“Why did you not inform me? I would have come immediately.”
“My dear fellow,” he said, smiling for the first time, “we are both of an age when we must expect these ailments. It would be strange indeed if nothing ailed us. And I did not anticipate that this minor affliction would worsen quite so quickly.”
“Minor affliction? For God’s sake, Holmes, you suffered a coronary! How can you be so flippant?”
“There is nothing else for it.”
I sighed and placed my stethoscope on his chest. His heart was beating at an alarming rate. His breath was quick and strong, as though he had just run a race. His blood pressure also caused me concern; it was obvious that the danger was far from averted. I put away the Pinard horn and Holmes buttoned up his shirt.
“What medicines did they prescribe you?”
Holmes pointed to a jug of water and a tin filled with pills resting on the bedside table. Everything was what I would have prescribed.
“They are taking fine care of you,” I said. “There is not much more that I can do now. Rest and take the medicines and you ought to feel better soon. I shall personally oversee your recovery.”
The detective grew thoughtful.
“That will not please some people,” he said mysteriously.
“What do you mean?”
“I haven’t said a word to anyone yet, because I do not know whom I can trust. Besides Mrs Hudson, whom I did not want to frighten, you are the only one.”
Then, in a conversational tone, as though he were assessing the quality of the roast, he leaned over to me and said: “I suspect that my heart ailment is no accident. I believe that I have been poisoned.”
It was a moment before I understood the import of his words.
“Someone wants to kill you?” I cried. “Who? Why? How?”
“As yet I have no answers, but I presume that that package has something to do with it,” he said, pointing with a tremulous finger at the wardrobe, on which lay a decorated ivory cigarette case.
“Your pipe tobacco?”
“Ironic, is it not? You always warned me of the dangers of smoking. It seems you were correct.”
“I do not understand!”
“In the cigarette case you will find the last remains of some tobacco that I recently received as a gift. It is an exotic variety from India, about which even I knew nothing[8]. I was therefore unable to taste whether everything was as it should be. Nevertheless, the first signs of my angina pectoris appeared only after I began to smoke it. It certainly contains something that sapped my energy. It was some time before I connected the dots, but I did not have the opportunity to examine the tobacco, because the illness weakened me and confined me to bed. The rest you know.”
“Who gave you the tobacco?”
“Pastor Barlow,” said Holmes gloomily, closing his eyes for a moment.
Talking for long stretches evidently taxed him. He shook his head and rubbed the base of his beaklike nose drowsily. “I have not succeeded in piecing it together. Nevertheless, I do not think it was his intention and I believe he is unaware that he has become death’s messenger.”
Indeed the involvement of the good pastor in a conspiracy seemed farfetched, though I knew him but little and could not vouch for him.
“Why would someone want to kill you? You have not been working for years!”
“It is probably connected with a little puzzle that I have been asked to solve. The first request came around Christmas, and though I insisted that I would under no circumstances take on the investigation, after much persuasion I accepted. But then due to my health I was unable to undertake it. The letters are still in my desk.”
“What was the case?”
“An Italian millionaire sought my advice. He suspected that someone wanted to kill him. He would only discuss the details in person and he asked me to come see him in order to uncover the menace and thwart it.”
My thoughts raced as I tried to piece together the scattered bits of information.
“This Italian, what was his name?”
“Vito Minutti,” said Holmes.
I rummaged feverishly through my bag, searching for the Times. I had already seen the name which Holmes had just uttered and I needed to confirm it. In a few seconds I confirmed that my memory was correct.
“Holmes, look!” I said, showing the detective the newspaper.
The detective read the first lines about Minutti’s murder and turned even paler. His eyes widened and beads of sweat formed on his brow.
He finished reading and the paper fell from his limp hands to the floor.
“My God,” he whispered. “Had I acted sooner I could have saved him!”
“You cannot prevent all the evil in the world, you cannot be everywhere at once,” I said, trying to console him, but Holmes no longer heard me. His blood pressure rose sharply and he grimaced as the pain shot through his left side.
It was bad.
I jumped up and began trying to bring him around.
“Mrs Hudson, come quick!” I shouted into the hallway. “Holmes is having another heart attack!”
II: A Funeral
The funeral of a legend is always a sad affair, especially for those who have spent a part of their lives or career with him. Pastor Barlow gave a eulogy for Sherlock Holmes in Fulworth church and many of the detective’s friends attended. His brother Mycroft, a high-ranking government official, came from London together with Inspector Lestrade and several other police officers from Scotland Yard. I was especially touched and surprised to see the Countess Marie Framboise de Plessis-Bellie're, with whom I had first become acquainted years ago during a certain infamous case in Bohemia. She must have been invited by Mrs Hudson, who had made a list of funeral guests according to my suggestions and from Holmes’s address book.
After the eulogy the ceremony continued at the rustic local cemetery, under the vast blue sky. We gathered in a small open space near the oak coffin, the air smelling of elder and cut grass.
Watching Holmes’s coffin slowly disappear into the earth was hard for all of us. Nobody tried to hide their tears. The words which Barlow uttered on behalf of the detective were no doubt beautiful and touching, but I do not remember any of them. In my head I was replaying everything that had happened in the last ten days, ever since I had received a telegram from Mrs Hudson about the dire state of my friend’s health. The silence cut me off from the surrounding world with its merciful robe, giving me the opportunity to finally sort my agitated thoughts.
It started to rain. Umbrellas were pulled out and opened.
“If Holmes is looking at us from Heaven it must appear to him that black flowers are growing in his last resting place,” said the Countess, grasping me by the arm.
At the funeral we all bade each other farewell. Nobody felt like sharing their mood with the others at dinner. Barlow accompanied us to the gates of the cemetery and scurried off to find shelter. Our London friends, including the Countess, made ready for their departure to the station to catch the afternoon train.
“Perhaps next time we will meet under happier circumstances,” said the Countess, squeezing my hand as Mycroft helped her into the carriage.
“I fear that we will never get over this loss,” said Lestrade.
Mycroft and I exchanged silent glances and left his remark unanswered. The spring storm and wind scattered us, the carriage disappeared behind the trees and I took a hansom back to Cuckmere Haven, the rain drumming on the canvas roof.
Mrs Hudson, who had not attended the funeral, already had food prepared. While she set the table and chased flies out of the dining room I stepped into Holmes’s bedroom.
8
Holmes was an expert on tobacco and in the study of cigar ash. In 1879 he published a monograph entitled