The Confidential Casebook of Sherlock Holmes (44 page)

“What did you see today?”

“I saw a dead woman. I saw grief. Who are you?”

“Oh, me.” He laughed, gestured at his outfit. “I work here and there, at this and that. I'm a clean-up man, really. Circuses are one of the most profitable places to observe animals, including people. I wonder oft-times why events happen, what caused them, what we can learn.”

I nodded. “I'm a student. I suppose I do the same. I'm not much use, though,” I said. “Certainly not today.”

“Well, that's a conclusion, isn't it? But your facts aren't all in yet.”

“How do you mean?”

“You say you're not much use today, but the day isn't over.”

“Listen, sir, if you'd gone through the day I have so far, you wouldn't want to be the man telling me there's more to come.”

He laughed, which seemed to sharpen his chin and cheekbones. “Yes, I'm sure you're right to feel that. Still, you might be of use today. And before the facts are in, why, a conclusion is the place where you got tired of thinking.”

“All right, all right, then! I dare you to make something useful of me now. And I'm not cleaning any tents for you.”

The man laughed harder. And yet something in this conversation appealed to me, as if through reason the man was offering a
simple yet genuine sort of redemption. It was impulses such as these which brought me to medicine in the first place, and events such as today's which made me feel my life—medicine included—was worth nothing.

I looked him in the eye and took his challenge. “You want to know did I see anything?”

“Yes.”

“And who will you tell?”

“You.”

“What?”

“You will decide what to do with the information. You will tell it all in writing to one person, the person you consider the most trustworthy. Include whatever medical data you have and whatever you saw, except, of course, me. In exchange for this, I will tell absolutely no one, on my word as a gentleman.”

“As a gentleman?”

He patted his bonnet's vest and laughed aloud. “Well, on my word as a gentleman, if I am one, and if not, then on my word as a man. What do you say?”

I looked at him.

“You disbelieve me?” he asked.

“No.”

I told him I'd seen a certain man (I did not say whom) leave an apothecary's shop. I showed him where Vittoria and Randall met. This interested him greatly. He wanted to know, to the foot, where they'd stood and I tried to clarify, but it wasn't easy looking through a horse. The direction of the conversation seemed to make him giddy. “Oh, you're being of use, yes-sirree!” he said. When he started to lecture, rambling about everything and nothing, I thought seriously that perhaps this bony, gibbering man was insane. I wasn't any more comfortable between tents with him, but he was on the far side of me, pulling up the tent-bottoms with his feet and bending low every foot or so to see the mud beneath. I had no alternative but to watch his progress, for I was far too fatigued to do
anything. “Not easy, this,” he commented, “but doubtless faster and easier to find such an implement here than if we'd needed to look through that haystack.” He chuckled. “As the Tibetans say, ‘No medicine better than patience.' They also say, ‘Good men like to hear truth.' I intend to visit Tibet one day.”

He kept looking, scrutinizing one small patch of dirt, then another. It seemed to me he was doing so as slowly as it could be done. Perhaps so he could complete his rather astonishing lecture. He had an awful lot to say, and I doubted every word. In later years, though, I happened to discover that more than several were true. As for the others I still don't know; I simply can't remember all of it.

“Babies have no kneecaps,” he was saying. “They patiently wait two to four years to develop these. Our eyes, however, remain the same size from birth, but the ears and nose keep growing. Which might explain my face! Ah, look here; string from a small parcel. The pupil of an octopus's eye is rectangular, the same being true of a goat's. Other than human beings, black lemurs are the only primates which may have blue eyes. Blue eyes are more light-sensitive. An ostrich's eye is bigger than its brain. One might wonder if that's true of some people, based on their actions. The purple finch is always a crimson red. A Tasmanian devil's ears will turn pinkish-red when he's angered; a cat has thirty-two muscles in each of his ears, but these ears, however animated, don't much change colour. They do, however, redden in some people, and the pupil frequently dilates due to—Ah! What's this?!”

My companion saw something, but could not reach it without covering it again with tent canvas. He held the edge of the tent aloft on his foot and, gesturing to his find with his whole posture, he cried excitedly, “Quick, Watson, the needle!”

I reached down carefully and soon enough came up with a small glass hypodermic syringe, flecked with soil but perfect and unbroken. I laid the weapon onto his waiting palm. As daylight sparkled on the glass, I could discern a pale residue within. Immediately the man removed the plunger, sniffed at the aperture and
smiled as if at the scent of a flower. He slipped the medical tool into a jacket pocket.

“Give me that!” I said. “Well, what does it smell of?”

“Oh, you don't want this,” he said. “It'll prove worse than worthless, especially to the police. You saw which apothecary the villain went to, yes? That's far more valuable. Go there now and ask the man who's working if he recalls your man making this purchase.”

At first, I thought the man was jesting, but he made no move to give me the tiny weapon. Instead, he led me out from the little tunnel, saying, “Now go to the apothecary's, and then write someone you trust about this tragedy.”

It was the maddening end to an infuriating day: But I did what he'd said to do. After ascertaining that the young clerk at the apothecary did indeed remember Randall, I trudged home, images of violence and wildlife flying through my mind. Nothing made any sense. I wonder if it weren't for the water at a public fountain whether I'd have made it home that day at all.

As I neared my door, I discovered that circus pickpockets (sensitive perhaps to my state of mindlessness) had helped themselves to my last tuppence. I hadn't lost much, for I hadn't much to lose, but felt its loss all the more.

In my room, I poured water from the pitcher and ate some of yesterday's bread. Dinner finished, but too agitated to sleep, study or even enjoy the entertainment of a book, I gathered a few sheets of foolscap, dipped my pen in the well my father gave me and began my common practice of writing home.

Has wretchedness a sort of contagion? Just as I'd begun my letter in earnest (neglecting naturally enough to mention nearly all events of the day) my nib point cracked, shearing off the writing end entirely. Ink flew, sending drips which quickly expanded, forming ragged blotches on this affordable but too-absorbent paper. I had no other nibs. Careful not to stain my cuffs, I removed them, rolled my sleeves above my elbows and experimented with the stub in the
margins. Not only was it rough, the tines were woefully uneven. So the pen, if one can call it that, skipped, dropped ink and did everything save write. I decided for the nonce I preferred to buy food, lodging and postage rather than nibs.

Discarding the soggy ruins of my letter home, I rummaged around in my drawer, found a quill which had seen better days, and with a pen knife trimmed it into fair working order. I began again, and found myself not writing home at all.

“My dearest Madeline,”
I began—

I hope this letter finds you well and rested in Body and in Spirit. Kindly convey my respectful regards to your Jane, without whose caring presence I could not in conscience have left you today, so concerned was I, and am I still, for your Well-Being, which means the World to me. I will not refer more to matters best forgotten save to say that I am in possession of facts relating to Randall's whereabouts in the later hours of the day. He travelled next to a certain small Druggist (where he is well-remembered in his finery), and immediately thereafter he met with Vittoria privately at the circus, thereafter which I am sorry to say the Performer took a spill which cost her her Life. That Vittoria has lost her life is quite Public a matter, and shall likely be a topic of wide discussion throughout our City tomorrow. As for Randall's movements, I am sharing this Intelligence with you alone
.

Please take care to whom you speak about these matters, for your safety, my dear cousin, and that of your beloved Jane and even myself. However, irregardless of your Kindnesses to Him, I wonder now if your chances are not improved that the young Earl will keep to his new agreements concerning the usurious terms of the loan to your Uncle near the time of your father's Passing
.

I will not say that I failed you to-day, for I kept to my word as you exacted it. Yet my conscience does not rest easy, so I ask you in this or any other matter to take Pity upon a man's pride and to realize you will do me a grave Disservice if you might ever require my Help or Assistance, my Efforts, Valuables or Influence, yet neglect to call upon me to render unto you that Service which painfully I feel owing
.

With a love that grows daily stronger
,

Your humble servant
,

John H. Watson

I
‘d just written these lines when there came a gentle tap on my shoulder.

“Come,” said Holmes, softly. “You'll need to refill that pen in a jot regardless. Let us go and pay our respects.”

The word jolted me from my reverie. “Respects?”

“For the living, my man. We're going for the sake of the living! We'll talk as we walk.”

So saying, he shut my notebook, took the pen from my hand, closed it and installed it in my pocket as a gift. Before I could respond to this astonishing gesture, he put a coat and then his arm about me, wrenched me to my feet, and marched me out the door.

We had travelled a ways down Baker Street when I stopped in my tracks.

“When did the sun set?” I asked in wonderment.

“When it usually does,” he replied drily. “At sundown, I believe. Come on.”

“Yes, but—” I reached for my watch, forgetting that Mary had recently left it with the watchmaker for cleaning and adjustment. How long had I been in a trance, writing and before that fretting? “Really Holmes, I need to know.”

“You need to know when the sun sets? An age-old question, my dear Watson. Walk and I will reveal all.” At that moment we turned onto Oxford Street, and I relaxed as Latimer's Bootery came into view, knowing I could soon read the clock which stood like a
Hydrocephalic street lamp before the Capital & Counties Bank.

Holmes continued talking. “Judaism is quite keen on the time of sunset—all their celebrations, indeed each new day begins at sundown. According to custom, it is officially sundown when one cannot tell the difference between a black thread and a red one. I rather admire the precision of that, don't you?”

I would have found this interesting, I imagine, for I do now when recalling it, but all I could do then was stare at the bank's impressive, free-standing clock. It said four. Could this be right? The clock must be broken, surely! But the gunmetal-blue second-hand swept freely round the pearly enamelled face. I checked the sky: black as ink. The street stood empty of citizens but for ourselves: the sole survivors of a man-eating eclipse.

“I say, Holmes, is it four
A.M
.?”

He nodded, and handed me as if from thin air a bundle made of a large, clean white handkerchief. The man was like a magician. I untied the cloth and found a slice of bread, a hunk of Cheshire cheese and three madeleines. The repast looked golden in the lamplight. As an after-thought, my stomach distinctly rumbled. It came to me that Holmes must become lost in thought as I had tonight, but far more often. Of course, he had no wife to worry over him. Before I was able to say, “But what of Mary?” Holmes answered my concern.

“You needn't run home just yet. I've sent word to Kensington some hours ago.” I eyed him questioningly. “If you must know, I gave a note to Mrs. Hudson when she brought the tray. One of the Irregulars stood outside to collect it.”

“You jest!”

“No, I sent Wiggins, who I'll wager sent Simpson in his place, who sent the new boy.”

I hesitated to ask why he believed Mary received his note, and why I should suppose she wasn't worried again by now, and where on God's earth he expected we'd be welcome at his hour. Half-jokingly I said, “But that was an aeon ago . . . It is still May?”

“Yes, but now it's
next
May,” he joked. From his jacket he pulled a cherrywood pipe and a slip of ivory paper. This last he handed to me. I recognized at once the narrow elegant penmanship of my dear wife's hand.

“Dear Mr. Holmes,” I read. “Good of you to get word to me. Now that John is in your most excellent care, I feel at last assured and unburdened. Further, I shall expect him just as you say: in the morning, in need of rest but happily denying it. Tell him his watch is due back on the morrow. Cordially, Mary M. Watson.”

“Now, Watson, this memorial vigil ends at sunrise,” the consulting detective said. “There's no Hebrew ruling on sunrise, but Shakespeare notes specific birds which usher in the morning. So as we walk—for a lark, if you will—please tell me a few things.”

I walked and ate, letting him formulate his questions. The Cheshire cheese was crumbly and sweet. The air just off the Thames felt moist and gusty, like many a damp Spring night, and I knew, were I alone making this journey to a dead man's house, it would seem more melancholy, indeed.

“I'm not sure how much you wrote in that notebook just now,” Holmes said, “and, of course, I can't know
what
you wrote, but surely you are in more intimate rapport with the bases of your sentiments concerning that summer. In the fewest words, for what do you feel Randall is responsible?”