Sci-Ence! Justice Leak!

(Continued from part one.A revised ebook of this story is now available – on Amazon (US), Amazon (UK) and Smashwords.)

For the first few days my friend was away, life continued uneventfully. Mrs Hudson, used as she was to Holmes’ frequent black moods, thought nothing of it when I informed her that he was remaining in his bedroom, though she did insist on bringing enough food for both of us up at every meal-time. Thankfully, I learned while in Afghanistan to be able to eat whatever was put in front of me, as when one is at war it is difficult to know when, of if, one will eat again. So while my stomach didn’t thank me for the excesses I put it through, Mrs Hudson remained none the wiser.

I almost got used to the solitude. Holmes did, indeed, often disappear for days, and while this time I was having to hide his absence, for much of the time it was no different to the many times when Holmes would turn in upon himself and become a shadow of his normal self, brooding silently alone in his bedroom. Indeed, it was somewhat preferable to those times, because this time I knew that my friend was abroad, pursuing a case that was taxing those exceptional powers of his to their utmost, and would be positively sparkling with mental activity.

I, meanwhile, had been pursuing my own activities. I had visited that poor unfortunate man Joseph Merrick, who had been of some help to Holmes in the case of the purloined harmonium, and who was in the care of my colleague Doctor Frederick Treves. While my medical skills were of little use to that unlucky man, I believe he enjoyed the company of one who, used as I was from my practice and my service in the Army to the extremes of the human condition, was not offended by his appearance. In fact we used to joke together about Treves’ appaling memory for names, Treves consistently referring to Merrick as John and calling me James. I ribbed Treves about it, calling him Frank, but he was not a man with a great sense of humour, and so the matter rested.

But on the third day after Holmes’ departure, everything changed. I was relaxing in my chair, half asleep by the fire, while the talking machine records of violin music Holmes had given me to help cover his absence played on, when a knock came at the door. Opening it, I saw Mrs Hudson.

“Is Mr Holmes taking visitors yet?”

“I’m afraid not. He’s in a frightful bate. Won’t speak a word, just prowling round like a panther in a cage. Anything I can help with?”

“It’s a young lady, sir. She looks very upset.”

“Well, send her in, I suppose.”

A young lady, appearing scarcely twenty-five, entered. No doubt Holmes, with one look at her gloves and bonnet, could have discovered her father’s occupation, her best friend’s middle name and the age at which she had had the whooping cough, but all I could see was that she was young, very beautiful behind her veil, and clearly distraught.

“Please come in, and take a seat, Miss…?”

“Travers. Cynthia Travers. It’s so good of you to see me, Mr Holmes. I don’t know what…”

“Ah. I’m afraid I’m not actually Sherlock Holmes. I’m Doctor John Watson, his colleague. Holmes isn’t taking visitors at the moment.”

“Oh, but I must speak with Mr Holmes! Is he in there?” She rushed towards the door of Holmes’ room, from which the sound of the violin was still emanating.

“Stop, please!” She halted. “Holmes is…er, Holmes is contagious!”

“Contagious?”

I had to think quickly. “Yes. Holmes is suffering from a particularly nasty bout of influenza. He appears to be over the worst of it, but we must keep him away from other people. For someone with as delicate a constitution as you appear to have, it could be deadly.”

She sank into a chair, head in hands, and burst into tears. “Then I am undone! Without the great Sherlock Holmes to help me, all hope is lost.”

I thought for a moment. I could not let this poor girl suffer, if there was anything within my power to ease her pain.

“I can talk to Holmes for you.”

She looked up, a tiny ray of hope shining through the tears in her eyes.

“Could you?”

“Oh yes. If you tell me your problems, I can speak to Holmes for you, and see what he says.” I thought that at worst I could perhaps wire my friend and ask his advice.

“But wouldn’t that be frightfully dangerous, going in there and speaking to someone so contagious?”

“You forget, I’m a doctor. My constitution is hardened to such things. Germs have no fear for me.”

“Germs?”

I didn’t have time to explain the germ theory of disease to the girl, and I wasn’t even quite sure I believed it myself, so I let that pass, and said “So what’s the problem? What do you need from Holmes?”

“Oh Doctor Watson, it is my sister…my dear, sweet, younger sister Rose. She left the house not two nights ago, and has not yet returned.”

“And you’re worried for her safety? Quite understandable.”

“No, Doctor, I’m not worried, for alas I am quite certain that my worries would be founded. Doctor Watson, I am certain that my sister has been murdered. And this is why I need Mr Holmes’ help, for you see, I am sure I am to be next!”

(For the rest of this story, click the Doctor Watson Investigates tag. A revised ebook of this story is now available – on Amazon (US), Amazon (UK) and Smashwords.)

While I am not unhappy with the little fame and fortune my modest literary endeavours have brought me, I have become aware over the years that, while their effect has been mostly positive, my reputation has not wholly been improved by the tales of my adventures with my good friend Sherlock Holmes.

Indeed, Holmes himself would often remark upon this. “It seems to me, Watson,” he would say, “that you portray yourself most unfavourably in your tales. By exaggerating my own accomplishments, and playing up the more romantic aspects of what are often quite sordid affairs — though not, of course, without their intellectual challenges — you create a quite impossibly idealised version of myself, in comparison to whom even someone so estimable as yourself would appear inferior.”

I accept I admire my friend’s deductive talents unreservedly, and this admiration cannot help show itself in my writings, but recently I have noticed a tendency in those people who are kind enough to discuss my writings at all to refer to me as a buffoon, or even as a Sancho Panza figure. While I am not a vain man, I cannot deny that it causes me some little pain to hear myself referred to in this way, and I believe the tale I am about to relate might help redress the balance somewhat.

While most of my adventures have been in association with my companion, there have been times – not many, but some – when I have ventured out from under his wing and taken part in the solution of a minor mystery for myself. While never rising to Holmes’ heights of deductive reasoning, I like to think that I have acquitted myself honourably on these occasions.

On the day the affair started, I was sitting in a chair in our rooms in Baker Street, perusing the advertisements on the front page of the Times, when Holmes spoke up.

“It’s not the money, and you know it.”

“Holmes, whatever do you mean?”

“You were thinking it a shame that the cost of running a general practice in the City is so high that it would be prohibitively expensive for you to go back into practice.”

“How on Earth did you know that?”

“My dear Watson, you are the most open of books, and when I hear you mutter to yourself ‘but three hundred…’ while examining the advertisements page – an advertisement page which includes a practice for sale in Marylebone – even Lestrade could deduce that you were considering going back into practice.”

“Now that you mention it, that does make sense. But what makes you say it’s not the money?”

“Because we both know that a competent practitioner can earn a quite substantial amount of money, should he put his mind to the job. No, for you, Watson, medicine was never a true calling, and so long as you have only yourself to support, you shall not return to it. Now should you marry again…”

“Holmes! How could you even suggest…”

“Oh, my dear Watson, I do apologise. I was treating it purely hypothetically, and completely failed to see the effect such an idea would have on you. Can you forgive me?”

“Of course, Holmes, but please try to bear in mind that the subject is rather a painful one.”

“I shall. I am afraid I have been rather distracted of late. A problem has come to my attention, involving one of the crowned heads of Europe. It appears I may have to leave the country for a short while.”

“Shall I pack my things?”

“Not this time. Much as I am loath to leave my Boswell behind, the personage in question has a problem of such delicacy that even your legendary discretion leaves him cold. However, I do have a task for you while I am gone.”

“Yes?”

“Yes. It is vitally important that no-one know I have left the country. The fate of several nations could depend on it. For this reason, I need you to hold the fort here. Let nobody know of my absence, not even Mrs Hudson. I have here some corrrespondence,” he handed me a small pile of letters, “which I have written in advance. Please send out each letter on the date marked. Should you need to contact me, you can send a telegram to this address,” he wrote down an address in a central European country, “which they will in turn send on to me. I also have a selection of gramophone recordings of violin recitals. Please play them at appropriate times.”

“And what should I do if someone should come to us with a case?”

“Improvise, Watson, improvise! And now, I must make haste. I trust I can rely on your discretion.”

“Of course you can, Holmes, you know that!”

“Indeed. It was not a question. Until next month!”

And with that, my dear friend headed out of our lodgings, case in hand.

To be continued.