The Case of the Two Survivors

Chapter One

It is true to say that some years stand out in one's memory as being more remarkable than others. After the busy year of 1889, my recollection of that which followed is, by contrast, of a rather slower period, when my contact with Mr Sherlock Holmes was limited to some extent by the demands of matrimony and a burgeoning private practice.

If that year is to carry any special distinction, it must therefore be for those few cases, three of which I retain record, in which we pursued the investigations together as was our practice of old. Of the curious business of the Red-Headed League and the particular predicament of Miss Violet Hunter and her experience at the house known as The Copper Beeches have the public already been informed as to details.

But of the third of those cases, and the one that even now, with the distance of many years, conjures that year of 1890 so vividly in my mind is that which again brought us into contact with Holmes's elder brother, not, as before, on account of some business brought to his door, but on a matter that touched rather closer to home.

It happened that on the Saturday in question in late June, an early call had taken me past my former rooms at Baker Street. With my patient at ease, I was seized by the greatest desire to call upon my old friend.

The hour was late enough for Holmes to have risen but not gone beyond a decent hour for breakfast. Faced with returning home for the dubious offerings being served by the genial if incompetent woman standing in for our housekeeper whilst she was away visiting an ailing relative, I decided to throw myself on Mrs Hudson's mercies and trusted to her admirable skill of being to produce an edible meal for a hungry visitor at short notice.

As it happened, my arrival was timely. Holmes was indeed up, but that seemed to be the extent of his activity for the day. Clad still in dressing gown, though shaved and groomed, he appeared listless and ill at ease. This unhappy state I knew from long experience was the result of too many hours spent escaping the company of his own thoughts with the aid of artificial stimulants.

I fancy that he brightened a little when I he saw me, though not enough to rouse himself from his chair. He regarded me with half-closed eyes whilst puffing at his long cherry-wood pipe, itself a warning that all was not well with him. I did not have far to look for the signs of his recent preoccupations and I fancy that the onset of a frown soon settled upon my face.

"Doctor, it is considered unforgivably bad manners to harangue the host when one has come begging for breakfast," Holmes drawled, pre-empting, as was his wont, my very thoughts before I had a chance to put them into words.

"I have not come begging," I said in protest. "I was passing and thought to see how you were faring."

He waved a dismissive hand. "And now you have seen for yourself, you wear your disapproval for my amusements of late all too evidently."

"You know my opinion on the subject."

"Which you have been kind enough to share with me on occasions too numerous to mention. So let us omit that tiresome and unnecessary re-treading of old ground, which we both find such a chore, and instead concentrate on the reason for your presence here this morning. We will accept without question your burning desire to revisit your bachelor haunts and the fellowship of your freer days, and come to the secondary motive for your bursting in upon me this fine morning."

"Very well," I conceded, smiling. "How did you know?"

He grinned behind his pipe. "You have that hungry look about you, Watson. The moment you entered, your eyes fell not on me, but on the table. Your expression lit up considerably when you observed that Mrs Hudson had yet to lay the breakfast things. I do declare that had you been cast into an oubliette in days of yore, your gaolers would not have had long to wait before you were ready to pour out every one of your secrets in return for a half-decent meal. Your housekeeper is away, I take it?"

"Yes, Mrs Jessop is away visiting her relations."

"Ah. Then you have fallen foul of that most lamentable of situations, whereupon you find yourself reliant on the skills of a temporary cook."

"I do indeed. Her greens are soggy and her Yorkshire puddings leave much to be desired. As for her gravy, well, the least said about that, the better in my opinion."

"Most unfortunate," said Holmes, his tone rather more amused than sympathetic. "And will the redoubtable Mrs Jessop be remaining in your employ when you complete your move?"

I felt a certain slackness take hold of my jaw. "How the devil did you know that?"

He gestured with the stem of his pipe to my left coat pocket and the newspaper that I placed there earlier. "The property page of the Daily Telegraph, my dear fellow, and the ink smudges I see upon your fingers are quite conclusive. A man does not generally expend such care in reading the property advertisements unless he is seeking alternative accommodation. Paddington does not please you?"

"Mary suggested that Kensington might prove more fruitful."

"You are not of the same mind."

"Holmes," said I with a sigh in acknowledgement of his perspicacity.

"It is no great feat of deduction, Watson. You said that this planned move was the suggestion of your wife, a very interesting choice of words. Had it been your ambition or a joint decision, you would have said so. In addition, you have mentioned before that you have a healthy quota of patients." He smiled. "If healthy is the right word."

I chuckled. "Well, it is perfectly simple when you explain it."

He waved my remark aside. "It is a mere trifle, Watson, a parlour trick to amuse the unobservant and dull-witted."

I knew him well enough not to be offended by his comment, biting as it was, knowing that it sprang from a need for conflict to break the monotony of what would otherwise prove to be another tedious day. As he had done before, I now chose to ignore this slight and moved instead to strike at the heart of the matter.

"I take it you have no cases at present, Holmes?"

"An excellent observation," said he, dryly.

I gave him a tolerant look of mild reproof and he sighed.

"Forgive me, my dear fellow, you find me as a ship on a breezeless ocean – becalmed, and much the worse for it."

"I am afraid I cannot help you," said I. "I find myself less a stormy petrel these days and more of an albatross."

Holmes leaned back in his chair and pressed his fingertips together. "And a hungry albatross at that," said he with a smile. "If the analogy holds, then your arrival is indeed fortuitous, for I know that Mrs Hudson has kippers in store which she has been attempting to pass onto me for several days now."

"You are not eating?" I inquired.

"Not kippers, no. Oh, please, help yourself. Food holds very little attraction for me at the present."

Mrs Hudson had chosen that moment to make an appearance, bearing a tray laden with covered plates and a gently steaming coffee pot. Her expression was eloquence itself as she glanced at Holmes, gave a faint shake of her head and raised her brows to heaven. I made muttered assurances that I would endeavour to make him take something and she departed, still deeply unhappy about her brooding tenant.

I poured coffee for us both and returned to my seat beside the fire. Holmes gave a dull noise that sounded like gratitude for my consideration and beyond an initial glance at the contents of the cup I had set beside him gave it not another thought.

This inattention worried me more than his other indiscretions. Closer inspection confirmed what had been my first impression, that his face seemed gaunter than ever, and the manner in which his clothes hung upon him indicated that his frame was suffering from deprivations which could only have negative effects on his overall well-being.

"Holmes, I know your diet is spare at the best of times, but I do not see how starving yourself will make your current situation any more bearable."

"Food is a fuel, Watson, like coals for the fire or gas for the light. Since I am forced into inactivity, then what need have I for superfluous nourishment? You say that starving myself will not help; contrarily, tell me what is to be gained by feeding myself with excess food until I become as overstuffed as Mycroft and his equal in waist size and sluggardness?"

"And how is your brother?"

"Alive, one supposes, since I have not heard otherwise. Beyond that…"

He shrugged, and let the thought trail into nothingness. I was concerned enough by his blackness of mood to set aside my plans for the day and determine not to leave his side until some suitable diversion could be found that did not involve his resorting yet again to narcotics.

I consulted my newspaper and was dismayed to find a paucity of pleasing entertainments. Between dancing horses, a celebrated sword-swallower and a singing mouse performing at the Strand Assembly Rooms, there was little to tempt either of us. Even St James's, normally the bastion of the finer tastes of society, could offer nothing more invigorating than a public meeting on the need to control factory emissions in the capital. It was no doubt a worthy subject, but one for which I could summon up little interest that day and Holmes even less.

I was on the point of desperation in suggesting a ramble through town when the sound of wheels outside, followed soon after by a rapping at the front door, gave me hope that a visitor with the prospect of a case would provide the necessary distraction my friend sorely needed to lift him from his ennui. I did not have long to wait. A few moments later, Mrs Hudson came up to tell us that a Mr Athelney Jones of Scotland Yard wished to speak to Mr Holmes.

Seldom have I seen a man move faster. The lethargy that had so marked his previous demeanour was shed in an instant. Holmes was up out of his chair and hurrying for his room before Mrs Hudson had a chance to finish speaking. From his frantic gesticulations before the door closed behind him, I gathered that he wanted me to delay the man while he dressed. Accordingly, I rose to greet the detective and offer him a cup of coffee.

"Thank you, no, Doctor," said he, a little uncomfortably, as though he would have preferred to be anywhere but in my presence. "I won't be staying. I just needed a brief word with Mr Holmes. Is he at home?"

"Yes, he'll be out in a minute."

He forced a smile. "Good. Once this little 'misunderstanding' is cleared up, I'll be on my way."

"Misunderstanding?" I queried.

"A small matter of clarification, nothing more."

I was about to press the detective for details when Holmes appeared, immaculate in dress, as unlike the slothful creature who had been lounging about but a few minutes before as was possible to imagine.

"Inspector Jones," said he. "A vexing case, I see."

Jones paled.

"Your hat, sir," said Holmes. "Those creases in the brim tell of trying times. Do sit down."

"I won't, thank you, Mr Holmes," said Jones. "I'm here today on business." He swallowed with effort and made a concerted effort to look my friend in the eye. "You see, Mr Holmes, the unhappy task falls to me of asking you to account for your whereabouts on Monday last."

Holmes came to an abrupt halt beside the fireplace. He turned on his heel with a quizzical look in his eye.

"My whereabouts, Inspector?"

"I'm afraid I must know, sir."

"Why?"

Again, the detective swallowed. "Because that was the day that a Mr Peter Outhwaite of Burnley, Lancashire, shrugged off this mortal coil. Went with a bang, you might say. His family say there's foul play involved, so I'm bound to investigate. Now then, Mr Holmes, on Monday last, where were you?"


Is Jones implying what I think he's implying?

Continued in Chapter Two!