Defeat was as unwelcome to his psyche as ever.
He could count and remember the number of steps from his apartment to each of his preferred tobacconists; the news-stall, the theater, how many minutes it took to sit in a growler for an evening at theatre.
It was no more than fifteen seconds' work to calculate the speed of the train he rode and his destination at 0/1/6 per mile from London to Manchester's station (children half fare). In half that time he could gauge the price of each meal and how the price fluctuated the further from the depots.
He needed ten seconds to judge the new violinist worthy of note. Fifteen against the orchestra.
He could factor the variations of time for each calendar year until it spilled over into the 29th of February; mourned that astronomers and mathematicians could not completely re-design the sense of time for accuracy because of conservative and irrational sentimentalism.
And now, he could not—had not—come up with an answer to this particular equation.
The ferry had arrived a quarter-hour earlier than scheduled because of a coastal squall. He felt that Watson would depart early if he felt the usefulness in the maneuver.
He pressed the door open, eyes aimed to the coat-rack in the hallway. His lips bent in a smile to see Watson's familiar grey travelling-coat hanging up, still damp at the shoulders from France. His walking-stick rested in the umbrella-stand. Holmes paused to sniff the coat. Warmer southern winds, and a particularly fine little cafe at the port that specialized in spicy foods across the globe. Watson may not have lived among exotics for long, but his palate had been permanently corrupted by curry, turmeric, and--yes, a cup of Azteca xocolotl: Chocolate, vanilla bean, hot peppers...the drink of Montezuma. Watson was more than a static lover of history; he was its gourmand.
Seventeen steps up; turning left; American gripsack in his left hand as he pushed open the door. Warmth of the coal-fire and the smell of Ship's tobacco changed the atmosphere. Watson looked up from one of his horrendous yellow-backed novels, stretched forth on the settee with a restrained expression that nevertheless said he was relieved that his companion had made it back safely for another day.
"You're a bit earlier than I expected, Holmes." He set the book aside after glancing down to note the page number. He would remember that page when he next picked it up. Still, Watson never thought to count his own steps or gauge his distance in the material world.
"Have you finished so soon, Watson?"
Watson looked at him with a light trace of exasperation in his face. "Fritz von Waldbaum was most forthcoming in his interview." He said wryly. "You are aware that the German interests are somewhat entrenched in Paris?"
"Of course they are—despite millennia of mutual amicable enmity."
Watson sniffed softly. "I have his notes, quite extensive notes, for all the good they may do you."
"Really, Watson, was he so intolerable?" Nevertheless, his fingers sank into the small sheaf of thin paper eagerly.
"Not in himself, no. It was his assistant I dearly wished to throttle. Merely for the good of the public, mind you." Watson folded his arms across his chest, the memory of his encounter not the least diluted by his return from across the Channel. "You realize, there are geologists who insist that were it not for upheaval, the Thames would be draining into the Rhine. I find myself grateful for the Sea of Brittany."
"Come, come, Watson. Our good von Waldbaum is in a most precarious position; he must keep a concerned yet avuncular eye to all the goings on at the Rue Austerlitz in the hopes that his country will benefit without a hasty maneuver plunging France into war while he still resides in it. A man of his varied skills, experience, and not to mention, his very job-description would make him a prime candidate for becoming a permanent guest of French hospitality until hostilities cease."
"Holmes, the French haven't jumped to an execution in a very long time." Watson pointed out. "They hardly want to be seen in the eyes of the world as a people that learns not from their mistakes."
"Too true; but to avoid a mistake, one must recognize it as such in the first place."
Forty-eight hours of Watson's work (half of it being nothing but travel from London to Paris and back again) and Holmes had plumbed the depths in less than five minutes. Watson watched him pore over the notes, his lips occasionally moving as a particularly savoury word came to his tongue.
"My good Watson, your journey was hardly fruitless."
"You would say that even if I came back with nothing." Watson answered a bit on the growling side of his temperament. "For you would remind me yet again that much of your work is in the process of elimination."
"Alas for my inability to be two places at once." Holmes smiled, quick as a flare. "But you have equited yourself well, have you not?"
"Save for the moment when a Swabian word surfaced in my vocabulary." Watson flushed deep in his mortification.
"Swabian? Dear me. One would presume that our good specialist would be more admirable in his respects to the entity that spawned the Hapsburgs, not to mention Charlemagne."
"It's all right, Holmes. I told him I used to live in Norfolk, and it contaminated my language."
Holmes did not quite laugh; nor did he chortle, but the sound was somewhat worse between the two. "Yes, there was a settlement over there, was there not?" He re-read the contents a second time, and to Watson's sudden gratification, sat at his desk amongst the chemistry apparatti and began scrawling notes of his own in the margins (Watson had learned long ago to leave copious space).
"Too soon," he said at last. "Too soon to tell before all the data coalesce; for now we know that there were more than a few factitious elements at the Rue. Our Mr. Lucas was a participant of these maneuvers too."
"With the unwitting participation of his wife," Watson pointed out. "Her ability to transcend society among the French must have been an asset for such a man, who appears to have made his livelihood on others' information and connections."
"Mmn," Holmes rested his bottom lip against his hand for a moment, the free hand instinctively reaching for his tobacco. "She was a Creole of considerable background, as you have gleaned from our German friend. Related, if somewhat distantly, to Napoleon's very own Josephine through ties that gave her that colourful West Indies blood with some pre-American Louisiana Colony L'Roche. L'Roche? That cannot possibly be the appropriate spelling."
"I don't believe our Dantzig specialist bothers with Le or La," Watson lifted his eyebrows as he spoke.
"Ah. At any rate, the French, who are somewhat more forgiving of their ancestors' peccadilloes, enjoyed her as one of their own, save for when she fell into unfortunate episodes of jealousy—dear me! This is his actual use of words?"
"I recorded him verbatim, Holmes. Colourful and sentimental as you would have me, I promise you, there are limits to my imagination." Yes, Watson was definitely sour.
"And what are your true feelings, Watson? What is your diagnosis of the scene?"
"My diagnosis?" Watson repeated. "My diagnosis is that just because a woman gives her heart, it should not be seen as free! Her jealousies may have been what kept Mr. Lucas here in London one-quarter of the year, and I would have been glad for it!" Disgust still thickened his voice. "A woman has her pride, Holmes. It is quite one thing to have her loyalty and trust broken by her chosen husband's infidelity. Another again that he would be using her to further his own interests. But to commit these indignities in her own social circles, among the people she knew and trusted? That would be beyond the pale."
His pipe was packed, one-handed with the thumb into the bowl. Holmes found himself fascinated by the way Watson ceased to be staid and calm when an emotional matter was abroad. His whole being changed with the atmosphere.
"And yet she appears to have followed him to his second life in London." Holmes pointed out.
"All vessels may break. She was clearly under the limits of her endurance." Watson paused and sighed, his hand rubbing at his eyes. "From what the authorities say, her reason will never recover. And her husband, who she loved, is dead by her own hand." He shook his head sadly. "He set up his own fate, Holmes. But it is she who will pay for it the longest."
"And you think she regretted her actions, Watson?" Holmes wondered.
Watson looked at him. "Why else did she go mad?"