Watson: My Life

by David Ruffle

  It was her last act of love. I had suffered with acute grief when Mary died, it was somehow different with the death of Beatrice. I knew I was strong enough to cope. All the same, it was as though time had stopped, was fractured beyond repair. Without Beatrice, time had shrunk back on itself. Hours, days and weeks merged into each other, all of them empty apart from my memories. The house was silent and fancifully, I thought it missed her. I wandered through the rooms picking up books that Beatrice had read, touched and loved. Her presence was everywhere yet nowhere.

  Don’t ever believe time heals, it doesn’t. It does though, in time, allow one to begin to live again. And now, what of the future? I am eighty-two years of age, I do not know how long I have. I live my life now surrounded by ghosts, I have out lived them all: My brother Henry, Lily, Thurston, Jacobs, my nephew James, Mary, Beatrice. Adeline? She may still live, I have no idea. They exist and live on in my memories of them. Some exist in the memories of others. As for me, who will remember me when I am gone? My publisher assures me that my chronicles of Holmes’s cases will always be in print. I am not so sure and besides, is that how I want to be remembered? This has been my life or at least a potted history of the moments and times that meant something to me. I am tempted to follow Holmes’s example and die in anonymity, but that may be unfair to Nathaniel, Elizabeth, Rose, Charlotte and anyone else who may wish to mourn me. I have loved and been loved.

  I have known extreme joy and seen unspeakable horrors. I have been rewarded with true friendships and a life that had its ups and downs, yet at its best was satisfying. I have tried to do my duty by and to everyone. I am hopeful that my qualities outnumber my flaws. Well, Mr. Huntley, the cylinder is nearly empty and this, for better or worse, is my life.

  50 High Wycombe is an English town northwest of London. It’s in the rolling countryside of the Chiltern Hills.

  51 The Chiltern Hills form a chalk escarpment in South East England. They are known locally as “the Chilterns”. A large portion of the hills was designated officially as an Area of Outstanding Natural Beauty in 1965.

  Acknowledgments

  Thanks to Gill as always for her support.

  Thanks too to Steve at MX Publishing for his patience.

  Also to Brian Belanger for another great cover.

  To Richard Ryan, for valuable advice.

  And to Lily Griffiths for allowing me to create the character of Lily Griffiths!

  David Ruffle, January 2018