Chapter Text
Unfortunate as it may seem to my reading public, some cases undertaken by my friend Mr Sherlock Holmes are simply too delicate, strange, or unsatisfactory to share. Several curious or outré cases have been suppressed because of their inconclusiveness, and many that might show Holmes's methods to their best effect are hidden away due to the status of the client and the scandal that might result, or the details of personal lives to which we are privy. I have to choose carefully what stories I share, despite the demand The Strand Magazine puts on me to produce a full set of them.
One unusual case that was nonetheless unsuitable for publication took place in early September, 1895, some eighteen months after Holmes had returned from what I privately called his Unexpected World Tour: that of Isadora Persano, the well-known journalist and duellist, who was found stark staring mad with a match box in front of him which contained a remarkable worm said to be unknown to science. I took notes during the course of events and will now attempt to realign it into a narrative, but I am certain that this particular puzzle will have to go into the box at Cox & Co. and may not be retrieved until very long hence. The story is simultaneously unsatisfactory and unsuitable, though it demonstrates the quickness of Holmes's deductive talents, but as it resulted in a critical shift in the tone of Holmes's and my partnership I am nonetheless compelled to write it down.
It began, as these things usually do, in the sitting room at Baker Street. Holmes was nestled deep in a pile of newspapers, cataloguing the London gossip, and I was finishing my morning cup of coffee and gazing out the window. It was raining, as it had been off and on for days, and the city was grey and soggy; the picture of an English autumn. Cabs rumbled by, their wheels throwing up spray, the horses' heads hung low. The pavement was a sea of umbrellas and newspapers held protectively aloft. I almost missed seeing our caller, since she walked confidently up to the door and exhibited none of that characteristic waffling of an individual uncertain about the house or the nature of her visit. At the last moment I saw her umbrella come down as she reached the stoop, and I caught sight of the top of her hat. I had just turned away from the window when the bell rang.
Holmes looked up from his project, eyebrows raised. He had glue on his fingers. We heard the front door open and Mrs Hudson address our client-to-be, and without a word Holmes rose to put the book and the papers up on a shelf and dashed away to wash his hands. So it was alone that I bid Mrs Hudson lead our guest in, and alone received her announcement: "Mrs Evangeline Persano, to see Mr Holmes."
"Please, come in," said I, gesturing to the settee. "My name is Doctor Watson. Mr Holmes will only be a moment. Sit near the fire and dry off a bit."
The lady dipped her head in acknowledgement, saying, "Thank you, Doctor Watson," and crossed the room to sit. She was a petite woman, probably in her mid-thirties, with dark, glossy hair arranged carefully in a simple, practical style and tucked neatly under her hat. She had a delicate, finely-boned face, and bright, intelligent brown eyes. Her gait was confident and purposeful, and when she sat she did so very straight and upright. She was the kind of woman I would have let my eyes linger upon, once, if I were ten years younger and had not suffered the loss of two dear loved ones— despite the return of one—so recently. Besides, as she pulled off her gloves I saw that she wore a wedding ring.
"But," I said, "you are a doctor too, I perceive."
She looked up at me, surprised. I managed not to smile, and instead maintained a veneer of cool interest, privately thrilled at the deduction I'd made. The sight of the callouses on her hands, combined with the faint aroma of disinfectant and the intelligence of her gaze, had set me on the path, and I'd said it aloud almost before the thought had fully formed. Holmes would be so pleased.
"Yes," she said. "I am."
"Why didn't you correct Mrs Hudson?" I asked. "You surely have earned the title."
Doctor Persano's face creased in a brief smile, though the expression vanished almost as soon as it had come. "I am not in the habit of correcting people about my title," said she. "It is only truly relevant when I am at practice. Otherwise, I allow people to assume what they wish."
Holmes appeared once more, drying his hands and wearing his jacket rather than his dressing gown, and said, "Forgive me, good morning, I am Sherlock Holmes. I see you have met my friend and partner, Dr Watson."
"This is Dr Persano," I said quickly, as the lady rose to shake Holmes's hand. Holmes betrayed no surprise whatsoever; despite his occasional references to the inscrutability of women, I have never known him to judge one, talents or faults, before getting to know her.
"A pleasure," said he. "Please, Dr Persano, tell us what we can do for you."
Dr Persano sat once more and arranged her skirts. For a moment she was silent, looking down at her hands, and then she said, "Mr Holmes, Dr Watson, the matter which I wish to consult you upon today is rather a strange one, but I suppose you have heard that before."
Holmes threw himself into his armchair, while I took my position at my desk with my notebook. He waved for her to continue and steepled his fingers in front of his chin. He'd been in a good mood lately— a few small cases had been sorted within a day each, and the successes had made him mellow— but it was evident that he was ready for something a little more challenging. In the first six or eight months after his return, which was by some trick of fate very shortly after I had published my account of his death, business had been somewhat spare. The news outlets had reported his miraculous reappearance, but would-be clients were understandably confused by the conflicting information. His brother had sent him work at first, passing along little puzzles Mycroft Holmes didn't care to deal with himself, and by the end of 1894 my friend had regained some of his former variety of clientele. The quantity was still recovering, and really juicy mysteries, with twists and turns, betrayal and double-crosses, murder and intrigue, were fewer and farther between than Holmes would have liked. I hoped Dr Persano's story would turn out to be something worth his extraordinary brain power. It was so splendid to be witness to it again.
"First," said Dr Persano, "I feel I must tell you a little something of myself and my own history, to give you the context of the matter. I graduated from the London School of Medicine for Women in 1889, and finished my clinical studies at the Royal Free Hospital shortly thereafter. It was not easy to get into practice, but in time I was able to procure a suite of rooms near, but of course not on, Harley Street."
I raised an eyebrow and noted these details down. Dr Persano had been more successful in the conventional medical field than I had, but then again my path after medical school had been rather different from hers. And she had not met Holmes. I was not dissatisfied with my lot in life, all things considered.
"My first few months of business were very slow," Dr Persano went on, "as more than a few of my potential patients did not wish to be physicked by a woman." There was a hint of bitterness in her voice, for which I did not blame her. "But I draw an income of a hundred a year from investments my late father made, and so I was not struggling, only quite bored."
Holmes's eyes had closed, but I could tell that he was still listening intently. It surprised me, somehow, that I was able to read him as well as I had before he'd disappeared. I thought he would have become more inscrutable after his absence, but indeed he had become rather less. He was more expressive, more gentle, and I found my attention drawn again and again to the tiny movements of his mouth while he was lost in thought, or the twitch of his fingers. He'd changed immeasurably while he was gone, and yet stayed very much the same. I wondered if he was aware of his own difference.
"Now I come to the subject of my inquiry," Dr Persano said, and I returned my focus to her. She was twisting her gloves in her hands, but when she saw me looking she stilled herself. "Perhaps eight months after I established my practice, I was contacted by a journalist asking whether I would be willing to do an interview, in order to publish a perspective of a female doctor. Naturally I was flattered, if a little wary, and agreed to an initial meeting. That was how I met Isadora Persano. Perhaps you are familiar with the name?"
Holmes opened his eyes. "Indeed," said he. "A notable journalist with quite a colourful career. Watson, if you'd be so kind?"
I was situated near the bookcase allocated for Holmes's extensive Index, so I got up and found the relevant volume. I handed it to Holmes and retreated. He let it fall open, turned a few leaves, and trailed his long forefinger down the page.
"Ah, yes," he said, coming to the name in question. "Persano, I. Writer for the Times, the Star, and the Standard. Quite a mercurial fellow, isn't he? Began his career in 1884, although I admit I have not been able to discover much of his life before his first articles. I have not given it much attention, I suppose. Bit of a temper, I understand; prone to duelling."
Dr Persano smiled again, this time fondly. "I am afraid so, but with an excellent success rate. Well, despite my skepticism about the so-called 'perspective,' my meeting with Mr Persano went very well, and the article came out within the week. My practice almost immediately saw an increase in patients: now that they knew I was a woman, and that my training had been as rigorous as a man's, individuals who actually wished to consult a woman knew where to find me. But I digress. Mr Persano and I began a correspondence, which blossomed into a friendship…"
"Followed by a romance, I imagine," Holmes interrupted, I thought, unnecessarily.
"Indeed. We were married last July, and Isadora joined me in the suite of rooms that accompanies my surgery." She sighed, her smile fading. "Well, so much for that. I shall come to the real matter as succinctly as I can. Isadora and I had lived together quite happily for some months before I had occasion to inquire into his past. It was some little remark about where he might have played as a child, or something to that effect, when his demeanour changed rapidly. He begged me not to be offended but made me promise that I would not ask about his childhood, or his youth, or anything in his life before he had come to England. It was painful, he said, to think upon. I was hesitant, of course— what person does not want to know and understand every moment of the life of another soul dear to them?— but I agreed. So for several years now I have not inquired into the matter. Our… our life together is what is important."
"Quite," Holmes said, rather more gently than I expected in the face of such brazen sentimentality. "Where is Mr Persano from, originally?"
"Italy, although I do not know what part."
"Thank you. Please, go on."
"Two weeks ago, Isadora received a letter in the morning post. He receives a regular amount of forwarded post having to do with articles he has written, so I did not take note of it at first."
I reflected, for a very brief moment, upon the number of cases we had dealt with that involved one party holding back secrets of their past from another party, only to have the whole thing come crumbling down upon the receipt of a letter. Regular and honest communication, I thought, would solve a great many of these cases before they had to be brought before a consulting detective. Then I considered the quantity of withheld information between Holmes and myself, both personal and professional. For instance, I hadn't told him about the dark months between Mary's death and his return, and I wasn't certain I wanted to revisit them even for the sake of cathartic admission. The sight of him in my consulting room had been like a bolt of lightning. It was no wonder I'd fainted.
Dr Persano continued: "I left him in the sitting room at his desk, going through the letters, and went out to my surgery, where I spent several hours with my morning patients. When I returned for luncheon, I found him in exactly the same spot, staring at one in particular. He'd hardly moved. His coffee had gone cold at his elbow, and the rest of his post hadn't been opened. When I said his name he seemed to come out of a daze, and at once he crumpled the letter up and hid it away in his pocket. He made some excuse about losing track of the time, but I could see he was considerably rattled."
"Did you manage to read the letter?" Holmes asked.
"No. I discovered later that he had burnt it."
"Very well."
"Two more letters followed, which I noticed now because of their strange envelope and addressing hand." As Holmes opened his mouth, she produced one of these envelopes which had evidently spent a brief period in the midst of a sitting room fire grate. He took it from her with an approving smile and began to examine it as she continued. "Both of these Isadora tried to conceal from me, but I managed to save that in order to get a better look at it. The letter it contained was disintegrated already. Since the receipt of the first letter he had become distinctly agitated, anxious about leaving the house at his usual times, taking a long route home, wearing a big coat so as not to be easily recognised. He was frightened by something, and it could only have been these letters. I tried to ask what was bothering him, but he told me there was nothing to worry about."
Dr Persano's voice had grown shaky, and now she paused once more to dab fretfully at her eyes. I got up and made her a brandy and soda, which she accepted with a watery look of thanks, and then downed.
"A package arrived yesterday," Dr Persano said, setting the glass aside and turning to Holmes once more. "It was very small, and I left Isadora alone to open it. He wouldn't have done it if I'd been in the room. I went away for five minutes, to speak to the maid about the day's patients, and when I came back…"
Holmes sat forward in his seat.
"He was just sitting there, staring at this little matchbox. He had it in his hands, but he didn't put it away when I returned. He didn't move at all, he just opened it, looked inside, and closed it again. Over and over. I called to him, but he didn't respond. I shook his shoulder. Nothing. It wasn't until I took the matchbox out of his hands that he reacted, and then he simply burst into tears." Dr Persano was on the verge of tears again herself, but she spoke through the thickness in her voice. "I put him to bed, wrote a wire to the office to say he wouldn't be in, and checked up on him throughout the day. He hasn't hardly moved since yesterday. It's like he's not in his body anymore. I couldn't— I couldn't take it anymore, this morning, so I came to you, Mr Holmes. Perhaps you can find out what's happened."
"Do you have the matchbox?" Holmes asked.
Dr Persano produced it, and I stood up to get a better look at what was inside. Holmes and I both stared into the box for a moment in silence, and then Holmes took it and its contents from Dr Persano.
"What on Earth is that?" he asked.
"It's some kind of horrible worm," I said.
It was indeed a striking creature: it was large, the size of my little finger, and segmented. Its colouring was sickly pale with blue markings, and it was curled upon itself in a loop. It had evidently been dried, and it skidded across the bottom of the box. Most notable was its bulbous, white head and protruding mouth-parts. I'd never seen anything like it.
"It is indeed very ugly," Dr Persano said, "but I don't know what's really so terrifying about it."
"Doctor," Holmes said sharply, sliding the box shut once more and looking up at her. "There is something you are concealing. You believe you know where or who this box has come from. If you already know, what is the use of consulting a detective?"
Dr Persano hung her head. "I need help," she said. "I think it has come from someone Isadora knew before he came to England, but I have promised not to ask about that time of his life myself. However, I feel that asking a detective to look into the matter does not break the letter of my promise."
"There is something else. Forgive me, Dr Persano, but I must have all the facts. You believe this is some kind of blackmail, do you not? If it is indeed related to your husband's past, it would be better for you to give me every detail which might be relevant. I understand that the nature of whatever it is may be very personal, or perhaps painful, but you can rely utterly on my discretion and that of Dr Watson."
Holmes seemed to already have an idea of what he was trying to discover, and Dr Persano was visibly cracking under the gentle pressure he put upon her.
"Very well," she said softly. "The truth. The truth is that Isadora Persano is not all he appears to be. When it comes to his work, Isadora is a man of the finest calibre. In public, he is a gentleman of a fiery temper who commands the awe and respect of everyone whom he meets. At home, with me… she is a woman of quite a withdrawn character, sweet and retiring."
I was struck dumb, but Holmes looked rather pleased with himself. Somehow, he'd seen that coming. I wondered if he'd suspected something of that nature from the start. There was a brief pause, while Dr Persano let this revelation sink in; she looked apprehensive, expecting the worst.
"Madam," said Holmes, "thank you for your candour. Even if this has nothing to do with the source of the strange letters and… specimen… it will keep me from being distracted from the matter. I will take your case and find out what, or who, has caused Mr Persano's excessive distraction. If you will allow me to keep this—" holding up the matchbox with its strange contents— "I will be in touch in a few hours. Perhaps you will allow Dr Watson and myself to call upon you this evening."
"Certainly, whenever you wish," Dr Persano said, rising to her feet. "Thank you, Mr Holmes. Dr Watson. Thank you. Thank you." And, after pressing our hands in turn, she put her gloves back on and departed into the dreary London morning.