Alternate Gerrolds (22 page)

 

DR. WATSON’S TALE

Subsequent to the success of my literary efforts for the
Strand
magazine, a great deal of attention has been focused on the personal affairs of Sherlock Holmes and myself. Much of this attention has been quite unwelcome, especially those amateur analyses and salacious speculations into the nature of our relationship. I can only assume that those who waste their energies in such efforts have much too much time on their hands.

The truth is that our relationship was entirely professional in nature. Holmes and I had early entered into a partnership of convenience, which subsequently proved to be of greater mutual benefit than either
of us had originally conceived. Consequently, we were stuck, as it were, with the situation as it evolved. We were holding a tiger by the tail. Neither of us could extricate himself from the partnership without the risk of considerable personal damage, and I think that neither of us really wanted to
try
to let go of the tail of this particular tiger. Together, we had both fame and fortune. Apart, who knew what we might have?

Although we shared a high regard for each other’s abilities, in truth, there was little real affection between us. Mostly, we needed each other’s particular abilities. Holmes had a native shrewdness and cunning which transcended his somewhat meager intellect; I had some skills, not as a reporter, but as a fabricator of tales.

Indeed, this is the substance of my confession—that Sherlock Holmes as he was known by the general public on both sides of the Atlantic
simply did not exist
. He was a total fabrication.

Let me state it clearly at the beginning that I make no claims of innocence in this accounting. I am as guilty of fraud as the man who posed as Holmes. (For simplicity’s sake, I shall refer to him as Holmes throughout the rest of this manuscript.) Although most of the physical circumstances of Holmes’ illustrious career were engineered by the man who was generally known as Holmes, the literary creation of Sherlock Holmes as a superlative intellect, skilled in the art of criminal deduction, was entirely a work of fiction, and that is the part of the fraud for which I must claim authorship. It greatly amused both of us to have created such a remarkable public figure as Sherlock Holmes, eminent detective.

This is not to say that Holmes did not solve the cases he did. In fact, he had the most astonishing degree of success in resolving criminal matters of any detective then or since, a fact which brought no small degree of distress to the late Inspector Lestrade. Even those incidents which were never fully described in my public writings, such as the curious affair of the Giant Rat of Sumatra, were well-known among the investigators of Scotland Yard as evidence of Holmes’ incredible facility with the facts.

There was a remark I gave to Holmes in one of my stories,
The Sign of Four
: “When you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth.” Holmes found this epigram so clever that after he read it in print, he began using it in his daily conversation; he was not without vanity, and on more than one occasion I
literally had to drag him away from gathering admirers. This frequently annoyed him. He enjoyed the swoons of impressionable young women and the hearty congratulations of naive bystanders; but I was afraid that he might inadvertently say something so at odds with what the public believed about him that he would trigger a cascade of embarrassing questions and investigations that would leave us both destroyed. I felt then, and I still feel, that an impenetrable air of mystery would serve us both.

Even with this instruction waved so blandly in the face of the authorities, not a single one of them ever followed the thought to its natural conclusion and realized that Holmes was taunting them to figure out the real truth for his remarkable string of successes.

I must pause here to acknowledge that even at this late date I find it difficult to discuss the matter of the curious belt candidly. It seems to me a betrayal of everything that both of us worked so long and hard to create. Nevertheless, I feel compelled to impart to paper the real explanation of Holmes’ skill.

The man who the public later came to know as Sherlock Holmes first approached me after the death of my beloved wife, Tess. He said he had a proposition for me. He was an American; he had that dreadful flat nasal quality in his voice that identifies the speaker as a native of that nation where the King’s English has been systematically abused for generations. His name was Daniel James Eakins, and he said he was from the state of California. When I pointed out to him that California was still a territory, not yet a state, he flushed with embarrassment and begged my apology; sometimes he forgot
when
he was.

“‘When?’ What a curious way of phrasing,” I remarked.

Then he told me a curious tale.

“Imagine,” he said, “that all of time is laid out like an avenue. If we walk west along this way, we shall find ourselves in Thursday, next. But if we walk east far enough, we may travel back to last Sunday’s partridge dinner. What would you do if you had such a power?”

“A fanciful conceit,” I admitted. “You should try your hand at writing. Perhaps the
Strand
might be interested in such a fantasy.”

“But what if I told you it were not a conceit, Dr. Watson? What if a device existed that would allow you to walk the avenues of time?”

“It strikes me as a very dangerous invention. What if you killed your grandfather before your father was born?”

“Nothing happens,” he said. “I tried it. Paradoxes are impossible. He died. I remained.” He then lifted up his waistcoat to reveal that he was wearing a most curious belt and harness affair. “This is a timebelt,” he said. “With it I can travel anywhen I want to.”

This was such an outlandish claim that I was immediately certain that the man had escaped from one of those facilities used for detaining the dangerously insane.

“I know what you’re thinking,” he said. “I shall give you proof. Right now.” He pulled a newspaper out of his pocket, the
Evening Standard
, and placed it before me. “Look at the date,” he said. The newspaper was tomorrow’s evening edition. “Keep this paper. Wait twenty-four hours. Then buy a copy of the
Standard
. If the two are identical, you will have to ask yourself, how did I come by this paper before it was printed? I went forward in time and brought it back. That’s how.”

I examined the paper carefully. If this was a hoax, it was an elaborate one. And if it were a hoax, why invest so much time and energy in the creation of a document that could be proven false so easily?

It was at this point that my eye fell upon a small article in the lower left corner of the page. The headline said TREVOR MYSTERY REMAINS UNSOLVED. I pointed to that and said, “Perhaps your machine would allow you to travel backward to the day of this tragedy and prevent it?”

He took the paper from me and studied the article. “Perhaps indeed,” he agreed. “I shall be back momentarily” and he stepped out the door with never a by-your-leave. He returned almost immediately, but this time he was wearing a totally different costume, something he had no doubt picked up in one of the more expensive booths at Harrods; a deerstalker cap and cane, a baroque pipe after the German fashion and a long gray fogcoat. I had seen quick-change artists in the theater before, but off the stage, such a feat of physical prowess was startling. Mister Eakins was also carrying another newspaper which he brandished at me proudly.

It was the same newspaper, only this time the headline read, PRIVATE DETECTIVE SOLVES TREVOR MYSTERY. I read it aloud, “Mr. Sherlock Holmes of 221-B Baker street
—
” I looked up at him, dismayed. “Why, that’s my address.”

“Yes, it is,” he said. “That’s very astute of you, my good Watson. I had to tell the reporters something. If you don’t like it, I will tell them
something else. Come, the game is afoot. This is tomorrow’s newspaper. If this story is to come true, we must go to the police now and tell them about the code in the mysterious message. If you read every third word in the note, you’ll see that it says something quite different altogether.”

I shall not repeat the details of that case here. It is fully reported in my story,
The Gloria Scott
. I wish only to establish that this was the first case in which Eakins-who-became-Holmes involved himself, much to the annoyance of the police.

As we walked, I observed a curious transformation coming over Mr. Eakins. He had somehow lost his dreadful American twang and was sounding more and more like a proper gentleman. When I remarked on this, he acknowledged that he had studied stagecraft for many years and had developed an impressive skill at adopting the speech mannerisms and dialects of others. He said he found the “English accent” charming.
Charming
indeed! Nevertheless, to give him credit, within a very short time his speech had become as clear as a native-born gentleman’s.

Eakins reported the basic facts of the case to Inspector Lestrade without explaining how he had come to learn them. The good man listened politely at first, then with growing irritation. “Who are you?” he demanded. “Why should I take you seriously?”

At this point, Mr. Eakins bowed politely and introduced himself as, “Sherlock Holmes, at your service.” He had a most self-satisfied expression as he did. “And this is my associate, Dr. John Watson. We are private investigators, and we are happy to make our services available to you, Inspector.”

It was here that Lestrade asked the question that shaped all of our later destinies. “How did you find this out?” he demanded. “My top men have been working on this case for a week and a half.”

For just a moment, Holmes-née-Eakins appeared flustered. He had not considered how he would explain how he had obtained his knowledge, and it was obvious that he did not want to reveal to anyone else the secret of his time traveling device. I felt sorry for him at that moment; he had demonstrated such power, and he did not know how to use it. That is why I came to his rescue. “Mr. Holmes has developed a methodology of criminal deduction. Over the years he has worked on his theories and philosophies about the nature of the criminal mind, and he finally feels confidant enough to put his hypotheses to the test.” Both Holmes and Lestrade were looking at me curiously now. I bulled ahead.
“For instance, it is obvious even to an untrained eye like myself that you have a stain on your waistcoat, Inspector. But to Holmes’ trained powers of observation, that is clearly a stain from a steak and kidney pie purchased from the stall on the other side of the mews. Indeed, as we made our way across the street, Holmes pointed the meat pies out to me and predicted that an investigation of police vests and waistcoats and ties would probably reveal the entire menu of comestibles available in a three-block radius.”

Lestrade stared at me speechless. Holmes (as I was now beginning to think of him) was beaming with pride. To Lestrade, he said, “Dr. Watson is correct. Others only see, but I
observe
. That is the difference, Inspector. If you wish a full accounting of
how
I applied my deductive techniques to solve the mystery, you shall have to purchase a copy of next month’s
Strand
. For Dr. Watson intends to write it for publication.” And with that, we swept out.

That is how the whole affair began.

Over the years, Holmes became quite the talk of London. He used his time machine and his acting skills to whisk himself back and forth about the scene of a crime, observing everything he could. Then, taking the raw facts of his observations as grist for my literary mill, I would carefully craft about them a tale of deduction and intellect to inspire even the dullest of readers. Holmes was delighted at my invention, and I was equally pleased to be a part of such a delicious game at the expense of the authorities.

I do not ask for forgiveness. I believe that both Holmes and myself passed beyond forgiveness very early on. On more than one occasion, I asked Holmes if instead of
solving
the mystery, could he use his time machine to
prevent
the tragedy. Every time I raised the question, Holmes reacted angrily. “If we did that, there would be no mystery to solve!” He snapped in annoyance. “We would be out of business. I would have no fame and you would have no stories to write.”

“Nevertheless, Holmes,” I said, “you and I are taking a profit on the miseries of others, and I cannot help but feel that we are acting amorally. It is abhorrent to me.”

Holmes regarded me dispassionately for a moment, as if trying to decide just what he should or shouldn’t say. Abruptly, he apologized for his flash of irritation. “I am tired and I’m feeling a bit peckish. Please forgive me.” Then he added, “Besides, my dear Watson, we
cannot
change
the timestream. Not without serious risk to ourselves and others.” He then expounded at length on matters totally incomprehensible to me; I remember only a few of the word and phrases: “ ... continuity disasters, the dangers of cross-cutting, unbegun happenings....” I was not totally convinced by all of this fancy explanation, for I remembered his casual remark on the first day I met him that he had killed his grandfather, and it occurred to me, seeing his anger on the subject, that he would be equally willing to kill anyone else who opposed him. His time device gave him the power to murder with impugnity, and I often justified my participation in the whole affair by telling myself that at least this way we were serving the cause of justice.

There were, however, several who suspected that Holmes was not all he appeared to be. Moriarty for one. The affair at Reichenbach Falls caused no small amount of distress to a great many people. Afterward, Holmes told me that he knew he was never in any danger because he had observed the whole incident several times before he actually allowed himself to participate in it.

While I have elsewhere detailed the blackguardly behavior of the arch-fiend, Moriarty, I must now confess a strange admiration for the man, and in fact, on several occasions, I found myself wishing that he would actually succeed in killing Holmes and freeing me from the velvet trap in which I had found myself. But over and over again, Moriarty’s intricate schemes came collapsing down around his shoulders at the hands of Holmes, until finally I realized that Holmes was toying with the villain as a cat toys with a frantic mouse. Holmes never had any intention of capturing the man and ending his crime spree once and for all. Rather, he needed Moriarty to succeed just enough so that he, Holmes, could continue to flourish as his justice-serving opponent.