After a few minutes, I informed him that I’d return in an hour with my things for an extended stay, and that I expected to entice him to a walk or a meal if he was not sleeping off the effects of the night. ‘Doctor’s orders, Holmes. Whatever lies ahead, it is time for recovery, not remonstrance.’
He said nothing, and I left, determined to return as quickly as possible.
An hour later, I returned. The rain had abated for the first time in days, and I convinced my friend that a ramble in Hyde Park would offer refreshment. We usually frequented Regent’s Park but today I suggested a change of scenery.
We set off at a brisk pace and were soon strolling in the southern end of the park along the Serpentine. I hoped this serene, tree-lined vista would soothe my companion’s jangled nerves. Who knew how long we might enjoy the bright sunlight, with rainclouds scudding across the sky. The chill was bracing.
I glanced at his thin figure, bundled in a long black overcoat and blue scarf, his collar turned up for warmth, as he walked beside me in silence, head down. I had forgotten the intensity of those black clouds which periodically rolled in to darken his outlook. He seemed oblivious to the gleaming waterway and the brilliant golds and oranges of the foliage.
‘Holmes,’ I ventured. ‘What of a dinner tonight at Simpson’s? Some roast beef, your favourite, followed by perhaps an opera? Faust, by some French composer, is on just now.’
‘The composer is Charles Gounod – and I have seen it already. Watson, you despise opera. I am not in the humour for conversation. Is it not enough that I agreed to accompany you on this pointless meandering?’
‘It is hardly pointless,’ said I.
‘Then what is the point?’ he asked crossly.
‘The point is to breathe, to take in nature, and to reset the mind. Look at those trees!’
Above us the canopy of golds, greens and hints of orange glowed like stained glass, sparkling intermittently as the bright sun peeked through.
He glanced up at the sky. ‘It will rain again soon. Let us return to Baker Street. I neglected to bring my umbrella.’
He turned left and headed sharply north, in the direction of Speakers’ Corner. We had been out for less than an hour.
‘Holmes, shall we not concentrate on the good news? Those Queen’s honours under discussion? Not a knighthood, do you think?’
It was as though I’d thrown vitriol on his favourite coat. ‘Watson! You know me better than that!’ His vehemence surprised me.
‘It is one thing to refrain from seeking accolades, but can you not at least appreciate them when they are offered sincerely?’ I said. ‘Surely this would bring in more clientele.’
‘Anonymity better serves my work. That journalist simply needed a story,’ he said bitterly. ‘Today I am reviled. Neither notice means anything.’
‘Well, what of this Gabriel Zanders fellow? I am genuinely concerned, Holmes.’
‘He is creative, to be sure. He has made it his business to vilify me, alternately deriding my abilities, and ascribing to them some dark origins.’
‘Dark origins? But this is laughable, Holmes!’
‘To the rational, it is laughable.’
‘What does he mean, dark origins?’
‘To the gullible among his readers, and those are the majority, he implies my powers are otherworldly, devilish. For his more educated readers, he implies that I have deep ties to the criminal community. Either explanation is apparently easier to swallow than my use of scientific method, keen observation and hard work.’
‘Indeed. And the occasional flash of intuition, Holmes.’
‘One cannot count on that. In any case, Zanders is to be ignored. Even if he is having me followed. As indeed he is, at this very moment.’ He nodded behind us.
I looked about but saw no one.
Holmes stalked on. I had difficulty keeping up. While notorious for not caring about public opinion, Holmes knew better than to inflame a reporter. Dark clouds had moved in rapidly to blacken the sky, and no less the mood of my friend. He scowled and picked up his already furious pace.
‘Are you trying to shake him?’ I asked, referring to his supposed tail.
‘That will be difficult in the park. Just to exhaust him, perhaps.’
‘Well, you are exhausting me!’
We continued a moment in silence. I was growing a bit winded.
‘You are out of training, Watson.’ He picked up his pace as if to challenge me further. ‘Rather more tiresome than Zanders is this fool Titus Billings at Scotland Yard!’
‘He does have some peculiar notions,’ I offered. ‘Slow down, please. In any case, you enjoy a challenge, Holmes.’
He said nothing, and we continued in silence. He looked no less grim. The walk was not having the effect I had hoped.
‘Holmes, perhaps I join you at an inconvenient time.’
‘All I need is an interesting case, and the freedom to pursue it unimpeded!’ he exclaimed. ‘Nothing more!’ He glanced my way again and, with a look of contrition, added, ‘I am sorry, dear fellow. No, you are not inconvenient. Rather, in fact, most welcome. I might find bad humour overtaking me if you were not here.’
‘Bad humour? You?’ I laughed. Holmes favoured me with one of his quick smiles. We proceeded in silence. Our relative peace did not last long. As we drew nearer to the northern end of Hyde Park, I began to discern the sound of a crowd, chanting something unintelligible in unison. We approached the fabled Speakers’ Corner, and a loud and melodious voice pierced the chill November air, followed by another unison crowd response.
We came upon a makeshift dais of several wooden boxes on which stood a tall, muscular figure garbed in the long black coat, wide-brimmed hat, and white collar of a pastor. His was a handsome face, rather more sun-darkened than one associates with a London man of the cloth (but perhaps he had served his church in southern climes, I thought). Despite his sober clothing, there was something of the salesman to the fellow.
His words enthralled a highly animated crowd of nearly one hundred people. ‘We must give up our vanity, give up our greed, give up our lust,’ he exhorted. ‘Because the Devil is always near. We must be on the lookout. For the Devil walks among us. Who walks among us?’
‘The Devil walks among us,’ responded the crowd.
‘Who walks among us?’ he shouted.
‘The Devil walks among us!’ the group responded, louder this time. I paused to listen, fascinated with the hypnotic effect this man was having upon the crowd. ‘We must be on our guard,’ insisted the object of their attention. ‘We must seek him out and destroy him. Frighten him with your voices. Louder now! Where does the Devil walk?’
‘The Devil walks among us!’ shouted the crowd.
This must be the kind of ‘tent preacher’ I had read of, roaming the American South. A rabble-rouser, to my mind.
Holmes stiffened and I followed his gaze to a garishly dressed young man, clean-shaven, with slicked-back hair and an eager, hungry face. He had arrived on the periphery of the crowd opposite us, scanning the scene. As I watched, he took out a small notebook and pen. He glanced our way.
‘Holmes, is that—?’
‘Zanders?