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The adventures were not over after all. Holmes came back!
And after the shock and joy of it all and the excitement of capturing Moran, the previous fiction regarding his demise somehow slipped away and life returned to normal remarkably quickly. Soon it was as though Holmes had never been gone and we both returned to the mundane business of saving our respective practices.
During Mary’s illness naturally she had been my priority but after I lost her my practice continued to shrink. Holmes’s practice on the other hand began to grow again, though only slowly as word spread of his return. There were still long periods without a case, which he often chose to spend in my waiting room, chasing off the last of my patients by sharing his deductions with them. When I asked if he could perhaps refrain from hurrying the demise of my business, he altered his behaviour to silently observing my patients—which did not really help, apart from increasing my prescriptions for nervous complaints.
At the end of the working day, Holmes would then keep me company while I attempted to finish writing up my notes. He would produce a few minor deductions as he paced about—perhaps what I had eaten that day or the state of my hair-brush. And one particular evening he turned his attention to my attire.
“You’re wearing your light grey suit…” he mused.
I agreed that I was and continued my contemplation of Mrs. Swanborough’s boils.
“And I’ve seen your dark grey recently and your sable...”
I started on Mr. Gosden’s haemorrhoids.
“But I still haven’t seen your heather tweed. And you only bought it in the November of 1890. I remember you wearing it during the case of the premature Christmas card and mentioning how greatly pleased you were with your purchase. It is unlikely to have worn out in such a relatively short period of time, and it seemed to be a favourite of yours…”
I did not look up as I wrote. “You may recall a certain Swiss holiday, Holmes, and our abandoning of our luggage so that it would go off to Paris on its own, in order to put—” I was not going to do the gentleman the courtesy of using his name. “—someone off our scent. My heather tweed was in that suitcase.”
There was a pause before Holmes answered. “Did you not recover your luggage later then?”
I looked up for that.
“Holmes, I thought you were dead. It didn’t seem important at the time.”
I returned my attention to my work. I heard Holmes wandering around the room and pausing occasionally, presumably to examine something fascinating he had noticed in my floor-boards.
He was the one to eventually break the silence. “Perhaps then we should take a trip to Paris and try and reclaim our bags? It might be a small diversion.”
I finished the final addition to Mr. Gosden’s notes and set my pen aside. “Not much of a diversion, Holmes. The bags will either still be at the Paris luggage-depot or they will have been thrown away.”
Holmes chose to take this as encouragement. “Well, if they’ve been thrown out, all the more challenge in tracking them down!”
He approached my desk cautiously.
“You would be my guest on the trip. You wouldn’t have to pay for anything, if that is what is concerning you.”
That was not what was concerning me, though admittedly money was scarce. However, as I opened my mouth to point out what a ridiculous whim this trip was, I noticed a gleam in Holmes’s eyes that brought to mind times past.
Somehow I found myself agreeing to go to Paris.
I spoke to Anstruther the next day and we shared a smile over the request that we both thought I would never have to make again. He agreed with enthusiasm and I began to make my arrangements for travelling abroad.
Thus one June morning in 1894 I found myself recreating another morning from April ‘91. Though I must admit the hansom journey was unremarkable this time. I did not have to hurry through Lowther Arcade to change to a brougham and I am certain Mycroft Holmes was doing far more important things that day than driving me. However, it was still with a sense of relief that I arrived at Victoria to find Holmes already there on the platform waiting.
Settled in our carriage, with our modest luggage accompanying us rather than placed in the luggage-van, I found myself involuntarily glancing at the seat where once, in a carriage very like this one, an ‘Italian priest’ had sat. But for this journey, thankfully Holmes and I stayed on at Canterbury and did not abandon our suitcases, and instead of heading to Newhaven, carried on to that originally intended destination of Dover, where we got onto the boat sailing for Calais.
Holmes, playing as close attention to my train of thought as I had paid to our train’s journey, got it into his head to try and cheer me up as we stood on deck by adopting the persona of a ‘Captain Basil’. This was not entirely successful. After a while, to avoid throwing Holmes overboard, I feigned sea-sickness and went down to the stern. Where I immediately started to worry that someone else might try to throw Holmes overboard and I retraced my steps.
I found ‘Captain Basil’ perfectly safe and attempting to charm two maiden ladies of a certain age, who I have to say were bearing this entertainment with a lot more grace and good nature than I had been. I felt a little guilty at my reaction to Holmes’s attempts to distract me and I resolved to take a more positive view of the trip. In for a penny, in for a pound—I introduced myself as Midshipman Wilson, and Holmes and I accompanied the ladies down to a late luncheon.
It was a pleasant meal with genuinely charming company. Holmes had always insisted he disliked and distrusted the fair sex but as far as I could tell the exceptions to this rule were almost every girl and woman he had ever met, and ‘Captain Basil’ appeared to greatly enjoy our companions’ conversation. It eventually became apparent to me that both ladies were aware of the game and I believe were gently teasing us. I was not sure at first if Holmes had realised but when I managed to catch his eye he winked at me. I smiled back. It occurred to me that for the first time in a very long while, I was truly having fun.
In Calais we disembarked, bid the ladies farewell and took a cab into the town centre, and from there took the train to Paris. We chatted of this and that, and I read a little while Holmes looked out of the window and pondered, and we eventually arrived at our hotel in time for dinner. And as that seemed enough for one day, we both retired in good spirits to our respective rooms to see what the following day would bring.
Bright and not terribly early the next day, we made our way back to Gare Saint-Lazare and its luggage-depot to see if our luggage from 1891 was possibly still there. Holmes, being the more proficient in French, spoke to the gentleman in charge. I listened closely, attempting to follow the conversation. Holmes of course has French blood—I believe his father rarely spoke in French to his children but the usual mode of communication between grandsons and grandmother was the Gallic tongue—but I have still observed the smiles when Holmes, and indeed I, have had occasion to speak in French. For me, because of my accent and the sometimes extensive circumlocutions I have to employ when I cannot recall a word. And Holmes, because of the old-fashioned language he learnt from his grandmother, and which study and the occasional visit to France had never quite eradicated.
But here in Paris, for once there were no smiles at a foreigner’s attempts, just two native speakers conversing. I was reminded again of Holmes’s long absence from London. I imagined him during his extended stay in Montpellier and oddly missed my old friend once again. Holmes was now not exactly the same man I had known before his disappearance.
In the end I followed little of what Holmes and the depot manager had been discussing as my French was rusty and my mind had been elsewhere but Holmes was keen to fill in the details for me as we left and walked in search of a cab.
“According to the records the bags did arrive safely and were at the depot for some months. As the labels on the bags were still secure, they had names for us but no home addresses. Eventually a customs officer broke open the cases to make sure there was nothing suspicious in them, and then the manager sent the bags to the Hôtel Westminster in Rue Fourier in the hope they had an address for us, or that they might be able to contact another hotel in the vicinity that did.”
“Why the Hôtel Westminster?” I wondered.
“English surnames, so a hotel aimed at English tourists. And the manager considered the quality of the cases and the wear and tear, and then made an educated guess as to what hotel the owners would be likely to be able to afford.”
That won a smile from me. “Apparently everyone is a Sherlock Holmes nowadays.”
“I think in monsieur’s case, he would perhaps prefer to be an Alphonse Bertillon.”
But Holmes was smiling too.
We took a cab to the hotel. I had no real expectation that our old luggage would be there but I was beginning to enjoy the chase.
The young lady on reception spoke excellent English and was keen to demonstrate it, and so this time I was able to take a greater part in the conversation. She explained to us the luggage had indeed been at the hotel for a time, and some inquiries had been made at neighbouring hotels. But naturally—she was more tactful in her wording—they had other concerns than playing detective.
“I’m afraid we did look through the contents,” said the lady. “In the hope of finding addresses inside, but unfortunately there was nothing there to help us.”
“Yes, of course,” I said. I suppose Holmes had perhaps been concerned not to lay a trail for us, and I simply had been in too much of a rush to think of the possibility of putting identifying information in my case.
The lady hesitated. “The clothes were of such good quality, the owner thought they should be passed on to someone who could use them. Henri Fabron, the youngest of the waiters, was getting married and the owner gave everything to him.”
Holmes smiled. “Could we speak to this young man? Does he still work here?”
“I’m afraid not. But we still have his last address recorded. I could ask if you might have that.”
The young lady left us and soon reappeared with the manager. Understandably, at first he was reluctant to hand over the address to a stranger but on learning that the ‘S. Holmes’ on the suitcase had stood for ‘Sherlock Holmes’ and that the man himself now stood before him, he could not have been more helpful, even writing us a short note of explanation to give to his former subordinate.
In return we gave the hotel our business, staying to take lunch. Afterwards we went to Fabron’s last address but he had moved on, presumably to quarters more suitable for a married couple. Holmes brought out all the fascinating and captivating charm at his disposal and in a desperate attempt to get rid of him, the landlady eventually handed over the address of Fabron’s new lodgings.
Holmes suggested we wait until evening before trying the second address. If the young man was no longer a waiter, hopefully he would then have finished work for the day and we would be able to speak to him. And so to pass the time we became truly tourists in Paris, strolling along the boulevards, taking in the atmosphere and admiring the architecture. Surprisingly soon it was time to make our second attempt to find Monsieur Fabron and we took a cab out towards the outskirts of Paris.
Henri Fabron and his wife were indeed in when we arrived at their home. The landlady took up our note from the manager of the Hôtel Westminster and then returned to lead us up to the young couple’s rooms.
The two of them seemed somewhat bemused by the visit but were polite and welcoming. Fabron began in English but the conversation seemed to naturally move into French—perhaps because Madame Fabron was there. I found Fabron’s accent a little thick and followed even less than usual, but I could see the odd suppressed smile from Holmes and wondered what the young man was saying.
Eventually Holmes rose and thanked the couple, and we took our leave. Downstairs the landlady showed us out again and once on the pavement Holmes flagged down a cab to take us back to the centre of the city. As soon as we were on our way, I demanded from Holmes the information he had learnt.
Holmes was happy to oblige. “Fabron did come into possession of our luggage. But apparently all the suits were too old-fashioned for such a young man, and—quelle horreur—in the English style!” Holmes laughed. “He appreciated the quality though and needed some money for his forthcoming marriage, so he advertised and sold everything—cases included.”
The bit was between my teeth. “Aha! So what is the name of the buyer?”
“Unfortunately Fabron could not remember the gentleman’s name. But perhaps tracing him may not be necessary.” Holmes was smiling. “I am going to take a leaf out of the fair sex’s book here and use some intuition over deduction. If one Frenchman was unwilling to wear our clothes, then perhaps... our buyer didn’t want to wear them either.”
I furrowed my brow. “So—why would he buy them then? He wanted them as rags?”
“No, as our young friend pointed out, the clothes were of good quality. It would be a waste to simply use them as a raw material. But our names were on the cases, and we do have a certain fame…” Holmes’s voice faded away with a small smile and no matter how I pleaded he refused to say another word for the rest of the journey.
I had assumed we were going back to our hotel but in the Boulevard Montmartre Holmes abruptly called, “Arrêtez-vous ici, s’il vous plaît!” We exited the cab, he paid the driver and began striding off, with myself hurrying after in some confusion. Holmes eventually came to a halt and waited for me to catch him up. He gestured to the building he was standing next to and I turned to examine it. It had an impressive facade.
“Musée Grévin…”
I looked back at Holmes in bemusement.
Holmes smiled. “It’s the wax museum.”
I was puzzled for a long moment and then the centime dropped. “No.”
Holmes’s smile widened. “I rather suspect, yes. I think the buyer that came to purchase the clothes from Henri Fabron was already planning to sell them on again. But he saw the names and realised who the cases had belonged to…” He gestured to the museum. “And he thought of the perfect buyer.”
The Musée Grévin had of course been closed at that hour and so we had to return the next morning in order to confirm Holmes’s suspicions. We paid our entrance fee and hurried through the rest of the visitors as fast as we discreetly could, past distinguished figures from French society and French history, until we found the rooms dedicated to figures from further afield. We looked around for two particular waxworks and it did not take long to find them.
Or rather, find us.
The Napoleon of crime was there too. We had been arranged in a tableau: Holmes and his opponent locked in an eternal struggle over the—rather shallow—abyss while a washed-out looking fellow with an unkempt moustache looked on from the side. It took a moment to realise that this monstrosity was supposed to represent myself, and that its outfit was my erstwhile favourite suit.
“It’s hideous,” I hissed at Holmes. “Why am I so pale?”
I fear Holmes found my indignation rather amusing.
“I think it is meant to represent your being shocked,” he suggested.
I was not to be placated. “And why am I standing at the side looking wan? I wasn’t even there! And if I had been there, I would have helped, not stood there gaping like a fool! That is, if I’d been allowed to be ther—!”
I bit my tongue and managed to change the subject.
“And why are you wrestling your arch-nemesis in evening wear?” I thought about it for a moment. “Why had you packed dress-clothes in the first place?”
Holmes laughed. “A gentleman has to be prepared.”
The thought passed through my mind that perhaps then he could have been better prepared in dealing with that final situation in Switzerland. Once again I held my tongue however.
Holmes had apparently not noticed my hesitation. His voice dropped. “But we are not here for my dress-clothes. We are here for your heather tweed. I think now the next step would be for you to retrieve your property.”
I nodded, and gazed about. “Find the manager? Ask him to contact the owners and explain the situation?”
I looked back at Holmes. There was that light in his eyes again—the one that had brought me to Paris in the first place. “We could do that,” he said. “However, there would be an awful lot of arguing. It might take months to sort out.”
I could guess what was coming but that gleam was causing me to weaken.
Holmes raised an eyebrow. “And it is your property—it might just be simplest not to go through the official channels.”
I considered it for a full ten or fifteen seconds before giving in. “So what do you suggest?”
Holmes discreetly gestured to the milling visitors while keeping his eyes on me. “Well, we would have to retrieve the suit when there are less people about. When the museum is closed for the day…?”
I may have been a middle-aged man suddenly caught in the midst of a childish caper with his best friend but I had some dignity left. I considered Holmes warily.
“You’re not going to suggest we disguise ourselves as waxworks and wait until the place shuts, are you?”
Holmes rolled his eyes. “Of course not! We would be easily spotted. Everyone is here to specifically pay attention to the waxworks.”
It was true. No-one was paying the slightest bit of notice to Holmes and myself there in the flesh, while there were plenty of visitors examining our replicas.
My friend leant forward. “Tonight, doctor, we will make our grand entrance through the exit.”
Holmes had apparently brought his burglary tools to Paris.
Thank heavens the Douane had taken no interest in our more recent batch of luggage when we alighted at Calais. I kept watch while Holmes worked with his lock-picks, embarrassment rather than fear at the forefront of my mind. This would be an awkward conversation with any passing agent de police. Holmes was swift with his work however. He dropped his tools in the small sack he had also brought along and ushered me into the building, following soon thereafter.
He handed me the sack to hold and pulled out a lantern. He lit it, and then his free hand grabbed mine and we set off in the semi-darkness, Holmes apparently with a clear map in his head of where we were going. I was goosed along the way by what I suspect was Voltaire but we arrived otherwise unharmed at the reproduction of the Reichenbach Fall.
Holmes let go of my hand, set down the lantern and reclaimed the sack. He got it open again and pointed at my ghastly replica.
“Remove the jacket and put in the bag,” he whispered. “Then I’ll tip the figure backwards and you can retrieve the trousers too.”
I nodded and carefully approached the waxwork, setting my hands on the jacket in order to get to work on the buttons.
But then I hesitated. I removed my hands from the jacket and instead I reached out to the pale face before me in an attempt to tidy that unruly moustache a little.
I dropped my hand. I stared at the figure for a long moment, and then I stepped away. At that point I noticed that, as an attempt at verisimilitude, there was a handkerchief tucked in the jacket’s sleeve. I fished it out and holding it tight turned to Holmes.
“Let’s just leave the poor fellow in peace, shall we?”
Without waiting for a reply, I picked up the lantern and led the way back to the exit, somehow managing it without a single misstep.
Holmes’s eyes were questioning once we were out under the street-lights but he said nothing—taking and extinguishing the lantern in silence before replacing it in the sack. Only when we were a safe distance from the museum did he put his question into words.
“Watson, why didn’t you take the suit?”
I showed him the handkerchief. “I did take this. As a trophy for our quest. Mary embroidered my initials on it, as she did with all my handkerchiefs. I’m glad to have it back.”
Holmes looked puzzled. “But you were fond of that suit too. I remember—”
It simply burst out of me. “I don’t want the wretched suit, Holmes!”
Holmes stared at me in surprise.
“It’s from a different time! When I bought that suit I had Mary, and a thriving and growing practice, and—” I stared back at him. “—and I had marvellous adventures that always ended with you putting the world perfectly to rights!”
Holmes looked taken aback. “Not always. Not everything can always be neatly sorted out.”
“Well, they certainly never ended in you fighting your arch-enemy and disappearing for three years while strongly implying you were dead!”
I tried to collect myself.
“I can’t recapture the past. I thought this adventure would be like old times but— You’ve got to understand what it was like for me, Holmes. I lost Mary, I lost you, and I lost those marvellous adventures. And I couldn’t even take refuge in the rose-tinted past because Mary’s illness had probably taken hold before I even met her. And you and I were never truly putting the world to rights because bloody Moriarty was always lurking in the background waiting to ruin it all!”
My distress had taken me unawares. I started striding back towards the hotel, oblivious as to whether Holmes was following or not.
It took quite a time to walk back to the hotel and when I reached my room I had only to climb into bed to fall asleep. In the morning I felt a little better. I found Holmes in the dining room, and I joined him for breakfast. We exchanged a cautious smile and a greeting, but after ordering and receiving our food, we both set to eating in silence.
Holmes gave up with his meal about halfway through and pushed his plate away. He looked up at me. “Do you… want to return to England immediately? Because I was thinking that now we are here, it would be a shame not to do some sightseeing and attend some plays and concerts.”
I picked up my cup and examined the coffee within. “Well, I wouldn’t want to take advantage of your purse or your time…”
I set the cup firmly down again and looked Holmes in the eye.
“But I would like that a great deal, Holmes. Thank you.”
Holmes sat back and he smiled.
Once back in London, Holmes did not immediately resume his habit of spending his free time at my practice. It took only a few days though before I once again found him in my waiting room, and so I invited him into the surgery to pace about while I finished my notes.
It was some minutes before he spoke. “I’ve… been thinking about our trip to Paris. And your suit.”
I glanced up. “Oh, yes?”
Holmes continued on. “I realise the past can’t be recaptured, no. But— There can be a new beginning and new adventures?”
I set my pen aside and looked up.
Holmes came and took a seat opposite me. He hesitated for a moment but then carried on.
“Here is my deduction, Watson. You didn’t just agree to come with me because you wanted to recapture the past. You also came because you wanted to escape your present. And so here is my proposition. Take up your old room again, and join me as an associate in my practice.”
He paused again.
“But… with a fresh start. Not just as a friend who helps out on occasion, but an equal partner who does an equal amount of the work and gets an equal share of the earnings. I’ve already spoken to Mrs. Hudson! And I’ve cleared out all of the papers and books I’d been storing in your room. Naturally you will need time to think about this though. Of course you will. I would imagine there are many considerations to take into account. And you may have other plans! And perhaps you may not wish to work with me full time! And perhaps—!”
He abruptly came to a halt, colouring a little.
I stared at him. Holmes’s anxieties were groundless. I did not really need to think about it. I was tempted. Very tempted. However there were practicalities.
“But what about my practice? I’d need to find a buyer for it.”
Holmes gave me a small, relieved smile. “I’m certain something will turn up.”
The adventures had not been over after all—Holmes had come back. And I had hoped to be able to recapture the past but it seemed this was the wrong approach.
I put my practice up for sale and a young doctor with a name suspiciously similar to the maiden name of Holmes’s grandmother took it off my hands. I stopped being a general practitioner and, with any personal belongings that were either necessary or very dear to me, moved back to Baker Street to become a detective’s associate.
Once more I took up my literary pen and started to write up our cases. Holmes refused to let me actually publish them—for the time being anyway—but I continued to write them for my own enjoyment.
Let the past have its peace. A new collection of adventures had begun.