‘ “Unfortunately, doctor, I cannot allow myself the luxury of man-to-man bases. I have to deal in Empires.”
‘ “Empires that have been built by men like T.E. Lawrence. Not that he wants anything for himself apart from the right to be able to hold his head up and say that he has kept his word. An Englishman’s word is his bond, after all. We are respected throughout the world for our honesty and integrity. Once we start dealing in secrets behind people’s backs we lose our credibility and our empire. And, I regret to say Mycroft, it is those behind-the-scenes manipulators, of which you appear to be the prince, who will have the responsibility for that but I doubt that you will get the blame. After the disclosures of the Bolsheviks we are no better in the eyes of the world than the cynical French. Perhaps it is your French blood that has done this to you and you cannot help yourself. No matter what the reason, it is wrong and I blame you, Mycroft Holmes, even if no-one else ever does.”
‘By this time I was rather shaky on my feet but I still held my ground.
‘ “What has happened to honesty and chivalry?” I asked defiantly of the impassive bulk seated before me. His answer made me stumble to a chair in disbelief.
‘ “Neither commodity is deemed to be of value in the politics of the twentieth century, Dr Watson.”
‘ “Not even by Her Majesty’s Government?” I returned from my bemused state.
‘ “Whether it be Her or His Majesty, the British government must be as ruthless as its rivals, or sink. This is another world, Watson, it is time we took our leave of it before all our dreams are scattered.”
‘We sat in silence for several minutes. The clock chimed eight. “It is time for me to leave now, I am twenty minutes late already,” prompted Mycroft. I felt terribly weary yet Mycroft made no move to leave.
‘ “I’ve been thinking recently,” he broke the silence, “about writing a book on how to carry out government. I might call it The Whole Art of Government or some such title. One of the observations shall be that the greater the Empire the more fearful it becomes — in both senses of the word.”
‘ “Another should be,” I replied from some distant age or land, “now that we have entered into an age of machinery all loyalty to codes of conduct based on the ‘cheval’ are dead, and we are the poorer as a consequence.”
‘Mycroft nodded in agreement although he had probably thought of it himself many years before. He then asked me to dine with him at the Foreign Office, reminding me of the importance of the following day — today. He took my silence for assent and went off to telephone ahead. By the time he had returned I was in a cab hurrying towards this armchair.’
With that Watson winced terribly and clutched his shoulder again. ‘I fear that the Jezail bullet has finally done for me, young Stamford.’
‘Blood poisoning?’
‘I fear so. The heat and the hardships of the desert, particularly the forced camel rides over rough terrain seem to have activated the bullet that I got in Afghanistan. Still I must not complain of an extra forty years of life after first being wounded in action.’
‘And what years they have been, Watson.’
‘Indeed. My years with Sherlock Holmes have made me the envy of a whole generation.’
‘Only one, you think? You undervalue yourself and your friend.’
‘You think so? Perhaps you’re right. It will be twelve soon. Shall we have a toast to the new era — despite my misgivings?’
‘Of course, but I think the toast should be to absent friends.’
At this Watson’s face seemed to contort into a living masque of tragedy. I hurried to get the drinks, avoiding the gasogene in favour of its more modern counterpart. Yet another supercession of the machine age which would also become obsolete in its turn no doubt. Somewhere a clock struck twelve and I peered out of the window to try to catch a glimpse of the scenes of jubilation which had not abated all day.
As I looked Watson’s voice entered my consciousness. ‘I have an apology to make to you, young Stamford.’
‘Oh, really,’ I replied rather absently, ‘I can’t think why.’ But before Watson could supply the answer or I could turn to face him I heard a sound that has frozen my blood from Alaska to Zanzibar. This time it was coming from an armchair in 221B Baker Street! It was the wheezing rattle of a dying man. I dropped the glasses and dashed to Watson’s side. His head slumped forward and I heard just one word from his blue lips. It was not ‘Holmes’s or ‘Stamford’, or a plea to God for mercy. It was ‘Mary’.
So died the man whom I had respected above all others. I now had work to do and a debt of honour to discharge. The briefcase seemed to call me to it. They could all wait to the next day. For now that most self-centred of emotions, grief, took over and I wept without restraint.
A Meeting with the Literary Agent
It was with very mixed emotions that several days later I went to see Dr Watson’s literary agent, Dr Conan Doyle. On the one hand I was greatly excited to have in my hand Dr Watson’s briefcase containing a set of stories which my old friend had worked on for publication after his war duties; stories whose contents were known only to the participants but, I felt sure, would soon be shared with so many admirers. On the other hand I wished that it was not me but my friend John H. Watson who was on the way to see his literary agent. I was a messenger of death and the role was not to my liking, particularly when I considered the identity of the deceased.
I soon found his office and quickly ascended the seventeen steps (coincidence?) to his door. A warm, brisk ‘Come in’ answered my slightly trepidatious knock. On entering I found Dr Conan Doyle reading a newspaper — it was the obituary page. He was marching up and down the room shaking his head murmuring, ‘A sad loss, a sad loss.’ He was a large, powerful-looking man of about sixty years. His face was large and open, coloured by many climates. His hair was streaked with white and his heavy moustache was almost pure white. The room was full of books and papers. Shelves were crammed with volumes on a vast variety of subjects from history to medicine, religion to mythology, travel to politics. Papers covered most flat surfaces, including the floor so that the Oriental rugs were like rich jewels covered in white samite. Not that the room was cluttered by them. There was a sense of order and discipline to it all, as though each pile of papers represented separate enterprises of either research or completed chapters of a new saga. There were various relics of palaeontology and archaeology which suggested a recent visitation of Professor Challenger, and on the walls hung photographs of sports teams and a pair of old boxing gloves: wherein reposed his tobacco, I conjectured.
‘Do come in and make yourself comfortable,’ he said, directing me to an armchair with his newspaper, and then realizing the impracticality of my sitting on it without crushing a host of papers he quickly apologized and swept them up with one swift movement of his strong left arm. I was seated, but Dr Conan Doyle remained standing, his heels balancing on the hearth edge.
‘Can I presume you were reading my obituary notice of our lamented dear friend, Dr Watson?’ I asked him.
‘Indeed I was,’ he replied. Then he paused and looked closely at me almost losing his balance and pitching forward into my lap. He then turned to the obituary again and quickly looked through it. ‘Upon my word,’ he said looking back at me. ‘Stamford. Young Stamford. How you’ve changed, you’re not as I imagined you at all.’
I let the ‘How you’ve changed’ pass — we had never met so how could I have changed, unless he had had a strong mental picture of me from Watson’s brief mention of me? Another proof of Watson’s talent, I felt like saying, but perhaps to all doctors young dressers need no further description. Let us hope that it is a happy characterization. I felt embarrassed about my sunken eyes and brown shrivelled look, a far cry from a rugby forward of healthier days. It was almost as though I had betrayed him by my subsequent existence in the Far East. I could not, feeling thus, return the doctor’s frank stare, and looked to the briefcase and tried to say something
about my reason for being here on such a sad day, but it only came out as a stammer. I stopped when I felt a powerful hand rest gently on my shoulder and a voice full of compassion say, ‘Don’t worry old chap, you’ll beat it; Holmes did.’ For a few moments my head remained bowed. What a third man this doctor would have made for Holmes and Watson. A scholar, a sportsman, a sage, an incarnation of manly virtues whose own exploits were worthy of the attention of a biographer of Watson’s ability.
‘Thank you,’ I replied in a whisper as I fumbled to open the briefcase.
‘To business,’ he cried. ‘What have you got there? That looks like Watson’s writing.’
‘Indeed it is, he gave these to me and asked me to show them to you. They are the last of a series that he was working on when he died. Some are complete but others only have an outline. He asked that you get them published as he felt that they showed not only Holmes’s genius as a detective but also something of Holmes the man.’
By this time Dr Conan Doyle had taken the manuscript from me and was looking through it. ‘I see what you mean. Presumably the Problem of Thor Bridge is complete as are some of the others, but the majority are only in outline with such references as “Holmes’s humour is revealed here, exchange with Count Sylvius”, and then a blank which we can only take to mean that John was going to fill in later when his time was not so pressed.’
Again he looked through the manuscript. ‘Does Holmes know about Watson’s intention to publish these cases?’
‘Indeed he does,’ I replied. ‘He even knows about the unfinished nature of some of them.’
‘Does he agree with their publication?’
‘As you know, he never could agree with Watson’s way of presenting the cases, and so he told me to go ahead and kindly not disturb him further as his researches were in a critical phase at the moment. Here I have his wire, it arrived a few days ago. He also has a few interesting suggestions to make about the cases in question.’
The doctor took the note, but before he started to read he asked me, ‘What did he say of Watson’s death? I am sure that the news will be hard on him.’
‘Apart from suggesting that I write the obituary — nothing.’
‘Nothing? This is indeed a mystery.’
‘No, I think not, Dr Conan Doyle. You see they had already said goodbye when Von Bork was apprehended by them, and repetition would only be maudlin.’
‘Or as Holmes would say, “work is the best way to combat sorrow”. Hence no doubt his desire not to be disturbed in his researches. They have become more critical for the moment as his grief is greatest. His sorrow must be great.’
‘As I think you will see from the conclusion of the case he entitles the Three Garidebs, Watson has let us know the true depth of Holmes’s feelings for him. We can measure his grief despite the coldness of his letter.’
The doctor turned to the relevant passage in the manuscript. He nodded his agreement and then read Holmes’s letter. When finished he closed the letter and appeared to be deep in thought. Decisively he looked up — ‘Well, what do you say, young Stamford? Are you game?’
‘Oh yes, of course,’ I cried, ‘but why not yourself ?’
‘Me?! The very idea. I’m only a literary agent who dabbles in history . . .’
‘And whose interests and abilities go far beyond that. Beyond the grave even, may I say?’
‘Have you not been inspired to that path yourself, Stamford?’
‘I fear that my study of esoterica has been confined to too short and narrow a view.’
‘Yes, many who find solace in drugs feel that they are crossing the threshold of infinity. It is only the truly inspired who see the falsity of this position. I do not mean that I am especially inspired, but Holmes is.’
‘What do you mean, doctor?’
‘During the hiatus he travelled far and wide in the East — as you yourself have done — but his travels were for different reasons from yours. I know you will take this in the right spirit judging from your earlier reaction, but your travels were primarily sensual despite the honesty and integrity of your original motives. Holmes travelled to learn more about the cosmos, both macro and micro. As you know he was only setting Watson a set of clues when they first met — as he probably did with you. You reacted differently so that we now talk of Holmes and Watson, not Holmes and Stamford as might have been the case in different circumstances. Watson’s list of Holmes’s learning was absurd in relation to his real knowledge. Theology had been his forte, and the study of the infinite was an inseparable part of his being from his earliest days. There were only two courses that his inquiries would lead him — Buddhism or Spiritualism. As you probably know he chose the former, I have followed the latter course.’
I pondered his words, as he paused before continuing. ‘Holmes the man was different after the hiatus. He was more full. Gone were the youthful extremes noted by Watson. The machine, non-laughing logician was replaced by the philosopher. He had learnt to relax, a quality which earnest youth cannot experience, but the older Holmes was better for it. I hope he has found peace at last.’
I nodded my agreement.
‘Now if you will excuse me, I would like to read the completed cases that you have brought me, and then perhaps we can return to Holmes’s original proposition re their publication. I am a fast reader and shall not detain you long. Have a smoke if you wish,’ he said holding out a boxing glove.
‘Thank you, doctor. I wish to think, if I may.’
And so the two of us fell into silence, but not a listless silence as though on the banks of Lethe. We were both immersed in a far more turbulent river. He with the cases of the world’s greatest detective, I with my memories and newly formed resolution. Cocaine would no longer be my aluminium crutch, I would be free of its influence. Holmes’s example and Conan Doyle’s friendship would be my spirit guides in this, my greatest trial.
The great man read on. At the end of Thor Bridge he nodded in recognition of a genuine masterpiece. The Three Garidebs, earned his grudging approval, as did the Sussex Vampire, but it was with the Veiled Lodger that he seemed most moved. He read over and over again ‘The ways of fate are indeed hard to understand. If there is not some compensation hereafter, then the world is a cruel jest,’ and ‘Your life is not your own. Keep your hands off it.’ Then in a lower voice he murmured, ‘The example of patient suffering is in itself the most precious of all lessons to an impatient world.’ He looked no further through the remaining outlines, apart from a very brief scan. He was in another world, where there is peace and there is snow. The Brahmin wheel was in a land of mist inside his inner thoughts. He was at one with Holmes. Abruptly he roused himself from his reveries and looked at me again. I raised my gaze expectantly but for a few moments he was silent, his mind working too quickly for the words to form on his tongue. Finally he said, ‘Well what do you say to Holmes’s suggestion?’
‘I will if you will,’ I replied. He looked taken aback for a moment, but his resolve would not be shaken. ‘Then it is agreed, The Problem of Thor Bridge, The Veiled Lodger, The Three Garidebs and The Sussex Vampire shall be published as they stand. Which do you wish to work on?’
‘Which do you wish to complete?’ I replied, playing for time.
‘If you insist, I have a liking for The Illustrious Client, Shoscombe Old Place, The Lion’s Mane, and perhaps The Retired Colourman. I think that I could do something with them. What do you say, young Stamford?’
I had to smile at my perennial adjective — it was like a Christian name to me now. That left me The Blanched Soldier, The Mazarin Stone, The Three Gables, and The Creeping Man. Ideas were already forming in my mind. The first could be from Holmes’s pen with an introduction to praise Watson’s efforts and so vindicate his much criticized labours after all these years. I owed him that — as did Holmes, I felt. With the third I hoped to be able to act on Watson’s directions and show Holmes engaging in witty repartee, as flashing as his singlestick. The fourth was a problem, b
ut with The Missing Three-Quarter and The Three Students to guide me I felt confident of imitating Watson’s tact and discretion re ‘one of our great university towns’. That left The Mazarin Stone. For that I thought that I would try something completely different — a Holmes tale told in the third person, the only one of the entire published oeuvre (if we discount the Last Bow). Carried away on a cloud of my own elation, I turned to the literary agent and cried, ‘Agreed!’
Dr Conan Doyle chuckled deeply, and said, ‘I thought that you would not be able to resist Holmes’s idea. But I warn you I keep strict deadlines — there can be no indulging in habits that will fog your mind and blunt your pen. Is that clear?’
Despite the warmth of his face I could see that he was not making light of our enterprise. I rose and said, ‘You have my word, Dr Conan Doyle.’
To which he replied, ‘And you shall have my hand on it.’
We shook hands like old friends who had been lost but now were found. It was from that moment that I date my recovery from cocaine addiction for which I shall ever bless the example of Holmes, the memory of Watson, and the help of Dr Conan Doyle.
As we drank a toast in his office, Dr Conan Doyle spoke up with a mischievous smile. ‘This will be a pretty puzzle for the scholars of the future. I wonder if any will spot our ruse?’
‘It will take a bible scholar!’ I remarked, unaware of the accuracy of my prophecy.[3]
We both laughed. ‘What shall we call it?’ I asked.
‘You mean when they are all collected together in one volume for publication?’ he replied.
‘Yes.’
‘Did you not say that Watson had given you a book of cases? Surely the answer is obvious.’
I nodded my agreement. Thus The Casebook would be its title. We toasted that decision too.
Watson's Last Case Page 4