Harold looked up at the glittering stars. They barely lit the side of the mountain. Even Sarah’s face was disappearing in the blackness. He believed her. But believing her didn’t make him feel any better.
Sarah reached behind her and took the diary, placing it on Harold’s knees.
“We can use the light from my phone,” she offered, “if you want to read it.”
Harold swallowed. “Yes,” he said. “I do.”
Sarah removed a cell phone from her pocket and opened it, using the face of the phone like a spotlight as she pointed it at the diary. Harold gently pried open the covers. The pages were fragile and yellow, but he could make out the words written in Arthur Conan Doyle’s broad hand.
Harold held the diary between them, and together they read.
CHAPTER 45 The Missing Diary of Arthur Conan Doyle
“Come, come, sir,” said Holmes, laughing. “You are like
my friend, Dr. Watson, who has a bad habit
of telling his stories wrong end foremost.”
– Sir Arthur Conan Doyle,
“The Adventure of Wisteria Lodge”
December 8,1900
Arthur wrote it all down.
That’s what he did-he wrote things down. Writing was both his occupation and his calling. He was celebrated around the globe because was so very good at it. When he wrote, when he put events into words, into clear and tidy sentences, they were understood. Things made sense when Arthur wrote them down. And so, terrible as these events were, they demanded to be chronicled. They demanded to be wrought onto paper, to be sculpted from raw feeling into refined language. That’s what writers did, wasn’t it? They named that which needed naming, they enunciated that which had previously been unspoken.
The night of the deaths of Bobby and Melinda Stegler, Arthur stayed up till dawn, describing everything that had happened in as much detail as he could recall. When a particular moment escaped his memory, he embellished upon what he knew. He wrote the story as it existed for him. He did not glorify himself. He did not make it seem as if he were blameless, as if he bore no responsibility for the evening’s tragedy. He did, and he would not deny it. But nor would he gloss over the villainy of Bobby Stegler. That the boy had deserved to die was really beyond debate, and Arthur had to be sure to be clear on that point. It did not justify the tragedy of his sister. Nothing would. But then, in these weeks, in all this time since that bomb had exploded, no tragedy had ever been justified. None of the violence that had stained Arthur’s life had ever been explained. Death, murder-perhaps in the end they were never explainable. They simply were.
Arthur and Bram did not see each other again for a few days. Neither man, it seemed, wanted to talk about what had happened. They read the reports in the newspapers, and when no culprits were found- and no bobbies came knocking on either of their doors-they knew that it was over. They would never see Tobias Stegler again, and the burden of his children’s death would live with him and him alone. For that they were quite sorry. Arthur did wonder whether Janet Fry would call on him again-she knew the name Bobby Stegler. She must have been in his shop. If she saw the notice of his death in the papers, would she make the connection to the deaths of her friends? Or would she chalk it up to odd coincidence? She had been so convinced of the guilt of Millicent Fawcett, after all…
But as the days went by and Arthur heard nothing from her, he became satisfied that he wouldn’t. And so he was free. If Inspector Miller suspected anything, which he probably did-well, what would he do about it? Inspector Miller had, at least so he thought, helped Arthur cover up one murder already. He would do the same for another two. Was Inspector Miller at work, pulling strings to keep Arthur’s name in the clear? Or was Scotland Yard really incompetent enough not to be able to trace the murders back to Arthur’s doorstep? He would never know. He was free, whether through corruption, incompetence, or dumb luck.
On December 8, 1900, Bram Stoker made his last visit to Undershaw, and to Arthur’s study. He came to talk. It was time for them to consult about what had occurred and to properly bid farewell to this period in their lives.
For two men of such intimacy, the meeting felt curiously formal. As Bram entered and Arthur put down his pen, he felt awkward for the first time in his friend’s company.
Silence followed.
“What are you writing?” asked Bram, after the strangest quiet in their friendship.
“It’s… Well, you wouldn’t believe it if I told you,” said Arthur, oddly embarrassed by the words on the page before him.
“I’ll be the judge of that.”
“It’s Holmes. I haven’t told a soul yet. You’re the first to hear. But it’s Holmes.”
Bram simply nodded, as if somehow he had expected as much.
“The other day,” Arthur continued, “I had an idea. Have you been to Dartmoor? Those frightful heaths? They’re quite terrifying. I thought it would be a great setting for the old fool. I had this notion of a plot, after my friend Robinson described to me this story about a gigantic hound terrifying the countryside. Ha. Sherlock Holmes on the trail of a terrific hound… Well, maybe it’s too far-fetched. But perhaps it would be a good yarn, wouldn’t it?”
“Yes,” said Bram. He appeared content. “It would be an excellent yarn. And the world is short, nowadays, of good yarns.”
Arthur described the plot to Bram, and both men went over the pages. Bram was more than approving; he was ecstatic. He described the tale as a return to form-Arthur was delighted.
The conversation took an odd turn when Arthur told Bram about what else he had written.
“You’ve kept a diary of all…of all that happened?” asked Bram, stunned.
“I needed to put it all down. Oh, don’t give me that look, man! I’m no fool. It’s not for anyone to read. I won’t share it with a soul. But I needed at least to share it with my diary.” Arthur smiled then, his face turning wistful. “Perhaps one day when I pass into the next world, if someone finds the book and reads what happened… well then, what do I care if people know the truth? And what do you? Perhaps the truth deserves to go free at last, one day.”
“You cannot be serious, Arthur,” said Bram angrily. “Your reputation… your worth to generations… It’s not just your name you’re tearing down, don’t you see? It’s Holmes’s. This is about more than just you.”
“Please, calm yourself. Sherlock Holmes will be fine with or without my help.”
“No,” replied Bram. “He’ll be nothing, Arthur, for heaven’s sake, if you don’t destroy that thing. Do you hear me? For your own good. For my good. And for Holmes’s good.”
“Lord, Bram,” Arthur began, before he was cut off by a noise from upstairs. It sounded like a crash. One of the children had done something improper with a table lamp, and the sound of yelling followed. “Excuse me one moment,” said Arthur as he wandered from his study to see what the matter had been.
By the time he came back, a few minutes later, Bram had the most curious look on his face.
“What is it?” Arthur asked.
“Nothing,” said Bram. “Nothing at all.” He was sweating, Arthur noticed. Bram so rarely perspired.
Neither man had any idea at that moment that in those few short minutes a mystery had been laid. And that after the diary had been hidden, it would take more than a hundred years for it to be found.