A Recollection…

As the film drew to its improbable conclusion, the elderly man pulled himself from his chair to switch off the television set. For several seconds he stared at the blank screen with an expression of angry distaste before turning away impatiently.

“Why in Heaven’s name is Dr. Watson always portrayed as some kind of half-witted buffoon?” he muttered. “If only they had known him as he really was.”

He paused irresolutely. Then, going through to the bedroom, he opened a wardrobe and from the floor took a worn and scuffed leather case which he laid reverently on the table. He stroked the scratched leather with affection and smiled as his eye lit on the tarnished brass plate with the initials V.H. engraved thereon.

Opening the case to reveal the neat bundles of paper within, he picked up the topmost envelope and tapped it against the palm of his hand, as if remembering. Presently he extracted the single sheet of paper it contained and allowed his eyes to scan it lovingly, although he knew it by heart.

Dated July, 1956, it was brief and to the point:

My dear Henry,

As my only child, and indeed my only relative, you will naturally inherit what little I may leave on my death, but this old case and its contents may well prove to be the most valuable of my possessions, perhaps with the passing years even more so than either of us can envisage. I am bound not to make any of the material public during the lifetime of any of the protagonists, which virtually means also my own lifetime, as I know for a fact that the central figure still lives, although of a very great age. The letters enclosed with the other papers explain all and I leave you to make what you will of the matter.

Your affectionate father,

John H. Hunter

The man returned the sheet to the envelope, placing it back in the case and picking up another. This showed signs of much greater age, as indeed the stamp and postmark confirmed. It bore the date of May 12th, 1894 and was addressed in a tight angular hand to Miss Violet Hunter, Fiveways School, Walsall, Staffs. The letter inside gave evidence of being composed in circumstances of extreme agitation, this being borne out by the content.

My Dear Miss Hunter, [it began]

It is with a sense of shame and self-disgust that I pen these lines to you, not to excuse my conduct, but in the hope that you will understand how it was I came to act in such an indescribably caddish manner. It must appear that I callously abandoned you in a cold-blooded and cynical way, but I beg you to read on and find it in your heart to believe that I had no inkling of the shame and humiliation that I had inflicted on you.

After our brief but idyllic interlude fallowing the strange affair which I chronicled under the title of “The Copper Beeches”, I returned to my lodgings in Baker Street and was willy-nilly swept up in a flurry of activity with my friend and colleague Mr. Sherlock Holmes. I wrote to you on three occasions, the first two eliciting no response, the third missive being returned to me marked “Address Unknown”. Assuming that your interest in me had waned, I made no further advances, and as time passed, the memory of our brief liaison became less painful to bear. It was not until the reappearance last month of my friend after his reputed death that I became aware of the wrong I had done you. When we were in Birmingham on the matter of Mr. Hall Pycroft some five years ago, Holmes inadvertently heard of your situation, but in view of my marriage shortly before, he decided to keep his own counsel. It was on his return from the grave last month that he saw fit to put me in possession of the fact that you had borne a child of whom I was the father,

It was a bolt from the blue and my first impulse was to come to you in order to right the terrible wrong I had wrought. Holmes, wise as he is, dissuaded me from this course which might cause you embarrassment, advising me to write to you first to discover you feelings in the matter.

Whatever you thought of my conduct, please accept that I did not desert you heartlessly. A word would have brought me to your side, and if I can now make amends by offering you marriage, I will be proud and honoured by your acceptance. I am free of attachments, having been a widower for more than two years, and I offer you my complete and utter devotion. I remain,

Yours humbly,

John H. Watson

Shaking his head the man replaced this letter and taking out another, he read on.

My Dear Dr. Watson,

Thank you for your letter and the sentiments expressed therein. I knew through Mr. Holmes that you were ignorant of my condition and I hold no animosity towards you, as I bear at least as much responsibility as you do. I must decline your honourable offer of restitution, conscious as I am of the generous gesture that is typical of the gentleman that you are.

I feel it would not be in the boy’s best interest to make him aware of the circumstances. However, if, when he attains a more mature age, should you wish to meet him, I will place no obstacle in your way. My solicitor is instructed to inform you in the event of my death, but otherwise I think it best if we have no future communication.

Yours Sincerely,

Violet Hunter

“That must have shaken the old boy,” the man muttered to himself as he took the final letter from the battered case. It was dated July 1908 and ran:

My Dear John,

It is with deep sorrow that I learn of the death of your esteemed mother at such a tragically early age. To my dismay, I received no word of this unhappy event until the funeral had taken place, so please do not attribute my defection as indifference on my part. I have been on an extended visit to my old friend and colleague Mr. Sherlock Holmes who is now in retirement in Sussex.

In the seven years since you were made aware of our relationship, I like to think we have become firm friends, and it is a source of regret that your mother would never consent to meeting me. Should you at any time be in need of assistance, financial or whatever, please do not hesitate to approach me. Although I am by no means a wealthy man, what I have is at your disposal, but meanwhile I enclose something that has little value in itself, but may in time be an interesting addition to what is known of the greatest and wisest man it has been my privilege to call friend.

These are the accounts of several cases in which I was associated with Sherlock Holmes, and for obvious reasons there is an embargo on their publication for many years to come. Cherish them well, and if at any time you wish to bring a little cheer into the life of a sinful old man, you know where to find me.

I Remain,

Your Loving Father,

John H. Watson

Dr. Watson’s grandson laid this last letter aside to pick up the remaining item in the case, a folder of manuscripts which he carried over to the chair in the living room. For several minutes he sat with it on his knee, a far-away look in his still-sharp eyes, reflecting that although the doctor’s self-deprecatory style may have created an impression of naive obtuseness, it was unthinkable that Sherlock Holmes would have suffered for so many years the kind of dim-wit so often portrayed on film and television. Henry Hunter recalled that as a very young boy he had been taken on a visit to the old man, shortly before his death in 1929. Across the years, he could still remember the kindly eyes and slow firm voice of the man who, for almost fifty years, had been privy to the workings of one of the most brilliant minds of his age.

He opened the folder to look once more on the familiar handwriting of a century ago, again feeling a nostalgia for a world he had never known. A world of gas-light and horse-drawn carriages when the British Empire spread over a quarter of the earth’s surface, and seemed likely to endure as long as time itself.

Henry Hunter began to read, and his mind became part of that bygone age as he immersed himself in the atmosphere evoked by the out-moded phrases and less abrupt manners of the England of Sherlock Holmes…