A chance encounter with Dr Watson

We're delighted to have an extract from Rohase Piercy and Charlie Raven's A Case of Domestic Pilfering today, a light-hearted detective story set in the world of Sherlock Holmes. Enjoy a hot day, a walk in the park and a chance encounter with Dr Watson.

The park was cool in the shade.  The huge trees exhaled a faint green aroma, sweet and calm.  Max and Guy had stopped together, looking across the scorched grass to where white parasols and floating silhouettes passed like a mirage in the sunlight.

'Hot, isn't it?'  said Guy taking off his hat.  The hair was dark on his glistening forehead.  Max fanned him with his hat rim.

'It's just as well we're not going to your mother's,' he said.  'It's too hot to be out at all, really. I vote we gather ourselves for a quick sprint across the grass to an arbour of refreshment, and deal with a couple of ice-cold hock-and-seltzers.'

'I second that,' murmured Guy. He leaned ostentatiously against the tree, closed his eyes and muttered 'Water, water – I mean, hock, hock-and-seltzer!'

In his light suit and straw hat he should be on the river, thought Max.  In a punt.  Just he and I.  Cool, green, glassy waters.  He put out a hand and quietly touched his arm.

'Guy.'

Guy opened his eyes and smiled.  He has the face of a  Sun God, thought Max.

'Guy, you look just like Phoebus Apollo.'

Guy glanced quickly round.  'Oh Maxy, you are sweet.  If I'm Apollo then who can you be?  Daphne?'

They both shouted with laughter as they walked arm in arm into the sunlight.

Inside the bar the air was cool.  A breeze slid through the open windows, and the waiters looked clean in their starched white aprons.  Max was sitting back, trying not to scrutinise his own reflection in the enormous gilt mirror on the opposite wall.  He lit a cigarette from his new black-and-silver case a little self-consciously.  He watched the effect out of the corner of his eye.

Guy had ordered a bowl of ice cubes and was pretending to cool his face and hands at them, like a fire in reverse.  The waiter who brought their drinks looked bored.  It struck Max how foolish they must think their customers.  They had seen it all; they remained unimpressed.  What must it be like, to be a waiter?

'Your mother wasn't expecting us, was she?'

'No, no.  Not in the slightest.  Well, I do sometimes drop in on her at this time of day.  But it isn't expected.  Just once a week usually.  On a Tuesday.

'But it is Tuesday!'

'Is it?  Ah well.  She won't worry.  She'll look at the weather, and she'll think of me, and she'll say to Davies, 'No cucumber sandwiches today, Davies.  Master Guy is drinking hock-and- seltzer with his friend Maximilian, that nice boy from the country who is such a good influence,' and – I declare!  It's my turfy fellow!'

Max looked round, following Guy's stare.  A gentleman had entered and was glancing round for a table.  Guy sprang up impetuously and dashed over;  Max groaned inwardly as he watched him flash his most charming smile, and indicate the way to their table.  The man gave an answering smile in which Max detected some amusement, and approached their quiet corner.  Max rose.

'Look who's come to sit with us Maxy!'  Guy's face was alight with naughtiness, and a flush bloomed on his cheek. 'Max, Max, I must present you.  Oh, I'm sorry, I haven't introduced myself  yet - and I don't know your name either - in fact, I can't do the honours at all!  This is most irregular. What on earth shall we do?'

The gentleman laughed pleasantly.  'I suggest we overleap convention.  My name is Dr John Watson, and I am charmed by your invitation to join you both.  My thanks to you – the thanks of a thirsty man on a thirsty day.'

Max smiled.  He liked the man immediately.  He liked his wavy hair and the crinkles at the side of his frank blue eyes and the gentle voice which held the hint of a laugh.  He is in his late thirties, decided Max as they shook hands.

'Max Fareham.  Pleased to meet you, sir.'

'And I am Guy Clements,' interjected Guy; 'And we have met before!'

They all sat down, and Dr Watson gave his order to the waiter.  'So you mentioned, Mr Clements,' he said, 'but I cannot recall the meeting, I'm sorry to say.'

'Ah, but I can.  It was at the races, and you gave me a lot of excellent advice, which I ignored assiduously.  I lost an enormous, princely sum.'

'Ah!'  Dr Watson's eyes lit up and the pleasant crinkles became more pronounced as he smiled.  'The young man with a taste for champagne!  Of course.  I hope you don't mind my mentioning that,' he added, glancing at Max.

'Ooh la la!  Of course not!' cried Guy delightedly.  

Dr Watson chuckled.  'As a medical man,' he said in his warm, friendly voice, 'I recommend champagne as a universal pick-me-up.'

'In that case,' commented Max drily, 'Guy here is in the very pink and bloom of health.'

'And so I am!' said Guy severely.

'And so I trust you both are, and will long remain,' said Dr Watson, raising his glass.

They look so young, thought Watson; and so happy.  His heart went out to them, sitting in their new summer suits in the high-ceilinged room, looking slender and fresh and rather awkward.  He wished Holmes had come with him.  Good-humoured, outgoing youth might help him.  He thought of his friend's rooms, and the darkling figure lying on the couch, fretting against enforced idleness or weaving his drug-induced dreams.  Sunlight; he wished he could take Holmes some sunlight.  He sighed, and put down his glass, suddenly aware that Max was talking about the delights of the seaside in summer.

'At least one always enjoys a breeze there ...'

'Oh indeed,' agreed Dr Watson.  'My wife is at the seaside now.  So pleasant for her.'

'I suppose your practice keeps you in town?' asked Max.  He could not disguise the flat note that crept into his voice at the mention of a wife.   

'Yes, my practice – well, it's not a very demanding practice at the best of times,' said the doctor with a conspiratorial wink.  'And I have a friend who sometimes needs me.'

Guy stopped playing with the melting ice cubes, and Max hastily offered the Doctor a cigarette. Was this wife at the seaside sophisticated and understanding, he wondered, or just ignorant and rather dense?

'Thank you Mr Fareham,' said Watson, accepting.  'Also, I have work to clear which must be completed shortly, as I'm bound by contract.'

'How tedious for you,' murmured Guy.

'Medical work by contract, sir?' asked Max politely; 'I didn't know that was the custom – is it so many patients per month, or something?'

Dr Watson laughed heartily.  'Dear me, no!  What an interesting proposition – a sort of piece work, you mean?  A bushel of measles equals a week's rent?  No, I'm afraid it's nothing so lucrative.  I write a little.'

'Really?' asked Max.

'For the Lancet!' said Guy, putting his forefingers to his temples and speaking in a mediumistic monotone.  'I see a medical magazine.  I see an article on - let's see now - on bunions ...'

'Shut up, Guy!' said Max, resting his chin on his hand and sighing.  'Is he right?' he asked their companion.

'Not exactly.  It's a little less highbrow than that.  For magazines, certainly – Lippincott's, The Strand, even Beeton's.'

'How interesting! Do you make up the stories out of your own head?'

'Not at all.'  Dr Watson looked rather rueful, as though he regretted mentioning the subject.  'I may fudge the issues, but the cases are true enough.'

'Dr Watson!' exclaimed Max suddenly.  'Oh, good Lord!  Of course!  The weather must have hard-boiled my brain.  Good grief, sir, I can't tell you how honoured I am to make your acquaintance!'  He leapt to his feet, and pumped the amused Doctor's hand for a second time.  

Guy looked from one to the other, agog.  'What am I missing here?' 

Max's face was flushed, and his eyes shone with excitement.  'Guy, this is the Dr Watson – the friend of – of Mr Holmes.  You know.'  He nodded quickly at his friend, half embarrassed.

'Oh, good Lord!' echoed Guy, his voice rising up the scale.  'You mean the one you're madly – the one you admire so much?  My dear sir,' he said turning to the Doctor, 'You're hardly likely to escape with your life in tact now.  There is but one thing in the world that Max Fareham lives for, and that is the chance to kiss the ground that Mr Sherlock Holmes walks on.'

Dr Watson laughed.  'Oh dear!' he said.

'Shall we have another drink?  Please, Doctor, you can't possibly go now!'  Max ordered more drinks, eagerness overcoming his natural shyness.  'Do you know,' he said, 'I've read everything you've ever written about Mr Holmes.  Tell me, is he – is he like you say he is?'

'How do you mean?' asked Dr Watson, his blue eyes twinkling.

'A – a genius.  I supposed that's what I mean.'

'Well, yes.  I can confirm that opinion.  I've never written less than my true evaluation of my friend's genius.  He is extraordinary.'

Max nodded encouragingly.

'But what's he like when he's not being a genius?' asked Guy rather insolently.  'Does he go out?  Mother could invite you both to dinner, and then Maxy could swoon at his feet.'

'Be quiet!' hissed Max.

Dr Watson chuckled.  'What a kind offer.  But I'm afraid he rarely dines out, and never goes into company if he can help it.'

'Ah, a recluse. How tedious he must find all this adulation,' said Guy, shaking his head sympathetically.  'But doesn't he get bored, in between cases?'

'H'mmm.  Yes.  I'm afraid he does.'

Dr Watson then deftly changed the subject.  Max tried his best to steer it back to Sherlock Holmes, but the Doctor firmly resisted all attempts to probe.

'I must be going,' he said after a while, pulling out his watch.

'Oh, we'll walk along together,' said Guy sweetly, smiling significantly at Max.

'Well … ' Dr Watson eyed them for a moment and then smiled.  'If you like,' he said. 

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. 

                                                        *                *                *

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.

'However Improbable Podcast' meets 'My Dearest Holmes'

'It is my specific wish and intention that the manuscript contained in this box be left unopened, unread and unpublished until one hundred years have passed since the events described in the first of the two accounts it contains (namely the year 1887).

If this length of time appears in retrospect to have been excessive, I can only apologise to the future generation.  It seems to me now, in this first decade of the new century, that some further decades at least must elapse before these reminiscences can be received with such sympathy and respect as I hope will one day be possible.

The accounts of these cases have never passed through the hands of my literary agent, Dr Conan Doyle, nor do I intend that they ever shall; they are too bound up with events in my personal life which, although they may provide a plausible commentary to much of what must otherwise seem implausible in my published accounts of my dealings with Mr Sherlock Holmes, can never be made public while he or I remain alive.  However, it is my hope that when all those involved have long passed beyond all censure, these accounts may see the light of a happier day than was ever, alas, granted to us.

John H. Watson, M.D., London 1907'

My Dearest Holmes by Rohase Piercy

Picture the scene:  it's 1987, Centenary Year of the publication of  A Study In Scarlet. Jeremy Brett is camping it up as Sherlock on the Granada TV Series here in Britain, the bookshops are full of Holmes memorabilia, shiny new editions, pastiches, scholarly discussions of the 'Holmes Phenomenon' etc … and a young lesbian couple, Rohase Piercy and Charlie Raven, are reading the stories for the very first time and quickly becoming obsessed.  What we are becoming obsessed by, however, is not so much the great detective's extraordinary intellectual powers as the relationship between Holmes and his faithful sidekick Dr Watson.  Why, we wondered were post-Freudian commentaries not brimming over with observation and deduction on this interesting subject?    

This interview with the lovely gals from the However Improbable Podcast brought it all back in vivid detail – the heady excitement of seeing the homoerotic subtext jump off the page, the witty and hilarious (to us) improvisation, the copious amounts of whisky and soda, all resulting in the creative urge to write, both together and individually, the hitherto untold story – and, of course, the media furore that greeted the eventual publication of 'My Dearest Holmes' in 1988, and ensured that Charlie's sister novella, 'A Case Of Domestic Pilfering' lay mouldering in a drawer for nigh-on thirty years.  If you've a spare half-hour or so, have a listen to how it all panned out. Just click the link below. 

https://www.howeverimprobablepodcast.com/listen/book-club-case-file-my-dearest-holmes

Rohase Piercy

A rather strange sort of doctor

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.

Dr Watson's flight into marriage

In May 1891, Sherlock Holmes wrestled Moriarty on edge of the Reichenbach Falls and fell to his 'death'. Rohase Piercy's My Dearest Holmes gives us privileged access to what was passing in the Great Detective's mind and heart in the weeks leading up to his death - and above all, how it affected his faithful friend Watson.

Here's poor Dr Watson at breakfast with his wife - there's a hint of trouble to come.

We sat at the breakfast table, my wife and I, on the morning of the 23rd of April 1891, discussing the morning’s post. Mary had received a letter from her former employer, Mrs Cecil Forrester, which had engrossed her for a full quarter of an hour - much to my relief, for I had some private correspondence of my own to peruse.

‘Well, James,’ she said, when she had set down her letter with a smile, ‘can I help you to more coffee?’

I looked at her in some alarm. ‘James?’ I repeated.

She gestured with the coffee pot towards the envelope. ‘Dr James Watson. I am apt at reading upside down, you know.’

‘Oh, that.’ I gave a nervous laugh.

‘Yes, that. I wish you would tell me when you’ve been using a pseudonym. It could be very awkward - supposing the gentleman were to call, and I in my innocence were to disillusion him?’

I felt myself blushing, and sighed to cover my embarrassment. ‘I do not think that is very likely.’

‘Ah, but you should guard against all eventualities. I wonder what the maid thought when she read the envelope?’

I grimaced, and sipped at my coffee. ‘He asked my name. I hardly knew him. I did not give any surname at all. I don’t know how he discovered it.’

‘He probably read ‘Dr J Watson’ on your hat-band, or something. Did you give him our address?’

‘Of course not!’

‘Then how …?’ she gestured towards the letter.

‘He must have found it out …’ I trailed off nervously, wondering how.

Mary leaned back in her chair and surveyed me anxiously. ‘Is he asking you for money?’

‘No, he is trying to arrange another meeting.’

‘A gentleman?’ She raised an eyebrow.

‘A soldier.’

‘Ah, I see. Do be careful, John.’

‘Don’t worry, I will decline the invitation. And he’ll have too much to lose himself to try and pester me.’

I spoke confidently, trying to disguise the unsettling effect the brief note from my companion of the evening before last was having upon me and wondering when I had grown so careless. What Holmes would say, if he knew! But Mary was obviously reassured, for she picked up her own letter and smiled at me.

We had an easy, affectionate relationship, free from the expectations and hence from many of the pitfalls usually incumbent upon husband and wife. We liked one another, had much in common, and could guarantee each other discreet cover for the pursuance of our own tastes in companionship. My published account of our wooing in The Sign Of Four was accurate in one respect: it was, as has often been remarked, a rather rapid business. But why should we wait? We had nothing to lose, and much to gain, from a public alliance, and Mary had the blessing of Mrs Forrester, whose young son was fast approaching school age and no longer in need of a governess. I had hoped for a similar blessing from Sherlock Holmes, of course; but this I had absolutely failed to procure.

‘I have an invitation also,’ said Mary, carefully folding her correspondence and replacing it in the envelope. ‘And if it’s all the same to you, I would like to accept. Isobel has invited me to spend a fortnight at Hastings, now that the school term has started and Valentine is out of the way.’

‘That is a terrible way to speak of such a sweet little boy.’

Mary narrowed her eyes at me, and poured herself a third cup of coffee. ‘I should like to leave tomorrow,’ was all she said.

Isobel, of course, was none other than Mrs Cecil Forrester, who some eighteen months ago had made her deceased brother’s house in Hastings her permanent residence. Mary was in the habit of visiting her there regularly, and naturally I never made any demur. I lit a cigarette and smiled graciously. ‘You have my permission, Mrs Watson.’

Her reply was fortunately delayed by the arrival of the maid to clear away the breakfast things, and in the interval it was, I believe, somewhat modified. ‘I expect you will have a visit.’

I tried to look nonplussed. ‘I hope not, if I refuse this invitation.’

‘You know perfectly well who I mean,’ she said severely, pursing her lips. ‘And I will tell you in advance that I thank him for his kind enquiries, and send my regards.’

‘How civilised, to be sure. But I do not expect to see him, Mary. I believe he is still in France.’

‘If he knows I am away he will turn up, as sure as day follows night. John, do try to make him understand that I would never stand on my position - that I would never try to come between you. Heaven knows I owe him enough! And he knows he has no reason to resent me.’

I sighed. ‘Ah, my dear,’ I said, ‘there is nothing I would like better than to see you both good friends. But he will not change his attitude, because he will never admit to harbouring resentment in the first place. I’ve come to suspect that the circumstances make no difference to him - I have left him, and he is determined to punish me for it, even though he admitted with his own lips that he could give me no reason to stay. I had hoped it would be different but - well, there’s nothing to be done.’

Mary sighed also, and rose from the table. As she passed me she reached for my hand and clasped it sympathetically. ‘I’m so sorry, John,’ she said. ‘It seems you have not done so well out of this arrangement as I have.’

‘Oh, I do pretty well on the whole,’ I said with calculated nonchalance, giving her hand a reassuring squeeze. ‘After all, I’m a rising star in the medical profession, with my own establishment, an unusually harmonious marriage, and some extremely talented friends. I rub shoulders with the rich and famous now, did you know?’

‘Yes, so you keep telling me. But you have not yet produced one invitation to a first night.’

‘Be patient, Mrs Watson, be patient.’

She shook her head indulgently as she left the room.

My smile faded when she had gone, and I lit a second cigarette. Against hope, I wondered whether I might indeed expect a visit from Sherlock Holmes. I had received two notes from him over the last three months, dated from Narbonne and from Nîmes, from which I gathered that his stay in France was likely to be a long one; though he did not tell me more than what I had read for myself in the newspapers, namely that he had been engaged by the French government upon a matter of supreme importance. Still, he had not forgotten me. He had written, twice. He wanted me to know where he was, and what he was doing. In the early days of my marriage, I had tried several times to invite him to dinner. Only once had I succeeded, and the occasion had not been a success. He was very civil to Mary, but when left alone with me at the dinner table he fell into a sulk and refused to converse in the old, easy way. I see now that it was insensitive of me to patronise him with these invitations; knowing as I did the insecurity that lay behind his precise, logical façade, it was unfair of me to flaunt my newfound domestic respectability. But then again, knowing as he did the real reason for my flight into marriage it was unfair of him to be so resentful.

The passage of three years made no difference to his attitude. He would visit me, as Mary said, uninvited and at odd hours, either when she was from home or when the hour was so late that he knew she had in all probability retired for the night. He would smoke my tobacco, make comments upon my appearance and amuse himself by deducing how I had spent my day, whether I’d had any other visitors lately, the state of my health etc. He would than ask casually whether ‘Mrs Watson’ were in, and upon receiving the expected reply would invariably request that I abandon my practice for the next few days and accompany him upon whichever investigation was currently in hand. I had, as I have mentioned elsewhere, an ‘accommodating neighbour’ in Dr Anstruther, who could usually be prevailed upon to cover for me on these occasions; but I think I would have followed Holmes at a moment’s notice, even if it had meant losing my practice altogether.

Time and marriage had not altered my feelings for him; and I, grasping at straws, was pleased to read in his minute observations of me, his constant reminders that he ‘knew my habits’, the confidence and alacrity with which he summoned me from my home and work, and even in his unreasonable jealousy of poor Mary, a sign of that affection for me which he had never allowed himself to express.

Sometimes, if he knew Mary to be home, he would summon me by telegram to his side. I always went, however inconvenient the time. Mary understood.

I dropped in at Baker Street a few times, uninvited. He was pleased to see me, I think, but it was painful for both of us to find ourselves alone together on the old shared territory; and he could never resist rubbing salt into the wound by remarking how wedlock suited me, how much weight I had gained, how thriving was my appearance and so on.

As time passed, we saw one another less and less frequently. He engrossed himself in his work; since my published accounts of his cases had made him well known, he was much sought after.

I knew that his cocaine habit had increased its hold, and that there was nothing I could do or say to dissuade him from it. At the conclusion of the Sholto affair, I had made a rather tasteless remark to the effect that I had done better out of the case than he, since I had gained a wife, and he not even the proper recognition for all his work since the credit was likely to go to Athelney Jones. ‘There still remains the cocaine bottle,’ was all Holmes had said.

I understand now what I could not then perceive, that he used the drug to deaden the turmoil within him, and that my marriage increased that turmoil. But my instinct at the time was one of self-preservation, and since my love for him made life at Baker Street a torment to me, I grasped the lucky chance that had come my way and left him to the tender mercies of the drug.

I was startled out of my reverie by the entrance of the maid announcing that the first patient of the day had arrived. I had not even heard the doorbell. Hastily I removed my dressing gown, donned my frock-coat, and made my way to my consulting room. For the next few hours at least, I must put Sherlock Holmes out of my mind.

‘Well, here is the train already,’ said Mary as we approached the platform. ‘I might as well get on and find myself a good seat. You don’t have to wait.’

‘I would like to wave you off,’ I said. I missed her when she was away, and it always surprised me. Sometimes I wondered whether she missed me when I disappeared in answer to a summons from Holmes. If she did, she never showed it. We approached the ladies’ carriage, and she was pleased to find it uncrowded.

‘I shall probably travel back on the Sunday,’ she said. ‘It will be quieter. Unless you hear otherwise, you may expect me back for dinner in just under a fortnight.’

I nodded. ‘Do give my regards to Mrs Forrester. I hope you find her well.’

‘So do I. Do you know, it has been nearly three months … we’ll have much to talk about!’

I laughed. ‘Will there be ... other guests?’

‘Not at first, I hope. But if I should encounter Anne D’Arcy, I will be sure to remember you to her.’ ‘Please do.’ I was aware that a mutual wariness existed between my wife and Miss D’Arcy, and that Mrs Forrester was the cause of it; but I never enquired too deeply into the complications of their circle. To be honest, I preferred not to contemplate the details of Mary’s private life; which was unreasonable in me, as she was perfectly sanguine about mine.

Mary boarded the train, and I assisted her with her portmanteau. She settled herself at the window seat. ‘Anyway John, James or whatever you call yourself, be sure to keep well; and be discreet, there’s a good boy.’

‘I am always discreet,’ I said somewhat huffily.

‘My dear husband, you are not. But far be it from me to lecture you. Just don’t shock the servants, and if you should be any chance be whisked away by you-know-whom, do just pause and send me a wire. If I return to an empty house and find that I could have prolonged my visit I shall be most annoyed.’

‘Prolong your visit anyway, my dear, if you wish; but I do not anticipate being whisked away. I shall certainly be in touch if anything untoward occurs.’

The final slamming of doors and the shrill of the guard’s whistle proclaimed that the train was about to depart. Mary hastily leaned out of the window and kissed me on both cheeks. ‘Have fun,’ she said.

‘And you, Mrs Watson.’

I felt no premonition, no twinge of foreboding; but the ground was to shift under my feet before I saw her again.

Tut, Watson, I'm surprised at you

 In this extract from the first part of Rohase Piercy's 'My Dearest Holmes', we eavesdrop on Holmes and Watson discussing the case brought to them by a Miss Anne D'Arcy, whose companion, Maria Kirkpatrick, has gone missing.  A search of Miss Kirkpatrck's desk has unearthed the photograph of an effete-looking young man, believed to be her illegitimate son … and a rather embarrassed Watson has had to admit that Mr Maurice Kirkpatrick is actually an acquaintance of his.

‘Well, Watson,’ said Holmes, leaping to his feet the minute she had left and beginning to pace the room whilst rubbing his hands together gleefully, ‘this is all very exciting, is it not? This case certainly exhibits some singular features. I am glad, by the way, that Miss D’Arcy found you so supportive. I can always trust you to take care of that department. And now for the next stage …’

‘Now look, Holmes,’ I interrupted sharply, feeling that such innuendos were in very poor taste, especially under the circumstances, ‘I really must set you straight on all this. The way in which Miss D’Arcy found me supportive was not at all what you imply. Heaven knows why you insist on propounding this fantasy about my susceptibility to women; but if you cannot see that Miss D’Arcy is - well, a confirmed spinster, I suppose is an apt description - then your powers of perception are considerably less than I’ve given you credit for.’ 

Holmes stood in front of me with his hands in his pockets, a maddening expression of pure delight upon his face. ‘My poor dear boy,’ said he, ‘you do underestimate me, don’t you? I do assure you that I have a full and accurate grasp of the situation. There is really no need to expound upon it. As for your affinity with the fair sex - well, Watson, you surely cannot deny that women in general, confirmed spinsters or no, do seem to find you extremely sympathetic. It’s your doctorly manner, I expect. Now, where is the inaccuracy in my stating the obvious? H’mm?’

I clenched my teeth in frustration. It was at times like this that I most regretted the exaggerated boasts with which I had for some reason felt it necessary to regale my friends at around the time of my first meeting with Holmes. What could I say? That I suspected his full and accurate grasp of the situation to be the result of his morning’s research, since I had seen no evidence of it earlier? I knew he would have no hesitation in calling my bluff, and in turning the situation to his own advantage.

'Anyway, Watson,’ he continued, strolling jauntily around the room with an annoying spring in his step, ‘since you’re so anxious to set me straight on matters of which I am ignorant, perhaps you’d care to give me a little resumé of your acquaintance with Mr Maurice Kirkpatrick. I must say, it really is a lucky chance your knowing him. Now, what do you think? Would he be pleased to receive a visit from your good self accompanied by an aficionado of the turf, eager to discuss form and courses? Or would he perhaps prefer to make the acquaintance of an older gentleman of private means and aesthetic temperament? Which shall I be, Watson? In either case, I think a certain air of decadence would fit the bill, don’t you?’ 

This kind of teasing made me even more uncomfortable, being nearer the mark of accuracy. I crossed hurriedly to the window to hide my discomposure. 

‘Tell me first,’ I said as coolly as I could, ‘just why you think he is being blackmailed?’ 

‘Oh, I don’t think he is being blackmailed at all,’ said Holmes impatiently. ‘But his father undoubtedly is, and has, rather foolishly in my opinion, called on him for help.’ 

‘His father?’ I spun round, astonished, all discomposure forgotten. ‘But he has no father!’ 

‘Tut, Watson, I’m surprised at you. And you a medical man! Everybody has a father somewhere; we may take that as a working hypothesis in at least ninety-nine percent of cases.’ 

‘Well good heavens, Holmes, I mean of course he has a father, but surely - do you mean you are assuming he knows who his father is?’ 

‘Well, I am assuming he does now! Whether he did before this present trouble, I am not yet in a position to say. But now, do you see -?’ he continued, deliberately adopting the patient manner of one explaining the obvious to a child or an idiot, ‘now, let’s assume for the sake of argument that he receives a message from a gentleman claiming to be his father, and he wishes to check the gentleman’s credentials, so to speak. To whom does he apply for corroboration on the subject? Come on now, my boy, your mental powers should be able to tackle this one …’ 

‘Oh stop it, Holmes,’ I said feebly, for I could see he was embarking upon a fit of hilarity and I had no desire to join him. ‘So he contacts his mother. But I still fail to see why it has to be blackmail.’ 

‘Why, it could be nothing else!’ said Holmes, controlling himself with difficulty. ‘If the man has contacted neither his son, nor the mother of his son, for some twenty-odd years, nothing less than the threat of discovery would lead him to do so now. You see why I did not wish to go into the matter in front of Miss D’Arcy,’ he continued in a serious voice, taking me by the elbow and leading me towards the door. ‘The subject would naturally be distressing for her. We had better wait until we have cleared the whole thing up before involving her further. Now, Watson, up you go and change into a waistcoat that boasts its full regimen of buttons! I would fit a new shoelace too, if I were you; we may have a little walk ahead of us. And what a careless fellow you were this morning, to nick your cheek like that … I, meanwhile, will go and don my accoutrements, and then we will make our way over to Kensington, with a little detour for lunch en route.’ 

‘Might I suggest, Holmes, that the older gentleman would be a more suitable disguise?’ I said sweetly. ‘I flatter myself that Kirkpatrick has always looked upon me as something of a paternal figure, and since I am your senior by a mere couple of years we can hardly expect him to do less for you.’ 

From the mischievous glint that stole into his eye, I realised that somewhere in my little speech I had laid myself open to his repartee. Having no wish to hear it, I closed the door hurriedly and made my way up to my room.