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“My dear Watson, please tell me that you have not already sent a copy of this manuscript to your publisher?”
These were the first words to greet me as I descended to the living area of our home one morning in the late fall of 1926. I was taken off guard by the comment, because while it was common for Holmes to bid me good morning in strange ways, it was not often that he took much interest in my manuscript drafts.
“I sent it yesterday, which is why the copy of it was left out last night. Why on earth do you ask?”
Holmes gave me a small smile, and the twinkle in his eye that told me he was not going to explain just yet. He gestured to the papers sitting on the table in front of him, as if to say ‘see if you can figure it out yourself’, and I let out a great sigh as I approached him, picking up my latest completed Sherlock Holmes story, which I had entitled ‘the Adventure of the Veiled Lodger’. I took a seat opposite my partner, carefully reading through the story as he smoked his pipe and continued to scrutinise me as I read.
“I can find no fault in it,” I admitted, after finishing my read-through, “though no doubt I have missed something that you took note of.”
Holmes arose from his chair with a start, and walked over to me, half circling my own chair and coming to rest at my right side. He leaned down and flipped the manuscript to the page that he wanted and proceeded to point at the line in question.
“‘One forenoon - it was late in 1896 - I received a hurried note from Holmes asking for my attendance. When I arrived I found him seated in a smoke-laden atmosphere, with an elderly, motherly woman of the buxom landlady type in the corresponding chair in front of him.’” He read aloud to me. I made a face and looked up at him.
“I don’t understand what point you’re trying to make.” I said flatly.
“Well, you’ve written here that we weren’t living together in 1896, but at that time we indeed were.”
“Of course we were,” I said tentatively, “Is that all this is about? Would you rather I write the truth?”
“Well, it’s simply that within this whole narrative that you’ve created,” as Holmes said ‘narrative’ he made a flourish with his hand, “it doesn’t quite line up, does it?” My face must have betrayed my continued confusion, because he then said, “If the year is 1896, where are we to suppose that Mrs. Watson is throughout the story? If I’m recalling correctly, at that point she had become quite the gardener, right? Really quite proficient at pushing up daisies.”
“Oh you’ve quite made your point,” I replied a smidge testily and swatted him lightly with the back of my hand as if to chide him, “Don’t be so crass.”
“My dear, I’m not being crass, I’m simply pointing out that you killed your wife sometime before 1894.”
“I did not kill my wife, Holmes.”
“You penned her death, effectively killing her as a character in your stories.” He retorted, and I sighed the long standing sigh of someone who has been Sherlock Holmes’ partner for several decades.
“Yes, alright, if you apply the most basic understanding of the word, I killed my fictional wife.” At that Holmes grinned, and I could not help but give him a fond smile in return. “Though, for what it’s worth I don’t think it matters much, there could be many reasons why we weren’t living together at the time.”
“Well, I myself can’t think of any other reason than you being married.”
“No?” I said lightly. “Perhaps I had grown tired of your dangerous antics and peculiar habits.”
“Unlikely.” He smiled widely at me and I returned it in kind, as if to agree with his statement.
“Well, in any matter, I doubt the average reader will even notice such an error.”
“I believe you’re likely right, though I imagine the more devoted reader would be able to tell that the timeline does not add up.” Holmes took a deep puff of his pipe, and left my side to settle back into his chair.
“I’m sure they will simply assume that I had married again without explicit mention of it.”
“Perhaps.”
“Or perhaps what else, Holmes? What other conclusion might one of my readers come to?” I questioned, finally setting the manuscript back down on the table and standing up with the intention of heading to the kitchen to start my breakfast.
He shrugged noncommittally. “Perhaps they’ll assume that you’ve created this wife to hide some illicit relationship of yours.”
“Oh?” I replied, with a small smile and a great deal of humour in my voice. “How absurd.”
“How absurd indeed,” Holmes agreed with a matching smile.