Cromwell Road
Rowan Scot-Ryder
Cromwell Road
Rowan Scot-Ryder
Copyright 2012 Rowan Scot-Ryder
Cromwell Road
The streets of London were darkening. Gas lamps were already lit. I waited for Holmes to say more. We had been smoking quietly - a soothing herbal mixture. I find that my imaginings are enhanced at such times. And Holmes’ need for stronger medication can sometimes be delayed by a pipe.
“Cromwell Road, Holmes?” I repeated. “What on earth can take us there?”
“Patience, Watson, patience.”
Sherlock Holmes paused, raising one eyebrow. For effect - although I believe that he would be insulted, had I suggested it. He is a man of colossal intellect, but a necessarily fragile ego.
It is ever a mistake to push him too far. I keep him balanced. To the best of my ability.
Holmes is a master of the pregnant pause. He put down his pipe.
“Well, Watson, what do you say?”
“Say, Holmes?” I blustered. Truly, he had told me nothing.
“Shall we call for a hansom cab, and discover what awaits us at Cromwell Road?”
It is never a good plan to show impatience with Sherlock Holmes. He is surely among the least patient of all men. I flatter myself that he is my good friend, but he can be very acerbic.
So I restrained my retort “What am I now, a clairvoyant as well as your doctor and biographer?” and waited for him to continue.
He gave an exasperated sigh and fixed me with an aquiline stare.
“Cromwell Road, then!” he cried, donning his hat and coat. And I could have sworn I heard him mutter –
“Since as usual, you’ve no thoughts to contribute.”
He was no more forthcoming on the journey, but I have learned to wait and listen. Sometimes I do believe that his brain works far too quickly, and he forgets to mention what has passed through it.
I say this as his medical adviser. It is a condition that I have observed in other great men, who must remain nameless of course. Some of them have retreated from public life, - one as far as Bethlem Hospital. I believe that my constant supply of calming medication has saved Sherlock Holmes from that fate. The side effects of the medicine cause some controversy, but it seems to me he lesser of two evils.
“Here we are, Watson. Stop dreaming and pay the cabby.”
He was already halfway on to the steps of a tall, ordinary house. A movement at one of the windows caught my eye as I turned from the hansom. Someone had been watching us.
We were expected.
Holmes seemed to remark nothing. He rapped smartly upon the door, where a maid accepted our cards, and ushered us in.
“What shall we see, Holmes?” I found myself whispering.
“What indeed? Wait and see, Watson, wait and see.”
The maid returned.
“Madame is not yet prepared” she said “but you may join the other guests, Mr Holmes, Doctor Watson.”
We entered a room that was among the strangest I have ever seen. Heavy curtains already excluded the street lights. A round table stood in the centre of the floor, with chairs placed equally around it – except for the strange contraption at the far end.
A chair, certainly. But one with straps upon the arms, and encased within a cabinet made of dark, polished wood. No ornament adorned this, but two curtains were attached to its sides, currently pulled back to reveal its empty core.
Holmes caught my eye, and gave me a Look. He seemed to expect a response, but at the same time to warn me not to make one.
I held my peace.
We turned our attention to our fellow guests. Two men, four women, of various ages. I thought the older man looked familiar.
Holmes bowed.
“Sherlock Holmes, with Doctor Watson” he stated, enjoying the response that this announcement always ensured. The introductions began.
Two of the ladies were titled, and another was companion to the older one. The pale young man stated his name, which meant nothing to me, and the fourth young woman spoke so softly that I could not tell what she said.
We turned to the older man.
“Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.”
He made a small bow, and Holmes studied him keenly.
“An honour and a pleasure to meet you, Sir Arthur.”
I knew him now. Not only a man of quality, but also a celebrated novelist. A man of intellect and imagination, wherein he envisaged the possibility of lost worlds, as well as faeries at the bottom of the garden
“Mr Holmes” Sir Arthur said “We meet at last. Your adventures are so stimulating that I had half suspected you might be a creature of fiction.”
Holmes smiled a thin smile.
“Doctor Watson acts as my biographer.”
“I can assure you, Sir Arthur” I hastened into the exchange. “My accounts are nothing but the truth.”
“Of course, of course. Your lives are so exciting that you do not need to explore the reaches of imagination.”
Holmes smiled again, without humour.
I knew his dislike of fantasy. Every man to his own. A world without imaginings would be intolerable to me.
“And yet – you are here.”
Indeed we were, wherever that might be.
I was prevented from revealing my ignorance by the return of the maid.
“Madame is prepared” she announced, and stood aside. Now I could barely conceal my surprise. I knew Madame B_ when she entered. Her stern face and large bosom had been pictured in the newspapers often enough. Her activities – and her claims – were the subject of passionate debate, dividing the nation.
Madame B_, the celebrated medium.
What were we doing here?
I glanced at Holmes. He ignored me.
“Ladies, gentlemen. Please” she rumbled. “Be seated.”
Madame took herself to the peculiar chair contained in its own cabinet, and I watched in amazement as her maid fastened the leather straps, to hold her ample arms in place.
“Fascinating contraption, eh, Holmes?” Sir Arthur murmured. He appeared to be familiar with the strange performance.
Holmes said nothing. A look of distaste crossed his features.
Madame bade us all a good evening, and welcomed newcomers to her circle. She asked us to join hands. (I must admit that I was somewhat uncomfortable holding hands – even Holmes’ – although I have been his close companion for many years.)
But no-one objected, and I tried not to hold my breath.
Madame’s sonorous voice rapidly dropped into a true, rich baritone. She stated that she was now ‘Evening Cloud’, a guide who in life had lived as a noble savage on the North American continent. But who had now passed over ‘into spirit’.
I studied my fellow guests. They waited eagerly on her every word, and expressed surprise and gratitude to the banal messages that she gave them.
“Sir Arthur” she said at last “I can see you becoming involved in a new venture – not of imagination, not of spirit, but one concerned with elemental life.”
Despite himself, Sir Arthur started.
“Faeries” he whispered.
Had he forgotten, I wondered, that this latest interest of his had been widely reported?
I tried not to smile.
“I must tell you” Madame’s deep, masculine voice continued, “that this will become an important part of your reputation.”
I seriously doubted that. I stole a glance at Holmes, but his face was in shadow, impassive.
“Mr Holmes” Madame swept on “ever the man of intellect. Yet you have questions, I believe… Yes, you will meet again with Professor Moriarty. Do not hurry towards that day.” She paused. “And there is more. A case that you could not succeed in.”
The u
ngrammatical construct of this sentence jarred upon me. Surely Madame’s origins must be baser than she would have us believe?
(Sometimes I add these thoughts to Holmes’ considerations, and together we come to a resolution. Of course, I give him all the credit. He is impossible to live with, otherwise. His nature is essentially that of the hero, albeit an intellectual one.)
Holmes flushed, hearing only the implied slight, and missing the telltale grammatical slip.
“Madame?”
His voice was icy.
“You seek an answer to the question of the Giant Rat, which haunted the vessel Matilda Briggs.”
Holmes’ colour deepened. I recalled an allusion to this. What had he said? –
“A case for which the world is not yet ready.”
Ah, well. I admit that this bland statement had seemed to me only open to one likely interpretation. - This was a case for which Sherlock Holmes was not ready.
His face betrayed nothing. Sir Arthur looked at him keenly.
“An unresolved case?”
“Not pressing” Holmes replied, too quickly. “Accounts were garbled, and much embellished. It was impossible to gain a purchase on the truth. Mariners are known for their tendency to exaggerate, Sir.”
A slow, throaty laugh escaped from Madame’s deep chest.
“Ah, Mr Holmes. Perhaps you have arrived at the day when you can admit it? – There are things which are beyond your phenomenal mind.”
“Madame” Holmes said to the large figure before us. “Nothing is beyond the capacity of the correctly applied intellect.”
“Then what was the truth of the Matilda Briggs, Mr Holmes? What of the sightings of the Giant Rat? I can reveal it, or you may share your conclusions, if you wish.”
Angrily, Holmes removed his hand from my grasp, broke with Sir Arthur, and rose to his feet. The ladies fluttered, shocked.
“Madame” he said “I came at your invitation, because you claimed to have information for me. I did not agree to a public game of charades in a darkened parlour. There was no case, only a wild tale more worthy of ‘Dick Whittington’ than myself. It seems you have nothing for me beyond prurient curiosity. Come, Watson.”
“Stay!” Madame intoned “I am not finished.”
She turned to me.
“Doctor Watson, more a partner in investigation that a mere biographer. Creator of the enigma that is Sherlock Holmes. How kind and generous a friend you are. And modest. Faithfully recording all but your own contributions, when mysteries are solved. But be assured, you will be remembered as long as Sherlock Holmes’ legend survives. You appear to ride on his coat-tails, when in fact you are something of a puppet-master, I believe. I would only counsel you to be more circumspect in your - prescriptions.”
I did not answer. She was closer to the mark than anyone could guess.
Fires flashed within Holmes’ eyes.
“Come, Watson. At once. I bid you goodnight, Madame. Ladies, gentlemen.”
I rose to follow him, helplessly. We retrieved our hats and hurried out into the night. I had never seen him so discomfited. Furious. Control is one of his hallmarks. I was shocked to see that his hands were shaking.
I knew the signs.
“Holmes! Let me help!”
“Watson, that woman set out to publicly humiliate me. It is particularly galling that I should meet Sir Arthur Conan Doyle under such circumstances. I have always felt that he and I might have some natural rapport.”
I had no answer.
Holmes hailed a cab. I watched him fume and fidget all the way back to his rooms in Baker Street. He still muttered occasionally.
“And you.” He turned upon me, snarling, as we reached his door. “To be remembered as my associate, rather than my biographer? An intellect equal to my own?”
I was stung.
I have contributed, sometimes.
Sadly, I realised that he would never acknowledge my help, and that this was one interlude I would never publicly document. He could not change, neither of us could. He is a lonely man. Precariously balanced. And something in his manner always triggers my support. It has been that way since we were at school together. I act as a willing foil to his aloof ways.
I have always taken care of him, trying to protect him from the vagaries of his own nature. I cannot help myself. Where would that fine intellect be, if I did not help to organise and structure the world around him? He would fall apart like the pipedreams that we sometimes share.
I looked at him and sighed. Because he acts and I write, in some ways it is true that he is my creation. But agitation does not help him. Madame warned me against the drugs, but he needs them, now.
It was time to increase his calming medication.
Again.
