Echoes of Sherlock Holmes: Stories Inspired by the Holmes Canon(100)

Thinking about Holmes on that particular Sunday morning created an ache in my chest. Sometimes his absence is most keenly felt. Not merely because of the case notes in hand, but because of the flowers that lay on the green grass of the empty grave.

It was not unusual for someone to lay flowers on the grave of so great a man as Holmes. It was far more uncommon to find no bouquet or token, for there were very many people whose lives he touched. However the usual tribute is a clutch of hothouse flowers tied with ribbon and laid with a degree of ceremony before the marble headstone. Not so on this occasion. This morning, as on one or two other mornings over the last few months, I found a handful of wildflowers thrown haphazardly across the grass. They were of a kind I felt I should know but could not name. White petals surrounding anthers of a singular bright blue.

I bent to gather the flowers and did my best to arrange them into an acceptable bundle, but I am no artist with such things and the result was clumsy and inelegant. Even so, I placed the bouquet on the grass and stood for a moment with my fingers lightly touching the cold marble. Then, with a heavy sigh I turned, intending to reclaim my seat on the bench—only to discover that not only was a new occupant ensconced on my very seat, but he held my sheaf of case notes.

“Sir,” I cried as I hurried over, feeling quite cross and at the same time violated, for those papers were very precious and private, “those belong to me.”

The man looked up from the topmost paper and I perceived that he was a very elderly gentleman, perhaps eighty or even older. His wizened features were deeply lined and beneath his top hat a few thin wisps of snow-white hair escaped. His mustache was equally white but precisely trimmed. His smoke-grey topcoat was of excellent cut, though perhaps a few years out of step with current fashion. His eyes, however, were striking and the sheer force of them slowed me in my tracks and made my tirade falter before it had truly begun. They were like the eyes of a great predator bird, a peregrine or eagle. Very dark and intensely sharp.

“Dear sir,” he said, his accent clearly French and his voice surprisingly firm for so old a person, “I am most heartily sorry for such a bold intrusion. I merely caught these sheets as they began to blow away.”

While this may have been true, it did not explain why he had clearly begun to read those errant pages. My anger overmastered my surprise and I thrust out a hand for them. The old Frenchman surrendered them at once and even gave me a small bow of the head as he did so. I hope that I did not snatch them from him or clutch them petulantly to my breast, but I fear that any witness—had there been any—might have judged me harshly.

The Frenchman gave me a small smile in which I perceived no trace of genuine embarrassment for his faux pas. Instead, he half-rose, and moved a few feet sideways to allow me room to reclaim my own seat. He had a cane with a silver head fashioned in the shape of a leaping trout, and he placed both of his hands upon it.

I considered stuffing my papers into the Gladstone case in which I’d brought them, squeezed in among the powders and instruments of my trade, but I did not. Instead I turned and sat down, the papers on my lap. I was intensely aware of his scrutiny as I did so.

“You are a medical man, I perceive,” said he.

I looked at him coldly. “If your comment is intended as a joke, sir, it is in poor taste.”

“A joke . . . ?” he replied, eyebrows rising. “I do not understand.”

“You are in this place,” I said irritably, “and have only this moment finished rifling my personal pages. The conclusion is obvious and the joke offensive.”

The Frenchman shook his head. “I have offended you, sir, but without intent. And I make no joke, not here and never in the presence of one who is troubled with grief both old and recent.”

“Enough,” I cried. “Even a person of venerable age should be mindful of manners.”

He placed his palm flat over his heart. “How am I being rude, monsieur?”

“You know who I am and yet pretend to deduce things about me in an imitation of a great man. That is—”

“—not what I am doing,” said the Frenchman. “Please, sir, calm yourself.”

“Then explain your comments.”

He folded his hands in his lap. “Which comments require an explanation, monsieur?”

“You claim to know that I grieve.”

“You are in a cemetery,” said the old man.

“Many people come here who are not torn by grief,” I said. “It is a quiet place.”

“You gathered the flowers on that grave and stood touching the headstone. The former is something a casual visitor would leave to the groundskeeper, and the latter suggests an intimate connection with the person who is presumed to be buried there.”

“We will come back to that,” I growled. “If you do not know who I am then what do you know of my recent grief?”

“I know that you lost someone very dear to you. Not a brother or sister, not parents and not a child.” He cocked his head for a moment, then nodded as if agreeing with his own thoughts. “You’re a new widower, of that I am reasonably certain.”

I felt my face turn to stone. “It was in the newspapers.”

“Perhaps it was,” said he, “but not in Paris, and I am recently come here from there. Too recently to have read about your wife’s death. And, before we proceed, let me offer my sincerest condolences.”