Peace
For all my tiredness, I could not sleep.
We returned to Baker Street, stopping on the way so that Holmes could place an order with his street Arabs to procure a batch of cigars due in from Nicaragua on the morning tide. I had no idea how my companion could be so aware of the comings and goings at Custom House.
While Holmes sat in his chair by the fire, no doubt fussing over the cigars, I sat at the table in our sitting room, paper and pen in hand, completing the composition of my letter to Mrs. Wynter. I opened the notebook which contained the interviews with Miss Burdett, George Raskill, and Louis Dodge, and sifted through it one more time to see what his friends and lover had to say about him. There was no doubt more to the man than I would ever know but I knew enough to confirm once and for all that he was anything but a deserter.
He was in love. He was a poor gambler. He was an excellent dart player. He could not tell jokes. He volunteered for the mission that had cost him his life. Lieutenant Norbert Wynter was a man like any other with foibles and accomplishments but no one could call him a deserter.
I began twice before finding the proper way to compose my biographical sketch; my letter was to be a fitting eulogy for the son who did not come home from war. It was difficult to write about a man I had never met and barely knew, even from the interviews I had conducted. I kept at it, though, and was thoroughly ignored by Holmes, who only stirred when an Irregular arrived with a package that smelled strongly of tobacco. He then sat smoking, keeping his own counsel. He had never shown any curiosity about Wynter the man. Holmes saw him as an object to be found, not a man to be understood.
That fell to me and clarified in my own mind what qualities I brought to our partnership. His keen intellect could never be matched but his understanding of human nature, the human condition, that was something I knew all too well. I could continue reminding him of the personal price exacted by the very act of living.
With that in mind, I proceeded deliberately, conjuring forth the words I needed to bring Norbert Wynter to life one final time. The letter covered three sheets of paper, each in the best possible penmanship I could muster. I let the ink dry, reread it and declared the missive as proper as I could manage. I signed it, placed it in an envelope, and slipped the letter into my jacket pocket.
I waited until Holmes retired to his room, then ventured out. I had a place I needed to be. Whilst I could not tell Mrs. Wynter the particulars of her son’s death, I could set her mind at ease and offer her the testimonies of his comrades, and in some small way, perhaps, finally bring him home to her.