The Further Adventures of Sherlock Holmes: The Veiled Detective

Twenty-Two

FROM THE JOURNAL OF JOHN H. WATSON

For the next week or so, Ilived in a kind of limbo. Not knowing what my future held — or that of my beloved Mary. She brought me the only glimmer of sunshine in those dark days. We met regularly, for lunch or for a walk in the park, and on one occasion to visit the theatre, and our relationship deepened and strengthened. Iwas in no doubt that she was the woman with whom Iwanted to spend the rest of my life, and Iwas certain that Mary felt the same about me. Although Iwas always happy and relaxed in her company, occasionally in unguarded moments my expression must have told her that there was a shadow hanging over our happiness.

“There is something troubling you, isn’t there, John?” she asked me one evening as we were travelling back to Mrs Forrester’s in a cab.

I smiled and shook my head. “Of course not,” Ianswered lamely.

She leaned forward and kissed my cheek. “Ithink Iknow my John by now. Ilook at you from time to time when you’re not aware, and Isee such... such sadness in your eyes. There is something, Iknow. If you are unsure of your feelings—”

“My God, Mary, no! Please never think such a thing. I love you so very, very much.”

She smiled. “I’m so glad... because I love you so very, very much also.”

We embraced. The closeness and the fragrance of her sent my senses spinning.

“So, what is the matter then?” she asked softly, as we drew apart.

In my intoxicated state — intoxicated by the nearness of her — I felt, for a moment, as though I would like to tell her the truth. Thankfully, my saner nature intruded. Oh, how wonderful it would be to tell Mary everything — everything from my discharge from the army, to my meeting with Moriarty and my career as his spy. To unburden myself to someone who loved me would be the most wonderful release; however, not only would that be incredibly selfish, but also it would be very dangerous. In possession of such knowledge, Mary would be perceived as a threat to Moriarty, and her life would not be worth a pin’s fee. And on learning of the real Watson, of John Walker, Mary might well reject me for my subterfuge and my failings. No, I had to continue my career of dissembling.

“It’s Sherlock Holmes,” I said.

“Holmes?” Mary’s pretty brow furrowed in puzzlement.

“Despite his cool assured behaviour, he has rather come to rely on me in many ways — as a companion, a sounding-board and a friend. He has no other.” I could have added that neither had I.

“I see, or rather, I think I see,” said Mary.

“He has taken the notion of my leaving Baker Street rather badly. He does not relish the idea of being left alone and there being no one to accompany him when he is investigating a case. He uses me to test out theories.”

“Uses you... indeed,” said Mary, her features hardening.

I gave a wry grin. “Well, yes, he does use me. That is his way. However, I am sure that he respects me and cares about me in his own way.”

“And this is what is troubling you, John? Leaving Mr Holmes to his own devices?”

“Well... yes.”

Suddenly her gentle, serious face broke into a broad smile and she laughed. “Oh, John, only you could be so caring, so sensitive to such a matter. Sherlock Holmes is a grown man, and I am sure he is perfectly capable of looking after himself and working his theories alone. And anyway, you are not leaving the country. Vacating your Baker Street rooms does not mean that you’ll never see him again or never accompany him on one of his investigations; it only means that in the evening you will come home to your loving wife.” She laughed again.

“Do you mean that you wouldn’t mind me keeping in touch with Holmes, and helping him out now and then?”

“Of course not, silly. I am not one of those women who want to mould their husbands into something they’re not. I fell in love with you as you are; it would be wrong and foolish to attempt to change you.”

Without further words we embraced and kissed again, thus closing the matter for the time being.

It was only a few days later that I received a note from Moriarty instructing me to rendezvous with Colonel Moran. With a fluttering heart I set out that morning for my appointment. Holmes had not risen when I left. He was in a malaise because there was no investigation on hand. I was too preoccupied with my own worries and concerns to attempt to stay his hand from reaching for the cocaine bottle. I was conscious that he was overdosing himself, but I believed that any words from me would have little effect on his determination to stimulate his mind artificially. One could only hope that some criminal puzzle would turn up soon to bring him back to sanity.

Moran’s cab appeared at the appointed time and I climbed aboard.

“Good day, Watson. You are well, I trust?” came the familiar voice from the shadows of the cab. It was Moran’s usual greeting.

“I am well.”

“Good. To business. You wish to break your contract with the Professor, leave your duties in Baker Street and marry.”

“I do not wish to break my contract, I wish to be released from it — or at least have the terms altered.”

“Nicely put, Watson, nicely put. And what do you intend to do, once you have married?”

“Set up home, of course, and, I hope, start in medical practice again.”

“And Mr Holmes? Within this new context, how do you see your relationship with him continuing?”

“I thought you would tell me that,” I said curtly. I was quickly growing tired of these games.

There was a sudden burst of light in the cab as Moran struck a match and lit a cheroot. I saw his chiselled features and the shaggy grey eyebrows briefly before they faded into the gloom once more as the match was extinguished.

“Very well, Doctor Watson. Your request has been granted.”

I gave a gasp of surprise.

“But,” snapped Moran, before I could say a word, “there are conditions.”

I nodded. I knew there would be.

“First, you will keep in regular contact with Sherlock Holmes and at any time that he calls upon you for help, you will rush to his side immediately. Secondly, in a similar fashion, if you receive a message from the Professor instructing you to involve yourself with Holmes’ current investigation, you will do so immediately. Understood, so far?”

“I understand.”

“Under no circumstances must you reveal these arrangements to your wife or, indeed, any living soul. Understood?”

“Yes.”

“Good. We will leave it up to you to plan the nuptials, but the Professor will organise your new dwelling and arrange the medical practice for you in Paddington.”

“Paddington?”

“A nice little place. A semi-detached property. Cosy, by all accounts, with the front parlour used as a consulting-room. It should suit you very well. It is not a thriving practice, but we don’t want that, do we? You must have plenty of time on your hands to assist your detective colleague. If you grow bored, you could always practise your writing.”

Although, essentially, the news I was hearing was positive, Moran’s sneering tone confirmed that my shackles were neither being removed nor slackened; they were being replaced by another equally constrictive pair. But I was grateful that I now could ask Mary to marry me and to set a date.

“As you know,” continued Moran, “in this organisation we do not have written agreements. We take people at their word.”

An easy thing to do, I thought, when you do not give a man any alternatives. Moran paused, prompting me to respond.

“Yes,” I said.

“So, Watson, you agree to our arrangements and will abide by them?”

“In order to marry Mary, I will do all you ask.” As I spoke these words, I felt a leaden weight settle upon my heart.

“Good. Then it is decided,” said Moran.

Within the month, Mary and I were married. The ceremony took place at the Church of St Monica in the Edgware Road. It was a private ceremony, with only Mary and myself present. I had asked Holmes to be my best man, and with some grudging reluctance he had agreed. But on the appointed hour he failed to appear. We waited some ten minutes, hoping that he would turn up, but the clergyman who was performing the ceremony began to grow irritated at the delay and so in the end we were forced to engage the services of a loafer in the church as a witness. He was no doubt sheltering from the cold, and was most surprised when I bribed him with a sovereign in order to help us legalise the ceremony.

Despite the joy of the occasion, the fact that Holmes failed to turn up, that he had let me down, dampened my pleasure somewhat. I had hoped that he could have suppressed his own feelings about love and marriage for one brief occasion in order to please a friend. But, it seems, I was wrong.

Mary and I honeymooned in Brighton, and on arriving at our hotel there was a telegram waiting for me. It was from Sherlock Holmes. It read:

Apologies for absence. On a case. Regards to Mrs Watson. SH.