by David Marcum
“Steady on, old man,” I murmured, as Alice smiled consolingly from her seat beside the hearth. Brushing back the hair from his perspiring forehead, Henry laughed ruefully and continued his account.
“Anyhow, Adams would meet back there with a handful of other wicked-looking fellows: Southerners as well; I got to know the accent. Sailors from a vessel called the Lone Star. Pretty little bark; got a look at her once down at the harbour. They’d spend hours discussing some dark business, sitting around a pile of ledgers and a strongbox. One night they were arguing over timetables and plotting courses on a map. Got the idea they must be after someone; maybe there was money missing. Never asked them anything about it, naturally. That was one group of fellows, John, you didn’t want to cross.”
As a depiction of my future father-in-law, I found my brother’s tale disturbing. Even so, I thought little about it in the coming days, for my attention was more closely focused on the Colonel’s daughter. On an afternoon in late July, as we idled through the zoo in Woodward’s Gardens, I asked Constance whether I might call upon her father formally to request her hand. She blushed furiously, but quickly nodded her assent. Raising her chin, I kissed away the tears that sprang into her eyes, feeling certain that they must be tears of joy.
We arranged for Constance to call at my office the next morning to convey the Colonel’s answer. At the appointed hour, after cheerfully replying to Miss Bivins’ knock, I rose to greet my fiancée but found instead her dueña. Teresa offered me a pitying smile.
“Do you think I am a fool, Señor? How do you suppose Miss Constance so often escaped her father’s vigilance over these past months? Remember, I myself was young once, long ago. I have been on your side almost from the first.”
“But why?” I asked in stupefaction.
Teresa sighed, accepting the chair I offered her. “I have spoken of you to the Sisters, Doctor. They acknowledge that you are a good man, for a Protestant. They even pray your soul may be consigned to Purgatory, after only a few aeons in Hell. I have done as much for you and my poor girl as I am able. But you must be careful now.”
“Where is Constance?” I demanded. “Why has she not come herself?”
“She was not permitted. Nor would she have wished to meet you, bearing the bruised cheek her father gave her.”
“The blackguard! I shall have it out with him at once!” I leapt to my feet and started for the door, then realised that I did not know precisely where the Adams lived. Teresa seized my wrist in order to detain me.
“That would only make more trouble for Miss Constance, so long as she remains within his power. Be patient, child; you shall be with her in due time. Even the Devil cannot preserve the life of that foul man much longer.
“And now I must go, Doctor,” she concluded, patting my face gently as she stood. “You will have another visitor this morning, and I should not care for him to find me here.”
The dueña was not lacking in clairvoyance, for scarcely an hour passed before a thunderous pounding sounded on my door. The intruder pushed roughly past Miss Bivins before she could announce him, but I had no doubt of his identity.
I was never privileged to meet Professor Moriarty, the arch-enemy of Sherlock Holmes, but I did encounter two other lurid villains: Dr. Grimesby Roylott and Colonel Sebastian Moran. Wicked as they were, neither gave me the impression of unmitigated evil that I saw in the eyes of Colonel Alexander Adams. Between their drooping lids and leaden pouches, they were as cruel and lifeless as a cobra’s eyes. Yet, his dropsically gross body, the bluish pallor of his fleshy cheeks, even the phlegm that choked his rasping breath - all unmistakably announced his coming death from heart failure. I knew at a glance that soon my Constance would be free of him.
Colonel Adams glared at me with evident dislike, panting raggedly behind his walrus mustache. “I hear from my daughter, Doctor, that you want to marry her,” he growled.
My bow of assent seemed only to enrage the Colonel further. “Well, now,” he snarled, removing his top hat to mop the moisture from his balding pate. “What makes you think I’d let my only child wed some penniless Scots sawbones, the brother of a drunken bankrupt? Hey?
“No, sir!” he continued, lifting a hand to forestall my response. “She’ll not give herself to any blasted Britisher while I’m alive! Where was your country, Doctor, when Yankee cavalry was burning Alabama cotton destined for your mills? When the scions of your oldest families lay dying on the field at Gettysburg or Shiloh? You shall never have my consent to marry Constance! I warn you: Better men than ‘Dr. John H. Watson’ have learned the danger of defying me. Damn you, sir! Keep away from my daughter, or I’ll - horsewhip-”
Adams’s tirade ended in a choking gasp, followed by a prolonged bout of coughing. Offering the man no aid, I waited for him to recover before making my reply.
“As a physician, Colonel, I should advise against such violent exercise in your condition. However, I can promise that if you ever again lay a hand upon Miss Constance, you will find yourself on the wrong end of that horsewhip!”
The Colonel’s rage was awful. He raised his stick to strike at me, but I held my ground and stared him down. With a scowl befitting a stage villain, Adams turned ponderously upon his heel, snorting and wheezing as he lurched from my consulting room. The next day, Teresa sent a note advising me that Constance’s father had suffered an apoplectic fit upon returning home. He had taken to his bed and, according to his doctor, might never rise from it again.
Thereafter, the difficulties of our situation were substantially reduced, for Constance and I could see each other openly. During that autumn, we enjoyed the most carefree times together we would ever know. I took her to concerts, receptions, even a masked ball. We boated on the San Francisco Bay and climbed one of the Twin Peaks. From its summit, I showed Constance the rolling pastures of Laguna Honda. We later visited to help its inmates with the harvest, and I introduced my fiancée to my brother. To my delight, they warmed to each other instantly. Nor did Constance show constraint towards Henry’s wife, for both possessed an innate goodness that overcame disparities of background. The four of us were soon fast friends, and it gladdened my heart to see the ones I loved escape their woes and move towards happiness.
Yet, all was not sunlight and roses, for planning our future together was another matter. Constance, torn by guilt, steadfastly refused to leave San Francisco while her father was alive. For his part, the Colonel stubbornly declined to die. He had grown mortally afraid (Teresa said) of the hellfire that awaited him, and was now utterly dependent on his daughter. Consequently, our engagement languished unresolved into the spring of 1886. By May, I had paid the last of Henry’s debts, as well as mine to Sherlock Holmes, and even accumulated a small profit. I decided to return to London in advance of Constance, intending to purchase a new practice that could support a wife.
When I think back upon that time today, my mind lingers on our final meeting at the docks in Market Street.[13] There I took leave of my tearful bride-to-be and bade farewell to my brother. I still cherish my last sight of Henry: Tanned and healthy, full of cheerful confidence in his plan to qualify as an attorney, loving toward his pregnant wife, and for once treating “little brother” as an equal. Indeed, he was touchingly grateful for my help and seemed as reluctant as Constance to see me depart for England.
“Why not leave that Holmes fellow to his London fogs,” entreated Henry, “and come back to us in San Francisco permanently? We can always use another doctor at Laguna Honda. I feel free here, brother - as free as when we were boys back in Australia.[14] As for your future bride,” he added, giving her a hug, “we’ll take good care of her ‘till you return. I know you’ll not forget her!” An anguished smile from Constance told me that she felt less sure.
And why (I ask myself, with forty years of hindsight) did I never consider remaining in America before that final afternoon? After two year
s in San Francisco, I had everything a man should need to make him happy. My only remaining family member was at hand, our relationship restored. A beautiful and charming woman had agreed to be my wife. My medical career was as successful as it could ever be in London. Was not a brother’s love more to be valued than the sincere but unemotional regard (so I thought then) of my one real friend in England? As for my beloved, why risk her health and happiness by transplanting her from a temperate California bay into the foul and chilly fogs of London?
Had I known then what was to come, or could I have viewed my life as a Victorian from my vantage point today, I might have made a different choice. But at the time, neither my fiancée’s wishes nor my brother’s were paramount in my decision. Constance was to be my wife; she would follow where I led. Henry, having come at last to a safe harbour, was well content to become an American. I could never be anything other than a subject of our Queen, and I felt it my calling to be the friend, colleague, and biographer of the world’s first private consulting detective, Sherlock Holmes. So I returned to London, purchased a small Kensington practice, and waited for my bride to join me. Late in September, after Colonel Adams had finally given up his wretched life, she came. We were married on the first day of November, with Holmes as my best man.
In our early weeks as man and wife, Constance and I seemed to make a good beginning. Our part of Kensington, near the palace and Hyde Park, was not unlike the area in San Francisco where she had resided. Though it was a costly neighbourhood, I had been able to acquire the house and practice of a retiring colleague on favourable terms. My wife, with Teresa’s guidance, had previously overseen her father’s household, so I was able to leave domestic arrangements in her hands. While she turned the building’s upper storeys into a pleasant refuge, I installed my office and consulting room on the ground floor.[15] Whenever we were free from medical duties or domestic chores, I showed my bride the sights of London. We walked daily in Hyde Park and often ventured on more distant forays, as we had done in San Francisco.
Initially, Constance was of much assistance in my practice, acting as receptionist and bookkeeper. Although I hired a nurse, my wife’s skills in this arena were considerable. Until her own health failed, she remained a bright and cheerful consolation to my patients, possessing both a sympathetic nature and an appreciation of their suffering through years of caring for her father. Had she chosen this vocation, Constance would have been a credit to Miss Nightingale.
Yet, there were also problems in the marriage from its outset. For all her joy at our reunion, my wife seemed ill at ease in her new country. British middle-class reserve conflicted with her Southern upbringing. Our neighbours, in my view, appeared to welcome the “young couple” in their midst; she found them “stand-offish”. Disconcerted by London’s size and dismal weather, Constance soon grew homesick for California. She also missed Teresa greatly. That formidable lady (by now dear to both of us) had declined to accompany her charge across the water, rightly declaring that “a married woman does not need a dueña, child.”
This last word was in truth the essence of the trouble. Having abducted my bride from the cloistered life in which I found her, I now realised that she was child-like in many ways. As Holmes remarked soon after meeting Constance: “She is extremely young, Watson, for a woman of nearly three-and-twenty.” Annoying as I found this ruthless honesty, I could not dispute the justice of his verdict.
I have often pondered whether my wife’s immaturity would have posed a long-term problem in our marriage. It undoubtedly postponed my hope of Constance bearing children of our own. Time, of course, cures many ills, but time was not a blessing to be granted us. All other questions were soon cast aside by the steady decline of my wife’s health, almost from the day that she reached England. For those whose lungs are delicate, the mild and cleanly fogs of San Francisco are no preparation for a London winter’s filthy smog and eternally foul weather. Henceforth, Constance’s “catarrh” would no longer be a joke between us. In the first months of 1887, she was laid low by a series of bronchial infections - each worse than the last - that undermined her health and, even more, her happiness. Spring brought no improvement, only a mild case of pneumonia. While Constance carried on bravely between bouts, the vivacity and sweetness that had so attracted me gradually diminished. My poor young wife became morose and irritable, red-eyed from weeping, as much from sheer misery as from her respiratory symptoms. Before long, I could read the unspoken accusation in her eyes: “You brought me here.”
As her physician, it became obvious to me that unless Constance removed at once to a more forgiving climate, her lungs would be damaged irreversibly. How that imperative could be reconciled with establishing my practice became a vexing question. Fortunately for my wife’s health - if not necessarily for our marriage - a solution soon appeared.
Even during our days in San Francisco, Constance had talked eagerly of reuniting with her mother when she arrived in England. She had no idea of where to find the woman, who had departed Alabama when her daughter was but three years old. Colonel Adams would never speak of the wife who had deserted him. Although Constance did not even know her mother’s name, she had a vague idea that her family had lived along the coast. “Mama used to tell me stories of the sea,” she recollected.
I decided to enlist Sherlock Holmes to aid us in our search. In mid-December, before my wife’s first illness but after we had settled in sufficiently to welcome guests, I dropped by Baker Street to invite my friend to Christmas dinner. As usual, it was an invitation he declined.
“Thank you, Watson - and please thank your charming bride - but it is quite impossible. I leave tomorrow for Odessa to investigate the Trepoff murder.[16] It promises to be a most intriguing case. Are you sure you do not wish to accompany me?”
“That is quite impossible as well,” I laughed. “Have you no suggestion that might help my wife to find her mother?”
“You have tried Somerset House?”[17]
“Assuredly, Holmes. But Constance is not even certain of the year her parents married, and ‘Alexander Adams’ is an absurdly common name.”
“Does her birth certificate not identify the mother?”
“It was lost after the war, when the courthouse in her county burned.”[18]
“Humph!” he chortled, refilling his pipe from the Persian slipper as I stirred the fire. “Well, it is a pretty little problem. You know, Watson,” Holmes pondered, puffing contentedly, “I have a certain friend with contacts in the Home Office. I’ll ask him to have those lazy fellows dig up what they can.”
The “friend” was, of course, his brother Mycroft, whom I would not meet for two more years. A response was slow in coming, but early in March I received a letter from the Home Office that supplied the information we desired. Constance’s mother, Margaret Burke Adams, lived with her parents on the Sussex coast, just outside of Brighton. At the time, my wife was suffering from a heavy cold that would turn into pneumonia. Rather than arouse her hopes in vain, I wrote to Mrs. Adams and enquired whether she was willing to renew relations with her daughter. Her reply surprised me: She asked that I visit her before informing Constance that she had been found. Once my invalid improved, I concocted an excuse to undertake the journey, which involved a day trip from Victoria on the Brighton line.[19] The route would become all too familiar to me over the succeeding months.
I arrived at the Burke’s large, ramshackle cottage prepared to dislike Margaret Adams thoroughly. The woman who met me in its vestibule bore but slight resemblance to my Constance. Once beautiful, perhaps, she was now gaunt and faded, looking older than the fifty years I knew to be her age. We endured an awkward dinner with her ancient parents, who found little to say in my presence and retired with evident relief. Mrs. Adams then escorted me into the parlour, took a decanter of whisky from a hidden cabinet, and poured us both a brimming glass. Without further preamble, she began to tell the story of h
er marriage.
Margaret Burke had met her husband at the seaside, during his visit to Brighton in 1856. “Alex was a handsome devil then,” she sighed, “with charming manners and every evidence of wealth.” In view of her limited prospects (“Father being a Nonconformist cleric during a Catholic revival”),[20] it seemed a better match than she was likely to achieve in England. “I’ve never fathomed why such a man as Alex desired to marry me. Satan must have sent him to make my life a living hell.”
Once arrived at Glenburn, his Black Belt plantation - “acres upon acres of pine woods and cotton fields” - Margaret met the brute behind the mask of Southern gentleman. As a clergyman’s daughter, she was horrified by the reality of human bondage. Her husband beat his slaves and bedded them, equally without compunction. “Can you imagine, John, that he left my bridal bed to spend nights in the quarters? I saw a dozen children on the place who were his progeny.” Nevertheless, after a son was born to them in 1858, she abandoned any thought of going home to England.
“When the war came, and he joined a regiment, I prayed to God he would be killed. But, no, so ravenous a beast was bound to make a gallant soldier! He was wounded once, in Tennessee,[21] and came home long enough to beget little Constance. After that, my hero went back to defend his glorious ‘Cause’, leaving me to preserve his wretched domain from the Yankees.”
As I had already learned from Constance, the rest was a saga of disaster. Union cavalry wrecked Adams’s plantation and removed his slaves (“save for his concubines, who stayed behind to sneer at me”). Their son (“dear little Charlie, the epitome of everything his father should have been”) died of fever late in 1864. Embittered by defeat and destitution, the Colonel ignored his baby daughter and treated his wife more brutally than ever. When Reconstruction brought Federal occupation and Negro suffrage to the Black Belt, he, along with other ruined planters and ex-soldiers, took up what Margaret called “night riding”.
