by David Ruffle
I did not press the point and we talked of happier times as we drank tea. She spoke in vague terms of resuming her career or of going home to Corbridge to her parents where she and the children would be assured of being in a happy home. I thought the time was right and I made my proposal of marriage to her. I had rehearsed in my head during the preceding few hours, what I had not allowed for was Lily’s refusal of my offer. ‘Dear, sweet John. We are not who we were. I am not Maid Marian, you are not Robin Hood. You are so kind to ask, but I cannot accept. I have my own life to lead. You might say I have made me bed and have to lay in it. A marriage cannot be built on the platonic love that we have always shared. There are other reasons too.’
She would not be drawn on the other reasons nor would she listen to further entreaties on my part. Her mind was made up, the answer was no and that was it. I made arrangements of a financial kind for my nephew and niece, settling a small allowance on them to be paid twice yearly into an account I would set up for them. Lily refused any such allowance for herself, but I made her promise that should she find herself in any financial hardship she would contact me immediately. As I fastened up my overcoat, she grabbed my arm and hung on for dear life. ‘I am so sorry, John, for everything. You mustn’t hate me.’ ‘I could never hate you,’ I assured her. It was only when I stood on the doorstep that the true meaning of her words hit me. ‘You pushed him, didn’t you?’ ‘Yes, I pushed him. Goodbye, John.’
The door slammed shut behind me like a metaphor for that part of my life closing. All the innocence of childhood, all those good times disappeared in that instant. I was not put on this earth to be judge and jury. I could not condemn Lily for her actions any more than I could condone my brother for his. I could and would not turn her in to the authorities. She had suffered enough, we all had.
During the long train journey, I was haunted by the fact that all that happened could be lain squarely at my door. If I had kept my promise to Lily, then who knows how things would have turned out? No man is an island and the ripples we send out through our action or inaction can have the most profound effect on the lives of others.
30 The Criterion Restaurant is an opulent restaurant complex facing Piccadilly Circus in the heart of London. Apart from fine dining facilities it has a bar. It is a Grade II* listed building and is in the Top 10 most historic and oldest restaurants in the world.
Cylinder 8
Once back in London it took some time to recover from the events in Cumbria. I endured so many conflicting emotions, grieving for my brother chief amongst them. Not to mention the manner of his death which would plague me for years to come. Whatever my brother had become, can it be said he deserved his violent end at the hands of his wife?
I had no doubts that Lily was speaking the truth as regards the abuse she suffered at Henry’s ends, but the whole mess served to sour the memory of my brother which God knows was already soured enough and also soured forever, I thought, the bond between Lily and me.
I penned her a letter reassuring her that her confession would not be broadcast to the world, that she was free to live her life as she saw fit. I reiterated that should she be in need at any time than she was to call on me. I had no wish to banish her completely from my life while knowing as a certainty that I could never, ever feel the same about her.
You may think of course that I am, ever now, reneging on my promise by mentioning this matter, but she is beyond hurt or shame now, as is my nephew. God rest their souls. This may be an appropriate juncture to bring up my own statement, which many will be aware of, that when I arrived back in England I had no kith or kin. Of course, at that time I had no idea that I had a nephew and niece and while I had no reason to doubt my brother’s continuing existence I simply chose to ignore that fact. I felt truly alone and my words truly expressed my sentiments at the time.
So, I resumed my life at Baker Street with increased opportunities to assist Holmes in all manner of cases from the sublime to the almost ridiculous. From the bloodiest to the most trivial of matters. All was grist to Holmes’s mill. It was a delight for me to see the man in action at such close quarters. Readers may recall the case I chronicled as ‘The Resident Patient.’ From very little evidence, at least as far as I or Inspector Lanner could see, Holmes skilfully constructed the whole series of events in the sequence they occurred culminating in the death of Blessington/Sutton. It was a tour-de-force that enthralled us both, a re-telling of the events that was as clear to him and subsequently us as though we had been in that room as onlookers to the grim proceedings.
That of course, was just one example of the brilliance of Holmes’s deductive powers. It was never an easy task to decide which cases I would lay before the public. If I had decided to write up every case in chronological order than the public would have long tired of Sherlock Holmes and his faithful friend, Doctor Watson. Some were solved without Holmes ever moving from the sitting-room, others were so clouded in veils of diplomatic secrecy that I was not allowed to breathe a word of any such cases. Mycroft[31] saw to that. Other cases had no compelling features that would enable me to make a fist of presenting them as any kind of adventure. Some were too tawdry, too commonplace or just plain uninteresting.
I fervently believe that the choices I made were the correct ones that showed Holmes’s brilliance at its best and gave the readers a flavour of what our lives were like. I would be the first to admit it was often a strange kind of life we shared together. With Holmes’s sleuthing and my doctoring there was always an irregularity to our lives with comings and goings at all times of the day and night.
This was no ordered house as dear Mrs. Hudson could have testified to, it was a house of hustle, bustle with very few quiet times. Let me qualify that: There were lean times for Holmes for cases could become scarce at any time and although he had his chemical apparatus to indulge and test his many theories, his violin for music-making and the annals of crime to immerse himself in, he was still prone to falling into what can only be described as torpor. Generally, it was of a short duration and he would become sprightly enough in no time at all. My chief worry was that such enforced inactivity would drive him back to his favoured seven-percent solution that I had weaned him off, in spite of the struggle on my part to do so. And of course, on his.
I suppose I am trying to say that there was nothing conventional about our lives, well, certainly not in Holmes’s anyway. How did I see myself at the time? Part-time doctor? Part-time detective? My medical duties which certainly should have been my priority very often took a back seat to assisting Holmes. When I eventually obtained my own medical practice then at that point there were subtle changes. Oh, I still enjoyed the chase, not that there were many chases as such. Perhaps I should say I enjoyed the hunt, that is more apt an expression. But at that time, my priorities were very much the running of my practice and the care of my patients.
My involvement in Holmes’s cases were of necessity lessened by quite a degree, but as my records show, Holmes was never entirely absent from my life. And what was life with Holmes really like? What was the man like? Many questions along those lines have been put to me over the years and I hope I have been consistent in my answers. Which reminds me that I have often been accused of a lack of consistency in my telling of Holmes’s cases. Well, I can hardly argue the point. I was guilty of obfuscation on many an occasion, but always to my mind, in a good course. Many people needed the protection that anonymity could bring them, so I was never slow to change places and names where I thought it absolutely necessary to do so. It may have presented me with no great problem, but to others it was as though I had committed some mortal sin. The years are all wrong, I have been told. Holmes could not have been there in that year. Surely you were married by then. That couldn’t have happened how you described. How could you not know that? The dates don’t fit.
Believe me, I have heard it all before and my answer in a nutshell it: It was ho
w it was. At this late juncture I daresay even I could not produce a definitive chronology of the events and cases we shared. But then, I was not writing any kind of instructive journal or a precise diary; I was producing what I liked to call adventures. So what if such re-telling of accounts threw up discrepancies? To my mind they retained the flavour of fiction notwithstanding the fact that the events I chronicled actually occurred. Even that statement may not appease those who even doubt the identities of myself and Holmes. Not only do some doubt that we even went by those names, but doubt our very existence believing everything I wrote was pure fiction. Well, I did and do exist. Sherlock Holmes was real, but sadly departed from this life.
Anyway, once more I digress and try Mr. Huntley’s patience. What was Holmes really like? Was he how I described him? How was our friendship marked? He was, I suppose, like so many others. There were contradictions in his characters. He could be taciturn and even morose. But at times, high-spirited in the extreme. Often to me, he was the most delightful of companions, but I could readily see how his superior intellect might cause him to come across as just that; superior, domineering and scathing of intelligence less than his own.
But having said that, he could be the most patient of men, taking his time to draw out information from humbler members of society without once coming across as condescending or patronising. He was in essence, I believe, an inherently gentle soul, but once crossed could be a fearful enemy. There were the occasional bursts of anger, often directed at members of Scotland Yard, who had perhaps slighted him and his work in some way. He had a need to be appreciated, even admired. His susceptibility to flattery was rather more than that. He craved an audience, he needed to be seen as the best in his field. Holmes was never really half-hearted about anything. I believe he would have been at the pinnacle at any pursuit he would have cared to indulge in. He was without doubt, the most single-minded man I ever knew.
Although he was systematic, as his indexes would attest to, he was also impulsive when the mood took him. Many is the time he would leap to his feet after hours of torpor and take himself off for a walk or on a whim, visit a concert-hall where he would lose himself completely. His ability to detach himself like this even in the middle of an abstruse problem was a remarkable characteristic of the man.
He had an iron, inflexible and would brook no arguments where his work was concerned. He knew best and that was that. Yet his general disposition was one of geniality. He was extraordinarily sensitive to criticism and could mope for days when his efforts had met with harsh words or perhaps worse, indifference. Allowing for all that, he was prone to questioning his own talents and skills. He often proposed to me that his powers were on the wane even though there was scant evidence of anything of the sort. Of course, many a man may contain such contradictions or paradoxes in their character, I am sure I do, but I had never known anyone to display quite so many.
His powers of deduction particularly when applied to strangers never failed to amaze me or unnerve those who were the recipients of Holmes’s analysis. I have no doubts that many would have perceived him as odd or strange. Eccentric I suppose would be an apt word. With a reputation for seeing into the minds of people it is no wonder that many felt a nervousness in his presence as though he would reveal their closely guarded secrets and of course some had secrets that they fervently wished he would not uncover.
He intimidated people without being aware of it. That reputation preceded him time and time again. Once we had both adjusted to each other’s foibles than sharing rooms was easy enough. The casual reader might think that we spent our evenings in front of a blazing fire, discoursing long into the night. Truth be told, some evenings were exactly like that, but more often than not we would be taken up with our own pursuits. Some have adjudged me guilty of playing down my own intelligence to elevate Holmes’s own, leaving me at the mercy of those who would proclaim me simple or stupid. To those I would say that I knew full well the level of my own intellect and I reckoned it to be not too far below that of Holmes. My education and subsequent career in doctoring should dispel the idea that I was in some way slow-witted. Certainly, I may not have been able to deduce what Holmes could in any given situation, but then I would say that ninety percent of the population may have similarly floundered.
Another point that is worth making is that why would a man like Holmes with his undoubted brilliance saddle himself with a friend who could not reciprocate fully his friendship? Such theories do not hold up under scrutiny. As colleagues, I was in his shadow, but as friends we were equals. Comrades.
We argued of course because we had opposing views on many subjects. No friendship is ever all sunlight. Harsh words passed between us on occasion, it would have been unnatural had they not in such a long association, but our comradeship was never under threat. You could say that we rubbed along quite nicely together.
And then of course Mary Morstan entered my life. I have no need to check my notes or my published works to recall my description of her: Miss Morstan entered the room with a firm step and an outward composure of manner. She was a blonde young lady, small, dainty, well gloved, and dressed in the most perfect taste. There was, however, a plainness and simplicity about her costume which bore with it a suggestion of limited means. The dress was a sombre greyish beige, untrimmed and unbraided and she wore a small turban of the same dull hue, relieved only by a suspicion of white feather in the side. Her face had neither regularity of feature nor beauty of complexion, but her expression was sweet and amiable, and her large blue eyes were singularly spiritual and sympathetic. In an experience of women which extends over many nations and three separate continents, I have never looked upon a face which gave a clearer promise of a refined and sensitive nature. Mary was ever quick to point out that I had neglected to call her beautiful. Which she was.
Once I had managed to get over my surprise that Miss Morstan had accepted my proposal of marriage then I could, or rather we could, start planning our future together. This, obviously, would not entail us living at 221b. I fear such an arrangement would have permanently upset Holmes’s equilibrium. I had recently been involved in running old Mr. Farquhar’s practice in Paddington and when the opportunity arose to purchase it, I jumped at the chance. The living accommodation was ideal for a couple and the income it would afford us both, although not being a fortune, would suffice for the two of us.
I played no great part in many of Holmes’s adventures for the extent of my married life for the obvious reason of being wrapped up completely in my own domestic contentment. I described it as being master of my own household and by that I meant that at long last I had a stability in my life that had hitherto mostly been hidden from me. Mary and I were partners in life and in business, both the Paddington practice and the one in Kensington that we acquired. I was no more her actual master than she was mine. It was a true union founded on true love and friendship.
Holmes was not entirely absent from our lives and Mary was ever willing to excuse my absences when Holmes had need of me, for she expressed a great fondness for Holmes and in turn he was complimentary towards her being impressed by her intelligence and according her the greatest accolade, for him anyway, of having all the makings of a detective herself. Holmes being the man he was, could not see the benefits that romantic love can bring. The very idea of a having a wife or paramour was anathema to him. His single-minded approach to his profession would be severely compromised by such personal detours. I lived in hope however that Cupid’s arrow would one day find its way to him. A false hope of course.
Shortly before the wedding I felt I had a duty to write to Lily to invite her and my niece and nephew to share this happy event with me. I had no great wish to see her, the revulsion I felt when hearing her revelation of killing my brother had never really left me although God knows I understood it and in a way, I was not apportioning blame to her for her action. It’s just that my feelings had necessarily changed and I woul
d never be able to divorce the woman from her act. I had written occasional letters asking after health and schooling etc., to some of these I received a reply, to some I did not. The wedding invitation was met with silence. Of the friends, few admittedly, that I had made, only Thurston was able to attend and handled the best man duties admirably.
My, it was such a happy time in my life. My good fortune at finding a wife that possessed so many fine qualities was everything to me. My life was given over completely to making Mary happy. I hope that could she have a say now that she would reckon that I succeeded in my ambition. She was of such a sweet and sympathetic nature that folks that were in grief came to her like birds to a lighthouse. My blessings were indeed overflowing.
During the early years of my marriage Holmes had been very busy indeed, his fame now taking him all over Europe some cases involving various royal families. Other cases at this time were more down to earth such as the Dundas separation case, the Darlington substitution scandal and the extraordinary case involving Colonel Warburton’s madness. Some of these cases, I wrote up notes for, but none found their way into the published chronicles.
Even now, I have these notes and if I have the energy, for I decidedly have the time, I may well set down some of these cases in a new volume. The giant rat of Sumatra will not feature, even at this late pass I still feel it is a story for which the world is still not prepared.
This period of contentment was fast approaching its curtain call although I had no inkling of it. Everything was resolutely normal. Those who have followed the exploits of Sherlock Holmes will be very familiar with the events I chronicled as The Final Problem. I am convinced that the only people interested in my life as I am telling it now will be those self-same folk who only know of me through my efforts as Holmes’s biographer so once more I do not propose to relate chapter and verse as that information is freely available elsewhere.
