The Secret Diary of Dr Watson

by Anita Janda

  I seriously underestimated my Mary and I am not too proud to admit it here, in my private narrative journal. The activities of the past few weeks have taught me more about women than the entire previous thirty-eight years of my existence. Of course, I have also met more women in the past few weeks than I have during the entire previous thirty-eight years of my existence. Governesses, in particular, come and go here with a rapidity that is astonishing, considering that we have no children. Not that Mary is unreasonably prejudiced in favour of her former profession. Far from it. So far this week, I have made the acquaintance of three governesses, one typewriter, a hearty equestrienne newly arrived from India, a gifted poetess, and one elegant widow with two young daughters and a small independence, suitably invested. Mary tells me she knew nothing about the children and I believe her. It takes more imagination than I hope either one of us possesses to envision Holmes in such a setting. That still leaves us with three governesses, one typewriter, the equestrienne and the poetess for this week, however, not to mention whoever will be sharing our tea this afternoon. Are none of Mary’s friends married?

  I wish Mary could simply have accepted the fact that her friends are always welcome in our home, if only so as to forestall her from putting it to the test on a daily basis like this. It is not a principle which lends itself to an inductive demonstration, being true solely by virtue of the generosity of the husband, which generosity is, like all generosity, diminished rather than enhanced by the demands placed upon it. Most wives know this instinctively.

  In the interest of domestic harmony, I was pleased to approve of the overall suitability of the various candidates for Holmes’s nonexistent affections. I was sympathetic. I was optimistic. I never once noticed the sudden and possibly pointed plunge in my friend’s fortunes, the incontrovertible fact that none of the young ladies I have met in recent weeks can hold a two-inch candle to Celia Hughes.

  As equestrienne follows poetess follows governess follows typewriter follows governess follows governess, I find that each addition to our social circle signals some minor but unpleasant expansion of my role in this chapter of errors. Every breakfast is devoted to planning ways and means of arranging the necessary introductions to Holmes and as often as I have resolved to hold myself excused from this exercise in futility and attend to my newspaper, just so often have I fallen into the trap of providing an intelligent answer to some seemingly innocent question which then embroils me in a full-scale discussion of the matter. It was a positive pleasure for me to be called away from the table this morning to lance a carbuncle for one of Dr Anstruther’s patients.

  Believing as I do that none of the young ladies stands the least chance of engaging Holmes’s romantic interest, I suppose I must accept the proposition that Miss Blish was as good a choice as any for Mary’s second attempt. The admission comes hard, though, and not merely in the light of further events. Flora Blish is a little, wispy, fluffy woman, with a perfectly ordinary face, a sweet if slightly startled expression, and all the nervous energy and intellectual powers of a day-old chick. She clings. She darts away. She requires reassurance.

  I don’t mean to suggest that she is unattractive, I am sure she is very well in her way, but it is not Holmes’s way and it puzzles me mightily that Mary should ever have thought it was. Perhaps she thought that Flora’s mildly worried look, all shy and retiring, hesitant and unsure, would evoke the chivalry in Holmes. If so, she was sadly mistaken. Poor Flora! Holmes has no chivalry. Then again, Mary may have thought that Flora, as the antithesis of Celia Hughes, would be the perfect counterweight for that experience, I don’t know. I’ll never know now.

  Neither will I ever know what possessed Holmes to greet Miss Blish with a string of personal deductions on our way to our seats at the theatre. Why couldn’t he deduce that she was high-strung, given to outbreaks of hysteria, liable to let forth a piercing shriek, clutch vaguely at his sleeve, and pitch forward into the aisle in a dead faint? I promise you, this was a good deal more obvious than that her beloved brother, initials WHB, William Henry for preference, had been lost at sea, leaving his orphaned sister to make her way in the world by her needle, an exercise for which she had little love and less ability, possibly in the capacity of a milliner? She is, in fact, a milliner’s apprentice.

  As Holmes and I wrestled her unconscious form out of the public gaze and into the comparatively empty lobby of the Alhambra Theatre, I resolved to make the purchase of smelling salts a condition of any further romantic introductions to my friend the detective. The difficulties attached to maneuvering a lady in a dead faint through a crowd of people all moving in the opposite direction, half of them persuaded that she must be the worse for drink (“Disgusting, Frederick, that’s what I call it”), and the other half idly wondering what our connection might be to her and thinking the worst, can hardly be over-emphasized. As usual, Mary was wonderful, fanning Flora’s face, referring to her in strategically pitched tones as her little sister, and scolding us roundly for bungling the operation (“Mind her foot, John, she may be insensible now but she will need it later”). Nothing convinces a crowd of the propriety of a compromising situation so quickly as the combination of a hectoring wife and a henpecked husband. I must remember to ask Holmes whether the combination is as rare among the criminal classes as it is popularly supposed to be.

  Under Mary’s command, we won the lobby and laid our burden down in an overstuffed chair surmounted by enough potted plants to disguise her condition. A small plaque identified the chair as the gift of someone with more money than good taste. I don’t know who provided the aspidistras. Holmes surveyed the situation as from a great height.

  “She is remarkably pale, Watson,” he said in a judicious tone.

  I did not deem the moment right for a lecture on the dynamics of fainting, the inevitable pallor of the victim until the free flow of blood to the brain should be restored. Mary chafed Flora’s icy hands.

  “If I can be of any further assistance,…” he said, letting his voice trail off.

  “No, Mr Holmes, I think you have done enough for Flora,” Mary admitted with a rueful smile only I could see. “John and I will see her home. Perhaps it would be as well if you were gone when she recovers. She will not like to be reminded of her foolishness, I know. You are not offended, I hope?”

  Is it any wonder that I love her? Holmes made good his escape, Flora slowly surfaced from oblivion, and Mary spoiled what could have been a perfect moment by whispering in my ear, “Did you notice, John? Mr Holmes has replaced the buttons on his waistcoat!”

  I am beginning to think Mary could have found a silver lining to the clouds that hovered over Noah’s ark.

  Flora sat bolt upright. “Where is he?”

  “You are in the lobby of the Alhambra,” Mary said soothingly, answering the question Flora should have asked. “You fainted. From the heat,” she added firmly. “You will feel better directly.”

  Flora should have been putting herself to rights, struggling to sit up, pronouncing herself very well able to return to the theatre, apologizing profusely for something over which medical science knows she had no control. Her hair was still up and relatively tidy, her dress neat. Thanks to that attention-getting shriek of hers, I knew she had crumpled cleanly onto the carpet, without striking her head on anything along the way. Still, she persisted.

  “Where is he, Mary?”

  “He is gone home, Flora. Surely you would not wish to prolong the evening?”

  “Certainly not,” she agreed in a doubtful voice, “but I must hear more about dear William from Mr Holmes.”

  Nothing we could say to her on the subject of Holmes’s penetrating observations could persuade her that she had already heard the whole, that Holmes was no spirit rapper gathering his information from The Great Beyond but a man of logic and science, that it was her costume, the mud on her boots, the set of her shawl that had told him all. She was politely unconvinced.

  I suppose we made a muddle of it. I know it did not
help matters when Mary insisted that I tell Miss Blish how Holmes had deduced all that, I am familiar with his methods, I am a man of science, I would explain it to her: go ahead, John. She folded her hands expectantly in her lap.

  Is anything more completely inconvenient than the misplaced confidence of a woman, and that woman your wife? I could see the cause well enough, what with Flora lying in state on the sofa in our drawing room sipping sherry, and I had heard the effect, Holmes’s swift dissection of Flora en route to our seats at the theatre, but I could no more divine the connection that linked this cause to that effect based on my past observations of Holmes the consulting detective than I could have picked up his Stradivarius and executed a flawless rendition of Bach’s “Partita” based on my past observations of Holmes the violinist. I am not Holmes. I could not bring myself to point to her badly darned gloves and deduce her inadequacies as a seamstress, I am sorry. All I could do was repeat my conviction that there was a perfectly logical explanation for my friend’s performance, that it was an analytical skill developed over a period of years which was to the best of my knowledge his alone, and that it was indeed the details of her attire which had told him her story. Flora listened patiently to everything we had to say and, sipping her restorative, quietly played her trump card.

  “Tell me then, Dr Watson. How could he know that William Henry is dead from my mode of dress when I did not know his fate myself until Mr Holmes told me? I wear this commemorative riband to remind myself that he may be dead, but Mr Holmes knew right away that he was dead. How do you explain that?”

  Her voice was heavy with irony, the voice of a person unskilled in debate but secure in her position. Her little speech revealed such a profound lack of perspective on this evening’s events that I knew myself defeated. I heard myself giving her Holmes’s address (“221B Baker Street, from about 11 a.m.”), hoping there might be some actual mystery attached to brother William’s departure so as to enable Holmes to assist her in a practical way. I heard Mary remind Flora that she should wire for an appointment and wear the same costume so that Mr Holmes would be able to explain his behaviour; her outfit was evidence, Flora, evidence that Mr Holmes needed in order to pursue his inquiries. It was a fortunate phrase, I could see. Mary pressed home her advantage and by the time Flora was deposited with due care on her doorstep, she was as rational as someone of her limited intellectual attainments could be after ten minutes’ exposure to Sherlock Holmes. Poor Flora.

  Poor Holmes.

  Upon my word, I did not anticipate spending the first Christmas Eve of my married life feeling sorry for Holmes and deceiving my wife! Every time Mary passes the study door and smiles encouragingly at me, the tide of guilt moves that much closer to the high water mark. I know what she thinks. She thinks I am hard at work fashioning a suitable adventure against my deadline. She has never really understood that I must have a story to tell before I can tell the story. With the best will in the world, I can’t describe an adventure I’ve never had. I am not that kind of writer. I need grist for my mill and where this grist is to come from now that Mary is so briskly attending to the matter of Holmes’s domestic happiness, is anybody’s guess.

  * * *

  “Mr Holmes is here, John, and look what he’s brought us.”

  Personally, I think it is as well for Holmes that he should have no marital ambitions, given his limited understanding of the fair sex.

  “A goose,” she added unnecessarily. I could see it was a goose.

  Holmes must have made his presentation in the hall, for Mary’s arms were full of goose. She was trying not to cradle it like a baby, I could tell. One hand was tightened gingerly over the thoracic region, the other hugged it below the belt; the head drooped fetchingly over the crook of her elbow. I was irresistibly reminded of Flora and our adventure at the Alhambra. I must warn Holmes.

  “Isn’t it a fine one?” asked Mary in the prodding voice reserved by Eve to recall her husband to his social duties. (“Say ‘Thank you,’ Adam.”) She joggled the goose for emphasis, setting off a soft flurry of feathers, not to mention a strong smell of goose.

  The goose was not of the freshest and my primary duty was to my friend Holmes. How to make clear that Flora’s latest start should not be laid at the Watsons’ door? It was a delicate matter. I had no time for geese.

  “Miss Blish…” I began carefully.

  “Ah yes, Miss Blish!” He saluted a distant memory. Holmes has never had any compunction about interrupting me. He turned to Mary. “I must apologize for our little contretemps at the theatre last night. I did not realize that she would be so affected by my obervations. I had supposed her recovered from the tragedy or I never should have venture to remark upon it. She is no longer in mourning, it must have happened some time ago. She is extremely emotional, isn’t she?”

  Naturally, he disapproved.

  I rescued my wife. Her eyes were wide with discovery and the goose was obviously heavy. “May I?”

  I made quite a ceremony of it, hefting the animal as if to gauge its weight, pinching the down at the breastbone the way I had seen my grandmother do when I was a boy, trying not to pull a face at how sodden it was. It must be snowing again, I told myself charitably.

  “John has been writing all afternoon,” Mary said into the silence.

  She was not herself. Holmes tried to look interested, but it was beyond him. I concluded my examination and made the only comment possible under the circumstances.

  “It is a fine goose, Holmes.”

  Even now, sitting calmly at my desk assessing the damage, I find it difficult to blame myself or to formulate a more cogent compliment for a dead bird. It was a fine goose. I second his motion, support his selection, confirm his choice, endorse his candidate, approve his judgement, applaud his taste and accept said goose in toto: beak and feet, liver and lights. It was a fine goose. The inadequacy of the remark revived Mary’s social instincts beyond all reason.

  “It is a fine, fat, family-sized goose, Mr Holmes. Much too much for John and me to eat by ourselves. You will join us for supper? I’m so pleased. There is someone I should like you to meet. No, no details now! Let’s just say that I am sure you will like her. We shall discuss this excellent goose of yours together, shall we? Will eight o’clock be convenient? At eight o’clock then.” And she ushered him out.

  As I waited for her to come and collect tonight’s entrée from me for plucking, I wondered blankly who would be free to make a fourth at supper on Christmas Eve, with only a few hours’ notice. Any number of them, I was forced to admit. No doubt we would be expected to sing carols after supper. Mary looked ready for anything. Good God, not charades! Roast goose is so indigestible, perhaps I should try to talk to her about this evening’s entertainment. As a physician if not as a husband. For the first time, I wondered whether “Least said, soonest mended” is as infallible a guide to a happy marriage as it has been to my friendship with Holmes. She was back.

  “I hope you are fond of goose, John,” she said, her lips twitching. “We’ll have this one for supper tonight with Mr Holmes, it won’t keep longer, and the little one ourselves tomorrow. Sage dressing tonight, oyster stuffing tomorrow, we’ll manage. Don’t look so stricken, John! A man who chooses to apologize to a married couple by presenting them with a Christmas goose at four o’clock in the afternoon of Christmas Eve, a family-sized goose with enough meat on it to feed half a dozen healthy people, has to expect to be invited to supper. You’ll see, it will be fine. It is indeed a fine goose,” she teased, “and I will vouch for its being at least twice as fine in its cooked state. I can manage, John. Truly. Why don’t you go back to your writing?”

  There is nothing like an unexpected dose of the truth to undercut your position in an argument. Who but Holmes could have failed to see the danger in such a gesture at such a time? That he failed to see it is no doubt also the truth, but not one that I can very conveniently point out to Mary. We already had one goose in readiness for the occasion and now we have
two, his goose looking somewhat the worse for wear, I must say. If I did not know better, I would think he had obtained the bird in a pot-house brawl, it looks so bedraggled. The likeliest explanation, of course, is that some client has paid him in trade as it were (it can’t always be diamond rings and gold snuffboxes, after all), and that he has taken the opportunity to pass his windfall on to us, in the true spirit of the holiday.

  “What will discharge one obligation will discharge another.”

  I can almost hear him say it, his brow furrowed, his fists jammed into the pockets of his dressing gown, rocking back on his heels in front of the fire as his own wit strikes him with the force of a blow. The goose looked as if it had heard it several times already, under duress. Unfortunately, when the gentle courtesy of a woman like my Mary is involved, what will discharge one obligation will nearly always simultaneously incur another. I hope it will not be the equestrienne. I still haven’t decided what, if anything, to do about Miss Blish.

  * * *

  “John! John! Oh, John, you’re here.” She fell upon me in as near to panic as I had ever seen her. I held her at arm’s length while I scanned her for signs of injury, her screams still echoing in my head.

  I had made it from the study to the kitchen in a little under six seconds. My heart was pounding and the blood was drumming in my ears. You would not think six seconds would be sufficient for a person to have formulated any very clear hypothesis as to the nature of the problem, but I found that I was checking them off one by one: the kitchen was not on fire; she had not been scalded; the knife had not slipped; Cook was standing at the foot of the table; they were alone; no one had been hurt. I was needed as a husband, not a doctor. I folded her in my arms, rolled my eyes to heaven, and promised myself I would wait it out. Least said, soonest mended. I nodded my dismissal to Cook. Let her eavesdrop from the pantry, if she is so inclined. She wasn’t needed in the kitchen.