The Final Page of Baker Street (17 page)

“Yes and no,” Holmes replied. “Moran might have been able to get Leonard employment and even change his appearance, but he couldn't transform Terrence Leonard's taste in liquor or the surroundings he wanted to taste it in. So encountering Moran and Leonard in this particular establishment was not so fortuitous after all. On the other hand, our being here at the precise moment they were is what I believe they call in your homeland ‘a lucky break'.”

Billy blushed at Holmes' reference to America.

“What's more,” I said, “Moran told us that you have nothing more to fear from him.”

Billy raised his glass. “Just as you promised, Mr. Holmes,” he said and drank some gin.

Holmes nodded in appreciation. But he knew as well as I that it was now time for the most difficult task, the reason we had summoned Billy to the Crown and Eagle in the first place.

“I'm afraid we have some other news for you, lad,” I said, placing my hand on top of his. “Sad news,” I added, hoping to soften the blow.

Holmes presented to the young man the copy of Mrs. Sterne's suicide note.

Billy read it calmly enough. Or so it appeared. When he was done, he ran his hand across the table to be sure the wood was dry, laid the paper on it, and stared into his gimlet for a moment. Then he took a long pull, put the glass down, and gazed at the note.

Suddenly, as if struck by divine revelation, he announced, “I'm going to publish this letter! In an article for
The Academy
. I'm going to explain it all. I'm going to depict the rot and corruption that led all these people to do what they did, and I'm going to reveal Lord Steynwood as the duplicitous, conniving cockroach that he is.”

Ordinarily, I might have tried to stop Billy. But remembering Youghal's incriminating portrait of His Lordship, as well as the policeman's desire for exposing the story, I kept my thoughts in reserve. I do recall thinking that Dulwich's Headmaster, Mr. Gilkes, would be proud of Billy's hunger for justice.

Holmes said this: “Be careful, Billy. Lucius Ward did not become Lord Steynwood by countenancing dissenters. Many a career has been dashed on the rocks of righteousness - despite the virtue of the cause.”

Billy stared grimly at my friend. “While I fancy myself an Englishman, Mr. Holmes,” the young man said, “I cannot forget, as you just reminded me, that I was born in America. And the bells of freedom and justice ring as loudly in my head here in England as they would if I were back in the States.”

“Even at the expense of your writing career?” I asked.

Billy contemplated my question. “Elaine died to clear the names of Terrence and her husband,” he said. “Terrence destroyed his own life to protect hers. Out of respect to all three of them, I must expose the Truth.”

At the end of this noble statement, he tossed down the remainder of his drink, pushed his chair from the table, and stood up. He reached for the suicide confession, and after carefully placing it in a breast pocket, strode out into the darkness.

Ever the knight errant
, I remember thinking as a cold wind blew into the pub through the door Billy had opened. Moments later, Holmes and I exited as well.

“One last point I need clarified,” I said to Holmes as we made our way down Southampton Row.

Holmes smiled, as if anticipating my question.

“Back there in the Crown and Eagle,” I said, “when Terrence Leonard walked past us as he was leaving, what did you hand to him?”

“Mrs. Sterne's doubloon,” he said. “I cadged it in Marlow. I thought he should have it. It seems only fitting.”

XII

To say good-bye is to die a little.

- Raymond Chandler,
The Long Goodbye

Not that one can ever speak of the Christmas holiday as routine, but in truth it was in late December of 1911 that familiar habits began to reassert themselves in Queen Anne Street. Earlier in the month Mrs. Watson returned from her sojourn in the country and between her and Mrs. Meeks, the rhythm of the household was re-establishing itself. The house was swept, the tree was ornamented, the goose was purchased. In the spirit of the season, my wife even suggested we invite Sherlock Holmes to join us for Yuletide merriment. Yet in his most proprietary fashion, Holmes declined the offer. Due to the Leonard case, he wrote, on too many occasions during the last few months he'd been forced to leave his bees in the care of someone else. We were not to worry about him missing out on warm Christmas cheer, he cautioned, because he was certain that Mrs. Hudson would concoct just the right hot toddy for celebrating the holiday on a cold winter's night.

As for Billy, we heard nothing of the lad from the moment he'd marched out of the Crown and Eagle. Although it seemed clear that his intention was to return to his digs and compose some fearsome diatribe against Lord Steynwood, the news of the murders continued to lie dormant. Whatever Billy's intentions, Holmes and I had agreed not to disseminate the facts surrounding the deaths of Raphael Sterne and his wife; and for all of Inspector Youghal's prodding, his attempts seemed to have had no effect whatsoever. Let Billy, prompted by his own inner turmoil, disclose what he felt compelled to reveal. Whatever positive might come from the tragic events, the responsibility would be Billy's. If anyone had a way of fashioning a story of murder and suicide into some sort of exemplum, the passionate young man from Dulwich College, with the moral teachings of Mr. Gilkes and his own strong literary opinions to guide him, seemed just the writer to do so.

With the familiar melodies of holiday carols still ringing in my ears and the violent strains of our recent mystery ebbing from my mind, I began 1912 with little thought of the Sternes, the Leonards, or Lord Steynwood. The New Year had already advanced two days, and there was no cause to make any connection between the harrowing events of the previous months and the stranger who approached my surgery in the early afternoon. The young gentleman in high collar and frock coat arrived just as I was preparing to leave.

“Dr. Watson,” he asked, consulting a small sheet of notepaper. “Dr. John H. Watson?”

“Yes, I am Dr. Watson. But, as you can see, my surgery is now closed for the day.”

He extended a soft hand. “My name is Denis Woodbury, sir. I'm not here as a patient. I am, in fact, secretary to Mr. Cecil Cowper, editor of
The Academy and Literature Magazine
.”

“
The Academy and Literature Magazine?
” I repeated. It took me a moment, but then I recognized the full title of the journal for which Billy had been writing. “Ah, yes,
The Academy
!”

“Quite correct, sir,” Mr. Woodbury said stiffly. “If I might get right to the heart of the matter, sir, Mr. R.T. Chandler, whom I believe you know, has been contributing to our publication for more than a year now.”

I nodded, still mystified by what any of this had to do with me.

“It appears that Mr. Chandler has listed yourself, Doctor - along with a Mr. Sherlock Holmes, whom Mr. Chandler identifies as a ‘consulting detective, retired' - as references to his good character. Since Mr. Holmes seems to live in Sussex and you, of course, are right here in London, Mr. Cowper has asked me to have a friendly word with you regarding Mr. Chandler's recent work.”

Not having heard from Billy in months, I was more than a bit surprised to be contacted on his behalf. Nevertheless, I ushered Mr. Woodbury into my consulting room. I took the wooden chair at my desk, and he, the one opposite, the seat generally occupied by my patients.

“Now, sir, what can I do for you?” I asked.

Mr. Woodbury cleared his throat. “To be perfectly frank, Dr. Watson, Mr. Cowper is greatly concerned with what he calls an ‘obsession' on the part of Mr. Chandler.”

Recalling our last exchange with Billy, I could easily imagine where this conversation was leading, but I dutifully asked my guest to explain the nature of this alleged affliction.

“Mr. Chandler persists in writing some sort of denunciation of Lord Steynwood,” Mr. Woodbury announced. “Some humbug about concealing evidence that reveals the true nature of a number of untimely deaths. Mr. Cowper has encouraged Mr. Chandler to return to the more usual topics he has sent to us. Mr. Cowper has appreciated Mr. Chandler's essays like “The Genteel Artist” and “The Remarkable Hero” - attacks, as it were, on what Mr. Chandler calls the ‘preciousness' in literature. Such articles contain the kind of literary analysis that our readers have come to expect from - if I may say - so insightful a periodical as
The Academy
. In actuality, just this week we are publishing Mr. Chandler's most recent submission. It is entitled ‘Realism and Fairyland', and it extols the virtues of idealists who can create beauty out of dust. Mr. Cowper lays proud claim to having printed numerous noteworthy compositions by Mr. Chandler. But, to be perfectly frank, Dr. Watson, crime thrillers, whether real or fictive, have no place in our magazine - regardless of their source.”

“And how did Mr. Chandler react to your objections?” I asked.

Here Mr. Woodbury cleared his throat again. “He defends himself by saying that one of the deaths in question is that of Raphael Sterne, the noted novelist. Mr. Chandler argues that Sterne's importance in the world of
belle-lettres
should render unnecessary any question of relevance regarding the piece.”

Although I recognized the disingenuousness in Billy's explanation, I added my support and that of Holmes
in absentia
. “It's only fair to tell you, Mr. Woodbury, that both Sherlock Holmes - who is indeed a consulting detective, the world's first - and myself, his colleague, have also been involved in solving this very real puzzle that Mr. Chandler has referred to.”

Mr. Woodbury raised a single eyebrow in apparent disapproval.

“Does not Mr. Cowper,” I asked, “find merit in the argument that this matter has significant literary relevance?”

“Absolutely not. In the first place, as I would have thought Mr. Chandler also believed, the lurid work of the late Mr. Sterne is not the kind of high-minded prose we like to promote in our magazine. In the second place, if I may be perfectly frank,” and here, leaning forward, Mr. Woodbury spoke
sotto voce
, “regardless of Mr. Cowper's personal feelings, it has been made known to us in the publishing industry - an industry that, although widely scattered, is still a part of Lord Steynwood's vast dominion - that His Lordship forbids any publication whatsoever of Mr. Chandler's composition by magazine, newspaper, or book. The appearance of this piece - or even a reference to it - will result in the immediate termination of the publishing house that is responsible - no matter how successful, important, or popular.”

Mr. Woodbury took a white linen handkerchief from an inner breast pocket and pressed it against his forehead. Despite the coolness of the January air, he was perspiring freely. “Lord Steynwood is a most influential figure,” he proclaimed. “When His Lordship speaks, all Fleet Street listens. And to be perfectly frank, Dr. Watson, I need not remind you that Lord Steynwood has the power to carry out his threat.”

No, to be perfectly frank, Mr. Woodbury did not need to remind me.

“I'm not certain how familiar you are with
The Academy
,” the secretary continued, “but since its merger with
Literature
magazine about ten years ago, it has undergone a number of changes in ownership and, therefore, changes in editorial philosophy. Thanks to the notoriety that accompanied the controversial friendship between its previous editor, Lord Alfred Douglas, and the writer, Oscar Wilde, the publication can now ill afford any kind of dispute with the so-called ‘czar of the printed word.' In short, Mr. Chandler has been instructed to cease promoting this notorious piece of his or, to be perfectly frank, his employment will be terminated. His contract rescinded.”

“And his response?”

“He resigned.”

Left of his own volition - that sounded like our Billy.

“But if he has resigned, Mr. Woodbury, why have you come to see
me
? Are you not finished with him then?”

“Mr. Cowper sees promise in the man. That's why he wanted me to encourage
you
to speak to Mr. Chandler. Mr. Cowper was hoping that
you
could talk some sense into Mr. Chandler in order to save the man's writing career. For rest assured, Dr. Watson, that if Mr. Chandler persists in demanding to make public this murder story of his, he will have no literary future in England.”

“Ah,” I sighed. “But, you see, Mr. Chandler claims that his independent streak comes from across the ocean. He was born in America, after all. Chicago, to be exact.”

Mr. Woodbury's eyes widened. “No, I didn't know.” He daubed at his brow again, as if preparing himself for a final thrust. “Well, Dr. Watson,” he said, “if Mr. Chandler hopes to become a successful writer and if Mr. Chandler was indeed born in America as you say, then perhaps - to be perfectly frank - he ought to consider going back.”

Message delivered, Mr. Woodbury returned his linen to his inner breast pocket and appeared ready to rise. Yet he did find it necessary to make one last point. “You know, Doctor, Lord Steynwood's hand is far-reaching. And while I possess but a limited familiarity with the publishing industry, I do feel confident in predicting that Mr. Chandler's narrative will never see the light of day - even if he
does
return to America. Between us, Doctor, I've heard it said that Lord Steynwood will be certain that no hint at all of Chandler's connection to the Sterne case will ever be published. Anywhere.”

His final arrow seemed aimed at me. “For that matter, Dr. Watson, I would also be surprised if any reference about a connection between Raymond Chandler and you and this Mr. Sherlock Holmes ever appears in print.”

With these last words left to reverberate in my head, Mr. Woodbury stood up, nodded in my direction, and exited.

I watched him close the door. When he was out of earshot, I called after him, “And a Happy New Year to you too, sir.” Then I locked the surgery and, having lost interest in my usual luncheon and nap, shuffled aimlessly into the house.

* * *

In late April of 1912, news of the
Titanic
's sinking a few weeks before still dominated the newspapers, usurping much talk about anything else. Some observers were predicting that a hundred years later people would still be fascinated by the arrogance and madness that led to the demise of so many unfortunates, both rich and poor.

Despite the power of the tragedy at sea (not to mention the weeks Holmes and I had spent working together on other matters), it was our young friend Billy the page who once again came to occupy our thoughts. He had written to me that he wanted to leave England and return to the United States. At first glance, it might appear that he was following the advice of Denis Woodbury; but in point of fact, just as Woodbury had predicted, Billy was having great difficulty ridding himself of the acrid bitterness, sour disappointment, and burning rage that had so recently been plaguing his writing career.

At the same time, the resentment in his Uncle Ernest at having to support Billy's mother was intensifying. Feeling ostracized by the publishing world on the one hand and guilty over his mother's situation on the other, Billy - now aged twenty-three - asked his uncle to lend him five hundred pounds for the trip to America. With the understanding that once he got established, Billy would repay his uncle (at six per cent interest) and send for his mother, Uncle Ernest agreed; and Billy booked first-class passage to New York on the
S.S. Merion
, departing from Liverpool on 10 July. All that remained now was a visit to Sussex so Billy could bid a personal farewell to Sherlock Holmes much as Billy had done seven years before when he'd come to Queen Anne Street prior to leaving for the Continent.

And so it was that on the last Sunday morning in April 1912, Billy and I found ourselves at Victoria Station in preparation for the journey to Holmes' retirement cottage. Although I had donned my casual tweeds for the weekend excursion, it was obvious that Billy, dressed in a blue-chalk-striped flannel suit, cut no doubt by a West End tailor, was bidding his farewells in style. A straw boater, perched on his head at a rakish angle, sported an old school-tie band. With a gloved hand, he held his silver-headed walking stick, which happily, since all of Billy's injuries had long since healed, had returned to its rightful role as a simple statement of fashion.

We greeted each other enthusiastically on the concourse, and soon we were settled in a railway carriage clattering along the tracks to Eastbourne. Although I had travelled by railway to the Sussex Downs many times after Holmes had moved there, I never tired of the trip. Especially exhilarating was the sense of seeing something anew whenever I was accompanied by a companion like Billy, who'd never made the journey before. Once the grimy buildings and soot-covered chimneys of London were behind us, Billy and I could marvel at the spring landscape that surrounded the rails. Soon the rolling hills - some covered in the yellows, blues, and purples of wildflowers, other sprinkled with white sheep and mottled cattle - gave way to thickets and forests, which in turn gave way to the chalky earth and ultimately to the white cliffs overlooking the English Channel.

With a final shrill whistle, the railway deposited us at Eastbourne. An omnibus pulled by two weary horses slowly transported us to the village of Fulworth. From there, we made our way by dogcart the few more miles to Holmes' cottage.