Best and Wisest Man

by Hamish Crawford

  “You are a doctor as well?”

  “I have a practice in Southsea, but I simply couldn’t miss the wedding of my old friend Watson.”

  He was in fact, a colleague from several years ago by the name of Doctor Arthur Doyle. The name was somewhat familiar, and Dr. Doyle told me he had offered James some advice to begin his fledgling writing career.

  “I’ve just finished reading Dr. Watson’s notes on the Agra treasure case. The Sign of the Five, or whatever.”

  “Four, Doctor Doyle.”

  “Ah yes. Well, in that case, Doctor Conan Doyle if you don’t mind.”

  “Touché.”

  “I probably lost count of them midway through Small’s recollection. Although that was nothing compared to A Study in Scarlet. The poor fellow, Jefferson Hope, had died almost as soon as they caught him. So when I wrote it up I had to flesh out a lot of that second bit about the evil Mormons. Did Watson ever show you that one?”

  “I have heard of it, but haven’t had a chance to read it.”

  “If I could have something like that, it might really help make my name. While I finish my historical novels that is. I really have a feeling that the name Arthur Conan Doyle might have some lasting fame thanks to Micah Clarke.”

  James found me and guided me away from Dr. Doyle. “Now, now, no literary talk,” he admonished the Scot. “Was he telling you all about Edgar Allan Poe?”

  “Perhaps Mrs. Watson might be interested in sport? I once took the wicket of W.G. Grace you know.”

  I hope I have another opportunity to meet this Doyle person. Unfortunately, a wedding day is such a frantic occasion, one never has long enough to meet with everyone. Honestly, the doctor’s animated discussion was something of an oasis amid all the oft-repeated marital pleasantries.

  I was sorry as well, when I heard that Holmes had departed early. The last time I spoke to him, I offered my sincere thanks to him for all he had done for James and myself. I also expressed my disappointment that he did not appear to be enjoying the wedding. Most of the time he had spent lurking in various corners, an eminence gris.

  “You must forgive me for that, my dear Mary. You must understand that I am somewhat out of my depth.”

  “I find it hard to believe that could ever happen to you, Mr. Holmes.”

  I could not tell whether there was sorrow or a sneer in Holmes’s response: “This smiling and trivial world is not mine. These mirthful and content folk are not my kin. I am exceedingly glad this world exists, and it could be argued that my skills and powers are ultimately dedicated to its preservation. For my dear friend Watson if not for my own sake, I am glad you have found a place for him in it. But there is no such place for me; I naturally dwell in the shadows, as I always have. And to the shadows, I think, I must retreat, now alone.”

  That was the last I saw of Holmes that night. Later on, Mrs. Forrester mentioned to me that at some point before we spoke, a tall and thin, academic-looking gentleman entered and looked around the room. She thought that he could have been Mr. Holmes’s brother.

  “He handed a waiter a card, which the waiter then presented to Mr. Holmes. There was the strangest expression on the man’s face, and when he received the card, he looked across at him. Though they stood with twenty yards between them and made no move to speak to one another, there was a palpable, unspoken animus.”

  It was, according to her, shortly after this strange encounter that Mr. Holmes hurriedly seized his cloth cap and departed. He was not seen again that night.

  “What did Holmes say to you, my dear?” James asked me very late in the evening.

  “I cannot remember,” I lied. Considering my debt to Holmes, I could not betray his confidence, even though it seemed disloyal to James. And bearing in mind that James was being irritatingly coy about this argument, I somewhat spitefully felt I did not necessarily need to reveal everything to him simply because we were married.

  I did try one last time to tease out some more details. I asked James about Holmes’s sudden departure and what it might mean. “Could it be anything important?”

  He would reveal nothing to me, however. Lest the reader think we concluded our wedding night ruminating on a third party, I hasten to add that after this moment we ceased all talk of Holmes and turned to thoughts more befitting a newlywed couple. But at this query, his face hardened.

  “I will not think about it again,” he said simply. “It’s just you and me, dear.”

  3 September - Mercifully, we have been able to enjoy a restful and uninterrupted honeymoon in France. I have not concerned myself with updating this record, and instead basked in the luxury of my husband’s company.

  He has fulfilled my every expectation of manhood. I can truly say that I had never expected to know the love that I have found with James.

  In addition to knowing James so wholly, I have been able, in his company, to shed many of my foolish freaks and inhibitions. Foreign shores had, to me, the undeniable charge of tragedy to them, as I had been uprooted to England at such an early age and my parents were both claimed by them. Even France held some of this curse to me, a fact that James found unaccountably inexplicable.

  James is a seasoned traveller, and he has happily regaled me with some of his experiences. In addition to his army service in Afghanistan, he spent some time of his youth in Australia. He teased me at one point that, “I have had experience of women that extends over many nations and three separate continents.”

  “As many as that?” I responded coolly. “You are fortunate indeed that I have come along, that is far too much experience for one man.”

  Though I bristled, the fact that James is so utterly candid with me, I feel, bodes well for our future together. So many men in this overly mannered age are preoccupied with what others will think, and how their words and deeds will be judged.

  It helped, I believe, the romantic tenor of our trip to spend it in Paris. If more people had the means to travel here, it would surely surpass Brighton as a destination for those in love. There is an odd erection underway in the Champs-de-Mars. They are preparing for the Paris Exhibition, which looks to be a sizable event next year. It is a lattice of corrugated steel, designed by a young engineer named Gustave Eiffel.

  I doubt M. Eiffel would be thrilled at Parisians’ reaction to this project. As we strolled nearby, passing citizens would stop to decry it, and observe what a terrible disgrace it was to have such an eyesore blotting the city skyline. They took special care to point out that we, as English people, should not judge the rest of the city by this standard. “Quelle disgrâce!” was a repeated exclamation.

  “As far as I understand,” James informed me, “they are quite particular about the height of their buildings in this city.”

  “It is a striking design.”

  “Perhaps when they cover up the steel scaffolding with something more attractive, it will look better. It is so typical of modern designers, sticking up bits of flotsam irrespective of how they fit in with their surroundings. You wouldn’t see a fairground stuck next to the Houses of Parliament.”

  5 September - We have now travelled about in the French countryside. The weather has been charming, and it is refreshing indeed to escape the bustle of Paris.

  We have been extremely active. Though I know his wound was giving him terrible trouble, James gamely agreed to do some cycling with me in Lyons. We have also done some sailing, and James fished without success. “It isn’t really the line of country for it,” was his excuse.

  We discussed Holmes only once during this blissful time. I simply had to know the cause of the hostility on that day. “You treated Holmes atrociously, if I may say.”

  James’s pleasant demeanour sunk, and he sulked in silence for some time. But I would not let the matter drop.

  “Was it the business he called you away on the eve of the wedding?”

  “No, no. That was not entirely his fault, more his brother’s.”

  “I had not wanted to mention this, my love,
as it concerns you to some extent.”

  I became somewhat icy at this prospect. I understood that Holmes was a proud and dedicated misogynist, and James had tried for some time to divine the cause of this dislike.

  This specific incident was not about my gender per se, but about our wedding.

  “He said quite simply that he could not congratulate me.”

  “Did he disapprove of me?” I asked, the trepidation audible in my voice.

  “Oh, not at all. In fact, you will be pleased to hear, he described you as one of the most charming ladies he has met, a decided genius was the exact phrase he used.” He paused. “An assessment I concur with, of course.”

  “As do I. With what, then, do you take issue?”

  “He thinks that marriage is an irrational thing.”

  “Surely that is his prerogative,” I opined.

  “His last words were what I took exception to. I remarked on his lack of credit for solving the mystery of The Sign of the Four. I was blessed enough to come out of the business with a wife, Athelney Jones somehow received the official credit, but he came away with nothing. I meant it sincerely, but he twisted my words against me. For how did he respond? He rolled up his sleeve, gestured to a nearby vial, and said, ‘For me, there still remains the cocaine-bottle.’ After all the work I have done to wean him off this dreadful and debilitating addiction, and he returns to it on a stupid whim. Worse, the whim is merely to spite me.”

  “I suppose even a mind as formidable as Holmes’s must have its weaknesses.”

  “It is because of that blasted formidable mind that the weakness is so acute. Is it worth it, I wonder? To have such advanced powers that narcotics are a suitable recreation? His constant need for mental stimulation, and its lack between his cases, is what drives him to that deplorable dependency. It’s a voracious, horrific … hunger. He speaks to me of elevating reason, and then makes that decision. I wish I had told him at the time how disgusted I was with him.”

  My idle comments had unleashed a torrent in James, and though I felt it was healthy for him to expunge these contained thoughts, I did feel I should have chosen a better time.

  “But the implication behind it was even clearer,” he continued, now in a real frenzy. “That he was prepared to sink into oblivion itself in my absence. That I should hold myself responsible for the consequences.”

  “I am sure he will cope.”

  “Mary, you forget that I’ve seen this kind of behaviour before. Henry was exactly the same. It was a vile display, a performance designed to sadden those who loved him. There is the same streak of deplorable exhibitionism in Holmes.”

  “We shall soon return to London,” I said uncertainly. “I’m sure Holmes has not done himself any harm in such a brief period of time.”

  “Well, I will be damned if I am forced to be his nursemaid for the rest of his life! Especially now that I have you.”

  10 September - We are now three days back in London, and still coming to terms with our new life.

  James has quite a backlog of patients to see in his new Paddington practice. This was quite a devalued concern, owned by a formerly skilled practitioner named Mr. Farquhar. James noted with some chagrin that his renown was once considerable, but its decline has been equally lamentable. Quite simply, the gentleman grew too old and infirm to keep up his standards - James attributes a virulent affliction of St. Vitus’s Dance to his decline in respect among his patients.

  “That seems a trifle unfair for so distinguished a professional?” I protested.

  “You would think so, Mary. But consider it this way. The public not unnaturally goes on the principle that he who would heal others must himself be whole, and looks askance at the curative powers of the man whose own case is beyond the reach of his drugs.”

  His return to the metropolis, though, has occasioned a heaviness of heart, and I know he thinks of Holmes. At the moment, though, he is too busy to afford such time as full reconciliation requires. Indeed, his fellow practitioner has taken advantage of James’s new eagerness to prove himself, and has taken a couple of weeks of additional holiday, and anticipates another long absence in a couple of months. It is a strange thing, as James often describes himself as by nature quite lazy, but he has positively thrown himself into his additional obligations. I blush with modesty at the thought that I may have galvanized him somewhat (incidentally, this comment was not made by me, but a jest of Mrs. Forrester’s when I described the situation to her).

  16 September - I am still enjoying married life (it is only a week, I am aware, but I still glow with bliss at the thought of it, which I remain sanguine enough to know cannot last indefinitely). Perhaps, though, some aspects of my life remain unfinished. For instance, I have lacked stimulation from the outside world of late and have agreed with Mrs. Forrester to resume my post as a governess in a temporary capacity. Never one to miss an opportunity to tease me, she has suggested that my yearning for activity is merely an unconscious wish to have a child. Though I am aware that my twenty-seventh birthday is approaching, I feel I am not too old to put off motherhood just yet.

  Though it is not my primary concern, the extra petty cash this will afford us will be welcome. The move into our own house has been more of a burden than James had expected. I did not realize how much Holmes contributed to the financial situation! And I have had to take rather a difficult line with James about the gambling - it was our first significant disagreement since we have been married. To his credit, James has so far been as good as his word.

  Just at the moment, though, we have just a couple of impecunious months to endure. It is in the aid of overcoming these obligations that James is presently forced to take on a great deal more patients than is sensible.

  He currently shares his practice with Doctor Jackson Anstruther, an elderly physician. When I first helped James move his equipment into the new place, the sweet old man remarked to me, “Mark my words, Mrs. Watson, I can look after young Watson for you. I shall be happy to offer any assistance he requires, though I have my suspicions the young whippersnapper will be too proud to ask for help outright.”

  I admitted this was a possibility. When he lived with Holmes, his nominal occupation was largely at his discretion, but now he is really having to throw himself into it full-time. Although he approached it at first with his usual gung-ho attitude, I believe it is beginning to take its toll on the dear man. Several times this week he has come home at all hours of the night and collapsed straight into bed. In some ways I feel he is less suited to this quotidian work than the devil-may-care adventuring that had become his mien.

  He was not overly favourable to my resumption of my governess position. “My dear, I had hoped the extra work would amply provide for us both! Hence my all-hours operations.”

  “Oh, were I thinking of financial matters I would certainly not be working as a governess,” I said. “It is a good thing to have a place to go, work to do. I enjoy that measure of independence.”

  “So long as you enjoy it, I am happy for you to continue. I just wanted to make sure that it was not a shortcoming on my part that compelled you to it.”

  “James, I have experienced no shortcomings from you.”

  18 September - The most peculiar thing happened today. At six in the evening, I received a telegram from James, urging me to stay inside and admit no visitors. This was easy for me to comply with, as I had no engagements that day, and no one called. An hour later, James hurried inside, bolted the door behind him, and peered out the window for a full minute. He then ran to the windows in the sitting room, and upstairs, and did the same thing.

  “Is anything the matter?” I asked him.

  He turned to me and gave me a passionate kiss. “Mary, thank God you have not been harmed!”

  “What is it?” I asked.

  He pulled me to the window and indicated across the street. It was unusually early for James to be home, and our street was positively thronging with vendors. I remember the catsmeat man had
given me a particularly rough time when I had left for milk in the morning.

  James indicated a man standing by a brazier across the road. He was clad in a tattered black pea-coat, a broad and pock-marked face, dark glasses, and had a highly dubious beard.

  “That man has been following me all day.”

  “He is wearing a rather obvious disguise.”

  I did not think that this thought had occurred to James, but as he regarded the beard he saw my reasoning.

  “Who do you think this fellow is?”

  “I would be willing to bet it has something to do with Holmes. He’s antagonized so many people in our cases, and of course, now that he is not around they are no doubt persecuting me.”

  “My dear, you are sounding a touch paranoid.”

  “Oh really? Did I ever tell you of Grimesby Roylott, who entered our rooms and bent a steel poker just as a show of strength? And he, a man of learning and a medical man, stooped to employing a trained snake to murder his daughters.”

  “But you told me that he was killed, by that very snake.”

  “I didn’t mean it was literally him, I meant that is the sort of character Holmes and I dealt with as a matter of course. And for every one who did meet a grisly end or was incarcerated, there remain those who were released early or had confederates still at large.”

  “Very well.” I moved to the door.

  “Where do you think you’re going?”

  “To Baker Street. If this concerns Holmes, then he is surely the one to talk to about it.”

  “By no means! I am still-”

  “Sore with him over what he said before our wedding? And you would risk your wife’s life because of that spat?”

  I duly shamed James, but by the time we finished talking the stranger had left his post. James agreed to visit Holmes after work tomorrow evening. But knowing how late he finishes, I have decided to pay him a visit during the day. He carries so much emotion, that I feel I would be a more sober intermediary.