by David Fable
“Perhaps, I could speak with the young woman. I saw her just yesterday. I could ask her if she’s Lilah Church.”
He came down from the stepladder. “These patients will tell you they’re Marie Antoinette if it’ll please you.”
“I’d just like a moment with her. I’m quite sure this is the girl I remember from years back,”
“Hold on one moment. It’s just possible…” His voice trailed off as he moved to a stack of folders inside a metal basket. He leafed through. “Success!” he declared and pulled out a folder, opened it and read, “Delilah Church, age 38, transitory catatonia, bouts of severe anxiety…” he droned. “Discharged. Uncured.”
“Discharged!” I repeated in astonishment.
“Yes. This morning. That is why her file is in this basket.”
“Discharged to whom?” I asked.
“To her son, Alexander Hollocks.” He looked up from the file. “The same person who had her admitted.”
“But her file says she has catatonia and severe anxiety.”
“We don’t cure them all,” Doctor Leeds shrugged. “We don’t even cure half of them. If he wants to take care of her at home, that’s his right.”
“Have you an address for her or her son?” I asked.
“None listed here,” the doctor answered.
“What date was she admitted, Doctor?” asked Christopher coolly.
Doctor Leeds flipped back to the first page of the file. “April 18, 1911.”
The dying light on the hospital grounds turned the trees to a murky green. As we descended the stairs of the hospital, weariness was claiming me again, and I had added a new task to my agenda—that of locating Lilah Church. Christopher had asked few questions of the doctor, but I could see the wheels were turning in his head. “What are you thinking?” I asked.
“Well, it occurred to me,” he said, digging his hands into his back pockets, “that the date of Miss Church’s admission into the hospital was followed closely by the revision of Mr. Holmes’s will, which would indicate that he was keeping fairly close tabs on her.”
“I think that’s a reasonable assumption, but what significance does that have?” I queried, for other than the obvious fact that Holmes felt charitable toward an orphaned girl, I could not see what conclusion Christopher was reaching for.
“It seems notable to me that he singled her out.”
“Yes, but he singled you out as well,” I replied. “Likewise the orphanages”
“You make a good point,” he sighed. “In any event, it’s not a priority. I want to stop by Scotland Yard and ask Gregson if there’s been a report of any stolen or recovered Renaults in London or Kent.”
“Take me home first. I’ve had enough for the day,” I requested wearily.
Twenty minutes later we pulled up in front of my flat. The sun had set and I was so exhausted I had actually dozed off during the ride back from Bedlam. “Thank you for the ride home,” I said wearily as I reached for the door handle.
“Tomorrow we should motor down to Sussex and have a look at Mr. Holmes’s belongings,” Christopher said with his usual stridence. He seemed determine to drive me like an ox.
“Let’s see what tomorrow brings. There may be other more pressing matters to attend to,” I said gently.
I was on the verge of telling the lad that his zeal bordered on overstepping when he interrupted me.
“Doctor Watson, why don’t you move back into Baker Street while we pursue the case? It would seem a more efficient way to proceed.”
Several thoughts collided in my mind at once, the first being, of course, visions of Holmes and myself sharing that fabled space during all those years and all those extraordinary events. Second, it was true we had already formed a bit of alliance as regards the pursuit of this case, but up until now I had considered my actions as humoring the lad. Was he suggesting an equal partnership? He was a fine observer and possibly even a better chauffeur, but he certainly was not ready to step into the shoes of Sherlock Holmes, and I did not know if I was prepared to step back into mine. Perhaps he meant to pose the question as if I would be his mentor, though, thus far, this hadn’t been his attitude, or perhaps thus far he had been humoring me. My hesitation in answering gave him pause.
“I’m afraid that may have been too forward a suggestion,” he said cautiously.
“Not a bit. It’s a natural thought, but I’m not sure I could bear it right now...the memories and all.” I ended the discussion by getting out of the automobile and firmly closing the door.
Mounting the stairs to my apartment, I felt resentment welling up. This overreaching by young Hudson, the assumption that he would continue with me every step of the way, began to rankle me more with each stair I climbed. The audacity that he should invite me to move into a flat in which I had cohabitated with the greatest crime-solving mind of a generation was infuriating. I should not have allowed him to come to the coroner’s office. I should not have indulged him at all.
I reached into my coat pocket for my key and felt Holmes’s letter that Pearson had given me. I had wanted a good dose of brandy to accompany the reading of it, so I had decided to wait until I got home. A ringing phone greeted me as I opened the door to my flat. It was the prime minister’s secretary. “Hold the line for the prime minister,” came an authoritative female voice from the other end. Prime Minister Asquith was a rather urbane gentleman with a fine speaking voice, as most prime ministers possess, however he was known socially to have such ungentlemanly habits as looking down dresses and stroking female guests’ thighs much higher than was considered polite. I agreed with most of his liberal stances except for his fondness for adding to the empire’s fleet of battleships and his position against suffrage.
“My esteemed Doctor Watson,” came a sudden, melodious voice from the telephone. “My condolences on the death of Mr. Holmes, a national hero to be sure.”
“Thank you for your thoughts, Prime Minister.”
“I wanted to inform you personally that our intention is to hold a funeral for Mr. Holmes in three days’ time at Westminster Abbey. This gives the various dignitaries and heads of state adequate time to attend.”
“Thank you, Prime Minister. That’s very impressive and a great honor.”
“Well deserved,” he said sincerely. “I shall have Mrs. Bennett call you with the details.”
“Thank you again, Prime Minister.” I waited for him to hang up before I put down the receiver.
I sunk into a chair with my decanter of brandy, poured myself a double portion and placed the letter on the table. I stared at the familiar hand that had written “To My Dear Friend, Dr. John H. Watson” on the front of the envelope. I felt I had neither the strength nor the courage to read the contents of the envelope at that moment. However, Sherlock Holmes did not do things frivolously, so the assumption would have to be that if he left me a letter to read after his death, it was potentially of pressing importance. The envelope was sealed with red wax, and I carefully peeled it open and took out the single sheet of paper and unfolded it. It was written in Holmes’s hand and read:
My Dear Watson,
Should I predecease you, this letter will serve as my final and most sincere communication. Know that you have been my greatest friend and constant support. You have saved my life on more than one occasion, and I’m quite certain no man could have as humble and considerate a companion as you. I admire you as much as any man I have ever known. You are an individual of unwavering moral character and insight, and for all these reasons I must impose upon you one last time. Please scrupulously carry out my wishes as detailed in my will. Please be so kind as to give my eulogy. There is no one who can speak the truth about my life better than my dearest friend. Like all men, I had my faults. I have tried to rectify my mistakes in life to the best of my ability. Whatever recompense I owe, I leave to my Maker.
Sincerely,
Sherlock Holmes
A sudden wave of emotion crashed upon me. I broke down
weeping as I had not wept since losing my precious Mary. This letter had burst the dam. Mentally exhausted, my mind finally succumbed to the involuntary reflexes of my body, and I shook and sobbed with grief. I drank until I fell into a restless sleep and I dreamed of Holmes. I was following him. I was driving a car, but it was not running properly. Holmes was on foot accompanied by Lilah. She was both a child and a woman at the same time, as is only possible in a dream. They wound through the narrowing streets, his hand on her shoulder, guiding her. I tried to keep up with them, abandoning my automobile, which was growing wider and wider as the streets narrowed. They disappeared into a dark alleyway, and I found myself standing in front of Westminster Abbey. I entered and a funeral was in progress. Organ music played. The pews were filled with the many victims and villains from the cases that Holmes and I had pursued over the years. The prime minister, Lestrade, Moriarty and dozens of dignitaries were there. Holmes walked down the aisle with Lilah, who took a seat in a row beside her fellow Baker Street Irregulars, their young faces vividly recollected to me in the dream. Holmes continued to the front of the Abbey and approached the open casket. He looked in and then turned to me with concern saying, “It was a mistake. A terrible mistake.” I nodded as if I understood. I suddenly bolted awake. Something akin to an electric charge surged through the muscles of my arms and legs. I was no longer tired. I realized I had another task to accomplish and it was a task that only could be accomplished at night.
6
CHRISTOPHER
F rankly, I was shocked to find that I had been included in Sherlock Holmes’s will, and I had the distinct impression that Dr. Watson was displeased with this fact. For the last couple of days I felt I had been walking on eggshells with the doctor. I’m sure he viewed me as a bit of an upstart in his field and, maybe worse, as a meddler. My strategy had been to couch my observations as suggestions, but my inherently confident nature had already betrayed that plan in several instances during those first days. Watson was no fool, and he tried his best to accommodate me while concealing his annoyance, to which he was fully entitled. I had the utmost respect for Watson’s intuition and powers of deduction. A man of his intellect could not help but absorb a lifetime’s worth of knowledge in the company of the greatest detective of our time. But I knew I had a valuable role to play, and I wanted to prove my worth to Doctor Watson. After all, Holmes had left me all his belongings and there was no ambiguity in that. My hours of sitting on the floor and observing the legendary detective hadn’t escaped his attention. Thinking back, I could remember occasions when I would take my hand-painted toy soldiers, which my father had brought me from Belgium, up to the flat and line them across Holmes’s Persian carpet in a massive show of military force. Sometimes Holmes would even indulge my play by rearranging the pieces in what he told me would be the proper formation and then describe to me historic battles and the strategies used by the victors. Just as abruptly he would retreat back to whatever case he happened to be on or some other imponderable adult concern and brusquely shoo me out of the flat.
There is, however, one very vivid recollection that is certainly most pertinent to Holmes’s bequest. I was seventeen and about to attend Oxford when Holmes took me to the Athenaeum Club for lunch. The Athenaeum is the most posh and exclusive club in London. I felt grown up and intimidated at the same time. This was a real man-to-man occasion with Holmes. He was several years retired by then, save the occasional exception when he was called in to consult on a matter of state importance. I assumed that he was in London for some other business and had fit me into his schedule, but, looking back, this might not have been the case.
“What do you intend to pursue at Oxford, Christopher?” he asked me casually after we had ordered.
“I’m interested in the sciences,” I responded.
“A worthy pursuit,” he said convincingly. “I myself have never been one for literature. I care little for philosophy and even less for politics, but much can be learned by observing the physical world.” He paused as the waiter brought his gin and tonic. He took a sip and kept on with his thought. “Look at the men around this club… I recognize but two or three but can tell the majority of their occupations by simple observation. For example, the man at that table against the wall is a first-time guest of the man with whom he’s sitting. If he had been here before, he would know that his attire is entirely too casual for the Athenaeum. He must have come here separately or else his companion would have informed him of such. I can tell from this distance that they are speaking English, though I cannot hear his accent, however when he passed I noticed that he has a deep tan and extremely rough hands, which makes me believe he is visiting from the Southern Hemisphere, probably Australia, and is either a wealthy farmer or rancher. Those two older gentlemen by the window were military men. I can tell by the cut of their beards and moustaches. The one on the right is a navy man, made obvious by the bottom of an anchor tattoo peeking out from his sleeve. The facts are borne out as well by the wind cap on his pipe, which is lying beside him on the table, a handy item when smoking on deck. The man at the table next to us is a surgeon. That is plain from the way he handles his knife.” Holmes took another sip of his gin and tonic and was perfectly confident that his observations were correct. “Now you give it a try, Christopher.” He checked the room for a candidate. “That man eating the Dover sole…focus on the details.”
The man was two tables over. I turned discreetly and studied him, trying to see what Holmes might see, to look at him as Holmes might look at him. Holmes did not describe a man by facial features or hair color or height, although, in passing, he could tell you all those things about a man with only a quick glimpse. He saw all the details that make up the story of a man, not the description. The man dining on Dover sole had a receding hairline and shiny forehead. He had a round face and ruddy complexion that turned quite rosy at his cheeks. He seemed like a good candidate to play Santa Claus in a Christmas play. He wore a navy blue double-breasted suit with starched white cuffs and gold cuff links in the design of a small knot of rope. I could not see him from the waist down, but unless his shoes were extraordinary in some way, I assumed there was nothing to be gained from a fuller view. I watched him put another forkful of sole in his mouth and studied him. After another moment I turned to Holmes confidently. “The man is either a barrister or a judge. I can’t be sure.”
“Excellent!” chuckled Holmes. “Please tell me how you arrived at that conclusion?”
“On his forehead I could see the powder from the wig he was wearing in court this morning. Additionally, there are several long, curled strands from the wig on the shoulder of his navy-blue jacket.”
Holmes nodded with satisfaction and what I might almost describe as pride. Hindsight makes me realize that he was grooming me. I can see clearly now that he was watering the seed he had planted when I was a young boy. Thereafter, we made a special occasion of having lunch at the Athenaeum every year on my birthday, which falls just before the holidays. At these lunches, Holmes would chart my progress at the university and discuss with me certain cases he was working on. Having been a chemist himself, he was always quite interested in hearing about my science courses. Geology, in particular, was of keen interest to him. He was fascinated by the ability to detect the position of hidden petroleum and gas reservoirs by the clues collected from the kinds of rocks and minerals that lay above and around them.
That first lunch was the most memorable. It was my initiation, and I remember feeling as if Holmes was treating me as a peer. Quite possibly that lunch may have been the only reason Holmes had come into London that day, and I remember every detail of it. I remember the waiter bringing us our first course, which was salmon mousse, and Holmes turning to the man next to us, the one who Holmes had speculated was a surgeon based on the precision with which he handled his knife. “May I borrow your salt, Doctor?” he asked.
The man turned to Holmes with a smile and handed him the saltshaker, “My pleasure, sir.”
These memories steeled my resolve with the task at hand. I had retrieved much of Holmes’s crime detection equipment from the attic and could say with a certainty that the soil I found on Holmes’s shoes came from the East End, near the docks. Judging from the mixture of clay and silt, it appeared to match Holmes’s samples taken from the area between Victoria Dock Road and Shipman Street. The passing years might have changed this composition a bit, and I would have to go to the East End as soon as possible to confirm my conclusion by taking a present-day sample.
