The Detective, The Woman and the Winking Tree

by Amy Thomas

  “I committed an error of judgement,” said Holmes. “That is all.”

  As if she knew that nothing could really ease the blow but couldn’t help saying something, The Woman said, “You did something perfectly natural. You trusted someone you had trusted in your youth.”

  “Natural, perhaps,” he rejoined, “but not forgivable.”

  “Still,” she answered, “I don’t see that there’s any harm done. The murderer is behind bars, and Eliza Phillimore is safe. The loss of the man’s house seems more like poetic justice than anything else. As they say, all’s well that ends well.”

  “Convenient platitudes or not, my blundering has wasted time and put a great many people in danger,” Holmes lamented.

  “I am determined to see the bright side,” she retorted. “The case is solved, and your bravery has restored a child to her mother.” She smiled wickedly. “You are a hero whether you wish to be or no.”

  “Frailty, thy name is Sherlock,” said the detective, sardonically misusing the words of the Bard.

  “I agree with Miss Adler,” said Watson gallantly. “You can hardly call a case a failure when it yields a conclusion as excellent as this one.” Looking at the glow on the doctor’s face, it was obvious that the perceived positive outcomes of his visit were not only related to the case. Holmes grew silent then, but he did not entirely deplore the praise of his friends, however much he might wish to appear that he did.

  “Clarke is a fool,” Irene said.

  “Not a fool,” Holmes rejoined. “He miscalculated. Without me, he’d probably have gotten away with it.”

  “I’m sure Inspector Graves is delighted to have to confront that reality,” The Woman answered.

  “I can’t help feeling a small amount of pity for the doctor,” said Watson. “He really seems to have loved the girl, however misguidedly.”

  “I don’t,” Irene answered, more sharply than he deserved. “Clarke’s love is the sort that holds so tightly it chokes, rather than letting the object of its affection grow and thrive.” As the detective watched her, he understood. When she saw Clarke in her mind, Holmes thought, instead of his own, he wore the face of Godfrey Norton, her late husband.

  “What I don’t understand,” Watson added, “is why Stevenson went to the Merriwether home at all. You considered it highly suspicious at the time.”

  Holmes smiled sardonically. “The answer is quite prosaic. The barrister’s wife suffers from chronic headaches, and Mrs Merriwether is known to dispense herbal remedies, which Mrs Stevenson does not trust the servants to procure for her.”

  “It’s satisfying to know the answer, at least,” said The Woman. Watson nodded complacently.

  “Will you add this story to your collection of tales, Dr Watson?” Irene finally asked.

  “I think not,” he replied, “though the sensational nature of the case is appealing, purely from an objective standpoint. Nevertheless, I would not like to offend Edith or Eliza by providing a written reminder of their tragedy. If I ever do write it, I will change the particulars of the case, something I have been known to do before that never fails to irritate my friend.” Holmes shook his head.

  “I will,” continued Dr Watson, “treat the case as a disappearance that was never solved. I can’t think that it is bad for my friend’s vanity to be thought fallible on occasion.”

  “In this case,” said Holmes glumly, “you could hardly paint me as more fallible than I have been.”

  “Nonsense,” said Watson.

  Holmes lingered at the table for a long time, letting himself enjoy the company of The Woman, his flatmate, and the housekeeper. He thought he might stay one more day in Fulworth, enjoying the air and companionship, before returning to the equally desired smells and sights of London, where the police could contact him if they desired his evidence. He had begun to think that he might retire some day. When he’d bought the cottage, the idea had been so far off as to be almost unreal. So, too, when he had given the property to Irene Adler after the case that had made them friends. Now he could begin to see an end to his career, though it did not yet beckon him. He was still intoxicated by his metropolitan mistress, and he could not bear to cease savouring her delights just yet.

  The detective’s pondering was cut short by a ring of Irene’s bell. Mrs Turner opened the door to reveal Eliza and Edith Phillimore, who held out a cake wrapped in brown paper. “I don’t know how to thank you,” said the mother, “but this is Lewis’s special recipe. She’s turned out to be quite a cook, now that Mrs Merriwether is gone.”

  “Thank you,” said Irene, taking the parcel and smiling at the sweet smell that issued forth from it. “I’ll make sure Mr Holmes has a bit.”

  “Eliza has a different gift for him,” said Edith, pushing her daughter forward gently. Holmes rose and stood in front of her,

  With an intensely serious expression, Eliza held out her rabbit, her one prized possession in the whole world, toward Holmes. “You take him,” she said.

  The detective stared down at her for a long moment, unable to assimilate the immensity of her offering. Finally, he knelt down in front of her and took the toy from her hand. He held it to his ear. “I’m afraid I mustn’t take Charles,” he said. “He doesn’t want to move to Baker Street. He’d rather stay with you.”

  Eliza stared hard, then took the rabbit back and held it to her own ear. “He says his name isn’t Charles any more,” she said firmly. “He says his name is Mr Holmes.” With that, she wrapped her arms around the neck of the still-kneeling detective and kissed his thin cheek. His smile revealed that he did not mind.

  “Eliza,” he said after a moment, “would you like to be a Baker Street Irregular?”

  “What is that?” she asked, staring at him intently.

  “A group of very clever children who help me solve crimes,” he answered.

  “But I don’t live on Baker Street,” she said, perplexed.

  “No,” said Holmes, “but you can be an Irregular wherever you live.”

  “How?” she asked, clearly excited.

  “By keeping your eyes and ears open and learning as much as you can about the world around you,” said Holmes.

  “Oh,” she said, as if this wasn’t quite as enthralling as she’d anticipated.

  Holmes touched the tip of her nose with his long index finger. “You have much to learn, and if I ever see you again, I expect to find out that you’ve made good use of your time.” He leaned toward her conspiratorially. “After all, Miss Eliza, you never know when the smallest detail will solve the biggest case.” This statement produced a delighted grin on Eliza’s face. The detective took her hand and kissed it before standing to his feet once again.

  Few people ever credited Holmes with such sentimentality. Then again, if they had read Dr Watson’s description of the ragtag group of children he employed, children who followed him year upon year, they should have known.

  The Woman installed the mother and child on the sofa, and Mrs Turner brought tea for Edith and milk for Eliza, who lapped it up as eagerly as a kitten and seemed very well pleased. “I cannot fail to tell you, Edith, how grateful I am at your reception of Julia Rayburn,” said Irene quietly. “You would have been justified in a much different response.”

  “Perhaps it was stupid of me,” said Edith, staring down at her hands, “but I forgave her immediately. She’s so pale and so young and afraid. I think she’s terrified of what will happen if her father finds out. So far, the police have agreed to conceal as much of the matter as they can, and I hope, for both our sakes, that they will be able to do so.”

  “You are a far from ordinary person, Mrs Phillimore,” said Holmes.

  “Thank you, Mr Holmes,” she answered. “I am proud of my actions, even though they must never be known. I am not, however, proud of the deceit that began the nightmare,�
�� she said, “and I thank you for keeping it hidden.”

  “No reason to reveal it now,” said Holmes, “since it has nothing whatsoever to do with the outcome of the case, and Clarke had no idea James had brought you in on the matter. I am only sorry it took me so long to solve the case that Eliza was put in peril.”

  “It’s all right,” said Eliza, suddenly looking up from her cup. “I had Mr Holmes to protect me,” and she hugged the bedraggled white rabbit delightedly. A stuffed rabbit might have limitations of ability, Holmes thought, but it was hardly deficient in loyalty and faithfulness. In the main, he was pleased by the comparison.

  Edith continued a moment later, “We’ll be leaving Fulworth soon. I don’t believe it’s fair to either of us to remain. I have a sister in London, and we’ll sell the farm and join her. That will also help to keep - Julia’s matter from becoming as widely known, I think, but don’t imagine that I’m being ridiculously self-sacrificing.” She smiled at the detective. “Mr Holmes, you’ve had no occasion to see me as I usually am, but I dearly love a party, and Louisa promises me she’ll quickly get our minds off our troubles.”

  The Woman hugged both mother and daughter before they left, and Holmes saw tears in her eyes when she straightened back up. They suited her, he thought, and gave her a softness she did not always possess.

  He continued to watch her as she stood in the doorway and waved to the retreating figures, and he realised that he had been mistaken. The softness was always there now. He had observed her since his arrival, but he hadn’t really looked at her, not enough to consider the implications of how she now appeared. His first visit to Sussex had shown a change in her, a freedom and peacefulness that had been alien to her previously. That transformation had continued. She would never be identical to other women in the village of Fulworth. She was far too American and too much herself for that, but she had a place there now, and within it she was content. Holmes enjoyed watching her.

  “It’s pleasantly chilly today,” she said, finally turning back and closing the door. “Would you like to greet the bees?”

  “Certainly,” he answered, retrieving his coat. He followed The Woman to the hives and watched her interacting with the bees. She was filled with calm and intuition, perfectly at home among them. That made sense, he thought, for she was one of them. No, not a drone. She was the queen. He had seen through the days of his visit how often the people of Fulworth came to her, consulted her, even loved her. The small cottage on the hill was fast becoming the centre of all things. The charming thing about Irene Adler was that she had no idea. She was a queen who was totally oblivious to the fact that the kingdom was hers.

  ***

  Holmes spent the afternoon reading the London newspapers, which Mycroft had contrived to have delivered to Irene’s doorstep. He was glad at such times that he and his brother were at peace with one another. He was frightened by few things, but he did not like to contemplate being in the disfavour of someone so powerful. The detective, of course, had no such desire for power himself. He was quite pleased with his lot.

  Finally, when it was nearing time for the evening meal, Watson rose from his place on the sofa, where he had been reading the description of a new discovery called X-radiation, which some were predicting might have vast medical implications in the future. “Holmes,” he said, “I’ve a mind to go down to the inn in the village. Mrs Turner says the apple pie is outstanding. I thought you might wish to accompany me.”

  “Very well,” said Holmes, extracting his long limbs from the wing chair. “I wouldn’t object to a drink in your company if Miss Adler doesn’t mind us deserting her for the evening.”

  “Certainly not,” said Irene saucily. “I welcome the solitude; it’s been hard to come by these past days.”

  As he closed the cottage door, Holmes heard the sound of a body sliding onto a wooden surface, and the sound of piano music followed. He almost wished he had not agreed to leave.

  And when he speaks of Irene Adler, or when he refers to her photograph, it is always under the honourable title of the woman.

  - A Scandal in Bohemia

  Chapter 19: Irene

  The two men came back very late in the evening from their visit to the Mountebank Inn and Pub. Watson went to bed immediately, but Holmes joined me, relaxing into the black chair and taking out his pipe. I could finally see the toll exhaustion and hunger had taken on him, and I knew that one day had not been enough time to assuage his body’s demands. I wished he would give himself more time to recover from the strain of the case, but I very much doubted that he would do so.

  “You must be pleased,” he said, closing his eyes and enjoying his tobacco. “You played through your entire repertoire of Bach this evening. Your pleasure, I expect, is due to your success in reuniting the Rayburns.” I smiled. Holmes’s deductions had become comfortable to me, like an afghan or a pair of old Wellington boots. I liked knowing how they were done, but I could trust him even when he didn’t explain his conclusions.

  “It was as successful as it could have been, I suppose,” I said. “They have a great deal between them.”

  “Any two people have a great deal between them,” Holmes observed. “Some of the most lurid crimes I’ve ever encountered were between people who appeared to be in simple, straightforward relationships.”

  “Nothing is straightforward about relationships,” I added, smiling. And yet, as I sat opposite Sherlock Holmes, I felt as if we two were the exceptions that proved the rule. We had weathered being enemies, lying to one another, and fighting for our lives. Somehow, we had come out of it all as friends. To the outside eye, it might seem complicated, but it wasn’t. He was the detective, and I was The Woman, and it was all, and it was enough.

  ***

  The following morning, Mrs Turner cooked a hearty breakfast to prepare our friends for the journey back to London. As we waited for the table to be set, I sat down beside Dr Watson and could not resist teasing him a bit.

  “I take it you and I are likely to be enemies soon,” I said.

  “Whatever do you mean?” he asked, his kind face turning suddenly pink.

  “I refer to the fact that you seem to be on your way to parting me from the best housekeeper and cook on this side of the country.”

  He smiled beatifically. “I won’t deny my intentions. When my Mary died, I never thought I would meet a woman as capable and sensible as she was, and the London girls have proven me sadly right. Unstable, I’m afraid. Mrs Turner is - she’s strong and able and quiet, just the sort of woman I’d like to sit with in the evenings by the fireside and talk over the events of the day. A comfortable woman, you understand.”

  I did understand. Though Mrs Turner was not to every man’s taste, she was all the things he said, along with possessing a gentleness of spirit that she took pains to conceal but could not keep from expressing. I approved of the man’s choice. Of course, sedateness had never been a quality that particularly attracted me, but I could allow for human differences. It pleased me to think that the easier life the doctor would provide for her would allow for more and more days of violet dresses and handsomely arranged hair and none of having to wait on a flighty singer with eccentric acquaintances. She might, I thought, find the leisure slightly trying, but she would have to work that out with Watson.

  ***

  “Lewis told me how the Winking Tree got its name,” I said as I walked Holmes to the train station later in the day. Mrs Turner and Watson were far behind, deep in congenial conversation with one another, as they attempted to prolong their time together.

  “Yes?” said my friend after a while. “I take it you intend to share this information.”

  I smiled. “You needn’t be cross. It’s a local story about a beautiful farmer’s daughter who fell in love with the son of the richest man in the village. His father forbade him to see her, but the two left each oth
er letters in a hollow of the tree. Others in the village would help the lovers by passing on the message that the tree was winking whenever it contained a note. Finally, after the girl almost died of a fever, the young man’s father relented and let him marry her.”

  “I must say,” rejoined my friend drily, “I was expecting something more ancient and tragic than that.”

  “As soon the young man was married, the young girls of the village began to view the tree as a symbol of passion and to whisper that if a person in love touched its bark, her romance was sure to have a happy ending.”

  “Villages are hotbeds of such nonsense,” said Holmes.

  ***

  It was twilight when I returned from the train station, and everything in the village was closed, with most of the homes shuttered and quiet for the evening. As I passed the green, I stopped and looked at the Winking Tree, the place where Eliza had spent happy hours with her father and lost her rabbit, the clue that had sent Holmes along the pathway toward the conclusion of the case. The outline of the branches was magnificent against the night sky, and I could almost imagine how the villagers had begun to regard it as lucky or even magical.

  The slight breeze through the leaves whispered my name Irene Adler on the wind, and I thought of who I was: The Woman, who had known few good men and loved even fewer. I slipped off my shoes and stepped onto the grass, enjoying the sensation on the bottoms of my feet.

  I am not normally a fanciful person, but as I walked toward the Winking Tree, its branches seemed like open arms welcoming me into its green and vibrant embrace. I reached forward and touched the tips of my fingers to its rough trunk, and my mind was filled with the face of my friend, the best man I had ever known.

  Epilogue: Holmes

  The detective read the London papers on his way back to Baker Street, but he silently perceived, as he had before, the look of joyful preoccupation in his flatmate’s face that denoted the presence of a strong attachment. It had been that way with others, but never as strongly as with Mary Morstan, as if a part of John Watson’s heart had been permanently buried along with his wife’s silent form.