Twenty
FROM THE JOURNAL OF JOHN WALKER
It was two nights after the denouement of the Agra Treasure affair. Ihad dined with Mary, and we had talked at great length about our feelings and our possible future together. Of course, Ihad said nothing about my role in the life of Sherlock Holmes or even breathed the name of Professor James Moriarty. It pained me to begin our close relationship while still concealing those important elements of my existence, but Iknew that Icould never share those truths with her. However, the sheer joy of being able to be with this wonderful woman blotted out most of my concerns. After seeing her home, Icalled at The Butcher’s Arms, an inn on Marylebone High Street, for a brandy nightcap. Iassumed that Holmes would be waiting up at Baker Street, and Iwanted to savour a quiet drink on my own and enjoy the happiness Ifelt in loving and being loved by that darling girl.
As Isat in a private compartment, smoking a cigar, watching in quiet contentment the floating tendrils of smoke ease their way towards the ceiling, a rough-looking fellow with rosy cheeks and dark beady eyes put his head round the corner and grinned at me.
“Beggin’ your pardon, but it is Doctor John H. Watson whom I have the pleasure of addressin,’ ain’t it?”
“Why, yes,” I said, with some surprise.
“That’s good,” continued the fellow, sidling up to my table, “‘cause I got a personal note for you here.”
He pulled out a long cream envelope with my name scrawled on the front.
“I was told to pass this on to you, Doctor Watson.” He handed me the envelope. “My pleasure.” He grinned once more, exposing a row of irregular and yellowing teeth, raised an imaginary hat in a parting gesture, and disappeared from view.
A chill ran down my spine. I recognised the type of enveloped and the handwriting. What unnerved me was not the message from Moriarty, but the nature by which it had come to me. Until fifteen minutes earlier, I had no notion myself that I would be taking a drink at this particular inn — and yet one of the Professor’s minions had found me here. How closely was I being watched? Was there any privacy in my life?
With nervous fingers, I tore open the envelope and read the message within:
Dear me, Watson, I knew you had a romantic imagination—but this! It smacks to me of breaking your contract. That will never do. However, I am not an unreasonable man. I shall give this matter some thought and make certain enquiries. I shall contact you in due course. M.
So he knew. Without my telling him, he knew of my affections for Mary Morstan. There was nothing I could do without my actions being reported back to Moriarty. Some nervous instinct made me swing round in my seat, expecting to see the fellow there. I downed the brandy quickly and left, feeling far from the relaxed romantic fellow I had been a short time before.
As I walked back to my Baker Street lodgings, the full implications of Moriarty’s message sank in. “Certain enquiries” could mean only one thing. I cursed myself for ever entertaining the possibility of a happy future with Mary. Through my stupidity, I had drawn this innocent girl into the thrall of Moriarty’s web. However, despite my dark dismay at the way things were turning out, I knew that there was nothing I could do now but wait, hope and pray.
When I returned, Holmes was still up. He was sitting by the fire, poring over a thick volume that had arrived in the afternoon post. It was in French and pertained to the work of Alphonse Bertillon, a French criminologist who had developed a system for the identification of criminals which consisted of a series of anthropometrical measurements of the body, especially the bones. As I took a seat opposite him, he closed the book with a noisy thud.
“It is interesting, and Monsieur Bertillon has been most thorough in his cataloguing of criminal types, but overall I fear he is too prescriptive and makes no allowances for deviations and anomalies. This is a weakness which, in the end, will undermine his system.” He broke off and stared at me. It was clear to me that I had been unable to disguise my troubled emotions with a stoical expression.
“You understand what I refer to?” he said, holding up the book.
“Yes, yes, of course.”
He smiled a smile one might give to a naughty child who has just apologised for his misdemeanours. “I thought as much, but hoped against it.”
I frowned. “Hoped against what?”
“Romance. Love. Affections of the heart. Whatever trite description you wish to use. You have fallen under the spell of Miss Mary Morstan and are in the process of taking on the characteristics of a sentimental mooncalf.”
I was momentarily stunned by the cruelty of Holmes’ outburst.
“I can see it in your eyes, in your manner and in your voice,” he continued. “Saccharine emotions are eating away at your reason.”
“How dare you talk to me like that!” I cried, trembling with anger.
He responded with a wry, condescending smile.
Something snapped within me. I jumped up and grabbed Sherlock Holmes by the lapels of his dressing-gown and shook him.
“Whatever I do or do not feel for Miss Morstan, it is not a topic for you to sneer at, or about which to denigrate my feelings and emotions.”
Holmes was genuinely shocked by the vehemence of my attack. His features paled and he tried to pull away from me.
“I apologise, my dear Watson, unreservedly. I had no idea that you would be so sensitive upon the subject. Please forgive my light-hearted remarks.”
“Light-hearted? Your remarks were unfeeling and pompous and intended to wound,” I snapped, releasing my grip on him. I realised that my ill temper was only partly fuelled by Holmes’ comments. The untenable situation in which I found myself was causing frustrated anger to build up inside me.
“I may be thoughtless and I may at times be pompous,” said Holmes evenly, “but I never say things intended to wound you, my dear Watson. I hold you in too high a regard for that.”
“I apologise also. I behaved like a schoolyard bully,” I responded, sinking back in my chair.
“Let’s mend fences with a nightcap. Allow me.”
He poured us a brandy and soda apiece, and we clinked glasses, each of us bearing a wary smile.
“I have sublimated all such emotions as love in order to pursue my detective career, and I forget how powerful and overwhelming an emotion it can be. I assume that I was right and that you are in love with Miss Mary Morstan?”
“Yes, I am.”
“I feared as much. Now, Watson, before you grab me by the throat again, hear me out. The inevitable result of love is matrimony, which would in turn mean that I would lose a most companionable lodger, my investigating associate and the keeper of my casebook. I have never taken it upon myself to make friends. Indeed, our relationship fell out so easily that I cannot say I made any effort with you, either. It just came about naturally. And now you are going to up sticks and leave me for domestic bliss in the suburbs. Is it any wonder I said I feared as much?”
“Put like that...”
“If the truth be known, Watson, I do not really approve of love. It is an emotional thing, and whatever is emotional is opposed to that true cold reason which I place above all things. I should never marry myself, lest I bias my judgement.”
“I trust my judgement may survive the ordeal.”
Holmes chuckled. “I fear it will.”
“But you pre-empt issues. Miss Morstan and I have only just started walking out. As yet she does not know the depth of my passion for her,” I lied. “And I have no notion how she will react when I pluck up the courage to tell her.”
“Ah, so I will have you around for a few months yet.”
I thought of Moriarty. “A few months at least.”
“Ah, well, that is some comfort.”
I looked across at my friend, his lean features dappled by the firelight. He looked content and at peace with himself. How I envied him.
“Have you never loved?” I found myself asking him.
“What is the definition of love, I w
onder? A palpitating heart and the sense of total self-sacrifice to another party? If so, no, I don’t think I have. I loved my parents. And I loved the rough little terrier we had when I was a lad, but that’s not the sort of thing you refer to, is it? Romantic love: closeness, passion, sex.”
I was shocked by this base definition.
Sherlock Holmes read my expression and his eyes twinkled. “What? You don’t think sex is part of love?”
“It’s not that... but you use the word as though it were a commodity to be added to the list.”
“Well, to a person like me, it is. I tried sex once, as an experiment. I needed to know what it was like. The scientist in me overcame my reticence.” He shrugged his shoulders and extracted his pipe from his dressing-gown pocket. “It wasn’t for me. It encourages you to expose more of your inner feelings than is appropriate, to give too much of your own self away. I am too private a person to feel comfortable with that.”
“But sexual congress must be arrived at through a loving relationship.”
“I’m sorry to say, Watson, old chap, that I find that sentiment a nonsense. Ask the prostitutes down in the East End if they agree. It is a bodily function that is quite separate from the feelings of the heart. Man and woman can perform and enjoy this human activity, if it is to their taste, without any reparation to love.”
“That sentiment is crude and despicable.”
“Possibly, but true. As soon as I had experienced the full horrors of sexual intercourse, I determined to channel all my energies, subvert the sexual ones, into my work. How much more satisfying it is to realise that my mind is capable of governing my body and deterring any unwanted appetites.”
I stamped my drink down on the table by my chair, appalled at my companion’s assertions. “You spurn all the finer feelings of the human heart in this so-called aesthetic rejection of human love.”
“The words of a writer and a romanticist. There are thousands of poor wretches in this city of ours who do not have the luxury to indulge in these ‘finer feelings’, as you call them. They react to the animal instinct of procreation and satisfaction. Love is abstract and ethereal. A heady potion, no doubt, but give me cocaine every time.”
I rose, lost for words and more angry than I could express. I made my way to the door, but was halted by Holmes’ cry.
“Oh, Watson,” he said, rising from his chair, “do not take what I say to heart. My words are no reflection on the nobility of your feelings or the genuine nature of your affection. They are the thoughts of a very odd and repressed individual who is so entrenched in his views of the world that he often forgets the hurt he may administer by expressing them. You are the normal, hearty and well-adjusted fellow in this partnership; I am the cold, calculating... and damaged other half. Forgive me if I have upset you.”
I glared at that pale, cadaverous face with contempt.
“Goodnight” I said, closing the door with some force.
I slept little that night. My mind was a whirlpool of thoughts. At first I was angry with Holmes for the contemptuous way he had dismissed the importance and quality of love; and I was also angry with myself for being goaded by his icy observations. I should have acknowledged that such was the nature of this man that his ideas and beliefs were ingrained and had nothing to do with my particular circumstances, and I cursed myself for not realising this at the time. Of course, I was also plagued by worry regarding Moriarty’s hold on me. After surviving the hurdle of the Agra Treasure and its threat to keep Mary from me, I was aware that that problem was a mere bagatelle compared to the danger that he posed to our relationship. With a snap of his fingers he could, if he so wished, have Mary eliminated. And it was all my fault.
I tossed and turned for most of the night as my brain sought a solution to my dilemmas. The grey light of dawn was creeping into the room before exhaustion allowed a shallow sleep to overtake me, my problems still intact and apparently insurmountable.
Twenty-One
The same evening that John Watson had discussed his romance with Sherlock Holmes, Professor Moriarty was entertaining a guest to dinner in his sanctum. The occasion was a business one, concerning forged documents and Bank of England plates. The matter was dealt with successfully. After the meal, the two men retired to the library to smoke, take port and relax.
“How is the business with Sherlock progressing?” asked the portly guest casually, as he prepared to take a pinch of snuff, delicately balanced on the back of his hand.
“I am rather bored with it now. It is true that your brother has developed into a crime-fighter without pareil, as we both suspected, and that with a little nudging from our man Watson he now follows the paths of crime which lie in a different direction from my endeavours. Paradoxically, that is part of my dilemma: the plan has been successful, and so there is no excitement in the case.”
Mycroft Holmes brushed away the errant grains of snuff from his waistcoat and peered over his pince-nez.
“Ah, well, the lion may only be sleeping. There may come a time when Sherlock will pose a serious threat to you,” he said.
“I would almost welcome the challenge. However, I suspect that now Holmes has a successful detective practice, the broad strokes of my crimes will no longer interest him. He is a connoisseur, and prefers rather bizarre miniatures to the simple, clean masterpieces that I create.”
“He always had a love of the unusual and the recherché.”
“There you are, then,” said Moriarty, leaning forward and pouring more port into Mycroft’s empty glass. “And now Watson is wanting to leave.”
“What on earth for?”
Moriarty curled his lip. “He has fallen in love.”
“Ah, he has, has he? Man of the world, this Watson, eh? No doubt it is with that young woman involved in the Agra Treasure investigation.”
“The same. He wants to marry her and most likely carry her off to suburban bliss away from Baker Street.”
“And you will allow him to go?”
“I don’t know. Maybe it is time to let the fellow slip his leash. He hasn’t put a foot wrong since he moved in with your brother, and now perhaps he is not needed any more. I would welcome your thoughts on the matter.”
Mycroft beamed and relaxed, his body slipping down comfortably into the depths of the chair, while his legs stretched forward until they almost touched the hearth.
“Well, it would leave you a little exposed again, although you have Mrs Hudson on hand. It might spice up the game.”
“It might,” agreed the Professor.
“I’ve never met this Watson, but from his reports to you and what you have told me about him, I gain the impression that he is a reliable fellow and that if he left he would remain true to you, or rather to his unwritten contract with you, especially if some threat were placed over his head to ensure his loyalty.”
“The girl...”
Mycroft beamed again. “Indeed. Love makes a man very malleable. Moreover, is it not likely that once having tasted the exciting fruits of detective work, Watson will never be able to keep away from the tree? After a few months enduring the monotony of domestic life, he’ll be banging on the door of Baker Street, begging for Sherlock to allow him to accompany him on some case or another.”
“I like the scenario. To facilitate this arrangement, it would mean moving pieces on the board in a radical fashion, but they have been static too long.” Moriarty drained his glass. “I appreciate your counsel, Mycroft. Wise words.”
“Informed words to some extent, at least. The man is my brother, after all.”
Moriarty chuckled. ‘That has always fascinated me. Two men from the same stable as it were, but both so different.’
“Not as different as all that. Oh, I know physically I would make two of Sherlock — that is my love of good food, good wine, good living.” He raised his glass and took a drink to illustrate his point before continuing. “But our brains are of a similar intellectual quality. It is just that we use them for differen
t purposes. We both enjoy the thrill of intrigue, legerdemain on a grand scale... It’s just that we have taken diverse paths.”
Moriarty looked at the large man opposite him. His face was massive, but there was a keenness about the features that clearly denoted the man’s intellectual brilliance. His eyes, partly shielded by the golden rims of his pince-nez, were as sharp as knives. Despite the smooth words of explanation, Moriarty did not understand Mycroft Holmes, and this worried him. Of all the individuals who worked closely with him in his organisation, Mycroft remained the only dark horse. The Professor knew that in the world of crime one could not afford the luxury of close attachments — he himself had none — and yet Sherlock Holmes was this man’s brother, a dissoluble blood-tie. Mycroft had a shining intellect and therefore would be acutely aware that if his brother became a real threat to the organisation, Moriarty would have no compunction in sweeping him away, crushing him like a fly; and yet Mycroft revealed no concern or real interest in this possibility.
“The old adage is wrong. Chemically, blood is thicker than water, but in the metaphorical sense the idea is nonsense. I do not hate my brother, but on the other hand I have no special affection for him, either. We are two individuals making our own way in a cruel world. We each must face our own destiny.” Mycroft’s face creased into a smile. “Sorry, Professor, I’ve been reading your mind again.”
“In certain circumstances, that could be a dangerous occupation.”
“Then, sir, I shall have to ensure that those circumstances do not arise.”
There was a moment’s silence, when the air crackled with intensity between the two men, and then they exchanged knowing smiles.
“This Watson business intrigues me,” said Mycroft Holmes some moments later, when they had lit their cigars. “I have until now kept out of your dealings with Sherlock, but I do think it is time I introduced myself to his friend Watson. I’m sure you’d welcome my views on him and this marriage business.”
The Veiled Detective Page 15
