Continuing our popular Dr Watson theme, this week we have an extract from The Compact by Charlie Raven. Harriet Day has come to ask for help on behalf of her friend George - unaware that this Watson has a connection with a certain famous detective, or that a young Occultist by the name of Aleister Crowley also has a strong interest in the case.
Baker Street was broader and more busy than Harriet remembered and, however hard she looked, she could not find number 221B. The houses seemed to end at number 85 and she became quite flustered until she asked a postman who pointed her in the right direction. She approached the respectable-looking townhouse with some trepidation. She was not sure whom she was about to encounter – a medical man, for sure, but exactly what his connection with George was or what he would be able to do for him was not at all clear.
The door was opened by a sparklingly neat lady who said, in a voice which implied that Harriet might want to come back another day, that Mr Holmes was not currently available. At which Harriet replied that she had come to consult a Dr Watson and added apologetically that she knew nothing of a Mr Holmes. The parlour she was shown into at the top of the stairs was a large, airy room lit by two broad windows. It was however filled with a quite indescribable amount of clutter. Apart from the stacks of documents and the scientific equipment over in the corner, it did not look very like the consulting office of a surgeon. Scanning the assorted weaponry on the wall, she thought that this must be a rather strange sort of doctor.
‘Good afternoon,’ she said as a light-haired gentleman of about forty or forty-five years appeared out of an adjoining room. Not sure how to go about things, she went on, ‘My name is Harriet Day. I hope you will excuse me for calling unannounced.’
The gentleman immediately shook hands and said, ‘Delighted to make your acquaintance, Mrs Day. My name is John Watson.’
‘Dr Watson?’
‘That’s right,’ he said. ‘Please sit down.’
Feeling a bit at a loss, and slightly concerned that there was no sign of a nurse or medical orderly in these consulting rooms, Harriet perched on the edge of a hard chair and proceeded, ‘Let me say first of all that I have not come on a medical matter and I don’t want to take up your valuable time. I’m sure you are very busy. I know the medical profession are always busy – my husband used to be.’
Dr Watson chuckled. ‘I may as well confess that I haven’t practised formally as a doctor for some years now. You might know my work in the field of literature? I am the ‘Boswell’ for Mr Sherlock Holmes, the consulting detective.’
‘Oh? How interesting. But as a matter of fact, I came not to see a detective, but to see you, doctor, although strangely enough a detective might be the very kind of person who ...’ she trailed off, realising that she was not explaining herself clearly.
She tried to start again: ‘This is your name on this card, isn’t it?’ She held up the tattered calling card. ‘I was given this by a friend of mine, a young gentleman who is in the most terrible trouble. He spoke of you as someone who might be able to help. So that’s why I have come – on his behalf, although he doesn’t actually know I’m here. And I can’t say where he is either. I mean I don’t know where he is.’ Harriet, feeling that she had made a hash of this speech from beginning to end, gabbled, ‘And before I go further, I want to say that he is innocent of the crime of which he stands accused.’
Dr Watson permitted himself a discreet sigh (how often had he heard that last sentence before?). ‘Please go on,’ he said. ‘Perhaps with a little more information …?’
Harriet said anxiously, ‘I hope you can recollect my friend? I don’t know when you gave him this card or why, but his name is George Arden. He’s an actor. He is not tall, soft spoken, delicate in build, thin in the face - ?’
‘Ah,’ said Dr Watson, shifting in his seat. ‘Yes, I believe I recall the gentleman.’ He immediately decided not to disclose that he already had a pretty solid understanding of the particulars of the case. He decided to wait now and see what she herself revealed about the suspect; but to be fair to her, since she seemed a nice sort of woman, he felt he should give her a warning. ‘Forgive me,’ he said, steepling his fingers as he had seen Holmes do on countless occasions, ‘can we just establish one thing? If the trouble of which you speak involves the police, I am sure I need not remind you that anyone who harbours, aids or abets a wanted suspect is committing a crime.’
One look at Harriet’s face told him everything he needed to know. He added more kindly, ‘So, on the understanding that you and I know absolutely nothing of the gentleman’s whereabouts, we can discuss this case in a theoretical sense only, using your prior knowledge of his character.’
‘Thank you, Dr Watson,’ said Harriet. ‘Well, theoretically speaking, what I wanted to ask your – and I suppose Mr Holmes’s - opinion on was this: how might one proceed to clear his name?’
‘Tell me, if you can, what the facts of the case are, Mrs Day,’ he said.
Harriet then spoke at some length; but she did not add anything to what Dr Watson already knew. She confirmed George Arden’s difficulty in recalling events, but her assertion that he was incapable of the crime did not appear to be based on any tangible evidence. She stated that she believed that the one witness to the event was lying, but she had no facts to prove this.
‘The trouble is,’ said Watson after he had heard her out, ‘all you can really do for him is get a good lawyer. The police should do all the investigating and gathering of evidence. And I have to say that it doesn’t help matters that the suspect ran away so precipitously. Is it in character that he should have done so?’
‘He was frightened, doctor. Frightened by the accident, frightened because this man Albert Burroughs immediately began shouting. Or that’s what I imagine must have happened, because of course I haven’t talked to him about it. But he isn’t – well, I won’t say he is a simpleton, not at all – but he is unlettered and poor and timid. My belief is that he fled in panic, like a child would. Yes, that’s the best way to describe him. Not a dunce but a child, an innocent.’
Watson nodded gravely. ‘I recall his manner quite clearly, Mrs Day. But it still looks like an admission of guilt when a person runs away, I have to say. Judges don’t care for childish young men who don’t stand their ground and speak up for the truth. A good lawyer is what he needs.’ He cleared his throat. ‘I might be able to recommend a couple of names, should the time come when he needs a defence drawn up. Quite frankly, Mrs Day, I have very little other advice to give.’
Harriet sat up very straight as if having made a decision and looked Watson straight in the eye. ‘I refuse to sit by and see this happen to him, doctor. And, therefore, I’ve decided. I know your colleague is not here at present but it seems to me an extraordinary, beneficial coincidence that he is a consulting detective and that you work with him. I have a cheque book in my bag here, and I would like to engage his services.’
‘My dear lady,’ said Watson. ‘I am afraid that is quite impossible. He is away – far away, on a case which may engross his attention for weeks. I am very sorry.’
‘But you, doctor, you say you work with him. You write about his cases, you must be familiar with his methods. Oh, please, if you could help, even if only a little bit – help me to find a way of proving that George Arden is innocent?’
‘I am flattered that you ask me, Mrs Day,’ said Watson hastily, for she was looking very crestfallen. ‘But I am emphatically not a consulting detective myself and do not have the gifts of observation and logic possessed by Mr Holmes. I could bring very little to such an investigation.’
‘But you do know something? You have some experience, surely, doctor? And you have met Mr Arden, he trusted you immediately and you know the kind of helpless creature he is. Would you not agree to be retained to undertake an investigation – call it a preliminary investigation, if you like - until Mr Holmes can take over?’
Watson shifted in his seat, feeling uncomfortable. He had never dared to usurp his friend’s vocation before. He would certainly not have dared if it had been likely that Sherlock Holmes would walk through that door within the next few days. Moreover, he himself had been implicated in the case – for all he knew, there might be further last writings from the drunken hand of Valentine Cabot being deciphered at this moment. There were very good reasons to refuse to become involved. But here was Mrs Harriet Day, looking charming and flustered – and damn it. ‘Very well,’ he heard himself say. ‘But please do not you go writing cheques and so forth. I will undertake to assist you on the basis that the final say is up to Mr Holmes. If he chooses to take up the case on his return, then that will be upon a business footing. And I can’t predict, Mrs Day, whether he would take the case or indeed what he would charge.’
Harriet Day’s face lit up. ‘You are extremely kind, doctor. I hardly know how to thank you. If we could put this on a business footing, it might be better, but as you say, all that can be left until Mr Holmes returns.’ She added timidly, ‘Is he very expensive, doctor?’
‘He is – unpredictable, Mrs Day, since he enjoys the game for its intellectual stimulation.’
‘The game?’
‘Oh, um, Holmes looks upon it as a pursuit, a fascinating puzzle, you know.’
‘Oh.’ Harriet looked as though she had a comment on the tip of her tongue, but she said nothing more than, ‘Well, I hope this case is an amusing enough game for him – if he comes back. And that his charges are not too unpredictable for my limited means.’
‘Never fear, I find he is usually flexible. He will never overcharge, that’s for sure, unless you were very, very rich.’
Harriet told Dr Watson the details of her own address and everything she felt was relevant about George and Valentine. Then she left, feeling more hopeful and at peace than she had done for some time.
Watson paced the room a few times, glancing at the note he had made of Albert Burroughs’s name and address. But: Harriet, Harriet Day. Something about her reminded him of the short years of his marriage, his dear lost wife. Perhaps it was her eyes: they were the very same blue. He found himself standing by the mantelpiece, picking up a calling card he had propped against the side of the clock late one night last week. He sighed again. Poor boy with the thin face. Three times he’d been approached about this case. Three times, as his old mother used to say, was the charm. Not without reluctance, he turned the card over to read Aleister Crowley’s address on the back.
