“Why?”
“Because then the world will truly need its Great Detective, Dr. Watson,” she said, “but more than that, Sherlock Holmes will need you.”
I recalled the day fate came walking through the door of 221 B Baker Street, in the form of Mary Morstan arriving at our doorstep and begging our assistance. Actually, she begged Holmes’s assistance, since he had previously worked a case for her employer, Mrs. Cecil Forrester.
As is my custom, once Mary announced her intent to divulge personal details to Holmes, I excused myself and rose to leave. Her skin was so fair that it appeared almost alabaster, and curled wisps of light blonde hair escaped teasingly from her bonnet. “Please, do not leave, sir.”
“You do not mind me staying?” I said, accidentally touching her hand. It was warm and delicate.
Holmes cleared his throat, breaking the moment. “Oh, do sit down, Watson. Obviously the young lady feels put at ease by your presence.” I felt my cheeks flush with embarrassment, and Mary looked down, stifling a smile. Holmes chuckled, “I must confess that I often feel the same way, Miss Morstan. Doctor Watson is simply essential to my success and sometimes, even, to my very well-being. Have you, by any chance, heard the story of our adventures with the horrific beast haunting the moorlands of Dartmoor?” I looked at Holmes curiously, and he winked at me.
“No,” Mary said, shifting in her seat. “It sounds dreadfully exciting.”
“We were summoned to Devon on an investigation for a series of terrible murders. During the course of this, we began hearing reports that the killings were the work of a terrifying creature. We set off in search of this beast, expecting it all to be some sort of elaborate ruse concocted to frighten the locals and allow the culprit to steal off with the fortune of the Baskervilles,” Holmes said. He lowered his voice and leaned closer to Mary, “But it was not. The beast was horribly real. We came upon it in the moor, face to face with its terrible glowing eyes, and bared fangs spilling with drool as it leapt to rip our very throats out.“
“Good heavens! Whatever did you do?”
Holmes clapped me on the back, “My stalwart friend Watson calmly pulled his pistol and shot the wretched thing dead. His hand was as steady as our Mrs. Hudson drawing a morning cup of tea.”
“Really?” Mary gasped. “Dr. Watson, you must have been in the military service, to remain so calm under such conditions.”
“Well, in fact I did serve in the army.”
“He did more than just serve, Miss Morstan,” Holmes said. “He was wounded on the Afghan front in battle.”
“Then you can be of some help to me,” she said. “My father served in the Army of India, and his involvement there lies at the heart my problem. You simply must stay.”
“All right, Miss Morstan. But, as I recall, Holmes, you fired your pistol at the same moment I did. And then, as the beast was about to devour poor Sir Henry, pumped five more rounds into its belly and put an end to its misery.”
Holmes shook his head, sighing. “The details are but a blur to me, Watson. I was too filled with fright to properly recall. Thank heaven the good doctor is also talented enough to make a written account of our more noteworthy adventures.”
“Oh, so you are an author as well as a man of action?”
“I have not published anything yet, but someday I hope to. Just a few short stories about our more interesting adventures, if anyone is interested in reading that sort of thing.”
“You must tell me, what is the title for your adventure with this most ferocious beast of Dartmoor?”
“I am calling it ‘The Adventure of the Great Detective and the Evil Snarling Beast Which Massacred Most of Devon County.’ What do you think?”
Neither Holmes nor Mary replied. Finally, Holmes cleared his throat, “So, Miss Morstan, what seems to be the trouble?”
Captain Arthur Morstan spent most of his daughter’s life serving as an officer in Her Majesty’s Indian Army on Andaman Islands. Upon his return to England, Captain Morstan vanished, never to be heard from again. However, on the first anniversary of her father’s disappearance, Mary received a small pearl in a box via post with no return address, and no explanation. Another came the next year, and another after that, until she had received six in total. Finally, Mary received a letter asking her to meet with the sender of the pearls at the Lyceum Theater. This letter advised Mary that she could bring two companions with her if she was distrustful, but that they should not be police.
The game, as Holmes likes to say, was afoot. I set quickly to the task of recording the details of the investigation, in part, I confess, to have Mary appear in my writings. I made sure to detail my thoughts on her beauty. Once I’d finished the piece, titled “The Sign of Four,” I stood by nervously as Mary read every page. It was the first thing I’d ever written that I felt I could be proud of. By the time Mary finished, there were tears in her eyes and she thanked me for giving her father such a noble eulogy. In the heat of the moment, I kneeled on the floor of the visiting room at the Forrester estate and confessed my love, telling her that I wanted nothing more than to spend my life with her. Much to my surprise, she agreed.
For as much as I wanted Mary in my life, I needed to keep her at arm’s length from Holmes in his present condition.
Baker Street was covered in filth and trash from the evening commute as I returned home. I called out to the man leaning against the lamp-post across the street, where I needed to go. “You there! Look sharp, lad.”
“Yes, sir!” he cried. He rushed out toward me, stepping around the piles of horse manure, hoisting his broom. “Hold on one second, sir,” he said.
“How much?”
“A tuppence, sir.”
I nodded, and waited for him to get ahead of me, sweeping the cobblestones clear of muck and grime enough so that they were fit for a gentleman to cross. Once he’d cleared a path, I dropped a two-pence coin into his palm. “Thank you, sir!” he said gratefully, as I continued toward the apartment.
“Holmes?” I called out as I made my way up the stairs. “You still awake, man? I want us to sort this out.” There was no answer. I turned the lamp on, and as it flickered on, I saw him. His hands were spread across the lid of a box made of dark Moroccan thuya burl wood. The box’s sturdy latches were painted bright gold, the kind that made a loud snapping sound when flipped open. Holmes’s left sleeve was pulled up his arm, and a leather belt was tied tightly around his bicep. One of his syringes was sunk in the crook of his elbow and blood trickled from the needle, staining his chair. He was slumped over, head hanging down, moaning.
I plucked the needle from his arm and threw it on the floor in disgust, “You are quite a sight, Holmes.”
He slowly lifted his head, eyes fluttering as he squinted, trying to focus. “You do not like what you see, Watson?” He fell back against the seat, letting out a great sigh. “Why should I care? You are looking at God’s great joke. It is his cruel trick that I was given the tools and means to fight a great evil, but damned if there is one to be found.”
TWO
Montague Druitt’s earliest memory was his sister’s body slamming onto the spikes of the wrought iron fence that surrounded their mother’s garden. The garden was just behind the Druitt’s home and the spikes Georgiana landed on were far below the window of her bedroom, which had been converted from an attic.
Monty, as his family called him, was hiding in the garden playing with dolls he’d stolen from his older sister’s room. He was making them do things to one another, delighted by the stiffness of his member as one doll stripped the other and tied it down with vines that grew between the fences. A large shadow passed over him with its arms spread and flapping like a great bird. He looked up, shielding his eyes as he peered into the sky, just as Georgiana landed on the fence.
She was impaled face down, staring directly at him, squirming on the spikes. One was speared through her throat, reducing her voice to hissing, gurgling noises as she sputtered his name.
&
nbsp; Another spike stuck out of her side, opening her so that intestines spilled down the length of fence beneath. Cords of her innards uncoiled towards him, spooling all the way to the ground like a slime-ridden ladder.
Georgiana reached for him, fingers wriggling in the air. He ignored her, hesitantly touching the intestines, feeling their warmth and wetness.
Georgiana grabbed him by the collar, shaking him violently. Monty screamed, trying to wrench her hand away. Monty’s screams brought his father running, who quickly began screaming on his own.
~ * * * ~
There was no funeral. Georgiana’s body was placed in the wine cellar, covered by a sheet, until William made arrangements for her to be taken away. A carriage came to their home and the body was placed inside. When the carman strapped the horse and the carriage wheels turned down the dirt road leading away from their home, Dr. William Druitt collapsed in a sobbing heap on the front porch.
Ann Druitt’s expression did not change as she watched the wagon pull away. She looked down at her weeping husband, then went back into the house and up the stairs without speaking.
For the next week, Monty’s father moved about the house in complete silence, as if in a fog. He did not eat or speak to anyone, except for the late nights when he would come into Monty’s room and hold the boy, kissing his forehead again and again.
One day, a new carriage arrived, coming down the path and Monty looked out the door in wonder as dust billowed up from the ground.
The carriage stopped and a young man in a British military uniform dismounted and smiled at him. William raced past Monty through the door and grabbed his eldest son excitedly, kissing him on the cheeks, thanking him over and over for coming home. Will waved for Monty to join them, and he regarded the boy for a moment, “You were just a little bloke when I left home, Monty. I cannot believe how much you have grown. I brought you something.” Will reached in his pocket and produced a carved ivory elephant, which Monty took from him, eyes glowing.
That evening, the two brothers sat together in the front yard, leaning back on a large oak tree, looking up at the stars. “Do you like it so much in India, Will?” Monty asked, turning the elephant in his hands to see it from all sides. “Is that why you never come home?”
“There are other reasons, but I would rather we discuss them when you are older,” Will said, blowing smoke rings from his pipe up toward the sky.
“Is it our mother?” Monty said. “Was she as cruel to you as she is to me and Georgiana?”
Will carefully regarded his younger brother and then played with his hair, “You are a startlingly bright young man, little brother. The worst thing about being in India is that I do not get to see you. Would you like to come visit me?”
“Yes!” Monty said, taking the pipe. “I want to join the Army when I am old enough. I bet everyone thought you were a hero when you went to fight the dirty Indian rebels.” He sucked on the pipe eagerly, but retched when the hot bitter smoke filled his mouth, gagging him.
Will laughed while patting Monty on the back. “Well, be prepared for a battle long before you join the army. When I first signed up, the whole family was against the idea. Georgiana told me I was a barbarian for wanting to go slaughter innocent people who only wanted freedom from the oppressive East India Trading Company. That all changed after Cawnpore, though.”
“What is Cawnpore?” Monty asked, spitting the pipe’s foul taste from his mouth and handing it back to Will.
“Cawnpore was a garrison town for the Company. The British General stationed there was married to an Indian woman. He spoke the local language. When the rebellion started, he was a close friend to many of the high-ranking Indian members of the opposition. Even as the insurgents came closer and closer to Cawnpore, he thought his family and the people he protected would be safe, spared by his many connections to the local community.”
“Were they?”
“No,” Will said. “The bastards attacked his town, overwhelmed them and forced everyone to surrender to the resistance’s leader, Nana Sahib. One hundred and twenty women and children were taken hostage by the Indian forces, imprisoned in the home of a local clerk. Nana Sahib then hired five men to kill every single one of them with hatchets. They say that by the next morning three women and three little boys were found hiding under the mountain of bodies. The women were forced to strip all of the corpses, and throw them into a well at the rear of the property. Once these proper English women had finished this gruesome task, the five men came and pushed them down into the darkness after their compatriots. The little boys were thrown down next.”
“Alive?” Monty said.
“Yes, alive. I should not be telling you these things, Monty.”
“Why do you say that, Will? I find it amazing!”
“Amazing? What the bloody hell is so amazing about that? You a sickie, Monty? That is what we call the boys in our unit who see something ghastly and think it’s exciting, instead of wretched.”
“No,” Monty quickly added. “I am not a sickie.”
“Of course you aren’t. Come on then, enough of this nonsense,” Will said, getting up. “Do you play cricket?”
“No. It looks too difficult.”
“Of course it isn’t. Playing that game is simply all we do in India. Starting tomorrow, I will teach you to play.”
“India sounds wonderful, Will. Promise you will take me there someday.”
Will put his hand on Monty’s shoulder and said in a serious tone, “If it is the last thing we ever do together, I promise to take you there.”
~ * * * ~
Will cut his pudding into small sections, sopping up the gravy politely, then smiling and sighing over each bite. “I will tell you this much, it is a sheer delight to eat food that does not have curry in it.”
“I will thank you not to discuss that disgusting, foreign culture at my dinner table,” Ann said.
Monty lifted his pudding and took a bite, quickly dabbing the gravy from the corners of his mouth before anyone noticed. He did not find the meal nearly as delicious as his brother, and was trying to finish it as quickly as possible.
Will nodded at him, pointing to a bit of gravy he’d missed. “Actually, Mother, at the risk of speaking further about things that disturb your delicate sensibilities, I need to talk to Father about something.”
“William,” Ann said through gritted teeth, “Do you hear him ruining my Sunday dinner?”
“Now, now, darling,” William said, patting her hand. “Let the boy speak. It sounds important. Will, please use the utmost restraint.”
“As you wish, father. I wanted to tell you that I am going to finish my service with the Army and return to England.”
“Really? What are you planning on doing?” William asked.
“I would like to go to the University,” he said, adding quickly, “but not for medicine. I want to pursue legal studies.”
William’s face darkened at first, but he managed a nod. “Well, I am pleased that I will no longer have to worry about you dodging bullets in India. You have my blessing.”
“Thank you, Father.”
“I hope you do not intend to stay here,” Ann said. “I have my hands full taking care of these two, and will not suffer to be worked like a slave in my own home. Your father refuses to hire on anyone to assist me, as much as I beg him.”
William shook his head. “Let us not discuss this now. There is no need for things to become agitated.”
Monty recalled the last person who worked in the home, and how Ann had attacked the woman and chased her from the home at point-of-knife. It was one of the few times that he’d seen his father lose his temper and shout that he would never subject another living soul to his mother’s insanity. She’d ripped handfuls of hair out of her head and shrieked furiously as William locked her in her bedroom and told her through the door that he would let her out when she collected herself. It took two days.
“I will be leaving for Blackheath in a few weeks,”
Will said. “There is nothing to fear, mother.”
Monty’s head whipped toward him, “You’re leaving?”
“Just for a little while, Monty,” Will patted him on the shoulder. “The time will fly until I return, you’ll see. Once I am home, I promise you and I will have grand adventures together. Does that sound all right?”
That night, the two brothers lie in Monty’s room. The young boy listened intently to everything his older brother said about the mysterious and faraway places he’d been to. Will talked about interesting foods he’d eaten and unusual instruments that made sounds stranger than anything Monty could imagine. He talked about wild animals that would stalk you in the darkness and slice you open if you did not kill them first.
~ * * * ~
Every day when Dr. William Druitt finally came home from Portsmouth, Monty would be standing by the front window listening for the sound of the cab’s wheels crunching along the country road. The boy smiled brightly when William emerged from the carriage carrying his worn leather medical bag. William always tipped his top hat at the cab’s driver as he passed, entering the house.
Sometimes Monty and his father played a game, where William would pretend not to remember where he’d hidden a treat for Monty, and the boy would have to guess which pocket held the taffy, or sometimes a small, wooden toy.
“When can I go with you to work, father? I want to be a doctor like you.”
William hugged him tightly. “When you are old enough, if you still want to be one, I will train you to be as I am.”
One evening, as father exited the cab he was met by a man and his son. The man introduced himself, and William shook his hand, gesturing for the two of them to enter the house.
“Monty?” William said, opening the door to let the others in. “This is Mr. Jack Reed. He is the new manager of the farm next to us, and his son Clifton is your age. Come say hello so you can make friends.”
Whitechapel: The Final Stand of Sherlock Holmes (Gentlemen's Edition) Page 2