"How in God's name do you know Bowler's here?" I asked, "Has he written and made an appointment?
"Certainly not, why on earth would he do a thing like that? Can't you hear it's Bowler, listen," and he lifted his ear towards the window.
"I can't hear a damn thing," I hoped Holmes wasn't making a cat’s-paw of me.
"Yes you can, listen carefully."
And Homes was right. If I ignored the passing horses and carriages, voices and the miscellany of little noises that speak of everyday life, there were certainly footsteps on the pavement outside.
"Well someone's definitely pacing about below us, perhaps slightly hesitantly, but I don't see what…"
"What's the time?" Holmes interrupted me pulling his watch from his pocket, "two minutes to the hour - ha, perfect! Can't you hear the boots? As our man's feet fall there are tiny clicks from heel and toe where a boot nailed military style has metal tips to save the leather. He's loitering because he's early. This man is pathologically punctual, just as the Army's taught him to be and he's decided to call at eleven o'clock precisely. Now count the steps: one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight and turn. In the British service, sentry pairs are taught to take eight paces away from each other before facing about. So, he's a man of habit, military habit. He's a soldier, not an officer, that's why - even if he's a civilian now - he sticks to his old style of boot. Oh…listen again. He's paused at that plate glass window next to our front door to check his turnout before his officer gets to look at him. No, that's Bowler alight."
I didn't know whether to laugh or cry at this performance. I could fault nothing in the logic except that if it were Bowler and he was checking his turnout, we'd have a mighty long wait whilst he put himself to rights! But, to be sure, as the clock started to strike, there was a bang on the door, a firm, confident bang and I heard Mrs Hudson say, "Oh yes, sir, do go up, Doctor Watson - that's what he calls himself now, not Captain - is expecting you." I glanced across at Holmes, expecting to see a look of triumph on his face, but finding only consternation.
"Who's that with him, Watson?" he asked.
"Well, Mrs Hudson I assume," I, too, could hear another pair of feet on the stairs.
"No, no, far too light…" he said quietly, before there was a sharp rap on the door and I found myself so far back in my former world that I bellowed, "march in!" quite without thinking.
And he did. The door swung open sharply framing Private Bowler - well, a figure that used to be Private Bowler but who was now distinctly fat, his belly supporting a cheap watch-chain stretched across a greasy waistcoat. This was, obviously, now Mister Bowler, but it didn't stop him bracing to attention and, infuriatingly, pushing his spectacles up into place - and I swear I got a whiff of ether as he did so! Then he burst into a grin, making his moustache bristle like a badger's tail and strode towards me, hand outstretched.
"By God, sir, it's good to see you!" he grabbed my fist, "I feel terrible that I ain't managed to get in touch with you! This man, sir…" Bowler turned towards Holmes, "was the best doctor 'n off'cer in the whole of the Army of Afghanistan, sir - an' I don't mind who knows it!" These few words made such a difference. I was dreading seeing Bowler again and reliving all my swerving and hopelessness, but now it was as if a whole great weight had fallen off the top of my head, as if the sun were shining once more.
"Oh, I'm sorry sirs, where's me manners? Gents, this is Mrs Bowler…" and into the room floated the loveliest little thing. She was simply dressed, by no means expensively, but the lilac bodice clung to her most fetchingly and as she bobbed a pretty curtsy, her skirts rustled delightfully. But, by God, she was beautiful. Her skin was a tawny velvet, her hair a lustrous black and pinned up just so whilst her eyes looked as wonderful without the kohl as they did with it. She, like her husband, smiled openly at me, a smile full of warmth, "…Mrs Alyisha Bowler. We owe everything to the Doctor, don't we, love?"
Doctor Watson’s Bout
Chapter 1, 221b Baker Street.
It's the damndest thing. At moments of high tension, when danger's near or when I'm on my chinstrap, the mind wanders - strange images come wafting through the imagination as though my brain's taken itself out of my body, calm and detached whilst my limbs thrash and my heart churns. For instance, I quite distinctly remember wondering whether my mother would be telling the maids to set tea when the mad, screaming Ghazis closed in and shot me over two years ago; now I had a quite clear picture of my lungs - in full colour, just like a surgeon's teaching plate - hanging from my nostrils. They swelled and shrank like a child's balloon, complete with veins and capillaries seemingly right in front of my eyes whilst my poor legs screamed their agony and my arms went like pistons.
It was one thing running on a level school playing field, or even across an Afghan desert, but a greasy mix of London setts and cobbles littered with tradesmen, cabs and cabbies, children and folk about their ordinary business was quite another. I'd managed to keep ahead of the great, beefy bastard for what seemed like an age. I'd kept out of his reach all the way past the park on the well made pavings there, I'd even made some ground up as I shot between two couples jawing and hee-hawing as I rounded the corner of Seymour Place, but when I grabbed the railing and skidded into Crawford Street, I knew I'd be struggling. I could hear the fellow soughing for breath behind me, his feet thumping too close behind as he took one stride for every one and a half of mine and then, there in front of me, was the Thursday street market I'd quite forgot.
I know I can't hurdle. I can run, sprint even, but I can't hurdle - yet that's what I found myself doing. Some damn lad with a push cart full of what looked like lettuce saw me pelting towards him and tried to swerve, but we turned the same way and I was suddenly half leaping half stumbling over the fool, losing vital fractions of a seconds, squandering sparse reserves of my fast-failing strength. Naturally, this only allowed the gap to close even further but, as flashes of fruit, of many coloured flowers and the overpowering stink of the fish stall wafted past, I thought I saw my chance.
There, about twenty paces in front were what looked like two nannies. Both pushed prams - the expensive ones with leather hoods that were quite at odds with the girls' cheap gloves and clothes - servants' togs. And like the class of woman that I judged them to be - indeed, I have to admit, like any woman - they were utterly absorbed with themselves, jabbering like jackdaws to each other, oblivious to anything and anyone else. Then my mind wiped away the image of the lung-balloons and let me judge the jump. One pram was slightly in front of the other giving me a straight leap of about two and a half foot, I guessed, which once I'd cleared it, would become a barrier at which my pursuer could only falter. He couldn't see what lay ahead for my own body blocked his view, but as I chose my ground and measured my jump, I forget what I knew already - I'm no hurdler.
My heart nearly burst with the take-off, but all seemed well. I caught a glimpse of a cheap-powdered cheek creased in surprise, of rouged mouths pulled back in shock as I lead with my left, straightened the ankle and tried to tuck my right leg up below me. I might have been alright - I should have been alright, but a trailing toe caught the lip of the pram and my landing turned to chaos as I staggered, arms flapping and to complete the calamity, my right heel found horse-manure between it and the cobbles. As my pins skidded in front of me and my arse struck the ground the brute pushed past the drabs and in an instant was over me, his great brawny arms stretched out, fingers hooked like talons, reaching to grip me. I squirmed, I scrabbled on the granite, my nose full of the stink of waste, desperately trying to get to my feet and put some distance between us again. But no, there he stood, chest heaving, louring over me, his face as red as the nannies' lips,
"Bad luck, old sport." Anyone else would have run on, laughing if they had the breath, but not Trevelyan,
"Here, grab hold," two mighty paws seized my fouled, grazed fists and hauled me to my feet, "…you had me there. You always finish well, you devil, you lure me in then…"
; Trevelyan was my running partner. We'd trained together at medical school but, unlike me, he'd had the sense not to go off soldiering and he'd made his way to London where he now had a flourishing practice near Regent's Park. But there was no time for further compliments,
"Why you devils! 'Oo d'you think you are to scare Baby so? Great, murderin' things…I'll call the police, I will," one of the nannies advanced on us, fists clenched.
"Aye, ye scunners. D'ye not know better then to scare the bairns, so?" Even with the wind knocked out of me I could see that neither of us was a match for this formidable bouquet of Rose and Thistle, "…I'll get a Peeler."
"Miss, calm yourself…" Trevelyan started,
"I'll give you calm, you swine. If these kiddies die of fright…" a fist in a tight little glove drummed on my colleague's shoulder.
"Please don't take on so, my dear…" Trevelyan was now shielding himself with both arms as Thistle continued.
"Ye monster. D'you call yourself a gennleman?" she squealed as she cudgelled my friend with a doll that looked suspiciously like General Roberts.
"I call myself no such thing, dear woman," but neither she nor Bobs was quelled. He thrashed on, his tiny woollen moustache sweeping back with each parabola. "Run on, Watson; I shall damn these Amazons."
I heard him chortle at his own wit as I took his advice, setting off at a limping trot towards my rooms.
***
"Doctor Watson, sir, what have you been doing to yourself now?" Mrs Hudson opened the door to 221b Baker Street just as I was about to use the knocker. Her pale face was creased in concern, her greying hair pulled back in her customary bun, but for all the forbidding look of her hooked nose and winter-grey eyes, she was kind. "Here, sir, here, just let me show this gentleman out and then we'll attend to you - goodness, you smell like a stable."
Behind her in the shadows was a big man dressed in a dark overcoat and hard round hat who carried a cane. His collar and tie were ordinary enough; he was ruddy faced, fit looking and about thirty five, I judged. He could have been any of the traders who called and from whom Mrs Hudson bought the goods to run the house and I was a little surprised to see him using the front door and not the one below the level of the pavement.
"Good day, sir," he uttered bad temperedly, only just raising his hat before almost pushing past the pair of us and stamping off down the street, swinging his stick.
"A little abrupt, ain't he, Mrs Hudson? You might tell Mister…whoever he is to use the lower door in the future, or at least to keep a civil tongue." I'd had quite enough of the serving classes' lack of respect for one day.
"He's a Mister Gutteridge, Doctor, a client of Mr Holmes's, nothing to do with me. And I've no doubt he'd be perfectly civil if you looked as though you warranted it, sir, but you're covered in nag's delight and your shoes are sopping wet again. I don't know how many times I've told you to keep out of puddles and you a doctor, too, you should know better."
"But Mrs Hudson, I've explained a hundred fold…" but before I had time to tell her yet again that I deliberately soaked the light leather soles of my pumps so that they would grip the paving and gravel better when I ran, she interrupted me.
"I've heard it all before, Doctor, now just get away to your room and get out of those reeking shorts and shirt. Give them all to me - I'll have them laundered. There's hot water on the hob for a wash and I'll get you tea in no time. Would you like to join Mister Holmes? He's upstairs, but not in any great mood after his meeting with Mister Gutteridge, if I'm any judge.
***
"Of course I knew Mister Albert Gutteridge would come to see me, Watson. Why wouldn't he?" I'd quickly swilled myself, put on a light shirt and flannel trousers then made myself decent with a dressing gown and silk comforter before going down to join Holmes in the drawing room. He didn't seem the least bit put out by whatever had happened with Gutteridge. He had his wretched pipe going, of course, and sat there sipping tea whilst treating me like the amiable half-wit he clearly knew me to be.
"After Ezekial Shaw's apparently unsolvable murder, the finger of suspicion started to point more and more clearly at our friend Gutteridge. The papers speculated openly that the trainer had killed his own champion - you remember the coverage. But the police were utterly stumped by what seemed like an open and closed case to me. Then it was only a matter of time before the prime suspect came to see me, he would have to cover his guilt somehow, wouldn't he? What better way than showing himself willing to engage his very own detective?" he drawled, toying with the china and gazing through the window as if the most sensational homicide in London for a decade or more was hardly worthy of his interest.
And how I remembered it, for the whole, ghastly business had rocked not just the Capital but all of the nation just short of a year ago. Being keen on boxing and the way that Queensbury's new rules were starting to give more form to the sport, I'd watched the progress of the investigation with an almost indecent fascination, wondering why Holmes hadn't chosen to weigh-in. The sporting public had naturally been interested in Ezekial Shaw as he punched and jabbed his way through seven top-rate opponents to take the English title in early 1881, but that interest turned to outright prurience when the poor man started to lose condition. Everyone knew that Shaw had become too fond of grog and grub and that he was beginning to put on weight. So, when Hal Crangle - the Beast of Boston - had challenged, the penny rags had covered every shred of misery that Shaw had gone through at the hands of Albert Gutteridge his trainer to get him back on form. There had been photographs of his lifting impossible weights, the Illustrated had one of those many cameo'd engravings of the boxer at his training camp with Gutteridge bellowing in his ear - nothing was left to the imagination. It looked as if it was going to be a great fight with the Beast getting almost as much newspaper coverage as the reigning champion as he, too, was put through his very public paces. And I'm quite certain it would have been a grand occasion had it not been for a cut throat who stabbed Shaw to death just three nights before the fight was due to take place.
Shaw's body was found near a small park in Belgravia knifed several times just to the right of his spine. Clearly, the thief had come at him from behind, buried a blade in the unsuspecting back of a gent who was dressed for dinner in tail coat and brushed hat. He took his purse and left his victim to leak his blood away. Then, with no-one to fight, Crangle had taken the title and the winner's purse with a walk-over - it was as clear as could be and all the police now needed to do was to run the footpad to ground. Or was it quite that simple? Where was Shaw going when he was murdered? Who was he going to meet and why hadn't that person come forward? Why did a common thief strike first and rob second? Wouldn't it be more usual for a criminal to threaten before attacking and wouldn't the champion of all England be expected to give a good account of himself and perhaps die with wounds in his front rather than a tergo? I'd found the whole thing decidedly odd, but every time I'd brought the subject up, the Great Detective had waved it away. Now I voiced all of these doubts once more.
"You and the papers are quite right to be suspicious. Forgive me, I gave the line to The Times six months ago at least - the line that Gutteridge was guilty of the murder. I'd tried to convince the police, but they simply wouldn't have it, so I went to the papers in the hope that they would shame our flat-footed friends into some form of action and washed my hands of the whole simple, sordid business. Now it looks as though the fellow has, indeed, been smoked out by the coverage he's getting - and he’s come running to me in some faux demonstration of innocence," Holmes snorted, reaching over to the tea pot and pouring himself another cup.
"Thank you, I'd love one," but he ignored my reproach, leaving me to fill my own cup. "But why would Gutteridge kill the man he'd trained, a man who, I guess, was a close friend?"
"Why indeed?" Holmes answered with no interest in his voice that I could hear. With his free hand he reached for today's Times, deftly shaking the folds out of it before half turning to get the benefits of the we
ak, winter sunshine from the window.
"But, you've always insisted that there must be a motive. You've told me that a solid motive is one of the tenets of every case, that pinning a central reason for the crime is crucial to solving it," I continued, irritated by Holmes's insouciance.
"Watson, my dear fellow, you are of course right. But such formulae need only be applied by tyros or when the case is particularly tricky," his voice trailed away as a headline caught his eye, "…and there's nothing tricky about this. Look at the evidence." Holmes went silent again as the paper absorbed him.
"Yes, yes, go on, Holmes. Do drop that damned paper and tell me what you know, for I and the rest of the country would dearly like to see Ezekial Shaw's murderer on the end of a rope,'
"I'm so sorry," Holmes put the paper down, suddenly realising, I guessed, how boorish he was being, "the evidence is clear. You must know that Gutteridge is a knife thrower of some repute - he once traded in the circus world as 'The Great Pierce," Holmes paused and cocked an eyebrow at me as if to allow my slower mind time to catch the play on words, "making not a bad living. He dressed like a matador, indulged in fancy sword play with some other sap, and rounded the whole thing off with, I must admit, a most distracting display where a comely lass wearing rather less than she should have been, was strapped akimbo to a great wheel lined with cork and spun round whilst Gutteridge slung the blades at her and tried not to live up to his stage name. It was all most successful. I never saw a knife even nick the young woman whilst the wheel spun quite dizzyingly. When the whole thing was over, the minx would step out of her bindings and bow most fetchingly, beaming behind a sort of highwayman's mask in a way that several of my friends told me was most beguiling. Indeed, Doctor, I think it was the woman, her immodest clothing, her bonds - well, I need dilate no further, that was as much the secret of the act as Gutteridge's dexterity."
Doctor Watson's Casebook Page 6