by Anita Janda
I even toyed with the idea of telling the story as if I believed that rigmarole of his about how he left me to mourn his death in order to keep his survival a secret from the forces of evil—when all the while it was no secret to the premiere representative of those forces of evil, Sebastian Moran, who has twice used Holmes for target practice.
Oh, why did I write ‘The Red-headed League’? It is impossible for me to imagine my readers seeing through anything at this point.
* * *
I tell myself that it is important to write ‘The Empty House’ even if I am the only one who ever reads it, and that makes sense to me (if only because I have to do something to lay this memory to rest before it becomes an obsession with me), but it doesn’t move the writing forward. The fact of the matter is, it is extraordinarily difficult to construct anything like a finished piece of prose for what you have been assured will be no audience. Holmes, you see, has decided that we are better off without it. You have to admire his technique. It is because my last adventure was so successful that he wants no more adventures from me now.
“‘The Final Problem’ has established me as London’s court of last resort far more effectively than anything you could possibly find to say about me in the future, Watson. Will you look at this Message Book? Twenty-two entries in the past three days! Mrs Hudson tells me that roughly half of my callers do in fact decide to leave a message for me. Do you realize what this means? Even if half of these are mere bids for attention from curiosity seekers with nothing of a curious nature to offer us in return” (a social possibility he obviously considered the height of rudeness), “there will still be plenty for us to do. And, of course, now that Scotland Yard knows I have returned to London, we may count on the odd bone from Lestrade, as well.
“The last thing we need is an ‘adventure’ of the empty house, Watson. Why, the volume of business that would be generated by the announcement that I am alive and well would be absolutely crushing. I should have to close my office and retire to the Sussex Downs to keep bees.”
The flippant tone might have deceived someone else, but I knew he was serious. Holmes is always serious. Holmes always means what he says. But why should an adventure of mine drive him into retirement? He must know that any sudden rise in traffic would be a temporary aberration.
“I believe I shall make it a condition of accepting a case,” he went on, “that my clients tell no one of my return. Yes, that will be best. I have no doubt that it will be an advantage to me to be strictly anonymous.”
I gather it is to be my part to see that Holmes continues to have his cake and eat it too, at least in this regard. He is to be both the most famous and the strictly anonymous private detective, as he is to be both my friend and utterly free of any least obligation toward me. And yet I know—in a way that has nothing to do with logic and is as inarguable as the apprehension of beauty (or of death)—that Sherlock Holmes continues to count himself my friend as he has not counted himself the friend of any other human being in all the years I’ve known him.
Chapter 37
I went through all my old notes about Holmes last night and it was as I remembered it: I never published one word about Holmes while he was alive, without his express permission. After his “death,” I vowed to stop writing altogether rather than profit from our friendship.
There were many tales I might have told—some I had already written. I have a manuscript with the working title ‘The Birlstone Tragedy’ that is not only as long (and potentially as valuable) as ‘The Sign of Four’, but virtually complete. All it lacks are a few opening and closing remarks linking the death of Eddie Birdwoods to Professor Moriarty. Did I publish that story? No, I did not. And what about the Hound of the Baskervilles? The hours I’d spent studying my notes relative to the Hound had me itching to try my hand at a serial. As for shorter tales, real “adventures” such as delighted the heart of my old friend Fitsch, there were the adventures of the second stain and Charles Augustus Milverton and I don’t know how many others. What about that stockbroker’s clerk, Paul Kyle Croft? I could have done something with that, but I didn’t.
In the three years since my friend’s death, I have written only one adventure of Sherlock Holmes and that adventure, ‘The Final Problem’, was written in defence of his memory and as I now know, at his instigation. He put those words in my mouth and now that I know how false they were, I also know that any attempt on my part to set the record straight will be construed as an attack on his career.
How could he do this to me? What did I do to deserve this? He must know that his friendship meant more to me than the writing did.
Writing my two questions down, I am dimly aware that these are not equivalent questions for my friend Holmes, as they are for me, but the realization is so far removed from my usual style of thinking that I am unable to do more than marvel at it. I wish Mary were here, that I might discuss it with her! There was very little about human nature that was hidden from my Mary.
I do miss her so.
Chapter 38
The only time I really feel free to think of Mary is when I am with Holmes. Perhaps I should sell my practice and move back to Baker Street with him. This certainly isn’t working.
I thought at first that if I could find the words to describe his return, I might be able to encompass that experience and lay it to rest, but I know now that I don’t have it in me to write ‘The Adventure of the Empty House’ at present. Someday maybe, but not now—not today. I have to get some distance from these events before I can do that. I have to decide how to think about them first. And yet, it seems to me that all I do these days is think about them. I’ll be changing the dressing on someone’s leg or listening for a tell-tale gurgling in someone else’s lungs when all of a sudden I am back on the path to the Reichenbach Fall or adrift in the empty house, searching for I don’t know what. Everyone has been very kind, very patient with me, but that is because they think it is the loss of my wife that is responsible for my air of abstraction, and then I feel guilty because I haven’t been thinking about Mary at all, but about Holmes. I loved my wife and I want to grieve for her, but there seems to be some kind of mental law to the effect that one can only obsess about one person at a time and right now, all roads lead to Holmes.
I have felt this way before.
Of course, I remember now! This remind me of the time I found myself standing at the edge of the path to the Reichenbach Fall with a bucket and ten pounds of plaster of Paris, utterly confounded by the absence of yesterday’s footmarks—how could they be gone? This feels as impossible to me as that did and yet I know now as I did then, that somehow the present state of affairs could have been predicted.
There are no contradictions in this world. There are only misunderstandings leading to disappointments which a proper interpretation of earlier events would have enabled one to foresee. I believe that absolutely. It is why I have always so admired Holmes—he can pick out the chain of cause and effects better than anyone I’ve ever known. And so I am condemned to sift through my memories of my friend, searching for the tone of voice, the facial expression, and the turn of phrase that will explain it to me.
* * *
Very interesting conversation with Mrs Hudson, whose niece Mrs Minnick is a patient of mine. I suspect that it was a deliberate attempt on Mrs Hudson’s part at a casual meeting with me—her niece is well past the calves’ foot jelly stage, thank goodness. It doesn’t do for a physician to say so, but Mrs Minnick has the constitution of a horse. Would that all my patients had her recuperative powers.
Mrs Hudson tells me that Holmes has resumed his practice and has hired a page boy “with brass buttons on his jacket” to handle the flow of traffic and run messages for him. She obviously feels that the tone of the establishment at Number 221 is much improved in consequence. She also said (raising one eyebrow to make sure I appreciated the significance of her remark) that while half of Holmes’s callers eventually accept her invitation to leave a message for t
he absent Mr Holmes, she wanted me to know that “almost all of them, without exception” (Mrs Hudson is not known for her logical gifts) ask to see his good friend Dr Watson first.
I thanked her, of course, but I can’t help wondering why the devil she went to all this trouble to tell me this. She’d have done better, surely, to have saved this bit of information for Sherlock Holmes.
* * *
It was the first New Year’s Eve of our marriage and Mary wanted us to make New Year resolutions. We would write them down and then exchange lists, so that we wouldn’t “inadvertently sabotage each other’s most cherished dreams next year.” I remember wondering which of Mary’s many friends and acquaintances was responsible for that suggestion—I hadn’t made a New Year resolution since I was at school.
I hemmed and hawed, I watched my pipe go out, I lit it again. I wondered what kind of resolutions most people make. I crumpled my current list and tossed it into the fire—writers have to learn to hold paper cheap, it doesn’t come naturally. Finally, I admitted to a resolution to meet my obligations to the good gentlemen of the Strand, to establish a professional relationship with Holmes, and to replace the missing slates on the roof—the part over the linen closet.
I was so touched. Every one of Mary’s resolutions mentioned my name.
* * *
Not a word from Holmes these ten days past. If I want to see him, I shall have to go to Baker Street and that as soon as may be because if I wait much longer, I am going to be unable to muster the necessary strength of character.
Once upon a time, I did what I could to help him establish himself as a consulting detective by bearing witness to his very considerable abilities in that regard in the public press. That is not what he wants from me now. But where is the advantage to him in securing a silent witness?
* * *
Holmes was glad to see me, I think. I remind him of his beginnings, the long years of occasional clients—of clients who had heard of him at second, third or even fourth hand, clients who were expecting “something rather different,” who had to be coaxed before they could bring themselves to discuss the painful circumstances which had brought them to a stranger’s door. There was none of that today—none. Holmes has more work than any one man can handle. His clients pass each other on the stair and telegraph their congratulations shyly, with their eyes. “You, too? I hear he’s excellent!”
Every client is made happy by the sight of the others and now that he knows this, Holmes is taking special care not to solve anyone’s problem in one visit. I think he found it soothing to have me at his side, taking the detailed notes this method of working requires. Knowing that I am there to handle the more mundane aspects of the business frees him, as he said himself, to concentrate upon the deductive aspects of each case. And there’s another mystery solved. When is a witness not a witness? Answer: when he is a secretary.
* * *
Holmes is going to have to understand: I play billiards with Thurston every Thursday evening, have done for years. If Holmes cares to join us, well and good (no danger of that, I know! Thurston keeps whatever minor intellectual gifts he may have well hidden), but I will not abandon Thurston now simply because Sherlock Holmes chooses to crook a finger. I, too, have my obligations.
* * *
The question of my remuneration was raised today. My loyalty, my secretarial skills, my ability with firearms, and my “reliability” were all mentioned. My secretarial services alone were worth—I cut him off with a gesture before he could insult me with a figure.
“All I want is your friendship,” I said, letting my hand fall to my side.
I doubt he was able to appreciate the irony.
Chapter 39
After nearly getting ourselves killed aboard the Friesland at the beginning of the summer due to a major mis-communication, Holmes and I have recovered enough of our old ease together to have chalked up an impressive number of cases solved. The important (and practically impossible) thing for me to remember is that Holmes expects me to take his instructions and explanations literally, as I quite naturally used to do. He is not speaking in metaphoric terms, and he seems genuinely puzzled by my persistent efforts at interpretation.
After toasting my first volume of case notes last night, a massive manuscript volume (“The first, I hope, of many—to a productive association!”), Holmes again proposed that I should resume my old residence in Baker Street.
“What do you say, Watson? I should be very glad to have you and so, I make no doubt, would Mrs Hudson. She seems to think you have a moderating influence on me. Absurd, isn’t it? You can see how much you are needed. I could not possibly have brought all of these cases to a successful conclusion without your assistance—and your notes! Soon it will be ‘flu season again. Will you tell me that you find your own cases more interesting than you do mine?”
“I wouldn’t say that, Holmes.” (I would never be so rude.)
“Well, then! Will you tell me that you can be happy in Kensington?”
I was stricken to the heart. It is only because I know that Holmes did not know what he was saying that I managed to keep from striking him. He doesn’t understand. How could he, as isolated as he is?
“Watson, you are wary now of coming to any permanent conclusion—I can understand that. But he who hesitates is lost, and I do not choose to lose my Boswell. I have taken the liberty of drafting an advertisement for the Lancet, offering your practice for sale. Won’t you let me send it in?”
“Let me see that,” I said.
It was inept to the point of foolishness, I thought, and automatically began to edit it. Not “a modest little practice,” but “a comfortable living.” Not “general practice,” but “family practice with emphasis on midwifery and minor surgery.” Many doctors prefer a younger patient base, as I do myself. Never use the word “death” in an advertisement about a medical practice! (Is he mad?) Finally, the thing was done.
“For sale. Small Kensington practice, near Notting Hill, by ex-Army surgeon seeking early retirement for personal reasons. Family practice, with emphasis on midwifery and minor surgery. Modern consulting rooms, with gas and electricity. A comfortable living, a comfortable home. We were happy here. Apply in person at—etc.”
“Shall I send it to the Lancet for you?” he asked gently. “To run until further notice?”
“You may send it in,” I compromised, “but tell them it is not to run more than once.” If I am meant to sell my practice, once will be enough.
Holmes doesn’t know it, but I intend to ask £10,000 for my modest little practice—not a penny less. If I meet anyone who is willing to part with that sum for that practice, I will know that the sale was meant.
It’s not worth half that amount.
And in Conclusion
So ends Dr Watson’s diary, rather more abruptly than it began. Readers who are familiar with Conan Doyle’s later adventures, especially ‘The Norwood Builder’, will be able to confirm this brief sketch of subsequent events.
Dr Watson was, as always, as good as his word. He put his “small Kensington practice” up for sale, and as luck—or as Fate—would have it, he found a buyer almost immediately: one Dr Verner, who met Watson’s asking price (“the highest price that I ventured to ask”) with, writes Watson, “astonishingly little demur.”
At another time, in another place, Watson might have looked this particular gift horse in the mouth. Although never what we would call a suspicious man, neither was he so attracted by the idea of besting an opponent (or by the prospect of financial gain) as to simply take the money and run. It was Holmes who saw all men as his natural enemies, not Watson. The problem, however, was this: having chosen to leave this decision in the hands of Fate, Watson had to play the game. He could stack the deck, setting a price on his practice so high that no sane man would meet it, but if Fate sent him the purchase price, then he would have to sell. Watson accepted Dr Verner’s very obliging offer and returned to Baker Street in August of that same
year (1894), as Holmes’s secretary.
Much of the astonishment Watson felt at the time may have been astonishment at his own bad luck rather than at Dr Verner’s peculiar behaviour. Then again, Watson may not have felt much of anything at that time. Newly bereft of his wife and child, sideswiped by grief, unable to absorb his new knowledge of Holmes, about to lose his practice, the very home he’d made with Mary, Watson may have been in that state of transcendent numbness where you only know that your shoe is pinching you when you see the blister. Watson may have known, intellectually, at some level, that there was something odd about that transaction without having been able to feel anything at all. Be that as it may, it was, Watson tells us, “an incident which only explained itself some years later, when I found that Verner was a distant relation of Holmes, and that it was my friend who had really found the money.” Once again, Watson had failed to see it coming.
It is significant that whereas the three-year lacuna in Holmes’s career in the wake of the Fall is known as the Great Hiatus, no term has been proposed for the much longer lacuna in Watson’s career as a writer. The fact remains, however, that Watson’s inaccurate account of the events at the Reichenbach Fall, ‘The Final Problem’, published in 1893, was for many, many years the last words his readers had from him.
When Watson finally managed to fight his way free of the paralysis which gripped him, it was to put the final touches on a project begun long ago, ‘The Hound of the Baskervilles’, arguably the most popular adventure of them all. This nostalgic look back at the early days of his collaboration with Holmes ran as a serial in the Strand from August 1901 to April of the following year. The final instalment of “The Hound” thus appeared in print eleven years after the Fall, and still there was no public acknowledgment of Holmes’s survival.