COLONEL WARBURTON'S MADNESS

Winter 1891

---

A fine, misty drizzle fell as Sherlock Holmes dashed into the protective shelter of the doorway of the modest Paddington house. He imperiously rapped the door knocker until a young housemaid answered. She was new, he noted and mentally tallied her as the third new maid in the several months the doctor had been in residence here. He knew it was not so much the new Mrs. Watson's inexperience in hiring servants, rather, the low wages and erratic work involved in being housemaid to a doctor struggling in his first practice. It was an assessment born of logic rather than charity toward Mary Morstan Watson.

The Watsons were neither well to do, nor were they strict enough with the hired help. Being raised in a household where servants were stringently held to their position in life, Holmes understood how to handle downstairs personnel. With mental humour he corrected that statement; he knew enough to leave the servants to the housekeeper, in his case Mrs. Hudson, whose job it was to handle all domestics.

"I am here to see Doctor Watson."

He stepped past the maid and paused in the entrance way only long enough to shed the dripping overcoat, Trilby and scarf (he had been careful to select the one Mrs. Watson had knitted for him for Christmas). From a pocket of his coat he removed a wrapped bottle of Italian wine which he had brought back as a gift for the Watsons. Observing that there were no visitor's hats or wraps, he did not wait to be announced, but brushed past the flustered girl and on to the surgery.

"I shall announce myself," he said as he opened the door to the small waiting room and on to the office. He balanced in the doorway for an instant, surprised to find his quarry was not in the room. Watson was always there -- was supposed to be there -- except when he was out helping Holmes with a case.

"Sir --" the girl spluttered.

"Watson . . . ."

He leaned against the door, deflated and disappointed, unsure of what to do now. He had been so eager to share his latest triumph with his friend. So excited, in fact, that he had risked visiting the bowels of the domestic den which the doctor now called home.

Sherlock Holmes never intended to be a frequent visitor here -- the doctor HAD made the choice to leave Baker Street for marriage -- but Holmes' visits had been more often than he had ever anticipated. He was always reluctant to leave his comfortable digs in Baker Street, unsettled coming to the hearth and home of his colleague, uneasy participating in the rituals incumbent within a household of wedded bliss.

"Sally, can I -- oh, Mr. Holmes, how wonderful to see you. I didn't know you were here."

"I have just arrived, Mrs. Watson."

"John was called out to see a patient. But I expect him home very soon. Would you like to wait for him in the sitting room?"

"I -- ah -- no, it was really nothing pressing. I have just returned from abroad."

"Yes, we got your card from Naples. It was so nice to hear from you. Please come and have some tea. John expected to be home in time for supper. Won't you wait?"

Her invitations were always very generous and genuine. It made him all the more anxious to leave and all the more unable to do so.

"Certainly," he acquiesced.

"Sally, bring us tea, then set another place at the table for Mr. Holmes."

It was impossible to refuse the gracious and welcoming offer to remain for the family meal. As he followed her upstairs to the sitting room, Holmes was secretly pleased with the invitation because he really was quite anxious to share his latest case with Watson. Obliquely he admitted it was also because he found it difficult to resist the open-hearted invitation -- impossible to maintain his resentment of the charming Mrs. Watson.

For the months of the Watson marriage Holmes had been a reluctant visitor to these rooms. He had never forgotten nor forgiven Mary Morstan for snatching Watson away from Baker Street. Watson had been the perfect friend, the most accommodating live-in assistant-cum-doctor Holmes had ever known; the only assistant, the only friend Holmes had ever had. Until Watson had the bad form to fall hopelessly in love with the governess --Holmes' client! -- Miss Morstan. And Mary Watson never ceased to thank him for being the catalyst in bringing the two fated lovebirds together. As if Holmes had purposely played matchmaker! Bah!

Holmes had suffered through the obligations of being best man at the wedding. Then there had been the inevitable invitations to dinner, to tea, to Sunday lunch, etc.. Holmes had managed to decline a healthy dose of the domestic agenda, but could not refuse them all. With ill grace he had come here and partaken of the feminine atmosphere which he was prepared to condemn as cloying and distasteful.

His resistance had softened over time. Watson had not allowed the house to be steeped in feminine clutter. Nor did Mrs. Watson fill the air with meaningless chatter. She proved to be a charming and stimulating conversationalist, a witty companion to the gatherings. Not that Holmes encouraged the invitations, but he now found himself more inclined to visit the Paddington address than he ever imagined.

They sat in the small parlour and went through the common amenities of the tea ritual. After the necessities were taken care of, Holmes shifted uncomfortably, dreading what he expected to be lagging moments of idle chat.

"We read this morning in the papers that the Harper murder investigation is not going well for Inspector Bradstreet. Do you expect he will consult you, Mr. Holmes?"

She had surprised him again, was his assessment as he restructured his thinking. Mary Watson was not one of the simple-minded women who filled their heads with fluff. She had some substance under her hat. He had to remind himself that Watson's interest in this young woman had been sparked by more than just a pretty, vacuous face. There was a good mind behind this woman's beauty.

"Bradstreet is one of the best of a bad lot. He comes to me only after he has exhausted his own ideas."

"Have you read of those mysterious sightings on Hampstead Heath? Do ghostly visitations intrigue you?"

"Watson will tell you I am a disbeliever of the supernatural. I concern myself with facts."

"He has mentioned as much. Because of his own unexplained experience --"

"Ah, yes, Constantinople."

"Yes. John is surprisingly open-minded about such things. I find the possibilities fascinating, but I have formed no conclusions."

Holmes found his estimation of Mrs. Watson continue to climb. She was one of the most intelligent women he had ever met. The front door slammed and Holmes heard the shuffle of an umbrella being shaken; the rustle of a coat, and the solid tread of steps hurrying up the stairs.

"Holmes, what a wonderful surprise when I saw your hat on the stand," Watson said when he came through the door.

He warmly shook hands with Holmes, who was surprised at the enthusiasm of the greeting. It had only been a few weeks since Watson had dropped in at Baker Street -- obviously Watson had been bored with the slow practice.

As the doctor was given a welcoming embrace by Mrs. Watson, Holmes chided himself for his churlishness. Watson was simply glad to see him, glad that his best friend had deigned to descend from Olympus and visit the humble abode of the Watsons. After all these years it was still a bit difficult for Holmes to get used to the fact that someone truly valued his presence, his friendship. As he was ushered into the dining room with the Watsons, he was touched that he was not just accepted here as Holmes: Watson's jealous abductor and fellow criminal catcher. His status here was Sherlock Holmes, closest friend to John and Mary Watson.

***

After supper Mary excused herself and the men retired to the sitting room with cigars and brandy. Holmes recounted more details of his latest adventure in Naples; the cunning ratiocination which led to the capture of Will the embezzler. Watson was properly appreciative of the case which had only been briefly mentioned as dinner conversation, yet he seemed somehow distracted. When Holmes realised that during the entire tale Watson had not once jotted down a note, he knew that something was wrong.

"You seem preoccupied, Watson. Have I stayed too long? You are fatigued."

"No, no, I was just thinking. Are you currently on a case?"

"I am completely free at the moment."

"If you are willing to take on another case so soon after returning from abroad, I know of someone who wishes to hire you."

Holmes grinned with amusement. "Watson, you simply cannot resist the old call for adventure, can you? Who is this client and what, pray tell, is the case?"

"It is to investigate -- well to look into odd goings-on at a household in Kensington. And your client is the house physician. Me."

The amusement slowly faded from the detective's face as he studied his sober friend. "Then it is a concern of some measure to have you so preoccupied, Watson. Pray give me the details. And spare nothing, however trivial. You know my methods."

"It started some months ago when the Warburton family moved into a large old place near Kensington Gardens."

Holmes closed his eyes and reclined to a comfortable position of meditation. Watson recounted that his first call to the house had come from a housemaid, Chancy, who had been sent to fetch him for the master of the house. Old Colonel Warburton had been a distinguished soldier of some repute in the Crimea. He had spent his last years in service to Her Majesty in South America. Not many years back he had retired and returned to England because of poor health. The extended family had recently taken over care of the Colonel and moved him to a house near the Gardens. All had been well until a recurrence of a strange and exotic fever struck down the Colonel. Chancy had once been a maid at the Watson residence and thus, when she was sent to fetch a physician she returned with Watson.

"How can I describe that bizarre household?" Watson said almost to himself as he told the story to his friend. Knowing Holmes, however, he knew no detail should go unreported, nor should he clutter his account with flowery descriptions. So he carefully reviewed every impression and experience with the household. "The place was filled with Brazilian trappings of an incredible nature. Even the smell of the house pervaded a musty, stuffy kind of scent that was from some distant plain. I see you smirk, Holmes, but I did not imagine it."

"Of course not, Watson. Pray, continue."

"The Colonel was locked in an upper wing of the house. The poor man ranted on about nonsensical things, some of which sounded foreign, and only some of which I could even understand. He was dressed in a wild collection of clothes which included pieces of old uniform styles and Brazilian garb. He was violent in his resistance, and the condition of the room indicated that violence was one of the traits of these bouts of fever. Some of the wall decorations were torn from their brackets and bits of shredded material and papers were strewn round the room. There were some minor abrasions on the Colonel, but he had not seriously injured himself during the seizures. When I was finally able to settle him, I found he suffered from a fever and an unusual rash upon his hands. The rash was a skin irritation which was easily treated. The fever seemed simple as well. Once I was able to control that, his manner became quite docile and he soon drifted into a deep sleep. After prescribing some medication I asked after his general medical history and state of mind."

At this point Holmes, who had sat in a chair by the fire with his head back and his eyes closed, now leaned forward and looked at his friend. "Who are the residents of this household?"

"The Colonel, his cousin Sidney, who is in investments of some kind. Sidney's wife Lorraine and her son, Tom, from a previous marriage, who is in his twenties and a student of some sort at University. They seemed, I don't know, strange. Suspicious, maybe, no, wary -- distrustful. It's hard to describe the feeling of the house. Fear," was the description he finally settled upon. "They fear something." Pulling at his mustache, he shook his head, dissatisfied with the indistinct impressions and his inability to put into words the exact atmosphere pervading his visit.

"You? Or the Colonel?"

"I don't know."

Holmes held up his hand to halt the narrative. He narrowed his gaze. "You have some definite opinion of the man, Watson. Your insights are invaluable in these cases. Do not overlook your impressions, nor be timid to draw conclusions. I depend upon your eye for detail, old fellow."

Grateful for the compliment, Watson was yet reluctant to be too fanciful. "I do not wish to colour your view of the menage."

"I trust I can remain objective," was Holmes wry reassurance.

"Sidney is a large man in his forties, a great greying beard and thick, full hair. He is most -- obsequious -- I suppose is the word. Too obliging, too quick to agree with my opinions and instructions."

Holmes smiled. "I believe that is the first time I have ever heard that complaint from you, Doctor."

Watson returned the grin. "Particularly when you are the patient."

"Touché, Watson. Pray continue."

Watson explained that he left the house and returned a few days later to check on the patient. He was amazed when he was not allowed to visit the Colonel, nor would the butler, Stanton, admit him to see any other Warburton. Annoyed, Watson had left with the full intention of hailing the nearest Constable on the street. He was forestalled from that by a chance meeting with Clancy the maid. She took him through the kitchen entrance of the house and up the servant's stairs.

From there Watson found his way to the Colonel's room, where he was astonished to see the Colonel sitting up in a wheelchair and apparently coherent. The Colonel had no memory of meeting him, nor of any physical ailments except for weak legs -- thus the necessity of the wheelchair.

"This new room was in even worse condition than the first bedroom. The evidence of violence was extreme. I made a quick examination of the patient and was surprised to find no problems, no sign of his rash or fever. However, I noted his fingernails were torn and imbedded with blood, which I deduced were signs of injury to another person or to himself. He had no memory of being injured. He was even so stable as to apologize for the state of the room, saying his room was being aired and he was soon to return. There was no time for me to make a more detailed examination. So I would not cause trouble for Clancy I returned down the servant's stairs, intending to try another official entry into the house. At this point I was concerned that the Colonel was being mistreated and would benefit from admission to a hospital. On my way out I heard the cook and housekeeper discussing the strange rituals of the household, but they did not speak of anything specific. They mostly complained about Sydney constantly unsettling the Colonel from his room. That interests you, I see."

"It is a detail, Watson. I shall docket it."

"Then I went round to the front door and tried again to enter. Stanton would not even open the door for me. At this point I seriously debated calling a constable, but I hesitated for fear of jeopardising Clancy's position in the house." He sighed, shook his head, and stared into the fire with a distant, disturbed expression. "That is an error in judgment I shall regret all my remaining days. Two days later, I was again summoned to an emergency at the house. I arrived to find Clancy had taken a terrible fall from a loose stair. The same staircase I had walked on just two days before!"

"And you found nothing amiss on the stairs when you were there?"

"Nothing. But after examining Clancy I checked the stairs again."

"Good man," Holmes muttered.

"There was a loose board then. I would wager it had been loosened, but there was no time to examine it."

"Was there an investigation?"

"Yes. An Inspector Toland and the local Constable Peters who was on his beat the night of the accident. They did little more than glance at the step. Their findings were inconclusive -- the step may or may not have caused a fall."

"And Clancy?"

"In a coma. I fear she will not last out the week."

"Poor girl."

"Yes."

Watson moved to stir the coals in the grate. For some moments he stared into the shimmering flames as the incandescent coloured tongues licked the black coals. Holmes stared at his friend. There was more motivating Watson than guilt over the girl's injury. Watson was guessing the girl's treachery had been discovered and she had been silenced. Why? It could have simply been an accident. Without saying so, Holmes knew Watson believed otherwise. And he had learned over the years that Watson's instincts were invaluable. They were inexplicably, uncannily correct in many instances. Holmes might chide his friend for embellishment or fanciful imagination, but he would never condemn the doctor's sixth sense.

"And what was the state of the household at this last visit?"

"The Colonel's fever and skin irritation had returned. He did not have any memory of my second or first visit. In fact, he raved like a wild monkey, talking of mad things -- bitter tea, heathens in his room and such. But, he was sitting in yet a third room and this room was in perfectly good condition."

"You enquired after the violent attacks?"

"Yes. I even asked the Inspector to check the rooms, but they had been tidied. Toland thought nothing of the information."

Holmes stiffened and sat on the edge of the chair. "You admitted to the secret visit?"

"Yes. Shouldn't I have?"

The news was disturbing to the sleuth. He launched himself from the chair and pulled a cigarette from his silver case. With deliberation he lit the cigarette and leaned on the mantle opposite Watson, smoking and thinking.

"The relatives?"

"All were gathered like vultures. They were guarded and close."

"How did they react to the revelation of your secret visit?"

Standing near the grate, Watson warmed his hands. "They were quite affronted and declared I was banned from the house. Tom, the student, urged Toland to prosecute, but the Inspector dismissed the lad out of hand."

"Were the Warburtons cooperative to questioning?"

"They answered my questions and the Inspector's few enquiries with nearly single word replies."

"I daresay you asked more pertinent questions than the official force."

This elicited a slight smile from Watson. Turning toward his friend, hands in pockets, he leaned his shoulder against the mantle and stared at his feet. "There is no evidence of a crime. There is no drug I can think of which could cause the Colonel's erratic madness. But I think there is something herbal -- organic which is causing this reaction." He glanced up and noticed Holmes puzzled expression. "The rash on the hands. Consistent with allergic irritation to some foreign substance."

Holmes smiled warmly. "Bravo, Doctor."

"Thank you. I am sure there is evil in that house. I was hoping, if you had nothing else to do, if you had the time, you could check into the Colonel's estate or something." He shrugged his shoulders. "Am I mad myself?"

"No, my dear Watson, not at all. Just fatigued. You are my stalwart bloodhound and you have sniffed out something nefarious. Even without seeing this mad household I can sense the insidious echoes of danger here. But I cannot put my finger on it now."

Holmes slouched back into the chair and sat in silence for some time until his thoughts were interrupted by the abrupt sensation of the burned-down cigarette stub stinging his fingers. "Blast!" he exclaimed with annoyance. He glanced at Watson, who was dozing in the other chair. Holmes quietly shook his friend.

"Off to bed, Doctor. Your wife will be very put out with me for keeping you up so late. You have to work in the morning. We can solve these problems another day."

"Then you shall take the case?"

"My dear Watson, when have you known me to refuse you any request? Of course! Consider Sherlock Holmes at your service." Watson had followed him to the door where he helped Holmes wrap up. "I shall be in touch."

Watson cleared his throat. "Holmes, about the fee --"

"Now Watson, do not even consider --"

"Your time is important Holmes --"

"Never so important that I am unavailable for my friend," he finished with incisive forcefulness. "Not another word on the matter, Doctor. Your money has more worthy uses. Now good night my dear fellow. Your mind should be at rest. I shall be in touch."

***

Research had never been tedious to Holmes. Study was a familiar and comfortable companion to someone who had grown up in a solitary environment with only the comfort of books to abide with. Hours flew by unnoticed when Holmes was bent over a volume of unplumbed knowledge. He could absorb the information with an almost photographic retention. At any time during a case he could summon up the needed data which would be relevant to his investigation. Sometimes, years after reading a bit of information, he could call up the mentally docketed trivia and appear brilliant to others who had no access to such inner storehouses of knowledge.

Holmes spent the next few rainy days in search of all possible information on Colonel Warburton and assorted family. Birth and death records were informative but too dry. He expanded his search to military records, banking information (discreetly obtained through his anonymous army of informants), and even former servants.

What he discovered was unsettling in the extreme, but not criminal, not even unusual. Simply suspicious to someone who not only studied crime, but had come to sense criminal activity even behind the most benign facade.

The Colonel led an eccentric but unimpressive career after his heroics in the Crimea. He had adopted much of the culture of the lands where he was later stationed. His sympathies for the native culture ostracized him from military protocol and at an old age the Colonel was finally forced to retire from the Army and leave his beloved Brazil because of poor health. There was never any mention of mental illness, merely the eccentricities of an officer posted in foreign lands for most of his career.

The financial statements were much more illuminating. From some investments in mines in Brazil, the Colonel had amassed a tidy fortune which he had deposited in a London bank. Soon after his return to England he had been removed from a country home in Surrey, where he had lived with an aged sister, to the London house with his cousin Sidney's family. Holmes could find no definite reason for the move. His only course was either to interview those who knew him in London, which seemed to be few, or go to Surrey and interview the Colonel's sister, who still resided in the country.

Holmes spent a fruitless, wet day as a laborer doing odd jobs on the street outside the Kensington house. He could never under any pretense gain access to the house, nor did he collect any useful information from the street people. It was a good neighbourhood and such places, like Baker Street, were kept free of loiterers and layabouts. The only item of interest he could glean from the locals was that the Warburton household was a closed and unhappy place. The hired help was tight-lipped -- scared to gossip, and the locals were thus distrustful of the residents.

There was nothing to report to his 'client', but Holmes felt cold and dispirited and in need of a bolstering drink and even more the cheering companionship of his friend. When he arrived on the Watson doorstep after dark, Sally answered the door and visibly brightened when she recognized him. He supposed the girl was another avid reader of the exaggerated accounts Watson forced upon a long-suffering public. Sally informed him that Doctor Watson had been with a patient all afternoon and could be gone all night.

"It's Mr. Rawlson, the butcher," she explained as he stepped into the hall. "Mrs. Watson is fatigued -- her heart, poor woman -- and is taken to her bed. Shall I call her?"

"No, by no means!"

What was he to do now? He needed to TALK to Watson, discuss these vague sense of concern, foreboding. He could not even grasp the feelings enough to define them. Suddenly he felt supremely foolish as puddles collected on the tile and the rare moment of indecision kept him in the chill hall. "I shall -- I shall call again tomorrow. Please inform the doctor to contact me when he returns."

"Yes, Mr. Holmes. Is there any other way I can be of help?"

Dejected, Holmes stepped back out and lingered for a moment in the rain, at a loss as to what to do next. As an excuse to keep the conversation going he asked if Watson had gone to the hospital to see Clancy. Sally related that Clancy had died from her injuries.

During the cold and wet cab ride back to Baker Street, Holmes slipped into depression. For the rest of the night he moped round the sitting room of Baker Street, hoping and anticipating a visit from the doctor -- disappointed each time a cab rattled by on the rainy street and did not stop at his door. These were the times when he needed his councellor and aide most. These were Watson's shining moments when he could pull Holmes from the pit of darkness. He vacillated from bitterness at Watson's desertion, to guilt at his own petty selfishness, to concern over Mary's heart condition. In the early hours of the morning he finally drifted off to sleep with a faint whisper of anxiety for the safety of his friend. Recognized more in a dream than in a waking thought was the realization that if Warburton was being driven mad, and a maid had been murdered, then Watson should watch his every move.

***

On the third day Holmes called again at the Watson house. The situation remained unchanged; Mrs. Watson was still unwell and the doctor was visiting patients. He had left a message that he would contact Holmes as soon as there was a pause in his duties. Refusing to surrender valuable time to a morose mood, Holmes struck out on his planned mission and took a train to Surrey. He could have lingered in London, or even tracked down Watson to discuss the case, but he had nothing definite to report and only the vaguest of worries. These exaggerated concerns would only unnecessarily alarm the Watsons. So he chose to keep his dire thoughts to himself until he had more facts, more evidence of substance. Evidence of what he did not yet even know.

Not an admirer of the country, he was at least gratified that there was sunshine and clear skies in the small village where he found Mrs. Celia Chester, Colonel Warburton's sister.

He knocked on the door of the small but quaint house with a front garden profusely populated with colourful flowers. There was a sense of jungle encroaching on the house buried down a country lane and slightly detached from the village. The front door was pulled open with great force. A small, bow-backed woman looked him up and down.

"You're the man come from London?"

He handed her his card. "Sherlock Holmes."

Mrs. Chester was near the age of eighty. She was bright of eye and spry of spirit, he assessed, when she answered the door. He had sent ahead a letter the day before to announce his intentions of interviewing her. He had intended to adopt the role of some fictional persona, but once the recipient of Mrs. Chester's keen glare and sharp mind, he instantly altered his position.

"Come in, come in before all the flying insects of creation get our tea."

She hustled him to a small table which sat in a sunny kitchen. The house was small and cluttered with furniture, books and more cats than he could count with a casual pass through the sitting room. The kitchen was also small, but warm from the sun and the small stove. As he sat in his appointed seat he was served several dainty biscuits incongruous with the lady's bent old hands, and tea which smelled strong even from a distance.

"My husband was in the navy. Taught me to cook, he did. My brother Simon was the only one who really appreciated my cooking."

"I stated in my letter," Holmes began hastily before he received more unsolicited family culinary history, "that I had business to discuss with you. It is, actually, more to do with your brother."

"What's Simon to you?"

"It is a trifle complicated." As concisely as possible Holmes stated that he had been hired to investigate the household because of strange occurrences. Not wanting to alarm the old lady he did not mention any problems with her brother's health. He was therefore interested when she asked after her brother.

"He never wanted to leave," Mrs. Chester insisted emphatically. "Sidney insisted his health would be better with London doctors close by."

"What was your brother's complaint?"

"Last few months he was here he got terrible fevers. They brought on nightmares something awful. I could do nothing for him, so he agreed to go and live with Sidney in London. Haven't heard from him since. Would have gone up to London myself, except I have no one to watch my little ones."

A dusty grey cat rubbed against Holmes shoe and he crossed his leg. The cat moved to the other shoe. "What do you think caused these nightmares?"

"The thought of living with Sidney, I dare say!" she cackled at her own joke. "That young Tom and his smelly experiments -- they stink up the house they do. Drive the cats away. Made Nelson sick, they did. And Sidney - -"

Holmes ground his teeth with impatience. "Mrs. Chester - - "

"I'm getting to the point, impatient young man. Sidney wants in on the will. Simon came back loaded with plenty of quid. Sidney would have liked my money," she said, cooing more to the calico cat who twined itself round the woman's legs, than to Holmes. "But he knows I'm leaving all my money to my babies."

"Will your brother leave his money to Sydney?"

The woman shrugged. "Could be. I have no more need of it. Money is not something we discuss, Simon and me."

The calico was a massive creature with huge paws, a broad, thick body and green eyes which seemed penetratingly clairvoyant. For a strange moment Holmes wondered if the cat was trying to read his mind, so warily did the feline study him. Clearly he was an unwelcome stranger in this cat-country. The detective would not be allowed to forget who was king of the forest. Holmes glanced round at the army of felines and wondered whose madness he should be investigating. He moved his foot which was now covered by the slumbering grey. The dusty cat was only mildly detracted and moved to lean on Holmes' ankle.

"About your brother's nightmares. When precisely did they begin?"

After excruciating interrogation, Holmes was able to establish that the first attacks and fevers occurred only a few months after Warburton's return from South America. Mrs. Chester had at first blamed it on a reaction to some noxious weed Simon had brought back from the jungles, since all the plants in the garden were in their spring bloom when the attacks started. But they never had time to narrow down her theory because Sidney came and spirited the Colonel away.

Intrigued by the theory as much as desiring an escape from the cloying house, Holmes retreated to the garden and spent nearly an hour on his hands and knees carefully examining the various exotic plants brought back from South America. Following him on his dusty trek were several enterprising cats who, true to their species, were as curious about him as he was about the plants. He was amazed that a veritable little jungle of foreign flora had survived the cooler British climate. Because of the sheer volume of unknown plants, it would be impossible to analyse them in any reasonable length of time. He sat on a garden bench and lit a cigarette while he pondered the puzzle. The answers to the madness, to the murder (and murder he believed it was) of Clancy, were here, but he did not have the key to unlock the mystery. Sidney, whom he suspected as the culprit, was alerted to danger, hence, the cloak of silence round the household. That meant the Colonel was more at risk with each passing minute. There had to be a shortcut.

The massive calico cat appeared nearby. As he studied Holmes-the-intruder he sniffed at several exotic plants. In an almost human reaction, the cat wrinkled his nose at the ones he disliked, and even sneezed a few times at a particularly thorny bush with pink flowers. There was an ugly green vine which the calico walked to the other side of the path to avoid.

Holmes whipped out his ever-present magnifying lens and studied several flowers, leaves and stems.

"Mrs. Chester!" Holmes shouted as he leapt to his feet. The answer had been following him round the garden all afternoon! "Mrs. Chester!"

The elderly lady came out of the door as Holmes ran up the steps. "When your brother brought back these plants. You said one of your cats became ill?"

"Nelson. After Simon was ill. Not as bad as Disraeli." Very slowly Mrs. Chester nodded her head. Her already wrinkled face crinkled from concentration. "Yes, poor Disraeli. He was a very distinguished grey cat. Never had much of a sense of smell, but was a wonderful sport. Got very ill and died not long after Simon came to live here. Sidney was here that Saturday, come from London. He and Tom buried Disraeli. Not long afterwards Simon started his spells. The rash, too. Did I mention a terrible rash appeared on Simon's hands?"

"Immediately after he came back from South America?"

"No," she said after a moment of thought. "Just before he left for London. I remember now. He couldn't touch the cats -- his hands were too sensitive, then the rash went away again."

"Thank you, Mrs. Chester." Holmes raced through the house and collected his coat. "I shall be in touch again," he promised as he raced out to the street toward the train station.

*** 

The eternal London rain scattered off Holmes' fist as he pounded the door. It was late and there was only a faint, glowing light from the upstairs sitting room to indicate there was anyone at home. He hoped it was a sign that Watson was still up, dozing over the evening paper. The lazy domestic image thawed his cold pessimism -- warmed him with relief that Watson was home and safe. Impatiently he pounded again.

The door opened a crack and he was surprised to find Mary Watson peering out at him. She had her long sandy hair tied in a braid and a dressing gown was wrapped over her dress. Her face seemed thin and pale compared to their last meeting.

"Mrs. Watson. Forgive me. I did not mean to wake you. I was hoping Watson was at home."

"No, I'm sorry, he's been called out on an emergency. Do you wish to wait until he returns? It's Sally's night off, but I can fix you some tea --"

"No, thank you, I must be off . . . ." his voice trailed away as his thoughts uncharacteristically jumbled with indistinct anxieties. He was disturbed that his plans were disrupted -- no it was more serious than that. "Where was the emergency?"

"It was old Colonel Warburton."

Holmes felt his blood go cold with fear. There was an instinctive recognition of the danger even without the specific definition of the threat. Without doubt he knew his friend was in terrible peril. He only prayed he would not be too late to help.

"Mr. Holmes, what's wrong?" The fear in Mrs. Watson's voice indicated Holmes' anxieties had been readable on his expression.

"Nothing, I hope. I shall find Watson --"

She came out onto the step and held onto his wet, chill hand in an effort to hold him there. "What is it?"

"I do not yet know, Mrs. Watson. But I promise I will return your husband safely home tonight. Now you must not worry." He gently maneuvered her back inside. "It won't do for you to catch a chill. Rest. I shall find Watson."

He squeezed her hand in reassurance before he raced to the corner for a cab. There was a hansom coming from the other direction and he ran in front of the horse to stop it. He shouted out the address of the Kensington house and throughout the ride continually badgered the man to go at all speed. The cab had not even come to a stop before Holmes leapt out, ordering the cabby to fetch the police.

Holmes stopped running just inside the door, which had been left ajar. There was no lamp lit in the entranceway, only the faint glow of light from an upstairs room somewhere. Where was Stanton, the butler? It was the quiet which unnerved him more than the darkness. There was a sepulchre-like stillness, as if no living thing dwelt within the walls. He could hear the dripping of the rain from outside; his own laboured breathing, the splash of water washing from a rain gutter, his heart pounding at the walls of his chest.

Just beyond his sense of sight and hearing he was aware of a presence -- someone -- something was nearby. Then his nerves were scraped raw with an unearthly scream. Before the echo died in the empty hall he ran up the stairs toward the sound. In the darkness he nearly tripped over an obstruction, a dark mass on the stair. In the reflected glow of a street lamp he could make out the form of a woman's body covered with a pasty slime which he could smell was blood. Holmes' heart was pounding so loudly he could not hear anything else.

"Watson," he whispered in a choked voice. "Watson!" he cried out in desperate fear, hoping against hope that his friend would call out a reassuring reply. Without waiting for a response he bounded up the stairs.

At the far end of the first floor hall a gas lamp burned a low flame. Four rooms on each side opened onto the hall. From out of the first room Holmes could see the outline of a second body. Even from this distance he could distinguish that the bushy hair and beard belonged to Sidney Warburton. Holmes cautiously stepped closer. The vacant staring eyes pronounced the man dead. Hideous gashes on the face streaked down to a horrible, red slash cut deep into the neck.

"Watson?" he called again.

For a moment Holmes stood perfectly still, calmed his racing heart, and allowed his other senses to guide him to the dire menace lurking in the house. Fear urged him to abandon caution and search for Watson with all speed, but Holmes knew rashness could cost Watson's life as well as his own. Since he was unarmed, his only weapon against the unseen, unknown threat was his wit.

Concentrating on sorting the sounds, he was soon able to separate the noises; the rain, the creak of shutters, the faint crackle of a fire. The musky odour of burning wood or some other fibrous material was distinguishable. As he looked carefully he could see a thin layer of light smoke emanating from the third room on the right.

After a brief glance into the first and second rooms, Holmes carefully edged along the hall until he could peer into the third bedroom. The light and odour from a fire had intensified and Holmes watched the wall of the room where distorted shadows danced in silhouette. Heavy breathing -- occasional quiet moans -- echoed in accompaniment to the eerie play of flickering light. He crept forward until he could see most of the room. A body lay face down on the floor near an overturned chair, a medical bag lay open upon the floor. With a leaden heart Holmes forced a check upon his initial impulse to rush to his friend.

Holmes tore his eyes from Watson's body and toward the hearth where an old man was slumped against the wall. Near the fire a thin figure wrapped in brightly coloured blankets paced back and forth, thrashing a hideous, thick-bladed, dirty spear through the air. The thin spear shaft and thin body cast strange, shadow-lines across the carpet. A dancing hieroglyphic.

"Stupid old man," came the muttered ravings of the thin young man who was Tom Warburton. "You are mad -- you are mad . . . " he moaned and sank to his knees in front of the Colonel. He placed the spear's tip on the old man's throat. "You must attack me. Just like the others. Then I can kill you in self defense you mad old lunatic."

Holmes gulped down the knot in his throat. Before he could overcome the shock; the illness that gripped him, the young man turned a long, studious gaze toward him. With a guttural cry Tom leapt to his feet, aimed the spear and launched it toward the detective. Holmes leaned aside as the spear sliced into the wood behind him. He pulled the weapon from the wall just as Tom flew into the hall. Using the staff like a singlestick, Holmes jabbed the man in the stomach and delivered several sound strikes to the jaw before the insane young Warburton went down cold.

The spear dropped from Holmes' hands as his limbs shook from delayed shock. He leaned back against the wall and stared at the still Watson, for a moment caught in a frozen heartbeat of fear. Holmes had to force himself into the room to kneel stiffly beside his friend. He observed Watson's hand was still clutched to his medical bag. A thin trail of blood spread on the floor from under the doctor. Fear paused Holmes' hand in mid-air. He was afraid to confirm what logic told him he would find. Beyond his shaking arm he detected the faint rise and fall of Watson's overcoat. Watson was breathing -- he was alive.

"Watson!" He pushed the doctor onto his back. A gash along the side of the head was the source of the blood. Holmes could not tell how serious was the injury, but Watson was breathing steadily. "Thank God," Holmes whispered as he patted his friend's chest with one gloved hand while he buried his face in the other. Watson was alive.

He could hear the crash of the front door and the plodding of heavy boots as the forces of the law noisily arrived downstairs. Muttered exclamations marked the progress as the police made their way along the grisly trail of bodies. When they arrived at his location Holmes ordered them to send for a doctor, then countermanded that. Instead he ordered a cab. He did not want to remain, did not want Watson to remain in this charnel house a minute longer. His friend needed medical attention in much more salubrious surroundings.

With the aid of a constable he carried Watson down to the waiting cab. Within moments they had arrived at the doctor's house. Holmes used his handkerchief to staunch the worst of the blood so as not to alarm Mrs. Watson. He was relieved to see the gash was not a serious one and he predicted that his friend would not suffer any lasting injury. As he had anticipated, Mary Watson was at the door before he could bring a hand up to the knocker.

Within the hour Watson was comfortably settled in his own bed, his wound bandaged and his wife at his side. Holmes stood at the foot of the bed observing his friend. Numerous times he had woken from an injury or a bad bout with cocaine to find his friend at his side; at once anxious and relieved. A few times Holmes had been the one to post such a vigil for Watson, and in those times he had never felt closer, never felt so vulnerable -- needed and in need of the friendship they shared. Now he glanced at Mary, holding onto Watson's hand, and felt that bitter nag of jealousy which had tainted his opinions since Watson's marriage. There was no room for him here. For him there was only the empty substitute of cocaine. He turned away and crossed to the door.

A hand gently snagged his sleeve. "Mr. Holmes. Thank you for bringing John home safely."

It was perhaps the hundredth time she had expressed her gratitude. With depreciation he indicated it was his own slowness which had placed Watson in danger in the first place. This time he simply thought the condemnation.

"You mustn't go."

There was an unnerving perception in her clear blue eyes, which Holmes had always deciphered as intellect. Now it almost seemed like telepathy. He felt she was reading his mind and finding all the unworthy thoughts which lurked in his selfish soul.

"John would expect you to be here."

'He does not need me when you are here,' was his instinctive response, but instead replied, "The police will need a statement."

"John will be so disappointed if you are not here," she assured with compelling sincerity. Her face and frail frame yet reflecting ill health, were poignant contrasts to the shining love in her eyes. "You are the greatest influence in his life. That is one reason why I never object when he joins you for your adventures. Your friendship is so very important to him."

The bold honesty, the praise, warmed his heart. He was washed with an overwhelming guilt for his churlish attitude toward two people who were so honest and straightforward with him that it was nearly painful to bear their misplaced affection. He was at a complete loss for words. He looked away from Mary's sincere countenance, to Watson. Unable even to look at his friend he glanced at the floor for a moment.

"I hope you understand you are always welcome here, Mr. Holmes. I have you to thank for bringing John and I together and --"

Watson stirred. Mary went to his side and held onto his hand. Holmes watched his friend's eyelids flutter open, his eyes gradually focus upon him.

"Holmes -- what the deuce --"

"All will be explained in due time, my dear Watson." He drew closer to the bed. Gently he said, "Now is the time to rest in the very capable hands of your wife."

Watson gave the briefest of nods, glanced at Mary, then closed his eyes again.

There were tears in her eyes when Mrs. Watson smiled warmly at Holmes and mouthed the words, 'thank you.'

Holmes gave a slight bow and quietly left the room.

***

As the pendulum of the clock rhythmically swung back and forth Holmes became mesmerized by the gentle sway of the arm, the consistent tick-tick. His morose lethargy had plunged him into a pit of inactivity. He had no energy for any useful project and no interest in anything. The newspapers held no interest, the post stabbed to the mantle held no future save for a minor intrigue on the Continent, the supper was left untouched on the table, even his brier pipe had gone cold with inattention. He glanced at his desk drawer. There was always the cocaine. His last dose in the pre-dawn hours of this morning had done little to improve his outlook on life and at the moment he even lacked the energy for another injection.

He leaned back and stared at the ceiling, letting the numbness of his depression float him through the empty hours until he would finally fall asleep. This was the second day he had spent in such disgusting uselessness. It was his way of dealing with the straining events of the Warburton family.

In his own mind he was unsure where the dissatisfaction lay. Was it in his own oversights? He should have done a more probing investigation of the family. He had looked only at the surface, believing all along the old Colonel had sniffed too many of his exotic plants, or was being poisoned by the cousin, Sidney. Constructing theories without data. He had overlooked the budding scientist, Tom, who had an eye for inheriting the Colonel's wealth as well as a macabre intrigue for poisons.

Mostly Holmes was angry at his lack of attention to the possible danger to Watson. Had he been thinking clearly he would have been alerted that Clancy's death was an indication that anyone probing the secret of the Warburton family would be in danger. Certainly that applied to the doctor who had used the maid -- who had been murdered! -- as an accomplice. The oversight could have cost Watson's life. A sobering realization which was terrifying for Holmes. How could he have made such a mistake? He was not so slipshod with regular clients, how could he be so careless when Watson had hired him?

Good question. What HAD he been thinking of?

Holmes sensed the answer and was repulsed at the ugly idea. Had he been so petty over his jealousy of Mary, that it had clouded his judgment of Watson's safety? It was an upsetting thought. He didn't want to think he was so shallow as to let his friend's marriage distort his perception. Especially after his realization of what a good wife Mary Watson was for his friend. Instead of being just a pretty face, she was a strong and fitting companion for Watson. Didn't they deserve happiness? Watson's world did not have to revolve round a bachelor consulting detective. Holmes had wanted it that way, but that was not the hand Fate had dealt out for them. So why could he not graciously accept and share in their happiness? He glanced again at the desk drawer. So far his only means of acceptance was a temporary and bitter substitute for a friend. He had been indulging in that crutch a bit too freely of late. Now he was on the verge of another needle-full of escapism.

The shuffling tread of feet on the stairs stopped him from leaving the chair. He did not recognize the step. A light knock at the door. Not Mrs. Hudson.

"Come."

Watson stepped into the room.

"Watson! Good Heavens, my dear fellow, what are you doing here?"

Holmes leapt from the chair and took hold of his friend's elbow to guide the weak doctor to his chair by the fire. Holmes had not been back to the Paddington house since the end of the adventure. The first day after the murders he had been tied up with explaining the case to the police. Then he had barricaded himself in the sitting room trying to set his mind -- his life -- in order.

"What are you doing out?" Holmes stood back and observed his friend. Watson was pale and weak from the injury. A bandage adorned the side of his head and from under the white material the skin was discoloured with bruising. The fact that he had heavily leaned on his walking stick to cross the room indicated he had not yet recovered his strength. "If you wished company you could have sent for me, Watson."

"Almost three days bed rest was enough," Watson replied. "I didn't want another day to pass without coming to thank you for saving my life."

Holmes waved aside the gratitude and moved to pace the carpet. "It was my own slowness which put you in such danger in the first place. When Clancy's accident was arranged I should have known you would be the next target. You had to be silenced. I was so busy seeing the grand scheme of inheritance by poison, that I failed to see the obvious peril to you." He came to a stop behind Watson's chair. "For that I apologise, old friend."

Watson turned to face him. "Not even you can see everything all the time, Holmes. Don't blame yourself."

Holmes waved away the advice and crossed to his desk. He stared out at the dark street. Rain was slashing against the glass. It would be another cold, wet night. Not much prospect of clients tonight. For once Holmes was thankful for the wretched weather. He was in no hurry for a new case. He casually closed the slightly open desk drawer, then carried a cigar box over to Watson. "I was going to bring these over."

"Thank you, Holmes. Not exactly customary for the client to receive a gift."

"This was hardly a normal case." Holmes paced alongside the mantle. "Do you remember what happened?"

"Very little. When I arrived the mother and father were already dead. I suppose I was meant to find Tom barely alive after the attack from the Colonel. I walked into the room and remember nothing else."

"The blow to the head."

Watson thoughtfully nodded in agreement. After a moment he said, "I read in the papers the standard facts. I expect the police got those from you. You really must stop this anonymity, Holmes. It is no good for your business."

This elicited a grin from the detective and he curled into his chair opposite Watson. "I am busy enough since my chronicler has handled my publicity," he responded with a nod toward the doctor. "I did not want our names involved with this nasty affair. It was no compliment to what little brain I have. And the sordid details need not be read by the public over breakfast. Tom was a young man carried away by greed and a fanciful idea that his knowledge of exotic poisons could give him power -- who knows what went on in his mind. The Colonel was probably always a trifle unstable. Tom was probably already deranged. He was the one who made the attacks upon the rooms and upon the Colonel. If you had been able to examine Tom you would have found scratch wounds."

"Where the Colonel lashed out in self defense."

"Precisely. I also suggested to the police that they look for drugs when they conduct Clancy's post mortem. I think it safe to speculate that Tom tried a stronger drug on her to silence her. The Colonel had to be given something in small doses to make it appear like gradual madness."

"The papers said little of the old boy. What of his fate?"

A smirk played at Holmes lips. "His sister has taken him in. He has scant memory of the events and I am convinced, as I was also able to convince the police, that he is harmless. It was the drugs which gave him the seizures you observed."

"Do you know the drugs which were used?"

"I have a good idea about the plants. I have some samples that I will experiment with --"

"Not too closely," Watson warned sternly.

"Not too closely."

"Is the Colonel harmless?"

"You have not seen the army of cats the Colonel will be sharing a house with. I believe they will keep him in line."

"Now Holmes, about your fee . . . . "

"Fee? I have done nothing to deserve a fee, Doctor. I wish to hear no more about such nonsense."

"Very well," Watson sighed. "Tom Warburton will spend the rest of his life in Bedlam for killing his parents. Once again someone else receives the glory." He tapped the cigar box and sardonically said, "I receive the cigars. What is left for you?" His gaze lingered on the desk drawer, then settled on Holmes.

The detective waved his hand toward the correspondence affixed to the mantle. "I am summoned to the Continent again for a case."

Watson stared at his friend, unable to find any comforting advice. There was nothing he could say, in any event, which would pull Holmes from this depression. Nothing ever seemed to work anymore. Holmes had to come out of the dumps himself. Watson glanced out at the rain and shifted in his chair. He did not want to be long out in this weather. He had best start for home.

His heart was as heavy as his tired old muscles. He had come here to cheer Holmes -- three days of silence after such a harrowing case was a warning that the detective had slumped into a depression. He couldn't really say that his marriage had created a distance between them but there were times when nothing he would do or say could bring Holmes' spirits up. Just when Watson despaired that Holmes would never seek him out again, Holmes would pop up on the doorstep with an invitation to join in a case, or drop by the surgery with his favourite wine, or, as tonight, buy his favourite cigars.

"I had best return home before the weather becomes worse."

Holmes jumped up to assist the doctor with the cigars and helped Watson into his overcoat. For an awkward moment they stood by the hatstand, unsure of what else to say.

"Thank you for the cigars. Don't be a stranger, Holmes, you know you are welcome anytime."

"Yes, thank you," Holmes brushed aside. "Good night."

He stood at the door of the sitting room and watched Watson slowly descend the seventeen steps. As with every other personal moment in his life, Holmes had been brusque to the point of rudeness. By the treatment Holmes dished out, one would never guess the man who had just left was his only friend. He had allowed his ill feelings toward Watson's marriage to tinge his behaviour toward his friend. Such selfishness had to stop. Now that Holmes felt much better about Mary -- less jealous -- there was really no reason to continue such an attitude. After all, if he had to share his friend with anyone, Mary Morstan Watson had proved to be a worthy spouse. He also realised there was no time like the present to make an effort to bridge the gap he had created between them.

"Watson!"

"Yes?" The doctor paused on the stair, his head and shoulders still visible.

Holmes snatched his coat and hat from the stand. "It is much too miserable a night for you to trudge about for a cab. I will see you home," he said as he trotted down to join his friend. He took the box of cigars. "I shall find us a cab." He hurried down to the door. "Do you suppose Mrs. Watson will have something hot waiting for us?"

"Uh --I --" Watson stuttered at the concept. "I should think so."

"Capitol. Come along, Watson. Cabby!"

The End