"There we go." Mary leaned over and blew out the candle. After what had seemed like an agonising period of an infant's complaints, Arthur had simply closed his eyes and gone to sleep. Kate envied his ability to find rest when he wanted it.
"He'll be sleeping through most the night." Mary explained as she settled herself comfortably. "It's much of an improvement over before. His nursery overlooks the garden, but the sounds of the paper-men come through in the morning and before you'd know it, he would be awake and cross as a little bear."
"Poor thing!" Kate was ready to feel sorry for the baby.
"Not to worry, dear." Mary was quick to reassure her. "He'll be quite all right; he just needs an appropriate place to settle down…not too different from his father. I hope John isn't aggravated tonight…the cold always makes his wounds ache."
-
John was not aggravated. He was furious.
Wild horses couldn't take a true gentleman from his manners…but his unease had grown over the course of the night. After the chilly exhibit and the false corpse, John was glad of the dinner-table. Candlelight was better against Pictish oil-lamps any day.
One of the guests—an overly polished idle son with hair the colour of a winter-blasted cattail swamp--had started it all halfway through the courses with an opinion on writing. John now knew him as the brother of a periodical editor, so his assumption of expertise was inevitable (John never liked the periodical anyway).
"Writing should be in facts, not fiction." Giles Andrews persisted. "Our work as researchers and explorers is too important for distraction…but here we are competing in the market-place for whatever tripe is being printed on cheap paper! Or what about the installments in the newspapers?"
"Fiction is a matter of life," a fat man with curling white whiskers against his florid face pointed out. "I know you dislike the sensationalist "historical fiction" as well as I do, Giles, but it is there and we can hardly eradicate it."
"We can at least stop supporting those rags and encourage others to do so." Giles was well on his way to being the first drunk of the evening. "Look at the trumped up false Druids running about, claiming to be the inheritors of the Celtic mentality! Shall we all re-write actual Roman history on the island and pass it off as fact? How many minds are warped thinking it is all genuine history?" A mutter of low humour fluttered through many of the men there, but there was something ugly and too-smug about it.
"People want to believe what they're reading…that's why they read it. But most people have the sense not to grasp fiction or a fantastical work as if it actually happened."
"Most? That's a generous estimation!" Giles was growing angry. His eyes settled on the half-expectant Watson. "Shall we ask the writer among us?"
Watson mentally sighed. "What shall you ask of me, sir?"
"You have experienced the realities of life in war. You write quite excellent articles on the life of London, as well as the occasional medical treatise—"
Watson jumped slightly; someone noticing his medical papers was an unexpected shock.
"—but if you are to be remembered for anything, it would be as the observer of Sherlock Holmes." Giles hesitated a moment, perhaps to allow his point the time it needed to collect the appropriate drama. "You cater to different audiences, Doctor, unlike anyone else in this room. How does it make you feel to know you will be known for your sensationalist literature, and not your more important writings?"
Very rarely did a man's honest opinion make Watson see red. When the brown curtain dissolved before his eyes, he was standing on his feet with the wineglass creaking in his grip while Mortimer peered worriedly up into his face.
Calm down, he advised himself. Calm down. A man who speaks in ignorance is a poor target. And Holmes wouldn't even understand why you're upset.
"I would humbly submit that there are two perspectives on writing." He said at last. In a way, he already knew what to say—this was the same old question, only phrased in an unusually clever way. "The message that the author is earnestly attempting to convey…and the message the audience believes. It would be tempting and simplistic to say that the author truly owns his work. I do not believe he does. When Robert Browning was asked what was meant by a line of his poetry, he kindly told his questioners to "ask the Browning Society, I'm sure they know all about it."
Still too angry, John. Calm down…He took a sip of his wine as the silence about the hall grew thick.
"A writer by nature is fluid. He writes what he has to say…and he moves on. The reader does not move on. The reader catches what he can from the words, draws his own meaning from it, but the words are frozen. They are memorized in order to make a point in a conversation, or perhaps inspire another man's work of literature…how many of us have read a book where Shakespeare was quoted or even the point of the conversation?
"I humbly submit to Lord Openshaw that my sensationalist writings were disliked by many, including Mr. Holmes himself. He wanted to demonstrate to the world his methods by which he solved problems—the difference between seeing and observing, and indirectly, the benefit of a trained education. Over time, I fear, he grew a bit annoyed at the reactions of the people he aided. Their admiration for him was the admiration the audience gives an illusionist or a conjurer. Once they knew the methods they employed, they instantly devalued his work. The audience may wonder how the magician can levitate the sleeping lady, but do they really want to know?"
He took another drink. "Mr. Holmes was at heart a most logical and forward thinker, and the reaction to his life's calling caused him no end of bafflement. At last, he granted me permission to publish his work, under certain stipulations. They would only be remarkable cases of note containing an apt demonstration of his powers. He also preferred cases that demonstrated a social or economic problem, for that was the root of many crimes. Lastly, he granted me permission to publish these cases after his death, and I believe that was partly to avoid the inevitable pestering of the curious and the bored. The good magician reveals his tricks at the end, after all." His throat threatened to close up for a moment; by dint of will, he forced it from happening.
Not a sound.
John regarded the large table, stuffed with enough food to feed the crawlers of London for a week, and yet it was just a casual display of hospitality.
Dear God, they wanted him to keep going.
"I would not call my own accountings of Sherlock Holmes sensationalist, although many elements of his adventures were sensational. I have my own methods of writing, and I chose the form of language and atmosphere that would…convey some of what we encountered. The vast majority of my readers have never been to Dartmoor. They have known France only by a map. The King of Bohemia rules a land they will never see, nor would they know how to address such a man. I tried to let them see what I was seeing and feel what I was feeling. In a way I write for everyone who has ever wished to have the company of a person who is…good at solving problems, for problems are a fact of life, and we are often overwhelmed by them. To know that somewhere there is a real, live, flesh-and-blood man who is a problem-solver for his career…who has the wit to take what confounds us, make sense of it all, and leave the world a better place for his interference…well…that is a good medicine, gentlemen. A medicine that gives that rare elixir of hope and optimism—qualities that we must have if we are to survive in adversity.
"If it appears sensationalist to contemplate that a man would murder his own step-daughters with a poisonous serpent, it is only sensationalist because poison is considered the murder weapon of women, not men. His readers were not astonished at the cleverness of the robbers in The Red-headed League, but they were more surprised that a man of noble blood would be the intelligent force behind it. And thus you see the problem I grappled with. My audience reaches sorts I could never predict.
"I would seem to be not the only one with this phenomenon. There is a writer I feel who is much more talented than I, and I am certain some of you have read his work: Dr. A. C. Doyle. He is a natural detective, a skilled doctor, and he has pieced together intelligent, gripping accounts of crime as well as the mental process that makes the victim and killer tick; but he is unfortunately more famous for The White Company that was put out only in '90. It grieves me to say that while I enjoy The White Company, his worthwhile articles and observations from a scientific viewpoint are ignored." He sighed. "Mr. Doyle was upset and concerned at the renewal of the Triple Alliance last year. I know from my personal meetings with him, as well as the quality of his research that his concerns of war are legitimate. But will he be listed as an expert? I do not think he will be given the respect he deserves."1
Watson tried to ignore his rapt audience. "My medical articles are received by the medical eye. That is to be expected. My articles of London are received by the dwellers of London first, the rest of England second. But it is my…sensationalist writings of Sherlock Holmes that I am the most fond of, for I cannot tell you who will read them, nor who will enjoy them. Hardly a day passes when I hear something from one of those readers…and be they rich or poor, their appreciation for my sharing the stories is heartfelt and honest. Even their criticism is welcomed, for they feel strongly about the great man they remember. We share that strong feeling. And while I know I am no resurrectionist, I feel as long as the methods of that great man are with us, his legacy will ensure he is remembered for a long time afterward…"
Watson had meant to finish, but the clapping overwhelmed him. Astonished, he took in the sight. Over twenty men, whom he would have tagged as sour academics, were rising to their feet, pounding their hands and slamming their palms on the tabletop.
-
"Quite beautiful," Mortimer repeated for the unknownth-time as they prepared for bed. "It is to balance between two wires to be an author: To write for oneself, or to write for the praise of the public? You reminded us all that one motivation is incomplete without the other."
"I swear to you, such was not my intent." Watson confessed with dissolving enthusiasm. Against their ankles a creeping draught chilled the skin and slipped icy fingers upon the floor where even the thick carpet could not shield them. He pulled on his bedroom-stockings in hasty relief. "I wasn't even speaking with an outline in my mind! I was just…speaking intuitively, I'm afraid."
"You shouldn't be ashamed of speaking intuitively." Mortimer spoke with a firmness outside his usual manners. "You are a Celt through and through. No one could ask for a better friend, alive or dead."
Watson sighed and brushed at his moustache. "He would have spoken differently."
"Of course he would have. He was different. As different in his way as one continent is to another…but Russia lies within view of North America, does it not?" Mortimer shuddered as his warmest night-clothes failed to take effect, and he paused to stand before the peat fire with his hands outstretched. "This will be the last time I forget my night-cap." He muttered under his breath.
Watson chuckled despite himself.
"As I was saying, you have your own talents, just as he did his."
"I assure you, I have no desire to bury my own identity in someone else's." Watson spoke softly. "But still…it was good to be a part of something larger…"
"And if anyone was larger than life, it would be Mr. Holmes." Mortimer smiled at fond memories.
"Yes…good-night, doctor."
"Good-night."
Watson did not allow himself to relax as Mortimer's occasional toss turned to idle snoring. He felt wide awake—as if he'd drunk coffee instead of wine.
He'd felt this sensation before. In the starless, humid night of India after a tiger hunt he did not to this day choose to recollect; that night was followed by his boarding the next ship to the Berkshires. The sensation came back many times after that—sometimes strongly, most times a glimmer of awareness or an echo thrumming behind the ear. He'd looked up into the brilliant Afghanistan starlight and known if there was such a thing as destiny, he would meet it that coming day.
He had never shied from that sensation. It had grown less common…but it was there.
The night at the Roylott mansion had been his worst experience after Maiwand. A mere blink of his eye and he would be back in that cold, half-finished room with the dreadful bed that could not be moved.
Holmes rising up in that darkness, seeing what Watson could not as he struck upon the bed with his cane…seeing it because he knew it could only be a snake in the light of his match and the snake would be…there…upon the bedcovers…
The terrible scream that magnified the darkness.
Holmes pale as marble, his sharp eyes glinting in the gloom as his chest heaved with the effort to calm his breathing. His face had never been whiter, and the loathing in his face had yet to be equaled in Watson's memory.
"You see it, Watson? You see it?"
No. My eyes were not as keen as yours, and they were tired from being open for so long. The paltry light of your match was enough to blind me…
Watson sighed to himself, for it was no light thing to admit his vision was not what it had once been. The desert had burned the best of that gift from him, though nowhere near as badly as it had for his brother…2
"You see it, Watson? You see it?"
No…but I am beginning to…
Mortimer was completely asleep, so deep in his dreams that his fingers twitched above the covers. He never stirred when Watson slipped out of his bed and dressed in the dark.
It took him less time that he estimated to reach Sir Niles library room. As he had suspected, the library was unlocked. There had been little need to lock it; none of the books looked particularly valuable in Watson's casual glance.
The cabinet beneath the immaculate rows upon rows of the baronet's diaries was unlocked too. Watson risked a single match in his hand but glanced away from the bright little flame as it flared; he avoided setting his eyes upon it the entire time he peered into the little wooden cavern.
A man who collects things with such fervent need ironically demonstrates a lack of strength in his character. Watson had known too many men and women who made a fetish out of their possessions. They invariably found it difficult to make decisions. The greater the need to keep things past their usefulness, the stronger the degree of their unnatural attachment.
And as he suspected, Sir Niles had his old "imperfect" books all stored in the back away from his "perfect" books that were worthy of perfect view. Judging from the musty smell, none had been opened since their incarceration.
It took but a few minutes' work to find the book he wanted. A brief perusal of its contents tomorrow would return the diary to its rightful spot. Breathing a sigh of relief, he quietly closed the door on the cabinet and returned to his room.
-
Kate Whitney awoke to the easy warmth of the feather bed. Next to her, Mary was just sitting up and pulling off the covers.
"Get yourself some more rest, dear." Mary smiled at her. "I must see to Arthur." The baby was whimpering from the crib in the warm corner.
"Oh, the poor dear." Kate whispered. "How is he?"
"He's just hungry…and I daresay a bit damp!" Mary chuckled softly, but pinned her dressing-gown in place swiftly. "Shush, dear…your mother's here."
Arthur squirmed as his mother quickly popped him into clean hippens and settled into the rocking-chair with the baby in her arms. "Never much sleep in the world with a baby in it," she whispered. "You needn't get up on our account, Kate. It's still early."
Kate couldn't quite explain that she felt completely rested in the peace and quiet of this household. Here there were no sulky maids who forgot every other thing they were told; no sound of late-night traffic or the worry of a husband coming home in pieces from his nightly revels.
"I slept deeply, Mary. I'm wide awake. Shall I tell your maid to fix up some tea?"
"Mn, some rose-hip tea would be a delight...oh, there you are, Theresa."
"I heard you were up, Ma'am, and wanted to see if there was anything I could do."
"The usual morning cup of tea, please, and the usual hand with these dresses!" Mary's smile of mischief startled Kate, for she had long been told that one could not be at all frivolous with the work. Theresa smiled as she ducked her head and agreed to tend to things at once.
"Why is it all my prettiest dresses require another person with two working hands to button me inside them?" Mary sighed. "I wish my dresses buttoned in the front."
Kate blinked. "It's hardly respectable, Mary. A woman who can simply pop in and out of her dress whenever she wanted…"
"Cloth chastity belts." Mary said firmly, and overlooked Kate's fierce blush. For that matter, so did Theresa. "Bad enough we can't even lift our arms over our heads…we have to have servants to help us! I suppose I'm fortunate in that I enjoy the maid we do have…her father's a cab-man so I never have to worry about her being able to come to work."
Kate's mind whirled slightly, but she was already on the fringes of respectability thanks to her husband. "I would be afraid." Kate confessed. "I don't think I would feel safe."
"Forgive me. When I least expect it I think of my childhood abroad." Mary's smile was warm with memories. "It's so different over there…sometimes I wish I were abroad again, but it's the small things I miss about it…the sunshine, the rain that won't turn you black…"
The air that won't make you cough…Kate looked into her tea. Surely you miss the freedom of breath…but if you left I would be heartbroken.
"You look sad, Kate."
"I suppose I'm thinking of today." Kate lied easily though she hated to. "The weather's so vile. They say it's going to get worse before it gets better."
"I hope it isn't that way where John is," Mary frowned out the window as she tucked Arthur into a light blanket. "The chill always aggravates his wounds." She sighed as if to herself. "Nothing for it, I suppose…and I do need to go outside today." She gave Arthur to Kate, who was all too happy to cuddle the baby.
"What a mess," Mary said at last. Kate looked up from Arthur's attempts to lift and twist his head like an owl's to find her friend staring out the window. "There's no doubt you're right about the weather, Kate! Just look at those clouds! You can't even see the church from here!"
"Are we to be snowed in?"
Mary sighed again. "No…it's clear enough in the streets…but I do need to get some things. Theresa's father is an excellent driver and I trust his skill." She looked better for having come to her decision. "Do you fancy a short drive out before the storm?" She smiled.
-
Still no time yet to go through the book. Watson was careful to secrete it behind the false backing of his locked bag; it was a simple enough measure and the lock was small but difficult to prize. In the light of day he could admit to a thread of absurdity…still…
Still there was something. Sir Niles had been trying too hard to be his friend, trying too hard to get his agreement to return for another visit, or stay a bit longer…
Perhaps it was as simple as being discomfited at the sight of a sacrificial manikin that looked too much like himself. He was hungry and tired of the rabid eagerness of their host and their fellow-guess who lived to approve of everything Sir Niles did in the name of "Bringing discovery to the visitors." They had seen the old dungeons. The torture room (what was a dungeon without one?). A nearby bog-dig where a wind with teeth and death from freezing temperatures was more interesting than a well-preserved left shoe from some forgotten pagan…
Watson's battle-sense was not going away in the face of all this hectic science. He'd had enough. It was time he went home to Mary and Arthur and he was thankful that Mortimer had only pledged two nights on Streat.
"He won't get many visitors in the winter." Dr. Mortimer said from behind him. The hawk-like man was perched on the edge of his chair like a long-legged bird, inspecting his boots for fresh blacking.
Watson snorted. "The problem is, most of the weather on Streat seems to be winter."
"Oh, I have it on good authority the sun shines at least twice in June…"
Watson was chuckling when a timid knock at the door drove it away. "Not again," he whispered.
"John, I promise you, Sir Niles is not keeping us. As soon as the ship docks we will be there waiting…" Mortimer whispered as he stepped out of the chair and across the room to the door. "Yes?" He asked, expecting to see one of the pages.
It was Sir Niles himself, and the man was pale beneath his black beard. "I…forgive me for troubling you, gentlemen…and…" He set his mouth. "Dr. Watson, it is my duty to bring you unfortunate news. I just received a wire from Scotland Yard. It concerns your wife and son."
Watson slowly stood upright. The look in the baronet's face was unique to one subject. "Sir?" He whispered through lips of wood.
"It is…I fear the cab holding your wife and son was in an accident."
Whew.
Please don't be angry at me. This was hard! Mary is one of my favorite characters, and as the mother of a little boy, it was even harder to write about Arthur. I've been putting this off and putting this off…and finally…I just had to do it and stop torturing all of us.
So concludes THE END OF ALL THINGS. The first chapter of the FINALLY VERY END OF THIS EPIC, will post in a few days.
1 Doyle wrote real-crime stories that were as Watson described. They may be found today in the online library, "The Diogenes Club" under the link, "Strange Studies."
2 In "The New Annotated Sherlock Holmes" editor Leslie Klinger points out the suspicion of several scholars that Watson suffered from imperfect vision, ranging from a lack of vitamin A to colour-blindness, etc. Watson did profess to be less sharp-eyed than his friend, which may have been just a manifestation of Holmes' mental awareness. In "The Cardboard Box" he admits the glare of the sun was painful to his eyes; a cause which could have easily been rooted in his desert experiences.