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.”