The Strange Return of Sherlock Holmes (17 page)

‘I recognize you,' he said. ‘You were with me when I first opened my eyes.'

‘Yes,' she said.

‘Yet I never saw you again.'

She winked at him, and smiled a gorgeous smile. ‘Other duties.' And hurried away.

Holmes insisted that I sit in on his interview with Dr Coleman. Coleman was the man who not only had engineered his resuscitation but was solely in charge of his recovery and progress. Coleman was already well-known in the medical field, and no doubt was preparing scientific papers that would make him even better known – papers describing his latest triumph, resuscitating a man who had been frozen for roughly ninety years in a glacier. For all I could guess, this was enough to win him a Nobel Prize. Then again, who knew? Every day in the newspaper one read of new research victories in cloning, tissue engineering, tissue regeneration, regrowing organs using stem cells created from an individual's own skin cells, and so on. Reviving a detective frozen in a glacier had its sensational aspects, certainly. But I suspected the public would not be terribly surprised that such a thing
could
be done, only that it had been. As to whether people nowadays would remember Sherlock Holmes, I doubted it. I suspected his fears of suffering from celebrity were unfounded.

Dr Coleman was a large and very cultured man with a shining manner and silvery hair and a basso profundo voice. He was modest and yet assertive in his exquisite politeness. He was a big physical specimen. He looked to be the sort of man who would get things done by the persuasive method if possible, by the brute force method if necessary, but get them done he would – precisely the sort of tactful and resourceful man required to arrange for an Englishman encased in ice to be brought from Switzerland despite all legal and physical obstacles, and then to arrange to have him resuscitated despite all ethical, medical and technical problems.

After Holmes had introduced me, we all took a seat in the consulting room. Coleman was beaming with affability and with pride as he gazed at his latest accomplishment. ‘You look good, Mr Holmes, and all your tests look good, as well.'

‘I don't feel too bad for a man a hundred and fifty-four years old,' he replied.

‘Come now, Holmes, come now!' boomed the doctor.

‘And you look good yourself, doctor,' said Holmes. ‘I see your wife has yet again extended her stay in Italy.'

‘Yes, yes, that's true. And you, Holmes, have surprised me yet again with your powers of perception and deduction . . . and I suppose –' he laughed graciously – ‘I suppose I should now ask you
how
you know that. Well, then, I'm asking.'

‘I know because your nurse, Miss Devon, is living with you.'

‘Really, Holmes, do be polite, if you can!' He waved his arm brusquely. ‘Let us get on with our business here, and enough of . . . but wait, I must say, I
am
curious. Whatever makes you think such a thing?'

‘You both smell of horses,' said Holmes.

The doctor laughed – a little nervously, I thought. ‘Well, that proves, at least, that the olfactory lobe of your prosencephalon has been brought back to full function, and then some,' he said.

Holmes turned to me. ‘The good doctor has shown me his lovely house in Hertfordshire, and his stable of horses, and the paths where he rides early each morning before coming to work.'

‘Yes, yes,' said Dr Coleman, looking now a bit uncomfortable.

‘And then,' said Holmes, ‘there is the matter of the few strands of cat hair clinging to the inner dust jacket of Miss Devon's book, the book I just signed for her – it looked very like the hair of your Angora.'

‘Is that
so
,' said Coleman, looking now distinctly irritated.

‘And of course, you both have identical tans, far different than the pale November skin of most of your colleagues, so I presume you have been a week with Miss Devon in the West Indies, where you have told me you prefer to seek your sun. You flew there?'

‘Yes, yes, Holmes. We flew.'

‘I should like to try flying in a heavier than air machine sometime,' said Holmes. ‘I've only flown in a balloon.'

‘What!' I interjected. ‘That's something I never knew about you. I don't think I ever heard of that.'

‘Possibly not, possibly not,' said Holmes mildly. ‘Watson did not write up everything about me. Not by a long chalk.'

‘I think I may have created a monster,' laughed Coleman, leaning back grandly in his chair, and brandishing his pad elegantly.

‘Like Frankenstein's monster?' mused Holmes. ‘Well, there is truth in that. I sometimes feel, as he did, rather lost in a world not mine.'

Dr Coleman glossed over this psychological observation, which seemed almost a cry of loneliness. He discussed all Holmes's tests, then asked him a series of questions. Together the two of them concluded that all seemed perfectly satisfactory except that Holmes's left leg still gave him a good deal of trouble.

As we stood up to leave, Dr Coleman said, ‘We have noticed before, Holmes, that your sense of smell has been greatly sensitized by your awakening – and I don't know why. But I wish to assure you that usually I take a shower after riding and before coming to work. But this morning something came up, and we had not time. I do apologize.'

Holmes had been headed towards the door. He turned back to face Coleman. ‘My dear doctor, I find the scent of horses not in the least offensive. On the contrary, I rather like it. It brings me back to a time past – I have only just this moment realized it! The smell of horses, yes, wonderful! It is one of the things I miss most from those days before the Great War. You know, doctor, the world used to be full of horses. They were everywhere, and everyone in the country or city knew horses, smelled horses, had a hundred encounters a day with horses. They pulled our ploughs and our hay wagons in the country, they pulled our coaches and carriages and hansoms in the city – and our omnibuses and freight wagons. The horse was a part of our world, a part of our lives. But how suddenly he vanished! A world without horses seems to me very strange. And a little cold. Yes, I think that is the word. Cold.'

By the time we left St Bart's it was rather late to visit Colonel Davis, so we took a taxi to our hotel in the Strand. As we ascended to our room overlooking the Thames I said to Holmes, ‘You seem to have developed a poetic impulse that was unknown to you previously – all that rhapsody about horses and times past.'

‘Yes,' agreed Holmes, ‘I surprised myself. It just came upon me. Sometimes smells do that. They throw you back into memory as nothing else can do.'

‘That's true,' I said.

He looked out our window at the Thames.

‘Do you realize,' I said, ‘that this is the very room where one of your famous contemporaries stayed, Claude Monet?'

‘I didn't know he'd stayed at the Savoy,' said Holmes.

‘He painted the Waterloo Bridge and the Hungerford Bridge from here,' I said.

‘Ah,' said Holmes, still gazing at the river and the two bridges. ‘I didn't know that.'

That evening Holmes spent a good deal of time surfing the Internet with my laptop computer. I was surprised he knew how.

In the morning we took a taxi to the hospital and visited Colonel Davis in his room. Davis was sitting up in a chair but he did not look particularly well. He stood shakily to greet us, then sat back down quickly. He said he was dizzy from his concussion. He was a tall man, quiet and bland. Supercilious. And cold. And dull. I wondered how he could have risen to the rank of colonel. Then again, maybe that's how. I reminded myself, anyway, that he'd just been bashed on the head. No doubt that took something out of him. There was something about his manner, though, and his look, that made me instinctively dislike him. I wasn't sure what it was.

‘Lestrade said you'd be on this case,' said Davis. ‘He said you have wide experience.'

‘Roughly a century wide,' said Holmes.

‘I'll take your word for it. Any progress?'

‘I need just a little information, and then I may well make some progress,' said Holmes.

‘Fire away,' said the colonel, staring straight ahead.

‘What were your duties in Iraq?'

‘I had a number of duties over a four-year period.'

‘Let us start with your last assignment.'

The colonel hesitated. ‘Why, is that important?'

‘Details always are important, colonel. If you don't intend to be candid with me, I cannot help you. You were in a position of some authority at Abu Ghraib prison, is that not so?'

The colonel froze a little, and gazed at him bitterly. He was not used to being talked to bluntly. Finally, he said, ‘I was in charge of a number of departments at the prison, yes. How do you know this?'

‘If one searches the Web in the right way, facts emerge. Did you ever come into contact with prisoners?'

‘Not usually.'

‘I didn't ask that,' said Holmes. ‘I asked, did you
ever
.'

‘Occasionally, yes. I suppose you are asking this because of the book that appeared in my house.'

‘Yes,' said Holmes. ‘That is why I'm asking. Surely that was a curious coincidence, was it not?'

‘I thought so,' said the colonel.

‘What possibilities occurred to you?' asked Holmes.

‘That someone might have put it there to irritate me.'

‘Any suspects?'

‘It occurred to me that my wife might have put it there – but I don't see how she could have. She went out the door ahead of me that morning, and I am almost certain that there was nothing on that table when I left.'

‘Did your wife object to what you did at Abu Ghraib?'

‘Yes.'

‘Strongly object?' asked Holmes.

‘She went almost berserk on the subject.'

‘And she is now off to . . . ?'

‘Someplace in California for a spiritualist psychic meditation training conference of some sort. She will be incommunicado for a month. That, she says, is part of the training.'

‘And she is going to this session mainly to get away from the ghost of the murdered monk?'

‘I am afraid that is the case,' said Davis. ‘She needed to get away, that was for sure.'

‘How old is your wife?'

‘Thirty-eight.'

‘How old are you?'

‘I really don't see the point of this.'

‘You are wasting my time, colonel. Details matter. If this is a secret and you don't want to answer, just say so.'

‘I am fifty-six.'

‘It was your neighbour who first informed her that the house was haunted?'

‘Yes, Simon Bart.'

‘What is your impression of him?'

‘Very upper-class English, judging by his clothes and accent. Perfect gentleman. He has attended séances with Rebecca – that's my wife. He's into this spiritualism thing to some degree. Very thoughtful. He was the one who suggested she go away for a while after this last haunting business. Very thoughtful fellow. He came by with a housewarming gift after he realized we were new in the country. Couple of expensive silver candlesticks. Wish he hadn't. Whoever did this to me –' he pointed to his head – ‘cracked me with one of them.'

‘Do you know what he does for a living?'

‘I haven't talked to him much and I don't know. He may be independently wealthy. He doesn't work regularly.'

‘How old?'

‘Forty, forty-five. Looks young. Thinks young. You know, I hate to break this up, but I'm getting a little dizzy, Holmes.'

‘Colonel, it is my belief that you are in grave danger. I suggest you do not go home even if the hospital releases you.'

‘They won't release me for another two or three days. But then I will go home, Mr Holmes. I'm an Army man. US Army. I am not used to cringing and cowering. I think a burglar got me, and that's that. You can bet he won't get me again.'

‘I wouldn't count on that, colonel. But do as you wish. Meanwhile, would you give me permission to enter your house and look about?'

‘You may certainly do that. The house key is there, on the dresser behind you. Just send it back to the hospital tomorrow.'

Holmes took the key.

‘One last question: did your wife have these hysterical tendencies, these unstable tendencies, before you moved to London.'

‘Yes. I am sorry to say she has been unstable all her life. But she has gotten worse since we moved to England.'

That was the end of the interview. As we left the hospital I asked Holmes what he made of the situation. He answered that it would be imprudent to make anything of it just yet. More facts were required. Then he seemed to drift into outer space. He wasn't hearing what I asked. ‘How do you feel about the colonel?' I asked.

‘Do you mind if we stop by our old lodgings in Baker Street for a moment?' he asked.

‘
Your
old lodgings,' I corrected him. ‘I do not mind at all.'

‘After a glimpse at the old place we'll be off to Croxley Green.'

‘I am at your disposal, Holmes!'

We hailed a cab by Hyde Park and soon were spinning up Park Lane towards Baker Street. When we arrived in Baker Street, however, Holmes was discontent. He said the area looked nothing like he'd remembered it. When we found 221B, he was astonished and disconsolate. He said it was not really the right place, though the number was plainly on the door. We went inside and found it was a museum – a Sherlock Holmes museum. Evidently Sherlock Holmes fans came here year after year to gawk.