Sherlock Holmes and the Lady in Black

  Sherlock Holmes and

  the Lady in Black

  JUNE THOMSON

  To Natasha and Susana

  With love and gratitude

  Contents

  Title Page

  Dedication

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  About the Author

  By the Same Author

  Copyright

  CHAPTER ONE

  Those of you who are familiar with the events that occurred during the latter part of Sherlock Holmes’ life, after he had left our old lodgings at 221B Baker Street, will know that after giving up his career as a private consulting agent, he moved to Sussex where he took up beekeeping as a part-time livelihood.

  His smallholding, or farm as he preferred to call it, was situated at Fulworth Cove on the South Downs, overlooking the sea and close to the village of Fulworth.

  At this point I should warn readers that they would be wasting their time if they try to locate the places I have mentioned. Knowing Holmes’ dislike of publicity, I have deliberately withheld their real names, a precaution that also applies to the people who are introduced in this account. So, for example, Harold Stackhurst really exists and was one of my old friend’s Sussex acquaintances but you will not find him listed in any directory or index. Unlike my earlier accounts of his investigations, I have refrained from using footnotes unless essential for, while they are useful, they can at times be like obstacles in an otherwise smooth narrative path.

  So to begin.

  The following investigation took place in the summer of 1908. By that date, Holmes had already left Baker Street and had settled down on his little Sussex farm while I remained in London still working as a family doctor from my practice in Queen Anne Street. I had in the meantime remarried, an act that had caused a rift between Holmes and myself, who regarded my decision as a betrayal. I was hurt by his reaction although, considering his attitude to women and what he referred to sardonically as ‘the softer emotions’, it was not totally unexpected. This is one of the reasons why I rarely refer to my wife in my accounts, an omission that has caused some bewilderment, as well as curiosity among the Sherlockian commentators and my readers who have cudgelled their brains to discover her identity. I advise them that I am not about to divulge it for several reasons: first, because I consider my private life to be no one’s business but my own and second, and perhaps more importantly, because I do not wish to rouse old resentments in Holmes himself. Suffice to say that I met her in 1901 during one of Holmes’ inquiries and that we married the following year, in consequence of which I moved out of the Baker Street lodgings and bought my practice in Queen Anne Street, where I resumed my medical career.

  My second marriage led to a complete breakdown in my relationship with Holmes that lasted for six months and although we were eventually reconciled, I was, however, only partly forgiven. Knowing he was too proud to make the first move, my wife recommended I bought two tickets for the production of ‘Siegfried’ at Covent Garden and posted one of them to him with a short note suggesting we met at the theatre and afterwards went to Marcini’s, the Italian restaurant where we had dined after the successful conclusion of the Hound of the Baskervilles case.

  He wrote back thanking me for the tickets and agreeing to meet me as I had proposed; so began a renewal of our former relationship, by no means as intimate as it had been when we had shared lodgings at 221B Baker Street but, as my wife pointed out, it might lead to a closer reconciliation.

  It was an inspired suggestion on her part, typical of her generous, warm-hearted nature, and one that brought about the first signs of restoration in my relationship with Holmes, a man whom I am not ashamed to admit I revere.

  From then on, we met in London, not frequently but every six months and gradually I began to feel some of that old intimacy returning little by little.

  He never telephoned; he regarded that means of communication as an intrusion on his privacy although in his letters he did confide in me a few details of his new life in Sussex: for example, the acquaintances he had made such as Harold Stackhurst, the proprietor of a private school called The Gables; as well as aspects of his day-to-day life in Fulworth in which he evidently found great pleasure: long walks over the Downs, for instance, and the little lagoons left in the beach when the tide went out in which he would swim every morning; or the charm of Lewes, the nearest town, with its narrow streets lined with old houses.

  On one occasion, he also referred to an extraordinary investigation that had all the overtones of his old Baker Street days of crime and detection. It concerned the death of Fitzroy McPherson, the science master at The Gables, and how another member of his staff, Ian Murdoch, the mathematics tutor, was for a time suspected of his murder until Holmes was able to prove his innocence.

  Holmes himself had written an account of the case, entitled ‘The Adventure of the Lion’s Mane’, which he said he would let me read one day, although he always failed to bring it when we met in London.

  During this time, he never invited me to visit him in his Sussex retreat, an omission I could understand. He was leading a new life and, strong though our friendship had been, similar to his dislike of the telephone, he did not want his former life to intrude on his current one. I appreciated his reluctance to combine the two without resentment, grateful that we would go on seeing one another in London, a neutral meeting ground that held few intimate memories for either of us.

  Therefore his letter inviting me to visit him in Fulworth for a week’s holiday was a complete surprise that caused a certain amount of hesitation on my part. Of course I would accept; nothing would have stopped me from doing so, but at the same time a question mark hung over the invitation that made me feel a little unsure. Holmes never acted on impulse or out of any emotion, such as nostalgia or regret. There was always some rational motive behind his actions, including this one, I assumed, and I read through his letter several times hoping to discover some clue to the purpose behind his unexpected proposal. But I could find nothing. The letter was mainly concerned with directions as to how to reach his house by road, suggesting he assumed I would come by car. But why? Was it to save me the trouble of crossing London by train? I had no idea.

  He wrote:

  After you have reached Lewes, take the minor road signposted to Fulworth. Follow this for about three miles until you can see the tower of the local church, St Botolph’s, on the horizon to the left. Shortly after it comes into view, you will see a narrow turning also to the left, Church Lane, which leads to my house, Bay Cottage.

  I shall place a sign in the hedge directing you to it. I shall expect you to arrive at about 4 p.m. on Wednesday. By the way, bring a pair of rubber-soled shoes with you.

  The letter concluded with the usual non-committal initials, S. H.

  I was not at all disconcerted by the peremptory tone of his letter, remembering the message I had once received from him at the beginning of the Creeping Man inquiry, summoning me away from my medical practice: Come at once if convenient – if inconvenient come all the same – when apparently all he wanted to discuss with me was a monograph he proposed writing on the use of dogs in detection. It was then that I realised that, despite his occasional exasperation at the slowness of my mental faculties compared to his own brilliant intellect, he needed me as a k
ind of whetstone for his mind, in order to hone his own keen-witted talents.

  So aware of the humble role I played in our friendship, I bustled about making the necessary arrangements for this unexpected visit: finding a locum to take over my practice in my absence; consulting maps for the journey; packing a portmanteau and, of course, writing to Holmes accepting the invitation; as well as buying a pair of rubber-soled shoes as Holmes had directed but for what purpose I had yet to discover.

  It goes without saying that my dear wife, knowing how much Holmes’ friendship meant to me and having suggested I contact him in the first place, raised no objection to my trip to Sussex, wishing me a happy outcome to my week’s holiday. I could only hope that Holmes might meet her one day. His low opinion of women might be changed as a result but I knew there was scant chance of this happening.

  Although I had reservations at first about driving so far, I found the journey, particularly the last stretch after Lewes, most enjoyable. I had bought a car, a modest Austin, mainly to make the home visits to my patients much easier and, to my own surprise, I had taken to this new form of transport with enthusiasm. It gave me a sense of freedom, even though I rarely drove far beyond the limits of my medical practice. The convenience, too, was very rewarding. There was no need to summon a cab and when it was cold or wet I could drive myself to any address without suffering from the inclement weather. In fact, it proved a benefit to my general health. The pain in my leg, the consequence of a wound I had received during my service as an army surgeon at the Battle of Maiwand in 1880 in the second Afghan war and which was particularly disabling during the winter months, almost disappeared. It was a great relief.

  In fact, the only drawback to my drive to Sussex was the twisty nature of the road after I left Lewes. There were so many bends and corners, which I had to negotiate with such care, that I had few opportunities to observe the countryside I was passing through, apart from occasional glimpses now and then of splendid views of the sea to my right that lay sparkling in the sunshine like a shifting carpet of silver and, to my left, the gentle green contours of the Downs rising towards the horizon.

  It was on this view that I tried to concentrate: looking out for the church tower that Holmes had stated was a landmark to the lane leading to his house. It was not easy to carry out any observation. There was a high, overgrown hedge to my left that obscured my view for much of the time and it was only when a gap appeared in the foliage that I could catch a glimpse of the church and at the same time keep a look out for the turning that led to the lane and eventually to Bay Cottage.

  Then suddenly there was the church tower on the horizon and, with very little warning, there was a gap in the hedge beside which, propped up among the leaves, was a board with a broad white arrow painted on it pointing to the left, followed by an exclamation mark.

  It was almost as much as I could do to brake, shift gears, indicate I was changing direction and at the same time turn the steering wheel to guide the car into the narrow opening.

  My reaction to the situation was confused. On the one hand, I was delighted not to have overshot the turning; at the same time, I was somewhat exasperated by Holmes’ lack of consideration. He had never learnt to drive and did not wish to do so. Like the telephone, he had little use for cars, considering them to be an intrusion on the peace of the countryside, and consequently he had no understanding of the techniques needed in driving, particularly on a winding road when one needed plenty of warning of where and when to turn.

  The sound of twigs and small branches scraping along the side of the car also added to my impatience as I wondered what damage they were doing to the paintwork. At the same time, I was amused by the exclamation mark. It was typical of Holmes’ cavalier attitude, on occasions, to the unwritten rules that governed the lives of most people, infuriating but in its way endearing in its eccentricity.

  And suddenly he was there, standing in an opening in the hedge to my left and vigorously signalling for me to turn towards him; a familiar figure but at the same time so altered in appearance that for a second he seemed like a stranger. His skin was tanned by the sun and wind that, together with his hawk-nosed profile, made him look more than ever like a Red Indian chief.

  He backed out of the gateway, beckoning me into a gravelled area where, getting out of the car, I stepped forward to greet him more formally. It was over five months since I had seen him and there was an air of restraint about our meeting as if neither of us was quite sure how to proceed. In the end, we simply shook hands, although Holmes showed an unexpected gesture of warmth and spontaneity by placing his left hand on my shoulder as if wanting to establish a more physical contact between us.

  ‘Watson!’ he exclaimed. ‘My old friend! How good to see you!’

  ‘And you too, Holmes,’ I replied a little awkwardly, still not sure how to bridge the gap that inevitably had developed between us during the months we had been apart.

  ‘Everything is all right, I trust?’ he continued, leaning into the car to retrieve my portmanteau from the back seat.

  His face was hidden from me so I could not see his expression but the careful neutrality in the tone of his voice told me he was referring to my second marriage which, as I have explained, had largely been the cause of the rift between us. Holmes is a man who does not need intimate relationships with other people, especially women. He prefers his own company and, apart from his brother Mycroft and myself, has no close friends. On the other hand, I like people, women included, and the death of my first wife, Mary Morstan, to whom I had been happily married for several years, had left an aching void in my life. But I can understand Holmes’ feelings of betrayal.

  And so, after several months of separation, we came to a compromise without a word being spoken. We would continue our old friendship but neither of us would mention my second wife, and from time to time we would meet. Of course, it was not the same as our former relationship and there were occasions when I mourned the loss of our old intimacy, when we had sat together before the fire in our Baker Street lodgings or the times when we had set off on one of Holmes’ investigations and I had the privilege of seeing that great intellect of his at work.

  I realised that this aspect of our relationship was over. Holmes had now retired. Even so, I had the feeling at the back of my mind that there was something more to this invitation to join him in Sussex for a week’s holiday than a meeting of old friends. However, I could not puzzle out what it might be.

  ‘Come in! Come in!’ he was urging me, as he straightened up, my portmanteau in his hand. ‘Let me introduce you to the little farm of my dreams!’ he continued, throwing out an arm as if he were indeed inviting me to meet an actual person of whom he was very fond.

  I was touched by the note of genuine affection in his voice, which I could understand as soon as I looked about me. It was a charming cottage built of whitewashed stone with small casement windows and a porch made of trellis, also painted white. Two more windows were set in the slope of the roof, both flung open, their glass panes catching the sunlight and, like mirrors, reflecting views of the garden that lay behind me. There were apple trees, I deduced, from the yellow and green fruit hanging on them like baubles on a Christmas tree. And under each one of them were small constructions, like a row of miniature cottages each with a peaked roof and white-painted walls, very similar to Holmes’ cottage except they had no doors or windows. It took me a moment to realise that they were beehives, material evidence of Holmes’ new way of life.

  While I was puzzling this out, Holmes was striding ahead of me towards the front door of his own cottage and, flinging it open, stood to one side to allow me to pass inside.

  I entered a large room that reminded me nostalgically of our former sitting room in Baker Street. There was a similar fireplace with a coal scuttle standing on the hearth, very like the one in which Holmes used to keep his cigars. There were also bookcases in the chimney alcoves, which I was certain contained the same volumes he would have brought wi
th him from London: a copy of the current Bradshaw listing the railway timetables, an Almanac de Gotha, the catalogue of genealogies of all the European royal families, together with his own personally compiled commonplace books and encyclopaedias in which he pasted newspaper cuttings of any facts that he considered useful. The furniture was familiar also, being similar to Mrs Hudson’s, our Baker Street landlady; a cane chair with cushions; a small, gateleg dining table together with four chairs and a sideboard complete with a tantalus holding two decanters of spirits, and a gasogene for making aerated water.

  Everything was very neat and tidy and I was deeply moved, as well as astonished by the nostalgia that Holmes’ choice of household goods suggested.

  There were changes, of course. There were no heavy curtains at the window, which was flung open and the scene beyond was not at all like Baker Street with its houses and street lamps and brick walls. Here there were trees and bushes, their leaves glancing in the sunlight as the breeze stirred their branches, bringing with it the unfamiliar scent of the sea and warm earth.

  My bedroom exhaled the same air of freshness and country odours. It was a small room simply furnished with a bed, a chest of drawers with white china handles, a cupboard in which to hang clothes and a washstand equipped with a jug and basin. Later I was to discover that Holmes’ bedroom, next door to mine, was a mirror image and, although I looked closely about me, there was no sign of any of the paraphernalia associated with his old habit of injecting himself with a six per cent solution of cocaine.

  Their absence delighted me. When we had shared the Baker Street lodgings, I had tried to wean him off the drug with only partial success. The evidence that the Sussex setting and the little home of his dreams had succeeded where I had failed gave me, I must admit, a small twinge of jealousy. I would have preferred to think that it was our friendship that had won him over at last. It was an absurd reaction and one that quickly passed, thank goodness. What really mattered was Holmes’ health and well-being.