by John Hall
“You know, Holmes,” I went on, as if I had not heard this, “I am quite concerned about that telegram …”
At which point, Holmes said something which may have been, ‘Darn the telegram!’ but again I chose to ignore him.
“I am wondering, since there is nothing wrong with you, whether Martha may not be … well, not quite as sound in her grip of things as when she was younger. Do you think …”
“I think there is nothing wrong with Martha’s mind, and nor do you. She was merely exercising her feminine prerogative, and interfering in matters which are no concern of hers,” said Holmes, with a good deal more spirit than he had shown thus far.
“My dear fellow, it can scarcely be called meddling, if she is so worried about you that she needs must consult me” I put down my knife and fork, and spoke as earnestly as I could. “Holmes, we have known one another now for a very long time. Will you not trust me in this, rely upon my discretion and my goodwill? To be blunt, will you not confide in me, if there is something bothering you?”
“Well, then, I had a few twinges, some months back, which the local doctor diagnosed as rheumatism.”
“Is it bothering you just now?”
“No.”
“Of course, it is annoying to think that one is growing old,” I told him, “and rheumatism can be a nuisance. But I cannot think that it is just that which caused Martha to consult me on your behalf. Is there really nothing more, nothing that I might be able to help with?”
Holmes sat there, regarding me in silence, for very long time. Then he smiled. “It is the old enemy, Doctor.”
“Not …”
Holmes shook his head. “If I am weary it is not from some artificial cause, some noxious drug, but rather the all too natural consequence of boredom, of rank, mind-numbing stagnation. Oh, I have my little garden, and my bees; indeed, I am in the throes of writing a monograph upon the art of bee- keeping which shall be the last word on the subject. But, whilst that is all very well in summer, when plants and bees alike are busy about their lives, it is somewhat different in this cold and wet season. You see me, Watson, at the end of some six months of inactivity. Though … a fortnight ago I was consulted by a local man about the raids on his hen house; he was convinced it was a fox though no fowls had been killed, and wanted expert advice. I saw at a glance that it was no fox, but a naughty schoolboy, after an egg or two to form the basis of an unauthorized supper in the dormitory; more, I could identify the culprit at once as being one of the young pupils at The Gables. But, naturally, I could not say as much, for it would have been unsporting. Publicly I had to admit defeat; privately, I had to be satisfied with taking the lad aside and giving him a severe lecture on the evils of petty theft and the dangers to one’s digestion of eating after ‘lights out’. That, Doctor, is the extent to which my deductive powers have been tested of late. Can you wonder, then, that I am listless, have no appetite, that Martha is so concerned that she calls you away from your work and your patients?”
“My work? Huh!”
Holmes ceased his lamentations, and looked at me with some sympathy. “You, too, Watson?”
“Oh, I grow old, Holmes. Old and weary, like you.”
“Well, I would perhaps not say old, exactly,” Holmes told me, with some return of his former asperity.
“Things are not the same, Holmes. A man needs work, if he is to enjoy life properly, and my own work has become tiresome. My case is not entirely dissimilar to yours; I am faced with patients whose only complaint is that … at the end of winter … they have a runny nose and a cough. To be sure, it is a compliment to a doctor to think that his patients are so healthy that they can dispense with his services, but it scarcely makes for an interesting day.”
Holmes nodded. “Then you will know exactly how things are with me. Beyond even your medical skills, I fear, Watson. Yes, our cases are remarkably similar, my boy. And, speaking of cases, I was thinking just the other day about that curious little problem of the Beryl Coronet, and its subsequent ramifications. I don’t think you ever heard the real outcome of that one, did you? Well …” and off he went, happily reminiscing about the good old days when he was in practice in Baker Street.
I encouraged him in this search for lost time, prompting him with reflections of my own on this old case and that one; and I was considerably cheered to see that, in the intervals of reminiscing, Holmes actually made a reasonably good attack on the food in front of him.
When we had finished our dinner we sat by the fire, smoking our pipes and still yarning about the strange folk we had encountered, and their even stranger little problems, until it was woefully late.
Holmes noticed my badly stifled yawns, and apologized for keeping me up, saying with a wicked grin that I must have had a most disturbing day, that it was dangerous for an old fellow like me to hear too often the chimes at midnight, and that I would be ready for my bed. I could not argue with him, and in a very short while I was snugly tucked up in the spare bedroom, and knew no more that night.
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