Always have
done. Three o'clock in the afternoon is long enough after
lunch to be
weary and far enough from eight pm to be miserable. I was
filling out
papers, that Tuesday. Mountains of them. I hate
paperwork, but no one
ever bothered to tell me that when a man takes his job seriously, moves
up through the ranks, does the gritty work, and becomes a police
inspector of some distinction, that the Yard will then reward him with
towering cliffs of paperwork. Well done, Inspector.
Really
first-rate policing, and we've promoted you to a plainclothes
detective. Now, here is a hellish way to fill your hours.
It
isn't their fault. The legal system has to be
served. And there are
merits to having a good filing system. I know it myself,
because when
I need a record of a prior case to help with a fresh one, it's easy
enough to find.
But God, how I hate three o'clock in the afternoon.
"Suspect
observed breaking glass of window at 212 Maiden Lane at 11:48 pm by PC
Richard Ness," I wrote. My hand was beginning to
cramp. Reaching out,
I took a sip of hot tea with a squeeze of lemon. It burned my
fingertips through the cheap china, but it was better than the
pen.
"PC Ness, when calling out to the suspect to--"
My door opened. No knock. That meant one thing and
one thing only.
Frowning darkly, I set my pen down.
It isn't that I mind seeing Sherlock Holmes in my
office doorway, precisely. It's that I mind
that he doesn't ever knock. I mind
that he stands there and takes off his tall silk hat, the same exact
shade and sheen as his hair, and smirks at me as if to say, I
am here. Aren't you the lucky one? I
mind incredibly seeing him at an ungodly hour like three in the
afternoon. I mind very, very much that I'm always seated when
he
bursts in, and that I can never decide whether to stand so as to gain a
little height or ignore him entirely. It might not be his
fault, but I
also mind that even when standing, I'm just shy of a full foot shorter
than he is.
I try never to think about it. The not-quite foot
problem. But believe me, I mind that a good deal.
"Mr. Holmes," I said.
His
eyebrows shifted. The man can make common courtesies--like
saying a
fellow's name--seem like ridiculous statements of the
obvious. Well, I
didn't say another word, not at three o'clock on a bad stretch of
Tuesday. I have my standards, same as him.
"You're looking
bright and fresh this afternoon, Lestrade," he sang out, meaning the
opposite. I know he's mocking me when he trills the r
in my name. "Have you been dragging the Serpentine
again? That always gives you a certain healthy glow."
The
last time I saw Sherlock Holmes, I had been trying to find the body of
Lady St. Simon. Mr. Holmes suggested that I might as well
have dragged
the Trafalgar Square fountain as the Serpentine. He was
right. He is
almost always right. But being right doesn't stop him being
off his
head.
"That's a bit rich," I said coldly, "seeing as how it was
the note I found in the card case from the dress pocket that put you on
her trail at last."
"Well, well, my good Inspector, we cannot expect ourselves to do everything,
now can we, but merely each to play to his own strengths? In
your
case, finding evidence. And in mine, comprehending it."
It
was bad, that day. Already. And him not twenty
seconds through the
door. He sat down without asking, setting his hat on my
desk's
corner. I mind that he sits without
asking. Meanwhile, the
tone of voice the man gets when he's trying to ride me is...like nails
over a chalkboard. Not less clipped, nor less smooth, nor yet
less
high and melting, but it goes through you like dozens of tiny
arrows.
Not painful. But intolerably irritating. He doesn't
speak like a
regular Englishman. His accent shows him off the bat for a
toff, a
very educated toff, but his cadence is all wrong for Britain.
The
Doctor once told me he was half French. That would explain
everything. If there's anything more irritating than the
French
nation, it's Sherlock Holmes. In Paris, they'd have made him
a king.
He would like that. Tremendously.
"What I'm struggling to comprehend just now is what you're doing here,"
I said, trying to make it at least half a pleasantry.
"Yes, you do struggle on occasion," he sighed. "I looked in
to see if anything's stirring."
"Criminally speaking?"
"I was not referring to culinary or agricultural or mathematical or
scholarly or navigational or nautical stirrings, no."
Mr.
Holmes tugged a white cuff down that hadn't been out of place in the
first place. There's something very odd about the man, and
more than
just the surface. He intrigues me, I'll own up to
it. When I first
met him, he'd barely the money to pay for a shabby wreck of a room in
Montague Street. And whenever we'd find ourselves at a pub,
he'd order
a tall glass of porter and make it last for half an hour or
longer. I
stood him for cab fare once, and he actually blushed,
which was
terrifying. He's pale as an oyster shell usually.
It was plain to see
he hadn't a pair of shillings to keep each other company. But
his togs
are...rich, is the only word. Mr. Holmes is monstrously tall
and very
thin, and everything is tailored in greys and blacks and creams and
whites to slide over him like butter. Police know the look of
good
cloth, and good tailoring is harder to come by than a good
cook. So
where did he get it all? He's had an inheritance recently, or
so the
Doctor has hinted to me, but the clothes have been his for
years.
Sherlock Holmes is a mystery, in more than one sense. It's
one of the
reasons I put up with him.
"Nothing stirring that would interest
the likes of you," I returned dourly, picking up my pen and going back
to my notes. "The only things stirring barely interest the
likes of
me."
"Then they would tragically disinterest me, I grant you," he said,
looking as if I'd taken a piece of cake away from a toddler.
"Whatever happened in the St. Simon case?" I asked him
absently. "Did she go back to America?"
Mr. Holmes blinked. "Mrs. Francis Hay Moulton?
However would I know?"
People
go right out of his head like wisps of smoke when they're not tied to
an active case. Like they never existed. He forgets
them entirely. I
never do, though. I like to think of people I've helped over
the
years, people whose lives have touched mine by accident. I
don't like
to think that they forget me, either. I like to think that
sometimes
they remember the PC or Inspector Lestrade who caught the man who stole
their life savings. Or kept their daughter from getting
attacked in
the worst way. So I check up on them, as a
courtesy. Mr. Holmes
thinks it mad. But that doesn't bother me. I think him
three quarters of the way to the Hatter in that children's story.
"Never mind. Haven't you anything better to do than stare at
me?"
"Believe
me, if I could scare up better company for myself, I would set about
doing so at once," he drawled. But he didn't mean
it. Not exactly.
Mr. Holmes doesn't stay anywhere he doesn't want to be, or go anywhere
he doesn't want to go.
"Where is the Doctor, then?"
Mr.
Holmes threw one pinstriped leg over his opposite knee and reached into
his frock coat for his cigarettes. "He is at home, doing as
little as
possible. To be frank, he is quite...entirely indisposed, at
the
moment."
I looked up in surprise.
I'm as ready as the
next man to admit that parts of Mr. Holmes' personality give me
fits.
But he isn't disloyal. The man could have faults a mile long,
longer
even than his real ones, and he still would never abandon a friend in
dire straits. Not from negligence, still less from
squeamishness. I
couldn't picture him a very good nursemaid--in fact, the thought gave
me rather a fright--but if Dr. Watson was bad off, neither could I
picture him...anywhere else. I didn't say, then why
are you here, but I did prompt him further.
"He'll be all right?"
"Of course he will," Mr. Holmes scoffed. Having lit the
cigarette, he waved it in sarcastic plumes of smoke. What
a ridiculous question, one of the wisps said. You
have missed my point entirely, wafted another. "It
is a temporary problem. I am in hopes he will be quite
himself again within a few days."
Thinking about Dr. Watson as I tapped my pen against my papers, I
realized what Mr. Holmes was doing.
For
one thing, he had just delivered that information in about as
dismissive a voice as I've ever heard. I knew how fond Mr.
Holmes had
grown of the Doctor. Everyone who met the Doctor was fond of
him. I
was myself, tremendously. Dr. Watson is pleasant enough to
hear and to
look at, that's true, but more than that, he fixes you with his eyes
when you're talking as if he's never heard a word more interesting in
his life. You feel at ease around him. Once he
likes a fellow, or
respects you, he laughs at jokes because he knows you want him to even
when they aren't very good. Decent
doesn't even approach it.
He's a model of a good fellow. Mr. Holmes puffs up around him
like a
great gangling lad in short pants. So Mr. Holmes was not
being
dismissive because he didn't care.
He was worried.
It
isn't a comfortable feeling being the only Yarder who can see straight
through Sherlock Holmes. It's dashed disconcerting,
actually. Here's
what it's like: it's like being in a room full of blue coats and brass
buttons and PC numbers, and there's a giant violet elephant in the
corner of the room, and you're the only man who can
see it.
It's like being that crazy, on my word. Worse than that, you
can't
stare at the violet elephant, not by a long stretch, because that
violet elephant has eyes like a hawk and would crush you just to hear
the sound of your bones cracking. For sport. So
you're the only one
who sees the elephant, and you spend all your energy ignoring
it.
Dashed disconcerting, as I said. But I went back to trying to
puzzle
out why the violet elephant was sitting in my only spare chair.
"Is it something he picked up in the War?" I asked next.
Mr.
Holmes nodded, his very square chin tilting toward the single thin
carpet. He wasn't looking at me. I was glad enough
for that, for
Sherlock Holmes' eyes are pretty alarming when he wants them to
be. A
queer pale colourless colour. Not the
sort of eyes you see
very often, even in a town big as London. "He contracted
enteric fever
when he was wounded in action. There are occasional relapses,
unfortunately. They are not life-threatening."
Now he did look
at me. Sharp as a whip, with those black-as-black pupils and
grey-as-clouds irises. Daring me to contradict him.
I'm smarter than
that. He'd have bit my head off for even thinking it.
"I see," I said slowly, because I did. "He's a proud man, the
Doctor. He doesn't like an audience."
I'd
surprised him. I could tell, because sorry enough as it makes
me, I
can see plain through the man. The edge of his mouth ticked
up a
fraction, and not in sport or derision. In the back of his
mind, he
knew he looked surprised, because then he took a pull from the fag
between his fingers to cover it. Not quite soon enough.
"I was
given my marching orders," he admitted, giving me a smile when his hand
dropped back to his knee. Mr. Holmes gives out smiles as if
they're
gold doubloons. As if you ought to be sending him a Thank You
card by
the next post for the honour of viewing them. As if he has
only so
many to give in one lifetime, and you're a lucky bloke, aren't you, to
have seen one this close? It had always annoyed me.
But on that
afternoon, it didn't. "In perfect fairness, I have been
underfoot for
three days by this time. This is rather a worse instance than
any of
the others I have observed. At the moment, there is nothing I
can do."
Oh, hell I thought to myself jarringly.
It
was the way he said "there is nothing I can do." Casual, oh
so very
casual, far too casual, but underneath that...lost. Like a
man praying
or a man pleading.
I'm interested in all sorts of crime. I have been all my
life. But there are a goodly number of crimes I'm not
interested in, as well. Not in the slightest.
One
of them is prostitution. Those poor souls have little enough
as it is
without me dragging them off to spend the night shivering in a cold
cell with one moth-eaten shawl wrapped around sad bony arms, sweating
the gin out. Whores don't trouble me, and I don't care who
knows it.
London has always had them. London will
always have them.
When a customer hits one of them, blacks her in the eye, then I'm
interested again, and very willing to haul the blackguard off in
darbies. But there'll always be poor women, and so there'll
always be
whores, and I just can't be very keen on arresting them.
Sodomy is another crime I'm not partial to prosecuting.
Why in blazes didn't I see it before? I thought, my
brain flashing on images from the preceding months.
Sherlock
Holmes stepping out of a cab, reaching behind him without even needing
to look for the Doctor's elbow. Sherlock Holmes cocking that
masterful
black head of his at a bit of interesting evidence, his temple always
pointing towards the Doctor. Sherlock
Holmes walking ever so
slightly slower on those giant stork's legs when Dr. Watson was visibly
exhausted. Two years they had lived together now. A
little more than
that. Twenty-six or -seven months. And Mr. Holmes
about ten times
more courteous and less crazed than he'd been before. Barring
that
Norbury matter, which was a bad business and no mistake, Mr. Holmes was
thriving. During the Norbury business, he'd been white as a
sheet with
ashen, bloodless lips and a problem keeping objects in his hands
without dropping them to the floor. Sweating like a stevedore
for no
good reason. You could practically see the morphine pulsing
through
the blue veins along his wrists. That's another mystery about
Sherlock
Holmes. He's an addict, and a rare one. I don't
know the reason. But
if he'd fallen in a cold heap during that ghastly Ku Klux Klan
business, I wouldn't have blinked, though I'd have fetched the Doctor
in a heartbeat. Maddening as he is, I've never wanted
Sherlock Holmes dead.
But nowadays...now he was past that. Afloat. There
was
colour in his face and lean scraps of meat on his bones.
And when the Doctor spoke, Mr. Holmes never smiled as if he had
precious few to spare.
"What on earth has gotten into you?" he growled impatiently.
Lie, Geoffrey, I said to myself. Lie
and make it a good one. You're a hell of a fine
liar. Any good
policeman is. Lie like the very devil or you'll ruin your own
career,
because Mr. Holmes is very useful and he'll never be able to look you
in the face again. Lie, Geoffrey, and make it stick.
Then I thought of something, and I didn't have to lie at all.
"I
don't like to think of Dr. Watson suffering," I replied. And
it was
true. "He's a credit to his country, is what he is, a war
hero like
that. It isn't right."
Mr. Holmes' lips parted. A little dash of colour feathered
across his cheekbones.
"No," he said softly. "It isn't."
I exhaled slowly.
If
ever you dodged a bullet, Geoffrey Lestrade, it's keeping dark over
knowing Sherlock Holmes takes the back staircase. And Dr.
Watson's, at
that.
It made sense, so much sense, now I had seen it.
For
another mystery about Sherlock Holmes had been how in Christ's name a
man could content himself being that lonely. He likes people
to think
he's above all that--human company, that is. Clients' names
when a
case is solved. Girls who flirt with him (there are quite a
few--he's
a handsome devil in a pale, rakish sort of sense, the sort that leaves
lasses in a family way without a new last name). Friendships
formed
over a game of darts and a pint of bitters, now he'd the money for
it.
But that's all a bunko game. Mr. Holmes likes to be
praised. He likes
to be noticed. He loves to be admired. And everyone
in the world
loves to be loved, don't they?
"The Doctor's a strong young
fellow with a will like a draft horse," I pointed out.
"You're right,
Mr. Holmes, he'll be right as rain in a few days."
"Of course he
will." Resting the hand with the cigarette on his knee, Mr.
Holmes
looked thoughtful, his eyes staring a few feet ahead at thin
air. "Do
you know, he once saved a man's life during the Maiwand campaign by
ripping apart a dead commanding officer's dress jacket? They
still had
a few field dressings left to them, but no more morphine, and they had
run clean out of thread. So Watson worried at six buttons
sewn onto a
deceased sergeant-major's coat until he had six three-inch lengths of
string, which he then tied carefully together. He had stopped
this
fellow bleeding to death in the meanwhile with packed compresses, and
once he had the thread he needed, he immediately sewed the lad up
again. By this time he had been awake for three days, I
believe, and
could barely recall his own name. It was before he was
wounded,
obviously, but his being shot in the shoulder was mere hours away and
he was already frayed beyond what nearly any man could tolerate and
keep going. And he insists that the only thing he can manage
to be
proud of himself for on that day is that he doesn't think he was so
very exhausted and worn that the stitches were bad or irregular or too
wide. He says he doesn't think it left a scar. That's
what he's proud of, Inspector."
"I've never heard that story," I said, smiling.
All the while I was madly thinking, so that's what Sherlock
Holmes in love looks like. I
actually choked back a laugh. This was
insane. Him with his dark
lashes drooping very slightly and forgetting he had a cigarette in his
long fingers. All his angles softening a little, from the
hard curve
of his hooked nose to the hard curve of his bold jaw.
Bragging like a
horse trader about his fellow lodger. And when I thought
about it, Dr.
Watson often enough looked just the same way.
Do you know, Lestrade, that Holmes once told me he can say the word
"murder" in three hundred languages?
I've
never felt that way about anyone, but maybe I will sometime.
When the
workload isn't so heavy. I'm a young enough man, and not so
bad to
look at that a girl would turn up her nose. Anyway, I like
nice girls,
not the sort who'd turn their noses up at anyone. For being a
cad or a
coward, certainly. But not for being too plain or too
short. I like
nice girls with a ready laugh and a curving sort of figure.
Full in
the bust. Blonde is a preference. Maybe one day
I'll talk about one
to Mr. Holmes like that. It isn't impossible. Maybe
talking with
Sherlock Holmes won't always be such a rowboat over a waterfall sort of
feeling. Yesterday I'd have said he was a lunatic genius
crime-solving
monk and today I know he's an indorser. So anything can
happen. It's
not easy seeing an invisible violet elephant, not by a long shot, but
maybe it'll prove to be worth it.
"Here's one," I offered,
threading my fingers together. "He told me that when he was a
boy,
maybe twelve or thirteen years old, he was walking down an Edinburgh
street and saw a cat that had been run down by a carriage.
Common
enough sight, to be sure. So the Doctor--well, before he was
a Doctor,
but at any rate, that's what I'm coming to--goes up to see if the poor
creature's still alive, and turns out it's only stunned, with a smashed
leg. So the Doctor has been studying steam engines,
meanwhile, during
the past week. And thinking about the design of an engine, it
isn't a
far stretch to think that he has to stop the bleeding or the cat's for
it. He wonders if he can do it. So he carries the
alley cat off
before it's awake enough to make a fuss, wrapped in his muffler, and
sets it on the kitchen floor, and he takes a big butcher's knife and he
finishes what the carriage started. Just as cool as you
please. The
cat's alert enough to set up howling by this time, so he pours some
laudanum down its maw. Doesn't want it suffering more than it
has to.
And that quiets it proper. Then he washes alcohol over the
wound and
makes a tourniquet and ties up the stump just as neat as ever you
please with a bandage and shuts the poor creature up in the closet of
his bedroom."
Mr. Holmes smiled at me. Not like he'd only ten
left and I was squandering his supply. That smile was one of
the best
smiles on any human being I've ever seen. Bright as a smoking
bull's-eye. Pulling in a breath, I went on.
"He's so worried
that it might not have worked that he keeps checking on it, every ten
minutes or so, and forgets he's left blood all over the
kitchen. Then
the cook screams bloody murder. Why is there a pool of blood
on the
floor? And he thought from the looks of the cook and the way
his
father was glaring that he'd take a beating for it, but when he told
them what had happened, he didn't. The cook gave him a saucer
of fresh
cheese and a few bacon scraps, and the father gave him a medical
textbook that Christmas. It was all he ever wanted to do
afterward."
"The cat's name was Lazarus," Mr. Holmes observed mildly.
"Was it?"
"Yes.
It didn't quite rise from the grave, but Watson wanted something
suitably dramatic. It lived in their stables and was
apparently a
mouser of no mean skills."
We fell silent. I glanced at the
clock on my desk. Soon, it wouldn't be three in the afternoon
at all.
Soon it would be four and I would have a single biscuit and more
tea.
I'd forgotten my tea.
"Would you like some tea, Mr. Holmes?"
"I ought to be going," he answered, looking at his fingernails.
"Ah." I looked at my report. It was still there,
waiting. Still deadly dull.
"Oh,
hang it," Mr. Holmes said suddenly. "I discovered, just prior
to the
final conclusion of the St. Simon marriage affair, that there is a shop
not eight blocks from here with the best cold woodcock I have ever
eaten. Even the Americans were unable to resist its
charms. They also
have an excellent wine cellar and a few tables and...and I am going
there anyway. I was already planning on stopping
by. Watson likes a
good Burgundy and we're nearly out. Not that he...when he
feels
better, he'll want a glass or two."
I can see through Mr.
Sherlock Holmes pretty well. But violet elephants don't
generally hint
awkwardly at asking one out for a drink in the middle of the day for no
real reason. Not to discuss a case or take a well-earned pint
after a
stakeout, but simply to keep each other company.
At least, that isn't the way violet elephants generally behave.
"I've a report to--"
"Bugger your report," Mr. Holmes enunciated clearly.
Well, you're the expert on that front.
"Why are you smiling so oddly?"
Lie, Geoffrey. You had better get used to
lying. Or tell the truth again. That worked like a
charm.
"Mr. Holmes, I'd mistake you for a dock worker some days if I didn't
know better," I pointed out, smiling.
He
stood smoothly to his feet, smirking like a cat with cream on its
whiskers. "That's just what my brother says. It
hasn't done him a bit
of bloody good to complain about it either. Are you coming?"
I stared at the clock again.
I
wished, for the first time in my life, that I was puzzled over a
matter. A criminal matter. I had always before been
annoyed when a
case was all dark to me. It was humiliating to be shown up
constantly
by a giant spider-legged upstart with no formal training and a smug
grey eye. I hated feeling I couldn't handle a case by
myself. No
matter how useful Mr. Holmes is, and he's one of the more useful men on
the planet, when it's my case, I'd prefer to solve
it myself,
thank you very much indeed. But that day, for the first time
ever, I
wanted to be confounded. I wanted to give the poor man
something to
do. It had cost him five years of his life just to hint that
he
wouldn't refuse my company over a glass of French wine and some cold
fowl. And if he felt a little better, a little less lost, it
would
please the Doctor. I'd walk a long lonely mile in the dark
for Doctor
Watson. Not even because I know him so very well, for I
don't. But
because he would walk a long lonely mile for me, I think, and for no
good reason. That's the sort of man he is. If I was
a fellow who
liked the notion of two men carrying on in bed together, I might have
loved him too. Seems an easy job.
"I'm stretched a bit thin this week," I said truthfully.
"I'll
pay for it." He dropped the fag end in my wastebin, after
carefully
crushing it against the side. "I'm tremendously wealthy these
days.
I'll tell you all about it."
"Let's go, then," I said, reaching for my hat.
Maybe
next week something will happen I won't understand. A murder
or a
robbery or a kidnapping or an embezzlement. And I'll go
straightaway
to see Mr. Holmes about it, because now I know he doesn't do very well
when the Doctor is ill. Maybe I shouldn't care so much as I
do. But
for some reason, I don't want to see a man like that
brooding. I don't
want to see the pained set of his jaw and the way his eyes fade to a
leaden colour. He's intolerable enough when he's happy, for
God's
sake. Mr. Holmes, when the Doctor is faring poorly, looks as
if he'd
spend all the gold from Solomon's Temple to switch places with
him. A
man like that ought to be done a good turn now and again.
Meanwhile,
the crime victims will be well served. And I'll be well
served myself,
if he lets me share the credit. He always does.
He's very good about
that.
I hope I'm confounded sometime soon. I'll see what I can
scrounge
up. And Mr. Holmes was right. Best woodcock I've
ever had.