by David Ruffle
And there I was once again at Netley. I barely got settled into my duties when I managed to hurl myself down a flight of stairs. The broken leg I suffered, yes THAT leg, meant that my Army career was over for good. I was not in any way displeased other than the fact I would no longer be in a position to lend support close at hand to our troops, but truth be told I had seen too much death, too much suffering, enough in fact to last me a lifetime. Such was the scarcity of medical staff on the frontline, I had only managed to obtain leave once and had spent a happy, but busy two weeks with Beatrice. Busy because the sale of the Queen Anne Street had now gone through after one or two hitches and our priority was now to find a place to live.
With Nathaniel being invalided home, naturally Beatrice’s thoughts turned to her son and daughter-in-law, Elizabeth. Consequently, we bought a small villa on the Sidmouth Road in Lyme Regis and settled to down to a life of retirement amongst those good Dorset folk. Nathaniel had suffered grievous physical and mental wounds and was almost unrecognisable from the man I had known for so long, the irrepressibly cheerful, hard-working provider for his family. He remained in the shadows, in a dark shell which covered him completely at times. It was pitiful to see how far a man can fall through no fault of his own.
He was not alone of course; there were men who suffered as he did, many thousands of men the length and breadth of the country, their lives forever broken. It took time for Nathaniel to recover, but recover he did, albeit not fully. He came to the decision, made jointly with Elizabeth I should say, to radically alter his and their life together. He announced that he had applied for the position of running a farm near High Wycombe[50] in the lovely Chilterns[51] countryside. It would be a hard life he reckoned, but he saw it as his salvation, the chance to start again. Perhaps somewhere the horrors of war would not follow.
For us, a change came too. In spite of our love for Lyme, Beatrice felt somewhat adrift without her family there and we made plans to return to London. It was exceedingly sad to leave Lyme, but there were further holidays to come in that beautiful town. We had no wish to make our home in the city itself. The hustle and bustle of the city which once entranced me no longer offered me anything.
After much discussion and many wearisome house viewings we settled on a property in East Molesey, a three-storey dwelling with a garden which ran down to the Thames. The location was ideal for us with every amenity on the doorstep, including a very fine public house and a cricket ground. What man could ask for more! Other than a few good years to enjoy them. Not that I considered myself decrepit, I was only sixty-six. Certainly, a different story now!
I suppose it is fair to say I was as content as I had ever been. I spent my mornings in writing up various cases I had been involved in with Holmes as my publisher assured me that there was still a market for my humble offerings. Not just a market it seemed, but a growing market. As for Holmes himself? He was still down there in Sussex tending his bees and fending off all attempts to involve him in any form of detective work.
We paid occasional visits to Fulworth and if he came to town, which was a rarity, he would dine with us. We spent our time in reminiscing as old men do with Holmes often forgetting my stellar contributions to our partnership. For us there was no longer the excitement of the chase, but we had a friendship that was possibly stronger than it had ever been.
Beatrice suggested that we got on much better simply because we no longer spent that much time together. She may have had a point. For years to come nothing disturbed the fabric of our lives. We lived a comfortable, happy life. We took holidays when and wherever we liked. I am confident that the listener, sorry, reader will not have any interest in such domestic bliss and time spent together on the continent sightseeing as though our very lives depended on it.
I am none too sure what I have dictated so far fits with Mr. Huntley’s brief. I have followed his guidelines in that I have detailed the major events in my life leaving out what some may see as the rather more mundane aspects of life. As the 1920s progressed I had intermittent contact with Charlotte who had returned to Carlisle to be closer to her mother. Lily herself wrote occasionally and I was always glad to receive letters from her. The past, our past, had been put well and truly behind us.
I was still involved in making sense of all the notes I had made of cases that Holmes and I had looked into. Over the years, in spite of periodical attempts to force some kind of order on my detritus of crimes and whimsies barely remembered, no structure had revealed itself. Bearing this in mind and being determined to get, if nothing else, these chronicles in a chronological sequence I purchased three filing cabinets and shut myself away in my study to take matters in hand. I emerged victoriously several hours later feeling inordinately proud of my organisational achievement. It therefore became so much easier to select the next few adventures for publication.
These tales eventually became The Casebook of Sherlock Holmes. I made the decision then, this was in 1927, that this would be the last collection I would bring before the public for I was conscious of repeating myself fearful of my writing becoming jaded I opted to bring matters to an end. I apprised Holmes by letter of my decision and as I expected, he fully concurred. Some of these records still sit here in the filing cabinets, others particularly those I feel are of national importance or simply tales that should never see the light of day have been placed in my old, battered dispatch-box and currently reside in the vaults of my bank, Cox&Co.
Somehow, I or I should say we tumbled into the thirties transfixed by the rush of new inventions, by the sheer pace of change in every facet of life. What a revelation to go and see our first talking-picture! Life was so dramatically different from just forty years ago. Beatrice was prone to labelling me a dinosaur, unwilling to move with the times, but I embrace change and was thrilled with how the world continually re-invented itself.
In January of 1932, I received a letter from Charlotte informing me that her mother had fallen badly on ice and had been rushed to the Carlisle Infirmary where she was in a critical condition with a fractured skull. With Beatrice’s blessing I made the journey northwards one more time. Memories crowded in on me during that long trip.
My childhood, almost buried now, was brought sharply into focus with the dreadful news about Lily, my Maid Marian of old. Whatever else was going on in my childhood and I could scarcely claim to have had the happiest one ever, I knew I could rely on Lily to lift me up with her playfulness and her silliness. She was always challenging me to climb a tree faster than she or throw a ball further. I invariably failed to measure up to her prowess at these activities and many others. I became distressed anew at how future events had torn us apart, but I could not desert her now. The bond between us would always be there, indeed had always been there in spite of all that had passed.
I hailed a cab as soon as I arrived at Carlisle station and was driven at breakneck speed to the infirmary. I threaded my way through the wards, breathing in smells so very familiar to me. Turning left into the corridor that would take me to ward eight, I saw Charlotte framed in the doorway, her head bowed. Damn, I knew at that moment I was too late. ‘I am so sorry, Uncle. The head injury was too severe,’ she sobbed. ‘If she had lived she would never have been the same and she would have hated that.’ ‘Perhaps, all things considered, it is a blessing that she didn’t pull through. Charlotte, I cannot even begin to express how I feel. I have known Lily for sixty-six years, it’s hard to take in that she has gone. You poor girl, Charlotte.’ Lily’s husband, Peter, his face tear-stained came to shake my hand. ‘She spoke about you often, Doctor Watson. Thank you for coming.’
I stayed in Carlisle until Lily had been laid to rest and made my way back to London, still in a state of shock. One of the perils of getting older is losing loved ones, it is I suppose the natural way of things. Towards the end of 1932, I paid Holmes my annual visit for that is what they had become.
Advancing years mea
nt that I no longer took any delight in the two train journeys, the one by bus and a further one by taxi-cab to Holmes’s villa, scenic as they may have been. I was shocked on this occasion by how he had aged, this most indestructible of men. Of course, we were both approaching our eighties, but he had never really shown the ravages of age as I had. That he was ill, was readily apparent to me, but questioning on him brought no results, nor would he allow me to examine him. ‘It’s nothing, Watson other than a lifetime of bad habits making their presence felt.’ ‘Well, I was always of the opinion that you pushed your mind and body far too hard,’ I responded. ‘As to that, my old friend, my state of torpor since the affair you chronicled as ‘His Last Bow’ should certainly counter-balance to some extent my previous exertions.’ Beatrice interjected by saying how we had both come to the conclusion that Holmes would outlive everyone. Holmes threw his head back and laughed long and loud, but it seemed to be a hollow laugh, a laugh of resignation.
I gently probed Holmes on whether he had seen his own physician recently. He resisted all attempts to engage in such a conversation, merely reiterating that he was as well as anyone his age could rightly expect to be. Beatrice suggested we take a short stroll while she tidied up. Holmes’s housekeeper, a Mrs. Filbert, for Mrs. Hudson had retired some years previously, had already done a splendid job of cleaning up and Beatrice’s suggestion was simply a ruse. Even after knowing Holmes for thirty-six years she imagined that by simply manoeuvring us to be together for a few minutes, he might open up to me. The amble was pleasant. No confidences were forthcoming.
When we took our leave, he shook my hand with such an iron grip it forcibly reminded me of our very first meeting at Barts all those years ago. In spite of his assurances, to me this had all the hallmarks of a final goodbye. I fervently hoped it wasn’t so. As soon as were home in East Molesey I penned Holmes a letter, urging him to consult a physician if he had not already done so and if he had done so then to go back for another prognosis. If he wished to avail himself of the very best in medical attention, then I still had some standing in Harley Street circles and I could arrange for someone to motor down and attend him. I imagined my missive, just as my spoken words, had fallen on deaf ears as the weeks went by and no reply was received.
It was to be six weeks before a letter duly arrived. Beatrice had collected the post and handed me the letter excitedly, less so excitedly when she also dropped a couple of bills onto my desk. As I started to read, the colour drained from my face and tears formed in my eyes. I recall Beatrice coming around the desk and have a vague memory of her holding me as I slumped in my chair. The news, especially as it came directly from the pen of Holmes himself was deeply shocking. Not totally unexpected of course. I knew that he was desperately ill whatever his statements to the contrary, but to receive it like this.
But... but... there was a strange comfort in knowing he had reached out to me. I have the letter in the drawer of my desk here. Yes, here it is. It’s been quite a while since I have looked at it. Yes, quite a while. It reads:
My dear Watson, my trusted friend and comrade I have painful news for you. News that I suspect will come as no great surprise to you. I observed the look on your face on the occasion of your final visit and knew you feared the worst. Forgive me for not having the courage to tell you to your face that I was living on what is quaintly termed ‘borrowed time.’
You may wish to call it an act of cowardice and you may be right, as you often were. The truth is, and perhaps it may be termed an act of selfishness, that I feared to tell you because I would ever reproach myself in my final days for the pain I would cause you and to be constantly reminded of that pain etched on your features would be the source of the greatest sorrow for me. By the time you read these words, I will be no more on this earth. Arrangements have long been put in place whereby my final resting place will remain unknown and unmarked. The scourge of my final years has been the scores of people who desired for whatever reason to seek me out. Some of these misguided souls have attempted to hire my services and involve me in the most trivial, mundane matters you could possibly imagine. Others seemed to be content to gawp at me through the window as if I was a prize specimen in a zoo. I have no wish for my resting place to attract such disparate folk or God forbid, turn my grave into a shrine.
No, I go to my death with as much anonymity as I can muster. My strict instructions to my solicitor also decree there should be no notices of my demise published in any newspaper. I know I can rely on you my old friend to also comply with my wishes in this regard for you have never let me down and have always played the game. I know you will do so this one last time. I think that I may go so far as to say, Watson, that I have not lived wholly in vain, my powers such as they may have been being used on the side of right. Ah, no longer, my innings has been closed to use one of your cricketing terms, Watson. Please convey my regards to the esteemed Mrs Watson, she is in my view and of course I know in yours too, a most remarkable woman. She will be unwavering in her support for you at this difficult time for you. I do not envisage my soul living on through eternity and I know you share my views on life after death. When we die, we die. Please be assured though of my gratitude for your great friendship. You are a man of great integrity and honesty. Should eternity prove to exist then I am, my dear fellow, your friend throughout that eternity. Yours affectionately and in high regard, Sherlock Holmes.
I stared, dumbfounded at the letter, reading it through mechanically time after time. My reaction was one of disbelief, the natural reaction to such news. Shock too and anger. Anger that the essence that made up a man such as Sherlock Holmes would be now crumbling to dust. His exceptional brain, all that knowledge, all those lightning-fast thought processes now lost, gone forever. Unreasonable thoughts maybe as no one can avoid death. It stalks us throughout our lives, taking those we love until finally it calls for us. What was it that... er... was it Samuel Butler said? I think it was Butler. It’s gone. Ah, I have it. ‘To himself everyone is immortal. He may know that he is going to die, but he can never know he is dead.’
I wanted to tell the world that Holmes was no more, on some level I wanted everyone to know, to share in my loss. Holmes of course had expressly forbidden it and it was far too late in life to rebel against his wishes. Beatrice was unwavering in her love and support. Holmes’s death coming so soon after Lily’s had dealt me a double-blow of huge proportions. She was ever conscious of my fragile state and allowed me the space I needed. There is a startling identity vacuum that accompanies loss. Those caught in the wake of grief are often swallowed up by feelings of inadequacy, confusion and crumbling self-esteem. I had suffered before from extreme grief and all I can say is that the grief I experienced at Holmes’s death was subtly different from that I had known when Mary died.
As before, time heals and a semblance of normality returns. Christmas of 1932 was the ending of that normality. Nathaniel, Elizabeth and Rose descended on us for three days and it was a wonderful festive occasion. We laughed, we sang, we played games. We ate and drank very well, too well, as is often the case at Christmas. On the day they left, the snow began to fall, it was the perfect end to a magical few days. Just a few days later, Beatrice stumbled as she brought in a tray of tea into the parlour. My immediate concern was to ensure that she had not scalded herself, but I was instantly aware that something was terribly wrong.
She stayed in a slumped position, when I asked her how she felt, what had happened, her reply was rendered unintelligible by the slurring of her speech. There was no doubt in my mind that she had suffered a stroke. I made her as comfortable as I could and called an ambulance. She was taken to Kingston hospital. I travelled with her and held her hand and kept talking to her, unaware of whether she could hear me. I urged her to fight hard. By the time we reached the hospital her responses were minimal.
I cannot fault the care she was given, yet after two weeks when you would expect to see signs of recovery, there
were none. While there, she suffered two further strokes, neither as severe as the first yet the cumulative effect was crippling. I accepted that Beatrice would not survive although she may live for months, her quality of life would be severely impaired. On one of her better days when she could speak, albeit still slurred, she was adamant that she wanted to come home. I was able to convince her consultant that I would be able to provide the care she needed and it was agreed that Beatrice would be surrendered into my care.
The sadness I felt inside I tried to hide from my features, it would do Beatrice no good at all to see me broken and almost grieving before it was time to do so. Her only sustenance was a little warm tea through a straw. I believe no man could have nursed her better. My resolve and patience were strong, and my love never wavered. She was as beautiful to me as she ever was. She drifted in and out of consciousness, sometimes lucid enough to hold a stilted conversation. During one such conversation she demanded that she be allowed to look into a mirror, to see for herself the extent of her down-turned mouth that now drooped to her left side. She acknowledged her reflection with a simple nod and then turned away. She lingered thus for four weeks.
When the end came it came quickly. Her breathing had become more laboured and shallow. She was awake however and knew I was there, she tightened her grip on my hand. She relaxed a little then and breathing returned to normal. She nodded when I asked her if she could manage a little drink, and I went into the kitchen to prepare some tomato soup. When I came back into the room, I knew she had gone, the whole atmosphere of the room was altered.
But... but... it was the look on her face that astounded and moved me There was a smile, a normal smile, a smile as sweet as I had ever seen. It may be just that the smile appeared due to a relaxing of the facial muscles at the point of death. I have another theory. I think when Beatrice knew she was at that point she put all her conscious effort into creating a smile that she knew I would see when I came back into the room
