Clapham Common Sunrise

“My sympathies and my love went out to her…I felt that years of the conventionalities of life could not teach me to know her sweet, brave nature as had this one day…”

—Dr. John H. Watson, The Sign of Four.

It was midnight. Our cab crossed the river at Waterloo, heading southwest. My life was now filled with mystery at both ends, as I endeavoured to keep Alfie’s life private.

Her benefactor’s penthouse in Clapham was of French Renaissance design featuring a pavilion roof, terraced, with arched recessed windows, located across from its lovely teacup-shaped park.

I took her hand as our cab drew nearer the park, young trees stood out along her edges, gaslight unveiling the sentinel’s purpose. I stepped out, paid the driver, and kissed Alfie’s hand. Whistled to Wiggins, paid him and gave him the night off. She unlocked the entrance and in the quiet darkness we ascended to a comfortable pale yellow, art-and-book-filled refuge. My eyes picked out favourites, Kipling, Tennyson, even, Emerson and Thoreau.

“John, would you like tea, wine?” She pulled me into the kitchen where I opened the wine, and we moved to the sitting room with glasses.

“This is a marvellous library. Have you had a chance to discover its treasures?”

She pointed them out. “Your books are here and Shakespeare, of course. A wide range of political writing: Marx and Engels, Riis, Douglass, Stanton, and Stowe. There are whole shelves of poetry: Byron, the Browning’s, and Elliot. Do you know Whitman, Lear, or Keats?”

“Give all to love; Obey thy heart; Friends, kindred, days, estate, good fame, plans, credit, and the muse; Nothing refuse.’ That’s Emerson. And your books, Alfie?”

“Perhaps, once I’ve written them. I write political speeches, John.” She looked in my eyes. “…the sunlight clasps the earth, and the moonbeams kiss the sea;—What is all this sweet work worth, if thou kiss not me?”

“Alfie, I am having some difficulty. The last time I felt this way, I married. Yet, you are not interested in marriage.”

“Oh, John, always the gentleman, but maybe what we feel might lead the way?

“Of that I am sure.”

I helped her into a cape as she led me to the rooftop where we were surrounded by the blue-black bowl of stars above our heads. We stood in wonder at the full moon as it shined above the trees and I revelled in Alfie’s moonlit beauty.

Her hair silvery in its light, she said, “We both share such adventurous lives and mine moves ever faster yet it seems I have no time or even the right to linger over it, there is so much at stake and I seem to be moving ever towards the whirlwind’s centre.”

“Maybe if I took your hands the spinning will stop.”

In response to my adoring stare she laughed at me, “John, let’s go in where you may see me in human form.”

“The moon only adds to your goddess aspect, Alfie, I love every inch, word, or radical utterance of you. You are my Athena, my Helen, and my Venus.” I kissed her.

“And you my smooth-tongued adventurous rogue.”

We moved from the roof to a fire in the library, and enjoyed the wine.

“John, how do you write such stories?”

“I am a scribe to Holmes’ genius.”

“Oh, John, you are too modest. Your lyrical descriptions, characters, and the way you set the mystery. I do understand the drive to say what’s important. When I speak I am on fire with the truth of our cause.”

I drew that passionate flame to me.

In the hour before daybreak dawned, she urged me into my coat and hat, which seemed to be my lot in choice of companions. We ran down as night elapsed to venture into the park. Alfie was smiling like a girl without a care, her cape flying around her as she pulled me by the hand down the park path she knew even in darkness. Finally, she stood in front of the newly built bandstand.

“It is exquisite, Alfie.”

She led me up the stairs, turned to me with a smile, invited me to close my eyes and then took hold of my hands.

“Listen, John!” All around us waking birds announced the new day. It was a divine contrapuntal music. I opened my eyes to see her face filled with wonder and joy. “Each song is different, each voice a symphony!”

On our way back she ran ahead towards her lodgings.

Abruptly, a lout the worse for drink stepped in front of Alfie. He profanely addressed her, “You’re nothing more than a rabble-rousing street whore! All you suffragettes deserve no better, I’ll show you!” He attempted to wrap a thin red scarf around her neck and she tripped him.

I quickly caught up with them, stood over him. “You, sir, are not worthy to be in her presence, get off it!” He produced a knife, and I knocked it from his hand, pulled my gun, and grabbed his collar. “Time in a Scotland Yard cell will cool you off.” I tied his wrists with the neckerchief. Alfie left before discovery.

I whistled for a police officer, introduced myself, and explained the situation to him. Reports will have to be filled out.

She met me at the door. I said, “My dear, you handled that well.”

“Thank you John. Unfortunately I am plagued by such men. Could he have been one of the ones who chased us? He knew I am a suffragist. They may know where I live, and I will have to move now.”

“Yes, that is a possibility. Let’s check with the Irregulars before you take that step. I have never known anyone like you, Alfie. Your strength to accept a considerable and dangerous place in history is laudable.”

“My dear, Doctor Watson,” she laughed. “I’m beginning to sound like someone in your marvellous stories.” She kissed me farewell.

I telephoned Holmes to meet at Scotland Yard, where we questioned the oaf who foolishly attempted to waylay a goddess. During our interview of Parker, Holmes was more interested in examining his boots and sampling the mud he found.

Afterwards he explained the striated differences like a geologist. “You see, Watson, this is fertile Clapham topsoil, most useful for developers of the Park yet meaningless for us. But I perceive this bit of blue-grey River Thames Clay will lead us to our man. You know this unique London clay was formed 50 million years ago. Now, this jot of brick-earth is a rather useful mixture of clay and sand. The two together form an unerring map of exactly where Parker has stepped along the banks of our great river. Bravo, Watson, for including me in your uncommon Clapham adventure. If you hadn’t singlehandedly brought him in, we wouldn’t have this excellent inculpatory evidence. Is there a revolver in your pocket, Doctor? Before we return to our fire a trip to the river is nigh!”