Sherlock Holmes and The Other Woman

by Geri Schear

  “Mollycoddling!”

  “Quite. Now, I really have to get back to work. This situation is very pressing. Goodbye, Sherlock.”

  With that, he hung up the phone, leaving me listening to the burr on the line.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Watson has been urging me to go for a walk. I think my pacing is getting on his nerves. I really cannot blame him, but I dare not leave the house. I am coiled with apprehension. I loathe this. This is precisely the sort of thing I feared all those years when I held the fair sex at bay.

  At length, Watson left. I asked where he was going but got nothing more than a snappish, “Out!” for my pains. I do not know why I put up with him sometimes.

  At last, at precisely seven o’clock, the telephone rang and I fled down the stairs to answer it.

  “You telephoned?” Beatrice said, her voice full of laughter and disregard for my agonies.

  “You are alive then,” I snapped. “I had visions of terrible things.”

  “Why, Sherlock,” she said. “You sound cross. Do you have an upset stomach?”

  “Do I - what?”

  “Because some mint tea will settle your digestion. Mme Chabon swears by it.”

  “Beatrice-”

  “There are chemists’ remedies, too, I believe...”

  “Beatrice!”

  “Yes?” she said mildly.

  I took a deep breath and tried to even my voice. “I was worried about you. And the boys, of course. All of you.”

  “That’s very sweet.”

  “It is nothing of the sort.”

  “You’re right. You should be ashamed.”

  “Ashamed?”

  “Well, I don’t know what you want me to say.” Now she was starting to sound vexed. “Really, Sherlock, your vanity, even by general male standards, is truly quite extraordinary. Do you have no faith in your brother? In me? I am not some doddering old fool, you know. I have sense and instincts and, when all else fails, I can run rather quickly.”

  I took a breath and released it slowly. “I am sorry,” I said. “I did not mean to sound...”

  “Like a caring husband?” she said, finishing my tardy sentence. “My poor dear. I suppose I am still not used to having a husband. It is not as if we have been married so long, though. You must give me some time to adjust. Besides, our agreement never allowed for affection.”

  “I know.” I suddenly felt exhausted. “I apologise for that. It rather crept up on me.”

  “Silly goose,” she said. Her laughter gurgled through the receiver and I suddenly felt lighter, freer than I had in some time.

  “You forgive me then?” I said.

  “For caring what happens to your wife, not to mention those boys of whom you are so fond? Do not try to deny it. There is nothing to forgive. Indeed, it is I who should apologise. I should not have been so cavalier with your feelings. Now I shall tell you something that will ease your mind, I hope.”

  “Yes?”

  “I have not been idle as you seem to suppose, nor do I take my safety nor that of my charges lightly. To that end, I have sent several telegrams and the upshot is Miss Simms and Mr Davenport have agreed to stay with me for a week or two.”

  “Ah, that is good news. Davenport is a sturdy fellow. I am very glad to hear it.”

  “And there’s more: Daisy has agreed to stay with me until her wedding. And,” she paused for dramatic effect. “I spoke with David and he says he can spare Stevens for a few days. He says he owes you a favour or three.”

  “Oh, that is excellent. Very well done, Beatrice. I confess I feel a bit of a fool. I should have realised you would have it all in hand. When do your friends arrive?”

  “Miss Simms and Mr Davenport arrive tomorrow morning. Stevens will be here on Saturday. Still, I should very much like to return to London. I suppose there’s no chance of that?”

  “Not yet,” I said. “Lestrade is convinced Rickman has left the country. There has been no sign of that gentleman since he attacked Watson. Still, I should like to be certain before I risk anyone else. Come to think of it, I let Watson go out a while ago and I have no idea where he’s gone.”

  “He’ll be playing billiards with Stamford,” she said. “I imagine your anxiety made you fractious.”

  “Fractious?” I said. “Not I.”

  “I must be thinking of another Sherlock Holmes,” she teased. “Still, it would be nice if you were to apologise to him when he returns.”

  “Apologise? Whatever for?”

  “For behaving in such a way that drove him out into the night. He was obviously cross.”

  I held my silence as my mind struggled between replaying the early evening with Watson and how my much-too-clever wife had perceived what had happened. She gave me several moments before saying, “He always tells you where he is going, Sherlock. That he did not do so this time suggests you were behaving in a rather fretful manner. You certainly seemed vexed when I called.”

  “I suppose you may have a point,” I conceded.

  Watson returned around eleven o’clock. He had, indeed, been playing billiards with Stamford. The chalk on his fingers and around the waist of his coat where he leaned against the table were sure signs.

  “Well,” he said as he hung up his coat. “I take it B is safe?”

  “Yes, she is. I cannot imagine why I allowed myself to get so fraught. I am very sorry, Watson. It was wrong of me to take it out on you.”

  He blinked, sat down, poked the fire, and said, “She told you to apologise.”

  We looked at each other and laughed.

  “Serves you right,” he said.

  “Serves me right?”

  “To end up with a wife who so able for you.”

  I said, ruefully, “You are quite correct. I remember the Queen once observing that Beatrice would not be content unless she married a man at least as smart as herself. Beatrice replied that she thought she had overshot the mark. Now I think about it, though, I believe she did nothing of the sort.”

  “You are no longer anxious about her safety?”

  “Well, less so, anyway. Mr Davenport and Miss Simms will be staying with her for a few days.”

  “Oh, that is good news. I am delighted to hear it. Davenport is a thoroughly reliable gentleman and well able to handle any crisis. It will be nice for Beatrice to have some company, too.”

  “And there is even better news:Stevens is to join them for a few days, too. I’d trust that young man over half of...”

  “Half of?”

  “I was about to say half of Scotland Yard. That would have been true in the old days but not so much in recent years. While there are still some fools like de Vine, the worst of them have left or have gained some sense. Even Lestrade.”

  “Now, now, Holmes. You always said Lestrade was one of the best.”

  “That was not saying much... But, no, you are right.”

  “Well, you told him he was a friend,” Watson said. “He has mentioned it twice to me since. I suspect all of Scotland Yard has heard it by now.” He chuckled.

  “I shall never hear the end of it,” I said.

  “After all the help that man has given us over the years, I should say it was a very small reward. Well, I’m off to bed.” He rose and said, “By the way, aren’t you worried about Mycroft?”

  “All of the government offices have secret means of egress. Anyone watching for him outside his building will be in for a long wait. I have also asked Gillespie to arrange an escort for him to and from his apartments. He is not happy about it, but I cannot help that. Oh, and I would appreciate it, my dear Watson, if you would not go wandering about on your own. You’ve already given me one bad scare.”

  “I don’t need an escort?”

  “As you
never tire of reminding me, you were a soldier. You might keep your revolver handy, though.”

  Saturday 21 May 1898

  A letter from my wife arrived this afternoon. She says,

  My dear husband,

  You will be pleased to know Mr Davenport and Miss Simms arrived this morning. I am pleased the weather is so congenial for their visit.

  Mr D and Billy have been forming quite an attachment. Mr D is exceedingly well read and he seems to have very similar tastes to the boy. They spent all afternoon talking about Long John Silver and David Copperfield. In the meantime, Julia has offered to help Tommy with his music and has added the violin to his repertoire.(A foundation only; I expect you to lend style to his substance.)

  We spent much of the afternoon on the beach. Oh, I wish you could have been here. I have never heard Davenport laugh so hard. It is hard to reconcile the sprightly, energetic gentleman who played ball with the boys with the reserved, controlled butler of the manor. I teased him about it and he said, ‘Do you know, Lady Beatrice, when I was fired from Rillington Manor I thought my life was over. Now I am a successful businessman and shall soon be a husband. I cannot believe it myself.’

  I had a letter from Rivkah Solberg and she tells me she and David are to be married, too. I am so pleased he finally asked her. She is a lovely girl and I believe they shall do very well together. I hope you will be able to accompany me to the wedding.

  As you can see, we are very well looked after. I hope you, Watson, and your brother are equally safe.

  With all esteem and affection,

  B.

  Monday 23 May 1898

  A letter from Stevens arrived in this morning’s post. He waxes poetic about the delights of the seashore, but adds that B is becoming restless with country life. As if there is anything I can do about it.

  Billy and Tommy are well and headed off to Bodiam Castle tomorrow. Mr and the future Mrs Davenport are delighted with the boys and spend hours with them. Tommy’s fondness for B grows daily. They all join him in sending warm regards, etc.

  Bodiam Castle. I do hope they’ll be careful.

  2.00 pm

  News from France that Zola’s second trial has begun. The post brought a letter from Billy with a few words from Tommy:

  Dear Mr Holmes,

  I hope this letter finds you in good elfhealth as it does me and Tommy.

  Lady B says we should send you a word to tell you we are well. Weis are keeping busy. We help out with the horses, least, I do. Tom Tom prefers that bloomin pianer. All day long he’s at it. Plink plink plink. Sounding good but don’t tell him I said that.

  We went to a castle today. A real castle. With a moat and everything. It was great fun pretending to be nites knights and have sword fights and such. Lady B says we can be her knights. Tommy - he isn’t half wet sometimes - got all daft and said he’d defend her to the death. Lady B says she’d be happy if he’d just wash behind his ears. Oh, we did laugh.

  Mr D is that nice. He says I can stay with him any time I like. Good to know for next time I can’t find a bed. Oh, and get this me and Tom Tom havebin been invited to the wedding, his and Miss Simms. And Mr Stevens and Daisy say we can go to their nuptials and all.

  Hi Mr H. Tommy here. Just wanted to say thanks a lot for everything. I ain’t never had a holiday, Billy neither, and we ain’t never even seen the sea. Don’t know how I’ll manage when I get home but her ladyship says I can visit her any time I like. She’s a proper lady and no mistake.

  Yours sincerely,

  Tommy and Billy

  I spent much of the day in Camden Town. That is to say Christy Day, an Irish labourer, spent his time there. He went from door to door offering to do odd jobs.

  The first door was opened by a bronze-complexioned young man. I asked if he had any work for a poor Irishman who just wanted to earn an honest shilling.

  “I’m afraid not, father,” he said. “I do all my own jobs around the house. But here’s tuppence so you can get yourself a cup of tea.”

  “Ah, now, I can’t take charity, sir,” I said. “There must be something I can do to earn it? I can sweep up or clean your windows...”

  He laughed. His teeth were very white and even. He said, “I admire your principles, father. Well, the weather’s not so good for window cleaning, but if you like you can help me pack up some things in the attic.”

  “Gladly,” I said as I shuffled into the house behind him. “Very Christian of you, sir. Though perhaps you’re not a Christian? You’re not from these parts, are you?”

  “I’m from Egypt,” he said. “My name is Amun. And yes, I am Christian.”

  I shook his hand. “Christy Day from Dublin City,” I said. “I’m pleased to make your acquaintance.”

  I followed the man up the stairs into a low-ceilinged attic. There were trunks and boxes and all sorts of odds and ends.

  “Yarra,” I said. “I’ve never seen such treasures. Are you a rich man, Mr Amun?”

  “Not I,” he said with an easy laugh. “These were all my mother’s things. She died a few months ago and I’ve been putting off sorting them out. I really cannot put it off any longer.”

  We sat together in the cramped space and he showed me how to pack the various statues, ornaments and other gewgaws.

  “Ugly stuff, isn’t it?” he said, laughing.

  “Well, not my cup of tea, anyway,” I said.

  “Speaking of tea,” said a soft voice at the door. A young woman stood there with a tray.

  The man rose and helped her. “My wife, Mr Day,” he said, introducing us.

  “Your servant, ma’am,” I said, rising and bowing stiffly. (I decided Day should be rather arthritic.)

  “Sit, sir,” she said. “How are things going, Abram?”

  “Well, well,” he replied. “With Mr Day’s help we shall be done by this evening.”

  The woman nodded and left us. We sipped our tea and carried on with our work. In a very short time, I learned that Amun teaches Egyptian studies at University College London. He has been living in England for nearly twelve years, married for the last three, and is hoping his wife will soon give him a son.

  I asked about his neighbours but, alas, he refused to speak ill of them. Still, reading between the lines I got the impression it was not easy to be a foreign man in London.

  As he spoke, I was struck by how guileless he seemed. He was affable, kind, and considerate. He made sure I, as an old man, got the most comfortable chair and he kept me well supplied with food and tea. He inquired into my welfare. Did I live alone? I invented a daughter and a grandson. How did I manage? It was not idle curiosity, either. He gave me the distinct impression that he was genuinely concerned for the wellbeing of all his fellow man. Delightful as this was, it did nothing to advance my case.

  I turned the conversation to Egyptian myths and legends. My host was delighted to tell me about those old tales and for the next hour, he spoke of Amun-Ra, the king of the gods, and of Anubis, the protector of the dead. He told me about Osiris, and Isis and Horus, and held me spellbound. Not only is he knowledgeable, but his enthusiasm for his subject is contagious. Indeed, I was so transfixed by his lesson that I almost forgot my purpose.

  “Such stories you have, Mr Amun,” I said. “I suppose all these things happened millions of years ago.”

  He shook his head and said gently, “Not at all; only a few thousand. Man wasn’t even on this planet a million years ago.”

  “I suppose all these gods were forgotten when Our Saviour arrived?”

  In this manner, I brought the conversation around to the Church in Egypt and within a few minutes, Amun himself brought up the subject of St Mark and the coins.

  He related the tale as I had heard it but somehow imbued it with a new life.

  “And what happened, Mr Amun? W
here are the coins now?” I sounded like Billy wanting more stories, which is rather how I felt.

  “The story is just a legend, Mr Day,” he said. “The coins do not really exist.”

  “Ah, do they not? That’s a shame.”

  “Oh, some people believe in them and have dedicated their lives to looking for them, but they are just a story.”

  It was evident he had no illusions about the story, anyway, and we returned to our packing.

  After a very generous luncheon, I asked if there were other newcomers to the area. Perhaps they might have some work? He suggested Mrs Portnoy. She is a widow lady who moved into Camden Town only a few weeks after he and his wife. She has two small children and possibly would be glad of a man to help her with some chores. Of course, as a widow, she probably couldn’t pay much, but he would supplement any wages she could give me. It would be our secret. “The best charity is done without show, Mr Day,” he said.

  I thanked him and ambled down the street. I knocked on Mrs Portnoy’s door but there was no answer.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  I am restless this evening and cannot sit still. Watson says I am anxious about Watteau’s execution tomorrow. I am unsettled, certainly, but I do not think ‘anxious’ is the right word. I pointed out to Watson that as a writer he ought to be more precise in his language.

  “I will come with you, if you wish, Holmes.”

  I shook my head. “It is a measure of your friendship that you would make such a suggestion,” I said. “I know you loathe the idea at least as much as I.”

  He did not press the point.

  In truth, I recoil from the idea of attending so ghastly an event, but I feel I owe it to Beatrice. The lady, of course, does not agree.

  “You know I expect no such thing, Sherlock,” she said some weeks ago when we discussed it. “I would attend the execution myself if an outcry at a gentlewoman’s presence could be avoided.”