be frank, this devil-may-care fatalism struck me as considerably less than satisfactory. I tried to console myself, to tell myself that Holmes was right to dismiss the morrow – for what could we do about it, locked in here as we were? – and that my best course of action was to get as decent a night’s sleep as I possibly could, for I knew that we should need all our wits about us on the next day.
Accordingly, I settled myself on the bed, which was of a softness that could only be called opulent, and composed myself to sleep. It was a long time before I succeeded, however. I was not hungry, for we had dined well, and I had taken the – to me – elementary precaution of providing myself with a bar of chocolate, in case of emergency, and that still nestled, untouched, in my pocket. No, it was rather that my mind refused to be calm, despite my trying to reassure myself along the lines I have just noted. At last, I determined to try to recollect all that had taken place since Holmes and I started out on this adventure together. I recall that I had got as far as Victoria Station when I fell asleep.
I awoke with a start to find Holmes standing over me, a finger to his lips. He had opened the blinds, and, despite the shutters outside the windows, it was evident from the light that it was early morning. Holmes nodded towards the door, and I heard the sound of a key being turned. I fumbled for my revolver, forgetting for the moment that it was not loaded, but before I could take it from my pocket the door swung open, and there stood – of all things – a footman!
I am not being facetious; he was just such a servant as you would expect to find in any grand house in the better quarters of London. He was elderly and of sober appearance, clad in a smart black outfit – he did not exactly wear a powdered wig, but the look on his face was of such grave civility that even a peruke and court dress would not have seemed at all out of place. He made a stiff little bow, and said, ‘Monsieur Constantine would be pleased if you would join him for breakfast, Messieurs.’
I glanced at Holmes, fearing some trickery, but he merely shrugged his shoulders, and followed the man out of the room and down the stairs. The windows – magnificent stained glass that would have graced any cathedral – were set too high in the staircase to afford any view of the outside world, so that we still could get no clue as to where we might be. I brought up the rear, keeping a sharp look-out, but saw nothing untoward.
The footman held open a door for us to pass through, and we entered a large, bright room furnished in the style most associated with the fourteenth Louis. A long table was laid for breakfast – the Continental variety, but with a goodly quantity of cold meats and cheese. The man who had made such a profound impression on at least one of his listeners last night, and whose name I now knew to be Constantine – if that really were his name, I thought, and not yet another example of alias or affectation – sat at the head of the table. He waved us to chairs. ‘Please, join me,’ said he. He indicated the food spread out before us. ‘And do not hesitate to help yourselves – I know you must be hungry after last night’s adventures.’
I needed no second urging, for I have always had an excellent appetite, and this particular morning I was indeed ready for something nourishing, whether because of last night’s excitement, as Constantine had said, or because I had passed so disturbed a night, I cannot say. I can say that I piled my plate higher than politeness might strictly require.
I was a little surprised to note that Holmes, too, was enjoying his meal like the best of trenchermen, for he is somewhat inclined to forget his stomach whilst involved in a case. Then I bethought myself that he was acting in character. We were, after all, meant to be a couple of rough desperadoes, who did not know when our next meal would be, or from whence
Accordingly, I settled myself on the bed, which was of a softness that could only be called opulent, and composed myself to sleep. It was a long time before I succeeded, however. I was not hungry, for we had dined well, and I had taken the – to me – elementary precaution of providing myself with a bar of chocolate, in case of emergency, and that still nestled, untouched, in my pocket. No, it was rather that my mind refused to be calm, despite my trying to reassure myself along the lines I have just noted. At last, I determined to try to recollect all that had taken place since Holmes and I started out on this adventure together. I recall that I had got as far as Victoria Station when I fell asleep.
I awoke with a start to find Holmes standing over me, a finger to his lips. He had opened the blinds, and, despite the shutters outside the windows, it was evident from the light that it was early morning. Holmes nodded towards the door, and I heard the sound of a key being turned. I fumbled for my revolver, forgetting for the moment that it was not loaded, but before I could take it from my pocket the door swung open, and there stood – of all things – a footman!
I am not being facetious; he was just such a servant as you would expect to find in any grand house in the better quarters of London. He was elderly and of sober appearance, clad in a smart black outfit – he did not exactly wear a powdered wig, but the look on his face was of such grave civility that even a peruke and court dress would not have seemed at all out of place. He made a stiff little bow, and said, ‘Monsieur Constantine would be pleased if you would join him for breakfast, Messieurs.’
I glanced at Holmes, fearing some trickery, but he merely shrugged his shoulders, and followed the man out of the room and down the stairs. The windows – magnificent stained glass that would have graced any cathedral – were set too high in the staircase to afford any view of the outside world, so that we still could get no clue as to where we might be. I brought up the rear, keeping a sharp look-out, but saw nothing untoward.
The footman held open a door for us to pass through, and we entered a large, bright room furnished in the style most associated with the fourteenth Louis. A long table was laid for breakfast – the Continental variety, but with a goodly quantity of cold meats and cheese. The man who had made such a profound impression on at least one of his listeners last night, and whose name I now knew to be Constantine – if that really were his name, I thought, and not yet another example of alias or affectation – sat at the head of the table. He waved us to chairs. ‘Please, join me,’ said he. He indicated the food spread out before us. ‘And do not hesitate to help yourselves – I know you must be hungry after last night’s adventures.’
I needed no second urging, for I have always had an excellent appetite, and this particular morning I was indeed ready for something nourishing, whether because of last night’s excitement, as Constantine had said, or because I had passed so disturbed a night, I cannot say. I can say that I piled my plate higher than politeness might strictly require.
I was a little surprised to note that Holmes, too, was enjoying his meal like the best of trenchermen, for he is somewhat inclined to forget his stomach whilst involved in a case. Then I bethought myself that he was acting in character. We were, after all, meant to be a couple of rough desperadoes, who did not know when our next meal would be, or from whence
Similar Books
