Nicholas Meyer (6 page)

*3*—A Decision Is Reached

"Jack, dearest, whatever is the matter?"

These were my wife's first words to me as I handed her down from the train at Waterloo. There was between us a great spiritual bond which had first manifested itself the night we met, three years before.* Drawn together by circumstance in a tangled skein of people and events that included escaped convicts, Andaman Island savages, retired and ruined army officers, the Great Mutiny and the fabled Agra treasure, we two had stood together in the darkness that awful night on the ground floor of Pondicherry Lodge, whilst Sherlock Holmes and the housekeeper had gone upstairs with Thaddeus Sholto and there discovered the body of his unfortunate brother, Bartholomew. On that ghastly occasion, without a word being spoken—without, in fact, our knowing one another at all—our hands had instinctively groped for one another's in the gloom and clasped. Like two frightened children, we sought at the same time to comfort one another, so quick was the sympathy between us.

* Much controversy has raged amongst scholars concerning Watson's marriage, or marriages. Without entering into the question of how many times he was married, and to whom, this passage and the one that follows it makes it perfectly clear that the woman to whom he refers was Mary Morstan, Holmes's client in "The Sign of the Four" and the only female Watson positively states he married.

That lively and intuitive understanding persisted until the day of her death. Certainly it was in evidence when she stepped off the train that evening in April and gazed anxiously into my face.

"What is it?" she repeated.

"Nothing. Come, I will tell you when we are at home. Is this all your luggage?"

And so I diverted her attention for the moment as we threaded our way through the crowded station, weaving in and out amongst trunks, portmanteaus, bellowing porters, and parents endeavouring to keep track and control of squalling offspring. Somehow we negotiated the hubbub, located a cab, paid off our own porter (once our luggage was strapped on high), got in, and left behind us that scene of perpetual chaos which was Waterloo.

Once we were settled and on our way, my wife attempted to resume her questions, but I resisted them, chatting idly and putting forth a determinedly cheerful countenance. I asked her how she had enjoyed her visit with her former employer, for she had occupied the position of governess in the home of Mrs.

Forrester when I had first been so fortunate as to make her acquaintance.

She was puzzled at first by my obstinacy, but seeing there was nothing for it, fell in with my wish and gave me a lively account of her stay at the Forresters' country home in Hastings, and of the children, her former charges, who were now quite old enough to dispense with governesses altogether.

"Or so they would like to think," my wife amended with a laugh. I think I never loved her more than I did during that ride. She knew I was upset by something, but, seeing I did not then wish to

communicate it, she took her cue from my questions and humoured me with the perfectest grace until I had nerved myself to face the ordeal. She was an excellent woman and I miss her cruelly to this day.

Supper was waiting for us when we arrived, and we went through the meal affecting the same light-hearted banter, each attempting to regale the other with anecdotes and incidents that had occurred whilst we were apart. As the repast drew to a close, however, she sensed the subtle transition in my mood, and anticipated me.

"Come, Jack, you've beat about the bush long enough. You cannot possibly be interested in further details of those horrid children. Now take me into the sitting room," she went on, rising and stretching forth her hand, which I took instantly. "There's a fire there waiting to be lit. Then we shall make ourselves comfortable and you shall have a brandy and soda if you wish it, with your pipe. Then you will tell me what has happened."

I followed my wife's directions as meekly as a child, except that I did not put any soda in my brandy.

My wife had been impressed, in the early days of our acquaintance, with my portrait of General Gordon. How she came to possess the following trivial piece of information I never discovered (very possibly as she came from a military background it was common knowledge), but General Gordon was said to favor the brandy and soda above all other concoctions. My wife, perhaps because I had been wounded in action in Afghanistan, held an exaggerated notion of my affiliations with the army. She was forever attempting to cultivate in me a taste for General Gordon's brew. In vain I protested that I had inherited the general's picture on the death of my elder brother; in vain protested that the general had never commanded the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers. She revered him to distraction, primarily for his work in ending the Chinese slave trade; and she never abandoned hope that I should some day come to relish her hero's drink. Tonight, however, she did not sulk when she perceived that I had—as was my custom—omitted the soda from my glass.

"Now, Jack," she prompted, having arranged herself very prettily on the horse-hair sofa opposite the chair in which I sat—the chair in which Holmes had fallen asleep the night before. She was still in her travelling costume—grey tweed with a touch of lace at the wrists and throat—though she had removed her hat before supper.

I took a pull at my brandy, made a great show of lighting my pipe, and then related the entire catastrophe.

"Poor Mr. Holmes!" she cried at the end, clasping her hands together in agitation, tears standing in her eyes. "What are we to do? Is there anything we can do?" Her readiness and willingness to help warmed my heart. She had no thought of shunning the difficulty, of avoiding my companion and the sordid disease that had overtaken and distorted his true nature.

"I think there is a measure that may be tried," I answered, getting to my feet, "but it will not be easy.

Holmes is too far gone to accept help willingly and I daresay he is still too clever to be tricked into applying for it."

"Then—"

"A moment, dearest. I wish to fetch something from the hall."

I left her briefly, and retrieved the copy of
Lancet
Stamford had given me. I wondered, as I walked back to the sitting room, whether or not Mary could help me, if necessary, to effect my plan. The plan had been slowly forming in my brain since I had sat on a bench in Waterloo waiting for her train, reading about the Austrian specialist.

I returned to the sitting room, closed the door, and told my wife of my interview with Stamford and what had come of it.

"You say you have read the article?" said she.

"Yes, twice, while waiting for your train." Resuming my chair, I spread the issue of
Lancet
open upon my knee as I thumbed through it in search of the piece.

"This doctor—ah, here it is—this doctor has made a thorough study of cocaine. He came to the early, and, he confesses, erroneous conclusion that its powers were miraculous, capable of curing almost any disease and of ending alcoholism. He discovered, however, the terrible curse of its addiction when a dear friend of his perished as a consequence."

"Perished," she echoed in hushed tones, speaking in spite of herself.

We looked at one another, fearfully, as the awful possibility of Holmes's death in this grotesque fashion assailed our imaginations. My wife, no less than I, had reason to be grateful to Holmes, for it was through his agency that we had come to meet. I swallowed and went on.

"At any rate, after the death of this chap (it happened earlier this year), the doctor who wrote this article reversed his endorsement of cocaine and now expends his energies in the hope of curing unfortunate folk who have come within its thrall. He knows more about the drug than anyone else in Europe."

Again, we exchanged glances. "Will you correspond with him?" she asked. I shook my head. "There is no time. Holmes is too far along the path to destruction to waste an hour. His constitution is strong, but it cannot withstand the ravages of the venom he administers to himself. Unless we get help for him at once, his body will fail before we are ever given the opportunity to repair his mind."

"Then what do you propose, Jack?"

"I propose taking him to the Continent. I propose letting this doctor work on him himself, while I attempt to render every assistance that my knowledge of Holmes and my willingness to sacrifice time and energy can provide."

My wife sat silent for some moments in deep thought. When she turned to me again, the practical side of her nature asserted itself in a series of penetrating questions. "Suppose the man can do no good—

what then?"

I shrugged. "He is the only person in Europe who seems to know anything of the matter. What alternative have we but to try?"

She nodded. "But what of the doctor? Will he see Holmes? Perhaps he is too busy, or—" she hesitated,

"too dear."

"I shall be able to answer that question more accurately when I have an answer to my telegram," I told her.

"You sent a telegram?"

I had wired from Waterloo after reading the article. This was taking a leaf from Holmes, who preferred telegrams to all other forms of communication. I winced, remembering that he was at present

addressing them to poor Moriarty. My case, however, was justified. Nothing short of a telegram could have served my purpose. As for the telephone, even had overseas lines been available in '91 I should not have used them. I had contracted from Holmes his prejudice against the telephone. With a telegram, as Holmes said, one is forced to be concise, and, as a result, logical. Messages beget messages in return, not a lot of useless gibbering. I did not want a qualified or long response, just an unadorned yes or no.

"Ah," my wife began, leaning back unhappily, with a sigh, "but we have not reckoned with Mr. Holmes himself. You admit that he is not to be tricked into applying for help. Suppose the doctor does accept him as a patient. How are we to get him there? From what you have said, I understand him to be more on his guard than ever."

"That is true," I replied, shaking my head. "It will not be easy to get Holmes abroad. He must be made to feel he is going of his own volition."

"And how are we to accomplish that?"

"He must be made to believe he is on the track of Professor Moriarty—and we must provide the clues."

My wife favoured me with the blankest stare of astonishment I have ever beheld on a human

countenance. "Provide the clues?" she gasped.

"Yes." I held her eyes steadily with my own. "We must plant a false trail that will lead Holmes to Vienna."

"He will see through your scheme," she protested automatically. "No one knows so much about clues as does he."

"Very likely," I responded, "but no one knows so much about Holmes as do I." I leaned forward. "I will use every device I know will attract him, to put him on the scent. Subtlety is not my forte, but it is his. I shall absorb it temporarily. I shall think like him; I shall consult my notes of past cases he and I worked on together; you will help me; and," I concluded, more bravely than I felt, "we shall get him to do our bidding. If necessary," I added lamely, "I am prepared to spend money as if it were water."

My wife bent towards me and took my face earnestly in both her hands. She gazed searchingly but with affection into my eyes. "You would do all this—for him?"

"I should be the most miserable wretch on earth if I did not," I replied, "seeing what he has done for me."

"Then I shall help you," said she simply.

"Good." I seized her hands in mine and pressed them with excitement. "I knew I could depend upon you. But first we must gain the cooperation of the doctor."

That obstacle to our plans, however, was overcome momentarily. There was a knock at the front door, and shortly thereafter the girl entered the room with a telegram in her hand. With trembling fingers I tore open the seal and read a brief message, couched in quaintly awkward English, to the effect that the doctor's "services were to the great English detective gratis offered," and that he was anxiously awaiting word. I scribbled a hasty reply and sent the girl to the door with it.

Now all that remained was to get Sherlock Holmes to Vienna.

*4*—Interlude in Pall Mall

Of course, it was one thing to say one was going to assimilate the mind of Sherlock Holmes and quite another to do it.

Fired by the telegram, we drew our chairs closer to one another, and, pausing only long enough for me to get my cases down from the shelves, set about planning our false trail.

Alas, it proved more difficult than even I had imagined. Students of my works have seen fit to remark that the man who wrote them was "slow," a dullard, hopelessly gullible, totally without imagination, and worse. To these charges I plead not guilty. While it is true that I have employed literary licence in recounting some of my adventures with Holmes, and have therefore sometimes erred in making myself appear too stupid in comparison, yet I included these exaggerations not for the mere sake of enhancing my friend's abilities in the eye of the reader, but rather because being in his company often made one feel dull whether or not he possessed a normal intelligence.

But when a normal brain, coupled with all the good will in the world, sets out to dupe a superior one, it very quickly becomes evident where the problem lies. We made a dozen false starts that night, and each had some gap in it, some flaw in the reasoning, or else in its lack of the quality that I knew in advance would fail to engage Holmes's attention. My wife, playing devil's advocate, several times punctured what briefly appeared to be brilliant schemes.

How long I sat before the hearth, cudgeling my brains and poring over my notes, I know not, except that it seemed longer in my fancy than was subsequently borne out by the clock above the mantel.

"Jack!" exclaimed my wife abruptly, "we're going about this all wrong."

"How do you mean?" I demanded, somewhat nettled, for I was doing the very best I knew how and it irked me to hear from my own wife that my efforts in a dear friend's behalf were "all wrong."