by David Fable
32
WATSON
C hristopher seemed to have taken the information in stride, butI was still occupied with thoughts of Lilah as I unlocked my refurbished front door. I suppose that was one of the advantages of youth and a more progressive way of viewing these things. I decided to sit at my desk and take notes on everything that had transpired since the moment I had heard of Holmes’s death. Essentially this would be an expanded version of Christopher’s timeline but using my own personal point of view. This was the process I employed when writing about the cases that Holmes and I had pursued. I would record copious notes and later piece together my accounts with the benefit of those notes and the informed perspective of hindsight. I found the note-taking to be most beneficial in focusing my mind in the midst of a case and was hoping I would find it additionally therapeutic in this particular situation.
Holmes always accused me of romanticizing our experiences in my accounts. I disagreed with him vehemently. He regarded the world in black and white, pertinent or not pertinent, accurate or inaccurate, and I, on the other hand, through the process of my writing, revealed to myself a world full of nuance. I suppose this is where Holmes and I most differed in our view of the world, and why he claimed I romanticized it through my retellings. I have always firmly believed that the facts don’t tell the whole story, only the solution. Sherlock Holmes, for his part, sought only the solution.
I wrote from late morning to early afternoon with nary an upward glance. I recorded every event, every word I could recall. I could have kept on into the late hours of the night if it wasn’t for an appointment I had set up with Holmes’s solicitor to go over some paperwork for the estate.
I was due at Pearson’s at three o’clock and arrived a half hour late. Such was the trance of writing I found myself in for those several hours. The solicitor was waiting for me, and I was escorted into his office by the tortoise-like secretary, Dora. There were documents to sign and papers to go over.
“By the way, I have located Lilah Church,” I informed the solicitor.
“Yes, I know. She was here not more than a few hours ago,” he responded as he passed me another document for signature.
“Was she!” I said in astonishment.
“Her son came in at first and wanted to see the will. I told him that, as he was not named in it, I would not read it to him, but, if his mother were present and consented, I would have no problem. He returned with his mother in less than an hour.” Pearson told me all this matter-of-factly which assured me that they hadn’t revealed the true nature of the relationship. “Is there a problem?” he asked seeing my perplexed expression. “The will shall become a matter of public record in a few weeks anyway.”
“No, you’re absolutely right. Not a problem,” I said distractedly. I found it disconcerting that Alexander should not take my word for his absence from Holmes’s will, but then again, he was in all likelihood Holmes’s actual son, and therefore things could get complicated if he chose to assert a claim. This was not something I intended to disclose to Pearson at that time, but I was anxious to make sure we were getting all our parties straight. “What did Lilah Church look like?” I asked Pearson.
He looked up from a document, as the tone of my question appeared to raise his level of concern. “She was quite pretty, actually. Dark ringlets of hair. A touch heavy with the makeup for my tastes. She seemed a bit tired. They gave me an address on Averill Street.”
“Yes, that all sounds correct,” I reassured him. I supposed that Christopher must have taken Lilah home sometime during the day and, in all probability, had a conversation with Alexander. I was anxious to hear what the content of that discussion had been.
“Good,” said Pearson, as if putting the Lilah Church matter to rest.
“I should like to make the distribution to Miss Church immediately,” I declared.
Pearson looked up again as if mystified by my doggedness on affairs regarding Delilah Church. “That can be arranged,” he said warily. My purpose was to keep Alexander and Lilah satisfied until I determined how to deal with them. My sense at the time was that both understood the obvious desire for discretion, and I was sure Christopher communicated that to them.
After Pearson directed me to sign a few more documents, I still had time to walk the mile plus to Victoria Embankment to have our scheduled meeting at Scotland Yard. As I approached the building it occurred to me that Holmes and I had visited it innumerable times, but I couldn’t remember a single occasion of going there on my own.
When I was led into the commander’s office, Lestrade and Gregson were waiting for me. Lestrade had a very unpretentious manner of occupying the most important room in the building. I believe this endeared him to his underlings. Gregson was the only one that seemed frequently annoyed by Lestrade’s often plodding and warm manner.
We chatted for fifteen minutes while waiting for Christopher to arrive, with Gregson hardly participating. Small talk was never Gregson’s strong suit. I’m not sure I ever heard him express any interest outside the job. He mentioned a motion picture now and then, but hadn’t gone to the theater since Gilbert and Sullivan retired. As Lestrade and I were discussing the imminent opening of the London Museum, which would be devoted to the history of the city, Gregson interrupted, “Shall we get started? Mr. Hudson can catch up if he manages to arrive.”
“Yes, certainly,” I said. “I’m not sure what has detained him, but I’m confident he will arrive soon.”
“I hope he hasn’t had any trouble,” said Lestrade with a hint of concern.
“I’ve found that the lad can take care of himself,” I assured him.
Gregson opened up the file that had been waiting on his lap. “We have analyzed the fingerprints from the Renault,” he began. “They are from three different parties. One belongs to the owner, whose prints we took when he came down to claim the vehicle. The second belonged to a Sergio de la Iglesia. He’s a Spanish citizen who has a record of car theft and petty crimes.”
“That is the man who tried to murder us,” I informed them.
“That was a big step up for a fellow like that,” said Lestrade and knitted his brow.
“He had few known associates, but one told us that he boasted that he was working for Wiggins.” Gregson looked up for a reaction. Both Lestrade and I remained silent. “The third print we could not identify, however it matched the print taken from your flat after the burglary, Doctor.”
“Not this de la Iglesia fellow?” I was extremely surprised. Both Christopher and I had concluded that the Spaniard had been the burglar. “Then you say it was a conspiracy.”
Gregson passed no judgment on that opinion, but continued evenly, “An examination of the Renault suggests that Hudson’s theory might be plausible that Holmes was run over. We have definitively matched the car to the tracks left at the granary where Holmes was found. Time of death was put at somewhere between two and three in the morning. We’ve found no eyewitness to either the murder or the disposal of the body. We questioned people we know are likely to have been on the streets of the East End at that time of the night since Mr. Hudson suggested that is where the murder took place. No one saw or heard anything.” Gregson closed the file. “All in all we are not much closer to solving this. It’s possible that it was an accident, someone panicked and disposed of the body out there in Kent.”
“You don’t believe that, do you?” I asked pointedly.
“Not really, but I have absolutely no motive. This Spaniard tried to kill you and that is evidence enough that there was foul play, and he might well be the culprit and you two were threatening to discover it, but now there’s no body and frankly all we have to go on is your word, trustworthy as it is.”
“Yes. Corpus delicti,” Lestrade chimed in. “In this case we know a crime was committed, but we have no evidence of the perpetrator.”
“And the unknown fingerprint? I’m sure you have Wiggins’s prints,” I asked.
“It doesn’t belong to Wi
ggins,” Gregson said with certainty.
I was unsure whether to impart our newly discovered information about Lilah with Lestrade and Gregson. I had not yet resolved whether I intended to keep it secret or not. There were others who shared the secret of Holmes’s relationship with her, so it may not have been solely mine to keep, but it didn’t seem that it was relevant information to be shared at the moment. “And what of the driver of the Renault last night?”
“Yes, I thought about that,” Gregson said. “Suppose it was this de la Iglesia character who killed Holmes for whatever reason. You and Hudson are a threat to him and he tries to kill you. Now, after he’s dead, his conspirator or conspirators attempt to get rid of the car, but by chance Christopher sees them and the chase is on.”
“And who killed de la Iglesia?” I asked.
“I haven’t a clue,” said Gregson grimly. The three of us stared in frustration.
We concluded the meeting by resolving to meet again in two days’ time. That would give Scotland Yard a chance do an investigation of a flat they had located in Whitechapel that they believed to belong to this Sergio de la Iglesia character and to question and round up any known associates.
I caught a taxi in order to be on time for the confidential dinner that Mrs. Hudson had requested of me. I had the cab drop me off a block away so that Christopher would not be alerted to my arrival. I felt a little uncomfortable about this clandestine affair, but, after all, we were talking about Christopher’s mother, so I knew she had her reasons.
As I stealthily approached, Mrs. Hudson opened the front door of Baker Street and ushered me into her flat. I was heartened to see Christopher’s motorbike parked in the downstairs hallway for it had crept into my thinking that he might have met with some more foul play, since I was sure he would have made every effort to keep his appointment with Lestrade and Gregson.
The aroma inside the Hudsons’ flat was sumptuous. She had prepared my favorite, leg of lamb, and the table was set and waiting. “Thank you for coming, Doctor Watson,” she said in a hushed tone though I could tell her from experience that there was no way for voices to be heard from inside her flat all the way up to Baker Street B. “Would you like a glass of wine? Dinner is ready to be served.”
“If we’re ready to eat, I would welcome a glass of wine with dinner.” I walked into the dining room just as Captain Hudson entered from the kitchen with a bottle of Burgundy and a corkscrew. Captain Daniel Hudson was a tall, blond, Nordic man. He was tailor-made to be in command of a ship. His bearing inspired confidence. There was no arrogance. He merely exuded a sense of the utmost competence. The Captain spoke little of his work and even less of his early life. I know he had been in the navy and, like many of us from that era, preferred not to recount his history of service. He was stingy with his words but not his smile. He was a good listener and often would sit enrapt by Holmes and me over a brandy as we told him the tale of one our latest cases.
“Good evening, Doctor,” said Captain Hudson as he pulled the cork and poured wine into all three crystal goblets on the dining room table.
“Good evening, Captain. Always a pleasure to see you,” I answered sincerely.
“Please sit. I’ll get the lamb,” said Mrs. Hudson and hurried into the kitchen.
Captain Hudson and I sat down at the table. “How are you enjoying retirement, Captain?”
“It suits me, Doctor. How about yourself?”
“I was quite enjoying it until the recent events hit.”
“Yes, I’m sorry.” He clearly felt bad for reminding me of the sore subject.
“No, no. There’s no need for such sensitivities between two old friends,” I said trying to put his conscience at ease. I raised my glass and toasted, “To retirement.”
Mrs. Hudson entered with a platter of leg of lamb surrounded by roasted potatoes. “I hope the lamb isn’t overdone for you.” She put the platter down in the middle of the table and we all served ourselves.
The lamb was delicious, coated with coarse salt and smeared with mint jelly. After a few bites I looked up and said, “Well, Mrs. Hudson, the lamb is perfect, but I’m afraid I might get dyspepsia from the mystery regarding the confidentiality of this meal.”
“Yes, you are quite right. I am going to get directly to the point,” she said, putting down her fork and knife and delicately wiping her mouth with a blue-and-white checked linen napkin. “Christopher has a very promising future in medicine. I think you can appreciate that as well any of us.”
“And you don’t want to see him follow in the footsteps of Sherlock Holmes,” I said finishing the thought for her.
“Exactly,” she said, quite pleased and relieved.
“I can fully appreciate how you might prefer your son to go into the field of medicine instead of crime-solving,” I said agreeably.
“Wouldn’t any mother?” she said with deep conviction. “Would you please convince him to go to back to medical school? As you know, no one admired Mr. Holmes more than I. But he had a special gift. He had a calling.”
“Your son seems to have a bit of that gift.” I didn’t mean to be contrary, and given a second chance, I probably would have retracted that statement in that it seemed to distress Mrs. Hudson unnecessarily.
“His gift is for medicine. You should see his grade, Doctor Watson. We talked to his dean at Oxford, and he was more than clear that our boy should be a doctor like yourself.”
Captain Hudson, always the dutiful husband, sat quietly as if a spectator. It was unclear what his opinion was on the matter. He had always been a bit of a hard read. It wasn’t a matter of him trying to be deceptive but rather that subdued Scandinavian manner. I wanted to alleviate Mrs. Hudson’s anxiety and so I quickly acquiesced. “I will try and convince him to go back to medical school.”
“Oh thank you, Doctor Watson,” she said, brimming with optimism. She picked her knife and fork up. “Now, let’s all enjoy the rest of our dinner.”
I didn’t have the heart to tell her I felt I had very little influence over Christopher in this matter, so instead I gave her a bit of false hope, finished my wine and lamb, thanked her for dinner and went upstairs to Baker Street B.
I knocked on the door and heard Christopher’s distracted voice approving entry. The door was unlocked and I found him sitting in Holmes’s armchair and staring at his timeline, which now dominated the wall like a papier-mâché map of the continents. “What did my mother want of you at her secret dinner? To convince me to become a doctor and not a detective?” he said without looking up.
“Yes. How did you know?” I was relieved that he had figured out the situation. I knew from the first there would have been no way to approach the subject without Christopher seeing though the charade.
Christopher rose from the chair and stretched. “Where do I begin? First off, I heard the door open to let someone into my parents’ apartment, but the bell was not rung which means it was someone my mother knew and was expecting, even watching out the window for. She brought up my dinner early and still has not come to retrieve my dishes, another sign that she had guests. She made your favorite meal, leg of lamb, and lastly, since I deduced you were the guest and I was not invited, it is clear that she wanted to discuss me with you.”
“Your observations are spot-on,” I told him. “Where is your mind on that matter?”
“My mind, good doctor, is on other matters at hand. Please tell me what you learned at Scotland Yard. I apologize for not attending, and I hope you weren’t worried about me. I had an encounter with Wiggins which I shall recount, but, please, you first.”
I told Christopher what Scotland Yard had to contribute. He was most interested to hear that the fingerprint at my flat was not from this Sergio de la Iglesia character.
“Yes,” he uttered as if this fact had answered a riddle, and he moved energetically across the room to Holmes’s old microscope, which he had set up on the cluttered, six-foot-long research table. “That squares with what I found. I recovered
two black hairs from the Renault. I assumed they would match the one I recovered from your flat, but only one did. Take a look.” He beckoned me to the microscope. I accommodated him and looked into the eyepiece. “You see the middle one is the same as the hair found at your flat, but the other is thicker and hasn’t that little wave in it.” Honestly, I couldn’t see the difference. “So there were three different parties in that car.”