Watson nods, “Quite perceptive of you, Sergeant.”
Gillis motions in the direction of the cottage with his head, “I’m learning from him, sir. A remarkable gentleman. Teaching me how to [463]put two and two together, so to speak.”
Watson enquires, “And who exactly is he, Sergeant?”
Gillis answers, “Dr Bell.”
Watson smiles amusedly, “So, Joseph Bell is a doctor, is he?”
Slightly perplexed by the question, Gillis grimaces, “Thought you knew that, seeing you know each other.”
Watson stares at Gillis, “You have come from the cottage?”
Gillis nods, “Asked me to keep an eye out for you. Seems you’re a bit late. Now you’re here safe and sound, I’ll be on my way.” He has an afterthought, “Oh, I near forgot. Watch out for the bees.”
Watson frowns, “Bees?”
Gillis grins, “Honeybees. He breeds the pesky blighters.” He pushes his foot down on the pedal of his bicycle, “Merry Christmas, Dr Watson.”
♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦
Upon reaching the cottage and pausing for breath, Watson stares at the worn nameplate above the front door, displaying the virtually illegible words ‘Poldu Cottage’. Easing open a small iron gate hanging from one hinge, he walks along a short pathway, through a front garden completely infested and overgrown with nettles and weeds. Grasping the door knocker, which immediately comes away in his hand, he murmurs in disbelief, “Good grief! The place is falling apart.”
Setting his suitcase down on the ground, Watson raps on the surface of the door with his knuckles, twice. Getting no response, he puts the door knocker on top of his suitcase and, leaving both, walks along one side of the cottage towards the rear garden.
Swiping his hand through the air several times, Watson enters the garden, seeing a number of wooden hives raised on pallets, dotted about the relatively flat piece of land. Again, he swipes the air with his hand. Catching sight of a tall lean figure clothed in a full-length smock, a pair of elbow-length canvas gloves and a broad-brimmed hat with an attached veil, Watson enquires, “How shall I address you? Mr Sherlock Holmes or Dr Joseph Bell?”
Carefully withdrawing a wooden frame of hexagonal glutinous cells covered by a mass of bees from one particular hive, Holmes warns, “Do not venture any closer, Watson. There may be thirty, if not forty thousand bees in this one hive alone.”
Brushing aside a large number of the bees with his gloved hand, he peers through his veil at the honeycomb formation, “These, of course, are the continental variety. Somewhat docile during the winter, but apt to become hostile if threatened.”
Satisfied with the progress of the bees, he slides the frame back into the hive. Turning to Watson, he pats the hive with his hand, “An ingenious contraption, but quite simple. Patented in 1852 by one of our American cousins. The Reverend Lorenzo Langstroth, I believe.”
Watson maddeningly swipes his hand through the air yet again, “Is there to be no respite?”
Beneath his veil, Holmes smiles, “My dear fellow, use your pipe. They abhor smoke.”
Fumbling in his overcoat pocket for his pipe, Watson grumbles, “Cornwall, Holmes. You could not have chosen a more desolate place.”
Holmes replies, [464]“Far from the madding crowd, Watson.”
Lighting his pipe, Watson begins to blow smoke, “Aided by the local constabulary, I see.”
Holmes raises his veil and throws it back over the top of his hat, “Ah, yes, Sergeant Gillis. You have made his acquaintance, then?”
Plagued by the bees again, Watson swipes the air with his hand, “This is insufferable, Holmes. How do you tolerate them?”
Holmes smiles mischievously, “I simply ignore them.”
Watson slaps the side of his neck, “I wish they would ignore me. One has just stung me.”
Holmes chuckles, “That proves my point.”
Watson rolls his eyes, “And what might that be?”
Holmes imparts, “When aroused, these honeybees provide an excellent line of defence.”
Chapter 18
Abdication
Seated at a table opposite Holmes, his face lit by the soft glow of a solitary oil-lamp, Watson glumly picks at the frugal meal in front of him with his fork. Gently wiping his mouth with a napkin, Holmes stares him, “No appetite, Watson?”
Watson sighs, places his fork on the plate and pushes it aside, “Cold mutton, Holmes. Hardly a delicacy. What is on the menu tomorrow? A [465]Cornish pasty baked for a miner?”
Holmes puts down his napkin, “On our behalf, I have accepted an invitation for the two of us to dine at the home of Sergeant Gillis tomorrow. We will be afforded a hot Christmas dinner, cooked by his affable wife, no less.”
Watson perks up, “In the absence of Mrs Hudson, an agreeable alternative, Holmes.”
Holmes quickly raises a tutorial finger, “But at all times, Watson, especially in the presence of other people, you must refer to me only as Dr Joseph Bell. A momentary lapse of thought on your part could jeopardize my new identity.”
Watson muses, “Why the title of doctor, Holmes?”
Holmes lowers his finger, “The insular people of Cornwall will not abide a stranger living in their midst unless he is a member of one of two professions. A member of the church, or a member of the medical fraternity. And as I had no wish to be associated with the Church, a doctor was the obvious choice.”
Watson nods pensively, “If I recall correctly, Dr Joseph Bell was, in fact, Professor of Clinical Surgery at Edinburgh University in Scotland, was he not?”
Holmes smiles, “Indeed so, Watson. An exceptional tutor. My pseudonym serves to honour him.”
Watson slowly lights his pipe, “And whatever I might say, you are determined to see this pretence through to the end?”
Holmes lights his pipe, “Not a pretence, Watson. An obligation.” He exhales smoke, “With an intellect, such as I possess, comes a great responsibility. I am bound, as all men should be, by a moral duty. Murder is repugnant, but to have murder committed in your own name, as were the Whitechapel murders, is an abomination. My very existence sparked a hideous reign of terror, where human decency was desecrated and five lives were brutally extinguished. To prevent such crimes from taking place again, logic decrees that I must eliminate the fundamental cause of why those murders occurred in the first place, namely myself.”
Watson lowers his pipe, “It would be heartless of me to disagree with you. But who is to say what took place in Whitechapel over the past few months could ever happen again?”
Holmes leans back in his chair, “Moriarty has ceased to be, but mark my words, Watson, there are others, just as vile, waiting in the wings to assume his mantle.”
Watson interjects, “Who may attempt to do what Moriarty failed to achieve.”
Holmes nods, “Precisely, my dear fellow. And how many more hapless victims might be dispatched to their graves in my name?” He shakes his head, “The thought is too odious to contemplate. [466]The die is cast, Watson. I am compelled to...”
Watson interjects again, “Abdicate.”
Drawing on his pipe, Holmes raises a quizzical eyebrow, “I am hardly royalty, Watson.”
Watson counters, “You are the prince of detectives, Holmes.”
Amused, Holmes queries, “Only the prince, you say? Pray, then, who is the king?”
Watson states jovially, “Lestrade, of course.”
Holmes smiles, “Ah, yes, Lestrade. An honest fellow, instilled with a sense of integrity, more than can be said for his Masonic masters, I am afraid.” He removes a napkin, revealing a decanter of wine, “Bordeaux claret. But perhaps a vintage you are not familiar with.”
Pleasantly surprised, Watson murmurs, “Purchased in Cornwall?”
“Acquired from Sergeant Gillis.”
“Ah, that is why he visited you here this afternoon.”
Upturning two wine glasses on the table, Holmes pours claret into them, “I abhor altering my habits, but tonig
ht I am prepared to make an exception.” He hands a full glass of wine to Watson, who circumspectly sniffs the aroma of the claret.
Holmes raises a questioning eyebrow, “I will be guided by you. It meets with your approval?”
Watson sips the wine, then smiles, “Indeed it does, Holmes.”
Holmes gently grips his glass, “True comradeship is rare, Watson. It would be of comfort to know that you endorse my decision. But be advised, I will not turn back.”
Watson raises his glass in salutation.
Holmes reciprocates.
Watson pronounces warmly, “Mr Sherlock Holmes. May he rest in peace.”
♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦
Holmes lifts his head, his vision blurred. Staring at the sight before him, he attempts to concentrate, but with a modicum of success. Bizarre, ethereal images greet his eyes, distorting reality. He sees a woman lying on a bed, sound asleep. Stooped over her, a man wields a baton, similar to the conductor of an orchestra. Another woman, the front of her skirt raised before a fire, has her head grotesquely turned around in the opposite direction. She laughs hysterically. Flourishing the baton, the man tosses a rubbery object over his shoulder. Wet, yet warm, the object strikes Holmes in the chest and then drops to his lap.
Though severed from its vascular arteries, the heart, covered in blood, bizarrely continues to pulsate.
Suddenly awakening, Holmes sits upright in bed, clutching the left side of his chest. Throwing open the bedroom door, Watson rushes into the room, holding a lighted candle, “Holmes, with your permission, I can solve the final problem.”
Holmes catches his breath, “My dear fellow, I thought we had resolved that particular issue.”
Watson excitedly seats himself on a chair beside the bed, “No, no, Holmes. You don’t understand. I shall write.”
With a bemused expression, Holmes stares at him, “Write what exactly, Watson?”
Watson utters, “Your exploits, Holmes. I will introduce them to the world. I have documented some of your cases, and I can create a few others. Mr Ebenezer Ward and Mr George Lock will certainly want to publish them.”
Holmes quickly throws aside his bed covers, “And who are Mr Ward and Mr Lock?”
Watson rises from the chair, “A publishing partnership, located in Salisbury Square, London.” He drags the chair away from the bed, allowing Holmes to get up. “They are looking for book material all the time.”
Holmes pulls on his dressing-gown, “Watson, I desire anonymity, not publicity.”
Watson implores, “Please, Holmes. Hear me out.”
Holmes relents, “Very well, Watson.”
Watson shields the flickering flame of the candle with his hand, “In reality, you are Dr Joseph Bell, but in fiction, you will become Mr Sherlock Holmes. I will use a nom de plume to write the stories, therefore your anonymity will be safeguarded.”
Holmes pensively strokes his chin, “A novel idea, indeed.”
Watson blurts, “Novel? It is downright clever. You don’t expect those honeybees to keep a roof over your head and put food on your table, do you? Contrary to what you may believe, you will still require an income, Holmes.”
Holmes looks at him concernedly, “There is also your medical practice to consider, Watson.”
Watson smiles, then imparts, “Former medical practice. Your relative, Dr Theodore Verner, has offered to purchase the concern from me. For a favourable sum, I might add.”
“You will remain at 221b, then?”
Watson shakes his head, “No, Holmes. Part of the agreement with Dr Verner is that I should have exclusive use of the apartment above the medical practice, rent free.”
“We will have to compensate Mrs Hudson.”
Watson concurs, “Of course, Holmes. I will continue to pay Mrs Hudson a monthly rent until she finds alternative lodgers.”
Holmes returns to the matter at hand, “I would, of course, want to see the manuscripts before publication.”
Watson replies eagerly, “Yes, yes, Holmes.”
Holmes claps his hands together, “Bravo, my dear fellow. You have excelled yourself. It is a splendid solution.” He raises a tutorial finger, “But on one condition.”
Watson rolls his eyes, “I expected as much.”
Holmes stipulates, “Our involvement in the Whitechapel murders must never be published. Any documentation, any record of the crimes you may possess, must be securely locked away. I suggest you use the vaults of [467]Cox and Company in Charing Cross, they are highly regarded. As for lesser mortals, let them say the murders will never be solved and the identity of Jack the Ripper will forever remain a mystery. It is the stuff of legend, but I care for none of it, except for one thing. That the memories of those five slain women, Martha Tabram, Mary Ann Nichols, Annie Chapman, Catharine Eddowes and Mary Kelly, be respected in death as they were not in life. Society owes them due consideration for their anguish, which, I fear, may soon be forgotten in favour of the sensational name given to their murderer.”
♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦
Halting his pony and trap outside the cottage, Ythel Beith gazes up at the storm clouds gathering overhead. Carrying his suitcase, Watson steps out through the front door of the cottage, followed by Holmes, “Will you again thank Sergeant Gillis and Mrs Gillis for their kind hospitality? Without their delightful cuisine, I daresay I would have starved.”
Holmes laughs, “Indeed, I will, Watson.” He pauses for thought, “Do you still have the manuscript Dr Mortimer left behind at 221b, relating to the legend of The Hound of the Baskervilles?”
Watson nods, “I have yet to return it to him.”
Holmes smiles mischievously, “Stirring story, Watson.”
Watson chuckles, “Crimes are conceived in the imagination. A writer’s imagination, is that not so?”
Holmes accompanies him along the short pathway, “Have you thought of a nom de plume?”
Watson walks past the iron gate hanging from its single hinge, “Not yet, but undoubtedly a name will present itself in due course.” He addresses Beith, “Good morning! And how is your wife?”
Beith politely touches the peak of his cap, “She be up an’ ’bout, mister.” Opening the rear door of the trap, Watson hops into the vehicle. Looking at Holmes, standing by the rear of the pony, he raises his hat, “The past few days have been most encouraging, Dr Bell.”
Holmes tips his head, “A pleasant journey, Dr Watson.” He looks at Beith, “See you take good care of my friend.”
Beith nods, “Aye, that I will. All the way t’ the station, Dr Bell.”
Holmes slaps the rump of the pony, sending the animal and the trap on its way. Clutching his hat to his head, Watson turns about to extend a final farewell to Holmes. But he is nowhere to be seen. Similar to Moriarty, Holmes has gone, as if he had never existed.
♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦
Completed in January 1886 and opened to the public last year by the Duke of Cambridge, Charing Cross Road, formerly Crown Street, stretches from the northern end of Oxford Street along to St Martin’s Place, which leads into Trafalgar Square. The section of Charing Cross Road that extends from Cambridge Circus, named after the Duke of Cambridge, down to Leicester Square, has fast become the home of several bookshops selling popular literary publications. One sought after publication, The Strand Magazine, is a monthly illustrated magazine, containing factual articles and a number of fictional detective stories, some serialised.
The popularity of the magazine, due in part to the illustrations that accompany the fictional stories, are the tales themselves. Penned by virtually unknown authors, these ingenious stories have introduced a number of memorable characters to the reading public. However, among them all, one particular character stands head and shoulders above the rest. An inspiring character that has quite literally taken the entire readership of The Strand Magazine by storm.
His curiosity aroused by several people eagerly rushing in and out of the bookshop of Caxton & Co in Charing Cross Road, Mipps pauses in fr
ont of its two large display windows, situated either side of the entrance to the shop. Beneath its awning, he approaches one of the windows. With his nose practically touching the glass, he peers through it, gazing at an extensive assortment of exhibited books.
Two well-to-do gentlemen, one with a book wrapped in brown paper tucked under his left arm, and the other studying the cover of a magazine he holds with both hands, step out of the shop and halt on the pavement, close to Mipps.
The first gentleman pulls on his [468]kid gloves, “I read his first story, A Study in Scarlet. Quite ingenious how he solved the crime.”
The other gentleman taps the magazine excitedly, “One could believe he actually exists.”
Taking the book from under his arm, the first gentleman replies, “A character born of a fertile imagination. But immensely popular, all the same.” Hailing a hansom cab, he turns to his companion, “My club, or yours?”
Finding nothing of interest, Mipps turns away from the window and, passing the two gentlemen getting into the cab, ambles into the shop. Easing his way through scores of people busily selecting books and purchasing publications, Mipps spots what he is after, a current edition of The Strand Magazine, numerous copies stacked high on the floor.
Picking up a copy of the magazine, Mipps stares at its coloured London street cover, predominantly depicting the aquiline face of a man with sharp piercing eyes, smoking a pipe. From behind his disguise, Holmes murmurs, “Extraordinary. It is like observing oneself in the mirror.” He lowers his gaze, reading the words, ‘A new Sherlock Holmes story’, emblazoned at the bottom of the cover.
Opening the magazine and turning over several pages, Holmes reveals a chapter heading, ‘The Hound of the Baskervilles by Arthur Conan Doyle’. He smiles approvingly, “Watson, you have excelled yourself. Beyond all expectations, I might add.” Thumbing through a few more pages of the serialised story, Holmes pauses at chapter two and then eagerly begins to read the following exposition.
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