“There is one way to combat that,” I said, though I know it might cause even more pain. “Why not publish ‘The Final Problem’? Why not give your own side of this story, of what Holmes’s actual last words and action were? Would that not set the record straight?”
He looked away, quite paralysed by his emotions. “I can’t argue with your logic, Mary. That would be the best thing to do.” He crumpled as he said it. “Writing it all down, though, bringing up all those emotions I’ve buried away. It just makes it … so very final.”
16 April -The Moriarty situation has continued to progress. So heated was the reaction to Colonel Moriarty’s inflammatory comments that his original letters have been reprinted. Though the Colonel claimed to dislike the public attention these letters attracted, he has not been slow in publicly repeating his allegations. More letters have appeared, and indeed it has provoked quite a flurry of cross-purposed recrimination. Though James and I are heartened that the public support has remained firmly with Sherlock Holmes, James feels that the very existence of these recriminations too greatly besmirches his reputation.
The other day, he went in to meet with Herbert Greenhough Smith and George Newnes at the Strand offices. My weakness of constitution from earlier in the year seems to have quite passed me by, so I went into town with James. I received quite a shock, however, when I left him and walked out onto Fleet Street. For there, entering the building as I was departing it, was a familiarly ascetic, dome-headed gentleman.
“Professor Moriarty!” I shrieked. It caused quite a scene on that quiet street. Numerous citizens turned their heads, and a passing constable stopped nearby.
“It’s quite all right, Officer,” the man replied. “An easy enough mistake. I am Colonel James Moriarty, at your service.”
“You are … uncannily similar to him. If I did not know so certainly he was dead.” I could not keep the revulsion from my voice.
“You must be Mrs. Mary Watson, as few people know my brother on sight. I would prefer not to discuss the matter with you, as I am shortly to discuss it with your husband and this penny-dreadful rag that publishes that Sherlock Holmes drivel.”
Now that I looked closer at him, I could see they were not the same man. He had a redder face, whose lines and rivets had been carved from the open air of his military service. His head did not quite have the extreme enlargement of the Professor’s, and there was no spark of intelligence - or indeed, of madness - in his eyes. He bore instead the face of an unremarkable, unimaginative, but diligent military man. The ruddy tint to his cheeks suggested a propensity for emotional outbursts. I could see the kind of anger that would lead this man to protect his brother’s name by destroying that of Sherlock Holmes.
“You will understand, Colonel Moriarty, if I do not wish you well in your meeting,” I said and swiftly departed.
Later -James has come to see the only course of action that will satisfy all parties. He must go ahead with publication of ‘The Final Problem’. This is of great delight to the Strand personnel, who are sure it shall sell well.
“It sounds so ridiculous I know, but part of me had thought by avoiding writing it down, a part of Sherlock Holmes might remain alive - all those readers might still believe it, and there would be something positive, if untrue, in that belief. It will feel like letting him die again - worse, as though I killed him myself this time.”
“How could you kill him? Look how his name lives and flourishes, farther and wider than it did in his life. I don’t think anyone could kill Holmes, really kill him, now even if they wanted to. Not Moriarty, not Arthur Conan Doyle, certainly not you.”
21 May -James has finally completed ‘The Final Problem’. He has spent more time on its finesse than many of his previous accounts, and the strain of putting these emotional events on paper has begun to show on him. He announced its completion with a desolate, emotionless voice that he often used to conceal when his emotions were at their highest.
31 May - Arthur and I have both read over ‘The Final Problem’. I could well see the difficulty James had in its composition, and I in truth find it painful and difficult to read for that reason. He did as excellent a job as he could, though, of capturing that very difficult matter.
I have a feeling that the desperate condition of ‘Tooie’ has left Arthur less than focussed on his writing. He is not lacking for work - Sir Nigel, The White Company, and others are all nearing publication, and I believe in no small part due to the Holmes association he has become a phenomenally admired author on both sides of the Atlantic. Earlier this year he made a trip around America and was full of praise for it.
It has made him rather callous about Holmes though. Sometimes I think he is as guilty as those Strand readers for treating Holmes as though he were a fictional character. How else can I explain his brusque comments regarding ‘The Final Problem’: “I’m convinced that this is an ideal ending for Sherlock Holmes. After all, I’m sure I wasn’t the only one of us feeling a little trapped by the man? Am I right, Dr. Watson? Don’t you feel ready to step out of his great looming shadow?”
James was quite speechless. “You … you don’t think it might be interesting to publish further memoirs of Sherlock Holmes? There were several cases I never had the chance to reveal to the public, and they would no doubt be interested in them. ‘The Second Stain’, for instance, or The Hound of the Baskervilles -enough material there for a whole novel on its own!”
Arthur saw James’s distress and became contrite. “Of course, I didn’t mean … I just meant for the time being. Perhaps one day those cases could be published. Maybe those Strand readers will grow tired of him, eh?” He laughed, but seeing his badinage was misplaced, he resumed his seriousness. “John, I truly meant no offence. I was speaking of my own writing career, and it was wrong of me to imply that your friend was any kind of burden to me.”
Under the circumstances, James understood. He would never hold a grudge against Arthur anyway, and his present adversities are added reason.
In any case, ‘The Final Problem’ is now in the possession of Herbert Greenhough Smith. He of course, greatly enjoyed it and reiterated how thrilled he would be to publish it. It has rather more sensitive legal implications than previous stories, though, and in order to avoid a civil suit being filed by Colonel Moriarty, he has been advised to delay publication until January of next year.
17 July - My illness, which seemed to have left me for a while, has returned with a vengeance. Having been bed-ridden for a few days now, James has now insisted on a medical examination. He is chiding himself for taking so long at it, but he has been extremely distracted professionally, and in my defence I have concealed my ever-increasing infirmity with expertise.
It seems a trifle perverse to hide symptom when one’s husband is a doctor. But as my body seems to lose its lustre daily, there was a deep form of denial at work within me. Is it not always the case, that one hopes that by avoiding an examination, nothing ill can happen? As long as I held off such an appointment, nothing was there to be found and I could pleasantly pretend that nothing would be found.
24 July -James has as yet told me nothing of his findings. He is impossible to read, and has been as open and pleasant with little Mary as usual, even taking some charge of her when I am not sufficiently strong.
The Morstan nature, however, has risen within me again, and I cannot help but fear the worst.
29 July - Still more troubling news, and there is only one inference I can reach from it. James has announced that he thinks it would be better if I were to take another trip to Switzerland.
“I am aware that it is not quite the season yet, but I believe it is … the best thing for you at the present time.”
“But James, we have been relatively recently. Are you sure there is no specific reason for it?”
My heart fell when I saw him react with evasion. “Certainly not. I believe Tooie is still there, you can keep her company as she convalesces.”
“James, I have a s
tronger constitution than you are giving me credit. Do not spare my feelings.”
His resolve did not last, for he then responded with a long, low howl of tears. I took him in my arms. “My only hope, my dear Mary, is that I am not too late. Arthur berates himself for his shoddy medical skill, and I must do the same. With any luck, though, some time in the Alps should clear out those lungs and get you back to your old self.”
24 August -James and I departed for Switzerland today. Mrs. Forrester and little Mary saw us off at the train. The young girl is bearing up incredibly well, and I tried to retain my composure as I said goodbye to her. In truth, I do not know if I shall be well enough to return.
Tomorrow is our anniversary, and I have a grim feeling it will be our last in this world.
(Mary spent most of the autumn convalescing in Switzerland, and presumably corresponded with her husband rather than record her diary. Unfortunately, no record of this correspondence survives, and this unhappy entry is the final one recorded for 1893. )
1894
In some manner he had learned of my own sad bereavement, and his sympathy was shown in his manner rather than in his words. “Work is the best antidote to sorrow, my dear Watson,” said he.
-‘The Empty House’ (1903)
2 February -Though it shall do me no good, I have decided to return to England. I would rather be surrounded by James and little Mary, and my familiar life, as I end my days, no matter how much pain I may have to tolerate.
My time in Switzerland has not been wasted. I feel up to something approaching my earlier health, certainly better than I have felt for quite a while. However, my condition is simply too advanced, and there is nothing that can be done but to be sanguine about the grim possibilities that lie ahead for me.
My family was far too solicitous of my health, and I repeatedly told James I wanted him to be just as he always is, and not to think me too delicate to talk and act normally. Little Mary has been her usual brave self in the face of this.
‘The Final Problem’ finally saw print in the Strand. Its editors have had cause to rue its publication, James noted with some satisfaction. For upon reading that Sherlock Holmes was dead, 20,000 subscribers cancelled their subscriptions in outrage! When I disembarked from the train, I idly commented that I had seen a great many gentlemen at the station wearing black armbands. Still more were walking the streets of London so attired, that I guessed Prime Minister Gladstone must have passed away.
“Not at all, Mary,” James said with a curious satisfaction. At this moment I saw that he too had one tied around his arm. “It is for Sherlock Holmes! I cannot quite believe it, but the outpouring of support at learning of his death … you were certainly right for persuading me to publish it my dear. More than that - you were right that he could not be killed by my account of his death, if that makes sense.”
“If I was right, then of course it makes sense.”
13 February - The past few weeks have seen more than a few visitors to our house wishing to spend time with me and share their condolences. It has been refreshing, if eventually exhausting, to see so many friends en masse. Some I have not visited with since our wedding. Others - like Kate and Mrs. Forrester - are regular friends whose company is always cherishable. Kate, indeed, was a pleasure to see, as she is a much freer and gayer woman than she has been for several years.
This encounter recalls to me something James had mentioned.
“It was towards the close of last year. I was out on my rounds, which had taken me all the way down to Southwark. So well had the day progressed, and so close was I, that my mind had begun to wander to the prospect of a post-work trip to Camberwell to see little Mary and Mrs. Forrester. I was contemplating this prospect when a voice called out to me:
“ ‘Doctor Watson! Doctor John Watson!’ it trilled. I turned around to see a familiar bald-headed man, dressed in an extravagantly dandified brocaded velvet coat. It was none other than Thaddeus Sholto.
“ ‘Mr. Sholto,’ I rejoined. ‘Good God, how exceedingly odd to run across you after all this time!’
“Though my impressions of Sholto from five years ago had been coloured by his mannered behaviour, I had in truth been so preoccupied with my work and your absence that I had talked to few people in a non-professional capacity. I greeted him, thus, with more warmth than would otherwise have been the case.
“For a while we talked of his activities for the last few years. In this time, I quickly came to regret my initial sociability, but found myself trapped in the conversation and unable to extricate myself.”
“How very like you, dear James,” I smiled. “Your manners are so often your undoing.”
“They were sorely tested on this occasion, I can tell you my dear. I cannot recall a more self-absorbed and self-pitying litany than the one he then laid upon me. The absence of his brother had only exacerbated his unfortunate eccentricities, and it seemed he had found no useful outlet for his energies. He mostly continued as he had done before, collecting art and travelling, and generally frittering away the money he had, while pining uselessly after the money he could have had from the Agra treasure.
“ ‘How differently my life would have gone, I assure you!’ he insisted. ‘I would not be stuck in these straitened circumstances, and would certainly have left London for more exotic shores. It is a shame to have devoted one’s life to such a promise and find, in its absence, nothing of greater stimulation. That is my tragedy, and at the age of thirty-and-six now, any opportunities have truly passed me by.’
“ ‘Nonsense, Mr. Sholto!’ I declared. ‘There are only such opportunities in this world as you can make for yourself.’
“He regarded my words with an unspoken condescension and, more out of a feigned politeness than genuine manners, he turned the conversation to my own affairs of the last few years.
“ ‘I recall reading of your wedding to that charming Miss Morstan,’ he said. ‘Do you know, had matters turned out differently, I do often wonder if I could have been a marriageable prospect for that young lady!’
“ ‘It was my good fortune that you were not,’ I replied coolly.
“ ‘Ah, but your prospects would have been considerably more distant had my treasure not sunk to the bottom of the Thames. I sometimes wonder whether I could purchase diving gear and recover it myself. Hmm, something to look into, I suppose. Anyway, I must be off - give my regards to Mr. Holmes.’ He had left before the hurt of the faux pas had sunk in.
“The encounter had somewhat lowered my spirits as I made my way to Camberwell, and I turned my thoughts to Sholto’s alternative chain. What if you had recovered that treasure? What if you were Mrs. Mary Sholto? Even if you did not have the treasure, you may have been happier. You may not have been condemned to this … this state.”
While I was first inclined to take his thoughts as comical, I realized his fancy had a tone of wistful regret. “You cannot be serious!” I cried.
“He may not have been an ideal match, but who knows? Perhaps your misfortune is my fault.”
“James what stuff and nonsense you are talking! Thaddeus Sholto indeed! I could indeed have married him - and died shortly after by being hit by a coach and pair. Or we could have murdered each other, having been slowly driven mad - or in his case, madder. Even if I had lived to a hundred with Thaddeus and the Agra treasure, I know for a fact that nothing in that life could have given me the riches I have in you. Think, for instance, of little Mary.”
“Hum, I am glad to hear you say that, even if you are bound to as my wife.”
“Ha, not necessarily.”
9 March -How frustrating it is, to find my energy diminishing daily but so much to do, and to write down! I often feel bloody-minded perseverance, and the ever-growing list of obligations I must discharge before I am able to truly rest in peace, are all that are staving off my increasingly inevitable fate.
Mrs. Forrester has paid me a visit, and said she wished to discuss something with little Mary and myself. “I hope
I can be of assistance to you, Mary,” she said, “and having looked after young Mary while you were away, I believe it might be best if I were to take over as her guardian in the vent of … anything untoward happening.”
She then asked that little Mary come in, and my daughter was very well-spoken in her wishes, which were that she go into Mrs. Forrester’s care.
‘Would you not miss your father, though, Mary?” I asked her.
“Well, of course I would,” she answered. “But it’s so difficult for him even as it is.”
“You certainly are as self-effacing as your mother, Mary,” Mrs. Forrester told the young girl. So that she would not be too distressed, I asked that Mrs. Forrester talk with me alone.
“I’d worry about Mary if Dr. Watson was looking after her,” she confessed. “He has been so distracted of late, and I don’t think he’d have the necessary commitment to his daughter. You should consider yourself lucky that I’m not going anywhere just yet…” A few tears rolled down her cheek as she said this. “Oh, I can’t believe you’ve gotten so terribly ill! Isn’t there anything Watson can do about this?”
“My husband has done all he could. Truthfully, I am more concerned about him than about myself. He does depend on me rather a lot.”
“I don’t doubt that,” Mrs. Forrester ejaculated through her sobs.
“Please, Mrs. Forrester, you don’t need to get so emotional on my behalf. I feel calm in an odd way about my fate. Especially now that I know Mary shall be so well looked after in your charge. Just as I was.”
Best and Wisest Man Page 14