The Final Page of Baker Street (12 page)

For a moment behind the
pince-nez
, the man's dark eyes appeared to moisten.

“Yet surely,” Holmes said, “a young man who deserves better than to be falsely remembered as the killer of his wife.”

“See here, Holmes,” Lord Steynwood barked, his face reddening, his eyes bulging. “I'm not used to being contradicted.” At the vehemence of his tone, the cat leaped to the floor and disappeared behind a tufted ottoman on the other side of the room.

Fearful for His Lordship's condition, I gestured that he calm himself. “Is this a display of anger, My Lord?” the medical man inside of me questioned. “It can't be good for your health.”

“When I am truly angry, Dr. Watson,” he said coldly, “you won't have to ask.”

A silence descended. Lord Steynwood puffed on his cigar, its end glowing bright red; Holmes steepled his long fingers, never taking his eyes off the man. I looked back and forth from one to the other.

“Terrence shot her with her own gun,” Lord Steynwood said. “At least, it has gone missing. Had that been the end of it, a competent barrister might have convinced a jury that the gun had gone off in Leonard's attempt to take it from his suicidal wife. If he had come to me then, I might have been able to help him. But after all that other business - snatching away the gun, running to you, Dr. Watson - it was obvious that he had no chance for exculpation, and so he fled to Scotland.”

Holmes nodded. I knew he was impressed that Lord Steynwood had revealed his knowledge of the gunshot, a fact which the police had yet to discover. His Lordship's knowledge about the gun itself, however, was simply inaccurate; and Holmes seemed in no hurry to correct him.

“He had to escape,” Lord Steynwood continued. “I told him so when he finally did telephone me. I told him I didn't want to know where he was; he should jolly-well find someone else to aid him. I absolutely did not want to suffer a trial that might bring up all sorts of personal titbits about my daughter, my family, and my personal dealings. When I heard of his death, I can't say that I was unhappy.”

“Of course, you weren't unhappy,” Holmes said. “But only if you believe that Terrence Leonard killed your daughter.”

Lord Steynwood sighed. Holding the cigar upright in front of his face, he pondered its glowing tip and then slowly shook his head. “Are you not understanding what I'm saying, Mr. Holmes? You do not have a reputation for being thick-headed.” He uncrossed his legs and spoke directly to my friend. “I don't give a fig who murdered my daughter. My wife died when Sylvia was quite young, and I took the responsibility of raising her and her younger sister. I hired the best governesses one can find. But I am a private man who owns powerful newspapers that can topple governments. My business must remain private.”

“With all due respect,” I said, mustering my courage, “in a democracy - ”

“Bah!” he ejaculated. “I'm speaking of the real world, Dr. Watson, not the fictive one of novels and short stories in which the good citizens live happily ever after and the miscreants face justice. In the real world, there is no good and evil; there is just power. A few misguided politicians may think they have it, but the most intelligent people in government know that they do not. The truly powerful, Doctor, don't have to question. They simply watch the results of their domination.”

“Bravo,” said Holmes. “A speech worthy of Professor Moriarty himself.”

Lord Steynwood smiled. “You're beginning to understand after all.”

Holmes and I exchanged glances.

“Gentlemen, I expect your investigation to cease. I'm an old-fashioned man who does things in old-fashioned ways. What can I offer you to seal our agreement? Money - or simply an honourable drink?”

“May I remind you,” Holmes countered, “that it was
you
who asked
us
here. We came seeking nothing; yet we leave with new information. We have only just recently met the alcoholic Mr. Sterne, and today do we discover that - with all due respect - he was but one of many who'd had relationships with your daughter Sylvia. Now if we should happen to learn that he too has some history of violence...” Holmes' voice trailed off, as if to dramatize his final thought: “Your Lordship, the memory of Terrence Leonard deserves more than a simple dismissal.”

Lord Steynwood stood up. Despite his denials, his red face told us how much he was seething inside. “Mr. Holmes, you should return to the South Downs.” It was more of an order than a suggestion. “Otherwise, you might find your beloved cottage and all its bees in someone else's hands. Or you, Doctor,” he said, turning his eyes on me, “you could find yourself without a medical practice.”

“Along with bullets in our heads?” Holmes prodded. “Like your daughter?”

“I don't operate in that manner, Mr. Holmes. Nor do I bribe or physically threaten the people I do business with. I don't have to.”

He extended his hand to signal that our time with him had ended. The footman arrived with our coats, and then the butler showed Holmes and me out.

“First Moran, now Lord Steynwood,” I said to Holmes as soon as the door closed behind us. “I marvel at all this concern over a relative unknown like Terrence Leonard.”

“We seem to be entering deep waters, old fellow,” Holmes said. They were the only words he spoke during our entire trek back to London.

When we finally arrived at Queen Anne Street, Mrs. Meeks handed us Billy's report of his trip to Marlow; he had left it with her in our absence. In retrospect, I can only marvel at what an ominous day it had been. If the threats from Colonel Moran and Lord Steynwood weren't bad enough, we would now take turns perusing Billy's disturbing observations. Not only would we read his lurid account of Raphael Sterne and the writer's familiarity with guns, but also the scandalous record of Billy's most intimate thoughts regarding the man's wife - thoughts that, as far as I was concerned, he would have been better off keeping to himself.

IX

When I split an infinitive, God damn it, I split it so it will stay split.

- Raymond Chandler, Letter to the
Atlantic Monthly

I had never visited Billy's digs in the cheap boarding house just north of Russell Square. As he told it, for 9s 6d per week, he got a small room; a cold, greasy breakfast left on a metal tray outside his door; and - if he were in the vicinity and actually wanted to face such a bill of fare - ale, bread, and cheese for lunch. On warm days like the present, the room seemed intolerably hot; during the winter, I imagine one never removed one's coat. Through the half-open doors of a large wardrobe, I did catch a glimpse of Billy's highly prized and smartly tailored suit. But such care seemed the exception to the rule. The white paint was cracking on most of the moulding; and the wallpaper, which might once have been burgundy in colour and floral in pattern, curled down in so many places that someone had taken to tacking it back into position. On a makeshift bookcase, an empty vodka bottle stood next to a stack of dog-eared books; and a half-full bottle stood on the floor next to the bed. In such a place, a writer like Billy could fancy himself quite the Bohemian. Here he was free to drink, free to smoke, free - dare I say - to avoid the judgements of his mother. Despite all his independence, however, I could easily understand why Billy preferred visiting Holmes and me in what he must have regarded as my palatial estate rather than inviting us to see him confined in his run-down artist's garret.

And yet the night after reading his so-called report, I braved all the obstacles he had warned me about in trying to keep me away.

“Beware those white spectres of Russell Square,” he wrote in response to my telegram announcing my intention to visit.

By “white spectres,” I assume he meant the pale but harmless souls begging for food who invade so many of our parks until the police run them off. He said I might be driven mad by the violinist in his block who played Bach much too loud or by the two “wooden butterflies,” who considered themselves actors and would occupy the stairwell to share their sad fates with anyone who had the misfortune to be in their vicinity. A strange cast of ne'er-do-wells, perhaps, but in light of the miscreants and rogues I had encountered in my adventures with Sherlock Holmes, certainly not menacing enough to thwart my intentions. Come what may, Billy was going to hear from me that he had to conform to the proprietary rules of society - especially in print. No list of vagabonds was going to put me off.

“Fortunately,” I said to him as soon as I entered his room, “only Holmes and I have read these intimate details of your profligate night in Marlow.” I tossed his report onto a small wooden table. The pages landed next to a red-and-black chessboard whose pieces appeared
in medias res
.

“Be careful,” Billy cautioned, checking that all the chessmen remained in their proper positions. “I'm in the midst of a game against myself.”

“A game against yourself,” I echoed. “How well that sums you up: on the one hand, an Alleynian from Dulwich College, a product of Mr. Gilkes' upstanding moral code; on the other, one of those salacious writers who must tell everything - your licentious desires, your libidinous acts. Or so you sound in that report of yours.”

“You mean the report that expresses my
feelings
?”

“Your
feelings
,” I snorted. “In your poetry, you seem able enough to present feelings of a more uplifting nature. What happened to all those lofty ideals? Your romantic poems display a sense of discipline, of self-control. Personally, I have yet to be convinced that sexual activity need ever be promoted in print.” It was warm enough for me to mop my brow, and I sat down on the only seat available, a wooden desk-chair.

“But, Dr. Watson,” Billy said with what I can only describe as a smirk, “you and Mr. Holmes wanted a thorough account of what went on - or so you said. Aren't my personal thoughts and observations part of that charge?”

It is true that, when I'd told Holmes I was going to share with the author himself my outrage over such indiscretions, Holmes had simply filled his briar and smiled. “You're too easily offended, old fellow,” he'd said. “Knowing the nature of the lens through which we are viewing enables us to make the necessary adjustments for evaluating the results. We need to be aware of those occasions when Billy was roused by passion, when his judgement might have been marred. Watson, you of all people know the effects of overpowering emotion. If we are aware of Billy's instability, we can better judge the validity of his conclusions.”

I couldn't disagree, but I still had to admit my discomfort at reading of Billy's presence in the
boudoir
of a married - let alone, nude - woman. “After all,” I said to Billy, “who knows where, despite our best efforts to guard it, such a manuscript might end up?”

“Who knows where, indeed?” Billy said, picking up a straight-stemmed briar that looked much like one of Holmes' favourite pipes. “Perhaps in the kind of magazine the French call
avant-garde
. I could be touted as the British Flaubert or even de Sade - daring writers who weren't afraid to break moulds.”

“
Avant-garde
,” “Flaubert,” “de Sade” -
here were the results of Billy's stay in Paris
, I thought as he held a flame over the tobacco. And yet he did have a point. If I was honest in recognizing my own prejudices, I should be able to compliment him on what I thought the young writer had done well. He had kept us apprised not only of Raphael Sterne's condition but also of the writer's recklessness with firearms. In addition, Billy had noted a possible connection between Sterne and Sylvia's younger sister Cora, a connection that, if true, would help corroborate the accusations made by Lord Steynwood against the novelist.

“I did like your detail,” I offered almost by way of apology, “especially the depiction of the drawer in Sterne's mahogany desk. A much more accurate description than that early account of the Mazarin Stone you concocted. And as much as I hate to encourage you, that bit about the moonlight was most engaging. For that matter, I have always liked your ear for dialogue, and some of your metaphors are quite clever. That quip about separating a priest from his collar? Most apt.”

Billy recognized my intent to support him. “Thank you, Dr. Watson. Your compliments mean a lot to me. Mr. Hope and Mr. Hose remain my favourite school masters, but you will always be my literary mentor.”

I blushed in response; it is always pleasing to be appreciated. Nonetheless, after regaining my composure, I still felt compelled to make the distinction between his writings and his actions. “However well you reported the goings-on in Marlow,” I said, “I really must caution you once again to keep away from the Sternes, especially Mrs. Sterne. I can't state it any more strongly.”

Puffing away on his briar when I left, Billy gave no indication that my words of caution would be heeded.

* * *

And so matters stood for the next few months. Reinstituting the plans he'd made before Mrs. Sterne's dramatic arrival at my doorstep in July, Sherlock Holmes journeyed back to Sussex and his bees. “I'm afraid, Watson,” he said before leaving, “that we haven't heard the last of those people in Marlow. But we must let matters percolate on their own.”

Billy continued to fashion his literary career. As he had threatened, he shifted his emphasis during that summer of 1911 from romantic poetry to a scoffing prose. Thanks to the critical perspective he'd sharpened in Marlow, the acerbic tone of his new compositions did not surprise me. His disgust with pretentious writers in general and with Raphael Sterne in particular could be inferred from the titles of his articles that appeared in
The Academy
later that year: “The Genteel Artist” in late August, “The Remarkable Hero” a few weeks later, and “The Literary Fop” in the fall. “Commonplace readers,” as Billy liked to term his audience, might think of his criticisms in the abstract; I, of course, recognized Sterne as his target.

So pleased was I with his success at publication that I hoped to compliment Billy personally. One cool night in early November I visited him in Bloomsbury for a second time. As in our previous meeting, he sat on his bed and offered me the desk chair. Billy appreciated my praise but, like many a young writer before him, observed that his was a limited success. Writing had earned him but a pittance, his continued confinement in so seedy a room obvious proof of his questionable achievement.

“Look at this place,” he cried, waving his arms at his shabby surroundings. “Maybe I should move back with my mother.”

“Don't be ridiculous,” I said rather quickly. “You're gaining a reputation, man.”

“I suppose you're right,” he said with reluctance. “I reckon I must keep at it.”

I knew I should say no more, but once again I couldn't help myself. He had to keep his attention focused on his work and not be distracted by temptation. He had to move on, to write about other topics beyond the Sternes. I knew I sounded like some sort of Puritan, but I couldn't bring myself to ignore his prior ill-judged involvements and wanton obsessions.

“It's so obvious, Billy,” I said. “You've made great progress since distancing yourself from the Sternes. You should feel proud, and distance yourself even further.”

Billy rolled his eyes. “You sound like Mr. Gilkes,” he said. “What's more, your timing is wrong.”

With a wry grin, he reached for a folded piece of yellow paper lying among the scribbled pages atop his cluttered desk. “Your advice, Doctor, though always well-intended, will be hard to follow. I received this telegram a couple of days ago - and after so many months without even a word.”

He handed me the folded sheet. I opened it and read aloud:
“Please come to Marlow this Saturday afternoon. The staff and Mrs. Sterne will be absent. I owe you an apology.”
It had been sent by Raphael Sterne.

“You see, Doctor,” Billy said, lighting a cigarette, “he's been
incommunicado
for so long that I really can't turn the man down. His health is too fragile.”

“Perhaps,” I offered only half in jest, “he's figured out the identity of your ‘literary fop.'”

Billy smiled and exhaled a small cloud of smoke. “Maybe he wants to pay me a compliment or two.”

Billy's explanation seemed more farfetched than mine, and it pained me to think of his becoming involved with the Sternes again. But then I recalled Holmes' parting words about giving matters time to develop. I still didn't understand what Holmes meant, but I could see that he might actually appreciate hearing what was transpiring in Marlow. Against my better judgement, I said, “I'm sure Holmes and I would both appreciate a more recent account of the Sterne household.” But I had to add, “Although I can't for the life of me think why.”

Billy rose from the bed to open the window. Despite the chill outside, the smoke from his cigarette was beginning to envelop us.

“Don't worry, Doctor,” Billy said, exhaling into the night air. “You read the words. Mrs. Sterne won't even be there. You can rest easy; there should be no temptations. At least not of the human kind.”

“One hopes not,” I replied and stood up in preparation to leave. We shook hands. Considering my hostile reaction to so much of the first narrative he'd written, my final words to Billy before exiting could only be viewed as the greatest of ironies.“Don't forget to write a full report,” I instructed. “I'll be sure to share it with Holmes.”

* * *

Billy's second journal instalment follows:

Saturday morning

11 November 1911

Gentlemen:

Allow me some rambling thoughts as I journey back to Marlow:

My major hope is to - very quickly and without any serious complications - conduct my meeting with Sterne. It seems strange that on a Saturday the servants will be free and that Elaine will likewise be gone. Perhaps Sterne himself arranged it that way, so we can engage in private talks. From a purely selfish standpoint, I hold out hope that, since the last time I saw the man, his health has improved and his drinking is at last under some kind of control. However much I may detest Sterne's writing, I am continually trying to convince myself that today's visit might in some way be helpful in furthering my own career. I need more publications. If I intend to devote myself solely to writing, having my work printed only by
The Academy
in London or
The Alleynian
at Dulwich is not going to produce the kind of money I need to live on. Whether or not I like his literary style, Raphael Sterne has the ability to promote my reputation. At the very least, he should be able to offer me some suggestions or opportunities.

* * *

I have changed trains at Maidenhead. The closer I get to Marlow, the more optimistic I feel. I have convinced myself that Sterne's purpose in arranging this meeting is to repay me in some fashion. I helped settle him down. I secured his gun. He must finally have concluded that I am deserving of a reward. I'm sure that the apology he said he owes me in his invitation will take some sort of literary compensation.

* * *

I am now on the Marlow Donkey travelling into town, and I can honestly say that I'm looking forward to the visit. The grand blast of this little train's whistle underscores my optimism.

I plan to write the rest of my observations during my return trip to London...

* * *

How mistaken can one be?

Despite the lateness in the year and coolness of the air, Sterne was sporting white duck trousers and a white shirt. He looked almost summery with his shock of black hair tumbling down his forehead.