Chapter 1
I ask for your pardon. Even now, I hesitate to put pen to paper. During my years chronicling the many amazing adventures of Sherlock Holmes, I have never doubted their veracity. But this time, were it not for the results of my own feeble efforts at detection, I would wholly attribute the events described as phantasms of a fevered dream suffered by Holmes or one of his more elaborate jests.
Flipping through my notes from that day leaves me perplexed. Was any of it real? That is for you, the reader, to decide.
You see, it was raining that night…
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Lighting crackled overhead, its lavender flash momentarily illuminating the world as the carriage drew to a stop before my surgery. As the driver wrestled with the reigns, the horses, jittery from the charged air, gave a short jump that nearly tumbled me onto the raised steppingstone between the curb and the sidewalk.
“Sorry there, sir,” the man grumbled. “They get skittish on nights like this.”
He clucked lightly to the horses who whinnied back in reply. “Mind your step, now.’ His whip pointed at the stone glowing feebly in the reflected streetlight beneath my feet. “They get slick when it rains.”
“Yes, of course.” My frown was lost in the shadow of my hat.
Trembling more from the lightning than the near tumble, I tucked my Gladstone bag securely between my feet. With stiff, wet fingers, I dug the shilling fare from my purse—adding a tip of two farthings as consideration for the inclement weather.
The coins jingled in my quivering palm. “Here you go.”
After plucking them from my hand, the driver carefully fingered each coin, muttering as he counted. Once satisfied everything was in order, he wiped the raindrops from the tip of his nose, touched a finger to his hat brim and, with a snap of the reins, clattered off down the darkened street.
While the long afternoon of dreary house calls had emptied my bag of medical supplies, it still felt like a lead weight as I turned wearily up the steps to the surgery door. My shoes, soaked after slogging through a deep puddle at the last stop, pinched painfully across the instep, causing me to stumble against the first step.
Exhaustion prevented me from even muttering the curses which would normally have flowed freely. Switching the bag to my left hand, I gripped the iron handrailing for support and limped up the remaining steps to the front door.
Grey clouds swept the streets with a chilly rain that promised an evening of aching muscles and stiff joints; already, my left knee was difficult to bend. Damp and shivering, I wanted nothing more than to be inside where it was dry.
The dull glow of a nearby streetlight cast the doorway in murky shadow. Hunched against the pattering rain, I pulled a key ring from my waistcoat pocket and sorted through the scant options: house, office, writing desks, surgery drug cabinet, and one to the apartment on Baker Street—retained for emergencies.
As I scrabbled about in the dim light for the keyhole, the keys slipped from my wet fingers into the water pooling on the top step. They lay there, twinkling in the faint light. I nudged them with my shoe into a less wet spot. After perhaps a minute staring at the keys, I bent cracking knees to retrieve the ring. Recovery required an explosive exhalation of breath, not to mention a round of softly grunted expletives.
Once more I fumbled for the keyhole. This time the key slid into the lock and the door opened to the familiar mustiness of my surgery.
I shook off my damp cloak and hung it on the coat stand beside the door. The sodden scarf draped around the collar and the stand topped with my dripping hat created the illusion of a bedraggled stranger, forlorn and trembling in the shadows. Except for the lack of shoes, it could have been me mere hours before, grumbling in the rain. The memory of that earlier discomfort sent an aching chill down my back. With a low groan, I picked up my satchel and turned down the hallway.
Newel lamps reflected golden brown on the lacquered wainscot paneling. When stepping through the front door, the seeming sophistication of the lighted entryway made me feel like a peer. Tonight, I was too exhausted to feel anything other than grateful at finally being indoors.
Weariness tugged at my eyelids as I hobbled along the entry runner. The regular hiss, pop, and click-click-click of the gas meter mounted near the front door pursued me down the hall, its cadence matching my shuffling footsteps. To my tired mind, the steady rhythm seemed the ticking of an immense clock that encompassed the city, counting down the remnants of a passing day.
“John,” I yawned, “sometimes you have the oddest notions.”
Midway along the hall, I paused to turn down the gas lamp inside the shallow vestibule where patients waited on appointments. A pair of guest chairs, their black leather seats sunken and cracked from use, were wedged into the back corners. On the rounded end table between them, a scorched wooden ashtray nestled beside a small stack of outdated Punch issues.
Running a finger along the tabletop drew a clear line in the dust that hazed its surface. The agency would hear of this, along with a demand that they provide a new charwoman to come and clean twice a week.
Across the hallway, opposite the recess, pocket doors led to a large room fronted with a slender desk and two straight-backed chairs for doctor/patient consultations. Scattered furnishings were arranged along the walls, leaving an open space that echoed from the scraping of my shoes along the painted hardwood floor.
Standing in the center of the room left me wondering—not for the first time—how long the practice would survive. My eyes drooped as the weight of the day settled inexorably about my shoulders.
I shuffled over to the glassed-in medicine cabinet that stood along the far wall and jiggled the handle to be certain it was locked, then reached into my waistcoat pocket and gave the two-bitted cabinet key a gentle squeeze. Harsh experiences in the military had taught me to keep a close watch on the contents of these cabinets; there were too many hands experienced at pilfering or seeking escape from their mundane life. In my office the cabinet remained locked until there was need to open it, after which it was smartly relocked.
Physical examinations took place in the back corner where a green curtain discretely cordoned off a Fulbright medical table with adjustable fittings to accommodate a patient’s physical condition. A quick peek behind the curtain showed the table was still set from the late morning visit of one, Mr. Alan Mallory who suffered from chronic sciatica that had left him nearly lame. “Have to reset that,” I mumbled, then let the curtain drop. “It can wait until tomorrow.”
I shambled across the floor to my private office at the back of the room. It was a cozy affair, just large enough to hold a cylinder roll secretary desk and a narrow filing cabinet for patient records. Stepping over the sill, I turned up the gas light and set my medical bag atop the cabinet.
After unlocking the desk, I collapsed into the waiting swivel chair. It felt good to be off my feet. The room closed protectively about me, providing solace after a long day. The air held the lingering scent of coal gas from the burning lamp; it was reassuring in its own way.
My jaws gaped with a wide yawn. Falling asleep would be wonderful, but there was work still to do. I dug a well-used travel notepad from my jacket pocket and propped it open on the blotter, then slipped the practice’s daybook from its narrow cubby and opened it to an empty page. Dipping a pen nib into the inkwell, I made ready to transcribe the evening’s case notes.
The pen tip hesitated over the blank journal page as I recalled my last patient; a young woman barely seventeen years old, nipped by consumption, and surely bound for an early death. She greeted me before the family fireplace with a languid smile and a pale, outstretched hand. Her parents hovered beside her as we discussed available options.
With a heavy sigh, I recorded my prescription for a local sanatorium—the only chance for more time that her family could afford. The increasing frequency of this prescription chilled me to the marrow. Death during war is one thing, but in peace, it is a horrible reminder of our fragility.
Reaching out to dip the pen again, pain flashed through my left shoulder. A deep, gasping breath whistled past my lips, then another. The sharpness ebbed a moment, giving me just enough time to return the pen to its holder before surging back.
I leaned forward in the chair and began the long familiar palliative routine. Fingers working mechanically massaged the pectoral, shoulder, and then the bicep. As the ache subsided, a muscle cramp began twisting my left leg. I dug my thumbs deep into my upper thigh, kneading down toward the knee in the hope of quickly subduing the spasm.
Pressing on a knot of scar tissue just above the knee awoke a slumbering pain that lanced up the leg to burst brilliant white behind my left eye. I gasped at the sudden agony.
My jaw clenched against a scream as the Jezail bullet exploded from my thigh in a gout of blood. The world swirled in a confusion of loud rifle reports. The ground came up to meet me. I pushed back against the trembling earth, struggling to sit upright in a muddy pool of blood. Sticky warmth coated fingers that found, then shakily explored the wound. There was no time for cleanup, only pressure. A frantic fumbling through my pack of medical supplies provided a wad of cotton, which I hastily secured on front and back of leg with a tight wrapping of gauze bandaging. The snowy field dressing bloomed red, and a bone-deep ache began as the shock wore off. The thigh muscles twitched…
My knee rapped hard against the desk corner. The memory faded as quickly as it had arrived, and my office surroundings snapped back into focus. Taking short rapid breaths against the pain, my thumbs moved in slow circles about the knotted leg muscle, keeping a steady pressure until it reluctantly relaxed.
Exhausted by the effort, I slumped back in the chair, staring wearily at the ceiling. Pains were expected, but would these haunting remembrances ever cease? Certainly, their frequency had decreased over the years, but during times of great stress, they hounded my days and blackened my dreams. I strived to conceal the shaking hands, the disorientation, the loss of place, even sudden bursts of rage or tears, fearful that others would see me as addle-minded, or worse, cowardly. Social ridicule from either perception would damage my professional reputation and cripple my livelihood. Who, but the most desperate, would trust a doctor, so afflicted, with their health?
My hand slid limply across my greying hair.
It was moments like this that I most missed Mary. Her companionship, laughter, and tender smile could warm the coldest night. No grim memory was a match for the soft stroking of her fingertips along my temples.
In my worn state, the mere thought of her name brought a painful sob.
Mary was the daughter of a senior captain in an Indian regiment. Convincing her to marry me had been my greatest feat. We had been happy together. Oh, so happy.
I hooked a finger at my collar to free my throat of its suddenly too tight constraint.
She was gone now, lost to the ravages of an influenza outbreak two years past. Habituated by her care of me to neglect herself, a slight cold, disregarded, became inconvenient on Friday, oppressive on Saturday, and defying every medical effort, carried her away on the morning of the Sabbath. And I, sitting helplessly at her bedside, could do nothing except hold her hand as she passed.
A dull ache throbbed in my breast. There was a bottle of brandy locked in the desk drawer, a doctor’s prescription to calm the nerves, heat the blood…and blunt unsavory memories.
I rummaged inside the drawer for the bottle and the graduated glass beaker kept for such occasions. “Physician, heal thyself,” I murmured, pouring a healthy measure.
Tipping it back, the liquid burned down my throat and enveloped my chest in a warm glow, leaving me floating for a delirious moment, protected by its warm embrace. I was considering the judicious administration of another dose when an urgent pounding rattled the front door.
“What?” I slid the beaker across the desk blotter and got up. “There is no one scheduled tonight.”
Leaning out the office doorway brought the faint ticking of the gas meter mixed with a light scuffling at the front door. ‘It must be an emergency,’ I thought as the rapid thuds sounded again, ‘for someone to be out on a night like this.’
“Be right there!” I hastily stopped the bottle and returned it to the drawer. It would not do for a potential patient to glimpse an open liquor bottle on my office desk.
Striding briskly through the rooms and into the hall, the dull blows rattled low on the door like a child knocking. I was pleased, when on opening the front door, to find my inference correct.
In the rectangle of light cast by the hall lamps, I recognized young Bobby¾one of Holmes’ ragtag band of Irregulars that he had persuaded Mrs. Hudson to hire as a houseboy. Never one to trust a street urchin, she kept a hard, watchful eye on this unwanted addition to her small household staff. So, for him to have absented his duties and traveled the distance to my surgery, alone and at nighttime, meant something was very much amiss.
“Doctor Watson, sir.” Bobby doffed his cap. The light drizzle plastered his wispy red hair into a shiny surface that reflected copper in the light.
“Come in.” I opened the door wider.
“No time, sir.” The young man wrung his cap in nervous fists. “The missus says you’re to come right away. It’s Mr. Holmes…” Bobby shook his head, unable to finish his sentence.
“What is it?” The demand in my voice made him wince. “Tell me what has happened?”
Bobby swallowed hard. He looked up at me with large, sad eyes, edged with worry. “You got to come,” he managed.
“Listen, young man,” I said firmly. “You are soaked clear through. Come inside and tell me everything. Once you have dried off, we will visit Mr. Holmes together.”
“I can’t.” His lower lip shivered. “The missus, she told me to come right back soon as I told you or she’d give me whatfor.”
“Nonsense.” I reached out to bring him inside. “Now get in here.”
He edged away from my hand, ready to bolt. “You got to come,” his voice broke as he turned. “You got to come now!”
“Wait,” I cried.
The sound of his feet splashing through rain puddles along the walk faded as Bobby disappeared into the shadows.
Dashing back to the office, I retrieved my physician’s bag and then ransacked the surgery for supplies. With no idea what to expect, prudence required assembling a small kit of suture needles, bandage shears, arterial forceps, two scalpels, a spool of catgut, and several rolls of gauze.
From the drug cabinet, I added a small bottle of iodine tincture and another of carbolic acid for treating sepsis, as well as several packets of the more powerful anodynes. I considered an unmarked flask of a murky brown liquid nestled far at the back of the top shelf, but quickly rejected it. This keepsake from my campaigning days in Afghanistan was the gift of a Pashtun healer. In small doses it was a powerful sedative and painkiller—quite useful on the battlefield where grievous injuries were commonplace. But too large a dose was lethal.
Instead, I opted for a bottle of laudanum purchased from the nearby Chemist & Druggist shop. This milder opiate tincture was a good deal safer to administer. I scanned the shelves again, glanced back at the assorted items already crammed into the bag, and decided there was no room for more. Slamming shut the cabinet door; a quick twist of the key locked it tight.
Having prepared for the most probable eventualities, I headed for the door. With a final look behind to ensure everything was in order, I jerked the damp cloak and scarf off the stand, tugged the still soggy hat firmly onto my head, then rushed out into the blustery night.
Providence smiled on me. In mere minutes, a passing hansom responded to my urgent whistle. As I climbed in, the driver grumbled under his breath about the lateness, the weather, and wanting to head back to the stables. But after directing him with all urgency to 221B Baker Street, he locked the doors. His whip snapped like a thunderclap and the horse broke into an unwilling trot, racing us ahead through the enshrouding night.
The ghostly orbs of streetlamps spun by as the carriage rattled along the gloomy roadway. Heart racing with the clatter of the horse’s hooves, I whispered to the darkness inside the cab, “Holmes, what has happened to you?”
There was a sharp jolt when the carriage bounded over a raised cobble. The driver chuckled as an expletive escaped my lips, but being busy sorting through possibilities, I paid him little attention.
“He may have suffered an injury while on a case, perhaps stabbed, shot, or even something broken.” I patted my bag, confident of my preparations for those eventualities.
A wheel crashed through a water-filled pothole, knocking my hat askew and sending a spray of water sloshing onto the sidewalk.
Thoughts of the hypodermic needle Holmes always kept in his desk brought a morbid chill. If he had taken a solution stronger more than his normal 7%, there was nothing to do except keep him comfortable and wait out the effects of the drug.
The hansom sharply rounded a corner, its side wheel bumping over the curb. I braced myself against the sides to keep from bouncing about.
“But it may be worse.” The words escaped unbidden, and I cringed inwardly as the image of a consumptive young woman spitting up blood filled me with dread.
My scarf twisted in my fists as the cab jostled through the rain-drenched streets. There was nothing, no evidence, save the stammering of a young boy on which to base a judgment.” I took a deep breath, struggling to calm myself. “Wait until you get there. Just wait.”
