My Dearest Holmes

  Copyright (c) 2007 Rohase Piercy

  All rights reserved.

  ISBN: 1-4196-7632-6

  ISBN-13: 978-1419676321

  E-Book ISBN: 978-1-61550-907-2

  Visit www.booksurge.com to order additional copies.

  The following instructions were found attached to the present manuscript; which, along with other accounts of a similar nature, have passed into my hands from a source which I am not at present at liberty to disclose.

  Since they bear directly upon the circumstances under which Dr Watson wrote this account, I have reproduced them here, by way of a preface.

  Rohase Piercy

  It is my specific wish and intention that the manuscripts contained in this box be left unopened, unread and unpublished until one hundred years have passed since the events described in the first account (namely the year 1887).

  If this length of time appears in retrospect to have been excessive, I can only apologise to the future generation. It seems to me now, in this first decade of the new century, that some further decades at least must elapse before these reminiscences can be received with such sympathy and respect as I hope will one day be possible.

  The accounts of these cases have never passed through the hands of my literary agent, Dr Conan Doyle, nor do I intend that they ever shall; they are too bound up with events in my personal life which, although they may provide a plausible commentary to much of what must otherwise seem implausible in my published accounts of my dealings with Mr Sherlock Holmes, can never be made public while he or I remain alive. However, it is my hope that, when all those involved have long passed beyond all censure, these accounts may see the light of a happier day than was ever, alas, granted to us.

  John H. Watson, M.D

  London 1907

  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  A Discreet Investigation

  The Final Problem

  --POSTSCRIPT--

  A Discreet Investigation

  --I--

  I HAVE OFTEN been accused of being imprecise in my datings of the many of his cases in which my friend, Mr Sherlock Holmes, allowed me to play a part; in reply I usually allude to the delicacy with which the subject matter of many of the said cases demands that they be treated.

  How much more so does this apply to the present narrative!

  However, it has always been possible for the discerning reader to make an accurate placing of a particular case, and since it is questionable whether this story will ever see the light of day, I see still less reason to be overly cautious; much will be explained, then, by my simply stating that the events I am about to describe took place during the January before the Sholto affair, which I have presented for public consumption under the title of 'The Sign of Four'.

  Mr Sherlock Holmes had spent several days in bed, as was his habit from time to time. He was indulging in one of those periods of lassitude which frequently overtook him between cases. On this occasion, he had gone so far as to confine himself to his room, whither he had conveyed his old clay pipe, the Persian slipper containing his shag tobacco, and his cocaine bottle and hypodermic syringe; presumably he wished to avoid altogether my expressions of concern and censure on the subject of self-poisoning. I was left to console myself with the contents of the spirit flask, and to make some half-hearted attempt to restore order to the chaos of our sitting room, now that I at last had the opportunity.

  I had no enthusiasm for the task, however. The melancholy which had crept up on me over the last few months seemed set to stay with me, and Holmes' withdrawal of his society served to throw my unhappy situation into even sharper relief. Forlornly I contemplated the relics of our six years' shared tenancy of the said sitting room; so much of him, it seemed, and so little of me. His books and newspapers lay in drifts in every corner. The spattered table on which his chemicals and test-tubes stood neglected would, I was sure, express feelings very similar to mine, if some miracle were to render it animate; the reference books and commonplace books on his shelf beside the fireplace, cross-indexed and kept meticulously up to date, evinced more signs of loving care than either of us; and when I found myself expressing a morbid sympathy with the sheets of unanswered correspondence firmly skewered to the mantelpiece by the wretched man's jack-knife, I decided that it was high time to abandon the whole idea of wasting any loving care on 221 B Baker Street, and to seek solace elsewhere. Consequently, I absented myself from our lodgings, and spent most of my time in the environs of Piccadilly, returning in the early hours of the morning, somewhat the worse for wine.

  Thus it was that I was not present when the first interview took place between Miss Anne D'Arcy and Mr Sherlock Holmes. It was over by the time I arrived back at Baker Street. I made my way unsteadily to my room, and flinging my clothes upon the floor and myself upon the bed with very little ceremony, was insensible in a matter of seconds. Due to the excessive amount of alcohol in my blood, I must have passed out rather than slept for the first few hours; and it seemed to me that it was still the middle of the night when I was dragged unwillingly into wakefulness by a tugging at my shoulder.

  'Watson. Wake up.'

  I gave a violent start, my eyes sprung open to the cold sunlight of a January morning. Sherlock Holmes was standing by my bed in his mouse-coloured dressing gown, his unsavoury before-breakfast pipe in his mouth. Amusement played about his lips as he surveyed me from under heavy lids, his head on one side.

  'It is nine o'clock, Watson,' he said as I blinked stupidly up at him, propped upon one elbow in the bed. 'Breakfast is laid downstairs.'

  It took me some time to gather my wits. I had hardly set eyes on him for days on end, much less been able to persuade him to eat with me at the proper times, and here he was, not only out of bed and ready for breakfast, but apparently anxious that I should share it with him.

  'What's got into you, Holmes?' I demanded, adding somewhat peevishly, 'I'm very tired, you know. I had a late night.'

  Holmes chuckled and rubbed his hands together.

  'My dear fellow,' he said, taking his pipe from his mouth and surveying me with mock innocence, 'you seem to be drifting into dissolute habits. It's not like you to refuse an offer of breakfast.'

  I rolled out of bed and snatched my dressing gown.

  'It's not like you to exhibit such tender care over my eating habits. You have not been seen at breakfast for the past five days. I think I'm entitled to an explanation.'

  'My dear Watson,' he said, turning to the door, 'an explanation you shall have. Over breakfast.'

  Hastily I thrust my feet into my slippers and stumbled after him, knotting the cord of my dressing gown and wincing as a sudden stabbing pain attacked my temples.

  'I had a visitor last night,' said Holmes as he descended the stairs ahead of me. 'If you had not been out at your club, you would have been witness to the beginnings of what promises to be rather an interesting case.'

  I forebore to correct him concerning my whereabouts of the previous evening, and followed him into the living room, which had, I noted, already ceased to bear any trace of my attempts to tidy up. The breakfast table, laid with Mrs Hudson's customary primness, was as always a salutory reproach to its surroundings.

  Holmes sank languidly into his armchair and watched me as I approached the table and poured us both some coffee. I noted that his face was gaunt and pallid, testifying to his unhealthy life of the last few days. I placed his cup beside the place laid for him, and drew up my own chair a little more abruptly than was necessary, causing the china to rattle. I was determined that he should at least breakfast properly before setting out on any investigation.

  'Well?' I enquired tersely as I helped myself to bacon and eggs. 'Who was he? Th
e visitor?'

  Holmes smiled as he rose from the armchair and approached the table.

  'She, Watson, not he,' he corrected gently. 'My client of last night was a young woman, who, if you had been here to see her, would no doubt have made a singular impression upon you.'

  'No doubt,' I snapped, setting about my bacon and eggs with gusto. I was in no mood to be teased.

  'A most forceful personality,' continued Holmes. 'I should imagine Miss D'Arcy can be quite formidable when she chooses to be. There was a--directness about her manner which I thought would appeal to you, Watson. Not that I can pretend to be au fait with your taste in ladies.'

  He actually bit and chewed a piece of dry toast. I said nothing, but passed the butter dish and the marmalade.

  'She left me three interesting documents which you may care to examine,' he pursued, crossing to the mantelpiece, the dry toast still in his hand. He took a small pile of papers from the shelf and put them down on the table beside my plate. He remained standing beside me, nibbling at his toast absent-mindedly. I put down my knife and picked up the yellow envelope that lay at the top of the pile. I extracted the telegram and read it while working my way through a mouthful of bacon.

  It was addressed to Miss Maria Kirkpatrick, of Camberwell Grove, was postmarked Kensington and dated the 16th of January. The message was short and to the point: 'COME AT ONCE NEED HELP MOTHER', with no stops and no signature.

  'I thought you said the young lady's name was Miss D'Arcy,' I said, when I had swallowed enough to make enunciation possible.

  'So I did. This telegram is addressed to Miss D'Arcy's companion, with whom she lives. Upon receiving it, Miss Kirkpatrick apparently made a hasty departure from the house, and Miss D'Arcy has not seen her since.'

  'Well, that is reasonable enough, surely, if her mother needs her so urgently. Has she not enquired for her at her mother's house?'

  Holmes clicked his tongue impatiently.

  'It is not quite as simple as that, my dear Watson. Not only has Miss D'Arcy no idea where her companion's mother lives, but she was, until the advent of this telegram, completely unaware of her existence. Miss Kirkpatrick had apparently always given the impression that her mother was dead.'

  I put down the telegram and took a gulp of coffee.

  'Then why did Miss D'Arcy not go to the police? Why come to you? I must say, Holmes, this sounds like an open-and-shut case of a missing person to me.'

  'Patience, my dear Watson, patience. Have the goodness to examine this envelope.'

  He leant over my shoulder and turned it towards my plate.

  'Read it. Examine it. Let me hear what you deduce from it.'

  It was addressed, like the telegram, to Miss Maria Kirkpatrick. The handwriting was large and flourishing. The envelope itself was battered and creased, as if it had been screwed up and later smoothed out again. I said as much to Holmes, who gave me a patronising murmur of assent.

  'Who is this from, then?' I said impatiently. 'Miss Kirkpatrick's mother again?'

  Holmes, who had sidled round the table and taken another piece of dry toast to munch upon, had his mouth full and did not reply immediately; and in the interval I was suddenly struck by the realisation that the handwriting was familiar to me. I gave an exclamation of astonishment and bent to examine the envelope more closely.

  'The looped "l" the Greek "e"...'I murmured.

  Holmes stepped back from the table and surveyed me in surprise, his head on one side.

  'My dear boy, I begin to have hopes of you after all. As you observe, this is not a woman's handwriting; it was therefore not written by Miss Kirkpatrick's mother. And yet there is a definite link between the letter which this envelope contained and the telegram which you have just read.

  'The envelope was found by our client Miss D'Arcy immediately after her companion's disappearance. She recognised it as one of a number of envelopes received by Miss Kirkpatrick from time to time, and always treated in a most secretive manner; she would never disclose the contents of these letters or the identity of her correspondent, and according to Miss D'Arcy, always destroyed both letter and envelope after reading it. This envelope, however, having been crumpled into a ball, was inadvertently laid to one side instead.'

  Again I perused the bold flourishing hand, and knit my brows as I tried to remember where I could possibly have seen it before. Someone, somewhere, had written me out a name and address in just such a hand--the lines of the address on the envelope recalled it.

  'According to our client,' continued Holmes, picking up a third piece of toast and putting it down again, 'Miss Kirkpatrick received this particular letter some three days before the telegram, but contrary to her usual custom she did not destroy it. Upon receiving the telegram, she apparently rushed upstairs to her room, took the letter from the envelope, glanced several times from letter to telegram, pocketed the letter, screwed up the envelope, and hurried from the house leaving the telegram and crushed envelope upon the table. This our client has gleaned from the housemaid, who was in the room at the time, and whose presence Miss Kirkpatrick overlooked in her haste and distress. We have no reason to doubt the housemaid's word; hence, my dear Watson, we may conclude that the letter and the telegram emanate from the same source. The fact that Miss Kirkpatrick did not immediately destroy this particular letter indicated it contained some important material to which she knew she might wish to refer. She had, according to Miss D'Arcy, been much preoccupied since receiving it.'

  I pushed the offending envelope to the other side of my plate.

  'I thought you said it was a man's handwriting and was therefore not written by Mrs Kirkpatrick,' I said casually, thinking it wiser for the moment not to reveal the familiarity of the handwriting to me, since I could not yet place it.

  Holmes gave a patronising sigh.

  'So I did, but that is not to say that it does not emanate from Mrs Kirkpatrick,' he said. 'I can think of a thousand explanations, the most obvious being that she had someone address her letters for her. But we must not be too hasty. It is a capital mistake to theorise before one is in full possession of the facts.'

  He returned to his chair and took up his coffee, now cold. He sipped at it without appearing to notice, and watched me as I examined the final document upon the table. It was another envelope, this one containing a letter, and addressed to Miss Anne D'Arcy. It had been delivered by hand. Inside was a single sheet of paper, on which a short note was written in a firm, round hand. It was dated the 17th of January.

  My dearest A -

  Please do not worry about me, for I am quite safe and well, and will return home as soon as I am able.

  I have been called away on an urgent matter, and promise to explain all when I return.

  Above all, I beg you not to try and find me, and especially not to inform the police. It is a delicate matter, and you will soon know all.

  You must believe, my dearest, that I am safe and well, and will be with you as soon as I can.

  All my love,

  M.K.

  'You will remark,' said Holmes, 'that the letter was written in haste, and in some agitation; see how the lady repeats herself; and the ink has been hastily blotted. Also it has been delivered by hand, to avoid a postmark; but I think we can assume that it comes from Kensington, since that is the postmark upon the telegram.'

  'I see, 'I said, folding the note and replacing it in its envelope. 'And Miss D' Arcy presumably does not feel satisfied to wait for her companion's return as this letter urges her to do?'

  'It has been five days, with no further communication. Rather than go to the police, since Miss Kirkpatrick especially forbids it, she has approached me, to see if I can make discreet enquiries, and thereby set her mind at rest at least. She naturally finds that her dearest friend--you will gather from the note that they are on intimate terms--has kept her mother's existence a secret, and that communication with her has produced such a situation of panic, very worrying.'

  'Yes, well, I can see
that,'I said slowly. I was still puzzling over the handwriting. I bit into the piece of toast and marmalade I had prepared, and found it to be so cold as to be inedible. I replaced it on my plate in disgust, and looked across at Holmes, who was lying back in his chair lazily blowing smoke-rings.

  'You have scarcely eaten any breakfast!' I admonished, annoyed also that he had prevented me from concentrating upon mine.

  'Never mind, my dear fellow,' he replied, 'this case will do me more good than twenty breakfasts. As a medical man, you will soon see that I am right.'

  I sighed, and wiped my fingers on my napkin. I realised I felt far from well, and wondered whether it had in fact been wise to tackle my bacon with such gusto.

  'I am going to dress,' I announced with dignity, rising from my chair and crossing to the door.

  'Yes, do, there's a good fellow,' said Holmes. 'You don't want to greet our client in your dressing gown.'

  'Why,' I cried, turning back, 'when are you expecting her?'

  'At any moment,' he replied, glancing at the clock upon the mantelpiece. 'We arranged that she should return here at ten.'

  I raised my eyebrows. 'Then why do you not change out of your dressing gown?' I asked.

  Holmes chuckled. 'I fully intend to. It will be a simple matter to remove it. Unlike you, my dear Watson, I am fully dressed beneath.'

  I gained the privacy of my room as speedily as I could, and slammed the door behind me.

  --II--

  IN MY HASTE to wash, dress and shave in the few minutes available, I wrenched a button from my waistcoat, broke a shoelace, and cut myself just beneath the left cheekbone. Surveying myself mournfully in the glass, I tried to create an injured, noble air; but the distinctly pink tinge to what were normally the whites of my eyes, and the shadows beneath them, made this difficult to maintain convincingly.