Chapter Text
I was dozing by Dilly Mitchell’s bedside and Holmes was quietly smoking his pipe when Constable Clark came in and tapped Holmes on the shoulder. “Mr. Griffith has arrived, Mr. Holmes.”
Holmes nodded. “Thank you, Clarky. Send the man in.”
“Griffith?” I said. “You wired him this morning, didn’t you?”
“I thought it the best thing to do.” He rose from the chair and pulled me aside. “Come Watson, let us make room for Young Charles.”
Charles Griffith’s face was pale and drawn, but he seemed composed – until he beheld Dilly lying in the narrow hospital bed.
“Oh, God!” he cried, kneeling by his side. “Dilly! Can you hear me?”
Dilly opened his eyes. They were a brilliant blue, the only spot of color in that dim and dreadful place. “Charlie. I prayed you’d come. Unless I’m dreaming?”
“No, you’re not dreaming,” said Charles. “Mr. Holmes sent me word that you were ill and I came right away. Why didn’t you write to me?”
“I can’t write,” said Dilly. “Can’t write and can’t read. I can’t do anything. I’m nothing, Charlie. Except when I was with you. That was the only time I was alive. But that’ll be over soon.”
“Don’t say that!” Charles sobbed. “I’ll find you a doctor...”
“No,” Dilly whispered. “It’s too late. It’s for the best, Charlie. You can live your life now. Find a girl to love – a real girl. Not some false and broken thing like Dilly Mitchell.”
Dilly died at midnight, holding Charles’ hand.
“Is that the way it had to end?” I asked later that night. Holmes had left his bed after turning out the lights and come into my room. That was the way of it – he always came to me. And always after it was dark and everyone else abed. “Is that the way it always has to end? A dying secret in a God-forsaken place?”
“I don’t know,” Holmes sighed. “I wish I did know, but I don’t.”
There was nothing more to be said.
Two days later Dilly Mitchell was buried in a small plot in a cemetery north of the city. Holmes paid for it all, including a fee for a priest to come and say some words over the coffin. The only mourners were Holmes and myself, James and Mick, and Inspector Lestrade, who fidgeted nervously through the short service, while Mick wept and James held him.
Charles Griffith sent a bouquet of blue flowers. About six months later Holmes showed me a notice in ‘The Times’ of his engagement to the daughter of a peer. “A friend of his father’s,” Holmes commented. “They belong to the same club. And so it continues.”
“What?” I asked.
“Society,” he replied. “And the way of the world.”
***
The Irish Sea was grey even under a sunny midsummer sky. The steamship, the Irish Princess, was also grey. But it looked substantial, as if it could cross the Atlantic with no great difficulty.
“But what if it sinks? And what if I’m sick?” Poor Mick was already looking green.
“I sailed around the Cape on my way to India,” I said with a laugh. “Some days I was so ill I thought I’d die. But I lived. And then the long journey home, the same thing. And we were at sea for weeks. You’ll be in New York in ten days.”
“Ten days!” Mick moaned. “Isn’t there another way?”
“There is not, my lad,” said Holmes, puffing his pipe as we stood at the bottom of the gangway. Around us passengers prepared to embark, trunks were carried by, and cargo was hoisted into the hold. “Unless they lay railway track on the surface of the ocean.”
“Or until we can fly across like those birds.” James pointed to a gull swooping over the harbour. “Never fear, Mick. We’ll probably be sick together. They call it feeding the fishes.”
The steam whistle blew, calling any stragglers to board.
“When you get to New York call upon this gentleman at ‘The New York World,’” said Holmes, giving Mick a sealed envelope with an address written in his distinctive hand. “He’s an editor at that newspaper and he knows of my work. I’ve written to inform him of your arrival. He should be able to direct you both to some gainful employment.”
“I’ve never had any trouble finding a place for myself, Guv’nor,” said Mick, his chin lifted high.
“Stay away from your former occupation,” Holmes warned. “This is the chance at a new beginning, so don’t fall back on the easy shilling, my boy.”
“Dollar, Guv,” said Mick, cheeky as ever. “Not shilling.”
“Dollar then,” said Holmes, rolling his eyes. “James, I am counting on you to keep this young rascal on the straight and narrow path. And if you ever think of going astray yourself, remember that I’ll tell your mother if you do!”
“I won’t, Mr. Sherlock!” James vowed. “I give you my word!”
“Good lad,” said Holmes. “It’s time to go, so off with you both!”
“Good-bye, Dr. Watson!” James cried. He embraced me fervently. “I’ll write you every week!”
“And you, too, Guv’nor,” said Mick, shaking Holmes’ hand. “I won’t shame you.” Then he turned to me. “Nor you neither, Doctor. I doubt you’ll soon forget Mick Wiggins!”
“No one could forget you, Mick,” I said honestly. “America is a big country. There should be room enough for you two to stretch out and make your marks.”
“We’ll own the whole place in a year!” Mick boasted. “Then you can come over and have a visit.”
“We might do just that,” said Holmes with amusement. The whistle blasted again. “Get on board, gentlemen. The time is nigh.”
After one more round of handshakes and embraces the pair scampered up the ramp, off on their adventure.
We stood on the dock and waved the ship away, watching James and Mick on the deck until they were mere specks, and until the ship was lost in the mists of the Irish Sea.
“They’re gone. To their New World.” Holmes tipped his hat in acknowledgment. “May they make the most of it.”
“They will,” I said. “Now to return to Baker Street.”
“Not yet, Watson,” said Holmes. “There’s one more thing we need to do.”
***
The Sherringford Folly is famous in Sussex. From it you can supposedly see France. On a clear day. If you are a bird perched on the top of it.
“Built by the Fifth Earl,” said Sherlock, looking up the hill at the strange edifice. “Or was it the Fourth? No matter, both were on the outs with the German Georges. Of course, the family owed their fortune to the Buggering Stuarts, so they wouldn’t have been all that happy with a change in dynasties. Are you ready to attempt the climb?”
I squared my shoulders. “No success without the endeavour. I have my cane and stout boots. And a companion to lend a strong arm in need.”
“Good man,” said Holmes. “And a good dog to pull us both along. Isn’t that so, Gladstone?”
“Woof!” Gladstone replied, straining at the lead.
“I’ll make it up that hill before he does,” I remarked. “He’s fatter than ever. Mrs. Hudson and the girls will spoil him to an early grave.”
“That is no longer possible,” said Holmes. “I remember when he was a pup. Even then he was a greedy and indolent creature. And ill-tempered.”
“He would not have been so ill-tempered if you had not been using him to test your noxious potions and malodorous elixirs.”
“Well, he will eat anything, so...” Holmes smiled. “You don’t mind, do you, Gladstone?”
The dog answered with a rude noise – which did not issue from his mouth.
“You’ve been feeding him kippers again,” I observed. “You know what that does to him.”
“Come, Watson,” said Holmes, changing the subject. “The folly beckons!”
“What is a folly, precisely?” I asked as we ascended.
“A meaningless landmark. Something that is nothing,” Holmes explained. “Built for the purpose of having something to look at where there was nothing before. Hence, the name – folly.”
I shook my head in mystification. “Only the very wealthy could conceive of building such an absurd thing! And in London children were living in the street, hungry and friendless. As they still do to this day.” I thought of the young Mick and Dilly forced to make their way in the world from the moment they were able to walk out the door of the Workhouse.
“Which is why I continue to fight, Watson,” Holmes said. “At least in my own way. Each crime committed is a blot upon society, and each crime solved adds to the good of all.”
“And yet we are criminals,” I said, my eyes fixed on the top of the hill.
“No,” said Holmes. “Never.”
“Yes,” I asserted. “Mick and James have gone to a new life. They may be able to live freely there, but perhaps not. But can we live freely? In a society that judges us sinners and wrong-doers?”
Holmes paused to light his pipe. “Can any man – or woman, for that matter – live as freely as he might wish? Only the thoroughly lawless believe themselves free, but that too is a chimera, as Moriarty undoubtedly understands now, wherever he may be hiding.”
The Irishman. I would give anything to be free of him. “Will he ever return, I wonder?”
“Yes,” said Holmes. “He will always return – as long as I am alive. And as long as he still wants you.”
I winced. “I pray that day will never come.”
“As do I, my dear boy.”
I made it to the top of Sherring Hill none the worse for wear. But the folly up close was a disappointment. What looked white and sleek from afar was actually grey, weather-worn, and crumbling, a pillar signifying nothing and abandoned to the elements.
“It was created to look like a ruin,” said Holmes, tapping his pipe against it. “‘Nor mourn the unalterable Days, That Genius goes and Folly stays.’”
“I can’t see the Channel from up here,” I said, squinting to the south. “Let alone France.”
“France,” said Holmes. “The Exposition is in progress in Paris. Have you read about Eiffel’s Tower? It’s said to be an architectural wonder.”
“So I’ve heard.”
“An excursion across the Channel might be just the thing,” he mused. “There’s a delightful hotel on the Left Bank. The landlady serves the most delicious pastries for breakfast. She will bring them up to the room on a tray and serve you in bed with your café au lait. And she would not bat an eye at seeing two companionable gentlemen sharing a comfortable berth.”
“The French are tolerant in that way,” I returned.
“Quite,” said Holmes. “You know what our illustrious Henry the Fifth said – at least as the Bard portrayed it...”
“‘The game’s afoot,’” I laughed. “‘Follow your spirit and upon this charge cry...’”
“‘God for Harry, England, and Saint George!’” Holmes finished. And he took my hand in his. “Are you with me, John?”
“‘Unto the breech, Dear Friend,’” I replied. “As always.”
*FIN*
