Best and Wisest Man

by Hamish Crawford

  19 June - The Whitneys’ story, which for so long lay ominously unresolved, was unexpectedly brought up to date this evening. James was rubbing his eyes and contemplating an early night, while I was in the middle of some needlework, when the bell rang. I had been keenly anticipating a quiet night in with James, and so did not disguise my disappointment.

  “A patient!” I sighed. “You’ll have to go out.”

  He merely groaned in reply. Shortly thereafter Kate entered, her face obscured in a black veil and her clothes similarly dark. With the weather as pleasant as it had been lately, I knew this apparel was an ill portent.

  She had barely emitted, “You will excuse my calling so late,” before her composure completely collapsed. She collapsed in my arms, and sobbed uncontrollably for a time. “Oh! I’m in such trouble! I do so want a little help.”

  We had both long anticipated this call from Kate. However, as James had said after that dreadful evening in March, “I cannot guess the reason for her trouble, I can guess the man responsible. But what can we do if she doesn’t come to us?” James was always so sweet in his concern for those in need. Whereas Holmes viewed the tapestry of turmoil in London society as a magnified, perpetually extended laboratory experiment, my dear husband saw it almost as a crusade.

  Now that this long-awaited moment had come upon us, I felt I must try to buoy Kate’s spirits. James teased me that I was becoming positively maternal in my pregnant state, and that folk in grief sensed the fact, coming to me like “birds to a lighthouse”.

  “Now, you must have some wine and water, and sit here comfortably and tell us all about it. Or should you rather that I sent James off to bed?”

  Though I could see James would have welcomed that, he was equally prepared to remain by my side. Kate emphatically replied, “Oh, no, no. I want the doctor’s advice and help too. It’s about Isa.”

  James pursed his lips as he poured us the refreshment, and Kate explained: “He has not been home for two days. I am so frightened about him!”

  We both gave her as much assurance as we could, and I tried to focus on practical matters. “Do you know where he might be? Perhaps James might be able to find him for you.”

  “I would be glad to,” James immediately interjected.

  “After last night passed without him returning, I was sick with worry and simply had to know for my own sake. So, I contacted a friend of Isa’s, who reluctantly told me that he visited an opium den in London’s furthest east corner. Its name is the Bar of Gold, in Upper Swandam Lane.”

  James was in firm ‘Dr. Watson’ mode, and gleefully took note of all she said and approvingly murmured, “Mm, that is some positive information.”

  “But is it, James?” she asked. “What could I possibly do? I haven’t the strength to wander into that benighted part of London to extract my husband. The very thought of it drives me even further to despair.”

  This was James’s final call to arms. He rose to his feet. “There is no question of you going alone, Kate. I shall accompany you.” He paused a moment, and corrected himself. “Indeed, I shall go on my own. There is, when you consider it, absolutely no need for you to subject yourself to such insalubrious conditions. I am used to them … er, from my time with Sherlock Holmes that is.”

  “Oh, if only Mister Holmes were here to help,” Kate mused.

  “He’s heavily involved with some investigation or other at the moment, as far as I remember. I’ve fallen behind on his activities,” James mumbled apologetically. It was always his way that when a friend would speak admiringly of Sherlock Holmes, he would become bashful and contrite about his own talents.

  “Believe me, Kate, James is far more reliable than Sherlock Holmes,” I insisted. With that, James grabbed his hat and stick - and even brought his revolver for safety’s sake. He instructed that he would send Isa home within two hours.

  I decided I should wait up with Kate. Though she was calmer, now she expressed some concern over James.

  “Sending him off like that … oh, what have I done? Not only for his sake, Mary, but for yours!”

  She had clearly not seen the ecstatic gleam in James’s eyes as he prepared to depart. “I assure you, Kate, that it is exactly what James lives for.”

  Later - This night has turned me quite upset, though not for the reasons I expected. On the bright side, James was as good as his word. Within two hours, a carriage arrived. I was highly dismayed, however, to see that it only contained Isa.

  He was a different man than the one who had berated and troubled us these last few months. He was piteously doubled over, cringed as he grabbed Kate in his arms, and shed tears no less genuine than hers a few hours ago.

  “And it’s all thanks to your husband, Mrs. Watson!” he declared. “There I was, in the hollow bliss of my opium reverie. What I thought were a few hours had passed. Then he appears out of that wretched darkness and tells me that, no, eight-and-forty hours I have left my dear wife’s side. ‘Your wife has been waiting two days for you. You should be ashamed at yourself!’

  “Mary, please accept my profoundest apologies for my behaviour when we invited you over. Both to you and your husband. He is such a thoroughly decent man. I wish I could be such a man.”

  “I know you can be, Isa,” Kate declared. “Let us go home.”

  “Before you depart,” I interrupted, “where is that thoroughly decent husband of mine?”

  “Oh, yes, all he asked - all, mind you, in exchange for which he paid my bills at the wretched Bar of Gold and this cab here - was that I deliver this note to you.”

  I bade them farewell and returned inside. My uneasy temper now became somewhat furious, I admit:

  My dearest Mary,

  It is the most remarkable occurrence. As I was extracting Mr. Whitney from the Bar of Gold, who should I happen upon but Holmes! He has asked that I assist him in a curious affair of a missing man, Neville St. Clair. The trail has led to this den of iniquity, and he needs my help following it further. I doubt I shall return home tonight.

  It is, as you know, difficult to refuse any of Sherlock Holmes’s requests.

  Thank you, my love, for your patience, now and always.

  Love,

  James

  This left me quite agitated! Indeed, only now that I put pen to paper can I bring down the anger I was gripped with at reading this missive.

  First of all, Holmes has apparently traded one vice for another. All that talk of having given up cocaine merely concealed the truth. And if this is part of some investigation, Lord only knows what new depths of depravity he is leading my dear James into. I know crime and murder cannot take place in daylight and respectable drawing rooms, and I well remember my vow to not interfere in their friendship - but this seems so deliberately testing! And James’s blithe acceptance irritates me even more!

  And I was not solely thinking of myself, but of the resolution to this initial mystery. James was so distracted with Holmes’s investigations that he happily sent Isa home unsupervised! The danger this may have caused Kate! The danger it may have caused me! No, there will be harsh words when James does return.

  20 June - James did not return until late this afternoon. I had spent the entire day boiling in anger, but he was utterly oblivious. For as usual when he returned from an outing with Holmes, he was filled with childish enthusiasm for ever grisly detail of the freshly solved mystery [8].

  He had just concluded telling me of how Mrs. St. Clair’s husband Neville had disguised himself as a beggar, because he could gain a greater living from coins dropped in his hat at Shakespeare recitations than many other types of labour. His wife accidentally spied him in the vicinity of Swandam Lane, and his attempts to cover his tracks caused her to believe he had been murdered by the very beggar that he was, in fact, impersonating.

  It was, in truth, a very interesting story, but I could not concentrate on its details. In fact, I interrupted him with a cry of the strongest disapprobation.

  “My dear Mary, whate
ver is the matter?”

  “James, you behaved thoughtlessly last night! As it happened, Isa was contrition itself when he returned, but I strongly suspect that you had forgotten all about him, about Kate, about me, as soon as Holmes seized you into this St. Clair business!”

  He was taken aback by my rebuke. I was somewhat exhausted from the invective too, now that I had said it. I would not take back one word of it, however, because I maintained that his lack of thought had brought a needless jeopardy on ourselves and Kate - not to mention our unborn child.

  “On top of all this,” I was compelled to add, “Mr. Holmes clearly has a new and even less savoury drug habit! All your fine words about his intellectual resistance to the lure of drugs - we now see how true they were!”

  “Mary, take me to task by all means, but there you are mistaken. Holmes was in disguise. He had taken on the appearance of an old wretched opium addict to follow the St. Clair case the better. In fact he was in quite robust condition. When we stayed over at Mrs. St. Clair’s house-”

  “You did what?”

  It took James a moment, and then he chuckled smugly at my interpretation. “Ah, not … there was no impropriety. We were forced to bed down there for the night as it was nearer the scene of the crime, as it were. It was easier for us to follow the trail from there.”

  “Is Holmes … interested in any way in Mrs. St. Clair?”

  “My dear Mary, he has found her husband. His interest is only as a client. You really do not know him well.”

  “So I am learning.”

  James had patients to see in the afternoon, and so has left me alone. It was probably the wisest thing he had done that day.

  21 June - Tensions have eased, as James quite sensibly realized he was at fault.

  “There is no excusing my actions. I sometimes forget my responsibilities where Holmes is concerned.”

  “Though I think you’re right, I possibly overreacted slightly as well. You did at least find Isa as you said you would. But you could see how I might feel slightly abandoned when my husband drops an opium addict on my doorstep without bothering to come back himself.”

  “Quite, Mary. I was prepared to cut Holmes loose when we married, something that would have caused me great pain. So relieved was I that such a measure was not necessary, I may have come to take for granted your extraordinary understanding and generosity in allowing me to remain by his side.”

  “And you must in turn forgive me. It is sometimes galling having to share my husband, especially with another man.”

  “Count yourself lucky that I am not having affairs into the bargain,” he joked.

  “I think it would be simpler if you did,” I suggested. “At least I would then know where I stood.”

  “I am aware that you may not feel like going away, but what would you say to a weekend in Brighton? I have made all the arrangements, and what few patients I have scheduled I could easily make arrangements to see next week.”

  So this afternoon, I write this entry bound south. It is an ideal summer weekend, and I am still mobile enough to enjoy the sea air.

  23 June -Any lingering anger at James’s conduct the other day was permanently banished when we were faced with a curious echo of the business with Holmes after our wedding. Several times over the course of the day James had remarked that an elderly dowager had sat, unmoving, in the lobby of our hotel. In the afternoon, he had seen this ominous lady out on the terrace enjoying an aperitif,

  She looked most out of place amid the gay surroundings of Brighton. She was wearing heavy black, including long black gloves covering her hands, and her cheeks sagged in flaps around her face, which gave her a permanent aura of sadness. Her eyes were obscured by dark glasses, and she looked weighed down by her cumbersome layers.

  As we returned from the beach to enjoy an early evening drink, James saw her again. I confess that up to this point I had barely noticed her.

  “She is still there! She has been sitting on that terrace for nearly three hours. Not doing anything, just staring ahead and drinking that crème de menthe. ”

  “Is that so?” I was feeling slightly drained from spending so long in the sun, and so was not terribly interested in his conversation just now.

  “I’m going to put this to an end once and for all.” He left my side and strode to the terrace. “All right, Holmes, enough is enough. I cannot allow you to follow us around all the time like this!”

  The dowager looked up at him in confusion and mumbled some words. She appeared to be hard of hearing, and was struggling to raise a trumpet to her ear. James rolled his eyes at this display of exaggerated feebleness.

  “Now come off it Holmes! This is beyond a joke!”

  He then reached forward and pulled off her glasses. She did not react, so he began pulling on her cheeks.

  A few minutes later he returned to my side and suggested we go elsewhere for our drink. “I have made the most enormous mistake.”

  Thankfully the dowager was so old, and according to the hotel staff of somewhat weakened faculties, that she barely noticed this extraordinary behaviour. The rest of our time passed without further intrigue, though as a lover of juvenile humour, I laughed about James’s misapprehension, and his continuing embarrassment over it, at considerable length.

  25 August - Our first anniversary. We had no particularly grand plans, but James took it upon himself to surprise me with a pheasant that he prepared himself. Life with James is a constant reminder of good fortune, but on this night in particular I feel that I glow with reverie.

  And to think that in a short while we shall both be parents! I am ecstatic, and I know that James will be a wonderful father to our forthcoming son or daughter.

  3 September - A further burden, but one of the most exciting kind, came from that colleague Dr. Doyle. He came to town yesterday and took us out to dinner at Simpson’s in the Strand. I saw James look over his shoulder a couple of times as we entered.

  “Not Holmes, surely,” I scolded him.

  “It’s just that it was one of our spots to dine, when we were on a case.”

  By this point, I knew that James’s preoccupation with Holmes needed to be resolved, as he was becoming more obsessed with him in his absence than when they roomed together. “Please, James. Let us put Sherlock Holmes to one side this evening and instead have a pleasant time with Dr. Doyle.”

  “My dear, it’s Doctor Conan Doyle. He’s quite particular about that.”

  Having said all that, you may imagine what my reaction was when the first words to come from Doyle’s mouth were “Sherlock Holmes”!

  “I hadn’t expected it either,” he admitted. “But it’s been so extraordinary. First Study in Scarlet got printed in book form, then Micah Clarke was released and received favourable reviews. Then one evening I was asked to dine with an American agent, James Marshall Stoddart. He was looking for talent for a new magazine called Lippincott’s. I had dinner with him at the Langham Hotel. It was a truly golden evening, I must say - there was Mr. Stoddart, T.P. Gill … oh, and this other chap. A most extraordinary fellow, name of Oscar Wilde. You may have heard of him.”

  “Arthur, you can be the most appalling name-dropper,” James declared through gritted teeth. “We all know who Oscar Wilde is!”

  “Fair enough,” Doyle replied. “But Wilde, what a prodigious mind. I don’t know how, but he seems to have read just about anything I could mention. He had even read Micah Clarke and told me how enjoyable he had found it.”

  “I’ve heard Mr. Wilde is a voracious reader.”

  “Anyway, I recalled that you had this Sign of the Six story-”

  “Sign of Four,” James corrected.

  “Yes, yes. That one - so if you can get me that manuscript, the deal is all done. Even better terms than Study in Scarlet.”

  He confessed, “I don’t understand it, Beeton’s paid me £24 for that, but I would have happily accepted two quid for Micah Clarke.”

  “Perhaps Sherlock Holmes will on
e day be even better known than Micah Clarke,” I suggested teasingly. “And the names Arthur Conan Doyle and John Watson will be synonymous with them.”

  “For the sake of Holmes’s career as the scourge of crime, I hope not,” Conan Doyle said drily.

  He then told us a little more about Wilde’s own contribution to Lippincott’s. It was to concern a man whose physical beauty concealed inner ugliness. A painting of him would hang in an attic to reflect the moral and spiritual decay that never showed on his ever-youthful face. It seemed a most extraordinary idea.

  “It is a potent one,” Conan Doyle said. “Something elemental, universal lies underneath it. How many of us conceal demons, how much ugliness is there between the superficial beauty of the world. He believes in Aestheticism, rather like that chum of yours in the story, Thaddeus Sholto.”

  19 September - Dr. Conan Doyle has officially secured the publication of The Sign of Four in this Lippincott’s Magazine. Mr. Stoddart has promised it shall begin its serialization in February of next year. The sum paid to Conan Doyle was considerable, and he has given James half of this.

  I was slightly dismayed, though, that James has been omitted from the formal contract arrangements. Neither will he receive credit as co-author of the piece, something with which I took issue.

  “There are several reasons for it, Mary. Believe me, it makes for a better arrangement in every respect this way. I came to appreciate its advantages when we collaborated on A Study in Scarlet. ”

  I would not be budged though, and pressed him for a proper explanation. I could tell that I was pushing my luck, but I tried to explain that it was only because I worried about James being taken by this Conan Doyle character.

  “Conan Doyle character? What does that mean? The man is a doctor, like myself. The only disreputable doctor I ever knew was Grimesby Roylott, and he was far gone in the extreme.”