The Question of the Death Bed Conversion

by William Patrick Maynard

Cold rain drizzled against the window as I looked down onto Baker Street.

“Jedidiah Enright is dead.”

I turned upon hearing my friend’s voice. Sherlock Holmes was still seated at the table, reading the newspaper as he had been before I momentarily lost my sense of place and time while watching the rain collect in dark pools on the pavement below.

“Good Heavens! The old codger has finally gone to meet his Maker, has he? He certainly lived to a ripe old age.”

Holmes shrugged, “He was eighty-two years old. Not what one would consider ancient, but certainly long-lived.”

“Imagine having to face God’s Judgment when you’ve lived a life as depraved as his. Jedidiah Enright, the notorious womanizer who made his fortune creating scandal for others to feast upon for their reading pleasure. Every day for decades, countless Londoners have delighted in the vicarious thrill of revelling in every sordid detail his salubrious publication saw fit to print. What a ghastly business.”

“Yes, quite,” Holmes sighed and folded up his newspaper, “and here we sit finding pleasure reading about the poor man’s passing. I fear it is only human nature to find comfort in others’ misfortune. There may be no honour in such behaviour, but it is the mark of modern man. It is what makes us civilized, Watson.”

“You’re in an ill humour this evening,” I laughed. “I see no harm in failing to grieve for such a contemptible rotter as that blackguard. A fit company for devils, that one is, and I don’t regret saying so in the least.”

Holmes said nothing in response. He merely smiled to himself and then returned to his newspaper.

The sun was shining a few days later when I next paid a visit to my old friend.

“Damn!” I heard Holmes swear as I entered the apartments we had shared together for so many years.

“That’s a fine way to greet an old friend, Holmes.”

“Listen to this, Watson,” he said, paying me no mind as he sat in his chair reading from the morning newspaper.

“‘Notorious Publisher Has Deathbed Conversion. Miss Claire McKendrick, employed as Mr. Jedidiah Enright’s nurse for the past three years, stated that Mr. Enright experienced a deathbed conversion and repented of his many sins just hours before his death on Saturday.’”

He stopped reading and dropped the newspaper in his lap.

“Well, what do you make of it?”

I shrugged my shoulders, “What would you like me to say? I’m happy for him.”

“You believe it then?”

“Why shouldn’t I believe it? You just read it to me.”

Holmes smiled, and I had the distinct impression he was in one of his difficult moods.

“I could be lying. I might have made the words up while staring at a completely different article.”

“Then you would have tricked me and shame on you.”

“No, but I wasn’t lying.”

“No, of course you weren’t.”

“But she might have been.”

I felt myself growing cross.

“Who might have been, Holmes?”

“Miss Claire McKendrick, the nurse who claims Jedidiah Enright had a change of heart just before dying.”

“Really now, Holmes! The things you get wound up about! Why should she lie? What possible reason would the woman have to make up such a story about a man who was vilified far and wide?”

“I can think of several possibilities.”

“Such as?”

“Attention.”

“You’re joking, of course.”

“No, no. I’m quite serious, Watson.”

My old friend stood up and began pacing the room as he continued.

“Think of it. Long-suffering and doubtless attractive young nurse, employed by that lecherous old man who finally passes away. Now she has a story that puts her in the limelight and restores her doubtless tarnished reputation among her friends and family. They can’t have been happy for whom she has worked these past three years.”

My mind reeled listening to him speak.

“Holmes, calm yourself. How do you know she is a young woman and that her reputation is in question?”

Holmes stood up and made his way to the mantel where he proceeded to load his briar in evident irritation.

“There are times, Watson, when one might conclude you learned little to nothing of my methods in the years you have known me. Jedidiah Enright was well-known as a womanizer for decades. Had he not been a wealthy, powerful, belligerent newspaper publisher, then doubtless his scandalous behaviour would have been the ruin of him long ago. Would you consider it likely that such a man employing a live-in nurse would choose a matronly sister or a young and foolish slip of a girl in need of work and naïve enough to believe she could handle herself in his company?”

I clapped my hands together in exasperation as I sat back in the settee.

“Listen to yourself, Holmes! I admit you’re very clever and your logic is as faultless as ever, but you’ve all but condemned the poor girl without ever having set eyes upon her or spoken to her even once.”

My old friend stared at me beneath his furrowed brow and puffed contemplatively at his pipe.

“You misunderstand me, Watson; it’s not the young lady’s virtue I question.”

“Come again?”

“Human nature, Watson. Jedidiah Enright was too embittered to change after all those years. ‘The leopard doesn’t change its spots’, I believe, is how the saying goes.”

I paused for a moment and considered his meaning.

“One supposes there might always be exceptions to every truism, Holmes.”

“That’s the point, Watson. It isn’t an exception.”

“I don’t follow you.”

“It is a weakness inherent in Christianity. After thinking the worst of your neighbour for years and years, one must suddenly paint a rose-coloured portrait of an eleventh hour conversion to inspire those who are lax in their faith to do the same. It’s a fairy tale, of course, but all too typical of the Western mind. I suspect if we paid a visit to the library, we would find countless similar stories. Every time some old miser passes away, out trots a well-meaning churchwoman with a tale of how they made peace with the Lord just before giving up the ghost.”

I waved him away and crossed my arms in consternation.

“I won’t speak to you when you’re like this. You’re just miserable.”

“You won’t speak to me because you know I’m right and that makes you miserable.”

“Really, Holmes, you are hopelessly cynical and chronically in need of an audience to impress with your brilliant deductions.”

He scoffed at my response and sat down in the chair across from me and picked up the newspaper again. Twenty minutes or more passed in silence before I could bear it no longer.

“You could prove it, you know.”

“What was that?” he said, putting the paper down in his lap.

I smiled in the knowledge he had taken the bait.

“You could prove which of us is correct.”

“And how would you have me do that? Should I go and interrogate the poor woman?”

Holmes simply lifted his newspaper and continued reading as if I had said nothing.

Mrs. Hudson entered the room after a fashion and asked if we would like more tea.

“Not at present, Mrs. Hudson,” Holmes replied, not looking up from his paper. “Watson was just leaving. Get his hat and coat, won’t you?”

My dismissal had been final. When I left our old apartments that day, I thought it very likely that I might never return. I said little to my wife about our falling out. Happily, my practice was brisk and I had much with which to occupy my mind.

Nearly a fortnight later and I found myself out shopping for Christmas presents for Mary one evening. I was crossing Henrietta Street whilst delicately balancing three large parcels in my arms when I collided with an individual rounding the corner from Garrick Street.

“Good Heavens, my dear fellow!” I exclaimed as my parcels scattered along the kerbside.

“Watson!”

The bent figure before me straightened and handed a parcel back to me when I saw it was none other than Sherlock Holmes. I stammered for a few seconds with words failing to adequately express the emotion I felt at seeing him so unexpectedly. His face broke into a joyous smile, and at once I realized all of his irritability and petty mean-spiritedness had left him.

“You must come round to Baker Street with me... oh dear,” he caught himself. “Of course you must be on your way home. Well, perhaps tomorrow or the day after then?”

“Certainly, Holmes,” I assured him whilst reaching for the last of the parcels. “I would be quite pleased to do so.”

Our reunion had been brief, but the awkwardness had dissipated, just as our foolish anger had been forgotten. We were, first and last, the best of friends, and all of our hard-headedness could not weaken that bond for long.

It was just after nine the following morning when I called on my old friend in Baker Street. The note of exasperation in Mrs. Hudson’s voice made it evident that Holmes had been hard at work on his experiments through the night. The poor woman started upon a coughing fit and moved the handkerchief over her nose. The odour was strong, but Mrs. Hudson had always been particularly sensitive. It was a wonder she had managed to tolerate Holmes’s scientific experiments for so many years. I climbed the stairs and knocked upon the door several times before at last it opened, and my old friend greeted me with a confused expression as if he had forgotten my invitation to join him.

“Come in, come in, Watson,” he said as he ushered me inside. “Don’t just stand there gawking. It is imperative I finish my work tonight.”

I followed him into the sitting room which, as was his wont, had been converted into a laboratory. The breakfast table had been cleared and glass beakers now covered its surface. Yellow, grey, and green-coloured fluids bubbled within, releasing the odour that filled the house. Holmes took turns grasping the beakers with tongs to measure their level, which he then dutifully recorded in a journal after carefully replacing the beaker. This routine was repeated for a quarter-of-an-hour, until finally he had finished his experiments and carefully discarded the contents of the beakers.

Returning to the room, he stood in the doorway and sighed, “Now then, Watson, what brings you here so late at night?”

“It is half-past-nine in the morning, Holmes.”

“Is it?” he sounded genuinely startled. “Well, all the more reason you come to the point then. I must get to bed.”

“You asked me here only yesterday, Holmes.”

“Did I?” he stopped and seemed to cast his mind back to recall the events. “So I did. It was about the McKendrick woman.”

“Who?”

“The one who witnessed the death bed conversion. We shall go and see her tomorrow as you wished.”

He amazed me at times like this. It was as if he did not recollect that weeks had passed, but believed we had just concluded our heated discussion only a few hours earlier.

“To what do I owe this change of heart, Holmes? Could it be an uncharacteristic spot of Christmas cheer?”

He looked at me as if I had said something distasteful and snapped, “Of course not. I am only going to prove to you that the alleged conversion of Jedidiah Enright is sheer nonsense. It’s the only way you’ll give me any peace. Now off with you. I very much need to rest. Come back in the morning.”

I shook my head in bewilderment, but could only chuckle at my friend’s eccentricities.

The morning drizzle did nothing to shake my mood that it just didn’t feel like Christmas. As I made my way to 221 Baker Street, I was surprised to see my old friend waiting by the front steps for me.

“We haven’t time to dawdle this morning, Watson. According to our ever reliable Master Wiggins, our prey is about to take wing.”

He left me not a moment to question him as he took me by the arm and steered me in the direction of the nearest cab. A short time later and we were deposited before the great house on Serpentine Avenue that had belonged to Jedidiah Enright. Even when the sun shone, that imposing edifice cast a pall over the entire neighbourhood. I felt a shiver of dread as we approached the door and rang the bell. The door was opened by an aged figure who seemed frightfully fragile.

“May I help you, gentlemen?” the old man spoke with a strong Irish brogue.

“Certainly you may, McCarron,” Holmes replied. “It is Mr. McCarron, is it not?”

The painfully frail old man inclined his head.

“Excellent. Please tell Miss McKendrick that Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson have arrived. She is expecting us.”

The old man’s lined face betrayed surprise for barely a moment before he regained his composure.

“I believe Madame was expecting you to join her for a luncheon appointment, sir.”

“That is correct, McCarron, but seeing as Madame was hoping to be on her way to the station by then, you will kindly let her know we will see her now, if you please.”

This time the old man’s jaw hung slack and quivered for a moment, before he nodded and started to turn, leaving us standing in the rain. A woman’s voice, clear and youthful called out from inside the great house.

“Who is it, Eoghan? It can’t be my cab yet.”

At the sound of her voice, Holmes boldly stepped forward and entered the house. Hesitantly, I followed suit.

“Good day, Miss McKendrick,” Holmes bowed and removed his deerstalker in one deft motion. “We are fortunate to have caught you before your departure; only we were in the neighbourhood so I thought it best we drop by.”

As I stepped inside the foyer, I beheld a very pretty and smartly dressed young woman with flashing brown eyes and chestnut hair to match. She was standing facing us at the foot of the stairwell. Three traveling bags were at her feet. Her eyes blazed at the realization she had been caught unawares.

“I don’t believe I have had the pleasure,” she spoke in a quiet, halting voice.

“Mr. Sherlock Holmes of Baker Street and my companion, Dr. Watson. I rung you a few days ago and we set an appointment for today. Clearly you failed to recall your travel plans, so it is fortunate we have arrived before your cab.”

She gulped hard before finding the words to attempt a response.

“Yes, well it is not very convenient I’m afraid, Mr. Holmes. You see, I was just about to walk out the door.”

“No coat just before Christmas?” Holmes’s angular profile seemed even more severe than normal. “Certainly it would be more prudent to wait for your cab indoors where it is warm.”

“Madame?” the old man asked, raising his eyebrows quizzically.

“Yes, that will be all, McCarron,” Miss McKendrick replied irritably and, with a slight inclination of his head, the old man shut the front door and withdrew into the great house.

“I can spare you a quarter-of-an-hour and no more, Mr. Holmes,” the young woman snapped. “You and your companion may join me in the sitting room.”

Leaving her bags behind, she stalked out of the foyer as we followed.

The sitting room had the musty smell of age and disuse. It occurred to me that the colourful old Irishman, Eoghan McCarron, was likely the only servant in the declining years of his late master’s health. The house, like both men, had been mummified with decay and the memories of too many passing decades. Miss Claire McKendrick, in contrast, was bright and vibrant and full of life and energy. She must have made the household surge with a vibrancy lacking these many years.

“What is it you wish to know, Mr. Holmes? I have told my stories to the newspapers and to Scotland Yard and to so many people, I question whether it is real or merely a story after so many tellings.”

Holmes smiled and did his best to set her at ease.

“You know of my reputation as a consulting detective, Miss McKendrick. I have a client who is sceptical about your claims that Mr. Enright repented upon his deathbed.”

I am uncertain who was more shocked, for both Miss McKendrick and I registered outrage at this suggestion. Her integrity had been called into question, while I feared the embarrassment of being identified as my friend’s sceptical client.

“Have no fear, Madame. I do not doubt the veracity of your account for a moment,” Holmes could appear positively charming when he wished it as he did now. “I only wish to ask a few questions to be able to lay the matter to rest with my client, who enjoyed a long and prosperous professional association with your late employer and finds the very notion of his mending his ways to be farcical.”

The young woman’s eyes narrowed to mere slits.

“I suspect I know just the professional associate you refer to, Mr. Holmes, but I will not ask you to violate a client’s confidence. I respect you and your integrity far too much, and thank you for assuring me I have your support. I don’t think I could address the matter if I thought otherwise.”

My mind was reeling. I did not doubt the girl’s sincerity for a heartbeat, but unless my old friend was deceiving me, he was behaving in a very callous and cavalier fashion by pretending to be her friend.

“I understand completely,” Holmes said and patted his right knee as he spoke. “Now, kindly relate to us how you came into Mr. Enright’s employment, if you don’t mind.”

There was just the slightest indication of trepidation before she responded to the question.

“Well, you see, I had arrived in London nearly three years ago. I am from County Kildare, originally. McCarron, our servant, was an old friend of the family and provided me with an introduction to Mr. Enright. He was in ill health and in need of a daily nurse, so I accepted the position, as I had trained as a nurse for several years in Dublin.”

“I see,” Holmes nodded as he listened. “That must have been quite daunting, a young girl coming to London by herself and taking employment from a notorious old womanizer such as Jedidiah Enright.”

Her face flushed with emotion at his words.

“Oh no, not at all, Mr. Holmes. You see, Mr. Enright may have been all that when he was younger, but he was always a perfect gentleman to me.”

She looked away for a moment and did not make eye contact with either of us as she spoke.

“He was a bit crotchety at times, of course, but he was like a grandfather to me. Truly.”

She now held our glance with wide eyes that appeared filled with wonderment.

“As I understand it from the newspaper accounts,” Holmes continued, “you were responsible for reading the Bible to him and praying over him during the worst of his illness.”

Again, I detected a slight trepidation in her reaction, but she remained silent until Holmes resumed his questioning.

“I find it rather remarkable that an independent young woman such as yourself, who would venture forth alone to London and live in the home of such a man as Jedidiah Enright, would also be a strong woman of tradition and faith. You are quite an enigmatic creature, I must say.”

Holmes’s disarming smile helped soften the sting of his insinuation, but it still stood, and both Miss McKendrick and I felt incensed at his words.

“The mystery is simple, Mr. Holmes, as you doubtless are aware. Your professional client would have already paid for you to snoop into my background. I have no reason to deceive you, nor have I done anything that should cause me shame. I admit, quite proudly, to my independent nature. It was at the root of my estrangement from my family in County Kildare. And yes, Mr. Holmes, very few traditional church people are willing to accept a suffragette in their flock without preaching and judging her harshly, without sufficient cause or knowledge of any misdeeds.”

Just as her temper seemed ready to get the best of her, it quickly dissipated, and a calm serenity seemed to descend upon her in a most favourable fashion.

“I was quite fortunate in having my own brush with ill health last winter. I was seriously ill, and it was considered no longer safe for me to be around Jedidiah... Mr. Enright.”

She blushed as she showed him the same familiarity she showed the old servant earlier. I admit to not holding with such women, but this particular example of the species was undeniably captivating.

“I took my convalescence at the home of an aunt in County Cork. It was there, through her care and Christian example, that I came back to the Lord in the fullness of my faith. I had only just fully recovered and begun to think of settling in County Cork, as my Aunt Margaret implored me to do, when McCarron wrote to me and begged my return. Mr. Enright had taken a turn for the worse, and it was believed he had mere months left to live. I required no further persuasion and hurriedly returned to take up residence here once more as his nurse for those final weeks.”

“And how did you find him upon your return?”

“He was notably weaker, Mr. Holmes. There was little I could do but make him comfortable. I read the Bible to him. At first, only when he slept; but later, when his breathing became laboured and he was too weak to argue against it. That was when the remarkable change came over him, gentlemen. He seemed to be at peace and his incessant wheezing began to calm. Some days, he sat up in bed for a few minutes at a time. He spoke to me often and asked questions about a passage I had read. We talked about the Lord a great deal and about salvation, and how a wicked man might yet find forgiveness if his heart was sincere. Mr. Holmes, Jedidiah Enright died in the presence of the Lord. I will go to my own grave believing that, and if anyone doubts the truth of his conversion, then I truly pity them for their cold, cold heart.”

I resisted the urge to stand and break into applause. Holmes cleared his throat slightly and cast a glance in my direction as if anticipating my reaction.

“Thank you so much for your time, Miss McKendrick. I am sure you have told us quite enough. Are you going back to County Cork?”

The question seemed to startle her as if her mind were lost in the emotion of the moment she had so vividly described for us.

“Yes, yes, I am.”

“And what happens to this old place?” Holmes asked, indicating our surroundings.

“I... I’m not sure. McCarron will see to it with Mr. Enright’s solicitor, I suppose.”

“Well, we shan’t detain you any longer. Have a safe trip. Come along, Watson.”

My head and my heart were a jumble of feelings after that unexpected meeting, so I kept my thoughts to myself until Holmes and I returned to 221b Baker Street.

“Well, Holmes,” I said as I took my seat opposite his, “I am most curious to hear what you have made of the tale related by that charming young woman.”

Holmes loaded his briar and was silent for a few moments as he seemed occupied with his pipe.

“I’m not certain it matters, Watson. You were certainly satisfied with all she relayed to us. Surely that is enough, is it not?”

“Oh come now, Holmes! If you were mistaken, then be man enough to admit it. She told us the truth. Jedidiah Enright did undergo a miraculous change of heart on his deathbed. It is an inspirational story, and is the very lesson you should be taking to heart this very season.”

“My dear Watson, I fear you fancy Mr. Dickens’ works of fiction a bit too much for my liking or your benefit. As it happens, I am quite certain the young lady in question did not tell us the truth, and Jedidiah Enright did not repent his sinful ways on his deathbed as she claims. I admit I was uncertain before, but now having questioned the young lady, there is no doubt whatsoever in my mind that she is a liar, and a poor one at that.”

I was literally speechless at the boldness of his statement.

“Oh, very well, Watson, I shall walk you through the matter until you see it as well. You were there with me. You had all the same clues I did, but you chose to ignore them and believe her, because it was the conclusion you already determined you wanted to reach. So it is with so many well-meaning Christians, I fear. A healthy bit of scepticism would do wonders to reduce the success of swindlers among the many God-fearing people of this country.”

“Holmes, I would stake my reputation on that girl’s honesty. She admitted her own failings and had the humility to face them and acknowledge that her family was correct. That same humility saved a rotten man’s soul from damnation. I will not stand to hear you try to twist the facts to suit your cynicism. I am sorry, but there is no room for your deductive reasoning this time.”

Holmes was silent, but he seemed in good humour rather than ill, in spite of the sting of my words.

“Watson, you are a good man with a kind heart. You are also a very talented physician. You will, however, never be a detective, despite the lessons I have tried to impart. Let us start with the beginning, shall we? Miss McKendrick scheduled her luncheon appointment with us, well aware she would be on her way to the station at that time. A simple refusal to see me was not as appealing a prospect as deceiving me into believing we had an appointment she knew she could never keep. That is your first clue, Watson. Her intent to deceive was with us from the start.’

“Next, you will recall her attempt to deceive us when we arrived unexpectedly by claiming she was just leaving and did not have time to meet with us. Had we not overheard her exchange with McCarron, we might have believed her, but she was in fact waiting for the cab to arrive, and stated it would have been early if it had arrived so soon. Again, she proves herself a woman to whom deception is second nature. She holds people in contempt, or she would never have formed a habitual desire to deceive them out of sheer convenience.’

“Then there is the matter of her familiarity with both McCarron and her late employer. She addressed both of them by their Christian names before catching herself. There was another peculiar slip when she referred to McCarron as being ‘our’ servant rather than Mr. Enright’s. In doing so, she placed herself on a near equal footing with Mr. Enright, as if she had been the lady of the house... or perhaps I should say the mistress.’

“Now we come to the bits you wouldn’t know, Watson, unless you had busied yourself into making enquiries into Jedidiah Enright’s... shall we say, less respectable interests. You may recall my disingenuous claims that I was acting for a sceptical client. You may also recall Miss McKendrick’s belief she knew precisely which old business associate of Mr. Enright’s would question his change of heart. That was a significant remark, as was her mentioning she trained to be a nurse in Dublin.”

“I must admit, Holmes, you have completely lost me this time.”

“Yes, I thought as much, Watson. It seems good Mr. Enright was the eminence grise behind a certain disreputable - but highly profitable - establishment in Dublin known colloquially as Lily’s Bordello. The business associate in question is one Annie Levant, alias Annie the Levantine, alias Ragtime Annie, alias the infamous Lily herself. Hardly an Irish rose, Miss Levant is what is generally referred to as a ‘madam’. Miss McKendrick’s familiarity with her is because Lily’s Bordello is another part of that chequered past of hers that she assures us she is not ashamed of.”

“Great Scott, Holmes!”

“Kindly let me finish, Watson. When we were first introduced by Stamford, lo those many years ago, where did you say your medical degree was obtained?”

“Barts, of course, as you know very well.”

“Indeed. Why didn’t you simply tell me London?”

“Why, I...” I paused for a moment considering his meaning. “I see what you mean Holmes. The young lady said she trained to be a nurse in Dublin, rather than say Trinity College, for example.”

“Precisely, Watson. She did learn to nurse and care for a man in Dublin, but she is not a nurse herself in any professional sense of the word.”

“Then why the devil did McCarron...”

“McCarron did not send for her. Her patron did. Jedidiah Enright specifically requested one of Ragtime Annie’s girls be sent to him.”

“Why, that wicked old scoundrel!”

“He treated her like a grandfather, remember? One wonders just what sort of grandfather our Miss McKendrick had.”

“So she is a fraud.”

“Yes and no, Watson. She likely did take ill and stay with an aunt in County Cork while she convalesced. Her family is likely from County Kildare and are estranged from her, as she stated. Every liar knows when to retain the truth. Nothing is ever fully fictional, even from the lips of the most practiced of storytellers. Of course, she misled us as to the nature of her illness, but that is only logical.”

I paused for a moment.

“Holmes, you don’t mean...”

“It is hardly surprising, Watson. She is not the first young lady to stay with an aunt out of town when she is with child and then return after the baby is born, leaving the aunt to care for the child. It is doubtless her destination now that the matter is settled.”

“Then... Jedidiah Enright is...”

“...the baby’s father, yes. One of scores of bastard children he has doubtless sired and done nothing to provide for. Such reprehensible behaviour is quite common among such men.”

“Why on earth would she return when he sent for her?”

“He didn’t send for her that time, Watson. It was McCarron.”

“I don’t understand at all, Holmes,” I said, shaking my head in consternation. “First she tells us McCarron recommended her for the position of nurse, when it was Enright requesting one of the bordello’s girls as a companion. Then she says Enright asked for her as he lay dying, and you tell me McCarron actually sent for her of his own volition.”

“Certainly, Watson. Eoghan McCarron came to Mr. Enright from Dublin. He was very familiar with Annie Levant and her girls. The ‘family friend’ she called him, if you’ll remember. He would have despised Jedidiah Enright, as all who knew him did. He stayed with him for the money, or possibly for fear of whatever secret knowledge Mr. Enright held over him. Blackmail is the currency for men like Enright, as it is for that loathsome swine, Charles Augustus Milverton. He would have promised to call her back before it was too late. Perhaps they thought they could convince him to do right by the girl and his child and leave the home to them. It was not to be, of course and so the matter ends.”

“So her story of his deathbed conversion was just that... a story and nothing more. Just as you said, Holmes.”

My old friend looked at me and smiled warmly.

“No, Watson, there was a part you had correct. A girl such as Claire McKendrick did not come from a good home. Her mother was likely the black sheep of the family. Her mother’s sister, the aunt in County Cork, is likely a good sort who has prayed for her sister and niece’s souls all these years. Sometimes it takes being brought to one’s knees before one is finally willing to listen to the very word they washed their hands of throughout their life. Miss McKendrick probably did find solace in the Good Book, and likely shared it with Jedidiah Enright as he lay dying. The sincerity of his regret for a lifetime of debauchery was the part that was likely just wishful thinking. A story she sold to the newspapers and related to the constabulary and everyone else. There was no reason to doubt her and every reason to believe. After all, she had everything to lose if anyone looked too closely into her background, as I did. That is why she feared my visit, knowing of my reputation, of course.”

“Of course, of course. Holmes, there is one question nagging at me. How can you be certain that she wasn’t lying about her own conversion, as she did about Jedidiah Enright? What if all of it was an elaborate story from a young woman wishing to give herself and her child a new identity?”

Holmes set his pipe down and looked me squarely in the eye.

“My dear Watson, the answer to your rather cynical question is that sometimes it is best not to judge an unwed mother harshly without having first-hand knowledge of her circumstances or of her disposition. You helped teach me that lesson, so kindly do not forget it so soon yourself.”

“Yes, Holmes,” I smiled. “Well said. A Happy Christmas to you.”

He nodded at me as he took up his pipe again.

“To you as well,” he replied, “and Watson, remember me kindly to Mary, won’t you?”