My Friend and Colleague - Chapter Two - A Study by Fireside

Sherlock Holmes
MY FRIEND and COLLEAGUE
THE EXTRAORDINARY FINAL PROBLEM
by
Dr. John H. Watson
and
© L. Guy Campbell
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Chapter Two
A Study by Fireside
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    By the time Holmes' narrative came to an end, it was again grey with the fog of late afternoon, the light fading as the street-lamps came alight one by one and shone though our window shades.  Indeed, my notes were extensive and my pencil sharpened down to a nub.  I had written, as best I could, the details of the incredible events that Holmes shared.  I became familiar with the criminal Adam Worth, American astronomer Simon Newcomb, Carl Friedrich Gauss, who, while only in his twenties, had written a paper on asteroids that was highly regarded in the scientific community, as well as Jonathan Wild, the arch-criminal of London during the eighteenth century, in addition to two boys named Moriarty from Stoneyhurst College.

    Nothing appeared to be in chronological order in my mind.  As I said, Holmes’ muttering may or may not have even been intended for my ears, though I somehow believe my dear friend was counting on me to be keenly interested, nonetheless.  The fire had long ago burned out, so we sat in the dim candle light, as Holmes’ recital appeared to be coming to an end.  I noticed my own ravenous appetite returning and thought of how long it had been since Holmes had dined, and so ordered our evening meal from Mrs. Hudson.  I then re-lit the fire by stoking the embers with an old poker, and began to further question Holmes so that I could make better sense of the incredible story in which I’d been entranced for the duration of a whole day.  “Holmes! I have so many questions to ask and would like to know more about all these people and names.”  I pleaded.

    Holmes would have nothing to do with further discussion, begged my pardon, and sat by the last bit of waning daylight peering through the draperies, playing his violin as if not a care in the world had he.  A most amazing creature, this complex man I called my friend.  Ever unpredictable, yet ever so precise in his habits, however scattered and random they appeared to the casual observer.   

    A sense of melancholy came over me as Holmes played, bowing the violin’s strings with delicate finesse.  An odd mixture of odours permeated these humble rooms that we shared.  Years and years of smoke from the fireplace and Holmes’s pipe-weed had penetrated into the very essence of the place.  A distinct trait that no paint, new flooring or wall-papering would ever be able to disguise.  Of course, the odd experiment that Holmes became occupied with, and the chemical residue that often sent poor Mrs. Hudson into an uproar, were at odds with the various smoke residue for most prominence.  I chuckled to myself and relaxed into my armchair by the fire and began to review my notes. 

    The next thing I knew Homes was waking me from my slumber to see a wonderful feast laid out by Mrs. Hudson.  It seems that I’d fallen asleep for an hour or two.  I woke with a ravenous appetite and immediately took a seat at the table.  I was pleased to see that Holmes had a renewed appetite as well.  We ate in silence for many minutes, before conversation returned.  I could barely keep the numerous questions revolving around in my mind from interrupting Holmes as he poured over the not insubstantial number of newspapers stacked beside his silverware.  Suddenly I blurted out, like an impatient child,  several names of interest that Holmes had mentioned during his mumbling upon our return earlier this morning.  ”Holmes!  My curiosity is on edge, and I cannot go on with our meal without some further understanding of some of the names and places you spoke of whilst smoking your pipe by the fire.  Please, tell me more about Wild and Gauss, George Boole and so many persons I noted in your muttering.  I’ve no idea if you were speaking to me, or recalling events to yourself, but, Holmes, please advise me upon these matters.” I exclaimed with some noticeable urgency!   ”Well, Watson!” said Holmes with obvious aggravation,  ”So much for a quiet and peaceful supper!”

    Then without warning, Holmes shouted  ”Mrs. Hudson? Mrs. Hudson!”  Moments later the sound of her weary footsteps climbing the seventeen steps of our stairwell toward our door could be heard, and even before the door opened, Holmes was instructing her.  ”Mrs. Hudson, would you ask Wiggins to come upstairs as soon as the boy returns?”  The poor woman, however accustomed to Holmes’ eccentricities, could barely disguise her displeasure with him.  Nonetheless the dear lady nodded to Holmes and headed downstairs to check on Wiggins’ whereabouts.  ”Holmes! Weren’t you a bit rude to the old woman?” I asked.  But Holmes heard not a word I’d said, his lips pursed, eyes closed and hands folded in deep thought that no one, save Mycroft, might even fathom.  I wondered if even Mycroft found his brother Sherlock an enigma.   

    Wiggins was, of course, Holmes’ favourite and most trusted ”Irregular” and had been of assistance on many cases.  One of a group of street urchins who, when not employed by Holmes on one of his cases, might as easily be found picking the pockets of some unsuspecting bystander who, by happenstance, became distracted in a crowd.  However, when in the employ of Mr. Sherlock Holmes, the Baker Street Irregulars, and Wiggins in particular, were the most  trustworthy co-conspirators as could be found.  It was some time before Mrs. Hudson announced Wiggins’ arrival, and he was ushered in immediately.  I could see by Holmes’ excitement that there was some anticipation that news was to come forth from the young lad.

    Wiggins appeared as if he’d gone for days without a change of clothes or washing, and a good meal was certainly in order.  Dear Mrs. Hudson needn’t be told this and intuitively returned in short order with some milk and table setting for the lad.  ”Well, Mr. Holmes, I did right as you asked of me, and followed those men in the carriage as your note explained,” said Wiggins between rushed gulps of the rarely offered, and thoroughly enjoyed glass of milk.  ”The carriage had three men in it, just like you said, and I followed it through the streets for what seemed the longest time.  It appeared to me, sir, that they were purposely going round and round the same streets as if they suspected they were being followed, if you understand my meaning.”  Holmes sat patiently listening to the boy tell his tale.  His usual impatience with those who lay their stories out for his audience was non-existent, and it was apparent to me that Holmes held great fondness for the lad.  In addition to this fondness, however, was a respect for the boy’s unerring attention to detail and ability to follow Holmes’ directions to the letter.

    After a few more bites of gravy soaked bread and meat, Wiggins resumed his tale.  ”Well, sir, I was in a proper fix, having forgotten my notepad, and unable to remember every turn and corner I went round following that carriage, but I do know that it stopped finally at the Tottenham Court Station by the platforms under Oxford Street, west of St Giles' Circus.  The driver scurried off without coming to a proper stop and the three gentlemen went off in different directions and disappeared into the crowd.  I’m sorry, sir, but I’d lost them, and no searching through the station could make me find them.  I do believe they took different trains though!  So I hurried back here as quickly as my tired feet could go.”  All during Wiggins’ narrative Holmes listened as if transfixed, appearing pleased with his work.  ”Wiggins,” asked Holmes, ”Did you get a close look at any of the three men?  Did anything stand out about any of them?”

    Finishing his meal, the dear boy looked up at Holmes with exhaustion all over his face, and replied, ”Sir, they were, as you know, in the carriage where I could not see them well.  Chasing round from behind, and on foot, made it impossible to get even a sidelong glance.”  I couldn’t help but smile inwardly at how well spoken this child of London’s streets was.  His few years working with Holmes had gone a long way toward an education that he otherwise might never have received.  I wonder if Holmes was even aware of his own humanitarian efforts, or oblivious due to his own particular single minded nature?

    Wiggins continued, ”But, Mr. Holmes, one of the men appeared to be giving directions to the other two, and was always kept between them, as if they were guarding him somehow.  The were all dressed in black overcoats and hats, and the one who appeared to be in charge was tall, sullen, and seemingly dark in character.”  Holmes was obviously pleased by this news and let loose with an almost inaudible shriek of pleasure.  ”Wiggins, you’re a good boy.  Go take some rest and return tomorrow, when you are refreshed.  If Watson and I are not in, Mrs. Hudson will have instructions for you in our stead.  Oh! Here is a little something for your efforts!”

    Holmes handed the boy a half-crown, eliciting a shriek of joy from the lad.  Perhaps the lad had never seen so much money, but, in any event, Holmes was generous toward the boy, and no mistake.  Wiggins scurried out of the door and could be heard, voices coming through our windows from the street below, showing the other Irregulars his good fortune.  Holmes and I laughed aloud together, though the levity of the moment would be short lived.  The table cleared and Mrs. Hudson thanked for her gracious service, Holmes quickly closed and locked the door, shut the windows, and closed the blinds. 

    Settling into his chair by the fireplace, a lit pipe in hand, Holmes began to enlighten me with a tale of some many years earlier, regarding a man that has possessed him to this very day.  He leaned forward toward me, eyes intensely afire, and drew deep upon his Calabash, blowing three smoke rings into the air, and said but one word.

© L. Guy Campbell 2013