“Just time enough for me to look over my work before they get here. You wanna double check me, Sherlock?”
“I could,” he agreed, clearing away the tray with the dishes. “One moment whilst I deposit these in the kitchen.”
* * *
They had just finished confirming Skye’s numbers when the pop and wafting ozone announced the arrival of their counterparts.
“How’s it going, Sis?” Chadwick greeted her other self.
“Pretty well, I think,” Skye decided. “Let me show you my first results.”
“Okay,” Chadwick agreed.
Old Mr. Gibson had been a retired college professor, and his study was equipped with a large chalkboard, much to Skye’s satisfaction. So she rose and began transferring her initial results from the notebook to the blackboard. The other end of the wormhole was silent, intently studying the equations emerging from her hand. When she was finished, an intense discussion ensued.
“So there are two possible causes,” Holmes observed. “An error in the sequencing of string bosons, inherent to the design; or damage—as yet undetermined—caused by Haines’ manipulation.”
“That’s how I see it,” Skye verified. “And the probabilities lean toward Haines.”
“Even if it is a design error, the sequencing is a quick fix,” Chadwick decided. “Do you have the correct order determined yet?”
“No, but I should be able to work it out in a couple days,” Skye concluded.
“Okay, let’s take a look at that, and make sure it isn’t something simple,” Chadwick prioritized. “Then, if that doesn’t fix things, we can move on to more complicated solutions.”
“Wilco,” Skye nodded. “You wanna stay and help, or dial back in tomorrow?”
“Dial back in tomorrow,” Sherlock decreed.
“Fair enough,” Holmes affirmed. “The less time we…”
The room shook slightly. Sherlock grabbed his chair arms, and Skye’s fingers clutched the chalk rack until her knuckles were white, in their efforts to remain in place and upright. Within seconds, the tremor had subsided.
“A small one,” Chadwick’s voice whispered.
“Indeed,” Holmes agreed in a subdued tone. “And proof of the sense of ‘Brother Other Me’s’ request. The less time we stay in focus, the less—immediate—danger in which we place them.”
“Okay, we’re gone,” Chadwick said quietly. “Same Bat-time, same Bat-channel?”
“That works,” Skye agreed, as subdued as their counterparts.
An ozone pop, and Skye and Sherlock were alone again.
* * *
The second day went much the same as the first, with Sherlock taking multiple telephone reports from the coroner, all saying the same: Cause of death still unknown. By that night, the detective realized the pattern had already been set.
January 19
11:23 p.m.
The sequence of our days has been established. Skye spends all her time slaving over her notebook of calculations, and I see to her physical wants and answer the blasted telephone. It is never anyone save Ryker or Merriwether to give me the news that there is no new news.
I must admit, however, that I am deeply concerned about Skye. Granted, she comes to bed as soon as may be after I note the lateness of the hour, and per her promise—which, while most gratifying, was not truly needful; a simple explanation would have sufficed—I can hardly say I am neglected. Even during the day, in the midst of her work, should I request her attention, whether on some domestic matter or personal, she provides it as soon as possible. But she takes only the bare minimum of sleep, getting up often well before dawn, and I truly believe were I not here to supply her nourishment, she would not eat. She is deeply into this project.
I do understand the danger should she not assist, and I do understand she wishes to help the other “us”—not merely, I suspect, to save their continuum, but also to give them another chance together. Skye is a decided romantic, and not a closet one.
Hopefully the matter will be resolved by reordering the sequence of production of closed-loop string particles. I have it to understand that involves editing software, the matter of minutes to cut and paste subroutines into a different order, and then all will be back to normal. Their continuum will be safe, our continuum will be safe, and above all, Skye will be safe.
* * *
Several days passed in this fashion. Then a phone call arrived from Ryker putting paid to the notion that Sherlock could play house-husband any longer.
“A will?” Sherlock repeated, as he listened. Skye even paused her researches at that. “You say another will has been found? And more recent?”
“It has,” Ryker’s voice sounded over the phone. “The thing was filed about three days ago by an unknown party, and we have one week from that day to prove it invalid; the formal court date has been announced. I’ll be by in about half an hour with a copy of the will. It makes interesting reading, to say the least. Didn’t you indicate James McFarlane was a good, upstanding man in the community?”
“By all accounts, yes.”
“Well, this is going to raise some eyebrows, and no mistake. I’ll be right over.”
* * *
“An illegitimate heir?!” Skye exclaimed, looking over her husband’s shoulder at the copy of the will Ryker had brought them. “By a mistress across the Channel in France? You gotta be kidding me!”
“Not necessarily, my dear,” Sherlock pointed out. “He was known to sell his dairy in France, according to Ryker’s sources. It is possible.”
“But he and his wife didn’t…well, I suppose it could have been the wife that couldn’t,” Skye realized.
“Couldn’t have children?” Ryker verified.
“Yeah,” Skye confirmed.
“Hm,” Sherlock pondered aloud to himself. “Perhaps another conversation with the Carvers is in order.”
“I’d say so,” Skye agreed.
“Would you care to come, my dear?” Sherlock wondered.
“I’d love to, but I can’t,” she shook her head disappointedly. “I’m almost done with the string sequencing, and the other us is supposed to show up in a couple of hours.”
“Perhaps I should wait.” Sherlock drew a deep breath, indecisive.
“No,” Skye said firmly. “Sherlock, this isn’t like you. I know you’re worried, but you’ve got to get back on the horse.”
* * *
Ryker watched the exchange silently. The Holmeses had fully briefed him on the complete situation regarding the tesseract, and he had to admit he understood Sherlock’s concern. At the same time, he knew this behavior wasn’t like the Sherlock Holmes he knew, and he was worried.
“Don’t do it,” Skye added in a pleading tone. “Sherlock, don’t let me do to you exactly what you were afraid getting involved would do to you. Don’t let it immobilize you. Don’t let it destroy your detecting abilities. I’ll never forgive myself if you do.”
* * *
Damnation, Sherlock thought in chagrin. She is right. I am in danger of becoming precisely what I once swore to her I should never be, what I never wished to become. And, though it is out of concern for her welfare, it is not fair to either of us. After all, she fell in love with me because of who and what I am, not despite. No! This will not do!
* * *
The dark head snapped upright then, and the grey eyes blazed with light. Those same grey eyes met Skye’s earnest blue ones, and Ryker would have sworn the two spoke mind to mind. Or maybe heart to heart, he considered.
“Very well,” Sherlock declared. “I am off to visit the Carvers. Ryker, would YOU care to join me?”
“Wish I could, but I gotta ride herd on my lot,” the operative noted. “They’re digging up everything they can over on the French side of this.”
“All right,” Holmes nodded. “I am off.”
“So am I,” Ryker agreed, as both men headed for the door.
“I’m right here, and I’m not going anyplace,”
Skye declared firmly.
Sherlock took a deep breath and let it out slowly as he closed the door behind them.
* * *
“WHAT?!” Jonathan Carver exclaimed in outrage, when told of the matter. “That’s a demned lie, is what it is! James wouldn’a ha’ gone behind ‘is wife’s back! ‘E loved ‘er about as much as a man can love a woman! Mr. Holmes, would you go an’ have an affair behin’ yere wife’s back? Oy hear tell, you two’s deep in love, ‘cordin’ t’ the reg’lars over at the Saxon Lyre, and t’weren’t no differ’nt with James an’ Maggie.”
“No, Mr. McFarlane, I would not,” Holmes responded directly, feeling only a hint of warmth in his high cheekbones. “And in truth, something about this seems…quite odd. If you would be so kind, perhaps we can all settle down with a spot of tea, relax, and discuss the matter. You may be able to help immeasurably.”
“Oy’ve already got a pot steepin,’” Mrs. Carver noted. “Oy started it when Oy saw ye comin’ up th’ road, Mr. Holmes. Th’ two a’ ya jus’ drop y’rselves down on th’ settee an’ Oy’ll have it in here in no time. Maybe with a bit o’ bread an’ jam, an’ some shortbread biscuits.”
She was as good as her word, and the hot beverage, liberally laced with cream and sugar, seemed to calm Carver’s insulted feelings, as did the homemade shortbread. Soon he was able to discuss the matter less heatedly.
“Now, first of all, had you not mentioned another heir, at some point, Mr. Carver?” Holmes queried blandly, not giving away the information that he and Skye had already been in contact with said heir.
“Oy b’lieve as how Oy did. James, him had a nephew by his brother up Scotland way, an’ as there weren’t no children, James tol’ me the nephew’d inherit ever’thing. Not,” he added, “that there’s a whole lot t’ inherit. Th’ farm, well, ‘tisn’t that big, nor th’ house neither, an’ nothin’ about it particularly valuable.”
“So you see no financial advantage to faking a will in order to inherit?”
“No sir, I don’t. ‘Tisn’t no fancy belongin’s, even. Maybe one or two heirloom pieces o’ china an’ jewellery, but even them weren’t special, savin’ t’ th’ family.”
“The cattle?” Holmes pressed.
“Nope,” Carver shook his head. “James had enough comin’ in t’ make ends meet an’ put a little by f’r emergencies an’ such loyke, but all he ever wanted outta the cattle farmin’ was just exactly that. Him an’ Maggie ‘uz comf’table enough, but they wasn’t rollin’ in sterling. He never wanted t’ be a rich man. Allus said a lotta money weren’t nothin’ but trouble.”
“Very well.” Holmes nodded thoughtfully. “This next topic is of a… delicate…nature; please forgive my asking, but if we are to get to the bottom of this, it must be known. Did Mr. and Mrs. McFarlane TRY to have children?”
“It’s loyke we said last time you was over, Mr. Holmes, they wanted ‘em real bad,” Mrs. Carver answered, seeing Mr. Carver was flushing with embarrassment at the sudden direction the questioning had taken. “They went to doctors an’ ever’thing. But nothin’ worked, Maggie said.”
“So was it Mrs. McFarlane that could not bear children?” Both the Carvers flushed at that.
“Not meanin’ t’ stonewall ye a mite, Mr. Holmes, but Oy haven’t a clue,” Mrs. Carver said, shrugging and trying to contain her embarrassment. “James never spoke about it, an’ Maggie, well, she weren’t one t’ go talkin’ about th’ most private parts o’ th’ matter.”
“Unless and until we can determine if Mr. McFarlane could even sire children, the question of the will remains open.” Holmes sighed.
“Well, Oy dunno,” Carver murmured thoughtfully. “Cuz James had me witness th’ one will, an’ ‘e ‘ad me as…whatchacallit…‘executor’ on it. Luv,” he addressed his wife, “wouldja look in my desk, bottom right drawer, an’ fish out James’ will? Oy done been in contact w’ ‘is nephew about it,” he explained to Holmes. “So, if Oy unnerstand right, we got what’s called ‘contestin’ wills’ here.”
“It would seem so.” Holmes’ eyes glinted. “Tell me, Mr. Carver, did Mr. McFarlane file a copy at the courthouse?”
“He did. Oy went with ‘im.”
“Then here is somewhat to consider,” Holmes noted, as Mrs. Carver placed the will before him. Holmes rapidly scanned through it; it appeared completely legitimate. “Could you arrange for me to receive a copy of this, so I might compare it to the French will?”
“Oy b’lieve so. Haveta run inta th’ village later today anyhow. Oy c’n arrange it all then.”
“Capital! Now, back to the question of offspring. If they consulted with doctors, perhaps we can get some information out of Dr. Victor’s records?”
“Oh, no, Mr. Holmes,” Mrs. Carver said. “Y’see, ‘e ‘asn’t been aroun’ that long, Dr. Victor, an’ Oy doubt as how he woulda done nothin’ but send ‘em to some specialist anyways. You’ll have t’ go see th’ old doc if ye want that kinda information. ‘E’s retired, but ‘e still lives in th’ area. Ol’ Doc Watson, ‘e is. Lives over t’ward Wickham Market. Head f’r th’ A12, an’ get off in High Street, headed north. Take it on inta Wickham Market proper, an’ turn left inta Dallinghoo Road. A left inta Walnuts Lane, an’ th’ first left inta Willow Tree Close, an’ ol’ Doc Watson lives in number ten.”
Holmes struggled to hide his reaction to the doctor’s name. “And what might be the good retired doctor’s full name?” he queried, having pulled out pad and pen to jot down the directions.
“Oh, him’s John, just loyke me Jonny,” Mrs. Carver noted. “Dr. John Harold Watson, M.D. ‘E’ll prob’ly laugh ‘imself silly over your comin’ ta see ‘im. ‘E usedta catch it right thick from th’ young ‘uns, ‘bout bein’ Sherlock Holmes’ sidekick.”
Sherlock’s grey eyes sparkled with elation.
* * *
An hour later, the detective pulled up to Number Ten, Willow Tree Close, Wickham Market. Long slim fingers trembled slightly with excitement as they switched off the automobile’s ignition. In short order, those same fingers were tapping on the front door of the cottage.
An elderly man came to the door, and Holmes had all he could do to control himself. The occupant of the small house was somewhat shorter than Holmes, portly with age, and walked with a slight limp. A white, bushy moustache matched the neat white thatch of hair atop the well-set head, and bright, intelligent brown eyes gazed at him. Oh, my dear Lord, have mercy upon me, the detective thought, amazed. He is precisely as I would have expected “my” Watson to look at an advanced age.
“Good day to you, sir. May I help you?” Dr. Watson queried politely, with a friendly smile, and Holmes swallowed unobtrusively; even the voice and the intonation were correct.
“Yes, I believe you can,” Sherlock managed to keep his voice even. “Am I correct in that I am addressing Dr. John H. Watson, M.D.?”
“You are,” the physician smiled. “Retired, I might add. But I still help out in the occasional trouble.”
“I am quite sure you do,” Sherlock smiled, not quite able to hide the affection. “May I come in? I have a long story to tell…”
* * *
Watson gazed skeptically at Holmes, a twinkle in his eye. “I’m no fool, Mr. Holmes. I HAVE kept up with other scientific developments than merely those in medicine over the years, and I do know the name of your wife. She and some of her mentors and colleagues have done some interesting work in interdimensional physics in recent years.”
“Indeed?” Holmes played the innocent as best he could, but his own eyes sparkled despite himself. “You know of my wife’s work?”
“Oh, I don’t pretend to understand the details, but she’s written some excellent articles in lay magazines,” Watson pointed out. “I’ve had little to do in recent years, since I retired. My wife died some years ago, well before I retired, I’m afraid, so I find ways to keep busy. Reading scientific magazines is one of them. I am, after all, a man of science.” He grinned knowingly. “But I know you
probably can’t discuss the matter, so let us get on to the other reason you came.” He rose and moved spryly enough toward the door, limping ever so slightly. “Come with me, Holmes—if I may be permitted to call you that.”
“I would be honoured,” Sherlock murmured, rising and following.
“Then please, call me Watson. It seems only fitting. Would I were a younger man! You know, years ago, an old friend of mine recommended I should never throw away data,” Watson remarked offhandedly as they walked together down the hall. “He rather reminded me of you, young Holmes.”
“Was his name…?” Sherlock wondered, hiding his catch of breath.
“No, no,” Watson chuckled, the wisdom of age filling in the rest of the sleuth’s question. “His name was Bell. Doctor William Robert Bell. He was a teacher, and a colleague. A descendant of the Doctor Bell that trained Arthur Conan Doyle, if you can believe it. Grandson, I believe. Possibly great-grandson; the exact generation slips my mind. When you reach my age, you’ll understand how easy that can be.” He chuckled again. “Then again, maybe not; or maybe you already are, in a manner of speaking…” Watson chuckled harder.
Holmes swallowed once. Akin to the same Dr. Bell that trained me, he thought, but in a different continuum. This doctor before me may very well be Skye’s continuum’s parallel to my Watson. Of my various colleagues and foes, most seem to have a parallel here—saving only myself. Or perhaps, he considered, Skye herself is my parallel, after a fashion. Or possibly I have no parallel, for the simple reason that I was “expected” here all along.
It turned out this continuum’s Watson had kept all of his records neatly filed in a special room in his house. In short order he had the McFarlanes’ files retrieved, and leafed through them.
“Hm,” the old doctor murmured, reviewing the medical records. “Mmph. Now that’s interesting.”
“What is?”
“I remember now,” Watson said, sitting down at his desk and letting himself fall into a reminiscent reverie. “That was the poor couple that had everything working against them. Different Rh factors, she with a dreadfully irregular cycle, and he with severely damaged testicles, possibly from a bad fever when he was young, though the cause was never positively determined. Not to put it delicately, his sperm count was so low as to be essentially nonexistent, and what sperm there were tended to deformity. Any pregnancy resulting from his insemination would certainly end in miscarriage. There was simply no way they were going to conceive, no matter what was done. Even today, with the modern techniques for treating infertility, very little could be done, I think. And totally in love,” he added, shaking his head sadly. “They wanted children so badly they could scarcely stand it, simply because they wanted to leave a legacy of their love.”
The Case of the Displaced Detective Page 97