The Haunting of Dr Watson

Chapter Four

I tossed and turned for the better part of the night before drifting off at dawn. The consequence of this was that I awoke late, in time to hear the slamming of the front door as my daughter departed.

After breakfast, I telephoned George's office and, having met several times with an engaged line, saw that I should have to call upon him in person. Evidently he was there, as his busy line indicated, and I hoped not too preoccupied to look into the matter of the slanderous accusations made by the ghost of Sir Eustace Brackenstall.

Holmes was strangely absent – strangely, because given the nature of our visit, I should have expected him to have taken a greater interest – so I made the journey to London alone. Returning after an absence always offers the thrill of the unknown for the capital's landscape is in a constant state of evolution, like those alien worlds so beloved by the writers of fantasy stories. The traffic was heavier, and the smells and sights of the horse-populated streets of my youth had given way to the throb and roar of the motor engine. A single pony and trap, the conveyance of a country parson, was causing havoc in Piccadilly, as the beast, confused by horns and the press of people, bucked and reared in its traces. Horse-power of blood and sinew was now surely supplanted by another of petrol and metal.

As a consequence, I pulled up outside our former Baker Street lodgings a good hour later than I had anticipated. Here too was change. The paint was peeling on the window ledges and the step was littered with cigarette ash. It was a sight that in days past would have sent Mrs Hudson rushing for her bucket and mop. As if in answer to my thoughts, a daily woman emerged, a paisley scarf wrapped around the curlers in her hair and a limp cigarette drooping from her lips. Kitchen water sufficed to wash down the step, scattering oddments of green vegetation and potato peel onto the pavement as the brownish liquid wended its way towards the gutter. This vision in laddered stockings and bulging apron saw me looking and scowled, adding the sort of remark once confined to the lowest dockside taverns.

Then, to add to my woes, came the sound of authority, as a gruff, world-weary policeman cleared his throat and asked me what I thought I was doing.

"Parking, constable," said I. "I have business across the road."

"Oh, do you now?" he replied. "Well, you can't leave that vehicle here. It's blocking the traffic."

I am not beyond an appeal to sentiment when faced with the prospect of having to find alternative parking arrangements. "I used to live here, you know," I said jovially. "My name is Dr Watson."

The policeman looked unimpressed. "And I'm the Queen of Sheba. Hop it, granddad, before I give you a ticket."

I steered the motor back out into the traffic. Rudely stripped of my nostalgia, I recalled all the reasons why I had been so eager to leave London in the first place.

By the time I returned, having left the car at an inconvenient distant from my destination, it was to find Holmes waiting for me. His gaze was fixed on the upper windows of 221B and, if I was any judge, his thoughts were unfavourable.

"Observe the curtains," he muttered. "I should say they last saw soap and water in the reign of the old king. Mrs Hudson would turn in her grave if she was to see such a travesty. She had her faults, Watson, but we were never disgraced by dirty windows."

"Indeed, she was an exemplary landlady. And much tried," I added fondly.

"If by that remark you mean to examine my failings as a tenant, I should remind you that the rent was never late, nor did I scandalise the neighbourhood with my activities, as some lodgers are wont to do."

I chuckled. "That much is true. As for the rest…"

"Mrs Hudson never complained and nor did I. It was an arrangement that suited us both and one we were mutually sorry to end. However, she was old and I was…" He paused and a little of the fire died in his pale eyes. "Well, I dare say it does not matter now. Let us go up and beard young George Lestrade in his den. Lingering in this vicinity holds few attractions for me."

"Is that why you didn't accompany me this morning?"

"Was my presence necessary?"

"Your company would have been welcome."

He avoided my gaze. "Then you must excuse my absence. I had other business to attend to."

"Your brother?"

Holmes gave vent to an involuntary laugh. "Dear me, no. He's far too busy to answer a request from his beleaguered sibling. If I know Mycroft, he's probably organising the heavenly choirs into various sub-committees as we speak. Shall we go, Doctor? Tempus fugit, as we are oft reminded."

Another change that had come to our former haunts was that Camden House opposite had been given over to offices. Among the brass nameplates by the door was one bearing the proud inscription 'The Baker Street Detective Agency'. Modesty and his grandfather's mortification had prevented the younger Lestrade from using anything else, perhaps wisely considering that the agency had but one detective and he a loose-limbed young fellow given to reading cheap mystery fiction and championing Rin Tin Tin as his role model.

I had heard too that he was struggling, not surprisingly given the country's economic state. Still reeling from the King's magnanimous offer to reduce his budget for the duration of the crisis, the nation had awoken but a few days before to the news that sterling had been taken off the Gold Standard. There was talk too that MacDonald's all-party Coalition was failing and that a second General Election was imminent. Overall, George could not have chosen a worse time to set out his stall as an aspiring private detective.

Inside, the cobwebs of yesterday had been swept away and the walls gleamed with new paint. As I climbed the stairs to George's office, the stairs gave that familiar creak I remembered from the night of Holmes' return when we had lain in wait in expectation of the murderous intentions of the late Colonel Moran. Regard or misplaced sentiment had persuaded George that the only room in the building suited to his purpose was that we had used, commanding, as Holmes had so aptly described it, so excellent a view of our former picturesque pile. The door had been replaced since my last visit and it was on this half-timbered barrier with its gaudy gold inscription painted on the glass that I knocked and waited for admittance.

It took some little time to attract its inhabitant's attention. From inside came the tinny sound of the wireless, humming an interference-laden version of Tiptoe through the Tulips. I banged louder and was rewarded with the clatter that accompanies intense activity. The wireless was silenced, footsteps scurried in my general direction and the door was thrown open.

I saw the fleeting trace of disappointment that his visitor was not a prospective client eclipsed by the sparkling effusiveness of his welcome.

"Dr Watson!" cried George, shaking my hand with vigour. "Well, this is a surprise. Come in, come in."

The seat I was offered was hard on my old bones and lacked the ease which we had customarily displayed to Holmes' clients. The room too was devoid of character. Bare walls, bare wooden boards, several framed and questionable testimonials propped up beside the wireless, and a large plaster bust of my erstwhile friend on a pedestal before the window. Several of the panes were cracked and a sizeable portion had been lost from the back of the bust's head, evidence, so Holmes informed me, that there was a child in the neighbourhood in possession of a catapult.

"How are things?" I enquired.

"Well, Doctor, very well," said he, smiling and nodding too enthusiastically to be convincing. "I've had a few teething troubles, but it's to be expected."

"How so?"

He shrugged. "Oh, you know. The usual."

"What is the usual?" I pressed. "When Holmes was in practice, we never had two days the same."

"No, of course. But then Mr Holmes was a genius."

From his position by the window, I caught the beginnings of a smile on my friend's face.

"The worst of it is that the clients have unrealistic expectations," George continued. "They expect you to solve the case in a day."

"That might have something to do with your claim of 'speedy solutions', George." I had been perusing the stack of advertising leaflets with their ambitious boast that lay on the desk. "'Satisfaction guaranteed' is equally unrealistic, don't you agree? Not even Holmes could please all of his clients all of the time."

"It wouldn't be so bad if I could please some of them some of the time." George pulled an unhappy face. "You have to give people confidence, Dr Watson. People won't come to you if you say you might be able to solve the case."

"How very true," remarked Holmes.

"People have less confidence still if you fail to deliver," I reminded him. "When I was in practice, I found that people were more likely to gossip about a doctor's failures than his successes. It is the nature of the business."

The young man bridled. "Why, what have they been saying? I found Mrs O'Reilly's dog, like I said I would. It wasn't my fault that it got run over. If she had had it on a lead in the first place, it wouldn't have escaped and ran out in front of my motorcycle—"

"George, I have heard nothing," I said soothingly. "I am not here to question your methods. On the contrary, I wish to engage your services."

His honest face brightened. "You do? Well, of course, glad to help. Only I am rather busy at the moment…"

George delved into his drawer and produced his appointment book. From its pages fell a well-thumbed copy of the Union Jack magazine with its cover detailing the exploits of that other Baker Street detective, Sexton Blake. George kicked the offending article under his desk and we both pretended we had never seen it.

"You are in luck, Watson." Holmes had wandered behind George and was reading over his shoulder. "The business of detection is decidedly slack at the moment. Indeed, he has nothing pressing until Christmas when I see he is to dine with his grandfather. Do you think our case will take that long?"

I ignored what passed for Holmes' sense of humour and concentrated on George.

"I did have something pressing," he lied, "but as it's you, Dr Watson, I'll make an exception."

"Generous of him," muttered Holmes.

"Now what's the problem?"

"You've seen today's paper."

I knew he had because a battered copy of The Daily Blast was on his desk. George, however, frowned.

"I haven't read it properly. I always start with the personal columns, you see, just like Mr Holmes used to do."

He indicated the page. That he had studied it was evident, for several items had been circled in pencil.

"'Do you want to be taller?'," Holmes read out. "'Dr Elias' Cure for Ugly Noses'. Dear me, standards have fallen since our day, Watson."

I took the paper and flicked through the pages until I found the article in question under the bold headline 'Dr Watson denies miscarriage of justice'. As George read, his eyes grew ever larger until they bulged like golf balls under the untidy rough of his blond hair. Finally finished, he dropped the paper and gulped.

"Golly," said he.

"My sentiments exactly."

"What do you want me to do?"

"I do not intend to take this Professor Warwick's word for it that the Abbey Grange is haunted. What I need is proof that this is nothing more than an attempt to bolster his own reputation at the expense of mine."

"And mine," noted Holmes.

"Quite so."

George blinked. "You want me to prove he's a fraud?"

"Yes."

"What if he isn't?" He shifted uncomfortably in his chair. "I mean to say, I don't believe in ghosts, Dr Watson. Mr Holmes never did."

"Then you will have no problem in disproving Warwick's claim."

"But what…" He lowered his voice. "If there is a ghost?"

"Why are you whispering?"

George sat up and looked bewildered. "I don't know. I was taught not to speak ill of the dead."

"I fear in the case of Sir Eustace, there was nothing good to be said of him."

"Yes, I remember your story. He killed his wife's dog."

"And worse, besides."

"What's worse than killing a defenceless animal?"

"George," I interrupted. "Will you take the case?" I thought of my finances and the stack of bills awaiting me at home. That, weighed against the likely court costs if it ever went before a judge, made up my mind as to a suitable payment for his services. "I'll pay you twenty pounds."

"In advance?"

"Certainly, if that would help."

He nodded eagerly. "It would. I've got the rent due, you see." He watched as I drew the notes from my wallet. "You'll want to speak to this Professor Warwick, Dr Watson?"

"That was my intention."

"Only it says in the article that he's giving a lecture to the Ghost Club this evening in South Kensington. We might catch him off his guard if we meet him there."

"A capital idea," said Holmes. "There is hope for the boy, after all."

"Very well. What time shall I call to collect you?"

George's expression dropped. "Have you still got that old car, sir?"

The car in question had finally stuttered to a halt after many years faithful service and had earned a well-deserved retirement in my garage. The last time I had called upon George's assistance, he had been greatly embarrassed by the vehicle and it came as no surprise to me that his memories of it were not as fond as mine. When I assured him that I was in possession of a newer model, his smile returned.

"What is it?" he asked, hurrying to the window. "Another Ford? I can't see it."

"No, I had to park around the corner. There was a policeman—"

"Is he still out there?" Nearly knocking the bust from its stand, he ran across the room and threw a towel over the wireless. He saw me looking and blushed. "He keeps asking if I've got a licence for it, you see."

I eyed him with concern. "George, exactly how bad are things?"

His face fell and he subsided into his chair with a forlorn sigh.

"Pretty bad. To tell you the truth, sir, I haven't had a client in weeks. I've had to take a job delivering door to door in the mornings to make ends meet. I can't tell my grandfather. He took out a mortgage on his house to help get me started. I'm already behind in my repayments and his savings won't cover it. This has to work, Dr Watson. He could lose his home if we can't repay the loan."

The thought of the elderly Lestrade being turned out in the streets was too hard to contemplate. I asked George how much was owed. He mentioned a sum beyond even my resources. Nor was I sure that he would accept help if it was offered. What was needed was a successful case, otherwise we might all find ourselves homeless.

"Well, George," said I. "We can but try."

Poor George. He means well, but is he a hopeless case? And what will Professor Warwick have to say for himself?

Find out in Chapter Five!