20 September - James saw the stranger in the streets again Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday. Once, he told me, he ran out into the street to pursue the man from his office. He was in the middle of a consultation with a new patient, whom I doubt will pay him a return visit.
In view of this week-long persecution, today was a perfect day for a secret visit to Baker Street. James was called away early to attend to a patient in Harrow, so I could leave freely.
Though Holmes’s rooms were a more familiar sight, that trepidation I felt in July instantly resurfaced. I was certain I saw that strange bearded ruffian on the street corner, but a second glance made me think I had imagined it. Behind the bay window I saw that familiar massive head staring down at the street. Again I thought of a hawk surveying his unknowing prey - I felt he could swoop down and pluck some unsuspecting London criminal standing next to me. There was something beatific about his motionless stance, but also pitiless and arrogant. I could see then the truth of his words at our wedding - how could such a man feel happy descending to the level of us mere mortals?
When I saw that he had seen me, I offered a cursory wave up at the window. He did not move.
Mrs. Hudson, the aged housekeeper of 221B, greeted me at the door. The intervening months had sadly soured her disposition. The courteous elderly lady was rather curt and sullen with me as she led me upstairs.
I could not begrudge her this. “Mr. Holmes has become perfectly impossible since … since.”
“I am sorry to hear that.”
“Doctor Watson was such a steadying influence on Mr. Holmes. I do hope you won’t stand between them, Mrs. Watson.”
“Nothing could be farther from my intention, Mrs. Hudson. Indeed, I have come here to mend fences because my husband is…”
She nodded. “I know how the pair of them can get with each other. Sometimes I wonder if they shouldn’t have married each other.” At the mention of this, I wondered if I did not prefer her when she was sullen.
She led me into the sitting room. In the course of a few months, its disarray had grown acutely morbid. The aroma of the room was a mixture of at least three different types of tobacco and cordite. The very air of the room was thick, smoky and stale, which was not helped by the drawn blinds. When we got married we had moved some of the furniture to our new house, and that empty space was now filled with all manner of ghastly curios. As well as reams and reams of papers, a harpoon covered with gore was stretched across the table. The correspondence was now affixed to the fireplace by a hefty jack-knife. Most disconcertingly, the letters ‘V.R.’ were carved with rows of bullets into one wall.
I indicated this last item to Mrs. Hudson, who shook her head. “What is the meaning of it?” I asked.
Mrs. Hudson peered at the wall with her lips pursed. “Victoria Regina, I think,” she suggested acidly.
I refused to let her temper put me off. “I gathered that. I meant, what was the purpose of this unusual tribute to Her Majesty?”
“Some testing of bullet calibres, I shouldn’t wonder. All I know is, five minutes before it started I was on the other side of that wall. No consideration.”
“And this object?” I asked, indicating the harpoon.
“I can’t clear anything away, he just gets even more impossible. Hasn’t had a case in months either. If he wasn’t so inhuman, I’d say he could fall apart at any moment. This is why-”
“Doctor Watson should be here?” I finished, a hint of testiness filling my voice. “I hoped I might intercede on his behalf to fill that rift. But where is Mr. Holmes?”
I crossed to the bay window, behind which I had seen him standing from the outside. I stepped closer and was aware of a presence on the other side of the drawn velvet curtains. Mrs. Hudson stayed firmly on the other side of the room, and I gave her a somewhat withering look as I approached the curtain.
“Mr. Holmes? It is Mary, Mary Watson.”
I gave the curtain a firm pull back.
Though I should not have been surprised, the sight caused me to jump back in shock. Holmes stood there, unmoving. There was something waxy and unreal about his flesh, and his hair had the texture of a wig. Despite these clues, it is only when - against my better judgement, I add - I reached out and poked his shoulder that I realized the truth.
The ginger pressure of my finger caused Holmes to topple forward into the window. Mrs. Hudson, her curiosity overcoming her dread of the man, approached me in horror.
I again rose above the criticism inherent in her question, “What happened? What have you done?”
“I have knocked over a dummy of Mr. Holmes, Mrs. Hudson. Though I had no idea even he would be such an egotist as to fabricate a replica of himself.”
I must note here that it was an extraordinarily lifelike construction. This you must believe, as otherwise to be taken in by such a ruse seems the hoariest of theatrical clichés. I was at that moment utterly exasperated with Holmes, and think I was justified in kicking the stupid dummy before I righted it.
I looked out upon the thoroughfare of Baker Street. This time I was not imagining. The ruffian was standing next to a shop window, and made en extravagant show of lighting a dilapidated clay pipe.
Without a word to Mrs. Hudson, who stood agape at my deportment, I ran as fast as I could downstairs and out the front door. Thankfully a carriage obscured my egress, giving me the opportunity to surprise the man when I crossed the street. He looked haplessly about him as I caught up with him and made to run away. But I was faster, and clamped a hand on his shoulder in desperation.
“Mr. Holmes,” I said archly. The performance was not over, though, and he launched into some exaggerated wheezing. To keep in the spirit of this game - even though my patience for it was long exhausted - I added, “Mr. Holmes would like to see you.”
We entered the rooms and I saw him transform himself. The removal of the beard and dark glasses did some of the work, but the most significant transformation was when he relaxed his muscles. Where once his cheeks puffed outwards and his forehead was corrugated with age-lines, now he reverted to his bony, ill-nourished face.
“Most impressive,” I remarked.
“Evidently not,” he sighed, “as you were able to see through it so easily. Watson was always fooled, as were a great many criminals, I might add.”
“It was not the disguise I saw through, at least not solely.”
“Come, come, Mrs. Watson, you need not mince your words with me.”
“In the plainest speech possible then - I merely eliminated the impossible and knew that whatever remained, however unlikely, must be the truth.” Holmes gave a deferential nod at the quotation. “Who was the most likely person to be following my dear husband?”
“Congratulations. Despite my years of expert tutelage, Watson has not learned as much as you grasp instinctively.”
“As usual, you do him a disservice.”
As he slipped the dressing gown from the dummy onto his own shoulders, I began to appreciate Mrs. Hudson’s concern. He looked even more skeletal than normal, and his pallor was now of the grey, putty-like hue of a corpse.
“On the subject of disservices, if you wished to make peace with Dr. Watson, why on earth did you resort to this ludicrous parlour game? Why not have the decency to confront him honestly? You quite unsettled him, traipsing about after him in that get-up.”
“Well, it was a matter of …” He slumped back in his chair, and swivelled it angrily towards the window so I could not see his expression. “By the way, I was most chagrined at the way you knocked over my dummy by the window. I’m worried about assassination attempts, you see, and-”
I would not be drawn by this, and so pressed Holmes. “It was a difficult matter to discuss, even with a friend so close,” was his ultimate, testy statement. “How have you found him as a husband? Up to your expectations?”
“I love him very much.”
“Hmph.”
If I did not know Holmes better, I would have thought there w
as a hint of jealousy in his enquiries. Mrs. Hudson’s odd remark had probably gotten me thinking along these lines.
“And it is for that reason that I am here. As I tried to insist to him when we married, I see that your presence in his life is at the very least as essential as mine.”
“Now, Mrs. Watson, I hardly think-”
“Who is mincing words now? As I was about to say, I take no issue with that - that arrangement. I hope that you will consult with him on future cases.”
“That is a very accommodating attitude, Mrs. Watson. I am obliged to you. And I cannot argue that his assistance would not go amiss … if I only had work to occupy me. And if you will bring every detail of our conversation back to him, as I know you will, I hope you will mention this.” He grabbed what I took to be his cocaine bottle and threw it down on the table. It was still full.
“I was under the impression that it was a weakness of yours-”
“As was I, and you may add - as I know you will be compelled to by your sentimental feminine concerns - that it was a similar weakness of sentiment that prevented me from yielding, in spite of the intellectual atrophy I now suffer from.”
“For all your fine words, Mr. Holmes, there are times when you seem to be doing nothing more than beating your breast like a cave-man.”
I spent quite some time with Holmes, so that by the time James arrived at Baker Street, he had ceased his hostilities. Shortly before that, he even said, “I am glad that your marriage has not changed you. You impress me as no less admirable than when we first met.”
This compliment was still hanging in the air as James entered, hurriedly. “Holmes, I came as quickly as I could - why Mary! What on earth are you doing here?”
“Mr. Holmes called for me,” I explained. “It was about that boorish ruffian who was following you yesterday.”
“Yes, I must apologize for, er, his behaviour.”
“What did the fellow mean, Holmes?”
“He was looking for me, I’m afraid, and knowing that you had formerly assisted me, it was natural that he should follow you. He has, ah, assured me that he will be more candid in the future and not resort to such cheap melodrama.”
“Seems an odd way to say it.”
“He is an odd man.” I rose and went to the door.
“Mary, perhaps while I am here I might as well-”
“My dear James, I shall wait for you at home.”
“Ah yes, thank you, Mary.”
“You have my thanks as well, my dear Mrs. Watson,” Holmes added with an eagerness that did not become him.
22 September -As glad as I have been since my marriage, it is only now that it is unalloyed in its completeness. And as happy as James was, I can see his reconciliation with Holmes has healed him somewhat as well. He has come back from his labours with an added energy and joie de vivre, and I have insisted that he drop by Holmes’s residence at least twice a week.
25 September - I got a rather startling reminder of James’s resumed intimacy with Holmes this morning. For as I rose, I found the man sitting in our kitchen, tucking in to a boiled egg my housekeeper had provided him with. He seemed completely at home, sitting at the table in shirtsleeves and dressing gown, as he often did in the comfort of Baker Street.
“Mr. Holmes!” I exclaimed in unalloyed shock.
“Good morning, Mrs. Watson,” he beamed. “Incidentally, I am sorry your housekeeper has not come to terms with the death of her husband and that she is currently looking for employment elsewhere.”
“I am sure you would like me to ask you how on earth you come to know these things,” I replied.
“Simplicity itself, when one considers that a three-minute egg has by its consistency clearly been ignored for at least five and a half minutes, and a several-year-old picture of the deceased man is affixed to the opposite wall at a sufficient height to distract her as she reached for the salt. The tear-stains on her apron added to this supposition. As she set down the plate, the mark of ink from the paper she had put down to prepare the aforementioned egg left the letters V, A, C, and A - most likely from ‘Situations Vacant’. For the sake of the evidence provided, I would of course overlook her preparation of my breakfast with such poor hygiene. She is no doubt an excellent employee when her efficiency is not hampered by personal tragedy.”
“I admit that is rather impressive,” I conceded. Holmes let out a disgruntled snort. “I did not hear you come in last night.”
“I burst in on Watson in the middle of his last pipe. He was kind enough to put me up in your spare room.”
“I suppose I may infer that this is not a social call, and that you are about to embark on a case with my husband?”
“That is so. We shall be going down to Aldershott. It is another military matter, the supposed murder of Colonel Barclay of the Royal Mallows [5]. It bears some similarity to that matter that brought us into contact with you two months ago. Far more puzzling, though - it took place in a locked room.” He cast a disdainful glance down at his pocket-watch. “Who knows if I will ever get to solve it though, sitting here waiting for the slow fellow to finally get himself together.”
“James is a late riser.”
“Oh, I have years of bitter experience to attest to that. He snores quite loudly too, as you’ve probably noticed.”
Poor James entered at this point, fastening his collar and hurriedly pouring himself a cup of coffee. “Come Watson, you will have to limit your repast to this stray slice of toast.” He inelegantly dropped the remaining slice from the toast rack onto the nearby plate.
“Need I remind you, Holmes, that the reason I have slept so late is because you kept me up all hours of the night recounting the facts of this Barclay case? Which I had to write down for the purposes of the records … I also had to make the arrangements with Jackson to cover my patients for the day.”
“Yes, yes, yes. Watson, you are talking when you should be eating. We have less than an hour to make it down to Victoria to catch our train.”
A matter of minutes later, the two gentlemen donned their hats and left me.
3 October - The housekeeper gave her notice today. James was shocked to hear of it, but I merely said that I had a feeling that she might.
28 December - In the interests of Christmas, I have subjected James to visiting my friends - which, I know, is a taxing gauntlet for a husband to run. I sensed a look of ennui beneath the bonhomie he unfailingly embodied at their idle - and no doubt to him, interchangeable - chatter.
Therefore, yesterday, I suggested that he call at Baker Street. It seemed some time in Holmes’s company was just the thing to revive him. “Otherwise, your face might just set in that rictus grin I saw last night at the Huxtables’.”
I was exceedingly happy to receive a telegram in the early evening, informing me that he and Holmes had to return a Christmas goose to its rightful owner. Having been out of the practice of Holmes’s excesses, I thought this was some whimsical nonsense on his part. It was thus a double surprise when James did not return, instead sending another telegram this morning claiming that the trail of the goose had occupied them for most of the night, and it was better that he stay over at Baker Street so as to follow new developments early in the morning.
To my shame, I did come very close to suspecting some mendacity on James’s part when he said that within the crop of the goose was the famously missing Blue Carbuncle.
“Knowing from those six pearls that you are an admirer of bonny trinkets, I received a special dispensation from Holmes to bring it home to you to have a look at.”
“I do not believe it.”
No sooner had my scepticism been stated than James made me feel doubly foolish by producing the great jewel from his breast. It did indeed make my pearls look like common paste. There was something hypnotic about the way the light reflected through it, coupled with its unusual colour of brilliant azure.
“I do hope you intend to return this to the Countess of Morcar,” I warned.
James arched an eyebrow. “I am sorry that I ever doubted your motives in returning to work. You make such a natural governess. When you take that tone, I feel like a six-year-old caught scrumping. Although my headmaster was not nearly so fine-featured as you.”
“What a relief to hear that.”
“But yes, the Countess is calling on Holmes tomorrow morning. So we must not lose it. Nor can we keep it.”
I held it up by the fireplace, and gazed on its radiant glow again. “Oh well.”
“Believe me, I am doing you a favour. This jewel has attracted more than its fair share of tragedy in its long history. Theft and murder were never too much for the avaricious pirates who have coveted it. Even this case had an innocent labourer jailed for the theft, and the real thief was a pitiful wretch who was egged on to it by the wicked waiting-maid of the Countess. As a side note, I cannot say I would recommend staying at the Hotel Cosmopolitan if I were visiting London from abroad.”
“What about this Countess? Has she led a tragic life? Surely not materially, if this is anything to go by?”
James cleared his throat with all the tact he could muster. “She’s not very nice to know. I heard Holmes mumbling ‘dragon-lady’ to himself.”
1 These were ultimately published as The Sign of Four in Lippincott’s Magazine, February 1890, and collected in book form later that year.
2 This is presumably a reference to Inspector G. Lestrade, who assisted Holmes and Watson in several cases. Mary Morstan never met the inspector; hence, she recorded the name incorrectly here.
3 Published as ‘The Cardboard Box’ in the Strand Magazine, January 1893. Interestingly, it was omitted from the collected Memoirs of Sherlock Holmes published in December 1893. The decision was Arthur Conan Doyle’s, and though it is not mentioned in his autobiography Memories and Adventures, nor by any other Conan Doyle biographer, it seems likely he excluded it because of either its sensationalistic violence, or its subject matter of marital infidelity.
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