Warning : English is not my mother tongue. Please excuse and point out eventual language errors.
THE ADVENTURE OF THE DETECTIVE'S SISTER
Mr. Sherlock Holmes scarcely told about his life, especially his family life, as evidenced by the fact that I had never heard of his brother before the events I've related in "The Greek Interpret". The only confidence he ever made me was his parenthood with French painter Horace Vernet. Despite all my efforts, I've never been able to make him talking about his parents nor his childhood. When I insisted too much for his taste, he dryly said:
- Past is dead, Watson. Why wasting your time trying to unearthing it?
I'd have never known anything about my friend's family if I had to count on him. Happily, someone came giving me some answers.
It was a morning of January 1892. When I woke up, the apartment was empty. Holmes was currently working on the case of the Polish Barber, an absorbing case, making him spending all his days and sometimes all his nights out, under various disguises.
So I was having my breakfast alone, reading the Times, when Mrs. Hudson came in.
- Dr Watson, a lady wants to see Mr Holmes.
I didn't understand why she came to me when she only had to answer that Holmes was not at home. I told her, so she replied, with a worried face:
- The lady said she's Mr Holmes' sister, Dr Watson. What must I do? Mr Holmes never told of a sister."
I put The Times down. Sky could fall on my head as well.
- What name did she give you?
- Mrs. Valeria Wolfe. She comes from America, just passing in London.
I deliberated. She could be a usurper, but if she wasn't, it would be a nice occasion to get some first-hand information on my friend.
- Well, let her coming up. I'm curious to meet that lady.
Mrs Hudson nodded. She was about leaving when she turned to me:
- I forgot to tell you... She didn't come alone... She took his son with her. Should he coming up too?
- I'd surely didn't want to miss Mr. Holmes's nephew.
She came out. One minute later, door opened again, giving passage to a tall brown-haired lady and a close ten years-old boy. As soon as I saw her, I knew without any doubt that she really was Holmes' sister. She didn't exactly looked like him - her face was as round and sweet as his brother's was angular and sharp - but the eyes and the light shining in were those of my friend.
- Good morning, she said with a great smile. I suppose you're Dr. Watson.
- I'm glad to see you know me, Mrs Wolfe, for I've got to confess your brother never told me about you.
She had a crystalline laugh.
- Don't worry, Dr. Watson. Sherlock has never been very communicative on that subject. Nor on any subject, in fact. You should read the rare letters he sends me. Here's my son, Rex.
- My name is not Rex, the boy said with a grin.
I paid more attention to him. If nobody would care of that, he'd probably become as fat as his uncle Mycroft. His inflexible look and sulky mouth fold denoted an uneasy temper. Despite those dark premises, I kneeled down before him.
- Glad to meet you, Rex. How are you?
- My name is NOT Rex, he repeated before kicking my knee.
- Rex! Mrs. Wolfe scolded his son as I rubbed my aching knee. You will immediately make excuses to Dr. Watson!
- I don't want he calls me Rex.
She clapped her forehead.
- We won't get in it one more time, Rex. Make excuses to Dr. Watson.
- There's no need..., I began.
- He must learn to be polite, Mrs.Wolfe broke in. Rex, I grow tired of waiting.
Rex's eyes darkened, and he finally groaned, looking at the floor:
- Excuse me, Dr. Watson.
On that he crossed the room and wrapped him into the examination of a flower pot.
- He's not a bad boy, Mrs Wolfe said to me. But he's somehow... wild. And he dislikes leaving his home. He makes my life impossible since we have left New York. At home he spends all his time reading in his room. (She glanced at him as he studied the flowers in the pot.) The only things outside books he has interest in are flowers. I sometime wonder what we'll do out of him.
For my concern, Rex - or whatever could be his real name - had a great need of discipline, and I'd have suggested his mother to send him in a military school, but all this was not my business.
- Mrs Hudson told me Sherlock was not there?
I nodded.
- He's on an affair. He probably won't be back before evening.
She looked disappointed.
- Oh, that's too bad...I've got to take the boat-train at noon. I wanted to see him so much. We meet so rarely.
- He'll probably regret it as much as you do, I comforted her although I had strong doubts about it. But since you are there, why wouldn't you tell me about your family? As you said sooner, Holmes has never been communicative about it, and I'd like to know more about his childhood and youth. (I smiled.) Being his Boswell, I must be well-informed.
She smiled to me in return and sat.
- That's right. What do you want to know?
I went to my room, coming back with pen and paper. I sat to the table, ready to take notes.
- Anything interesting.
I'm currently working on a book largely based on the information took out of this interview and later correspondence with Mrs. Wolfe whose title will be "The Private Life of Sherlock Holmes". Unwilling to spoil it, I'll only resume what she told me, emphasizing on the most important points.
Mycroft, Sherlock and Valeria Holmes had had a quasi-Dickensian childhood. Their father, Mortimer, had drowned his fortune in alcohol and fugitive pleasures; he finally left home when his children respectively were seventeen, five and two. It didn't improve their mother's natural dryness. Harriet Vernet was a very beautiful woman with a heart of glass. Because of his age, Mycroft soon escaped from the hell that family home had became after their father had left, but Sherlock and Valeria had to endure ragging and maltreatments. Knowing that, Holmes' misogyny was more easily explainable.
According to Mrs. Wolfe, and amazingly to me, Sherlock and her were very close when they were children, and it was on her suggestions that he chose detection for his job.
- He wanted to be a violinist, but he was much more gifted for it, she explained with a little smile.
I put my pen, an idea suddenly coming to my mind.
- But you? I asked. Don't you share your brothers' gifts?
She looked somehow embarrassed.
- Not at the same degree..., she answered. Sherlock tried to teach me how to use them as well as he did, but I've never reached his level of excellence. Looking at this room, I can't say anything more than that the case Sherlock is currently working on deals with Polish and that it request him to use disguises.
My amazed face made her smiling.
- Mrs Wolfe, you leave me voiceless! How did you...?
- Sherlock has never had any kind of order; I suppose this English-Polish dictionary negligently thrown on the sofa belongs to him. And I saw a robe behind the door when I entered. That's quite simple. But I couldn't match with Sherlock or Mycroft. (She headed to his son.) Rex is much stronger than me on that game, when he wants to try. Rex! Could you make a demonstration of your talents to Dr. Watson, please?
The odious little boy played the one who had not listened. He didn't take his eyes out of the flower pot.
- Oh! The little plague he is! Mrs Wolfe glanced at her watch. My God! We're going to be late. (She lifted.) Rex, come here, please. We've got to go. It was a pleasure for me to meet you, Dr Watson.
- For me too. I'd have many other questions to ask you. May you give me your address?
- Of course.
I saw them upstairs, and I called a cab.
- Tell Sherlock I regret to have not seen him and I wish him good luck for the case he is on. (She got into the cab, following Rex.) Goodbye, Dr. Watson. Rex, say goodbye.
- Goodbye, the kid reluctantly said.
And as the cab left, he put out his tongue to me. Forgetting my good education, I did him the same.
Holmes went back home late in the evening, disguised as a rabbi.
- Not at bed, Watson? he mockingly said as he took off his beard. You're taking bad habits.
I ignored his remark.
- Your sister went this morning. She was sad to have missed you.
I looked at him. Nothing on his face showed his real feelings, as usual. He went to his room.
- Why didn't you tell me about her, Holmes? I looked like a fool!
Holmes came back, wearing his dressing-gown. He sat, crossed his legs, and filled his pipe.
- I'm an utilitarist, Watson. I speak only when it's useful. How did you find her?
- A very charming person, really. I wouldn't say the same about her horrible son, Rex. He's a little rascal of the nastiest kind.
Holmes lifted his head, thoughtfully sending smoke halos to the ceiling.
- Rex is a nickname. Valeria gave it to him because she doesn't like his real name. I can't blame her for that.
- What's his real name?
- Nero. His father is fond of Roman history. Curiously enough, the boy enjoys that name. For what I know by Valeria and you, he wears it very well.
- You can't imagine how much he does, Holmes, you can't!
There was a silent moment, then Holmes seemed to remember something:
- In her last letter, Valeria told me that Nero has developed interesting deductive capacities.
- She told me so.
- And did he show some of them?
I shook my head.
- All that he has done was groaning, kicking and putting out his tongue. His mother asked him to giving me a demonstration of his so-called gifts, but he refused. The only thing here that seemed to have his approbation was the orchid near the window. Tell me, Holmes, I supposed that Mr. Wolfe is a rich man?
- Very rich, Watson.
- Well, it's better for that boy that he has nothing to fear about his future. Because if he keeps on this way, fat, bad-tempered and only interested by orchids, I strongly doubt that Nero Wolfe was ever able to do anything good.
- You never can tell, Watson, Holmes said with a smile. You never can tell...Please give me my violin, Watson. I know it's late, but I'll play low. Did Valeria tell you I've had thought of being a concertist?
THE END.