The Adventure of the Lost Seaman (Part II)
The Adventure of the Lost Seaman (Part II)
I must have fallen asleep at some point, for I was awoken in the early hours of the morning by a soft shake of my shoulder. Holmes was standing beside me, fully dressed and looking tense. “You have five minutes to dress, Watson,” he announced. “We need to go.”
“My dear fellow, what has happened?” I inquired sleepily.
“They have escaped from the ship,” he said shortly, “and are on the run. Make haste.”
“Fool that I am!” my friend exclaimed as our cab made its way as fast as possible through the cool morning air. “I should have searched the ship myself until I found him. I should have given more time to those blueprints... but there was no place to start...”
“What happened?”
“Lestrade was alerted half an hour ago with the news that two armed men had made a violent escape from the ship. There has been a shooting, in which two of the constables were wounded. The men escaped in the direction of the storehouses. The district is now swarming with policemen, of course, but if they are as diligent as those who were supposed to guard the ship...”
“But you told Lestrade to expect such a thing!”
“Apparently our friends were very skilled. They would be, if one of them was a habitual criminal. At any rate, they were probably desperate. They couldn’t expect to remain hidden much longer, and they were most likely running out of supplies.”
“Holmes,” I asked, not really wishing to hear the answer, “who do you think was the second man?”
Holmes gave me a humorless smile. “I very much fear, my dear fellow, that my father’s old friend has thrown in his lot with a ruthless killer,” he confirmed my suspicions, “though I doubt that he meant to take it this far. With any luck, he may be the weak link in van Houten’s chain. I don’t think that he is a criminal by nature, and all this violence may evoke his resistance, after all.”
We were silent for the rest of the journey. It did not lead us directly to the docks; Holmes, who had given the matter more thought than I, had arranged for a detour to No. 3 Pinchin Lane to rouse his old acquaintance Mr. Sherman, owner of the most capable tracking dog in London. Toby had been of use to us in the adventure of the Agra treasure; now he was old and grey-muzzled and lethargic, but his owner assured us that his sense of smell was as keen as ever. So equipped we arrived at the quay to find our friend Lestrade pacing restlessly, accompanied, to my great surprise, by no other than Mr. Holmes Senior. My friend appeared perfectly undisturbed by this fact and greeted both men civilly, which led me to wonder if, perhaps, he had taken my words to heart and had informed his father of the proceedings of the case. I could only hope so, for I would surely not ask.
“I am glad to see you, Mr. Holmes,” Lestrade admitted, looking slightly flustered. “I don’t like to say it but it looks like you were right and my men... Hello, what’s this?”
“His name is Toby,” Holmes explained with ill disguised amusement, while the dog settled down at the Inspector’s feet with a disinterested air about him. “I am in hopes that he will help us to find our escapees. What I need now is an item that carries the Captain’s scent. Bedclothes, for instance.”
Such an item was swiftly procured and my friend succeeded with some effort in waking the snoring dog and making him take up the scent. Toby complied and, with an ungracious look towards Holmes, trotted slowly into the direction of one of the narrow byways. “Watson and I will follow him,” my friend directed. “Lestrade, you will be needed here to coordinate the search, no doubt. In any case, we shall be less noticeable on our own.”
And so we were off once again in the search for a dangerous criminal. I admit that, patiently following Toby’s slow waddle as we were, we must have looked more like two middle-aged gentlemen on a pleasant afternoon walk, except that most gentlemen of our class did not indulge in afternoon walks in the shabby East End district. Nevertheless, I felt the old thrill of excitement and danger just as I remembered them from our former adventures, more than three years ago. It was as if nothing had changed between us; no separation, no hurt of loss, no lonely years. Neither felt I more intimately bound to him than I had formerly; but then, I realized, we had been friends of the heart long before we had known each other in the physical sense.
The day was still young but the streets were already busy, and at first I doubted that our guide would be able to follow one man’s scent in the bustle of the crowd. Luckily for us, our prey seemed to fear detection by sight rather than scent, and had kept off the more populated streets. Toby strolled in a perfectly unhurried pace along several narrow, grimy roads, passed a shabby-looking pub, took a fleeting interest in what appeared to be a butcher’s yard, and at last trotted towards a run-down building that looked like a storehouse.
Holmes gave me a significant look, and we both drew our weapons. My friend’s narrow face was pale and tense, and I could see his eyes shining in excitement. He pushed against the door, and it opened slowly.
With his revolver raised, Holmes took a careful step inside, then motioned for me to follow him. We were standing in front of a huge shelf that effectively blocked our view. As far as I could see, the whole room was filled with similar shelves and some stacks of wooden boxes that almost reached the high ceiling. Judging from the amount of dust and cobwebs, it had not been in use for some time. My friend listened for a moment, then surveyed the obvious footsteps on the floor with a critical glance.
“Very clever,” he said so softly I could hardly understand him. “They were here, but did not take one direction only. One went to the left, the other to the right, and they probably met somewhere in the middle of this room. Maybe they already left through a back door, but this looks like a suitable hiding-place to me. Be on your guard.”
I nodded, keeping a tight grip on my revolver.
“Toby will follow the Captain’s scent, of course,” Holmes continued. “You’ll take his direction, I’ll take the other. No, don’t argue, my dear fellow,” he supplied before I could protest. “No offence, Watson, but I have the lighter step.” He gave me a fleeting smile and briefly touched my wrist with his slender fingers. I felt a shiver run down my spine that was surely not caused by the thrill of the chase. Some things had changed, after all, I admitted to myself.
I gave him a grim smile in response and made an effort to raise Toby, who had fallen asleep again on my feet. The dog heaved himself to his feet with a word-weary expression and resumed his slow pace, sniffing intently at the footprints before deciding on one direction. Holmes watched him for a moment and then, silent as a shadow, disappeared into the other.
To this day I cannot decide whether what happened next was due to bad luck, my own slow reaction, or a horrendous misjudgment on our part. Toby and I had followed the Captain’s footsteps almost to the further side of the room when I heard a crashing noise somewhere nearby, followed by a shout in what I recognized as my friend’s voice, and the sound of running footsteps accompanied by two revolver shots. I turned around, raising my weapon and pointing it toward the general direction of the uproar, when a man came dashing from the corridor behind me and, turning sharply around the corner, ran straight into me. Together we stumbled backwards a few steps. I tried to grab my opponent, but had completely forgotten Toby who had obediently stopped behind me when I had turned. With a crash we both fell over the yelping dog, and in the resultant tussle it must have been he who regained his senses faster, for I suddenly felt the cold muzzle of a revolver pressed against the back of my head.
“Don’t move,” the man behind me hissed, and I froze instinctively. Just then Holmes skidded around the corner and, quickly taking in the scene in front of him, stopped in his tracks, his face turning deathly pale.
“All right,” said the voice behind me, in fluent English but with a heavy accent, “Throw away your weapons, and raise your hands. Instantly, or this gentlemen dies.”
There was nothing for it. We both complied, and my assailant stepped in front of us, keeping a safe distance but effectively threatening both of us with his weapon. He was of average height, and of such an unremarkable appearance that I could hardly wonder how he had managed to stay hidden in Rotterdam for two weeks. The bearded face under the graying brown hair might have been called handsome, but there was a cruel streak around his mouth and his blue eyes were cold. I understood that this was a man who would stop at nothing.
“Get up,” he ordered roughly, and I obeyed. “Come here, Joseph. We have company.”
A man stepped forth from behind the next corner. He was wearing a nautical uniform, and his figure was tall and broad, but his shoulders were bent from age and a life of hard labour. His hair and beard were grey, and two light blue eyes were shining in the lined face. I understood that this must be Captain Morrison. He advanced us reluctantly, looking troubled.
My mind was racing, for I realized at once the danger of our position. The man had proven to possess no conscience whatsoever, and he had no reason to spare our lives. If one of us did not come up with a brilliant plan instantly, things were looking black for us. I tried to catch my companion’s gaze, but his grey eyes were fixed on the killer, his pale face betraying nothing. Behind his cool façade I was sure his brain was working desperately. Van Houten, however, had noticed my fleeting gaze and gave me a cruel smile.
“I wouldn’t try any tricks if I were you,” he said. “I hit my mark, make no mistake.”
“I’m sure you do,” Holmes replied calmly. “However, you are certainly aware that every constable in the district is looking for you. If you shoot us now you’ll only draw attention to yourself.”
It was a feeble attempt, and he knew it. Unperturbed as he appeared, I could still read him well enough to notice his underlying tension. I wondered briefly, with the unusual clarity that sometimes accompanies mortal danger, if this was indeed the end, if our new-found happiness should really last no more than three weeks. It seemed so unfair.
“Wait a moment,” the Captain interrupted suddenly, stepping beside his accomplice. He was staring at my friend as if something had suddenly dawned on him. “Sherlock Holmes. You are Sherlock Holmes.”
My friend’s lips tightened. He did not answer, but I knew as well as he that the man had just ruined our last slim chance of arguing our way out of this. Holmes’ name was known throughout Europe; now that van Houten knew whom he held in his power, he would surely not miss the chance of finishing the famous sleuth once and for all.
I could see the Dutchman’s eyes widen in amazement. “Sherlock Holmes? The Sherlock Holmes, of whom the whole criminal world of Europe lives in constant fear? Well, well, if that is not an extraordinary stroke of luck. I heard recently that you had not died after all. What an honour for me that I should be the one to correct that error.”
“No!” the Captain protested, obviously realizing too late that he had made our position even more precarious. His face was pale beneath the tanned skin, and I could see the anguish in his eyes. “No, don’t kill them. Think of what they’re worth. You can take them as a hostage. You’ll have a hard time getting away from here as it is, but I’m sure you can ask the authorities for a ship and safe conduct if you have Sherlock Holmes’ life to offer...”
“Have you lost your mind, Joseph?” van Houten snapped. “I am not a fool, if that’s what you’re aiming at. I am certainly not going to try and hold Sherlock Holmes as a hostage. You know how dangerous he is, don’t you?”
“I can see that it would be unwise for you to spare my life,” Holmes stated with calmness that only I knew to be feigned. “However, Dr. Watson is no immediate threat to you. He is just my biographer. He possesses no particular power of the mind.”
I was stung by the remark before I understood what he was aiming at and noticed the warning gaze he sent in my direction. When our eyes met, I was sure that we were, at that moment, both thinking of the same. He had once before resorted to extreme measures to save my life, measures I would not have approved of had I had the choice, when he had let me grieve over him after Reichenbach rather than risking my being attacked by Moriarty’s agents. Now he was trying to do it again. But I had already given him my opinion on the subject, and it was final.
“I appreciate your concern, my dear fellow,” I said softly, addressing both him and van Houten. “But you know very well that I am not going anywhere without you. If he wants to kill you, he’ll have to kill me first.”
“Watson...” my friend hissed, and I could see my own distress mirrored in his features.
“Just in case you have overheard it, I said that I am no fool,” van Houten interrupted him sharply. “Although I must say, Mr. Holmes, that your display is very touching. But I’m afraid I’ll have to end this conversation before you find some way to trick me, after all.”
With that, van Houten raised his revolver and aimed at Holmes.
I tensed, fully prepared to intercept the bullet, although I knew that I had no hopes of stopping the man from firing. I was going to get hit myself, but I did not even need time to think about that. It was something I would always, at any time, have done for my friend, and now he had so recently returned to the living, I was less than ever inclined to stand by and watch him die. As I moved, I could see a movement from the corner of my eye and knew that the Captain was about to do the same, but we were both too late.
A single revolver shot rang through the room.
Van Houten was thrown forward, stumbled a few steps and then collapsed, his weapon skidding out of his hand and landing at Holmes’ feet. A dark pool was forming around the Dutchman’s head, and his eyes were wide and staring. For a moment there was a deadly silence.
In the corridor behind the man stood Geoffrey Lestrade, his service weapon still raised in the manner of a man who has aimed carefully, and fired to kill. Beside him was the elder Holmes, who held a small revolver in his broad hand, and now directed it towards his old friend. “Raise your hands, Morrison,” he said coldly. “Now.”
The Captain complied. The look on his face betrayed a strange mixture of relief, defeat, and infinite weariness. “I make no defense for myself,” he said simply. “But I swear to you, Holmes, that he wouldn’t have touched your son. I would not have allowed it. It was going to end here, one way or the other.”
The old man did not reply, but his eyes flashed at the words.
“I believe him,” my friend stated suddenly. He looked as calm and controlled as ever, but his eyes wandered thoughtfully from his father to the Captain and back again. “Van Houten intended to kill us on the spot, as he did with his unfortunate colleague, did he not, Captain? But your friend here objected to the idea. As you could see, we were in a rather precarious position when you arrived. It is rather likely that we all owe you our lives.”
“Van Houten?” Lestrade inquired, sounding bemused. “You are saying that this man was...”
“The murderer who eluded the Dutch police two weeks ago, yes,” my friend supplied. “And also, if I am not very much mistaken, the brother-in-law of Captain Morrison. Am I right, Captain?”
“You have, no doubt, inquired into my personal history and found my late wife’s maiden name van Houten, have you not?” the Captain stated with a weary smile. “You live up to your reputation, Sherlock Holmes.”
“It was no more than routine. I knew you must have some connection to this man, and I remembered that your wife was Dutch by birth. Judging from the man’s age, he was most likely her brother. The fact explained why he would be in the possession of knowledge which could... inconvenience you.”
“Meaning to say that he blackmailed me,” the Captain said. “You found the note? I thought I had lost it.”
“It was in one of your uniform jackets.”
The Captain nodded, still wearing a look of calm resignation. Lestrade looked from one to the other with a slightly exasperated expression. “Would anyone care to enlighten me to the details of this affair? I have read the note, but...”
My friend looked amused. “But the exact meaning escaped you, no doubt, Lestrade,” he supplied, and received an irritated look from the good Inspector. “Surely it was obvious that it was a blackmailing note? It bore a clear reference to the Queen Mary disaster in ’71, which happened on Guy Fawkes’ Day. That makes me surmise that there is some detail of that affair the Captain would not like to become public.”
“I cannot deny that now, can I?” the Captain admitted slowly, an expression of sadness on his lined features. “To think what I did to keep it from the public... I did it for my sons, more than anything else. They should not have to be ashamed for their father.”
He paused, looking around. His gaze finally rested on Holmes Senior, who regarded him with cool expectation but had at least lowered his weapon. “It was the single biggest mistake of my life,” he said, and I had the impression that he was mainly talking to his old friend. “It was not one of ill will, but poor judgment and, ultimately, cowardice. You recall that there was a fire in the engine room which led to a huge explosion, and the ship sunk only a few miles before it reached the harbour, taking most of the crew with it? I have always seen it as a supreme irony that I was among those who survived. Maybe it was God’s punishment that I should have to live with the guilt, for it was I who was responsible for the disaster.”
“Go on,” Holmes Senior requested quietly when the Captain paused, an expression of deep pain on his weathered face.
“One of the crewmen, whose direct superior I was, alerted me that evening with the report that some of the temperature readings in the engine room were out of order and, considering that some the equipment was already a bit morose, that we should most likely reduce speed to avoid overheating. I inspected the machinery myself and decided that this could wait until we had reached the harbour. We would have been there in a few hours anyway, and it would have been awkward to arrive behind schedule. Obviously that was a grave misjudgment on my part, for only half an hour later the catastrophe took its course.
And then, when the whole incident was investigated, I failed again. I could not bring myself to confess that I had committed that grave error, so I lied at the inquiry and said that nothing out of the ordinary had been brought to my notice. The crewman who had alerted me had been killed in the explosion, so there was no one to betray my secret. But I found that I could not bear to live with this burden on my shoulders alone, with no one to confide in. So I confessed the whole thing to my wife. She accepted my sins with loving forgiveness, and she supported me, saying that ruining my life now would not undo the damage that had been done. When she died three years ago, I thought that I was the only one left to know the truth. But I was wrong.
I was never particularly close to her younger brother - a ruthless, cunning rascal he was, and I always suspected that he was up to no good. I was shocked, but not surprised that he was identified as a member of the Rotterdam gang. But you can imagine my dismay when I received his note last week, which indicated that he knew more than he should about my past. I met him, reluctantly, in a popular tavern near our landing place, where he told me that he had overheard my conversation with his sister all those years ago, and that he planned to divulge the information, anonymously, to the public press if I did not help him to escape from Rotterdam in the guise of a crewman.”
“And you obliged,” my friend stated when the Captain paused again. “But something went wrong. Young van Bijert recognized van Houten from the press reports.”
“Yes,” the Captain confessed heavily. “He was a very perceptive fellow. But he was also cowed by his own knowledge, so he came to me. I wish he had not.”
“Van Houten happened to be in your cabin when he called.”
“Yes. We were arguing about how far I would have to support him once we had reached the harbour. He hid himself in the cupboard behind my uniforms when we heard the knock on the door. We both thought it for the best. But when he heard what the poor boy had to tell me...” The Captain broke off and stared blankly at the murderer’s body on the ground.
“Yes, we know what happened,” Lestrade said calmly. “And you helped him hide the body. Mr. Holmes found it.”
Morrison looked at my friend with a mixture of admiration and remorse. “I had no idea what to do,” he confessed. “My first thought was that now he would kill me, too. Then he told me that suspicion would fall on me, and we would have to get rid of the body. And that, considering we did not know what he had told his fellow crewmen, we too should go into hiding. I was outraged, but then I began to see the point. The poor man might have told his fellows about his suspicions. He might have told them that he was about to see me. There was no way out of it.“
„So you hid yourselves in one of the secret chambers designed to hide the cargo in case of emergency.“
“Yes. There was one close to the exit. But we could not stay there for too long, obviously, especially when the ship was searched by the police, more than once... well. You know the rest.”
„Indeed. Speaking of which,“ Holmes concluded, turning towards Lestrade and his father, „you did indeed arrive just in time to save us. You were following us, I believe?”
“Mr. Holmes insisted on it,” Lestrade agreed, “and I could not let him go alone.”
“You were obviously going into danger,” Holmes’ father explained, his heavy features still appearing cold and stern. “I thought once that I had lost you forever. That is not going to happen again if I can prevent it.”
My friend looked embarrassed, but still managed a nonchalant shrug. “If that is all, Lestrade, I suggest we should be on our way. This gentleman is certainly less than pleasant company.”
I wish that I could conclude my narration of this case with Holmes’ explanation, but the whole affair turned out even more painful to all who were concerned. It seemed that, with a preliminary statement given and the main culprit dead, there was not much more for Holmes or myself to do, so we followed Lestrade and his handcuffed prisoner back to the ship, with Toby in tow, in the hopes of finding a four-wheeler to take us home. My friend’s father trailed silently beside him, his face a stony mask. There was a short section of our path that ran parallel to the river; it was there that the Captain suddenly broke away. Lestrade, taken by surprise, gave a startled shout and tried to reach out for him, but to no avail. Morrison eluded him, made a few hasty steps toward the waterfront and threw himself over the steep edge.
For a moment we all stood in shock while we heard, only briefly, the sounds of an instinctive struggle. Then there was silence.
I accepted Lestrade’s invitation for lunch when the formalities were settled, knowing that my presence at Baker Street would not be appreciated for some time. When I returned home, I found the two Holmeses sitting in amiable silence before our fire-place, the younger smoking his clay pipe, the elder holding a brandy glass in his hand. I was relieved to see their relaxed attitudes, although the atmosphere was far from exuberant and it was obvious that Holmes Senior was deeply grieved by our case’s outcome.
“Ah, Watson,” my friend said when I strolled over to the table to pour myself a cup of tea. “I expected you earlier. I never knew you considered our good Inspector such an engaging companion.”
“I’m glad that there are some things you don’t know about me,” I retorted lightly, provoking a cocked eyebrow from Holmes and a low chuckle from the old man.
“It seems you have not exaggerated in your literal accounts of Sherlock’s skills, Doctor,” he commented. “I have just told him that I am thoroughly impressed by his handling of the case.”
“I am sorry it turned out this way, Mr. Holmes,” I stated earnestly.
A shadow flitted across the old man’s face, but his gaze remained steady. “He brought it onto himself,” he said calmly. “I am sorry that he was not a stronger man. I am sorry that I could be of no help to him. But who am I to judge him? I have made my own mistakes in life.”
“Still, I wish we could have avoided this tragedy,” my friend declared solemnly. “It was an engaging case, but you have lost a friend in the process.”
“Yes,” his father admitted quietly, “yes, I have.” It seemed to me that he was about to add something, but then he merely leaned back in his chair with an odd little smile. Holmes shot him a sharp look, but said nothing. I can only suppose that, maybe for the first time ever, they understood each other without words.
“It really was a tragedy,” Holmes mused when we were stretched out together on my bed later that evening. “The man was destroyed by the one failure in his past because, instead of taking responsibility for it, he tried to cover it up and made it all worse. At least there is some moral in it,” he added with a sarcastic undertone.
“He did get lost, in a way,” I said, “long before he went missing. I don’t like to think how this secret must have shadowed his life. Living with the guilt, and the fear that the truth may be discovered after all...”
“You are sorry for him.”
“I can’t help it. We’ve met men who committed worse, and suffered less for it.”
“The family of the unfortunate Paul van Bijert will probably not agree with your sentiments.”
I could not argue with that. The young man had been murdered just because he had crossed the path of a ruthless killer, and the Captain had gone along with it. “It was a wretched business altogether,” I conceded. “There was no gain in it for anyone.”
“Except maybe the Dutch authorities, who can now close their case,” my friend agreed. “You know, Watson, we are always inclined to look for sense and justice in whatever we see. I fear we must accept that sometimes there is none. But there is the good in life, too,” he added with a meaningful glance and, as if to underline his words, gently brushed a strand of hair out of my face.
He was right. We had just convinced each other of the fact again, with all means we had beyond words. There had been no awkwardness this time; we had been united in our desire to feel each other, to lose ourselves in the other, to desperately prove that we were still alive and that, at least for this moment, life’s tragedies had no hold over us. Now we were lying in the afterglow, still feeling the warmth and relief of our encounter, and I could feel how the excitement and horror of the past events slowly faded in my mind.
”At least,” I endeavored, absently stroking my companion’s pale chest, “It is good to see that your familial tensions have somewhat lessened.”
He smiled, and turned on his back with a thoughtful look in his eyes. “I have to thank you for that, Watson,” he remarked. “It was your insistence that made me reconsider my attitude. I suppose he told you what happened to my mother, all this time ago?”
“Yes. He told me you blamed him.”
“I did,” he confessed. “Maybe I was wrong. Maybe I should have been more forgiving. I considered him weak and cowardly, back in those days, but then, who knows what went on in his mind. And he certainly wasn’t any of these things in our recent dealings. But that wasn’t all, in any case.”
“What was not?”
“The reason for my reclusion,” he said slowly. “There was more to it.”
“I thought there might be,” I replied patiently, wondering whether he would in fact share with me what he had hidden from the world for so long. He paused, considering, and I watched him, languidly stretched out on the bed as he was, covered only to the waist and with his arms casually entwined under his head. I was suddenly overcome with a strange sensation of wonder, as if realizing for the first time that it was the two of us together now, sharing my bed and his intimate secrets. I would remember this, store it in the back of my mind, to recall at times when he once again affronted me with his cool and, at times, unthinking demeanour.
“It is true that I was angry at him for failing to support my mother,” he admitted finally, “but I also feared him. He was the model of a respectable, well-established gentleman. He was conservative in his views. And he had a special liking for Mycroft. At least it always seemed to me that way”, he conceded. “Mycroft was brilliant, you see. More so than I was. My father never tried to hide the fact that he was very proud of him. And he was allowed certain liberties because of it. There was the question of inheritance, you know.”
“I don’t see your point...”
“Mycroft’s talent was so outstanding that he was introduced into his first modest position in the Government at the age of twenty. It was what he had always dreamt of. He didn’t want to get married and lead the life of a country squire. And my father accepted that, because he believed that my brother could come to higher honours with his chosen career. That left me.”
“You thought he would expect you to take over the estate?”
“Seems a preposterous thing to turn that down, doesn’t it?” Holmes inquired with a cocked eyebrow. “It’s not a big one, mind, so I may be forgiven my ungratefulness. But in any case, I am not made for a quiet country life. Perhaps one day, when I’m old...” He smiled. “But that’s a long way off. As it is, I would die of boredom. And then there was the expectation of getting a respectable marriage and fathering an heir. You know of my inclinations in that area...”
“I should, by now,” I agreed fondly.
“I thought he would guess if I refused to take on my assumed responsibilities and proceeded to live a bohemian life instead. I thought he would find out and despise me.”
“So you broke with him before he could break with you?”
Holmes was thoughtful for a moment, then nodded. “I didn’t think of it that way. I told myself it was only because of Mother. But in essence, yes.”
“And now?”
“Now he knows the life I am leading, and he accepts it. He has indicated that he does not intend to interfere with my private life any more than with Mycroft’s. The estate will be sold after his death.”
We were both silent for a while. I thought about how he had always been reticent about his personal background, and how much more sense it all made to me now he had finally confided in me. I was deeply moved by this display of trust.
“You know,” I said finally, slowly running my hand through his disheveled black hair, “as far as I know, he never despised you. He told me, when I first met him, that he was immensely proud of you. He said one of his biggest regrets was that he had never told you.”
“He did tell me,” Holmes said with a smile, and finally turned over to look me in the eye. “He told me today.”
He looked more at peace with himself than I had ever seen him before, and suddenly I knew that, whatever he might say, it really mattered very much.
I must have fallen asleep at some point, for I was awoken in the early hours of the morning by a soft shake of my shoulder. Holmes was standing beside me, fully dressed and looking tense. “You have five minutes to dress, Watson,” he announced. “We need to go.”
“My dear fellow, what has happened?” I inquired sleepily.
“They have escaped from the ship,” he said shortly, “and are on the run. Make haste.”
“Fool that I am!” my friend exclaimed as our cab made its way as fast as possible through the cool morning air. “I should have searched the ship myself until I found him. I should have given more time to those blueprints... but there was no place to start...”
“What happened?”
“Lestrade was alerted half an hour ago with the news that two armed men had made a violent escape from the ship. There has been a shooting, in which two of the constables were wounded. The men escaped in the direction of the storehouses. The district is now swarming with policemen, of course, but if they are as diligent as those who were supposed to guard the ship...”
“But you told Lestrade to expect such a thing!”
“Apparently our friends were very skilled. They would be, if one of them was a habitual criminal. At any rate, they were probably desperate. They couldn’t expect to remain hidden much longer, and they were most likely running out of supplies.”
“Holmes,” I asked, not really wishing to hear the answer, “who do you think was the second man?”
Holmes gave me a humorless smile. “I very much fear, my dear fellow, that my father’s old friend has thrown in his lot with a ruthless killer,” he confirmed my suspicions, “though I doubt that he meant to take it this far. With any luck, he may be the weak link in van Houten’s chain. I don’t think that he is a criminal by nature, and all this violence may evoke his resistance, after all.”
We were silent for the rest of the journey. It did not lead us directly to the docks; Holmes, who had given the matter more thought than I, had arranged for a detour to No. 3 Pinchin Lane to rouse his old acquaintance Mr. Sherman, owner of the most capable tracking dog in London. Toby had been of use to us in the adventure of the Agra treasure; now he was old and grey-muzzled and lethargic, but his owner assured us that his sense of smell was as keen as ever. So equipped we arrived at the quay to find our friend Lestrade pacing restlessly, accompanied, to my great surprise, by no other than Mr. Holmes Senior. My friend appeared perfectly undisturbed by this fact and greeted both men civilly, which led me to wonder if, perhaps, he had taken my words to heart and had informed his father of the proceedings of the case. I could only hope so, for I would surely not ask.
“I am glad to see you, Mr. Holmes,” Lestrade admitted, looking slightly flustered. “I don’t like to say it but it looks like you were right and my men... Hello, what’s this?”
“His name is Toby,” Holmes explained with ill disguised amusement, while the dog settled down at the Inspector’s feet with a disinterested air about him. “I am in hopes that he will help us to find our escapees. What I need now is an item that carries the Captain’s scent. Bedclothes, for instance.”
Such an item was swiftly procured and my friend succeeded with some effort in waking the snoring dog and making him take up the scent. Toby complied and, with an ungracious look towards Holmes, trotted slowly into the direction of one of the narrow byways. “Watson and I will follow him,” my friend directed. “Lestrade, you will be needed here to coordinate the search, no doubt. In any case, we shall be less noticeable on our own.”
And so we were off once again in the search for a dangerous criminal. I admit that, patiently following Toby’s slow waddle as we were, we must have looked more like two middle-aged gentlemen on a pleasant afternoon walk, except that most gentlemen of our class did not indulge in afternoon walks in the shabby East End district. Nevertheless, I felt the old thrill of excitement and danger just as I remembered them from our former adventures, more than three years ago. It was as if nothing had changed between us; no separation, no hurt of loss, no lonely years. Neither felt I more intimately bound to him than I had formerly; but then, I realized, we had been friends of the heart long before we had known each other in the physical sense.
The day was still young but the streets were already busy, and at first I doubted that our guide would be able to follow one man’s scent in the bustle of the crowd. Luckily for us, our prey seemed to fear detection by sight rather than scent, and had kept off the more populated streets. Toby strolled in a perfectly unhurried pace along several narrow, grimy roads, passed a shabby-looking pub, took a fleeting interest in what appeared to be a butcher’s yard, and at last trotted towards a run-down building that looked like a storehouse.
Holmes gave me a significant look, and we both drew our weapons. My friend’s narrow face was pale and tense, and I could see his eyes shining in excitement. He pushed against the door, and it opened slowly.
With his revolver raised, Holmes took a careful step inside, then motioned for me to follow him. We were standing in front of a huge shelf that effectively blocked our view. As far as I could see, the whole room was filled with similar shelves and some stacks of wooden boxes that almost reached the high ceiling. Judging from the amount of dust and cobwebs, it had not been in use for some time. My friend listened for a moment, then surveyed the obvious footsteps on the floor with a critical glance.
“Very clever,” he said so softly I could hardly understand him. “They were here, but did not take one direction only. One went to the left, the other to the right, and they probably met somewhere in the middle of this room. Maybe they already left through a back door, but this looks like a suitable hiding-place to me. Be on your guard.”
I nodded, keeping a tight grip on my revolver.
“Toby will follow the Captain’s scent, of course,” Holmes continued. “You’ll take his direction, I’ll take the other. No, don’t argue, my dear fellow,” he supplied before I could protest. “No offence, Watson, but I have the lighter step.” He gave me a fleeting smile and briefly touched my wrist with his slender fingers. I felt a shiver run down my spine that was surely not caused by the thrill of the chase. Some things had changed, after all, I admitted to myself.
I gave him a grim smile in response and made an effort to raise Toby, who had fallen asleep again on my feet. The dog heaved himself to his feet with a word-weary expression and resumed his slow pace, sniffing intently at the footprints before deciding on one direction. Holmes watched him for a moment and then, silent as a shadow, disappeared into the other.
To this day I cannot decide whether what happened next was due to bad luck, my own slow reaction, or a horrendous misjudgment on our part. Toby and I had followed the Captain’s footsteps almost to the further side of the room when I heard a crashing noise somewhere nearby, followed by a shout in what I recognized as my friend’s voice, and the sound of running footsteps accompanied by two revolver shots. I turned around, raising my weapon and pointing it toward the general direction of the uproar, when a man came dashing from the corridor behind me and, turning sharply around the corner, ran straight into me. Together we stumbled backwards a few steps. I tried to grab my opponent, but had completely forgotten Toby who had obediently stopped behind me when I had turned. With a crash we both fell over the yelping dog, and in the resultant tussle it must have been he who regained his senses faster, for I suddenly felt the cold muzzle of a revolver pressed against the back of my head.
“Don’t move,” the man behind me hissed, and I froze instinctively. Just then Holmes skidded around the corner and, quickly taking in the scene in front of him, stopped in his tracks, his face turning deathly pale.
“All right,” said the voice behind me, in fluent English but with a heavy accent, “Throw away your weapons, and raise your hands. Instantly, or this gentlemen dies.”
There was nothing for it. We both complied, and my assailant stepped in front of us, keeping a safe distance but effectively threatening both of us with his weapon. He was of average height, and of such an unremarkable appearance that I could hardly wonder how he had managed to stay hidden in Rotterdam for two weeks. The bearded face under the graying brown hair might have been called handsome, but there was a cruel streak around his mouth and his blue eyes were cold. I understood that this was a man who would stop at nothing.
“Get up,” he ordered roughly, and I obeyed. “Come here, Joseph. We have company.”
A man stepped forth from behind the next corner. He was wearing a nautical uniform, and his figure was tall and broad, but his shoulders were bent from age and a life of hard labour. His hair and beard were grey, and two light blue eyes were shining in the lined face. I understood that this must be Captain Morrison. He advanced us reluctantly, looking troubled.
My mind was racing, for I realized at once the danger of our position. The man had proven to possess no conscience whatsoever, and he had no reason to spare our lives. If one of us did not come up with a brilliant plan instantly, things were looking black for us. I tried to catch my companion’s gaze, but his grey eyes were fixed on the killer, his pale face betraying nothing. Behind his cool façade I was sure his brain was working desperately. Van Houten, however, had noticed my fleeting gaze and gave me a cruel smile.
“I wouldn’t try any tricks if I were you,” he said. “I hit my mark, make no mistake.”
“I’m sure you do,” Holmes replied calmly. “However, you are certainly aware that every constable in the district is looking for you. If you shoot us now you’ll only draw attention to yourself.”
It was a feeble attempt, and he knew it. Unperturbed as he appeared, I could still read him well enough to notice his underlying tension. I wondered briefly, with the unusual clarity that sometimes accompanies mortal danger, if this was indeed the end, if our new-found happiness should really last no more than three weeks. It seemed so unfair.
“Wait a moment,” the Captain interrupted suddenly, stepping beside his accomplice. He was staring at my friend as if something had suddenly dawned on him. “Sherlock Holmes. You are Sherlock Holmes.”
My friend’s lips tightened. He did not answer, but I knew as well as he that the man had just ruined our last slim chance of arguing our way out of this. Holmes’ name was known throughout Europe; now that van Houten knew whom he held in his power, he would surely not miss the chance of finishing the famous sleuth once and for all.
I could see the Dutchman’s eyes widen in amazement. “Sherlock Holmes? The Sherlock Holmes, of whom the whole criminal world of Europe lives in constant fear? Well, well, if that is not an extraordinary stroke of luck. I heard recently that you had not died after all. What an honour for me that I should be the one to correct that error.”
“No!” the Captain protested, obviously realizing too late that he had made our position even more precarious. His face was pale beneath the tanned skin, and I could see the anguish in his eyes. “No, don’t kill them. Think of what they’re worth. You can take them as a hostage. You’ll have a hard time getting away from here as it is, but I’m sure you can ask the authorities for a ship and safe conduct if you have Sherlock Holmes’ life to offer...”
“Have you lost your mind, Joseph?” van Houten snapped. “I am not a fool, if that’s what you’re aiming at. I am certainly not going to try and hold Sherlock Holmes as a hostage. You know how dangerous he is, don’t you?”
“I can see that it would be unwise for you to spare my life,” Holmes stated with calmness that only I knew to be feigned. “However, Dr. Watson is no immediate threat to you. He is just my biographer. He possesses no particular power of the mind.”
I was stung by the remark before I understood what he was aiming at and noticed the warning gaze he sent in my direction. When our eyes met, I was sure that we were, at that moment, both thinking of the same. He had once before resorted to extreme measures to save my life, measures I would not have approved of had I had the choice, when he had let me grieve over him after Reichenbach rather than risking my being attacked by Moriarty’s agents. Now he was trying to do it again. But I had already given him my opinion on the subject, and it was final.
“I appreciate your concern, my dear fellow,” I said softly, addressing both him and van Houten. “But you know very well that I am not going anywhere without you. If he wants to kill you, he’ll have to kill me first.”
“Watson...” my friend hissed, and I could see my own distress mirrored in his features.
“Just in case you have overheard it, I said that I am no fool,” van Houten interrupted him sharply. “Although I must say, Mr. Holmes, that your display is very touching. But I’m afraid I’ll have to end this conversation before you find some way to trick me, after all.”
With that, van Houten raised his revolver and aimed at Holmes.
I tensed, fully prepared to intercept the bullet, although I knew that I had no hopes of stopping the man from firing. I was going to get hit myself, but I did not even need time to think about that. It was something I would always, at any time, have done for my friend, and now he had so recently returned to the living, I was less than ever inclined to stand by and watch him die. As I moved, I could see a movement from the corner of my eye and knew that the Captain was about to do the same, but we were both too late.
A single revolver shot rang through the room.
Van Houten was thrown forward, stumbled a few steps and then collapsed, his weapon skidding out of his hand and landing at Holmes’ feet. A dark pool was forming around the Dutchman’s head, and his eyes were wide and staring. For a moment there was a deadly silence.
In the corridor behind the man stood Geoffrey Lestrade, his service weapon still raised in the manner of a man who has aimed carefully, and fired to kill. Beside him was the elder Holmes, who held a small revolver in his broad hand, and now directed it towards his old friend. “Raise your hands, Morrison,” he said coldly. “Now.”
The Captain complied. The look on his face betrayed a strange mixture of relief, defeat, and infinite weariness. “I make no defense for myself,” he said simply. “But I swear to you, Holmes, that he wouldn’t have touched your son. I would not have allowed it. It was going to end here, one way or the other.”
The old man did not reply, but his eyes flashed at the words.
“I believe him,” my friend stated suddenly. He looked as calm and controlled as ever, but his eyes wandered thoughtfully from his father to the Captain and back again. “Van Houten intended to kill us on the spot, as he did with his unfortunate colleague, did he not, Captain? But your friend here objected to the idea. As you could see, we were in a rather precarious position when you arrived. It is rather likely that we all owe you our lives.”
“Van Houten?” Lestrade inquired, sounding bemused. “You are saying that this man was...”
“The murderer who eluded the Dutch police two weeks ago, yes,” my friend supplied. “And also, if I am not very much mistaken, the brother-in-law of Captain Morrison. Am I right, Captain?”
“You have, no doubt, inquired into my personal history and found my late wife’s maiden name van Houten, have you not?” the Captain stated with a weary smile. “You live up to your reputation, Sherlock Holmes.”
“It was no more than routine. I knew you must have some connection to this man, and I remembered that your wife was Dutch by birth. Judging from the man’s age, he was most likely her brother. The fact explained why he would be in the possession of knowledge which could... inconvenience you.”
“Meaning to say that he blackmailed me,” the Captain said. “You found the note? I thought I had lost it.”
“It was in one of your uniform jackets.”
The Captain nodded, still wearing a look of calm resignation. Lestrade looked from one to the other with a slightly exasperated expression. “Would anyone care to enlighten me to the details of this affair? I have read the note, but...”
My friend looked amused. “But the exact meaning escaped you, no doubt, Lestrade,” he supplied, and received an irritated look from the good Inspector. “Surely it was obvious that it was a blackmailing note? It bore a clear reference to the Queen Mary disaster in ’71, which happened on Guy Fawkes’ Day. That makes me surmise that there is some detail of that affair the Captain would not like to become public.”
“I cannot deny that now, can I?” the Captain admitted slowly, an expression of sadness on his lined features. “To think what I did to keep it from the public... I did it for my sons, more than anything else. They should not have to be ashamed for their father.”
He paused, looking around. His gaze finally rested on Holmes Senior, who regarded him with cool expectation but had at least lowered his weapon. “It was the single biggest mistake of my life,” he said, and I had the impression that he was mainly talking to his old friend. “It was not one of ill will, but poor judgment and, ultimately, cowardice. You recall that there was a fire in the engine room which led to a huge explosion, and the ship sunk only a few miles before it reached the harbour, taking most of the crew with it? I have always seen it as a supreme irony that I was among those who survived. Maybe it was God’s punishment that I should have to live with the guilt, for it was I who was responsible for the disaster.”
“Go on,” Holmes Senior requested quietly when the Captain paused, an expression of deep pain on his weathered face.
“One of the crewmen, whose direct superior I was, alerted me that evening with the report that some of the temperature readings in the engine room were out of order and, considering that some the equipment was already a bit morose, that we should most likely reduce speed to avoid overheating. I inspected the machinery myself and decided that this could wait until we had reached the harbour. We would have been there in a few hours anyway, and it would have been awkward to arrive behind schedule. Obviously that was a grave misjudgment on my part, for only half an hour later the catastrophe took its course.
And then, when the whole incident was investigated, I failed again. I could not bring myself to confess that I had committed that grave error, so I lied at the inquiry and said that nothing out of the ordinary had been brought to my notice. The crewman who had alerted me had been killed in the explosion, so there was no one to betray my secret. But I found that I could not bear to live with this burden on my shoulders alone, with no one to confide in. So I confessed the whole thing to my wife. She accepted my sins with loving forgiveness, and she supported me, saying that ruining my life now would not undo the damage that had been done. When she died three years ago, I thought that I was the only one left to know the truth. But I was wrong.
I was never particularly close to her younger brother - a ruthless, cunning rascal he was, and I always suspected that he was up to no good. I was shocked, but not surprised that he was identified as a member of the Rotterdam gang. But you can imagine my dismay when I received his note last week, which indicated that he knew more than he should about my past. I met him, reluctantly, in a popular tavern near our landing place, where he told me that he had overheard my conversation with his sister all those years ago, and that he planned to divulge the information, anonymously, to the public press if I did not help him to escape from Rotterdam in the guise of a crewman.”
“And you obliged,” my friend stated when the Captain paused again. “But something went wrong. Young van Bijert recognized van Houten from the press reports.”
“Yes,” the Captain confessed heavily. “He was a very perceptive fellow. But he was also cowed by his own knowledge, so he came to me. I wish he had not.”
“Van Houten happened to be in your cabin when he called.”
“Yes. We were arguing about how far I would have to support him once we had reached the harbour. He hid himself in the cupboard behind my uniforms when we heard the knock on the door. We both thought it for the best. But when he heard what the poor boy had to tell me...” The Captain broke off and stared blankly at the murderer’s body on the ground.
“Yes, we know what happened,” Lestrade said calmly. “And you helped him hide the body. Mr. Holmes found it.”
Morrison looked at my friend with a mixture of admiration and remorse. “I had no idea what to do,” he confessed. “My first thought was that now he would kill me, too. Then he told me that suspicion would fall on me, and we would have to get rid of the body. And that, considering we did not know what he had told his fellow crewmen, we too should go into hiding. I was outraged, but then I began to see the point. The poor man might have told his fellows about his suspicions. He might have told them that he was about to see me. There was no way out of it.“
„So you hid yourselves in one of the secret chambers designed to hide the cargo in case of emergency.“
“Yes. There was one close to the exit. But we could not stay there for too long, obviously, especially when the ship was searched by the police, more than once... well. You know the rest.”
„Indeed. Speaking of which,“ Holmes concluded, turning towards Lestrade and his father, „you did indeed arrive just in time to save us. You were following us, I believe?”
“Mr. Holmes insisted on it,” Lestrade agreed, “and I could not let him go alone.”
“You were obviously going into danger,” Holmes’ father explained, his heavy features still appearing cold and stern. “I thought once that I had lost you forever. That is not going to happen again if I can prevent it.”
My friend looked embarrassed, but still managed a nonchalant shrug. “If that is all, Lestrade, I suggest we should be on our way. This gentleman is certainly less than pleasant company.”
I wish that I could conclude my narration of this case with Holmes’ explanation, but the whole affair turned out even more painful to all who were concerned. It seemed that, with a preliminary statement given and the main culprit dead, there was not much more for Holmes or myself to do, so we followed Lestrade and his handcuffed prisoner back to the ship, with Toby in tow, in the hopes of finding a four-wheeler to take us home. My friend’s father trailed silently beside him, his face a stony mask. There was a short section of our path that ran parallel to the river; it was there that the Captain suddenly broke away. Lestrade, taken by surprise, gave a startled shout and tried to reach out for him, but to no avail. Morrison eluded him, made a few hasty steps toward the waterfront and threw himself over the steep edge.
For a moment we all stood in shock while we heard, only briefly, the sounds of an instinctive struggle. Then there was silence.
I accepted Lestrade’s invitation for lunch when the formalities were settled, knowing that my presence at Baker Street would not be appreciated for some time. When I returned home, I found the two Holmeses sitting in amiable silence before our fire-place, the younger smoking his clay pipe, the elder holding a brandy glass in his hand. I was relieved to see their relaxed attitudes, although the atmosphere was far from exuberant and it was obvious that Holmes Senior was deeply grieved by our case’s outcome.
“Ah, Watson,” my friend said when I strolled over to the table to pour myself a cup of tea. “I expected you earlier. I never knew you considered our good Inspector such an engaging companion.”
“I’m glad that there are some things you don’t know about me,” I retorted lightly, provoking a cocked eyebrow from Holmes and a low chuckle from the old man.
“It seems you have not exaggerated in your literal accounts of Sherlock’s skills, Doctor,” he commented. “I have just told him that I am thoroughly impressed by his handling of the case.”
“I am sorry it turned out this way, Mr. Holmes,” I stated earnestly.
A shadow flitted across the old man’s face, but his gaze remained steady. “He brought it onto himself,” he said calmly. “I am sorry that he was not a stronger man. I am sorry that I could be of no help to him. But who am I to judge him? I have made my own mistakes in life.”
“Still, I wish we could have avoided this tragedy,” my friend declared solemnly. “It was an engaging case, but you have lost a friend in the process.”
“Yes,” his father admitted quietly, “yes, I have.” It seemed to me that he was about to add something, but then he merely leaned back in his chair with an odd little smile. Holmes shot him a sharp look, but said nothing. I can only suppose that, maybe for the first time ever, they understood each other without words.
“It really was a tragedy,” Holmes mused when we were stretched out together on my bed later that evening. “The man was destroyed by the one failure in his past because, instead of taking responsibility for it, he tried to cover it up and made it all worse. At least there is some moral in it,” he added with a sarcastic undertone.
“He did get lost, in a way,” I said, “long before he went missing. I don’t like to think how this secret must have shadowed his life. Living with the guilt, and the fear that the truth may be discovered after all...”
“You are sorry for him.”
“I can’t help it. We’ve met men who committed worse, and suffered less for it.”
“The family of the unfortunate Paul van Bijert will probably not agree with your sentiments.”
I could not argue with that. The young man had been murdered just because he had crossed the path of a ruthless killer, and the Captain had gone along with it. “It was a wretched business altogether,” I conceded. “There was no gain in it for anyone.”
“Except maybe the Dutch authorities, who can now close their case,” my friend agreed. “You know, Watson, we are always inclined to look for sense and justice in whatever we see. I fear we must accept that sometimes there is none. But there is the good in life, too,” he added with a meaningful glance and, as if to underline his words, gently brushed a strand of hair out of my face.
He was right. We had just convinced each other of the fact again, with all means we had beyond words. There had been no awkwardness this time; we had been united in our desire to feel each other, to lose ourselves in the other, to desperately prove that we were still alive and that, at least for this moment, life’s tragedies had no hold over us. Now we were lying in the afterglow, still feeling the warmth and relief of our encounter, and I could feel how the excitement and horror of the past events slowly faded in my mind.
”At least,” I endeavored, absently stroking my companion’s pale chest, “It is good to see that your familial tensions have somewhat lessened.”
He smiled, and turned on his back with a thoughtful look in his eyes. “I have to thank you for that, Watson,” he remarked. “It was your insistence that made me reconsider my attitude. I suppose he told you what happened to my mother, all this time ago?”
“Yes. He told me you blamed him.”
“I did,” he confessed. “Maybe I was wrong. Maybe I should have been more forgiving. I considered him weak and cowardly, back in those days, but then, who knows what went on in his mind. And he certainly wasn’t any of these things in our recent dealings. But that wasn’t all, in any case.”
“What was not?”
“The reason for my reclusion,” he said slowly. “There was more to it.”
“I thought there might be,” I replied patiently, wondering whether he would in fact share with me what he had hidden from the world for so long. He paused, considering, and I watched him, languidly stretched out on the bed as he was, covered only to the waist and with his arms casually entwined under his head. I was suddenly overcome with a strange sensation of wonder, as if realizing for the first time that it was the two of us together now, sharing my bed and his intimate secrets. I would remember this, store it in the back of my mind, to recall at times when he once again affronted me with his cool and, at times, unthinking demeanour.
“It is true that I was angry at him for failing to support my mother,” he admitted finally, “but I also feared him. He was the model of a respectable, well-established gentleman. He was conservative in his views. And he had a special liking for Mycroft. At least it always seemed to me that way”, he conceded. “Mycroft was brilliant, you see. More so than I was. My father never tried to hide the fact that he was very proud of him. And he was allowed certain liberties because of it. There was the question of inheritance, you know.”
“I don’t see your point...”
“Mycroft’s talent was so outstanding that he was introduced into his first modest position in the Government at the age of twenty. It was what he had always dreamt of. He didn’t want to get married and lead the life of a country squire. And my father accepted that, because he believed that my brother could come to higher honours with his chosen career. That left me.”
“You thought he would expect you to take over the estate?”
“Seems a preposterous thing to turn that down, doesn’t it?” Holmes inquired with a cocked eyebrow. “It’s not a big one, mind, so I may be forgiven my ungratefulness. But in any case, I am not made for a quiet country life. Perhaps one day, when I’m old...” He smiled. “But that’s a long way off. As it is, I would die of boredom. And then there was the expectation of getting a respectable marriage and fathering an heir. You know of my inclinations in that area...”
“I should, by now,” I agreed fondly.
“I thought he would guess if I refused to take on my assumed responsibilities and proceeded to live a bohemian life instead. I thought he would find out and despise me.”
“So you broke with him before he could break with you?”
Holmes was thoughtful for a moment, then nodded. “I didn’t think of it that way. I told myself it was only because of Mother. But in essence, yes.”
“And now?”
“Now he knows the life I am leading, and he accepts it. He has indicated that he does not intend to interfere with my private life any more than with Mycroft’s. The estate will be sold after his death.”
We were both silent for a while. I thought about how he had always been reticent about his personal background, and how much more sense it all made to me now he had finally confided in me. I was deeply moved by this display of trust.
“You know,” I said finally, slowly running my hand through his disheveled black hair, “as far as I know, he never despised you. He told me, when I first met him, that he was immensely proud of you. He said one of his biggest regrets was that he had never told you.”
“He did tell me,” Holmes said with a smile, and finally turned over to look me in the eye. “He told me today.”
He looked more at peace with himself than I had ever seen him before, and suddenly I knew that, whatever he might say, it really mattered very much.