“Be careful,” Billy cautioned, checking that all the chessmen remained in their proper positions. “I’m in the midst of a game against myself.”
“A game against yourself,” I echoed. “How well that sums you up: on the one hand, an Alleynian from Dulwich College, a product of Mr. Gilkes’ upstanding moral code; on the other, one of those salacious writers who must tell everything - your licentious desires, your libidinous acts. Or so you sound in that report of yours.”
“You mean the report that expresses my feelings?”
“Your feelings,” I snorted. “In your poetry, you seem able enough to present feelings of a more uplifting nature. What happened to all those lofty ideals? Your romantic poems display a sense of discipline, of self-control. Personally, I have yet to be convinced that sexual activity need ever be promoted in print.” It was warm enough for me to mop my brow, and I sat down on the only seat available, a wooden desk-chair.
“But, Dr. Watson,” Billy said with what I can only describe as a smirk, “you and Mr. Holmes wanted a thorough account of what went on - or so you said. Aren’t my personal thoughts and observations part of that charge?”
It is true that, when I’d told Holmes I was going to share with the author himself my outrage over such indiscretions, Holmes had simply filled his briar and smiled. “You’re too easily offended, old fellow,” he’d said. “Knowing the nature of the lens through which we are viewing enables us to make the necessary adjustments for evaluating the results. We need to be aware of those occasions when Billy was roused by passion, when his judgement might have been marred. Watson, you of all people know the effects of overpowering emotion. If we are aware of Billy’s instability, we can better judge the validity of his conclusions.”
I couldn’t disagree, but I still had to admit my discomfort at reading of Billy’s presence in the boudoir of a married - let alone, nude - woman. “After all,” I said to Billy, “who knows where, despite our best efforts to guard it, such a manuscript might end up?”
“Who knows where, indeed?” Billy said, picking up a straight-stemmed briar that looked much like one of Holmes’ favourite pipes. “Perhaps in the kind of magazine the French call avant-garde. I could be touted as the British Flaubert or even de Sade - daring writers who weren’t afraid to break moulds.”
“Avant-garde,” “Flaubert,” “de Sade” - here were the results of Billy’s stay in Paris, I thought as he held a flame over the tobacco. And yet he did have a point. If I was honest in recognizing my own prejudices, I should be able to compliment him on what I thought the young writer had done well. He had kept us apprised not only of Raphael Sterne’s condition but also of the writer’s recklessness with firearms. In addition, Billy had noted a possible connection between Sterne and Sylvia’s younger sister Cora, a connection that, if true, would help corroborate the accusations made by Lord Steynwood against the novelist.
“I did like your detail,” I offered almost by way of apology, “especially the depiction of the drawer in Sterne’s mahogany desk. A much more accurate description than that early account of the Mazarin Stone you concocted. And as much as I hate to encourage you, that bit about the moonlight was most engaging. For that matter, I have always liked your ear for dialogue, and some of your metaphors are quite clever. That quip about separating a priest from his collar? Most apt.”
Billy recognized my intent to support him. “Thank you, Dr. Watson. Your compliments mean a lot to me. Mr. Hope and Mr. Hose remain my favourite school masters, but you will always be my literary mentor.”
I blushed in response; it is always pleasing to be appreciated. Nonetheless, after regaining my composure, I still felt compelled to make the distinction between his writings and his actions. “However well you reported the goings-on in Marlow,” I said, “I really must caution you once again to keep away from the Sternes, especially Mrs. Sterne. I can’t state it any more strongly.”
Puffing away on his briar when I left, Billy gave no indication that my words of caution would be heeded.
* * *
And so matters stood for the next few months. Reinstituting the plans he’d made before Mrs. Sterne’s dramatic arrival at my doorstep in July, Sherlock Holmes journeyed back to Sussex and his bees. “I’m afraid, Watson,” he said before leaving, “that we haven’t heard the last of those people in Marlow. But we must let matters percolate on their own.”
Billy continued to fashion his literary career. As he had threatened, he shifted his emphasis during that summer of 1911 from romantic poetry to a scoffing prose. Thanks to the critical perspective he’d sharpened in Marlow, the acerbic tone of his new compositions did not surprise me. His disgust with pretentious writers in general and with Raphael Sterne in particular could be inferred from the titles of his articles that appeared in The Academy later that year: “The Genteel Artist” in late August, “The Remarkable Hero” a few weeks later, and “The Literary Fop” in the fall. “Commonplace readers,” as Billy liked to term his audience, might think of his criticisms in the abstract; I, of course, recognized Sterne as his target.
So pleased was I with his success at publication that I hoped to compliment Billy personally. One cool night in early November I visited him in Bloomsbury for a second time. As in our previous meeting, he sat on his bed and offered me the desk chair. Billy appreciated my praise but, like many a young writer before him, observed that his was a limited success. Writing had earned him but a pittance, his continued confinement in so seedy a room obvious proof of his questionable achievement.
“Look at this place,” he cried, waving his arms at his shabby surroundings. “Maybe I should move back with my mother.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” I said rather quickly. “You’re gaining a reputation, man.”
“I suppose you’re right,” he said with reluctance. “I reckon I must keep at it.”
I knew I should say no more, but once again I couldn’t help myself. He had to keep his attention focused on his work and not be distracted by temptation. He had to move on, to write about other topics beyond the Sternes. I knew I sounded like some sort of Puritan, but I couldn’t bring myself to ignore his prior ill-judged involvements and wanton obsessions.
“It’s so obvious, Billy,” I said. “You’ve made great progress since distancing yourself from the Sternes. You should feel proud, and distance yourself even further.”
Billy rolled his eyes. “You sound like Mr. Gilkes,” he said. “What’s more, your timing is wrong.”
With a wry grin, he reached for a folded piece of yellow paper lying among the scribbled pages atop his cluttered desk. “Your advice, Doctor, though always well-intended, will be hard to follow. I received this telegram a couple of days ago - and after so many months without even a word.”
He handed me the folded sheet. I opened it and read aloud: “Please come to Marlow this Saturday afternoon. The staff and Mrs. Sterne will be absent. I owe you an apology.” It had been sent by Raphael Sterne.
“You see, Doctor,” Billy said, lighting a cigarette, “he’s been incommunicado for so long that I really can’t turn the man down. His health is too fragile.”
“Perhaps,” I offered only half in jest, “he’s figured out the identity of your ‘literary fop.’”
Billy smiled and exhaled a small cloud of smoke. “Maybe he wants to pay me a compliment or two.”
Billy’s explanation seemed more farfetched than mine, and it pained me to think of his becoming involved with the Sternes again. But then I recalled Holmes’ parting words about giving matters time to develop. I still didn’t understand what Holmes meant, but I could see that he might actually appreciate hearing what was transpiring in Marlow. Against my better judgement, I said, “I’m sure Holmes and I would both appreciate a more recent account of the Sterne household.” But I had to add, “Although I can’t for the life of me think why.”
Billy rose from the bed to open the window. Despite the chill outside, the smoke from his cigarette was beginning to envelop us.
“Don’t worry, Doctor,” Billy said, exhaling into the night air. “You read the words. Mrs. Sterne won’t even be there. You can rest easy; there should be no temptations. At least not of the human kind.”
“One hopes not,” I replied and stood up in preparation to leave. We shook hands. Considering my hostile reaction to so much of the first narrative he’d written, my final words to Billy before exiting could only be viewed as the greatest of ironies.“Don’t forget to write a full report,” I instructed. “I’ll be sure to share it with Holmes.”
* * *
Billy’s second journal instalment follows:
Saturday morning
11 November 1911
Gentlemen:
Allow me some rambling thoughts as I journey back to Marlow:
My major hope is to - very quickly and without any serious complications - conduct my meeting with Sterne. It seems strange that on a Saturday the servants will be free and that Elaine will likewise be gone. Perhaps Sterne himself arranged it that way, so we can engage in private talks. From a purely selfish standpoint, I hold out hope that, since the last time I saw the man, his health has improved and his drinking is at last under some kind of control. However much I may detest Sterne’s writing, I am continually trying to convince myself that today’s visit might in some way be helpful in furthering my own career. I need more publications. If I intend to devote myself solely to writing, having my work printed only by The Academy in London or The Alleynian at Dulwich is not going to produce the kind of money I need to live on. Whether or not I like his literary style, Raphael Sterne has the ability to promote my reputation. At the very least, he should be able to offer me some suggestions or opportunities.
* * *
I have changed trains at Maidenhead. The closer I get to Marlow, the more optimistic I feel. I have convinced myself that Sterne’s purpose in arranging this meeting is to repay me in some fashion. I helped settle him down. I secured his gun. He must finally have concluded that I am deserving of a reward. I’m sure that the apology he said he owes me in his invitation will take some sort of literary compensation.
* * *
I am now on the Marlow Donkey travelling into town, and I can honestly say that I’m looking forward to the visit. The grand blast of this little train’s whistle underscores my optimism.
I plan to write the rest of my observations during my return trip to London...
* * *
How mistaken can one be?
Despite the lateness in the year and coolness of the air, Sterne was sporting white duck trousers and a white shirt. He looked almost summery with his shock of black hair tumbling down his forehead.
As announced, the servants were gone, and so Sterne himself mixed just the one G-and-T for me, and I followed him up the stairs to the study that also served as his bedroom, the same room to which the butler and I had carried him after Elaine and I had found the poor devil bleeding in the garden. I eased into a soft chair while he chose the padded seat at his mahogany desk. The bullet hole in the ceiling above the bed still remained.
“You see?” he said, pulling out the top drawer. “No Webley.”
I raised an eyebrow at the name.
“My pistol,” he clarified, “a .455.”
I smiled in mock recognition. (I will obviously need to learn about guns if I ever intend to incorporate them into my writing.)
“I‘ve made a rather dramatic about-turn,” he said. “The gun is gone. And I’ve been off alcohol for half a year now - ever since that terrible night in June.”
“That terrible night in June” when we found him in the garden was really “that terrible night at the end of July,” and the actual date put it closer to four months instead of six, but I wasn’t going to quibble. He sounded so proud of his accomplishments that it would have been churlish of me to contradict him. I’d come to regard him as tied to his liquor as closely as a dancehall girl to her red lipstick. Maybe that was why proclaiming his abstinence seemed his latest preoccupation.
His success doomed my hopes. The louder he shouted his freedom from alcohol, the more obvious became the true purpose of today’s meeting - and it had nothing to do with my aspirations. I had been invited to Marlow to celebrate the triumph of Raphael Sterne. Despite the words in his telegram, there would be no offer of “apology” to me - let alone any hint of professional encouragement.
I blame myself, of course. I alone am responsible for my disappointment. I should have been more alert to the resurgence of egotism within the man; I had cautioned about it in my writing. Sterne had falsely convinced himself of his invulnerability before; to my deep consternation, he was in the process of doing so again.
“In fact,” he boasted, “in honour of my noble self-restraint - as well as to commemorate your visit here in Marlow - I’m going to get myself a drink.” He slapped his hand down on the closed desk top with a note of finality.
“Do you really think that wise?” I asked, standing up with the hope of keeping him seated.
He too rose. “Give me your glass,” he insisted. “I shall return with more libations.” He took my glass and marched down the stairs.
Alone, I had time to think. It was typical of the man’s false modesty to proclaim his success in avoiding alcohol and then, as if it had been no great achievement, to undercut his accomplishment with a drink. Such reasoning gave me pause. If he backslid on the liquor, he might also backslide on the gun. I needed to be certain. No sooner did I hear the clink of glasses downstairs than I went over to the desk and opened the top drawer that he had shown me earlier. I had to be sure the gun was really gone. Though obviously no longer sticky, the dark drops of blood I’d seen before were still evident at the corner, but no weapon or ammunition remained in that drawer or in any of the others, all of which I carefully checked.
Just then I heard the man’s footsteps on the stairs, and I retreated to my chair.
Sterne entered the room, offered me one of the G-and-T’s he was carrying, and sat down.
“To temperance,” he chortled, hoisting his glass.
“To irony,” I replied.
On his second round, his memory seemed to engage. “Money,” he said. “That’s why I wanted you to come here. I’ve had a long time to think about it. You deserve some kind of remuneration for all the help you’ve given me.”
Maybe I was wrong. Maybe he did have an apology planned all the while.
Sterne put down his drink, reached into his pocket, and produced a roll of currency.
“Nonsense,” I replied. First, Leonard; now Sterne - everyone seemed to want to give me money. Although it looked quite tempting, I said, “Put your money away. I’m just a nurturing sort of bloke. I did what anyone else who was here would have done.” As I spoke the words, he replaced the bills in his pocket - rather too quickly, I judged. At the same time, I did wonder if anyone else besides me who’d been able to help Sterne that night in July would have followed his wife into her bedroom when the door swung open.
“You’ll make some woman a devoted husband one day,” he laughed. Then he ran his hand through his thick black hair. “Devoted,” he repeated softly. A long moment later he murmured it once more while staring at his glass.
I said nothing. It wasn’t my place to take his drink away.
“You‘d reckon that a beautiful girl like Elaine would be enough for me.” He took another pull of the gin. “What do you think?” he asked. “Isn’t she beautiful?”
I began sweating as soon as he’d mentioned his wife. Once he posed these questions directly to me, I could feel my heart racing as well. Her body in the moonlight haunted my memory.
“Nothing to say on the subject?” he demanded, his mood turning s
our. “Well, I’ll answer the question myself. No, she is not enough for me! I’ve always had eyes for other women. Sylvia Leonard is a perfect example.”
“The dead Sylvia Leonard? Lord Steynwood’s daughter?”
Sterne leered. “Yes. The dead Sylvia Leonard. Lord Steynwood’s daughter now deceased. The late wife of Terrence Leonard. I met her here in Marlow at a jumble sale. For charity. But I was just one of many. She had dozens of lovers, I can tell you.”
He raised his glass once more. “To dead Sylvia.” A short laugh escaped. “I’m the one who should be dead. I can’t write anymore. Nothing comes to me. I’ve lost my touch.”
So this was what became of writers who could no longer produce. They drowned themselves in alcohol and self-pity. I’d be sure to take note.
As the afternoon wore on, the room grew darker. Sterne was drinking straight gin now, and his eyelids were beginning to flutter. Finally, he gripped the arms of his chair, managed to rise to his feet, and stumbled backward onto his bed. He was out cold. It all felt rehearsed. I’d seen it before.
I tiptoed out of the room and down the stairs. I wanted to get back to London, but I didn’t feel right about leaving Sterne alone in that condition. I’d witnessed once before what he was capable of doing to himself. I walked out to the garden and not far from the French windows sat down on a weathered, wooden bench amidst some purple foxgloves. I suppose I was waiting for anyone - the maid, the butler, the wife - to arrive at the cottage who could look out for the unconscious novelist, the same unconscious novelist who earlier I had been hoping would show me how to gain literary success. The more fool I.
* * *
Streaks of pale light still washed the sky awhile later when I got up to check on Sterne. He lay on his back exactly as he had when I’d left him earlier. Nothing in his room had been disturbed. I was beginning to get hungry; but instead of looking in the larder, I returned to Sterne’s liquor cabinet and fixed myself another drink. Only this time I found a bottle of Rose’s Lime Juice and made myself a gimlet. Somehow it seemed fitting. When I returned to my bench by the foxgloves, I raised my glass. To Terrence Leonard, I said to myself, a victim once more. The scream of a train whistle answered my toast. It was probably the Marlow Donkey announcing its arrival.
The Final Page of Baker Street Page 14
