If you ever do commit the story of the Kensington Affair to paper, my dear fellow, do make sure you include the capuchin monkey, Mr. Sherlock Holmes was liable to say whenever I asked if the story could yet be penned.
Now that Mr. Sherlock Holmes is semi-retired on the Sussex Downs, and last I heard, happily cultivating his own assistant in crime and deduction, a certain blond haired woman named Mary Russell, he has finally given me permission to pen this "tale that was never told." When he was installed moodily in his Baker Street rooms, he forbade me to tell the story because he feared it would tarnish his image. It wouldn't do to tell a story about me cavorting about London with Mr. Bing, Sarah, and Arthur, dear fellow! The respectable accountants, stevedovers, and scribblers would lose respect for my practice and cease seeking my assistance.
It was in the spring of '82, according to my notes, that Holmes and myself were hurtling through the countryside in a train compartment. The aim of our journey was not to meddle in intrigue or bloodshed, though we were hurtling towards it none the same, the sun slanting through the windows and illuminating the weary lines carving deep channels into my dear companion's face. Being his unofficial doctor (Holmes refused to seek my medical opinion full time; just listened when it pleased him), I had strongly advised a trip to the country to ease the high-strung nerves and shaking hands, signs he was working himself down to a thin slice.
"I don't see why we couldn't have vacationed in Baker Street," said he, tamping down the tobacco in his pipe and frowning at me.
"You can't vacation where you live."
"I disagree. I could have walked by the Thames or in the park. I'm sure it would have been just gorgeous." He smirked.
That was the end of that, and thus I lost the urge to talk to him any longer and silently studied the lay of the land, wondering how I was going to keep him occupied for a full week when we got to the Inn. Illogically, I almost found myself wishing a theft in one of the country houses. Nothing terrible. Just a small problem unworthy of his contemplation to grease the wheels that had ground reluctantly to a halt.
Halfway to our destination, what was supposed to be a charming little bed and breakfast in Kent, the train broke down. We heard a sort of grinding sound coming from the engine room and then the wheels were squalling against the tracks as the emergency brake was thrown. Holmes perked up in his seat, a dash of color appearing high on his colorless cheekbones.
"That didn't sound good," I said, setting aside the Times. Living with the unpredictability that was Sherlock Holmes, I had fallen very far behind the Times lately. That seems to happen when you live with a man shooting holes into the walls and striking out to the butcher's to whack at a pig in the attempt to produce a suitable bruise pattern for comparison with a human corpse.
"Dear me," said Holmes, a small smile working at the left corner of his mouth. He chuckled. "Maybe it is like a divine finger pointing us back to London."
"It's nothing, I'm sure."
I pretended to read my paper, but was distracted by the sight of an engineer, his oily black knuckles fisted at his sides, striding angrily past our compartment.
A moment later he came striding back and rapped fitfully on our glass door. I slid it open.
"Gents," he said nervously, wringing his hands. "'Fraid she's beyond my administrations. We has to sit and wait til the boys bring me the right part to tinker with, but I'm pleased to tell you she's broken down a mile from the nearest station. If you hurry you can catch a train before it departs and goes on to Kent." He finished his speech with a strained smile.
Sherlock Holmes nodded and rose to retrieve his suitcase from the rack.
"I hope your leg is agreeable to a little walk, Watson."
"I think I can manage," I said.
The walk to the station through the flat, green countryside passed in silence. Discarded papers rustled by on the tracks, blown there by a light breeze. The train was indeed waiting for us and once Holmes explained the situation to the man in the ticket booth, he issued us a free ticket and we prepared to climb aboard.
As we were turning back to the train, the wind picking up now and blowing bits of paper around my ankle, Holmes abruptly stopped and held out his arm to prevent me from going any further.
"See them?" He hissed.
He pointed. I followed his finger and saw two figures sprinting across the grass, just cresting a distant hill and now coming down the other side. Though seen from a distance, they were still remarkably small and I thought they must be children.
"They're late for the train," I answered. And tried to take another step forward, though his sinewy arm still pressed into my chest.
"Perhaps," said my companion resignedly. I had seen the momentary flicker of interest in his eyes and watched it fade, and reflected that it reminded me of a sunset, a bright flash of light, followed by darkness.
"See, here they come. All is well."
Still, he prevented me from moving forward on the platform. The sun beat down on the back of my neck and a bead of sweat rolled lazily down a temple.
"With no suitcases? How queer," said Holmes. And then he half-ran forward to get a better look at them, the ends of his traveling cloak flapping at the sudden movement.
"See if you can dig my binoculars out of my suitcase Watson. This looks to be a nasty business."
What a queer request! I pondered. The children would be here in less than a minute and they grew bigger and clearer on the horizon line every moment. Was he really that impatient?
"Not to see the children by. See that, in the distance? A curl of smoke on the horizon? Would you say it is the kind of day that warrants the use of a chimney? And what a monstrous chimney it would be!"
I sorted anxiously through his suitcase, throwing aside trousers and binders where the nastiest criminals in London were all on horrific display. He had brought his materials to study, then, I thought with a sinking heart, before my hand finally closed around something hard and I pulled the binoculars from the depths and he snatched them from my hands.
"Indeed, it's as I thought," he said sadly. "Someone should knock up the constabulary this instant."
The child-sized figures approached the platform and climbed the steps two at a time. Both were panting, and I realized with a shudder that the boy had blood on his trousers.
Holmes hurried over to them and crouched down beside them. The girl was weeping, her face buried in her hands, the long black braid down her back trembling as she shook. The boy, who was a couple of years older, about thirteen at a guess, was going into shock, his glazed eyes not swallowing his surroundings, but passing over them.
"What happened?" He gently placed a hand on the girl's shoulder and she lifted her tear stained face from her hands. Her face was creased with sorrow, her big orb like eyes now leaking silent tears down her narrow face.
"My mum's dead and the house burned down," she sobbed. And then fell forward into my friend's waiting arms.