The Haunting of Dr Watson

Chapter Seven

I returned to an empty house.

It was the maid's afternoon off and the cook was away visiting an ailing relative. Before this mass desertion had taken place, someone had taken a message to the effect that my daughter had taken the children to Brighton for the weekend and would not be home until Monday afternoon. This was not reassuring news. I had hoped we could talk over our differences; now it would have to wait for her return.

With little to do, I drifted about the house like a lost soul. I tidied papers. I read the newspapers. I listened to Elgar and shuffled through the collection of notes that made up my yet-to-be written memoirs. The few lines I scribbled were swiftly consigned to the dustbin. Holmes has, on occasion, said unkind things about my work and if my efforts that afternoon were anything to judge by, then he was entirely accurate in his assessment.

Finally, I gave up the effort of entertaining myself and sought refuge in sleep. My dreams were tense and disturbing, and it was to my relief when my slumbers were interrupted by the clanging of the bell. Rubbing the sleep from my eyes, I went to answer the door and found to my consternation that it was the medium who had been in my house several nights ago. Grey seemed to be his colour of choice, from the immaculate line of his suit with its subtle stripe to the bowler that set well with his silver hair. The only hint at flamboyance was the flash of gold of his watch chain and the silver pin in his black tie.

Given what Holmes had said, I had not intention of bandying words with the fellow.

"My daughter is not here," I said. "She will not be back before Monday."

"Yes, I know," said he with a benevolent smile. "My young friend Mr French told me that our meeting the other night may have coloured your opinion towards him as a prospective fiancé."

"That is a matter between him and me, sir."

"Indeed," he conceded. "It is none of my business. That is not the reason for my visit. I wished to speak with you, Dr Watson, on another, more pressing issue. But forgive me, I am being unforgivably rude. My card."

The name I read was that of a Mr Aloysius Garfield.

"May I come in?" he asked.

"I am rather busy."

"Please, sir, hear me out," he said, rather more forcefully.

I considered all the reasons against it. Then I thought of my daughter and the unhappy Emily Brown, resting uneasily in her grave. Greater knowledge on my part might protect the one and answer the death of the other.

"I would offer tea," said I, showing him into the drawing room, "but the servants are away. Would you care for something stronger?"

"I never touch spirits," said he decisively, removing his grey gloves and placing them carefully beside him on the sofa, "not even those I can see." He smiled. "Forgive me, that is what passes as humour in the afterlife. A touch grim, perhaps, but if the dead can make light of their situation why should not we?"

"I would have to take your word for that. What can I do for you, Mr Garfield?"

His smile faded. "I gathered from your reaction the other night that you do not approve of our beliefs, Doctor."

"It is not your beliefs that concern me, but how you practise them."

"You surprise me. For one who has seen more than his fair share of death, to be afraid of it seems contrary. Oh, do you mind if I smoke? I find it calms the vibrations."

Out of politeness I obliged, and soon the room was filled with the smell of strong Turkish blend, his fingers protected from its staining influence by a slim, amber cigarette holder.

"You have a fine home, Dr Watson," said he. "However, it is not, I fear, a happy one."

"That is partly your doing," I returned.

He had the good grace to concede the point. "Your daughter was adamant that you were not told of her interest. I prefer openness, but I cannot interfere with my client's wishes. However, it is not to that incident which I was referring. No, there was strife before ever we came. That is the reason for my visit this afternoon." His tone grew serious. Through the veil of lingering smoke, his grey eyes shone with meaning. "You are haunted, sir."

"Nonsense," I scoffed.

"There is a presence in this house. A man in black. He is tall with a hawk-like nose and a forbidding expression. He was formidable in life and frets the loss of that power in death."

A nagging concern started in the back of my mind, fuelled by the memory of how I fancied he had seen Holmes on the night of séance, something he had vigorously denied.

"You may not be aware of him," he continued, "but he is here often. He was here the other night, Doctor. I saw him as clearly as I see you. Then there is his bitterness. It leaves a palpable trail that a child could follow."

"Bitterness?"

"The feeling is strong. It is almost as if he blames you for something." He hesitated and ground his cigarette into a nearby saucer. "Dr Watson, it is not my intention to scare you. What I have to say, however, you should heed, although given your scepticism it may fall on deaf ears. That is your choice. For myself, I shall rest the easier for knowing I have done what I could." Another lengthy pause ensued. "Doctor, this spirit means you harm."

"Nonsense," I repeated, though less certain of myself this time.

"You have had several unexplained accidents of late, is that correct?"

Instinctively, my gaze went to my hands and the strips of plaster covering the cuts from the night before. "Well, yes. One too many perhaps."

"To paraphrase Mr Wilde: 'To have one accident may be regarded as a misfortune; to have two looks deliberate'."

The initial hostility I had felt had subsided. My curiosity was aroused and, despite Holmes's warning, I needed to know more.

"Mr Garfield, do you know why Ho—this person blames me?"

He closed his eyes and breathed deeply. "He cannot leave," he said slowly. "His existence is tied to yours, Doctor. Why or how, I cannot say. Perhaps you know the circumstances better than me."

"Yes, perhaps I do."

"This connection has become burdensome to him," he went on. "He yearns to be free, and that he can only accomplish by your demise."

"He would not."

I defended him out a sense of loyalty. My faith, however, had been shaken.

I had known Holmes for a long time since fate had thrown us together. I had been privileged to share in his adventures. I had never doubted our friendship, even in those desert years when a jibe or a criticism came easier to him than a compliment. I have written elsewhere that it had been worth a wound to confirm what I had long known of the depth of his loyalty. What I did not record was something changed. A year after our encounter with Killer Evans, Holmes retired, abruptly and without warning. He would never say why, except to reiterate his oft-repeated lament that that criminal fraternity lacked the imagination to do little more than constantly replicate old failures.

I accepted this. Yet I always wondered. Had my foolishness and inattention caused the outburst the like of which he had never made before or since? And then, having shown that he was capable of a depth of emotion that he had always resolutely denied, had his mortification turned to anger against me?

It was true that thereafter our relationship been maintained sporadically. I saw him but infrequently, and the impetus was always on my part. What had hurt especially was that he had not told me of the illness that would eventually claim his life. He said he had not known, but again I doubted.

And seeds of doubt, once planted, are as tenacious and ruinous as bindweed.

I wanted to disbelieve this gentleman with the finely-groomed hair and manicured hands. Instead, I caught myself finding evidence to support what he had said. I thought of Holmes's strange behaviour of late, his refusal to return to the Abbey Grange, his reluctance to accompany George on his nightly vigil and his brusque treatment of the luckless Thurston.

I remembered too Holmes' words, of my being 'part and parcel' of his problem.

A shiver ran down my spine when I began to consider the meaning of his enigmatic words. The incident in the road, the near-decapitation with the fallen picture – I began to see how 'the inevitable' of which he had spoken could have meant my death. He had saved my life, and suffered the misery of exile for his good deed. Did his release require removing me?

Whatever my own feelings, however, I could not condemn Holmes on the word of a stranger. What I needed was proof.

Mr Garfield gave an emollient smile in answer to my question. "Proof, my dear Doctor, is not an absolute in my calling, as it was in yours. I am not in the business of converting the unbeliever. I state what I know to be the truth, nothing more."

He gathered up his gloves and rose to his feet. "A wise man once said that absence of evidence is not evidence of absence. I cannot tell you any more about the entity that haunts you, sir, because he does not allow it. He surrounds himself with a wall of negativity that repels all outside interest. He does not want me here, and – you will forgive me – that is why I must now end our meeting. To linger would be foolish and dangerous for both of us. It is better that he does not know of my visit. I fear it would… exacerbate matters."

He had chosen his words carefully, all the while glancing about, as though he expected Holmes to appear at any moment. As I showed him to the door, doubts seething in my mind, I lit upon a subject that might clarify the situation a little more.

"I appreciate your taking the trouble to visit," said I. "Especially under these circumstances. I fear I was less than hospitable the other evening."

"Quite understandable," he beamed. "It is not every day one returns to one's home to find a séance in progress. Your interruption was ill-timed, however. We were making great strides in contacting your dear daughter's late husband."

"So she told me."

"A dear sweet man, much troubled." He heaved a sigh. "One could wish that all spirits were as mild. As in life, so in death, I fear. One does not become virtuous simply because one has passed."

"That I can believe. Why, I knew a fellow, old Mr Brown, from Little Pickering, who was a regular Tartar. I cannot believe death has improved his temper."

Mr Garfield's eyes narrowed. "Would that be Mr Sidney Brown, late husband of dear departed Emily Brown of Chestnut Mead?"

"Why, yes," I said, feigning surprise. "You knew him?"

He nodded, brow furrowed. "I knew his wife. She was a much-tried woman. She came to me in great distress of mind, believing that her husband haunted her home. The poor lady was in fear of her life. She claimed he was calling her to him."

"And was he?"

He was about to answer but then thought better of it. Instead, he delved into his pocket and took out a silver cross and chain.

"I would rest easier knowing that you were not unprotected, Doctor." He pressed the chain into my hand. When I tried to refuse, he became insistent. "Please, take it, or your next 'accident' could be your last. I have encountered many entities in my time, but none as malignant as this. I do not want another death on my conscience."

"Do you mean Mrs Brown?"

His countenance drained of colour. "She would follow my advice, but only so far. She drew the line at exorcism, you see. Perhaps the fault was mine; I should not have expressed myself so forcefully, I fear. The next day, she had her fatal accident. He took her, I am sure of it."

"Good heavens."

"I would not have another claimed before his time. If you permit, we shall do what we can to counteract the effect of this entity's poisonous presence in your home. But if he will not go of his own accord, then the bell, book and candle may be our only remedy."

Like Mrs Brown before me, I hesitated at the thought. Holmes had spoken of exorcism as an unspeakable torment. I drew back from consigning him to some hellish form of purgatory without solid evidence of his intent.

What that might constitute vexed me for the remainder of the day. When Holmes wafted in through the French windows at midnight, bringing with him the heady smell of tobacco and damp earth from the garden beyond, he found me preoccupied and uncommunicative. As I listened to him, discoursing on the deficiencies of home wiring and the means by which any one of us might fall foul of electricity's untrammelled nature, I found myself relieved that my earlier doubts were fading.

I could no more believe Holmes capable of cold-blooded murder in his own interests than I could contemplate it myself. Garfield was a fraud, I told myself, skilled in the business of instilling fear in potential clients to raise an income. He had asked nothing of me as yet, but I was sure that the financial question was bound to follow.

Secure in this knowledge, I confided in Holmes.

"You will laugh," I said, "but I had a visitor today. The medium who was here the other night, his name is Mr Aloysius Garfield."

Holmes did not laugh. Instead, he sat forward with an intensity of expression and fixed me with a critical eye. "At whose instigation?" he demanded.

"He came here, looking for my daughter."

"You spoke with him?"

"Naturally."

"He was here, in this room?"

"No, in the drawing room."

Holmes sighed with evident relief. "Then we are safe enough here. Watson, my last words to you were an express warning to stay away from that man, and yet I find that you have been entertaining him in this very house. What possessed you?"

"In the circumstances, I could have hardly turned him from my door. I thought you might have been pleased with my endeavours. I learnt his name and that Mrs Brown was his client."

Holmes shook his head tersely. "We could have discovered that information from another source. It did not require you to thrust your hand into the fire of damnation. What did he say?"

Something about the tone of his voice and the sudden change in his manner gave me pause. "Oh, nothing in particular." Holmes' commanding stare compelled me to elaborate. "He tried to explain about the séance the other night. He wants to me make amends with my daughter."

Holmes visibly relaxed. "That is sound advice. Now here is mine: stay away from Mr Garfield. Do not speak with him again. I would have your word upon that point."

"Is that really necessary?" I protested.

"Your word, Watson."

His manner forbade any thought of disobedience on my part. "Then you have it."

"Capital. Events are moving faster than I anticipated, and we must not be found wanting." Settling back in his chair, he closed his eyes. "Now, let us have no more of this talk of mediums and séances. Put on the gramophone, my dear fellow. Let us mock the midnight bell and find our solace in gentle music."

Listening to music was the last thing on my mind. Holmes' reaction to the news of Garfield's visit had confounded all my certainties. It is fair to say that at that moment, I feared him.

It is not an admission of which I am particularly proud. Nor did it sit comfortably with me. Holmes was capable of producing many emotions in those with whom he had dealings, and I have had my fair share, both noble and less so, but amongst that array I had never counted so repellent a feeling as that which now chilled me to the very marrow. I did not recognise him, and the unknown element that death had introduced into his nature caused me the greatest unease.

I am not gullible or easily swayed by talk that a spirit means me harm. Had fear been a part of my character, I should never have joined the Army Medical Corps and seen the horrors of the battlefield. It would have denied me too the experience of a life-long friendship with an individual whose death I had mourned on two occasions and whose fierce intelligence had bested the brightest and most inventive that the criminal world had to offer. I had seen him elated by victory and cast into the depths by boredom. Now we sat together in the quiet of my study, one contemplating death, the other contemplating the means of achieving it.

The revulsion I felt for myself and the horror of my thoughts drove me to my feet. "I am tired, Holmes. I am going to bed."

"Very well. At least leave me with musical consolation."

"No, it will disturb the household."

"The maid has yet to return and the cook is away for several days. We are alone, Watson. No one will know what happens here tonight unless you tell them."

My stomach revolted as I realised that he was right.

"Why?" I demanded. "What are you planning?"

Holmes smiled in confusion. "My dear fellow, you are out of sorts this evening. If I did not know you better, I should say Garfield's visit has upset you."

"You are wrong, Holmes. I am tired, nothing more."

"Then to your bed, Watson. But leave me Elgar, I pray."

"Elgar?" I queried. "I thought you had no particular liking for the fellow."

He frowned. "That is true enough. However, I am not in the mood for Verdi tonight. What I need is music to soothe. Elgar will suffice in the absence of anything else."

Given Holmes' earlier aversion, it seemed to me now an odd request and it crossed my mind that he had some ulterior motive. To continue to refuse, however, would have roused his suspicions. I had already alerted him by telling him of Garfield's visit. I had no wish to hasten my end by giving him further cause for alarm.

I put in the record in place and turned on the switch. When nothing happened, I reached to push the plug into the socket. I would have done so had I not seen the faint gleam of metal. A closer look showed me that one of the wires had been wrenched from the plug and hung by a thread to the connections within. But for that chance glimpse, I would have shared the same fate as Mrs Emily Brown.

I recoiled from the device. My hand went to the cross in my pocket and I clenched it so tightly that the sharp edges dug into my flesh. Holmes was regarding me curiously and demanding to know what was the matter.

I nearly told him. But then the telephone rang.

George's frightened, plaintive voice sounded in my ear. "Dr Watson, you've got to help me," he pleaded. "Something terrible has happened."

"Calm down," I replied. "Where are you?"

"Abbey Grange. It's… it's Professor Warwick. He's dead… and they think I killed him!"

Talk about going from bad to worse! What has George got himself into now?

As for Holmes… can he really want to murder Watson? If so, how do you protect yourself from a ghost?

On to Chapter Eight to find out more!