Dr Watson's Cough

Dr Watson’s cough seemed to occur with the regularity of the ticking of the clock. It was particularly annoying and left him exhausted with each fresh attack.

‘Watson, please take some medicine,’ said Holmes in a voice of iron calm. He was in the midst of packing a valise in his bedroom, dividing his attention between that and darting back and forth to scribble notes on a sheet of paper at his overburdened desk.

‘I won’t say,’ said Watson weakly, holding a handkerchief over his mouth, ‘that this bronchial condition may not partially be due to your experiments with gases the other day.’

‘You won’t say it but you will think it,’ said Holmes drily without turning round from his writing. 

‘And I also won’t say that it is very vexing to be unable to accompany you to St Petersburg.’

‘Yes, it is vexing for me too. And please put the whole matter of where I am to be found out of your mind. Forget to remember it, my dear fellow. This case will not be suitable for publication.’

‘How can you be so sure? I have very discreetly –’ he broke off to cough – ‘managed it in the past. The Second Stain, that was a diplomatic affair …’

‘I doubt that this will be so easy to transform into a story for your readers. Now, listen,’ said Holmes, coming and sitting down opposite his friend with the air of one who still has pressing errands and a deadline. ‘My train leaves in half an hour and you are not to accompany me to the station. No, I insist you stay at the fireside. There, you see, you try to object and you break out coughing again. Do not expect to hear from me, my dear fellow, for a few weeks. I shall probably be far from a post office.’ He laughed a little grimly.

‘I know,’ said Watson gloomily. ‘But I trust that from time to time you will remember to send me word – even a postcard from Eastbourne!’

‘I shan’t be in Eastbourne, Watson,’ said Mr Holmes patiently.

‘I know very well you shan’t be in Eastbourne, Holmes,’ Watson said. ‘And you know very well what I mean. Send me word, that’s all. My health suffers when I become unduly anxious. Particularly my chest.’

‘Tut. You sound like an elderly spinster.’

‘Well, you are prone to the darkest of depressions when forced into inactivity – ’

‘I know. But you won’t be inactive. Look, there’re all the files on my desk – you could beguile the time away by organising some of that monstrosity. And you could write your stories.’

‘I am definitely not well enough to touch your desk. I may consider some cases to write up, of course, but it is immensely vexing and I –’ The cough returned at that point and precluded any possibility of finishing his speech. 

Holmes regarded him for a minute. ‘I am so sorry, old boy, but there simply isn’t time. I must get on.’ He rose to finish his packing with a little sympathetic grimace; and in ten minutes, he was ready to depart. They said a reticent goodbye and Watson listened as his friend’s footsteps descended the stairs to the front door. Then he was gone. 

Left to himself, Dr Watson sat feebly coughing by the fire, feeling both restless and exhausted. He had got to the point where his chest hurt so much he feared he’d cracked a rib. The absence of Holmes and his current state of health made him feel so low that it brought to mind a desperate time some years before when he had been led to believe his friend was lost. Sitting there alone, he was ashamed to find that emotion threatened to swamp him. I must keep myself occupied. And as soon as I’m fit, he told himself sternly, I must be sure to get out and about, meet people, see off this loneliness. I’m damned if I’ll let myself sink into melancholy again. 

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The scene in the Café Royal was as busy and opulent as usual. Dr Watson was not particularly fond of the décor, with its gilding and vast mirrors. The place was worth visiting mainly because he enjoyed watching the patrons. Over here were famous faces from the art world in deep discussion; in a corner to the right was a noisy group of exquisite young men, somewhat the worse for wear; to the left a decorous, well-dressed pair of ladies with their escorts; and nearby a couple of intense poetic-looking characters, sipping pale, wicked drinks and conversing almost in whispers. But Watson was alone. He had not intended to come into such an expensive place at all but, having taken himself out for a restorative walk, now that he was definitely on the mend, he found that he needed somewhere to rest. A small coffee with brandy seemed to have helped his general sense of well-being, but it was time to make a move. He made his way to the door and was bumped into by a portly chap who was just coming in. The next moment, he was being gripped by the elbow and steered to one side. It was Valentine Cabot. Watson sighed internally and began to make an excuse about needing to leave immediately. Cabot was impervious.

‘How gorgeous to see you, my dear Dr Watson! You look stunning! Such a long time since we coincided – but I must say this place is horribly expensive and full of gawpers and hangers-on. And are you still writing up accounts of criminal cases for the magazines?’

‘From time to time,’ said Watson, trying to edge towards the door. 

‘Does very well for you, I hear? Yes, very well indeed, so far as short stories can go; but, you know, your readership would increase vastly, my dear Doctor, if you were to take some part of your work to the stage. An adaptation of one of your detective stories would be most appealing.’ 

‘I’ll think about it, Mr Cabot,’ said Watson. ‘If ever I wanted to, I’d certainly take your advice on the matter. And now, I’m afraid I’m rather late for an appointment …’

‘Well, I would be delighted to help you adapt something. You would be amazed at how mere prose springs to life when presented by really good actors. I am lucky to have such a client now – a good actor, I mean. A promising young fellow, name of Arden. You might have heard of him? I count myself fortunate to be his manager, I can tell you!’

‘Oh? That is excellent. And now, I must …’

‘So you may even consider working with me, depending on my next production? I have a most intriguing idea for a play and, do listen because you’ll like this, a musical tragi-comedy, based upon Hamlet. Intriguing, is it not?’

‘Alas,’ said Watson carefully, ‘I am not in a position to consider such an opportunity just now. But I congratulate you on your actor. It must be fortunate to manage a great talent. Well, it’s been pleasant to chat, but now …’

Cabot sighed and glanced towards the group in the far corner. ‘I am, if you insist upon knowing, in the process of arranging a meeting. My friend’s over there – somewhere in the middle of that noisy huddle – and he’s definitely interested in the scheme I mentioned. Perfectly ecstatic about it. I’ve just come in to find him – casual arrangement, and all that, so need to wander over. Unfortunately, I seem to have left my wallet at the bank – I couldn’t ask you to …?’

‘Not really, Cabot,’ said Watson hastily. ‘Crime doesn’t pay, you know, not nearly as well as it should. Certainly not the writing about it anyway.’

‘Oh. Well, I hope we’ll bump into each other soon. Will you be going to Dame Fortune’s?’

Watson hesitated. ‘Ye-es,’ he said, ‘I expect I will, at some point.’

A burst of laughter from the group in the corner attracted Valentine’s attention. ‘Ah, mirth, divine wit, flowing champagne! There they are. I shall go to them. Mr Pollitt and his circle of admirers await.’

Watson escaped.

Extract from The Compact by Charlie Raven.