Ghosts

by

G M

"Too much port with lunch."

"What?" I looked across at my companion. Sherlock Holmes lounged in his chair, his long legs stretched out full length, ankles crossed. Trails of lazy smoke wafted up from the bowl of his brier pipe. His languid eyes observed me through the heavy lids and the veils of smoke.

"We are both about to drop off to sleep. And you have been pensive all afternoon. Too much port at lunch."

"I am not pensive," I denied instantly.

"You are," he reiterated, stabbing the amber stem of his pipe in my direction. "You have been rooted to that page for several minutes. It is not because of some gripping event in the columns, else you would have immediately declared such a blessed announcement to break into our torpid doldrums. Rereading the same side of the paper, you were biting your lip and blinking your eyes. Therefore, you are striving to stay awake against the effects of port and boredom. Thus, the conclusion, of too much port. It always makes you lethargic."

He replaced the brier in his mouth, closed his eyes, leaned his head back, and folded his hands across his chest. I was not about to allow him to smugly drift off to dreamland.

"My dear, brilliant Holmes, I fear I shall never be able to put this little mental exercise into the annals of your deductions."

"Pray tell, why not, friend Watson?"

"Because, for once, you are completely wrong!"

His eyes snapped open and he snatched the pipe from his mouth. After a moment, his eyes crinkled with merriment and his mouth slowly twitched into a brilliant smile. "Well done, Watson!" A laugh exploded from him and just as quickly died. "Watson, you are unexpectedly pawky this afternoon. Well done!"

We had been sharing rooms at 221B Baker Street for several years. On this warm autumn evening, we had settled into a not uncommon silence of comfortable companionship. On one hand I could count the times I had surprised my genius friend. I savored the moment.

"Sorry to say, old man," I said off-handedly, "but I am serious. Your deductions are incorrect. Don't worry, your secret is safe with me."

He bolted ramrod straight in the chair. He tossed the pipe into the coal scuttle. "And where, pray tell, have my deductions strayed?" he asked sharply.

I placed the paper on the floor. My words were deliberate and clear. "In every deduction, old fellow. You are completely wrong in reading my little expressions and mannerisms."

He swept to his feet to lean an elbow on the mantle. His fingers danced in agitation on the smooth wood near the jack-knife. With his left hand, he gestured for me to continue. "Pray elucidate."

While I savored the triumph, I had not anticipated this total revelation of my innermost thoughts. To prove my outlandish claim, I would have to tell him what I had really been thinking.

"Well?" he prompted.

"Yes," I stuttered. "I -- I am afraid . . . ." I looked into the unrelenting eyes of my challenger. "The story in the paper made me think of an unpleasant war experience. I was pensive -- saddened -- flung back to the past. That was why I did not turn the page for so long. Biting my lip and blinking was not from fatigue, but the -- mists of memory."

His antagonistic expression melted. "I am sorry, Watson --"

"No, no, it was quite unsporting of me to gloat over your errors. And your deductions could well have been correct --"

"Please, Watson, do not make excuses for me!" he decried. Like a tiger settling in his lair, he swooped down into the chair and retrieved his pipe. After some moments to charge and light the pipe, he once more focused on me. "It disturbed you greatly, Watson, even after so many years?"

I nodded and stared into the fire. “Some things I will never forget.”

"Watson," he began hesitantly. "You share few details of your war encounters. What you have told me are the amusing, amazing moments. There are so many more incidents on the darker side. You experienced nightmares for months . . . ."

"Yes, dark and disturbing remembrances. So much life and death were packed into my short army career."

"What happened to so effect you so over a newspaper article?"

I glanced up, surprised at the uncommon empathy. A few times in our first year sharing digs, my nightmares were intense and distressing for my new roommate who was not yet my friend. Occasionally in those days, he would prompt me to relate the worst of my memories. Sometimes I shared those bloody events with him; the hopelessness, the death, the pain, the frustration. He had listened as attentively as if I were a client, but with a rare sympathy as I never saw him do with a stranger. Now, after our serendipitous arrangement had evolved us from roommates to friends, he asked me again to share my troubles. The moment was rare and precious, and I resolved to respond to his generous enquiry. The answers would startle, even cause my companion to question my sanity.

"You may wish to find another fellow lodger after I tell you the whole tale, Holmes."

"Never," he assured soberly. "After all my quixotic traits, Watson, I could hardly throw you out for any past -- indiscretion."

"You will doubt my sanity, then."

"You are my rock, Watson. I may question your observations, your deductions, even your opinions, old fellow, but never your sanity."

"Really," was my droll retort.

"Yes," he replied matter-of-factly. "Pray continue with your fantastic tale. I deal only in facts. Fantasy is your realm, not mine." He gave a slight smile. “But, I am all attention."

"Why, thank you, Holmes."

He sank deep into the chair, his hands folded in a pose of contemplation, his face open and alert. He stared at me with a familiar look of acute curiosity.

"I read in the paper of a recent political incident in Constantinople. I can never think of that city without thinking of the ghost."

"Watson, you intrigue me, to say the least."

"No doubt, old fellow. It started during my first year with the 66th Berkshire's, the spring just before Maiwand . . . ."

***

I was in my tent writing up yet another fervent request for more medical supplies. I turned to see my orderly, Murray, at the open flap of my tent. Murray, I forget his Christian name, was a loyal, stalwart sort. Dark and mysterious, he came from some exotic tropical island -- one of the British territories. He was as devoted as the day was long.

I rushed outside to find, kneeling on the ground, two bedraggled, bloody men in desert khakis. Scouts. Murray and I helped them to stand, the man in Murray's strong grip unable to come to his feet.

"He's been shot," the man I supported said. His voice and tone bespoke of Oxford, while his odorous, ragged clothes bespoke of weeks with natives. "Help him," the man pleaded.

With the speed I had learned from battlefield emergencies, I quickly worked to save the patient. The other young man sat nearby and watched, refusing my orders to have his own less critical wounds seen to. I was the only surgeon in the small camp at the time, but Murray expertly dressed his injuries. I gave Murray leave to forage out of my private stock and give the young Oxford man some brandy. Whatever he had been through was worth the sacrifice of my single luxury in the bush.

As I worked, I assessed the patient and his companion. Both had wounds consistent with torture. It didn't take much to guess they were intelligence officers who had fallen into enemy hands. There was little I would be able to do for the poor young man, but I could not give up. The intent blue/grey eyes of the guarding companion were enough to urge me on to my greatest efforts. These two had been through too much for one of them to die in a camp hospital. Unfortunately, I was afraid only a miracle could save him.

The senior officer, I forget his name, was gracious even under the dire circumstances. His demeanor and bearing were every bit the model of Eton, Oxford and hundreds of years of titled breeding. I commented on his calm demeanor, I recall.

"We must maintain civility or all is lost, what?" he quipped acidly. "For your good service to my friend and me, all I can offer is my thanks," he told me.

I dismissed the gratitude. "Not necessary. I am doing what I am trained to do. This is my duty."

He shook his head. "No. I can see it in your eyes -- you are too compassionate, doctor. It can destroy you here in the evil desert of the heathens." He directed his attention back to my grisly task. "You must save Paris, Doctor Watson."

That night I stayed up with all my patients, but maintained a special vigil on the young intelligence officer. Paris regained consciousness sometime in the early hours before dawn. He had a fever and was in terrible pain. He whispered his thanks to the friend who had brought him out of enemy hands to British lines. He thanked me for my efforts, even though he felt he would die anyway. Such frankness was not unusual in a field hospital, but few could meet death so calmly and nobly.

I held him in my arms as he died. I fell asleep holding the young man. In the morning, I awoke in my tent. Murray explained the other officer had slipped back into the desert as unceremoniously as he and Paris had appeared.

Some months later the officer returned at Maiwand. I saw him during the battle.

Self-consciously clearing my throat, I finished the tale. “Years later, after my return to India, I went to Constantinople on leave. I was worn out and homesick, sampling the English pubs one night. The image of Paris appeared, as clear as if he was walking next to me. I was so shocked I couldn't speak. He said nothing, but gave me a salute. He was dressed in his khakis, but they were clean and glowing. Then the apparition disappeared.”

***

I looked at Holmes, daring him to challenge my story.

"As usual, Watson, your tales are most interesting." He rose, stretched, then changed his pipe and tobacco.

"No other comments?" I wondered.

"Do you wish a critique of your tale, or explanation of your supernatural sighting?"

"Either or both."

He settled back into his chair with his cherrywood pipe, this time, emitting measured puffs of strong shag. "Your apparition," he began, "is easily explained. The stress, the fatigue of your duties. War, in all its attendant severity, can lead to conditions ripe for -- hallucinations -- visions."

The clinical answer did not surprise me. Nor did it sway me from my own opinion. "It was not a hallucination! I have never indulged in the beastly drugs of the East! It was Paris's ghost. I am sure of it. It is not unusual, especially in war, for ghosts to manifest themselves to comrades or return to places they frequented. Hauntings and ghosts are as much a part of English history as the Tower of London!"

"Ghosts cannot be proved, Watson. They are not tangible."

"And you deal only in facts."

"I deal only with answers found with logic, reason. The supernatural cannot figure in my speculations."

"You don't believe me."

"I believe you believe you saw a ghost. I have heard you say, many times, that a fatigued, worried mind can create all manners of fantasies."

"I was speaking of your cocaine habit," was my dry retort.

"You always claim the stage has lost an asset when I took to detection instead of theatre. I think Stevenson and Dumas lost a rival when you went into medicine instead of fiction, Watson."

I accepted the droll humor as the compliment it was intended instead of taking offense that he thought me a delusional lunatic. I would never convince him that I saw a ghost. He could never convince me that Paris had not visited me in this earthly plane.

Mrs. Hudson brought in tea and the afternoon papers. We were soon immersed in the latest scandals and crimes. Only once more did Holmes refer to the amazing events of the gentlemen spies. That night I was reading aloud a review of a play concerning intrigues during the French Revolution. He claimed such ennui, he would consider attending the play on the morrow if no clients arrived on our step. The plot must have reminded him of the intelligence scouts from India.

Holmes asked if I ever tried contacting Murray or the spy when I returned to England again. I had searched for Murray without success. The gentleman I did not attempt to find, I replied. I could not clearly recall the face or the name. Just the eyes. The aquiline nose and the intent blue/grey eyes. If he walked through our door, one day, I probably would not know him from Prince Bertie.

"A pity," Holmes commented with a far-away quality to his expression and voice.

"Oh, I don't know. What would we say to each other now? I am a pensioned lay-about keeping notes for my detective friend --"

"Watson --" he warned.

"It's true! He is probably in the House of Lords and gambles at White's."

"Nevertheless, you are an invaluable assistant in my little cases of detection. And whatever his aristocratic position, he should feel honored to continue the acquaintance of such a noble veteran."

I thanked my friend and returned to perusing the paper. My mind, however, did not comprehend the words. I was thinking about those evil, dusty days at the field hospital. And wondering what had ever happened to Murray and the young spy with blue/grey eyes.

THE END