Chapter IV
Lord Christopher W. Riley, or simply Riley to his associates and allies, was in my time the most incredulous of academic graduates that I have ever come upon. Three years my senior, and having undertaken a degree beneath the medical professors, it soon came to light that he had neither the basic understanding of anatomical structure nor the patience to learn it, and within two months of enrolling at the prestigious University of London, to which I attended some years later, had forfeited his place amongst the young student practitioners and began his own precarious studies, this time in the field of exotic botany; the ludicrous fees were paid by the large trust fund his father had passed on to him at the tender age of eighteen. I, at the pinnacle of adolescence, my stammer blossomed fully and the faint nervousness in my speech - that has lessened over recent years of formal address, and seldom returns, though a miracle being the professional partner of the infuriating Sherlock Holmes - was quite bemused when he and I were first introduced, over a decade ago, by my admired professor Earnest Parsons.
Riley then was a thorn in a scholar's side; he often prowled the dormitory halls with nothing more to do, with the tenacious intention of scaring the wits out of the younger students by painting yellow smudges upon his skin, or hollering bloody murder at the peak hours of early morning. In spite of his penchant for chaos, he was a prolific student, immersing himself in the study of rare plants plucked from the sweating heat of the Congo, or sliced from wild Amazon trees with trunks as huge as houses and older than any man could possibly conceive. I was blind to the attraction of such oddities, but nevertheless when the opportunity arose, I would accompany the sterling Riley on his daily excursions in the university library, where I would find him frequently, surrounded by castles of leather-bound volumes, whittling away the hours whilst his arcane gaze was engrossed with knowledge.
Rather than shy away from the man's exuberance, I resolved to spend as much time as possible with him, with difficulty, for he was a popular man, fond of hosting extravagant parties in his father's estate and talking the ears off spoilt sons like himself, for which he constantly ridiculed but often found himself in the company of; therefore I, I suppose, was a welcome relief to the endless, mindless chatter of the wealthy. His traits bemused me, admittedly, but then I would put them down to his rich upbringing. For instance, he would always refer to me as John, differentiating himself from my colleagues, who addressed me by my last name. When we shook hands he would first clasp my wrist tightly, then place his index finger and forefinger against my palm, and run the length of my thumb. I was infatuated, if that is the correct word to use, with his eccentricities, and always found solace in his bubbling curiosity, so did not mind the odd rituals he performed. It pleased me to think that he was comfortable enough in my presence to do so.
It appears that I am doomed to befriend those of the meticulous persuasion, I thought absently to myself as I rode in the back of a hansom, currently en route to Riley's estate, which I presumed he had inherited after his father's death recent years ago. I only knew of this by reading the lengthily obituary featured in the newspaper, but because I had been working a case during that period, the death completely slipped my mind. In truth I had not thought about Riley since then, and at once felt a faint wave of nausea rise in my stomach, of impatience and nervousness, the anticipation of seeing an old friend scattering all else. My hands lay folded precisely in the warmth of my lap, and though they shook subtly, I was unable to pin down the exact emotion in which they trembled in.
The sway and buckle of the cab lulled me, momentarily muted the erratic rattle of my heart, as we approached the circular drive, enclosed by two separate cast-iron gates, the smattering of hooves upon loose gravel brought an impatient smile to my lips. The spray of jilted pebbles clattered loudly upon the sod of flowers, the lolling heads softly nodding to the stir of late April breeze. Either side of the grand entrance, strips of burlesque poppies had been ground, their ripe colours lush in the afternoon sun, their yellow eyes squinting; their organic fragrance wafted toward me as the hansom pulled up outside the large oak doors. The driver asked sullenly if he should wait for my return, and I answered no, that he should hurry on. I was confident Riley would bestow upon me a detailed account of his life since our depart, and I must admit I was eager to hear the tales my former companion had collected.
My knuckles had scarcely brushed the bell before the door creaked open, and a young man with startling green eyes peered out at me from the glimpse he had allowed. Once inspecting me sufficiently, he merely stepped back, and held the door open for me to pass. All but unnerved by the avid nonchalance the mute youth portrayed, I stepped over the threshold, removing my hat as I did so, and turned as the door gently shut behind me. The boy was rather slender, curiously so, with his limbs curtly folded over a trim waist, and by the rigid way he held himself, I had to generously assume that he was in the employ of Riley. A shock of auburn hair, and the splatter of freckles dusted upon the bridge of his nose stirred a slight amusement in me, upon remembering a conversation Riley and I shared in, a long time ago.
I tell you, old boy, Riley's voice echoed to me from a memory long since past, nothing brings me pleasure more than an excellent book upon my knee, and a strapping young lad at my elbow. That is the life envied by even the Gods.
"You must be the Doctor the Lord is expecting," the youth eventually inquired, the vaguest notion of a wily Irish accent present in his voice, after extending an arm in a polite gesture to relieve me of my coat, hat and cane. I obliged, the weight of the garments lifted from my weary shoulder, and with subtle relief I exhaled shortly, graciously smiling upon the boy.
"Indeed," I answered, smoothing my waistcoat of incessant wrinkles. "May I see him now?"
The youth nodded, turned on his heel, and beckoned for me to follow suit. In my reminiscent stupor it occurred to me that the grandeur of the foyer had cunningly escaped my notice, whilst I had been bequeathed by the warm memoirs held dear by Riley. As the boy and I strode in matching step, I fell to swaying my head, regarding the serene beauty of the house. The marvellous floors gleamed in elegant allure, marble pillars rising occasionally, often laden with baskets spilling foliage and tattered wild flowers. Upon the walls hung rosy portraits of curvaceous women draped in translucent sheaths, romantic heroes set atop boulders defying the lap of waves. Privately I cringed, for I understood why Riley had decorated his home in such a manner; it was, of course, another of his ingenious pranks. A petty ruse to distract naked eyes from the lack of warmth about the mansion, the precocious silence that invaded the narrow corridors, the sheer lack of morale.
I knew then that it was in all likelihood that Riley solely lived here, save for the few servants who bear to work in such dismal surroundings. A hallow strained in my stomach at the speculation, and I was helpless to indulge in the loneliness that the endless passage of empty rooms spoke of. The youth guiding me halted at the threshold of a door, his hands outstretched, hesitantly poised, and then timidly rapped thrice. The door jolted ajar immediately.
"Yes, Sean?" a gruff, obtusely humoured voice rasped, charmed only by the humble note of jejune irritation present. I, carefully watchful, controlled the ill urge to laugh.
"The Doctor has arrived, m'lord. He wishes to speak with you?"
Even I had not anticipated what may occur then, but to my surprise, and surely that of the youth also, Riley leapt from behind the door, appearing before me with wide-spread arms, and a devilishly lacquered grin to match the wonderous gleam of his eyes. Riley stood stouter than my memory divulged, and though his thin frame had thickened considerably, neither his agility nor his grace lacked in his stance, his shoulders broad, his jaw stiff and proud. For with his large hands he clasped my shoulders tightly, beaming grandly, and forgot instantly of the boy who witnessed the befuddling feat from his seldom abrasive master.
"John Watson. In the flesh! By jove, man, what an utter delight it is to behold you! And how well you look! Positively radiant!"
"And I could say the same of you, aside from the difference in waistline," I chuckled, tapping his stomach.
"Always the joker, dear friend. Come, I must offer you a drink and learn of what you have been doing with yourself," said he, a hand straying from my shoulder to nestle in the small of my back, pressing hastily to usher me in to what I could only presume was his study. Without a word to his bemused servant, he audaciously brought the door to a swift close, returning his gaze, once again, to me.
"Still compassionate in regards to the staff, I see, old Riley," I mused, a gartered grin upon my lips, seating myself in a chair beside the ashen marble hearth, seizing the opportunity to survey my old friend's sanctum.
The study was extraordinary. From the spacious walls densely packed with the bound spines of books, to the rare gangly plants that grew in ballistic colour beneath the awe of oil lamps, to a desk littered with fanatical drawings of things I dare only to dream of, a thought struck me somewhere within my gut, and drew a cold shiver from me, my skin prickled with heat. This study is almost identical to Holmes', a dubious inner voice proclaimed, except perhaps a tad cleaner. I heedlessly dismissed the thought, reacquainting my attention to the host, the master of the manner, whom I realised only then had been speaking to me all this time.
"..but I suppose one cannot choose the weather conditions. In fact, I have yet made plans for a botany room to be erected. I should expect you to come view it, after construction, although I understand you have never shared my affinity for the organic, I should still think it to interest you. You always did have a weakness for natural phenomenon."
Riley tossed his eyes aside, busy with the pouring of scotch, and lifted his glass high to emphasise his point. Suppressing an obscene laugh for the second time in as many minutes, I meagerly nodded, accepting a glass as Riley offered. The older gentlemen joined me in taking a seat opposite, the crook of his elbows resting comfortably upon the arms of the chair, and engaged me in a lucrative stare, forming a steeple with the alabaster stalks of his fingers. His eyes glittered dryly.
"Considering that, it should not seem note worthy that you, of all professional men, would take up residence with the country's most prolific of laterally thinking detectives."
"I believe Sherlock Holmes to be a little more than merely a lateral thinker," I replied with no hesitation, then suddenly rebuked, cautious of my chatter. I chose my words carefully. "I assume, then, you know of his work?"
"I do indeed. Though only, in admittance, did I research this Sherlock Holmes when reading in the paper that you were his associate. I could hardly believe my old eyes. John Watson, the frail boy I had known as a troublesome youth, surely could not be the assistant to such a highly revered name?"
My hands impetuously wilted to fists of their own accord. There was an ambiguous mocking in Riley's tone that had no sooner chilled my blood than aroused a hint of dislike for my countenance, something I had not ever felt in my time of knowing him. Perchance it was the scotch that created bold airs about a challenged man, but leaning over the bow of my knee, I leaned toward Riley in a conspiratorial manner, the crackle of the adjacent fire warm and bathing upon my flesh, my stomach churned sourly.
"I do not know of what you are implying, Riley, but I have only one thing I wish to say about Sherlock Holmes; he is my dearest friend, and I will not let an old scoundrel like yourself scoff at the praise he has worked so doggedly to achieve."
"Understood," said Riley after a tense moment of silence, his eyes awash with irrefutable humour, murmuring in to his glass. Satisfied, I settled quaintly back in to the comfort of my chair, and slowly our affable banter resumed, to the point where our mutual laughter rose and filled the dormant study as it did in the days of our academic youth, all previous hostilities glossed over the blessed calm of scotch and brandy. Riley regaled rambunctious anecdotes of his tour of Northern Cambodia, the riveting treks through the Congo, and his recent trips to America, where I was made aware of his profound grasp of business. I sat, rapt, whilst my old friend chatted, his gestures wide and emphatic, answering the minor questions he put to me when he was not speaking of himself. I did not mind, however, as it put my mind to rest to know that my personal confront had not ruined the evening.
Some hours later I found myself solicitously drunk and plenty soothed beneath the cape of a sky dwindling of sun, the landscape of London lain out before me, infinitely more lovely when the touch of sumptuous slumber had touched the peaks of towering buildings, and the darkness impeached by benevolent oil flames, high above cobbled streets sparse of hansoms and paroled women. I favoured evenings such as these, where complacent nature ruled and I was safely sound in my home in Baker Street. Though only there in spirit, as for some time I had been leaning against the balcony of Riley's veranda, my clammy fingers wrapped around a tilted glass, observing the metamorphosing dark. And soon I felt the heat of another body close behind me, and for a fleeting moment I genially turned, in hope of reprimanding my dear Holmes; but of course I was met by Riley's devious smile, and the warmth of his hand as he laid it fondly upon my forearm.
"You, Doctor, shall catch your death if you remain out here. Shall I have Sean prepare you a room for the night?"
"Why on Earth would he do that?" I asked, momentarily baffled. Riley's smile simply grew more reckless.
"Is it that you wish to return home at this hour, in this state? I fear your landlady may throw you out, or worse, suffer of a heart attack if she is a woman of an elderly disposition. John, I insist that you stay he--"
"I could not possibly impose so," I hurriedly muttered, removing Riley's hand from my arm, for the heat had grown uncomfortable in such unbearably close proximity. "I thank you for your company this evening, but I must take my leave."
At once Riley's hand flew and struck me upon the shoulder as I moved to leave, weighing upon it and grasping it with an abrupt vehemence that shook me of my peculiar drunkard's stumble, and with a swift move on his part, managed to secure me in his arms, his face pallid and faintly lined with age. Fraught with confusion and a slurred protest I stiffened in the grasp, my hands firmly seated against Riley's chest to pivot away from him, but his strong arms were matched to my own, and we held fast, our bodies compact.
"John," he airily crooned, his breath balmy upon my neck, grinning crookedly. "Do you recall that evening, twelve years prior, where we parted ways?"
"I... I am afraid I do not," I answered in a puzzled hush, terrified of the disdainful servant encountering us in the shameful, one-sided embrace. I shuddered at the appalling prospect.
"Of course you don't," said he; "you were still a mewling youth then, whose heart ached for knowledge, for understanding. Have you discovered that of which you seek? Perhaps in this.. this Holmes you speak so.. yearningly for?"
I am adamant to admit a fervent colour rose in my cheeks when he spoke of his, his mouth hovered, inclined toward my ear, and for a desolate moment I thought of nothing than my desire to be away from this man, to be held dearly in the arms of another.
"There was a night you were gravely lonesome, and you sought comfort in my room when you found no other," Riley continued, his eyes shallowly lit, mystified by the recollection, "and you allowed me to place my hands on you, in the manner in which I hold you now. Do you understand, John? You gave yourself to me that night!"
His soliloquy ended, and he leaned inward to engage his mouth with mine. I could bear it no longer.
"Enough of this!" I exclaimed, shoving Riley from myself, so fantastically so that he near lost his balanced, a frail hand thrown out to catch at the balcony as his feet tread clumsily upon one another. The blood that burned aghast my cheeks simmered, as did my outrage, as I roughly seized Riley by the pressed lapels of his suit, my words lowly and gut-wrenching.
"Your ulterior motives are dastardly, Riley, and rather apt. It is now I shall call that poor boy - whom most likely lines your bed linen for his keep - to fetch me a hansom, and this shall be our final exchange of words," I paused a moment to wipe at a dab of perspiration above my brow. "I am truly sorry that I had not met your expectations for me. But I implore you, that if these emotions your harbour for me are virtuous, allow me to return home safe guarded, to where I belong and to whom I belong to."
Allowing the garment to slip through my fingers, I retreated to the pair of doors that granted access to the beautiful veranda, and not before my hand was planted unsteadily upon the frame I heard Riley's voice sound behind me, inhabiting the maturity that had frequently slipped from the remarkable man, though thickened by the breadth of zeal.
"So like a rose in the fit of blossom you are, John, yet bearing bitter thorns to prick whoever dare touch you."
Then a sorrowful tear ran the length of his cheek, as he bowed his head sorrowfully, his hands hung limply between his knees. Despite the plunge of guilt I nursed headley in my stomach, I shook my head of such tedious things and left Riley on the balcony to venture forth, homeward, as the instristic disturbance that ran amok my heart developed to a potent thud. A blooming, lightheaded sensation flowered within me, as pure as I realised the words I had spoken to Riley in the heat of conflict had been. I daren't describe the wonders that those feelings withdrew, but one thing I must convey to you, dear readers, is that the particular colour, if any, that could be associate with such a grand epiphany, would be the clearest, richest, brilliant red.
So like a rose, indeed.
"Life is the flower for which love is the honey."
- Victor Hugo.