by Geri Schear
“Leave it, Holmes,” Watson said. “You won’t get any sense out of him in this state. Best come back early in the morning before he’s started smoking.” He coughed and covered his nose and mouth with a handkerchief.
We stepped out into the busy streets. I glanced at my pocket watch.
“It’s five o’clock,” I said. “I feel we have wasted the whole day.”
“Not so. The trial took up hours, and then you had to say a proper goodbye to your wife. I do hope those boys won’t wear her out. They are on their best behaviour now, but heaven help her once their natural exuberance re-emerges.”
“Perhaps,” I said. “I would like to do my own reconnaissance of Camden Town. I should like to check in on Hatton Garden, too, but that can wait until tomorrow.”
We crossed Leicester Square and began our walk back to Baker Street. At the corner, I hesitated and looked back.
“Holmes?” Watson said.
“I wonder if I do right to leave him... Perhaps I should stay here and keep an eye on the man.”
“Surely if he were at risk they’d have killed him by now?”
“Perhaps... Little of this case makes sense to me, Watson. It feels like...”
“Like?”
I shook my head. “As if there were a dozen men making decisions and each pulling in a different direction. One man I can match but playing chess with a dozen all at once, each with a different style and set of skills...”
“It’s a puzzle,” he agreed. “But you’ll solve it, Holmes. The man, indeed, I should say the army has not been born who could defeat you.” He patted my shoulder in a brotherly manner. “If you’d been at Balaclava in ’54 the outcome might have been far different.”
“I think Mycroft would have served them better. Ha! I wonder how he’ll do in Sussex with two unruly boys and a tiny cottage.”
“The boys probably won’t spend much time indoors, Holmes. Beatrice will have them out on the beach if I am any judge. I think Mycroft will do very well indeed. The break will do him a great deal of good.”
“True. He has been looking very poorly. But what am I to do about Jones?”
“Well, you cannot stay here. You are too recognisable. Surely he’s safe enough for the moment? You can return later in disguise if you wish. Or I can stay here. I’m not as obviously recognisable as you are.”
That was something.
“You would not mind?” I said.”There is a restaurant just across the street from Jones’s shop. You could sit there, have dinner, and keep watch. I’ll come back to replace you as soon as I’ve changed.”
“Yes, all right... No. No, Holmes, that makes no sense. Go on to Camden Town and do whatever you must. I’ll be all right here for a few hours. I shall follow Jones when he leaves. Don’t worry; I’ll keep a good distance. I have learned something from watching you, you know.”
“Of course you have, that is not the issue.”
“But something worries you. What is it, Holmes? I can see on your face that you are troubled.”
“Watteau said or implied that the people I care about are most at risk. Really, I wonder if it might not have been wiser if you had gone to Sussex with the others.”
“Oh, for goodness sake.” He stood facing me with his most determined face set. “I’m a grown man, not a schoolboy nor a woman nor an out of condition older man. I am a soldier.”
My impulse to laugh did battle with my urge to salute. I managed to do neither. “Of course you are, my dear fellow. Very well, do you go on to the restaurant and keep an eye on Jones. I shall follow your suggestion and go to Camden as soon as I have changed. Please, be careful.”
“Of course. And you, too.”
In Baker Street, I found a group of the Irregulars. I called Kevin over and said, “I have a job, if you boys are interested?”
“Whatever you need, Mr ’olmes.”
I gave him his instructions and nodded. “Right you are, sir.”
“Good lad. Here’s a little money, just in case.”
Two hours later, I was sitting in a small public house in Camden Town enjoying a glass of bitter. The place was soon full and I kept watch as the groups formed, changed, reformed. After an hour, I had selected a small group of working men dressed, like me, in flat caps and stout working gear. The man who was the apparent leader of the group was holding forth on the disgraceful matter of immigration.
“Coming over ’ere,” he declared. “Stealing our jobs, robbing us blind. Some of ’em look like soot, the colour of ’em.”
“Not in a region like this,” I said. “Surely Camden is for Londoners. You wouldn’t find foreigners in parts like this, surely”?
“You think not, Mr - ?”
“Stout,” said I. “John Stout at your service.”
I tipped my hat and bowed slightly. Men like that enjoy good manners even though they often have little enough themselves.
“You see,” said my new friend. “That’s ’ow an Englishman behaves. Proper respect. Not to contradict you, Mr Stout, but you’d be astonished at the newcomers we ’ave, right ’ere in Camden.”
“No,” I said in a properly aghast tone. “You do astonish me, Mr-”
“Blessed, Sir. Jabez Blessed at your service.” He doffed his cap and bowed in a stately manner.
“Pleased to make your acquaintance,” I said. I turned my chair slightly towards them and, at their gesture, pulled it over to join in the group.
“I thought about moving to Camden Town,” I said. “Don’t at all like the way things are going in Hackney. Came here tonight to take a gander. I am disappointed, very disappointed...” I shook my head in sorrow. I was half-afraid I’d overdone it but the men were too much in their cups to notice.
“Well, it’s the way this city is going, ain’t it?” said another man. A hefty labourer with splinters in his fingers and huge callouses on his hands and arms. A former blacksmith and now a carpenter.
“It’s never been much different, Bert,” said Blessed. “But it’s getting worse.”
“Are there many newcomers in this district?” I asked. “I thought Camden was a stable, well-settled area.”
“Some parts of it, Mr Stout. Some parts of it. But around the fringes... Do you know we’ve got an African living here now?”
“Probably got tired of the desert,” said Bert. All the men hooted.
“Well, that’s exotic, that is,” I declared. “Well I never. What’s an African doing in these parts, eh?”
“Up to no good, I’d say.”
“Does he come in here?” I asked. “Is he sociable?”
“Not he. Don’t drink. Some religious thing, I hear.”
“Still,” said Bert. “He’s pleasant enough, I will say. Polite and keeps himself to himself.”
“Well, that’s something,” I said. I wiped my mouth with the back of my hand and ordered another round for my new friends. Oh, they were so happy to include me in their little coterie. Any Englishman can be had for the price of a pint. Half a pint if his straits are bad enough.
I stayed another couple of hours, insisted on buying yet another round, and finally made an exaggerated stumble out the door a little past eleven. A shame Mr Amun did not frequent the public house. I hoped Watson had had a better evening.
Not until I reached Baker Street did I realise anything was amiss. Kevin was on the doorstep and he sprang up the moment he spotted me.
“We’ve been searching all over for you, Mr ’olmes,” he said.
“Why, what has happened?”
“It’s Dr Watson, sir. ’e’s been attacked.”
Chapter Eighteen
Kevin and some of the other boys had managed to get Watson back to Baker Street. Mrs Hudson telephoned Stamford from St Bartholomew’s Hospital, and he was tending my frie
nd when I tumbled into the living room.
“Watson!” I cried. “Dear God, what has happened?”
“Nothing much,” my friend replied. He tried to give me a grin, but winced. There was a stomach-churning amount of blood around his head and neck.
Stamford said, “Sit down there, Mr Holmes. I would not have thought you were the sort of man to be squeamish at the sight of a little blood.”
“A little,” my mouth was so dry I could scarcely speak. “A little, do you say?”
“It looks worse than it is,” Watson said. I know him too well to be fooled by that stoic tone.
“That is true,” the surgeon said. He finished treating the wound, a gash on my friend’s left parietal area, and applied a clean bandage. “Good thing you were wearing a hat,” he said. He and Watson laughed. Laughed!
“Oh come, Holmes,” Watson said. “You need not look so stricken. It is a cut and it has bled a fair bit, but no real harm done. As you see, I am alert. I have all my faculties... What was your name again?”
“Most amusing,” I lied.
“I am afraid your friend’s sense of humour has failed him for the moment,” Stamford said. He rose and put his instruments back in his medical bag. “If he were any other man I’d say he was worried about you. Well, I shall head off, if you don’t mind. My wife doesn’t like it when I’m out too late.” He squeezed my shoulder. “He’s really not so bad, you know, Mr Holmes. I shouldn’t worry. A dozen stitches, no more.”
“A dozen...”
“Good thing I have such a hard head, isn’t it, Stamford?”
“Always knew you were hard-headed, Watson,” the other replied. “Now we have the evidence of it. Hard evidence, you might say.” He cackled. “Yes, well, I must be off. Give me a call if you need anything. Cheer up, Holmes. It could be much worse, you know.”
“I do know.”
After he left, Watson and I sat in silence for several minutes. He was lying back with his eyes closed and a compress on his forehead.
The door opened and Mrs Hudson flittered in. Not an easy thing to do with a full tea tray, but she managed.
“What is this city coming to?” she demanded, “When a respectable gentleman cannot walk down the street without being accosted by vagabonds and varmints.”
“Varmints?” Watson opened one bloodshot eye to look at her. “You’ve been reading those Western stories again, haven’t you, Mrs Hudson?”
“Ooh!” She set the tray down on the table with a clatter. “You’re as bad as he is,” she said. I could not tell if the admonishment was for Watson or for me, but we both said, as on cue, “Thank you.”
She fled, her hands over her ears to try to block out the sound of our laughter.
“Cup of tea, Watson?” I said. I poured and handed him the cup.
His hand trembled slightly as he took it. The first sign of how traumatised he really was.
“Steady, old chap,” I said. I helped him with the cup and, after a few mouthfuls, he was able to manage on his own.
“You might find a cup beneficial yourself,” he said at last. “Or perhaps you’ve had enough beer to satisfy all thirst?”
“For at least a week,” I agreed. I refilled his cup and said, “What happened?”
“Well, I stayed in the restaurant for a couple of hours then around half-seven I saw Jones leave. It was dark enough and there were still plenty of people about so I was sure he had not spotted me. I followed at a distance, though, just to be safe.
“He was obviously under the influence of his drug and meandered all over the street, bumping into people... I half-thought I should take his arm and lead him home, but we had agreed I should merely follow so I hung back.”
“Good thing, too,” I said. “I very much doubt this was Jones’s first time to stagger home in that condition.”
“True. In any event, he reeled up Shaftesbury Avenue then turned, first onto Coptic Street and then at Montague Street. It was still busy but it got quieter as we walked. I kept pace about thirty feet behind him. Do you know how hard it is to walk so slowly?”
“I do.”
“Oh. Yes, of course. Anyway, at last Jones turned onto Woburn Walk and that is when calamity struck.”
Watson took a breath and I refilled his cup. I bit my lip to stop myself from hurrying him on. He gave me a watery grin and said, “Poor Holmes. I must look wretched indeed to warrant this sort of patience.”
I said, “Long experience has taught me not to bother trying to hurry you, Watson. Nothing more.”
He chuckled, then winced and held the compress against his head for a moment before continuing. “Woburn Walk... That is such a delicate little thoroughfare; you know it well, Holmes. I remember thinking it was a rather more elegant residence for a man like Jones than I’d have suspected. That’s the last clear thought I do have. It’s all a bit of a jumble...
“I remember a man leaping out of nowhere - I think he must have been following me as I was following Jones - and I heard the sound of a gunshot. Everything turned red and Jones collapsed like a broken marionette. Then what...? Oh, I remember I gave a cry and lunged at the assailant. I don’t think he expected that for he dropped his weapon. I had him. I had my hands on him, Holmes...”
The tremor became more pronounced but this time it was from fury.
“Who was it, Watson? Did you see his face?”
“Oh yes, I saw him clearly enough, Holmes. That is something I shall never forget. It was Rickman... The fellow who calls himself Rickman. He’s a big chap. Well, you remember, and he easily knocked me down to the ground and began kicking me.”
He rubbed his head. I swallowed my fury. I swallow it again now, remembering. Fury will not help my friend, not yet. But the time will come.
“He would have finished me off, Holmes, I have no doubt of it. I remember his boot in my face and the pain and feeling sick. I remember thinking I must have a concussion... Silly, that. A doctor diagnosing himself.” His laugh was void of all humour.
“I’m surprised he did not finish the job...” I said. “Forgive me. I meant-”
“No need to apologise, Holmes. I know what you meant. There’s no doubt in my mind that he fully intended to kill me and would have done so if Kevin hadn’t shown up. That boy... Oh, you should have seen him, Holmes, you would have laughed.”
“I doubt it.”
“Poor Holmes. Sit down please; it hurts my neck to look up at you. That’s better. Well, Kevin arrived out of nowhere - I assume he was keeping an eye on me? Yes, I thought so. He blew his whistle and then he pulled out his catapult and hit my assailant right on the head with a stone. The villain howled and bolted. It was such a sight...” He laughed, a proper laugh, followed by a groan.
“The commotion drew people out into the street. No one did anything, of course, though I think someone must have gone to call the police, or perhaps they heard the whistle...
“What then...? I cannot really remember. The next thing I recall is Lestrade asking me if I was all right...”
“Rickman?”
“Fled, I gather. Lestrade was pretty hot about it, too. ‘You had your hands on him, Doctor...’ he kept saying. I’m not sure what point he was making.”
“I hope he wasn’t blaming you for Rickman’s escape.”
“No... I don’t think so. Does it matter?”
I bit back the retort that sprang to my lips and said mildly, “No, not at all.”
He gave me a look and I saw that, even wounded as he was, his faculties were intact. “It would be unfair, that’s all... What is Jones’s condition, do you know?”
“Dead.”
Watson finished the last of the tea, tried to put the cup back in the saucer, and failed. I took the cup from him and. without looking at him, said, “Why did you not send for me?”
/>
“Why? There was nothing you could have done. I’d already failed...”
“Failed? My dear fellow, how can you say so?”
“You gave me one job, Holmes. Keep Jones alive. Jones is dead. Ergo, I failed.”
“You identified his killer. You were able to give an account to Lestrade. Most importantly of all, you stayed alive.”
He shook his head. For the first time in our long association, I saw my friend was at the end of his tether. He would not weep. He is, as he often reminds me, a military man. However, his nerves are shattered. I fear he shall relive the battle of Maiwand tonight in his nightmares.
I settled him in bed, tucked him in like a Nightingale, and offered to stay with him.
“Oh, do go away, Holmes,” he said crossly. “I am not a child. A good night’s sleep shall set me to rights.”
And so he sleeps. I have left his door ajar and have made up a bed on the couch in case he should need me during the night. But first, I went downstairs to the hallway and made a telephone call.
Chapter Nineteen
Friday 6 May 1898
It has been a long day and I am weary but I shall write a few notes before I lie down to sleep.
This morning after breakfast, Watson and I took the train to Sussex. Beatrice was delighted to have us join her little party, and sent a carriage to collect us at the station.
After so much talk about ‘the cottage’, I was astonished to find it was, in fact, a large fifteenth-century manor. Richard the Third had not met his fate on Bosworth’s field when this building was erected.
“Why on earth do you call it a cottage?” I said. “It is as stately a home as any I have ever seen.”
“It was my father’s name for it. A jest. I suppose it stuck.”
My wife has a knack for timing; for knowing when a thing may be done and when it should not. This talent was very much in evidence upon our arrival. While my instinct would have been to bundle Watson off to bed, Beatrice suggested luncheon in the morning room. And so we sat, B and Watson and Mycroft and I, with excellent food before us and the sparkling sea in the distance. We sat and talked about civilised things: music, art, and history.
