by David Ruffle
The owners of the private hotel I resided in on the Strand were understanding when my rent was not always forthcoming on the set days. I suppose you could say I came to my senses and either I had to find cheaper rooms elsewhere, share with someone or remove myself from the capital altogether. On that very day, I was coming to that conclusion I happened to run into Stamford at the Criterion bar[30].
In spite of my worries about money I still gravitated to a bar, call it a weakness which it undoubtedly was. Recounting the episode now just reinforces the fact that my existence had become meaningless. Hah. Full circle again. It’s how I feel about my life now. The perils of old age where everything is just too much damn trouble.
Stamford, as anyone who has read my chronicles of the adventures of Sherlock Holmes can tell you, had been my dresser at Barts. Over a leisurely lunch at the Holborn we brought each other up to date on our respective lives. It was only after our second bottle of wine that the subject of rooms came up and before hardly any time had gone by, we were making our way to Barts.
I am often asked whether I had an inkling that my life was going to change so dramatically. Was there a premonition of any sort? No, of course not. I was just going to meet a man who like me, was looking to economise. For all I knew, I might not like the fellow. To be honest, at that initial meeting I am not sure I did. The arrangement was a business one and Lord knows, I was not looking for a bosom friend. I was quite content in a form of solitude I had made my own notwithstanding my forays into bars where there were no friends, just acquaintances who were happy to share a drink with you, but wanted no other part of your life. And truth be told, why would they? I was hardly sparkling company.
Ha, another circle completed... back to Barts. Those familiar buildings, familiar corridors. And, dear Lord, that same smell. Even now, I swear I can smell it. A few steps down a stone staircase and we were within touching distance of the chemical laboratory which was our destination. During this traversal of interlinked corridors Stamford had attempted to add some colour and detail to my prospective fellow lodger. I was none the wiser for it and had not an inking what this fellow Holmes did. Was he a student? Was he employed? Did he have an income? Mind you, I could hardly blame Stamford for not knowing these things.
Holmes was, as I was to find out, not especially forthcoming on such matters. The chemical laboratory was a lofty chamber, lined and littered with countless bottles. Broad, low tables were scattered about, which bristled with retorts, test-tubes, and little Bunsen lamps, with their blue flickering flames.
There was only one student in the room, who was bending over a distant table absorbed in his work. At the sound of our steps he glanced round and sprang to his feet with a cry of pleasure. “I’ve found it! I’ve found it,” he shouted to my companion, running towards us with a test-tube in his hand. So, I thought, this must be him. This somewhat excitable man. “I have found a re-agent which is precipitated by haemoglobin, and by nothing else,” he added, grinning inanely. Had he discovered a gold mine, greater delight could not have shone upon his features. It was hard not to beam back at him, to share in his joy whilst not having the first notion of what this statement actually meant. In fact, even when he explained it in detail a few moments later I was none the wiser. It was the same when he threw out names who had some connection with continental crime.
Although I could see how delighted he was with whatever he had discovered, I failed to grasp the significance of this test of his. Still, he seemed cordial enough and if we were to room together then I would quickly learn more about him through close study of him. I should have realised that after his opening address, where he correctly deduced that I had been in Afghanistan, that it would be he who would be doing the learning and studying as Stamford intimated at the time.
The following day we met at 221b Baker Street to inspect the rooms he had an eye on and so agreeable were they that I was moving my possessions in that very evening. Holmes appeared the following morning with an array of boxes and crates, so many that I wondered just where everything would fit. The twin tasks of unpacking and ordering the suite of rooms exactly how we wanted took the greater part of two days. Holmes had very firm ideas regarding the layout of the sitting-room and I was more than happy to fall in with his plans and ideas. He seemed to me to a fastidiously neat and tidy man in his habits. So, you can well imagine my surprise when I came down one morning, a little late admittedly, to find utter chaos. Newspapers strewn everywhere. Journals and correspondence adorning every surface. His apology was muted and possibly not sincere. He called it a quirk of his personality and the natural order of our lives would be resumed in no time at all.
My attempt to restore this order immediately was met with vehement protest, ‘Leave it be, Doctor! Please!’I left the house and when I returned several hours later all was how it had been prior to the maelstrom that had descended on the sitting-room. No further apology was forthcoming, nor was the matter mentioned again. Until the next time of course.
After a few weeks I was no further forward in ascertaining what Holmes did for a living. You may wonder why I didn’t simply ask him. Somehow, it wasn’t the done thing. We were not what you would call friends, not then at any rate. There were no shared intimacies other than conversation at meal times. More often than not, he would be out all hours of the day and night and when we spent time together in the evening, smoking a pipe or two it was more likely that not to be in a companionable silence. That was not always the case for Holmes was often happy to impart knowledge, all kinds of knowledge. This was not knowledge as directly applied to him; I learned nothing about the man other than his interests which were many and varied. His store of facts about virtually anything was greater than I had ever seen in anyone.
But, of what use were these facts? This knowledge of crime? Of biology? Of science? He was not studying medicine, of that I was confident. Neither did he appear to have pursued any course of reading which might fit him for a degree in science or any other recognized portal which would give him an entrance into the learned world. Yet his zeal for certain studies was remarkable and within eccentric limits his knowledge was so extraordinarily ample and minute that his observations had fairly astounded me. Surely no man would work so hard or attain such precise information unless he had some definite end in view. Desultory readers are seldom remarkable for the exactness of their learning. No man burdens his mind with small matters unless he has some very good reason for doing so.
But, what reason? As some of you will recall, I made a list detailing Holmes’s knowledge in many subjects and in some subjects an abject lack of knowledge. This grand scheme would I thought result in my immediate deduction of how Holmes earned his income for he surely had one. In those early weeks I imagined that my fellow lodger had fewer friends than I for while I did have one or two callers, such as Thurston for instance, Holmes had none.
Once we could say we were well and truly settled in our new home then things began to change. There was a trickle of callers to see him, the trickle turned into a flood. I quickly deduced these were not friends, the callers were from all age groups and stations of society from well-dressed city types to working girls, from cab drivers to matronly women. Obviously, they did not represent members of Holmes’s family either. They were too disparate. Some stayed no longer than ten minutes, some upwards of an hour. Some called only the once, some a few times in a single week. If I were at home then I retired to my bedroom at Holmes’s request for he was, as he stated, in need of privacy.
The only clue that I had as to who or what they were was that Holmes told me they were his clients. Evidently then, he was running a business of some kind, but what that business was I could not fathom. Again, I had an opportunity of asking him a point-blank question and again my delicacy prevented me from forcing another man to confide in me. I imagined at the time that he had some strong reason for not alluding to it, but he soon dispelled the idea by coming ar
ound to the subject of his own accord.
The truth, when it was revealed to me was something I had not considered. Sherlock Holmes was a consulting detective as now everyone knows. The only one of his kind in the world or so he presented to me. I doubted his word at the time, but said nothing or indeed wrote nothing of my doubts. Through the years Holmes made various statements that required the traditional pinch of salt. Untruths no, but certainly embellishments. I have been guilty myself perhaps of embellishing some of Holmes’s deeds and deductions. I am only fooling myself, there is no perhaps. I exercised a certain amount of poetic licence in recording Holmes’s adventures. This is not to decry the man for he was in a way, the outstanding man of his age with skills that would take many men a whole lifetime to attain. I digress once more.
Once I was let in on the secret of Holmes’s profession than I was little by little allowed into his world. It certainly gave my still meaningless existence a fillip. I now found that I was involved in the world of crime as companion and helpmate to a champion of justice and life was never to be the same again. But in those initial weeks our lives for the most part moved in separate circles. We met like ships in the night in the sitting-room or upon the stairs.
Certainly, at that point there was no notion of needing each other or depending on each other. Although Holmes had this great store of knowledge and curious, even grotesque facts, most of it tumbled out, not though what may be termed normal conversation rather more like a recital of these facts. Whether this was for my education or some deeper need of Holmes to bring these things to the fore, I did not know. I still don’t know.
Gradually we became closer once I became his sometime assistant and chronicler. I find myself in a quandary here for the only reason Mr. Huntley and for that matter anyone else could be remotely interested in me is because of my association with Sherlock Holmes. Applying that yardstick then, the only people interested in this story of my life are those that know and who knows, even enjoyed my chronicles of Holmes’s adventures. The point then is... er... what is the point? I have lost my thread.
Ah, yes. There seems little to be gained in trying to recount minute by minute, day by day my life with Holmes. I mean, all that information is freely available to anyone via a bookshop or a public library. The best I can do is to give the listener, sorry the reader, a flavour of what it was like. I will attempt to do so as this story of my life unfolds further. Now, I simply sound pretentious and portentous.
My life has actually been a simple one as anyone who has got this far can testify. Still, Mr. Huntley demands it of me so on I will go.
Even before A Study in Scarlet had been published my finances were on a sounder footing for I had also been practicing as a general practitioner assisting in a practice just off the Marylebone Road. It was an ideal location for me, being an easy fifteen-minute walk and the hours and the patients were not too onerous. With my new found, well, I hesitate to call it wealth, but certainly a little more cash than of late, I elected to visit my brother once more. I had not seen him since just before I sailed to Australia. I had written occasional letters, but no replies were forthcoming. Nevertheless, I felt it my familial duty to renew contact even if I were to be rebuffed.
To my shame, I had not written to Lily, as to why, I cannot say; some kind of natural reticence? A reluctance to admit my feelings for her? Guilt at thinking of her in a romantic way after our childhood games together? Who knows? I had no doubts that she would be married by now, maybe with a growing family. Did part of me want it to be otherwise? It was, in any case, going to be a fleeting visit I had decided of maybe three days duration. The house my brother had formerly lived in now hosted a family of four who had no knowledge of my brother. Further enquiries in the town also drew a blank. Utilising the local cab service, I made my way to the Griffiths family house. At least, Josiah and Irene were in and made me feel like the prodigal son returning home.
Josiah had now retired from practice and was most gratified to hear that I had followed in his footsteps. I told him that the skeleton that he gave me was to blame! Irene bustled about in the kitchen preparing a little treat which turned out to be nothing less than the finest of high teas. When I mentioned Lily, I saw an anxious look pass between them. Their eyes shot out a message to each other, instantly weighing whether to let me in on some deep secret.
When their news was imparted to me it turned out to be beyond anything I could have expected. ‘Your brother.’ Josiah said. ‘Lily married your brother.’ I was knocked sideways by this and struggled to speak. I was truly mystified how my dear sweet Lily could have agree to marry my uncouth, coarse and alcoholic brother. I was angry, angry at them both. Josiah and Irene tried to placate me as this rage enveloped me. I fear I shocked them to the core with my coarse language more suited as it was to my army days than their parlour.
When the red mist finally lifted, I was asked to sit, which I did while apologising profusely. I feared what was coming next, my nerves on edge, my heart beating wildly. ‘John, Henry is dead. He fell heavily down the stairs after coming home drunk. Lily found him the next morning, lying there with his neck broken. I am truly sorry, John.’ While Josiah recited this sad news to me, Irene was weeping uncontrollably, her face crumpled by grief. But, grief for my brother? I could hardly imagine that.
But? ‘My God... Lily... why is she not here? Is she...?’ ‘She is well. John,’ said Irene. ‘She is in Carlisle still, in the same house... with her bairns.’ Children? There were children. A girl and boy I was told, Charlotte and John, just four and two years old. I recall running out of the house like a madman, intent on covering the ground to Carlisle as quick as I possibly could. My brother dead. Lily, his widow. A nephew and niece.
I was unsure as to what kind of a father I would be, but I was determined to marry Lily and bring up my brother’s children. By the time I was half-way to Carlisle, this happy family had a house in London where the children would go to the finest schools, their uncle would have a successful medical practice and their mother would want for nothing.
My face, when Lily opened the door, must have displayed every emotion under the sun. It’s a wonder she didn’t just shut it in my face as I seemed to be only capable of speaking gibberish. Rather than that course of action, she pulled me inside and we fell into each other’s arms. Seated on a small couch engrossed in their own company, playing some kind of game, were two of the sweetest looking children I had ever encountered. I immediately felt there was a bond between us. As for their mother, I had so many questions I scarcely knew where to begin.
Most of all, I wanted to know how she had come to marry my brother. I could hardly qualify it as a match made in heaven nor any kind of love match yet who I was I to judge? I had spent years away and had done virtually nothing to remain in contact with those I professed to love. Through Lily’s tears the whole story tumbled out. Henry had stopped drinking and had begun to reclaim his life which was anathema to the woman he lived with for she wanted no part of a sober life or a sober Henry. My brother sought for himself a respectable position and found one in Carlisle as an assistant in the parks department of the council, responsible as part of a team for the maintenance of the recreational facilities provided throughout the town and its environs.
It was in one of those parks that he ran into Lily. Naturally, they talked of old times and of me I was gratified to hear. ‘He was funny, John. He was charming and so determined to turn his life around. As for you, where were you? I had heard nothing from you. You promised to come and see me when you returned from Australia.’
Her words cut me to the quick. I had no answer for her for I had made a promise to her and my failure to keep it had stung me all these years. Maybe my relationship with Adeline had soured my taste for romance. My overriding thought as I was sitting there in Lily’s house was that now I had been given a chance to atone for my previous failures. ‘I thought long and hard, John, when he asked me
to marry him. I knew his history, but I also could see how the future could be. He was attentive and loving, everything I could have wanted in a man. In the end I said yes of course and no woman could have done more to please her man, to make him proud.’
I asked her gently, what had happened, what had changed. ‘He started drinking once more two years ago and the alcohol dragged the wild side of him out, the coarse and abusive man that must have been concealed in him all this time just waiting for the proper release.’ She clung to me and wept as she approached the climax of her story. ‘He became violent, never to the children, but often to me. I felt his punches, his slaps. I learned how to cover up the bruises. I could not tell anyone, I felt trapped and the worst of it was that it was my fault.’
I remonstrated with her, how on earth could be her fault? Did she invite his violence to her? ‘I married him, John. That’s what I mean. I should have realised that sooner or later Henry would revert to his old ways. I could not tell my parents, it would be to confess my weakness twice over for they had urged me not to marry him.’
On that fateful last night, Henry had gone out carousing with his mates while Lily was left to put the children to bed. He had been in the blackest mood imaginable that day she told me and she was fearful that his mood would be even blacker on his return.
In spite of her anxiety she had fallen into a deep sleep and heard nothing of Henry’s return and subsequent fall from the very top of the stairs. ‘But if the children had woken? I mean... well... I suppose I mean you would have heard them, Lily.’ ‘They did not wake, John.’ ‘My point is that...’ I found it hard to put my point into words, but it ran along the lines that if a mother would waken at hearing the slightest sound from her children during the night than surely the sound of a fully grown man tumbling down the stairs was scarcely less of a disturbance. Lily smiled. ‘The sound of a child’s cry is different, John. Surely, you must know that. I heard nothing, nothing.’
