I hesitated, and then I nodded. "Very well. I have lied."
"Life is hard for people who work the land. You and I are prosperous, now, but remember what it was like when we were younger, scraping along from season to season, with never a new shirt or a pair of boots that did not let in the rain. Imagine seeing no better prospects. For the rest of your life."
I suddenly remembered father and sons, and their new clothes.
"Who can blame them for creating a diversion, a mystery to attract sightseers, people of leisure with money to spare. People," Holmes added, "with a blind eye to turn to the evidence lying plain before them."
"What of your commitment to the truth, Holmes?" I asked with some asperity.
"I know the truth," he said. "You know it. Sir Arthur knows it, but rejects it. I have kept the solution to other mysteries confidential; it is part of my duty. How is this different?"
I suddenly understood. Holmes's sympathy was not so much directed toward the hoaxers as away from the curiosity seekers who were willing, indeed eager, to be fooled.
"Very well, Holmes," I said. "I am content, if you are."
We rode in silence for some miles, lulled by the rocking of the train, enjoying Sir Arthur's excellent cognac and the peaceful English countryside. I wondered what the world would be like if beings from another planet did visit us.
"Holmes," I said.
"Yes, Watson?"
"Why was Sir Arthur so willing to pay you, when he did not believe your solution? What did he say to you, just as we left?"
"He said, 'I understand why you are such an extraordinary person. Like Houdini, you have good reason to hide your abilities, your true nature. I understand why Sherlock Holmes cannot be the one to reveal the truth about our visitors. I will do it, and you may trust me to keep your secret.' "
" Your secret?"
"Yes, Watson." Holmes smiled. "Sir Arthur Conan Doyle believes I am a Martian."
Published by Alexandria Digital Literature. (http://www.alexlit.com/)
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