I smiled. “Details of that type escape me, generally. It is only when you or Holmes point them out that I see them.”
Holmes remained silent and Elizabeth spared a glance from scouting the terrain to impale him with those wonderful green eyes.
“Why don’t you tell me what it is?” Holmes finally replied and there was the faintest strain of a challenge in his conversational tone.
Elizabeth narrowed her eyes. “I am not sure I should attempt to. You only ever bet when the probability of winning is decidedly in your favor. As you’ve pointed out before, only a fool accepts a wager with a certain outcome.”
Holmes shrugged. “You’re probably wise not to try,” he agreed. He paused to study his watch again, quite openly this time. We both halted to watch him do so.
“Hello!” came a shout from behind us. “I say, Sigerson!”
The use of Holmes’ travelling name startled me and I heard Elizabeth gasp, too. I turned around.
Walking rapidly up the path, trying to catch up with us, was a tall, tanned man dressed in a well-tailored walking suit and brightly polished shoes, wearing one of the latest fashions in hats upon his black hair. He carried a walking cane with a gold handle and ferrule, but it appeared to be an affectation more than a necessary accessory, for he strode along the path with long steps. He held up his cane in greeting as we paused.
Elizabeth gripped my arm tightly. “Sullah!” she breathed.
I felt my own jaw descend. This well-to-do Englishman walking towards us was the Persian of Elizabeth’s tales? No, it could not be.
The man strode right up to Holmes, holding out his hand, which Holmes took without hesitation, pressing it warmly. Holmes rarely accepted a handshake and when forced to it, would accept with obvious reluctance, yet he stood now with a small smile on his face and a pleased glow in his eyes, his hands held in the enormous tanned ones of this man.
This, then, must be Holmes’ surprise.
Then Sullah turned to Elizabeth. “Miss Sigerson,” he said, with a dramatic flourish of his hat. He took her gloved hand and bowed low over it. He straightened with a twinkle in his eye and put his other hand over his heart. “The sight of you restores my lost youth,” he declared.
Elizabeth’s smile brightened and uneasiness touched me when I saw tears sparkling in her eyes. “Would you mind?” she asked, handing her parasol to Holmes, who took it without protest.
Then Elizabeth astonished me even further by virtually throwing herself at Sullah with a joyful exclamation, her arms around his neck.
I looked away, as a proper gentleman should and noticed how the strollers passing by were glancing at us and giving us wide berth. Their expressions ranged from polite non-interest, to outraged disgust at Elizabeth’s improper public display.
Homes, of course, ignored them.
I cleared my throat and studied the gravel at my feet.
Elizabeth tugged at my arm, drawing me closer to Sullah, introducing us. Sullah was a fraction taller than I and his dark eyes seemed to laugh at me while we shook hands. I murmured something, a greeting of some type, then inspected my watch. “Holmes, I should be getting back.”
“Soon, Watson, soon,” Holmes murmured, but he did not look away from Sullah and Elizabeth, who were chattering away to each other, tripping over their words, interrupting each other. Laughing. Even Holmes had the beginnings of a smile on his face.
Sullah nodded at me. “I do not want to delay you, Doctor Watson. My apologies.” He held his arm out to Elizabeth. “Come, you must show me your famous Baker Street.” She slipped her hand into the crook of his arm and they walked up the path together, still talking.
Holmes handed Elizabeth her parasol, stepped ahead of them and strode down the path, the distance between us lengthening with every step.
“Holmes!” I called, from behind Elizabeth and Sullah.
I saw him lift his hand and his voice floated back to me. “I’ll see you at Baker Street, Watson!”
So I followed Sullah and Elizabeth back toward Holmes’ rooms and tried not to notice the absence of a small, warm hand on my own arm.
The traffic was light. There were many more pedestrians out enjoying the crisp weather than there were carriages and horses, so we turned back into Baker Street quickly. Holmes was nowhere to be seen. He had raced far ahead of us.
We were passing the lane that led to the stables behind Baker Street when we were halted by Holmes’ voice calling to us.
“Watson. Elizabeth.”
Sullah pointed down the lane with his cane. “This way, my dear.” He led Elizabeth into the shadowed path.
I peered into the lane suspiciously. Holmes was at the far end of the alley, waiting for us.
By the time we reached the end of the alley Holmes had moved away again. We turned into the yard and Elizabeth gasped and came to a halt.
A large horse float stood in the yard, open and empty. A stable hand was folding blankets at the foot of the ramp.
Held by halter and reins by the other stable boy were two of the most beautiful horses I have ever seen. I am not the disciplined expert some people are, but the quality of these animals shone from their glossy coats and sleek, muscled frames, and from the high fettled, unsettled motions they made. They were saddled.
Holmes leaned against the float with almost a smile on his thin features as he observed Elizabeth’s reaction.
“Merlin!” Elizabeth breathed.
The name gave me comprehension. These, then, must be the horses Sullah had given them in Constantinople, brought back to England with what must have been considerable expense and trouble by Holmes as a surprise—a gift—to Elizabeth.
I thought I understood why Sullah had accompanied them all the way to London. From Elizabeth’s tales I judged he would sooner allow a member of his family to undertake alone the difficult and dangerous trip to England, than one of his horses. Elizabeth had told me this pair was his favorites.
Elizabeth dropped her parasol, lifted up her skirts and ran toward the horses. She threw her arms around the neck of one and stood for a moment with her cheek resting against its flesh. Then she took the reins, gathered up her skirts and swung into the saddle. Her skirts climbed high for it was not a side-saddle. With an impatient click of her tongue, she rearranged her skirts modestly, then turned the horse and urged him across the cobbled yard. With a neat jump she cleared a half-barrel and guided the horse down the alley. The horse’s shoes clattered noisily and I could hear her picking up speed, breaking into a trot. Then she was gone.
Sullah stood silently by, a large grin on his face. It was obvious he was enjoying his part of the surprise.
I walked over to Holmes, who was now examining the other horse. He rapidly discarded his coat, then his jacket, shed his collar and tie and handed them all to me. Then he swung up into the saddle, took the reins with a nod to Sullah and turned the horse and rode away.
I watched him take the barrel with the same ease as Elizabeth and it occurred to me that I had never seen him astride a horse before. His professed poor horsemanship seemed an exaggeration.
It was the first time I had seen for myself a hint of the changes wrought on Holmes and Elizabeth as a result of their long journey. I had just caught a glimpse of what lay beneath the civilized veneer they had worn since their return. It intrigued me.
“They will miss dinner,” I remarked inconsequentially, almost to myself as I retrieved Elizabeth’s discarded parasol.
“I do not think they will be very concerned about that,” Sullah replied.
We stood staring down the alleyway, where there was nothing to be seen now.
I cleared my throat. “Well. Dinner awaits me.” I patted my fob pocket.
Sullah smiled. “A moment, Doctor Watson, please?”
I raised my brown enquiringly.
“Would you care to join me at the dinner table, Doctor? I feel we have a great deal to talk about.”
“We have?”
“We have much in
common.”
“I rather doubt that.” I’m afraid I made no effort to eliminate the coldness from my tone.
But Sullah did not take offence. “I meant Holmes and Elizabeth, Doctor.” He grinned. “Do you not know how I have envied you all these years?”
I frankly stared at him. “I beg your pardon?”
“Yes! Envied you!” He laughed. “They are difficult people to know and understand. In my small time with them, I never fully satisfied my curiosity. And here you are, a lifelong friend, one who can spend as much time as he wishes to watch and listen and learn about them.” His smile faded. “I would very much like to hear what you have learned, Doctor.”
I could not find words to express my amazement. Suddenly, my churlishness since I had met him seemed completely foolish. With considerably more warmth, I said, “And all these years I have envied you for being there and seeing some of their adventure.”
Sullah nodded slowly, thoughtfully. “Let us dine alone, then. It is a perfect opportunity to compare notes about those two. I with my observations and you with your journalistic eye; between us we must be able to dissect the innermost secrets of them both.”
As indeed, we tried. Not just that night—even though we sat in Holmes’ rooms until the two disheveled and tired riders returned some hours later. Sullah stayed in England for another three months and we met frequently. I swiftly grew to count Sullah a good friend.
He had been following Holmes’ activities via my articles in The Strand magazine and fulsomely praised my reporting techniques. “Except you have not acknowledged Miss Elizabeth’s part in any of these affairs of which you write,” he pointed out sorrowfully.
I tried to explain the reasons for that omission and Sullah listened gravely, his big, tanned hand curled loosely around the fragile teacup he was using—we were having afternoon tea at the time. He nodded when I had finished my somewhat stilted explanations and leaned forward to tap the table between us to emphasize his point.
“It is unwise to hide her existence, Watson. Even though both you and Holmes act from the best intentions, it puts Elizabeth at even more risk.”
“How is that possible, when the public does not know of her?” I demanded.
“Exactly, Watson. No one knows of her. How can your law punish a person for hurting or maiming or even killing a person who does not exist?”
“Nonsense!” I spluttered, feeling distinctly uneasy. “The public at large may not know of her, but many people close to her, to Holmes, to all of us, know who she is. No one would dare try anything.”
Sullah held up his hand. “I have upset you. It was not my intention. Peace!” He sat back. “You are probably right, Watson. No one would dare try anything with such a stalwart and loyal friend as you at Elizabeth’s side.”
“Holmes will always be there, too,” I was at pains to point out. “Everyone knows of his reputation.”
Sullah nodded. “Perhaps you are right,” he said and would speak no more on the subject. I was happy to leave it be, too.
Sullah filled in the curious gaps in Elizabeth’s narration of their sojourn in the east, much to my content, for I had a very nearly complete picture of Holmes’ and Elizabeth’s journey now. When he returned to Mashhad, we naturally continued our conversations by correspondence. I kept Sullah more fully informed of Holmes’ latest adventures, complete with Elizabeth’s contributions to his work.
Sullah’s discomforting questions made me consider for the first time if our decision to keep Elizabeth hidden from the public might be wrong. I pondered that question a great deal over the next few months, but by degrees finally reassured myself with the same answers I had given Sullah: One of us, at least, would always be there to protect her if anything should go wrong.
I once reported in The Strand that the years after Holmes’ return to Baker Street were the most productive in his entire career. In sheer quantity and quality, the period was unique. As his physician I can attest that he had never been healthier and his energy was boundless.
By comparing notes from one date to the next I am able to pinpoint a mellowing in his attitudes toward the softer emotions. Although he would never be a demonstrative man, nor particularly open to the reception of affection or its relatives, except from a very select few, he became more tolerant of their manifestation in others—more inclined to amusement rather than irascibility and most importantly, with more understanding. I believe that of all the pleasures and joys Elizabeth bought Holmes, this was her greatest gift; the rounding and smoothing of a man to a point where he could settle down and enjoy life in retirement and accept its foibles and follies.
One of Elizabeth’s charms was her undemonstrativeness. She would expend as much effort over those labors that would go unnoticed as those that would make themselves felt. Therefore, I wondered to myself—does Holmes appreciate? Does he even know? This question became particularly important to me as time went on for I well know Holmes’ blindness over his personal affairs.
During the summer of 1903 I had my answer, for in August of that year, Holmes’ deepest fear was realized.
We had accepted a case that at the outset looked simple enough. Its only complication was its location; Perth. Holmes had accepted commissions from Scotland before, as he had from most of Britain’s neighbors. Usually he hated to leave London and the comfort of his rooms, but provided the case was of sufficient interest or promise, he would exert himself and travel. Elizabeth always accompanied him on these jaunts—they were, after all, seasoned travelers, no matter how disinclined.
But on this occasion, the circumstances were slightly different and for the first time since I’d known her, Elizabeth proved intractable.
The client was a woman, old but sprightly. She appeared on our doorstep on the afternoon of Friday, July 31st, and was shown up by Mrs. Hudson. Elizabeth met her at the door and brought her into the room, acting out her public role as Holmes’ secretary. Elizabeth offered her the sofa, but the woman was too agitated to remain seated and stood, restlessly moving from one foot to another and wringing a dirty handkerchief that smelt of cheap cologne.
She was peculiarly dressed. The fabric of her dress was of the best quality, but the style was ill chosen and badly made. The many trimmings on both dress and hat were of the cheap, gaudy type.
Holmes raked his eyes over her frame and leaned back. “Who is running your drapery store whilst you are here, Mrs. Thacker?” he asked. “Your husband’s business is not successful enough for you to afford hired help.”
I smiled to myself at this anticipated display of deduction. Mrs. Thacker stopped her agitated swaying and stared, dumbfounded, as so many of his clients did at this initial exhibition.
He smiled, gratified by her reaction. “Your dress, Mrs. Thacker, gives your occupation away. The quality of the cloth is excellent, but the style—” He paused for the merest fraction of a moment as Elizabeth, sitting behind Mrs. Thacker with an open notebook and a poised pen, caught his eye and shook her head warningly.
Holmes changed his words smoothly. “—but the style is one that no manufacturers use. Nor are the trimmings what a professional dressmaker would choose. Therefore, you made the dress and added the trimmings. The material is an expensive one and beyond the means of a woman who can only afford a second class ticket—yes, I can see the stub slipped into your left hand sleeve. You are a working woman, as your boots display, but you are not a factory worker. Your outfit suggests a shop worker and the expensive cloth, a draper’s. You would not be able to afford the cloth were you a hired hand, therefore your husband must own the business. You chose the style as a means of displaying both the cloth and the trimmings, which are from the stock of your store. The fact that you work also tells me that the business is not prosperous enough to hire help.”
He leaned forward then. “Your husband is in trouble, is he not, Mrs. Thacker? Only a circumstance as dire as this would force you to close the store and lose potential income, then spend the money to travel from Pe
rth to London to consult with me.”
At Holmes’ assertion, Mrs. Thacker drew in a deep, gasping breath, turned a pasty white about the mouth and burst into ragged, exhausted tears. She sank back onto the sofa and buried her face in the malodorous kerchief.
Holmes stood and moved away, barely suppressing an annoyed hiss of breath. Elizabeth stepped forward to comfort the woman, coaxing her back into a condition where she could relate her situation and the circumstances of her husband’s trouble.
After several minutes, during which time Holmes smoked moodily by the hearth, Mrs. Thacker gave one last tremendous sniff and dropped her handkerchief to her lap and looked up at us.
“Forgive me, Mr. Holmes. I am an old woman and this has plum tired me out. I…it is true, what you say. I had to risk closing the store to see you. Horace has been gone nearly a month now and nobody can tell me anything—not the police, nobody.”
Holmes returned to his chair and sat, leaning his forearms on his knees and touching his fingertips together. “He left no note, nothing to indicate his whereabouts?”
She shook her head. “It is not like him, Mister Holmes. We’re an elderly couple and we’ve spent the last twenty years running our store. As you said, it keeps us more or less comfortable throughout most of the year, but we don’t have money to spare for extras and certainly not for a clerk or salesman. So we’re kept busy. We wouldn’t have it any other way, now.”
“And the day he disappeared?” Holmes asked.
“Just another day. Tuesday the 7th.”
“Of course. Tell me about that day. Did you have any unusual customers?”
“No. We have built up a trade of regular customers and all who called were known to us. It was an ordinary day in all matters. We closed at six in the evening and Horace remained behind to count the sales and balance the books. I went on ahead home to start the supper. I made supper and sat to wait for Horace. After half-an-hour, he was late and when an hour had gone by, I thought I should return to the store to see what was keeping him. But when I got there, he was gone.”
Chronicles of the Lost Years (The Sherlock Holmes Series) Page 14
