Watson crossed his arms over his chest and let his breathing fall back to an even tempo. If he was going to die he was going to try to do it with a certain serenity and sense of poise. He imagined he was like the Black Prince in Canterbury Cathedral, although as far as he could remember he lay with his fingers making a pyramid. Watson tried it but it didn’t feel right. No, best be comfortable to face the last few minutes on earth. He ‘crossed his heart’ by gripping the opposite shoulder with each hand.
Would anyone ever find him here buried deep in the cold soil of Germany? That possibility gave him more pain than the thought of the breathlessness to come. That Holmes and Mrs Gregson should never discover what became of him. And that the crime perpetrated on him should go unpunished.
Why did he have to be done away with? What was the urgency? A few days and he would be gone, away from the camp. And what were they covering up?
Foul deeds, Watson.
Yes, thank you, Holmes, even I could have grasped that conclusion. What was the significance of this Captain Brevette, apparently dead but still trying to communicate with the earthly realm? And why should the medium and his friends need to be murdered? If that was what had happened.
You can’t solve it from in there. Not enough facts at your disposal.
I know, I know. Watson decided to concentrate on something else. The last, unfinished Holmes story that would never, now, see the light of day. But he could complete it to his own satisfaction while he waited for the air to grow thin. He could picture the words on the page, paragraph by paragraph until he reached the release of the last line. He imagined himself at the desk at Baker Street, the air full of curlicues of tobacco, the only sound the solid tick of the wall clock and the muffled clop of hoofs on cobbles, interrupted only by the occasional grunt from Holmes as some item in The Times caught his attention. With a fresh Bishops Bourne writing tablet, he saw himself pick up an Onoto self-filling fountain pen – his favoured writing instrument of late – and begin the final section of the story of the gold watches.
I recall it recorded in my notebook that it was a bleak and windy day towards the end of March 1895 that Holmes received a telegram over breakfast. He scribbled a reply and said nothing more of it. A few hours later there was a measured step on the stairs and a moment later a stout, tall and grey-whiskered gentleman entered the room.
Watson had no idea how long had passed before he mentally composed the finale to the tale of the gold watches.
Mr Sherlock Holmes is retired, tending his bees, his reputation secure and robust enough to survive a tale in which he played the part of the mistaken detective.
But should this be the final tale in the entire canon? Surely Holmes should leave the public stage with a greater flourish, a final bow, rather than a case that baffled the Great Detective. It was true, Watson had long determined to bring to light some of those incidents where even Holmes’s deductions had proved fruitless, but as the grand finale?
Who was he fooling? This manuscript existed only in his head. There would be no chance for anyone else to read the finished product because the words of the final section did not exist in solid form, just held in the wires and synapses of his brain, an organ that must soon see its sparks extinguished for ever.
The thought made him restless and he pushed once more against the lid. For a moment he imagined something from outside. A scuffling. There it was again. And . . . voices? Was this it? Was the end presaged by aural hallucinations? No, again there was a distinct sound, scratching against the side of his prison, although whether animal or human he could not tell. Perhaps it was a curious mole or a wayward rabbit. But he had heard human voices, of that he was certain.
He shouted again for help, but no reply came. Then he heard a distinct click and the squeak of wood moving over wood. The floor of the wooden box he lay prostrate in was moving, swinging open as a mechanism of some description was released. There came the most perplexing sensation for a man lying in a coffin as Watson fell through the base and found himself falling through the air, apparently plunging deeper into the cold earth.