Free The House Of Silk by Anthony Horowitz Page B

systematised common sense, as he once put it. And yet still I was aware of something that defied explanation and which might even be considered supernatural. Like it or not, Holmes knew that the evening’s events were going to provide a fulcrum, a turning point after which his life – both our lives – would never be quite the same.
    Mrs Oldmore’s Private Hotel advertised a bed and sitting room at thirty shillings a week, and was exactly the sort of establishment you would expect at that price; a mean, dilapidated building with a slop house on one side and a brick kiln on the other. It was close to the river and the air was damp and grimy. Lamps burned behind the windows, but the glass was so dirt-encrusted that barely any light seeped through. Ross, the companion of Wiggins, was waiting for us, shivering with cold despite the thick padding of newspaper with which his jacket was lined. As Holmes and Carstairs climbed out of the carriage, he stepped back and I saw that something had greatly frightened him. His eyes were filled with alarm and his face, in the glow of the street lamp, was ashen white. But then Wiggins leapt down and grabbed hold of him and it was as if the spell was broken.
    ‘It’s all right, my boy!’ Wiggins cried. ‘We are both of us to have a guinea. Mr ’olmes ’as promised it.’
    ‘Tell me what has happened in the time that you have been alone,’ Holmes said. ‘Has the man you recognised left the hotel?’
    ‘Who are these gentlemen?’ Ross pointed first at Carstairs, then at me. ‘Are they jacks? Are they coppers? Why are they here?’
    ‘It’s all right, Ross,’ I said. ‘You have no need to be concerned. I am John Watson, a doctor. You saw me this morning when you came to Baker Street. And this is Mr Carstairs who has a gallery in Albemarle Street. We mean you no harm.’
    ‘Albemarle Street – in Mayfair?’ The boy was so cold that his teeth were chattering. Of course all the street Arabs in London were accustomed to the winter, but he had been standing out here for at least two hours on his own.
    ‘What have you seen?’ Holmes asked.
    ‘I ain’t seen nothing,’ Ross replied. His voice had changed. There was something about his manner now that might almost have suggested that he had something to hide. Not for the first time it occurred to me that all these children had reached a sort of adulthood long before their tender age should have allowed. ‘I been here, waiting for you. He ain’t come out. No one has gone in. And the cold, it’s gone right through my bones.’
    ‘Here is the money that I promised you – and you, too, Wiggins.’ Holmes paid both the boys. ‘Now take yourselves home. You have done enough tonight.’ The boys took the coins and ran off together, Ross casting one last look in our direction. ‘I suggest we enter the hotel and confront this man,’ Holmes went on. ‘God knows, I have no wish to linger here any longer than I have to. That boy, Watson. Did it occur to you that he was dissembling?’
    ‘There was certainly something he was not telling us,’ I concurred.
    ‘Let us hope that he has not acted in some way so as to betray us. Mr Carstairs, please stand well back. It is unlikely that our target will attempt violence, but we have come here without preparation. Dr Watson’s trusty revolver is doubtless lying wrapped up in cloth in some drawer in Kensington and I, too, am unarmed. We must live on our wits. Come on!’
    The three of us entered the hotel. A few steps led up to the front door which opened into a public hallway with no carpets, little light, and a small office to one side. An elderly man was sitting there, propped up in a wooden chair, half-asleep, but he started when he saw us. ‘God bless you, gentlemen,’ he quavered. ‘We can offer you good, single beds at five shillings a night—’
    ‘We are not here for accommodation,’ Holmes replied. ‘We are in pursuit of a man who has recently arrived from America. He has a