by Anita Janda
THE SECRET DIARY OF DR WATSON:
DEATH AT THE REICHENBACH FALL
Anita Janda
© Anita Janda 2001
Anita Janda has asserted her rights under the Copyright, Design and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work.
First published in 2001 by Allison & Busby Limited.
This edition published in 2019 by Endeavour Media Ltd.
To my sister, Joan Janda,
which should surprise no one
In compiling a book of this Sort, a great deal consists in the knack of not saying too much, nor by saying too little leaving any doubt as to the point, tho’ in some cases the point is best gained by raising a doubt—Nor is it only in this Book that such is the case…
—Charles Altamont Doyle
Table of Contents
1888
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
1889
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
1891
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
1893
Chapter 31
1894
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
And in Conclusion
1888
Chapter 1
As Sherlock Holmes remains the only one of our immediate acquaintance whose news cannot wait upon the pleasure of the post, so my first reaction upon perceiving the telegram on the sideboard was to wonder whether I would have time for breakfast. It was singularly cold for mid-October and I did not relish the thought of a long train or hansom ride without so much as a cup of coffee to fortify me. In the event, however, my anxiety (if anxiety is not too strong a word for it) proved unfounded.
The telegram was from a Miss Hermia Marie Cathcart, evidently prey to the fixed delusion that she was a patient of mine. There was a note of desperation there that I did not like to see in a request for help which I was bound to refuse.
With the return of the cold weather, I find I am as great a prisoner of my diabetes as I was before your excellent course of etheric manipulations at Pondicherry Lodge this summer. I trust this summons does not find you unprepared, and that you and your associate will attend me with all speed. Do not fail me.
Hermia Marie Cathcart
There followed her address, in a fairly select area of town, as I could not help noticing. The idea that I might have a patient at such an address and not recognize her name was patently absurd. Quite apart from this, I resented being confused with whatever medical charlatan had deluded her with “etheric manipulations” as a specific for diabetes, which requires the utmost care and attention if it is not to advance at a menacing pace. At the same time, I found the reference to Pondicherry Lodge disturbing inasmuch as a residence of that name had figured prominently in the adventure I had chronicled (chronicled, but not alas, published) under the title ‘The Sign of Four’—the adventure that had brought me my Mary, née Morstan. I have it on the best authority that ‘The Sign of Four’ is not publishable.
I had just reached this stage in my cogitations when my wife broke in upon my thoughts, inquiring as to what Mr Holmes might have to say in his wire. The coincidence of our reasoning was amusing and the rest of the meal passed in a concerted effort to apply Holmes’s methods to our domestic puzzle. Eventually, we succeeded in reducing the question to its simplest form: assuming, for the moment, that I was the intended recipient of this message, what then was I meant to do? This at least was clear: I was to rush to Miss Cathcart’s side with my associate to apply a course of etheric manipulations to mitigate the effects of her diabetes. My associate? Of course, Sherlock Holmes! Reading the telegram again, I was struck anew by the sound of desperation, in particular the closing words, “Do not fail me.” Surely this was a message for Holmes. We could not be mistaken.
Leaving my wife to arrange for the neighbouring Dr Anstruther to handle such of my patients as might chance to call in my absence, I hurried out into the thin sunshine, stopping only long enough to gather up my bag of medical instruments. I believe I had some confused idea that they might be needed to treat a diabetic. As I hailed a hansom cab and rode to Baker Street, I had to confess myself hard put to imagine what Miss Cathcart might mean by etheric manipulations, particularly etheric manipulations as supplied by a consulting detective. Perhaps Holmes would be able to unravel that part of her message, or her quaint reference to Pondicherry Lodge. I could make nothing of it.
Happily, I found my friend at home, with no very pressing occupation to hand and every interest in Miss Cathcart’s case. He was in one of his lethargies, which as I well knew signified a dearth of intellectual stimulation. He read the telegram once, twice, and then welcomed this new mystery with open arms, springing to his feet to clap me on the back.
“Well done, Watson! At last, a case that presents some features of interest. I had begun to fear that there would be nothing left for me but long-lost lovers, errant wives, and suspicious employees. Indeed, I venture to say that this case will draw upon all our talents. But Watson, you aren’t dressed properly.”
I looked down at my plain dark trousers, black frock coat, and simple necktie, and compared myself to Holmes, still in his disreputable violet dressing gown with the dull gold lining. I maintained a dignified silence, but to no avail. In a twinkling, Holmes had replaced my sober necktie with a soft neckerchief of startling dimensions and even more startling pattern, and had handed me a walking stick shod with some copper-coloured metal worked in a cheap imitation of Egyptian hieroglyphics. “There, now you look less like an Army surgeon and more like an etheric manipulator. The medical bag is a nice touch, Watson, you may keep it.” For all the world as if I were not entitled to my medical bag, had not in fact earned it over eight long years of study and practice!
Holmes drew a large and battered trunk out from under a great stack of newspaper clippings, as heedless of the clouds of dust that filled the air as he was oblivious to my sentiments. “I will be with you in a moment, Watson. Perhaps you would be good enough to flag down a cab?”
During the twenty minutes I spent cooling my heels in front of 221B, I had ample leisure to worry that I might encounter my former landlady, Mrs Hudson, or one of my patients. It is all very well for Holmes to engage in these dress-up affairs. When he is in costume, he is completely transformed, whereas I am always John H. Watson, regardless of my dress. When Holmes finally emerged, hauling the trunk down the front steps, he was every inch the harried assistant of the etheric manipulator. My misgivings grew.
We excited some little attention trying to make the turn onto Park Lane and between that and the inevitable difficulties attached to managing an unwieldy trunk, we arrived at Miss Cathcart’s residence without my having any very clear idea of the part I was to play. There was no help for it, I would have to be myself and trust to my costume for the rest. I comforted myself with the thought that the scarf and walking stic
k had made a considerable impression so far—I had had the devil of a time first in inducing a cab to stop for me in Baker Street and then in persuading the driver I was not a flat, to be cheated over the fare. Clearly, it was to be a day of new experiences, I thought as I mounted the steps. I hoped the new experiences would not include that of being sent round to use the tradesmen’s entrance. It was an exceptionally beautiful townhouse.
I reached the head of the stairs and watched the door swing open on its well-oiled hinges, revealing that we were expected by the servants as well as their mistress. I announced myself to the half-hidden manservant as Dr John H. Watson, surrendered my card with a rather theatrical flourish (I have my moments), and resolved then and there to let Holmes struggle with the trunk unaided, as befitted my hard-working assistant. For some reason, that decision gave me the confidence I needed to go on. I began to enjoy myself.
The manservant, like many another servant in this well-to-do area, was more than a little inclined to corpulence, so that it was a stately procession that passed along the corridors with measured tread to the sick-room. Holmes had no difficulty matching our pace with his trunk.
“Dr, ah, Watson, Ma’am,” the servant wheezed.
“Miss Cathcart,” I greeted her, remembering just in time that we were supposed to be acquainted. I gave her my most judicious medical nod. “You remember my assistant, Holmes? Of course. Now if your maid will be so good as to draw the curtains against the magnetic influences, we may begin.”
I had no idea what magnetic influences might be lurking beyond the windows, but I thought it as well to secure our consultation against onlookers and spies. I was gratified to see Holmes dart me a glance of approval.
As the maid moved to do my bidding, Holmes proceeded to open the battered trunk, unpacking vast quantities of perfectly ordinary chemical equipment, such as had frequently rendered our rooms at Baker Street full of noxious fumes. I had no doubt that we would be able to create “etheric manipulations” of magnificent proportions at the appropriate moment. Meanwhile, I occupied myself with the usual medical preliminaries of taking her pulse, asking irrelevant questions, nodding thoughtfully at regular intervals, and generally commanding the entire operation with a few well-chosen words (“My dear Holmes, not the mantelpiece!”). Miss Cathcart harassed the maid, responded to my queries, and kept a sharp eye on the machinations of my clumsy assistant.
Afterwards, Holmes and I were to agree that her most striking feature was her remarkable composure, her sheer presence of mind. At the time, however, the word that sprang most forcibly to mind was not composure, but arrogance. From first to last, it was clear that the Hermia Marie Cathcart who had sent that telegram did not normally condescend to apply for help from strangers. The mixture of gratitude and resentment that greeted us on our arrival was absolutely unique in my experience. Propped up by an enormous mass of hard little cushions and fringed pillows, she reclined on the low divan with much the same attitude Nero must have displayed to Rome on the occasion of the great conflagration.
I must confess that this, my first glimpse of our client, came as a great relief to me; it would be difficult to imagine anything less like a diabetic in extremis. Whatever else Miss Cathcart might require of her etheric manipulators, it would not be a diabetic cure. My worst fears were over. I felt justified, finally, in lending myself and my reputation to this medical charade. I am afraid that Sherlock Holmes does not always appreciate what he is asking of me, a physician.
Although well past the first flush of youth, Miss Cathcart remained an extremely handsome woman. Her eyes were a clear blue that time could not dull, her habit neat and stylish, her voice an unusually pleasant contralto. Since I had no need of her answers, my questions being by way of a distraction, I was free to enjoy the sound and ignore the fury. Her maid, however, had all my sympathy, especially when we were treated to a detailed description of the right way and the wrong way to draw the curtains in the Yellow Salon.
Under Miss Cathcart’s supervision, the drawing of the single remaining curtain took all of ten minutes—and most of my patience. Now that I knew I would not have a desperate diabetic on my hands, I was all curiosity. What could have precipitated this morning’s tortured telegram, this afternoon’s strange charade? Watching my assistant shrink behind his trunk, to all intents and purposes taking today’s curtain-drawing lesson very much to heart, I was struck again by his artistry. In his natural state, my friend Holmes is no shrinking violet.
At last the parlourmaid was graciously permitted to withdraw (in tears, poor girl), leaving her mistress in possession of the field, a temporary state given Holmes’s presence, I felt sure. And so it proved. The maid wasn’t gone from the room for fifteen seconds before Holmes was on his feet, striding neatly across the rich figured carpet, listening at the keyhole, checking the corridor and in one liquid movement, edging that ubiquitous trunk against the complications of an untimely interruption. I don’t know how he does it, but when he turned to face us, Holmes the consulting detective was some six inches taller than Holmes the etheric manipulator’s assistant.
He introduced himself, “Sherlock Holmes, at your service, Ma’am,” and added, “You have already met Dr Watson.”
I was not amused. What was more to the point, his prospective client was not impressed. To put it as charitably as possible, Holmes’s pronouncement did not appear to afford Miss Cathcart as much satisfaction as he had anticipated.
“Indeed, Mr Holmes. You seem very young for the present case,” she snapped. “Just how old are you?”
“Young enough,” he answered evenly, “but not, I think, inexperienced. What reason do you have for suspecting your maid of complicity in this unsavoury business?”
This conversational gambit effectively silenced Miss Cathcart, who found herself unexpectedly on the defensive. Holmes often has that effect on people. This time, however, it did not serve as well as it usually does. Miss Cathcart was made of sterner stuff than most and as she rose gracefully to her feet, her reply was brusque to the point of rudeness.
“My maid, incompetent as she is, is not to the purpose. I did not seek your help in this roundabout way,” here she eyed my scarf with marked distaste, “in response to a domestic quandary, Mr Holmes, but because there is a life in danger.”
I must have made some sort of move to protect her, for she halted me with an abrupt gesture. “No, not my life,” she said, “but a life nonetheless, presumably of some value to its owner. At least we must assume so for the present.”
She crossed the room and looked Holmes full in the face. “Mr Holmes, I demand to know how many times you have been approached by a client seeking protection that you later found yourself unable to provide. It is a reasonable question, surely?”
“So, it was not just the maid, but that window as well,” Holmes mused in his irritating way.
I had no idea what he was talking about, although it was clear from her reaction that Miss Cathcart did. It was an interesting conversation, taking it all in all, with distinct similarities to lawn tennis. She returned his serve with a crushing backhand.
“I have no particular desire to see you solve the puzzle if you once manage to forfeit its human pledge. As the years go by, I find myself less and less in sympathy with the medical point of view that can label a surgical procedure a success when it takes a sick patient and makes a cadaver of him. So, Mr Holmes, I ask you again, how many of those under your protection have died?”
The medical allusion restored Holmes’s good humour, as no doubt she knew it would. As for me, I was past wondering whether she had taken me in dislike or was just naturally disagreeable. I looked forward to Holmes’s rejoinder, but resolved not to enter the fray. She was his client after all, not mine. The saving grace of the entire experience was of course the pleasure of seeing that today held some new experiences for Holmes as well as myself. He would not have it all his own way today; that much seemed clear. I cannot recall anyone else who displayed quite this much tenac
ity or who interviewed him in quite this way. His capitulation came as a complete surprise to me.
“Four,” he said.
“Four?” she repeated. She seemed to be as confused as I was.
“Yes, four. Four clients who sought protection I was unable to supply. One you already know about, Watson: Mr John Openshaw of the five orange pips, whose story you have chronicled as, let me see, ‘The Five Orange Pips.’ Yes. He waited two full days before consulting me and was struck down before he could act on my advice—sound advice, I might add. Then there was the case of the false mutiny; remind me to tell you about that one someday, Watson, it presents some features that might interest your readers. I haven’t thought of the case for years. Finally, there were the two Vandek brothers. Had their English (or my Dutch) been better, they might be alive today.
“That was an unfortunate case, Ma’am. Indeed, they were all four unfortunate, but I hardly think that yours can be a parallel case. Not a military mutiny, no, nor a language barrier. Not even an unnecessary delay. You clearly are a lady who acts with some dispatch. I should be surprised to find that your problem had been known to you for more than a few hours before you had devised your telegram…”
I had rarely heard Holmes more persuasive. Or more loquacious. I began to think this case would prove to be something quite out of the ordinary, even measured against the usual extraordinary demands on Holmes’s time. I was much moved. Miss Cathcart was not.
“You flatter me, Mr Holmes,” she interrupted. “I lay awake far into the night before I hit upon that ruse. The telegram then could not go out until the morning. And what do I find? A delay on your part of almost two hours. And Dr Watson here, telling all and sundry that his assistant’s name is ‘Holmes.’ After all my work to bring you here anonymously! I could scarcely believe my ears when he made my maid a present of your name. Is it any wonder I tried to give her something else to think about?”