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Part Seven: Sherlock Holmes
Watson took his leave of us
shortly after Daniels returned. He thanked Daniels for the invitation to
remain—a genuine invitation, as far as I could tell—but insisted on returning to
our rooms in Baker Street. He promised to return on the morrow, however, to make
note of my progress.
Daniels, meanwhile, brought in a tray for me that
contained a bowl of broth. I frowned at it. “I have Kitty to thank for this, I
suppose,” I said.
“You do indeed,” he said, smiling. “And you’d best eat
it. I won’t be able to face her if you don’t.”
“Very well,” I said,
meekly picking up the spoon.
He gave me a wink and sat down on the edge
of the bed, making it clear that I was to stomach the whole. I smiled wryly at
him and forced it down. I'll own that the taste was acceptable, but I had no
appetite.
He took the tray out when I finished and then returned to my
side. “Shall I stay? I can read to you, if you’d like.”
I stared at him.
He had spoken lightly, allowing me the option of privacy. But did he wish to
stay? Watson would have—and that desire would have been written plainly on his
face. But I could not read Daniels so easily. He was too accomplished an
actor.
I sighed. This cheerful demeanor of his must mask some anger.
Nonetheless, I reached out and took hold of his arm.
"Stay," I said,
"Though I can't promise to remain awake for long." My voice, I noticed, was half
pleading and half apprehensive, but I managed another wan smile. “I should think
that you’d be washing your hands of me by now. I apologise, Jonathan. I have no
excuse for becoming such a burden.”
He leaned over and kissed me, as if
to assure me that we were not at an end. Then he changed into his night gown and
crawled into bed beside me. I put my arm around him, allowing him to rest his
head against my chest, and soon drifted off to sleep.
~
I awoke
with an almost restless, feverish energy. Daniels was sound asleep, but I
disentangled myself from him without disturbing him and crept out of bed. I then
shrugged myself into my dressing gown and left the room, shutting the door
quietly behind me.
I lit two lamps and then considered Daniel's living
quarters, as if taking stock of them for the first time. They were crammed with
books. Books on shelves, books piled on the floor, books spilling over, it
seemed, from every corner. Most of these books were in English, but there was a
Hebrew Bible, a Hebrew prayerbook—a Siddur, I believe it's called—and what I
presumed were excerpts from the Talmud. There were also a few miscellaneous
books in German and Russian. Daniels had an admirable talent for
languages.
Which was his native tongue? I was fairly certain that he was
born in Russia. (I had not asked him outright, for I was determined to solve
this mystery on my own.) Presumably Russian was his first language, unless he
had grown up speaking Yiddish instead. Did Jews in Russia speak Yiddish?
Daniels, at any event, spoke it fluently. I'd heard him do so on numerous
occasions and had already learned several colorful phrases from him.
As
for the rest of the books—Shakespeare and commentaries on Shakespeare made up
the majority of them. But there were plenty of other plays and novels, a few
histories, folk tales and odds and ends that must have captured his fancy at one
point or another.
I furrowed my brow as I pulled my cigarette box out of
my pocket. Daniels was an intriguing fellow; he would never bore me. I expected
to continue our arrangement for as long as he would tolerate me. Watson was
quite unjust to believe that I was trifling with the lad.
I shut my eyes
at the thought of Watson as I sank down into a shabby arm chair. He could
scarcely stomach the thought of sodomy, poor fellow—and yet he had come
immediately upon hearing that I had taken ill. I picked out a cigarette and lit
it, wishing I had my pipe.
Why had I insisted on introducing Watson to
Daniels in the first place? Why had I considered it a point of honour that I not
hide Daniels from him? I frowned, trying to come up with a
convincing—
“Why are you not in bed?”
I started at that. I had not
heard Daniels open the bedroom door. He was was standing on the threshold,
however, eyeing me with concern.
“I was restless, my dear fellow. Come,
sit down.”
He folded his arms across his chest instead and leaned
sideways against the door frame. “You haven't taken more of that wretched
solution, have you?”
“No,” I assured him, shaking my head. “I'm not that
much a fool.”
He managed a smile at that and then took a seat opposite of
me. His face was not quite as cheerful as it had been earlier, however.
Something was troubling him. Well, perhaps he was ready to give free rein to his
anger. I certainly deserved the brunt of it.
“What's wrong, Jonathan?” I
asked, keeping my voice soft as I continued to smoke.
He cocked his head
at me. “Do you know that when you call me Jonathan, it doesn't sound nearly as
intimate as when you say Watson?”
I believe I let out a long-suffering
sigh at that point. “Daniels, I beg you. Watson is quite maudlin enough for the
two of you—”
“It's not my fault that you have a penchant for sentimental
men,” he retorted, grinning suddenly.
I glared at him, but I could not
argue the truth of that statement. I certainly seemed to surround myself with
such men.
“Holmes,” Daniels continued, looking me straight in the eye,
“I've spent the past few weeks trying to convince myself that you and Watson
regard each other as brothers. But that's not the case, is it?”
I held
his gaze, but some moments passed before I answered his question. “I believe
that is how Watson regards our relationship,” I said at length.
He
nodded. “That's what I thought too...until today. Let's be honest, shall we? If
that respectable doctor of yours were to confess himself a sodomite tomorrow,
you'd have no more use for me.”
I looked away from him.
“Daniels—”
“It's all right,” he said. “I'm not offended. I can stand the
truth.”
I looked back at him. He did not appear to be crushed—quite the
opposite. He was taking this in very good part. And yet I knew that I was
incapable of penetrating any mask he chose to don. It was quite possible that I
was witnessing a masterful performance.
“Are you finished with me?” I
asked.
“No,” he said at once. “I'll take you on any terms, Holmes, and
for as long as you please. If it must end when Watson comes to his senses...” he
shrugged as his words trailed off. “Besides,” he added at length, “I'm not the
jealous sort. I'd be perfectly willing to share you.”
I paled at that.
Not from any shock on my part, but from imagining Watson's reaction to such a
suggestion. I thought it highly improbable that my respectable doctor would ever
declare himself a sodomite—but if he did so, he would insist on remaining as
respectable as possible.
“While I might countenance such an arrangement,
I fear that would be asking too much of Watson,” I said, sparing Daniels another
wry smile.
He nodded. “I gathered that,” he admitted. Then he stood up
and held out a hand to me. “Now get rid of that cigarette and come back to bed,”
he ordered. “I may not have you for long, but I intend to take good care of you
while I do.”
I obligingly put the cigarette out. “Are you sure of this,
Daniels?”
“Yes,” he said, still holding out his hand to me. “And don't
worry: I won't bore you with maudlin tears when it ends.”
Of course not,
I thought to myself. You would never allow that mask of yours to slip. Your
performance must remain in tact at all costs.
But out loud I said
nothing. I merely accepted his hand and returned with him to bed.
Soon
to be continued in A Chivalrous Gesture
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