The Return of Sherlock Holmes

by Maxim Jakubowski

  “I don’t know, I, er…” It was unusual for me to stumble over my words. After all, I now lectured for a living, sharing my wisdom relating to all things historical-musical and musical-historical.

  “Come now, Watson, aren’t you going to invite me in?”

  The stranger was already removing his old-fashioned bowler hat and offering me his walking cane and his tweed overcoat.

  There was something familiar about the man.

  “Mary,” I called, anxiety and puzzlement in my voice.

  I hoped my wife was now dressed and that she would unravel the stranger’s mystery.

  “I’m glad you made an honest woman of her at last, Watson.”

  The visitor’s face lit and lifted at the emergence of the beautiful woman from the shadows at the far end of the hallway.

  “Mary Morstan,” said the stranger.

  “Holmes,” said Watson’s wife, “how delightful to see you again.”

  The newcomer bowed his head in acknowledgement.

  “You must remember Sherlock Holmes, John, surely you must.”

  “You don’t mean to tell me you don’t believe in reincarnation, Watson?”

  “All that Eastern guff, it’s all poppycock, stuff and nonsense, whoever you say you are.” My voice was a bluster of wind.

  “If not through the enjoyment of previous lives, how else, Watson, would you explain the subject of your study, de Lassus, his genius, his ability to become maestro di cappella at the Basilica of Saint John Lateran in Rome at the astonishing age of twenty-one?

  “How else explain my own particular, peculiar genius?”

  The man my wife had called Sherlock Holmes paused, as if to admire the strength, the compulsion of his own arguments.

  My eyes turned toward my wife, took in the lush extravagance of her blonde hair, her powdered face, her striking blue eyes, and signalled to her for assistance.

  Instead, Mary Watson—nee Morstan—turned to the newcomer.

  “In all our time together, Holmes, John and I have never discussed our spiritual beliefs.”

  “Most, interesting, Mary, a most curious lack, too, if I may say so.”

  “Yet, for myself, Holmes, I never doubted either the art or the science of reincarnation. It is the sole philosophy, to my mind, that makes sense of everything.”

  I heard the passion in my wife’s words and saw the intensity in her eyes and my old enemy, my jealousy, flared in my breast.

  “I say, Holmes,” I said, and I knew I was trapped in whatever web my visitor was weaving, in whatever story the newcomer was about to tell.

  “Well, I’ll leave you boys to catch up on old times.”

  Mary’s voice was now light as air, as happy and relaxed as a child’s, and I understood she had once—in a former lifetime perhaps—been in love with Holmes.

  “Enjoy your visit to Estorick’s, Mary,” our visitor said.

  “How did you know, Holmes?”

  “Elementary, Mrs. Watson, a merely superficial example of the deductive process.”

  I watched as my wife’s smile widened and my own memories—from another lifetime indeed—began to coalesce.

  “Well, Mary, I have seen the way you have been casting longing glances at the Modiglianis on your wall, and I know Estorick’s contains more fine examples of the modern master’s work.”

  I, meanwhile, was attempting to tame the twin beasts of my anger and my jealousy at the way my wife had been captivated and manipulated by this stranger who I now understood was not a stranger after all.

  “In addition, Mary, there is a complimentary ticket for a private viewing at the aforementioned gallery waiting for you to pick up from your hall table as you leave.”

  Both my wife and my friend from a former lifetime shared in the rush of their laughter.

  “I see, too, Mary, from the manner of your dress and your lipsticked mouth that you are meeting an old flame at Estorick’s.”

  “What?” My voice was unbrooked anger now. “This really is too much, Holmes.”

  “I am joking, Watson, merely showing you how ridiculous that untamed possessiveness of yours can still be, even now, even after all your lifetimes of learning.

  “Your lovely, loyal wife, who adores you more than you deserve, is meeting a colleague from work, Jennifer Cross, MA, and an expert in Etruscan terracotta sculpture, for coffee and then for shared artistic appreciation at Estorick’s.”

  “Holmes, I am sorry, but you astound me.” There was unbridled relief as well as admiration in my words.

  “Simplicity itself, Watson.”

  “How so, Holmes?”

  “In your travels up and down this hallway, Watson, you have failed to notice Ms. Cross’s business card lying next to the invitation from the gallery.”

  My face fell, collapsed into mortification.

  “I see your observational skills, Watson, appear to have lapsed totally since our previous adventures together.”

  “But what about the coffee, Holmes?” Mary’s voice was triumphant. “How do you know Jennifer and I are meeting for coffee?”

  “Ah, Mary, you have me there, but how could anyone live in the vicinity of Upper Street and be unfamiliar with the delights of the Euphorium Bakery, the Gallipoli Bistro, or those of the Ginger & Lime?”

  After admiring my wife’s cheery wave of departure, I settled to a study of the man who called himself Holmes.

  Naturally enough, I was aware of the fictional character created by Arthur Conan Doyle in the late nineteenth century, recalled even a film I had watched at the Aubin Cinema in Shoreditch with Mary when she was merely my fiancée. It had been in black and white, and there had been a murderous hound somewhere in the story. I recalled that I had fallen asleep and awoken to find myself abandoned and alone in the back row of the picture house.

  It occurred to me now for the first time—slow-witted as I undoubtedly am—that my name was the same as the great detective’s accomplice.

  I raised myself from both my reverie and my armchair.

  Holmes was perusing my bookshelves on the far side of the room.

  “I say, Watson, these old volumes here are most interesting.”

  The tall stranger was blowing dust from a leather-bound book.

  “Oh, those, I’ve never read them,” I said.

  “But you should, Watson, you really should.”

  “Well, they were my grandfather’s volumes—he wrote them actually—he left them to me in his will.”

  “This one, for instance, Watson, it’s called A Study in Scarlet, being a reprint from the reminiscences of John H Watson, MD, late of the army medical department.”

  “Gosh, that’s right, that’s him, my grandfather. He was a doctor-doctor, unlike me, who isn’t really a doctor at all, except in an academic sort of way.”

  “You underestimate yourself, Watson,” said the man calling himself Holmes. “You enjoy the possession of some enviable talents.”

  “I do?”

  “You do, Watson, you do indeed, and I require your assistance in a peculiar case I have been invited by my brother to solve.”

  “It was just yesterday morning when Mycroft came to see me.” Holmes’s voice was a siren song, and I knew I would be unable to resist any demand made of me by the newcomer.

  “My brother is a powerful man, Watson.”

  “Did you say Mycroft, Holmes?”

  Something was stirring in my mind, something shifting from the back to the front of my brain.

  “I remember,” I said. “Your brother, Holmes, you said he is the British government, a man who moves and shakes behind the public utterances and public actions of the administration.”

  I watched as a stealthy smile formed on my visitor’s bony face.

  “We worked together, Holmes, on a case involving the theft
of plans for a submarine that would revolutionise naval warfare.”

  “You are correct, Watson; the recovery of the Bruce-Partington plans proved crucial in the defence of the Empire in the previous century.”

  “The last century, Holmes? But how is that?”

  “Reincarnation, Watson, that is how, and your memory of at least one of our adventures together proves my point precisely.”

  “I still don’t understand, Holmes.”

  I heard the uncertainty, the frisson of fear in my voice.

  “My dear friend, on occasions you are as dim as ever you were back in your previous lifetime.” There was impatience in the visitor’s countenance and his suspicion of a smile was a ghost from former times together. “Watson, wake up, please.”

  Holmes’s face was a tangle of irascibility and frustration.

  “How could you recall names and events from the past if you had not also lived in those times?”

  “I suppose you must be right, Holmes.”

  My words staggered from my mouth.

  “I am always right, Watson, and you should know that by now.”

  Memories were stirred and shaken inside my head.

  “But we are wasting our time, Watson, and there is work to do.”

  Holmes’s ridiculous bowler hat was already on his head, his cane in his hand, and his gloved hand upon the door of our flat.

  “Wait for me, Holmes.”

  My friend moved fast, leaping from stone step to stone step down the staircase, almost overtaking time as he ran into the street beyond.

  I recollected now other occasions when I had followed Holmes, breathless, red-faced, muscles straining in pursuit of my friend.

  The Adventure of the Solitary Cyclist, The Disappearance of Lady Frances Carfax, The Adventure of the Sussex Vampire.

  When time permitted, I would have to read the volumes bequeathed to me by my grandfather.

  “Wait, Holmes,” I called in despair, “you haven’t told me yet what Mycroft wanted when he came to see you yesterday.”

  Holmes was seated, his back to the wall, in a dimly lit corner of a public house adjacent to the underground railway station of Highbury and Islington.

  He was drumming his long fingers against the table, impatient, while I chewed upon a ham and mustard sandwich.

  “You should eat, Holmes.”

  “I have no time for triviality, Watson, for inconsequentiality.”

  “You cannot live on fresh air, Holmes.”

  “I can assure you that the air in this part of London is no cleaner than it was one hundred and more years ago when we last moved in these quarters. The pollution is merely of a different singularity.”

  I saw no benefit in arguing with my friend and filled my mouth with the last crusts of my sandwich.

  “Holmes,” I asked, “now, what was it Mycroft wanted?”

  “It concerns reincarnation, Watson, the rebirth of a figure crucial for the future of the world.”

  I sat bolt upright in my chair, the last crumbs from my meal tumbling to the floor as I straightened my back and tightened my stomach muscles.

  “I see you are ready for action, Watson, and action you shall see indeed.”

  I smiled a weak smile, fear finding one small unfilled part of my bulging stomach.

  “Have you a gun about your person, Watson?”

  “Holmes, whatever I was in my previous lifetime, I am that man no longer.”

  “A pity, Watson, you were a companion of matchless bravery when I last called you to my side.”

  “I am a lecturer, Holmes, in medieval music, and find no need for weapons.”

  “I recollect one thrilling adventure, Watson, involving the apprehension of several German spies and, if I recall it aright, you omitted from your account of our capture of Von Bork more than one incidence of your own valour and self-sacrifice.”

  “I cannot call it to mind, Holmes, reincarnation or no reincarnation.”

  I found myself the subject of intense scrutiny.

  “No, Watson, but you’ll do for me now, you’ll have to do.”

  I thought we were an odd couple, one who seemed as if he ate no fat and the other as if he ate no lean, and we hurried from the bar, hastened onto the street where crowds poured like wine from a bottle, from the opening of the tube station, where street vendors called out their wares.

  Holmes took an Evening Standard that was thrust in his direction, paused to glance at the headline, shoved the newspaper under my nose.

  “There’s our problem, Watson, damn it.”

  The headline was stark, as dark and full of menace as Holmes’s face.

  Missing Master May Mean War

  “I don’t understand, Holmes, you still haven’t explained…”

  “How can you be so dumb, Watson?”

  “But you never told me…”

  “Curses, Watson, but my brother was depending on me to solve this problem before it became fodder for the press.”

  Inside one of the dark recesses of the Stranger’s Room at the Diogenes Club, I glimpsed, through a thick fug of tobacco smoke, the recumbent figure of Mycroft Holmes.

  “You remember Dr. Watson?”

  “But of course, Holmes.”

  “And our adventures together?”

  The seated man made no effort to rise from his armchair and his cushions. His face was enveloped in a grey-blue smog, making it difficult for me to picture him clearly.

  “Indeed, Holmes, there was an affair, I seem to recall, of a Greek interpreter.”

  “You are correct, Mycroft, a most singular problem that Watson helped me to solve.”

  The hurried journey from Islington to the Diogenes, situated in the secret heart of Whitehall, had left me too tired to protest at any praise from my friend. By now, too, with the clouded vision of Mycroft Holmes before me, I had no further doubts on the matter of reincarnation.

  “I am sorry, Mycroft,” I heard Holmes whisper, “but someone on your side has leaked this information to the press.”

  I watched as Holmes placed his copy of the Evening Standard face-up on the table between us.

  Mycroft picked up the paper, glanced at the headline, returned it to Holmes in what I regarded as a most insouciant manner.

  “It is a sad indictment, indeed, Holmes, of our modern, degraded age.”

  “There is no more I can do, then, Mycroft?” Holmes’s voice was edged with sadness, wistfulness at the apparent loss of an adventure.

  “On the contrary, my dear brother, the spy within our department is the man we need to apprehend, the traitor whose tracks you need to follow, Holmes.”

  Mycroft rose unsteadily to his feet, his rotund physique lending him the momentary appearance of a great ape awakening from deep sleep.

  “Come with me.”

  I followed the two brothers into an unlit corner of the Stranger’s Room and heard a key turn in a lock. “In here, Holmes, in here, Dr. Watson.” Mycroft’s voice was barely audible. “No one can follow us here.”

  A dim electric light bulb, hanging, naked, from the centre of a whitewashed ceiling provided sufficient illumination for the task of talk, for an explanation of the current problems bedevilling the British government, and all that related to the Standard’s headline concerning a missing master.

  “For the last dozen years or so, Dr. Watson, we have been sheltering a Tibetan tulku, a reincarnation of the warrior emperor, Songtsen Gampo, a man so ruthless he had his argumentative younger brother, Tsansong, burned to death.”

  I noted the passage of a serpentine smile and a knowing look between Mycroft and Sherlock Holmes.

  “This man,” Holmes interjected, “believes it is his destiny to free Tibet from the clutches of the Chinese communists.”

  “And he has support from within the hi
ghest echelons of the British ruling classes,” Mycroft added, “and possibly that of the PM himself.”

  I felt myself blushing in the small, locked room with the dim light and the lack of furniture. I could not but be flattered by my inclusion within the orbit of these startling revelations.

  “The problem is, as the world and his wife now know, Watson, that our tulku has disappeared from his safe house.”

  “There is, of course, no real danger of war,” Holmes’s brother added. “That is mere paper talk, but, as I understand it, if the Chinese have taken our Tibetan friend, it may lead to all our clandestine efforts on behalf of subjugated peoples inside the Chinese Empire coming to nothing and, if our man talks when questioned, it could mean the arrest and torture and even deaths of hundreds of our agents working in the East.”

  “But what can we do, Mycroft?”

  I was taken aback by the sound of my own voice—concerned, strident, ready for action, anything at all that was required to preserve the interests of my country. It was as if, I thought, I had returned to inhabit my previous life as a military man who had served the Empire in India and Afghanistan.

  “What you can do, Dr. Watson, with the able assistance of my younger brother, is find the traitor within our midst.”

  “I must phone Mary,” I said, “let her know I shall be away for a few days.”

  The reunited pair of private detective and willing assistant found themselves at London Bridge, awaiting the departure of the next train to the Sussex countryside.

  “Please don’t use that mobile device, Watson.”

  “But, Holmes…”

  “The Chinese will be on our tail, Watson, and they will be waiting and listening for any further information regarding our movements and our whereabouts.”

  “But, Mary…”

  “If Mary Morstan is the woman I know she is, Watson, and she remembers her previous incarnation, she will already know we are about our nation’s business.”

  I followed Holmes from the first-class carriage, stepped down onto the platform at Three Bridges, watched as Holmes appeared to conjure a taxi as if from thin air.