Best and Wisest Man

by Hamish Crawford

  Once the detectives caught up with him, Mr. Small was quick to observe that my father’s conduct was honourable. I shall always preserve the noble memory I have of him, and it is entirely unfair of me to judge his conduct from such a distance, and so many years after the fact. Nevertheless, the way that he and his fellow officers seized treasure for themselves left me ill at ease. True, it was treasure that Small and three Sikhs had themselves claimed from an unsuspecting Raj. But throughout the affair, Small - in spite of his uncouth manner and criminal preoccupation - had demonstrated loyalty and fidelity to his confederates, whether black or white-skinned. By contrast, the English officers and gentlemen - Major Sholto chief among them - grasped at treasure as though it was their birthright, and betrayed the trust of someone who had expected better of them. My father was, I have come to feel sure, not guilty of anything of that magnitude, but once again I was moved to consider how naïve my impressions were of noble Englishmen bringing peace and security to benighted colonies.

  Oh dear, I am becoming submerged in irrelevant ruminations. These are all thoughts that have grown in me since the conclusion of the case. Between our initial journey to meet the Sholtos and the account from Mr. Small that concluded this tale, I remained at home while Holmes and Dr. Watson went about their investigations. No doubt my sex by default precluded me from participating in the rigours of this adventure. I dare say even Holmes possessed enough sensitivity and proper gentlemanly conduct to deem matters of murder and boat-pursuit unsuitable for a lady to be involved in. However, in my marrow I was somewhat saddened to be left out of the men’s work. As several days passed, I came to think that I would enjoy any excuse to spend more time with Dr. Watson.

  I contented myself with my lessons, though the students had now conspired to add to my torpor with unruly behaviour. Seeing me gaze out the window wistfully instead of looking over one child’s handwriting exercises, Mrs. Forrester guessed the cause of my distraction.

  “It’s Sherlock Holmes, isn’t it? I knew you would find him fascinating, and he is an appropriate age for a lady like you as well.”

  “Mrs. Forrester!” I cried. “Surely you did not send me to this detective merely to … affiance me? And Mr. Holmes to boot!”

  “Do you not find him an eligible bachelor?” she asked. “If anyone could melt his stoic exterior, I am sure it would be you, my dear.”

  I shook my head. “There must be a stronger word than ‘stoic’ for Mr. Holmes’s exterior. I find him an interesting and stimulating mind, but certainly not a suitor. It is too late, anyway, for a woman of my age to think of marriage. I am perfectly happy without it.”

  “My dear Mary, methinks you doth protest too much.”

  It was a well-worn quotation, but I could not deny its truth. After some prodding, I finally admitted, “It was his friend Watson I thought of.” As soon as I had said the words, I felt very foolish.

  “Watson? Holmes worked on my case alone. Is this Watson a detective as well?”

  “He is a doctor who assists Holmes. They are so unlike - he is quiet and observes everything. Whereas Holmes is always talking and demonstrating his brilliance, the doctor stands on the sidelines.” Now I had started, I could not stop talking about Watson’s admirable features. I must confess I even said, “He is far more handsome than Holmes as well. He has a very distinguished moustache.”

  Mrs. Forrester found this gossip grandiloquently amusing. “Had I only known a simple soup-strainer would melt your heart! Cecil’s friends have all manner of vile handlebars.”

  “Oh, Mrs. Forrester, he is a truly special man. He is so polite and pleasant to me, such a decent and courteous gentleman …” I could not continue, for I had blushed.

  “Doesn’t sound nearly as interesting as Holmes, I must say,” Mrs. Forrester opined.

  “Well then, you may marry Holmes,” I concluded, and we both collapsed into laughter at the prospect.

  Though they were few and far between, opportunities nevertheless arose to get to know dear Watson better. He relaxed considerably, and I inferred from his manner that he had been a long time out of the company of women.

  For all I anticipated our time together and enjoyed his company when he came to me, every moment carried with it the tinge of sadness. At this stage, after all, he was primarily interested in the mystery. I was merely a paying client to him and his colleague. I worried that my possible interest might breach some professional code of ethics. Furthermore, perhaps he would regard my interest as a mere infatuation. I thought of Mrs. Forrester - as amusing as she was, there was something perhaps partly tragic about her interest in Holmes. Though she concealed it in badinage, there was clearly a longing that she felt since her husband Cecil’s death. When I mentioned her name to Holmes when we first met, he betrayed only the briefest flicker of recognition. His passion was reserved for the specifics of her case. She was, to him, no more real or interesting than an encyclopaedia entry.

  My second worry concerned the outcome of this investigation. I stood to gain a quarter-share of an incredible fortune, according to Thaddeus Sholto. From the beginning I knew Watson was a gentleman through and through - something I could not certainly say of Holmes. But his credentials were a source of sadness as well, as I knew he would never deviate from the peculiar code that governs such persons’ actions. When I gained my wealth, such a man would immediately feel unable to continue making my acquaintance, as he would be unable to match my newfound wealth and style of life.

  Oh, how long I pondered that! More than pondering, even; I agonized over its complications. I tried to think of a way around it, a way to tell this dear man that he need not feel bound by such abstract concerns. Once again, the petty business of money, which had claimed my father, was now to take another dear man away from me.

  I confess, though, that contemplating such matters had left me particularly melancholy, when late one evening, the servant entered the drawing-room and told me, “There is a Doctor John Watson at the door, ma’am. He is accompanied by a policeman.”

  “Show him in.”

  The servant impudently arched an eyebrow in judgement. The hour was far too late to admit such a visitor, and it occurred to me that the fellow thought any man in the company of a police inspector must be on the wrong side of the law. I was happy to see Watson at any hour, even if he was thought to be a criminal.

  As he entered, I took shelter in the corner of the drawing-room, in a convenient basket-chair. I had taken little care of my appearance, not anticipating gentleman callers, and so I dimmed all lights in the room save a shaded lamp next to the basket-chair, lest he see the melancholy etched into my face.

  It caused me some amusement to see him appear before me. I could well imagine the poor servant’s incredulity. Frankly, he looked an utter mess. His smart Chesterfield overcoat was flecked with daubs of oil and heavy patches of gunpowder, the sleeves were ripped, and the lapels were bent inwards. He carried with him a peculiar piscine smell, and the bowler hat he handed to the servant was punctured.

  Seeing him standing there, nervousness re-entered my demeanour. I was suddenly struck by the realization that after my protracted longing that we might share some time alone together, this was the first time we had done so.

  My worry at this caused me to become quite garrulous: “I heard a cab drive up. I thought Mrs. Forrester had come back early, but I never dreamed it might be you. What news have you brought me?”

  In writing this conversation, I am aware now that I sounded positively cold with him. This was not in any way sincere, but was merely my way of defending myself against the inevitable heartbreak I seemed destined for.

  “I have brought something better than news,” he declared. “I have brought something which is worth all the news in the world. I have brought you a fortune.”

  He was full of good cheer, and for his sake I smiled and nodded indulgently. But as I looked down at that box, I could only see the object that would stand between this wonderful man and me.

>   “Is that the treasure then?” I asked coolly.

  My bland response somewhat surprised him. “Yes, this is the great Agra treasure,” he grandly confirmed. “Half of it is yours and half is Thaddeus Sholto’s.” After this, he launched into somewhat pedantic detail about the great benefit it would bring to me. I could not listen, though, because the prospect of such a life ahead of me seemed so dreary.

  So, when Watson had finished speaking, I shook my head at his childlike enthusiasm and tried to respond without betraying my feelings. “If I have it, I owe it to you.”

  Watson looked away from me, and his bluster continued. “No, no, not to me, but to my friend Sherlock Holmes. With all the will in the world, I could never have followed up a clue which has taxed even his analytical genius. As it was, we very nearly lost it at the last moment.”

  Consumed with grief over our imminent farewell, I contained myself and showed no emotion when he outlined the various avenues of his investigation. All of it - the clever dog Toby following a scent, only to be distracted by the smell of creosote, Holmes uncovering the path of the boat Aurora, his disguise as an aged maritime man, even a chase down the Thames with ample pistol fire exchanged - passed me in growing disinterest. I cringe now as I think of poor James - poor Watson, rather - squirming in discomfort, thinking my disinterest was with him. That he could think I viewed this conversation a dull prelude to recovering my birthright! No sentiment could have been farther from the truth.

  I was brought resoundingly back to the conversation, though, when he casually added, “The poison dart came within an inch of us.”

  “Did you say a poison dart?”

  “Oh yes,” he said airily. “Wielded by Tonga, the Andaman Islander who assisted Small.”

  His mention of a near-death experience - and the way he casually said it, giving it no more thought than the stripes painted to disguise the Aurora -made me feel very faint. He dashed to my side with a glass of water, and I attempted to shrug it off. “Forgive me, Miss Morstan, I sometimes get carried away with these gloomy details.”

  “Details? More than a detail, I think. To think that you could have been killed!”

  “But I was not,” he replied, “So I do not think of it.”

  I must admit that this statement struck me as rather foolish. Now that we have told each other so much about ourselves, and I came to know exactly how many times he had faced death, that I understood how essential this laissez-faire outlook was.

  At the time though, he returned to talk of the treasure. I grew downright irritated with him when he said, “I got leave to bring it with me, thinking that it would interest you to be the first to see it.”

  Only for his sake did I muster some interest and reply, “It would be of the greatest interest to me.” I knew well from my students that such superlative statements tend to sound sarcastic when said in this way, and Watson’s raised eyebrow told me he was very confused by my reactions. Admittedly, I was somewhat interested in the elaborate Indian carvings on the box (“Benares metal-work,” Watson explained). As the key had been thrown into the Thames during their pursuit, Watson then needed to force the box open with a nearby poker.

  My heart was in my hands as the box snapped open. It was completely empty! Its weight was entirely due to that iron casing, which was an inch thick. We stood in silence, looking down at it. I could not think of anything to say - after all the trouble he and Holmes had taken to retrieve this, I imagined Watson would feel that he had failed. I thought he would be very bitter indeed - that his days of work had borne no fruit, and that he had nearly been killed over an empty box!

  “The treasure is lost,” I stated. It instantly seemed fatuous, but I could think of no other comment to make.

  I looked across, and saw a curious transformation. Watson’s earlier animation dropped away, and he became for a second quite still. Then he stepped back, and his entire body seemed to relax. Even while at ease, he tended to stand with a slight stoop due to his war wound, but he did not do that now. He sighed heavily.

  I stepped nearer to him, uncertain what was happening.

  “Thank God!” His cry was so completely heartfelt that he instantly looked ashen-faced and turned away from me.

  At that moment, I suddenly became filled with the thought - and the hope - that I knew what he was thinking, and offered him an inquisitive smile. “Why do you say that?”

  “Because you are within my reach again,” he explained, taking my hand. His voice trembled with emotion, which he was audibly struggling to hold in check. “Because I love you, Mary, as truly as ever a man loved a woman. Because this treasure, these riches, sealed my lips. Now that they are gone I can tell you I love you. That is why I say, ‘Thank God.’”

  “Then I say ‘Thank God,’ too.” With that, he drew me into his arms, and I thought of the great fortune I had gained by the loss of that treasure.

  16 July - I had to break off my writing last night, as recalling these events quite whipped me into a reverie. When I think how level-headed and pragmatic I used to be, such gaiety seems all the sillier. The Mary Morstan of six months ago would think me a strange regression to a fancy-taking juvenile. But I do not care for the views of that younger person, because I know that I am wiser for it.

  Holmes brought the ‘Sign of the Four’ investigations to a conclusion last week. As he was putting the finishing touches on the case, he had less use of assistance. Consequently, I saw more of James, and we began to plan our happy day. The other day, on a whim, I had purchased a rather handsome picture of that esteemed veteran of the Crimean War, General Gordon. I had a feeling that, as an old campaigner and a keen military enthusiast, he would appreciate it. To my delight, he was very grateful and has set about getting it framed.

  “It shall perfectly complement this one I have of Henry Ward Beecher, I think.”

  I must confess I did not quite see how the two pictures complemented each other, and James’s desire to hang framed likenesses of them in our house seemed a touch eccentric. But so enthused was he at the concept that I did not chide him.

  Tonight he is formally announcing his intentions to Holmes. “I shall have to broach the subject of departing from Holmes’s side very carefully,” he warned me, adding vaguely and darkly, “It could unbalance him quite considerably.”

  I teased him that he seemed more nervous about this aspect than about asking me for my hand.

  In his absence, I invited my dear friend Kate Whitney to tea. Her husband Isa was out of town for the night, and she had not had the opportunity to congratulate me. I duly told her all about my dear James. I suspect I had begun to bore her, I was so besotted with him.

  “He may have only his modest army pension and his practice, but we shall be quite happy. James does worry far too much.”

  “Forgive me,” Kate asked, “who is James? I thought the gentleman was John Watson.”

  “Oh, I call him James. That is the name we have settled on for him.”

  “Mary, I am confused. Is his name James or John?”

  “I had initially called him John, but he confessed that the name had bad associations for him.”

  “He didn’t like his own name?”

  “Oh, it is all his family, Kate. That family holds few happy memories for him. Just before I met him, his elder brother Henry died. It was a long and drawn-out affair, as the poor man had lapsed into alcoholism. It was the shame of his family.”

  Lest the reader think it indiscreet of me to discuss this with Kate, I should explain that shortly after we met, she had taken me into her confidence about some of her own troubles. Isa, you see, had his share of addictions. He fancied himself a poet, and at college had become so impressed with those writings of Thomas De Quincey that he became an opium addict. It was in fact, an episode relating to opium that had caused his hospitalization in July, when I first consulted Holmes.

  Anyway, I continued relating our conversation to Kate.

  “ ‘But you see, Mary,’ James said
to me, ‘It was Henry who primarily called me John. After that, when I joined in the army, I tended to be addressed by my surname, and as Holmes has some of the vestigial mannerisms of a public schoolboy he has done the same. Therefore, I have not been called by my Christian name since my brother. Thinking about him …’ And at this point he lost his composure. It is another reason we are so admirably suited to one another. We are both well acquainted with family tragedy. There is such sadness in him, Kate, and I believe I can help him overcome this.”

  “So how did you settle on James?”

  “Well, I asked him what his middle initial stood for. ‘Hamish,’ he replied. ‘And in truth I like that name even less than John.’

  “ ‘Well, Hamish is the Scottish form of ‘James’, is it not? Perhaps that would be a suitable name?’ And he agreed. This inconsequential conversation greatly lifted our spirits, and he much prefers having a name only I address him by. A pet name, I suppose.”

  “What’s wrong with the name Hamish?” Kate asked.

  “He considers it a pretension of his parents. There is some Scottish blood with the Watsons, and the Scots can be so ferocious about preserving their culture. But any schoolboy will prefer a simple English name that the class bullies won’t mock.”

  “I wonder what schoolboys thought of a name like ‘Sherlock Holmes’?” Kate asked with a smirk.

  “As far as I understand, Holmes was tutored at home,” I replied. “Perhaps that was why.”

  29 July -A few days have passed without incident. Preparations continue for our wedding, of course, though I grow somewhat impatient that the event itself is still entirely hypothetical. The date has changed a few times, as James has been so preoccupied with cases. It has been a matter of some consternation among my friends, in fact, who regularly tease me about the fact.