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“I am not expecting miracles,” said our guest, gratefully accepting the proffered glass of sherry – it was late on a grey winter day, the London skies already lowering – and setting his kidskin gloves alongside his top hat. The card sent up ahead of his visit read: A. Z. Fell, Antiquarian and Rare Books, By Appointment.
Antiquarian certainly described him. I could see Holmes cataloguing his out-of-date appearance: the peculiar tartan cravat, the stock collar; the pale-blond "Piccadilly weepers," the waistcoat of a now-unfashionable cut. “But," he went on, "I will gladly pay for any time you expend. When I encountered the works of your – chronicler,” he added, nodding towards me with the slightest pause, “I felt hope for the first time in many years. If anyone can find him, you can.”
“Indeed. I am only mortal, and cannot promise miracles,” said Holmes, steepling his fingers and settling into his favourite wingback chair. “But I have found many who wished to remain hidden – and many who wished to be found. Sometimes an absence or a silence speaks more loudly than words, when the affairs of men become tangled. You said many years. How many, precisely?”
“May – no, it would have been June. Of 1862.”
Holmes’ eyebrows shot up, an unusual betrayal of astonishment. “Really, Mr. Fell, you amaze me. A trail cold for nearly thirty years? Have you consulted no one in the interval? I am intrigued.”
”It was – not a disappearance originally. A quarrel. Once my head cooled I thought we might reconcile, but – letters were returned unopened. Visiting cards refused with bland representations that the master was abroad. I admit I grew somewhat reckless before I finally accepted the rupture. And then – I confess that every so often, I have hoped that affairs could yet be mended – I learned that someone else now lived at the address. No relation whatever. Every inquiry leads to a dead end, even in this age of agony columns and postal directories.” A somewhat sheepish, rueful expression betrayed the likelihood that he had placed advertisements in the pages so often used by Holmes to advantage.
“You must have been quite young when you quarreled. How long had you been – acquainted?”
“Long enough to form a lasting attachment. Neither of our families would have approved of it, but I thought it would never be broken.”
“Well, well. You must understand that I am not in the business of exposing those who, for reasons of their own safety or merely personal preference, wish to break off an association. Should I find that to be the case, I would be bound to honour your friend’s privacy. My fee would not be refunded. Is that acceptable?”
“If… if I can only learn that he is safe and well, that would indeed be acceptable.”
“Have you any reason to suspect foul play?”
“Some of his… associates in the past have been of questionable character.”
“Some of mine are, also,” murmured Holmes, and I thought of Kitty Winter and Shinwell Johnson. “It is a hazard of my occupation. Have you a likeness? A sample of his handwriting? Any names of family members, other friends?”
“Not living on this, ahem, continent. But here.” From an inner pocket our guest withdrew a battered oblong of pasteboard, frayed at the edges as with long handling; and, surprisingly, a locket. Holmes took the visiting card – for such it was – seemed to preserve a picture in his mind as if his eye were itself a camera, and passed it to me, then accepted the locket. “What do you make of that card, Watson?”
“It is hand inscribed. The writer used sepia ink. The A in Anthony and the tail of the y in Crowley extend below the line of the rest of the script, as if with a strong downward motion. The middle initial J is curled in a fashion almost serpentine. Other than that, it is unremarkable. I cannot glean anything from it.”
“And what do you think of this?”
Inside the locket – a large, heavy one, almost the size of a pocket watch, and indeed attached to a fob – was a portrait in few but eloquent brushstrokes: a three-quarter profile showing a heavy jaw and hooked nose, a similarly dated hat, stock collar and dark cravat, and, peculiarly for a portrait sitting, small round smoked glasses of the kind I have prescribed for corneal scratches and photosensitivity.
“What I can see of the whiskers appears a vivid red,” remarked Holmes. “Remember Jabez Wilson, Watson? If this gentleman had been in London at the time – well, well. Surely your friend presents a memorable appearance, if he still affects such eyewear and all his head is so fiery.”
“As to that – well.” Faint colour rose in our guest’s cheek as he took back the locket, opened a compartment behind the portrait and withdrew a scarlet ribbon, tied around an almost equally vivid lock of hair. “We were much younger. I had occasion to help him change his appearance. Unlike myself, he has always embraced the vanguard of fashion.”
“And you preserved this memento. But of course time passes. Why, Watson is already sporting some silver in his locks. Pray forgive me, good fellow, it flatters you.”
“His – family is prone to resist the marks of age,” said our guest, coiling the ribboned lock once again in its chased gold case and returning it to his waistcoat pocket.
“Well, Mr. Fell, I will take these details you have recorded -- last known address, places frequented, hm, yes, all helpful – you have clearly given this thought – and be in touch with any news or requirements. Perhaps you would be good enough to call again in a week’s time. I fear my chronicler has enlarged my fame such that I am subject to frequent distractions.”
“Well, Watson. There is more to this than meets the eye. A gentleman forms a connection with someone whose background is, shall we say, not unimpeachable. They quarrel. Decades pass. Normally I would infer some matter of sudden urgency -- an inheritance, a past business dealing – but I am told that news will satisfy. I confess it is the kind of case that piques me, not another humdrum faithless spouse or squabble over legacies.”
“I cannot remember when one of those involved a locket.”
“Quite so."
"His devotion seemed… remarkable.”
“Did it, Watson? I am reminded of David and Jonathan, Damon and Pythias – perhaps even Gilgamesh and his bond with Enkidu, both enemy and friend, whose loss sent him on a mighty quest. Has your breast never stirred with such a feeling?” For all his boasts of discarding useless knowledge, Holmes regularly betrayed the imprint of his public-school education.
I dared not speak.
Thanks to my time in Afghanistan, I sleep lightly. Holmes’ slumber is even lighter, and more than once I have woken from a dream of battle or horror to find him seated calmly by my bed, saying that I had cried out in the night, that he wished to remind me that I was safe in Baker Street.
Tonight, though, there was no dream to jolt me stark upright, no hand steadying my shoulder: only a dim light from the sitting room, where I had hours before left Holmes musing by the dying fire.
Opposite my friend’s wing-chair, in the place where our clients are all invited to sit, was the very man of the locket's portrait, in the act of settling himself on the cushions – seeming, if anything, younger; but perhaps that owed to the dandyish clothes and modern barbering. The cutaway coat was snugly tailored, the waistcoat a muted brocade of silver and black, the shirt a deep charcoal; the only vivid colour was the narrow tie of a deep, crosswoven crimson. The smoked spectacles now boasted gold frames. He gazed up unsmiling, his hands crossed on an expensive-looking walking stick with a quaint serpent head.
I took in all this in the space of an instant, cursing the folly that had left my service revolver in my dressing-case and crying “Damme, sir! How have you come in here?” Questionable characters sometimes call at Baker Street, but they are customarily sent up by Mrs. Hudson, in the light of day.
Our uninvited guest snapped his fingers, palm down. I found myself frozen in the act of reaching for the fireplace poker.
“Peace, Watson,” came Holmes’ voice from the shadows behind me. “I have been observing the movements of our guest. It is curious that I heard his tread in this room, but not on the stairs. And that the gas lamp which was not functioning this morning is now lit. May I suggest that, had his intention been to murder us in our beds, he would have done so and not paused to admire our domestic fixtures?”
Our guest smiled crookedly at that, and I felt the stricture which had bound my limbs relent. ”I follow you in the Strand,” he said, turning to fix me with a black and unreadable gaze. “It is always a pleasure to make the acquaintance of a man of letters. I have known many.”
He did not rise, nor introduce himself, though it seemed superfluous to do so.
“What did he offer you?” he continued, turning to Holmes.
“My customary consulting fee.”
“I will double it.”
“If?”
“If you say you could not find me.”
“I do not lie for pay. Perhaps that sort of bargain is natural to you, but to me it is repugnant. My honesty is all I have.”
“Then you are rich indeed if you can afford such a commodity.”
“Why have you come here?”
“It was safer than allowing you to follow a trail. There are reasons I must not be found. For his safety. I – “ and there was feeling, now, barely controlled feeling in the timbre of his voice – “I implore you.”
“I have already,” said Holmes, moving to his wing chair, “pledged to give no information, if only I can report that you are alive and well. You are certainly alive, Mr. Crowley – forgive the familiarity of address – and you appear well.”
“As well as – one in my case may hope to be.”
“I infer that I should not enquire.”
“No, you should not.” I did not miss the grip of grey-gloved fingers on the curious walking-stick. “Believe me when I say that my – friend is often naive, and wavers between too much caution and too little. When I can protect him, I do. Until certain… things change, my very society endangers him.”
“If you are in the grip of some blackmailer, perhaps I can assist. My powers in such affairs are not slight.” I knew with what a bitter loathing Holmes regarded the blackmailer.
Our guest’s smile was grim. “Nothing so simple,”he said. “It is a long tale, and one that would try your credulity. You would call me mad.”
“I have met many men who seemed mad, until I learned their stories.”
“It is nothing you can help with. Your very soul might be forfeit."
“If I possess such a commodity. Who are we to say how the Universe is constituted?”
“I might surprise you.” This time the smile was wider, a little sharp-toothed, and I did not quite like it; and yet there was a pathos in the voice, a loneliness that plucked at my heart. “Let us leave it here. Tell him that I am well, that I am safe. That I… think of him. But for the love of… of everything he cherishes, to give up seeking me until I seek him.”
“You have my word as a gentleman.”
“Then let me offer you the double fee.”
“No, no. I never alter my fee… unless, as in this case, I remit it completely.”
Our guest stood. “I bid you farewell, then. Sleep well, Dr. Watson. Good night… Mr. Holmes.”
“Well, Watson. I fear this is one tale which your readers must forego.”
“I could not write in any case. There was no clear solution.”
“Indeed. We will never know the story. Feuding families? Past crimes? Whatever the case, I feel Scripture may require a paraphrase. Greater love hath no man, than that he would give up his love for the loved one’s sake. Whether it is a matter of personal safety, or scandal and obloquy – it is not ours to judge.”
“No,” I said, looking carefully out the window, at the receding form of our guest, outlined by the flickering gaslamps of Baker Street.
“I know you are very conventional, Watson, and I imagine – well. Morpheus calls.”
He retired, with a random, distracted touch on my shoulder. I remained at the window, thinking, for a very long time.
finis