Echoes of Sherlock Holmes: Stories Inspired by the Holmes Canon(101)

I mumbled a barely civil reply. “How are you so sure that it is my wife who was lost?”

“It is written all over you.”

“It is not,” I snapped.

“Forgive me, monsieur, but it is.” He drew a breath and considered a moment longer. He looked wearied by his years, but there was a spark of something in his eyes as he began to speak. “It is an exceptionally chilly May this year and you are wearing the greatcoat you wore this past winter. The coat is an obvious favorite of yours, as it shows extensive wear. It is quite weather-stained, however there is a band on the arm that is slightly less faded. It is the size and placement equal to a mourning band. Had the death been that of a colleague or acquaintance it would not have been worn so long, but the difference in weathering speaks to an extended use. A beloved family member seems likely.”

“You said it was my wife,” I said tightly. “Not a parent or a child. Surely an extended period of grief would be appropriate in either case.”

“It would, but the weathering is not the only telltale sign. The polish of your shoes is professional, clearly done by a bootblack who was once a military man. He even uses the same brushes—or, the same type of brush—with which he was familiar during service. A wife would use one of the commercial brushes that are popular on the market, but the density of bristles would be different. Commercial brushes are softer, and there is a different quality to the ink used in the polish. No, you have had to go out to have your shoes tended to.”

“Many men frequent bootblacks,” I said, “and there are countless veterans in that trade.”

“There are,” he conceded, “but it is one point. Allow me to finish, yes? Returning to your coat, it has been brushed by an indifferent hand. The strokes are brisk to the point of harshness but they are not thorough. There are fragments of leaf debris from trees not found in this green park. I see two types of decorative oaks of the kind that are more common in the courtyards of public buildings. Such trees grow near Scotland Yard, among other places.”

I said nothing, but I could feel my hands clutching slowly into fists.

“Your hat is similarly brushed, and I do not believe a wife would allow a husband to venture forth in such a state. I could go on and mention the state of your cuffs and the fact that one of the threads that had been used to secure the mourning band in place still lingers on your sleeve, but I will relent. No, monsieur, it is your wife who has left us, and again I offer my condolences on your loss, Doctor.”

“How do you know that I am a doctor?”

He nodded toward the Gladstone. “That alone is suggestive. However, there are three small stains upon the back of your right shirt cuff which I perceive are iodine. As the stains are faded to different degrees it suggests that you have used the antiseptic with some frequency over a period of days. Few people outside of the medical profession would carry such stains upon their clothes. The fact that you have not changed your shirt in that time is also suggestive, and reinforces my deduction that you are a widower. You have no wife to attend to you and you seldom return to the house you shared with her, likely because of the pain it inflicts. Such a man in such a state might well bury himself in his professional duties, going day upon day without pausing to refresh and change clothes. You have, however, shaved recently, which is something that can be done in your own surgery or at a club, so you are not so deep into despair that you have abandoned all pride. That and the removal of your mourning band tell me that enough time has passed that you are beginning—but are not far into—a period of recovery from grief. ”

“You toy with me, sir,” I said, rising sharply to my feet. “You pretend to deduce these things when in fact you already know who I am and what I have lost.”

“I know these things now,” he said, “but I swear that I did not know it until a minute ago—of this I can assure you, Doctor Watson.”

“My name was on my papers,” I protested, but he shook his head.

“I saw only the topmost page on which was what I took to be a personal letter on common foolscap. I did not read past the first two lines, which appeared to continue an account of a murdered chimney sweep.”

On that score he was correct, as I now remembered. The case files I had been reviewing concerned an odd matter involving a poisoned Christmas gift and a missing soot brush. Holmes had solved the case but had asked me to withhold its publication as there were elements that would compromise a noted and much admired opera soprano. I opened my bag and studied the page to verify that no one—neither I nor Holmes—was named therein. There were no names at all on that page, nor on the next, and there had not been enough time for the old man to have read further. I closed the bag and resumed my place on the bench.

“If you know who I am,” I said, my anger back on its leash, “then you know whose grave this is.”

“I do,” said he. “That is the headstone erected on the empty grave of the late Mr. Sherlock Holmes of Baker Street.”

“It is.”

“Just so. However, it did not immediately tell me who you were. Your identity, monsieur, became apparent as I observed you, your belongings, and heard you speak. The rest—the sad news of your wife’s passing—were facts about which I was entirely ignorant prior to our meeting. Deductions of that kind are child’s play, and if my playing such a game has offended you, once more I apologize. Sadly, it would not be the first time I have been accused of being inhuman in my interactions with people. A failing in some views, though I hold a contrary opinion.”