THE DEVOTION AND COURAGE OF MURRAY

by

GM

Winter 1899

Morton, the evening doorman for the Diogenes Club, gave me a nod as I entered the foyer and proceeded up the main staircase to the private dining rooms. Mycroft was already at table, as were two of my cousins. Brief salutations were exchanged over soup. Politics were discussed with the appetizers and main courses. Family trivialities were the topic with dessert.

With cigars and brandy came the reason for my invitation to the council of war with my brother, and Simon and Andrew Blakeney. Simon began the explanations.

"Ian is in Prussia. He's run into a chap calling himself Sydney. Tall, dark chap, probably Italian antecedents. He has a scar running from the right eye to his lip. Ah, I see that strikes a chord with you, Sherlock."

"Indeed," I agreed. "Sigerson had some dealings with Sydney back in '92. A nasty fellow," I recalled with distaste. Much of my sojourn across Europe during my flight from England had been unpleasant. Eager to flee from the bitter memories, I proceeded with the conversation. "Mycroft, didn't I include something of Sydney in my communiqués?"

With a flourish of his pudgy hand, Mycroft paused to take some snuff, then replied, "Yes, but very little, Sherlock. We were hoping you would have more in your personal notes and recollections."

I gave a slight nod, striving to recall where I had placed my scant journals from those dark days. Certainly, I had recorded something of the fortune hunter Sydney. "My impression at the time was that he was a spy for hire. Your letters mentioned nothing of him, and I soon lost contact with him. Is it important?"

"Very," Mycroft sighed. "You know how cryptic Ian can be."

"He's probably about to lose limb and life," Andrew commented with exasperation. "I need to find out if I should go rescue him."

"Accompany me back to Baker Street. We shall excavate the lumber room in search of the old journals."

Mycroft harrumphed loudly. "I doubt we can live long enough for you to rummage through your past biographies. Your years without your chronicler are a hopeless collection of litter."

I ignored the insults and turned to my cousins. "You are welcome to join the dig."

Andrew shook his head. "Not a good idea for my face to be seen round London right now, old man." He smiled at his older brother. "The Lord of the Manor wouldn't want to smut his hands in your old trunks, I suppose?"

Sir Simon, a few years my junior, also ignored his sibling's insult, but his grey/blue eyes twinkled at the humor. "Quite so," he quipped with mock severity. "Mycroft said Watson is out of town. Correct?"

"He is in Vienna. Another seminar."

"Ah," Andrew smiled. "The haven of the experimental medical refugees. Their outré theories are accepted nowhere else. So they make exile in Vienna, where rich dowagers are willing to throw money away on 'new techniques'. Careful, Sherlock, he'll leave you for a rich widow and a lucrative practice in Harley Street if he fills his head with those theories."

"Never! He craves adventure more than dowagers."

"It would serve you right," Simon commented censoriously. "You do not appreciate him enough."

"My appreciation for him is complete."

Simon frowned, his accusing eyes sharp. "You are just too concerned with important matters to reveal it to your chronicler."

Irritated with the criticism, I gave a quick glance to my brother, who impassively partook of more snuff. I knew better than to enquire how Mycroft would know the latest news at Baker Street. Puzzled that the espionage contingent of my clan knew so much of my personal life, I paused to light a cigar. My cousins seemed overly eager to hear confirmation of their intelligence. I silently debated if I should bluntly ask for an explanation, or enquire with subtle, back-door questions, which would elicit information. Subterfuge would take much too long, and my relatives were nearly equal to my intellect, Mycroft usually being my superior in such mind exercises. I chose the direct approach.

"Since when are the minions of Whitehall interested in the comings and goings of doctors and detectives from Baker Street?"

The other three exchanged glances. From some subtle and imperceptible form of silent communication, it was decided that Mycroft would be the spokesman.

"We simply felt this was a family matter. No need for your biographer to be involved."

Evasive, cryptic and a half-truth.

A trifle irritated, I studied the glowing tip of my cigar as I twirled it between my fingers. "You knew Watson was away, thus the invitation to lunch. You must also know, then, that he does not return from his seminar until Tuesday."

Only Simon had the grace to look chagrined. "For reasons we prefer not to share at this time, we wanted this meeting kept secret. No reflection on the good doctor, but it would have been unconscionably rude of us to invite you to lunch and snub Watson."

Another partial truth. I stubbed out my cigar and came to my feet. "I shall return to Baker Street and look for the journals. Mycroft, I'll send them over when I have completed the search."

"Wait, take Henry," Simon called. "He'll be invaluable."

Like the subject of a conjurer’s trick, the redoubtable Henry appeared literally from the woodwork of a hidden panel on the far side of the room. It had been years since I had seen the stalwart and exotic associate who had served with my cousins for more than twenty years.

We shook hands, his greeting almost effusive in its warmth. His foreign upbringing lent him friendliness strange to reserved Englishmen. Short, stocky, his skin dark denoting his foreign origins, he was a noticeable oddity in London. We made our farewells and caught a cab for Baker Street.

For most of the cold, October afternoon, Henry and I rummaged through trunks and boxes in the lumber-room above Watson's bedroom. This was where I kept my wardrobes of disguises, my old files I could not bear to throw away, and various mementoes, which had been pushed out of our rooms below. The quest was tedious and time consuming as we sifted through the old leather-bound volumes. There was no heat, and my companion, a descendent of the Islands of the South Pacific, shivered from the chill. I suggested we move the trunks downstairs, but he declined, claiming anywhere in dreary old England was too cold for his blood. During the quest, I frequently glanced at my mysterious ally and tried to recall his unusual history connected with the Blakeneys and Holmes'.

The first time I met Henry was some twenty-odd years before. He served as an assistant to Simon, who worked with Mycroft. When Simon retired from service abroad and inherited the Blakeney title, Henry shifted his service to the family estate at Richmond. Occasionally, he traveled abroad to aid Andrew or Ian in their covert work, but he never strayed far from Simon.

In the infrequent meetings with the mysterious retainer, I knew little more than I did the first time we met one Christmas in Richmond. In those days, I was a struggling consultant out of my Montague Street digs.

Henry was somewhat older than my own age, although his foreign heritage made an exact analysis difficult. He was the only child of a Polynesian mother and an Irish sea captain. In an undisclosed past, Simon somehow connected with him and they were inseparable ever since. My own visits with family were infrequent, so my contact with Henry was sparse. I knew he was well loved by the Blakeney's, and surmised it was from some valiant service performed while abroad with Simon.

The candles flickered unsteadily in the draughty old room. Darkness was closing outside. Digging up the unpleasant past of my absent years, mucking through the dusty skeletons without the aid of my biographer, was straining on my nerves. I did not want to relive those empty years, and would just as soon be done with this task. I suggested we stop for tea.

Henry did not acknowledge my comment. He was too engrossed with the book he had found in the trunk. I leaned over to peer at the pages. It was one of Watson's old journals from his army days in India and Afghanistan.

I watched Henry's emotive face as he read my biographer's accounts of army life. He was touched, saddened, and moved to tears by the soldier's history. Slowly he closed the book and wiped away moisture no stoic Britisher would shed, but which this mysterious immigrant unashamedly released.

"Doctor Watson is a wonderful man. Kind. A good physician. A gentleman."

I gave a slow nod. Odd comments from someone who had never met my sterling friend. "I agree completely. I never realized your opinion of Watson was so generous."

"I -- uh -- of course, Simon thinks the world of him. Watson is a powerful writer, as well," he sighed. "I have read all of his published accounts. None of his adventures compares to this," he said as he reverently closed the volume. "Perhaps I should not have read his private notes."

"No harm done, I'm sure," I replied guardedly, still pondering the extreme reaction to the book. I piled several journals in my arms. "Let's go down for tea. Bring some of them with you. I'm sure Watson wouldn't mind. You were in the war, too, weren't you?"

"Yes."

Henry stacked the journals back in the trunk, except for the one volume he had been reading. He hesitated for a moment, then tucked the book under his arm and took the candles and several books.

Henry enthusiastically cleared the plates of Mrs. Hudson's cakes. While he was consuming the last of the food, I went up and returned from the lumber-room, bringing back more old volumes. I told him I felt the Sigerson accounts were somewhere in one of the tomes.

After tea, Henry roamed the sitting room, absorbing the minutiae he had read about but never seen. With the eye of a true aficionado, he studied every detail of our digs. He perused Watson's bookshelf above the desk and on the window seat, apparently finding the choice of material of interest. At last, I had laid hands on the Sigerson scribbles. I put my journals and loose papers on the table for Henry to take with him back to the Diogenes Club.

"It is a shame Watson is not here to give you a personal account. He loves the adulation of his public."

The comment was a glib barb at my friend's fame. I was surprised the words had a dramatic effect on Henry.

He was aghast at the thought. "No, no, Watson and I should never meet. I am an appreciator from afar."

Odd phraseology, I thought. He and Watson should never meet. As with other elements of his history, I docketed away the mysterious tidbit for future study.

I settled into my chair with one of Watson's journals. Momentary guilt tickled my conscience; the fleeting thought that I was intruding on his privacy. I soon found, however, as Henry did, the writing was compelling and I was lost in the past. Intent on our separate quests the darkness thickened on the panes and the temperature dropped.

The engrossing account of Watson’s final days in Afghanistan was almost painful, yet strangely stirring. The events were too depressing, too heart-wrenching, and too personal. Those last terrible battles had been Hell for my friend. Although he had suffered when wounded, the injury was a Godsend. He was well out of that quagmire of agony. So easily, he could have been killed, I acknowledged with a shiver. My life would have been so altered if that tragic death -- of an Army doctor a half world away -- had occurred. Happily, for me, it had not.

From the journal, I learned my friend's kind heart was an open window of emotion, and I wondered how he had endured the horrors of battle, insensitivity of regulations and harsh commanders. In the end, I found, only his devotion to duty, country and honor, compelled him to remain in the pit of anguish, while others deserted or died.

One journal entry in particular was touching. Watson was tormented by the death of a young subaltern whom he could not save. I remembered Watson's story of the young man and his partner spy, and the subsequent sighting of the subaltern's ghost.

Watson was devastated -- one death too many in an unendurable war. It troubled him continually -- even until the day before the battle at Maiwand. The last entry in the journal.

I fingered the last written page, which remained incomplete. His accounts of his return to England were elsewhere. I noticed the page was damp and realized this might be a tear stain. This was the volume Henry had read in the lumber-room.

Even in my private journal, I am ashamed to say, I record that my biographer's accounts of my life are a source of entertainment to me rather than appreciation of his talent. A flaw I recognize but have never corrected.

It is a maxim of mine that insignificant pieces of trivia are stored in a lumber-room of the mind and then forgotten. When such titles of information are needed, meditation or some other mental exercise will frequently retrieve the trivia. Watching Henry thumb through the old Beeton's Christmas Annual from Watson's shelf was the crystallizing instant of realization.

Collecting and subconsciously sorting the other little trifles I had observed and discarded over the last twenty-odd years produced an amazing revelation. With uncanny certainty, I was stunned at the theory. I also wondered why I had never made the connection before.

"How does it feel to read, in print, your significant role -- indeed the saving of the life -- of my friend?"

Henry Murray gasped and dropped the magazine as if he had been shot. His dark face drained of color.

"You, Henry Murray, are an abominable actor. There is no point in dissemination. You are the famous Murray who saved Watson's life at Maiwand!" The shock of the revelation was just sinking in as I spoke my suspicions aloud. Warming to my discovery, I quoted: " 'I should have fallen to the murderous Ghazis had it not been for the devotion and courage of Murray, my orderly, who threw me across a packhorse.' You have purposely kept out of his way for over twenty years. Why? He would love to see you again and shake your hand. Indeed, I feel I myself owe you a great debt --"

"No, sir, you do not --"

"You saved Watson's life! Without your intervention, I would have never met him. I am not a sentimental man, Henry, but your role in our Fates is inestimable."

"Please -- no."

The good Murray now colored with embarrassment. No, with guilt. Why? In the eyes of my friend, and myself he was a hero. What reason could there be for shame? Without any clues whatsoever, I knew the answer in an astonishing leap of inspiration.

"You were working with Simon at Maiwand." It was a flat statement of explanation. "Simon was the lieutenant Watson saved, was he not?" The whole picture suddenly came into clear view. I was shocked as the pieces cascaded into place with breathtaking swiftness. My mouth was dry. "How could I not see it before? You were Simon's batsman. Why masquerade as an orderly in a field hospital? How came you to return for Watson? You were a spy! How came you to be Watson’s orderly?”

“It is a long story.”

I waved him on. “Not too long for an explanation.”

"Correct," he quietly admitted. "Simon recruited Paris, the young subaltern who died in India. They were the agents who uncovered information on an imminent attack. Sir Simon and I went to Afghanistan. Imagine our surprise to find Watson there!"

"He never guessed you were working for Simon?"

Henry shook his head. "I was at the camp. Sir Simon was out in the bush. When Watson returned, just before the battle, he believed I was exiled along with him."

"Exiled -- you mean Watson was ordered to the centre of the fighting because of his disagreement with Colonel Donal."

“Yes.”

“As in India.”

“Yes.” Murray sadly shook his head. “Watson was always too compassionate.

A statement I could only agree with. I asked him to continue.

“Just before the attack at Maiwand, Sir Simon was injured, badly injured, but he insisted on getting word back to the British lines. I never knew the details. He was about to tell me, fearing his death, but Watson had me take him away before the battle."

My mind reeled; my fists knotted from the tension, I came to stand in front of the fire. The intrigue seemed dirty and dishonorable at this level. Sitting in the Diogenes Club, it was all clinical, clean and distant. Knowing my cousin and my closest friend had been the pawns on the front lines of bureaucratic stupidity was enraging. So easily they both could have been killed. The possibilities of such a voice in my life were unimaginable at this pint in time.

“You were an orderly, but you were working with Simon and an intelligence gatherer? Watson was nearly killed!”

"Yes,” he admitted, near tears. “The men in camp seemed to know the worst was coming. Watson might have guessed. Watson secretly evacuated several wounded who could not defend themselves."

It was so typical of my friend. Risk his career and his life for the good of those who could not help themselves. “Devoted to the end. Thank you,” I quietly muttered. “I am grateful you saved him, Henry.”

“You are most welcome. It was the least I could do after his great service to the family.”

"In his chronicle of the Lauristan Gardens case, he said you were his orderly."

Murray replaced the magazine on the shelf and came to stand in front of the fire. "He was confused, perhaps because of the fever."

"No," I disagreed adamantly. I could tell it was a frail fabrication. "You were his orderly, but you were working with Simon as an intelligence gatherer as your true duty!" Angrily, I leaped up and paced the room. The wind had come up and rain was lashing against the glass. "Why the subterfuge? Why conceal yourself from him all this time?" A possible solution crept into my mind and the bitterness of the possibility made me sneer with contempt. I stabbed a finger at my hapless victim. "You -- no -- Simon, and Mycroft, were afraid a meeting would bring suspicion to your role in my family and the significance in Watson's life! Why?"

"Sir Simon ordered me to return for Watson. Simon felt he would probably be killed."

"He almost was!"

"Yes. It was a near thing. Then after Maiwand Sir Simon requested I work with him."

The wind had come up and rain was lashing against the glass. "Why the subterfuge? Why conceal yourself from Watson all this time?" I stabbed a finger at him. "You -- no -- Simon, and Mycroft, were afraid a meeting would bring suspicion to your role in my family and the significance in Watson's life! Why?"

Murray's silence was an admission that I was on the right trail.

"Then Simon returned to Richmond to recover. Sir Alfred was still alive, then, and Simon had not yet inherited," I relentlessly continued.

"Yes."

"That was when I first met you."

"I recall it very clearly. You were very -- different -- in your youth."

I ignored the irony in his tone. As if I gazed into a crystal ball, I could see the secret machinations as clearly as I could see the man in the room. The deceit and duplicity were staggering.

"I was erratic then," I began slowly. "Dangerous? When I announced my intentions of a career in detection, Mycroft plagued me with opposition." My thoughts and words came faster and faster with more heat. "He mercilessly lobbied for Andrew to share digs with me -- to keep an eye on me. I suppose he thought I would die of cocaine poisoning, or a knife in the back. He knew I was working at Barts. It was probably a trifle for him -- for Simon -- to arrange me to meet Stamford. Who happened to stumble upon Watson one bleak morning in January." I was nearly shouting by this time, my anger unleashed. "What a perfect manacle for the eccentric little brother -- an invalid officer --"

"No, it wasn't like that --"

"A spy in my pocket!"

"No, he was never that. He never knew. When he met Sir Simon again, years later, he never guessed it was the same lieutenant. Sir Simon had changed. Watson's memories of those last days were -- blurred."

"But you would have been more familiar. He would have known you."

"Yes. So in those rare times when you and Watson have come to Richmond, I have been elsewhere."

"How could you?" I shouted. "How could Mycroft dare do this?"

Anger quickly turned to depression. I sank into the chair, staring into the fire with unfocused sight. I felt robbed, cheated, used. My valued friendship was not some cosmic, wondrous, fated bond. It was not even a glorious kismet of chance. It was an arranged union manipulated by the powers, which manipulated governments and lives like men on a chessboard.

"It wasn't Mycroft alone," came a quiet voice from the door.

Murray drew in a sharp breath. "Sir Simon."

I did not even look at my cousin.

"I wondered what was taking so long with that Sigerson information. You know, Sherlock, it is not as black as you paint it."

I snorted.

I heard Simon go to the sideboard and help himself to some brandy. He settled into the sofa with a sigh. "Ugly night out. So charming to be in the midst of such warmth."

The sarcasm was not subtle. I shot him a glare. It did nothing to intimidate my formidable opponent. Rather, I thought I detected a twinkle of amusement in his blue/grey eyes.

"I never forgot Watson. When I recovered my health, I kept track of those people who had been of service to me in India and Afghanistan. Watson was one of the less fortunate left alive. He needed help. You, my own flesh and blood, needed help. It seemed a little thing to bring you two foundlings together."

The droll wit fell on antagonistic ears. "Why keep it such a secret? How could you use us like this?" I stared him down, forcing the truth out of him.

Irritatingly, he found no culpability in his crime, and was casually straightforward. "Mycroft knew of my desire to assist Watson. Dear Doctor John would never accept charity. He was not suited for our own work at the Foreign Office, so I could hardly give him a job in the family business. On the other hand, Mycroft was very concerned about you alone and adrift in London. One of us, probably after too much port, decided it would be a capitol idea to arrange a crossing of paths. If the union worked, both our ends would be met. If not, then at least we had tried."

"Watson is a good, honorable man. Knowing him is a benefit," Murray threw in. "He has been a great friend to you. I do not see that any harm has been done."

This time I glared at Murray. I did not appreciate reason and logic in my current mood.

"True enough," was Simon's maddeningly reasonable agreement. "Sherlock, there was no subterfuge on our part except the initial intervention of Stamford. After that, fate has taken its own delightful course. Nothing has diminished your friendship with Watson."

"It has diminished my respect for my relatives," I growled. It was rare to be unarmed in a battle of wills and wits. The occurrence was more frequent than I liked with my relatives. Antecedents were telling factors. I stood at the mantle and charged a pipe. "What other secrets of my past should I know about?" was my question.

Simon grinned at the tone of irony. "Ah, suspicious, but forgiving. Such a good relationship we have, cousin."

The sound of a door slamming drifted up the stairs. I dashed to the window. A cab was pulling away from the curb. I turned back, the realization already registered by my companions. It was one of the few times I had ever seen my composed cousin near to panic.

"Watson back early! Good God, what do we do?"

Although the situation was dire, I could still appreciate the discomfort of Murray and Simon.

"Just desserts," I supplied.

Simon gave a slight nod. "This game is on your turf, Sherlock. We will follow your lead, whatever you wish to reveal to your friend. The complete truth or, the continuation of our bagatelle."

The door opened. Watson hardly glanced in. "Holmes, it is a frightful night," he explained as he hung his coat and hat in the hall. "I decided not to cross the channel." He came in and stopped. "Oh, excuse me, you have company."

"Join us, Watson. You remember my cousin --"

"Watson, good to see you again. Come in, warm yourself by the fire." Simon stood and they shook hands. "I'll get you a stiff drink. This is an old friend of mine. Henry Kaiulani Murray. Murray, this is John Watson."

Murray and Watson shook hands. The room was silent and still. Three of us hardly breathed.

"Murray?" Watson critically studied the man. "You are very familiar, sir. Have we met before?"

"I'm not sure," was the circumspect reply. He glanced to me, then Simon.

Simon glanced at me.

"Perhaps your paths have crossed. Murray has traveled the world," I explained.

Simon gave drinks to the men by the fire. I joined him at the sidebar for my own stiff glass of resolve.

Watson snapped his fingers. "Murray. You didn't serve in Afghanistan, by any chance, did you?"

"Indeed I did."

Watson critically studied the foreign face. Comprehension slowly merging to delight. "Murray? My old orderly? At Maiwand!" He warmly, enthusiastically shook hands again. "How amazing! Holmes, this man saved my life! I searched for you on my return to London! Murray!"

Murray's own enthusiasm and affection was unfeigned. "Doctor Watson. The best surgeon I ever met. I traveled much after the war, I was hardly in town. But we have finally met again."

"How extraordinary! How could I not recognize you instantly?"

"It was so long ago. We have tried to forget much of it, no doubt."

"But not the best." A shadow crossed his face. I wondered if he was remembering the young subaltern; the battles, the deaths. Then his face cleared and beamed with pleasure. "Dear Murray, what a delightful surprise. I never thanked you for saving my life."

"Please, doctor, no --"

"John, you must call me John, now, you are no longer my orderly. I must thank you properly. Your quick thinking spared my life, man."

"It was my duty. You are very good to me, sir -- John."

My anger, my sense of betrayal dissolved as smoke in the wind as I watched the reunion. Could it be such a terrible thing some events in our lives had been manipulated? Thanks to Simon's intervention, Watson was spared. How different -- empty -- my life would have been without my friend. I was grateful for the outcome.

Watson stared at Simon with the sudden vision of a seer. "You -- you were there in Afghanistan, too!" He turned to Murray. "Remember, Murray? Maiwand. By, God, I cannot believe it! Don't you remember?"

Simon was thoughtfully silent before his face struck the perfect pitch of amazed surprise. "Great Heavens, you were the doctor who saved my life! I can't believe it!"

"I can't understand how I never recognized you before!"

"We have not met on too many occasions," was Blakeney's feeble attempt at explanation. "If Murray here would have been along, well, then, we would have had all the pieces together for this little mosaic, what?"

"Unbelievable," Watson muttered.

A part of me was sinfully guilty at the deception, but partially relieved that a portion of the secret was no longer concealed. It was worth the risk of exposure to witness this marvelous reunion.

"You must stay for dinner, both of you. We have so much to catch up with. Holmes?"

Murray and Simon both looked to me.

"Excellent idea, Watson. Would you please tell Mrs. Hudson we are making extra work for her tonight?"

"With pleasure."

As soon as Watson was out of the room, I rushed to conceal his journals under some papers under my desk. I gave the Sigerson volumes to Simon, wrapped in some brown paper left on the chemical table. Simon ran them down to his carriage and had them sent over to the Diogenes Club, then dashed back up to the sitting room. By the time Watson returned, I was seated in my chair by the fire, Simon and Murray on the sofa sipping drinks.

A night I expected to be fraught with tension was a delightful evening of companionable conversation and entertaining anecdotes. It was late and still stormy when my cousin and Murray left. We watched from the window as their carriage pulled away.

"Fate is a strange thing," Watson quietly observed.

"Indeed."

"It brings extraordinary people into our lives."

"So true."

"It makes me believe in a Divine hand in our destinies. Something more than mere chance."

"My thoughts entirely," was my dry agreement.

"You never have believed in coincidence, Holmes. After this, I don't think I do either."

Had he divined the truth? "What do you mean?"

"Without Murray's courage, I would not be standing here today."

I crossed to the table and brought back our glasses. Without my friend's courage to fulfill his duty, his compassion, my cousin's life would have been forfeit. In turn, Watson would have been killed as well. There was a great cycle to in this; the subaltern, Simon, Maiwand, Watson, Murray, and finally, Sherlock Holmes.

"Then I offer a toast, to Murray. Who shall be forever in our debt," I offered.

"Here, here."

"Without him, my life would be a poorer one."

I gave the words wholeheartedly, sincerely. In retrospective, there was a kind of comfort in knowing we were connected; integrated like pieces of a giant puzzle. If not by the hand of God, then by the hand of Mycroft. Who was I to say there was not some larger (no pun intended, dear brother) intent in the scheme of things which brought together such diverse personalities as Murray and Simon, Watson and myself? It seemed more than lucky chance that held together such diverse, yet such perfectly matched friends as Watson and me.

For the second time that day, I thanked a Divine Power for Murray. Long ago, he had providently saved the life of Watson. Today, he gave me a sense of destiny, which enriched my life.

SH

Christmastime 1899

In reviewing my old journals, I have come across the disturbing remembrance of poor Malveen and the horrid conditions of the battlefield in India and Afghanistan. It is appalling to think the conditions were rife throughout the Army. I should consider myself lucky to be alive. There is little consolation that I heard Colonel Wharton died years ago.

Being Christmastime -- thoughts turn sentimentally to the past. And since our recent encounter with the 'Sussex Vampire' -- and my unexpected and delightful reunion with the faithful Murray -- my mind has turned to that eerie encounter on the other side of the world, when I saw Malveen's ghost. I rarely think about the incident, but this supernatural business has returned it to mind. Holmes took notice of my preoccupation this morning, and suggested I take a holiday out of the city. Following his excellent advice, I set out on my own investigation to find what has become of the Malveen family.

Life often sends curious twists and turns into our lives. I went down to Richmond to enquire of the Malveens (the last known address of the Subaltern's kin). Using Holmes' methods, I went to the local pub and discovered old widow Malveen, the Subaltern's aunt, as the only surviving member of the clan. No longer able to work as a domestic, she is pensioned by her former employers, the Blakeney's.

I mentally debated my course of actions. Should I go to the elderly aunt and talk about her late nephew? What would be the point? She would not want to know how he died or the details of neglect in field hospitals. Why bring up unpleasant memories for no purpose other than to salve my own conscience? Would she wish to hear of her nephew's ghost appearing to me in Constantinople? She would call for a constable to send me to Bedlam!

On the return train, I was accompanied by convoluted thoughts about coincidence and Fate dancing in my mind. Never in my wildest dreams could I have thought life was such a circle. The Malveen family was in the service of the Blakeney's for years. Malveen served with Simon Blakeney, the current Baronet. Murray, my former orderly served with Simon Blakeney! The Blakeney's are the second cousins to Mycroft and Sherlock Holmes! A curiously small world we live in.

All the way to Charing Cross station, I pondered my options. Holmes was consumed with research at the British Museum for the day (I had declined his kind offer to accompany him to a day researching the origin of a 16th century palimpsest). On impulse, I took a cab to Whites, one of the most exclusive clubs in London. This ancient establishment boasts, as one of the founding members, Sir Percival Blakeney. Rumored to be the infamous Scarlet Pimpernel, British hero of aristocrats during the French Revolution (Holmes has never confirmed nor denied that legend. Considering the family progenitors, I consider the myth not only possible, but also probable). Sir Percy was a well-known benevolent peer, and, perhaps more relevant, the first in a long line of manipulative and clever relatives of Sherlock Holmes.

I was shown in to the visitor's room and Sir Simon Blakeney, the very man I was seeking, met moments later. Again, I was struck by the startling similarity to his relatives. The narrow face and sharp, aquiline nose seem dominate family features of the two branches of relations. Holmes' father and the Blakeney's mother were first cousins. There was little contact between the branches when Holmes and Mycroft were young because of some quarrel with the senior Holmes. That rift was bridged after his death, and Holmes and Mycroft occasionally see their cousins, mostly in the clubs of London.

Simon met me with his usual warm, exuberant civility. The most pleasant and genial of his clan, he shook my hand and said he had taken the liberty of ordering drinks. He asked me to stay for lunch, obviously antici