* * *
Having returned to 221b, the thrill of watching Holmes solve the case began to subside. I settled down on the sofa, while my companion’s voice travelled downstairs to ask Mrs. Hudson for some tea and some sliced bread. Having made his request, he turned round to face me, while holding the jar of honey he had bought from Mrs. Allen and used successfully in his investigation.
“Before you leave, Doctor, what say you we try this produce for ourselves?” he asked, accompanied by his typical impish smile.
“What a splendid idea!” I remarked.
He sat down opposite me and there was silence for a few minutes.
“A rather fascinating art, is it not? Bee-keeping,” said Holmes, inspecting the jar while sipping from his teacup, which had just been brought up by the disgruntled landlady. “Perhaps one day,” he mumbled, as he trailed off his discourse onto some other matter.
* * *
That brought to a conclusion the whole affair of the Golden Trail. If this account has seemed to the reader to be lacking in additional details, it is merely a reflection of the truth as it occurred. Holmes’s nimble thinking skills and reasonings brought this case to a successful conclusion within a brief, yet intriguing, afternoon.
What happened to Master Allen and his mother after this event, I have no record. However, some weeks later, when Holmes summoned me to another one of his cases, I fancied seeing young Will among the Baker Street Irregulars. I spoke nothing of it to my companion, but it seemed certain that Sherlock Holmes had invited him to join the gang after perceiving his steadfast behaviour and skill at observation. This position allowed the boy to earn the precious shilling that my friend often gave out for their services.
Truly, though Holmes was ever the calculating machine, he could prove himself to be both a superb mind as well as a decent human being.
The Detective Who Cried Wolf
by C.H. Dye
Watson waited until we were in the cab to reach up and lay his hand across my forehead, but when he brought it down, and looked at the residue of the chalk I had employed to make my features paler, his frown deepened. “I thought as much. Another trick.”
The awkward part of being correct, nine times out of ten, is that upon the rare occasions when you are in error you have had little chance to become inured to the condition. And by the disapproval on my friend’s face, I was most certainly in error. “Watson, I...” I began, but he had already rapped on the roof of the cab with his cane to attract the attention of the driver.
“Drop me off at the Underground Station, please,” he ordered sharply.
He had come so quickly in response to word of my distress, had behaved with every appearance of concern at my condition, and had so effortlessly extracted me from the hands of my unscrupulous client that I had expected to be sharing the joke with him by now, but the deepening lines upon his features allowed for no explanations.
“It may come as a surprise to you, Holmes,” he growled, “that I have patients. Real ones.”
“I assure you, my dear fellow,” I said, as graciously as I could, “I did need you. I may not have actually ingested the poison which Camberwell put into my food, but...”
“I can’t always be chasing across London to keep you from dying when...” His hand tightened around the top of his cane and his nostrils flared as he fought to bring his voice back down to a reasonable level. “There are people who are dying. If in future you require a dupe...” He broke off a second time, but didn’t have time to formulate what he wished to say before the cab drew to a halt alongside the Underground Station at Notting Hill Gate.
“Of course, Doctor,” I said quickly, diving for the door before he could disembark. “I never meant to inconvenience you. Take the cab, please. The Underground will do me very well.” I tossed a half-crown up to the driver. “That should cover the fare.” If I expected a protest from Watson, I was disappointed. He merely called up an address - not his own - to the cabbie and leaned back against the cushions, his eyes and jaw shut tight against his own anger. The driver snapped the whip and the cab drew away, and I was left on the pavement, contemplating my fall from grace.
I have never suffered the least difficulty in reading the tenor of Watson’s thoughts upon his countenance, or so I had thought up until that moment. If he is annoyed, or concerned, or puzzled, the slant of his eyebrows alone semaphores the condition. But clearly, I had misread the cause of the furrows upon his forehead that morning. Certainly, they suggested that he had been unusually pre-occupied with his practice during the week since we had returned from Scotland and my investigation of the Grice-Paterson matter. But his anger implied a more immediate concern. Upon receipt of the message I had sent from Camberwell’s, he must have abandoned or postponed a visit to a patient in precarious circumstances. He could not yet have realized that I would not dare trust another physician to maintain the pretense were the falsity of my ailment to be discovered while I was still at the Camberwell house. Still, he would forgive me. He had done so quickly enough over the Culverton Smith matter, although it might be best to solace his pride with an apology and a good dinner.
But first there was the problem of Camberwell to be dealt with. My midnight experiment with his dead uncle’s watch had provided sufficient data to convince Scotland Yard of the need for an official investigation, so I walked to the nearest post office and sent off the requisite telegrams, adding one to Bradley’s of Oxford Street as an afterthought, for the delivery of a box of Havana cigars to my rooms, and another to Mrs. Hudson, asking her to obtain a good cut of beef for the supper I hoped to share with my friend. The last wire I sent was to Watson, requesting his presence at Baker Street at his earliest convenience. I even added the word “please”, although doing so depleted my pocketbook to the point where transport via the Underground became a necessity and not merely an excuse.
When I am traversing London in my own persona, I prefer to use hansom cabs. The Underground, for all its convenience, is crowded, contaminated, and cacophonous. It reeks of coal smoke, and worse, despite the best efforts of the engineers to bring fresh air down to the lowest levels, and the trains are awash in a near-indelible olfactory assault. But with the station at my elbow, convenience won out.
In retrospect, I might have done better to walk. Some trouble down the line delayed the train. After a few minutes, I dipped into my pocket for my cigarette case and joined the other men at the end of the platform who were attempting to disguise the noisome fug of the station with the more aromatic scents of tobacco. I had nearly finished my cigarette before the train arrived. Naturally, the delay meant that there were dozens more people on the platform needing to be accommodated in the carriages, and I was unable to obtain a seat.
It was not the first time I had been so discommoded, and I took hold of the overhead strap, my thoughts still upon my case. But I was soon distracted by a distinctly unpleasant sensation emanating from my stomach and throat. At the time, I ascribed my increasing nausea to the presence of particularly odoriferous fellow-traveller, a gin-soaked relic being escorted to his destination by an anxious and apologetic grand-daughter. He had already befouled himself with vomit, and the heat of the railway car rendered the effluvia of the drying stains on his coat and trousers more potent. I was not the only passenger to decide that it was preferable to leave the train early.
The walk from Edgware Road to Baker Street is not an unpleasant one, and I have made it thousands of times, but on that occasion I found it interminable. My discomfort, far from abating, was increasing, and I could feel a black mood coming upon me. The September sun was near its apex, and hot with the last of summer, summoning all of London to crowd the pavements and throw obstacles into my path. I stopped in at my chemist’s, to obtain some cocaine upon account. Despite my best intentions, I knew that I would never manage to play a proper host to Watson without fortifying myself with stimulants. Not
when I wished nothing more than to fling myself into my bed and not emerge from under the covers for several days.
Despite that, I felt cruelly disappointed when I was met at the door by Mrs. Hudson, bearing a telegram, sent in her name, advising her that Watson would be unlikely to be attending dinner at Baker Street for any occasion in the near future. “You shall share that cut of beef with your friends, then,” I told her, imperiously. “No sense in it going to waste.”
“Are you certain, Mr. Holmes?” said she, peering up at me. “You look as if you could use a good meal. Have you had your breakfast?”
“No, not yet.” I would no sooner have breakfasted at Camberwell’s table than I would have juggled scorpions, even if I hadn’t need to play the invalid to escape his attentions. “But I’m not hungry.”
“Are you certain?” she asked, long acquaintance having inured her to my whimsical appetite. “You’ve not a spot of color on your face.”
“It’s only chalk,” I told her, swiping my cheek with my glove and showing her the evidence. “I needed to convince someone that I was unwell.”
She sniffed. “Oh,” she said. “That trick again. I can see why the doctor is piqued, then. He’s got far too much trouble with his missus to be having you heaping more on his head.”
“Trouble?” I echoed, for Watson had mentioned nothing of the sort to me.
“She lost the babe she was carrying last week,” Mrs. Hudson informed me. “That’s twice their hopes have gone wrong. Did you not know?”
“No, I didn’t,” I said, pressing my fingers against the bridge of my nose to ease the ache that was increasing behind my eyes. This was Watson’s brother all over again. Had he only mentioned the man’s demise, I might never have been so tactless in my deductions over that wretched watch. Why did the man insist upon concealing his griefs from me! That Mrs. Hudson knew of his wife’s condition and I did not I could ascribe to the efficiency of the servants’ gossip, for the Watsons’ scullery maid was sister to the boy-in-buttons presently peeping around the door at the end of the hall. But that Watson had not seen fit to mention anything to me was gall upon an old wound.
In a better state, I should have recognized immediately that my increasing indignation was a severe instance of the pot calling the kettle black. My own reserve concerning familial matters is so ingrained that I had not mentioned my brother Mycroft to Watson for near a decade, and I would have found a fellow lodger who babbled on about his antecedents incessantly so intolerable our association would not have lasted a month. But I can be as churlish as the next man when the black fit is on me. I managed to bid Mrs. Hudson good day with some courtesy, but as I trudged up the steps to my sitting room, I nursed a grievance against my old friend. It was with a certain satisfaction at the knowledge that Watson would disapprove that I prepared an injection of cocaine for myself. Let him grumble about my drug to his heart’s content. It, at least, I could rely upon.
As soon as I had rolled down my sleeve and donned my dressing gown, I rang for the boy to bring me fresh water. I’d not dared trust anything in Camberwell’s house, not even the pitcher, and my overnight vigil had been a dry one. I was feeling the lack more than usual, for within a half-an-hour I was ringing for water again.
This time, Mrs. Hudson herself came, bringing a tray of sandwiches and coffee for my luncheon. The sandwiches held no appeal for me, despite my lack of sustenance since the previous day. Instead, I poured myself some coffee and returned to my perusal of the newspapers which had accumulated in my absence. Mrs. Hudson bustled about, collecting my discarded attire for the laundry. “It’s Billy’s half-day,” she reminded me. “And I’ve just had word from my niece that it’s her time, so I’m away off. I’ll take that cut of beef with me, and no need for you to pay for it, since you’ll not even share in the broth. But there’s some soup on the back of the stove for your supper, if you’ll be wanting it.” She cast me a look of disapproval. My black moods were a trial to her, and a worse one since Watson was no longer there to take the brunt of them. “Although I suppose you’ll prefer to stay up all night, scratching that fiddle of yours.”
“Just as well there’ll be no one in the house to listen to it,” I answered testily. The coffee was inadequate, quite unlike Mrs. Hudson’s usual quality of brew. It was water I wanted. I said as much, although I refrained from criticizing the coffee. She, with the reminder of Mrs. Watson’s recent loss coloring her thoughts about her niece, would be less than tolerant of my foibles; and I, with the all-too fresh discovery that I could overstep even Watson’s forbearance to no purpose, found myself disinclined to antagonize the woman who saw to my meals and comfort. She was a woman, after all, and plagued by the emotionality and frailties of her sex, particularly where infants were concerned.
She sniffed, but she took the pitcher, and went away, muttering that she couldn’t see why I didn’t just fill it at the washroom tap, like any sensible person. Still, when Billy turned up a few minutes later, the pitcher was full of water, cold from the kitchen, and there were slices of lemon floating in it for flavor. “Here you go, Mr. Holmes,” he said, pouring me a glass before setting down the pitcher. He started to depart, pulling his cap out of his pocket to set on his curly head, but then paused to bite his lip and study me. “You feeling all right, sir? Want me to send for the Doctor?”
“The Doctor,” I told him, “does not want to be sent for.” But when his frown only deepened, I relented. “And I don’t need him. A nap will no doubt put me to rights.”
The child’s brow cleared. “Oh, is that it? Didn’t know being sleepy makes you thirsty.” He shrugged, and raised a hand in farewell. “Anything else before I go, sir?” he asked, that much at least of his position’s niceties he had absorbed, although it was clear he was aching to depart.
“No, thank you,” I said, and leaned back in my chair, sipping at my water and listening as he clattered down the stairs and secured the front door before departing by way of the kitchen entrance.
The nap I had suggested would have been sensible, but I had forestalled it with the cocaine. I read for a while longer, until the chime of the bell below reminded me that I was expecting a delivery of cigars for Watson. The moment I moved from my chair, however, my headache returned, accompanied by disorientation. I stumbled to my desk on feet benumbed by sitting too long in one position, and fumbled open the locked drawer where I keep additional funds (and where, at one time, Watson’s checkbook had resided alongside my own). The thought of the stairs repelled me. I took the money to the window and threw up the sash.
A moment’s negotiation with the delivery boy sent Watson’s cigars in the direction of his practice, and I was left with a craving for tobacco of my own. The Persian slipper was empty, and too late for me to call the boy back and ask for a delivery of pipe tobacco. I turned for solace instead to my cigarette case.
But without the stench of the Underground to confuse my senses, I soon realized that the cigarette I lit tasted wrong. The first two draws weren’t bad, but the third had an acrid aftertaste. Watson will tell you that I am no connoisseur of fine tobacco, and mean no injustice. I’ll smoke whatever comes to hand. But these cigarettes were from Thompson, just down the end of the street, his strongest blend, and I had smoked thousands like them.
Obstinately, I took another puff. Had Thompson changed suppliers? Had the tobacco harvest been affected by less-than-ideal weather conditions? I couldn’t decide, and stubbed the cigarette out before it was half-finished, thinking to examine the leaf under my microscope. But, try as I might, I could not find the ambition to remove myself from my chair and go fetch the instrument. The dizziness I had experienced when standing was in no small measure eased now that I was sitting still, but it had not vanished entirely.
Having no desire to faint from a lack of sustenance (which I had done, once, in Watson’s presence, and had been chided for forever after), I reluctantly reached for
one of Mrs. Hudson’s sandwiches. The mustard tingled on my tongue and lips, and after a few bites I gave it up as a bad job. The coffee was already lukewarm, the newspapers dull. I felt dull myself, thickheaded and miserable.
But there was something niggling at the edges of my attention. Something I should be noticing despite the petty nuisances of my body. I floundered after it, wavering between frustration and apathy. And then my stomach began to protest even the few bits of food I had taken. Violently.
I scarcely made it to the hearth in time to save Mrs. Hudson’s Turkish carpet. A second spasm followed the first, but by then I had secured the coal scuttle to use as a reservoir for the remaining contents of my stomach. I huddled over it, shivering, as I clung to consciousness. My feet were cold, my hands numb, my heartbeat fluttering weakly in my ears despite the panic in my head. Poison. It had to be poison. But how Camberwell had managed to poison me when I had not tasted a bite of food nor had a drop to drink during the entire time I had spent at his house I could not imagine.
How many hours until either Billy or Mrs. Hudson would return? Too many. I would have to send for Watson myself. But would he come? Or would he think yet another summons to a dying man was merely yet another ruse? I cursed myself for a fool. Watson would not come to me. I would have to go to him.
But when I tried to stand, a painful convulsion prevented me. Even when it passed I could barely find the strength to push myself back to the table and the water pitcher. The room seemed to dim, a phenomenon I attributed to constriction of the pupils, but I could not account for the way my hearing seemed to dim as well. Using the chair, I managed to get to my knees, to reach the water and bring it down where I could drink, but I was awkward, spilling as much as I drank. Somehow, I managed to bring the pitcher safely to the floor before I was forced to lie down by the increasing weakness of my limbs, but that accomplishment gave me little satisfaction. My stomach was roiling, warning me of more humiliation, and the water closet seemed a dozen miles away.
The MX Book of New Sherlock Holmes Stories - Part IX Page 29