Holmes and Watson End Peace: A Novel of Sherlock Holmes

by David Ruffle

  “I would imagine that was one of the earliest tours to Australia from these isles?”

  “There had been two earlier, but the 1873/74 tour was the best organised to that point. The Eastern Oval was a lovely ground, Holmes. Dr Grace declared it was the most English of Australian cricket grounds.”

  “For its rainfall?!”

  “No, for its tranquility and appearance. Grace scored a century, that’s a sight I have never forgotten. My only regret is that I was not invited to play. Tell me, Holmes, did you never partake in simple game playing when a child, with bat or ball?”

  “With whom, Watson? Mycroft being seven years my senior did not in any way allow for game playing between us; there was always a gulf between us. My father had no time for instilling any love of sports in us, his main pastime was himself and although he and Mycroft sided together, he only tolerated his younger son. There was no love from that quarter, on either side. My mother encouraged us in the finer arts; she extolled the virtues of learning and of art, in particular, painting. She was of course related to the French artist, Vernet and art in the blood in her case revealed itself in her gentle demeanour. I never kept up my art studies to any extent, but you may recall that I was able to identify the artists whose works were displayed in Baskerville Hall.”

  “I was going to say I feel sorry for you, but I realise you would not wish that. There should have been no reason to suppose that our sporting loyalties would in any way coincide. Although I think we always agreed on our complete indifference to Association football.”

  “Yes we did. Association football always seemed determined to parade the worst aspects of our society. The sport encourages partisan crowds to the point of tribalism and the situation will not remain a constant, it can only worsen.”

  “I agree, but I am always baffled why this particular sport should attract such tribalism. Why do some men feel this need to belong and have strong allegiances to the teams of their choice?”

  “I have no answer to that, Watson. It is a mystery I cannot solve nor would I have wasted my time in attempting to solve it.”

  “Fortunately you had no great contact with amateur or professional sport in your career, Holmes.”

  “No, it rarely featured in any cases save that of Godfrey Staunton and Cyril Overton.”

  “And Bob Ferguson.”

  “Ah, but although Ferguson was one of your mud-splattered former Rugby colleagues, sport played no part in the affair of the ‘Sussex Vampire.”

  “I have to say that your sporting skills in both fencing and boxing were at times a great help to you.”

  “They certainly saved me the odd beating and were instrumental in the taking of a few villains. Physically, I believe, I was underestimated by a few opponents. My frame did not speak of great strength to them. Slogging ruffians one and all, Watson, slogging ruffians.”

  “As our friend Mr Jack Woodley found out.”

  “Now there was a man who needed to be taught a lesson and I am glad I was on hand to administer it.”

  “I am positive he enjoyed his ride home in the cart!”

  “An evil man too, he would have stopped at nothing to achieve his aims, not that we were ever strangers to such men.”

  “Indeed not, Holmes. Baron Gruner, Dr Roylott, Milverton and so many more who had no moral fibre whatsoever. I wondered if they were even aware they were committing crimes.”

  “They were, my friend. We might reckon them to be mad compared with lives such as our own, but they were not in any way insane. Greedy yes, wicked yes, but men who knew exactly what they were doing. I, for one never tired of bringing them to justice or seeing justice overtake them, whatever form that justice took.”

  “You say that, Holmes, but in the end you did get tired of doing so.”

  “Nay, not tired of what I was doing, but more in the way of doubting how could I continue to go about it. I felt my powers were on the wane and my imperfections and increasing fallibility would certainly harm my career. What could be more natural then to bring an end to my activities? Not that I was idle in my years of retirement as you know. I was able to keep myself busy with occasional cases that I was consulted on and then as we recalled earlier I was pressed into service at the behest of Mycroft and was re-born as Altamont.”

  “You don’t feel that you retired too early then?”

  “No, I have never entertained the thought, I just moved on to a different life. A life of bees, contemplation and solitude, a world away from your own retirement years.”

  “Which were rather less in number then yours. I was sixty-five before I had an inkling of retiring, but then perhaps doctoring is more of a calling than being a detective.”

  “I have no doubts, Watson.”

  “It is only the last year when I have felt truly alone. It is not a state I have in any way enjoyed. I have never been a solitary animal and the lack of company has been hard to bear for me.”

  “I do have a certain amount of guilt over that; I have not been in touch as often as I sometimes could or should have been.”

  “There is no need to reproach yourself, no need at all. I am equally to blame if it comes to that. After all, we both had our own lives to lead.”

  “I am glad I have the opportunity to be here now with you, Watson.”

  “The opportunity? You make it sound like you have been given permission to be here.”

  “I am sorry, Watson, but that was not quite my meaning. I apologise for my poor choice of word.”

  “Apology accepted with thanks. I am overjoyed to see you; it has been too long my friend.”

  “Indeed it has.”

  “Do you have regrets, Holmes?”

  “Of what kind?”

  “Well, of any kind, professional, personal?”

  “Do you think I should have?”

  “It’s not about what I think. It’s a fairly simple question after all, surely?”

  “I made mistakes in my life, Watson, you know of some of them. I made some bad decisions; I took some wrong turnings, but regrets? Do you know, I don’t really know whether I do or not. And yes, it is a fairly simple question, but I am having trouble coming up with an equally simple answer.”

  “I didn’t necessarily expect a simple answer from you, Holmes!”

  “That appears to be just as well, Watson. If you push me I think I would say, no I have no regrets. I have lived my life in the manner I wished to and I cannot count any setbacks as causing me regret. I have no recourse, but to stand by all the decisions I made because they all came from me and were a part of me. Besides, what good can come from regretting?”

  “Most likely, none at all, but that does not mean we cannot feel it.”

  “And yourself, Watson, do you have regrets?”

  “I do wish that those who loved me had been granted longer with me and I with them. My personal happiness always seemed to be a temporary state. Contentment I always had, but true happiness was at best transitory and often out of reach. Professionally, my regrets were few. The Afghan war rather interrupted my medical career as I envisaged it and it was hard to settle back down to my former life when I returned home, hence my drifting aimlessly for a while. In a modest way I achieved what I felt able to achieve. Pooling my resources with you gave me an extra dimension to my life and of course set me on a writing career which surprised me immensely.”

  “On the whole you acquitted yourself well. My own attempts were little more than slavish imitations of your own style and I have to confess I did not measure up.”

  “If we are talking about real regrets then there is one above all others.”

  “Yes, I suspect there would be and I believe I know what it is.”

  “In your view, then, what is it?”

  “Elementary, Watson, you wished you had been a father.�
��

  “Precisely so, Holmes. Useless of course to dwell on it now, but my life would have been far more complete had I had children.”

  “Most men would like to see their line carried on I believe.”

  “But that’s not it, Holmes, do you not see? I do not care one pennyworth about my line being carried on as you put it. It comes down to love, pure and simple. They joy of having children and bringing them up and nurturing them would have been the reward in itself. The happy childhood that I enjoyed, I would have been delighted to re-create with offspring of my own. But as I say it does no good to dwell on it, I cannot turn back the pages of time.”

  “Would that we could, Watson, would that we could. How are you feeling my friend?”

  “Tired, so very tired. And another feeling which seems at odds with perhaps how I should be feeling.”

  “What feeling is that?”

  “Exhilaration. Do you think that strange?”

  “I think the memories we have discussed tonight would have had the effect of focusing your mind on happier times. In a way you are re-living those times tonight so I don’t see a feeling of exhilaration in any way strange. A little unexpected maybe, but not strange.”

  “Still, life cannot be undone. The life I have lived is the life I have lived. Even the largest of regrets cannot change that. I just wish it didn’t have to end so soon.”

  Interlude

  “Is the tea ready, Nurse?”

  “Yes, Matron.”

  “Good, I am parched. Where is Nurse Pollett?”

  “Gone to check on Dr Watson. She wanted to give him some company for a while.”

  “And what about her other duties, how does she intend to fit them in?”

  “Don’t be too hard on her, Matron. She has a good heart and she cares; isn’t that what nursing is all about?”

  “It would not be like me to say it to her face, but she is a good nurse, frivolous at times, but I am aware that beneath it all she is very committed.”

  “Sorry to speak out of turn, but what is stopping you from telling her just that?”

  “She has a long way to go and still needs discipline above praise. I have seen nurses whose careers have faltered because of too much praise. They become over confident and sloppy, thinking they have made the grade.”

  “But we all need encouragement, Matron.”

  “And I give it when it is due do I not?”

  “I suppose so.”

  “No suppose about it, my girl. Let’s treat ourselves to a biscuit shall we, Nurse Harrison?”

  “What about Lucy’s tea and biscuit?”

  “She knows where to find us.”

  “I could take her tea to her; she can have it as she sits with Dr Watson.”

  “I will finish mine and take it to her myself.”

  “Really, Matron?”

  “Yes, really, Nurse.”

  Chapter 9

  “Watson?... Watson?”

  “I was dreaming. I was floating along a river and clutching at roots on the river bank, but try as I might I could not grab hold of anything, my fingers refused to grasp any of these lifelines and the current was carrying me gently, almost peacefully along.”

  “Gently upon a sea of words.”

  “What’s that, Holmes?”

  “I was letting your poetic tendencies sway my thoughts. All those years of reading your accounts must have borne fruit at last!”

  “The ‘poetry’ as you term it was necessary and not as superfluous as you would have it.”

  “Be that as it may, Watson. There is one thing that has always puzzled me however.”

  “Something about me?”

  “Yes, my friend. I have often wondered why you never ventured into other areas of writing, why you never authored any other tales. After all, your invention was always of a high level and there was, I have to admit, some degree of excitement in your chronicles of our exploits.”

  “I was more than aware of my own shortcomings as a writer. It pains me even now to think of the inconsistencies that appear in my chronicles of your cases. I must have left my readers in a very confused state.”

  “Yet, as you have said, some of these inconsistencies were forced on you for reasons of privacy and diplomacy. Dates, names and places, I fully acknowledge had to be changed, but I do not see that as reflecting on your literary worth.”

  “No, Holmes, I always knew my limitations and truth be told I enjoyed the chronicling of our adventures so much that any other avenues of writing would never have measured up in my estimation. I would never have experienced the same pleasure.”

  “Perhaps you could have branched out into fields that you specialised in?”

  “Such as?”

  “’The Gamblers Guide to Turf Accounting’ perhaps?”

  “Very droll. I would hardly describe it as a specialism of mine, Holmes.”

  “No, Watson? Do you think not? The chequebook of yours I kept locked in a drawer testifies differently as does the little matter of half your wound pension finding its way into bookmaker’s pockets!”

  “It was a particular weakness of mine at a stressful time in my life, that was all. In time I weaned myself off it with the occasional relapse. You were not exactly a stranger to addiction yourself.”

  “Very true, and I was exceedingly grateful for all your help in steering me away from that course.”

  “I saw the dangers to your health, both physical and mental and as both your friend and physician I could hardly stand idly by and watch you destroy your talents through the use of that pernicious drug. Did you ever complete your own book, ‘The Whole Art of Detection’? I seem to recall you saying that you laid it aside a few years ago.”

  “Yes, you recall correctly. I laid it aside for good. The new methods for detecting crime were moving on apace at the turn of the century and I felt my tome would be of no earthly use to anyone. Mechanised processes used more and more in industry and even the humbler workplaces would leave no marks of people’s occupations upon their hands or clothing. The world even then was becoming more uniform by the minute and the last nigh on thirty years has done nothing to halt this progress of de-humanisation. My methods, like myself I fear, had become stale and of no use to the modern breed of detective. The work of Bertillon and Galton has been taken on tenfold by police forces around the world. Time does not stand still, my friend, not even for us. New advances will mean better equipped police, better trained, for whom detection will be made simpler without the need for magnifying glasses and shag tobacco.”

  “Surely, great brains will always be needed and why cannot the gifted amateur still have his day?”

  “They will neither be required nor consulted, Watson. He is more likely I fear to be arrested for obstruction than listened to or heeded.”

  “’The Whole Art of Detection’ could have been an important document, an account of your life with the emphasis where it should be; with your deductive skills to the fore instead of the sensationalist element I sometimes let slip into the stories of your doings.”

  “Sometimes? I am not convinced anyone would want to read such a dry document, all in all, the general populace seem happy to know me through your chronicles and do you know, I am more than happy with that.”

  “I am surprised to hear you say it, Holmes. Could it be you have mellowed?”

  “Quite possibly, my friend, quite possibly.”

  “At least you entered the published world through your monographs.”

  “Ah yes, my monographs. Dry as dust and no doubt just as un-readable. I don’t believe I ever encountered anyone who had ever read the blessed things excepting your good self of course. You did read them, did you not?”

  “Well, I certainly looked through them, I would hesitate to call it reading, b
ut I believe I caught the gist of all the salient points you made.”

  “You never seemed to have any trouble reading your sea-faring tales ad infinitum.”

  “They were full-blooded and exciting, Holmes, whereas your monographs were-”

  “Yes, Watson?”

  “-as dry as dust.”

  “Touché, Watson, or perhaps I should say more rightly; Et tu Watson! And all this from a discussion of your perceived limitations as a writer!”

  “Every man has his limitations in all walks of life, perhaps they serve to cure us of the weakness of self-satisfaction.”

  “I can see no harm in self-satisfaction, indeed I see more harm in not being satisfied enough. We should all strive to attain the utmost reward for our talents.”

  “But that in no way negates self-satisfaction being an ill. It surely is the self-satisfied man who will never strive and reach out for further achievement.”

  “Ah, but if he reaches the pinnacle of those achievements, then he can be well and truly self-satisfied.”

  “It’s a question of degrees then?”

  “Precisely so. You say your limitations as a writer served to cure you of the weakness of self-satisfaction?”

  “Why, yes.”

  “In other words, then, you were not satisfied and wanted to extend your literary skills?”

  “No, I was happy not to seek to extend myself in that direction.”

  “From your own mouth then, you proclaim yourself to be self-satisfied and your limitations did nothing to cure you of it. A point for me, Watson?”

  “Yes, Holmes, I believe you are taking advantage of my weary state.”

  “Far from it, I never did get your limits and exploring them now is of the greatest interest to me. A case in point is your account of the Enoch Drebber murder in the case you called ‘A Study in Scarlet’. They were described on the frontispiece as being a reprint from your reminiscences, but nothing else ever followed concerning your life. Why not?”