Or was it a question of need? I recalled that during “The Adventure of the _eckled _and”, Holmes expressed wonder that our client had even come to him at all. He’d said something to the effect that the only people who ever found him to ask his help were the ones who particularly needed his help. Was that the problem? Did I not need Holmes?
I felt like I did.
In the end, it was not any effort of mine that brought me back in contact with the world of adventure I had lost, but one of Mary’s friends. Or rather, her friend’s drug-addled husband.
Let me explain…
One night, Mary and I stood by our door, ushering out the last drunken dregs of her gang of suffering writers (who probably ought to stop suffering and bloody write something). Suddenly a lone waifish, wife-ish person burst in against the flow, nearly knocking me to the floor.
“Oh!” I cried. “Who is that?”
“Why it’s…” said Mary, and directed her gaze to our doorman.
Yes, we had a doorman. Mr. Chives was the one male servant who broke the handsomeness rule. Chives was elderly. Even in his youth, he could not have been an impressive specimen, for he had a somewhat round little body and a head like a discount gourd. No, what truly recommended Chives was his impressive memory. Having once heard a person’s name and any details about their lives, he could be counted on to dredge the information up at a moment’s notice, no matter how much time had passed.
He discreetly mouthed, “Kate Whitney.”
“…it’s Kate Whitney!” Mary exclaimed. “Why, Kate, whatever can be the matter?”
“My husband! Oh, my husband!”
“Yes, your husband. Er…” Mary looked over at Chives. “Isa Whitney. Yes, poor Kate is constantly having trouble with Isa, because he is…” One more look at our doorman. “…positively riddled with drugs.”
“Oh, I see,” I said.
“He’s done it this time,” our guest wailed. “Two whole days he’s been gone. He’s killed himself for sure.”
“Nonsense, Kate,” said Mary. “I’m sure he has not. John, you are a doctor. Assure Kate that Isa has not killed himself.”
“Well, I don’t know. He might have done.”
“John!”
“What? Drugs do that to you sometimes.”
“John…”
“Oh, very well. I’m sure your husband is fine, Mrs. Whitney. He probably just… I don’t know… got extra tired and stopped off somewhere to sleep for a few days. In the presence of no other ladies, I am sure. There. Better? Now, I’m afraid our party is concluding for the evening, so if you could just—”
“No!” she cried. “I must have some news of him—even if it is the worst. I could not possibly leave this place until I know! Not possibly!”
And with that, she threw herself onto our fainting couch in a semi-swoon. I hated that couch. All fainting couches, really. I can’t help but feel they encourage such behavior.
Even worse, when I turned back to Mary, I could tell she was thinking up some kind of cruel plan. By God, I could practically see those hateful gears turning behind her eyes.
“Well done, dear husband. Now, tell me: how do you intend to put this right?”
“Me? She’s your friend.”
“Ah, but you are the one with the medical knowledge to aid poor Isa.”
“We don’t even know where he is!”
From our fainting couch came a thin wail. “The Bar of Gold! Oh, The Bar of Gold! I’m sure that’s where he went this time.”
“Oh, but you can’t go there,” Mary said, with affected concern. “A woman alone? In a place like that? At this hour?”
“Would you… Would you come with me?” Kate asked.
“No, no, no! Two women alone? Why, that’s twice as bad!” Mary gave a cold, merciless smile. “But I’m sure John would not turn away in your moment of need.”
“He’ll come with me?” said Kate, brightening.
“I’m sure of it,” Mary replied. “Though, you know… the more I think of it… why should you have to go at all? My husband is ever so fond of helping those in distress. I’m sure he could manage it.”
“What? But… hey!” I protested. “I don’t even know what the man looks like.”
“He will probably recognize his name, though. Don’t you think?” Mary asked.
“Well… all right but… Ah-ha! I don’t know where The Bar of Gold is!”
“Upper Swandam Lane,” said Kate Whitney, most unhelpfully.
“Oh, come now! That’s halfway across the city!” I protested.
“Then you’d best get started, I suppose,” said Mary. “And, Kate: don’t go until you’ve had a drink with me. To calm those nerves, you know. When you’re ready, you can head back home and I’m sure John will have Isa there in no time.”
Clever, clever Mary!
In only a moment, she had set herself up as neighborhood hero, provided herself an excuse for another drink or two, ensured that Kate Whitney knew she must not attempt to stay the night, and given me an odious mission in the far east of London, just out of spite. Damn! How well she had managed it. Thus, rather than gaining my warm bed, I gathered up my boots and coat and headed out into the night.
Outside, I found a cab meandering by and hailed it. Apparently, the bohemian dissipation my wife fostered amongst our visitors had spread to the entire neighborhood. The cab man was fairly falling off his seat with drink. I asked to be driven to The Bar of Gold in Upper Swandham Lane and settled in to think.
Strangely, I had this sudden upswelling of hope. The adventure is beginning! I thought, and it took repeated reflections on the matter at hand to remind myself that this was not true. Yes, in my time with Holmes, such late-night excursions heralded the onset of criminal—quite frequently magical—intrigues. But…
Those days were gone.
This was nothing more than scooping up some junkie and delivering him to his wearisome wife. All so I could get back to my wearisome wife. By God, what a lucky
