The Adventure of the Tired Captain A Sherlock Holmes Case (3 page)

“And what of you, Holmes?”

My friend moved to the mouth of the cavern and seated himself on a rock, well out of the small circle of light thrown by our little fire. “I shall stand sentry, Watson just in case the Colonel does comes calling.”

“I do not think
that I shall sleep a wink Holmes,” I said edging closer to the fire. Despite my doubts I soon felt myself nodding off and the next thing I knew Holmes was shaking me by the shoulder.

“Come Watson, it is time to go.”

Holmes had extinguished the fire in order to allow his eyes to adjust to the dark. We had no other preparations to make for our departure.

“Quiet Watson, our lives may depend on it.”

As I may have possibly mentioned elsewhere in these narratives my friend’s ability to see in the dark was uncanny and taking my arm he led us unerringly to the bottom of the path. Soon we were making our way cross country and back to the village of Meiringen.

Although it was evident to me that Holmes expected
some type of trouble our return journey was uneventful. The trip seemed to take an eternity, but in a little over an hour we were back at the hotel where we woke up a bleary eyed and surprised
Herr
Steiler. He gave us the use of the two empty beds which we had occupied the previous night and cheerily wished us a good night.

The sun was high when I awoke and I quickly packed the few belongings which I had left there pending our return from Rosenlaui, and descended to the dining room. I greeted Holmes who was already seated and reading a newspaper. He ignored the savory looking breakfast which was in front of him.

“Good morning Watson,” he said gaily. “I trust you enjoyed your sleep.” His breezy manner was betrayed by the weariness which was etched upon his face. Mumbling some reply I poured myself a cup of coffee. I slumped into a chair and sipped on the deliciously strong beverage. Following our simple repast we fondly bid farewell to our hosts and began our journey home. Holmes, I noticed, chose an opposite route to one which would take us past the falls of Reichenbach.

It took us another three days to make our way out of Switzerland and across France, making a brief stop in Paris to admire
Monsieur
Eiffel’s magnificent new edifice on the banks of the Seine.

Holmes all the while remained vigilant. My friend seemed ill at ease and while he could converse well and knowledgeably on almost any subject he barely spoke at
all. Our trip though was almost anticlimactic after our adventures on the Continent and soon we were nestled in Holmes’ rooms in Baker Street.

“Tomorrow, Holmes I shall be able to return
to a normal life, my practice and most wonderfully of all I will be able to rejoin Mary,” I said accepting his offer of a brandy and a bed for the night.

“Yes Watson, my former client can, no doubt, hardly wait to get her claws into you again,” he said with more than a hint of sarcasm.

“Goodnight, Holmes,” I said wearily. “I will see you in the morning.”

He made no reply, as he sat in his chair by the fire and stared into the flames.

The week long excursion had taken
its toll upon me, for despite my desire to rejoin my wife I did not awaken before noon on the following day.

With the thrill of our adventure over I half expected to see Holmes sprawled indolently upon the settee but somewhat to my relief he was gone. It had been some four years since last I had roomed with him and having spent a week together t
wenty four hours a day I felt a certain exhilaration at being alone.

Despite the late hour I rang downstairs in the hope of having the parlour-maid bring up some toast and coffee for my breakfast.
To my astonishment it was Mrs. Hudson herself who answered my summons. She was happy to see me, although a little put off at my request for breakfast at such an ungodly hour.

“My dear Mrs. Hudson,” I said when she returned with a large pot of coffee, “I had expected you to still be in Scotland visiting your sister.”

She set down the tray, upon which were not only several slices of toast but also a hearty serving of rashers and eggs. “Mr. Holmes sent a telegram from Paris three days ago and said it would be safe to return. Even though Mrs. Turner was good enough to look in on this place and feed my cats while I was gone it is wonderful to be home.”

I remembered Holmes sending only one telegram from the French capita
l and that one to his brother. As I thought I was privy to all of my friend’s correspondence I was at a loss as to when he may have sent this last message.

“Mr. Holmes has gone out I see?”

“Oh yes sir, he left hours ago.”

As always I marveled at Holmes’ ability to get by with little or no sleep. As a doctor I felt this habit would eventually have a debilitating effec
t on him but it seemed that the only thing to wear him down was inactivity.

“You do not know where he went then?”

“No, Doctor. I did hear him come down the stairs while I was putting the kettle on the boil. He called out a good morning to me, and before I could say ‘good morning Mr. Holmes’ he was gone.”

The day was an exceedingly fine one and my spirits were high as I whistled for a cab to take me
to my own home in Kensington. The streets were teeming with traffic and the journey seemed much longer than normal. As always Oxford Street was in the process of being ripped apart and the gangs of men and machinery seemed ever intent on inconveniencing the London traveler. The trip was in fact much longer than I could have anticipated and it was an hour and a half after setting out from Baker Street that I finally arrived at my modest home and surgery in Kensington.

Mary was in the sitting room reading a letter when I arrived. Silently I stood in the doorway, watching her.

“Hello sir,” said the maid walking up behind me. Startled, my wife looked up and with a little cry she threw down the missive and rushed to greet me. Though it had been no more than a week since we last had seen each other subsequent events had made it seem much longer. We embraced for a long time, and there were tears in her eyes and if truth be told my own eyes were probably moist.

“Oh James, I am so happy to see you,” she said employing the nickname that only she would use. It was a habit which began at a time when we were first courting and it was a habit which I did not try to break her of.

“The daily papers reported that Mr. Holmes had met with a most unfortunate end and I was so worried for him and indeed for you both.”

“Did you not receive my telegram form Paris?” I asked.

“Yes, however the reports of Mr. Holmes death reached the newspapers before I received your message. To my great relief the newspapers also reported that you were not harmed. Is Mr. Holmes really alive?”

“Yes my dear, he is fine.”
Mary had a soft spot in her heart for Holmes ever since he had assisted her in the matter of the Agra treasure.

“But what of those newspaper reports?”

“It appears that the standards of the European press are no better than those of their English counterparts. They reported the story without thoroughly investigating the facts and Holmes felt no need to contradict them. The London papers merely took at face value the reports from the French news agency.”

“And what of you John? Were you in any danger?”

Not wanting to worry her I said nothing, instead moving to the sideboard to pour myself a drink.

“John,” she said.

“Would you like a drink?” I asked her.

“Please.”

My wife knew me well enough to know that something
had
happened and she also knew that I would not be rushed into telling her of it. However with the patience of which only a wife or a clergyman was capable she eventually coaxed the story from me.

Mary looked worried. “This Colonel Moran sounds
to me to be a most dangerous creature. Does Mr. Holmes expect further trouble from the man?” she asked.

“Holmes recognizes
that Moran is a dangerous and cunning foe but thinks he is a spent force without Professor Moriarty directing him, but enough of this depressing business,” I said. “I saw you reading a letter when I came in. “Anything interesting?” I asked pouring us both another sherry.

“It is from my friend Anna
Rathbone,” she said picking up several pieces of paper from the settee. “She and Philip are thinking of starting a family however she says the Boers are becoming restless and they may have to leave Johannesburg and move back to England.”

“That is good news. She is the violinist, is she not?” I said.

“Yes. Your friend, Mr. Holmes, always liked her for that very reason,” she said.

“I believe that she is one of the few women whom Holmes both likes and admires. But tell me Mary, has nothing else of interest ha
ppened since I have been away?” I asked. I had missed the hustle and bustle of London and was keen to acquaint myself with the latest news.

“I
can think of nothing, save for the fact that there has been a policeman parading himself up and down our street all week long.”

“That was probably of Holmes’ doing. Since you re
fused his request to put up at a hotel he undoubtedly spoke with Inspector Lestrade about having some extra men keep watch over you.”

I felt this could actually have been the work of either of the Holmes brothers as Mycroft also apparently had
some influence with the Yard.

“He was not the only person who seemed to take an interest in the affairs of this household,” Mary said.

I was pleased that my wife had been so vigilant. Aside from possessing a natural curiosity Mary had an uncommon talent when it came to the observation of details, a skill she had cultivated since first becoming associated with Sherlock Holmes and to a lesser extant myself.

“There was someone else watching our house? Was it another policeman?” I asked her.

“Not unless the Metropolitan Police have neglected to pay their constables for some time. This was quite an unkempt looking individual, dressed all in tatters and pushing an orange costers barrow.”

“What makes you think that this man was watching our house?”

“Anytime that I looked out of the window I noticed the same man pushing his barrow up and down the sidewalk opposite our front door.”

“There is nothing remarkable in that. London is full of street vendors, plying their trade.”

“I know that John,” Mary said with some asperity, “but when I sent Mary Jane out to buy some oranges he had none to sell. Later that day when I met my friend Violet Davenport at the Cafe Royal in Regent Street I noticed the very same man standing outside the boot shop next to the restaurant and with the help of my little mirror I caught brief glimpses of the scoundrel on my trip home following my luncheon. When I got home I sent Mary Jane out for the constable and after what looked to be a heated argument the policeman made him move on. The next day however he had returned without his barrow. I ventured again to inform the police but they told me that there was nothing they could do.

“The same ‘street vendor’ was there again yesterday even though there was now a policeman posted outside of our door.
I was about to go and shoo him away myself when Mary Jane tripped as she was coming down the stairs. By the time I helped her up and tended to her injury the man had gone.”

I silently thanked whatever gods watched over headstrong young housewives or perhaps pernicious orange sellers, for Mary was not in the least bit timid and I knew she would have no qualms in confronting this man.

“I noticed nothing unusual when I arrived,” I said.

Drawing aside the curtains Mary looked out of the window. “No, I see no-one. However he was there earlier this morning.”

“Perhaps I have frightened him away,” I ventured.

“I hope to God you have John, perhaps I was being foolish, but with you away and Mr. Holmes’ warning to be on my guard ringing in my ears my nerves were not the best.”

“I am here now and no-one shall bother you again. I will inform Holmes of this matter,” I said.

I spent the remainder of the day relaxing, and re-adjusting to the routines of my household. Mary and I went to bed early.

The next day was a dreary one and for a moment the poisonous yellow fog caused me to long for the sunnier climes of France.

I went across to my neighbour’s and thanked him for caring for my patients. He had done such a fine job that the caseload for the day was light. One elderly gentleman suffering from gout and a spinster lady with a wart on her finger were my only two patients for the day.

That evening I treated Mary to an evening at Simpson’s. My roast beef at 2s 6d, and Mary’s fish at 2s 9d were a bit of an extravagance but I was in a joyous mood. I was back in England and with my beautiful wife. What more could a man ask for?

Waiting for our meals we discussed plans for our upcoming
holiday in Scotland. Unfortunately I had managed to save little of the six hundred pounds I had earned last year and we decided not to pursue that course. Setting up a new practice and supporting a wife were both expensive propositions.

As we sat over our dessert and coffee, contented with each other’s company a concerned look passed over Mary’s face.

“Whatever is the matter my dear? Is there something wrong with the apricot pie?”

“John. I am positive that the man standing across the street under the lamp post is watching us.”

I furtively glanced at the man in question. He appeared to be more interested in cleaning his fingernails with a large jackknife than in observing us. “Are you certain? Other than his choice of manicuring implements he looks harmless enough.”

She yawned in a most unladylike manner.

“It has indeed been a long day,” I said, embarrassed.

She yawned again.

“We shall make an early night of it,” I said puzzled by her behavior.

She looked at me, exasperated. “John, you know that it is almost impossible for one not to yawn when observing somebody else do it. You, yourself just did it and the man across the street just did it twice.”

Understanding slowly dawned on me and my wife giggled. “That is wonderful, Mary,” I said.

“It is a little trick that Mr. Holmes once taught me.”

“I also think that it is the same man who has been watching our house. He is dressed differently and has been to the barber but there is no mistake. See his left hand; the one which is holding the knife, you will notice he is missing the middle finger of that hand. Also notice how he limps slightly with his left leg as he paces up and down the pavement. I happened to observe that the man who was watching our house also was missing the middle finger of his left hand and he had a limp. I remember thinking that it must be a terrible hardship to push such a large cart while suffering from such an affliction.”

“Do you not think that you could
be mistaken, Mary? There might be a thousand such men in London. During my time in the Army Medical Department I had to amputate many fingers, not to mention whole arms and legs.
And spending countless hours pushing a barrow has caused many a man to develop a limp.”

“I am the daughter of an army officer,” she said in a more irritable tone than I thought the situation called for. “I know that men in war suffer terribly but there is no mistake John, this is the same man.”

“He is certainly a most disreputable and dangerous looking person. I think perhaps I shall go out and give him a good thrashing,” I said finally convinced.

“For what reason
, John? He hasn’t actually done anything.”

“Nothing, except to frighten my wife to within an inch of her life,” I added.

“Let us eat our dessert and perhaps he will be gone by the time we leave,” she replied.

In silence we finished the excellent pastry, and paid the bill. The fog had lifted and as the night was a warm one we decided to walk some of the way. There was no sign of the stranger but I could feel his presence. My years spent with Holmes had sharpened my own senses.

It was well after dark when we arrived home and Mary decided to retire to her bed. As one of our upstairs windows faced the street I sat for a time in the darkened room hoping to catch a glimpse of the man who had watched us from the pavement opposite Simpson’s. I remained there for some time staring out at the empty street until weariness overcame me, and I joined Mary in our bedroom.