Harry: Chapter Fifteen

Grief, Despair And Terrible Purpose

by Liederlady

Notes

“I would hear what you wish me to know,” I said.

Holmes’s head cocked and his piercing eyes narrowed a bit, but then his genuine smile … the painfully vulnerable one slowly surfaced. And he began talking.

I was surprised when Holmes crossly related that he had been expelled from Oxford because of perceived indiscretions … with a young widow … the widow of his sponsor and benefactor, Desmond Thatcher, a well-respected professor of literature. When he referred to the lady, Holmes’s expression turned dark.

Sherlock explained that he had been residing in the man’s household for nearly a year, assisting Thatcher with finalizing a manuscript on Counter-Enlightenment literary critique the academician had been drafting for some years.

“We were about to amass the indices,” Holmes said, his voice tinged with an unmistakable note of wistfulness.

I smiled trying to imagine Holmes poring over literary volumes; researching, cross-referencing, verifying extracts. With his quick impatience and intense curiosity, the boy seemed ill-suited as a publishing assistant. Still, his analytical bent would make quick work of such tiresome tasks.

“The professor was a lucky man to have found you,” I said.

As he spoke of Thatcher, Holmes practically oozed admiration and I found myself wondering what the man had done to inspire such ardor in this wary boy. My musing turned dark and suspicious until I was forced to relax my curled fingers.

When Holmes recounted Thatcher’s death in a traffic mishap half a year ago, his tone grew melancholy and his eyes glistened with barely checked tears.

“He was a wonderful man, the only true gentleman of my acquaintance,” Holmes said. Then his head cocked again and his eyes brightened. When he resumed speaking, his sadness was countered by something else.

“Until I met you, of course.”

The compliment itself was not touching—it was the shy way he delivered it. But the fact that the boy felt he knew no other decent men shocked me. What kind of life had he known?

“I offer my condolences for your loss. Had you been associated with the professor long?” I asked.

Holmes shook his head. “Not a full year.”

“How did you come to meet?”

Now the wariness returned.

“I-- helped someone close to him,” Holmes said, eyes downcast.

I sighed and stood, bending to take up the tea-tray, thinking his sudden stream of candor had run its course.

“And the professor helped me, John,” Holmes continued, staying my hand. “As you did, he helped me when I most required assistance.”

I abandoned the tray and sat to listen.

“I had a run of bad luck,” Holmes said cryptically, his eyes darting downward again. His head cocked to the side and his shoulders shrugged. Then the grey gaze met my own.

“I had been living on my own in London for nearly two years. At first, I possessed no practical skills so I mucked out stalls for a fleet cab concern. By observing the grooms, I learned to properly curry the horses. I hopped rides on the rear of cabs to learn the layout of the city, that was vital were I to rise to a driver’s position. Eventually, I began to do well enough as a cabbie. I drew substantial tips, particularly from my female passengers,” he said. I heard a bit of smugness in his voice.

“No surprise there,” I drawled, “I imagine each of them wanted to take you home.”

“I recall only one or two offers,” he said, chuckling a bit.

I harrumphed.

“I was saving funds to attend university. Just as I was beginning to get on, a cabbie strike knocked me down again. I could no longer afford rent for my rat-hole flat so I took to living among the street Arabs. It was during this time that I met Professor Thatcher,” Holmes said.

Holmes chattered on, relating how he managed to prevent Thatcher’s young daughter from being splashed by street muck as she, her father and young brother passed him. Holmes had noticed a carriage’s wild careen around a corner at the same time a girl in a bright pink coat toddled too near the kerb.

“I’m afraid I frightened her when I scooped her up and huddled over her until the carriage passed,” Holmes said. I noted a bright gleam in his eyes as he recalled the incident.

“A few nearby workmen heard her screams, mistook me for a ruffian and began thrashing me. They might have made fair work of me too had the little girl not saved me,” Holmes said, a small smile prompted by the memory.

“She saved you?”

“Yes, she called to her father. The Professor pulled the incensed workmen from me and little Carolina began remonstrating them for hurting her—her-- well, it was a nickname,” Holmes said, suddenly flustered, his face again flushing in glaring scarlet. I found myself grinning as even his ears shot with color.

“Ah, what was the nickname?” I asked, striving admirably not to chuckle.

“I-- I do not really recall it,” he said, tapping a long finger against his lips.

“Liar,” I accused, “what was it?”

Holmes looked over at me with a perturbed smirk; I wrinkled my brow at him, unwilling to free him from the hook until he confessed.

“Launcelot. She called me her ‘Launcelot’,” Holmes admitted, with an embarrassed sigh.

My chuckle gave way to a laugh as I imagined any boy’s youthful horror should such a thing emerge from a girl, let alone the likes of Holmes.

“It was rather gallant of you, you must concede,” I laughed.

His lips pursed. But soon his eyes lit up and a brief flicker of pleasure rippled across his angular features.

“Carolina cowed those hulking workmen. She was a proper terror when her ire was roused,” Holmes said.

The unmistakable pride in his voice silenced me.

“I had taken most of the splashed mud. My clothes showed enough wear before that, but one would think I was dressed to the nines when the Professor responded and extended his hand in thanks,” Holmes said. “He shook my hand when so many others might have tossed a shilling.” The boy’s voice had dropped to a deep, awe-struck whisper.

“He began to talk with me about what I did and where I came from and whether I went to ragged school. I think he was being polite initially,” Holmes said, showing a bit of a sheepish grin.

But obviously, with Holmes’s sharp intelligence and cultured manner of speech, it did not take Thatcher long to recognize the boy was a far cry from the average street waif. The man offered Sherlock the position to assist with the manuscript.

“He said he would arrange accommodations. I assumed it would be some cubbyhole flat near the campus or perhaps an old dormitory cell,” Holmes gushed. “But when I arrived the first day, he had ordered a room for me. In the family section of the house.”

Even now, amazement was clearly evident in Holmes’s voice.

“A fine man. But, two years on your own,” I wondered aloud. “That would mean you were…what? Seventeen?”

The flash smile parted his lips.

“Sixteen. The professor and I met when I was nearly eighteen. After my birthday, he arranged for me to take the middle class exams and recommended my application when I scored well enough for scholarship.”

Many boys from the poorer classes are forced to make their own way at sixteen; some even younger. But not young gentlemen like Holmes.

“What of your family? Were you orphaned?” I asked.

His reticence resurfaced at this. He began to nod then abruptly indicated a negative.

“No, I was no orphan,” he murmured. He looked up at me with a concerned expression.

“Do you not wish to tell me?” I asked in as understanding a tone as I could muster.

I had come to realize that this boy should be neither prodded nor compelled to reveal his story. Doctor Brett had been correct. Sherlock trusted me. I was not about to allow my curiosity, even my concern for him, to endanger that trust. I recalled his earlier admission at knowing no other gentlemen. With Thatcher gone, if Holmes could not trust me, who else would he have?

The boy gazed at me with a healthy dose of skepticism and I wondered what my expression might have given away.

“It was necessary for me to leave the place where I was raised,” he said. It was clear from his tone he would not elaborate further.

“I see.”

Of course, I could not see. Holmes looked over at me and pursed his lips and I could not help but smile.

“You’re perturbed with me?”

His eyes widened slightly and he gave a rueful shake of his head.

“Rather you should be with me, I suppose. Here I say I shall tell you all and-- I had to leave home. I could not remain there. The why is not important,” he said, his eyes darting toward the dying fire and his tone quickly growing angry.

“Are you certain of that?” I asked.

He flickered a pained glance toward me that made me sigh.

“You mentioned ‘perceived indiscretions’ with Professor Thatcher’s widow,” I prompted. It was clear that relating anything of whatever home life he had was disturbing. I would not press him on that, not now at least. However, changing the subject did nothing to improve his mood; his glare grew fierce.

“I committed no such ‘indiscretions’ I assure you,” he said hurriedly, noting my shocked expression. A bitter scowl now marred his attractive features.

“Then both you and the bereaved lady were abused,” I said. “Would she not intervene for you at school?”

I gasped as his scowl sank into a dark rage. The icy glitter in his eyes was terrible to behold, but I forced myself not to look away.

“She would do nothing for me now. And I would see her in hell,” he spat.

“Why?” I whispered.

“I should have seen her for what she was, but failed to,” he murmured. “It is as much my fault.”

He was speaking more to himself than me. His hands were white-knuckled fists, one pounding a long, thin thigh, his unseeing eyes turned toward the cooling hearth. I rose and moved to sit next to him on the sofa. He did not even acknowledge me.

“Holmes? Sherlock?”

His chin inclined toward me, but his eyes were still blindly turned toward the fire.

“What is it? What happened?”

“She murdered them. The children,” Holmes said in a gravelly, broken voice. “She poisoned them.”

“What?” I gasped. “Why?”

Now his eyes turned toward me; they were his most remarkable feature. Poets rightly claim that our eyes unveil the hidden content within our souls. A moment before Holmes’s eyes had been filled with rage … rage I had assumed was prompted by some personal or romantic slight the woman had done him. I could not have been more wrong.

Now his grey gaze held a turbulent fusion of despair and something else … something I recognized; while still at Radcliffe’s, I had hoped this boy would never know the burden of guilt. My wish for him had been a futile one.

Sherlock was overwhelmed with remorse. He began to shake … whether from rage or sorrow or both, I did not know.

“Their faces … oh, John, their faces--”

Uncontainable tears spilled from those tormented grey eyes. His hands savagely swiped at them, but I suspect his intent was to dispel the haunting image rather than the tears it prompted.

“I am so sorry,” I said, drawing him into an uneasy embrace.

“Money, for damnable money,” he whispered against my shoulder.

By the time Holmes drew away from me his expression had grown hard again. Only the red-rimmed eyes betrayed his grief.

“Do you wish me to fetch you a drink?” I asked. He did not.

“Do you mind if I have one?” I certainly needed such. Holmes shook his head.

I returned the tea-tray to the kitchen then moved to the sitting-room’s sideboard where a handsome silver tantalus sat stocked with a fine trio of scotch, Irish whisky and brandy. Inside the sideboard were tumblers and a charged gasogene. I fixed two scotch-and-sodas and carried them back to the sofa.

“I told you--” Holmes began.

“Doctor’s orders,” I said gently, handing him his drink.

He pursed those lips into a smirk, but took the scotch, throwing it back haughtily. When he opened his eyes, I saw the effect rock him but the sombre mood kept me from chuckling. I did, however, make a bit of show at sipping my own … slowly.

“There is more,” I said when I thought his throat had stopped burning.

He glanced over at me. I sucked in a bit of breath, unable to deny to myself that the quickly downed scotch had infused his pallid face with a damnably appealing glow. I swallowed a healthier draught of my scotch.

“Yes. Do you still wish to hear it?” he asked, his ever-active brows again creasing.

I took the empty tumbler from his hand then leaned back next to him, arm across the back of the sofa, settling myself to listen. As I continued sipping my drink, his story grew even more disquieting. It seemed the professor’s devilish widow had not only done away with her step-children, but tried to poison Holmes as well. That bit of intelligence made my scotch flow the wrong way.

“Really, Watson! Obviously I survived,” Holmes chided, thumping me heartily on the back as I choked.

“H-how?” I managed to get out.

“Because Pauline was not a complete idiot,” he spat, drawing his hand away. But he continued eyeing me while I struggled to catch back my breath.

“She added the poison to the cook’s curry which masked its flavour. Prior, Pauline had always forgone any curried dishes, claiming a sensitive stomach. The-- the children … succumbed. Swiftly. When I saw their faces go ruddy-- it took me longer to be affected. Often, my appetite is meagre. I tend to pick at my food and eat slowly. Couple that with the fact that the woman did not dispense a dose that would be immediately disabling or fatal to a grown man,” Holmes snarled this last, the words stabbing some vulnerable place deep in my gut.

“What was the poison?”

“Potassium cyanide,” Holmes said, a shudder running through him.

“You saw them?” I breathed, closing my eyes at the horror of it. I hoped, perhaps, he had only seen the children post-mortem; such would have been dreadful enough. From what I had learned in my studies, death by cyanide poisoning often prompted seizures and choking prior to stopping the heart.

Holmes nodded.

“I’m sorry,” I whispered, laying my hand on his arm. What the boy witnessed was violently hideous.

“When I realised … I smelled an odour … the almond odour. I tried to induce vomiting by mixing tea with ash from the hearth tray. While I worked over Carolina, I screamed at Pauline to force more tea down the boys’ throats. At that juncture, I had not yet thought her responsible. I thought someone else. Or an accident. But when I heard no retching from the boys, I looked round and saw Pauline, frozen, backed against the kitchen doorjamb, staring at me. That was when I knew.”

His voice, at first shrill, had gradually dropped to a grim monotone, his face drained of its earlier flame.

“I continued working on the children until I fainted. Had I known it was too late, I would have strangled Pauline then and there with my last shred of energy. Justice would have been better served.”

“Holmes,” I gasped.

He looked over at me with such an expression of icy calm that I could not help but shudder myself.

“She is still alive, Watson. Even though I lived to offer testimony against her, she escaped a capital sentence at the assizes. Do you consider that justice?” he snapped.

I shook my head.

“No, but you-- even though I understand your feelings, your rage and your grief, you would have been guilty of cold-blooded murder, Holmes,” I cried.

“What of it?” he shouted. Then he bolted from the sofa and hobbled toward the window. He stood there, ramrod straight, staring out at the road for several moments. When Holmes turned back toward me, framed by the bright light cascading through the curtains, the muscles of his jaw were flexing in nervous agitation. His face was still screwed up in the black rage. His icy grey eyes angrily darted toward me.

“She does not deserve to live, Watson.” His voice was rough, but there was an earnest aspect to his phrasing.

“That is not for you to decide,” I argued, suddenly mindful of his earlier talk of poison and fearful it had not been an intellectual exercise.

“YOU DID NOT WATCH THEM DIE!” he shrieked. His hands flew up, clenched into fists, his entire body convulsed with impotent rage, eyes crazed as they lit upon me. He lunged forward and for a moment I thought he might assault my person. Yet I rose and closed the short distance between us.

Sherlock’s breath came in panting gasps, his terrible gaze boring into me. I reached out to cover one clenched fist with both my hands. He jerked back reflexively, but I did not allow that to deter me. When I spoke, I lowered my voice to a soothing tone, counter to his previously frenzied one.

“No. And I wish you had never been forced to. But, Sherlock, nothing can bring them back. Certainly, forfeiting your own honour, your freedom, your very life, cannot bring those three innocents back to the land of the living. You did what you could for them even though in jeopardy yourself. You did what you could to help punish their murderer--”

“Murderess,” he snarled.

“Yes. Of course. But Holmes, the point is you have done all you could. No one could have done any more,” I reasoned.

“It was not enough. It shall never be enough,” he whispered in a ragged voice. Tense posture notwithstanding, Holmes suddenly sounded like a weary child.

“No. It shan’t. But sometimes that is the way of life. No matter what we do, no matter how valiantly we strive to do what is right, it is never enough,” I said, shaking my head.

He still shook, jaw working furiously, fists clenched. They felt cold under my hands.

“Come, sit down Holmes,” I said, slipping my arm about his waist to urge him forward.

When I had him settled, stiff-backed and still shuddering on the sofa, I crouched before him. I had no idea what to say that would soothe his rage- and grief-shredded nerves. A dazed expression settled across his face. It reminded me of the one he wore that night I first encountered him when I dabbed my handkerchief to staunch his bleeding lips.

Suddenly, I flashed upon the reason the boy could not tell me his name while I treated his injuries at Radcliffe’s Infirmary.

“You had to testify. Of course! You could not allow Edwards to discover your identity. He would have publicized what hap--”

At my hesitation, Holmes’s eyes dropped to my hands covering his.

“He would have smeared your good name,” I said in a quieter tone. A hoarse bark emerged from Holmes’s throat.

“Such as it is,” he said weakly.

“Good God. What you have been through,” I gasped, tightening my hold on his hands. Another knife-like pain arced through me as I recalled his terrible wounds.

The steely eyes lifted to meet mine. Holmes’ lips parted. From the look of him, I almost feared what would emerge from them now.

“She had a confederate, Watson,” he whispered.

My eyes grew round.

“Someone I-- someone who escaped not only judgment, but detection. The bumbling police force does not even know of him,” Sherlock said. His voice had again descended to a monotone.

“But you do?” I asked.

Holmes leaned forward a bit, as from an urge to rise. But he did not. He perched on the sofa’s edge, staring down at me, holding my gaze intently with those remarkable eyes.

“Yes.”

“Who is it?” I found myself whispering, as though the walls themselves were conspirators intent upon hearing his revelation.

Sherlock shook his head, his eyes darting from side-to-side in frustration.

“The police did not believe me. In fact, at first they suspected me of the deed,” the boy said, his voice wavering slightly on the last word.

“What? Nonsense!” I cried.

“Pauline claimed that I had become enamored of her and when she refused my advances, I threatened the children,” he snorted. “The police learned of my facility for chemistry and initially believed her.”

“But you were pois--” I began. He violently shook his head again.

“They assumed the perpetrator required a substantial knowledge of chemistry because the dosage was sufficient to only render me weak,” Holmes said, agitatedly gnawing his lip.

“And that is why you suspect a confederate? You do not believe this woman had the requisite knowledge?”

“I know she did not. She is gifted with beauty, not intelligence.”

“Then the man who prepared the poison, was he in love with her?” I asked.

Holmes unleashed a glare toward me that nearly burned. An odd tremor skittered across his shoulders.

“No,” he said in a low voice.

I pondered his reaction a moment. Perhaps Sherlock had been enamored of the woman. Was this a jealous response toward the man who held sufficient sway with her that she agreed to commit such a heinous crime?

“Then the motive was simply financial?” I asked.

Holmes eyes glittered now at the middle distance. This time his anger was not directed toward me.

“There was nothing simple about this, Watson. Nothing simple,” he murmured. One of his long fingers worked free from my hands to absently stroke at my knuckles. A flutter of reaction coursed through me which I had to cover by clearing my throat. But I kept my hands still for him.

“What finally convinced the police you were innocent?” I asked.

“Cook’s sloth,” Holmes muttered.

“Beg pardon?”

“Pauline had sent Cook off on some spurious errand once supper was served. The old woman’s culinary ability is superb, but everything takes her at least three times as long to accomplish as a normal person. Professor Thatcher said it was a form of feeble-mindedness. Only cooking came easily to her. No doubt, Pauline thought Cook had left the house long before--” he drew a ragged breath before he went on.

“But the old woman heard my shouting and turned back from the road. She apparently thought I was again arguing with Carolina. We would have words about my appetite. And Cook would always take Carolina’s side,” Holmes said, with the barest lift of the scarred corner of his mouth.

I found myself wishing I could have witnessed such a scene: small, spirited girl and old, deliberate woman routinely joining forces to persuade this authoritative young man to eat. The thought of it all prompted a slight smile. From the gleam that filled his eyes, it must have been a happy time for Sherlock.

“Cook was frightened by everything that transpired, naturally. She did not coherently answer the numerous questions the police initially put to her. She became distraught when they refused to permit us to converse once I was revived. But some days afterward, one detective eventually sat Cook down and treated her with the gentleness and patience she required and merited.”

“What did she tell him?”

“When she returned to the house, she entered the passage adjacent to the dining-room and saw me-- she said, ‘kissing Miss Carolina’ but the detective understood the actual meaning. Cook then said I crawled to the boys and ‘made them sick-like with fingers.’” Holmes said, his fists clenching again under my hands.

“You thrust your fingers down their throats to promote vomiting,” I said.

Holmes glanced up at me and nodded, his eyes brimming once more.

“Pauline apparently did not see Cook standing in the passageway. But Cook saw her, standing there, just watching, waiting for me to succumb to the poison. Cook told the inspector that I ‘fell asleep’ across the boys. After that, she said Pauline pulled my body away from the children and--”

His eyelids clenched and the tears spilled. His hands jerked from under my own to savagely wipe them away.

“She smeared her dress with their-- to make it appear she had tried to save them. Then, apparently, Pauline forced water down my throat. The intent was always for me to survive and bear the blame,” Holmes said acidly.

“The water was Pauline’s undoing. I most likely would have survived regardless. But she claimed I drank the draughts of water while she toiled over the children. But when Cook-- the detective believed Cook witnessed what really happened and was not lying to protect me. She would have no awareness of the significance of the water.”

“Well at least there was one member of the force using the brain Providence gave him,” I said derisively. Holmes grunted agreement.

“But how did Pauline escape a capital sentence?” I asked incredulously. The evidence seemed irrefutable.

Holmes shook his head.

“Our judicial system does not always dispense justice, Watson. Once the grand jury pronounced the case as indictable, Pauline’s attorney requested a trial by judge. When Cook tried to testify, she was terrified by the entire proceeding. The judge dismissed everything she said. He imposed a sentence of life at hard labor, claiming Pauline was grief-stricken by the death of her husband and suffered ‘hysteria’. He even ventured the possibility she planned to kill herself,” Holmes growled.

I blew out a long, exasperated breath.

“What the devil could the man have been thinking?” I wondered.

“During the trial, Pauline gave a compelling performance to support the theory, Watson. She had been well-advised,” Holmes spat.

“By her lawyer?” I asked.

Holmes shook his head.

“By the one as responsible as she for what happened,” Holmes replied.

“The confederate? How would he--”

“His reach is extensive,” Sherlock said cryptically, his eyes drilling me again to punctuate the statement.

“Holmes,” I whispered, “thank goodness Cook convinced the detective. But the police, they still did not believe your story about this accomplice?”

Sherlock shook his head.

“And I had no proof. Yet I am confident of his complicity,” Holmes growled. “The man is not one of whom a person should fall foul, Watson,” the boy added. Within his voice lay a curious lilt of wonderment, but in his eyes I read a deep, abiding hatred.

“Holmes,” I said, drawing in a deep breath, realizing there would be no better opportunity to transmit my fear for him and broach my suggestion.

His head hung wearily as he looked down at me, the terrible fire in his eyes ebbing as he did so.

“I am concerned for your safety. I-- You need to stay somewhere secure. I can arrange for you to stay with my parents in Scotland. They are alone in the house now with all of us children gone. They would welcome you. You would be safe there,” I rattled on believing that if I kept talking, he could not decline.

For one vulnerable moment, the boy’s careful reserve dropped. His lips parted in astonishment, his head cocking to the side. The sentiment that surged within his eyes warmed me. But the moment passed and the self-assured mask settled back into place. After another moment of regarding me, his rosy lips curved into a sarcastic smirk.

“You would suffer your parents to cope with the likes of me?” Holmes asked archly. His sarcasm was laid on thick. Quite counterfeit.

I lowered my eyes toward his elegant, long-fingered hands; no longer were they clenched into white-knuckled fists. His forearms rested on his knees and the fingers of those slender hands were touching tips, calmly steepled under my gaze.

“Well, you would have to promise to behave. No heroic leaping into shark-infested oceans or pummelling unsavory police constables,” I quipped, lifting my eyes to meet his gaze. “And mother would no doubt insist you eat three hearty meals a day.”

His response could barely be termed a chuckle, but it was the lightest sound that had emerged from him since he had begun his horrible tale.

“Watson,” he breathed in an unmistakably affectionate whisper that caressed a place deep within me.

“So, shall I wire mother and father to expect you?” I asked after clearing my throat.

“I have little doubt that your parents are responsible for the exemplary standard of generosity which you so consistently proffer, Watson,” he said. His voice too required a composing cough before continuing.

“I am in no need of a safe haven, my dear doctor. But I thank you most genuinely for both your concern and considerate proposal.”

“Holmes--” I began.

“I swear, Watson. I am in no danger,” Holmes said, his eyes intently gazing into mine.

I nodded my acquiescence, having no idea how I would remain sane once I left for India. But I was not about to damage the bond of trust that I had managed to build within this boy by arguing with him and implying doubt in his word. Then and there, I resolved to place my entire faith in him.

“May I ask another question?”

His brows arched in response.

“The trial. Why have I heard nothing of it? Surely, the newspapers should have been rife with such a sensational case,” I asked. Indeed, from his first mention of it the question had consumed my thoughts.

Holmes forehead furrowed with deep, disapproving creases. He nodded slowly.

“I told you that Professor Thatcher was a remarkable man. He lived a simple yet satisfying life using his natural gifts, finding great fulfilment in teaching and his writing. He also gained enjoyment anonymously helping others, just as he helped me. You see, the scholarship I thought I had won at Christ’s Church was funded by the Professor,” Holmes said, his eyes blinking a bit.

“On a teacher’s salary?” I asked.

Holmes smiled slightly and shook his head.

“Desmond Thatcher was a legal nom de plume. The Professor was a peer, Watson, and a wealthy one. Spencer Stephen Aloysius, the Right Honourable Viscount Medford. His family has long held a sizable tract of land in Norfolk. As a young man, the Professor chose to embark on life as a commoner,” Holmes said. The wonderment had returned to his voice and this time his slate-coloured eyes shone with it as well.

“That could not have set well with his family,” I mused.

Holmes head moved from side to side again.

“No, not at first. But it would require knowing the Professor to understand how he could have even swayed a hurt and disappointed father to grudging admiration and finally open acceptance. The Professor was possessed of such an admirable and charming character,” Holmes said. The awed reverence in his voice was touching.

It was no surprise to me that Thatcher had recognized a similar, if less kinship-grounded, nobility in this impressive young man.

There are some meetings for which destiny takes a hand; Thatcher’s and Holmes’s encounter was one of those. I found myself wishing that the royal had lived to learn of the laudably gallant effort this boy had made on behalf of his children. I felt certain his lordship would have found it no surprise at all.

I inwardly berated my initial suspicion of the man. His offer of friendship and assistance to Holmes was entirely honorable.

“Yes, extremely admirable, my boy,” I murmured. I shook myself and gazed up at Sherlock. “But the publicity; I am still at a loss--”

Holmes nodded briskly.

“The senior Lord Medford took his son’s death hard. The loss of his grandchildren broke him completely. His younger son, determined to not only protect his father’s frail condition but the family name, requested the Queen’s Bench limit the gallery to the necessary witnesses.”

“A closed court then?”

Holmes nodded.

“Yes. Of course, Pauline’s attorney had little quarrel with it. To avoid a jury’s prejudice, he had requested the judge to decide the case so he welcomed the lack of publicity a closed court provided. By the time the local press learned of the children’s murders, the case was decided and the sentence handed down. There were a few stories but Medford money and influence limited their spread. The university also used its influence to protect its position,” Holmes said.

“But once cleared, why were you sent down?” I asked.

Holmes blew out his own exasperation.

“The decision had already been made. And I possessed no suitable influence with which to counter it,” Holmes said.

“And Lord Medford did not exert influence to demand your reinstatement?” I huffed. It was the least the family could do for Sherlock’s gallant efforts.

“Apparently, he did not feel compelled to do so,” Holmes said, shrugging. As he did so, he arched his neck, wincing a bit. Dark smudges rung below his weary eyes and the sharp angles of his face were further accentuated by the haggard tightness which had spread across his features.

Outside, the light was going. The hearth needed re-lit as the evening would grow cool. And I still had to fetch our supper.

“It’s time for supper, don’t you think, Holmes?” I asked.

He made no reply. I reached for his hands again. Despite the warm weather, they felt cold. I found my thumbs unconsciously rubbing over his pale knuckles. Holmes’s eyes flickered down to watch the motion.

“I shall accompany you to the village,” he said, his normal baritone dipping to a deeper register.

I shook my head.

“No, remember I told you not to bear much weight on that swollen foot. Why not lie down again and rest until I return?”

“I must accompany you,” he repeated.

“I can certainly find a village inn on my own, Holmes,” I said archly. I moved to rise, but Holmes hands shot out to grasp my arms. There was a strange shadow within his eyes from which I could not look away.

“I-- I need to come with you,” he said. The grey eyes flashed, dispelling whatever created the shadow.

Nonplussed by his desperate insistence, I nodded my acquiescence.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I assisted Holmes to and from the carriage and he held the reins while I purchased our fare from the inn to which he had directed me. The supper required a brief re-heating back at the cottage. I fired the stove and saw to that while Holmes re-lit the hearth fire.

The inn’s fare was quite good: boiled mackerel, stewed veal loin, French beans and boiled potatoes, with a tasty dessert of baked raspberry pudding. I ate heartily while Holmes picked at his food. I considered a remonstrance, but feared it would stir memories of Carolina and Cook. The boy had relived enough painful memories for one day. For a lifetime

After supper, I re-examined and re-bandaged Holmes’s foot. It looked much better, showing no sign of infection; even the swelling had begun to diminish. Once I saw him comfortably ensconced at the sofa, Holmes and I sat silent for a brief time by the fire. He smoked two cigarettes and we both finished the claret I served with supper.

Holmes was sullen and I was worried. As twilight gave way to darkness, the silence hung between us. The late afternoon’s revelations had drained the young man of words and I understood there was nothing I could say which would cheer him. Perhaps tomorrow, the clouds would lift.

When Holmes saw me yawn, he rose and took my wineglass.

“I shall see to them,” I said. He shook his head and placed both glasses on the mantel.

“You looked weary enough at Netley, Watson. And it has been an eventful day,” he finally said, his voice utterly dejected.

I sighed and banked the fire before helping him to his door. He paused before it and looked down at me with weary eyes of his own.

“Do you need any help getting ready?” I asked.

He shook his head.

“Very well, then. Good night, Holmes. Sleep well, my dear fellow,” I said then opened the door for him.

As he moved into the room, I placed a hand on his forearm to momentarily halt him. When he turned back to me, shimmer gleamed within his tired eyes.

“You know you did all that anyone could, Sherlock. You do know that, don’t you?” I whispered. He had behaved most heroically in my estimation.

His eyes first darted toward the floor then settled on my hand still resting on his arm. He gave the briefest of nods. It would have to suffice.

“Good night then,” I repeated.

Holmes moved inside his bedroom and closed the door.

Notes

middle class exams: A series of aptitude examinations, similar to today’s standardized achievement tests, administered to boys aged sixteen and eighteen seeking entrance to Oxford or Cambridge, but who had not attended a public school. (Special thanks to Pythoness & Steph from the Holmesslash group for this valuable info!)

faces go ruddy: The red complexion of the children is another telling symptom of the poison used as the toxin renders tissues incapable of using oxygen available in the bloodstream (similar skin pigmentation occurs with carbon monoxide poisoning).

the almond odour: Potassium cyanide (KCN), gives off a distinctive odor described as “bitter almonds”. However, only those with a genetic predisposition can detect the odor. Apparently, Holmes is one of these. Death by cyanide ingestion is swift, nearly as rapid as inhalation of hydrogen cyanide gas (HCN), used in state execution and Holocaust gas chambers. Regarding ingestion, it is believed that the acids present in an empty stomach add a proton to the cyanide anion, resulting in the formation of HCN, thus producing the odor to which Holmes alludes. Convulsions can occur during the coma induced by untreated KCN ingestion and death usually results from cardiac arrest. KCN ingestion is believed in the suicides of Nazis, Hermann Goerring and Heinrich Himmler, as well as the victims of the 1978 Jonestown cult mass suicide.

mixing tea with ash: Such equanimity in a crisis is commendable. This was an attempt to form a charcoal-like purgative that would not only induce vomiting but attempt to neutralize the stomach’s acids. Forcing more liquid to the boys’ stomachs was in the desperate hope of diluting the ingested poison. No doubt tea was used at table as its water would have been deemed safe, having been boiled.

kissing Miss Carolina: Although modern “mouth-to-mouth” resuscitation was pioneered in the late 1950s by Dr. Peter Safar, a renowned University of Pittsburgh anesthesiologist-researcher and hailed as “the father of CPR,” this life-saving practice has been described in ancient texts, even the Bible. It is quite likely that Holmes had read of or been shown this practice during his studies.

Chapter Sixteen: The Charter Of His Worth