A BRIEF NOTE TO THE READER
Dr. John H. Watson M.D.
I will tell you, reader, succinctly that this story is not mine to tell. If one were to tell me of the sensational nature of this tale, I would immediately dismiss it as a work of fiction. However there is pressing and singular piece of evidence that seems to dismiss any doubts and after much research (on my own and Conan Doyle's behalf) we have found no evidence that would prove this story wrong.
What I can relate to you however is how I received this quaint story.
It was a cold winter's day in the year of 1893, during Holmes's hiatus though during this time I thought he was dead, and I had just returned from my various appointments through the city. Winter had just arrived on London's doorstep and with its cold and icy winds it brought various maladies and illnesses singular to the season.
Life had receded into an unceasing monotony tinged with grief. Holmes had plunged to his death at the Reichenbach Falls in the previous year. The following year I endured the untimely death of my dear wife; she was walking across the street when a hurtling street cart ran her over. She managed to survive but died days later due to the severity of her injuries. I held her hands and stayed by her side in those final days of her young life. Mary will remain with me in my heart and her spirit, tucked away to my own solitude.
Her loss had compelled me to work myself to the verge of exhaustion so as to distract my grieving soul. Conan Doyle would often come and visit and help ease my grief yet he also compelled me to start writing once more, which would also serve as a distraction yet it also helped me remember much happier times—my adventures with Holmes. From this cathartic writing emerged The Hound of the Baskervilles. However when one gives a mouse a cookie, it wants a glass of milk—Conan Doyle wanted more stories.
It was after such a visit that left me both frustrated and exhausted that I received the package. The maid Elizabeth reported that during his visit a package arrived and was awaiting my perusal in my study. I thanked her and went to my study to inspect the package.
The package sat on my desk, not too large and not too small. Quite unassuming, considering the details that lay within. Oddly, there was no return address on the package. When I opened it, I discovered a handwritten manuscript of some length and a photograph, which was the first thing that seized my attentions.
The photograph was yellowed with age and its edges slightly bent with wear. Admittedly, it was the woman in the photograph that I first focused on. She was dressed in what appeared to be a wedding gown. Her hands sat demurely on her lap where on her left hand was a simple yet elegant diamond ring. She looked towards the camera with light-colored eyes set in pale visage and framed by dark hair (oh how I wished a camera would be able to take colored photographs!) The woman's appearance otherwise was not particularly striking, not a rare beauty comparable to the likes of Irene Adler. However upon further inspection, I saw the reason why I was initially drawn to her instead of the groom. I could tell even from the photograph that those light eyes gazed back at her audience brimmed with a combination of intelligence and mischief while her mouth possessed a smile that would make Da Vinci's Mona Lisa envious. The woman hid a secret within that smile and was taunting me ever so slightly with it.
I turned my attentions now to the groom who wore a dark suit and stood rigidly in perfect posture. The face—when I saw the groom's face I nearly cried aloud in shock. I knew that thin and angled face so well. Though the face was much younger than I was familiar with, the groom was none other than my dear friend Sherlock Holmes.
The photograph altogether confounded me. It rocked the rigid perceptions that I had of my friend. There were many questions that I had yet I very well could not ask the photograph to answer them. I placed the photograph down and my eyes fell onto the forgotten manuscript. I took the manuscript into my hands, which was written in a simple and spidery hand, flipped randomly through its pages, and began to read.
I start my story in the autumn of 1882, where the trees around Oxford donned the same crimson and gold that I now see around my home. Oxford was in the midst of its Michaelmas term and the ancient and hallowed halls were teemed with students in pursuit of knowledge and education.
Friday is every student's favorite day. However, if you attended Professor Andrewes's history lectures on Fridays, the day became even better. Well, I may be a tad biased considering that Professor Andrewes was my father yet I must add that many of his students seemed to concur with my opinion.
The workload for the scholarly scholars at Oxford was (and is) intense and immense. Passing through the hallowed corridors, I would often see telltale signs of anxiety ranging from the humorous (a student's hair standing up on end) to the more serious (another student had to be sent to the infirmary in response to the stress of his impending exams). On certain Fridays—depending on my father's predilections and the overall behavior of his class—a student was able to unburden their loads when they entered the lecture hall. On this day, my father would freely lecture on anything that the students wanted…related to history of course.
I was sitting in one of these lectures as my father looked over the students as a shepherd does his sheep. At the rostrum, a pitcher of water stood next to an empty glass. The students jabbered on as they took their seats.
I sat separate from the boys in a chair reserved just for me close to my father's desk and separate from the others. It wasn't because I misbehaved. It was the boys that misbehaved.
"Oi James! Any plans for the weekend?"
"Are you barmy? I've got exams all week next week—"
"I heard that you and that girl from the pub had a blast last night…"
"Budge up, Davy, move your fat arse so that I can sit!"
"Hello, Miss Andrewes,"
I turned toward my greeter and discovered that it was the young and ambitious Aidan Keating. He twiddled his fingers in that odd wave of his and I smiled.
"Good afternoon, Mr. Keating," I greeted him in return.
He looked as if he were about to continue a conversation when a group of his friends had come from behind him, elbowing him and snickering as if they all had a secret. Aidan shrugged his shoulders sheepishly as his mates pushed him along to their seats, his bright blue eyes smiling back at me.
My dad had been pacing back and forth, watching his students funnel into the lecture hall. He glanced at his pocket watch and headed toward the rostrum. Reaching the rostrum, he poured himself a glass of water and drunk it. As soon as the glass touched his lips, the entire congregation of young and rowdy male students instantly silenced themselves—a rare feat. They knew that once that water had been consumed that the class was ready to start. My father put down the glass with a clink and looked at his students. In that peculiar combination of a Boston and Yorkshire accent, he began to speak.
"Well, lads, what do you have for me?"
A hand shot up in the air in the back row.
"Yes, Davy, what do you got?"
"Professor Andrewes, is there any chance that I can court your daughter?"
Ripples of laughter filtered through the auditorium while shades of red bloomed over my face. I smiled awkwardly and laughed despite myself. Father simply stood at the rostrum silent, looking down at the floor and sighed with exasperation. I watched Davy's grin fade into an anxious smirk—he knew he had crossed the line and would probably be in a great deal of trouble.
As the laughter began to die down at this realization of my father's possible fury (which was not a pleasant sight), my father looked towards Davy with those serious green eyes we both have and replied, "See me after class."
My father gave me a wink as the class roared with laughter. He raised his hand into the air as he attempted to rein the class back into the lesson.
"Seriously, lads, a question, a question!" He yelled over the laughter. He waited until the class became quieter before continuing. "It must concern the subject material of course. No more jokes from the peanut gallery up there." He scanned over his pupils and saw a hand raised near the front. He walked over to the hand's owner. "Mr. Keating! What do you got for me, my boy?"
"You said at the beginning of term that Thomas Jefferson was the reason you became interested in the study of history. Why he and not someone like say, Admiral Nelson?"
"Nelson's a fine man to become interested in if your interest is military history." He began, walking back towards the rostrum. He glanced at the bust of Jefferson sitting on his desk, a replica of the famous Houdon bust. Amusingly, he used it as a hat stand and placed his bowler hat atop the late President's head. "Jefferson on the other hand…Jefferson is an enigma. Every decision corresponds and clashes with his personal philosophy. He is an interesting man to study because there is so much that he left behind yet so little for us to analyze. You see, I'm contradicting myself. Let me explain further …"
And there goes my father on and on. I could listen to that man for hours. The trumpets for Judgment Day could sound and he would still be talking about the merits of Thomas Jefferson. Father wrapped up his lecture on Jefferson a few minutes later—he hadn't spent that much time on him as I thought—or would have like him to. He walked up the rows where his students sat.
"I think Mr. Keating poses an interesting question. Who is the most interesting person in our history? I want to hear from you boys because I'm pretty sure that you are all sick of hearing this windbag." He pointed at himself and the students chuckled. When no student raised his hand, he surveyed the faces of the crowd and I knew from the sly look on his face that he was about to tap into that sadistic streak that every professor must have: he was to pick a person randomly. Suddenly he pointed at a thin looking young man. "Ah, it seems we have a visitor in our class. Mr. Holmes! Let us hear your opinion."
Mr. Holmes lifted up his head and without so much as a moment's thought he simply said, "The Roman Emperor Nero,"
I sat up in my chair, both bewildered and amused at his answer. My father's reaction seemed the same. Running his hands through his graying hair, he asked Mr. Holmes why.
"Well, I'm curious to know what song he played as Rome burnt down around him."
And that was my first acquaintance with Sherlock Holmes and those feelings of bewilderment, amusement, and later fury he provoked in me that day would continue on.
"So should I tell Mum that I found myself a suitor?" I said as I watched the last of the students exited the lecture hall.
My father chuckled softly as he erased the scrawls he had written on the chalkboard during his lecture. "I hardly think that your mother would think David Wendell would be a suitable suitor." He wiped the chalk residue off of his hands and retrieved his hat from its normal position: atop Jefferson's bust. Placing it upon his head, he pointed over at the mess of papers upon his desk. "Charlotte, dear, do you think you can gather up my papers and put them into my bag?"
"Of course," I said as I began to stand up. Almost immediately upon standing, I stumbled causing my father to sprint towards me with a concerned look etched into his wrinkled face. With a sigh of frustration and aggravation, I assured him that I was quite all right. "I'm fine. I just lost my footing, that's all."
"Are you sure, Charlie? It could have been the—"
"No!" I said a tad too firmly that I had intended to. I softened my voice for my next reply. "It's not that, not that at all. If it were, I would tell you or Mum if it were." I cleared my throat and changed the subject. "Now, let me gather up your papers so we can go sit in the quad with the other students."
Father eyed me wearily and then proceeded to clean out the erasers. Damn legs, I thought to myself, as I proceeded to file his papers into his bag. I gave him his bag and he gave me a kiss on the forehead for reciprocity's sake and we headed outside. Several of father's students—both past and present—and some of his colleagues stopped us in the hall and struck up a conversation with my him while I stood at his side, politely waiting until we could proceed again.
We finally managed to make our way towards a spot on the lawn, which was littered with students walking with purpose or merely relaxing between their classes. Great Tom's bell greeted us as we sat down on the grass and announced the hour. Father took off his jacket and gave it to me to use as something to sit on. I accepted the jacket and sat down upon it, gazing up at the clouds and trying to decipher any shapes within them.
"Your birthday is coming very soon."
I turned my attentions back down to the earth. "Another year has passed. I am in a much different situation than last year."
"Yes, a lot has changed." My father agreed with a grave nod. He cleared his throat and changed the subject—it seems I stole that mannerism from my father. "Well, it would seem that it has changed for the better and let us pray that it will stay that way. Now, for more important matters," he cracked his knuckles as he watched several students pass by. "What do you want for your birthday?"
I laughed as my fingers were tickled by the freshly cut blades of glass. "The same as usual would be suitable."
"Another book?" Father said, his hands shooting up to his hair and making gestures as if he were about to pull all of his grey hair out. A genial smile came upon his face. "I'm sure I'll manage to find something. You sure can put your father in a predicament. Wherever will I find a book?"
"Professor Andrewes!"
We both turned around and saw a trio of students heading towards our direction. They were from Father's previous lecture: Aidan, Davy, and Mr. Holmes. Aidan was first to approach us, followed by the others. He bowed slightly towards my father, who in turn tipped his hat.
"Would you mind if I—well, we—joined you, Professor Andrewes?"
"No, boys, not at all. Please take a…" he observed his surroundings and said, "Pull up some grass and plant yourselves." As the boys sat themselves down, he asked them all, "How are your studies going? I hope that your noses aren't kept too close to that grindstone. You fellows are too young to be so serious. All work and no play make Jack a dull boy."
"My name's not Jack, Professor." Davy quipped as Aidan chuckled and Mr. Holmes rolled his eyes.
"Yes," Father acknowledged the fact. "However, judging from your last examination, you seem to be all play and no work, Wendell." His eyes turned towards the only member of the company who was not laughing. "So, Mr. Holmes, I hoped you do like today's lecture and plan on stopping by on other occasions. Professor Ellis has been telling me of your scientific prowess. He thinks that you'd make a fine scientist or doctor someday."
"I wouldn't want to limit myself, Professor." Holmes said, his grey eyes looking at my father and myself. "I have other interests that draw me as well."
"A modern day Renaissance man," I mused as I pulled out a book from my father's bag. "It's admirable, Mr. Holmes, but I would have to say that a jack of all trades is a master of none."
Holmes gave me a wry smile and was about to reply when Davy shoved himself back into the conversation.
"Why do we keep talking about a man named Jack?"
Aidan groaned and punched Davy in the shoulder. "Stop being such an idiot, Wendell."
"Jesus, Aidan that hurt!" Davy groaned, rubbing his shoulder and tried to punch Aidan back who easily swatted it like a fly.
"Don't curse in front of Miss Andrewes!" Aidan said, signaling me. "Just do us all a favor, Davy, and shut it."
"Sorry, Miss Andrewes," Davy apologized.
"Told you not to say anything anymore, you idiot." Aidan sighed while Holmes shook his head at his stupidity.
"Boys, boys," I said in an amused tone. "It's quite all right. While we're among friends, lads, let's drop the formalities and Charlotte will do just fine. Now Mr. Holmes, would you please continue?"
"Yes, before I was rudely interrupted by the oaf next to me," Davy made a face at Holmes and was about to make a rude gesture when he remembered my father's presence. "I intend to master all of my skills as you intend to master the contents of the Bodleian Library." Seeing the shocked look upon my face, a smile slowly appeared on that angled face. "You are wondering how I could possibly know such a thing."
There was an arrogance tinged in that voice that had begun to irk me. "You most likely have seen me amongst the many bookshelves, Mr. Holmes."
"Perhaps," he said lightly, his grey eyes boring into me. I felt as if I were a specimen of some sort being examined. "Yet I have not met you personally before or seen you. I would remember that red shade of hair since it's very unique. Today is the first day that I have made your acquaintance, Miss Andrewes, so your hypothesis is incorrect."
"Oh come on, Sherlock," Aidan said, giving me a look that this was so typical of Holmes. "Stop showing off and just tell her."
"Oh very well," Holmes sighed in a begrudgingly way as if everything was so obvious. "I merely noticed that the book you carry has a minute stamp on its binding that indicates that the tome came from the Bodleian Library."
It was obvious but of course, I kept quiet. My father was the one that spoke on my behalf.
"How absurdly simple," he said as he looked at the stamp on the book. "You have quite an eye there."
Holmes bristled with pride. "Well, gentlemen, the answers are all there if one merely looks for them."
The prideful look on his combined with the arrogance dripping in his voice was quite annoying. "Well, Mr. Holmes, seeing as you're so sure of yourself when it comes to my daily habits, what else can you see that is so absurdly simple?"
As sharp as he was, I'm very sure that Holmes felt the irritation in my voice and did not reply at first. Aidan, who was seated next to me, nudged me gently and gave me a wary look as if to say, "You have no idea what you are asking." I raised my eyebrows and Holmes took a deep breath and began.
"I'll take you up on that challenge, Miss Andrewes." Behind me I heard Aidan groan. "Judging from your height sitting up, I'd say that you are a little south of six feet…I would say around five feet nine or ten inches. That red hair you have is no doubt from your mom—considering your father has a head of black hair—while your height and your eyes are from your father." My father was around a tall man perhaps around six foot four and he chuckled at this information as it was very true. "Miss Andrewes, that bracelet you wear tells me that you are eighteen years old, the engraving glinted at me briefly in the sunlight, and that your birthday will be in the next fortnight.
"I also see that you are a musician." The men looked at Holmes bemusedly and he sighed as if it were painfully obvious. "The ends of your fingers tell me so." I immediately cupped my hands into fists to cover my musician's finger ends. "Piano, no doubt, as an aristocratic young woman of your nature would not be allowed to play the violin—"
"True enough!" My father exclaimed as he interrupted Holmes. Holmes turned his unceasing gaze towards my father and gave me a brief respite. "However, I will have you gentlemen know that it is not I that does not allow her to play the instrument. Her mother is the one who will not let her play. She believes that the violin would disfigure her face." He tapped his own chin. "Thinks it would cause unsightly calluses."
"Yes, that actually gave me slight trouble for that particular trait I just pointed out is common between typists and musicians. However, seeing as you are fairly wealthy, Miss Andrewes would not need to work so she would be a musician. Continuing onwards," Holmes turned his gaze back to me. "You are ambidextrous. You are able to write with both your right and left hands yet you choose to write with your right hand."
"How can you tell, Holmes?" Aidan asked.
Without even asking, Holmes took his hands out of my lap and looked them over. He only said, "You see, Keating, you'll note the calluses on her left and right ring finger. They are both in the same position on the finger. However, Miss Andrewes, why do you choose to write with your right instead of your left? I would estimate, judging by the size of the calluses that you had written with your left most of your life and just switched recently."
At that moment, I felt myself blanch and wrenched my hands away from Holmes abruptly. I cleared my throat and said in a would-be chipper voice "Well, Mr. Holmes, I think you got everything about me. Why don't you proceed with someone else?"
Holmes, clearly absorbed in the puzzle, did not hear me and proceeded to question me. "Now, why would you decide to switch how you write?"
"Just a passing fancy…to see if I could actually do it." I answered, reaching for my book and grasped it tighter and tighter. His eyes followed my hands and he eyed them curiously. I looked towards my father to try and make him stop his student but he was currently preoccupied by a conversation by a visiting professor. Damn it all.
"Tighten your grip with your left hand," I looked down, knowing I could not do it. His eyes turned toward my left leg and it was almost as if he knew. "You limp on your left side, don't you?" I still did not say a word. "I see, it fits altogether now…your father's absence the past year, the weakness in your left side, your voraciousness for books bordering on bibliophilia—"
I stood up and before I could even control myself, I began to rant.
"Well, Mr. Holmes, do you know what I think? I think that you're mastering every possible skill because you have no idea what to do with your life. You also think that by filling yourself up with knowledge will make you feel better than everyone else because you feel inadequate yourself. Now why is that Mr. Holmes? You feel the need to distract yourself from your own shortfalls by observing every minute detail you have about that person and try and smash them apart so someone else won't do the same to you. Mr. Holmes, I'm sorry to say that this experiment was not at all fun but I have better things to do than be dissected like a frog."
My father and his colleague had stopped their conversation in the midst of my rant and were looking at me with some concern. By then, I could not control the tears that were forming in my eyes and turned around quickly to run away. Of course, to make matters much worse, I tripped and nearly fell flat on my face. My father made a move towards me but I had recovered quickly enough and ran away from that group of peers who were most likely judging me.
And of course, to run away from the blunt honesty of Sherlock Holmes.