by P J Humphrey
“Who are you, and why are you dressed that way?” He pointed to my jeans. “You’re wearing trousers!” He made it sound as if I were a half-naked dancer from the Follies Bergere.
“Yes. This is the twenty-first century, and women have been wearing pants for about eighty years.”
“The twenty-first century?” That news sent him—not to collapsing on the sofa as I would have expected, but—to the window. He pushed aside the drapes and looked out at the view. His head turning from side to side, he glanced down at the asphalt pavement bordered by concrete sidewalks, the Victorian-style houses across the street, and the cars parked at the curb. Apparently a car drove by just then.
“My word. A motor car. A very strange motor car. What has happened?”
I pointed to the sofa. “Why don’t you sit down, Mr. Holmes, and let me explain?”
Instead, he strode to the door leading to the stairs. “I shall call Mrs. Hudson and ask her. And where is Doctor Watson, pray tell?”
Apparently suddenly realizing what I’d said and that he’d have to deal with me, he turned. “Did you say twenty-first century?”
“Yes, several years into it as a matter of fact.”
“I remember the twentieth century. I retired to become a bee-keeper.”
“Were you alive in nineteen-twelve, the year Titanic sank? People all over the world commemorated the hundredth anniversary of that.”
Finally, he removed his hat and coat, hurled them toward the sofa and sat in the armchair closest to the fireplace. He looked down at the floor, staring at the carpet’s Oriental design, and sighed. “It is as I feared.”
“What did you fear?”
“I had been asleep, I believe, and when I woke I found myself in my old rooms. Yet they weren’t the same. They were crowded with people. Strange people looked through my books, touched my belongings. I told them to stop. I told them to get out, but they ignored me as if I were invisible.”
I broke the short silence. “What did you do?”
He rubbed his forehead, as if that would restore his memory of the next moment.
“I don’t really know. I closed my eyes, and I remember thinking, ‘I want to go home,’ and the next thing I knew... I opened my eyes and saw you.”
I took the chair opposite him. “I suspect you’ve been asleep for a good many years.”
He seemed to accept the situation. “But why wake up now? Why here?”
“Because...” I didn’t really know, but then a thought came to me. “You wanted to go home, so you’ve been transported to the next best thing, a flat that looks like home to you.”
“I find that a bit far-fetched.”
I shrugged. “Perhaps nobody else decorated a flat to look like yours during all that time.”
He rose and paced the floor, apparently becoming used to the idea and beginning to assert himself.
“Very well.” He turned to me. “Now that I’ve come home, I should be obliged if you would leave.”
His words shocked me at first, but I recovered quickly. “Sorry, but I can’t do that. I live here now and have nowhere else to go.” Of course, I could move in with Tessa again, but she’d lose her writing room. Or back with my mother in Los Angeles, but only over my own dead body.
“Speaking of which,” I said aloud, “however much it looks like home to you, you don’t own this flat or this building, and I do. Or, rather, my grandmother owns the building, and it’s in San Francisco, remember?”
He sat down, closed his eyes and rubbed his forehead again. “And this is really the twenty-first century?”
“I can show you a calendar if you like. I have one in my office.” I pointed toward my bedroom door.
“Where have I been all this time?”
“Uh... dead?”
“I’ve already thought of that, but why have I returned from the dead at this time? Am I a ghost? Do I look like a ghost to you?”
“I don’t know what ghosts are supposed to look like. In the movies—”
“The what?”
“Oh, you don’t know about movies, do you? Let me put it this way. People who have seen ghosts tend to describe them in one of two ways. Either they’re formless, white cloud-like things, or else they’re transparent and you can put your hand right through them.”
“I believe they’re described that way in books, as well.” He glanced down at himself. “I don‘t believe I’m either of those. Do I look like a white vapor to you?”
“No, you look like a sturdy man.”
“Am I transparent? Could you put your hand through me?”
I reached out and grasped his arm. Quite solid. “No, you’re a real person as far as I can tell.”
He rose and paced some more. “There’s one other thing. The people in my flat in London ignored me. Is it possible they didn’t see me?”
“Perhaps, but I see you. I can touch you, and we’re talking together.”
“Yes, but what if only certain people can see me? You, for instance, because you’ve decorated your flat to look like mine?”
Obviously, the man’s brain suffered no damage during his ninety-some years of being dead, anyway.
“I suppose it’s possible. We’ll know soon enough.”
I said the latter because Holmes had left the hall door open, and I heard footsteps on the old wooden stairs. Slow footsteps. Not Doc. I rushed to the doorway to help Tessa.
“Tessa, you shouldn’t have come up all this way.”
In her strong voice she put me in my place. “Stop treating me like an invalid. It’s only seventeen steps, and a landing halfway besides. I wanted to see with my own eyes what you’ve done up here.”
“What about your own knees?”
“My knees are fine, and the day they’re not I’ll have them replaced.” She walked about the room as if showing me her knees still worked, even though not as good perhaps as in the days she often bragged about, when she did the Jitterbug to “One O’Clock Jump” by the Count Basie band.
Actually, I couldn’t see her knees because she always wore either long pants or a long skirt. She often told me she preferred to wear those with the low-heeled shoes she needed these days. That day a blue and white striped sweater topped her navy blue skirt, which went well with her naturally-curly, unnaturally platinum blonde hair. Luckily, although she might only be my step-grandmother, I too had curly hair, but mine was brown, not “Bashful Blonde” from a drugstore bottle.
Tessa surveyed everything through her reading glasses, and then gave me the rolled-up newspaper she held in her hand. “I’ve brought the Chronicle in case you want to read it.”
I took the newspaper from her. “Do you see anything of interest in my apartment?”
“Just a lot of old junk. I like period furniture myself, but this looks more like the rear corner of a rundown resale shop.”
She hadn’t seen Holmes. Apparently he’d assumed correctly, and not everyone could see him.
He spoke up. “I fear I’m invisible to her as well. You’re all alone in this, my young friend.”
“‘Doc’ Watson might see you. He’s our maintenance man.”
Tessa said, “Of course he’s our maintenance man, but why would he want to see me?”
“I wasn’t talking to you, Tessa. I was talking to Sherlock Holmes.”
Holmes said, “Dr. Watson is here? Are you telling me he has returned from the grave as well?”
Tessa gave me a stern look. “It’s one thing to redecorate and hang out a detective shingle, but if you’re going to carry on conversations with imaginary people—”
“He’s not imaginary. He’s here.”
“Who’s here? Doc?” Tessa said.
“Who’s here? Doctor Watson?” Holmes said.
I raised my eyes. Good grief. This couldn’t be more awkward.
I guided Tessa to the armchair I’d recently vacated. “Sherlock Holmes is here. You can’t see him, but I can.”
“I may be old, but my eyesight hasn’t
given out yet. There’s no one here but you and me.”
“Let me explain. Holmes has awakened from...a long sleep and showed up here because this room looks like his flat.”
“Showed up? You mean his ghost?”
“Madam, I am not a ghost.”
“Let me explain,” I said.
“You already said that.”
“I was talking to him.”
She squinted her eyes and leaned toward me. “You can talk to a ghost? Does he answer you?”
“Yes.”
“Can I talk to him?”
“You can if you want to, but you won’t be able to hear his answers. I’ll be glad to repeat them, but apparently I’m the only one who can see and hear him.”
“And Watson,” Holmes said. “I’m certain Watson will be able to do it.”
“Maybe not. Our Watson is not a doctor and is much younger.”
Thank God Tessa has a quick mind. “You’re talking to him again, aren’t you?”
“Yes.”
“Darn. I’ve waited all my life to see a real ghost, and now you get to and I don’t. It isn’t fair.” After a lengthy pause, she added, “Did he say something else?”
“No, not now.”
“What’s he doing? Is he playing the violin or smoking his pipe?”
“No, and I hope he doesn’t smoke anymore. If death has any redeeming features, one of them ought to be it kills our bad habits.”
“They didn’t consider smoking unhealthy in the nineteenth century. All the men did it.”
“Some people knew the health risks but didn’t have any scientific evidence at the time.”
Tessa whispered, “Does he know what year this is and we’re in San Francisco?”
“Yes, I’ve filled him in on those things.”
“Where’s he going to stay?” Leave it to a romance novelist to wonder about sleeping arrangements. In her books, the characters do the mattress mambo more often than they eat.
Holmes answered the question. “I’ve been thinking about that as well. If you’re the only person who can see me, I’ll have the devil’s own time renting a flat or booking a hotel room.” He thrust a hand in his coat where he probably kept a billfold of some kind. “Assuming my money is of any use in this country.”
“You can stay here. There are two bedrooms.”
“I knew it!” Tessa did a slow-motion version of leaping from her chair, pulled my head down near hers and whispered in my ear. “Does he look like Jeremy Brett or Robert Downey? How old is he?”
“Too old for me and too young for you.”
She frowned and returned to her chair. Like a dedicated novelist, she prepared herself to take part in a true-life adventure and accepted the situation. “I thought you might be too tired to cook tonight so I ordered dinner from the corner deli. They’ll be delivering it any minute. I assume there’ll be enough for three.”
* * *
We sat around the large table in the center of the room, but Holmes declared being a ghost had apparently taken away his appetite, so he sat still while Tessa and I ate deli sandwiches and potato salad. Just as well too, since seeing food picked up and then disappearing into thin air might have sent Tessa into cardiac arrest. She reacted wide-eyed when he pulled his chair close to the table.
Holmes also had very little to say. I began the conversation by telling Holmes my full name, but he only guffawed loudly.
I turned to Tessa. “Tell him. Tell him how you know I’m his great-granddaughter.”
She stiffened, as she usually did when about to be contrary. “I know nothing of the sort. Anyway, I refuse to talk to a person I can’t see. Ask your mother to explain it. Perhaps she can see ghosts.”
Tessa said the last with a smidgen of sarcasm. For some reason I didn’t understand, family love skipped a generation. When Tessa and Fenella meet, I suspect they don’t chat, they wield blunt instruments.
I sighed and finished telling my own version of how I got my name. Then I remembered something and scowled at him. “In fact, I’m really upset. You had an opportunity to reveal the name of the woman who would’ve been my great-grandmother, but you didn’t.”
Holmes raised his voice. “Heavens, I could not do that. One does not damage the reputation of a lady of culture and breeding if one may avoid it.”
“Are you saying that you had an affair with a woman of social prominence? Perhaps even of royalty? Those stories about you indicated such people came to you for help. Was that the problem?”
While I spoke, Holmes only nodded his head from time to time.
“Then you believe me,” I said.
“Whether your scenario is possible or not, I cannot say, and I refuse to mention names or divulge private matters.”
I put on a solemn tone. “You mean governments might have fallen, empires toppled?” He didn’t answer and, after thinking about that for a few seconds, I doubted its relevance. At least at that moment.
After another long pause, I changed the subject. I filled Holmes in on the present condition of the world, thanks to the newspaper Tessa’d brought up and a few magazines. I also introduced him to some modern conveniences, like microwave ovens, computers and television. After he adjusted to the vision of people moving and speaking out of a relatively small box on a stand, he liked the idea of having a television set in his bedroom, vowing to watch every motion picture ever made, besides getting the news of the day.
“It will be a means of learning what is happening today and, from films, what has happened in the past.”
“I’ll rent them from Netflix, and we’ll start with films made in the nineteen twenties. You can even watch movies made from the stories Doyle wrote.” I laughed. “With luck, you’ll get to see at least nine actors who have portrayed you.”
Tessa poured tea for me and spoke toward the place she probably assumed Holmes sat. “Since you won’t be able to go anywhere, at least you’ll have something to do.”
Holmes groaned. “You’re right. My mind will be stifled. How shall I continue to use my brain when I’m invisible and cannot investigate crimes or go where I please?”
“Well, how did you find out about cases to solve before? The clients came to you, didn’t they?”
Apparently not wanting to be excluded from the conversation, Tessa spoke up again. “Doc put your little Private Investigations sign in the vestibule, but I think it’s unlikely to bring any customers.”
I cleared away the dishes from the table. “I’m going to design a website to offer my services and use the Internet.”
“You were going to pretend to be me?” Holmes asked.
“No, I’ll be myself. As I said a little while ago, since I’m your great-granddaughter, I naturally inherited some of your detecting genes.”
“Genes?”
“DNA. Oh, never mind, I’ll explain it to you later.”
He snickered in that wonderful way of his. Or rather as various actors had portrayed him. “I’d very much like to see you solve a case by yourself. I’m sure I’ll have watched at least a dozen films before you solve even one.”
“Is that a bet?”
“You desire a wager, do you? Done.”
“I haven’t much money, so what do you want if I lose?”
“I haven’t any American money either. Shall we just make it a friendly test of your talent?”
“If I come up with the truth before the police solve the case, will that suit you?”
“Fair enough.”
We shook hands and I told Tessa what he’d said.
“He’s right, you know. You may not even find a proper case in thirty days, much less solve one.”
“The newspaper. They’re always reporting crimes. If there’s an unsolved murder in the city, I’ll work on that. I won’t need a client. I’ll just solve the case to Mr. Holmes’s satisfaction.”
Holmes retrieved the newspaper and hurriedly went through it, scanning the pages as if he’d taken a speed-reading course. “Here,” he ann
ounced at last. He handed me the paper folded to show a news item about a dead body. “Solve that.”
Chapter 3
The newspaper carried the story on page two. I read the short article out loud, starting with the headline, “Man Shot Dead in Vacant Apartment,” before setting the paper down on the table. “They don’t say much, do they? Only that he’s a man and he’s dead.”
Tessa spoke first. “Probably because the coroner hadn’t examined the body yet.”
“If I heard correctly,” Holmes said, “they gave an address where they found the body, did they not?”
“A vacant apartment in a three-story building.”
Tessa grabbed the paper again. “It’s on Lyon Street. That’s just around the corner.”
“Do you think it’s the same place?”
“They don’t give a specific address, just that it’s in the three hundred block, but it must be close. We should go there right away and make sure.” She got up from the table, as if she’d hike over there all by herself if necessary.
“Tessa, what are you thinking?”
“That I’ll go with you, of course.”
“You’ll do nothing of the kind.” I lifted the cover of the roll-top desk and picked up my ”detecting” pouch. I’d prepared it weeks before, and it contained a pair of plastic gloves, magnifying glass, small but sharp scissors, a spiral notepad, both pencil and pen, and little envelopes to hold whatever useful items I might find. See, I took my new occupation seriously.
I stuffed it in the side pocket of my shoulder bag hanging near the front door. “If I’m supposed to be the detective who solves this case, I’m the one who’ll go over and check it out.”
“And I,” Holmes said. He too, had risen and strode toward the sofa where his hat and coat lay.
“What did he say?” Tessa asked.
“He wants to go with me,” I told her.
“But he doesn’t know this neighborhood, and I do. I might even know the landlord of that building.”
Holmes shrugged into his coat. “Your grandmother is a charming person, but surely this is a matter for experts.” He frowned. “I would go alone, except that she is correct in that I do not know the area. However, I will accompany you. The fact that no one else can see me might even be an advantage when it comes to snooping into other people’s indiscretions.”
