by David Marcum
“Watson,” he said, barely taking his eyes off of the document he was inspecting, “it appears that the ransom letter to the Australian businessman Robert Steele was not written by his daughter, but rather by his wife. The curl of the q and the curve of the g are quite definitely the same.” He lowered the papers and motioned for me to sit down. “Now then, please have a seat, get off of your foot, and tell me about this patient who had knowledge about my past.”
“Really, Holmes,” I groaned, collapsing into my favorite chair. I pulled the hassock to me and raised my injured leg upon it. I could tell the pain would go away with the passage of time and rest. “How, even with your powers of observation, could you have known about the gentleman who visited me this afternoon?”
“None of my so called powers is beyond those contained by every person in this fair city. I simply observe, analyze, make logical connections, and draw my conclusions based on the evidence presented,” Holmes stated matter-of-factly. “Now, if you’ll excuse me for just a moment.” He gathered the papers he had been examining, stood, and took them to his desk. With a quick stride, he then went to his spirit case and returned to his seat carrying two glasses of brandy. He handed one to me, for which I thanked him.
“We need to make sure my Boswell does not overexert himself. Now, my dear Watson, tell me about this unexpected patient of yours.”
“Not quite yet, Holmes. First you must tell me how you knew my patient was connected to your childhood.”
“Really, Watson, that is quite elementary,” he said and took another sip of his brandy. “Look at the time of day. You practically sprinted up the steps to tell me some exciting news. Me, not your wife, for clearly you did not have enough time to see Mrs. Watson after your hours ended and then come to Baker Street. You must have left your practice in great haste, for you did not notice you still wore the stethoscope around your neck. Indeed, you still do.”
Here, I paused and checked myself. The stethoscope was indeed upon my person. In my hurry and excitement, I did not even notice. With a look of embarrassment, I took off the device and placed it in my coat pocket.
“You see,” Holmes chuckled. “So, what would cause my good friend to dash off to visit me? Was it something negative, a warning perhaps? Certainly not with the high spirits you exuded, even with your reinjured wound. So, therefore, it had to be something exciting. But what did you discover that could not wait until this evening or even the weekend to tell me? It had to be something particularly extraordinary, and the conclusion, from the time of day of your visit along with your garb, is that it was a patient who brought you such information. Since only yesterday you were asking again about my past, particularly my childhood, the logical conclusion is that you met someone from then who revealed some part of my history from before we met. Am I correct?”
“You are, Holmes, in every aspect.” But here it was my turn to crack a wicked smile. “But, you do not know who it is that visited me.”
Holmes let out one of his odd silent laughs and held up his lanky right arm, tsking me with his pointer finger. “There is only so much I can deduce with the data provided. But tell me, my good man, who was this unexpected patient?”
“His name,” I said through gritted teeth for my injury flared up again, “is Mr. Zenas Cooper.”
At the mention of Mr. Cooper’s name, a strange change came over my companion. His eyes bulged and gaunt face drooped. Holmes turned away from me for a moment, contemplating, his skin turning a sickly ashen hue.
I let a silent moment pass, then I quietly said, “I have upset you.”
He kept his lips closed, his eyes not quite in the present, then the glow returned to his silver orbs, and he stated soberly, “You caught me unawares. I did not expect to ever hear the name of my old instructor again. I consider my work for the man one of the greatest failures of my entire life.”
“Failures!” I stammered. “Why Holmes, the man raved about you. Said you saved his marriage.”
At these words, Holmes mouth turned downward into a deep frown. “Pray tell, what exactly did Mr. Cooper tell you?”
I recounted my patient’s story to Holmes in every detail, though there were not many details to share. Still, as I told Holmes Cooper’s deep praise for the detective, my friend kept scoffing and slowly shaking his head.
“Well, Holmes,” I concluded, “if I may be so bold as to say that even I can deduce your version of events is quite different from that of Mr. Cooper. What happened while you were one of Mr. Cooper’s pupils? And how did you, at such a young age, save the man’s marriage?”
“That, Watson,” Holmes said, bluntly cutting me off and raising his long right pointer finger in my face, “is a rather unique way of explaining the events.” Holmes paused, settled into his chair, and finished off his brandy. He let out a long sigh, and I could tell this was not a story he wished to relate; yet my good friend did continue. “I will tell you the exact details of my time with Mr. Cooper, Watson, with none of my former instructor’s biases; however, I believe you will find this story not fit for the general public. Even with your romanticizing of events, there is not much of a tale to flesh out for your readership. But perhaps, it is a tale worth telling, but first-”
Holmes took a moment to refill our brandy glasses and get his clay pipe and tobacco. He handed me my glass, for which I thanked him, lit his pipe, took a few puffs, and allowed the plumes of smoke to waft in the air before settling into his velvet lined chair and beginning his tale.
“At the age of eleven, I began attending a day school in Kennington. My father had come to the conclusion that his son should be properly educated, not just learning letters and arithmetic from Mother, but a true, formal education. We relocated to a villa in the London suburb, and I attended classes.
“I was a first year and found my school aesthetically displeasing. The rooms were particularly dank and drab. We had no athletic fields, just a small square of asphalt surrounded by towering brick buildings, all as equally run down as the building which contained my classes.”
“But why did your father send you to a school in such squalid conditions?” I inquired.
“Because, my dear Watson, like myself, my father knew quality over prestige. The school had an excellent faculty, even though they had to teach in less-than-becoming circumstances. The Chemistry teacher was particularly noted, as was the instructor in Mathematics. Mr. Cooper was my instructor in Letters, a rather large blowhard who thought more of his capabilities than his abilities warranted.
“Of course in this environment, despite its lack of amenities, I flourished. It was my first taste of formal schooling, Watson, and I thrived.”
“I am sure you were an apt student, the type all instructors dream of having in their classes,” I said.
Here Holmes began to chuckle, but his laughter choked on some of his drifting pipe smoke. After a few good hacks, Holmes caught himself and explained, “My word, no, no, no, nothing could be further from the truth. Often those in positions of authority do not like having their ideas and certainly their position challenged, and as you are aware, Watson, I have no issue letting anyone, no matter their stature in life, know of their inefficiencies. When I would explain to one of my instructors an error that he made, no matter how miniscule, I was met with scorn and derision. For who was I, a mere first year, to question their scholarly integrity? I was surprised by this reaction, for my parents always encouraged my questioning and were quick to admit to their mistakes. This was the first time I was exposed to those who wore their title on their sleeve and felt that the best students kept their tongues stilled.
“A similar reaction came from my fellow classmates. This may surprise you, Watson, but at the age of eleven, I had a sharp mind, yet I lacked my current social skills.”
Here, I bit my tongue and tried not to burst out into loud guffaws. Holmes had many things, a brilliant mi
nd, an encyclopedic knowledge of London, and a strong sense of justice. His social skills, though, were still definitely lacking. Holmes either did not notice my contained outburst or chose to ignore me as he continued on with his story.
“I did not understand the rules of the school yard, nor how to navigate the difficulties of making and maintaining friends. I was not afraid to correct either the teachers or my fellow students, and I was quickly shunned by most of the other boys. Trying to help out a student who was making the most rudimentary errors on translating a passage in Latin was met with fisticuffs on the gravel schoolyard. I swiftly learned to keep to myself, stay quiet, and take in as much knowledge as I could without being noticed by the students or faculty.”
“It must have been a rather lonely time in your life,” I imagined.
“Ah, it actually was not. There were two dear friends which I made during my first year of schooling. One was Mr. Sherman who, as you know is the keeper of Toby, the finest canine tracker whose paws have ever walked the streets of London. I had heard Mr. Lemming, my science instructor, talk of a wonderful shop in Lower Lambeth, in Pinchin Lane, whose owner was an extraordinary naturalist and bird stuffer. One day, I made my way to his shop, and though he was just as suspicious of outsiders then as he is now, I spoke to him of the belief that the ancestors of fowl were prehistoric lizards, and this piqued his curiosity. He let my knowledgeable boyhood self into his rooms, and we began a friendship which, as you know, continues to this day.
“The other friend was a lad by the name of Percival Stevenson, a scrawny, sickly boy who, like me, found himself shunned by the other pupils. He was not a particularly bright boy, though he did have some artistic talent, particularly with watercolors. When I assisted Percival on his assignments, he enjoyed the attention. Indeed, he may not have passed his classes without my assistance.
“Due to Percival’s artistic capabilities, the headmaster had taken an interest in him, as had his daughter, a capable artist who often came to the school to visit her father. It is with the headmaster’s daughter where Mr. Cooper’s case begins.
“Over the course of the school year, Mr. Cooper became enamored with Miss Davis. She was a rather petite and attractive lady in her early thirties, much in contrast to her gnarled and balding father. Miss Davis was a frequent visitor to the school, and she and Cooper were often seen walking the halls together on Mr. Cooper’s off-hours. Had it not been for the fact that Miss Davis was also visiting her father, who clearly approved of their friendship, gossip would have spread throughout the school and into the homes of my classmates. Since it was believed nothing illicit was occurring at the school, for Headmaster Davis would surely put an end to any rumors that cast a shadow upon himself or his school, the romance was allowed to develop in plain sight.
“You may recall, Watson, that in the winter of that year, I became gravely ill with a lingering case of pneumonia. I was frequently absent from my classes, and if it wasn’t for my intellect, would have surely failed. The few times I was able to attend classes, Percival explained what I had missed, and I gleaned the material I skipped during my stays at home. Unexpectedly, over the course of the winter months, Percy blossomed into a striking lad. As I became sick, he seemed to become stronger. His personality changed as his body filled out, and he became more participatory in class and more brazen in his approach towards others. Percy still remained an outcast among our peers, mainly due to a development of condescension towards others he deemed less mentally capable than himself. Yet, despite the changes in the boy as is so common of one of that age, our friendship did not sever; in fact, due to my own intellectual superiority, the bonds tightened, and we became stronger. Percy would derisively discuss the other classmates, how he couldn’t believe their common errors - errors, I reminded him, which he so easily made himself at the beginning of the school year. He also confided in me about his life at home, girls who lived in his neighborhood who had caught his eye and he theirs, and aspirations he had for his future.
‘“Just think, Sherlock, would it not be exciting to be a constable of the law? Arresting criminals and bringing them to justice? I bet that would impress Marcy Wilson!’
‘“Who?’ I inquired.
‘“Why, Marcy Wilson. She lives in my neighborhood and is a true diamond in the rough.’
‘“Ah, yes,’ I said coyly to my friend and then let out a few good hacks from my still lingering cough. ‘With all the girls you are smitten with, it is difficult for me to keep track. Wasn’t it Julia Moreau last week? And... let’s see... Eva Walker the week prior to that?’
“Percy let out a hearty laugh. ‘They were mere flirtations compared to Marcy, a true Helen of Troy.’
“He sounds like a good man to me,” I said, interrupting Holmes, and noting how much young Percival sounded like a young John Watson.
“Yes, Watson, he definitely had your eye when it came to the fairer sex. But as I said, he was not popular with the lads in the classroom. While I was away much of that winter, Percy became outspoken in the classroom, and unlike me, he knew how to follow the social norms with the teachers, though as far as other students were concerned, Percy was willful and, as I explained, would criticize not only their mistakes but their mental facilities. This caused him to raise the ire of one boy in particular, Willie Muggins, a pig-nosed bulldog of a lad much more suited to the fields of a battle than the seat of a classroom. Muggins struggled in all of his classes, but mostly in Literature, where he could never read below the surface of a story. Percy would ridicule Willie in the classroom, and at first, Willie responded with blows on the schoolyard.
“One early spring day when I was absent, the headmaster caught Willie attacking Percival. Headmaster Davis stormed over to the two boys, holding up his form to its tallest height. Willie was too busy jabbing his fists at Percy who, as I understand it, was doing a sufficient job blocking the blows and getting in a few good punches of his own. At one point, while Willie had his fist pulled back and was ready to take a good lunge in at Percy, Headmaster Davis, who was now directly behind the boy, swiftly reached over and with a strong yank, grabbed Willie by his left ear and twisted. Willie howled in pain as the headmaster kept the ear firmly in his grip and hauled Willie out to the center of the schoolyard. He threw the lad to the ground in front of all the students and then paddled him mercilessly. After Headmaster Davis had sufficiently beaten the boy in public, he ended with an announcement that if a student lay a finger on another student in the schoolyard, they would immediately be met with an expulsion.
“A week after this incident, I returned to classes, still rather weak but definitely on the mend. One morning in Literature class, we were discussing the Morte d’ Arthur. Mr. Cooper was leading a discussion on the ‘Tale of the Sankgreal’, and he had asked Willie why, on several occasions in the story, Galahad boards a rudderless boat.
“‘Why would Galahad board a boat with no captain?’ Cooper boomed. ‘Come now Master Muggins, surely even you can find meaning between the lines of text and answer this rather elementary question.’
“Willie just sat in his seat, red faced and fuming. But the lad did try to answer the question. ‘Because he was brave,’ he tried.
“‘There is nothing brave about sailing off in a ship you can’t steer,’ scolded Cooper. ‘That’s the surest way to commit suicide. Come on, you can do better than that,’ Cooper encouraged. ‘You do like this story, don’t you lad?’
“‘Yes, sir,’ confirmed Willie.
“‘Do you really understand it, though?’ inquired Mr. Cooper as he spoke slowly to Willie, making sure the boy heard the question.
“‘I’m not sure, sir. I’m trying my best.’
“‘You’re trying your best, aye. Come now, think. They are searching for the Holy Grail. Now think my boy, if they are searching for the Grail, why would Galahad board a rudderless boat?’
“Willie scowled at th
e question. He hemmed and hawed a bit and was probably going to say some off-the-mark response when Percival blurted, ‘Isn’t it obvious! He’s boarding a rudderless boat because it is steered by the divine hand of God.’
“‘Why, yes, excellent answer Master Stevenson. The implication is in fact that God is the captain of the ship.’
“The discussion moved on, but I caught the look of pure spite that crossed the visage of Willie Muggins as he glowered at both Cooper and Percival.
“My next class for that day was Science where, if I recall, we were beginning to study the differences between alkalines and acids. You can imagine how dreadfully bored I was in that class, Watson. As Mr. Lemming lengthily explained something which should have been stated in a mere matter of seconds, I was overtaken with a coughing fit. I asked permission to leave to go to the latrine and recompose myself.
“‘Really, Master Holmes,’ scoffed Lemming, ‘if you are not well enough to attend my class then you should not be at this school. But, I’d rather you were sick outside of the confines of my classroom. Away with you, boy, and when you return, I expect you to take down any notes you missed.’ And with a dismissive wave of his hand, he sent me out of the room.
“To get to the privy, I had to walk down a long corridor containing the Headmaster and teachers’ offices. I walked at a rather slow pace, still feeling weak from my sickness, and I was thinking about how Lemming should be the one sitting in the classroom and I standing at the lectern, when I approached the entryway to the headmaster’s room. The door to his office was ajar, and I heard shouting from within. I instantly recognized the voices as that of Headmaster Davis and Mr. Cooper.
“‘Why would I do such a thing?’ harrumphed Davis. ‘I have already given you my blessing.’
