The Adventure of the Tired Captain A Sherlock Holmes Case (4 page)

Regardless of whether or not the man was again in front of our house tomorrow morning, I resolved to speak to Holmes on the matter. Mary would surely be safe in our own home during the daylight hours.

It was not until noon the next day before I was free to visit Baker Street. To my surprise Mrs. Hudson told me that Holmes was in and was expecting me. I could smell his pipe as I climbed the seventeen steps to his first floor chambers.

“Watson my good fellow
, pray help yourself to a whisky and soda and take your old chair by the fire.

“I trust the roast beef at Simpson’s was up to the usual excellent standards?” he asked with a mischievous twinkle in his eye.

I had become accustomed to my friend’s astonishing displays of deduction but as always I was at a loss to follow his reasoning. Over the years we had turned this little ritual into a game.

“How can you know we dined at Simpson’s?” I asked him. “I have bathed and shaved and have put on a freshly brushed suit this morning. There are none of the customary clues which you delight in. However I am sure that once you explain it to me it will be simplicity itself.”

He laughed. “It is for that very reason I have never accepted your invitation to witness Maskelyne’s feats of magic at the Egyptian Theatre with you and your lovely wife. Like Maskelyne’s wizardry, my little deductions always seem simple once they are explained. “However there is no magic involved this time, Watson,” he said. “Last night while you were out I visited your home. It was your maidservant who told me of your dining arrangements. She also informed me that your wife has become concerned recently about a certain individual who appears to be watching your house.”

I quietly reminded myself to rebuke Mary Jane for spreading gossip about her employers to strangers, even if that stranger was Holmes. A few years earlier my wife had threatened to let her go but she had undergone a change of heart. I was thinking now that we must re-evaluate the situation.

“And what do you make of it, Holmes?”

“I make nothing of it, Watson. I have made a few preliminary inquiries this morning but as of yet nothing has come of them.”

“What sort of inquiries?”

“I am slightly acquainted with the constable who was charged with the responsibility of keeping watch over your family. He could add nothing to what your servant had already told me. Our London “bobbies” are unequaled when it comes to bravery and dogged determination but they are not particularly skilled or trained observers.

“I also spent the better part of last evening watching your house myself. I could........”

“Wait a moment, Holmes,” I interjected “Upon our
return from Simpson’s last night I too spent some time watching the street from our upstairs window. I did not see you.”

“I should hope not
; as I was directly below your window, nestled behind your shrubbery you would not have seen me had I been an Indian elephant,” he said, invoking his rare streak of impish humor.

“As I was going to say, I could see nothing out of the ordinary in the time I was there save for your maid meeting a gentleman caller by your back garden gate.”

“So what do you advise, Holmes?”

“My advice to you Watson is to keep her. Good maids are hard to find these days.”

“I was not speaking of the maid and you know it,” I said with a hint of exasperation. “You seem to be deliberately obtuse today.”

“I am quite serious
, Watson. Of course it is not her place to gossip however if she had not informed me of the recent events I would be no better off than you. As for her nocturnal tryst perhaps it was responsible for frightening off your mysterious sentry.”

“Perhaps you are right there Holmes, but she does sometimes get above her station.”

“Ha! A fine example of Social Darwinism, Doctor.
If there is one thing that I hope you have taken away from this partnership of ours Watson, is the fact that all people are much the same whether that person is high born or commoner. As for your more pressing problem my advice to you is to be vigilant and make sure Mrs. Watson does not venture out alone. It would be prudent but probably impractical for her to remain inside until this matter is cleared up.”

Here we let the matter drop. I spent another hour or so catching up on any new cases my friend might be involved with, before I took my leave of Baker Street.

That evening as we sat down to supper I told Mary of my conversation with Holmes.

“I am forever indebted to Mr. Holmes for his previous kindness’ and I appreciate his concern but I will not remain a prisoner in my own home in the middle of the most civilized country on earth. I have already made plans to visit Kate Whitney tomorrow.”

“My God, Mary she lives all the way over in Woolwich, can you not postpone your visit until another day?”

“No, John. Ever since Isa died in that opium den last Christmas she has steadily gone downhill and this week she has taken a turn for the worse.”

Isa Whitney had been a friend of mine and for two years it had been a constant struggle to break him of his habit. Last Christmas we had lost the fight.

“How long will you be gone?”

“Not more than two days, I am sure.”

“Well I know that once you have made up your mind no power on earth can change it. I insist on at least
accompanying you and seeing that you arrive safely.”

“I wo
uld have it no other way, John. It is a long drive and I would welcome the company.”

Fate though would decree otherwise.

The next morning as we were set to depart there came a persistent ring at the door. The caller proved to be the footman of one of my oldest patients. Charles Grimshaw was an art collector and a valetudinarian who was given to bouts of illness both real and imagined, and ever since his favorite painter, the Frenchman Georges Seurat, had died of an apparent angina attack at an art exhibition in Paris in March, the old man continually suffered from symptoms of a similar affliction.

“I will have to go I am afraid my dear,” I said. “Mr. Grimshaw needs immediate care; I will not be able to accompany you to Woolwich.”

“You are a physician John you must attend to your patient. I will be fine.”

I sent the maid out to whistle for a hansom cab and within minutes one arrived in front of our door. I helped Mary in and wished her a safe journey.

“Goodbye,” she said “I will see you in a couple of days.”

Flouting convention I gave her a kiss goodbye. I watched the cab as it disappeared into the traffic on Young Street.

I managed to keep myself busy the next two days. My patient’s heart was, as always, strong as that of a horse and I could find no sign of weakness. My reassurances together with plenty of bed rest and a couple of nourishing meals was all that he needed to restore his vitality. Aside from this I had a relatively light case load, winter was always much busier, and I was able to fill in my journal for the last few days. I also took it upon myself to visit Holmes on the Friday afternoon as I wished to inquire of him as to any progress he had made in finding out anything about the person who had been watching my house and upsetting my wife.

My friend looked up from his test tubes.
“In reply to your question, Doctor, I am afraid I have been rather busy in the matter of the telephone murderer. It was a simple affair but it enjoyed the feature of being rather novel.”

I spent the better part of the day listening to Holmes fascinating description of the case, the details of which I may some day set into print. Before I knew it the afternoon had passed and after having supper at the Holborn with Holmes I made my way home.

Awaking late the next day I ate a hearty breakfast and consumed the entire contents a large pot of coffee while lazily reading the
Times
. As my surgery was not normally open on Saturdays it was the one day I could indulge in this luxury.

Mary was expected home by one o’clock and I had the cook delay serving lunch until her arrival but anxiety led to concern however as first two o’clock and then three o’clock came and passed. As the hour of four approached I decided to take matters into my own hands.

From my front steps I was able to hail a passing hansom and I leapt in before it came to a stop. I rapped on the roof with my stick, “To Woolwich driver,” I cried and we were off, as fast as the heavy afternoon traffic would allow. The drive was a long one, the monotony broken only by the view of the Royal Arsenal the sight of which always left me in awe. I arrived at the Whitney house around 5 P.M. and rang the bell.

A sullen looking maid, whom I seem to recall answered to the name of Charlotte, opened the door.

“Good evening. Is your mistress in?”

“Good evening sir. Yes
, Mrs. Whitney is in, but she is on her sick bed.”

“I do not wish to inconvenience her but I must speak with her,” I said.

“I have just taken her up a cup of broth as she did not feel strong enough to come down to dinner but I will see if she will receive you, Doctor Watson,” she replied, glancing at the card which I had handed to her.

Favouring me with a small curtsey the maid left me in the drawing room and in a few minutes the lady of the house appeared, looking pale.

“Good evening Kate.”

“John. How good to see you.”

“How are you feeling?”

“I have my good days and
bad days but I am getting stronger.”

“I am glad to hear it.”

“What brings you here John, did Mary forget something this morning?”

For a brief moment I stood in silence. Regaining my powers of speech
I managed to blurt out a reply. “Forget something! She has left then?”

“Why yes. She left this morning after breakfast. Has she not returned yet?”

“No Kate I haven’t seen her since Thursday. She said nothing about stopping anywhere else?”

“She did mention something about stopping
at the shops in Regent Street.”

I sighed with relief. As the anniversary of our marriage was fast approaching Mary must have taken this opportunity to purchase a gift to celebrate the occasion. My wife liked to do her own shopping especially when the circumstances were special.

“Well she has probably returned home by now. I won’t keep you any longer Kate; you must get your rest.”             

I bade her good night and climbed back into the waiting cab. Both the driver and his charge seemed disinclined to hurry on the return trip and I had to threaten the man with bodily harm before, amid much grumbling, he urged his nag to a greater speed.

As most of the better shops were closed by this hour, Mary should now be home waiting for me.

“Mary! Mary!” I called out gaily as I entered. There was no response. The maid came out of the scullery where she had probably been cleaning the silverware and
helping herself to the cooking sherry.

“Where is your mistress, Mary Jane?”

“Didn’t she come home with you, sir?”

“
I think I would have noticed if she had been in the cab,” I replied dryly. “You have been here alone all evening?”

“Yes sir.”

I poured myself a whisky and soda and sat by the fireplace reading my well worn copy of
Departmental Ditties
. Kipling’s
satirical look at civil and military life in British colonial India was a favorite of mine and I hoped it would be the tonic I needed to occupy my mind. For hours I remained there, my hopes being raised and dashed with every passing vehicle.

I awoke the next morning to the sound of the maid entering the
sitting room where I had fallen asleep over my book. A broken whisky tumbler was lying on the floor beside my chair.

“What time is it?” I asked.

“It is ten o’clock sir; I did not wish to awaken you.”

“Has Mrs. Watson come in yet?”

“No sir,” she replied cleaning up the debris of my evening’s entertainment.

In ten minutes I had hailed a cab and was on my way
to Baker Street. I offered the cabby an extra half crown if he could get me there within half an hour and within the allotted thirty minutes I had arrived at the door of my old rooms. I took the stairs two at a time.

“Come in Watson,”
Holmes called out even before I could knock on the door.

I entered the familiar rooms and saw Holmes sitting by the large bow window. He turned around to face me and I could see that he looked as tired as I felt.
I noticed his syringe lying on the mantelpiece, but I had too much on my mind to rebuke him for indulging in this, his most loathsome method of self poisoning.

“You knew it was me at the door,” I said breathlessly, wis
hing the moment I had uttered the words, that I had said nothing. Of course he would have recognized my familiar tread upon the stairs but to my surprise he did not reply with one of his all too common patronizing comments.

“Pray sit, Watson,” he said motioning me to my old chair. “I see by the state of your beard and suit that you did not get much sleep last night, and that you left home in a rush this morning.”