The Secret Journals of Sherlock Holmes (A&B Crime)

by Thomson, June

  It is in order to spare the butler, Mallow, at present serving a long term in prison, from further public disgrace and humiliation that I have resolved to place this narrative among those other private and confidential papers which I profoundly trust will never see the light of day.7

  1 An account of this case was later published under the title of ‘The Adventure of the Solitary Cyclist’. Dr John F. Watson.

  2 On Mr Sherlock Holmes’ return to England in the spring of 1894, after the unsuccessful attempt on his life by Professor Moriarty at the Reichenbach Falls, Dr John H. Watson again shared lodgings with him at 221B Baker Street, his wife, the former Miss Mary Morstan, having died in the meantime. Dr John F. Watson.

  3 In ‘The Adventure of the Speckled Band’, Mr Sherlock Holmes makes the following comment: ‘“I had,” said he, “come to an entirely erroneous conclusion, which shows, my dear Watson, how dangerous it always is to reason from insufficient data.”’ Dr John F. Watson.

  4 According to Mr Sherlock Holmes, Dr John H. Watson chose the wrong hiding-place from which to observe Miss Smith’s unknown pursuer and made the mistake of enquiring about the occupants of Charlington Hall at a London house agent’s rather than at the nearest inn where he would have heard all the local gossip. Vide: ‘The Adventure of the Solitary Cyclist’. Dr John F. Watson.

  5 Dr John H. Watson, who was serving as assistant surgeon with the Berkshires, was wounded at the battle of Maiwand on 27th June 1880, at which the British were defeated by a superior force of Afghan rebels. Dr John F. Watson.

  6 This type of revolver was manufactured in 1878 by the English gun-makers, P. Webley and Sons. It had either a .450 or a .422 calibre. A later version of this weapon, with a .450 calibre only, was supplied to the Metropolitan Police and other police forces. It may be for this reason that the constable was able to describe it so accurately before he died. Dr John F. Watson.

  7 In ‘The Adventure of the Solitary Cyclist’, Dr John H. Watson makes no mention of Mallow but merely refers to ‘the peculiar persecution to which John Vincent Hardern, the well-known tobacco millionaire, had been subjected’. Dr John F. Watson.

  THE CASE OF THE COLONEL’S MADNESS

  I

  For reasons which will later become apparent, it will not be possible to publish an account of this adventure while the chief participants are still living. At the time, the affair attracted a great deal of publicity, particularly from the sensational press, which caused considerable distress to those concerned, and I should not wish to add to their suffering by raking over the ashes of an old scandal.

  However, the case was one of the few1 I had the privilege of introducing to my old friend, Mr Sherlock Holmes. It also possesses some remarkable features, not least the part I myself was called upon to play in its solution. For these reasons, I have decided to commit the following narrative to paper, if only for my own satisfaction.

  It was, I recall, in July 1890, some time after my marriage and my return to civil practice, that a lady was shown into my consulting room in Kensington.2

  As she was not one of my regular patients, I took particular notice of her appearance, using those methods of observation with which my long association with Sherlock Holmes had made me familiar. She was, I perceived, of middle height, approximately five-and-thirty years of age; married, judging by the plain gold band on the fourth finger of her left hand, but only recently so for the ring looked new. Although she was soberly dressed in grey, her attire was of a good quality and, while not striking of feature, she had about her a look of candour and quiet intelligence which I found appealing.

  ‘Pray be seated, madam,’ I said, indicating the chair which stood before my desk and picking up my pen in readiness to note down those particulars, such as her name and address, which I would need for my medical records.

  To my surprise, she remained standing and it was she who began by questioning me.

  ‘You are Dr John H. Watson?’ she enquired.

  ‘I am.’

  ‘May I ask if you once served in India with the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers?’

  ‘Yes; indeed I did. But is this relevant? I understood you were seeking my professional assistance.’

  ‘Forgive me, Dr Watson, if my behaviour seems uncivil,’ said she, sitting down at last. ‘There are several Dr John Watsons listed in the Medical Directory and I had to make quite certain that I had found the right one, as it would appear I have. I believe you know my husband, Colonel Harold Warburton of the East Sussex Light Horse.’

  ‘Hal Warburton!’ I exclaimed, in even greater astonishment. I had first made his acquaintance several years earlier in India, before I was transferred to the Berkshires as assistant surgeon and posted to the Afghan border where, at the battle of Maiwand in June 1880, I was severely wounded.3

  Although my association with Hal Warburton was of short duration, he and I had struck up a close friendship and I had regretted losing touch with him on my return to England after I was invalided out of the army. He was a most efficient officer, very just in his dealings with the men under his command, and of a thoughtful, not to say serious, turn of mind. He was, moreover, a confirmed bachelor. Hence my astonishment at learning that the lady was his wife.

  ‘My husband has often spoken warmly of you,’ Mrs Warburton continued. ‘It is why I have come to seek your advice on his behalf. There is a question I must ask of you which may appear strange but to which I should like a frank answer. I should not make the enquiry were it not vital to Harold’s well-being.’

  ‘Then pray ask it, Mrs Warburton. I shall do my best to reply in as honest a fashion as I can.’

  ‘The question is this: to your knowledge had my husband ever shown signs of madness?’

  ‘Madness?’ I reiterated, my astonishment by now so complete that I was utterly confounded. ‘He was one of the sanest men I have ever met. Hal Warburton mad! The very idea is itself insane!’

  ‘But I understand that you once gave my husband medical treatment,’ Mrs Warburton persisted.

  ‘For a fractured wrist sustained during a chukka of polo,’ I replied a little abruptly, for I must confess I was growing somewhat uneasy at this imputation of madness against my old army friend.

  ‘And that is all? He never confided in you that he was subject to fits?’

  ‘Certainly not! Who on earth, may I ask, put that thought into your mind?’

  ‘My husband,’ she said quietly, regarding me with a steady gaze.

  It took me a moment to absorb this extraordinary remark and then I replied as calmly as I could, ‘I think, Mrs Warburton, that you had better tell me the whole story from the beginning.’

  ‘I agree, Dr Watson, for the situation is most distressing and is as inexplicable to me as it evidently is to you also,’ Mrs Warburton said. For an instant her control faltered and I saw that her eyes had filled with tears. However, with a gallant effort, she composed herself and continued. ‘I should explain that I first met Harold a little over five years ago in India. Until that time, I had been living in England with my widowed mother. On her death, a very dear friend of mine, a Mrs Fenner Lytton-Whyte, who was about to sail to India to join her husband, a major in the Fourth Devonshire Dragoons, suggested that I accompany her as her lady-companion. As I had no close relatives left in England, I readily agreed. Her husband was stationed then at Darjeeling and it was he who introduced me to Harold.

  ‘Later, Harold told me that he had fallen in love with me at that first meeting, although it was another eighteen months before he proposed marriage. As you will know, Dr Watson, having been closely acquainted with him, he is a reticent man who finds it difficult to express his feelings. He is also several years older than myself and, as a bachelor, was used to living a single life. It was for these reasons, he said, that he hesitated so long before asking me to marry him.

  ‘On my part, I had grown first to like and then to love him and, after I accepted his proposal, we were married quietly in the Anglican church in Rawalp
indi. At his request, no notice of the wedding was sent to the London newspapers, not even The Times, and it was only on my special pleading that he consented to my writing to my godmother in England to tell her of my marriage. I give you these facts because they may be relevant to later events.

  ‘About two years ago, my husband suffered a bad attack of fever which left his health seriously impaired. He was advised to resign his commission and retire to a country with a more temperate climate. I had imagined that he would wish to return to England, but he seemed strangely reluctant to do so and spoke instead of going to New Zealand, a country with which neither of us had any connection.

  ‘While the matter was still under discussion, I received a letter which decided our future for us. It was from my godmother’s solicitor, informing me of her death, news which I was most sorry to receive as I was very fond of her. The letter went on to explain that I was named as the main beneficiary in her will and stood to inherit her house in Hampstead, together with its contents and an income of £1000 a year, provided I agreed to certain conditions. I had to return to England and occupy the house with my husband. It is a charming Georgian villa where she herself had been born and brought up and she was anxious that it should not be sold and the family possessions dispersed.

  ‘If I refused to accept these conditions, I should receive a capital sum of £3000 but the house and its contents would pass to a second cousin’s son, my godmother’s only remaining relative but a virtual stranger to her.

  ‘Although grieved by my godmother’s death, I have to confess that the offer of the house and a settled income came at a most opportune time when Harold and I were concerned about our future. As you no doubt know yourself, Dr Watson, it is not easy for a man to support himself, let alone a wife as well, on half-pay.’

  ‘Indeed not!’ I interjected, remembering my own financial difficulties on my return to England from India.4 ‘But pray continue, Mrs Warburton. I assume you accepted the terms of your godmother’s will?’

  ‘Eventually, yes; although Harold was not at all eager to do so. However, as neither of us had much money, I myself not having come from a wealthy family and Harold’s father having lost much of his capital through unwise speculation shortly before his death, it was finally decided, after much hesitation on Harold’s part, to accept the offer. Consequently, Harold resigned his commission and we booked passages on the SS Orient Princess. Even then, when our tickets had arrived and our trunks were packed, he seemed on the point of changing his mind. He appeared very anxious about the prospect of returning to England although, when I pressed him for a reason, he would say nothing more than that he had unhappy memories of the place.

  ‘As you are a busy professional man, Dr Watson, I shall summarise the subsequent events as briefly as possible. We arrived in England and settled into my late godmother’s house, where we were very happy together. My husband’s health steadily improved and the only drawback to our complete contentment was Harold’s steadfast refusal to take part in any social life outside the home, not even the occasional excursion to a theatre or a museum. He even refused to renew any former acquaintanceships, including yours, as I assume from your earlier remarks, even though he had often spoken most warmly of you.’

  ‘I should have welcomed a visit from him,’ said I, touched by this mark of Hal Warburton’s continuing friendship. ‘Had I known he was in London, I should certainly have written to him, suggesting a meeting. But pray continue, Mrs Warburton. You spoke of your husband’s admission that he was subject to fits of insanity. Were there any signs of this during your time in India?’

  ‘No, Dr Watson. Nor was there any reference to such a tendency until recently; two days ago to be exact. As was his habit, Harold had retired to the study after breakfast where he was engaged in writing a history of his old regiment. When the second post arrived, I took it to him myself as he preferred not to be disturbed by the maid. He was then in excellent spirits. There were only two letters, one which I assumed was the grocer’s bill, and one other, the handwriting of which I did not recognise. As we receive little correspondence, neither Harold nor I having any close relatives or friends in England, I took particular notice of this second envelope, which was postmarked Guildford. I was a little surprised as we know no one living in Surrey.

  ‘About half an hour later, at eleven o’clock, I again went to the study to take Harold a mid-morning cup of coffee. On this occasion, I found him greatly changed. He was pacing about the room in a state of considerable agitation, trembling violently and almost incoherent in his speech. At first, I thought he was suffering from a recurring bout of fever and was about to send the maid for the doctor when he broke down, begging me not to do so.

  ‘It was then he told me that from childhood he had suffered from occasional fits of madness, the early symptoms of which he had been aware of for the past few days. For that reason, he had written to a private nursing-home, recommended by a medical friend of his, arranging to be admitted as soon as possible. He had not spoken to me of this before as he had not wished to distress me. He had also hoped that the symptoms would subside and he would be able to cancel the arrangements. However, as they had not done so, a carriage would arrive at midday to take him to the nursing-home. He expected the treatment to last for a fortnight. As it was essential that he had absolute peace and quiet, I was not to visit or write to him. He even refused to give me the name of the home or the doctor who recommended it. I assume it was not you, Dr Watson?’

  ‘Certainly not!’ I exclaimed. ‘As I have already explained, I did not even know that your husband had returned to England. But what an extraordinary state of affairs, Mrs Warburton! Had your husband shown any signs of these early symptoms of madness of which he spoke?’

  ‘No, never. Until that moment, his behaviour had been perfectly normal.’

  ‘Then were you not suspicious of his sudden attack and his decision to seek admission to a private nursing-home?’

  ‘Not at the time, Dr Watson. I was too shocked to think rationally. Besides, I had my husband to consider as well as practical affairs to see to, such as packing his valise. Harold was in no state to be questioned either. He was still so greatly agitated that I did not like to press him for a further explanation. Nor was there time. A closed carriage arrived shortly afterwards and a man, whom I took to be a male attendant, escorted my husband to it. They then drove off immediately.

  ‘It was only after the carriage had left and I had the opportunity to collect my thoughts that I began to have grave misgivings. As my husband’s attack had occurred so soon after the arrival of the second post, I returned to the study to look for the letter from Guildford, wondering if its receipt could be the cause of Harold’s sudden fit. Although I found the grocer’s bill lying on his desk, there was no sign of any other correspondence until I noticed the charred remains of some paper lying in the otherwise empty grate. As it is summer, no fire had been lit there that morning. The letter was nothing more than ashes which fell to pieces as I touched them. But I found one small portion, unconsumed by the flames, which had fallen through the bars on to the hearth. I have brought it with me.’

  ‘May I see it?’ I asked.

  Mrs Warburton opened her reticule and took out a plain envelope which she gave me.

  ‘The piece of paper is in there together with a small sprig of myrtle which I also recovered from the hearth. I assume it was enclosed with the letter, although I have no idea why.’

  Opening the envelope, I tipped the contents carefully on to my desk. They were, as Mrs Warburton had described, a spray of dark green leaves, partly burnt by the fire, accompanied by a small piece of paper, about the size of a florin, badly scorched, on which the only writing I could discern were the letters ‘vy’, followed a little further on by what appeared to be the word ‘use’.

  ‘You say this is myrtle?’ I asked, touching the sprig of leaves gingerly with one fingertip. ‘But you are not aware of its significance?’

  ‘Not in
connection with Harold’s decision to enter a nursing-home. However, I recognised it as myrtle immediately. I carried a piece of it in my wedding bouquet.5 In the language of flowers, it is said to represent maidenly love.’

  ‘May I keep these, Mrs Warburton?’ I asked, coming to a sudden decision. ‘With your permission, I should like to show them to an old friend of mine, Mr Sherlock Holmes. Have you heard of him, by any chance? He has a considerable reputation as a private consulting detective and would, I am sure, undertake on your behalf any enquiries you might wish to have made.’

  I saw Mrs Warburton hesitate.

  ‘As you know, Dr Watson, my husband is a very reserved man. He might not approve of his affairs being investigated. However, I have indeed heard of Mr Holmes and, as I am deeply concerned about Harold’s welfare, I am prepared to give my consent, provided you can assure me of your friend’s discretion.’

  ‘Without any reservation!’

  ‘Then pray consult him without further delay. I know that you, too, have my husband’s best interests at heart,’ Mrs Warburton said, rising to her feet and handing me her card. ‘You may find me at this address.’

  I called on Holmes at my old lodgings in Baker Street that very afternoon and found him in the sitting-room, engaged in pasting newspaper cuttings into his commonplace book.

  However, as soon as I had explained the reason for my unexpected visit, he laid aside the brush and, settling down into his armchair, listened with keen attention as I gave him a full account of Mrs Warburton’s extraordinary story.

  ‘And I am afraid, Holmes,’ I concluded, giving him the envelope, ‘that these are the only pieces of evidence I can offer you in the case of Warburton’s sudden and, to my mind, totally inexplicable claim to be suffering from madness and his decision to enter this unknown nursing-home somewhere in Surrey.’

  ‘Oh, the whereabouts of the nursing-home is a minor mystery which can easily be solved,’ Holmes announced nonchalantly. He had taken the charred piece of paper over to his desk, where he had inspected it briefly with the aid of his pocket lens. ‘We know from the postmark that it must be in the vicinity of Guildford and that part of its address consists of the word “House”.’