The Case of the Dead Detective
Chapter Fourteen
George entered like a thunderbolt, a hectic explosion of undirected frenetic energy, all wild eyes, unruly hair and perspiration.
"Dr Watson, forgive the intrusion," he babbled, his words tumbling over each other in their race to be heard. "Please, sir, I must speak with you."
"He knows," said Holmes, removing himself from the chair in time to allow George to tumble breathlessly into it. "I would say, Watson, that someone has been less than honest with us."
"Yes, I was wondering that," I replied under my breath.
It was a wasted gesture, given the noise that George had generated from his whirlwind entrance. Papers scattered, a book tumbled, and a plaster bust was knocked by an unwary elbow to the floor. Finally he succeeded in hitting the leg of his chair up against my mahogany desk. This was swiftly followed by his overturning my neglected cup of tea across my journals. Considering that the desk was over fifty years old and had not had to endure half as much ill-treatment in its entire life-time than it had had in the last minute, I feared that it would last the course if George continued in this vein.
I tried to put a brave face on it as we dabbed up the spreading liquid. What cannot be changed must be borne, I thought, trying to be generous and stoic at the same time about the damage being wrought to an antique piece of furniture.
As the dust began to settle, I noticed that our maid was still lingering and casting critical glances at my young visitor, who was preoccupied in fanning his red cheeks with one hand and trying to straighten his crumpled tie with the other. When I nodded to that all was well and could left to deal with the visitor, she opened her mouth to say something and then thought better of it. Having seen his clumsy treatment of a cup and saucer, I gathered that she would not be offering him tea.
"Well, George," I said when we were finally alone. "Evidently you know who I am. Did your grandfather tell you?"
George shook his head. "No. He thinks I don't know. But of course I did. You can't be a devotee of detective fiction and not know about you and Mr Sherlock Holmes."
I chanced a sideways glance at my ghostly friend to see how he would react to being assigned second place. Fortunately he had his back to me, and the slow rise and fall of his shoulders did not betray his innermost thoughts. Whatever his concerns about his erratic emotional state, he was doing an admirable job of concealing them from me.
"I see," I said, looking back to George. "I had understood otherwise."
"My grandfather thinks he's following my father's wishes in that respect. I suppose for him it's a way of keeping his memory alive. They didn't always see eye to eye."
"That can happen between parents and their offspring."
"If it makes him happy, thinking that, then I don't want to upset him. What he doesn't know is that my mother used to read me the stories when my father was out of the house, because she said I should be proud of my family's association with a great detective like Mr Holmes. My father wasn't though. He even changed our surname because he said I'd be bullied at school if they knew who my grandfather was."
"Perhaps he was right."
"I was bullied anyway, so it didn't make a whole lot of difference."
The memory of unhappier days dulled the shine of his eager eyes. I saw something of the shadow of the child that had been in the man before me, as he chewed his lower lip and tried to remember the courage that had brought him to me.
"My grandfather's in trouble, isn't he?" said he at last. "I know something's playing on his mind. He's been preoccupied this last month and won't tell me why. Then, when I got home yesterday, I found that he'd had an accident at the allotment. He'd put the garden fork through his foot. He wouldn't have done that if he'd been concentrating on what he was doing."
"I'm sorry to hear that. How is he?"
"He'll be fine." His relief and certainty in that respect was all too evident. "The doctor said he'll be off his feet for a couple of weeks. That's not so bad, but he'll fret, I know he will. It's going to drive him mad sitting at home all day. If he has to be confined to the house, I'd rather that he didn't have this anxiety hanging over him."
He sat up tall in his chair, something of the old Lestrade doggedness evident in the way he stuck out his chin and fixed me with a level stare.
"He's my grandfather, sir. I know it's something to do with one of his old cases, and you turning up out of the blue made me wonder if it was one that you and he investigated together. I want to help him."
George was not making this easy for me. I had promised his grandfather not to tell the boy about our former alliance, even to keep my identity a secret from him, and yet it seemed he knew most of the story in any case. Taking him into my confidence was problematic. I would not have described George as particularly discreet. Sooner or later my disloyalty would get back to Lestrade's ears. I could not help thinking that he would not thank me for it.
"You have presented me with a dilemma," I admitted. "Please understand that I am bound to observe your grandfather's wishes."
He considered for a fraction. "Very well, sir. What if I hired you to investigate the case on his behalf?"
"George, really, that isn't necessary."
"I have the ten pounds you gave me," said he, fumbling in his pockets and coming up with a handful of change. "Well, four pounds five shillings and sixpence, actually. I had some expenses. But I can get more."
"It isn't a question of money."
"Then what, sir? You told me yesterday that your investigation was over. Does that mean there is no hope for my grandfather? Please, sir, he had a reputation. It means a lot of him, and to me. Is there nothing I can say to change your mind?"
"For pity's sake," said Holmes, turning from the window, "after an eloquent appeal like that, what are you waiting for, Watson? Tell the lad and let's be on our way."
"In that case," I said, seeing the bright look of anticipation return to his eyes, "I would be glad of your assistance, George. In matter of fact, I was about to telephone you to see if you were free today. I believe I was somewhat hasty yesterday in terminating my inquiries."
"There are other avenues of investigation still to follow?"
"Yes. Since you know that much already, I see no harm in telling you. But first, satisfy an old man's curiosity and tell me you knew who I was. You might have known my name, but not what I looked like."
"Oh, but I do." He delved into his inner pocket and, amidst a jumble of pink fluff, boiled sweets, a tarnished vesta case and a blunt pencil, produced an impressive array of cigarette cards. "Your likeness, sir, and that of Mr Holmes."
He passed the slips of printed card across to me. I had to put my reading glasses on to recognise the face of a thinner, younger me, in the days before my hair had turned to white and I was still reckoned fleet of foot.
"Nothing like you," Holmes declared, peering at the image over my shoulder. "You were never that trim, Watson."
I gave him an unfriendly glare. "I have changed somewhat since those days," I said aloud for George's benefit.
"And then there was your name, sir," George went on. "My grandfather was never very inventive when it came to aliases. Every dog he ever had was called Rex. It was too much of a coincidence, you being a doctor and knowing my grandfather when he was at the Yard. A good detective doesn't trust to coincidences."
"I can remember a time when I was that naive," Holmes's voice sounded from behind me. "You should tell the lad of our recent experiences. That might shake his confidence."
"That still doesn't explain how you knew my address," I said, ignoring him.
"Because you wrote to me, sir." He produced a yellowing envelope from his pocket and with the greatest of care extracted the faded sheet within. "You probably don't remember, but when I was eleven, I sent you a letter, saying how I thought you and Mr Holmes were the best detectives in all the world. I feel rather embarrassed by it now I've actually met you." A slight colour rose to his cheeks. "You were kind enough to reply back then, and your address was on the letter heading. I've kept it all these years."
I took the letter and read the lines I had written nine years before. There had been so many like this, a few hurried sentences, thanking a young correspondent for his letter and kind compliments, and assuring him that there would be more stories about Mr Holmes's cases in the future. To reply had cost me no more than a few minutes of my time and the price of a stamp. To the receiver, an unknown young man by the name of George Lawson, who had lost his father during an air raid and whose grandfather had once been a familiar face at Baker Street, it had been prize beyond measure.
With hindsight, had I known who he was, I would have sent something more meaningful than the standard reply. I would have found the words to say that his grandfather had been a good and decent man, who had done nothing to earn public scorn except to find himself up against one of the most unique and formidable minds of his age. I should have told him too that I had been pleased to count him among my acquaintances, a trust I had repaid by vilifying him in print and casting a cloud over the good name of Lestrade for as long as my words were read and remembered.
Holmes would have called it maudlin sentimentality on my part, yet I could not help but be moved. I had to lay aside my glasses to prevent the moisture prickling in the corner of my eyes from escaping down my cheeks. Perhaps it was not too late.
"George," I began, "about your grandfather, about the stories."
"It's all right, sir," said he brightly. "I know."
"You do?"
"Yes. That person, it isn't really how my grandfather was. You had to have a bumbling detective because if the police solved the crimes, there would be nothing for Mr Holmes to investigate. I know it's not really him, because the Lestrade in your stories is devoid of reason and my grandfather was never that. Am I right?"
I sat staring at him, torn between amazement and admiration. "Yes, George, you are," I said when I had found my voice. "If your grandfather could have heard, you would have made him proud."
"I do my best." He gave a shamefaced grin. "When do you want to leave?"
"Give me five minutes. If you wouldn't mind warming up the car, it's in the garage."
"Actually, sir, I've brought my own transport. I thought we might travel in comfort rather than…"
"Rather than my old Ford." I did not take offence, and perhaps there was something to be said for a more reliable vehicle. "In that case, George, your car it is. And please, call me Dr Watson. The way you keep calling me 'sir' makes me feel like an ancient headmaster."
"Very well, s—Dr Watson."
He leapt to his feet and galloped out of the room, knocking the china lamp over in haste. That it did not break as it came to rest on the floor owed much to Holmes's timely intervention in slowing its descent with an elegant gesture and turning it so that arrived upright and upon its base.
"That boy," he observed, gazing thoughtfully at the place where George had last been, "isn't half as silly as he looks."
"Well, I think you're wrong, Holmes. He isn't silly at all."
"You could be right. I can hardly consider myself the best judge of character at the moment. It is a hard thing, Watson, for a man to admit that he has erred."
"Hard for you, you mean. The rest of us seem to manage." I smiled at his annoyance. "How much do I tell him?"
"Everything, omitting my presence, of course. What is there to be gained by secrecy now? If he is anything like his grandfather, he will get it out of you eventually. Lestrade would not approve, but since he knows, we stand only to gain by his greater involvement. A younger pair of hands may prove invaluable to us. You do have your limits, in that respect."
"You like him now, don't you?" I said, rising to my feet. "Because he knows who you are."
Holmes sniffed sardonically. "If I derive a certain satisfaction from that fact, I trust I shall not be judge too harshly. I am only human, after all. One would not wish to be entirely forgotten."
"And to think I once called you a brain without a heart," I said, laughing.
"A description which is more apt now than ever. Had been 'without a heart' as you put it, I should not find myself in this undignified position. Well, are you coming?"
I gathered up the few things I would need, made my peace with my daughter for having to leave her yet again without explanation and went outside to find George at the wheel of a canary-yellow Austin. A neat, small car, it was rather boxy in shape with a large silver grill like so many shining teeth in a wide grin set between the two glassy eyes of its headlights. To my mind, accustomed to my battered old Ford, it lacked something in size, but it more than made up for it in comfort. The leather seats were soft, the engine hummed gently like a purring cat, the roof was covered in and it had windows to keep out the elements. Wherever our travels took us, at least we would not be embarrassed by our transport.
"Where to?" George wanted to know.
"Little Seaton in Hampshire."
He fished a map out of the glove compartment and consulted it. "It's not too far. In this baby, we should be there just after lunch."
"Bab—" The word was taken from my mouth as George stamped his foot on the accelerator and we lurched out of the drive, spewing gravel in our wake. Telling him to use caution was wasted, for he set to his task like a racing car driver entering the final lap at Brooklands.
"So why are we going to Little Seaton?" he asked as we sped along.
Following Holmes's advice and against my better judgement, I gave him a brief summary of the Swinson case. "Little Seaton was the last address I have for the family. If they are still there, all well and good. If not, perhaps the new owner can tell us where they went."
"Can't you ask Scotland Yard where they are?"
"No. I don't think they'd appreciate our interfering."
"Ah, working outside the law, are we?"
"No, George, we are simply making our own enquiries as private citizens."
"If we weren't, I wouldn't mind," said he, showing a remarkable degree of liberalism for one whose grandfather had been a Chief Inspector. "You and Mr Holmes were always fudging the lines."
"I wouldn't have put it quite like that."
"What about that business with the Blue Carbuncle? Or that Milverton character? Wasn't that fudging?"
I could not fault with the boy's logic. "Mr Holmes had his own ideas about justice. He believed his unofficial status gave him the right to make such judgements. And in some case, I dare say he was right."
"Isn't that what we are – unofficial? Doesn't that give us licence to 'fudge' just a little?"
"No, it does not," I said, reprovingly. "I fear, George, you have a very romantic notion of detective work."
"And whose fault is that?" said Holmes from the back seat. "The phrase you're looking for, Watson, is 'mea culpa'. A generation has grown up with their heads filled with fanciful notions about the glamorous life of the detective thanks to your writings. I always said they were superficial, and this is the result. As you sow, so shall you reap."
He knew I was no in position to answer back. It was all I could do to stop myself from grinding my teeth in annoyance.
"Whatever we discover – if there is anything to discover – we will turn it over to the police," I told my young companion. "Matthew Swinson's daughter, now calling herself Mrs Margery Currie, claims to have new evidence that points to her father's innocence. On the strength of it, an enquiry has been opened. I should very much like to know what that evidence is."
"This case," George asked, "if it was one Mr Holmes and my grandfather investigated, why were you not involved?"
"1902? I was probably living at my own rooms in Queen Anne Street by then. Why Holmes never asked for my assistance, I cannot say."
"You were busy wooing, as I recall," said Holmes.
"However busy I was," I said for his benefit, "it didn't usually stop him from sending for me… or I from going."
When I looked up again, I caught him watching me. "You miss those days," he stated, returning his gaze the road just in time to veer us out of the path of an oncoming lorry.
"Some days more than others," I agreed. "And sometimes it feels as though they never went away."
A long silence ensued and for several miles we sought the sanctuary of our own thoughts. George found himself a cigarette and lit it with difficulty, cursing when he dropped the smouldering match into his lap. Behind us, Holmes had fallen into a brown study, and I transferred my gaze to the view from window and watched the endless ribbon of hedge stream by with its tantalising glimpses of green pastures and shining rivers beyond. We were a long way from Baker Street and the situation had never been as complicated as this, but yes, there was something of the past about our venture.
Even troubled by doubts, Holmes was still as he ever was, arrogant, presuming and treating his demise as nothing more than an inconvenience that had imposed unnecessary strictures upon him. As much as he irritated me, I hated to admit that he also inspired me. I felt invigorated, young again. At the same time I was disappointed with myself, for hankering after the busy days that I had thought myself content to leave behind for marriage and children. There was regret too, that once our investigation was over, I would lose him again and life would fall back into its usual safe, stolid, comfortable routine.
I tried not to ponder too deeply on whether it was Holmes I missed or that frisson of uncertainty that always seemed to accompany him. Perhaps they were one and the same thing. For the present, it was enough that we were going to Hampshire, and in the company of a Lestrade. It had a familiar ring about it. Because of that, it was to be savoured, not spoilt by dwelling too deeply on the past.
When I came back to the present, it was to find George chaffing about something and making little sense.
"It's just that I was wondering," he repeated. "Does it matter?"
"Does what matter?"
"That what I said in my letter isn't strictly true any more. I mean to say, I admire Mr Holmes greatly and I've learnt a lot from your stories, but…"
I smiled in understanding. "There's someone you like more."
George nodded. "You aren't offended?"
"Of course not. Who is it?"
He squirmed, looked embarrassed and finally decided to confess. "Rin Tin Tin."
It was not what I had expected. In a strange sort of way, however, it made sense. Second place to a dog – I did not need to see Holmes's expression to know what he would have thought of that. And the more I thought about it, the funnier it seemed, until suddenly I could not contain myself and I burst out laughing.
"Are you quite well, Dr Watson?" said he with concern.
"Never better," I replied, when I had regained my breath and brushed the tears from my cheeks. "It's going to be a pleasure having you along, George. You really are a remarkable lad."
Who's a clever boy then? I think we can just about forgive George for preferring a detective dog to Sherlock Holmes (well, just! He's young, he'll learn…).
Button up your overcoats, spread a little happiness and practice that Charleston because what's waiting at Little Seaton is going to prove too, too exciting (and glamorous) for words! Roll on Chapter Fifteen!