My Dearest Holmes Read online

  'You don't have to fake my regards, Holmes,' I said, as he crossed to the door. 'I really do send them.1

  He nodded briefly, and was gone.

  An hour or so later, Mrs Hudson came up to light the gas, and was surprised to find me sitting alone in semi-darkness, wrapped in my thoughts.

  --XI--

  TRUE TO HIS word, Holmes was back by six-thirty, and in excellent spirits, elated with his success and demurely satisfied with his financial rewards.

  'Miss D'Arcy always prefers to deal in cash, she tells me,' said he, opening his wallet and showing me the wad of notes within. 'So I think, my dear Watson, that we shall dine well tonight. How about Kettner's? Would you care for an aperitif before we leave? Let me help you to a whisky and soda. My poor Watson, you look done up, anyone would think it was you who had been chasing all over London. Come now, my dear fellow, cheer up and put this whole business out of your mind. Drink up, and then go and dress. We have an evening of pure relaxation ahead of us.'

  'What did she say?' I asked nervously, looking doubtfully at my glass; I was unsure as to the beneficial value of alcohol in my present state.

  'Very little, in fact. She appeared to be expecting me. She even had the letters ready. I outlined the facts to her, she made no attempt to deny them, and asked me to return the letters at once to Lord Carstairs with the assurance that the proposed meeting at Waterloo Station tomorrow evening should be considered as cancelled, and that there would be no further communication. She took the opportunity to remind me that she was after all my client in this case, and would I respect her anonymity as regards all other persons involved, including Lord Carstairs? I of course assured her that once I had received my fee I would consider my involvement in the matter completely closed. I returned Mr Kirkpatrick's birth certificate to her care, and even left her his address, so that she could return it to him in person if she so desired; at any rate, she will want to contact her friend. I should imagine that those two ladies have each something to ask and something to tell one another. I also left her your regards, as I promised, which she accepted gravely, and asked me to deliver hers in return, by the way.

  'I thought it best to leave immediately, and made my way to Lord Carstairs, who was, needless to say, delighted to see both me and his letters. He was curious, naturally, to know how and from whom I obtained them, but he accepted that it was a matter of professional confidence. I suspect, however, that he may make a call on Mrs Cecil Forrester when she returns from Paris. That should be interesting. Still, my dear Watson, any further developments are no concern of ours. Lord Carstairs, by the way, is a generous man, and insisted on my accepting a small financial token of his gratitude. Yes, we shall certainly dine at Kettner's, I think.'

  He chuckled, and sauntered to the window. 'Now go and dress, there's a good fellow, and I shall do the same. I don't know about you, but I have eaten nothing all day, and it's remarkable what effect success and money can have upon the appetite!'

  It is with regret that I must admit that the excellence of our meal that evening, and the elegance of our surroundings, failed to make any uplifting impression on me. It was the more distressing because Holmes obviously intended the whole extravagance as a treat for me, to lift my spirits and make amends for the afternoon. It was not often, in those days, that we could afford to eat at one of the more select establishments; and Holmes, in spite of his professed contempt for the social niceties, certainly possessed a penchant for the more civilised accessories of high society. He was in his element, impeccably dressed and debonair, all dazzling smiles and witty repartees. I did my best for him, but my heart was heavy with anticipation of what I had resolved to say to him that evening. The sparkling lights, the well-modulated tones of our fellow patrons' conversation, the tinkling of champagne glasses and of feminine laughter, all seemed to me to have an undertone of derision, to wear an insidious sneer. They mocked and condemned me.

  Holmes' grey eyes that evening looked particularly soft and wistful to me, in contrast to his outer mood. His long white hands gestured delicately, precisely, in the air as we spoke. I sipped at my wine, and later at my coffee and Curasao, in a trance of melancholy; the dream-like quality of my surroundings mocking the end of my dreams. At length Holmes lapsed into silence also, lighting a cigarette from his silver case and leaning back pensively in his chair, letting the blue smoke drift between us. He said nothing, made no allusion to our conversation of a few hours ago. It was evident that he wanted the whole matter to sink quietly into the depths of the unspoken, so that it would never be mentioned again. 'Watson, Watson, do you think me entirely unobservant?' He had known, then, all the time; at least, he had known something; how much, he was unlikely ever to reveal. 'My poor Watson, I see that you under stand what I am trying to say; I had hoped it went without saying.' What went without saying? That he cared for me? Or just that he had to safeguard his reputation?

  Either way, it was up to me now to safeguard both our reputations, and I had something to say that could not go without saying.

  It was not until we were back at Baker Street, seated by the fire with our pipes, replete and drowsy, that I found my courage; and after all, Baker Street was the only appropriate context.

  'Holmes,' I said determinedly, 'I have been thinking.'

  'So I observe, my dear fellow. You have been lost in thought all evening, when you should have been enjoying yourself. You have not, if I may say so, been your usual scintillating self. In fact, were it not that the excellence of the establishment does much to supply any excitement that is lacking in one's companion, I would say that our dinner had been a failure.'

  'Don't, Holmes,' I said quickly. 'I have been thinking that I should try to set up on my own. It would enable me to concentrate more upon my practice; it would be better for my career. And better for you, too. I know that I am often as much of a hindrance as a help to you. And then, bearing in mind what--what you said to me this afternoon, I think it would be better if both our reputations were not automatically linked.'

  He said nothing, but took his pipe from his mouth and stared into the fire. I was amazed to see that a flush had spread over his thin cheeks. When, after nearly a minute, he still had not so much as turned to look at me, I continued speaking.

  'I would still be your friend and chronicler,' I said. 'That is, if you will let me. I would still like to share in your cases, whenever you invite me to. I would still like to be your close associate. Only...'

  Here I trailed off completely, and started again.

  'I was not thinking of leaving immediately,' I said. 'I was thinking in terms of some time over the next few months. If I keep my eyes open, something might come up, some opportunity...and you see, you have become quite successful and well known, you no longer need to share lodgings for financial reasons...'

  At last he turned to look at me. The flush had faded from his cheeks, and now he was so pale that his very lips looked white.

  'My--dear Watson,' he began. For a moment he appeared to falter; then he recovered himself, and staring once more at the fire, he spoke with an hysterical rapidity.

  'Of course, you must do what you think best,' he said. 'The reasons you have given for your decision are all excellent ones, and I can see no flaw in them. And you must, as you say, build up your practice; I have been very selfish in keeping you from it. I shall miss my Boswell, but--by all means, yes, you must start looking round tomorrow. I expect there are some excellent places at very reasonable rates. Dear me, I don't know what's come over me, but I am so tired. I think I shall turn in straight away, this has been an awful case. An exhausting case, that is. Good night, my dear Watson. We can discuss your plans further in the morning.'

  He rose abruptly as he spoke, and turned towards his room. Not once did he look me in the eye.

  I felt I could not let him go like this. I also rose, in some consternation.

  'Holmes--' I said. He turned back to me with an expression on his face such as I had never seen there before
. The clear, hard eyes were dimmed, and the firm lips were shaking. He stepped towards me and for one, brief moment laid his fingers on my lips to silence me. Then he turned deliberately and took down his cocaine bottle and the morocco case from the mantelpiece. I watched him disappear into his room with them, without a word of protest.

  And this is where I must end my account of the case of the Queen Bee. It has no immediate sequel, for far from discussing my proposals next day as he had promised, Holmes did not even mention the subject, either then or subsequently. Instead, he sat in his armchair with his hair-trigger and a hundred Boxer cartridges, and proceeded to adorn the opposite wall with a patriotic V.R., done in bullet holes. I watched him helplessly, knowing that there was nothing I could say that would not be better left unsaid.

  It was not until several months later that an opportunity arose for me to put into practice not only the part that I had intended, but the whole of Miss D'Arcy's advice. But this sequel belongs to another story, and the curious reader may find the facts detailed in 'The Sign of Four', where I took pains to set them down, duly edited and acceptably presented for public consumption, and to publish them, first in Lippincott's Monthly Magazine and later in book form, with the help of my literary agent, Dr Conan Doyle. It was this gentleman who first introduced me to The Strand magazine, in which publication I was to have considerable success with what Holmes persisted in calling my 'highly romanticised accounts' of our joint adventures.

  This account, however, has in no way been romanticised. It is the most painfully honest account that I have ever written; and it is my sincere hope that you, gentle reader of a century hence, will judge it kindly, and it will be seen to cast light rather than shadow upon the celebrated friendship between myself and Mr Sherlock Holmes.

  It is always difficult--indeed, almost impossible--to set down an accurate record of the more painful events of one's life. The temptation is either to overdramatise in retrospect, or to record merely the bare bones of experience, avoiding the emotions involved.

  When I wrote and published 'The Adventure of the Final Problem', and later 'The Adventure of the Empty House', I deliberately adopted the latter policy. But then I had no intention of presenting an accurate record; merely one that would satisfy the public. Even as it was, there were glaring loopholes which I had great difficulty in explaining.

  Now that I come to tie up the loose ends, as it were, I will have to guide against overdoing the pathos. I hope that my future readers will forgive me; it has been a long time, in an inhospitable social climate.

  John H. Watson, M.D

  London, 1907

  The Final Problem

  --I--

  WE SAT AT the breakfast table, my wife and I, on the morning of the 23rd of April, 1891, discussing the morning's post. Mary had received a letter from her former employer, Mrs Cecil Forrester, which had engrossed her for a full quarter of an hour; much to my relief, for I had some private correspondence of my own to peruse.

  'Well, James,' she said, when she had set down her letter with a smile, 'can I help you to more coffee?'

  I looked at her in some alarm. 'James?' I said.

  She gestured with the coffee pot towards my letter. 'You have been using your pseudonym again,' she said. 'Dr James Watson. I am apt at reading upside down; it is a useful trick, I would advise you to cultivate it.'

  'Oh, that.' I gave a nervous laugh.

  'Yes, that. I wish you would tell me when you do it. It could be very awkward. Supposing the gentleman came to call on you, and I in my innocence were to disillusion him?'

  I felt myself blushing, and sighed to cover my embarrassment. 'I do not think that is very likely.'

  'Ah, but you should guard against all eventualities. I wonder what the maid thought when she read the envelope?'

  I smiled, and sipped at my coffee. 'He asked my name. I hardly knew him. I did not give any surname at all, I don't know how he found it out.'

  'He probably read "Dr J. Watson" on your hatband, or something. Did you give him our address?'

  'Of course not!'

  'Then how . .?' she gestured towards the letter.

  'He must have found it out...'I trailed off nervously, wondering how.

  Mary leaned back in the chair and surveyed me anxiously.

  'He is not asking you for money?'

  'No, he is trying to arrange another meeting.'

  'A gentleman?' She raised her eyebrows.

  'Well, a soldier.'

  'Ah, I see. Do be careful, John.'

  'Don't worry, I will decline the invitation. There's no danger there.'

  Mary picked up her own letter, and we smiled at one another.

  We had an easy, affectionate relationship, free from the expectations, and hence from the pitfalls, usually incumbent upon husband and wife. We liked one another, had much in common, and could guarantee one another complete freedom and discreet cover for the pursuance of our own tastes in companionship.

  My published account of our wooing, in 'The Sign of Four', was accurate in one respect; it was, as has I think been remarked, a rather rapid business. But why make it otherwise? We each had nothing to lose, and much to gain from a public alliance. Mary had the blessing of her employer Mrs Forrester, whose young son was in any case fast approaching school age and no longer in need of a governess. I had wanted a similar blessing from Mr Sherlock Holmes, of course; but this I absolutely failed to procure.

  'I have an invitation also,' said Mary, carefully folding her correspondence and replacing it in the envelope. 'And if it's all the same to you, I would like to accept. Isobel has invited me to spend a week at Hastings, now that the school term has started, and Valentine is out of the way.'

  'That is an unkind way to speak of such a sweet little boy.'

  Mary narrowed her eyes at me, and poured herself a third cup of coffee. 'I should like to leave tomorrow,' was all she said.

  Isobel, of course, was none other than Mrs Cecil Forrester who had some eighteen months ago made her deceased brother's house in Hastings her permanent residence. Mary was in the habit of visiting her there regularly, and naturally I never made any demur. I lit a cigarette and smiled graciously.

  'You have my permission, Mrs Watson.'

  Her reply was fortunately delayed by the appearance of the maid to clear away the breakfast things. In the interval it was, I believe, somewhat modified.

  'I expect you will have a visit,' she said.

  I tried to look nonplussed. 'I hope not, if I refuse this invitation.'

  'You know perfectly well who I mean,' she said severely, pursing her lips. 'And I will tell you in advance that I thank him for his kind enquiries and send my regards.'

  'How civilised, to be sure. But I do not expect to see him, Mary. I believe he is still in France.'

  'If he knows I am away, he will turn up as sure as day follows night. John, do try to make him understand that I would never stand on my position--that I would always be pleased to see him. Good heavens, I owe him enough. And he knows--he knows he has no reason to resent me.'

  I sighed. 'Ah, my dear,' I said, 'there is nothing I can say to make him change his attitude, because he would never admit to resentment in the first place. Sometimes I suspect that the circumstances make no difference to him. I have left him, and he sees no further than that. Even though he admitted with his own lips that he could give me no reason to stay. I had hoped it would be different, but there is nothing to be done.'

  Mary sighed also and rose from the table. As she passed me she reached for my hand and clasped it sympathetically.

  'I am so sorry, John,' she said. 'It seems that you have not done so well out of this arrangement as I have.'

  'Oh, I do pretty well, on the whole,' I said nonchalantly, giving a reassuring squeeze to her hand. 'After all, I am a rising star in the medical profession, with my own establishment, an unusually harmonious marriage, and some extremely interesting and talented friends. I sometimes rub shoulders with the rich and famous, did
you know?'

  'Yes, so you keep telling me. But you have not yet produced one invitation to a first night.'

  'Be patient, Mrs Watson, be patient.'

  She laughed and left the room. I knew that she was going to pack.

  My smile faded when she had gone, and I lit a second cigarette. Against hope, I wondered whether I might indeed expect a visit from Sherlock Holmes. I had received two notes from him over the last three months, dated from Narbonne and from Nimes, from which I gathered that his stay in France was likely to be a long one; though he did not tell me more than what I had read for myself in the newspapers, namely that he had been engaged by the French government upon a matter of supreme importance.

  Still, he had not forgotten me. He had written, twice. He wanted me to know where he was, what he was doing.

  In the early days of my marriage, several times I had tried to invite him to dinner. Only once had I succeeded, and the occasion had not been a success. He was very cordial to Mary, a civilised guest in every way; but when left alone with me at the dinner table, he fell into a sulk and refused to relax. I see now that it was insensitive of me to attempt to patronise him with these invitations, and I can understand his rejection of them. Knowing as I did the insecurity that lay behind the precise, logical facade, it was unfair of me to flaunt my new security. Knowing as he did the real reasons for my flight into marriage, it was unfair of him to be so resentful.

  And yet the passage of three years had not made any difference to his attitude. He would visit me, as Mary said, uninvited and at odd hours, either when she was from home, or when the hour was so late that he knew she had in all probability retired to bed. He would smoke my tobacco, make comments upon my appearance and amuse himself by deducing how I had spent my day, whether I had had any other visitors lately, the state of my health, etc. He would then ask casually whether 'Mrs Watson' were in, and upon receiving the expected reply, would invariably request that I abandon my practice for the next few days and accompany him upon whichever investigation was currently in hand.