The worst of days – Part 3

Sherlock:

I left the house the next morning before little Tom arrived, well knowing that the boy would have a pleasant surprise at any rate. Taking an express to Exeter and from there a much slower train that would bring me to Torbay, I arrived at the Torquay within little more than four hours. The last bit of the way had been spectacular, indeed, as we descended towards the sea the bay lay grey and heavy at the feet of the cragged reddish cliffs, with Brixham at its furthest end and the fort and lighthouse towering ominously over the small fishing town in some distance. Knowing from Watson that the little pension his wife and her friend stayed in was quite close to the station, I asked my way around and sure enough, within ten minutes I was standing in front of a pretty, neat, whitewashed pension, looking much as I had expected. Mrs Fawlty, the landlady, who opened the door herself, was a chatty, plump little person, wearing a bottle green dress and a bright red apron with yellow polka dots, giving her the appearance of an oversized rag doll. She was, in short, the epiphany of a caring though busy body hostess and it was no surprise that she immediately started to interrogate me about my visit to Mrs Watson.

"Are you her brother?" she asked, well knowing, in all likeliness, considering the lady in question had stayed at her place for almost a year, that Mrs Watson had neither brother nor sister.

"No."

"A doctor?"

"No."

"Her uncle?"

Inwardly I rolled my eyes in amusement, yet glad a the same time, my own landlady was not even remotely as chatty and busybody as this one.

"No, and I am also not butcher, baker nor candlestick maker."

"So what is it, you want from her then? You know she is ill and at any rate, this is a decent establishment. I cannot allow a single gentleman visit a lonely lady. - Not without her husband, a friend or me to chaperone."

I was hard pressed not to laugh. Her curiosity was so obvious, that she was not even acting cunningly, but was blunt to a point, where it was bordering the impertinent. And yet, looking at her face, I did not doubt that she believed her own words to be sincere.

"Mrs Fawlty, it was Mr and Mrs Watson's wish that I should come here and speak to the lady," that at least was almost true – apart from the fact that I had initiated the whole affair while the other two had just agreed to the plan, "and had Doctor Watson not been busy in his practice, he would have come, too. And also, I am a married man myself – and again, had my wife not been engaged elsewhere, she would have come likewise. Apart from that, you should know, that with Mrs Watson, you have a woman of impeccable repute. - Your assumptions are indeed not very flattering for either of us."

"The husband I rarely see, sir." She defended herself and there was a slight accusation at my friend's neglect of his wife. "And still I fail to see, what you want from her, married or not."

"And it is none of your business, as a matter of fact. But let me put it this way, it is mine and the Watson's business, who have both asked me to help them in a personal matter."

She did not look too pleased with my reprimand but did not argue any further as she had to admit that there never really had been a reason for her, to act as chaperone and that it had rather been her wish to indulge her curiosity than to protect her lodger from any harm. In my mind, I could see her pudgy face pressed against the keyhole of the parlour door. How fortunate she was that short, at least she did not need to bend down very much to do so.

The former Miss Mary Morstan sat at the window in her wheelchair, looking as handsome and tranquil as ever and when at my entering the room, her pretty little face lit up, she almost looked unchanged from the time I had seen her last.

"Mr Holmes!" she exclaimed, reaching out her hand. "I am so glad you have come."

I took her little hand in mine, feeling its coldness. Looking around me and taking off my own overcoat, I realised the room was uncomfortably chilly.

"The maid has stormed out of the house a couple of days ago, shouting abuse at Mrs Fawlty." Mary Watson explained. "The landlady forbade her to attend a suffragette assembly up in Babbacombe and the young girl had none of it. At any rate, Mrs Fawlty now needs to take care of everything herself, for during the winter months she never employs more than one maid. And currently, I am her only lodger anyway."

"Then I will take care of the fire and make myself useful in getting this room more habitable."

Kneeling down in front of the grate, I first took the poker to brush aside last nights ashes and then crumpled up some paper that lay atop a thankfully already filled coal scuttle and within minutes the fire merrily flickered and slowly warmed up the small but cosy chamber.

"I thought Mrs Forester was with you?" I picked up on her remark as I got up from my knees, dusting off my trousers.

"She is, just that she is currently visiting her sister in Newbury. The lady has invited her several times already and Mrs Forester could hardly postpone it any longer. At any rate, I would not want her to neglect her family on my account. And Mrs Fawlty is a good an reliable soul, and she has taken great care of me, so you see, I am none for the worse."

Again I could vividly picture the lady with her ear on the door, glowing with the praise she had just received. But my friend's wife looked at me sadly, and I knew she would have wished for her husband to be at her side.

"Yes, I believe in an instant, that Mrs Fawlty is taking great care of you – and your affairs. She offered herself as a chaperone."

The lady gave an amused giggle, before turning serious again.

"John said you would try and find out what happened..." she gestured at her legs that were covered by a pretty little quilt, not unlike the one I had seen on Harriet's bed in Chiswick.

"Yes," I answered simply.

"I really need to know!" she sobbed, tears in her eyes as her hands reached out to me once more.

"You are a good man, Mr Holmes. I thought I could get over it eventually, but every single day I wonder if I, in any way, could have saved… - could have saved..."

She looked at me helplessly, unable to finish her sentence.

"If there is one thing I can tell you already, madam, than it is, that none of this is your fault."

"My brain tells me so, but my heart says otherwise. Had I postponed my outing, or gone earlier..."

"...or not at all. - Mrs Watson, that is nonsense! It could have happened anytime anywhere."

"But it happened there and then."

"I know. So tell me, what do you remember?"

"It was a lovely and warm day and we were looking forward to our week in Brighton. I am sure little Henry would have enjoyed the sand – even though he was still too small to play in it. But he was so curious and sweet-tempered and never very troublesome. Over breakfast, I remembered that I would need a suitable hat for the beach and decided to walk down to Simpson's on Bayswater Road. And when everything was settled for the delivery, I ventured into the park, knowing that John would not be home till five. I crossed the street again at Hyde Park Street. – There is a policeman there, making it quite safe to cross and I had just done so and had walked a few yards when I heard the outcry of angry voices. Turning around I was just in time to see a carriage drawn by four brown horses dart towards me. I tried to get out of the way, but one wheel of the pram had got stuck between two of the cobblestones and I needed to yank very hard to free it. And by the time I had finally gotten it loose, the carriage had reached me and I was thrown over, painfully crashing into something."

She looked up. The tears had dried, but the devastation obvious in every line of her friendly face. Reassuringly I squeezed her hand, that I still held and she continued:

"All I could think of was my baby. I could hear his cries, but I could not move, no matter how hard I tried to reach him. By that time several bystanders had gathered around me and the traffic warden came running, looking ghostly. A man in shabby clothing asked me, who should be called – he looked as if all blood had drained from his face – and I gave him the address of the practice, while an elderly woman handed me, Henry. I was so relieved to see him kicking and squirming. He was cross, but alive. I did not care what anyone would think - my child was restless and he needed to drink, I knew it would calm him down. And so I nursed him for the very last time. John arrived and gave me something to relieve my pain, taking the baby from me. As I slowly passed out from the drug, I remember my husband standing there, cradling our son, holding him close, smiling at me reassuringly. I never saw Henry again. Later I was told he had died that afternoon – that was six days later. I had asked for him several times but was told I was not yet well enough. But I missed my son – missed having him in my arms, missed his irresistible smell – babies have this wonderful smell about them, Mr Holmes, there is nothing in the world that smells so lovely – not for a mother. And I missed him feeding off of me. I was uncomfortable, it hurt and embarrassed me. At last, I was given a tea and I ceased to have milk. When I asked about Henry again, concerned he would not get the nourishment that he needed any more, I was told by one of the nurses, who had finally taken a pity on me, that he had been buried the previous day."

Now she was crying again. And I let her, just making sure she knew she was not alone, by holding her little hand in mine. My heart bled for her and for my friend, who I knew suffered equally, though within himself, and I did not venture to try and imagine how much she must have suffered in those days of uncertainty and then later in those days of final certainty, while Watson carried all of this on his shoulders, trying to give her strength and hope. When her tears ebbed away she was much calmer, having shared her worst memory. What was it my wife had said when in distress herself? - Sometimes it is better to have things like that off one's chest. - Yes, that seemed very true indeed.

But Harriet had also reminded me, that in this case, I would be re-opening barely healed wounds. Looking at the frail woman before me, I realised that in this instance the wounds had not even begun to heal, but were still gaping open, much like an infected injury, that without medical attention would never close up at all, but slowly poison and kill the patient. Realising that I must be the first person she had told the whole story – not just the facts, but also the emotional part, I was not just touched, but also hoped this to be the treatment necessary to heal this putrid emotional wound. Though certainly not without leaving a scar. Like with Alastair Hayward's hand, this first needed to get horribly painful, before it could get better.

"Is there anything apart from the four horses, you remember about the carriage?" I asked when she had wiped away even the last tear and had cleaned her nose in an equally boyish fashion than Harriet did, when upset.

"As said, the horses were all chestnut brown in colour, quite stately and well kept, and the equipage was also quite grand and nothing like a four-wheeled cab. I do think I remember a pair of crossed swords on a blue background – much like a coat of arms, but something seems to be wrong with that image. As we walked around Hyde Park we saw a lot of grand carriages with coats of arms, I may be mixing things up."

It was this remark though, that had me thinking once more that I was onto something. Could it perhaps be, that she had seen the very carriage earlier, whilst walking? I asked her, but she could not be sure of it.

"Could you draw that image?" I asked, reaching for my notebook and the desperately blunt pencil. Sharpening it I managed to cut myself. With a grimace I stuck my injured thumb into my mouth, to keep from soiling the many crocheted doilies or the light coloured runner – or my own clothing for that matter.

Reaching for the bell, that was conveniently placed on a small table next to her, Mrs Watson rang for the landlady and by the promptness with which she appeared and judging by the tears in her eyes, I found my suspicions confirmed. Mrs Fawlty had been eavesdropping on us.

"Mrs Fawlty, Mr Holmes has cut himself, could you please get him a dressing for his finger?"

At the sight of the blood – I had managed to cut myself quite badly – the nosy dame paled visibly and hurried out of the room in her quest to find something to stop the blood flow from my digit.

"I am surprised she did not faint..." I mumbled, thumb still between my lips. Pressing the tongue against the gash.

"Me, too." was the bemused reply.

Picking up pencil and paper she began drawing, while I wrapped the clean strip of white cotton tightly around my finger as soon as it had been supplied.

"I would say this is pretty much it." Mary Watson held up her drawing, before handing me back my notebook and pencil.

The picture was distinct enough to be able to look upon it. It was not quite shaped like the typical shield form of a coat of arms, but had more of an egg shape, with the top quarter unadorned, while the lower three quarters, she told me, were a deep blue, quite dark, but not dark enough to call it a navy blue. The two sword she had mentioned crossed each other right in the middle, the handles at the top and the blades pointing downward. Between every thus acquired gap, she had drawn three dots – twelve in all.

"Can you remember any colouring with these dots?"

"They were the same colour as the swords – a greyish kind of silver."

"Thank you, I think this might help."

"I hope so, Mr Holmes."

For several minutes, once more we sat in silence, listening to the ticking of the clock and the crackling of the fire, that would need re-stoking soon.

"Mr Holmes?" she, at last, broke the silence.

"Yes?"

"Why do you think John does not pine over the loss of his son? He was so devastated when you seemed to have died, but with Henry, I never so much as saw anything that indicated he was mourning his child. Not one single tear has he cried over him and he always seemed quite cheerful. Sometimes I almost hated him for his serenity. - Sometimes I still do. How can I be married to a man who is so callous at the death of his one and only child?"

I was shocked at her confession. But one look at her face showed me, that she did not hate her husband at all, but loved him dearly. Apart from that, I knew that it was simply not true what she had said and what she clearly believed. John Watson still mourned and I was sure that once one single tear broke from his eyes, he would not be able to stop weeping. I had seen him swallow hard on many occasion when our conversation had reached the topic of his wives accident and that day I had first confronted him with the knowledge that there had also been a son, the tears had, in fact, threatened to flow freely for a moment, as his eyes were brimming with them.

"Mrs Watson, your husband is so numbed by his grief, he is rendered emotionally as immobile as are you in the body," I told her quietly, feeling emotionally drained myself. "Did you know, little Henry died in his arms only minutes after he had sedated you?"

She looked surprised.

"No, he never told me."

"And seeing you this ill made him believe he needed to be strong – very strong. And never allowed him to have anybody share in his misery. Not you, not me – no-one. I told him, he was being stupid. Had it not been for a favour Inspector Hopkins had paid me, at which I invited him to a pint, I would never have found out either. I never knew till then, that a child had been involved."

"Thank you."

"Whatever for?"

"For trying to bring back the man I have married – and showing me he is still there underneath all of this grief and sorrow. At one point he felt so very distant, I had thought I had lost him forever. Now I begin to understand why. - And there I was thinking him cold and unfeeling!"

"How old was Henry?"

"Only six months, he would have turned seven months on July 6th."

So little still – and then realising what his birthday must have been I swallowed hard.

"Have you ever known his second name?"

I had not, but I had an inkling.

"We named him after you. - Sherlock. I hope you do not mind? But we thought it very suitable. After all, without you, John and I would have never met. And we thought something of you should live on, even if it was just a name."

Getting up I bend down, respectfully kissing her forehead.

"Thank you." I could only whisper, too deeply moved to trust my voice. Holding both of my hands now she smiled, a sad smile, but not without hope.

"Now you yourself will have to pass on your name. - John wrote to me about your marriage."

When it was time to return home, I felt bad leaving her like that, and at the same time, I knew she needed to be alone, contemplate the news about her son and her husband and at long last move on. It was not something I would be able to help her with, and it was certainly not my place to do so, it was something that only time could heal, as trite as it sounded. My mission was to find the answer as to why and who, and I would try my best to do so.