Two Hundred and Twenty-One Baker Streets (19 page)

As we made our way to the George Inn, I remarked how the locals were dressed in a style that was in fashion in my grandfather’s time. Even Stamford’s own attire had an antique air to it.

“You know how it is in pedestrian backwaters like this, John. By the time the fads and fancies of London have permeated all the way down here, they’re already old hat.

“To be honest, that’s why I like it. For sure, the ladies are as interested in a man’s prospects and position as they are in the city, but they’re also willing to compromise a good deal too.

“Look at me. A dresser at Bart’s. Not the income, nor attribution, to rise much more above my station. But here, I am assistant to the doctor and the local chemist to boot. I am respected in the community and shortly to have a wife from a family of good breeding. Not bad for a young shaver from Shoreditch, eh?”

I was unaware that Stamford was such a social climber, but scarcely surprised. His talk of young women, as if he were trading horseflesh, set my temper rising, but I held it in check and bit my tongue. Despite Holmes’ counsel, I was already regretting accepting Stamford’s invitation.

“And I’ve told them all about you.” He winked, and nudged me with his elbow in an almost comedically conspiratorial fashion. “About how I introduced you to Mr. Sherlock Holmes—the great detective!”

So there it was. I, too, was being traded. I had not been invited to his wedding because of our past association or his brother’s inability to attend, but rather because of my current connection with Holmes.

“Pity he didn’t come with you. Still, I bet you’ve some tales to tell, eh? Ones that didn’t make the pages of the
Strand
?”

My jaw ached and head throbbed from clenching my back teeth in repressed anger. Fortunately we arrived at the inn, where I disembarked in no small haste. I retired to my room, my head now pounding. I drew the curtains, kicked off my shoes and lay back on the bed, my arm flung over my eyes to bar even the slightest blade of light. This was no ordinary attack of cephalagia. Under any other circumstances, I would have sent to the village doctor or chemist for a powder, but given Stamford’s link with both, I chose to endure the discomfort and hopefully sleep it off.

I dozed fitfully, imagining at one point there was someone else in the room. A shape or shadow. The geography of the room rippling as it passed by the foot of my bed. I awoke several hours later, the low afternoon sun suffusing the curtains with a radiant red glow. Stamford was hammering on my door.

“I say, Watson! Are you alright in there? It’s almost time for the off and I’ve not heard a peep from you since you arrived!”

I opened the door, tousled and bleary eyed. Stamford’s chuckle did not help my demeanour.

“Good God, man, you look as if you’ve tied one on already. You need to pace yourself, old fellow, the night is young!”

“I have not being drinking,” I assured him. “I have had the most wretched headache, which seems to be abating, if you will kindly lower your tone.”

On hearing this, Stamford, to his credit, did seem genuinely concerned.

“Now, isn’t that the dickens! When I first washed up in Longbourn, I was struck by a similar malediction. You must be made of sterner stuff, I was laid low for days.

“Fact is, it’s how I met my Mary. Her harpy of a mother heard that there was a handsome, stricken stranger in the village and sent her along with soup and kind words to minister to my fevered brow.

“Best be warned, Mrs. Bennet’s married off all but one of her five daughters. If she catches wind you’re in the market, she’ll try and pair you up as well.”

Once again I could feel my illhumour stirring. “I am not ‘in the market,’ Stamford. I am a widower.”

That at least appeared to penetrate his thick skin, and bought a flush of embarrassment to his cheeks. “Of course, forgive me. I meant no disrespect.”

I realised he was a fool, not a fiend, and perhaps I was judging him too harshly.

“I know, and I apologise for speaking so sharply. This damned head has put me in an ill humour, I’m snapping and snarling like a tatters dog.”

“Then what you need is good food, fine wine and sparkling company! Sadly you won’t find any of that here, but if you’d care to spruce yourself up and meet me downstairs in half an hour, I’ll see you fed, watered and entertained to your heart’s content!”

Either my headache had passed or Stamford’s relentless good humour had browbeaten me into submission, but I actually felt my spirits lifted by his puppyish ebullience. I bathed, dressed for dinner and joined him a short while later. He introduced me to his circle of friends, half a dozen in all and whose names, I confess, I had forgotten by the end of the evening. The food was fair, the wine passable and the company entertaining. It was clear Stamford’s chums were intrigued with how exotic I seemed.

Very few of them had ever travelled beyond the county’s bounds, let alone London, and when I mentioned my time serving—in Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers and later the Berkshires—during the Second Afghan War, they were both bemused and confused, unaware that such a conflict had taken place.

Likewise, when Stamford—despite my protests—attempted to apprise them of my adventures with Sherlock Holmes, they did not believe him. They thought they were tall tales by which he was making sport of simple country folk. To them, the London he described was as fantastic as far Ophir or Samarkand. I truly did not know what to make of it all. The fashions were not the only things behind the times. These were not ignorant men, yet their knowledge of life beyond Longbourn was out of date by a century or more.

They attributed their confusion to the copious amounts of wine they had consumed and soon thought nothing of it. I, on the other hand, had been drinking frugally—wishing to spare my poor head further distress—and was conscious of this discrepancy. The hour grew late and so, shortly before midnight, I made my excuses, bade the company goodnight and retired to my room. As I undressed, my mind raced, searching for an explanation.

The most vital tool at a doctor’s disposal is not a stethoscope or scalpel, but his own five senses, and above all observation. What others dismiss as inconsequential may well mean the difference between life and death. My friend Sherlock Holmes has elevated this to a fine art and I, in my own modest way, have sought to hone my own abilities on the whetstone of his teaching. Nothing must be overlooked, as he once remarked.

“You know my method. It is founded on the observation of trifles.”

The following day, the day of the wedding. I discovered there was less in the way of trifles and more a banquet. The entire ensemble—bride, groom, guests, vicar and all—looked as if they had stepped out of the pages of history. There were a number of British officers present, all in full dress uniform which, by their cut and style, I was able to narrow the period to somewhere around the late-Georgian era.

In fact, I was the one who looked out of place, and I drew a number curious glances. Mary Bennet, the bride, was a wan young woman whose expression was perpetually inclined to the morose, even on this, her supposed happiest of days. She was well-mannered and reserved when Stamford introduced us, but there was no denying that like everyone else, she saw me as quite the oddity and hastened to move on.

Stamford was also spot-on with regards his mother-in-law. Blustering and belligerent, Mrs. Bennet set upon me with the focus of a hare-coursing hound. I was given the family history, chapter and verse—its marriages, connections and the availability of her daughter, Catherine—all at breakneck speed. As I avoided one subject, she would raise another undeterred, moving with the dexterity and tenacity of a prize-fighter.

Fortunately, her husband stepped in to save me, and with a masterful touch of her elbow guided her back towards the white lace maelstrom.

“Come, my dear, let us first make sure this daughter is wedded and away before we seek to cast off the last one. There’s still the chance young Stamford will come to his senses and make a bolt for the gate.”

I nodded in gratitude and he returned the gesture. The wedding banquet and speeches proceeded as expected. As the afternoon wore on, I slowly slipped towards the periphery with the intention of retrieving my bags from the inn and boarding the first train for London as soon as was humanly possible.

My manoeuvring had not gone unnoticed when I was approached by the second eldest Bennet daughter, now Mrs. Elizabeth Darcy.

“Dr. Watson, are you leaving? I was hoping you could spare a few moments to talk?”

“Unfortunately, I must return to London. I have a practice and engagements that I simply cannot defer.”

“Ah, yes. London. To hear my brother-in-law speak of it, it has changed a great deal since I was there last. A great deal indeed.”

“Well, life in the city does move at a frantic pace.”

She stepped nearer to me, closing the gap between us. There was a flicker of urgency in her expression.

“Doctor, some here see, but choose to say nothing. Others do not see at all, but you and I, we know everything is not as it appears. Do we look as strange to you, as you do to us?”

I hesitated for a moment, uncertain how to reply to her cryptic question, but there was truly only one answer.

“Yes. Although to my eyes, it is as if you are all living in the past.”

“You’re not the first person to say that. There have been others, like yourself, who have passed through Longbourn. And others still who looked to us to be from even older times. Clad in doublet and hose.

“It is as if... there are different ages occupying the same space, like books upon a shelf, where the edge of one brushes against another.”

As fantastic as it sounded, I could not fault her reasoning.

There was a sharp mind and keen intellect at work here.

“How do you come by that conclusion?”

“Observation and analysis. The acquisition of information. If I hear of a visitor in the vicinity, a new face, I make a point of interviewing them. After that, I attempt to reach a logical conclusion, however seemingly impossible the facts. If there is no other explanation, it simply must be the truth.”

I could not help but smile.

Mrs. Darcy, however, did not.

“Do I amuse you, sir?”

“No, please do not be offended. Your methodology is very similar to that of a good friend of mine, Mr. Sherlock Holmes. A detective of some repute. In fact I intend to see him as soon as I reach London. He may be able to shed some light on all of this.”

“Then make haste. Go now. The longer you tarry here, the more you will change. Like your friend Stamford, your tastes, thoughts and opinions will subtly shift to fit in with the rest of us.”

“What do you mean?”

“I have seen it happen. Travellers, outsiders like yourself who have lingered too long and are now indistinguishable from the residents herein. Several of the men you dined with last night were once as you are now.”

I needed no further persuading. I thanked Mrs. Darcy for her advice and in under three hours was on the train and Londonbound once more. As I left Longbourn behind, I was yet again struck by a vile headache. Not as debilitating as the first, but a discomfort I could have well done without.

I slept the bulk of the journey, waking refreshed as we pulled into King’s Cross Station. I jumped into a Hansom and bade the cabbie drive flat-out for Baker Street with promise of a suitable remuneration if we made good time.

That we did, and soon I was home, taking the stairs two at a time, almost colliding with a tall, mature, yet handsome looking woman as I turned on the corner.

“More haste, less speed, young man! You’ll do yourself—or worse, someone else—an injury jumping around like jackanapes!”

She spoke with a soft Edinburgh burr cut through with a core of steel. It was a tone I heard in numerous matrons and ward sisters over the years.

“Please, forgive me.”

I stepped aside and let her pass. I couldn’t help but smile. It had been a long time since I had been called a young man, as the grey at my temples would attest. However, I imagined that to her, all men, irrespective of age were ‘young men.’ Silly boys who on occasion had to be brought up short and put in their place.

“We shall see. We shall see.”

I dashed into 221B to find Holmes standing before the fire, staring intently at his open pocket-watch.

“Holmes! Holmes, I have something extraordinary to tell you!”

Holmes response was to raise the index finger of his left hand, indicating for me to be quiet.

“But Holmes!”

His eyebrows flicked into a high arch and I fell suitably silent.

Without looking up, he withdrew a small folded square of white paper from his waistcoat pocket and handed it to me.

Watson, Look in the corner, by the window. Do not react.

Refolding the paper, I acted a nonchalantly as I dared.

“Well, I suppose it isn’t so important it won’t keep until after dinner. Was that a new client, by the way?”

I turned to look out of the window, as if to observe Holmes’ recent guest as she left the house.

“What was it? Missing jewels? Errant husband?”

Holmes’ note was an enigma; there was no one there. I was about to announce the same, thinking he was playing me for a fool, when something by the window moved. It had the form of a man but taller, seven feet at least. It appeared to wrap its surroundings about itself, the same way in nature an insect may resemble a leaf or branch to prevent itself being preyed upon. This, though, was another level of complexity entirely. It mimicked not only a section of the wall, wallpaper and all, but the pictures thereon, as well as part of the bureau and a chair.

I heard Holmes cluck his tongue against his teeth as he would occasionally do as an act of rapprochement and I quickly turned my gaze back towards the window.

“Although, from her demeanour, I would judge she is more of a housekeeper, rather than the lady of the house, hm?”

As the clock struck six, I felt myself jump. At the same time, a sudden breeze brushed my face. When the last chime sounded, Holmes exploded across the room.