Fathers and sons (chapter 2)

They left London on Saturday, as planned. The trip was comfortable and in three hours they reached their destination. Luckily, the solicitor was busy in checking some documents and he left the two men to their selves, quietly talking. Watson was fascinated by the landscape and tried to involve Holmes in his romantic considerations about nature without success, but he was too excited about his new adventure to notice it. Holmes watched his mate in amusement: he was clearly thrilled and happy like a child, his blue eyes bigger than ever and so bright, a huge smile adorning his perfectly shaven face. He had insisted on taking with them the necessary clothes for some days, saying that they could had stayed in the house as long as they needed. As they approached the little station, before the train stopped to let the passengers go in and out of the wagons, the solicitor joined them and informed them there was a cab waiting for them, because the village was a little far from the station.

The village developed around the main road, with many little streets on either side of it. The most important buildings were located on the main street, its importance underlined by beautiful plane trees that gave life a long avenue. Even if this was just a small centre, there were many shops, a post office, a grocery store, two inns and a flower shop among them. Winter assured them they would not had regretted London, but Holmes did not seem too convinced. The property of Uncle Horace was situated at the end of the avenue and it was easily recognizable by the big and very tall gate adorned with lions at both sides of it. Watson was anxious to go in, and tried to see something more from the still closed gate and between the tangle of branches of the trees, but he saw very little for the house was just too far from the gate and the solid brick wall that encircled the whole property prevented him to have another view of the place. Holmes followed his friend and took both their luggage and waited for the solicitor to lead the way. When he turned to him, he caught the man in the act of openly watch them with an expression of disgust and disbelief, his face distorted in a smirk, his expression changing suddenly in a more polite one when he felt Holmes' look on him. The detective understood why Watson did not want to come alone to the village with this strange man: the doctor talked about bad feelings, Holmes did not believe in such things, but surely there was something strange with the solicitor and he was glad he could support his friend in this adventure.

"The gate is closed, we have to walk a little to reach the secondary access. If you gentleman are ready, I will show you the way." Winter explained and, without waiting an answer, he disappeared in a small path that run parallel to the wall, perpendicular to the main street.

Holmes hurried to catch Watson, who was still in front of the main entrance, and gently guided him towards the path.

"This way, Watson, we will have plenty of time later to explore the all property. Right now, let's just see what Winter wants to show us. The sooner we are done with him, the sooner he will leave!"

"Why do you say so? Did he do something to upset you?"

"No, I just don't like him. And I am glad I did not let you coming here alone with him. Something doesn't sound right about him."

"Well, he certainly is not very friendly. And where the hell has he disappeared now?"

Watson turned his head to the left and to the right but there was no sign of the man. Since Holmes was in front of him carrying their luggage with both hands, he yelled when he felt a cold hand on his shoulder gripping him fiercely and a thin voice laughing at him.

"I am sorry if I scared you, doctor, follow me, this way, please!"

Trough a little wooden door half hidden by dirt and climbing plants, Watson and Holmes were introduced in a garden that surely had seen better days. They could now see the house and appreciate his architecture but the solicitor quickly guided them inside trough a double wooden door with colored glass. They were introduced in a big hall, about eleven feet large and twenty-two feet long, with three doors on the right side and two on the left; the room was coated with a dark heavy boiserie about five feet high and with an old fashioned tapestry for the rest. Two big chandeliers illuminated the space. At the end a big helical stair led to the first floor. Holmes left his and the doctor's luggage on the floor and a servant appeared from no-where and carried them upstairs.

"I informed Wilson, the butler, of your arrival. I suppose you would like to use your uncle's bedroom, it's the biggest of the house, Doctor."

"That will be fine, thank you. Where is Wilson, anyway? Can we meet him?" Watson asked.

"I would like to show you the house then you can have public relations with the personnel. You'll pardon me if I want to make it fast…" Watson watched Holmes with a puzzled expression and the detective just shrugged his shoulders in answer. "On the ground floor we have a dining room, first door on your left" he said pointing to the still closed door, "the sitting room, second door; here" he continued referring to the other side of the hall "we have the library, where your uncle spent most of his time; then the billiard room and the music room, where he used to play the piano. Do you play the piano too, Doctor?" he asked.

"No, I don't play any musical instruments. My education had been more scientific, if you know what I mean."

The solicitor again made a face. "Oh, I see! So let me show you the rest of the house…"

"But we did not see anything jet. Can't we have a look inside the rooms on this floor?"

"As I said before, I don't have much time. If you gentleman would follow me, I'll show you the kitchen and the other service room at the floor and the bedrooms upstairs, then you can explore the place on your own!" he replied in a sharp tone.

Watson and Holmes watched at each other, silently communicating their confusion. As soon as the solicitor had left, they could finally talk and relax. They entered in every room, admired the fine furniture and the paintings, the soft brocade curtain that filtered the external light. They met the personnel and Wilson, the butler, who was very kind to them and seemed almost normal. He informed them he had prepared the main bedroom for the doctor, as Winter had told, and the adjoining one for the detective, that was smaller but very comfortable; the bedrooms also shared a washroom. He offered them his services and asked at what time they wanted dinner served, adding that Watson's uncle usually had dinner at 7:00 p.m.. The doctor answered there was no need to change their habits. That accomplished, the butler left the two men alone.

Watson felt uncomfortable, the solicitor and his strange behaviour had made him nervous. The house in itself was beautiful and cozy, the bedroom was very comfortable and warm, he actually did not have to worry about anything for the butler had the control of the situation and he would had only have to ask for anything he needed and he would had have it. He lie down on the big bed and was assaulted by memories of his childhood with his brother and his father. He remembered his mother lying in a bed similar to the one where he was now, deathly pale with eyes closed, caressing him and then the sound of fear of his father in his ears as she went limp and strong arms taking him away from her, and the old butler caressing him and holding him close, saying he had to be strong and that his mother was in Heaven with the Angels now. He tried to block out the awful memories but, as hard as he fought, the more flashes of his past life he had willingly forgotten returned to him and with them the pain for his loss. When it was clear he could not escape his past, he let his tears falling and sobbed in the pillow, not wanting his mate to hear him. After a while, he felt a little better and get dressed for the dinner.

He met Holmes in the large dining room and they had a beautiful dinner; Watson was relieved his friend was in good mood and enjoyed his conversation. They both appreciated the good food and the optimum wine. At some point, Holmes asked him about his family.

"You never talked about you father, Watson. I thought you were on bad terms with him." Holmes asked softly.

Watson did not reply immediately and with deliberate slowness ate his last bite of meat and had a sip of wine. He rinsed his mouth and moustache with the fine napkin, then looked at his friend with a sad smile. Holmes understood he had hit a nerve and regretted his question. Watson was too sensitive and this inheritance thing has surely roused unpleasant old memories to him. When he spoke, his voice was tired.

"My father was a good man. When my mother died he would had lost his mind if it wasn't for us, me and my brother. I was a child and my brother was just four years older than me. We needed him and I think that saved him. He had to go on with his life because of us. I remember that, for the first two or three months after her… departure… I often cried before going to bed, complaining that I wanted my mother back, so he took me in his arms and hold me close to him, until I fell asleep. I remember him trembling slightly while comforting me."

He paused and took another sip of wine.

"He made sure she had fresh flowers on her tomb everyday and we celebrated her birthday every year. He was so fond of her, Holmes. When he died, in his last days, I was with him and he was glad I was there. He said I summoned her to him, because I had her eyes and her sensibility. I tried to help him but, with all my medical knowledge, I could only watch him sliding away day by day. But he never complained about being in pain, he actually said he was waiting for me to come so he could leave this world and reunite with his wife. My brother arrived when it was too late. We buried him with my mother."

He quickly wiped away the tears from his eyes. He swallowed hard and sipped from his glass again.

"I have never talked about my parents before to anyone. Losing my mother was terrible but losing my father was devastating. For some weeks I felt empty and alone, I could not find any reason to live after them. My brother stayed with me for some days then returned to his affairs and disappeared. I joined the army to feel I had a reason to go on, I was a doctor after all, and that helped."

He glanced nervously at Holmes and he smiled to him. The detective had never seen his mate so sad and he wanted him to know he was there for him. But he did not know what to say nor how to behave, for he was not used to this situations and was embarrassed, so he simply stared at him.

"I think I will go to bed!" Watson said then, standing up suddenly from his chair and heading for the door. But the very good wine he had drunk to give him courage to speak had a bad effect on his equilibrium. He swayed and almost fell. Holmes was at his side immediately and steadied him, pushing his friend's right arm on his shoulder and supporting him with his strong arm around his middle.

"Too much wine, Old Boy! Let me help you." He offered and guided him to the main bedroom, where the fire was warming the room. He deposited Watson at the feet of his bed but when he was about to stand up the doctor did not release him instead he held on him trembling slightly. Holmes comforted him verbally and physically. When he thought his friend was calmer, he asked if he needed help in putting on his night dress.

"Thank you, Holmes, I can manage. I am sorry if I acted like a fool, but… I never thought about my mother and father in a very long time and… I don't know… "

Holmes gently patted his mate's shoulder. "No need to apologize. Good night, Watson."

"Good night Holmes."

TO BE CONTINUED IN PART 3...