The Confidential Casebook of Sherlock Holmes (8 page)

My dear Mr. Holmes
,

I hope you will not think too badly of me, but I no longer require your services. While I shall always wonder about the other woman, I now realize that it is quite the best and wisest course not to risk disrupting things as they are. Ignorance is bliss, as they say
.

Since his return from South Africa, Arthur has been so kind and attentive to me, while I, confined to my room, have been no use to anyone. This past weekend I was too ill even to receive house guests
.

Forgive me my foolishness! With apologies for any unnecessary trouble I may have caused you and Dr. Watson, I am

Sincerely yours,
Louise Hawkins Doyle

“I say, Holmes,” I said, unable on this occasion to suppress a smile. “Like Lady Chiltern in
An Ideal Husband
, Mrs. Doyle seems now content to await the perfect partner in the next world.”

“Indeed, Watson,” my friend replied, with only a hint of testiness, “though let us not forget the tragic example of the author of
An Ideal Husband
, who unlike the worthy Mr. Doyle permitted passion to overrule his better judgement.”

The following year I resumed publication of these memoirs of mine with
The Hound of the Baskervilles
, while P. G. Wodehouse made his first professional magazine sale. In 1902, for his efforts in presenting the British position in the Boer War, Arthur Conan Doyle received his knighthood, though he accepted only reluctantly, at the insistence of his mother. Sherlock Holmes refused a knighthood the same year. Louise Hawkins Doyle died of tuberculosis in 1907. The year after, Sir Arthur married Jean Leckie, who bore him three children. According to his son Adrian, a few months before his death, Conan Doyle left his sickbed unseen to go out into the garden. A few minutes later the butler found him, collapsed in a passage with a heart attack. In his hand he clutched a snowdrop. It had been his custom to observe the anniversary of his meeting Jean Leckie, on the fifteenth of March, 1897, by picking the first snowdrop of the season.

BY
P
AT
M
ULLEN

May 1, 1893

Lestrade was attacked by an unknown assailant near the theatre last night. The shot went off right beside my ear; I am still half deaf. L. had the temerity to suggest that the passing of time has rendered Holmes less than his reputation. I might have killed him myself.

May 5, 1893

It is two years and one day since Holmes's death.

May 6, 1893

Sir Henry Baskerville is to be married. I hope this means he has completely recuperated from his ghastly experience. It does make it a little easier when I see the good that Holmes did in his
lifetime, especially the good that lives on in such things as B.'s recovery and happiness.

May 12, 1893

Dear Dr. Watson
—

It was with great rejoicing that I received your note. Thank you for your good wishes on behalf of my future wife as well as myself. I met her while I was ill, and we corresponded throughout this past year. Now, after a visit (very proper and quite terrifying) to meet her parents, she has accepted the offer of my hand in marriage. The deed will be done on the 29th of October, and you would make me very happy if you and Mrs. Watson would attend as my guests
.

I will be travelling down to London in a few days, and I would enjoy seeing you if you have a free evening
.

Yours affectionately,
Henry Baskerville

May 17, 1893

Saw B., who's besotted over his fiancée. Pleasant evening.

May 21, 1893

Dreadful evening. B. should be ashamed of himself.

May 22, 1893

The events of the past few days have been so disturbing that I must set them down. Were Holmes still living, he would listen patiently with that intensity of thought that was unique to him, ask me unexpected questions and then explain clearly and logically what has happened. But he is dead, and it falls upon me to struggle to make sense of all that has transpired.

On Thursday night I met Sir Henry Baskerville at The Continental Club, his residence when he is in London. We had not seen each other since before Holmes's death, and I was glad to see him looking well. He has gained some weight since I last saw him, and
lost that ruddy, weather-beaten appearance. He is a short man and he looked directly up into my eyes as he heartily shook my hand and took pains to let me know how grateful he is to Holmes for having saved his life.

He showed me around the club, which was quite grand and once the home of a member of the Royal Household. I had been there years ago with Holmes, and was pleased to see that not much had changed. The service is the best that I've ever experienced, one barely has time to recognize a desire than to find it instantly fulfilled. The staff is so discreet that they are almost invisible.

After a search, we found the suite that I remembered, The India Room. Enjoying myself fully, I admired the dark woodwork and comfortable atmosphere of the place. As I paused to admire the stuffed head of an immense water buffalo mounted on the wall, a chair upholstered in red Moroccan leather was placed behind my knees. Moments later a cigar materialized from out of nowhere and was lit without my having to so much as turn my head. Throughout the evening brandy never seemed to disappear from my glass.

All this magic was performed by an army of servants who lurk silently in corners, quite invisible until they sense the faintest hint that they are needed. A few seem to have been with the place all their lives, as they are quite ancient. One fine old fellow called Warrington was especially attentive to us.

Sir Henry has completely recovered from the trauma of his cousin Roger's—whom I still think of as “Stapleton”—attempts on his life, and I quite enjoyed his quick wit and amusing company. He is in love. The lady in question, Abigail Ferncliffe, is a young woman from an old and wealthy family. The “Fecund Ferncliffes” I have heard them called, for Abigail is the youngest of twelve brothers and sisters and has something like thirty-five nephews and nieces. Apparently even such an abundant population hasn't been able to deplete the family fortune. The joke going around is that with this union, the House of Baskerville (which has died out but for Sir Henry) will soon have an abundance of heirs.

Much of the evening was spent with him extolling his fiancée's
charms, but toward the end he asked me about my limp. I told him about the coach that came out of nowhere and almost ran me over. He expressed his sympathy and asked when it had occurred.

“April 28th,” I remembered. “A ghastly night.”

“Ah. Rain, with flashes of lightning,” he said promptly. “An hour before sunset, London was as dark as midnight.”

“Amazing!” I exclaimed. “How did you remember?”

“That was the day my engagement was formally announced. Notice in
The Times
, party at her father's home. I remember every detail of the day.”

Then the conversation turned to how perilous life could be in London these days, and I told him about the attack on Lestrade at the theatre. “It was around the anniversary of Holmes's death. I suppose Lestrade was determined to cheer me up, for he bought a pair of tickets to hear Miss Lotte Collins sing. It certainly seemed to cheer old Lestrade—he quite enjoyed the show! I think his inviting me was just an excuse to go himself. After the performance we were walking down a dark street not far from the theatre (with Lestrade whistling
Ta ra ra boom de yea
, if I recall rightly), when some fellow stepped out of the shadows and fired a pistol at Lestrade's head. Missed him, of course.”

“Good Lord! What fellow?”

“No idea, couldn't see his face.”

“Perhaps he was upset by Lestrade's voice,” Sir Henry joked.

I laughed, because on the rare occasion that I have heard Lestrade sing, I've considered shooting him myself. Making light of the attack, I said how lucky I was to have been run down by that coach so that I was still armed with my cane. “I struck the fellow's hand with it and took out after Lestrade, who chased him down an alley. We never caught him, though.”

“I'm glad no one was hurt,” Sir Henry said after we stopped chuckling and the invisible Warrington had refilled our glasses and relit my cigar. “And if Lotte Collins is that good, perhaps I'll take Abigail to see her.”

“Oh, I think not,” I said, sobering. “Too risque for young ladies, if you know what I mean.” To change the subject I said, “Here, this is what I drove the fellow off with,” and showed him my cane. “Holmes gave me this. Heavy enough for a cudgel. And see, inside it has a little compass. And twist this and out comes . . .” and I showed him the Italian stiletto. “And here in the center, turn this silver cylinder and look! A little flask for brandy! It was one of Holmes's favorite things,” I added, letting Sir Henry examine it. “He always loved gadgets.”

“What a noble mind he had,” Sir Henry said sadly. “What a fine, if peculiar, character.”

I found myself in danger of being overwhelmed by emotion. “I could desire nothing more in the world than to sit in this odd, overstuffed chair where Holmes once sat,” I told Sir Henry with perfect sincerity, “and talk with you about your future with Abigail and my past with Sherlock.”

“Well supplied with cigars and brandy,” my host added, lifting his glass to touch mine.

“To past and future,” I said and I quite meant it, feeling happy for Sir Henry and nostalgic for myself all at the same time.

As I left, old Warrington caught my eye for a moment, then glanced quickly downward. I blamed myself for talking so openly before a servant, even an invisible one, but he was most discreet as he showed me out of the club. As the heavy front door swung silently open, I gasped with surprise. The shadowy figure of a woman quickly turned away and fled down the stairs. Old Warrington was so startled by her sudden appearance that for a moment I thought he would fall down. I even put out a hand to steady him, but he jerked himself upright and very properly wished me a good evening.

“Steady, Watson,”
a strangely familiar voice whispered in my head.
“What's this?”

Several days later, Sir Henry generously invited my wife and me to dine with him in the Ferncliffe city residence to meet his fiancée and prospective father-in-law. Abigail Ferncliffe is indeed a
beautiful young woman, and whether or not her family line is as fertile as it is reputed to be, her charms are every bit as alluring as Sir Henry indicated. Her father, the old Baronet, was cordial and hearty, a country man who enjoys horses and good port. It would have been an entertaining evening, for life in the country has not dulled the Ferncliffe wits, but Sir Henry spoiled everything. He seemed happy to welcome my wife and myself, but shortly after our arrival he stepped out of the room for a moment, and when he returned he seemed a different man.

I can hear Holmes now.
“What do you mean a different man, Watson? Surely you mean he was the same man, but something was different about him. What was it? Can you think?”
I think that when Baskerville returned to the room he seemed disturbed. He was not attentive to Abigail, who was plainly hurt when she whispered something in his ear and he answered her curtly, staring into space.

“How long was he gone from the room?”
Yes, of course, that's it, what could have happened when he left the room that changed him so? But I don't know. He wasn't gone long enough to have done anything, barely long enough to have combed his hair. Or received a short message. At any rate, the evening ended on a sour note when Sir Henry abruptly proclaimed that he had to be up early in the morning and would we all excuse him.

And then in the middle of the night, that banging on my front door. It was Sir Henry, distraught, begging me to ask no questions, just bring my medical bag and follow him. He led me to a poor but respectable section of the city, up three flights of clean but rickety stairs to a tiny room almost bare except for a lady's dresser and armoire, where a woman lay injured on the bed. “Sir Henry, what's happened?” I demanded, but he was silent as I examined her.

I could not tell if her face was bruised, for she turned away from me, concealing her profile with her hand. Nevertheless, I could see that she possessed great beauty by the pleasing curve of her neck and the lustre and softness of her hair, which I was forced to touch as I examined a superficial gash on the back of her head. Her skin was of a golden hue with an underlying blush. As I bent over
her, almost awed by her beauty, she slipped off a silken robe and lay face down on the bed, sweeping aside her raven tresses so that I could see her well-formed back and shoulders. I gasped. I did not need Holmes to explain what the marks on her body told me.

As a doctor I am not unfamiliar with the scars that some forms of depravity leave upon their devotees, yet never have I seen such marks on a woman's body as I saw that night. The man who had whipped her took savage pleasure in her pain. A web of welts crisscrossed her shoulders and back with perfect symmetry. Her slender thighs were red and bruised. I saw instantly that this was not the first cruel beating she had endured, for her back and sides were covered with a light latticework of scars, faint and white with age. As I leaned closer to see the extent of her injuries by the pulsing illumination of the smoking lamp, I saw with a shudder of revulsion that her tormentor had inflicted deep scars on her buttocks in the shape of the letter
B
. Cattle in America are branded in just this way to signify ownership, and I had no doubt that the perpetrator of these horrors had done this unspeakable act to lay claim to his slave.