The Case of the Missing Valet
by Jem's Bird

Chapter Two

After decades of living with Sherlock Holmes, I can tell volumes about a person from a dozen telltale trifles that an untrained eye would miss, but the only thought that came to the front of my mind when I looked at Mr. Bertram Wooster was how incredibly young he was.

I sat down across from the lad, watching him as he drank his whisky and soda. If our Jack loved this Wooster, then there must be something to him beyond the rather pathetic front he was admittedly showing now; he reminded me of a beached jellyfish I had once seen. The boy was actually shaking as he drained his drink.

I sighed wearily, and rose to fix him another. “You mustn’t take Holmes too seriously, lad. He’s always a bit gruff at first; he’ll warm to you, soon enough.”

“I know he thinks that I’m not good enough for his son, but –”

“Holmes would not forbid Jack to love whom he chooses,” I said quickly. “And in any case, Jack has always been rather independent and strong-willed, just like his father. Once his mind is made up on something –”

“Oh, good heavens, yes. I remember a pair of yellow spats I’d grown quite attached to, but Jeeves put his foot down … did he say anything about me?” The lad looked up at me with such heart-tugging angst shining in his eyes that I was forced to suppress a smile. Had I ever been that young?

“He told me quite a bit about you,” I admitted truthfully. “And, for what it’s worth, he was going to return to you this evening,” I told him, but wisely did not add that it had been my exhortations to do so that had finally swayed him. Jack had always been a strange boy; blessed and cursed with both his mother’s wisdom and his father’s genius, he could see everything about everyone else, but had to be shown the contents of his own heart. Last night, Jack had come dangerously close to tears when he related to me how he had left this Wooster after unwittingly declaring his love. He knew what he wanted, but still needed me to tell him he could not turn his back upon his own desire. “He does love you,” I continued. “He told me that a number of times last night.”

The look on young Wooster’s face was extraordinary. “I say!” he murmured, closing his eyes and leaning back into his chair in an air of absolute contentment; now that he knew his affections were returned, it seemed, nothing else mattered.

A sudden thought hit him, and he sat up once more. “I know this is a bally strange question and all,” he began, “but you keep calling him ‘Jack.’ Is that his real name?”

I sipped at my own bourbon to hide another smile. I had never been that young. “His real name,” I said patiently, “is John Sherlock Watson, but Holmes and I have always addressed him as ‘Jack.’”

The young man frowned. “Hardly seems to suit him, what? Hold on a minute – ‘Watson,’ you say?”

I sighed wearily. “Although Holmes is his biological father, I am Jack’s legal father, having been married to his mother.”

“This is all getting a bit thick. So where is his mother?”

“She died the night he was born,” I said flatly.

“Oh dear, I’m terribly sorry, I –”

“It’s all right,” I reassured him. “You didn’t know.” I regarded the young man who now stared helplessly into the middle distance, too afraid of offending a total stranger to speak. A wave of fatherly affection overcame me, and I sat down opposite him, leaning forward to lay a hand upon his shoulder.

“Relax, lad, the worst is over; Holmes and Jack just need to grumble at each other a bit, so they’re bound to be a while. Why don’t I tell you the whole story?”

The boy smiled faintly. “Jolly good,” he mumbled.

I paused, not quite sure where to begin. And yet, it seemed reasonable enough to start at the lad’s last question. After all, it had all started with Mary.

My heart flutters nervously as I fumble with my cravat. Of course, it does not help that Holmes is angry, or, rather, he is hurt, so hurt that he is not bothering to hide it. He has flopped upon the settee with his violin, deliberately assaulting my ears with the most wretched cacophony of scraping I have ever heard come from any musical instrument.

I decide that enough is enough. Abandoning my attempts at my cravat, I wheel around to face him. “Must you punish me so?”

The look of injured innocence on his face is enough to test the patience of saints. “I? Punish you?”

“You are one of the finest musicians I have ever met,” I snap. “You are fully capable of producing beautiful art every time you take up your bow, but tonight you punish me with that dreadful row.”

He tosses the Stradivarius carelessly aside, and strides over to me, standing so close that I am forced to look directly up into his eyes. “You do not love her; you have already told me as much.” He runs a finger along my jaw and I pull away.

“Why are you punishing me so?” he whispers.

“Holmes, we cannot have this. It could ruin us.”

“But why are you marrying her? You cannot father children; why else would a man of your inclinations wish to marry?”

I ignore the remark about my inclinations. “I have already informed Miss Morstan of the infection which left me sterile,” I remind him coldly. “She has told me that although she wants to raise a family, she does not need a child to have come from her own womb for her to love it as her own. In short, we shall adopt. There are many worthy orphans –”

Holmes claps his hands sarcastically. “Bravo! Saint John the wise and compassionate has spoken. But could you perhaps descend from your pedestal to answer my question: why are you marrying her?”

“Because I cannot marry you,” I growl. “Is that what you wish me to say, Holmes? Very well, I shall say it; I cannot have this life with you; it is a lie. I need to get away and try for a decent, honourable life with Miss Morstan –”

“Decent and honourable!” Holmes ejaculates with a snort of disgust.

I shut my eyes, pinching the bridge of my nose. “Do you know what they call us at Scotland Yard?”

“The Lavender Aunts of Baker Street,” Holmes answers blithely. “So, what of it? Let their tongues wag. I, for one, have little use for the conventions of this so-called civilization.”

I sigh wearily. Holmes is only six years my junior, but those six years are a world of difference in lessons of caution and the cold, hard realities of life.

“Ahh, yes, six years is a long time,” Holmes whispers, breaking into my thoughts unbidden. “But may I remind you that six years ago, we had already experienced the pleasures of each other’s intimate company.”

“I wish you wouldn’t do that,” I mutter. “A man should be able to keep the privacy of his own mind –”

“Is that why you’re leaving me?”

I open my eyes and step involuntarily forward. “No, never,” I tell him as he draws me up into his arms. “I could never leave you, but don’t you see that –”

Holmes lays a single finger upon my lips. “No more words, my love.” Then his mouth is upon mine and words are impossible. Our embrace intensifies, and soon we are aware of nothing else until the sound of laughter makes us jump apart. We whirl around to find Miss Mary Morstan standing in the door of our sitting room, laughing merrily, her eyes twinkling.

Holmes and I exchange confused looks. Mary does not seem hysterical; rather her laughter seems to be from a mixture of amusement and relief. She dabs at her eyes with her handkerchief as I dumbly show her to a chair.

“Oh, goodness me! If you could have seen the look on your faces, gentlemen!” she chuckles, pulling herself together. “No, I’m fine, John. In fact, I believe I have some good news for all of us,” she says, and another flutter of laughter forces her to pause.

“Miss Morstan,” Holmes begins, sitting down opposite her, “am I to understand that you are actually pleased to see how things stand between me and your fiancé?”

Mary gives Holmes a singular smile. “In order to answer your question, Mr. Holmes, I must ask my fiancé a question of my own.” She turns to me with a wide grin, her eyes bright with excitement. “John, I wish you to be as honest with me as you can. Do not think to spare my feelings. What, exactly, is the nature of your affection for me?”

I take a deep breath. “During our time together, I have found you a charming companion, as well as a steadfast and sympathetic friend,” I say truthfully. “My love for you is more brotherly than passionate, but I feel that within the duties of marriage –”

  Holmes interrupts with a scornful laugh, but Mary nods sympathetically.

“I understand completely, John. Although you love Mr. Holmes, it is hard to live outside the sphere of our culture’s expectations. You want to stay with him, but fear what should happen if you are discovered. You know you should conform, but you do not know if you can. Even the semblance of conformity could give you some respite,” she adds thoughtfully.

“‘The semblance of conformity,’ Miss Morstan?” Holmes sneers. “I should rather you be plain in your speech, Madam. If you have something to say –”

“Holmes, please!”

“It’s quite all right, John. I can’t imagine that your friend enjoys having information withheld from him,” she purrs, smiling at Holmes warmly. “Very well; I shall disclose all. Mr. Holmes, I can sympathize with John’s position simply because I myself am facing a similar crisis of my own, and, indeed, was seeking a similar solution. You see, I am –” she breaks off with another laugh. “Mrs. Forrester and I have a similar relationship. When John asked me to marry him, I agreed, thinking that at least as a married woman I might be able to visit my former employer without suspicion –”

“You intended to cuckold the good doctor?” Holmes asks sharply.

Mary smiles sweetly. “And how long after our wedding night would you have waited before seducing my husband to your bed?” she asks mildly.

Holmes opens his mouth, then shuts it again, then shakes his head, his grey eyes clouded with deep confusion. “I must admit, Madam,” says he quietly. “We seem to have reached an impasse.”

“Not necessarily, Mr. Holmes,” Mary says, the corner of her mouth turning up just slightly. “In fact, I believe I have a solution that will work to everyone’s advantage. Unfortunately, John, we will still have to get married, but I think we can make the best of it. Once we’re married, you’re going to write up your next Sherlock Holmes story, the story of the search for the Great Agra Treasure.”

“You are not proposing that the good doctor take the account of my investigation into your father’s death and turn it into a romance,” Holmes frowns.

“In fact, Mr. Holmes, John is going to do just that. Yes, I know,” she continues, silencing his protest with a raised finger, “but romance sells. And, more to the point, a properly romanticized account of how we met and decided to marry shall provide us the social camouflage we need so that we can all continue our lives uninterrupted.”

Holmes raises an eyebrow. “We’d have to change a few details,” he says slowly. “The treasure, for one thing …”

“That goes without saying,” Mary answers primly. “And, of course, John will have to interject some convincing tale describing him falling prey to my feminine charms and dreaming of my sweet face, or some chivalrous rot like that to make the heart flutter.”

“I say! I am not a romance novelist!” I protest.

Mary fixes me with a patient look. “I’ve read ‘Study in Scarlet,’ John. All right, Mr. Holmes, I suppose you’re the most logical choice for best man. We should probably pick a date in early spring …”

“That’s a bit thick!” Wooster interrupted. “So you mean to say you had a real ménage a trois thingummy? Or would it have been quatre?”

I sighed wearily. As likeable as the fellow was, I just couldn’t understand what Jack saw in him. “Our lives continued much as they had before,” I told him. “Although I had a house and small surgery in Paddington, I would spend most nights in our Baker Street rooms, deeply involved in Holmes’ cases. Mary would spend most of her time engaged in social calls, particularly with her former employer, Mrs. Cecil Forrester. Of course, the house in Paddington was more secluded than Baker Street, so sometimes I would spend the night at home, and Holmes would visit me there.” I smiled, pausing a moment to remember the sweetness of those years. “Once our household was well-established enough,” I continued, “Mary decided she wanted to start a family, and since we all agreed that any child with Holmes’ genetic stock would be an exceptional individual, especially with Mary raising –”

“My word!” Wooster gasped. “You mean you let your … erm … that is, your wife and your … well, that is to say …”

The boy was growing a vivid purple. I patted him on the shoulder. “We had an interesting weekend in Brighton,” I said simply, and took his empty glass. “Another whisky and soda, Mr. Wooster?”

“Please,” he mumbled, his lips moving long afterwards, his face screwed up as if he were trying to remember something. Despite the fact that the lad was quite handsome normally, he currently resembled a puzzled rodent, and I could not help but smile as I handed him the glass. Eventually the clouds of bemusement left his features as he sipped his drink, and he turned to me with a strange gleam in his eye. “I say, Doctor Watson,” he asked quietly. “I remember reading about … well, you losing Mr. Holmes in the Reichenbach Falls.”

I took a deep breath. “Yes?”

“I first read it when I was just a little nipper, and my mother couldn’t console me. I cried the entire night long, thinking of how you had lost the best and wisest man you had ever known.”

I closed my eyes. That night in Merignen had been the second darkest night in my life. The darkest night … I shook it out of my mind. “When were you born?” I asked. “It seems to me at least some of the Return would have been out by the time you were reading age.”

“I was born in ’03,” Wooster told me. “And I would have been … oh, about ten or so at the time. So, yes, the next morning, my father went to your publisher and got a copy of the Empty House. I devoured that thing; you wouldn’t believe the racket I made when I read he was still alive.”

“I can imagine,” I smiled. I was beginning to understand what had drawn Jack to the lad; touch him where you might, he rang true every time with as good-natured a heart as I have ever met. “I’m glad you enjoyed my stories,” I said, smiling warmly.

The lad returned my smile. “You know, you’ve made Sherlock Holmes real to millions of people that never met him.”

“Yes, he has,” Holmes said, striding into the room, “but I try to forgive him for it. Well, Mr. Wooster, my son is obdurate. He loves you, and you love him. Watson, we are helpless to stand in their way.”

“I give my wholehearted blessing to the match,” I replied firmly, earning myself both a son’s gratitude and a lover’s wrath in the same sentence. Once Jack left with his young master in tow, Holmes began pouting in earnest, and I decided upon a frontal assault as my best option.

“Exactly why do you disapprove of Mr. Wooster for our son?” I asked, tearing the newspaper out of his hands. “Give me one good reason.”

“Am I to assume that sheer idiocy is not to be accepted as a good reason?” Holmes countered.

“The lad is simple, yes, but –”

“Simple! That doesn’t even begin to –”

“When I say he is simple, I do not mean that he is an idiot; he is not,” I said, holding up a warning finger. “I mean to say that he is uncomplicated, which I find refreshing. What’s more, he has a kind heart.”

“And Jack loves him. I have said before, Watson, love is a menace, without which the human race could accomplish –”

I interrupted him with a fervent kiss, stilling his words and leaving him breathless. When I pulled away, his grey eyes were shining with lascivious delight, and he traced a finger down my shirt-front, his lips quivering into a slight smile.

“I don’t suppose we have time …” he purred.

“You know we haven’t,” I told him sternly. “Besides, love is a menace, haven’t you heard?” I pulled away reluctantly from Holmes, reaching for my hat and coat. “Come on, our car arrives in five minutes.”

 
Chapter Three