Holmes puffed on his long pipe, a slight crack in the ill-fitting carriage-door drawing the smoke away. ‘Watson, had we used him as our principal witness against them, it is not too far fetched to think his life too may have been in danger.’
The gleam of the occasional street-lamp along the ridge road flashed on his features. ‘Such hatreds, Watson. Africa is a volcano from Cape to Cairo. I am certain somewhere in this lurks another war.’
While I digested this, Holmes continued, ‘Lust for gold could lie behind this. Greed is a human pandemic worse than enteric fever. But if you add pursuit of power ... I am still a child in international affairs and must learn more ... how does one State come out on top? Why are alliances made and broken? Do they aim to unite Natal and Cape Colony with the Boer republics under an English flag - under Van Beers’ control?’
The carriage took a bend, straightened and increased in pace down a slight slope. Holmes shook his head. I spied a hint of admiration in his eye.
‘Watson, most such plans would go awry with an assembly as large as that which orchestrated today’s events. If their victim was an emissary from the Boer High Command, their hate for him would be pretty black.’
After a further few minutes, I said cautiously, ‘Holmes, you have built a mighty edifice from to-day’s events.’
‘That is true, my loyal friend,’ he replied.
‘Assuming all you say is true, by what means were we so utterly defeated?’
‘By tactics I have never before encountered. Never has anyone laid out wares before us in such a clever and understated way - as if each item were entirely inconsequential, like Siviter’s medlar jelly tea.’
‘They were not ignoble foes,’ I offered in consolation.
‘They were not. They have overthrown my maxim the only safe plotter is he who plots alone. Even though we nearly had them, their safety was recovered by a few simple strokes of Poppyseed oil.’
I watched as Holmes again shook his head in reluctant admiration. ‘For all his pretty-pretties, Siviter is more deadly than the Gaboon viper.’
Expecting a mocking answer to a rhetorical question, I teased, ‘Nevertheless, surely not the equal of the late and unlamented Moriarty, Holmes?’
I was staggered to hear Holmes’ response. ‘Siviter is his better,’ he replied, quietly. ‘I would back him 5 to 4.’
‘Have we heard the last of them, do you suppose?’
‘They are supremely able instruments. There are curs to do the smaller work but these are wolf-hounds in leash. I wager they’ll be on the prowl for a long time yet. ’
The fresh country air was beginning to press in on me. The gulp of brandy taken from my hip-flask was helping. A pleasant lassitude descended.
‘Holmes,’ I said in consolation, my now-weary eyes closing. ‘Lessons learned will be of great benefit to us.’
The dancing shadows of the flaming mill were far behind us. Crick’s End and my memory of it were dissolving into mist. With a tap of a finger I checked the collection of large bank-notes from our day’s work tucked safely in an inner pocket. Noting the slight pat of my hand on my wallet-pocket, I heard Holmes say with sudden warmth, ‘Was it up to your expectations?’
It was my old friend back to normality.
Above and behind, I could hear the sound of the cabman’s voice communing with his greys, for the first time using their names ‘Christmas’ and ‘Easter’. Lulled by the rhythmical throb of the carriage at speed on a decent surface, I settled back for the briefest of naps.
‘It was, Holmes. A princely sum,’ I replied in satisfaction.
‘Then how much?’
‘Three hundred Guineas!’ I murmured.
‘My Heavens,’ Holmes responded, in genuine surprise. ‘In bars of gold - or a pouch of diamonds?’
‘In English Five Pound notes.’
‘My Heavens,’ he repeated. ‘Though not quite five shillings the word, there is money in public speaking! And what of my wager over Marco Polo? Did he forget the fifty guineas?’
‘I have them too,’ I replied, smiling.
Soon we would be at the railway station. The violence of Holmes’ present emotions would fade. Crick’s End would become but a remembrance of things past. At any moment I expected Holmes to say ‘Watson, take a wire down, like a good fellow.’
In the event I was utterly wrong to believe Holmes and I were to remain in our companionable state, so deep and lasting was his embarrassment at his defeat. Unbeknown to me, after some weeks of intense reflection, he informed the editor of The Strand he would refuse outright to have my chronicle ever see the light of day. No Editor would take it. For Holmes the débâcle became the subject of a tabu. He raised no objection when I told him I planned to resume my medical practice. I found fresh premises and we parted. It was clear our long friendship was at its end. Want of capital excluded me from setting up in the Harley Street district of Westminster, famed for the members of my profession who catered for the wealthiest patients. I settled for a ground floor in Paddington. Even then, to raise the money I was obliged to sell my cherished painting of General ‘Chinese’ Gordon.
Addendum
So great was Holmes’ humiliation he abandoned his plan to compile a text-book on crime detection for fear it would invite mockery from reviewers. The years passed. I caught sight of my former comrade only once in all that time. I was taking an evening walk in St James’s Gardens. He was entering Buckingham Palace perched in a shabby one-horse shay. I was with him on a previous visit to the Palace when Queen Victoria conferred an emerald tie-pin on him for services above and beyond the call. I discovered later that despite our estrangement this second visit was to ask King Edward if the knighthood His Majesty had offered to confer on him for services to Justice (an honour Holmes refused) could be transferred to me, a request the King rejected out of hand. Was that passing glimpse at the gates of the Palace to be the last time I was destined to see my dear friend, I wondered. I pined for our long lost days as comrades-in-arms.
More years passed. The King died. George V was crowned. Holmes and I may never again have been shoulder to shoulder until death (I had long since gained his word of honour for a grave next to his among the Italian bees) except for a most remarkable and unexpected event seven long, lonely years later.
It was 1912. I stood in the early-morning sunshine outside the front-door of my medical practice. The badge of my profession, the stethoscope, hung from my neck. It was my custom to observe patients before they came limping through my door. Many are the times I have made my diagnosis before they enter my premises or utter a word.
My thoughts turned to my dear dead wife, a striking-looking woman with a beautiful olive complexion, large, dark, Italian eyes, and a wealth of richly-tinted deep black hair. Holmes once opined she was a little short and thick for symmetry, to my mind a quite impertinent remark. With her passing I felt doubly lonely. Of all ghosts, those of our loves are the ones we most want to wend their way back and wave to us.
It was while deep in such thoughts that I had an unexpected interruption. One of the cheaper horse-drawn cabs pulled up in front of me from which our former landlady alighted, the good Mrs. Hudson, clutching her favourite lace-edged parasol. These days I saw her only on an annual basis when I went round to pay for the storage of my tin trunks in her attic and indulge in a few moments of nostalgia over a first infusion of her best tea. She brought with her a most curious and unexpected summons.