still splayed on the curb next to us, holding his head.
‘Are you all right, Holmes?’ I shouted over the rising wind.
‘Yes, see to that man, Watson,’ Holmes replied, helping Butterby up.
I turned to the downed attacker. His was a handsome face, chiselled and refined. The eyes remained closed and he was still. I knelt, checking his pulse and his pupils. They were not dilated, a good sign. The wind continued to whip snow around us in a flurry. Holmes and I were without our coats.
‘Get him inside,’ I shouted. Holmes hesitated for only a moment, but then nodded.
With Butterby’s clumsy help, the three of us managed to transport the fellow up to our sitting room, and minutes later, the mysterious attacker was stretched out unconscious on our settee, his hands secured behind him with Butterby’s handcuffs. Holmes grabbed a second pair of cuffs from the mantle and secured his feet to one leg of the settee. I was shivering from my brief exposure to the elements but applied myself to examine the man further. I placed a pillow to raise his head where it had tilted back over the edge of the settee.
My patient was a tall, well-built fellow. His coat was of the finest Savile Row tailoring, now dirtied and torn from the fight. He had suffered a nasty cut on the forehead, and remained unconscious, but his pulse was strong and regular, his breathing normal. I called down to Mrs Hudson for hot water and towels and blotted the wound with a clean handkerchief and some of Holmes’s clear spirits.
A silent and glowering Butterby stood like a plinth in the corner of the room. Melting snow dripped from him, splashing lightly onto the rug. He held a dirty handkerchief to a bleeding cut on his cheek and grimaced. I handed him a clean one. Holmes looked up and, finally noticing him, suggested he fetch Lestrade and be quick about it.
‘Right-o, then,’ Butterby grunted, and lumbered off. Holmes shook his head in annoyance.
Our man on the sofa was struggling to regain consciousness. He groaned and his eyes rolled upwards in their sockets, closed, and opened again. I turned to my friend.
Holmes was pale with exertion and cold, snow still visible on his hair and the shoulders of his dressing gown. He rubbed his shin and grimaced.
‘Are you all right, Holmes?’ I asked again.
‘It is just a bruise. Our man here has been in training since last we met. I underestimated him. What is the damage?’
‘You know him, then?’
‘The damage, Watson?’
‘He will live. I would ask for brandy, but—’
‘Here, give him some of this. My best whisky, though he hardly merits it.’ He handed over a bottle. McLaren Top!
I held the drink to the assailant’s lips, supporting his head. He squinted and took in his surroundings and then suddenly jerked his limbs only to discover his restraints. With a splutter he pulled away from the drink, but clipped it with his chin and several drops spilled over his damaged coat.
He shook his head to focus and suddenly noticed Holmes standing above him. He emitted a deep-throated cry and jolted violently towards me. Struggling against his bonds he began making a series of strange, garbled sounds.
‘Now that is a waste of perfectly good Scotch, St John,’ said Holmes. ‘Not to mention you have further stained your rather fine coat. I see you have retained your excellent taste in tailoring.’
‘How do you know this man?’ I asked.
‘It is a very long story,’ said my friend, his voice strained.
Another set of unintelligible sounds emerged from the fellow. Turning to stare at him, I discovered why. As he continued to make noises, I remarked in horror that the man had lost his tongue! The wound was not recent. There was not a trace of blood, just a dark space where a tongue would rest.
St John glowered.
Holmes turned to me. ‘This is Mr Orville St John. A distinguished member of the St Johns of Northumberland, titled landowners, enormously wealthy from their logging endeavours. We were undergraduates together at Camford. Shall I tell Dr Watson what happened there, St John?’
The man said nothing.
‘I shall presume that was a yes. Mr St John and an equally well-placed friend, both of whom enjoyed great prestige at Camford, took top honors in mathematics and chemistry, until I arrived upon the scene and began to prevail. A prize or two, the favour of a famous professor, and suddenly I was, to them, some kind of nemesis, an object of both envy and derision.’
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