Sherlock Holmes and The Other Woman (19 page)

Chapter Eighteen

Kevin and some of the other boys had managed to get Watson back to Baker Street. Mrs Hudson telephoned Stamford from St Bartholomew's Hospital, and he was tending my friend when I tumbled into the living room.

“Watson!” I cried. “Dear God, what has happened?”

“Nothing much,” my friend replied. He tried to give me a grin, but winced. There was a stomach-churning amount of blood around his head and neck.

Stamford said, “Sit down there, Mr Holmes. I would not have thought you were the sort of man to be squeamish at the sight of a little blood.”

“A little,” my mouth was so dry I could scarcely speak. “A little, do you say?”

“It looks worse than it is,” Watson said. I know him too well to be fooled by that stoic tone.

“That is true,” the surgeon said. He finished treating the wound, a gash on my friend's left parietal area, and applied a clean bandage. “Good thing you were wearing a hat,” he said. He and Watson laughed. Laughed!

“Oh come, Holmes,” Watson said. “You need not look so stricken. It is a cut and it has bled a fair bit, but no real harm done. As you see, I am alert. I have all my faculties... What was your name again?”

“Most amusing,” I lied.

“I am afraid your friend's sense of humour has failed him for the moment,” Stamford said. He rose and put his instruments back in his medical bag. “If he were any other man I'd say he was worried about you. Well, I shall head off, if you don't mind. My wife doesn't like it when I'm out too late.” He squeezed my shoulder. “He's really not so bad, you know, Mr Holmes. I shouldn't worry. A dozen stitches, no more.”

“A dozen...”

“Good thing I have such a hard head, isn't it, Stamford?”

“Always knew you were hard-headed, Watson,” the other replied. “Now we have the evidence of it. Hard evidence, you might say.” He cackled. “Yes, well, I must be off. Give me a call if you need anything. Cheer up, Holmes. It could be much worse, you know.”

“I do know.”

After he left, Watson and I sat in silence for several minutes. He was lying back with his eyes closed and a compress on his forehead.

The door opened and Mrs Hudson flittered in. Not an easy thing to do with a full tea tray, but she managed.

“What is this city coming to?” she demanded, “When a respectable gentleman cannot walk down the street without being accosted by vagabonds and varmints.”

“Varmints?” Watson opened one bloodshot eye to look at her. “You've been reading those Western stories again, haven't you, Mrs Hudson?”

“Ooh!” She set the tray down on the table with a clatter. “You're as bad as he is,” she said. I could not tell if the admonishment was for Watson or for me, but we both said, as on cue, “Thank you.”

She fled, her hands over her ears to try to block out the sound of our laughter.

“Cup of tea, Watson?” I said. I poured and handed him the cup.

His hand trembled slightly as he took it. The first sign of how traumatised he really was.

“Steady, old chap,” I said. I helped him with the cup and, after a few mouthfuls, he was able to manage on his own.

“You might find a cup beneficial yourself,” he said at last. “Or perhaps you've had enough beer to satisfy all thirst?”

“For at least a week,” I agreed. I refilled his cup and said, “What happened?”

“Well, I stayed in the restaurant for a couple of hours then around half-seven I saw Jones leave. It was dark enough and there were still plenty of people about so I was sure he had not spotted me. I followed at a distance, though, just to be safe.

“He was obviously under the influence of his drug and meandered all over the street, bumping into people... I half-thought I should take his arm and lead him home, but we had agreed I should merely follow so I hung back.”

“Good thing, too,” I said. “I very much doubt this was Jones's first time to stagger home in that condition.”

“True. In any event, he reeled up Shaftesbury Avenue then turned, first onto Coptic Street and then at Montague Street. It was still busy but it got quieter as we walked. I kept pace about thirty feet behind him. Do you know how hard it is to walk so slowly?”

“I do.”

“Oh. Yes, of course. Anyway, at last Jones turned onto Woburn Walk and that is when calamity struck.”

Watson took a breath and I refilled his cup. I bit my lip to stop myself from hurrying him on. He gave me a watery grin and said, “Poor Holmes. I must look wretched indeed to warrant this sort of patience.”

I said, “Long experience has taught me not to bother trying to hurry you, Watson. Nothing more.”

He chuckled, then winced and held the compress against his head for a moment before continuing. “Woburn Walk... That is such a delicate little thoroughfare; you know it well, Holmes. I remember thinking it was a rather more elegant residence for a man like Jones than I'd have suspected. That's the last clear thought I do have. It's all a bit of a jumble...

“I remember a man leaping out of nowhere - I think he must have been following me as I was following Jones - and I heard the sound of a gunshot. Everything turned red and Jones collapsed like a broken marionette. Then what...? Oh, I remember I gave a cry and lunged at the assailant. I don't think he expected that for he dropped his weapon. I had him. I had my hands on him, Holmes...”

The tremor became more pronounced but this time it was from fury.

“Who was it, Watson? Did you see his face?”

“Oh yes, I saw him clearly enough, Holmes. That is something I shall never forget. It was Rickman... The fellow who calls himself Rickman. He's a big chap. Well, you remember, and he easily knocked me down to the ground and began kicking me.”

He rubbed his head. I swallowed my fury. I swallow it again now, remembering. Fury will not help my friend, not yet. But the time will come.

“He would have finished me off, Holmes, I have no doubt of it. I remember his boot in my face and the pain and feeling sick. I remember thinking I must have a concussion... Silly, that. A doctor diagnosing himself.” His laugh was void of all humour.

“I'm surprised he did not finish the job...” I said. “Forgive me. I meant-”

“No need to apologise, Holmes. I know what you meant. There's no doubt in my mind that he fully intended to kill me and would have done so if Kevin hadn't shown up. That boy... Oh, you should have seen him, Holmes, you would have laughed.”

“I doubt it.”

“Poor Holmes. Sit down please; it hurts my neck to look up at you. That's better. Well, Kevin arrived out of nowhere - I assume he was keeping an eye on me? Yes, I thought so. He blew his whistle and then he pulled out his catapult and hit my assailant right on the head with a stone. The villain howled and bolted. It was such a sight...” He laughed, a proper laugh, followed by a groan.

“The commotion drew people out into the street. No one did anything, of course, though I think someone must have gone to call the police, or perhaps they heard the whistle...

“What then...? I cannot really remember. The next thing I recall is Lestrade asking me if I was all right...”

“Rickman?”

“Fled, I gather. Lestrade was pretty hot about it, too. ‘You had your hands on him, Doctor...' he kept saying. I'm not sure what point he was making.”

“I hope he wasn't blaming you for Rickman's escape.”

“No... I don't think so. Does it matter?”

I bit back the retort that sprang to my lips and said mildly, “No, not at all.”

He gave me a look and I saw that, even wounded as he was, his faculties were intact. “It would be unfair, that's all... What is Jones's condition, do you know?”

“Dead.”

Watson finished the last of the tea, tried to put the cup back in the saucer, and failed. I took the cup from him and. without looking at him, said, “Why did you not send for me?”

“Why? There was nothing you could have done. I'd already failed...”

“Failed? My dear fellow, how can you say so?”

“You gave me one job, Holmes. Keep Jones alive. Jones is dead. Ergo, I failed.”

“You identified his killer. You were able to give an account to Lestrade. Most importantly of all, you stayed alive.”

He shook his head. For the first time in our long association, I saw my friend was at the end of his tether. He would not weep. He is, as he often reminds me, a military man. However, his nerves are shattered. I fear he shall relive the battle of Maiwand tonight in his nightmares.

I settled him in bed, tucked him in like a Nightingale, and offered to stay with him.

“Oh, do go away, Holmes,” he said crossly. “I am not a child. A good night's sleep shall set me to rights.”

And so he sleeps. I have left his door ajar and have made up a bed on the couch in case he should need me during the night. But first, I went downstairs to the hallway and made a telephone call.

Chapter Nineteen

Friday 6 May 1898

It has been a long day and I am weary but I shall write a few notes before I lie down to sleep.

This morning after breakfast, Watson and I took the train to Sussex. Beatrice was delighted to have us join her little party, and sent a carriage to collect us at the station.

After so much talk about ‘the cottage', I was astonished to find it was, in fact, a large fifteenth-century manor. Richard the Third had not met his fate on Bosworth's field when this building was erected.

“Why on earth do you call it a cottage?” I said. “It is as stately a home as any I have ever seen.”

“It was my father's name for it. A jest. I suppose it stuck.”

My wife has a knack for timing; for knowing when a thing may be done and when it should not. This talent was very much in evidence upon our arrival. While my instinct would have been to bundle Watson off to bed, Beatrice suggested luncheon in the morning room. And so we sat, B and Watson and Mycroft and I, with excellent food before us and the sparkling sea in the distance. We sat and talked about civilised things: music, art, and history.

“Elizabeth slept here before she was queen,” Beatrice said. “So did Sir Walter Raleigh - though my father assured me it was not at the same time.”

“It is a charming building, Sherlock,” Mycroft said. “I have not had a chance to explore the whole thing yet. Perhaps you will join me later?”

“I should be delighted,” I said, “But Beatrice may prefer to give us the grand tour?”

“I shall do nothing of the sort,” she said. “Half the fun of exploring a place like this is the unexpected discovery. My presence would rob you of that. Besides, I promised the boys I'd take them to the beach.”

“Where are those boys?” I asked.

“Tommy is practicing the piano. He has a natural talent, Sherlock. I really cannot believe how quickly he has mastered the basics. And Billy went horse riding with young Jessup, the groundskeeper's son.”

“Horse riding? Those boys will never be able to readjust to London after all these treats.”

Her eyes stared out the window towards the clear grey water. “Then I shall have to readjust London to accommodate them.”

The rest of the day passed very pleasantly. Watson took a long nap and seemed much improved when he awoke. Mycroft and I spent several hours exploring the house, and vastly entertaining it was, too. Not once did he limp or seem unwell. He easily kept pace with me as we climbed staircases, examined the gallery, and discovered the many nooks and crannies that seem to exist merely to entertain small boys. Or grown men who have retained much of their childhood.

As we explored the garden - I was astonished that my brother did not protest either the fresh air or the exercise - I told him about the recent happenings in the case.

“Beatrice told me when you called,” he said. “Thank heaven your friend Watson is such a stout fellow. A lesser man might not have survived.”

“True, though I doubt he sees it that way.”

“Are you sure... Forgive me, but are you sure bringing him here was the wisest course of action?”

“He needs time to recuperate. Not to mention I need to know he is safe.”

“He is a military man, Sherlock. Safe is the last thing he would ever want. He and your wife have that in common. I must say, I was surprised enough that you persuaded Beatrice to leave the city. She is not a woman who likes sitting idle, I think.”

“No, she is not. But how can I work, Mycroft, if I am forever worried about the people I-” I broke off and amended, “The people who matter to me?”

His shrewd eyes softened. “Don't misunderstand me, brother dear,” he said. “I am not criticising. I'm just a little concerned these people who, yes, love you, will set their own feelings and interests aside to accommodate you. They came here without demur because they would not cause you a moment's worry.”

“It is not forever,” I said. The garden was a pleasant sight. Forget-me-nots blanketed the ground almost to the water's edge; roses and sweet peas and lilac presented a sight far too jolly for this dismal conversation.

We headed for the folly and sat there for a while listening to the sound of the trees and the distant gurgle of the sea. I would never admit such a thing to Watson, but there are times when the peace of the country is preferable even to London.

“Well,” I said. “I shall give Watson a few days to rest then he may return to the city if he wishes.”

“You might consider staying here, too, my dear fellow,” Mycroft said. “Do you think you're the only one to worry about the safety of his loved ones? Would it hurt so much if you were to stay a short while?”

I pondered aloud: “Lestrade is scouring the city for Rickman. I spoke with Glaser last night and all seems quiet in Hatton Garden. He and young Stevens have developed a bond and I have no doubt they can keep the diamond district safe without my help. No, you are right. A few days away from London should not hurt. Furthermore, I concede that Watson would probably feel less guilty if I were to stay here, too. I do not suppose Beatrice will mind.”

Mycroft grinned at me. “I dare say the girl can put up with you if we can.”

Both Watson and Beatrice managed to keep their relief at my change in plans to little more than a ripple. “Do you good, old man,” Watson said. “You've been looking a bit peaked. A break will set us both to rights.”

Beatrice smiled and said, “Whatever you like, my dear.” Something in the way she said the words made me realise she and Mycroft had planned this between them. I hate being managed, even when it is for my own good. Still, I have been out-manoeuvred and by experts. I can only bow in the face of such expertise.

As I made my way down to the dining room, I spotted a familiar face. “Daisy?” I said. “I did not expect to see you here.”

“Oh, hullo, Mr Holmes,” she said. “Her ladyship called and asked if I'd like to make a bit of extra money helping out here for a few weeks. It's a larger party than she is used to and she was glad of the help. Good for me, too, sir. With Maurice and me saving for the wedding the little extra is a big help.”

“I'm sure it is. When are you and Stevens getting married?”

“This August, Mr Holmes; I do hope you'll come to the wedding, you and her ladyship.” We reached the main hallway and she indicted the great double doors to our left.

“Well, here we are, Mr Holmes. That's the dining room through there.”

As I turned to leave she added, “By the way, I wanted to thank you, sir.”

“Thank me? For what?”

“For suggesting Maurice to Inspector Glaser. He's learning ever so much and he idolises the inspector. ‘Smartest man in all of England saving Mr Holmes himself,' he said.”

“Glaser seems quite taken with your fiancé, Daisy. I'm glad the arrangement is working out for both of them.”

Saturday 7 May 1898

Beatrice's old friends Edward Davenport and Julia Simms from Rillington Manor arrived this morning. B had invited them for the weekend before I invited Watson and myself. It is fortunate this ‘cottage' has so many bedrooms.

I never had the pleasure of meeting Davenport at Rillington Manor; he had been discharged long before I arrived to investigate that sordid case. Beatrice says her friends are greatly improved in health and appearance. “Life at Rillington Manor was difficult, I know,” she said. “But were it not impossible outside a story book I should vow they are both ten years younger.”

Mr Davenport's tavern has been doing excellent business and he has been able to hire three men. Miss Simms tends to the lodging side of things.

“I cannot think why I did not leave service sooner,” the former butler told me. “Of course, none of it would have been possible without Lady Beatrice's assistance. She gave me the money to set up my business. She is the kindest woman in all the land. Always was, even when she was a child.”

They are both intelligent, well-informed people and have known B all her life. It is obvious there is a great deal of affection among them.

Over dinner, we enjoyed as lively a conversation as I have ever experienced. B, in green silks, is delighted to have all her friends under one roof.

“May I ask about your work, Mr Holmes?” Davenport asked. “I confess I was very jealous when Julia told me all about your case at Rillington Manor - though I was well out of that place, to be sure. All the same, I should have loved to see you work.”

“Thank you,” I said. The man really is as bright as Watson told me. “It was not a particularly challenging case, though there was little enough to go on at the start.”

“Holmes's new case is not without interest,” Watson piped up. “‘The Case of the Camden Poltergeist', I call it.”

“What's a polter... pol... that thing?” Billy said.

“A poltergeist,” Julia said, “is a mischievous spirit. They move objects.”

“A ghost,” Tommy said, indifferently.

“Have you ever seen a ghost?” Davenport asked him.

The boy shrugged. “London's full of 'em.”

“Indeed,” Julia said. “How did you get involved in such an odd case, Mr Holmes?”

“All of Holmes's cases are odd,” Watson said. “Or he wouldn't be interested. But this one came by way of a friend of Mr Mycroft Holmes.”

“Good thing he knew you then, Mr Holmes,” said Tommy. “If you had to look into every haunting in London you'd never have a day off.”

We all laughed and there followed a conversation about famous hauntings around the city. Julia Simms is something of an expert on the subject. After a very short time it became tedious.

“What news from France?” Watson asked B, seeing me flag. “Have you heard from your old friend, M Zola?”

“He writes now and then,” she said. “His second trial is due to start in a couple of weeks.”

“And this time they will be sure that the charges stick,” Mycroft said. “It is a damned mess. I beg your pardon.”

She waved away his apology. “No, you are quite right: it is a damned mess. There is blood on the streets of Paris, indeed all over France, and in the meantime, Captain Dreyfus languishes on Devil's Island.”

“Devil's Island, miss?” Billy said. The name of that wretched place had caught his imagination.

“It is a dreadful place,” Watson said in a fiendish voice. “An island in French Guiana. It is a gaol with the most terrible conditions. Prisoners are treated as little more than animals.”

The two boys stared with open mouths and wide eyes.

“A terrible place for a guilty man,” Beatrice said. “But how much worse when the man is innocent?”

“Who, miss?”

“Alfred Dreyfus. It is complicated... Well, you are intelligent young men. I shall try to explain.” She set down her fork and sipped a mouthful of wine before continuing.

“The French had reason to believe there was a spy selling their secrets to other countries. Captain Dreyfus was an officer in the French army and suspicion fell on him.”

“Why him, miss?” Tommy said. “There must have been some reason he was suspected.”

“There was,” I said. “He is a Jew.”

The boys looked at me blankly.

“Your confusion is understandable,” Mycroft said. “It is a stupid reason - no reason at all, in fact. But based on little more than the man's religion, Dreyfus was arrested.”

Tommy and Billy exchanged a glance.

Julia said, “You mustn't worry, boys. Such a thing could never happen here.”

Billy gave her an amused look and said, “'Course it could.”

After dinner, we adjourned to the music room. Beatrice played for a while and then asked Tommy to play.

I gritted my teeth and gave my wife a reproachful look. All very well to encourage the lad, to teach him the rudiments of music, but did we have to be subjected to his plonking? I was, however, pleasantly surprised by the boy's skill. Clumsy and uncertain he may be, but I could see the promise my wife recognised. I just wish he had played another tune.
Amazing Grace
is not a happy song for me. In my childhood, it represented those wretched Sundays in a dreary church away from those things a boy would prefer to do: climb trees, steal eggs, and torment his brother. Later, the organist played it at my father's funeral and I have detested it ever since.

The words of the song came back to me:

I once was lost but now I'm found

Was blind, but now I see...

I wonder what made Beatrice select that particular song. Does she know how well it applies to me? No, she has never seen me as lost or blind. I glanced up and saw her bright eyes studying me, anxious for my approbation of her student; amused at my reverie. I smiled and thought again of one verse:

Yes, when this flesh and heart shall fail,

And mortal life shall cease;

I shall profess, within the vale

A life of joy and peace.

Well, something to aspire to, anyway.

The last notes ended and we made a show of applauding appreciatively.

“This in one week, Sherlock,” Beatrice said. “Can you imagine?”

“You are a music prodigy, Tommy,” I said.

“I can't read the notes yet, but I'm learning, aren't I, miss?”

“You are. Most certainly you are.” She beamed at him and he blushed. “He is a very diligent student, you know. He practices for hours every day.”

Billy yawned. “Can we go and say goodnight to the horses now? C'mon Tom-Tom. Race you to the stables.”

Monday 9 May 1898

The Davenports returned to London this morning and Mycroft removed himself to Beatrice's library to work. Watson took the boys out for a hike along the coast: “Good sea air. It'll do us good,” he said.

B and I spent an enjoyable day talking, walking around the garden, and being alone together as has happened so rarely since our return from the Continent.