“Yes, I felt I was so close, but all the same, it had seemed to me that somehow Mrs. Hardy was the key. If I could save her with her dark past, then surely I could save myself. But now… I simply do not know.”
“When will you know?” Michelle asked.
“When I sprout a halo and angels appear dancing about me! Or…” Her smile faded. “Or when I must.” Her eyes shifted briefly toward Holmes who seemed suddenly preoccupied with his meat.
Michelle’s brow furrowed, then she smiled. “This is much too serious a topic for dinner conversation. Forgive me.”
“I can see the advantages of having active assistants in the detective business, as you do, madam,” Holmes said. “That would facilitate things.” He smiled at me. “Of course, Henry occasionally acts as my assistant.”
I shook my head. “A very clumsy one, however!”
“Nonsense. You have been quite helpful several times in the past. As has Michelle.”
Michelle gave an emphatic nod. “Women’s intuition does count for something, after all. Men can be so unbelievably stupid at times.” This made us all smile. “No, no, I am serious.” She gave Holmes another hard look.
“I cannot argue with that,” Holmes said, “but it is a rare person indeed, of either sex, who has not at one time or another made some embarrassing blunder which he or she would prefer to forget.”
I winced slightly. “That is certainly true.”
Violet was frowning fiercely. “Yes, it is.”
“Come now,” Holmes said, “this is another subject far too grave for dinner conversation, unless it be to lament our choice of plates. My steak is very good, but ah, if only I had ordered the lamb!” His voice shook with mock grief. We all laughed. He took the wine bottle and emptied it refilling our glasses. “This is our parting feast—I shall order another bottle, perhaps a Burgundy this time.” He raised his hand in the direction of the waiter.
“A third?” Violet sipped from her glass. “You are going to make me tipsy.”
“We have earned it after the past few days,” Michelle said.
Violet had not been to Whitby and asked us about the coastal town and that part of Yorkshire. Holmes told her briefly about our recent case there and evoked the solitary splendors of the moors and the rugged coastline. “I should like to see it,” Violet murmured. The third bottle did serve to further relax us all and to engender a warm feeling of companionship. We finished off the last of it during our desserts.
Michelle was delighted to discover profiteroles on the menu for the evening, and we shared the dish, a favorite of us both. The sweet choux pastry was very good, and this version was filled with vanilla ice cream rather than whipped cream, then topped with a rich dark chocolate sauce. Violet had a slice of gâteau au chocolat and Holmes a classic cherry clafoutis. We sipped at the dark red wine, which went so well with chocolate.
We lingered a long while at the table, but at last Holmes withdrew his watch. It was nearing eleven, and he wanted to get an early start the next morning. Michelle smiled and gave me a knowing look. Michelle asked Violet if she might stay another night at the hotel, but she said she would take a cab and return to Auteuil. “I shall say my goodbyes to you, Henry, and Mr. Holmes tonight. No sad farewells, but only an au revoir.”
We all stood up. I stretched my arms and looked about, feeling slightly woozy. I had drunk more wine than usual, not quite enough to approach drunkenness, but enough to notice a difference. We left the dining hall, said goodbye again, and then Holmes and Violet headed for the lobby, while Michelle and I started for the stairs. She held my arm loosely.
“Those two,” she murmured, shaking her head. “So wise and worldly, and yet with each other they are still like shy children. You must work on Sherlock tomorrow while I do my best with Violet.”
We were halfway up to the next floor, hand in hand, when I stopped suddenly. “Drat,” I murmured.
“What is it?”
“I had better find out exactly when Holmes wants to leave in the morning. I hope it is not the crack of dawn.”
She gave my hand a squeeze. “Well, don’t be long. The wine may have made Violet tipsy, but it has made me amorous! We must make the best of our last night together.”
I gave her hand a squeeze. “So we shall.”
I turned and quickly went back down the steps. The corridor was dim, almost dark at the end, the doorway into the lobby a brightly lit rectangle. I passed through it and stopped by a large potted palm. In the far corner of the room Holmes and Violet were standing staring at each other. Behind them was another palm in an ornate oriental vase, the plant’s great green fronds forming almost a canopy. “Goodbye then,” she murmured.
I took half a step back, unsure whether to retreat or just step out and make my presence known. Violet turned and took a few steps, her gaze lowered, then suddenly whirled about and strode back to him. She did not hesitate, but raised both her hands and set them alongside his long thin face. She rose up on her toes to kiss him. His arms encircled her, and their embrace grew more passionate. I took half a step back, embarrassed to be intruding. My business had best wait until morning. Still, I had a certain nagging curiosity about how long this might last.
I was about to leave when she finally drew away, and his hands slipped down to the small of her back. “Heavens,” I heard her murmur softly, and then after a pause, “I shall miss you so, Sherlock Holmes.”
“And I you.” He hesitated, then raised a hand to stroke the bun of black hair at the back of her head.
“I suppose this is hardly the place…” she said, looking about, and I quickly stepped back through the doorway. “Tell me, might I visit you sometime in Yorkshire?”
“You would be most welcome anytime.”
“Thank you, and again, au revoir.”
“Au revoir, Violet.”
I took a few silent steps backwards, then began to whistle more and more loudly. I came again into the lobby. Violet was halfway to the front door, while Holmes was still standing in the corner. His cheeks were flushed.
“There you are!” I exclaimed. “What time are we leaving in the morning?”
“Around eight o’clock. Perhaps you might join me for breakfast at seven thirty.”
“Very well.” I stared at him closely. “I don’t suppose you have changed your mind?”
The flush at his cheek deepened. “No, Henry, I have not.”
* * *
The journey to London typically took about eight hours: some four hours by train from the Gare du Nord to Calais, another hour or two by ferry to Dover, then another two by train back to London’s Charing Cross Station. Holmes and I went directly to the Gare du Nord after breakfast, and were on a train departing around 8:30. Once the locomotive pulled out of the station, the rain spattered our window and left liquid trails down the glass, and soon we passed through the dingy desolate suburbs of Paris beyond the central arrondissements.
I had pulled out some back issues of The Lancet, but they were to serve as camouflage. I now had some four hours to badger my cousin! However, his gray eyes stared severely at me from beneath his furrowed brow. “Henry, let us make an agreement for our journey in order to assure good relations. I suspect you are determined to try to change my mind about retiring to Yorkshire. I assure you, you would be wasting your time, and the probability is high that you will only succeed in annoying me. Hence, the subject is to be a forbidden one. Agreed?”
I frowned, glanced out the window, then back at him. His eyes had not wavered. I shrugged. “If you insist.”
“I do.” He had pulled out a book and opened it upon his lap.
“But let me just say one final thing, and then I shall keep silent.
Very few people can truly claim to be irreplaceable, but you are just that—irreplaceable. You have saved many lives, and your absence from society will have grave consequences. Very well, I have had my say, and now I shall hold my tongue.”
He stared sternly at me, but said nothing. H
e was probably right—there was no use us arguing and becoming angry. With a sigh I started reading an article on the medical curriculum in France. By the time I had finished, the train was passing through rolling countryside with huge black oaks, a few yellowish-orange leaves still clinging to the gnarled branches. Holmes’s book lay open on his lap, but he was leaning against the windowsill and staring out at the landscape which swept by.
We made the trip mostly in silence, then stopped briefly in Calais for an excellent final French lunch, and afterwards boarded the ferry. Holmes wanted to go out on deck, and I accompanied him. We were near the bow of the ship as it cut its way forward into the water. I had made the trip a few times on perfect days, the Channel smooth and dark blue, the sky above a brilliant azure, and the cliffs of Dover a thin white strip in the distance which grew larger and larger, until one could make out the rocky surface and the variations in color, and see the green grass on top along with an occasional building or a lighthouse. Today was not such a day!
Instead, all was a universal gray. At least the waters were not too stormy, although the surface rose and fell, foaming white showing amidst the dark rough waters, and the sky overhead was a vast all-encompassing gray which had swallowed up the horizon, hiding the Dover cliffs, and merging into a blurry band over the sea. Thankfully, there was not much of a real wind, but our forward motion created a breeze against our faces. The fine rain was cold and stung, and my gloved hands clutched tightly at the metal railing.
“Do you really want to stay out here?” I asked loudly.
Holmes turned to me. His black bowler hat was jammed down tightly, hiding his pale forehead and emphasizing his pale thin face and beak-like nose. A black scarf was wrapped round his neck, up over the hat, and one end dangled down onto his black overcoat. He gave a brusque nod. “Yes.”
“Very well—I’m going back in.”
I thought he might reconsider, but he remained outside until the very end. I joined him as we came alongside the quay, and soon we were descending the iron stairway, umbrellas in hand, since a major downpour greeted us upon our return to British earth.
Holmes was equally taciturn on the train back to London. I managed to catch up on the back issues, but by the time we arrived at Charing Cross, I was thoroughly tired of The Lancet. That morning Holmes had asked if I would join him for dinner at Baker Street—he had then wired Mrs. Hudson to let her know we were coming—and he had also suggested that I spend the night in his spare room, so we could set out together for York early the next morning. I had acquiesced, somewhat grudgingly. I could not understand his misplaced sense of urgency.
However, I first returned home to check on our mail and to bring our housekeeper up to date. I looked forward to sitting in my favorite chair with our black and white cat Victoria and stroking her long fur. I had missed her, and it turned out that the feeling was mutual! She meowed repeatedly at the sight of me, then clamored up onto my lap, purring loudly. I sat contentedly with her and stared out at the falling rain through our tall bow window, the sky growing dark so very early as December approached, and I wished Michelle were with me and that we might sleep together in our own bed that night.
Instead, I said my farewells to Victoria, promising I would return very soon, then set off for Baker Street. Mrs. Hudson greeted me warmly, and we went up the stairs together. All the lamps were lit, and Holmes sat in his armchair wearing his faded purple dressing gown, the bowl of his old clay pipe nestled in the palm of his right hand. Even though we had spent the day traveling together, he seemed genuinely glad to see me. He bade Mrs. Hudson open a bottle of claret and serve us each a glass as an aperitif.
He extinguished his pipe, set it aside, then took a sip of the wine. His black brows scrunched together, and he nodded. “There is nothing wrong with a good claret!—even if it does not have the pedigree of its more expensive French brethren which we have lately consumed.”
“It does have its own virtues,” I said. I looked round the familiar room and savored the warmth of the coal fire. “Perhaps I shall propose a toast of my own.”
“Indeed?”
I smiled faintly and raised my glass. “To the ladies.”
“I shall gladly drink to that.” I was in the armchair opposite his, and we each leaned forward to clink our glasses together.
“I wish they were here,” I said.
A smile flickered briefly at his lips. “Yes.”
“And what book is this I see open before you? Good heavens, is that a Bible?”
“Yes, Henry. I was trying to refresh my memory. Despite my Anglican upbringing, I am not one who can quote scripture at will. Everyone, I suspect, knows this first line from Ecclesiastes, but not all that follows. ‘To every thing there is a season, and a time to every purpose under the heaven.’”
I frowned slightly. “‘A time to be born, and a time to die.’ I can’t go much further than that. I know the Catholic Bible in French far better than the King James version.”
He opened up the book to a place marked by a red ribbon. “It continues on in the same vein. ‘A time to plant, and a time to pluck up that which is planted; a time to kill, and a time to heal; a time to break down, and a time to build up; a time to weep, and a time to laugh; a time to mourn, and a time to dance; a time to cast away stones, and a time to gather stones together; a time to embrace, and a time to refrain from embracing; a time to get, and a time to lose; a time to keep, and a time to cast away; a time to rend, and a time to sew; a time to keep silence, and a time to speak; a time to love, and a time to hate; a time of war, and a time of peace.’”
“I can see why that passage might interest you.” I smiled. “And what is the season for you? Which is the time?”
His gray eyes were faintly troubled. “I wish I knew, Henry. Ah, but here is Mrs. Hudson with our supper. We must give our full attention to a hearty cut of good English roast beef!”
Holmes had clearly resolved to be sociable, perhaps to atone for his gruff silence during our journey, and we ended up talking about our younger days and some of his recent cases I had assisted with. I could not refrain from pointing out that several of the participants owed their well-being and their very lives to him. Although he only shrugged, my observation seemed to relieve him. His thin face lost some of its intensity, and I could see weariness in his eyes and in the set of the muscles about his thin lips.
“It is curious,” I said, stretching my arms. “Traveling often consists mostly of waiting, yet all the same it is quite tiring. It is only a little after ten, but I am ready for my bed.” I stood up. “And you look rather exhausted. How long has it been since you had a good night’s sleep?”
He frowned in concentration. “I am not sure.”
“Will you not retire too?”
He shook his head, then set the stem of his pipe between his lips. The sleeve of his purple dressing gown had slipped down halfway to his elbow, and its breadth emphasized his thin bony wrist. The slipper filled with pipe tobacco sat next to him. “I shall sit up and smoke for a while.”
“Goodnight then.”
I went upstairs, got ready for bed, and fell asleep almost at once. First, however, various land and seascapes paraded through my mind, images from the day’s journey, but they were interspersed with fragments of medical jargon from The Lancet.
I rose early, soon trudged downstairs, and found Holmes slumped to the side and asleep in the armchair. The room stank of tobacco, and the clay pipe sat on the nearby end table, a thin tendril of smoke rising from its bowl. The slipper had lost most of its contents. Reluctantly I woke Holmes. He needed to be up if we were to catch the 8:45 to York. We fortified ourselves with a hearty breakfast, Mrs. Hudson providing ham and scrambled eggs for me and curried fowl for my cousin, a favorite dish of his which I could not abide at any time of day!
And so began a new day of travel: yet another cavernous and busy train station, another first-class compartment; and the dreary gray outskirts of London soon gave way to green rolling
countryside. We reached York by early afternoon and caught the next train for Whitby. The railway wound alongside a river between mountains, the sides covered with shaggy firs and stunted trees. The clouds and rain had followed us, but as we approached Whitby a wan sort of sunshine cast yellow highlights on the dark wood and the plush velvet upholstery of our compartment, and welcome light streamed through the large windows. It was not far from the station to our hotel, but we took a cab because of our luggage. Holmes signed the registry and asked for our bags to be taken to our room.
“Are we going somewhere?” I asked.
“Yes—up to Whitby Abbey, if you will join me. We have just time before dusk and darkness set in. I need some exercise after our two days of travel, and as you may recall, the view of the town and the sea, as well as the ruins of the abbey, are spectacular.”
“An excellent idea, although it is likely to be freezing cold up there, what with the usual icy wind. At least the rain has stopped for now.”
“We are well prepared for the cold, I think.”
And indeed, we both had on rough home-spun walking hats, heavy woolen overcoats and tweed suits complete with waistcoats, as well as scarves. Holmes had also brought along a sturdy blackthorn, something far more suitable than his usual formal walking stick.
We made our way through the narrow cobbled streets of Whitby and came to the famed 199 steps which led uphill to the Church of Saint Mary and the abbey beyond it. Halfway up, Holmes paused to catch his breath, which came out in steamy clouds. His face was pale and wan under the brim of the black bowler, and he looked almost ill.
The Further Adventures of Sherlock Holmes--The Devil and the Four Page 29