The Classic Crusade of Corbin Cobbs

by Michael Ciardi

When the light returned to my eyes I was standing in the midst of a city’s avenue that somehow seemed recognizable to my former travels. An expansive cobblestone boulevard hinted to an earlier period, and this supposition proved correct when I noticed a few horse drawn omnibuses sporadically maneuvering through the dusky premises. I walked farther into a neighborhood where an alignment of Georgian terraces appeared in proper order. Between random passageways of some of these buildings, I detected a few street urchins surveying me with more scrutiny than I considered regular. It was nearing nightfall, and the glow of oil lamps cast luminously from the windows of numerous dwellings. But none of these observations proved telling to my precise whereabouts until I came upon the marker of one of the most recognized addresses in all of London.

  My arrival at the front stoop of 221B Baker Street left little speculation on the character of my next acquaintance. The illumination in the flat’s second-story window provided me with a fine vantage point into the study of England’s most celebrated detective. And in silhouette, pacing two and fro in full view of a bowed window overlooking Baker Street, I recognized the angular figure of Sherlock Holmes at work. With his sharp chin apparently dipped against his chest, it seemed a fair guess on my part to conclude that he had already noticed me watching him. I gathered that he had more pertinent matters to contemplate on this twilight, but it didn’t deter me from my objective.

  With the element of surprise now eliminated, I moved forward and ascended the seventeen steps leading to the threshold of Holmes’s modest abode. I hoped he intended to waive his initial consultation fee, as I had no gold currency to amend for my unannounced visitation. From what I recalled of Holmes’s customary practices, he extended few courtesies to those who solicited unpaid services. Nevertheless, as I supposed it was in the cases with most of his sundry clientele, I hoped for a dash of his English hospitality. As I neared the last step in the flight of stairs, I watched Holmes’s shadow swerve toward the direction of his parlor. His attention centered on the door I hadn’t yet knocked upon. After a few moments, I rapped my knuckles three times on the door’s hardwood panel.

  When the door didn’t open immediately, I wondered if Holmes’s chronicler and friend, Dr. John H. Watson, had detained him for one matter or another. Perhaps they were engaged in the process of inductively solving a three-pipe problem, and therefore would’ve been especially objectionable toward my intrusion. But, much to my astonishment, the master inspector himself swung open the door to acknowledge me. The tall, middle-aged gentleman struck me as an individual whose pretentious demeanor was only marginally surpassed by a superior intellect. Before seeing Holmes in the flesh, I naively presumed that he donned his inverness cape and deerstalker cap whenever in the company of strangers. But in this instance, he appeared in his time-honored smoking jacket with an equally identifiable long pipe of black tobacco smoldering in front of his visage.

  Based on his stoic reaction to my arrival, I assumed he had encountered countless such intermissions in the past. Since I was well schooled in his formidable repute as a sleuth, it made no sense for me to pretend that I had unintentionally stumbled upon his residence to partake in small talk.

  I must’ve sounded unbearably humdrum to Holmes when I announced, “Good evening to you, sir.” The detective already appeared to pen notes with his eyes as he scanned my exterior. His high-domed forehead reflected the lamplight shining through his doorway.

  “It remains uncertain if this will indeed be a good evening,” Holmes declared while puffing on his pipe, “because, as we both can duly observe, the evening is not yet quite upon us.”

  Holmes motioned toward a single window at the hallway’s end. Through the window’s half-drawn shade, I saw a rim of orange light thinning in London’s western sky. This single detail reminded me that Holmes was a man who practiced precision in every uttered syllable. Without any further introduction, he proceeded to take two steps backwards from the entrance, offering me immediate access into a passage at the top of the stairs. I silently questioned Holmes’s hastiness in this choice. By virtue of his skills alone, he inherited his share of enemies at this stage in his career. Why did he so instantaneously conclude that I wasn’t a henchman sent by his archenemy Professor Moriarty? Before following him any further, I decided to test his renowned logic.

  “Aren’t you interested in knowing who I am?” I inquired.

  Holmes inhaled pensively on his pipe, releasing a plum of blue smoke into the stairwell. Then, without any recognizable uncertainty, he murmured, “If you were a man of prominence you would’ve announced your identity by now. Therefore, I’ve already determined that you are a chap in search of something not currently visible.”

  “Forgive me for playing the role of a sinister advocate, Mr. Holmes, but couldn’t I just as easily be a common thief?”

  “Not at all,” replied Holmes placidly. “Conventional sense dictates that even an amateurish crook wouldn’t stand absent a disguise on a street and stare blatantly into an obviously occupied home.”

  “Fair enough,” I conceded, “but I could be a culprit targeting you.”

  “Again, logic speaks to the contrary, sir. A man of nefarious intent doesn’t plod seventeen treads of stair as deafeningly as you’ve demonstrated. Therefore, as a matter of irrefutable evidence, your lack of stealth coupled with a rap of thrice upon my door, verifies you as nothing more or less baleful than a potential client.”

  Now humbled by Holmes’s almost infallible methods of elimination, I paced inside his foyer toward a second chestnut door. Before the artful detective changed his course of direction, I stepped into a spacious sitting room that served as Holmes’s primary living area. I anticipated seeing Watson, perhaps sitting attentively in a velvet-lined armchair closest to the room’s bow window. The chair, however, was unoccupied, and unless Watson had retired to his bedroom upstairs, Holmes and I now shared these quarters in privacy.

  As Watson noted on numerous occasions, Holmes was a meticulous organizer, but impulsive impressions sometimes generated contrary opinions. At first glance, an untrained observer might’ve assumed that Holmes never discarded anything he came across. Every nook and crevice of this room housed something worth studying. I immediately ogled a glass-globed gasogene set in one corner, and an often-played violin propped nearby in another. Even when lounging, Holmes’s surroundings revealed little space for recreational pursuits. A chemical table, splashed with stains, showcased his dedication to the sciences.

  The seemingly random documents of a criminal and non-criminal origin strewn throughout the room may have resembled clutter to a maidservant’s eye, but Holmes had fastidiously positioned most objects here, right down to a coalscuttle preserving his cigars to a Persian slipper bulging with a toe full of tobacco. As it was with most eccentrics, the pieces of this jigsaw puzzle remained perfectly arranged for assemblage at any given moment by the clever coordinator himself.

  Sherlock Holmes’s bohemian habits were well documented and sometimes criticized by his dutiful companion, and therefore I showed no signs of shock or disappointment when setting sight upon a leather case containing a syringe for his seven per-cent solution. I had no misconceptions about Holmes’s drug addictions, which by the standards of my own time would’ve branded him as a lawbreaker.

  Holmes took a stance patiently at the room’s rear facing the opposite window. He appeared content to let me examine his premises until I became acclimated to its décor. An odor of acrid tobacco stirred like a mystic’s vapors in the air, and hints of cigarette smoke and other potentially toxic fumes churned unpleasantly in my nostrils. Holmes, however, displayed no visible indicators that anything fogged his judgment. After a few seconds, I decided to discover my limitations, if any, in regards to our conversation.

  “Is Dr. Watson here now?” I asked somewhat abruptly.

  Holmes nibbled dispassionately on the stem of his long pipe before responding, “I’m afraid my Boswell has abandoned all sense of reason for the fleeting thril
ls of a woman’s affection. He’s been married for some time now, and fits neatly into that mode of thinking.”

  Although I would’ve never proposed this theory aloud, I believed that Holmes envied Watson’s conventional wisdom at times, and certainly missed his company. Rather than tempt a retraction of his graciousness, I decided to move forward with my own business. “Would you like me to inform you of my purposes now?” I asked.

  “Let’s proceed in my own way,” Holmes suggested dryly.

  It was no mystery to me that Holmes delighted in flexing his perceptive muscles whenever a chance arose. Since I marveled at the way he constructed substantial pieces of information from what registered as commonplace fragments to most individuals, I was receptive to his invitation to sit beside his fireplace. I situated myself in a chair near a bearskin hearthrug, while Holmes found comfort on the corner cushion of his settee, giving his eyes full access to my face. For an unknown reason, I suddenly felt edgy, and my hands grappled the chair’s arms with mysterious force. In the midst of this, Holmes kindly offered me a cigar or cigarette to minimize my anxiousness. I refused both products, but refrained from lecturing him on the injurious affects of smoking tobacco.

  Even if I intended to harbor secrets from Holmes, he would’ve had to been comatose to misinterpret my tension. Not even the keenest minds in Scotland Yard visited this address to pontificate on covert matters. In every instance, the reverse circumstance became inevitable. I, therefore, listened obediently as Holmes dissected my character with his unique and still unrivaled prowess.

  “It’s rather observable that you’re a novice to these streets,” he started. “And, if I may be so bold, a man with a cosmopolitan taste for fashion. In all my travels, I’ve yet to encounter such eclectic attire as your own.”

  Holmes stalled for my reaction, but I was committed to keep my expression as blank as the pad of pink paper set on the edge of an end table beside him. In profile, the man’s nose was almost hawk-like, and his eyes studied me with the dauntless precision of that same bird of prey. I decided to hold my tongue and let him analyze my nature.

  “It’s likely that you’re an educated man, perhaps not to a degree of professorship, but adequate in your limited range of knowledge. The manner in which you carry yourself indicates that you’re a pedagogue by profession.”

  I’m sure I was neither the first nor last client to sit by Holmes’s fireside and feel outwitted before the seat’s fabric warmed beneath me. He even had an extraordinary knack to make his presumptions sound authentically researched. Up until this point in our conversation, I relayed nothing in my conscious greeting to suggest I was an educator, but somehow he perceived it as though the evidence was tattooed on my forehead.

  “Remarkable,” I sighed. “How did you guess that I was a teacher?”

  “Firstly,” Holmes remarked, “a proficient mind never resorts to blind conjecture. I leave such juvenile tactics to the greenhorns at the Yard. Although it may seem otherwise, my inductions are by and large elementary.”

  “So what tipped you off in regard to my profession?”

  Holmes raised his long index finger and pointed to my trouser’s pant leg. Although the clothing’s fabric was dark, upon closer inspection I detected at least three smudges of red pen ink near the left leg’s outer seam.

  “The color of ink unintentionally deposited on your slacks,” Holmes elaborated, “indicates an occupation where a fair amount of penmanship is required. Men of business typically apply black or blue fountain ink to their documents. I must therefore conclude that the red ink on your attire is for corrective purposes. And if I may add, you’re left-handed, which elucidates the manner in which you sometimes relax your pen on your left hip during assessments of students’ work.”

  “You gleaned all that information from a few red dashes on my pants?”

  “Indeed.”

  “I must admit, Mr. Holmes, your study in scarlet ink is amazing.”

  “I assure you, sir, there’s no amazement on my behalf.” Before I shared company with Holmes, I might’ve contended that my true motivations were impervious to inspection. And yet this perceptive sleuth excised the sheath from my exterior with a surgeon’s precision. “A teacher,” Holmes continued, “is by default an adventuresome spirit, but more so by word than through action.”

  “But I’m on a bold adventure as we speak,” I mentioned. “Could I be sitting here with you now if the truth was otherwise?”

  Holmes suspended his inferences for a moment and asked me a direct question. “What discipline do you instruct at school?”

  “I’m a literature teacher.”

  Holmes’s eyes beamed with fulfillment before he proceeded. “Ah, then my prior remark pertains to you even more fittingly. Those who peruse literature, and I cannot claim to share such an advocacy, have a predisposition to exist vicariously through the characters and environments they encounter. Therefore, when predicaments within their own realities compel them to venture beyond the pages of a book, they invariably become stagnant in their surroundings.”

  “Is that how I really appear to you, Mr. Holmes?”

  “A conundrum has arisen in your life, sir, and I’m afraid the prose and poetry that has previously supplied an eternal source of escapism for you will no longer offer a sufficient remedy.”

  Holmes’s intuitiveness shouldn’t have startled me, but the eloquence of his delivery made my intellectual accomplishments seem trivial in comparison. Of course, even a Victorian-aged genius had his limitations. I calculated that the detective would’ve eventually required some additional information from me. For now, though, I was content to sit and listen to him decipher my life with a prophetic grace.

  “My earlier comment on my dear Watson’s marriage wasn’t solely intended to spawn idle chatter between us,” Holmes continued. “I, just as anyone could infer with a rudimentary understanding of social customs, have already verified your conjugal status. However, unlike my Boswell, you’ve been married far longer and decidedly less happily.”

  My hands’ position on the armchair’s rails clearly revealed a tarnished gold wedding band on my left ring finger for Holmes’s inspection. Even a layperson could’ve distinguished as much, but his third point seemed much more Holmesian. Naturally, I permitted myself to become persuaded by his brilliance as if I had no prior indication of his acumen. The perspicacious glint in Holmes’s eyes now flared brighter than his fireplace’s embers as I centered my stare on an initialed pattern of bullet pocks tattooed in the wall behind a hearthside chair. Rather than remark on his patriotism toward Victoria Regina, I let him proceed with his analysis.

  “Firstly,” he declared, “your wedding band’s discoloration, coupled with the innumerable dints in its soft metal veneer, suggests its routine placement on your finger for no fewer than fifteen years.”

  “Couldn’t it be many more than that?” I tested the vigilant detective.

  Holmes puffed on his long pipe with a dignified manner before stating, “Not likely. From my approximations, a man who has been married for any significant amount of time beyond two decades doesn’t fret over his relationship’s stability. You may depend upon that point, sir. Since you obviously still cling to the illusionary fulfillment of love, I’d be imprudent to assign anymore years than twenty since your exchange of nuptial vows.”

  Since Watson often expressed Holmes’s unsavory opinion of most women, save for Irene Adler, I surmised that he’d ultimately presume that my marriage had taken an unsalvageable turn to an end. Of course, my erudite host didn’t rely on statistics or personal objections alone to form a hypothesis on my happiness.

  “How did you know that my wife and I are having problems?” I asked.

  “Pray, sir,” Holmes remarked. “Since you’ve arrived on my premises I’ve noticed at least two contrasting pigmentations on your finger encircling the marital ring. Evidently, you’ve either removed the band for a period of time, or due to the anxiety of your current dilemma, dropped
a sizeable amount of weight. The slippage of your ring verifies a chronic hindrance. Married men who are bent toward blissful thoughts typically add several inches to their waistlines. By example, my dear Watson plumped up seven and a half pounds since securing a wife. Therefore, it’s an elementary calculation on my part to assume that the woman in your life has despoiled your union in some manner.”

  As I presumed, Holmes made short work of my bid to conceal any suppressed heartache. I, however, doubted that he interpreted my darkest contemplations with infallible methods, but even these confessions weren’t as fortified as I imagined.

  “So how may I assist you with your pretty little problem, sir?” asked Holmes. He released another halo of smoke from his pipe, perhaps hoping to choke the facts out of my mouth if I elected to resist his query.

  “It’s as you stated,” I admitted. “My wife has caused me grief. Do you need for me to tell you the exact nature of it?”

  “Only if you wish to squander your breath. Men in your position are likely to encounter similar problems with their wives.”

  “Men in my position? Do you mean teachers?”

  “Forgive my indelicacy, sir, but those who instruct literature often fail to keep a spouse intrigued.”

  “Is it sensible to generalize? I know many English teachers who have secure and content marriages.”

  “Believe as you must,” Holmes returned sagaciously. “However, after examining the incontrovertible evidence, you’ll be less confident with your assertion.”

  “If what you’re saying is true, then none of what I’m doing makes any sense. I’ve spent my whole career trying to help others. I thought women appreciated a man who gave unselfishly, especially in times of such rampant greed.”

  Holmes tittered at my idealistic prattle, almost to a degree where his pipe’s stem popped out of his mouth. I didn’t expect him to so blatantly ridicule my misconceptions. “Do not be offended by my amusement,” said Holmes apologetically. “You strike me as an affable fellow, and perhaps not quite as ordinary in all aspects. Yet the conventional framework of your occupation segregates you in a class—if you’ll pardon my pun—of individuals who’ve settled for a compromise in their own talents. I’m afraid these same people often reveal a tendency to alienate lovers and friends.”

  I couldn’t fully deny my reticent temperament on occasion, but I was also reluctant to rate this characteristic as the primary influence of my wife’s infidelity. Even if I was classified as an introvert, Rachel had surely merited some culpability for her actions. I wouldn’t allow Holmes to convince me otherwise without a defense.

  “You can’t blame me for my wife’s indiscretions,” I fumed.

  “Of course not,” returned Holmes. “It’s much more favorable to deflect responsibility by faulting someone other than yourself.”

  “She’s cheating on me with my best friend,” I countered.

  Another mushroom cloud of smoke plumed above the detective’s head as he settled deeper into the couch’s cushion. In comparison to his calmness, my legs jittered like a tap dancer with tacks in his shoes. I kept my eyes trained on the wall’s bullet holes displaying the initials V.R. as Holmes continued with his summation.

  “In light of such wantonness, it’s an instinctual impulse for the victimized party to question the offender’s motivations. After this process unfurls, it’s almost predestined that a retaliatory tactic will ensue. Is that where you stand now, sir?”

  “I won’t deny that I’ve considered settling this matter on my own terms.” The detective displayed no emotion with my admittance. He most likely unscrambled my impetuousness before the syllables crossed my tongue. “I don’t suppose you can read my mind, Mr. Holmes, but I’m sure you’ll try to do so.”

  “Pish posh to that,” Holmes scoffed. “Predictions are best babbled by dime store prophets and necromancers. But that is not to suggest that I’m illiterate to the emotions you emit. Your eyes say what your conscience disallows. I needn’t refer to a tarot card or crystal ball to construe your intentions. Even the most ham-fisted of charlatans could spot the rage in your glare.”

  “I didn’t think I was so angry, or at least I didn’t believe I was showing it.”

  “Plotting vengeance is a universal reaction,” Holmes resumed, “but pray, sir, to act upon any vile deed while under such an influence will surely place you in my path again, albeit under quite different circumstances.”

  Since the mere contemplation of a crime put me in no legal jeopardy, I decided to peck at the morsels of insight that Holmes permitted me to digest. “Hypothetically speaking, let’s say that an individual had an inclination to murder someone,” I proposed. “If such a person wanted to avoid being captured, how might he achieve it?”

  “In most cases, sir, a scenario where a homicidal act can’t be solved will never occur, providing that the perpetrator’s behavior is logical.”

  “But we both know that all murderers aren’t caught, Mr. Holmes.”

  “In time, the most rational of them typically are,” said Holmes. “You see, anyone who constructs what he or she believes is a foolproof crime usually does so in a very calculated fashion. Heightened emotions serve as a factor, and with such elements at large, logic is not far behind.”

  “Forgive me for saying so, Mr. Holmes,” I replied, “but if your theory is correct, then no one would ever get arrested for killing another human being.”

  “You’re forgetting something vital, sir,” he countered. “A man who functions without motive is the most dangerous creature. When a logical reason for corruption cannot be ascertained, it often defies explanation. Therefore, a culprit who kills at random or for illogical purposes often remains an elusive predator.”

  Holmes merely echoed my thoughts in this instance. I had always contended that a man who conducted his actions without conscience invariably fared better than his neighbors. In the balance of things, I had allowed my own passivity to consume me at times. For too many years I parked my opinions curbside while others sped off along the glittery avenues of opportunity. My emotions routinely overpowered my instincts, and Sherlock Holmes now represented a harbinger to my most confounded hours.

  “I’m not a violent person,” I confessed to the detective. “Although I’ve labored through bouts of anger, I can control it now.”

  “I’ll relay this guidance,” said Holmes, “and please don’t gossip of this charitable deed around Cheapside. I expect no payment for this consultation, sir, providing that you prescribe to one piece of advice before departing.”

  “I don’t recall saying I wanted to leave yet. Is this another one of your clever deductions, Mr. Holmes?”

  “Not at all. I’m calling an end to our dialogue, but it’s in your dire interest that I do so. Understand that a majority of the most aggressive and deranged people don’t view themselves as such. It’s unwise to harbor bitterness, sir, and you’d be sensible to eliminate it from the process of your choices entirely.”

  Only a bona fide imbecile would’ve failed to earmark a recommendation from England’s most notable sleuth, but I couldn’t deny that I wanted him to miscalculate my capabilities. For now, though, I’d have to settle for a conciliatory nod of his pointed chin. He smiled sagely at me before rising from the settee and escorting me toward the same door from where I entered his study. Behind his sedate exterior, however, I thought I might’ve recognized a bit of disappointment. Since I didn’t share his gift of intuitiveness, it was necessary for me to question him directly if I sought anything else.

  “Are you sure you’re okay, Mr. Holmes?”

  “As tiptop as I’ll ever be, I suppose,” he answered drowsily. Before this moment I hadn’t distinguished anything in his mannerisms that suggested fatigue.

  “You look tired,” I told him.

  “Perhaps, in a figurative sense, you’re right.”

  “Please explain what you mean.”

  “An unchallenged mind often wanders astray,” sighed Holmes. “I’m a
fraid the situation with your wife may not be so very different in this respect. But I must apologize for my malaise, sir. I don’t mean to suggest that your plight isn’t suitable for my inclusive efforts.”

  “It’s okay. I didn’t expect you to cancel your schedule for my troubles. I’m sure more urgent cases await your keen judgment.”

  “How I wish this was the straight truth, but it is leaning in the contrary direction. I’m certain that apathy has pushed me into the onset of retirement.”

  Having intimate knowledge of Holmes’s caseload permitted me to understand the course in which he was destined to follow after he put down his magnifying lens for the last time. My next comment, therefore, was only intended as superfluous banter.

  “It’s hard to imagine that you’ll ever walk away from what you love, Mr. Holmes. I’m sure there are people who believe that you’d sooner get married before surrendering your eye for detail.”

  “You’re spot on that point, sir,” Holmes chuckled. “But I never claimed that I was shutting my eyes to the world. I’m merely refocusing.”

  “May I ask what you think will hold your attention?”

  Holmes opened the door and stared placidly into the corridor. He seemed engaged in an especially lucid notion before uttering, “I’ve always found bees to be extraordinary creatures. Perhaps it’s best to keep something when everything else goes away.”

  I departed 221B Baker Street with a sense of loss. As I descended the steps, I glanced back once toward the bow window of Holmes’s adobe. His long shadow was still visible through the glass. He propped his violin on his shoulder. In another instance, I listened as Holmes played a partita from Bach. The joy of this moment almost caused me to smile and take the detective’s words with me in good faith. But something else touched my sensibilities in this instance. A single tear spurted from my right eye and rolled lazily over my cheekbone. I didn’t attempt to smudge it away, but instead allowed the drop of emotion to settle on my jaw and evaporate into nothingness.

  Chapter 47

  1:29 P.M.