by Miss Roylott
He smiled. "I know a great many. More, if we take twenty years as being only an approximate number of years that have passed; it might have taken place shortly before or after that year. Yet the names of the principals—Drebber, Stangerson, Hope, and Ferrier—do not immediately bring any case to my mind. Research would be necessary, and it would help if we could narrow down a particular city at least."
"Cleveland, Ohio?" I ventured.
"Perhaps, though Hope and his targets seem to have roamed all over America, not staying long in any location. But wait a moment—Hope spoke of living among the Salt Lake Mountains, and he told Drebber that he had hunted him from Salt Lake City to St. Petersburg."
"Salt Lake City?"
"Yes, does that locale not sound familiar? Is it not the capital for Mormons? I wonder… "
He was still pondering the matter when our cab came to a stop and we alighted.
"I see that someone has swept up the debris that fell to the pavement from our broken window," Holmes observed.
"It could not be left there for long, with so many passers-by."
"No indeed. Look up there in our window. There are workmen already beginning repairs. I hope they have not disturbed my laboratory." Holmes opened our street door with his latchkey.
"You are lucky that our capture of Jefferson Hope did not knock over your chemicals and start a fire."
We entered and began to hurry up the stairs to our rooms, only to be interrupted by the appearance of young Wiggins, who opened the door of Mrs. Hudson's parlour. His hands and face had been recently washed. "They're here now, ma'am," he called back into the room.
Holmes stopped abruptly on the fifth step. "Wiggins, you're still here?"
Mrs. Hudson came into the hall then. Her eyes were dry now, but she had recently been crying. I hoped it was purely for the dog, and not also for the damage we had done to her sitting-room and furniture.
"I thought I better stay with the ma'am," the boy explained.
"I see. You are dismissed now. Here's for your help this morning." Holmes reached down and paid him.
The boy thanked him but looked to Mrs. Hudson for final dismissal.
She nodded to him. "I'm all right now. Run along, dear."
"Right, ma'am." With a friendly wave, he turned and scampered out the street door.
Our landlady explained the commotion upstairs, "I am sorry, but I've had to send for the workmen already. You gentlemen shall not be able to dine upstairs at present, but you may take luncheon here in my rooms."
Holmes answered graciously, "How kind of you. You have my apologies, Mrs. Hudson. We did not know that the interview with the prisoner would take so long, otherwise we would have assisted in this cleanup. Do let us know the final cost, so that we may cover it."
"I shall, Mr. Holmes. Now if you'll excuse me, I must go in and check upon your luncheon. It should be ready in half an hour."
Chapter 8
The Needle and the Parcel
We thanked her and then continued upstairs to wash up. Our sitting-room was crowded with workmen who were judging what repairs the furniture needed, and others who were measuring the window and boarding up the gaping hole until new glass could be brought. Holmes and I edged by the workers and then parted, I to my room, and Holmes to his laboratory to make sure that his chemicals and instruments were safely put away. After I washed and groomed in my bedroom, I sat down a moment to rest after the long morning. Finally I began to worry, and peeked out my bedroom door. Holmes was no longer at his laboratory, so presumably he had also gone to wash up for luncheon.
I ventured out of my room and knocked on his door.
There was a moment of hesitation before Holmes responded. "Come in, Watson."
I did so and found Holmes in his shirtsleeves, standing by his mirror and attaching his cuffs. His other coat and shirt lay on his bed, for they had been torn in his struggle with Hope.
"I am sorry to intrude," I said, shutting the door. "I'm just a little worried, though."
"About what?"
"I would not think of begrudging Mrs. Hudson anything, but how much do you think the repairs are likely to cost? I just want to be certain that we'll have enough between us to pay."
He smiled at me. "Is that all, Watson? Do not worry about that; when I said that we should pay for it, I never meant that we should have to do so alone."
"Then who will pay?"
"My clients, of course. Actually, Watson, you should not have to pay at all, for I know that your pocketbook is still trying to recover from the strains of your hotel stay. Do not give another thought to it."
"Your clients, Holmes?"
"Yes, Gregson and Lestrade. I shall bill them as I always do for my assistance on their case; if not for my solving it and allowing them to have the credit, they would be deprived of prestige, promotions, and pay cheques at Scotland Yard."
"I see." So that was why they tolerated Holmes.
"In fact, Watson, why don't you send them a bill as well for the medical services you performed, for them and for their prisoner?"
"Oh but Holmes, that was my duty—"
"Yes, but someone's got to pay for used bandages, iodoform, and your expertise. I'm sure Gregson and Lestrade will understand. Just think about it; it can be your stepping stone to returning to practice."
I shrugged non-committally and started to leave him to finish dressing, but my eye caught a glimpse of something as he raised his arm again to attach his cuff to his sleeve.
"Holmes!"
"Watson, let go of me."
"But you've missed something here, on your arm."
He kept pulling away and frowning, but I held onto him. "I knew I should have examined you. Here, you've—"
What I thought to be a cut, however, turned out to be a small scar. In fact, I pushed back his whole sleeve and found his forearm littered with such scars. They were evidently the marks of a hypodermic needle.
Holmes cleared his throat with dignity. "There, you see, Watson? No cuts, and these are all old scars, well healed. I do know how to keep away infection."
"But what are you injecting yourself with so often?"
"My medication," he said, vaguely.
"Medication? Are you ill?" I looked at him with concern.
"Sometimes." He pulled his arm out of my grasp, covering it up again. He elaborated cautiously, "You know of my depressions, Watson. You've seen one."
"Yes."
"Well, sometimes Lestrade is not there to bring me a case; sometimes I must find a way to come out of my depressions by myself. That is what my medication is for."
"Oh. What is it? Maybe I can prescribe something—"
"No, no, don't bother. I have sufficient medical knowledge, Watson; I'm taking care of it." He seemed opposed to my questioning him any further, and considered the subject closed. "Now do let me finish, lest I be late for lunch."
So I left his room, and we met later downstairs in our landlady's parlour, where she set a table for us. I thanked her and asked her how she was feeling. She smiled and said not to mind her, she was only thinking of her poor dog again.
"I only miss him, that's all." She sighed heavily. "But it is better this way, I know; he was in too much pain, Doctor." She inquired whether the death had been quick; I said it was instantaneous, and it comforted her. She thanked us both for our help and then withdrew.
Holmes glanced at me oddly.
I asked him what was wrong, but he would not answer at first. We ate in silence until Holmes finally said, "Do you find me cold, Watson?"
"What do you mean?"
"Unsympathetic? Inhuman? I believe you and Wiggins have offered the lady far more comfort than I."
"It is not in your nature, that's all. I am sure that she does not mind."
"But do you mind, Watson?"
"No, you do not express emotions often—"
"I do not feel them, you mean." He folded his hands and stared critically down at them. "I wish to be detached and methodical, W
atson, for the sake of my work, so I regulate myself constantly in that regard. Yet perhaps such vigilance makes me inauthentic at inconvenient moments and robs me of a useful tool. I should cultivate the art of convincingly displaying emotion; human nature responds to it, women especially."
I did not know what to say to that, but I certainly felt Holmes's analytical nature in full force at that moment. Was he implying that my sympathy for Mrs. Hudson was false? Was he saying that he could only permit himself artificial emotion, to be used as a tool?
After we dined, I returned upstairs to my room. It is somewhat distracting to write while I can hear the workmen in the other room, but it is important that I write up the morning's events before I forget them. I wonder if the Holmes I knew five years ago is completely gone now, or if the warmth I thought he showed in my arms was only an illusion, a figment of my imagination.
After the workmen left and we were able to return to our sitting-room, Holmes checked his corner laboratory again. "Watson, I am going to the chemist's," he announced, not turning around to me. "Is your black bag well stocked?"
I got it from where I had left it on my desk, and knew already that it was fairly depleted. "Do you want your iodoform back?"
"No, keep it. What else do you need?"
"Well—"
"Here, let me have a look."
I brought my bag over to him and he efficiently went through it, making a list of what needed replenishing.
"Is this for your wound?" he said, finding the salve that I had been keeping for its sentimental value, as it was getting more and more unlikely that I would be using it again. I took it back from him hurriedly and slipped it into my pocket.
"No, Holmes," I said, clearing my throat; it would be impossible to lie to him.
He finally glanced at me, raising an eyebrow and then smiling very slightly. He said nothing, however, and returned to his cataloguing. When finished, he restored everything to my bag and handed it back to me. "I shall return this afternoon with your supplies."
"Thank you, Holmes." As I deposited the bag on my desk again, I heard Holmes follow after me.
"Watson," he spoke quietly behind me, "I'm afraid that this Brixton case has caused me to neglect an earlier list. Should I take you out again tonight?"
"No, Holmes," I answered, not turning around. "I'm tired."
"Another night perhaps?"
I shook my head. "It wasn't of much use to begin with. I'll find some other way to meet someone."
He leaned near and put his hand upon my shoulder, whispering, "Perhaps you should try Arthur Charpentier."
"Why?" His touch and his low voice made me shiver a little.
"It is not a certainty yet, but a hunch. He met an old shipmate on the way home, and took a long walk with him. When asked where this old shipmate lived, he was unable to give any satisfactory reply. Four or five hours, his mother not knowing where he went."
Finally Holmes let go and departed, leaving me to mull over his words. A young Navy man. How young? I knew I was too old now to pass as an undergraduate anymore in our university towns. I was not sure if I was too old for a fling with a young sailor on leave. With my luck, Holmes's hunch would be wrong, or the sub-lieutenant would not find me attractive, or he would prefer to be with his old shipmate.
I sunk into my chair and felt lonely. What I still ache for, in a frustrating way, is Holmes, but that may be the mere lure of convenience. Am I so lazy that I would pursue a man just because he sleeps under the same roof I do? Just because I've had him once before?
Not wanting to be disturbed by Holmes upon his return, I retired to my bedroom and locked the door. I did not respond when he arrived and called for me repeatedly. Then I heard him unload his parcels and no doubt fill up my black bag, but I cannot be sure whether I imagined him coming to my door and standing there for a time.
I do not think I shall come out for dinner.
"Watson?" He knocked at my door. "Watson?"
Maybe it was better when he called me Doctor, even in private.
Faced with my continued silence, he said, "If you shall not come to dinner, that is all right; I can tell Mrs. Hudson you are tired. But perhaps you would like to see the parcel that arrived for you?"
I sat up at this, not sure if he was speaking truthfully.
He knocked again. "It will not fit under your door."
I finally rose and opened the door very slightly ajar, but I remained behind the door, well out of his view.
After a pause, he said, "I still have your revolver in my room. Here."
So he handed me a thick parcel, and then went to get my revolver. Meanwhile I stared at the parcel in my hands. Holmes returned and handed me back my revolver.
I closed the door and locked it again, setting my gun down on my dresser.
He remained on the other side. "No return address," he said through the door. "No postmark. Someone rang our bell and disappeared before the maid could see them; it was propped against our door and fell inside when she opened it. Addressed to you by typewriter. Letter 'B' worn down and faint, letter 't' chipped. I would need further samples to identify this machine."
I did not respond to his desperate curiosity about the parcel. I wondered if he had any curiosity left about me, any regard for how I might feel to have him nudge me indiscriminately to this stranger or that stranger, just so that it would take my interest away from him.
"Watson?" he pled, leaning at my door.
At last I tore open the parcel, and could hear the impatience in his breath. I sat down next to my door and started describing my findings to him. "A thick, typewritten document, accompanied by a note, which reads, 'To Dr. Watson and the suspicious gentleman who tried to follow me the other night: I have learned that my friend Mr. Jefferson Hope has been captured by the police. This is a great tragedy, as such a good man ought to die at home in his sick bed, not in a cell at Scotland Yard. If only I had known and stopped him from going on that fool's errand to Baker Street!
"'Sirs, I do not know what your interest in the affair is, but if you have any sense of justice, you will make sure that this history is sent on to the authorities at his trial, where it may mitigate the charges against him. It is an account of the wrongful deaths of John Ferrier and his adopted daughter Lucy, for whose sake Mr. Hope has given up all comfort in his life to see that Drebber and Stangerson do not get away with their crimes! Please show mercy, Doctor!'" The tone of desperation was unmistakable.
Holmes spoke up from the other side. "Is that it? No signature?"
"No," I answered, "not even typewritten."
"Not surprising, given his anonymous method of delivering the parcel." Holmes sounded thoroughly fascinated by this new development. "So the accomplice comes forth, partially. He takes another risk to defend his friend. Does he not know that Hope is bound to die before long, or does he prefer to stand by him, to the very end?"
I said nothing, though Holmes waited several moments for a response. I could hear his breathing and sense his presence right at the door, close to me.
"Hand me the note, please," he said, quite subdued.
I passed it underneath the door to him.
After another pause, he asked, "How many pages in the manuscript?"
"About fifty."
"Bound together?"
"Yes."
"Will you let me see them when you are done reading them?"
"Yes."
I heard him rise and go. So he did not want me for anything other than the case. I put the parcel and its contents aside on my dresser.
I had fallen fitfully asleep, only to wake and find Holmes sitting on the edge of my bed, his hand upon my brow. I turned around to face him.
"How did you—?"
"I picked your lock." He brushed back the hair from my eyes. "I needed to be sure you were well."
"Or did you wish to get to the parcel?" I sneered.
He shook his head. "Wiggins wants to see you."
"What?"
He shrugged, as puzzled as I. "That boy is growing to have a mind of his own lately. I hardly know how much longer I shall be able to rely on him, but so far his judgement of whom to trust is impeccable."
I sat up at last, but did not take his offered bait for conversation, so he gave up.
"Can you make yourself presentable in five minutes?"
I nodded.
He rose from my bed and went to the door. "Wiggins will be waiting for you in the sitting-room. I shall be in my bedroom playing my violin, as the boy insisted I not eavesdrop."
Holmes then departed and I hurried to cleanse myself of my afternoon and evening of frustrated sulking. The time was half past eight, and I soon heard Holmes take up his violin.
Wiggins stood holding his cap when I appeared. "You all right, Doctor?"
I nodded and asked him to sit, while I did the same. "What is it, Wiggins?"
"I don't mean to disturb you, if you aren't well. Mrs. Hudson says you didn't have no dinner."
"I'm fine. I was just feeling tired. Why did you wish to see me?"
"Well, first of all, do you remember the day that Mr. Holmes moved in?"
"Yes. You and another boy were here."
"Yeah. That were Dennis. All us Irregulars—"
"What?"
"Irregulars. That's what Mr. Holmes calls us, an irregular police force; it's his little joke. All us Irregulars were very surprised to hear that Mr. Holmes had found a bloke to split rooms with him, seeing as he's so known for being an irregular bloke himself. Some people think he's half crazed."
I smiled. "Go on."
"Well that's what me and Dennis were joking about, how long it'd be before Mr. Holmes drove you crazy and you'd throw him out, or else how crazy you'd have to be yourself to stay with him. We wanted a glimpse of you, see what sort of bloke you were."
"Ah."
"Sorry we were rude to you, Doctor."
"That's all right, Wiggins. I believe I was rude to you."
He smiled. "I'm glad you're a nice, steady fella. Maybe you'll make Mr. Holmes more steady too. So far, only us and the regular police can stand him, and sometimes they can't stand him neither."
