Work Text:
My dear Holmes:
I should have known this was what I would receive when I suggested that, if you had no kind words for my efforts, you should instead attempt to chronicle a case in your own voice.
Truly, you are most vexatious at times.
The degree to which I should have to rewrite this manuscript to excise all mentions of M. alone is staggering, not to mention the removal of everything else unfit for publication. Would that I could lay this practical joke at M.'s feet. No doubt he was well entertained by your effort, but I know your sense of humour, and your delight in torturing me with it.
Calling him "my neighbour James" only makes it all more transparent, given some of your other turns of phrase. Allow me to quote:
"I confess," said James, "that even I do not readily see a method to set up such a crime." His head swayed from side to side as he considered the coastline, then the path. "It will be a delightful challenge to attempt it."
Yet to his chagrin, and my own rather mixed sentiments, he met with no better success than I did at constructing a sequence of events not entirely intolerable to the logical mind.
My dear Holmes, when next I come to Sussex, we will have words.
You know it is not merely a matter of maintaining the secrets we have kept for decades now. Yes, I confess I still worry. After all these years, given that M.'s nefarious influence has failed to sway you towards evil, perhaps I should find it within me to relax my caution, and yet I cannot.
As you have taken pains to point out to your brother, to me, and even to M. himself, the narrative we concocted for the public is as precise an extrapolation of your mutual trajectory at the time as you could devise, had not your brother intervened. It might not have ended in as grand and dramatic a setting as the Reichenbach Falls, yet one or both of you would surely have perished.
Even now, the thought gives me pause.
And he has not changed. He lacks scruples, morals, and limits. You know this. You have always been aware of this. Yet you persist in this association, and so long as you do, I will persist in fearing for you. I am your friend, after all.
You, knowing this, send me a manuscript containing passages such as this:
"Nature," he said, full of contempt. "Natural causes – how disappointing. I had hoped for a genuine mind behind this. Someone who could have designed a murder both sensational and attention-drawing in such a way that neither you nor I could divine the method – such a person would have been truly impressive."
I found I had to concur, if not for the same reasons. Such a mind would have presented a challenge I would have relished dearly in my younger years, and I was not yet so old as to be beyond temptation.
James, of course, regarded the matter from a somewhat different perspective. After all, a mind capable of such a feat might have been called a worthy successor to that long-perished Napoleon of crime who had so far stood unique and unchallenged at the peak of criminal achievement. It would no doubt have given James great pleasure to discover it.
How very droll, Holmes. How very droll, indeed.
It was tedious enough to excise M. from the records of your cases when you could not yet prove he was a criminal. It was distinctly unpleasant, later, to construct a version of your triumph when I knew that in truth, no such thing had happened – when the man himself was alive, well, and might at any time choose again to turn against you. I assure you, I appreciate it even less that you now make of him a joke, as if he were not who – nay, what he is.
Your brother's interference may have saved your life, and for that alone I cannot regret it, yet I am still not reconciled to the knowledge that your brother chose to engage M. for government work. He may no longer be orchestrating crimes, but he is the same man. You yourself have called his deeds loathsome and vile, and yet you admire him enough to permit his presence around you. To enjoy it.
I have never asked you this outright, but I must ask now: Is it truly enough that he is no longer engaging in the same acts? And can you truly be certain of it?
Forgive me. I have rather strayed from my initial point. Yet you must have known what turmoil your manuscript would stir up within me. Perhaps I should not raise these matters now, merely because you played a joke on me, as you are wont to do. And yet it can hardly surprise you that I do so.
At any rate, I suppose I must admit that this is a joke I have brought upon myself. One does not need your deductive powers to discern the inevitable path that leads from my admittedly exasperated request to the resulting papers presently sitting on my desk.
Very well; your point is made. I will make no further requests from your pen.
I hope I shall see you soon, that you may set my perturbed mind at ease.
I remain, as ever, your faithful friend,
J. W.
P. S.
I do find myself curious – is your corner of Sussex even more crowded with eccentric figures than I was aware? Your scandalous young trio, in such a small place, does surprise me. In London, one expects such things, but in a cosy village?
No doubt you would chide me for that assumption; you have always held that the countryside holds more, and deeper, secrets than the city ever will. If true, it's a rather sad story. What became of young Murdoch and Miss Bellamy? Did they marry after all, or did the loss of McPherson drive them apart?
Forgive me. I know you have no patience for romance.
My dear Watson:
My apologies; you are indeed familiar with my whimsical sense of humour, and will therefore understand that I could not resist the temptation. As well, I've recently consulted with a French detective whom I found rather too inclined to presume human malice where natural causes were a definite possibility, and so the Lion's Mane had been on my mind.
I cannot answer your question. It is one that troubles me as well.
James is of the opinion that a preoccupation with guilt clouds one's thoughts. You would no doubt say that in such matters any sane person should know to ignore him, and sound advice that would be, but nevertheless, the question has remained with me. Reason is a cold thing, and whether it is enhanced or obstructed by other considerations, I have never been able to prove to my satisfaction.
Even James admits to the lack of definite proof for his preferred interpretation. I find this curiously unsatisfying.
Enclosed please find a manuscript you may find more congenial to your publishing efforts. It concerns Godfrey Emsworth's case, which I believe I've already related to you, and which has no connection whatsoever to James.
Yours, as ever,
S. H.
P. S.
James himself is a testament to the secrets the countryside may hide. As for Murdoch and Miss Bellamy, they did marry eventually, and the truth of their shared relationship with McPherson never emerged.
My dear Holmes:
You think to escape so easily?
I will excise M. and the rest from your Lion's Mane story, though I will have to rewrite it excessively. Did you believe I would baulk at that? I shall, of course, retain your droll comments on the paucity of my visits, as they are sure to upset the readership and therefore to lead to a great many more letters, which I shall forward to you forthwith.
And since you chose to write it as you did, you cannot, after all, complain if the final result bears little similarity to what you have penned.
If agreeable, I will see you next week, and I shall repeat my question in person, where you shall not so easily elude it.
Your faithful friend,
J. W.
Watson: Wednesday would be congenial. – S. H.