For All Our Sakes

Chapter Three

Chapter Three

Holmes

Watson has asked that I help him to write his account of this case, and I have, albeit reluctantly, agreed. My reluctance is partially due to my limited experience writing literary prose—in fact, I have attempted it only once in the past, and it was far more difficult than I had anticipated—and partially due to the rather personal nature of this particular case. I have only agreed to write my portion of the story because it would be quite incomplete without it, and I could hardly ask him to skip writing up the case at all; after all, my Boswell needs something to do in his free time. He has even promised not to publish it, if I so choose, and as of yet I am undecided on this point.

But I digress.

At about eight o'clock the following morning (Friday), Watson left the flat to fill in for a fellow doctor who was doing something or other that morning (in all probability, Watson told me but I no can longer remember), and I was left to myself.

I contemplated what I should do next. Cauldwell was an imminent danger, and while I knew where he was hiding, I knew little else, so I determined that I should spend the time while Watson was gone in gathering more information, as the majority of my time the previous day had been spent wheedling information out of Pike. (I really needed to do a few favours for the man; he was difficult to get valuable information out of without being given a good reason or good money. I wouldn't be able to go to a concert or out for dinner for at least a month!) After disguising myself as an elderly alcoholic with a bad leg, I set off for the first of a number of different public houses I planned on visiting that day.

My entire excursion ended up being a waste of time and effort, as none of the half-drunken people to whom I discreetly mentioned the name Cauldwell had any idea what I was talking about, and I was forced to leave a few of the pubs after I started earning suspicious looks from various people. There had also been less than the usual number of pub frequenters, due to the fog that was slowly but steadily sweeping over the city, and the general look of rain on the way. (Aforementioned rain arrived shortly before I reached Baker Street, but luckily I was able to retreat into the safety of the flat before becoming more than a little damp.)

From what I had gathered, a fair number of those in London's criminal underworld knew that someone was paying people a good deal of money to keep an eye on the police and a few others, but no one knew this man's name. I was eerily reminded of the whispers I had heard before discovering Moriarty's identity.

When I returned to Baker Street around noon, Mrs. Hudson immediately came to speak to me. "A gentleman came by to see you a short while ago," she informed me as I simultaneously ascended the stairs and removed my wig and rather repulsive false teeth. Her face assumed an expression of disgust. "I didn't like the look of him."

A cold feeling spread through my chest. Mrs. Hudson's instincts tended to be very accurate, at least regarding good English food and a person's character. "Did you recognise him? Did he leave a card?" I asked as I shrugged off the shabby frock coat I had donned as part of my disguise.

"No, and yes," she answered, handing me the card. Roderick Cauldwell, Chemist. It was a normal thickness for a calling card, and there were no stains, marks, or scents from which I could draw deductions. I flipped it over. The words on the back were printed in all capital letters with a dull pencil with more pressure than was necessary to write them. It was definitely a man's handwriting, but other than that I could tell nothing at all from it.

TREAD LIGHTLY.

I cursed, causing my landlady to jump. "What did this man say to you when he came?" I asked.

"He asked me if he could see you, and when I told him you were out, he inquired after the Doctor," she answered. How glad I was that Watson was not here when that man—whether it was Cauldwell or a confederate—dropped by the flat.

"Did you tell him where Watson was?"

"The Doctor didn't tell me exactly where he was going, so I couldn't have told him if I had wanted to. And I didn't want to. Like I said, I didn't like the look of him one bit." She shook her head vehemently.

"Describe this man to me," I said, more harshly than I had intended.

"Well," she said slowly, "he had black hair, and very pale skin. And a long scar down the side of his face. Left side, I think."

I had to bite my tongue to stop myself from swearing again in front of the poor woman; her description matched Cauldwell's appearance when I had last seen him!

I nodded. "Thank you, Mrs. Hudson," I said, and headed for my bedroom to change out of my disguise. This visit to the flat was obviously a warning, the words on the card testified to that, but what else could it mean? It certainly meant that he was keeping a close eye on us, or at least our flat. It was Cauldwell himself who had stopped at our rooms, so it was very likely that he wanted me to know we were being watched closely enough that he —

I froze in the act of washing off my face. I hadn't seen the man watching 221b when I had returned. Where had he gone? Sick uneasiness knotted my stomach as I hastily completed my toilette. When I was once again dressed, I left my bedroom and shouted for the landlady as I sprinted across the flat. Watson could think of my behaviour as he chooses; this was a matter of utmost urgency!

Said landlady met me on the stairs leading to the kitchen and her rooms. "Well, Mr. Holmes, I'm very glad that you didn't force me to traipse all the way up t—"

"Mrs. Hudson, when did this man arrive?" I asked.

"About a quarter hour before noon," she replied, miraculously unruffled by my interruption.

I had passed the flat around twenty minutes before noon, and the man assigned to watch the flat (in this case, a lanky man with light brown hair) had been there, so he must have left around the same time. I wasn't exactly sure why this connection was so vitally important, but all of my instincts screamed that it was so. I thanked Mrs. Hudson once more, and when she asked if I would be having luncheon I replied in the positive, before returning to the sitting room to think.

Catching sight of Watson's desk, I felt another pang of fear travel through me at the sight of both my friend's revolver and pocketbook lying on his desk. I vainly attempted to convince myself that my worry was a result of my overactive—not to mention morbid—imagination. Grabbing one of my more comforting pipes, I stuffed it with tobacco from the Persian slipper before collapsing in my chair by the fire.

Since Cauldwell knew neither Watson nor myself would be at the flat when he arrived, the message was a warning, either for both of us or for me. The latter option seemed more likely, due in part to the fact that I am the detective, and in part to the bit of history between the two of us. But what exactly was the message implying? Apparently, I was to be careful in my meddling in their affairs, but why hadn't the missive simply said, "Drop the case" or something a trifle more straightforward?

Just as I was pondering this, I heard a bit of quiet but frantic knocking on the door of the flat, and Mrs. Hudson's quick and even footsteps as she descended the stairs to answer it, followed by a cry of dismay that rang through the flat as squelching footsteps rushed up the stairs. I stood up from my chair, and spun around in time to see the entrance of a small fair haired boy with rain-splattered clothing and mud soaked shoes (which were apparently the source of Mrs. Hudson's distress). I recognised the lad as he ran across the room toward me: he was Tom Jacobson, the five-year-old brother of one of my Irregulars.

"Mr. 'Olmes!" he cried as he reached me. I lowered myself to one knee to get down closer to his height.

"Tom, whatever is the matter?" I noticed that he was shaking, and I could tell from his terrified blue eyes that it was from more than just a chill from the splatters of rain on his clothing.

He didn't answer, but instead pulled a small and slightly crumpled piece of paper out of his pocket, and gave it to me with an unsteady hand.

It was a calling card.

My blood ran cold as I read the name. Roderick Cauldwell. Turning it over, I saw four words that sent a thrill of horror through every particle of my being.

OR THE DOCTOR DIES.