The Case of the Murdered Novitiate
by M

            It had been some two weeks since our extraordinary week-end in Derbyshire.  Holmes had solved the Chesterfield case with only a minimum of danger and intrigue.  Thus, over these past weeks, I have had some time to contemplate the now-altered nature of our relationship. 

            Being a man of medicine, late of Her Majesty’s army, I have at times been acquainted with men who feel affection for others of their sex.  And being a man of science, I had long ago reasoned that (when mutually desired), such affection could be of no harm.  In fact, a chum from medical school exhibited such inclinations, and never a stouter, more morally-sound man could you hope to meet.  For all these reasons, I have not suffered over-much from this newly discovered knowledge of myself—or my good friend Sherlock Holmes.

            This afternoon it struck me, while I sat skimming the Standard, how odd it was that I had not realized my true nature.  In retrospect, I have been able to see the subtle meanings behind many of my past behaviors.  For instance, I frequently took opportunities to steal long-endured glances at him as he played upon his violin or sat smoking his pipe, thinking over a case.  Small incidents, to be sure, but telling in hind-sight.

            It is likewise queer that I had not recognized similar behavior on my friend’s part.  The furtive stares and oddly-timed compliments were so much more than I had suspected.  Indeed, with his unique—I daresay Bohemian—ways, I might have expected that he would not conform to societal norms in terms of his emotions.  Often I was under the impression that he had no emotions, for he works so much like a machine designed for cold reason and calculation.  Therefore, it is at times difficult to remember he is as mortal as the rest of us.  I am certainly glad to find out that his protestations against the softer passions were not entirely authentic. 

            Although we have not overtly spoken of the discussions that took place in Derbyshire, there has been an almost tangible tension in the air—not of anxiety or fear exactly, but something more complex.  No doubt neither of us knows precisely how to proceed.  While I myself have never before shared physical love with a man, I am not uncomfortable—or unfamiliar—with my more intimate emotions.  Holmes, however, appears to be treading on new ground, at least regarding his affections. 

            Has he known a man (or men?) physically?  I ask myself suddenly.  I had, in point of fact, never conceived of my good friend in such a situation as that which would involve physical passion.  Again, his keen intellect overshadows his baser human needs until one is left thinking he does not possess them at all.

            “Watson,” Holmes said from the threshold of our sitting room.  I had been so caught up in my personal speculations that I had not heard his tread upon the stair, nor the sound of the door open.

            “Holmes…!” I exclaimed when I looked up and saw that he was sporting a fresh bruise around his right eye.  I leapt from the settee, and in a moment I was ushering him to the nearest chair.  Ever the doctor, I gently cupped his face in my hands and tilted his head up and to the side to assess the extent of the injury.  I called down for Mrs. Hudson to bring up ice.  “What on earth happened?” I asked, anxiety and worry plain in my voice.

            “A new case,” he replied with a weak smile, his warm face still held in my hands.  “As you may have reasoned, Doctor, I am not off to a good start.”  His smile increased and he gave a subtle chuckle.  I relaxed somewhat, knowing that his light mood meant that the injury was not serious.  I released him from my grasp and pulled up a chair to sit opposite him.

            “Tell me about the case,” I inquired.  Mrs. Hudson came in just then with the ice—and not a small amount of worried fussing.  Holmes humored her and assured her that he was fine.  She left as I placed the ice, wrapped deftly in a thin towel, over his darkening eye, instructing him to hold it in place. 

            “I ran into Lestrade this morning on my way to the boxing hall—one must never let one’s skills become rusty.  And a good thing too, or I might look a fair sight worse than I do.

            “I was just turning the corner when Lestrade catches me by the arm.  ‘Mr. Holmes,’ he says, ‘you must come immediately.’

            “‘Where to?  Pray, what has got you in such a dither, Lestrade?’  I said, chiding him gently for his display of nervous agitation. 

            “‘The Grosby Abbey, a nun has been brutally murdered,’ he answered.

            “As you may well imagine, Watson, that statement caught my attention.  So we near sprinted the nine blocks to the Abbey, and we were directed into a small cloister by a uniformed constable.  I have seen much in the way of crime in my life, but I was deeply disturbed by the sight before me.”  Holmes paused, no doubt recalling the horrid scene.

            “How was she killed?”  I ventured.

            “She was bludgeoned with a heavy, angular object.  Regretfully, no such item was discovered in the immediate area.  The death blow appears to have been a single downward strike to the left temple.  A struggle is probable, as she had considerable blood and tissue under her nails and her body showed signs of fresh bruising upon her face and wrists. 

            “I soon discovered a peculiar set of boot-prints, which were made by a man given their size and style.  Leaving Lestrade and the rest of the official force behind, I made my way across the grass of the cloisters and through several dark corridors to a back garden. 

            “Suddenly, as I crouched down examining the ground, I was taken by surprise and nearly knocked over with a vicious strike.  As you may know, abbeys are often quite cut off from the rest of our fair city, and no doubt the lone male whose footmarks I had been tracing was unable to exit promptly.

            “As I looked up, I saw my rough adversary preparing for another blow and swiftly dodged out of harm’s way.  Instinctively, I threw several swift and effective blows of my own, leaving the man breathless and bleeding from the lip.  He soon thought the better of it and ran swift as a cat up a small tree and leapt wildly to the top of an adjacent outer wall. 

            “I made my way back to Lestrade and explained what had happened, giving him a thorough description of our malevolent friend.  Just as my eye began to show the first signs of swelling, I realized that I had obtained as much from the crime scene as I could.  I then made my way straight back to my Watson for some much needed repair.”  He finished with a smile, wincing as he lifted the right corner of this mouth.

            “I say, what a terrible business,” I said as I inspected the bruising on his face again.  The swelling was decreasing, but the color was darkening rapidly and his right eye was shot with blood.  “What could ever possess anyone to brutally murder a nun?”  I asked.

            “I do not entirely comprehend the matter as yet,” he said with a deep and thoughtful countenance, “but I assure you that I will track down our violent adversary.  However, I do believe I shall take some rest; my head is throbbing miserably.”

            “Come, we will settle you in your room,” I stated.  I then led him into his bed-chamber, where I removed his coat and shoes and instructed him to lie down.  I then realized that his knuckles possessed abrasions and light bruising, so I retrieved my medical bag and proceeded to bandage his hands.  I gave him a low dose of morphine for his pain and made to rise from my seat.  Just then he placed his hand upon mine, turning my attention to him.

            “Please do not go, Watson,” he said.  He looked at me, tentatively.  Needless to say, I could sense that he was thinking of the altered nature of our interaction.  He confirmed my thoughts by lightly gliding his fore finger over the back of my hand slowly.  This gesture unexpectedly sent shivers up my arm and down my spine.  I didn’t speak (frankly I was unable to), but settled back in my chair to communicate that I would indeed stay with him.  He relaxed visibly and was soon asleep.  I removed the ice from his eye so that he would be more comfortable and picked up a nearby book.  It was a history of Italian violins.  Could be worse, I thought to myself, it could be a treatise on robbery in 18^th century Paris or the nature of wounds inflicted by various styles of letter-openers. 

~

            When I awoke, I found myself slumped in a chair beside Holmes’ bed with a book open upon my lap; my hand was still gently held, though the tender caress had ceased when he had fallen asleep.  As the memory of the afternoon unfolded in my mind, the source of my awakening became clear:  Mrs. Hudson was knocking softly upon the bed-chamber door.

            “Dr. Watson, Mr. Holmes,” she spoke in almost a whisper.  I placed the book upon the bed table, slid my hand slowly from under Holmes’, and went to the door.  I then opened it, and Mrs. Hudson informed me that supper was ready.  I told her that I would be dining alone this evening, and requested that some light refreshment be set aside for Holmes.  The smells of roasted potatoes with mustard were already making their way up the stairs as our land-lady retreated.  My stomach involuntarily growled, and I looked at my watch—no wonder, it was nearly 8:30 in the evening (and I had had a very light luncheon).

            “It smells of supper,” Holmes spoke weakly, almost inaudibly.  I regained my seat and this time I placed my hand on his.  He smiled slightly at my touch, and I was pleased to see that my advances—even such innocent ones—were welcome.

            “Yes,” I replied casually, “and I’m famished.  I thought you would be asleep for some time, so I said I would be dining alone.  Would you like something brought up for you?”

            “No, no, I’m a bit muddled from the morphine, not to mention the blow to my head.”  He paused and looked down at my hand on top of his.  “Watson…,” he paused again, looking slightly uncomfortable.  “…Watson, I am not accustomed to romance, as you may know.”  I smiled, recalling his disparaging remarks about love and romantic sensations (and his recent confessions in Derbyshire).  He continued, “I do not know how to go about…”  Another pause.  “…to go about courting you, for lack of a more accurate term.”  He smiled as he spoke these last words, no doubt because the scene that the word conjured (of young lovers bearing flowers and frequently swooning) was far from fitting to our situation.  I myself couldn’t help but smile and chuckle faintly.  “You comprehend what I am trying to say,” he finished in a more serious tone.

            Smiling, I said.  “Yes, I do, but I do not think you should trouble yourself with that now.  You need to rest and recover your strength.”  I then turned his hand in mine, so that it was facing palm up.  I bent down and kissed him lightly on the heel of his hand, then again on the soft flesh of his wrist.  He tensed then quickly relaxed.  “It is more in my nature to be romantic, so perhaps I shall initiate the courting of you.”  I said in a teasing tone. 

~

            The following morning, Holmes insisted that he felt better and that a brisk walk around London would do him good.  Because I had no doubt that his path would soon join with the trail of our villain, I told him—in no uncertain terms—that I would accompany him. 

            We got not two blocks from Baker Street, when Wiggins—the leader of Holmes’ ragged bunch of street Arabs—appeared with a small swatch of gray wool. 

            “Good work!  Splendid, Wiggins,” Holmes said as he took the item from the filthy boy.  “And here you are, be sure to split it fairly among you,” he instructed as he handed the boy several silver coins. 

            “Will do, sir.  Any other jobs then, sir?”  Wiggins asked, accepting the coins with delight.

            “No, not at present, but report to Baker Street this evening after supper; there may be something for you then.  Off with you now,” Holmes looked after Wiggins as he ran down a side alley.  “Such talented little scoundrels, wouldn’t you say, Watson?” he asked aloofly.

            “Indeed,” I replied, smiling at the almost paternal-like pride he had in his diminutive assistants.  “What is it he’s handed to you, Holmes?”  I asked, curious.

            “It is a piece of the left coat pocket of our brutal adversary, most likely taken from the outer wall of the Grosby Abbey.  He must have snagged it on the rough iron work as he scurried over.  Judging by the stitching, the garment is fairly well made—a man of the upper middle classes, I’d wager.  And you see the small pattern here,” he held the cloth so that I might likewise inspect it, “it appears that our respectable tailor is left handed.  Not a wealth of information, but enough to give us a good start.”

            “Holmes, is it wise for you to be upon the scent so soon after your injury?” I asked. 

            “Tut, tut, Watson, I am as spry as I ever was, though not so beautiful, I admit,” he said with a teasing tone, alluding to the second of two confessions I’d made on our last holiday.  “And, if you’ll note, I stated that it is ‘enough to give us a good start.’  I have no intention of pursuing our quarry alone and with one eye half closed.  Come, we must make inquires among the tailors.”

            With that said, and there is simply no arguing with Sherlock Holmes when his mind is bent, we hustled toward our destination. 

~

            Several days later, I arrived in the sitting room and discovered a terse note left on the breakfast tray, Holmes would be away all day.  I crumpled the paper, piqued that he had left without consulting me.  His eye was noticeably improved, and the pain was significantly less (so he said).  I suppose I shouldn’t worry so much about him; then again, his unique profession is a rather dangerous one.  And if his adversary in this particular case is callous and violent enough to brutally murder a young novitiate, there’s simply no telling what might become of Holmes. 

            In an attempt to while away the hours until he returned, I ate my breakfast and retired to my usual place on the settee.  I lit my pipe and picked up a yellow-backed novel. 

            It was not long that I sat there, when a blonde, disheveled tough burst into the room.  He was wearing a worn pea-coat and patched trousers, and he had a small knife tucked into his tattered brown belt.  Upon seeing him, I bounded off the settee and exclaimed, “What’s the meaning of this!”

            The intruder stood for a moment, gazing intently upon my face—then a bright smile spread across his lips.  I then saw the steel-gray of his eyes, and realized that it was Holmes in one of his many disguises.  “Oh, for goodness sake, Holmes, must you fool me with every disguise,” I said, half angered and half amused by the boyish and utterly charming smile he was wearing. 

            “Not every disguise, Watson, and only to keep you alert,” he said, removing his wig and dirty pea-coat.  He pulled a brilliantly white handkerchief from his pocket and proceeded to wipe the dirt from his face.  His shirt was undone at the collar and, not up to his usual high-starch standard, it hung limply from his torso—not unpleasantly so, I mused briefly.  “I’ve got him, Watson, I’ve got him.”  He said, once again breaking me free of my thoughts. 

            “The killer…?  Who is the scoundrel?”  I asked, enthralled once again in the case.

            “A man by the name of Earnest Colbert, and he is indeed a scoundrel of the first-rate.  I have not, as yet, tightened the net around him,” he answered, and I looked slightly disappointed.  “Do not be terribly let down, my dear Watson, I will have him soon enough.  As things stand, if I act with haste, he will slip.  In two days time, he will be in the dock, never fear.  Until then, we must bide our time.” 

            “Well, I am certainly glad to hear it,” I said.  “You look pensive,” I remarked after a few moments, “is there something on your mind?” 

            He sat down heavily, crossed-legs dangling over one chair-arm.  He let out a subtle sigh as he looked at me.  He hesitated briefly, seemingly contemplating my question.  Finally, he spoke, “I was simply wondering, Watson, when you would get around to your implied promise.”

            “My promise?”  I asked, not knowing to what he referred.

            “Yes, I believe I was to be the subject of your forthcoming courtship,” he said with a small, teasing smile.  I could not help smile at this half jest-half serious remark. 

            “I do not wish to distract your attentions away from this most dangerous case,” I replied, concern over the very real danger evident in my words.

            “Well…” he said, “we appear to have a short hiatus in front of us…perhaps…”  He paused and averted his eyes to tips of his boots, his teasing tone suddenly giving way to nervousness. 

            I felt, perhaps for the first time, just how incredibly thin the ground was upon which Holmes tread; he was simply unfamiliar with such emotions.  While I had no direct experience with the loving of men, Holmes had never to my knowledge experienced romantic love at all.  I looked at him then, noting his thin fingers as they absently stroked the tip of a match.  How utterly vulnerable he was at this moment—asking for something he did not fully understand but at the same time could not deny.  I was, for once, the experienced master; my discomfort at this sudden reversal of our relationship prompted my immediate action.

            I moved to stand in front of his chair, the fire warm on my back.  He shifted his head slightly, but kept his eyes lowered.  I knelt down, placed my hand on his cheek and gently guided his gaze toward me.  I smiled, leaned in slowly, and kissed him lightly on the lips.  He inhaled a sharp breath the instant he realized what I was all about.  The kiss was chaste, little more than a delicate meeting of lips, but it was unlike any sensation I had ever known.  A second or two was all the longer it lasted, but I shall never forget it.  I rocked back, eyes closed, feeling the lingering impression of his lips upon mine. 

            I opened my eyes to find Holmes looking at me with a mixture of wonder and apprehension.  He finally exhaled, smiling subtly as he did so.  I returned his smile and placed my hand on his.

            “You are a man of action, Doctor,” he said in a thin voice.  “For which I am grateful, as I am traveling rapidly out of my domain.”

            Boldly, and for reasons I cannot explain, I asked him, “Have you ever…shared with a man?”  I could feel the heat of embarrassment rise in my cheeks—but I could not stop my mouth from asking this too-personal question. 

            He raised an eyebrow, smiling broadly at my ungentlemanly conduct.  “It is most unlike you, Watson, to solicit such intimate knowledge.”  His tone was teasing in the extreme. 

            “I am terribly sorry; I should never have asked…”  I stammered, feeling awful and awkward.

            “I have,” he stated bluntly and without emotion, all jest suspended.  “But the satisfaction of the body’s physical needs does not compare to the desires of one’s heart; it is here that I am out of my depth.” 

            His statement of the situation, which mirrored my own musings, made me smile and give a soft laugh.  “I say, Holmes, we seem to have opposite problems:  I am rather more comfortable with the emotional side of things, while being somewhat unfamiliar with the physical.” 

            “It appears, then, that we are not altogether at a loss,” he said, more like his usual composed self.  He swung his legs down from the chair-arm.  He leaned forward to return my kiss; however, at the last instant he tilted his head up to place a gentle kiss upon my forehead.  “Good-night, my dear Watson,” was all he said before he stood up and strode briskly to his room.  I was left kneeling in front of his chair, unsure of what to think or feel.  I sensed neither coldness nor distance, but rather uncertainty.

            I retired to my room, where I undressed and quickly performed my nightly ablutions.  I slipped on my nightshift, slid the covers back, and lay down to a series of thoughts that ranged from the introspective to the less than gentlemanly (all of which centered around Holmes).  I wondered whether or not I occupied such a primary focus in his mind; could he too be replaying the moment our lips had touched, and the tingling sensation throughout the body that followed?  When sleep finally reached me, my dreams were vivid, to say the least.

~

            “Damn!” I heard Holmes shout from our sitting room as I descended the stairs the next morning, still buttoning my waistcoat.  I took the last few steps quickly, and opened the door to see him standing by the breakfast table.  His chair had been knocked over as he stood up, and a crumpled piece of paper was held tightly in his right hand.  His eyes flew to me as I stood in the door way.

            “He has flown, Watson!” he shouted.  “Slipped!  Gone!  Not a trace of him anywhere!”  He was in such a state that I decided slow and deliberate movements would be prudent.  Not that I was afraid of violence, but I did not want to further excite him.  I took my seat at the table, willing the calm and familiar back into the room.  As I did so, Holmes relaxed his shoulders a bit, then righted his chair and slowly sat down. 

            “I do not know how he has done it, Watson, but I’d bet my reputation that he was not solely responsible for it.  Some unknown force was behind his escape, I am sure of it,” he stated in a more reasonable voice. 

            “How did you find out?” I asked.

            “A telegram from Lestrade, who had been keeping an eye on our quarry,” he replied, handing me the abused slip of paper.  “It seems that Mr. Colbert entered a public house and did not exit.  From there, nothing else is known—he simply vanished!”  His voice and temper were rising again, but he soon regained his usual demeanor.  “He could not have done it alone—make such a clean slip.  I had anticipated such a move as this, and had taken all steps against it.  I must, therefore, conclude that some unknown factor was involved; there is no other explanation.” 

            “Do you think a master-mind is responsible?”  I asked.

            “I know of no man that could out-maneuver me in such a fashion; yet I seem to be left with no alternatives,” he replied, sounding dejected and unsure.  He suddenly stood and made his way to the fireplace, where he picked up his favorite pipe.  He stood, his fore-arm resting on the mantle. 

            I was just finishing up my breakfast when I heard the sound of a match being struck.  Holmes was lighting his pipe and sitting down in his chair.  Knowing his habits well, I knew that he would not stir from that position for some hours.

~

            Having run some errands and taken luncheon at my club, I returned to Baker Street expecting to find Holmes still sitting in his chair.  He was, however, no where to be seen.  A short note was left at my desk, it read:

            Much to do; may be gone for several days.  Yours, S.H.

I admit that I was quite worried, knowing that he would probably be taking great risks in his desire to get to the bottom of this business.  I sighed and placed the note in my desk drawer.  Since I was not needed here, I decided to head back down to my club and pick up a game of whist to take my mind off of my anxieties.

~

            Five days later, just after dinner, Holmes burst into the sitting room looking absolutely dreadful.  “Moriarty!” he shouted, a great satisfied smile on his face.  “Professor…Moriarty,” he purred with pleasure.  “He is the master-mind, Watson, the very one.”

            “Moriarty, you say.  You seem to have been through our city’s seedier parts in order to trace him.  Good God, Holmes, you are in a wretched state.  And I have been exceedingly worried,” I admonished.

            “Never fear, my good fellow, I may not possess the most pleasing of looks, but I assure you it was necessary to keep safe my identity and my person.  A keen game this Moriarty plays, I can tell you,” he stated with some satisfaction.  “I shall retire now, and you will see me fresh as a daisy on the morrow.”  With that he strode with an unusual spring in his step—he had succeeded in his adventures and was reveling in his victory.

            “Good night,” I called, and he waved his hand briefly in my direction.  My relief at his return (despite his unsavory state) was overwhelming, and I chuckled to myself as my body relaxed into the settee.  I picked up my sea-novel, determined to lose myself in its story.  I sensed that this would not be the last time this Moriarty entered our lives, and I was loath to think of the danger that would accompany him.

~

            Several days after Holmes discovered the identity of the sharpest criminal mind in London, he entered the sitting room from his bed-chamber with an interesting grin on his face.  I had just sat down to one of Mrs. Hudson’s wonderful breakfasts and was feeling particularly jovial.  Seeing Holmes emerge in a similar mood, looking as beautiful as I had ever seen him in his typical black suit and crisp white shirt, lifted my spirits even higher.

            “Good morning, my dear Holmes,” I greeted him.  “You are looking in a fine mood.”  I smiled very warmly, feeling my physical attraction to him deepen as he returned my smile in kind.

            “And a good morning to you, Watson,” he replied as he sat down to break his fast.  “If I might say, you are looking quite handsome in that new neck-tie.  From Bennington’s, is it?”  His kind words and almost sultry voice had a most embarrassing effect upon me.  I must have blushed, for he lowered his eyelids smoothly and said, “Surely that is not the first time someone has made you aware of your good-looks?” 

            I smiled, no doubt my blush deepened considerably.  I moved my eggs around on my plate nervously as I could feel his scrutinizing gaze.  He laughed, and I looked up at him in surprise, unsure of what prompted this reaction.  He then stood, moved his chair so that it was adjacent to my own, and took up his seat again.  He pulled his plate in front of him and started eating as though this were any other day.  I continued my own breakfast, somewhat nervously. 

            “You have not yet asked me why I am in such a fine mood this morning, Watson,” he said without warning. 

            I arched my brows in response, as my mouth was full.

            “I believe I have the location of our Mr. Colbert,” he said with some suspense.

            I nearly spat out my eggs and toast, for only days ago the man had all but vanished into thin air.  Holmes was amused by my startled reaction, and he placed his hand upon my back, patting me lightly.  “Do not be too awed by my swift work; he is not in my hands yet.  In fact, he is not even in England,” he said.

            “Where is he?” I asked.

            “I have reason to believe that he fled to the south of France.  I trust that you would not object to a short holiday on the continent.  I would be terribly disappointed if I could not have my Watson by my side on such a dangerous errand,” he said.  He had a quirky little smile on his face, and his hand had roamed down my shoulder to rest upon my arm.  I looked at his elegant hand, then up into his eyes. 

            “I would not miss it, of course,” I responded.

            “Brilliant,” he exclaimed.  “Our train leaves at 10:50 this morning.  We’ll be in Paris by dinner-time and strolling the lavender fields the next morning.”

~

            “Your room, messieurs,” the hotel attendant said. 

            “Thank you,” I said, handing the man a few coins.  He made a slight bow and exited the room.  “Holmes, you’ve outdone yourself.  This room is a bit out of our usual range, is it not?”  I said, looking around the sitting room.  Holmes was opening a side-door.  He smiled as he looked into the adjoining room.

            “Come, come, Watson, how often do we make it to Paris?  Surely one night in such a place will not spoil us completely,” he said with a smile.  I came up along side him and my mouth dropped open at the site of the bed-chamber.  It contained two over-large beds piled with voluminous pillows.  The furniture was a beautiful mahogany color with ornate carvings.  Holmes touched my arm lightly.  He said, “perhaps we can suffer a bit for one night, eh, Watson?” 

~

            We took our dinner at the hotel that evening, and the food and wine were exquisite.  As Holmes and I walked back to our room, we laughed and continued our conversation about London’s regular police force and their not-so-finer moments.  It was rare to found Holmes in such a joshing spirit; he was even taking a few light-hearted jabs at Lestrade.  We walked into our room and closed the door behind us.  I was laughing heartily at Holmes’ wit and feeling rather warm (no doubt from the wine), so I began removing my coat jacket.  Smiling, Holmes suddenly slid my hands away and finished undoing my buttons.  I sobered, feeling his hands so close.  He continued to remove my jacket, running his hands up under my lapels.  I instinctively shifted, allowing him to slip the garment off my shoulders.  He hung it up, still smiling, and looked at me with boyish delight. 

            “Bit too much wine, Watson?” he joked.  I nodded, disarmed completely by his smile.  “I indulged somewhat myself this evening,” he admitted.  His face was flushed slightly, and he remained close enough to touch.  Without thinking, I reached for his coat buttons and proceeded to remove his coat jacket.  “Thank you,” he said in an even tone.

            “My pleasure,” I retorted.  Uncertainly, I took his hand in mine and gave it a brief and gentle squeeze.  “Shall we have a smoke before bed?”  I asked, desiring his company for a little longer.

~

            The following day, we descended onto the platform of a small country station.  The station master directed us to the village’s only inn. 

            Our room was modest, to say the least, and contained only one not over-large bed and two flat pillows.  “You see, Watson, we are not to be spoiled on this venture after all,” Holmes said. 

            “I daresay not,” I responded.

~

            Nearly a week passed, and Holmes’ mood grew dark—he was having no success in flushing out his quarry.  “I know where he is, Watson, but can find no way to reach him without giving away our game,” he said one night over dinner. 

            “Could you lure him out somehow?” I ventured.

            “The hunter must have a carrot—and I have no carrot,” he said dejectedly as he lifted a glazed carrot from his plate. 

            The next few days passed in much the same way; and I remained patient as Holmes returned each night no further along than the previous. 

~

            “Is there a Dr. Watson here?” a middle-aged man asked the inn-keep.  I instantly looked up from my paper at the mention of my name. 

            “Yes, monsieur,” the inn-keep said.  “Would you like to speak with him?” 

            “Yes, thank you,” the man replied.

            “He is sitting there in the common-room.”  I quickly pretended to be reading.  The man walked over to me; I turned my head up toward him as he entered my field of vision. 

            “Are you Dr. John Watson?” said he.

            “I am,” I said, “and who are you, good sir?”

            “I’m Earnest Colbert, might I have a word?” he asked.  I nearly sprang to my feet, ready to tackle the villain.  But my time with Holmes had given me enough warning to realize that this situation might be pre-meditated.  Unaware of what my role might be, I decided to act as naturally as possible.

            “What would you like speak with me about?” I replied, trying to sound open and good-natured.

            “I was told you were in need of some help, of the sort I am suited to provide,” he said rather cryptically. 

            Thinking quickly, I replied, “and who might have told you I was in need of your assistance?” 

            “The professor,” he said and waited expectantly.

            I smiled, trying to look like he had supplied the correct answer.  “You may tell Moriarty that he should have arranged a more private meeting place for such sensitive business,” I stated sternly, hoping this was a good tack.

            He smiled and relaxed his shoulder muscles.  “Fair enough,” he said comfortably.  “Would you like to discuss our business in your private room, then?” 

            “A most prudent suggestion,” I replied.  Hoping now that this was some plot of Holmes’, I led our villainous foe to our room.  As we entered, I looked at the wardrobe, calculating how I might best retrieve my revolver if it came to it.

            Suddenly, the door slammed shut, and I bolted around to see Holmes standing in front of it.  His eyes were fixed on our guest and his hands held a pair of Yard handcuffs.  

            “Mr. Earnest Colbert, I presume,” Holmes spoke.  His voice was calm, but I could sense that every muscle was poised for action.  His eyes darted to me for an instant, directing me in our unspoken manner that I should be ready for anything. 

            “And who might you be?” Colbert returned, startled.  “And what’s the meaning of this?”

            “I am surprised you don’t remember me, sir,” Holmes replied.  “I subjected you to a rather nasty pummeling at Grosby Abbey some weeks ago.” 

            Colbert’s demeanor shifted as recognition dawned.  He leapt for Holmes in an instant, and the two were soon grappling against the door.  I ran over and grabbed the villain round the neck and shoulders, pulling him away.  We stumbled backward into a writhing heap upon the floor.  We were too entangled for either of us to land any effective blows.  We twisted, and I found myself pinned just as Holmes struck the man upon the head with the heavy iron fire-poker.  I wrenched free of the brute, and heard his limp head solidly hit the wooden floor.  My clothes were dusty and crumpled, and a large rip now adorned my jacket sleeve. 

            “What an absolute monster!” I exclaimed, still heady from the excitement and exertion.  Holmes came over to me, gliding his keen eyes over my person, as if inspecting me.

            “Are you in any way injured, Watson,” he said with concern. 

            “No, not a bit, but my coat jacket is done for,” I said as I removed it and threw it upon the bed.  “I don’t know how you managed to get him here, but now that we have him, what are we going to do with him?” I asked looking over at our unconscious foe.

            “When he comes to, we will cautiously accompanying him back to London for trial,” my friend said.

~

            It was nearly 30 minutes before Colbert came round.  We had placed him upon the small couch and turned our chairs so that we would always have him in view.

            “My head,” he murmured weakly.  Several minutes passed as he studied his surroundings.  “Mr. Sherlock Holmes,” he said finally.  “I should have guessed you’d dog me all the way here.”

            “Mr. Colbert, I simply want to ask you one question,” Holmes stated.  “Did you manage to recover the opal?” 

            The villain’s eyes widened in utter shock.  “How on earth do you know about that?” he managed.

            “That is not all I know,” Holmes said.  “The woman you brutally murdered was not a nun at all, but one Miss Anna Chadwick.  You were lovers and compatriots in crime—until she betrayed you and hid herself as a young novitiate with the walls of Grosby Abbey.”

            “She got what she deserved!” Colbert hissed sharply.  “She thought she could take the loot and be rid of me.  Such betrayal I would not stand!”  He was angered and a well of violence rose in his eyes as he continued his rant. 

            More of the story had come out, either from Holmes’ keen reasoning or Colbert’s mad ravings.  However, neither Holmes nor our captive ever mentioned the name of Moriarty, which I found puzzling.  In the train back to London, however, Holmes made a point of remaining exceedingly vigilant and indicated that I should do so as well. 

            We called at Scotland Yard late the next evening.  Lestrade was roused and took charge of Colbert with a surprised look upon his face.  “Good heavens, Mr. Holmes, wherever did you find the brute?” he asked with awe.

            “Watson and I took a small sojourn to the French countryside,” Holmes said.  “I will give you a full account of the mystery, my good man, but it shall have to wait until the morrow; our trip was an exhausting one.  If you would be good enough to call in the morning around ten o’clock?”  With that he turned on his heel and strode out the door.  I tipped my hat at a most dumbfounded Lestrade and swiftly followed.

~

            We did not return immediately to Baker Street, much to my tired body’s dismay.  Holmes led us hurriedly through the back alley-ways of London without word or explanation.  I knew better than to ask him his intentions, and before long we came to Grosby Abbey.  We gained entry, despite the late hour, and Holmes rapidly made for the back garden.  Here he tossed his hat, cane, over coat, and jacket to me.  Undoing his cuff-links and rolling up his sleeves, he proceeded to kneel upon the ground and dig furiously with his hands.  I stared in wonder, not knowing what could have prompted such action.

            After several minutes, however, he exclaimed, “Aha!  I have it, Watson.”  He then held up a large black opal still streaked with garden-dirt. 

            “I say!” I exclaimed in wonder at the shear size of the thing.  “How did you know where to find it?!” I asked in amazement.

            Holmes rested upon his heels and began to explain.  “This opal is one of only a handful so large and flawless, and it was stolen from the wife of a wealthy Australian businessman.  By clever disguise as driver and maid, Colbert and his lover managed to insinuate themselves into the household of Mr. Jonathan McBride, famed Australian opal mine tycoon.  For years they cultivated the trust of their employers; all the while plotting to abscond Mrs. McBride’s prized possession, this unique opal.  I suspect that it was given to her by her husband as a wedding-anniversary or birthday present.”

            “How could you know something like that, Holmes?” I asked somewhat incredulously. 

            “I do not know for sure, Watson; it is admittedly a speculation, but I should think it quite a sound one.  You see, a keen businessman such as McBride would naturally desire to keep an object of great valuable at a bank or security-house.  However, the opal was clearly taken from within the house.  What could possibly have swayed Mr. McBride from his sensible inclinations but his good wife, who clearly had some sentimental attachment to this jewel.  The combination of highly-valuable jewel and sentimental attachment naturally suggests the gifting from husband to wife.”

            “Remarkable,” I said.

            “Whatever the case, our villains staged a successful robbery and subsequently fled to England.  However, before they could complete their pre-arranged transaction with Moriarty—for they were no doubt acting as his agents—their greed led ultimately to the passionate murder of Miss Chadwick,” he concluded.

            “But how did you know where the opal was?” I asked.

            “Having followed Colbert’s boot prints out to this garden,” he began, “I was struck not as I first entered, but only when I began to inspect this particular area more closely.  He could not risk having the opal on his person, and so he prudently decided to hide it.  By burying it here, in the garden where disturbed soils would go unnoticed, he could make his escape and retrieve it at his leisure at some later date.  At the time, I was not in possession of enough facts to make the connection between the timing of Colbert’s violent and deterring actions and the true nature of the freshly turned soil upon this very spot. 

“So now,” he said as he stood up, “we must return this priceless treasure to its rightful owner.”  He pocketed the opal and brushed the dirt from his hands and trouser knees.  “I am quite a mess, am I not, Watson?” he asked.  “To Baker Street for a much needed hot bath.” 

            With the mystery solved, we returned to the comfort of our rooms.  After refreshing ourselves we settled into the sitting room.  I sat drinking steaming hot chocolate as Holmes played softly upon his violin.  He was relieved to have Colbert in the custody of Scotland Yard, but I could see anxiety just below the surface.  I sensed that he was thinking over the inevitable reaction of Professor Moriarty.  I myself was feeling a growing unease, but I vowed to put it aside for the moment.  And so I sat listening to the soothing notes of the violin and thinking of the feel of Holmes’ lips upon mine.

 
The Case of the Amateur Archaeologist