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Part Two: John Watson
I have never known Sherlock Holmes
to lavish time upon his friends. Indeed, those he calls friends are few and far
between; I count myself fortunate to be numbered among them. It is not that he
has no talent for friendship—it is merely that his devotion to his work leaves
him little time to seek out companions.
It was with some surprise,
therefore, that I learned he had struck up a new friendship—and with an actor,
no less.
I remember the night clearly. I was smoking in my chair, letting
my mind wander, as Holmes lounged on the divan, scratching a haunting melody on
his violin. At length he put down his instrument and turned toward me with a
decided sparkle in his eyes.
“I’ve met Mrs. Sawyer,” he
announced.
I started at that, trying to place the name. But then my
eyebrows shot up as I remembered the old crone…or the person who had disguised
himself as such. “You don’t mean the accomplice? How did you find
him?”
“Quite by chance,” he assured me. “He’s playing the part of Prince
Hal at present—you remember, my dear fellow, that you cancelled on me that
evening in order to tend to a patient.”
“That was last week, wasn’t
it?”
Holmes nodded. “Yes. There was something familiar about the prince’s
voice. It did not take me long to realise that this actor—one Jonathan Daniels
by name—was the very man who tricked us out of that ring.”
He paused as
his eyes seemed to glimmer at the memory. “I sought him out backstage after the
performance,” he continued. “He recognised me, of course, and greeted me by
name. I complimented him on his skill.”
“So he admitted his part in the
affair?”
“Oh yes. We had a most instructive conversation—and we’ve met
several times since. He's been training me in the art of disguise. I thought
myself an expert, but my meager talent pales next to his. I shall certainly put
his lessons to good use.”
I frowned slightly as I took that in. No case
was occupying my friend at present, but he had nonetheless been out of our rooms
for most of this week. And on one night, at least, he had not returned
home.
Normally I would think nothing of that—I would simply be grateful
that he had not taken to the needle out of boredom. But now I wondered if he was
engaged in something equally dangerous.
I am not naïve. It occurred to
me, almost from the first, that Holmes’ lack of interest in women or matrimony
might be due to a preference for his own sex. We have never spoken of this, of
course. If my friend is indeed cursed with that failing, it is not my place to
take him to task, but rather to make certain that he is not found out. Such
information, in the wrong hands, would be devastating. Holmes could,
conceivably, be sent to prison.
I bit back a sigh. I dared not ask Holmes
if this actor had become his lover. I had no right to ask such a question. But
the mere thought of it turned my stomach. Quite apart from the perversity
involved, I found that I could not tolerate the notion of a stranger on such
intimate terms with Holmes.
However, I was able to comfort myself with
the thought that Holmes would soon grow weary of his actor. No one could keep
his interest indefinitely. Only a tantalizing case could do that. Holmes would
forget his infatuation…assuming he was, indeed, infatuated. It was quite
possible that I was worrying over nothing.
“I’m sorry I didn’t get a
chance to meet the fellow,” I said as I attempted to feign
nonchalance.
“Oh, there will be other opportunities,” Holmes responded.
“In fact, we’ll be dining together tomorrow, after his performance. Why don’t
you join us?”
His voice was careless, as if it was a matter of no
importance—but he had tensed ever so slightly while waiting for my answer. Or
had I imagined that? I was tired; perhaps my brain was playing tricks on
me.
“I should like that,” I managed, wondering how to take this
invitation. Should I be encouraged? Perhaps this Jonathan Daniels was nothing
more than a friend. Surely Holmes would not go out of his way to introduce his
lover to me?
Unless…unless he were so besotted that he meant to make
Daniels a permanent fixture in his life. Would he wish me to meet the fellow, if
that were the case?
But I was leaping to conclusions again. Holmes had
only known this man for a week. In all likelihood, they were merely friends. And
even if there was something more between them—well, a week was not long enough
for Holmes to become besotted. He was not such a fool.
“Good,” Holmes was
saying, his voice still careless and indifferent. “You had best to get bed, old
chap. You’re looking quite done in.”
I muttered some words of agreement
and then fled to my bedroom, where I passed an indifferent night.
Part
Three
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