Chapter 18: Relentless Determination

Looking back on my notes from the Fall of 1895, I am struck by how many cases Holmes took on. He was finally free to pursue the rather extensive backlog of cases he had built up from the summer, and indeed from throughout the entire year. Some cases could not be resolved, or even taken on, as the window of time for effective action was past, or the cases had resolved themselves – for good or bad, or by other means. In all the "expired" cases, Holmes did his best to resolve any open elements left unresolved, provide additional advice or closure, apologized for being tied up in other cases, and in every way tried to provide at least a measure of satisfaction. He accepted fees for almost none of them.

"It's the least I can do, as I was not available in their hour of need, Watson," he explained when I asked. My concern is that many of them got no response at all and were left waiting in vain expectation. Casual evidence to the contrary, I care about providing satisfaction, and don't like leaving potential clients high and dry, shipwrecked on the rocks of their dilemmas."

"There was little you could do. You can't be there for each and every supplicant. You are pretty much a one-man operation – one almost middle-aged army doctor notwithstanding."

Holmes smiled thinly. "Your contribution is far more than that my friend. It's just that it's…" He paused to consider. "It's more than just frustrating. It's a painful sign of how much my affairs have been thrown off by the events of this year. The railway deaths took so much time! Now the events of the last few weeks with the asylum cases, and the Pheasant and Quail deaths. If only I hadn't been stretched so thin by my brother's interests! Yes, he pays me, rather well too, as you know, but the larger impact on my other interests cannot be overstated."

He paused to pour us both a cup of tea, handing me mine before continuing. "Oddly enough, I have you to both blame and thank for this. Your writings have made me a household name in many quarters. I now have far more requests for my time than I could reasonably hope to handle, even if I didn't have the one large unresolved case hanging out there." He grimaced slightly, turning away and staring into the fire, as if the coal flames could offer more time, an extra pair of eyes and ears – or the faint hope that the location of Martin Bay would be found dancing in the flames."

"You have your other cases to manage, Holmes," I said gently. "You have a business to run, clients to satisfy, bills to pay, even the odd inspector or two from the Yard. You have done all that you can do. You know full well that no man could have done more – could do more now."

"Where is he, Watson?" Holmes' tone was low and urgent, speaking volumes of how much the case weighed on him daily.

"I'll be damned if I know, Holmes, but I think I can safely assume he's not in England, Wales, or Scotland by now. Highly doubt he's in Ireland either. His sketch is over there too, and it's probably pinned to the "most wanted" board in every police station there too, just like here. He's seventeen shades a damned fool if he's anywhere in the British Isles by now!"

There was a long pause, as Holmes continued staring at the fire, and drinking his tea, "I won't give up. I will find him! I just need a clue or two."

"And I'll be there with you when you find him Holmes. This is not all on you. I will not forget. We will not forget. The Yarders, the team, the Alansbys, Mercer. Even Fred Hill. There's not a man out there on this team who would not drop everything and come running if a clue – any clue at all – suddenly breaks free."

Holmes sighed, and gulped the last of his tea. "Well I know it my friend. If I have learned anything good from this whole collective experience this year, it's that I have friends and colleagues aplenty. Not all of them are sharp as razors, but most are sharp enough for the need at hand, and loyal to a fault. Good men all! There once was a time when I couldn't say that, and even later, when it was true, I was reluctant to see it. Now, it's plain as day. I acknowledge it, and truthfully, I am very grateful indeed for them, all of them. I hope they know that when it's time to bring this man to book, it won't be my victory alone. This win will belong to everyone."

"They know, Holmes," I said.

"They hold me up, Watson. I can keep on this – am keeping on this – simply because I know that when the moment comes, I will be able to rely on any of them, and they will be there."

It was just as well that the team was Holmes' invisible support, because all the rest of the year, as Christmas slowly approached, he pushed himself relentlessly, even brutally, to the point where I worried in equal measure for his safety, health, and sanity. Day followed day when Holmes was getting ready to leave after his breakfast, or had already gone for the day, even as I was just getting up. The struggle to service his client backlog continued, even as he bent every effort to crack the enigma surrounding the fugitive Bay, or to gain some insight about his criminal colleagues. He was essentially trying to do the work of four or five men, and all up to his personal exacting standards. I repeatedly offered to help, but he only rarely took me up on the offer. Usually when he did, it was to investigate obscure records in government offices, or shipping companies. He twice sent me back to consult with my fellow club members at the Athenaeum Club, looking for companies which specialized in tropical plant imports, or medical research based on exotics, including firms local to the tropical regions they serviced. Several times, he sent me to talk to medical professionals doing research on rare diseases, or to follow up on interviews we had done several months before. He always followed any such efforts of mine with profound thanks, almost to where I found it embarrassing. This was my struggle too, and I was more than happy and willing to do my part however I could.

Holmes went on three lightning-fast trips to the continent, all without warning. I would wake in the morning, and be greeted by a note, and a frazzled Mrs. Hudson who announced, "he just packed a bag and left at the crack of dawn. I had no idea he was leaving. He just said he had to go to France (once it was the Netherlands) and said he would be back in a couple of days. He told me to tell you not to worry." At first, I was surprised, but I soon realized that he was moving so fast that a scrap of data he discovered at 8 PM on a Tuesday night might well cause a quick trip first thing on Wednesday morning. He was clearly intent to never leave a clue unexplored – or to allow even a moment of delay if possible.

And always, there were letters; every time I saw Holmes, even at breakfast, he was frantically writing something or opening his now large pile of daily correspondence. And telegrams. Holmes had always received a constant flow of little envelopes from the telegraph office, but now it was a rare day that he didn't see three or four telegrams waiting for him on the table when he got home, with others arriving in the evening. Odd visitors, especially from foreign embassies, or officials from France would show up at all hours – each treated with great courtesy and intensely grilled on what was clearly evolving into a multi-country manhunt, all organized and paid for by Holmes. Holmes had reached the point in his career where he was generating a considerable income, but still he was burning that income at a substantial rate. At this point there were no clients paying the bill, or even funding from Scotland Yard. It was all him.

I eventually cornered him and passionately protested, asking that I help with some of the costs. He reluctantly settled for allowing me to pay for his portion of our lodging for December – which pleased me greatly, and helped relieve my nagging conscience. For my part, I had long since given up on pestering him to eat, only insisting that if he ate well, I wouldn't lean on him about the rest. It helped that Holmes had slowly modified the worst elements of his "feed the idle man but starve the investigating detective" beliefs. In truth he had come close to collapse often enough to recognize that he had his limits, and he needed to mind them, especially as he got older.

Throughout the Christmas season, both Mrs. Hudson and I quietly wondered if Holmes would even stop to acknowledge the holidays at all, reluctant as he was to indulge the festivities even at the best of times. Oddly enough, he offered little resistance this year, perhaps because he understood that after the year we had all been through, some relief from the negativity caused by our collective failures was needed. While we didn't talk about it, I believe that Holmes truly did appreciate the help, loyalty, and fellowship that had been available to him throughout the year. Holmes was never as icy as many believed – only very reserved. As he got older, that reserve began to show some cracks, especially in the period following his three-year absence. I knew he had missed London, his life, Baker Street, Mrs. Hudson, and especially me, far more than he expected to. He even missed the Yarders: the teamwork, the cases, the squabbling, and the excitement. The returned Holmes had something the pre-hiatus Holmes did not: far more appreciation for the life he had.

Christmas did bring us all an unexpected and welcome surprise. Sergeant Maxwell Thomas received his long overdue and extremely well-deserved promotion to Inspector. "Well, it's about time!" said Holmes, when Lestrade dropped by late on the evening of Saturday the 21st to tell us that the promotion would be announced on Monday morning, effective immediately. "If ever a man deserved it more, I've yet to meet him," I said. Lestrade agreed with both of us, and told us that if it had been up to him, the promotion would have come back in September. "The lad is a natural. He's already among the best – and will one day be seen as among the very best the Yard ever produced. All of us wanted you both to know first thing, and to offer our thanks for the many months of specialized training and mentorship you gave him – you both gave him."

"It was my honor and pleasure," said Holmes, with warmth that was rare for him. "The effort and the skill were all his. I had excellent material to work with. All he needed was some education, and pointers in the right direction!"

"I agree," I said. "It's been a pleasure from the start: his attention to details, observations skill, and his people handling. He's a natural diplomat, and Lord knows, an inspector needs to be one."

"Well I know it," said Lestrade, a bit wistfully. "That's one area where his education comes shining through. As you both know, most men on the force do not come from highly educated or cultivated backgrounds. As the Metropolitan Police Force matures, senior management has become far more aware of our limitations in that area. I am a lot better than I used to be, but I, even Gregson or Bradstreet, can't match Max for tact and charm. Truth be told, I watch him and take lessons; I'd be a fool not to!"

"Is there going to be a gathering or a celebration of some sort for him?" I asked.

"Monday night. A combination Christmas and Inspector's welcome party. You're both more than welcome to come.'

Before I could answer, Holmes spoke up. "As you know Inspector, I am normally reluctant to attend social functions, and even more so to attend Christmas parties – but this is one event I am more than happy to attend. We'll both be there."

"Wouldn't miss it for the world!" I said, rather surprised by Holmes' enthusiasm. "Is it "Barry's Place?"

"No," said Lestrade. "It's McMurphy's, the place we held our War Council meeting earlier in the year. Seems fitting somehow." That got a chuckle out of both Holmes and me. It seemed fitting, an acknowledgement of the man – and the year we had all had.

The promotion celebration was a well-attended event, with many constables dropping in, and even a few from other police departments and districts across Southern England. Maxwell Thomas was a well-known, and highly respected professional by now, so many wanted to wish him well, and use the opportunity to catch up with old colleagues during the holiday season. I gave Thomas a handsome monogramed leather-bound notebook for taking case notes, while Holmes gave him a high-quality magnifying glass. "May your vision and observational skills continue to be sharp and clear" was embossed on the carrying case. Holmes and I were proud of our friend, and we wanted him to know it.

Christmas came and went quietly, with Holmes out of the country yet again for much of the week before the New Year, off to France to explore another lead. "There's no rest for the weary, or for relentlessly driven detectives," I said to Mrs. Hudson, as she fretted and worried about the pace Holmes was setting for himself, even during the holidays. The days after the New Year saw us both in Edinburgh, braving the harsh Scottish winter, poring through government records for clues about Bay and his confederates. Holmes' forty-second birthday on the sixth came and went with our noses buried in dusty books. I at least got to treat him to a good dinner, while handing him a rare first edition book I had found earlier in the year on Anglo-Saxon myths and religious practices. I determined long ago that if Holmes wasn't going to look out for himself, the least I could do was ensure he wasn't completely isolated from his friends.

1895 had departed without any of the success we were so desperately seeking, but 1896 was a new year, and a new opportunity. I knew Holmes would not give up, and so I resolved I would be with him every step of the way. If he could stay the course, then so could I.

The search continued…

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