I decided to put this Rafferty fellow to the test.
“So you have done some work for Mr Holmes?” I asked, looking at him closely.
“That I does, ’pon occasion, as it warrants.”
“Then perhaps you can help me?”
“If I am able, depending ’pon what it be.”
I nodded, then I drew the man in close to me and whispered in his ear. “Listen, Sherlock Holmes is here, but he is in disguise. Can you point him out to me?”
“That is not for me to say. If Mr ’Olmes desires not to be known, he should remain so. He may be working on one of those cases of his,” Rafferty explained in a conspiratational whisper.
I’m afraid I grew exasperated by his defiance. “Oh, come now, my man, this is a birthday party, Holmes is not working on any case. He is just trying to get my goat, punish me for giving him a party that he never wanted.”
The man shrugged and then left me to converse with a group of young ladies. Now who these ladies were I had no idea. I noticed all were rather comely, and if truth be told, well-endowed and quite fetching. I shook my head in despair and forgot the ladies. I was a married man now, my Mary was away, and my friend Sherlock Holmes was doing his best to make me out a fool. Soon each of the guests was coming over to me and asking when Sherlock Holmes would appear. When, indeed!
I was in a quandary.
“Any luck yet?” Mycroft asked as he passed me with someone who looked like the prime minister.
“No, but who are all these people? I invited no more than two dozen guests but I have discovered people all throughout our rooms, out on the landing, the stairway, down through Mrs Hudson’s entire first floor, and even outside in front of 221. What is going on here?”
“My brother is quite the popular fellow,” Mycroft answered with a jolly laugh, then he left to refill his glass with more rum punch.
I watched him walk off and shook my head in despair. I was in a real dilemma.
Gregson and Lestrade next walked over to me. “When will Mr Holmes arrive?”
“Soon,” I answered, then begged off, telling them that I had to speak with another guest on the other side of the room.
It was then that my eyes locked onto an elderly clergyman. He was tall and lean, with long grey hair under a large black slough hat. He carried a book with him under his arm. Probably a Bible. He was talking briskly with one of the ladies. Now here was someone of interest. Hello! Holmes had once used this very disguise years ago in the Adler Affair. I looked more closely at the old cleric. Yes, it made sense. This could certainly be Holmes. My heart leapt with joy, I had him now! I would show him!
I watched the clergyman more carefully. Yes, it could be Holmes, in fact, it had to be Holmes! I looked around for Mycroft, but he was nowhere in sight, so I decided to beard Sherlock myself. I approached the elderly clergyman and stood boldly in front of him. I stared him down. He looked back at me as if he had never seen me before. Just as I assumed he would.
I said boldly, “Holmes, I must compliment you upon your fine disguise, the old weathered face, the lank messy hair, the crazed look in the eyes, but I saw right through it immediately. I have found you out, you scoundrel!”
The old cleric looked at me uncomprehendingly, and it annoyed me that my friend would not admit defeat and insisted upon keeping up his sham in spite of my discovering his charade.
With some annoyance the cleric said, “Disguise? What disguise, young man? I am sorry, sir, but I quite do not know what you mean.”
“You old rascal! Come now, admit I found you out!” I said rather loudly, insisting he come clean with the truth, sure that I had breached his disguise. We were attracting a crowd.
“Come now, sir. Doctor Watson, is it not? This is most unusual.”
“You know who I am, and I know who you are, you wily rogue, you!”
“Well, this is very unseemly behaviour. I have been invited here for a party to celebrate Mr Holmes’s auspicious day and now I find myself verbally accosted by some loud-mouthed mountebank! This is nothing short of outrageous!”
“Mountebank! Why, you old faker, I’ll show you!” I blurted in anger. A crowd had definitely gathered around us now. The men from Scotland Yard, that Rafferty fellow, a tall overweight man who appeared to be a common labourer, another man in a military uniform, Wiggins and Mrs Hudson, all were looking to see what I would do next.
“Answer me, Holmes! I’ve had quite enough of your obtuse behavior, making a fool out of me by coming in secret to your own party and calling me a mountebank!”
“Mountebank is the least of it! You are an impertinent scoundrel, sir!” the old cleric barked in anger.
“Oh, be quiet, Holmes!” I shouted. “I am furious with you. Why, it would serve you right if I just pulled that fake beard right off your face!”
The elderly cleric took a step back, I took a step forward, but then I felt a firm hand upon my shoulder. I turned to find Mycroft Holmes standing beside me. He bowed down and gently whispered into my ear, “I’m afraid you have the wrong man, Doctor. That is the Reverend Mathias James of St Catherine’s. I invited him here myself. My brother did some little favour for him regarding the pilfering of the church’s poor box last month. He only wished to express his gratitude.”
I was utterly embarrassed. I could barely stand there in front of all those people. Thankfully, by then the crowd had moved off and the general party conversation resumed. I well imagined I was the subject of much of that conversation. I took a deep breath and looked to the elder Holmes.
“Not Sherlock?” I asked in a deflated tone.
“Indeed not,” Mycroft replied firmly. Then he pulled me away with him. “Come Doctor, you need some of this rum punch, your nerves seem frayed. Too much excitement for one evening, I gather. The party is simply smashing by the way, a very interesting group and they all seem to be having a fine time of things. You are to be congratulated.”
I walked off numbly following Mycroft, my mind in a whirl. That poor old reverend. I would have to apologize to him later. My God, I had come one heartbeat away from pulling his whiskers right off his face!
“By the way, Doctor, do you have any idea when my brother will show himself?” the elder Holmes asked me confidentially.
I looked at him curiously. “What do you mean? I thought you said he was here, but in disguise?”
“I said he might be here, perhaps in disguise,” Mycroft told me.
“So he is not here?” I asked.
“Apparently he is not,” Mycroft replied simply.
I felt deflated, defeated, and suddenly very sad.
Mycroft handed me a glass of rum punch. I grasped it eagerly and in four long swallows emptied the glass. The warmth of the rum and the sweetness of the fruit did much to restore my spirits.
“What now?” I asked.
“Be patient,” Mycroft said, and then he walked off to speak with the tall uniformed military man I had seen earlier.
I quickly took another glass of rum punch, my nerves were frazzled and I needed the drink. I’d not only made a fool of myself in front of everyone, I’d practically scared the daylights out of poor old Reverend James. He must think me quite insane. This party was certainly not turning out as I had planned.
As the night wore on the talk became louder, the laughter more raucous and no one left 221B. Everyone it seemed was waiting for Sherlock Holmes to make his grand entrance to celebrate his fiftieth birthday. No one was more anxious for that event to occur than I.
I decided to make the rounds, and after a few more doses of Mrs Hudson’s delightful elixir—she seemed to keep the punch bowl and trays of food endlessly supplied—I loosened up somewhat and spoke to some of the guests. I focused especially on those guests I did not know. There were quite a few of them; men of apparently all backgrounds and stations in life. I introduced myself to one and all, looking to see if any of them might be Holmes in disguise. I was much more careful this time. Yet while it seemed that none of them could
be Holmes, each one asked me when the guest of honour was slated to appear. I smiled and mumbled something about him having been called away earlier in the day on some important business, but that he would surely be here soon.
“Rest assured,” I told one and all, with a rum punch grin, “Sherlock Holmes would never miss his own birthday party.”
They all laughed and said that was certainly true.
I laughed with them as I walked away. I was a desperate man now. What to do? Where was Holmes? Why was he doing this to me?
Someone was tugging at my sleeve. “Excuse me, Doctor Watson, but can you tell me when Mr Holmes is going to show up? You know the hour is getting rather late.”
The same question was put to me by an ever growing amount of guests until it became a veritable chant. “Where is Holmes! Where is Holmes!”
I swallowed hard, took a deep breath. It looked like I would have to do something soon. But what? It was obvious to me now that Holmes was not going to show up —and if by some miracle he was even here—he was not going to show himself. It looked like it fell to me to do the best I could as matters now stood.
I took another deep breath and marshaled my thoughts. Speaking in my best booming voice, I announced to one and all, “My friends, ladies and gentlemen, friends of Sherlock Holmes, the hour is getting late. I am afraid to tell you that Sherlock Holmes is away on a case and will not be able to join us, so we should have our cake now and then call it a night.”
There were the expected murmurs of shock and disappointment.
“I am truly sorry that Mr Holmes is not able to be with us tonight, but he sends his regrets, regards, and he thanks you all for doing him such an honour on his birthday. I am sorry that I have let you down.”
There were more murmurs of disappointment, some signs of regret. My announcement about Holmes spread a pall over the formerly joyous party. Now a hush had overcome the guests, joined by a low murmur as they all looked towards me, some not too kindly. I realized something more was called for.
I boldly moved to the front of the room, looked at the guests and spoke the only way I knew how, from my heart. “My friends, my good friends, honoured guests, we have joined here tonight to celebrate the fiftieth year of the birth of our good friend Sherlock Holmes. It is fitting we do this. It matters not that Holmes is unable to join us. Holmes is a man who has touched all our lives and in that way he is with us always. He is a man who has made the world a better place, and without him and his work as a consulting detective, we would all be worse off. I known I would be. On a personal note, Sherlock Holmes is my dear friend. He is the most decent man I have ever met. My life without him would be lost. I miss him being here tonight as much as you all do. I am sure the only reason he is not here with us tonight is because he is engaged in important work that may be a matter of life and death. You can rest assured that once I see him I shall chide him without mercy for his absence!” There was a bit of light laughter by the guests at that remark and I smiled. I was winning the crowd. Then I continued, “What I do know, is that were Sherlock Holmes here, he would be overcome by this outpouring of love and affection that you all show him. So many old friends are here together again, and all to honour him. Holmes would be deeply touched and thank you all.”
There was a cheer and then clapping and I quickly wiped the sweat that streamed down my face.
“I think it is time. Now let’s have our cake!” I announced to raucous cheers. “Mrs Hudson!”
By then, of course, everyone was swarming around me, each one wishing Holmes good cheer and congratulations. Lestrade, Gregson and all the Scotland Yard inspectors, Wiggins and his gang, Stamford, Reginald Musgrave, various clients, and even some men Holmes had put away. All offered their good wishes. I noticed another Stamford offer his congratulations, Archie Stamford the forger, and then Mycroft stepped up and shook my hand.
“Well done, Doctor Watson, well done indeed!” the elder Holmes told me and I beamed with pride.
Then the crowd suddenly parted as a familiar female voice called out boldly in a loud Scottish accent, “Come on now, move off, make room! Coming through!”
It was Mrs Hudson holding a large chocolate cake set ablaze with candles – fifty of them if I am not mistaken. She deftly placed the cake down upon the table in front of us.
“Seeing as Mr Holmes is not present, Doctor Watson, why don’t you make a wish for him and then blow out the candles,” she stated. Then she ordered, “Hurry up or the cake will melt and everyone is waiting for a piece.”
I took a minute to look around at all the faces beaming with good cheer and I do believe my eyes misted up for just a moment. At that instance I missed Holmes greatly, so sorry he was missing this celebration in his honour. Then I quickly took a deep breath and blew out all the candles in one great gust of wind.
Instantly those in the room, and all those throughout the entire house, let out with a raucous chant:
“HAPPY BIRTHDAY, MR HOLMES!!!”
I was obviously touched by the emotion exhibited for my friend and simply said, “Thank you all, Sherlock Holmes thanks you all!”
Then Mrs Hudson cut the cake and began handing it out to the guests on her prized china.
Wiggins then came over to me on the sly. He was the one who put me on the right track.
“Eh, Doctor Watson, you ’ear from Mr ’Olmes yet?”
“You know I have not, you rascal,” I replied a bit short with the young man. I’d known Wiggins since he had been a young pup, just a boy—one of those Holmes liked to call his ‘Irregulars.’
“Well ’e told me you should be on the lookout for Abercrombie,” Wiggins said in a low tone.
“You spoke with Holmes? Where is he?” I asked quietly. “Point him out to me now!”
“I cannot, ’e told me this yesterday and I’ve not seen nor ’eard from ’im since.”
“Abercrombie?” I said softly. That meant something. The escaped convict. Here! What was that about? I looked at Wiggins. “Did he tell you what this Abercrombie looked like or why I should be on the watch for him.”
“No, sir, just that you should keep your eyes open and stay away from him.”
I shook my head in frustration. How could I look out for this Abercrombie or stay away from him when I did not even know what the man looked like? And a dangerous escaped convict at that! Then my eyes spotted the Scotland Yard inspectors talking heatedly in a small circle apparently about old cases and having a fine time of it—Lestrade, Gregson, Hopkins, MacDonald, and the man Holmes liked to call ‘Mr Mac.’
I smiled as I entered their midst, “Gentlemen!”
“Fine party, Doctor Watson,” Lestrade said as he downed more punch and picked up another sandwich.
“Simply smashing!” Hopkins added with a grin. It appeared the rum punch already had some effect on him—as it was having on most of the guests.
“Gentlemen, perhaps you can help me?” I asked cordially. “Have any of you heard of the escaped convict, Abercrombie?”
“Dangerous man,” Mr Mac stated seriously.
“Murderer with no pity,” Gregson added.
I gulped nervously. Those were not the words I wanted to hear, but I expected no less.
“Do any of you know what the man looks like? Could you pick him out in a crowd?” I asked hopefully.
All five inspectors looked dubious and shook their heads in the negative.
Hopkins then explained, “Abercrombie has always appeared the same, shaved round head, clean shaved face, even his eyebrows are shaved. He’s been on the run for over a month, ample time to change his appearance, so unless you see a man matching that description, you’ll never find him. He is probably on a ship to America or Australia at this very moment.”
“I hope so,” I said.
Then they asked about my interest in him. I shrugged and just replied that I had read of him in the press and it was a passing fancy.
I next tried Mycroft and he was also of no help. I found myself ba
ck where I had started.
I looked over at the many men in the room, then thought of all the other men throughout the house. I knew that there could easily be a dozen or more men who might be Abercrombie. Which one was he? Abercrombie, the escaped convict! Why was he here? I nodded, now convinced, there could be but one reason. Abercrombie was here to kill Sherlock Holmes!
A deadly chill ran through me. There really was much more to this party than met the eye and if Holmes was truly here, I now hoped he was in disguise and would not reveal himself.
I walked through the rooms and the outer landing, down the stairs and even to the outside steps of 221 for any sign of Holmes—or a man who might be my friend in disguise. There was no one. Where was he? And this Abercrombie! What of him? Obviously, the two were stalking each other in some mad dance of criminal pursuit and criminal revenge. I began to fear for my friend and told my feelings to Mycroft.
“I feel terrible,“ I told the elder Holmes. “I never thought that Sherlock taking on a disguise might be for some other reason—that it was a matter of life and death.”
“Fear not, good doctor. Sherlock has all well in hand.”
“Where is he then?” I asked nervously.
“I think it may be time. Did you notice the military officer in the red uniform?” Mycroft asked me, a slight smile playing across his lips.
“Sherlock?” I whispered softly.
Mycroft did not answer that question, instead he told me, “He is Colonel Sir Ralph Richards. As I say, an interesting fellow. Perhaps you would like me to introduce you to him?”
I nodded. Being a retired Army doctor, I was always eager to meet another military man. Mycroft took me to where the Colonel was apparently holding court. He was busy speaking with various guests, including Reverend James, that Rafferty fellow, and a disreputable man who appeared to be nothing more than some heavy oaf, a down-and-out ne’er-do-well who had apparently crashed the party for the free food and beverages supplied so amply by Mrs Hudson. He wolfed down food and drink as if he had never seen such victuals before. Well, so be it. The poor fellow was apparently hungry. I quickly turned away from the man to look at the other guests.
Sherlock Holmes Mystery Magazine, Volume 15 Page 11
