FORGOTTEN REMINDERS
by
The Sign of Four
Summer 1899
“Watson, not another word, else I
shall certainly need your professional services.” My insides felt as if I had gone three rounds
with a heavyweight and my eyes were watering like the great
As many readers of The Strand
magazine are aware, John Watson is a master storyteller. His narratives often reduced us both to
little more than schoolboys caught whispering after the lights-out bell had
rung. Contrary to what he would have the
world believe, I was Watson’s most ardent admirer, providing his reminiscences
were not concerning my own life or cases.
His tales of medical school and the army never failed to enliven an
evening, which threatened to turn insufferably dull. And when, as tonight, he chose to recount a
whimsical event such as the meeting he had chanced upon earlier between
Inspector Lestrade, a belligerent parrot and a lady of the street—he was in top
form.
“Holmes, if only you had been
there,” Watson concluded. “I really can
not do the tableau proper justice.”
“I think it a good thing that I
was not. You know I have a hard time
keeping my composure in such comical circumstances. I would have found myself in Lestrade’s bad
graces for weeks.”
“As if you would care.”
“True,” I acknowledged, “but it
is easier this way. In any event,
nothing short of The Second Coming will entice Lestrade to cross our threshold
for the next fortnight. Well done,
doctor.”
Closing my eyes, I relaxed into
my chair. My hand automatically reached
for my pipe, which I easily coaxed back to life.
The sun had waged war on
I turned my thoughts to the
sounds rising from the thoroughfare below.
Content to sit and let my
thoughts flow where they may, my attention soon returned to my friend. Watson had retired to his desk where he was,
as the occasional chuckle testified, happily transferring this most recent
anecdote to paper. His desk as if in
direct opposition to my own was a bastion of orderliness and precision. Perhaps it was a legacy from his time spent
in the military, with each pencil properly positioned, every medical text
dusted and indexed. My own poor
chemistry bench was littered with half a dozen half-finished experiments and
stacks of clippings that some day I would be forced to filter through and
file. Watson must have noticed my
surveillance for he turned to look at me, questioningly.
“I was just contemplating the
amazing flexibility of mankind that allows ones of such seemingly diverse
natures as ourselves to manage to live together in relative harmony.”
“Our rooms draw to your mind a
sociological study?”
“It was our respective desks
actually, that brought about the thought.
I am afraid that an observer comparing the two would regard my
representative with less charity than your own.”
“Well, I am sure Mrs. Hudson, at
least, would agree with that statement.”
“And yet, Watson, she would be
wrong; for I have my desk—indeed all my papers—collected in just as practical
if a bit more unorthodox manner as your own.”
Watson’s eyes widened a bit at
the seeming audacity of my proclamation, his laughter barely contained.
“You doubt me, my friend?” I
questioned, feigning shock.
“No, not at all, Holmes. I have no doubt that you believe that you do indeed have that collection of...” for
once, words seem to fail my literary friend and he simply gestured at the room
itself, “whatever organized.”
“But you do not,” I charged.
“I know not. Too often, I have seen you come flying into
this very room and throw stacks of papers across the floor in an excessive
display trying to locate the one scrap you seek.”
Watson may have had a point, but
I was unwilling to yield to him just yet.
To be hot and bored would be asking too much of me this evening; I
desired a distraction. “What you mistook
for excessiveness was in fact merely the fastest method of finding what I
needed. Neatness must often give way to
urgency.”
“Indeed,” Watson replied, quickly
turning back to his writing desk in a futile attempt to hide his growing smile
from me.
“Do I detect a note of cynicism,
my good doctor?”
“You are the detective, Holmes.”
“Very well, I shall prove it to
you.”
“Really that isn’t necessary.”
“No, Watson, I insist.” My mind
sought out a test. “Name any three items
in my possession and I shall present them to you within five minutes.”
Watson mulled over my
proposition. “My, you are bored tonight,
aren’t you? Very well. Are you extending this demonstration beyond
our sitting room?”
“To our entire set of rooms, yes.”
“This will be entertaining. I have you this time, Holmes. It is my contention that not only do you not
know where most of your acquisitions are, but that you have also forgotten why
you bothered to keep them.”
“You shall see how quickly I dash
that little theory of yours to bits, my friend.
Now, what shall be the prize for the completion of this little
demonstration?”
“Dinner at the restaurant of the
winner’s choice on Saturday evening.”
“Agreed.” This fitted my plans well. I had been considering a visit to the Covent
Garden Opera and this would provide me with a companion.
Watson rose from his chair
eagerly. His eyes were bright as he
scanned the room. It was interested to
see which of my possessions he found most puzzling. He made a grand show of slowly walking about
the room as if viewing it for the very first time. Once or twice, he stopped and almost picked
up an item but chose instead to move on.
It was a fascinating process trying to decipher the thoughts going
through his mind as he inspected my belongings.
He finally took up the Good Old
Index and opened it at random. He
glanced down the notations of the page and his face brightened. He read aloud from the page, “Anton Finnamer,
forger. Born
“A common enough case.” To Watson’s obvious dismay, I made no motion
to rise but remained in my chair as I spoke.
“Finnamer was the only interesting aspect of the affair and then only in
the fact that his involvement was in this instance quite innocent. Still, it cost him six months in goal. Justice can be a most enigmatic lady.”
I rose confidently and slowly
walked over to my desk where I opened the bottom drawer. From this, I retrieved an oversize folder
containing various forgeries and works of art that I had come across over the
years. From this folder I further
retrieved two small scraps of paper; one was little more than the bottom
fragment of a long forgotten letter revealing only the signature of the writer,
the other an extortion letter to one of the better families in London promising
scandal if a ransom was not paid.
To the untrained eye, like
Watson, no doubt, the two signatures were identical; but to the trained
observer and the individual who owned the signature the forgery was
evident. I passed the pages to Watson,
and made a great show of replugging my pipe as I awaited his second choice.
Watson took the papers cordially,
the thrill of the contest beginning to show.
I knew the second item would not be so easy.
“I think perhaps a more practical
illustration of my point, Holmes, would be if I were to pick an item and then had
you explain its significance.”
I must admit I was a bit taken
aback by this new proposal, but I had supreme confidence in my abilities and
quickly agreed to the change in arrangements.
“Whatever you desire, Watson.”
“Our entire rooms, you say?”
“Yes,” I reiterated.
“Would that include the
vestibule?” Watson said, barely able to contain his enthusiasm.
“Yes,” I answered, curious as to
his reference.
He was out of our room and down
the stair faster than I would have given him credit for in the heat. He returned in just as quick a time with an
umbrella in his hand. He passed the
precious cargo along to me and sat upon the edge of his chair, eager to hear my
explanation.
To Watson’s credit, I must admit
that I had forgotten exactly where I had put this particular piece of
evidence. It was not a case that I was
proud of, but it was a case that had stayed at the boundaries of my mind until
the guilty party had been finally brought to justice, not for the crime that
this umbrella represented but for a similar and just as deadly deed.
It was a common enough umbrella,
black with twelve ribs and a smooth curved wooden handle. Businessmen carried its like every day in
weather fair or foul. However, this
particular umbrella did have a unique point of interest. In a large, dramatic gesture, I popped open
the umbrella and showed Watson the reason it had sat ignored and forgotten in
our front hall. A small hole the size of
a shilling near the top of one of the panels gave evidence that the umbrella
would be of little use in any rainstorm.
A closer look at the now exposed shank revealed dark stains upon the
wood, stains that I knew to be blood.
“Surely that is a bullet hole,
Holmes.”
“Very good, Watson. Yes, indeed, a bullet hole.” I handed the opened umbrella to him for his
inspection.
“And how did this come to be in
our umbrella stand?” His face turned
very serious for a moment. “This was not
your umbrella?”
“No, it was not,” I said. “It belonged to Mr. Grant Stewart of Lauder.”
“The name means nothing to me,”
said Watson.
“No, I’m not surprised. I only mentioned the case once; but I daresay
that the name of Colonel Sebastian Moran does.”
“The scoundrel.”
“Temper, Watson, temper. This is an example of his handiwork; though I
was never able to prove it, I have no question in my own mind that it was
he. He had been having an affair with
Mrs. Grant Stewart and when Mr. Stewart learnt of it, Moran decided to handle
him as he had handled all of his other difficulties. There was one slight miscalculation,
however.”
I had Watson’s full attention now
just as he had held mine earlier. “It
was the lady he slew that rainy, overcast afternoon and not her husband. A deadly misstep, as the couple turned
unexpectedly, exposed Mrs. Stewart to the bullet meant for her husband.”
“And you could not prove it?”
“No. Moran was acting as an independent
agent. There was no client to trace, no
motive that could be verified. Moran was
able to establish an alibi and I was unable to dispute it.”
“You did eventually bring him to
justice, Holmes; you must take heart in that.”
“Eventually, yes. But not before he had killed young Adair and
who knows how many other unfortunates who got in his way. I should have been able to stop him, Watson.” I felt a mood swing begin, a melancholy fog
threatened to overshadow the evening’s camaraderie and friendly intercourse, I
shivered in spite of the heat.
Watson must have sensed it as
well for his voice and manner changed dramatically. “Not even you
can work miracles, Holmes. Why do you
keep it? Surely it can serve no purpose
after all this time.”
“It is a reminder that not all my
cases are successes. A man surrounded by
trophies alone can easily be swayed to believe that he is invincible, and he
becomes much like Moran himself. By
being unable to envision his own defeat; he makes that defeat inevitable by his
increasingly pretentious behavior.”
Watson closed the umbrella and
placed it in a dark corner. His
movements were deliberate and he worked as hard to change the mood of the room
as he changed the matter under discussion.
“So, you have successfully identified or found my first two choices, but
I still have one last chance. I know
there are items here that you do not even know exist. I simply have to find them.”
“If you come across the shag I
picked up from Schwartz on Tuesday, I’d be much obliged. I can’t for the life of me remember where I
put it.”
“Perhaps in this heat, Mrs.
Hudson mistook it for a rotting rodent and threw it in the dustbin. I think I should like to expand the area of
my search. May I?” he asked indicating
my bedroom.
“Be my guest, Doctor.” I watched Watson in my room, and knew his
cause was lost. He stretched himself as
tall as he could to see atop my armoire.
He paused to adjust a tiny rope on the mast of the ship he had built for
me. “But do please be so kind as to
ignore all items of clothing,” I called out to him. “They would not be worth your effort.”
“Even this lovely boa you have
sequestered here?” he countered.
“Especially all items of
disguise,” I answered. “However, you are
welcome to borrow it, since you fancy it so much.”
“Not my color, I’m afraid,
Holmes. Although, I do not really see
you in this shade of violet either; but it would go rather nicely with Mrs.
Hudson’s new grey walking suit. Is that
why you keep it hidden away in here?”
“Mrs. Hudson has a grey walking
suit,” I said amazed. “Watson, you do
notice everything. Perhaps I should have
kept my room off limits.”
“Too late now, my friend, in fact
I think I’ve managed to find item number three, if I can get it out from this
corner without unleashing a cloud of dust.”
“Watson, I rather take offense at
the way you say ‘dust’. I will have you
know that dust is a very useful aide in the detection business.”
“No doubt someday you will write
a treatise on the subject,” Watson said as he emerged from my room carrying a
valise, which was admittedly not only covered in dust, but could more
accurately be described as encrusted in dirt.
It was impossible from my vantage point even to determine if the bag was
of leather or cloth. Watson had won the
bet, though I would not admit to it quite so easily.
“Let me lay some papers down
before you re-admit into the world this fossil which you have found.” I quickly grabbed the evening paper and laid
it across the table. Watson gingerly
placed the bag upon the covering.
Silently, we both stared at it.
Finally, Watson spoke, barely
hiding his optimism, “Well, Holmes, what is it?”
All my deductive powers were at
full operation, but I was not ready to answer that particular question as
yet. Why did I not recognize this bag, I
wondered? “Where did you find this,
Watson? Some secret compartment in my
own rooms of which I know nothing?’
“It was at the head of your bed,
jammed in the corner between the wall and the head-board.”
“Ah, that would explain it then.”
“Explain what?”
“The crusting of the dirt on the
case. If it was pressed between the wall
and the bed, it was often exposed to the elements through the open window. This accounts for the dust turning to caked
dirt over the years.”
“Years?”
“Oh yes, my friend. I would say that this valise has not moved in
eight, no a little more perhaps, yes, just over eight years.”
“1891? You are joking. Now, that is not fair. How can you possibly verify such a
conclusion?”
“I am quite serious. If we had the tools and the patience, we
could do a miniature archaeological dig.
However, I think that merely opening it will serve us just as well.”
“Not so fast, Holmes.” I looked up at Watson in some surprise. The last thing in the world that I expected
to come out of the evening’s diversion was a mystery. I was eager to get on with it and solve the
puzzle of the case.
“Are you conceding that you do
not remember why you have kept this bag hidden at the head of your bed for
eight years?”
“Not exactly.”
“Then what are you saying?”
“I am saying that I have not
forgotten this case was there, because I did not put it there. Furthermore, I have never seen it before in
my life.”
“How can you be so sure? Eight years is a long time.”
“Nevertheless, I am certain of
it.”
“Well then, how came it into your
room? I doubt if Mrs. Hudson put it
there. It is obvious that she is barely
allowed to keep the floor swept.”
“Agreed. So what we have here is a valise abandoned by
person or persons unknown for reasons unknown, as our friend, the good
Inspector Lestrade would say.” I reached
to open the clasp, but Watson stayed my hand.
“No, no. That would be too easy. You were able to deduce quite a bit from the
hat that fellow with the Christmas goose dropped . . . .”
“Mr. Baker.” I reminded him.
“Surely you can do as much with
this. Perhaps after further study you
will recall the history of this bag. Simply
opening it; that would be parallel to cheating, don’t you think?”
“Very well.” I was eager to end the debate and get on with
the investigation. I quickly retrieved
my lens from the chemistry bench as well as a small brush and miniature pick. Using the brush, I began wiping away at the
handle and clasps. Watson took advantage
of the break in conversation to pour us both another brandy. I took mine gratefully.
“Thank you, my friend. I have hopes that I may uncover a monogram on
the casing here near the handle and I have also cleared off an area displaying
the pattern of the cloth. It is still
quite soiled but you can make out a floral design on this side, I believe it to
be a woman’s bag, by the cut of it.
Don’t you agree?”
Watson had been paying close
attention to my progress and this statement sparked an enthusiastic
response. “A woman’s valise? Hidden at the head of your bed,” he paused
here for dramatic effect, “by accident or left on purpose? Are you now going to tell me that her husband
has ceased to love her? The game is up,
old man, who was she?”
“Watson, I have already told you
I know nothing of this bag’s origins.
You have made your point. I
concede, the day is yours.”
“Thank you, Holmes, and as a
gentleman, I shall of course believe you when you say you know nothing of the
bag itself, but pray, tell me of this lady who unbeknown to you leaves luggage
aside your bed.”
Watson seemed so pleased with his
victory and the idea that I might have some secret romantic liaison that I rather
hated to disappoint him. Therefore,
instead of answering his request, I chose to ignore it and returned my
attention to the valise. Its presence in
my room concerned me more than I wanted Watson to realize. It concerned me very much.
“I know that look, Holmes.”
I glanced at Watson, attempting
to wipe all expression from my features—‘look,’ indeed. The initials waiting to be uncovered under my
brush and pick would have to wait for Watson to finish his rebuke.
“That innocent
what-me-and-a-woman-look. You’re no different
than the rest of us, you know.”
“I’ve never claimed that I
was. I merely stated the fact that I did
not, I do not wish for my life to be complicated by the distraction of a lady
at my side. You know how I live,
Watson. Would it be fair to subject any
woman to this?” I gestured about the
room. “I barely pass your non-judgmental
criteria for a roommate; I would certainly fail to meet the standards set by
any woman.”
“You are changing the subject,
Holmes,” Watson said.
“No, I’m afraid that you had
already done that, Doctor. Now, if I may
continue, this bag holds more attraction for me at the moment than any woman
possibly could.”
I ignored Watson’s harrumph, as
he returned to his writing desk, dismissing not only me but my little mystery
as well. Unperturbed, I focused my
attention upon uncovering the monogram.
The work went quickly and without further interruption. The initials that I revealed did give me
pause, and I stared over at my friend in total and complete confusion. The initials MW could only mean Mary Watson.
Pushing myself away from the bag,
I gathered my thoughts. What was Mrs.
Watson’s bag doing abandoned in my room?
No, not abandoned, but hidden if Watson’s appraisal of its resting place
was accurate. 1891, I had said; he and
Mary were living at the time in their house on
“Watson, would you come over
here, if you please?”
“What is it, Holmes? Is something wrong?”
He was at my side in a moment,
his concerned eyes examining me, I merely gestured at the uncovered initials,
turning his attention away from myself.
“Oh, my God.” He reached for the valise, in surprise. “It’s Mary’s!” In a second, he had picked up the brush and
began whisking away the remaining dirt in a most unscientific manner. “This is extraordinary. However, did it come to be here?”
“I had rather hoped, my friend,
that you could answer that.”
Watson was beside himself. “You realize, of course, Holmes,” he said,
“that if I do find any personal items of Mary’s in here, I shall be honor bound
to call you out.”
“I would expect no less,” I
responded, matching his tone.
“The floral print is barely
discernible under all this dirt. She had
a set of three matching cases—they were a wedding present from Mrs.
Forrester. I have the other two in storage
with some of her clothes. I had
forgotten this one was missing. At the
time...” his voice died off as a terrible sadness overtook him.
I marveled at his ability to feel
so strongly. Turning away to allow him
some privacy, I moved to the sideboard, where I picked up the brandy decanter
and refilled our glasses. Watson
acknowledged my offering, but made no effort to drink the liquid. My own was gone almost as soon as I poured
it.
“Holmes, can you tell me
nothing? What is it doing here?”
“I am sorry, my friend. I have no facts upon which to make a
hypothesis.”
“I am not sure, that I want to
open it.” He touched the bag
tentatively, his sense of loss tangible.
Leaving him alone, I stepped out
to the landing, “Mrs. Hudson!” I called down.
“Yes?” drifted up her answer.
“May we have some tea?”
“Certainly, Mr. Holmes.”
Turning back towards the sitting
room, I found I could not enter. Watson
remained at my chemistry table, the valise still unopened. Having no desire to intrude upon so private a
moment, I opened the hall door to my room, now curious to examine the resting
place of this troublesome bag. As a mise-en-scène, my private apartment was
disappointing. It was an ordinary room as far as size and design. That it belonged to a bachelor was evidenced
by the single bed and decided lack of female accouterments, boa excluded of
course. The walls were crammed with
photographs of people whose somber countenances gave evidence to their
membership of the criminal class, denoting the resident’s obsession with
crime. Handcuffs, burglary tools, and
weapons furthered the validity of this deduction.
Although the mantelpiece was
littered with pipes and tobacco pouches, my hand reached for a cigarette. The dusty syringes lying there indicated a
more troubling, albeit overcome addiction, while the stacks of papers and
newspapers spoke of a man with widespread interests and a collector’s obsession
with possession. That he was a
successful individual was evident in the careless way that various expensive
objects were strewn about the room with little or no care for their worth; a
jeweled snuffbox was at present being used as a paperweight. There was little in the room to make it
inviting or cheerful, and I suddenly found the room depressing. I turned my attention to the headboard of the
bed.
As there was not much space
behind the bed, I was forced to pull it further away from the wall for my
inspection. Fortunately, among the items
in my room was a bull’s eye lantern.
Thus equipped, I was able to see the exposed area clearly. I found as I expected -- dust, cobwebs, dirt
and a small collection of twigs blown into the room on the evenings when my
open window had allowed nature to trespass.
There was nothing to tell me why Mary Watson had left her valise behind
my bed some time during the summer of ‘91, the summer I disappeared. I picked up the hearth broom from my
seldom-used fireplace, and swept the area clean. As I brushed the collected dirt pile onto the
shovel for disbursement, an odd-looking clump of dirt caught my attention and
upon closer inspection revealed itself to be a button. This I kept along with several small coins,
and threw the remainder of the mixture into the hearth.
After pouring a bit of water into
my washbasin, I set about cleaning my prize.
It proved to be an unexpected find. As buttons go, it was an average enough
example—the small stem had retained a short piece of dark thread, and there was
a design upon the face. After further
cleaning, it showed itself to be a regimental crest of some kind. It appeared to have been reattached to a
garment at some time for there were needle scratches on the underside and
stem. There was no way to determine how
long it had rested under my bed. I
doubted very much that it had come from any garment Mrs. Watson might have been
wearing. Could it be from an old uniform
of Watson’s? I would need my lens before
I could be sure of the crest.
Still unsatisfied, I returned to
my headboard with a more exact search in mind.
As expected, I was able to found a small splinter in the wood of the
bed, which could easily catch a loose thread or button. This was most satisfying as it gave weight to
the theory that the button and the valise were somehow connected. I took heart in my belief that chances were
high the button would indeed be Watson’s and my misgivings just the product of
an over-active imagination of a hot, bored detective.
Mrs. Hudson passed my room, but I
made no comment; I was not the one in need of tea. She continued on to the siting room. “Ah, Dr. Watson, I’ve brought you up some tea.”
“How very kind of you, Mrs.
Hudson. Here let me help you, it’s much
too hot a night for you to be carrying things up and down the stairs.”
“Thank you, Doctor.”
“Holmes,” Watson called out,
“stop hiding in your room and join me for some tea.”
I pocketed the trinket and
returned to the sitting room. ‘Hiding’
indeed, there was no arguing the fact that Watson had a fertile imagination.
In my absence, the room had grown
dim, but I hesitated to turn up the gas.
I compromised by lighting a small oil lamp kept on the side table. Watson had moved from the chemistry bench to
the dining table where he now handed me a cup of tea. I laid it down without tasting it, my
cigarette providing all the sustenance that I needed at the moment. Mrs. Hudson gave me a frown and prepared to
leave the room when a thought occurred to me.
“Mrs. Hudson?”
“Yes, Mr. Holmes,” she said
eyeing my untouched cup, “would you care for something else?”
“No, the tea is quite perfect; but
I am curious, do you recognize that valise upon my table?”
She turned to look at the bag,
and it was obvious that it did not bring about immediate recognition.
“It is Mrs. Watson’s,” I added.
“Oh my Lord,” Mrs. Hudson
exclaimed, rushing over to the case. She
picked it up and brought it toward the doctor and the light. “Yes, indeed.
So it is.”
“You recognize it then?” Watson
said puzzled. “How?”
“She brought it with her...that
day, Doctor.”
“Oh, I see,” Watson said
knowingly, while inexplicably, Mrs. Hudson sat down at the table looking as if
she might begin to sob momentarily.
I was lost. “Which day?” I asked impatiently.
Mrs. Hudson looked to Watson as
if asking permission to speak, and only when he nodded encouragement, did she
explain. “The day that she died, poor
thing. She stopped by to have a drop of
tea, and brought along the bag to take away a few things of the doctor’s that
he kept for those times when he still helped out on a case.” She reached over to Watson, grasping his hand
in an offer of comfort. “I was so happy
to have Mrs. Watson’s help, and she seemed much stronger, a little cough was
all.”
“Yes, I thought so, too, but I
should have known better,” Watson said, his regret palpable. “I should have come myself; I should never
have let her undertake such a strenuous journey.”
“Now don’t go blaming yourself,
doctor. It was her time, that’s all.”
“If I hadn’t been so
pre-occupied, I might have noticed how weak she truly was.”
“She was in fine spirits when I
left to pop over to Langham’s for a fresh raspberry tart—I was hardly gone ten
minutes. When I returned I thought I
heard her moving about and called upstairs, then I went to put the water
on. After a few minutes, it seemed odd
that she hadn’t joined me, so I came upstairs to make sure she was all right,
but she was gone. I must have been mistaken about the
noise, for I would have heard her leave. It must surely have come upon her
suddenly for she did not even leave a note.”
If there was one thing that our landlady
was in good possession of, it was her ears.
If she heard something then there must have been something to hear, and if it wasn’t Mrs. Watson,
then what or who? My hand fingered the
button in my pocket and I drew heavily upon my cigarette.
“Mary was dead before the cab
reached my surgery. It was the strangest
thing,” Watson continued, an urgency to his voice as if in explaining what had
happened he might finally come to understand it. “She was so bright and cheerful that
morning. It was a lovely day, sunny and
warm. I had not been much company since
my return from the continent and I thought a change would do Mary good. We both knew her time was limited, and yet,
we thought there would be a few more months, a year—I had hoped. I should have known better.”
“You’re never prepared for such a
loss, Doctor. My Walter’s been gone how
many years and there are still mornings I wake surprised not to find him next
to me.”
They sat in mutual understanding
silence while I sat quietly and appeared sympathetic, secretly pondering this
information. Watson would hardly let his
wife leave her deathbed to come to tea, regardless of the weather. He was annoyingly over-protective of people
he felt responsibility towards. It was
highly unlikely that he had misjudged his wife’s condition. I lit another cigarette, and wondered, why
was Mary packing Watson’s things, why had her health deteriorated so suddenly,
and why was the valise still here? It
was not at all heavy; I doubted if there was much in fact contained within
it. Obviously, there was some vital
intelligence that I lacked, but these were Watson’s private agonies and I was
reticent to intrude.
Fittingly, it was Watson who
continued the questioning. “Mrs. Hudson,
I found this valise tonight, stored behind Mr. Holmes’ head-board. Do you have any idea how it came to be
there?”
“No, Doctor,” she said, and after
a short pause continued, “My, that is odd.
I thought Mrs. Watson had taken it with her; it was gone when I returned
from Langham’s. It’s true that the room
was in a state, what with the workmen’s odds and ends still about, but I would
have noticed if she had left the bag behind.”
“Excuse me, Mrs. Hudson,” I
interrupted, “but why was Mrs. Watson packing the doctor’s things?”
My even-tempered landlady studied
me as if I were a dust-ball. “She came
to sort through Dr. Watson’s belongings.
I was boxing things for storage.
The workmen had finished repairing the damage from the fire in the
bedroom, but the sitting room was still in a fright. There were several personal items of the
Doctor’s kept here in his old room upstairs as well as some letters and papers
that I thought he should tend to.”
“Holmes,” Watson elucidated, “we
thought you were dead. She was
attempting to get your affairs in order.
Mycroft did not send instructions about your things until the following
week.”
“I see,” I said, stunned. In
“I threw him out, you know,” Mrs.
Hudson said, a small smile returning to her face. “The idea was positively morbid, and I told
him so. I didn’t want anything to do
with it. ‘Leave the rooms, nothing is to
be moved,’ he ordered, as if this were some shrine.”
“I don’t understand, you did just
as he instructed,” Watson said.
“Aye, he came back. Oh, he was a smooth one. He pleaded that since the Swiss officials had
been unable to locate a body, he wished to wait a bit, in case...” she paused
here and stared at me, with a look that was neither sympathetic nor
understanding. “He would continue to pay
for the rent of the rooms, he said, until his brother was found. He was in quite a state, I could not refuse
him. I agreed to leave things be, until
he was satisfied. It was such a moving
plea; I did not have the heart to refuse him again. Fool that I was, I thought it would only be a
week or so. Who knew it would stretch
into years.”
The thought of Mycroft reduced to
false-hysterics to convince Mrs. Hudson of his sincerity was unbelievable. I laughed in spite of myself. This did not endear me to my landlady.
“Well, I never,” she said
standing, her kind Scottish features suddenly stern and hard. “Any man who can allow his best friend to
think he was dead for three years without an ounce of repentance or shame is
not much to speak of in my book.”
I watched her leave in silent
astonishment.
“Don’t pay her too much mind,
Holmes. She is upset.”
“Watson, I am hardly in need of
Mrs. Hudson’s approval.”
“No, of course not. Silly of me to think so.”
I stubbed out my cigarette. “It is of no importance.”
I rose from the table and picked
up my violin. Perhaps some Verdi would
help clear my mind of this pathetic puzzle.
I would retire to my room and leave Watson to his ghosts.
“I must seem silly to you,
Holmes, being so unsettled by a simple valise.”
His words, steeped in
self-deprecation, stopped me at the doorway to my room, and I turned towards
him. “My dear friend, it is not my place
to judge you, or my intent to make you uncomfortable. These are not my private dolors that have
been awakened. Perhaps I was wrong
earlier when I made that quick comparison of our two desks, for it may be that
this valise is a better example of the differences between us. For you, that bag is full of items whose
significance stems not from the past when you occasionally stayed here at your
old bachelor digs, but as a reminder of everything that you lost when Mary
died. The contentment and satisfaction
that you had, the loving home that you made for each other; whereas to me,
never having known or desired such things, its presence is a mere puzzle to be
pondered over, solved and then discarded.”
“I think you do yourself an
injustice.”
“You are always so eager to
believe the better of me, but it is the truth when I say that the domestic
bliss that you mourn is as alien to me as the moons of Jupiter.”
“Mary was very fond of you, too,
Holmes.”
I had no answer to such a
statement, yet neither could I retreat to the quiet confines of my room. That would seem, I felt, like an admission of
sorts to Watson. So instead I relaxed
into my chair and began to play the violin.
Watson sat listening in silence
for several minutes then abruptly, sprang up.
“Oh, hell.” He walked to his
abandoned brandy and brought it and the bag to his chair opposite mine. After turning up the gas to improve the
light, he pulled over a small stool to rest the case upon and opened it.
“There doesn’t appear to be much
here,” he said sadly. “I expected as
much.” He produced a grey scarf. “Mary’s present to me our first Christmas
together. I had thought it lost in the
move.” He wrapped it around his neck,
his manner a little lighter than it had been.
“Still smells a bit of smoke.
Strange isn’t it, Holmes, how things can retain an essence of an event
often better than our own memories.
Forgotten reminders. My spare
shaving kit, razor only a little rusty, a few old collars, and—what do we have
here?” he said excitedly.
I stopped playing, all attention
now, as he drew out what appeared to be a small packet of papers—articles and
letters.
“Most of this is yours,
Holmes. These are most likely the papers
that Mrs. Hudson thought I should look after when you were gone, but since you
are now back, I will let you handle them yourself.” He brought the packet over to me and
deposited it on the table near my elbow.
“I hope, for your sake, that there aren’t any over-due bills in the
pile.”
I put down the violin and began
to examine these strange missives from the past. Recognizing most of the loose papers as notes
and cuttings that I had been using as part of my research on Moriarty, I tossed
them to one side; they held no attraction for me now. There remained three letters post-marked
early in May of 1891. One appeared to be
from an impatient right-handed lady residing in Croydon, a love-interest from
the excessive flourishes upon the address; one from a middle-aged man suffering
from a premature weakness of some sort, and whatever his complaint was nature
had surely resolved it beyond my help at this late date. The final envelope held a more immediate and
personal message, for I was looking at a note that I had thought thankfully
lost in some foreign postal office.
There was no need for me to open this letter, as I knew its message
intimately.
“Holmes, what is it?”
I looked over to Watson, covering
the letter as I answered, “What?”
“That letter seems to have
affected you strangely, your face is ashen.”
“Nonsense, Watson. Merely a trick of the heightened light. It is nothing.”
“Indeed, then you would not mind
sharing it with me.”
Trepidation flooded through me, I
required a diversion. “Do you recognize
this?” Reaching into my pocket, I tossed
the button to Watson for his inspection.
I could tell that he saw through
my little ploy, but he seemed to accept my wishes and turned his attention to
the fastener.
“It’s a button, Holmes.”
“Thank you. Do you recognize the design on the face?”
“Military issue, regimental
crest. Where ever did you find it?”
“Just lying around.”
“Yet another example of a
forgotten trifle, eh, Holmes? But I can help
you out with this one, old boy. The
crest is from the Bangalore Pioneers, which as you no doubt recall, or would
after two or three pipes of your most odious shag, from which I will spare both
you and myself, is Colonel Moran’s old regiment. It must have fallen off during the fight with
him across the way, and you forgot that you kept it.”
I did not even dignify that
suggestion with a reply, for if Watson were correct about the button’s
ancestry, and I feared that he was; then the implications of Moran’s presence
at
Moran here in my rooms. At present there were too many possibilities
running through my brain, all of them too devastating for me to consider. Moran in my rooms. Focusing all my energies on my pipe and
tobacco, I attempted to block all thought of Moran from my mind. Moran.
Here. It did not work. I had often told Watson of the dangers in
coming to conclusions without enough data.
I knew I was guilty of that exact offense as my mind continued its
unwanted journey. Moran. Mary.
Death. No, no, it was too
absurd. Why—what was he doing here? Looking for that damn umbrella? I dismissed the idea immediately; the Stewart
affair was a dead issue. What then? Did I have something else—the significance of
which escaped me? Was he just making
sure? Merely double-checking that he had
indeed escaped again? Did Mary surprise
him? Was he so mad that merely to see
him was her death warrant? Was he that
much of a monster? How did he accomplish
the act? Watson would have noticed any
signs of violence. Poison? My chemistry table held ample opportunity for
such an act. Did he kill her knowing who
she was or merely for her folly in discovering him? I needed to stop thinking. The tobacco wasn’t strong enough. Why kill Mary and leave Watson unharmed? If there were a threat, surely it would have
come through him. To send her home in
the cab, Moran must have known her identity.
A man helping an obviously ill woman into a hansom, it would not have
turned a head. But why leave the case
behind? Did he want me to find it? Was it some perverse calling card? Why hadn’t he just finished me off at the
falls? Why hadn’t he brought his air gun? Why was I still alive?
“Holmes!”
Startled, I looked over to find
Watson had joined me at the fireplace.
His manner a picture of concern and worry.
“What on earth is troubling
you? Come sit down.”
I shook off his proffered
hand. It was suddenly very cold in our
rooms, I moved away, and rubbed my arms, trying to increase my
circulation. My right hand lingered upon
my left biceps and an old craving surged anew through my being. My eyes searched for my morocco case. That is what I needed, oblivion, if only for
a few hours, something to stop my mind.
I must make Watson leave. I must
be alone.
“Drink this.”
Watson thrust a glass in my
direction. “What is it?”
“Something to calm your nerves.”
“No. I am fine.”
I retreated into my chair deposited my pipe on the table, and pulled a
rug around my shoulders. “A sudden
chill, that is all. No need to be
alarmed.”
Watson stood before me,
unflinching. “You will drink this,
Holmes, or I shall forcibly pour it down your throat.”
It was not an empty threat, but a
sedative was simply out of the question.
I needed uninterrupted solitude so that my mind might sort through this
knot of supposition and separate my legitimate fears from the fanciful. I refused.
“Holmes, I do not wish to force this
upon you, but you are in shock. Would
you at least drink a brandy?”
“An admirable compromise,
Doctor. I would very much appreciate a
brandy.” It would do until Watson had
retired and I would be able to administer a medicine more to my own choosing.
In seconds, I was drinking the
smooth liquid, benefiting from the warmth, and calming effect of the
drink. The out of control wanderings of
my mind slowed, and I was once more able to think reasonably. It seemed odd that everything remained as it
had been, the valise still sat upon the stool, the papers were still scattered
about the room, and—wait, where had the tea things gone? My eyes quickly sought out a clock, to my
surprise I had lost fifteen minutes.
Watson hovered near me, his concern now giving way to an almost volatile
anger.
“How very extraordinary. I don’t know what came over me.” I said to
convince my friend that the danger was over.
“I’m afraid that is not good
enough, Holmes.”
“I beg your pardon,” I said. Surely, he could not have divined my
intentions toward the drug.
“It has been my custom to allow
you the isolation that you so strenuously desire. But when that isolation is used to withhold
information or mislead me about my family, I must protest. I demand that you inform me of your
conclusions.”
I looked at him blankly. He could not possibly have read my mind.
“I have not lived with the
world’s foremost consulting detective for nearly fifteen years without
absorbing some of his methods. Not that
I would need them in this case, a child could see that something has
happened. I find a strange valise
mysteriously left behind by my wife on the day of her death and shortly after
going through the contents thereof, you go into a trance-like state that
results in shock. You have seen
something here that has eluded me and I say it again, I demand that you share
it with me.”
I remained silent, still.
“If you value my friendship,
Holmes, you will not remain silent upon this point.”
My friend stood in front of me
waiting, expecting an answer, which I would never give. “Watson, you are upset.” I rose from my chair, discarding the suddenly
cumbersome rug. “We will discuss this in
the morning.”
To my astonishment, Watson
stepped forward, closing the gap between us to nothing, and forcibly shoved me
back down into my chair.
“We shall discuss this now,
Holmes. Since I first—since you first
discerned that the bag belonged to Mary, my mind has been in utter
torment. You cannot possibly comprehend
the depth of my feelings on this matter.”
Watson was serious, this I
knew. I had crossed some unseen line and
had, however unwillingly on my part become an adversary. I wished myself anywhere but here.
“No doubt,” he continued, remaining
uncomfortably close, I could feel his hot brandied breath upon my brow, “such
an emotional reaction is distasteful to your tender sensibilities. But I have not the self-discipline that you
command to stop my mind from its musings.
Mary was my wife, Holmes, you will tell me what you know.”
“I know nothing,” I replied cold
as I felt.
“Don’t play games with me. I should think that after all we have been
through together, the very least that I deserve from you is the truth.”
I felt as if I were suffocating
under his presence, I had to get up, I had to have air. I motioned as if to reach for my pipe, and as
Watson’s eye turned away, I deftly rose from my chair and deposited my
over-taxed friend into it.
Just as suddenly, he rose out of
it, his eyes blazing. “I will not be put
off.”
“You will not be put off,” I said
as angry as he. “You demand that I tell
you the truth. You, Doctor, have seen
what I have seen. I have hidden nothing
from you.”
“That is a lie.”
“I beg your pardon?” I said shocked.
“You have hidden a letter in your
right hand pocket .”
“That -- that is nothing.”
“Good, then share it with me.”
Watson must have sensed the
hesitation I felt for he walked past me without another word or glance. It was not until he reached the door that he
turned to me and said, “I shall send someone over for my things in the
morning. Good-bye, Holmes.”
Frozen in complete shock, I
stood, waiting for the inevitable slam of the front door. That sound would be a turning page in my
life. The future would be a sad epilogue
to our friendship, though, if the blackness that I could sense enfolding me was
any indication, at least it would be blessedly short. There is no escape from the torment of the
mind. If Watson were truly leaving, then
there would no longer be a reason for me to fight off the depression and mood
swings. If Watson had left his medical
bag, I would use his own supply to begin my journey. Why did the damn door not close?
The silence was deafening. I walked out to the hallway prepared for
nothing, expecting anything. Watson sat
upon the top step, his shoulder leaning against the wall, waiting. Even in the hall’s deep shadows, I could
discern a strange sad smile upon his face.
“Come here, Holmes,” he patted
the step next to him. “Sit down. You can just make out the moon through the
window. It is very beautiful.”
I did not move.
“I promise not to bite.”
I remained still.
“Very well. Suit yourself.” He stretched out and made himself comfortable. “It is rather unfair of me to admonish you so
strongly for not being more forthright, when I myself am guilty of the same
offense. You see, I have many unanswered
questions about Mary’s death myself. It
was so long ago and yet it feels like yesterday. I was rather remote and depressed the last
days of her life, you see, I did little more than sit about the house drinking,
and condemning myself for your death. It
is no wonder Mary took any excuse she could find to relieve herself of my
company. When that cab brought her home,
I felt it was just punishment for my sins.
I had no right to happiness, I was a failure. A failure as a doctor. A failure as a husband. Certainly a failure as a friend.
“I called Anstruther over to
examine Mary. I was incapable of proper
medical thought. Actually, I was
convinced that she had been murdered.
The papers were full of the Moriarty gang, and your part in the arrests. You had yourself been murdered, Scotland Yard
had stationed a constable outside my surgery for ‘merely precautionary measures’, Lestrade had said. My head was full of conspiracies.
“While my neighbor examined my
wife, I was forbidden access to the examining room, so I made myself useful by
talking with the cab driver. Or rather
listening to the man’s unending apologies, he was understandably upset, and
felt a little guilty, no doubt. He said
that a man had helped Mary into the cab, her voice had been weak, and the
gentleman had relayed the address to which the lady was to be taken. He remembered little about the man, well
dressed, mustache, tall. He did not know
if the man had accompanied my wife from the house or merely assisted her as he
strolled down the street. He had picked
up the fare at
“Ansthruter’s examination showed
no signs of foul play, an afternoon fog had descended, and Mary’s delicate
health just gave in. Respiratory
failure. This city, this damn city suffocates
thousands every year, what was one more?
I should have taken up residence in the country and forbidden her to
come into the city ever. The price was
just too high.”
What did he want me to say? I was grateful for the dark, it hid my
confusion. I had no proof that Moran had
done anything other than help an ill woman to a cab; all I had were vague
unsubstantiated, misgivings. My guilt
over Mary’s death paled in the relief I felt at finding Watson had
remained. If he could find the strength
to battle his inner demons, how could I succumb to mine?
“Now this bag, you take little
more than a look at it, and. . . . I was
justified in my suspicions, wasn’t I?”
“I . . . .”
“It’s all right, Holmes. You don’t have to say anything. You have tried very hard to spare my feelings
in this matter, and I am touched. It is
a role that you are unfamiliar with and one that you do not do particularly
well, but I appreciate the sentiment.”
“Watson...”
“No, no, Holmes. I mean it, at times I ask far too much.—that
you take me into your confidence, that you truly trust me in the same manner that
you ask any client who comes into our rooms.
‘This is Dr. Watson, in whom I
have every confidence. You may speak to
him as to me.’ “
I listened to the sounds of the
darkness, and tried to think of something to say, but there was nothing. The curious incident of the detective in the
night.
“There seems to me to be very
little justice in this world. In
“Only one? You are a lucky man, Watson.”
“Remember when you were engaged
in that fist-fight with Moran across the street? When I struck Moran with my gun, if I had
known the true character of the villain, it might have given me a bit more
strength and saved the crown the cost and inconvenience of a trial.”
“His involvement, it is only
conjecture; we have no proof.”
Watson was silent for a moment,
staring at something he held in his hand.
It was the button. He tossed the
offensive object to me. “Very well, no
proof; but what about your regrets?”
My hand was in my pocket. I could feel the envelope; it would be so
easy to pass it over to my friend. Still
I hesitated, what good would it do?
“Holmes, show me the letter.”
It was really of little
consequence any more. I walked over to
Watson and delivered the long delayed message.
“I can’t read it in this light.”
“It is addressed to Signore
Holmes & Watson, 221B
“Why, Holmes, that really is
incredible. The envelope has not been
opened. You did not read it while we
were in the study, how do...”
I could see that he had guessed
the truth. “It was an ill-advised
impulsive note to put a friend’s mind at ease.”
“Why did you never tell me of
this? Why did you allow me to berate you
so unfairly upon your return?”
“Because it was not unfair. I regretted the message as soon as I sent
it. I was somewhat surprised at your
unique reception to my reappearance in your consulting room. It was obvious that you had not received the
note, and I was relived.”
“Moran knew that you lived, what
harm was there in letting me know as well?”
“If Mary had been successful in
her assignment and brought the valise and letter back to you, what would you
have done?”
“I don’t know.”
“I do. You would have waited patiently for
additional communiqués and when they did not arrive you would have come looking
for me. The danger was not over. Remember, I told you that there were two
other men besides Moran who had vowed revenge against me and there were further
attempts upon my life after Reichenbach.
What if one of those had been successful? You would never have been informed and you
would have lived the remainder of your life wondering and searching for signs
of Sherlock Holmes everywhere. No, it
was most unkind of me to have sent that note when there was still too much of a
chance that Moriarty and his men would triumph.
It was better that you remained unaware of my escape until I had truly
managed to break free of the full threat.”
“Perhaps,” he said, rising from
the steps to join me on the landing, the letter firmly in his grasp. “But I am glad that at least for one moment
you felt differently.”
He took my arm and guided me back
into our sitting room. “And now, Mr.
Sherlock Holmes, I believe there is a least one serving of brandy
remaining. I suggest that we remedy that
situation.”
***
"Mrs. Hudson,
where is Watson this morning?" I asked our landlady as she brought in
breakfast. I noted she had not put down
a place for Watson.
"He left early
this morning. He did not say where he was
going, but said he would be out all morning.
I did see him purchase flowers from the girl in the street"
"Flowers?"
She smiled. "Perhaps he has a special lady in his
life."
"Yes," I
agreed quietly. "A special
lady. Thank you, Mrs. Hudson," I
muttered in dismissal.
I left my meal
untouched and prepared to leave. I
thought I knew what errand occupied my companion on this warm summer day.
The morning was fine
and bright, a breeze blowing through the city, cleansing the air and tempering
the heat. There was a touch of something
on the wind. The weather was turning
from summer to autumn. In the graveyard,
there was only one visitor. He was easy
to spot as he stood near the simple headstone and the fresh bouquet on the
ground. With hat in hand and head bowed,
his figure was fittingly somber.
I had never been here
to Mary's final resting place. Regret or
guilt had kept me paying last respects in person since my return. I wondered how many times Watson had stood
there over the years, never aware of any such sojourn to this memorial of
memories past. Then, it was hardly a
subject we would share in our unique friendship. His solemn, mute vigil denoted an air of
familiarity and ritual. His visits were
probably occasional. His manner was not
vocal or grieving as was wont for the overly emotional -- the recently
bereaved, the guilty, the ruined. He was
calm, controlled, and dutiful. He was
Watson.
I wondered why I had
come. Not to intrude on my friend’s
privacy, else, I would join him closer to the grave. Not to purge my own feelings for Mrs. Watson,
since I was undecided as to what those feelings were. I was here to offer support. To return a measure of the security and
strength Watson so often offered me.
My friend replaced
his bowler and turned, surprised to see me.
He walked over.
"Holmes."
"I have no wish
to intrude."
"No, no, you are
not. I should have asked before this if
you wanted --"
"I should have
enquired . . . ." My words trailed
away. We studied each other in silence,
caught in that void of discomfort when, surprising someone in a private moment,
neither person knows what to say.
He fleetingly
surveyed the cemetery. "This is not
a spot one frequents without purpose."
"Of course
not. It forces us into reflection. A place of endings."
He nodded and glanced
back at the grey stone inscribed with his wife's name. When he looked back, faced me, his gaze was
indirect, his eyes rimmed with red.
There were shadows there; sorrow clouding his soul.
"All these years
and I could never bring myself to give in and admit to the grief for her. When she died I was in mourning for you. I needed to come today and tell her we
discovered --" his voice shook from
emotion. For a moment I thought he would
cry. He took a deep breath and fought
for control. "Silly, isn't it, to
bare my soul, as if she could hear it.
Do you ever talk to gravestones?"
This time I turned
away. I did not share his courage. I did not visit graveyards. I had no desire to speak to my dead. Sometimes, they spoke to me in dark dreams.
"It's foolish to
feel so deeply about injustices so long past.
I feel robbed, cheated. Moran
killed her. He stole precious moments away
that should have been mine!" The
startling anger flared briefly. He was
embarrassed by the outburst, and released another sigh. "Sorry."
"No, it's quite
-- understandable."
"Sentimental old
fool that I am, I had to come back. I
had to say good-bye.”
Should I
apologize? My fraudulent death had
caused so much pain. After all, we had
settled about the past, it would be pointless and trite to say anything to
demean my friend's mourning and dignified tribute.
"I can finally
put this properly behind me," he continued. "Knowing what Moran did is
maddening. He should hang --!" The bitterness, the rage instantaneously
flared and died again. He shook his head
and wiped at his eyes. "They didn't
even hang him for the murder of Adair!
There is no proof, is there?"
My teeth ground
together in anger at the injustice, from the frustration, the impotence. "No," was my tight response as I
held back my true thoughts. Watson did
not need reminders of the pain. He
needed to forget. Impossible. Then, he needed to heal.
"At least now
the doubts, the questions are gone. I know
the truth," he sighed.
I thought back to the
damage, the pain caused by the pursuit of truths surrounding my 'death'.
"The truth has been harsh," I whispered. I never, in my worst nightmares, ever
envisioned the repercussions of the deception I perpetrated. I hoped now the damage was behind us.
"I will always
miss her, of course, but I can mourn her properly, now. Finding the valise was like laying a ghost to
rest."
With slow steps he
walked away.
I looked at the
simple inscription placed on the stone, dedicated to a beloved wife. In life, Mary Morstan Watson had struggled
with trials which seemed unfair; poor health, abandonment, loss of a father,
loss of a fortune. Finally, innocent of
any wrong, her trying days ended by a foul murderer. In my heart I offered silent prayers. A prayer of serenity for the soul of brave
Mary. 'God in His mercy lend her grace.'
A prayer of thanks for the strength of her husband.
I caught up with my
friend. We made our silent passage
through the graveyard to the street.
Watson never looked back.
THE
END