“A bittersweet success, Holmes,” I observed as I drove us back to Chelsea. It was well past midnight, now that we had furnished the police with our statements. “Young Marcus Norwood is in for a shock when he discovers that his lady friend plotted against him.”
Even in the gloom of the witching hour, I could see the grin that tugged at my companion’s lips. “I swear that you adhere to the sensibilities of the last century as firmly as a limpet clings to crumbling rock.”
“And what’s that supposed to mean?” I snapped, my temper shortened by the lateness of the hour and the distance to my bed.
“I can hear it in your voice, Watson; your disdain for our client’s romantic entanglement. His lady friend, indeed.”
Now it was my turn to pick up on Holmes’s words. “Our client, eh? Now who’s living in the past? I thought you were retired.”
Holmes waved away my admittedly feeble taunt. “Force of habit, nothing more, although I would wager that your puritanical tendencies are more deeply rooted. When will you learn that times change, and so must we? Are you even aware of the year?”
I took the corner to Cheyne Walk faster than I ought, clipping the kerb in the process.
“Have a care, Watson. You nearly had us over.”
“If you don’t like the way I drive, next time I suggest you take a cab.”
“Come now. There’s no need—”
“No need?” I cut him off, screeching the Swift to a halt in front of the house, no doubt attracting the notice of several of my more inquisitive neighbours. Since Holmes’s arrival the curtains of Cheyne Walk had twitched so much you could be forgiven for thinking that they had developed a life of their own. “You drag me out in the middle of the night—”
“I would hardly call eight o’clock the middle of the night,” Holmes interjected, clambering out of the passenger seat.
“What you call it is neither here nor there. You summon me to a sordid little nightclub—”
“If you think the Mallard is sordid, I dread to think what you would make of the rest of Soho.”
“A sordid little nightclub, without a word of explanation, and have me charging around the streets of London on a personal crusade that has little if anything to do with me.”
“Watson, you do yourself a disservice.”
“Do I? Exactly what purpose did I serve this evening, other than that of chauffeur? Or perhaps I was just there so that, once again, I could be dazzled by your brilliance as you remind me how dull-witted, ignorant and laughably out-of-touch I am.”
I punctuated my last sentence with a slam of the driver’s door, not caring a jot if it attracted the attention of our regiment of nosy neighbours.
“Watson, you are tired.”
“Outstanding, Holmes,” I said, barging past the detective and marching up to my front door. “However did you know?”
I turned the key and pushed the door open, stepping inside. Holmes followed me, a look of smug amusement written across his face. I knew I shouldn’t rise to the bait, but could scarcely help myself.
“And for your information,” I continued, hanging my still damp hat and coat on their customary pegs, “I am all too aware of the age that we live in, and what the last few years have done to our country. You say I cling to the last century? Well, maybe I do. Maybe I yearn for a time when the police could be trusted, when a woman stood by her man rather than stab him in the back, and when an honest chap who had defended his country was rewarded, not broken by the very powers that have pledged to protect him.”
Holmes merely laughed, shrugging off his own coat and stowing his umbrella in the stand. “And when exactly did this fairy-tale age exist, Watson, outside your rose-tinted imagination? Have you learnt nothing from our various misadventures over the years? The purity of the human spirit is a dangerous myth, as are the restraints of polite society. Time and time again, the gullible fall prey to those who truly understand human nature with all its complexity and foibles.”
“Folk like you, I suppose.”
“Folk like criminals, con-artists and swindlers,” Holmes replied, his voice as infuriatingly calm as my own was agitated. “Not to mention the patrons of clubs such as the Mallard. Those young men, dancing the night away, they have stared horror in the face, Watson; they have seen beyond the lie of a happily-ever-after, seen what man will do to man. No wonder that they lose themselves to the primitive beat of a drum or a line of white powder.”
“No wonder you find yourself so at home,” I threw back, pushing past him to take the stairs.
If Holmes was stung by my words, he had no chance to show it.
“John Watson, what in heaven’s name do you think you are doing, shouting the odds at this hour?”
I looked up to see my wife at the top of the stairs, hands on hips.
“I am sorry, Mrs Watson,” Holmes replied in my place. “The blame is mine, not your husband’s. Watson was merely pointing out that I have overstayed my welcome somewhat.”
My tirade interrupted, I found myself becoming flustered at Holmes’s words. I turned back to face him. “Now, I never said—”
“He is, of course, correct,” Holmes continued, expertly avoiding my gaze. “It appears that I am living in the past: expecting our partnership, and indeed our friendship, to resume where we left off, and for that I also apologise. I shall leave first thing in the morning.”
With that, Holmes climbed the stairs, leaving me fuming in the hallway. My wife stood aside on the landing to let him pass, which he did with a loaded expression of thanks.
It was typical of the man. Picking a fight and then, when the argument was lost, taking the high ground. Maybe it was the throb of my rheumatism, the chill of night, or the sudden realisation that some things never change, no matter what Holmes said, but if my former companion wanted to cut short his visit, then so be it. He would be the one returning to a cold, empty cottage, not I.
* * *
After a fitful night’s sleep, I awoke early to hear movement downstairs. I glanced at my bedside clock to see that it was but seven o’clock. My wife was still sleeping peacefully, so unless we were being burgled it could only mean that Holmes was up and about. The memory of our quarrel hanging heavily over me, I struggled out of bed, ignoring the creaks of my knees to throw on my gown.
Closing the bedroom door as softly as possible behind me, I stole downstairs to spy a suitcase packed and beside the door, Holmes’s coat draped over it. Of the man himself, there was no sign, until I walked through to the kitchen and found the detective writing a note at the wooden table.
I cleared my throat to announce my presence.
“Ah, excellent,” said Holmes, glancing up and rewarding me with the tightest of smiles. “I was composing a letter of thanks to your dear lady wife, but now you are awake, you can relay my gratitude in person. Capital.”
He stood, taking care not to scrape his chair against the tiles.
“Holmes, I—”
“It has been more than agreeable to see you again, Watson. I do hope I can repay your hospitality in future. You and your wife are of course welcome to visit—”
I stepped forward into the kitchen, cutting him off.
“Please, Holmes. There’s no need for you to leave like this. What I said last night—”
“Was completely understandable, and, I would admit, somewhat justified. You were correct; there was no need for me to – how did you put it so eloquently? – summon you to the Mallard. I could, and indeed did, bring the matter to a satisfactory conclusion without your assistance, on this occasion at least.”
He replaced the chair beneath the table and flashed me yet another smile that singularly failed to reach his eyes.
“And now I must make haste if I am to catch the eight o’clock from Waterloo.” He marched straight past me and into the corridor. “I can hail a cab on the way, so there is no need to worry about providing transport. You should get back to bed. After all, you had a late night.”
“I won’t hear of it,” I said, following him towards the front door. “If you must go today, I’m sure that you can catch a later train. Let me get dressed, and we can have some breakfast before I drive you to the station.”
Stubbornly, Holmes slipped on his coat and picked up his luggage.
“No need, Watson. No need. I have put you and your good lady out for too long. Besides, by the sound of the footsteps approaching your front door, you have a new visitor.”
“Footsteps? What do you—”
Before I could complete my question, Holmes swung open the front door to reveal a portly individual reaching for the knocker.
The fellow started to find himself caught in the act, before a wide gap-toothed grin spread across his bearded face. He clapped his hands together with glee and laughed heartily.
“Ha-ha. Just the man I wanted to see. Sherlock Holmes, back where he belongs in old London town – and not a moment too soon!”