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It was in July of 1890 that Sherlock Holmes and I left London - not for a client, but for what Mrs Hudson, Inspector Lestrade and I termed a well-deserved holiday for the only, and therefore the busiest, consulting detective.
The man himself, however, was less enthusiastic.
“I fail to see why I should be dragged away from my clientele, Watson.” He grumbled as we sat on the train, waiting to be whisked from Charing Cross station to Whitby: our - or rather my - chosen seaside destination,
“Because it will be good for you, Holmes.” I sighed. Then, trying to appeal to his desire to be at his best: “After all, how can a consulting detective keep his wits about him if he’s being run ragged every second?”
That was true. His three last cases, involving the stolen signet ring of an industrial magnate, poison rubbed on the rim of a wine glass and the stained cravat of the Ceylonese Governor's son, respectively, had all come in so quick a succession of one another that it barely left him time to sit down, let alone play his violin or read his papers or - heaven forbid - smoke his pipe. Indeed, the effects of such rapid depletion of his energies made themselves known in the lines of his face, which now appeared more stark than sharp.
Holmes leaned back in his seat, in an acquiescence that he would never admit to, “I suppose that is so.”
Automatically, my eyes flicked through our surroundings. We had the compartment to ourselves, and the train had begun to move now, heaving itself along the track to the accompaniment of billowing smoke. The door to the compartment was firmly shut. The scene outside the train consisted of a few dozen clustered rows of brick houses, which I knew would soon thin and give way to quaint villages and after that to a patchwork of countryside, flecked with a few farms here and there.
We were safe.
“Sherlock.” I put my hand on his knee, so slender it was near skeletal, which relaxed him further, “I worry about you, you know.”
“You shouldn’t.” To an outsider, his assurance may have seemed terse, but I knew him well enough to see his eyes softening ever so slightly at the corners, “John, I am fine.”
Six and a half hours later, we rumbled into Whitby station. As we stepped off the train, we passed by two young women. The one with blonde hair was eagerly greeting her dark haired friend with a cheerful embrace. I could not help but smile to myself as an exclamation of “Mina! It’s so lovely to see you!” wafted through the air, akin to the fine scent of sugar being spun in a shop.
“I notice that she has been doing quite a bit of typing lately.” Holmes remarked as I hailed us a dogcart.
Soon, the two of us were clattering through the town’s quaintly cobbled streets, pulled by a light bay horse towards the small hotel where we would be staying.
The Further Afield proved as sunlit as any seaside stay ought to be. An elderly woman by the name of Mrs Longdale showed us to our rooms, her gait a somewhat worrying wobble.
— — —
Later that day, as the sky was beginning to shine a dusky pink, we were approached by a young woman, with wispy blonde hair and wearing a cream coloured sailor’s dress with a lilac collar and piping, in the hotel’s dining area. She had no case for us, but she was a client all the same.
“Excuse me, sirs, but is one of you Mr Sherlock Holmes?” Her voice was cool and quiet, strangely reminding me of rain against a window pane.
Holmes had been taking laconical puffs from his cigarette and, before the lull in conversation during which the young lady had found us, waxing lyrical about the characteristic consistency of Yorkshire sand.
“I am.” He greeted her as cordially as if she had come to our rooms in Baker Street at the height of his energy. Evidently, the sea air had energised him.
“Excuse me, Mr Holmes.” She spoke lower, “Could you pretend that I am giving you a case?”
That certainly caught me off guard, as it did my companion, who raised an eyebrow and turned in his chair to face her fully.
“My name is Fenella Patrick. My parents are on a walk in town, but there is a man waiting at the front desk who would not leave me alone. He stared at me terribly - leered - and- and I recognised your face from the etching in the newspaper - about the Paget case - and- oh-!” She trailed off, her round face screwed up in a manner that pained me to see marring such delicate features.
“Do not worry, Miss,” Holmes answered smoothly, “Sit, and be precise as to the facts.”
Slightly louder, I added that the mystery of her grandmother’s pearls would be no trouble for the famous Sherlock Holmes, prying a gentle smile from our guest.
I pulled out a chair for her, and let her sit in the little nook where our table was situated, overlooking the harbour’s place at the River Esk as it blurs outwards into the North Sea.
— — —
“I do not swim, Watson.” Holmes declared on the final full day of our stay in Whitby.
“Well, we have been to the high street, the fisherman’s wharf and the Abbey, what else better could there be to do in Whitby than go to the beach?” I asked, already rolling my trousers and sleeves up, preparing to wade into the water, crisp with salt,
“Observe.”
“We’ve been people-watching every day here, my friend.” I chuckled, “In fact, the last time we did it was less than half an hour ago!”
Still, Holmes turned up his nose.
I paused, “You can swim, can’t you Holmes?”
“Of course I can swim, Watson. I would simply prefer not to expend unnecessary energy, is all. I am, you know, recovering from exhaustion.”
At that, I could not help my guffaw, “Oh, come now, Holmes! Just a little dip!”
A pause, followed by an “oh, very well, Watson.”
With a precision that was nearer a surgeon’s than a holidaymaker’s, Holmes removed the thin shawl he had wrapped around his shoulders and rolled up his trousers, still perfectly pressed despite being covered in sand.
Gingerly - which is an adjective I never imagined I would use to describe the great detective - he approached the water.
He stepped into the water.
“Well?” I prompted, stifling another chuckle, “Was that so very bad?”
He tilted his head, considering.
“It is cold, Watson. However can you stand this?”
At that, I threw my head back and burst out laughing, only to be stopped by a splash of cold seawater in my face.
“Holmes-!” I spluttered in disbelief, “Did you just-?”
Holmes smirked, “I observe you are also cold, Watson. Perhaps you would like to dry off on land?”
I responded to this the way every good doctor should - by giving him a taste of his own medicine.