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While I usually accompany Holmes on his meetings with clients, especially nowadays as his business has become so much my own, there are still the occasions where he accepts visitations alone. Often this is the case when Holmes believes he is able to solve their problems without leaving the sitting room, and he does not require my services. Privately, I have used this to confirm my pet theory that he frequently chooses cases that will be as guaranteed to amuse me as they will himself.
Today’s appointment appeared to be one such meeting. Holmes had loudly declared the matter to be a trifle upon reading that our visitor would be calling at half past ten that morning, and yet had prepared to receive them anyway, putting away the materials from his explosive chemical experiment that had taken up his attention the past few days, and positioning himself readily in his chair so as to be ready for the consulting.
For my part, after breakfast I left him alone to retreat to my own bedroom, so that I may shut myself up in order to finally complete my final draft of the latest of my stories for publishing in the Strand. It was a matter of pulling the last few aspects together to form a more agreeable story, as well as to alter it significantly enough not to affect those actually involved, and it was a burdensome process.
Nevertheless, I was making some headway, when not even an hour after our visitor had first arrived I heard the door to the street open and shut, and footsteps on my stair. Not a second later, my bedroom door opened and Holmes burst in and abruptly dropped himself onto my bed.
I didn’t turn from my desk, content to keep working and wait for him to explain at his own pace. As expected, he obliged some few minutes later.
“Why, Watson,” he began, somewhat muffled by his head buried as it was by the pillows, “do people not merely trust their spouses?”
I looked up from my manuscript then. “I do not know, Holmes. Does this have something to do with this morning’s client?”
He flipped himself to lie supine on the bed instead, staring stalwartly at the ceiling. “Yes. It was a mere trifle, as I said, but it does present itself to be just another in a trend that I have observed for years.”
I patted the part of him that was nearest to me, his calf, as a signal for him to continue.
“Our client was one Miss Dorothy Finnegan, who engaged me about an inquiry regarding the man she has been courting. For you see, Watson, your fanciful stories of my being a knight to damsels in distress have caused her to believe that I am an adequate sounding board rather than her inamorato himself.”
If I rolled my eyes at his long-repeated jibe at my work, he either did not see, or did not see fit to reply.
“She has been for some weeks now courted by a man by the name of Theodore Langley, and believes he is on the verge of asking her to marry him, but is growing impatient as despite their heading in that direction, he has yet to respond to her hints or show any outward sign that he will be proposing. Yesterday, when calling on his sister Sally, who she is good friends with, she found herself alone and in close vicinity of his study, and had the brilliant idea to go through his things - I believe with the intention to get a better hint at his feelings somehow.”
“Oh, dear.”
Holmes nodded, his eyes meeting mine. “Indeed. Instead of a ring, or whatever she might have hoped to find, she found in his desk some correspondence that can only be described as love letters. They are addressed to a lady, Alberta, and although they are penned in Miss Finnegan's lover's hand, they are signed by the name Victor.”
“What?”
“Yes, and it is these letters that she then wrapped up into her skirts and brought to me today, so that I may judge what is to become of her life.”
“And what did you tell her?”
Holmes snorted, before turning his head once more into the bedcovers. “That she must ask her beloved for the answers, not me, an irrelevant third party that would only further complicate matters.”
“Holmes! But she was only coming to you for help! What could the letters mean, who are these mysterious figures, Alberta and Victor?” In my - admittedly as fanciful as he suggested - fantasies, this client had unwittingly found evidence of some espionage, with false identities and secret pasts.
“Tchaw!” Holmes dismissed any thoughts of the kind. “Why should I reveal to her that what would be obvious, should she just have the patience to ask her to-be fiancé herself? For it is obvious to anyone who possesses some matter of critical thinking: they are letters from an old flame, likely a youthful first love, held onto years later for sentimental purposes.”
Even as he deemed it to be a triviality, he tilted more toward me from where he laid on the bed, and there was some spirit regained in his shoulders as he explained the simplicity to me.
“I identified them as such from her missive detailing the matter this morning - the names from the letter are merely the masculine and feminine forms of the names of our queen and her consort, basic yet clever aliases for two individuals conducting a secret juvenile love affair. Upon being presented the letters themselves I was able to observe their wear and tear through the years that could not be avoided although they were well maintained. I judged that Victor, or our Mr. Langley, had written them some five to seven years ago. They were then kept folded into the bottom drawer of his desk, only to be found by someone who did not understand his organization and was looking for something hidden. These letters were indeed hidden, but not in the same intention as the ring she hoped to find, and had not been removed for quite some time. I do not believe their removal will even be accounted for until Miss Finnegan calls attention to it later today.”
“Amazing.” I could not help but tell him, and though his eyes remained closed as he slumped once more, his lip quirked as it always did at my praise. “But if they were written so long ago, why hold onto them? Especially if he has a new lover now, in the form of Miss Finnegan?”
Holmes gave an elegant shrug, curled as he was on the bed. “At that, I can only speculate, my dear. Perhaps to remind himself from time to time that he had once been loved, even if it was in the past? It is not so uncommon after all, to keep remnants and gifts from old sweethearts, no matter how much time has passed.” He smiled at me knowingly, and I knew he was thinking of the toy soldier that sat on my bookshelf, given to me some fifteen years prior by a boy I had loved back in Edinburgh in my university days.
“So you knew all this and did not inform Miss Finnegan? But her nerves could be soothed, for she may be thinking the worst.”
“And I am to be blamed for that?” Holmes’ tone grew sour. “If she now believes her would-be fiancé to be capable of whatever acts she is imagining, then she alone is to blame for her lack of trust in him. I do not believe he has done anything untoward in this situation, other than perhaps being a tad reluctant to enter into marriage just yet.”
“That is rather harsh is it not?”
Holmes glared once more at the ceiling. “I do not believe it is. Had she just brought the matter to him in the first place, she would not have worked herself into such a panic and not be out the fee my services demand.”
“You invoiced her?”
He waved a hand. “Of course not, I waived it in the circumstances. But that is not the point. This is just the latest in a common theme I have observed among many of my clients over the years, who instead of being honest with their so-called beloved, get caught up in a series of events that then demands police attention, dramatizing affairs that could be solved with a few words! Or worse, they come to me for answers so I may solve their marriage troubles in some roundabout way when my time would be better spent on the interesting criminal problems still existing for me to examine."
When put like that, a fair few cases came to mind, in which a great number of tragedies and worries could have been avoided had the individuals made peace with themselves and their loved ones. I said as much to Holmes, further adding fire to his jeremiad.
"How hard can it be, really, to be honest with one’s partner during disagreements! You and I have succeeded all these odd years.”
“Indeed we have,” I agreed.
Holmes sat up somewhat against the headboard, and I saw that he was working himself up further. “When I become too disorderly with my discarded notes or with my materials during one of my experiments, and not meeting your standards of cleaning, do you not tell me?"
"Certainly,"
"And when you attempt to engage me in conversation on the occasions that I would prefer to sit in silence, do I not inform you? So that we may both avoid any unsaid but keenly felt anger?”
I nodded gamely. “If London and the world merely had the good sense to follow in our example, then their affairs would proceed much smoother.”
“Exactly.” said Holmes, finishing, not seeming to notice the tone of jest in my twee statement. It all at once filled me with such affection for the man that I abandoned my manuscript to get into bed beside him. I dislodged him slightly in the process, and he grumbled but otherwise simply allowed me to wrap my arms around him, and kiss his forehead.
After some minutes, I spoke up once again. “In the interest of honesty, Holmes…”
He opened one eye against my chest. “Yes?”
“If you are going to extoll the virtues of open communication then it would do for me to inform you that I believe tossing your empty vials and discarded notes haphazardly into the hidden space beside the cabinet does not qualify as cleaning, and that Mrs. Hudson is beginning to grow tetchy with me on the subject.”
Holmes snorted, and merely buried his nose further into me, his eyes shutting once more. “In the interest of honesty, John, I would much rather go for a nap than handle anything of the sort at the moment.”
That made me chuckle, and I allowed him to put the matter to bed, even as I would be bringing it up later, the tidying of our rooms being a constant battle that yet did not mar our longstanding relationship. For now, I was content to let him rest in my arms, knowing that we had more good sense than London and the whole world.