CHAPTER EIGHT

The sun had long since set, but all was far from peaceful at 221B Baker Street. There seemed to be no end to the work involved in simply having a child in the flat. If I'd been asked one week earlier what children do all day, I'd have had only a vague notion of their sitting in their cribs, playing with toys or their toes. This turned out to be quite some distance from the facts. Instead of my usual late afternoon energy I was exhausted. I felt as if I'd walked a dozen miles and yet there was no evidence that I had done anything at all today. Just the opposite, in fact. Our main room looked as though something had exploded in its midst. Chair cushions were on the floor. Crusts and crumbs lay about the rug, the edge of which was stained with plum juice. Small objects, which Madeleine had enjoyed holding and putting in her mouth, were on the chairs, floor, windowsills, under the table and in the sink. Holmes' heap of newspapers threatened to overshadow Big Ben in dimension. Despite my fatigue and dismay at the state of our rooms I had to admit to myself that the afternoon had been peaceable enough, though I must say I was a bit annoyed at having been somehow designated the keeper of the baby. After she'd finished her sardine toast and stewed plums and drunk her bottle at lunch, Madeleine fell asleep in the middle of the rug. She really did look angelic lying there with her thumb drooping out of her mouth, but when I tried to call Holmes' attention to the sight he scarcely looked up from the large magnifying glass he held in his hand.

"Whatever are you doing?" I asked.

"I am taking a closer look at the monogram on this shawl," he replied. "It is a most educational exercise." At the sound of his voice Madeleine stirred, and I did not want her to wake up just yet, I retreated quietly to the sofa with my Herodotus.

The rest of the daylight hours had been devoted to her amusement, during which it was soon made clear to me that my participation was mandatory. When I tried to leave her in my room with heaps of playthings, her loud yells summoned me back to her side. She was perfectly happy playing, as long as I was next to her or at least within sight. I supposed it was understandable that she did not want to be left alone. After all, she had presumably been wrested from her mother, or whomever had been caring for her, and now was with strangers. Given the situation, it was remarkable that she was content at all. I reflected on her strange situation. Her mother, whoever she was, must be frantic with worry. In fact, it was notable that she had not been able to contact Holmes herself. Since the coachman who had brought the child to us was, as the detective had said, a longtime retainer of the family, surely the mother knew just where to find her daughter. Yet we heard nothing from her. Her silence led me to two conclusions, one of which was vastly preferable to me. She could be in hiding. It was likely that she was in some kind of danger, perhaps from von Donnerstag himself if Holmes' wild theory was correct, and fled with her baby. Knowing that an infant would make hiding nearly impossible, she sent the child to Holmes for safekeeping. But why Holmes? He was not known as any friend to children. No, the woman must have been aware of his reputation as a great solver of crimes and felt certain that for some reason he would be the best person to care for Madeleine.

The other possible conclusion, which I dared not even consider, was that the child's mother had met her demise at the hands of Moriarty. What then would we do with Madeleine? As a doctor I'd had cause to visit some London orphanages, and found them to be singularly horrifying in their filth and cruelty to their charges. Yet we obviously could not keep her here indefinitely. I wondered if Mrs. Hudson's daughter, as yet unblessed with children of her own, might adopt this one.

I longed to discuss my concerns with Holmes, but he seemed to meet every foray into conversation about Madeleine with stony obstinance. He would not talk about her, and seemed to have little interest in talking about the case at all. I guessed I would simply have to muddle through somehow, and Holmes would favor me with an explanation as soon as he felt it to be proper.

Now the sun had set, it was close to eight o'clock and Madeleine was as far from angelic as a child could be. I'd fed her mashed turnips for supper over two hours ago, feeling clever that I'd thought of it and managed to get it prepared myself. I did not bother asking Holmes for assistance, as he continued to sit mournfully at his desk, disappearing for intervals to his chamber or behind his chemistry set. Madeleine had sat up in her cushioned armchair and eaten the turnips happily enough, opening her mouth for each next spoonful as soon as I'd fed her the last. Unfortunately, most of it seemed to end up on the rug or her gown, which now was smeared with a variety of foods, by the time she was through. As soon as the turnips were gone Madeleine began to fret. I couldn't exactly say she was crying, because mostly she just made small dissatisfied noises, punctuated now and then by a bout of louder noises. Clearly she was not happy about something.

"Are you still hungry, little girl?" I'd fed her all the turnips, but perhaps she'd like some of the plums from lunch. I hurried into the kitchen and brought some back, only to have her purse her lips and turn her head away when I offered them to her.

"Don't you want some nice plums? No, I see you don't. What's the matter? Maybe you're thirsty?" I could hear my voice getting higher and higher as I asked the questions. Back in the kitchen, I mixed the syrup from the plums with some water in one of Holmes' bottles, which he had apparently been constructing in great quantity during the long afternoon, filling an entire shelf behind his chemistry set with them. Shaking the bottle to mix syrup and water I reflected that it was a good thing we had so many, since no one had thought to take on the responsibility of washing the soiled ones or anything else in this kitchen.

My efforts in the kitchen were wasted as my concoction was vehemently refused. I stole a glance at Holmes. He sat at his desk with a mass of untouched papers before him, staring off into space. A look of deep disapproval darkened his face. Just then Madeleine let out a howl and Holmes started.

"Really, Watson. She is disturbing the intellectual process with her incessant noise."

"Thank you for that information," I answered a bit tartly.

"Can you not give her a brandy ball or something?"

"She is much too young for candies, Holmes. Maybe she needs to be changed." Mrs. Hudson had shown me how this was done, and I fetched the soft cloths from my bag. Holmes pointedly stood and walked to the mantel, where he turned his back and began filling his pipe from the Persian slipper. By the time he'd gotten his pipe well lit, Madeleine was dressed again. Unfortunately, this did not seem to be what had been bothering her, and she continued to whimper and fret.

"Do you want a toy to play with, little girl?" Carrying her, I walked to the table and selected a ring of keys in which she had showed an interest earlier. I dropped the keys on the rug and sat Madeleine down beside them. The instant her bottom touched the carpet, she started crying louder.

"She must be sleepy. I think I'll put her to bed for the night," I ventured hopefully. Holmes merely grunted. Earlier I had rigged a sort of child's bed using a dresser drawer and several blankets. Into this I lowered Madeleine, on her stomach as Mrs. Hudson had instructed me. The moment she realized I was putting her down, she lifted her head and looked up at me with the most unhappy expression I have ever seen on a face. Out pushed her lower lip and the crying began in earnest. Again heeding our landlady's advice I firmly walked away, hoping she would just go to sleep.

After what seemed like an eternity but was in fact only about fifteen minutes, I gave up, as she was crying with more vigor than ever. It seemed to help a bit if I carried her and walked about the room, so I tried that for a while. However, the positive effects were only temporary. As the evening wore on, I continued trying everything I could think of to quiet the child, to no avail.

"Holmes," I said finally, worn down by exhaustion, "You're a detective."

"Consulting detective."

"Yes, yes. In any case you have a brain which is vastly superior to that of the average person." As I have said, I knew that Holmes, ascetic as he was, was nonetheless quite susceptible to what he might term a truthful assessment of his character.

He smiled slightly. "True."

"Well then," I continued, "here you have a problem which seems to me to be unsolvable. A crying baby. She is not hungry, nor thirsty. Her clothes are dry. She will not sleep, and she in not interested in playing. What do you deduce?"

Holmes looked at me, perplexed. I don't know what I expected him to answer, but I was truly at my wit's end. I waited. To my surprise, he seemed to be thinking. At least, he did not simply snort and turn away. His eyes travelled around the room and alighted on his violin, much used in the past months when Holmes was feeling particularly poor spirited. Nodding his head, he went to the instrument, lifted it from its case and seated himself in a comfortable chair. As the bow met the strings, Madeleine picked up her head to listen. Holmes took no time beginning but swung directly into one of his favorite Mendelssohn sonatas.

The effect was startling. Madeleine immediately quieted and turned toward the source of the music. After a few moments, she began making soft happy sounds and I felt her little form relaxing in my arms. I sat in the large armchair and held her as Holmes played on, a small smile on his face. Every few moments I stole a glance at him and as often as not, found him looking at the child with a expression new to him. If I did not know the famous detective as well as I did, I would have named that expression tenderness.

After a few minutes, she grew heavier and I realized she'd fallen asleep. It was with an enormous sense of relief that I carried her to my room and placed her in her bed, her arms and legs drooping limply. Returning to the sitting room, I found Holmes tuning the fine Stradivarius.

"You've done it, my friend. But how, how?"

"It was elementary. As I have said many times before, once you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, is your answer. All the child's physical needs had been met, as you yourself explained to me. Therefore the only troubles she could have been experiencing were spiritual."

"But she's an infant! What spiritual troubles could she have?"

"That I cannot answer for you, but you see that my deduction was correct. I myself occasionally experience a certain need for spiritual solace, and it is most admirably met by Mendelssohn. Obviously the same is true for Madeleine." Holmes lifted his violin once again and I began picking up the various objects I'd scattered about the room in my attempts to distract the baby. As the music wafted through the room, a thought occurred to me and I smiled to myself. This was the first time I had heard Holmes actually use Madeleine's name.