“Dr. Watson?” she asked him, her voice a near whisper.
The young man was speechless. One needn’t have been a detective or even a doctor to tell that he was mesmerized by this vision. If truth be told, we all were. But Billy was Galahad, the knight-errant. He was Tennyson’s Lancelot ready to rescue the fair Elaine.
“Dr. Watson?” she repeated, obviously puzzled by his youth.
“N-No,” Billy stammered at last.
“Billy,” I said, breaking into his stupor, “invite the young lady in.”Perhaps she was seeking medical help - my title appeared on the brass plaque outside. Despite the clearly marked path to my surgery at the side of the house, people sometimes did approach the front door by mistake.
“Dr. Watson?” she now enquired of me as she stepped over the threshold.
“Yes, my dear,” I said, feeling not unlike a giddy, young schoolboy myself, “I am Dr. John Watson.” I then introduced her to Holmes and to Billy and directed her towards the sitting room.
Holmes, assuming as I did that this young woman was merely a patient gone astray, offered a quick smile and excused himself. “I have a train to catch,” he explained.
“Forgive me for being so bold,” the young woman said to him before he could leave the room, “but with all due respect to you other gentlemen, it is actually Mr. Sherlock Holmes, the detective, whom I’ve come to see. I have a problem in need of a solution, Mr. Holmes, and I have been assured that you are the man to solve it.”
A look of puzzlement crossed all our faces; it was immediately followed by a wrinkle of disappointment on Billy’s brow. One could read his mind: The woman’s business had to do exclusively with Sherlock Holmes. Was Billy going to be asked to leave after having only just met this enchantress? For that matter, who she was and how she knew that Holmes was here were questions that I was wondering about myself.
Sherlock Holmes was not so easily distracted. “Forgive me, madam,” he said, “but I am merely visiting an old friend and acquaintance. My home is in Sussex where I plan to return post-haste.”
“At least allow me to introduce myself, Mr. Holmes,” she countered. “My name is Elaine Sterne.”
“Elaine,” I heard Billy echo softly, “the fair maid of Astalot.” Clearly, my allusion to Tennyson had hardly been out of place.
The damsel in question extended a gloved hand to Holmes, which he took in the most dignified manner.
“I’m married to Raphael Sterne,” she said, “Raphael Sterne, the novelist.”
I had heard of him, of course, one of those pretentious new writers like Eliot the American and Joyce the Irishman - Grub Street hacks whose names were bandied about for their sensationalism, but whose contributions to literature were never long-lasting. Billy grimaced, no doubt less concerned with the literary pursuits of her husband than with the notion of any husband at all.
For his part, Holmes, who’d been hoping to leave, now refocused his attention. “How can I be of help to you, Mrs. Sterne?” he asked. “For that matter, how did you know to look for me here?”
“May I sit down, Doctor?” she asked.
I indicated the wing chair.
“I trust you have no objections to my associates listening in,” Holmes said. “We three have just concluded a case together.”
Mrs. Sterne uttered the word “perfect,” and the three of us - Billy beaming all the while at being included - took our places opposite her. How ironic, I thought. Following Youghal’s visit yesterday and now, prepared as we were to hear this elegant woman’s story today, my sitting room, unencumbered by the books, files, and test tubes always threatening to crowd us out of Baker Street, had somehow transformed itself into the consulting room of a private detective.
VI
Twenty-four hours a day somebody is running,
Somebody else is trying to catch him.
- Raymond Chandler, The Long Goodbye
“It is about the disappearance of my husband that I wish to speak to you, Mr. Holmes,” our visitor said in her whispery voice.
An objective observer could easily regard Sherlock Holmes as uninvolved when a client was relating a story. Holmes might steeple his fingers and close his eyes or fiddle with his tobacco pouch and fill his pipe. All the while, of course, his mind remained riveted on the subject. But no objective observer who witnessed the three of us in attendance to Mrs. Sterne that day would have any doubt regarding which one appeared most attentive to the story told by our attractive guest.
Wide-eyed, brows knit, head nodding, Billy hung on her every word.
“He’s been gone two days,” she explained. “He went missing on Friday. I called on the police yesterday evening, and they told me it was too soon to start looking. They said that if I was so concerned, I should hire a private detective, someone like you, Mr. Holmes. And then a policeman in a suit - he had a rather large moustache - ”
“Youghal,” Billy said, eager to contribute. “Inspector Youghal.”
“Yes, that was his name,” she said, smiling in appreciation at the lad.
Billy straightened up, appearing all the more attentive. Perhaps another opportunity to be helpful might present itself, another opportunity to be smiled upon.
As Mrs. Sterne spoke, she began to toy with a small gold coin that hung from a thin chain at her neck. I could just discern an engraved lion and crown as part of the coin’s delicate design.
She let it go in a moment and went on: “This Inspector Youghal told me that you were in town, Mr. Holmes - that, in fact, you were staying with your friend, Dr. Watson. The inspector was of the opinion that, if anyone could find my husband, it was you, so he was kind enough to furnish me with the address.”
Holmes nodded as if Youghal’s comment was not a compliment but a statement of fact. “Has your husband gone missing before?” Holmes asked.
Mrs. Sterne looked down and smoothed out her white dress. “Yes,” she sighed. “He’s a heavy drinker and occasionally would have too much and then disappear for a day or two.”
“And always return, I take it,” Holmes said.
“Yes,” she replied, returning his gaze.
“So why, pray tell, are you so concerned on this occasion? Why not simply await his arrival as you have done in the past?”
“Because Rafe has been so upset lately. He’s been working on a novel about explorers in darkest Africa and hit an obstacle. He can’t seem to finish; his publisher has been after him.”
“I’m not surprised,” Billy concurred. “I’m a bit of a writer too. I know exactly what you’re talking about. And the drinking when things start to go badly.”
“Not all writers need follow such a course,” I reminded Billy. Consuming alcohol had no place in the instructions on writing that I’d offered the lad.
“And yet this time I don’t believe that drinking is Rafe’s only problem,” Mrs. Sterne said. “There’s something else beyond the writing and the drinking that’s bothering him, and I don’t know what it is.”
“I see,” said Holmes, steepling his fingers in his characteristic fashion. “And where has he gone in the past during his previous disappearances?”
“I’ve read some of his books,” Billy interrupted. “Wild Seas was a bit overdone, but generally engaging.”
Mrs. Sterne smiled at him again, exactly the response I’m sure Billy was hoping for, her blue eyes now flashing despite her concern.
“Quite,” Holmes muttered, obviously annoyed by Billy’s digression that required Holmes to repeat the question. “Just where has he taken himself when he’s gone off in the past, Mrs. Sterne?”
“That’s the thing, Mr. Holmes. He doesn’t tell me. I believe he attends a secluded clinic where like-minded, unfortunate public figures go in the attempt to rid themselves of their intemperate ways. The so-called doctors who run these plac
es charge lots of money to keep the lofty reputations of their patients intact and their locations secret. In the case of writers, the reading audience is very fickle. Authors can be shunned if their vices become too public.”
“Oscar Wilde,” Billy contributed again. “His dear friend ‘Bosie’ - Lord Alfred Douglas - used to be the editor of The Academy, one of the publications in which my writing appears.”
“And why have you not made enquiries at this clinic itself?” Holmes asked, again ignoring Billy’s diversion.
“As I’ve already said, I don’t know where it is, who its proprietor is, or even how much poor Rafe is being made to pay. That is why I have come to you.”
Sherlock Holmes leaned back in the settee. “Have you no idea at all, no clues?”
“I once heard Rafe talking about a ‘Dr. V’,” she said. “But whether such a man is even a doctor is beyond my ken.”
“My directory of medical doctors in London should help us solve this mystery,” I volunteered. And excusing myself, I hurried to my consulting room, located the volume in question, and returned within a few moments to our attractive visitor and the others. Old fool that I am, I found myself thinking all the while I was gone that perhaps I could be the lucky one to eliminate the damsel’s distress...
As I had expected, a quick survey of the names revealed a handful of physicians whose surnames - assuming that was what we were looking for - began with the letter V. But they were all respected Harley Street doctors, certainly no one running a clandestine operation like the one described by Mrs. Sterne.
Sherlock Holmes looked into the deep blue eyes of the lovely face before him. Then he rose, and the rest of us also stood.
“Mrs. Sterne,” he said, “I will try to find your husband. It is the least I can do to help so concerned a wife.”
And so young and beautiful a client, I couldn’t help thinking. It had been much more a challenge for the older Mrs. Chandler to engage my friend’s services.
“Oh, thank you, Mr. Holmes,” said our visitor. “I’m staying at the Langham. Ordinarily, we live in Marlow.”
Holmes and I exchanged glances. His faced perceptibly darkened. Could it have been more than coincidence that had brought another citizen of Marlow to our attention?
“Where the Leonards live - lived,” Billy said to no one in particular.
“Yes, poor Sylvia,” Mrs. Sterne said. “I met her once or twice, you see. What a terrible end.”
“I knew her husband,” Billy volunteered. “Killed her and then himself, they say.” He felt compelled to add, “though I still don’t believe it” - as if such a sentiment would mean anything to Mrs. Sterne,
In fact, Mrs. Sterne shook her head as if physically disconnecting herself from the Leonards’ misfortune. “Please find my husband, Mr. Holmes,” she implored.
My friend offered a quick, reassuring smile, and Mrs. Sterne allowed Billy to lead her through the door and out into the sunlight. I followed them to the doorway where I could see her four-wheeler at the kerb. With its brass trim flashing in the sunlight, it looked like some grand medieval coach awaiting the beautiful princess.
As the carriage was making its way down the road, Holmes joined me at the door.
“Quite an attractive young lady,” I observed.
Holmes didn’t reply.
“How will you find this Dr. V, then?” I asked.
He offered another one of those abrupt smiles. “I have my ways, Watson, as you know so well.”
Clearly, Holmes’ return to Sussex was going to be deferred.
* * *
On Monday morning I attended to my patients and by noon was able to return to my sitting room. Much to my surprise, a uniformed police constable was sitting on the settee engaged in conversation with Holmes. The policeman’s helmet was resting on the end table. Both men rose when I entered, and I gave Holmes a quizzical glance.
“You don’t know PC Ruggles then?” Holmes asked in response to my cluelessness. “PC Sam Ruggles?”
“No,” I said slowly. “Should I?” He was a tall young man with red hair who seemed to be suppressing a grin.
“Wot, Doc,” he said, “Don’t remember old Sammy then?”
Perhaps I did see something familiar in the face - the lop-sided smile, the slightly crooked teeth, the protruding ears.
“One of the Baker Street Irregulars,” Holmes prodded. “When Wiggins matriculated, Sammy took over the lead. He and his mates helped us on many an occasion.”
“Of - of course,” I said with some hesitation.
“Sam here,” Holmes explained, “became the head boy just before I retired to the Downs. But we kept in touch, and his detecting skills seemed perfectly suited to gain him admission to the constabulary. A word to Inspector Gregson helped grease the wheels.”
“Sammy, so good to see you,” I chortled, slapping him on the back. Maybe I did recall that same half-smile on the face of a much younger lad. “I’ll have Mrs. Meeks bring in some sandwiches.”
“Thank you all the same, Dr. Watson,” Sam said, “but I must be off. I have work to do for Mr. Holmes.” With that, he put on his helmet, offered a good-bye salute, and exited.
Yet again I gave Holmes a quizzical look.
“Ah, Watson. How do the French put it? ‘Plus ça change... The more things change, the more they stay the same.’ As a society, we are now well into the twentieth century, and still the poor boys gather in various London neighbourhoods looking for food and money. You and I employed their skills some twenty years ago, and yet here they are still. Different boys; same talents. Sam has been looking out for the current Baker Street lot and helping to steer them in the right direction. I gave him a few pounds to scatter amongst them in hopes that they can help us find this den for inebriated toffs and the Dr. V who runs it.”
“Capital!”
“Yes,” Holmes said. “Now we simply await the results. Actually, those sandwiches you mentioned a few moments ago sound like just the thing.”
Aloud knocking suddenly penetrated the house. Mrs. Meeks, responding to its urgency, pulled open the front door.
Billy bolted into the sitting room, holding out a piece of paper.“A letter from Terrence Leonard!” he announced. “Posted just before he died.”
A letter from a dead man. Stunned, Holmes and I said nothing.
“Letters from the dead create their own silence,” Billy observed. He would often encapsulate in a single sentence some much grander philosophy. It was a guileful way he had, employing a compact comment to deflate his pompous-sounding wisdom, and yet it was wisdom just the same.
His observation hung over us as we stood waiting for him to share the contents of this post from beyond the grave.
“There’s no date or salutation,” he said and then began to read the hand-written letter: “I’m staring out my window in a small hotel in Inverness, the Scottish highlands out in the distance. I’m about to make the short journey to Loch Ness during which I plan to drop this letter through the slot in a post box and send it on its way to you. I am including some money because I know it can do you some good. There’s no point in taking it with me and certainly no point in leaving it behind with my clothes. Don’t question its purpose; it’s a kind of apology for all the trouble I’ve caused you and a small way of thanking you for looking out for me as you have.
“With all that you’ve no doubt heard about me and my wife, you’ve probably already made up your mind about the kind of person you think I am. Who really knows what anyone is capable of? I certainly don’t. Who can even remember each and every pain one has inflicted on another? Who would even want to try? I just can’t believe myself capable of turning her into what was lying there on the floor. But it really doesn’t matter any more. Her father was always kind to me, and he deserves consideration now. He has his own life to live,
and here I am disgusted with mine. Sylvia didn’t destroy me; I did it to myself. Whatever else one may say, she will never know the terror of growing old. With all her father’s money, she deserved a better life than the sour one she had.
“There is nothing heroic or noble in my act; it is all sordid and grim.
“Enjoy the money. All I ask is that one day soon you take yourself to the Crown and Eagle and drink a gin gimlet for me. Then forget this whole mess. As for me, I’m going for a cruise in Loch Ness.
“A fifty-pound note was inside the envelope,” Billy concluded.
Holmes took the curling paper from the lad and, with the aid of his magnifying lens, examined it from all angles. His careful scrutiny revealed nothing beyond its having been written in common black ink on common-enough stationery bearing the name of a small hotel in Inverness. Billy confirmed that the handwriting looked like Leonard’s and that the envelope, which Billy in his haste had left in his room, displayed the appropriate stamp and markings. In short, Holmes concluded, the letter seemed exactly what it appeared to be: a true communication from Terrence Leonard written just before he took his own life.
Billy had no clever comment, no grand pronouncement, no simple wisdom - only the silence he had described before, the silence evoked by a letter from the dead.
* * *
Later that Monday afternoon, despite a hot summer sun that sent many a Londoner to the wooden benches and green lawns of the city’s numerous parks, Holmes, Billy, and I entered a small turning off Holborn. Each of us sported lightweight linen suits, so that we might appear to be three gentlemen out for a summer constitutional. But we all knew that we were on a mission of liberation.
The Final Page of Baker Street Page 9
