The Case of the Two Survivors

Chapter Ten

Events transpired to keep us apart for most of the next week, so that it was the following Thursday before I saw Holmes again.

I had noted in that morning's paper that all the London orphanages had cause for celebration after an anonymous donor had presented them with substantial sums of money. I did not have to look far for the source of this generosity; Mycroft Holmes, it seemed, was keeping his word as regards his inheritance. Now there was talk of treats for the children, of visits to the seaside and the Zoo.

The latter I could thoroughly recommend, having made it home in good time that Sunday to appease my wife and not to disappoint the Forrester children. The monkeys proved greatly entertaining, although Mary did comment that my standing scratching at my flea bites was not to be recommended in such close proximity to the bars in case the keepers thought I was an escapee from the cage.

I gathered from that sweetly knowing smile of hers that she knew rather more about my recent misadventures than she was saying. Indeed did I find myself banished to the guest room, though more out of a concern for spreading my unwanted guests rather than any need for contrition on my part. Once I could guarantee that I was free of infestation, thanks to the judicial use of a sharp and painful flea comb, my exile was at an end.

My surgery that Thursday morning was unusually busy, owing to a rash of insanity amongst the younger men of the capital, who, during the prolonged spell of heat of yesterday, had taken to jumping into fountains to cool their fevered brows. Strained knees, the odd broken toe and many blushes were the order of the day, especially from the lad who had to admit to pulling a muscle in a delicate part of his anatomy after falling from one of the statues in Trafalgar Square.

I tended my patients, advised against such high-spirits in public places in the future and awaited my next case. To my utter astonishment, instead of a shame-faced young man or a matronly lady with a summer cold, the maid ushered in none other than Sherlock Holmes.

"Good morning, my dear fellow," said he, settling himself in the seat on the other side of my desk. "I must say, your waiting room is a trifle busy this morning."

As pleased as I was to see him, the timing of his visit left much to be desired. "Holmes, what are you doing here?" said I.

"Come to see you, naturally. Whatever was wrong with that young fellow with the limp?"

"I cannot discuss my patients with you. I am working, you do realise that?"

"Yes, I am quite aware of that fact," he said, idly reading upside down the notes I had been making on the last patient's file. "So, that was his problem. Well, well, most unfortunate," he added with a chuckle. "He told me he was worried about removing his trousers. Something about not having clean socks. It seems to me that was the least of his worries."

I quickly covered my notes from his sight. "Holmes, you must realise that you cannot be here now."

"Ah, but I have an appointment."

"No, you don't." I consulted my appointment book. "I'm expecting a Mr E Drebber of Number 3, Lauriston Gardens—" I hesitated. Across the desk, Holmes was regarding me expectantly. "That's you, isn't it?"

He shook a reproving finger. "Has it been so long that you have forgotten our first case?"

"No," I replied, conceding defeat by sitting back in my chair. "As I say, I have been busy."

"So I notice. As to myself, I did not return until yesterday. Bournemouth took up more of my time than I had anticipated. Lestrade's too, although I fancy he and his good lady wife were not too inconvenienced by a prolonged spell at the seaside."

"You did meet her then? I'm glad to hear it."

Holmes nodded thoughtfully. "A charming woman. Do you know, Watson, she clasped me most warmly by the hand and said: 'Mr Holmes, I am so glad to have met you.' Whatever did she mean by that, I wonder?"

Having been privy to the reasons for Mrs Lestrade's concerns about her husband's departure so early on a Sunday morning, I was quite able to understand her reaction. Holmes might be baffled, but I at least was glad to hear that the Lestrades' marital harmony had not suffered unduly from his coming so promptly to our assistance that day.

"The motives of women are inscrutable at the best of times," Holmes went on. "Although those of our 'friend', Inspector Allen, less so, wouldn't you say? He has been suspended, by the way, pending further investigation. Lestrade took great pleasure in informing him of that fact. Apparently, concerns had been raised before over some of his other cases, talk of 'coercion'."

"That doesn't surprise me."

"Had you remained in that cell much longer, you might have had first-hand experience of the worst of Allen's methods to lay before the official inquiry. Which reminds me."

He delved into his pocket and took out my notecase and watch, which he passed across the table to me. I returned the gesture in restoring his, and felt much better in having my old time keeper back in its rightful place.

"Your five pound note," I said, holding it out to him. "Returned with thanks."

He declined with a small shake of his head. "No, keep it. It was the least I could do for having involved you in such an unfortunate set of circumstances." He drew out a cigarette. "How are the fleas, by the way? That's a particularly large and nasty bite I see on the side of your neck."

I felt a flush rush of blood to my cheeks as I pulled my collar a little higher. "Holmes, you can't smoke in here," I reminded him, tactfully changing the subject. "Mrs Ridley-Thomas is due in ten minutes and, if she smells smoke, she'll lecture me yet again on the value of clean lungs."

He sighed and restored the cigarette to his case. "What a nuisance your patients are, Watson. Ah, well, since our time is short, to business! You are, I take it, desirous to know the outcome of our time in Bournemouth."

"Naturally. But would this not be better over dinner? You are welcome to stay."

"Would that I could. I am duty bound to leave for the Continent this afternoon. But how, my dear fellow, could I leave without satisfying your mind on certain points? You do have questions?"

"Yes, I do. For instance, how did you know that the man who was in that coffin was not Uriah Gradgrind?"

An almost feline smile settled over his features. "I did not, until you told me."

"I told you? I believe I did not."

"Not directly, I admit. Your description of the man you saw in the bed was most illuminating. Do you remember what you told me? Few teeth, stained with tobacco; skin with the texture of leather; ingrained dirt under the nails, and the chronic alcoholism."

"Oh, you mean the yellow eyes – jaundice, indicative of liver disease."

Holmes nodded sagely. "Not attributes one would associate with the average clergyman, I grant you. The bite marks were particularly suggestive."

"Why? Many people have fleas, as my own recent experience amply demonstrates."

"Ah, but you fail to take into account the other factors. Fleas you may have had, but dirt under your nails? Either we are to believe that the gentleman had been out tending his garden that afternoon or that the nephews' care was not as assiduous as it should have been if dirt was still there after the uncle had been confined to his bed for nigh on a year."

"You mean to say that it must have got there more recently."

Holmes nodded. "Six weeks they had him in their care, if we may call it that. Their attention was most superficial if this unfortunate man was left still ridden with lice and dirty of hand after all that time. Not that it mattered to them; he was a mere substitute for their uncle. Who would ever see him but those who knew the truth of his identity?"

"They allowed me to see him."

"Yes, because they saw what lucky chance fate had thrown into their path."

"Fulke Gradgrind could not know that the old man would die."

A hard light came into his steely eyes. "Had he not at the opportune moment, Watson, I believe that they would have speeded him on his way. Such would have been his fate had my brother died. You heard the younger brother – he wanted an end to the situation. Oh, they may have been content to wait at first, but with just one member of the tontine surviving and he by all accounts likely to live a good few years yet, impatience finally got the better of them."

"But murder, Holmes? But they seemed so…"

"Insipid?" he finished for me, arching his brows quizzically. "If people were kind enough to make their crimes openly known, the police would find it far easier to apprehend criminals and I should find myself unemployed. Given enough motive, it is hard to say to what lengths any man might go. They were quite prepared to see you hang. What makes you think they would not have pressed a pillow over his face and hastened his end?"

I shuddered at the thought of it. "Did they? Did our visit cause them to murder the old man?"

"No. The post-mortem – which was conducted by a London surgeon, by the way – was conclusive on that point. The only wonder of it was that Mr Jack Frost survived so long. According to the official report, his lungs were particularly riven with disease. The only consolation was that the morphine with which the brothers were sedating him had spared him greater suffering. And how much better to die in a comfortable bed than in a ditch."

To hear him say such a thing took me aback. "You aren't condoning their actions?"

Holmes shook his head. "Not at all. It does, however, make one aware of the frailty of human existence, and how slim is the thread between life and death, between the advantaged and the disadvantaged."

He had taken to rearranging the articles on my desk while he spoke and, with his train of thought at an end, he again met my gaze. "You have deduced of course where I spent that night?"

I did have some small inkling. "Would I be very far from the truth if I said that you had disguised yourself as a tramp and mingled with their numbers at the Salvation Army mission? Soup, soap and salvation, I believe you said, which I understand sums up their approach to the less fortunate in society."

His grey eyes, dulled by inactivity and thoughtfulness, suddenly lit up with almost piercing brilliance. "Watson, you are most perspicacious this morning! Yes, that is indeed where I went. I disguised myself as a tramp the better to win the confidence of the others. I did partake of the soup, although I declined the soap on the grounds that other's needs were greater than mine. As for salvation, I suggested to the kindly Miss Abbott that she could do me the greatest service by saving with her testimony a dear friend of mine who had found himself embroiled in villainy of the worst kind."

"I am immensely grateful that she did. But how did you know that this fellow, Jack Frost, was the man in the coffin? As you said yourself, these men come and go."

"If not him, then it would have been another. In this case, I was almost certain that I identified my mark correctly. I had a name, remember."

I stared at him in puzzlement. "You did?"

"That brief conversation you had with him." He gazed absently at the ceiling. "'John, John, my name—'. I suggest that his next words would have been 'is John'." He glanced across and smiled at me. "Your error, Watson, was in assuming that he was addressing you. However, you suffer from that affliction that befalls every other fellow bearing your appellation – a common Christian name. Our man in the bed, knowing he was at the mercy of the Gradgrinds, saw an unfamiliar face and in vain tried to identify himself. John Frost, a Durham miner, fallen on hard times, kidnapped, drugged and wanting to die as his own man, not bearing the name of another."

"Miss Abbott said he was called Jack Frost. How did you—"

"Come, come," said he crisply. "With a surname like Frost, what else would his fellow wanderers have called him but Jack? Added to which, Jack is the familiar form of John. Surely you must have been called Jack in your time."

"As a matter of fact, no."

"Jack Watson." Holmes gave me a sideway glance and chuckled. "I rather think it suits you. It lends you a rather roguish air that sits well with your literary pretensions."

"But not with my chosen profession. I fear 'Jack' fails to inspire confidence."

"Then common John you must be."

"And you, uncommon Sherlock, in every sense of that word."

As receptive to flattery as ever, nonetheless he tempered his pleasure at this remark with a rueful shake of his head. "Kind of you to say so, my friend, but I fear my recent conduct has done me little credit. I have already had to endure a lecture from my brother on the subject. He blames me entirely for the events that took place and your unfortunate incarceration. As for entering his rooms unbidden, he has informed the redoubtable Mrs Morgan to repel any attempt on my part to gain entry by force in the future. He also mentioned that if I intended to pursue burglary in any seriousness, then I should exercise greater discernment in my selection of serviceable material."

He drew a long envelope from his pocket and passed it across the desk. Inside was a letter written in a flamboyant hand. Addressed to Mr Mycroft Holmes, and dated 1886, it ran as follows:

"Now as I enter my fourth decade, I fear, should the Last Trump sound and I be called upon to account for my time in this mortal realm tomorrow, that I would have very little to show that has been good or of worth. The meanest member of my flock has lived a more meaningful existence than I, who have lived my adult life under the shadow of this tontine, forced upon me by my father, who was want to prize worldly pleasures more highly than the state of his immortal soul.

It has come to bear upon me of late, despite the urgings of my nephews, who would condemn to a safe yet boring existence in the hope that I might yet survive you all, that I would rather live out my remaining years in the greater service of God than in the expectation of money. Should the Almighty will that such riches come to me, then it will be for the furtherance of His good works and not for my comfort. From this day hence, I have eschewed all material pleasures and have accepted an invitation to join a missionary expedition to Africa, where I intend to remain for the remainder of my natural life.

On the appointed date of each year, a wire shall be sent to the administrators of the tontine informing them of my continued well being. Should that wire fail to arrive, you may be certain that my old bones rest beneath a hotter sun than that of any English summer.

I wish you, my fellow legatees, long life and good fortune, and pray only that the survivor remember your old friend with some small donation to a worthy cause.

Yours sincerely,

Uriah Gradgrind."

"Your brother knew," I said, laying the letter aside. "That is why he told you not to meddle."

Holmes nodded. "This letter went out to all the remaining members of the tontine three years ago. Last year, confirmation of Gradgrind's survival did not arrive at the administrator's office. They were on the verge of striking his name from the tontine when news came from the nephews that their uncle was back in England, much broken in health and under their care. My brother said he had his suspicions, but, being Mycroft, he would rather have been thought wrong than to rouse himself from the Diogenes Club to undertake some small investigation into the matter. He says that the deception would have been discovered eventually without any interference from him. I am not so sure."

I caught myself smiling. "You doubted him before."

"And was forced to eat my words," Holmes conceded ruefully. "Not that it matters now. With the Gradgrinds' admission that their uncle is dead, the tontine has come to an end and my brother finds himself with an embarrassment of riches. He intends to keep the original amount of Uncle Hobart's wager, feeling that that is all to which he is legitimately and in all good conscience entitled. As to the rest, he is spoilt for choice as to the distribution of his funds."

I gestured to the morning paper. "His selection so far has been admirable."

There came a knock on my door and a voice informing me that Mrs Ridley-Thomas had arrived for her appointment. Our time was rapidly drawing to an end.

"Well, now that you have explained it, Holmes, it all seems glaringly obvious."

"Everything is, Watson. I dare say that is my downfall. In truth, there is very little between me and the average teller of fortunes. We both observe and make our deductions accordingly, I about these mysteries that come our way, and the fortune teller about the expectations of young ladies, wishing for rich and handsome husbands."

I chuckled. "Oh, so you are an oracle now, are you? Perhaps you would care to tell me my fortune. What is it that I wish for?"

His eyes narrowed slightly. "A holiday, which I predict you and your good lady wife will soon be enjoying."

"Unlikely, given my present circumstances, but do go on."

"I would, but in this case, I do have a certain advantage."

He drew another envelope from inside his coat and placed it on the desk. As I opened it, a card fell from a folded page, bearing the scrawled legend: 'With the compliments of Mr Mycroft Holmes'.

I looked to Holmes for an explanation, but he indicated that I should read the enclosed letter. Beneath the bold heading, 'The Grand Hotel, Budleigh Salterton', there followed a brief message where the management extended their greetings to Dr and Mrs J.H. Watson and expressed their hope that they would be able to assist in the confirmation of our reservation to the finest room that the hotel could offer. It went on to say that all expenses had been paid in advance and all that was needed from us was the date on which we would be arriving.

"Holmes, what is this?" I asked. "I cannot accept charity, not from you or your brother."

"It isn't charity, Watson, it's a holiday. And it is only a week in Devon."

"Even so—"

"Of course if you feel you cannot accept, then that is your prerogative. Mycroft was of the opinion that good fortune should be shared with one's friends. And he felt, in his wisdom, that a small recompense was needed for your discomfort as a direct result of his younger sibling's foolishness." A smile touched his features for the most fleeting of moments. "I agreed. I said that you would be insulted by money, but that a holiday would be most welcome. For some reason, I thought of Budleigh Salterton."

As uncomfortable as I was with the notion of accepting such a gift from his elder brother, I could not deny that the intent behind his generosity was well meant. I only hoped that Holmes had not been indelicate enough to divulge the reason for his suggestion, although knowing his brother and his feelings towards the place, he had probably deduced that much for himself.

"It is kind, extremely so," said I. "I only hope we shall be able to find the time to go."

"Remember the sage advice of Uriah Gradgrind," said Holmes, as he gathered up his things and rose to his feet, "that some things in life are greater in worth than money. Take your holiday and let the fellow next door take this noisome burden of patients from your shoulders." He extended his hand. "Well, I must depart if I am to catch my train. Do not leave it so long before next you call round to Baker Street. Your visits always seem to coincide with the most unusual of cases. Goodbye, my dear fellow, and do remember to give my regards to Budleigh Salterton."

The End

Sherlock Holmes and Dr Watson are the creations are Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. Characters and incidents mentioned in this work are entirely fictitious. This work of fan fiction has not been created for profit nor authorised by any official body.