it became clear that she was there to pursue a romantic interest in Mr Holmes—having no intention of engaging his professional services—Dr Watson embarked upon an ill-conceived attempt to dissuade her, engaging me as his unwilling accomplice.
“Ah, Mrs. Hudson,” said he, “Holmes is still rather down in the dumps, don’t you think?”
Not knowing what on earth he meant, I replied, “I suppose he is, if you think so.”
The doctor then gave a mournful sigh, which sounded rather fake to me; I don’t suppose he numbers acting among his many skills. I glanced at her Ladyship to see how she was receiving his rather amateur histrionics, but the keen expression on her face showed that she was very attentive, indeed. Dr Watson heaved another sigh, and I nearly burst out laughing, but he glared at me and I swallowed my mirth in a hastily-conceived coughing fit.
“It is indeed too bad,” says he, “that the love of his life is in America, and not expected to return for some time yet.”
My expression must have showed my utter astonishment at this pronouncement, but luckily the young lady was not looking at me. She leaned in toward the good doctor, so that her dainty hand nearly touched his.
“Is Mr Holmes married, then?”
“Married? No, I should think not,” Dr Watson replied. “Though I daresay he wishes he were. The lady in question is not of a mind to marry—at least not at present, and not to him.”
Lady W blushed most prettily and smiled, though even I could tell it was a forced smile. “I do not wish to pry,” said she, though from her tone of voice and expression it was clear that was precisely her aim.
“Oh, it’s no secret,” the good doctor said with a wave of his hand. I daresay I was rather shocked to hear this claim, since it was not only a secret, it was a complete falsehood. “He is smitten with a lady of great birth and station in life, and she takes little notice of him. Still, he will entertain no other woman as a love interest, having given his heart to her. He is the kind of man who, once his troth is pledged, will remain forever faithful.”
The young lady reddened. “If I had the good fortune to be loved by such a man as Mr Holmes, I should not treat him so lightly,” she declared, her voice harsh with emotion.
“Your Ladyship is very kind,” Dr Watson replied, pretending not to understand the sentiment behind her words. “I daresay you are a great deal more considerate than the young lady in question.”
I offered more tea, which was refused, and our visitor soon took her leave of us, gliding down to her waiting carriage amidst the importuning of street waifs anxious to capitalize on her generosity. Dr Watson promised to give her regards to Mr Holmes, but I knew he would not tell of her visit unless he could not help it.
“Why, Dr Watson!” I exclaimed after the coach had driven off on the rain-slicked cobblestones. “I’m surprised at you! Lying to her Ladyship like that—whatever gave you the nerve to do such a thing?”
“My dear Mrs. Hudson,” he replied, lighting a cheroot, “I wished to spare the young lady some embarrassment, and avoid putting Holmes in a delicate situation he is ill-equipped to handle. It seems to me a small lie is a small price to pay for such a thing.”
Mr Holmes had the last word, though. When he arrived later that afternoon, with his usual alacrity and powers of observation, he deduced not only that we had had a visitor in his absence, but concluded correctly who it was. Dr Watson had no choice but to confirm his conclusions.
“And what did you tell her that caused her to depart so abruptly?” Holmes inquired.
Dr Watson nearly choked on his whisky. “How on earth did you know she—?”
Holmes gave a little laugh. “My dear fellow, when a woman hurries out of a room so quickly that she snags her expensive silk wrap on the door frame,” he said, plucking a few cream-coloured threads from the door, “and furthermore, leaves her parasol,” he added with a glance at the feather-trimmed accessory on the hearth, leaning against the mantel, “I can only conclude she left in some haste.” He glanced at the table I was in the process of clearing. “Since she arrived in no particular haste—judging by the amount of tea and cakes she consumed—I can only conclude it was something you said that caused her to leave in such a flustered state of mind.”
Dr Watson frowned and tossed his cigarette into the glowing embers of the fireplace. “Very well, Holmes, you win,” he said, and proceeded to tell the entire story of Lady W’s visit.
“Tut tut, Watson,” Holmes said when he had finished. “I’m surprised you came up with a credible lie so readily. I do hope you aren’t considering a future as a writer of agony columns.”
“No chance of that,” Watson muttered, moving to his writing desk.
“I am sorry you felt it necessary to lie to the young lady,” Holmes remarked.
“I was merely trying to spare her—and you—considerable embarrassment,” Watson said, clearly miffed. “I should think you’d be grateful.”
“Hmm,” said Holmes, turning to me. “Well then, Mrs Hudson, what have you for our dinner tonight? I’m quite famished.”
“Lamb chops,” I replied. “Either that or Welsh rarebit. Take your pick.”
“I’m not hungry,” Watson declared moodily.
“Come along, my dear fellow, dine with me, won’t you?” said Holmes. Things had evidently gone well for him today, for he was in a jovial mood.
“I shouldn’t think you’d want to have dinner with a liar,” Watson grumbled.
“Goodness, Watson,” Holmes said. “If there’s one thing I’ve learned about human nature, it’s that everybody lies. You told a lie today that you hoped would help me out, and for that I should be grateful. Never mind whether it was the right thing to do or not—you did your best as you saw it.”
“Very well,” Watson said. “Next time I’ll let you fend for yourself when a woman like that practically throws herself at you.”
“If you must,” Holmes said. “But for God’s sake, next time you give me a fictional lady friend, would you do me a favour and put her somewhere else other than America? I mean, if you want your story to be credible. Who on earth would leave England to go there?”
“Yes, I supposed you’re right,” said Watson. “Mrs Hudson, I think I’ll have the Welsh rarebit, if you don’t mind.”
“And I’ll have the chops,” Holmes proclaimed. “If that’s not too much trouble for you.”
“No,” said I. “It’s no trouble at all.”
* * * *
Thank you again for your letter, Peter—please write again sometime.
Very truly yours,
Mrs Hudson
CARTOON, by Mark Bilgrey
SHERLOCK
