My Dearest Holmes (18 page)

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VI
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I
T WAS LATE in the morning when I woke. It was an awakening such as the human heart, I think, is ill-constructed to bear. There was sunlight and birdsong all around me, and an empty chair still stood by the open window. Herr Steiler himself, accompanied by the Swiss doctor, brought me coffee.

A team of experts had been back to the Falls, and their examination had left little doubt that a personal contest between the two men ended, as it could hardly fail to end in such a situation, in their reeling over, locked in each other's arms. Any attempt at recovering. Their bodies was regarded as hopeless, although an exploration party had been sent down, for form's sake. Their report, when it came, was negative as expected. There was no sign of the boy who had brought me the fatal letter; he seemed simply to have disappeared into thin air. Obviously he had been in the pay of Moriarty. Nor was there any trace of the two companions who, according to Herr Steiler, had arrived at the hotel with the 'tall Englishman'.

Herr Steiler was very kind. I felt sorry, by the time I left him, for the things I had screamed at him in my first shock. He arranged for the return of our baggage from Rosenlaui and for its transportation to England. He helped me to send the necessary telegrams. He was firm with the Swiss police, and did not allow them to interview me for too long.

He was, after all, the only person who had the least inkling of what I was suffering.

Moriarty and his companions, he confessed to me when I was in a more rational frame of mind and ready to leave for England, had made only the most innocent of enquiries; about the number of visitors at that time of year, and how long they usually stayed, and what brought them to Meiringen. Steiler had mentioned the Falls with pride, as he always did, and had said that he had advised two visitors only that afternoon to view them on their way to Rosenlaui. He had not even mentioned our nationality. There was no way he could have possibly suspected.

In the end, I was sorry to leave him, and the thought of London made me sick with dread.

My first six months back in London, before I fell ill, remain shrouded in mist; certain episodes flare out in my memory, cruel flashes of lucidity, but strangely I do not remember them in the order in which common sense tells me they must have occurred. Some things, which Mary told me of later, I do not remember at all. I can recall quite clearly the onset of my illness, and the feeling of relief and peace which accompanied it, although as it progressed it was not very peaceful. Such are the strange effects of shock upon the human physical and emotional make-up. And then of course, there is always the extra blow, the final card. But I am running ahead of my narrative.

I do not recall arriving at Victoria, or Mary meeting me there; but I do remember arriving at our house in Paddington, and feeling utterly confused; I had thought for some reason that we were going to Baker Street.

I remember reading the Reuther's despatch in the newspapers, much later it seemed to me--weeks, months later. 'But look,' I said to Mary, 'they say it only happened three days ago! How could it have taken so long for the news to reach England?' I remember that Mary was very kind.

The trial of the Moriarty gang was a long one, and the papers were full of it. All the evidence, of course, had been accumulated by Holmes, and his name was on everybody's lips. From time to time I found myself wondering who he was, this dead genius of whom the columnists wrote, this master detective whose career had ended so tragically at the age of thirty-seven. I was convinced that it was someone else of whom they spoke; someone whom I had never known, never loved. Apparently, I expressed my intention of attending every session of the trials, but Mary forbade it, and I only attended one or two. People recognised me, I think, as I sat in the public gallery. There were whispers, and several strangers greeted me respectfully. I regarded them warily. I was aware that for some reason I expected my name to be mentioned. I prepared myself to be summoned to the witness box; but I was not. I was surprised that the trial apparently had nothing to do with me. It seemed to have little to do with Professor Moriarty either, for his name was scarcely mentioned. This confirmed my opinion that the whole procedure was concerned with a different set of people entirely, and that the Mr Sherlock Holmes mentioned in connection with it was not my Holmes at all.

A large number of people were convicted, I remember. I did not recognise all the names; and one or two names I could have sworn having heard Holmes mention as ringleaders were not even brought forward.

Some time during the course of the trial, I think--though my memory has separated the two events entirely and I could have sworn that they happened in different years even--Mycroft Holmes arranged to meet me at Baker Street.

I had not been near the place since my return to London; and only once before (discounting the fact that he had been involved, in disguise, in transporting me from my house to Victoria Station on the morning of our departure from England) had I met Mycroft Holmes. I have placed that meeting on record in my account of the affair of 'The Greek Interpreter'. I remember how amazed I was at the time, that although the brothers lived in the same city, within walking distance of one another, they hardly ever saw each other. Recalling how close I had been to my own poor brother, I was perplexed. But when I saw them together in the bizarre environment of the Diogenes Club which was Mycroft's constant haunt, I was less puzzled by their lack of intimacy. Eccentrics, both of them, they had grown to eye one another with suspicion, almost with distaste. Their goals, their priorities in life, were almost antithetical; and yet they shared the same intellectual powers, the same abilities of minute observation and lightning deduction. It had amused me, then, to see them together, and to observe the physical similarities and differences between them: Mycroft, the civil servant, obese and complacent; Sherlock, the consulting detective, thin, eager and unsatisfied.

A telegram and two letters had passed between myself and Mycroft Holmes in the wake of our mutual bereavement; my telegram to him from Meiringen; his letter to me which awaited me upon my return to London, in which he confirmed that his brother had indeed kept him informed of the events leading up to his departure from England, and had left the deposition of all his property, such as it was, in his hands. He expressed brief condolences, and exhorted us to comfort ourselves with the knowledge that 'Sherlock had died in the service of his country, and for the good of our society.'

I responded with a brief acknowledgement and condolences. I loathed the man. The knowledge that he, and not I, would have access to Baker Street and to all the treasured belongings which still no doubt lay scattered around what was once our shared lodgings, was almost insupportable. I could only suppose that Holmes had meant to be kind, in leaving the responsibility to him rather than to me; or maybe he had thought it best, considering that I also could have been in danger; or maybe he had merely opted to make the more conventional deposition to a relative, instead of to one who was merely a friend.

I remember that I spent a considerable time reading Mycroft's telegram, as though trying to decipher some underlying message in it.

'What is it, John?' asked Mary anxiously from across the breakfast table, and I handed it to her silently. It sounded simple enough when she read it aloud:

'Would be obliged if you could meet me at 3.00 this afternoon at S's old lodgings in Baker Street. Have instructions which I wish to discuss with you. Mycroft Holmes.'

'Would you like me to go with you?' offered Mary, but I declined, and wired to Mycroft that I would be there as arranged. Mary saw me off with some anxiety; she knew that I would find Baker Street and Mrs Hudson hard to bear, and was angry that Mycroft had not had the sensitivity to suggest meeting somewhere else.

It was the same, exactly the same. The yellow facade of Baker Street was warm and bright in the sun. My foot fitted comfortably into the slight depression in the second step; the clang of the bell when I rang was so familiar that I hardly noticed it.

'Oh, Dr Watson!' Mrs Hudson was overcome with emotion. I realised that it was my part to be strong and comforting, and I played it perfectly well. The smell of baking wafted up the stairs from the basement, and the afternoon sunlight fell across the landing just as it always had.

'Mr Holmes is upstairs,' sniffed Mrs Hudson, and I nodded vaguely and was about to proceed upwards when she corrected herself hastily--'Mr Mycroft Holmes.'

The surprise on my face was delayed, and it must have appeared that the correction rather than the original statement caused the shock. I stumbled up the stairs on shaking legs.

It was the same, exactly the same. There were papers and books heaped in drifts in every corner. The chemical apparatus stood propped upon the coal scuttle. The mantelpiece was a mass of pens, cigarette ends, pipettes, syringes, small wooden boxes and screwed-up pieces of paper. The unpaid bills still hung impaled from the jack-knife at the centre. The Stradivarius lay in its case, propped up in my old armcahir; and Mycroft Holmes sat smoking in the other.

He rose as I entered, and perceiving I made no move towards him but stood dazedly letting my gaze wander round the room, approached me and held out his hand.

'So good of you to come, Dr Watson,' he said. 'Pray sit down.'

I took his hand mechanically. It reminded me, as I have remarked elsewhere, of the broad, fat flipper of a seal. I took in his massive, ungainly form, the square neck and fleshy jowls, the surprisingly firm small mouth. I met his eyes, and quickly looked away. They were a lighter, more watery grey than his, but the resemblance was unmistakeable. They had that introspective look which his had adopted when deep in concentration. And the line of the brows, the temples, was exactly the same.

Mycroft waved me to my chair, and removed the Stradivarius, which he lay carelessly upon the couch.

'That must be worth quite a lot,' he said, seeing my gaze fixed upon it. I said nothing. He reseated himself and offered me a cigarette. I accepted it and attempted to steady myself as I sucked in the smoke. I cleared my throat.

'You have not yet--been able to clear the room,' I said.

Mycroft grunted. 'Hmm, yes, this is why I sent for you. I thought it in order to let you know what my brother's instructions were concerning his property. You will probably find them ... unconventional, but then, he was an unconventional man. As you know, Doctor.' He looked at me with what appeared to be a hint of suspicion. I merely nodded bleakly.

'You have been unwell, Dr Watson?' he asked smoothly, changing the subject with no explanation.

'Why--no,' I said, 'not really; that is, not more than'--than was to be expected, I had been going to say, but suddenly realised that I had better not.

'You look strained and tired,' continued Mycroft dispassionately. 'You have been following the trial?'

'Yes.'

'And how do you think it is going?' He eyed me keenly.

'Well, I--it seems to be going as expected. Your brother's evidence--is sure to convict?' The questioning note in my voice betrayed that my grasp of the trial's progress was in reality most feeble. Mycroft seemed satisfied, for he nodded twice and grunted.

'I hear that you have taken up your practice again,' was his next comment.

'Yes, on and off.' This was true. Mary had encouraged it and I seemed to be quite efficient.

'Excellent.'

I looked at him in surprise. He held his hands together, in almost the same way; but his fingers were neither long nor delicate enough. I frowned as I stared at them.

'So you will, I take it, be concentrating at last upon your medical career.'

My surprise increased. My career was nothing to me. I did not understand what he meant.

'You have refused an offer from
The Strand
magazine,' he said patiently.

How did he know that? Dimly it came back to me. They had indeed approached me for my account of the tragedy. Mary had been quite angry with them.

'I... yes, they did ask me to write something,' I said. 'But really, it is too soon--I could not.'

'Well, you were quite right of course. Especially as the trial is still in progress. They will probably approach you again; I don't think there would be any harm in it. The public will want to know.'

Was he saying that he
wanted
me to write an account of his brother's death?

'I ... I really don't know that I can,' I said.

'Well, give it time. There would be no harm, as I said. But I think perhaps that should be all, don't you? No point in dragging up any other cases. I know you have taken copious notes...'

So that was it. How could he--how
could
he imagine that I planned to build up a literary career on my friend's memory? I felt my face contort with anger.

'I have no intention of publishing any further cases,' I said tightly. Mycroft grunted and stubbed out his cigarette in our ashtray. With an angry gesture, I did the same.

'What was it you wanted to discuss with me, Mr--Mycroft Holmes?' I said as calmly as I could. 'Or did you just invite me here to ensure that I keep my memoirs to myself?'

He was bland, smooth, unmoved. He rose massively from the chair. His small mouth was compressed, and he trod heavily across to the window, his hands clasped behind his back. I watched his huge form outlined against the familiar sunlight, and realised that I had read no grief in his eyes. His brother's death seemed hardly to have touched him, save to present him with the problem of disposing of his effects. And no wonder. He had hardly known him. He had never known him.