The huge shining sky

Weird Sisters are very excited to share a glimpse of Jay Taverner’s forthcoming novel, Liberty – in which Miss Rebecca Wiston sets out on a sea voyage. We can't wait to read more.

(Liberty is the fourth in the ‘Brynsquilver’ series of historical novels (the others are Rebellion, Hearts and Minds and Something Wicked), and is set at the time of the French Revolution.)

PROLOGUE

The Robin, two-masted coasting vessel out of Salem, walloping southwards before a following wind off the Carolinas in the early spring of 1789. The Robin, shabby, worm-eaten and stinking, laden with oak staves for sugar casks and fusty rice to feed slaves in the British colonies. The packet plodded along, more Dobbin than Robin, Rebecca thought: an old nag bound head-down for its stable. But she did not care. She loved the ugly little ship. For her, everything – salt spray and heaving deck, swearing sailors and puking passengers – was insignificant in the face of the huge shining sky and the swooping, thrusting flow of brilliant air. And every day of rolling progress brought her nearer to her new, half-guessed future.

She sat each day on a pile of spars in the steadily strengthening sun, breathing deeply and, with each long breath, letting go of another link that chained her. On the ninth morning, the new warmth seeping into her back through the serviceable grey wool of her winter gown made her wonder for a moment whether she might go barefoot, as the sailors did; she had not felt the world though her toes since she was a wild child running in the summer woods, twenty years ago. 

It had taken some persuasion to make the Captain take her as a passenger. She knew that her appearance had hardly recommended her – a tall, spare woman dressed in Quaker grey, past her youth at eight-and-twenty and, she thought ruefully, with all the marks of an old maid; but she’d fixed him with a steady gaze, and made him listen to her carefully prepared speech about needing a passage to England, and begging information about getting there via Jamaica. Captain Singleton had clearly been unhappy about an unaccompanied woman traveller. It was not entirely unprecedented, of course, for the Friends did quite often go forth alone, to bear witness in distant places; and, by a stroke good fortune, Captain Singleton’s mother and father-in-law were already on board, bound to see their new grandchild in Jamaica. They had agreed, a little reluctantly, to take Rebecca under their protection, and so the problem was solved.

In the event she had seen very little of these other passengers. Since the Robin had sailed, Rebecca had spent every day on deck, mostly gazing out eastwards towards her distant destination; she rarely entered the cabin.  She had watched Salem dwindle out of sight as they sailed out of the harbour and, as they sailed on, she’d watched the sailors at work. They watched her in return, and grinned, and answered when she spoke to them. She’d stood out of the way while they kicked the poxy old tub into shape, and now she strode the length of the deck without so much as holding to the rail. She had stood by the man at the helm for two days, asking questions which he had answered with surprised politeness. Now the sailors tipped their caps, and she smiled, as they passed by.

On the tenth day they left American waters, passing out into the Gulf, the last leg of the trip to Jamaica. The sun grew hotter and, by the time Rebecca went down to her cot in the narrow cabin, the wind seemed to have dropped to a lulling whisper. But when she woke, too early, before light, she could feel a strange shift in the motion of the ship. The other passengers were both sound asleep on the other side of the cabin, their sickly faces pale in the surging sea-light that slapped against the porthole. Rebecca sat up. The everlasting wallow of the ship had changed to a choppy, gut-wrenching rhythm. Rising quickly and wrapping her woollen shawl over her shift, she made her way across to the companion-way, holding on against the unnatural buck and rear of the deck. 

Above, in the midst of the turbulent motion, there was a strained stillness about the crew. She could see three men holding on by the port rail, and the captain at the wheel; all were staring into the east, as if to catch the rising dawn. Rebecca turned her head. The easterly sky was livid, with green-tinged rays of light rising eerily from the coming sun. Singleton caught sight of her at the companion-head, and called out, gesturing for her to go down again – but his voice was lost in the wind, and in the disaster that fell upon them. A screaming, twisting squall swept down on the ship, tossing it madly like a nutshell in a waterfall. As Rebecca clung to the rope at the stair-head, a wall of water wrenched her sideways, completely off her feet. The icy wave knocked all the breath from her body, but she clung on, pressed against the companion housing for what seemed an age, banging helplessly in the wall of water that swept across the deck. The sound of crashing, splintering timber deafened her.

Then the surge of the sea dropped her abruptly and spewed out of the bilges. Men ran by shouting, laid hold of ropes and began working like demons with knives and axes to free the cumbered ship as she thrashed like a terrified horse tied by the head. Tons of broken wood and sail trailed away in the water. The mast, Rebecca realised – the main mast – had gone by the board. She ducked down the stairwell out of the screaming wind, but darkness and enclosure filled her with terror and she scrambled out again, watching as the crew slashed and chopped to clear the rigging, while two men struggled with the wheel. The captain was gazing away from the rising sun now, westwards, and she pulled herself along by the rail to see what he was watching. 

It was land. A rocky coast, green cliffs incredibly near. She had imagined them still out at sea, swept by this twister in mid-ocean; but they were hard by the shore. Her heart leapt. Then, as she turned back to watch the struggle to master the ship, the deck shuddered and rose under her feet, freed from some of the dragging debris. A man screamed. Horrified, she watched him fly by, mouth open and hands clutching, caught by the leg in an escaping mass of rigging that he had cut free. The ship seemed to right itself, pulling upright before the wind, almost as if it answered to the helm; but as she drew a stunned breath, the air exploded into wet chaos again and she was flung aside, up and away as, quite unmistakably, the hull struck a rock.

'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

I didn't know I looked cross

This week Maggie Redding has given us a little lyric dialogue between young and old. Hope you enjoy it!

P.S. It has to be said that sometimes Weird Sisters in general do look a bit cross, but only when pondering deeply.

Why do old ladies look cross?

‘Why do old ladies look cross, Grandma?

Tell me, why do they always look grim?’

‘I didn’t know, Annabel, that I looked cross.

Is it the lines from my nose to my chin?’

‘You don’t know you look cross, Grandma?

You are old and will die before long.’

‘It isn’t the thought of dying, Annabel,

that’s the cause of the frowns to be strong.

It’s the sadness of living.

The world is all wrong

With hatred and greed

The hungry to feed

It’s been going on for so long.’

‘Is there nothing that’s good in the world?

Is it all helplessness and despair?

Please give me some hope in my life, Grandma.

Don’t tell me it’s beyond repair.

Is there something you’re forgetting?

There’s my generation to ask.

You can leave it to us.

We’ll make no fuss.

But just get on with the task.’

‘I had hoped, Annabel, to leave the world

better than when I was  born.

I feel that I’ve failed, although I have tried.

It turned out to be a false dawn.’

‘I think you see it all wrong, Grandma

Judging’s not really for you?

‘I don’t think it’s for me,

We don’t need to see

and measure the good that we do.’

Maggie Redding

January 2018 

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.

You need not call me sir!

Hearts and Minds is the second historical novel in Jay Taverner’s ‘Brynsquilver’ series and is set in the 1730s. In this extract, Lucy, daughter of a washerwoman and an enslaved manservant, has run away to Shrewsbury, where the woman she loves has been imprisoned. Destitute, Lucy finds work selling ‘Mountain’s Elixir’ in the market.

This morning she was working alone, the now-familiar patter coming almost without thought.
‘Step up now, ladies and gentlemen! ’Tis time for a spring tonic - Mountain’s Elixir will put the bounce back in your step, ladies, and the sparkle in your eyes. ’Tis good for a sweet breath and a strong grip, my lads - you’d not have your sweetheart disappointed, now, would you?’

A passing trio of apprentices giggled and pushed each other, but did not stop. 

Lucy paused to listen to a shy girl in a new pink hood, blushing and whispering her question. She was new-married, and wanted to know if the Elixir would help to get her with child. Mrs Mountain’s rule was to say yes to everything. But the girl was so young – about Lucy’s own age – and so full of longing, that Lucy’s heart softened towards her. Whatever else it might do, the Elixir was some kind of purge – that, too, made people believe in it, according to its inventor – and Lucy had a strong feeling that it was likely to put a swift end to pregnancy, rather than encourage it. She said as much to the girl, who looked disappointed. 

Lucy put on a wise face. ‘Better to take green tea fasting of a morning, and elderberry syrup before bed,’ she improvised wildly. ‘Then I’d not be surprised if you had good news before the month is out.’

The girl thanked her earnestly, but could not be stopped from buying a bottle of the Elixir for her husband. Lucy dropped the money into the purse she had set on the table, and cast an eye over her stock. It was well down; she would soon need to bring out some more bottles. She raised her voice again.

‘Mountain’s Elixir! Renowned throughout the Marches for its wonderful properties! Proven good for all ills - sovereign remedy for the gout, the quinsy, for apoplexies and agues. Good for falling hair, flat feet and stinking breath. Mrs Mountain’s secret ingredients have been brought from the far Indies, here to you! Mountain’s Elixir cures the gripes, the toothache, the bellyache and the screws! Taken on a fasting stomach daily, it protects against the wandering mother, blackening of the skin, hardening of the veins and mortification of the tripes!’

The crowd was thick, but not very interested in her wares. She needed to stir them up to the point of buying. She took a deep breath but, before she could start again, she became aware of music coming up the hill. The crowd heard it too, and Lucy cursed under her breath. A gaggle of boys pushed into the cramped space, and behind them came a troupe of pipes and tabors, making for the steps of the Butter Cross. Lucy’s crowd wavered and started to drift that way; she hurried to serve the three or four who were ready to buy. As she dropped their money into her purse she wondered if it was time to finish for the day. But the music might bring a fresh crowd that she could share: she would stay a little longer. She ducked down behind the draped table to stock up while there was a lull.

She was on her knees behind the table when she heard a bloodcurdling yell. Flinging the cloth aside, she snapped her head up. As her eyes came level with the edge of the table, she saw two hands poised over her open purse. A grubby paw was plunged into coins and held there; its owner had clearly been about to lift her takings. But his wrist was clamped in the grip of a larger, stronger set of fingers, a hand that had caught him in the very act. The hand was black. As dark as - no, darker than Lucy’s own. 

Her eyes travelled slowly from the hand to the snowy ruffles at its wrist; from the ruffles to a deep, buttoned cuff, a cuff of canary yellow that extended almost to the elbow of an elegant yellow silk coat. And on up, to a black face smiling at her over more snowy linen. Lucy felt a surge of excitement, followed by shyness that made her face hot. 

‘Now, miss,’ said her saviour, ‘what would you have me do with this wretch? Shall I call the watch?’

The would-be thief began to whine and struggle.

‘Oh, no, sir! Please - please to let him go,’ Lucy stammered.

The thief’s head snapped round to goggle at her. He began to babble thanks and apologies.

‘Stop your noise, codshead,’ said the young black man scornfully. He shook the limp hand he still held, like someone flicking water from a cloth, to make sure there was no money in it, before he thrust the man away.

Lucy hardly spared the fellow a glance. She could not take her eyes from her rescuer. ‘Thank you, sir. It was my whole morning’s take,’ she said.

His smile widened. ‘Faith, little sister, you need not call me sir! Benjamin will answer nicely - or even Ben, when we are better acquainted. Your servant, ma’am!’ With a flourish of his hat, he made her an elaborate, courtly bow. Several people in the crowd laughed and clapped. 

As he straightened up, Lucy saw the gleam of the silver collar nestling in the lace at his throat. But his eyes shone with fun. ‘And now, ma’am, if your la’ship pleases, I shall convey you to dine at the best eating-house in this town.’

Dazzled, Lucy let herself be swept along, her mind whirling, confused. He was a slave, like her father, but he dressed like a lord. And behaved like one, too, with his airs and graces and his confident smile: the poulterer on the corner of Butcher Row had agreed at once to Ben’s suggestion that he keep Lucy’s stock safe for an hour or two. She followed her new friend through the maze of streets until the bustle of shops and markets was left behind. Ben stopped in front of a tall and beautiful brick house. 

He waved an arm at it and grinned. ‘My humble abode, ma’am,’ he said. ‘Welcome.’

He led her through the carriage entrance at the side of the house, and down some steps to a basement door. They hurried along a flagged passage with many doors, some standing open. Lucy caught glimpses of huge painted cupboards, of a girl sewing, of two men in yellow suits like Ben’s, playing cards. It was like a dream. They came at last to a kitchen that would have swallowed her mother’s cottage whole. A long, warm room, lined with shelves where bright brown pans were ranged, each larger than the one before. Ham and poultry hung from the ceiling; there were bowls of eggs and China oranges, buckets of fish and baskets of vegetables. A small girl in a large mob-cap was working at one end of the long kitchen table; she looked up as they came in, but did not speak. At the fire a great joint of meat, half an ox at least, twirled solemnly to and fro by itself amid a forest of gleaming metal hooks and bars. The dripping pan swam with fat juices whose smell made Lucy feel faint with hunger.

The queen of this paradise, she found, was called Mistress Rundle. She was a fierce, stringy woman with a red face and a sharp tongue for anyone who came into her kitchen – except for Benjamin, who had clearly charmed her as Lucy suspected he charmed everyone. It seemed he had been at the market on an errand for Mistress Rundle, and now flicked three little papers from his huge yellow cuff. She was pleased, tapping the ground spices out at once into the bowl where the kitchen-maid was pounding something with a heavy blunt stick. The girl still stared at Lucy, but did not stop working.

‘Little sister, indeed!’ said Mrs Rundle scornfully. ‘Black she may be, but green I am not. You’re a shameful young rascal, Benjamin, and I hope the girl knows it.’

‘What she knows, Mistress Peg my darling, because I told her, is that you make the best mutton-pies in England. Look how thin she is! You’d not turn her away, now, would you, and you a good Christian woman as you are?’

For answer the cook slapped Benjamin’s behind as if he were a small boy, and showed Lucy a seat at the corner of her huge table. 

‘There’s no guest goes hungry from this kitchen, lassie,’ she said, putting a large plate of broken meats on the scrubbed white wood in front of her. ‘Though the Lord knows ’tis not what I call a kitchen! Nasty mean, low place – miles of stairs to the dining room and a day’s walk to the pump. And will you look at this poor wee fireplace with its nasty iron contrivances? Modern improvements, indeed! You’ll wait all day for the meat to warm through merely, and there’s no room at all for a dog to turn the spit or a boy to do the basting. Bet, what are you at? Put some go into it, lassie, you’re not stroking your bairn’s bottom there!’

She pushed the little maid aside and stirred the stuff in the bowl about, sniffing at it. Ben caught Lucy’s eye and winked. Lucy went on eating the wonderful food.