I couldn't forget that man. He was deathly pale, aristocratic looking. He had a thin, high-bridged nose, and thin, high cheekbones. His mouth was thin, but its paleness suggested an underlying sickness. A strong, squared chin. His hair was a reddish gold color, as was the small, cultured beard on his chin. But as he stood in our door, he was trembling violently. He kept giving small, tortured coughs, as if he was trying to keep back a spasm of coughing, and his shoulders were hunched, his mouth trembling.
Sherlock Holmes never cared for the wealthy, or the wealthily important. He always viewed them with a detatchedness. The man in standing in our door was of no doubt of noble blood. And yet as I glanced at my friend, his face was strained with concern.
The man gave a small, choked cough, and his pale, tapered hands flew to his mouth. His arrowed brows drew together, and he gave a wet cough. Holmes had stood, saying, "My good sir, take a seat." He motioned with one long arm to an armchair next to the fire. The man shook his head, barking coughs. His hands shakily left his mouth, and he dropped dizzily to one knee. Blood stained his mouth and his small beard, covering his front. His hands were covered with the thick, red liquid.
By this time I had too risen, and seeing the blood, hurriedly crossed the room. The man was gasping for breath, and I heard, even across the room, the rattle in his throat. Once again, he coughed, a lough, harsh report, and this time without his hands to cover his face, blood welled out.
Holmes was already by his side, pale face set with concern. He took the man's elbows and rose him. The man had no choice but to try to make his legs work. His legs buckled when he tried, and Holmes hissed as he was caught with the man's weight. Not there was much weight on him, at any rate. He was nearly skeletally thin, and I felt this as I picked up his legs. Holmes and I carried him to the sofa, and the man relaxed slightly once on it. He was still breathing raspily, and I looked to Holmes worriedly. "Get the brandy, please."
After slipping some down the man's throat, the glazed look in his eyes lessened, and he looked at us sorrowfully. Not the kind of self- pity sorrow, but the kind like he was sorry we had to see that pitiful spectacle. He opened his mouth slowly, trying to break through the blood on his lips. His voice was weak, but calm, and firm. He spoke with the serenity of one who knows what will come to pass. "I'm quite sorry, gentlemen. I did not realize that I had felt so wretchedly." His head moved weakly to look at the carpet. "I fear I have stained your rug."
Holmes breathed a sigh of relief beside me. He reached over and put his hand over the man's pale, wasted one. "I'm truly very sorry. Whatever problem you may have, I shall do my best to help you." I turned to look over my shoulder at Holmes. His eyes held a depth of sadness and sympathy I had not expected from him. But all I could think of to say was, "A client, Holmes?"
Holmes nodded, and the man laughed, a wet sound nearly like a cough. As I looked at him, his mouth was twisted as if he was close to weeping, and his eyes shone with tears. Still on his back, he said, "Gentlemen, I come to you under the gravest of circumstances. I realized that Mr. Holmes here would at once recognize me as a client." His pale face blushed for an instant before he continued. "Though I had planned to make my introductions more mundane. I am Sir Arthyr Weathersmith." He looked away from us, to the padding of the couch. His hands had clasped limply over his stomach. "And I am dying. Slowly, but surely. I cannot be saved, for no cure has ever come for phthisis." Sir Weathersmith looked to me gravely. "But I'm sure you already knew that. You, no doubt, are Doctor Watson." I nodded my head, feeling a leaden weight settle in my heart. My initial pity of the man increased, and it must have shown on my face, for he waved dismissively at me. "You must have seen people die of this disease before. I understand if you do not wish to help me if you find this too..... ah, too sickening."
Holmes's calm voice broke in. "I shall keep my word, sir." The man's eyes turned sightless as he looked to the ceiling. "As much as I feared."" A sigh racked his body, and he said, "If I thought that this was any less severe, I would not have come. However, the future generations of my family depend upon it. I have a young sister, and a brother as well. I am the eldest of four children. The youngest died in his crib a month ago. I myself am eight-and-twenty years. My mother and father have both died, which is why I have now inherited our family title."
A small sound of recognition came from Holmes. "Ah, yes, I had thought you were one and the same. You are the Weathersmith family of Yorkshire. A most tragic buisness." Sir Weathersmith snorted. "Our family has always owned the Heath. We are not noted for being tragic." Holmes did not comment, and Sir Weathersmith continued. "But somehow, our history almost always is.
"My family, as I said, has always owned the Heath, which is what we call our estate." A small smile broke on his lips, the first we had seen that had been of true humor. "If you can call it an estate. It's mostly wild trees, and our large stone manor planted in the center of the wildness. Few peasants live there, and those that do, live because they and their families and ancestors have lived there all their lives. But the land is beautiful Mr. Holmes. Wild, lonely, and beautiful.
"But I shall speak of why I came here. My family is dying, Mr. Holmes. I myself am not well, as you see. My mother and father, despite any bumbling report of the police and reporters, had not died easily, or normally. They were both found in the family cemetary. But they were covered in morning glory, grape vines, ivy. Some traveller that had been passing through the estate lands saw them and presumed they were murdered. I wish that he had not been a fool and called the constabulary, and yet he did. But by afternoon, they would have already been buried, and they should have left well enough alone." Our visitor sighed unhappily, closing his eyes. I heard no sound of movement from Holmes, behind me. "My family has lived in Heath for..... centuries, at least. We have become our land, and our land knows us. I know you might put that down as a sick man's babble, but you shan't say that if you had ever seen our family tombstones. We never have to make any, you see. For every night, when one of our family members dies, it has been the tradition to put them in the lot of land reserved for our dead. And each morning, as you go to pay your respect, the unfortunate person has already been buried. And an uncut slab of granite has forced its way through the earth. But not by men's hands. No, but by our land's. Our land loves us, Mr. Holmes." Sir Weathersmith stopped talking and had grown still, and I wondered if he had been sleeping. His stained mouth opened again, and his voice was saddened. "But the land has not excepted my parents. They still lie in the lot. And they lie untouched by rot. The constables said they were murdered, and I think the land wants its new lord to revenge the dead. My parents."
I turned to look over at Holmes. His face was set deeply in concentration. I could hardly believe this tale, but I didn't have the heart to interject, as it may have upset the dying man. Holmes finally asked, chin propped on a fist, "Murdered. By who, though?"
Sir Weathersmith sighed. He stirred, and propped himself on his elbows, and sat up. "It could have been anyone. My parents were walking the forests that night." Holmes made an understanding noise. "Perhaps an animal, good sir, killed them then?"
Our guest gave a scornful laugh. "No, Mr. Holmes. No animal could have very precisely cut their throats after having knocked them both unconscious by a blow to the temple. It was a man's work, and a killer's at that." Holmes did not awnser. Finally, after a long silence, he spoke. "I need more information. But I shall help you. You say your parents were on a trip. From where? What road did they take? Is your land a common ground for bandits?"
Sir Weathersmith, his head still in his hands, murmmered, "On a trip from Kent, the eastern road leading directly from our manor, and no, our land is enough to scare the marrow from a man's bones." Holmes made a sound to show he was listening, then said, "Then, perhaps an enemy?" Our guest sighed again, and said in a low voice nearly a whisper, "They barely left the manor in life. Visitors are uncommon, and we have few friends as it is."
"Perplexing. I wonder if you should allow me to accompany you back to Heath. I should be most interested to help you as best I can." Our visitor sighed once, and lifted his head. Tears streamed silently down his face, cutting through the blood. He seemed on the verge of openly weeping. His mouth twisted, and he sobbed tiredly, putting his head in the fine-boned hands again, sobbing heart-wrackingly. Holmes's face went from concentration to sympathy, and he leaned foward over the back of the chair he was sitting in. His long thin hand placed itself on Sir Weathersmith's shoulder, and squeezed the pitifully bony thing.
Only two words were able to break through the tortured sobbing. "Th... Tha--nk y-ou."
"Of course. Now, Watson, if you will, fetch a bowl of warm water and a towel, and we'll se if we can clean our young lord up a bit."