Sanguine (Improbable Truths #1)

by J. R. Burnett

  Sanguine

  A story of Improbable Truths

  By J. R. Burnett

  Copyright 2017 J. R. Burnett

  All rights reserved

  Cover designed by Deranged Doctor Designs

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 1

  From the private journals of Dr. John Watson....

  The moment I first laid eyes on Sherlock Holmes I knew he was no ordinary man. Just how extraordinary remained to be seen, however. That I would discover over our years together.

  For the benefit of future generations, I have recorded accounts of our journeys here in these pages. Though, for reasons which I expect will soon become obvious, these stories must remain secret until we both pass from this realm to another. That is, of course, if Holmes ever succumbs to anything as mundane as death.

  The year was 1886. I had recently been discharged from my post as an army medical officer on the frontier after a stray bullet crippled my left leg. My parents had passed at a young age and my only sibling surviving to adulthood had perished from dysentery a year prior. Being free of any family ties, I found myself in New York City with a meager pension and a plethora of time.

  While the city offered ample distractions, it was also an expensive place to live and I found my pension didn't extend as far as I would like. Soon I was faced with the decision whether to remain and seek alternative arrangements or to retire further into the countryside. The city called to me in a way I didn't understand at the time and I was loathe to leave, having trouble imagining myself as the clichéd jovial country Doc.

  One fateful afternoon, I was sitting on a park bench perusing the newspaper. This day the headlines drew my attention less reliably than the advertisements for lodging. From across the lawn I heard my name being called. Neither the voice, nor the associated face, were familiar at first, but as the figure approached the memory shook loose from my mind's recesses so that I was able to greet my colleague and former classmate by name.

  "Stamford," I said, laying the newspaper down on my lap.

  "John Watson." Stamford took my hand in his firm grip and shook it with vigor. "Fancy meeting you on the streets of New York City. I thought you had gone off after school. Protecting us from the savages or something like that."

  "Something like that," I agreed. I motioned to the cane propped up beside me on the bench. "I'm afraid that endeavor came to a bit of an abrupt end."

  Stamford's eyes clouded with concern. "I see. Nothing too serious I hope."

  "I'll live."

  We exchanged pleasantries for some time, swapping tales about our lives since leaving school. Stamford had taken up practice outside the city and his stories of his patients and their maladies further cemented my desire to stay within the urban confines. The lifestyle suited Stamford well, however, judging from how his eyes gleamed as he spoke.

  "What brings you to the city?" I asked, unable to stand another account of a croupy child or arthritic elder.

  "I have been lecturing at the university as a favor to a friend who fell ill and had to abandon his post. It is a bit of an inconvenience, I admit, but it does my heart good. I fear we were once equally as optimistic and foolhardy." Stamford motioned to the pages on my lap. "You're looking for lodging?"

  "I'm afraid the contents of my pocketbook don't stretch quite as far as I would like. I've been hoping to find more reasonable accommodations."

  A strange look came across Stamford's face then and he studied me for a while before he spoke. I couldn't help but feel that I was being assessed, though for what purpose I hadn't a clue. "Oddly, you are the second person to express that same sentiment to me today."

  A spark of hope blossomed in my chest. The thought of taking on a roommate had not crossed my mind to that point, but it was an elegant solution. Together two could afford accommodations that sat far out of reach of either as an individual. "I should like to meet the first."

  "Perhaps. Or perhaps not. He is...a different sort of individual. But he did say that he had found the perfect apartment and was merely looking for the right person...."

  "You must introduce us," I insisted.

  "You may not forgive me if I do," Stamford said. He hesitated, looking around the park as if searching for someone to save him from the situation he had gotten himself into. No escape route presented itself. "You cannot blame me if you do not get on with him."

  "Of course not." The feeling of hope started to wither. "What sort of man is this friend of yours?"

  Stamford sighed, giving into my questioning. "Not a friend. I'm not sure that Sherlock Holmes has friends. I met him through the university."

  "A student?"

  Stamford shook his head.

  "A professor then?"

  "He has guest lectured a few times, but, no, I do not think he would call himself a professor. I know very little about him, really. He came over from Europe not that long ago, though I cannot tell where he originated. His accent is faint and tricky to place."

  "Young? Old?" I prompted.

  "Neither as far as I can tell." Stamford sounded uncertain of his answer. "He has a face that defies age."

  "You must tell me something of him."

  "He has his quirks, as do us all, I suppose. But at heart I think he is a good person. You must meet him and decide for yourself as I'm afraid my words do him no justice. There is an exhibit at the Metropolitan Museum tonight. Come with me. Mr. Holmes will be there."

  ***

  Snapping shut the cover of my pocket watch, I slipped it into my vest. Out of an eagerness to meet the potential solution to my lodging dilemma, I had arrived earlier than intended. I couldn't expect Stamford to be as punctual.

  People passed by me as they made their way up the stairs and into the museum. Men in coats and top hats...women in fancy dress…. A few nodded politely. I eyed the shine on my shoes, hoping it would pass muster. It had been some time since I had been in polite company at such a gala affair. I reached again for my watch, but stopped myself before I pulled it from its pocket. Even without the timepiece's benefit, I was certain that not but a minute or two had passed since I had last checked the time. There was no need to be anxious. Stamford would arrive as he had promised. Still, I couldn't help but acknowledge the dreadful thought at the back of my mind that my old friend might desert me and I would be left standing here all alone.

  "Sorry for the delay, John," Stamford said, climbing out of a carriage that had stopped in the street in front of me. "My wife is always the one who sees that I'm on schedule. I'm at a bit of a loss without her here."

  The evening was a pleasant one. No apparent expense had been spared. The rich and famous mingled with the less well funded, but highly learned as they perused the museum's extensive art collection. Champagne sparkled in crystal glasses. A chamber ensemble played in the background.

  Stamford moved through the crowd with an ease that I envied, exchanging a few words with nearly everyone we saw. It seemed that he'd become well connected during his time at the university. As time ticked along, I worried that perhaps Stamford had been mistaken and Mr. Holmes would not be attending this evening.

  While I was inspecting a particularly bright and gilded panel depicting knights on horseback awestruck by a haloed woman that I assumed to be the Virgin Mary, Stamford suddenly grabbed my arm. "There," he said, pointing across the room.

  On the far side of the gallery, a man bent over a massive rock tablet that sat upon
the floor. A long coat obscured any telling detail of his anatomy and he stood with his back towards me so that his face was hidden from view. Lost in his study of the stone, the man remained so still that I wasn't certain that he even breathed.

  He was alone and everyone else in the room made a visible effort to leave him that way. They passed by him in a wide arc, being careful to come no closer than necessary. I was reminded somewhat of the vultures that I had met in my time out west, hunched over some poor pitiful creature that had succumbed to the elements.

  Stamford squeezed my arm and the vulture vanished. I shook my head, clearing it of such an absurd image.

  "I suppose you read hieroglyphics," Stamford said as we approached the stone tablet.

  "In fact, I do." The words were flat with a slight accent that I couldn't place. Holmes straightened and turned in one smooth motion, the figures on the stone apparently no longer of interest.

  As a student of anatomy, I have a fondness for faces. The hook of the nose...the rise of the cheekbone...the broadness of the forehead.... Tiny adjustments in anatomy that shape how the world sees us and, in many cases, how we see ourselves. Over my years, I had seen faces of all descriptions. But to this day, despite spending countless years alongside Holmes, I have just as much trouble describing his physiognomy as I did at that first meeting. That's not to say he's unrecognizable or even indescribable. His face is no different than any other's in that regard. His face is not disfigured or misaligned. He is no freak of nature. It is merely that his face pales in comparison to his eyes...and once you have seen his eyes, you forget everything else about his countenance.

  His eyes are a shade of blue found only in the sky of the brightest, most cloudless day. Perhaps even that is not blue enough. It may be that the correct hue doesn't occur in nature at all and that the color was designed by the Creator for this sole purpose. And his gaze… his gaze flickers with an internal fire as if, having once seen a lightning bolt flash across the sky, the image was captured there forever.

  The shock of looking into Holmes's eyes has not faded and, though it brings me guilt, I still avoid my friend's gaze whenever possible.

  I could hear Stamford introducing us and explaining that I was looking for more affordable lodging within the city and might consider taking up a roommate if the arrangement suited both parties.

  "I'm eccentric," Holmes said.

  "I'm sorry. What...?" I stammered, Holmes's words but a jumble as I tried to sort out my thoughts.

  "My shortcomings," Holmes said. "It's best that roommates know each other's shortcomings so that we have reasonable expectations of one another."

  "Of course," I said, my head starting to clear. "I don't expect much from a roommate. I just need somewhere quiet to recuperate and regain my health." I tapped my cane against the floor.

  Holmes studied it and a thin smile played on his lips. "Less than one might think."

  My heart skipped a beat. Surely he couldn't know....

  "An injury in the Indian Wars, I assume."

  I nodded.

  "Wonderful then." He handed me a card. "We'll meet there tomorrow to finalize matters."

  Chapter 2

  The apartment at 221B Park Ave was in good company being but steps away from the Grand Central Depot. In the years to come, the Yale Club, the Waldorf-Astoria hotel, and many other remarkable buildings would join the neighborhood. At the time Holmes and I took up residence, however, it was still an area in transition. Burying the rail lines had freed the residents from suffocating clouds of soot and people from all walks of life passed along the busy streets. Building, once started, nearly never stopped. Even the depot reimagined itself three times over two score years, turning into the impressive Grand Central Terminal.

  The forward march of progress unfortunately does come with a price and the railway attracted all manner of beggars, pickpockets, and petty criminals. I have always suspected that this juxtaposition was one of the chief reasons Holmes was drawn to the area. Regardless, the neighborhood and the apartment were both more than agreeable and we had soon made arrangements to call the place home.

  Despite the fact that I had very little to my name, it took me several days to put my affairs in order and move to the apartment. Holmes had arrived there before me and made himself quite comfortable.

  A horrid stench overwhelmed my senses as I walked through the front door. Somewhat trepidatious, I followed the smell deeper into the apartment. Glass test tubes and flasks covered the dining room table. I leaned forward to examine a dirty grey liquid that bubbled away in a large round beaker set over a flame. The thin wisp of smoke coming off the concoction had a distinctive smell that I couldn't quite place...somewhere between rotten eggs and the metallic odor left lingering after a spring thunderstorm.

  "Alchemy is an enlightening, albeit malodorous, pursuit," Holmes said as he walked into the room with a leather bound volume in his hands. A leggy, black cat sauntered along behind him.

  "Surely you must jest, Sir."

  Holmes glanced over his shoulder at the cat as if he thought that my words alluded to its presence. "Ah, yes. I suppose I should have mentioned him earlier. His name is Ignatius, for what it's worth. Consider him...insurance against the plague."

  The creature had settled down on the floor and lay there, studying me with amber colored eyes. I shook my head, motioning to the chaos upon the table. "I refer to alchemy—a frivolous and laughable quest."

  "I find quite the opposite."

  "You can't seriously expect to produce gold from rust shavings," I protested.

  "There is more to learn from the journey than from the destination. While the endgame of alchemy may be unachievable, I am continually surprised by what illuminates the path."

  So went my first days with Sherlock Holmes. At times he was a frenzy of activity…at others he existed as a heap on the divan for days on end. He seemed his happiest engrossed in his work, though the nature of that work eluded me no matter how much I tried to understand it.

  Dead languages long forgotten by most...details of gruesome murders...the nature of dreams...the tricks and sleight of hand Spiritualists employed.... Such topics could entertain Holmes for prolonged periods. One day, while I read in the parlor and he fiddled with one of his experiments in the dining room, he cried out so suddenly and expressively that I feared him injured. Seconds later Holmes charged into the room brandishing a tight cooper coil. Such was his excitement that hardly a word from his mouth made sense to me and, sadly, I could not share in his discovery.

  Even more curious than Holmes's behavior was that of his cat. Animals are no mystery to me. As a child, I had a Bull-and-Terrier as my companion. He dogged my steps as a white ghost, always my luminous shadow. So much so that my parents often attested that the dog and I shared the same constitution and outlook on life. Yet, Ignatius defied all my expectations of what a cat should be. Sometimes he was, to all appearances, no more than a street cat lounging around the apartment without a care in the world. Other times he seemed all too aware of everything around him. More than once I caught him staring at me as if he could see to the very essence of my being and comprehend the meaning of my existence in a way I never would. The way he looked me in the eyes was unnatural for an animal of his evolutionary rank. I suspected that even the most versed in the ways of animals would not be able to unravel the mystery of Ignatius.

  I became obsessed with the enigma that Holmes represented. In truth, I had little else to occupy my time. I had no friends in New York City and my injury kept me from venturing too far outside the apartment. Still, I was reluctant to ask Holmes himself. Instead I satisfied myself with lists, cataloging his strengths and weaknesses, and I found myself daydreaming about what end such expertise, or lack thereof in some cases, could be applied. His knowledge was extensive, but very specific, and despite hours of contemplation I couldn't work out his exact field of study.

  Holmes was still asleep the morning the telegraph arrived. I propped the folded sl
ip of paper up against a tea cup on the serving tray and tried to go on about my business as usual. The message taunted me, however, and focusing on the day's headlines became nearly impossible. I longed for Holmes to wake and bring an end to the mystery. My curiosity had some time to wait.

  It was nearly noon before Holmes made it down from his bedchamber. He boiled water and brewed a pot of ink colored tea before he gave the telegraph a moment's notice. Finally, he unfolded the page and skimmed the message waiting inside. Holmes scoffed, crinkled up the paper, and tossed it across the room. Ignatius darted out from under the divan and attacked the wadded up telegraph, batting it along the floor.

  "Bad news?" I asked.

  "Hardly." Sherlock sipped at his tea without the benefits of milk or sugar.

  "Good news?"

  A faint smile played at his lips. "A local detective requests my assistance."

  "With what?" I fear the tone of my voice betrayed my surprise.

  "A murder. Or at least a suspicious death."

  "The police don't consult citizens on murder cases," I protested.

  "I am no regular citizen." It was a simple statement of fact. Holmes's words contained no sharpness or defensiveness.

  "You work for the police?"

  "When it suits me. I am a...consulting detective of sorts."

  I glanced at Ignatius who continued to swat his makeshift toy across the room. "Now doesn't suit you?"

  "The case doesn't interest me." Apparently the only thing that interested Holmes was his tea and he stared into its depths as if he could read the leaves in advance of the drink being consumed.

  "But the victim...." My words trailed off. The newspapers were full of sensational headlines detailing ghastly murders, robbings, and conspiracies which their readers consumed with a macabre glee. Any normal person's heart would race in excitement at the thought of assisting in a murder investigation.

  Holmes shrugged. "I did not know the individual."