized that I had meant to have a look at the leg where St John had struck him. But he would not be disturbed now. I turned to Lestrade, who was now staring curiously at the still gurgling chemistry mess in the corner.
‘What on earth is that, if you do not mind my asking?’ he said.
‘I promise you I have not the faintest notion, Inspector.’
‘You must have a very forgiving landlady,’ observed the little man tartly. On cue, the saintly Mrs Hudson appeared with his hat, coat and umbrella.
‘Good