The worst of days – Part 2

Sherlock:

"Hopkins, how are you? On any new case yet?" I greeted the young inspector, sitting behind his desk, overflowing with papers, in his dingy office. All offices in the Yard had a distinctly claustrophobic feel to them, but in comparison to this shoe box, Inspector Lestrade's office seemed positively lofty.

"Fortunately not." was his reply. "I am still trying to make my last case as watertight as can possibly be."

"But I had thought we had done so already."

"Yes, me, too. But now Granville has managed to hire Sir Frederick Cartwright as his defence attorney and I do not want that man to slip out of our grasp because of some stupid mistake. So I am going through it again." he answered with zeal in his voice.

"If there is anything we can do to help, you know where to find us," I assured him, knowing the attorney's reputation as being one of the best.

Taking an uncomfortable looking chair from the corner behind the door, where it had been put away to be out of the way and pushing it towards Hopkins' desk, I sat down across from him. He knew of course, why I was calling and had already pulled out all references regarding Mrs Watson's accident as well as a map of London. - Not that I needed one, but I was thankful anyway.

"This is where it happened," he told me, pointing at a spot where Hyde Park Street joined Bayswater Road.

"According to witnesses, the carriage came from the direction of Marble Arch. Mrs Watson had just crossed Bayswater Road, coming out of the park, with her son in his pram."

With one hand he indicated the carriage and with the other the mother and her child. - Mary and Henry Watson.

"The carriage then turned into Hyde Park Street abruptly and without dampening the speed and hence dashing across the sidewalk, running over the lady and her baby."

"So Mary Watson was not crossing the street at that time?" For some reason, I had always thought that to be the case and I had to remind myself, that I should not jump to conclusions without the necessary data to go with it. With the sparse information, Watson had provided – presumably because he never knew any better himself, I realised an assessment was plainly impossible.

"No, she was on the sidewalk and on her way home from a little outing."

"Was there no oncoming traffic? The carriage crossed the opposite lane after all."

"There was. The other cabby could stop his Hansom only just in time to avoid a collision. Jack Simms is his name. His statement is quite detailed and he was one of the first to help the injured lady. He was the one who fetched Doctor Watson."

"What time did the accident happen?"

"Around two in the afternoon."

"And no-one else was injured? The streets must have been busy at that time of day."

"It was fairly busy. - A few younger men, walking as a group, stumbled and fell, but did not injure themselves apart from the odd bruise and the warden regulating the traffic only just managed to get out of the way. Another woman had sprained her ankle, but Mrs Watson and little Henry were the only ones who got seriously injured."

"I never asked the date."

"It happened on Saturday the 24th of June 1893."

I wrote down the time, date, day and place, noting that soon I would need a new notebook.

"This is all we could find out. There are the statements and our conclusions. I am afraid it is not much."

Handing me the thin folder he made a rueful face.

"Little information is better than none," I told him, taking the papers from him. He grinned lopsidedly and after I had finished my reading in little less than two hours, making notes and comparing statements, I knew why. The official records contained little more information than what I had gathered from Hopkins' short recapitulation anyway.

Mary Watson, née Morstan and her son Henry S. Watson were run over by a four-wheeled carriage that, some people were sure, had sported a coat of arms. It had been a sunny Saturday in June shortly after lunchtime at the corner of Bayswater Road and Hyde Park Street when mother and child were on their way home from a stroll in the park. That indeed was not much to go on.

The information about the coat of arms would indeed have been most valuable, had it not been for the fact that the description of it varied so widely, that at this point it was impossible to say, if there even had been a coat of arms, let alone to establish who owned the vehicle in question. And so people described a dark background with some silver rings, others wanted to have seen shields with a blue backing and a silver cross and again others had said there had been nothing of that kind, while yet another witness was certain, that the side of the carriage had been damaged and had a dent in the door, pretty much where a coat of arms would usually be attached. An advertisement in the papers had not hailed an answer and so for all we knew, the carriage could belong to anyone – or might even have been stolen.

It would perhaps explain the excessive speed with which the carriage was travelling. Or was there another reason? In none of the reports, it had been stated that the vehicle had been chased. So why rouse suspicion by driving like the devil? Could it be the horses had shied and bolted, completely out of control? A few people, after all, had said that they had needed to jump aside. But why would the horses bolt? Carriage horses usually were chosen for their mellow and docile temper. - Much like artillery horses. Next to nothing could upset them. So why was it, that the driver went so fast? An emergency? A crime? Or sheer irresponsibility? And then, why had they not stopped to help the badly injured woman and her baby? Did they not notice they had been run over? Did they not care? Or again, could there be another reason?

Out of all these questions forming at the back of my mind, only one I could answer: A carriage was no locomotive – one must feel, that something or someone had been hit and run over.

So, back to square one… - why would someone care so little about his fellow creatures that he would just leave them lying there in their blood? Not bothering to even look whether it had been man or object that had been hit? I could see, why Hopkins was troubled so by this incident. This was much more than a simple accident. This was not just fate.

"Could you show me the exact spot?" I asked the young official when I had finished my reading and had been done with my notes and contemplations.

He nodded, getting up from his equally uncomfortable chair, stretching himself.

Taking a cab, we took the exact same direction the carriage had taken that fateful day. To our left, the expansive green of Hyde Park stretched out and to our right rows of houses rose up, lining the street, most three stories high – not counting the attics.

We reached the junction soon enough. It was indeed a safe place to cross over from the park, the policeman once more standing on his pedestal, regulating the constant flow of cabs, carts, bus traffic and cyclists and letting the pedestrians cross in safety. Realising that Mary Watson had not taken the shortest but the safest route home, left me with a desolate sadness, my heart aching for my friends. But it also made me angry. Sometimes life just was not fair! And I hardly knew anyone more deserving of happiness than this little family had been. And still, it was not to last. I thought of my own wife, my own current happiness and promised myself to cherish every moment of it, as long as fate would have it last.

"Here it was," Hopkins had walked around a bit and now pointed at a spot in front of his feet. "You can see the scratches on the side of the lamppost even now."

I looked at it, standing a few feet away from the place Hopkins indicated.

"Mrs Watson had been thrown against it by the force of the impact, injuring her back in the process."

I felt sick to the stomach in compassion, not quite able to repress my emotions as well as I usually would.

"And little Henry?" Somehow I had managed to sound as if I were talking about the weather.

"The pram toppled over and the baby fell out, hitting his head on the pavement." Hopkins swallowed hard. "He did not die immediately. Doctor Watson's practise is close and he was here within ten minutes. - The baby died in his arms."

Closing my eyes to hide my grief, I now knew why Watson had never spoken about his son. The memory alone already too painful to be borne. Never a very emotional man myself I was more shaken than I would allow anyone to see. Had it been me, my life would have come to an end.

"I wonder what Watson had been doing in his practice on a Saturday." I, at last, managed to say, regaining some of my composure.

"As far as I know he was preparing everything for a weeks holiday with his little family."

Just as I had thought things could not get any worse, they did. That fatal day must have begun with so much joy and hope and it ended in tragedy and devastation. - I decidedly dealt better with cases that did not involve my close friends or my own family.

"How could he be reached that fast after the accident? Was there someone among the bystanders that knew the family?"

"The lady was badly injured, but not unconscious. Only when the doctor sedated her did she pass out. She must have been in horrible pain, but she had only eyes for her son."

Forcing myself to concentrate on the hard facts I made a mental sketch of the crossroads. The sidewalk was wide as were both roads. Bayswater Road, being a thoroughfare was busier than Hyde Park Street but was regulated throughout the day.

"What about the policeman? Did he not make a statement?" I could not recall having read an official statement.

"Oh, that was Frank Bates, you must have read it for sure."

I had, just that I had not seen his rank mentioned. As it turned out, he had none, having volunteered for the day to fill the position.

"Why was that?" I inquired, surprised at this oddity. Normally older constables short of retirement would be on duty as traffic warden, not any given volunteer.

"Because of the speech."

"What speech?"

"Gladstone's speech down in Hyde Park. We needed some more people and so a few volunteers filled the lesser positions that day. - Mainly regulating traffic."

Gladstone's speech? The three years of absence still caught up with me, even after almost a year back I had not yet managed to catch up on everything that had then escaped my notice. But suddenly a letter from Mycroft came to mind. During a public speech of the Prime Minister, a group of radicals had tried to kill the man. Could it be that…?

When asked Hopkins confirmed that it indeed had been the very same event. Deep in thought, I thanked him and decided to walk home.

This surely would not be a three-pipe-problem.

xxx

As I neared my home I realised that I was almost impatient with seeing and holding my wife again. Coming home suddenly felt so much better than it had ever done before.

But when I walked into the sitting room of 221b Baker Street, it was deserted. Neither Harriet nor Watson were anywhere to be seen, with the latter still being out. Having told my wife to rest, I cast an amused glance at the bedroom door, and opening it, I peeped through the small gap I had produced, only to find that chamber empty likewise. Having been almost desperately looking forward to embracing the woman I loved, I felt decidedly let down. Annoyed I rang for some tea and as if I had been anticipated it was brought up promptly. As soon as I looked up and at the woman carrying the tea tray, my irritation was gone. Here she was, looking oddly at home in this bachelor den of mine.

"You look vexed." She remarked, looking concerned. "Is something the matter?"

"Not anymore."

Taking the tray from her hands and putting it down on the table I pulled her into my arms, resting my chin on her shoulder.

"I have missed you, that is all."

"But you were only gone for little more than five hours, Sherlock."

"With the information disclosed to me, it felt like a lifetime."

Snuggling into the embrace she did not dig deeper, knowing I would tell her eventually. Who would have thought I would ever find a woman who possessed the ability to keep silent for any length of time? Feeling better already for the comfort I received and inwardly smirking at my own sarcastic thought – so misplaced when all this tragedy made my heart heavy, I longed for a bit of cheerful banter and so I remarked on it.

"I must warn you now, seeing that I am a woman, you will not be able to rely on my silence at all. It very much depends on my mood. - And the situation, of course. So be sure, that the least suitable instance will be the one, where I won't keep my mouth shut." she warned me, her eyes sparkling with suppressed laughter.

"I had feared as much..."

"But at least I gave you a fair warning."

"I still harbour the hope, that at least you will say something fairly sensible even then."

"I can be extremely silly at times."

"Oh dear! But I should have expected as much. But I said fairly sensible, so we have to see that in comparison to the rest of the conversation." I quipped.

Hands on her hips she looked at me with mock sternness, fully aware I was teasing her.

Carrying on I added: "You know, everybody is silly from time to time. - Apart from me, of course. I am such a rational and sensible man, it's simply not in my nature to be silly at all."

"Considering that I must say, you are doing a very good job at it right now."

"I have an adept teacher."

Laughing and slapping my backside in a playful manner she tried to escape through the nearest door, which was the one to our bedroom.

"Oh no, no escaping into the bedroom!" I cried, catching her to kiss her. "Though on second thought..." I mused, eyeing the door in question.

xxx

Harriet:

When I woke up it was already getting dark. I could hear voices coming from the living room – my husband, I presumed, since he was not with me anymore, and somebody else. And since I could not even distinguish between the voices as they spoke in low tones, I only knew Sherlock was not talking to a woman. I decided, after re-dressing, to take the door leading into the hallway, rather than the one that afforded a direct access into the living room, so I would not interrupt my husband in his work, without giving him notice of my entering. Knocking timidly at the door, it was almost immediately answered by a perplexed looking Doctor Watson.

"Whatever are you knocking for, Mrs Holmes? This is your home, too, you know?"

"I thought there might be a client there, that you were talking to. I did not want to interrupt you without warning."

Shaking his head, my husband remarked: "I would have woken you up in a minute or two anyway. Dinner is ready to be served, so Mrs. Hudson informed us, and we have just been wondering, what she'll serve us."

"Roast chicken, Brussels sprouts, and potatoes."

"Ah!" smiled my husband and a moment later added: "I see you have been taking care of the sprouts."

"How on earth do you know that?" I looked at him aghast, while Doctor Watson gave a small smile.

"You happen to know whom you have married, Mrs Holmes, don't you?"

Looking at my hands I could see the slightest hint of greenish dirt stuck underneath my fingernails as a reminder of what I had busied myself with.

"I see you learn fast." my husband commented, as he pulled back a chair for me.

"Well, I cannot have you surprise me all the time with your tricks of observation and deduction. Or one day you'll end up thinking you are superior to me."

He raised an eyebrow in challenging amusement.

"And I prefer to have you as my equal." I continued, mirroring his expression.

"For a moment I was scared there..." he sighed in seeming relief.

From the corner of my eye, I could see his friend shake with suppressed laughter, but once dinner had been served, the conversation from the morning resumed and became almost uncomfortably serious.

"So, Watson, did you have an answer from your wife? Will it suit her if I go down to Torbay tomorrow?"

"She is looking forward to it. Here is her address." he handed Sherlock a neatly folded piece of paper. "Is there anyway, you might find out why? - And perhaps even who?"

"I think I have a good chance of doing so, Watson. I will speak to your wife tomorrow and ask Mycroft if he can spare some of his valuable time in order to see me the day after."

"Mycroft?" the doctor looked at my husband in astonishment.

"Yes, something caught my attention and he is the best person to clear matters up."

Expectantly Doctor Watson kept staring at his friend, who did not seem to notice, being deep in thought.

"Sherlock?"

"Yes?"

"What is it, that caught your attention?"

"The time and place did. - The combination of time and place." was his pensive answer as he fell silent once more.

The remainder of the meal no-one spoke, but it was not an uncomfortable silence that surrounded us. When the table was cleared and the two men were smoking their after-dinner cigar, something that I had explicitly allowed them to do, I at last thought that another subject might be introduced.

"When is the new pageboy arriving?"

"I did not know you hired a new page." The doctor sounded surprised.

"I did when we were in Winchester."

Now both, Doctor Watson and I, looked at each other in astonishment.

"When on earth did you hire a page boy while we stayed in Winchester?" I inquired incredulously. Of course, I had heard his remark the day before, informing Mrs, Hudson about the boy's arrival from there and that she would need to prepare his room, but I had thought his origin to be a weird coincidence. Now I knew better.

"When your mother took care of you."

"You told me you helped Inspector Hopkins and then were reading up on medieval dovecotes."

"I did both and thus I stumbled over the perfect addition to our household."

"Just like that?"

"Yes, just like that." Smoking thoughtfully for a few moments he added after a while: "should I have spoken to you first? I did not think you would mind. You have met the young man in question. His name is Tom – no surname."

"You hired little Tom? But is he not a bit too young to work as a page boy just yet?" I was taken utterly by surprise.

"Perhaps he is a bit young, but he is such a promising little chap it would have been a shame to leave him in the gutter. - There must be some old clothes from our former page somewhere in the attic – he grew out of his things faster than one could climb up the stairs. But I would suggest you get him something decent when running your errands tomorrow."

I was very moved by his considerate idea and got up to kiss him.

"He is also very devoted to you already, from what I have gathered." my husband smiled. "But then again, who would not be?"

"Where do you want me to start?" I sighed theatrically, suppressing a cheeky grin.

"Not at all, I won't believe a word you are saying."