Watson’s Last Case
Ian Alfred Charnock
© Ian Alfred Charnock 1999.
Ian Alfred Charnock has asserted her rights under the Copyright, Design and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work.
First published in the UK by Baker Street Studios Ltd, 1999.
This edition published in 2018 by Endeavour Media Ltd.
Table of Contents
Part One - Doctor’s Orders
In the Bar of the Criterion
On Active Service
A Meeting with the Literary Agent
Part Two - Watson’s Last Case
Mycroft Remembered
Mycroft Remembers: The Diogenes
The Report
Part Three - A Scholar’s Appendix
The Solitary Student
Victor Trevor’s Narrative
Stamford Resumes
Sherlock Holmes — The Early Years (by Miss Stamford)
Stamford Continues
The Attendant Three-Quarter
The Dresser
Part One - Doctor’s Orders
‘Whatever have you been doing with yourself, Watson?’
From A Study in Scarlet
In the Bar of the Criterion
Well do I remember meeting John H. Watson MD in the Criterion bar all those years ago. As Watson himself observed we had never been particular cronies at the hospital — for a start he was a three-quarter (which was no easy position in those days, and he took on an even more demanding role in his later playing days, which was to prove very influential on the subsequent development of Rugby Union Football, not that the modest biographer ever mentioned any of this) and I was a pack man; front row in fact. Also we were several years apart in age. Nonetheless I had always got on with him. He was always very fair and kept his dressers in order. Thus it came as no surprise to learn that he had joined the army after taking his degree. However, it was certainly a surprise to see the state that he was in that day at the Criterion.
At first I did not really recognize him and so remained in my corner seat and merely observed him as one would any interesting stranger.
I noticed the stiff arm, the slightly unsteady walk which in conjunction with the thinness of his flesh covering — he looked as though he was wearing an elder, larger brother’s clothes — all confirmed my diagnosis that here was a wounded soldier, not a drunken one. But was it Watson? The deep tan and thinness put me out but witnessing his solidity despite his injuries and privations as he stood at the bar steadfast as ever convinced me. I jumped up from my seat and tapped him on the shoulder. To my surprise, and pleasure, he recognized me instantly and greeted me like a brother despite the already noted slightness of our acquaintance. In truth we were brothers after a fashion, not just of the Hippocratic Oath but in our loneliness. I was delighted to see him. That was always the effect that he had on people in distress whether they knew him well or hardly at all. He would have passed with high honours the test that a much later British general of Norman stock devised, viz. ‘Is he the sort of man you can rely on to take into the bush with you?’ Most definitely he was.
My loneliness was self-imposed as a result of some foolishness of youth which I am pleased to say that my friend did not reveal in his writings and which I do not intend to do even now.
Watson’s loneliness was also self-imposed, not that he had anything to be ashamed of. He had made quite a few friends in London during his hospital and Blackheath rugby days — one must never underestimate his qualities — but I assume that he kept out of their way because he was not really up to much socializing (young doctors of the rugby fraternity can be rather boisterous) and also because he no doubt felt that on eleven shillings and sixpence a day he was hardly in a position to pay his way in society or reciprocate hospitality. How he paid for our luncheon at the Holborn I cannot say, neither did I think it correct to enquire.
However, all of this is of little consequence now compared with the great service that I was able to render Mr Sherlock Holmes which was, of course, to introduce him to his — I was going to say his Jonathan, or Oliver, or Gibbon, or even Boswell but all are inadequate. Suffice to say Holmes now had his Watson.
My part was now over and I disappear completely from the scene never to be mentioned again even in passing. However that may be on the surface, there is more to young Stamford than meets the eye.
On Active Service
A signal sounded and complete strangers embraced. In the Circus there was dancing in the streets and unrestrained singing. In the Square the lions looked on in dignified silence as crowds swayed around them to the accompaniment of patriotic songs. The whole of London was glistening with the tears of happiness, relief and remembrance. It was the eleventh hour of the eleventh day of the eleventh month, 1918.
The Criterion bar was awash with bonhomie. The Zeppelins, Somme and Passchendaele were already only a nightmare — but three among many that would haunt a generation to their graves. I stood four square to the bar my hand gripping the rail as I ordered a large planter’s punch. I still wore my naval surgeon’s uniform, the thickness of its cloth proof against the biting November morning. ‘And another for any navy man, royal or merchant, who should ask for a bungyereye,’ I added placing my last £5 note on the bar with a conspiratorial wink. Meadows, the barman, murmured a discreet ‘Of course, sir,’ and went about his business.
I looked around me at the men gathered in the bar. All were in uniform, but the khaki was not drab on this first morning; it was enlivened by the faces of its occupants now so alive and animated after the last four years of unimaginable, unfathomable degradation. There were also groups of women in the bar — an unthinkable state of affairs four short/long years ago. The war had brought unexpected changes, many of which I have still not caught up with. In days gone by the only women to be found unescorted in such places would have been harlots but here in the Criterion bar their starched nurses’ uniforms concealed any differences between heiresses and whores, haves and have nots, giving them all the appearance of angels of mercy. Their cheeks were as rosy as Worcesters, their eyes as bright as pips, their lips as red as cherries, and their complexions as glowing with life as a healthy newborn babe. I smiled a quiet knowing smile to myself and inwardly laughed. Here was I, ‘Young’ Stamford rhapsodising over girls who were young enough, in some cases at least, to be my grandchildren. Yet still I smiled. History had made a bit of a player of me before, but now my old age had made me into an observer. ‘Stumpy’ Stamford had survived and each breath was more poignant as a result.
Just as I toasted a group of weary but elated Devonshires I felt a hand rest on my shoulder. It was at once firm, friendly and unmistakable. I almost mouthed the words of greeting before I had turned.
‘My word, it’s young Stamford,’ said a voice from my past. I turned and saw a stranger. My breath left my body and my brows knitted as I attempted to put a name to the face. ‘As thin as a lathe and as brown as a nut,’ prompted my new companion. Our eyes met and a thousand wonderful feelings passed between us.
‘It’s John H. Watson.’
My companion smiled, ‘Indeed so, young Stamford.’
Spontaneously we hugged as though we were brothers, once prodigal now united. Some of the Devonshires had seen us and witnessing our ecstasy applauded. Our warmth became self-conscious. We ran a gauntlet of hearty back-slapping and ‘Well done, the men,’ as we retired to a corner seat where some thirty-eight years before I had sat and seen a hero ‘as thin as a lathe and brown as a nut’ come into the Criterion and order a sherry.
At first we could only look at each other. We could not believe it. We had survived! To be young must have been very heaven that day but to be r
eunited with old friends believed deceased was an even sweeter joy. We chuckled at each other and starting speaking at the same time. We then both stopped at the same time. After two more false starts Watson took command and asked, ‘How did your war go?’
I quickly outlined my work on the convoys, the chief memories being the bitter cold and the boredom.
‘Is that why you have a full set [of fungus] now? I did not recognize you at first and observed you from this corner seat for several minutes before I dared to chance my arm. Not only did I have to mentally shave you but I had to take your hat off as well.’
He answered my puzzled look. ‘The red hair with the lock of carrot. No-one that I have ever met has had such hair.’ I then realized that I must have taken my hat off when we cheered the eleventh hour.
‘I would have been in trouble if the years had taken your hair as well as your youth, Stamford.’
We both laughed. I was about to offer a toast to red hair when a young Royal Flying Corps, or should I say RAF chap, bumped into our table. He steadied himself and said, ‘You command more by your gravity than any grey hair.’ We chortled and suggested an alternative corruption of his ‘Othello’. ‘No matter,’ he replied. ‘My apologies to the fouled anchor,’ he said saluting me. ‘And please forgive me, sir,’ he said to Watson, standing to attention and saluting. Despite his obvious discomfort Watson rose and reciprocated the gesture. In a moment the scene had been dispelled but the impression endured. I studied Watson. He was very thin and despite the brownness of his burnt skin he had a strange pallor about him, a curious mixture of green and yellow which extended to the whites of his eyes. Watson was a sick man. The RAF man had gone and Watson had resumed his seat. What had he been up to?
‘What have I been up to?’ He smiled in answer to the unspoken question that was obviously clear to read on my features. ‘Would that I could tell you and that you would be able to believe me.’
‘You are no liar, Watson. Of course I would believe you.’
‘But we were talking about you, Stamford. Surely there was more to convoy work than cold and boredom?’
‘Oh yes. There was fear and there was work.’
‘Were you at Jutland or the Dogger Bank in your travels?’
‘No. That was a job for the Senior Service, not the red duster.’
Watson sipped his drink. I had to take the initiative and try to make him talk about himself. As Holmes had had occasion to say more than once, Watson had never given himself sufficient credit for his own abilities. I adopted a light-hearted approach.
‘Enough of the old sea-dog, what about the old soldier? If I were to combine my skills as a ship’s surgeon with Holmes’s powers of deduction, I would say that you have been doing your bit for king and country. You have been wounded and your theatre was the Frontier.’
Watson smiled at the mention of his old friend.
‘Perhaps you will explain?’
‘It’s easy: your tan is from a sun that we seldom find penetrating London’s dismal clouds or France’s mud so you have been to hotter climes. Your bearing shows you as a military man despite the fact that you are not in uniform under your army greatcoat. That flyer assumed you were of high rank into the bargain.’
‘But the wound and the Frontier?’
‘I’m coming to that. You are too old, begging your pardon, Watson, as I am only several years your junior, to have been at the front, therefore you have been showing the flag and recruiting in your old stamping ground of India and the Frontier. You were an ideal choice. As to the wound, your arm is a little stiff and you are not the right colour around the gills. Howzat?’
‘Not out, I’m afraid, Stamford. I have not been wounded. True, I am a little stiff-jointed at the moment, but that is an English November, not wounds received at the front; this time, that is. Also, I have not been to India recruiting, but to the front in . . . But no, it is too crowded here. We must go somewhere else. What about . . .’
‘The Holborn, of course!’ I interjected. ‘I owe you a meal. Admittedly it’s taken me thirty-eight years to get round to it but at least you cannot fault my memory or accuse me of trying to duck my debts.’
‘Well, I wasn’t . . .’ started Watson, but I was too enthusiastic to brook any prevarication.
‘No, no, I insist. This time I must pay and you shall have as much Beaune as you could wish.’ With that we stepped out of the Criterion and into the swaying masses thronging Piccadilly Circus singing ‘Auld Lang Syne’ for the tenth time already. For a moment Watson staggered in the crush. I put an arm around him and gripped his belt tightly. ‘Ah, the old front row grip, I see,’ observed Watson, his eyes twinkling. After much toing and froing in search of a cab, Watson tugged my sleeve and shouted above the din, ‘I think the Holborn may be overbooked today. Come back to my place.’
‘Is that Queen Anne Street? Or did you finally take over in Harley Street?’
‘Indeed I did, but I sold out when I retired at the start of the war, so really it’s neither.’
‘Where to then?’
‘221B Baker Street.’
It was with a thrill that I heard those words. What adventure would be in store for me there? After a journey made longer by the crowds of jostling revellers we arrived at the famous address. It was the first time that I had been there and I approached the door with something akin to reverence. Once inside, Watson soon had everything under control. The lunch was ordered, the fire stoked up, greatcoat exchanged for a dressing gown, pipe lit and armchair occupied, as I poured the drinks and grappled with the gasogene. ‘Oh, don’t bother with that, Stamford. Use the syphon, it’s much better. Only Holmes could ever work that old thing.’
As I poured I looked around at the sitting room which had been the starting point of so many wonderful adventures that I had followed religiously no matter where I was. It looked just as Watson had described it in his famous stories — perhaps a trifle tidier. Watson informed me as I gave him his drink that he had restored it as far as possible to its former glories but Holmes had taken his papers and voluminous commonplace books with him so that the room had lost some of its earlier clutter. In the corner was a collection of chemistry equipment but it was collecting dust from lack of use. A violin lay on its side, but as Watson said, it was not the original 55/- Stradivarius. Understandably Holmes had taken that with him to Sussex. A Persian slipper still contained tobacco which I replenished with some of my genuine Ship’s, much to Watson’s delight.
Before long our meal appeared as did several bottles of Beaune still shrouded in a thick layer of cellar dust. Watson winked, ‘A good soldier always has something in reserve.’
When we had finished our meal we returned to our armchairs on either side of the fire. Watson sat in thought for several minutes as though trying to resolve a problem. At last he reached a decision and fixed me with a solemn face. ‘Do you know, Stamford,’ he began, ‘I knew that you would be in the Criterion today. For some reason I felt that you just had to be, although the fungus camouflage fooled me for a moment. Yes, odd isn’t it, but one gets strangely lucid about certain things at my time of life. There are several things that I want you to do for me if it’s not too much trouble.’
‘Anything, Watson old chap, you know that.’
‘Well done, Stamford. I knew I could rely on you. In that briefcase over there you will find twelve cases of Sherlock Holmes in one of my books. I want you to go and see my literary agent and get them published. They are some of the oddest cases that we were ever involved in but there are several cases that mean a lot to me because they reveal more of Holmes the man than most of my other efforts. Their publication will put Holmes into some sort of proper perspective. Unfortunately I have only fully completed four of them but the others only need a little burnishing to be ready and the notes are very full.’
‘Why don’t you finish them now the war’s over?’
Watson smiled, ‘Oh, I may, but you know how things pile up. I just wanted to be sure that yo
u would be able to lend a helping hand if need be. Another drink?’
I ordered another absently — I was worried about Watson. But, as if to prove that my fears were groundless, he bounded across to the drinks, topped up our glasses and with a deft flick brought the gasogene into life. ‘Well, that’s something I seem to have learnt from Holmes.’
‘What of Sherlock Holmes?’ I asked as Watson regained his seat.
‘I wrote to him the other day asking permission to publish. I expect his wire at any moment; he never wrote if he could wire. I think he still prefers it to the telephone. He will say yes, as long as he is not disturbed. No doubt making more observations on the queen bee to add to his work.’
‘Have you seen him at all recently?’
‘No, not since the Von Bork episode at the start of the war.’
‘Do you know how he is?’
‘I only know that he gets crippling bouts of rheumatism but then don’t we all?’ At that a moment a bout seemed to take hold of Watson as he gripped his shoulder. ‘Blast that bullet and London in November.’ After a few moments he seemed to recover but despite his tan he looked pale and drawn.
‘Are you all right, old chap?’
‘Fine, fine, Stamford young fella. Now where was I? Holmes. Oh yes, that’s right. All the other cases I was involved in are in my despatch box at Cox and Co, Charing Cross — if a Zeppelin didn’t drop a bomb on them, that is — and Holmes will decide their future. Which brings me to why I wanted to see you of all people, Stamford. You too know of several cases from the inside as it were, that were before my time. Would you tell me about them? Do you know about the “singular affair of the aluminium crutch”? Who was Ricoletti, and why did Holmes describe his wife as abominable? First you must tell me and then I shall tell you about my adventure at the front.’
It seemed a fair deal to me. Thus throughout the afternoon of that first day of peace I told my old friend about Algernon Berry and Delicia Ogilvy, Matilda Briggs, Olga Pleshkarova, Mrs Farintosh and the opal tiara, Ricoletti and his wife, the extraordinary Tarleton murders, and finally, Vanberry. He never ceased to be amazed by the phenomenal abilities of his old friend despite the fact that he had seen him at work from close quarters on hundreds of occasions. Perhaps that had been part of the attraction for Holmes. As well as his goodness and honesty, Watson was also an enthusiastic admirer of Holmes’s gifts and no matter what might be said to the contrary Holmes did have a streak of vanity in his character, particularly at the beginning. In return, Watson asked if there was any particular case that I wished to hear about. There was only one but when he had filled in the details and explained the connections between the politician, the lighthouse and the trained cormorant, it was my turn to be amazed.
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