Echoes of Sherlock Holmes: Stories Inspired by the Holmes Canon(103)

I said nothing. Holmes had many times criticized me for much the same faults.

“If you are who you say you are,” I said, “how is it that you are here, in this cemetery and on a bench beside this grave?”

He smiled again, but this time there was a guarded, even mysterious, quality to it. “I was drawn here.”

“Drawn by what? Or by whom?”

He reached into his pocket and withdrew an envelope, tapped it thoughtfully against his chin for a moment, then handed it to me. I accepted it and noted that the paper was remarkably crisp and expensive, but of a kind unknown to me. It was addressed to M. C.A. Dupin in the Faubourg Saint Germain, a section of Paris known for expensive townhouses of the h?tel particulier variety. The envelope was unsealed. At Dupin’s encouragement I opened it and removed a folded sheet of onionskin, and discovered that a flower had been enclosed within the page. It was a delicate but faded specimen of a dried flower, with white petals with slender green filaments and anthers of a startling blue. I gaped at the flower, for had I not gathered up a handful of the same blossoms only moments ago? Dupin watched me as I stood, walked over to the grave, and knelt to compare the dried example with its freshly cut cousins.

I glanced at him. “What flower is this? What does it mean, that it was both sent to you and scattered on Holmes’s grave?”

“It is very curious,” he said. “What do you make of it?”

“Nothing,” I confessed as I returned and reclaimed my seat. “It is a flower and nothing more.”

“You do not recognize the variety?”

“Not at all. It seems familiar,” I said, “but I am no botanist. Perhaps a flower seller might know.”

“I have consulted several,” said Dupin. “Eight, to be precise, and only the eighth was able to identify this flower, but barely so. He recommended that I pursue the matter further with a learned professor of botany at the Institut de France, which of course I did. The professor was able to identify it, but only after consulting several books. There was only a single example of it in his cases, the flower is so rare. He remarked that it was unusual for such a thing to be found anywhere in Paris, and I have since confirmed that it us utterly unknown here in London except to botanists at the Royal Society.”

“And yet I have seen it,” I cried, “and in bloom, though I cannot for the life of me recall where it was.”

His eyes pierced me with their intensity. “Can you not, Doctor?”

“No. I seldom take particular note of flowers. The odd rose or carnation, perhaps, but . . .”

Dupin was shaking his head in obvious disapproval. “Take a moment before you decide that you have never taken note of this flower before. What can you tell about it by pure observation?”

I suppressed a sigh. Dupin clearly possessed some of the same intellectual qualities as my late friend, but he also had a fair few of the less appealing habits that apparently are part and parcel. Superiority and condescension, not the least.

“It is similar to a common edelweiss,” I said slowly. “That much is obvious, for that flower is common in the better flower shops, but it is also unlike one.”

“How so?”

“It is smaller and far more delicate than that flower. And the colors do not quite match any example I’ve seen.”

“Very good. It is indeed a species of Leontopodium alpinum,” he agreed, “but it is a very rare subspecies. The professor at the Institut says that this particular flower grows only in one place on Earth.”

“And where is that?”

Dupin looked mildly surprised. “You truly do not know?”

“I confess that I am unable to connect this flower with my memory of where I saw it. Perhaps it was in a book.”

“Or,” he said, “perhaps you were emotionally distraught at the time.”

I bristled. “If you are suggesting, sir, that this flower was presented to me as a token of sympathy when my wife—”

Dupin held up a hand to stop my outburst. “No, no, not at all. Dear me, I seem unable to do anything but offend you. If I were a younger man I daresay you would attempt to thrash me for this and other perceived slights.”

“I made no such threat,” I said at once.

“No, but you cannot say that it did not occur to you, at least as a wistful lament that my age and infirmity stand between you and a burst of violence that would, at least, make you feel better in the moment.”

“You are being rude, sir.”

“I am often perceived as such, Doctor, but surely you of all people can recognize that a statement made based on observation, insight, and logical supposition stands apart from—and perhaps above—the niceties of common conversation. Your many accounts of the investigations of your late friend build a case in support of my point. Even Poe was keen enough to perceive that much.”

I said nothing, not trusting my voice.

Dupin offered another small bow. “Nevertheless, Doctor Watson, allow me once more to apologize. I intended no reference to your late wife. No, monsieur, not at all. My intention was only to provoke thought and memory, not pain.”

“Then perhaps,” I said tightly, “such a process might benefit from more straightforward statements rather than cryptic questions or obscure remarks.”

He laughed. “Mon dieu, doctor, but you remind me of an old friend, long passed, who often said as much to me. And I will confess that to a logician in a world of those who do not prize rational and informed analysis, a sense of drama is perhaps inevitable. An ugly and even cheap habit, to be sure, but I never claimed to be a saint among men. Nor, I suspect, did your late friend, Mr. Sherlock Holmes. His love of drama was well known. Were his death faked and he alive, I would not put it past him to break the grassy sod upon his grave and spring forth with a dramatic flair. And the world who, through your writings, came to adore him, would think it all a fine performance worthy of ovation.”