His last bow Some later reminiscences of Sherlock Holmes
words came back to me. It was the remark of the undertaker’s wife, as
reported by Philip Green. She had said, ‘It should be there before now.
It took longer, being out of the ordinary.’ It was the coffin of which
she spoke. It had been out of the ordinary. That could only mean that
it had been made to some special measurement. But why? Why? Then in an
instant I remembered the deep sides, and the little wasted figure at
the bottom. Why so large a coffin for so small a body? To leave room
for another body. Both would be buried under the one certificate. It
had all been so clear, if only my own sight had not been dimmed. At
eight the Lady Frances would be buried. Our one chance was to stop the
coffin before it left the house.
“It was a desperate chance that we might find her alive, but it _was_ a
chance, as the result showed. These people had never, to my knowledge,
done a murder. They might shrink from actual violence at the last. They
could bury her with no sign of how she met her end, and even if she
were exhumed there was a chance for them. I hoped that such
considerations might prevail with them. You can reconstruct the scene
well enough. You saw the horrible den upstairs, where the poor lady had
been kept so long. They rushed in and overpowered her with their
chloroform, carried her down, poured more into the coffin to insure
against her waking, and then screwed down the lid. A clever device,
Watson. It is new to me in the annals of crime. If our ex-missionary
friends escape the clutches of Lestrade, I shall expect to hear of some
brilliant incidents in their future career.”
The Adventure of the Dying Detective
Mrs. Hudson, the landlady of Sherlock Holmes, was a long-suffering
woman. Not only was her first-floor flat invaded at all hours by
throngs of singular and often undesirable characters but her remarkable
lodger showed an eccentricity and irregularity in his life which must
have sorely tried her patience. His incredible untidiness, his
addiction to music at strange hours, his occasional revolver practice
within doors, his weird and often malodorous scientific experiments,
and the atmosphere of violence and danger which hung around him made
him the very worst tenant in London. On the other hand, his payments
were princely. I have no doubt that the house might have been purchased
at the price which Holmes paid for his rooms during the years that I
was with him.
The landlady stood in the deepest awe of him and never dared to
interfere with him, however outrageous his proceedings might seem. She
was fond of him, too, for he had a remarkable gentleness and courtesy
in his dealings with women. He disliked and distrusted the sex, but he
was always a chivalrous opponent. Knowing how genuine was her regard
for him, I listened earnestly to her story when she came to my rooms in
the second year of my married life and told me of the sad condition to
which my poor friend was reduced.
“He’s dying, Dr. Watson,” said she. “For three days he has been
sinking, and I doubt if he will last the day. He would not let me get a
doctor. This morning when I saw his bones sticking out of his face and
his great bright eyes looking at me I could stand no more of it. ‘With
your leave or without it, Mr. Holmes, I am going for a doctor this very
hour,’ said I. ‘Let it be Watson, then,’ said he. I wouldn’t waste an
hour in coming to him, sir, or you may not see him alive.”
I was horrified for I had heard nothing of his illness. I need not say
that I rushed for my coat and my hat. As we drove back I asked for the
details.
“There is little I can tell you, sir. He has been working at a case
down at Rotherhithe, in an alley near the river, and he has brought
this illness back with him. He took to his bed on Wednesday afternoon
and has never moved since. For these three days neither food nor drink
has passed his lips.”
“Good God! Why did you not call in a doctor?”
“He wouldn’t have it, sir. You know how masterful he is. I didn’t dare
to disobey him. But he’s not long for this world, as you’ll see for
yourself the moment that you set eyes on him.”
He was indeed a deplorable spectacle. In the dim light of a foggy
November day the sick room was a gloomy spot, but it was that gaunt,
wasted face staring at me from the bed which sent a chill to my heart.
His eyes had the brightness of fever, there was a hectic flush upon
either cheek, and dark crusts clung to his lips; the thin hands upon
the coverlet twitched incessantly, his voice was croaking and
spasmodic. He lay listlessly as I entered the room, but the sight of me
brought a gleam of recognition to his eyes.
“Well, Watson, we seem to have fallen upon evil days,” said he in a
feeble voice, but with something of his old carelessness of manner.
“My dear fellow!” I cried, approaching him.
“Stand back! Stand right back!” said he with the sharp imperiousness
which I had associated only with moments of crisis. “If you approach
me, Watson, I shall order you out of the house.”
“But why?”
“Because it is my desire. Is that not enough?”
Yes, Mrs. Hudson was right. He was more masterful than ever. It was
pitiful, however, to see his exhaustion.
“I only wished to help,” I explained.
“Exactly! You will help best by doing what you are told.”
“Certainly, Holmes.”
He relaxed the austerity of his manner.
“You are not angry?” he asked, gasping for breath.
Poor devil, how could I be angry when I saw him lying in such a plight
before me?
“It’s for your own sake, Watson,” he croaked.
“For _my_ sake?”
“I know what is the matter with me. It is a coolie disease from
Sumatra—a thing that the Dutch know more about than we, though they
have made little of it up to date. One thing only is certain. It is
infallibly deadly, and it is horribly contagious.”
He spoke now with a feverish energy, the long hands twitching and
jerking as he motioned me away.
“Contagious by touch, Watson—that’s it, by touch. Keep your distance
and all is well.”
“Good heavens, Holmes! Do you suppose that such a consideration weighs
with me of an instant? It would not affect me in the case of a
stranger. Do you imagine it would prevent me from doing my duty to so
old a friend?”
Again I advanced, but he repulsed me with a look of furious anger.
“If you will stand there I will talk. If you do not you must leave the
room.”
I have so deep a respect for the extraordinary qualities of Holmes that
I have always deferred to his wishes, even when I least understood
them. But now all my professional instincts were aroused. Let him be my
master elsewhere, I at least was his in a sick room.
“Holmes,” said I, “you are not yourself. A sick man is but a child, and
so I will treat you. Whether you like it or not, I will examine your
symptoms and treat you for them.”
He looked at me with venomous eyes.
“If I am to have a doctor whether I will or not, let me at least have
someone in whom I have confidence,” said he.
“Then you have none in me?”
“In your friendship, certainly. But facts are facts, Watson, and, after
all, you are only a general practitioner with very limited experience
and mediocre qualifications. It is painful to have to say these things,
but you leave me no choice.”
I was bitterly hurt.
“Such a remark is unworthy of you, Holmes. It shows me very clearly the
state of your own nerves. But if you have no confidence in me I would
not intrude my services. Let me bring Sir Jasper Meek or Penrose
Fisher, or any of the best men in London. But someone you _must_ have,
and that is final. If you think that I am going to stand here and see
you die without either helping you myself or bringing anyone else to
help you, then you have mistaken your man.”
“You mean well, Watson,” said the sick man with something between a sob
and a groan. “Shall I demonstrate your own ignorance? What do you know,
pray, of Tapanuli fever? What do you know of the black Formosa
corruption?”
“I have never heard of either.”
“There are many problems of disease, many strange pathological
possibilities, in the East, Watson.” He paused after each sentence to
collect his failing strength. “I have learned so much during some
recent researches which have a medico-criminal aspect. It was in the
course of them that I contracted this complaint. You can do nothing.”
“Possibly not. But I happen to know that Dr. Ainstree, the greatest
living authority upon tropical disease, is now in London. All
remonstrance is useless, Holmes, I am going this instant to fetch him.”
I turned resolutely to the door.
Never have I had such a shock! In an instant, with a tiger-spring, the
dying man had intercepted me. I heard the sharp snap of a twisted key.
The next moment he had staggered back to his bed, exhausted and panting
after his one tremendous outflame of energy.
“You won’t take the key from me by force, Watson. I’ve got you, my
friend. Here you are, and here you will stay until I will otherwise.
But I’ll humour you.” (All this in little gasps, with terrible
struggles for breath between.) “You’ve only my own good at heart. Of
course I know that very well. You shall have your way, but give me time
to get my strength. Not now, Watson, not now. It’s four o’clock. At six
you can go.”
“This is insanity, Holmes.”
“Only two hours, Watson. I promise you will go at six. Are you content
to wait?”
“I seem to have no choice.”
“None in the world, Watson. Thank you, I need no help in arranging the
clothes. You will please keep your distance. Now, Watson, there is one
other condition that I would make. You will seek help, not from the man
you mention, but from the one that I choose.”
“By all means.”
“The first three sensible words that you have uttered since you entered
this room, Watson. You will find some books over there. I am somewhat
exhausted; I wonder how a battery feels when it pours electricity into
a non-conductor? At six, Watson, we resume our conversation.”
But it was destined to be resumed long before that hour, and in
circumstances which gave me a shock hardly second to that caused by his
spring to the door. I had stood for some minutes looking at the silent
figure in the bed. His face was almost covered by the clothes and he
appeared to be asleep. Then, unable to settle down to reading, I walked
slowly round the room, examining the pictures of celebrated criminals
with which every wall was adorned. Finally, in my aimless
perambulation, I came to the mantelpiece. A litter of pipes,
tobacco-pouches, syringes, penknives, revolver-cartridges, and other
_débris_ was scattered over it. In the midst of these was a small black
and white ivory box with a sliding lid. It was a neat little thing, and
I had stretched out my hand to examine it more closely, when——
It was a dreadful cry that he gave—a yell which might have been heard
down the street. My skin went cold and my hair bristled at that
horrible scream. As I turned I caught a glimpse of a convulsed face and
frantic eyes. I stood paralysed, with the little box in my hand.
“Put it down! Down, this instant, Watson—this instant, I say!” His head
sank back upon the pillow and he gave a deep sigh of relief as I
replaced the box upon the mantelpiece. “I hate to have my things
touched, Watson. You know that I hate it. You fidget me beyond
endurance. You, a doctor—you are enough to drive a patient into an
asylum. Sit down, man, and let me have my rest!”
The incident left a most unpleasant impression upon my mind. The
violent and causeless excitement, followed by this brutality of speech,
so far removed from his usual suavity, showed me how deep was the
disorganisation of his mind. Of all ruins, that of a noble mind is the
most deplorable. I sat in silent dejection until the stipulated time