“I recall seeing the note with your new publisher’s address in the hallway this morning. There was a sudden re-stocking of our larder. And Mrs. Hudson was humming; she always hums when she’s received the rent. Therefore, you’ve been paid. May I say, this is a far more satisfactory situation than your previous arrangement.”
I grunted in agreement, torn between finishing the words I’d worked so hard to find and my relief at Holmes providing himself any kind of distraction. My first attempts at selling my work—for my medical practice was still in its infancy and Holmes’s income from his detective work was, to be generous, erratic—had terminated in a most unsatisfying manner, with my publisher retiring for health reasons. In point of fact, the blackguard had cheated me and, when I demanded he make things right, he laughed, telling me I ought to know when I was well off.
A seething red rage had come over me, followed by a calm I knew all too well. As I methodically went about breaking his jaw, I observed aloud that he could expect more of the same, and worse, if he thought about going to the constabulary. As soon as the publisher could write again (his hand having been broken in three, especially painful, places), he laboriously scribbled a note to his secretary, releasing me from my contract and paying me the sum I was owed. His editorial successor, perhaps acquainted with his colleague’s experiences, cannily suggested that if I made some trifling adjustments to tone and content, my work would sell well to the higher-stepping readers of the more prestigious Strand Magazine. No one likes his work altered, but for a few more bob, I can state with no irony whatsoever that I do in fact know when I am well off.
So, no more penny dreadfuls; with some bowdlerization of our real adventures, I now produce thrilling tales that are brimful of derring-do. Some slight recasting of the details is necessary. I wouldn’t want to shock my readers, and often the truth is a good deal more unsavory than they would like. But if I smooth over the rough parts of a case, pretty it up—well, it’s good for the general populace to have moral tales and model heroes. Perhaps it’s good for me and my friend, too, giving us an ideal to strive for. We so often fall badly short, no matter how hard we try.
That day in our sitting room, I crossed out an errant word and stacked my completed sheets with satisfaction. Since I could not resist the attractions of the great cesspool that is London, I strove to keep my tendency to riotous life at bay. I had not slid into old, bad habits for nearly a week, and between being paid, and frugal living, I was quite pleased with myself. “Quite right, Holmes. I finally paid Mrs. Hudson my share of last month’s rent, and better still, have stashed away next month’s as well in our strongbox. I hope you have something coming in soon?”
“Sooner than I had expected, it seems.” He stood by the window and motioned for me to join him. “You will please tell me what you think of the gentleman who hesitates just beyond our doorstep?”
I gladly obliged him, rising to peer out our window. The fog had cleared. “Well-off, in the first rank of fashion, though perhaps a foreigner—I have not seen that style of boots before, on the high streets or in the more fashionable districts. A gentleman, as you say, of robust health, but perhaps troubled by arthritis recently; his gait is somewhat unsteady, and as he pauses, he seems to rest his weight on his left leg.”
“Well done, Watson! You give me hope for the British university system!”
I was so pleased at the idea of getting another case before Holmes that I smothered the retort I had ready regarding my considerable talent for diagnostics and a remark regarding his questionable parentage. “Well, then, go ahead. Tell me what I missed.”
“Almost everything of importance, that is all.” He had the all-too familiar look and tone of a schoolboy’s superiority. “Yes, a foreigner, American—those boots are made by the New York firm of Getzler and Son. He walks stiffly, I would suggest, not because he has arthritis, but because he has not gained his land legs—you will notice that he does not have the characteristic scuffing mark on those fine shoes that is often found in chronic patients.”
I did not interrupt Holmes with a lecture on the variability of symptoms from case to case. My heart was greatly eased to see that vacant restlessness gone from his face, and his eyes sharp and clear.
“So, he’s come directly from the wharves, without even stopping at his hotel. If memory serves—and you can confirm this by handing me the papers—thank you, ah, yes. The private steam yacht Anna Hoyt docked earlier today, coming from Boston, in the United States. Therefore he had such a pressing need to see me that he could not wait for the scheduled commercial liner and then, on arrival in London, all but flew from the wharf—but why not cable beforehand? Why not a letter, even, than go to all this trouble and postponed haste of a lengthy ocean voyage? Perhaps—”
“He had a secret too valuable to trust to post or an emissary?”