The Final Page of Baker Street (9 page)

Just beyond the turning, not a hundred feet from the ominous tall wooden doors at the front of the grey edifice, we congregated to receive our instructions from Holmes. I was to be the diversion. Holmes' plan had me, as a medical man, entering the establishment to find Dr. Vering and then to engage him in conversation however I could. The possibility of sending a patient for treatment to his institution seemed as good a ruse as any. At the same time, Holmes and Billy would slip in by a side entrance and, with the aid of a photograph of our quarry, canvass the upper three storeys for any sign of Raphael Sterne. Once we had completed our initial assignments, we would reconnoitre in this same spot; the actual rescue would occur later. Our adventure had all the qualities of a covert military stratagem.

According to plan, we went off in our appointed directions. Holmes and Billy casually strolled round the corner of the building while I strode boldly up the three steps that led to the entrance. I took a deep breath and marched inside.

Almost immediately, a brown-haired, stoop-shouldered man scurried over to intercept me.

“Dr. Vering, I presume?”

No, he was merely an attendant. Schulhof, by name.

“Velcome,” he began politely enough. He spoke with the guttural sounds of a German accent, and he pronounced his w's like v's. “It is my pleasure to velcome you here. Today is busy, but - ”

“I am a doctor,” I interrupted, “and I would like to know more about the workings of your regimen. In point of fact, I am most reluctant to send any of my patients to a hospital where the sick are hemmed in by
bars
.” This last word I voiced forcefully, hoping that the combination of my loudness and scepticism would attract attention.

“I understand,” Schulhof said calmly. “But some patients require such treatment, you see.”

“Certainly not those suffering from alcohol abuse. They must make up much of your clientele. I should imagine,” I dared to add, “that their forced confinement might be of some interest to the police.”

As we spoke, my voice continued to rise, and a heavy little man with a pointed grey beard strode quickly in our direction. As I had hoped, he turned out to be Dr. Vering himself.

I took as much time as I could to introduce myself, drawing out the history of my medical career in the process. I spoke of my degree from the University of London, the staff work in surgery I performed at St. Bartholomew's Hospital, my training with the Army Medical Department at Netley, my field service in Afghanistan, and my current practice in Queen Anne Street. Only after I'd completed this chronicle did I resume my criticism of Dr. Vering's program.

“Ah,” the man smiled, “my dear Dr. Watson. If you don't mind my saying so, despite your distinguished background, it is obvious that the path you have chosen in our noble profession has not provided you many dealings with the rich. For them, health is not the only issue. Such people hope to keep their names out of prying newspapers and salacious periodicals. Some of our patients come here for relaxation, but many are here to seek the means of divorcing themselves from ‘demon-rum.' The admittedly high fees they pay enable us to employ the attendants that keep their names away from Fleet Street.”

“And the barred windows?”

“Tosh,” he said with a flick of his hand. “A subtle way of telling our patients that we're serious about their cures. We minister to their minds as well as to their bodies.”

From a distance, I heard a muted hammering, perhaps an unhappy resident pounding on a locked door.

Dr. Vering must have heard the sound as well, for he found it necessary to terminate our discussion. In the interest of delay, I tried to raise additional questions, and to his credit, he tried to exit politely. But when Dr. Vering realized that I would not be dismissed so readily, he motioned for two muscular chaps in white coats to help escort me out. Reluctantly, I retreated through the doors and back out into the sun, hoping all the while that my
charade
had given Holmes and Billy enough time to locate Raphael Sterne.

Once outside, I returned to our previous meeting place with what I hoped to be a gait as far from suspicious-looking as possible. Holmes and Billy had not yet arrived, and I spent an anxious few minutes until I saw them exiting the same side door through which they had entered.

“Mr. Holmes was brilliant!” Billy beamed once we were reunited. “He has these tiny metal tools that he used to unlock the door. And I thought that getting inside was going to be difficult...”

“But what did you discover?” I asked.

“We went up to the third floor,” Holmes reported, “and Billy and I each took a side of the hallway. We checked every room until we found poor Sterne. He's strapped to a bed, looking as if he hasn't shaved in days or slept very much. Tonight, when it's dark, we'll come back and get him out.”

Billy smiled broadly. “Let me tell Mrs. Sterne that we found him. She'll appreciate the message.”

“Billy,” I cautioned, “she's a married woman.”

“More to the point,” Holmes said, “let's not tell her anything until we've actually secured the man. In the meantime, gentlemen, dinner at Rules might be in order.” And rubbing his hands in anticipation, he walked off down the road in search of a hansom or growler that would take the three of us to Covent Garden.

* * *

I was appointed sentry. Despite the day's heat, the night had turned cold, and the black sky added an appropriately dark backdrop not only to the heavens but also to the illegality of our mission. After dinner, we returned to Queen Anne Street to change into darker clothing and then returned to Dr. Vering's sanatorium. From where I was standing, I could see Holmes, dressed for the hunt in deerstalker cap and Inverness cape, leading Billy to the now familiar side entrance of the building. The small road that I was left to observe ran perpendicular to Holborn and presented little traffic, pedestrian or otherwise. A large motor-car was parked a good distance down the road, but I could make out nothing inside; and certainly, at this late hour, no one would be entering the grounds of the institution itself. My responsibility was to engage in conversation anyone approaching the side-door that Holmes and Billy had previously entered. In short, I was to keep out unwanted visitors.

How well I remember the wait on that mid-summer's night. The stillness of the empty road did nothing to blanket my anxieties. After all, Holmes and Billy were illicitly entering a business establishment, and Scotland Yard - no matter how much (or, perhaps, because) Holmes had helped them in the past - would like nothing better than to assert some authority over their rival detective. There was little to see in the darkness, and sounds and smells dominated. The receding echo of footfalls on Holborn; the plaintive mews of a cat in search of food; the acrid stink of horse dung and petrol - all co-mingled into an ominous oppression that seemed to last a very long time.

In reality, it was no more than a half-hour when I heard the scrape of a window sash opening on the second storey, one level below those barred windows behind which patients like Sterne were held. At first, the wall appeared dark; but then despite the shadows, I could discern what looked like a long light-coloured rope poking its way out the unlit window and left to dangle some five feet above the ground. I was put in mind of the fearsome “speckled band” that (despite Billy's earlier scepticism) had descended a similar cable so many years before on its mission of death. Yet on this occasion, even in the darkness, I could see Billy's face peering out the opening and then his arm motioning me to come closer.

Once I reached the wall, I discovered that the rope was actually a series of white bed sheets tied together end-to-end. Gazing upward, I espied a figure clad only in grey hospital pyjamas, a man I correctly took to be Raphael Sterne, throw a leg over the window sill - in the process, accidentally sending a dark leather slipper down on my head. He took hold of the makeshift line and lowered himself to its end, dropping the final five feet to the pavement. Breathing heavily, the dishevelled writer stood next to me, trying unsuccessfully to stand up straight. Despite his obvious discomfort, he did have the presence of mind to gesture for his recently departed slipper. With his palm outstretched like that, there was a certain humility about him, while his drawn face, tousled black hair, and vacant stare suggested the ordeal he'd so recently endured.

In another instant, Billy was dropping down next to me, and Holmes was quickly exiting the same side-door he had entered earlier.

Billy, who'd appropriated a wool blanket from inside the sanatorium, draped it over the tall, but still bent frame of Raphael Sterne. By the time Holmes caught up with us, Sterne, Billy and I were already striding towards Holborn.

“An excellent plan, Watson, if I do say so myself,” Holmes beamed. “Of course, we did have some improvising to do. Once Billy and I recovered Mr. Sterne, we ran down the back stairs to the first floor, but the three of us couldn't all go out of the front or side exits because there were too many watchful eyes for three culprits to evade. Since only the third floor had barred windows, the second provided an exit. We found the sheets in a storage closet, and I left it to the younger men to utilize them. I returned to the ground floor, knocked over a potted plant near the front exit to create a distraction, and made it out through the side-door when the aides on duty went off to investigate.”

“Well done, Holmes,” I said as we turned onto Holborn.

“But, Watson, my apologies,” he replied. “Allow me to introduce you to the noted novelist Mr. Raphael Sterne.”

Though we'd met less formally over the missing slipper, I shook hands with the haggard writer, impressed that in his worn-out condition he had still been able to negotiate a rope made of bed linen. At the same time, Holmes was replacing the blanket covering Sterne's pyjamas with his own cape. Perhaps Holmes had brought it along with just such a need in mind.

“Sterne was being held until he or someone else agreed to pay Vering one hundred pounds,” Holmes explained as he signalled a passing cab. “Otherwise, Vering in some devious manner threatened to make known to the public the exact nature of Sterne's illness. Fifty pounds was the original fee - itself a form of blackmail or extortion. When Sterne refused to pay, the price immediately doubled. But now Sterne's free and sober - I should imagine Vering should be thanked for that development - and it's time to get him safely home.”

The road from which we'd initially emerged appeared quiet. But now traffic was all round us, and Holmes had no problem hailing a hansom. Most probably, no one at the institute had yet discovered Sterne's disappearance, but Holmes was taking no chances. As soon as the hansom pulled up next to us, Holmes opened the door and bundled Billy and Sterne inside. Holmes and I would take another cab, for Holmes had reasoned that Billy would appreciate returning the liberated husband to the man's beautiful wife on his own. While I agreed with Holmes' insight, I wasn't as sure of his judgement. Billy seemed too eager to complete the assignment. Perhaps his intent was simply to embellish his own role in helping free Raphael Sterne, but the look of irritation he flashed at Sterne when Holmes mentioned the word “wife” had all the hallmarks of jealousy. Whatever the motive, Billy and his charge were immediately off to the Langham where Mrs. Sterne was staying.

Despite this minor triangle, Holmes and I relished the success of our mission. Indeed, I was feeling quite pleased with myself as we flagged a cab to take the two of us back to Queen Anne Street.

“Quite a good night's work, eh, Holmes?” I said, as our journey home began.

“I would like to agree with you, Watson, but - ” Rather than finishing the sentence, he proceeded to lean out of the side window to get a look behind our hansom. Once he'd resumed his seat, he concluded, “ - the large black Daimler, which earlier had been parked near Dr. Vering's institution, is now following us.”

“A black Daimler?” I said, recalling the large, dark motor-car I myself had seen stopped at some distance from the sanatorium.

“A coincidence, Holmes. Who could have known we were there?”

“At this moment, my dear fellow, I cannot answer that question. But I do know that the Daimler was stopped by the kerb near Vering's when we arrived this afternoon and that it followed us to and from Rules.”

We sat in silence for the rest of our journey, the sharp clatter of the horse's hooves and the throaty purr of the Daimler's motor the only sounds intruding on our thoughts.

Soon enough Holmes and I stood before my front door watching the Daimler approach. It was a large, closed car with a fluted front grill and a hawk-nosed driver in dark livery at the wheel. As it motored past us and drove on down the road, one could almost believe that whoever was ensconced in the passenger seat had no interest in our simple comings and goings.

But, of course, whoever might have thought so naively would have been gravely mistaken.

VII

She gave me a smile I could feel in my hip pocket.

- Raymond Chandler,
Farewell, My Lovely

“To the memory of Terrence Leonard,” Billy said, raising his glass.

“Terrence Leonard,” Holmes and I echoed simultaneously.

At Billy's invitation the three of us had agreed to meet the next evening in the Crown and Eagle. Our purpose was to fulfil the request Terrence had made in his missive to Billy: to have a drink in Terrence's honour at his favourite pub. It was a Tuesday night in the business district; the bankers and barristers and clerks had finished their after-work drinks and gone home. Besides a couple of gentlemen at the back who were silently hoisting pints, the bar and tables were empty. Silent and still, the taproom seemed a fitting place to hold a memorial.

We began as Terrence had requested, drinking gin gimlets.

“Ah, yes,” Holmes intoned after a long pull, “the gin gimlet. Supposedly named for Sir Thomas Gimlette, Surgeon General, KCB. He had the clever idea of mixing spirits with lime juice to ward off scurvy aboard battleships.”

“Then here's to Sir Thomas,” Billy said, raising his glass again.

“Sir Thomas,” Holmes and I said and sipped some more.

“A bit too sweet for my taste,” Holmes observed. “The things we do to honour our dead. May Terrence Leonard rest in peace.”

The lugubrious thought hovered above us for a few quiet moments.

“Speaking of Terrence Leonard,” Billy said, “I - ” A sudden ring of laughter from the men behind us distracted him.

“Let's talk about the living, shall we, Billy?” I suggested, taking advantage of the opportunity to express my concerns. “Raphael Sterne. You gave him quite a nasty look when you climbed into the hansom last night.”

Billy's face flushed. “I realize that we had just saved him from the evil Dr. Vering,” he said, “but I know too many pretentious writers like Sterne - genteel types who spend more time on their grooming than they do on their writing. I'm sure he's never felt the bitterness of poverty or the heartache of lost love or even the joy of reverie in the countryside. He's just a literary hack.”

“Surely, you're being prejudicial,” I said, fortifying myself with more gin.

“His latest book -
Wild Seas
?” Billy continued, “a lot of action, but nothing to suggest that he knows how his characters
feel
. To writers like him, literary composition is a business and not something to interfere with the fancy parties they get invited to. What's more - ”

“This criticism of yours,” Holmes interrupted, “it wouldn't have anything to do with your attraction to the enchanting Mrs. Sterne?”

The young man blushed and stared into his glass. It seemed to require only Holmes' prod and another sip of the gimlet to render Billy rhapsodic. “I can't get her out of my mind,” he said sheepishly. “Her golden hair. Those blue eyes - cornflower blue, they are - and those long, pale lashes...”

His own eyes seemed trained on some vision neither Holmes nor I could locate; indeed, he seemed to be talking more to himself than to us.

“Her smile,” he continued, “it's so tender, so pure - it's paralyzing. She reminds me of a fairy princess. When she walks, she sways like a rose in the wind. When she speaks, her voice is music.” He blushed again. “Someday I'll write a poem about her: ‘Elaine the fair, Elaine the lovable' - although that's Tennyson, actually.”

“Be careful, young man,” I cautioned. “You may have a talent with words; but, as you said yourself,
this
Elaine, unlike Tennyson's, is a married woman - married, if I may remind you, to a successful and celebrated author - your opinion notwithstanding.”

“Author?” Billy's eyebrows arched. “I already told you he's a hack! Raphael Sterne is a genteel dilettante! He lacks any of the passion - fanaticism, if you will - that the true artist must extract from life to produce great art. I've often thought that the English writer is - or is not - a gentleman
first
and a writer
second
. Why, I've seen better writing than Sterne's at Dulwich College.”

“Methinks the lad doth protest too much,” Holmes observed.

“You know, Mr. Holmes,” Billy countered, “I hadn't thought of it before, but now that you raise the question, I do believe that my opinion of Sterne is worthy of dissemination. I should publish my thoughts. I'll write an article for
The Academy
.” He paused a moment to consider; then his eyes lit up. “I'll call it ‘The Genteel Artist.' I won't identify Sterne by name - I wouldn't want to harm his wife - but at the very least, I will posit an antidote to your implied charge of jealousy.”

“Well done, Holmes,” I said, “you've ignited the creative spark.”

“To the creative spark,” Billy answered, and we all took another swallow.

“Actually, Mr. Holmes,” Billy observed, “what I was going to say about Sterne before you brought up his wife - ” (my friend bowed his head in false modesty) - “was that, when I took Sterne home last night, he told me that he'd heard of me - that my name had been mentioned to him by Terrence Leonard.”

“Really,” Holmes mused, setting down his glass. “Sterne knew Leonard? But not so strange really when we remember that Mrs. Sterne herself told us she'd met Leonard's wife.”

I too recalled that fact from our initial conversation with Mrs. Sterne.

“The fact is,” Billy went on, “the Sternes and Leonards were neighbours. At least, they lived in the same town, Marlow - if not in the same neighbourhoods. Sterne said that some time or another Terrence had described to him those two occasions I'd helped Terrence when I'd found him so drunk he could hardly stand up.”

Holmes finished his drink and put down the glass. “We're devoting too much attention to the wrong people,” he said. “We came here to remember Terrence Leonard, not the Sternes. I suggest it is time to go.”About to push away from the table, he added, “Besides, Billy, I shouldn't think that you'd have any cause to see Mrs. Sterne in the future.”

“Actually,” Billy said with what I could only describe as a self-satisfied grin, “Mrs. Sterne herself asked me if I might come out to their home in Marlow tomorrow evening. She's invited some people for a drinks-party and hoped I could attend. She wants someone to help keep an eye on her husband. She'd really like to know what's been upsetting him so much. We know he's been a heavy drinker; but as she tells it, this time he went off in the
middle
of a novel, which he's never done before. She also says he's been much quicker to anger. Since I helped him escape from Dr. Vering, she'd like me to do more if I can.”

“And the disdain for her husband that you spoke of but minutes ago?” Holmes asked.

“Working with him is the price I'm willing to pay to see his wife again. I will do my utmost to remain an objective observer.”

Such circumlocution was too much for me. I was about to protest Billy's obsession with this woman when he announced that Holmes and I might attend the party as well: “‘Bring along your two friends,' she wrote me. I didn't tell you because I didn't think you'd be interested. Now, seeing your concern - ”

“I'm afraid I have some other matters to attend to,” Holmes said. “But, Watson,
you
might have a go at it. That way you could be sure that Billy's behaviour remains true to the Dulwich code.”

“Sorry,” I said, uncertain whether Holmes was being sarcastic. “I have my patients to think about.”If Holmes wasn't going to take responsibility for his former page, I certainly would not. Billy was a grown man. It wasn't up to me to be his chaperone.

In fact, Billy had already planned his trip. The following afternoon he would travel to Marlow, attend the social gathering, and return on the last train to London. His job, as he had told us, was to support Raphael Sterne on the novelist's journey back to health.

“If I may,” Holmes said to Billy, “since you are determined to go, I'd like to request an additional task.”

“Anything,” Billy offered.

“You are a writer. Keep notes on what transpires. Describe in detail your experiences in Marlow. Although our dealings with Raphael Sterne appear to be finished, don't fail to record any matters of concern.”

“Much like my assignment with that ghostly hound on the Grimpen Mire, eh, Holmes?” I said, recalling my friend's request for letters to him in London while I stayed at Baskerville Hall those many years ago.

“Precisely,” Holmes said. “Except that Billy can bring his report to us himself rather than having to post it.”

“Mr. Holmes,” Billy said, “you flatter me with the request. I'll see you upon my return then.”

We finished our drinks and exited the pub in different directions; Billy wandered off to Bloomsbury; Holmes and I, back to Queen Anne Street. Personally, I felt a trifle tipsy. But however much the world was spinning, my vision was clear enough so that on this occasion, I too, as well as Holmes, noticed the black Daimler parked across the road. It was slow to start up; perhaps its occupant was confused over which direction to take, Billy's or ours. But soon we could hear the deep purring sound as its engine sparked into life, and it began to move slowly behind Holmes and me. After we'd secured a cab, the Daimler continued to follow us all the way to my house, departing from us there in much the same manner it had displayed on the earlier occasion. The hawk-nosed driver we saw once more; its passenger remained a mystery.

* * *

I interrupt my narration at this point to include the written report of Billy the page regarding his experiences in Marlow that Wednesday and Thursday. I include two caveats: first, Billy's style is significantly less formal than that of his more disciplined literary essays, which he contributed to publications like
The Academy
and
The Alleynian
. Second, his observations are psychologically - dare I say, shockingly - frank. Billy's informal style, probably developed from his experiences as a journalist, seemed to have instilled in him a greater confidence the more often he utilized it, resulting in his many candid observations, revealing thoughts, and disturbingly explicit details. Although I personally attribute Billy's openness to his American roots, I leave it to the wisdom of my perspicacious readers to determine the true motivations for the account that follows.

* * *

Wednesday morning,

26 July 1911

To Mr. Holmes and Dr. Watson:

Forgive me if I sound like a
faux näif
, but with no characters in the drama yet to appear, I thought I might sharpen my pen by describing the lie of the land. I commence my short journey to Marlow on a wonderfully warm summer's day. Indeed, the sunlight penetrating the railway carriage makes it easy to read the words I set down on paper. I can only hope such light will just as successfully illuminate the rest of the events I encounter. And yet one can't forget that bright sunshine also renders stains the more clearly.

As I'm sure you know, the town of Marlow lies some thirty miles west of London. From what I've read, its major claim to distinction is that the poet Shelley lived there some time in the early nineteenth century. Since I've never actually been there, I reckoned that it wouldn't be too difficult to reach. But when I arrived beneath the vaulted glass roof of Paddington at mid-morning, I discovered that the short journey actually requires three trains.

A lurch followed by a gentle swaying alerts me to the start of my trip. The first and longest leg ends at Maidenhead. After escaping London, we roll west across steel bridges and stone viaducts, travel the brief but monotonous route through the high embankments and sharp cuttings of the verdant English countryside, and finally cross a low bridge of bricked arches that not only spans the sparkling Thames but also marks the immediate approach to Maidenhead.

For some reason, the bridge itself looks strangely familiar, and then suddenly I recall Mr. Hose's lecture back at Dulwich about Turner's ghostly painting,
Rain, Steam, and Speed,
which depicts this very crossing. Perhaps you've seen the work; it hangs in the National Gallery as part of the Turner Bequest. Whatever grand design Turner may have intended with those ethereal orange and white swirls of mist and vapour that envelop so much of the canvas, the bridge and train remain readily perceptible; and I now believe, as we rattle along the rails of the G.W.R., that Mr. Hose got it right when, ignoring the eerie constructs or the lofty interpretations, he simply called the landscape Turner's “tribute to the Great Western Railway.”

The second part of the journey runs from Maidenhead to Bourne End. The railway leaves Maidenhead and follows the sweep of the Thames to the north. In the afternoon sun you get a vivid view of the river winding its way like a sinuous serpent through the green hills of Buckinghamshire. On a small plateau above looms Cliveden House, that majestic architectural playground of the rich, its Italianate terraces lording over the pedestrian rail and river traffic below. I've never seen it before, but who hasn't heard of the celebrated place or its famous history? Such fantastic homes require lots of maintenance, of course; and over the years its one-time wealthy owners frequently ran out of money. Then Cliveden House would change hands as quickly as the church plate on which no one wants to leave a donation. Funny, in that respect, it's a lot like Lord Steynwood's estate,
Idyllic Vale
. Terrence liked that name. He said it fit since the so-called aristocrats whom he had run into over there could accurately be described as the “idle rich.”