CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

That's what it means to be a veteran -- to be scared all the time. - Gil Doud

Watson

There is little to be gained from being annoyed with Holmes, especially when it is one of his inherent traits that causes the annoyance. The artist and performer in him cannot resist the allure of an audience. Moreover, his secretive nature shies from revealing too much before the conclusion of a case, even to his own confederates. I was familiar with both characteristics. Familiarity did not make it any easier to tolerate his complacent demeanor as we joined Dr. Ives at the table at Simpson's.

"Any luck?" was the greeting that met us as soon as we had taken our seats.

"Yes, it was a profitable morning," Holmes replied easily as he lifted the menu. "I see rabbit is the special today."

"We found him," I said quickly, before Ives could explode with impatience. Holmes lowered the menu to look reproachfully at me. I merely raised my eyebrows. Given the choice between pandering to his theatrical tendencies and exchanging our respective intelligences, I opted for the latter.

Holmes acquiesced with sigh. "There is indeed adequate evidence proving Mr. Brown the pension office janitor is really Alexander Brownley."

"Then all that remains is to link him to the crime scenes," Ives said with satisfaction.

"We have already begun to do so," Holmes replied, coming perilously close to smugness.

"How?"

The detective took sip of water. "There was a greyish silt on the toe of his left boot. I contrived to get a sampling of it and have compared it to the grey silt across from Dr. Robinson's house where we found the sniper's footprint."

"Did they match?"

Holmes took an unnecessarily long drink of water. Only long experience kept me from shouting but Ives nearly quivered from impatience. Finally he put down his glass. "Yes. They did."

"Then we have him!" Ives exclaimed.

"I fear not."

“Why on earth not?” I demanded, beating the older doctor to the question.

“Because the silt is not unique to one location,” admitted Holmes. “Baker Street mud is individual, mainly due to its high volume of red clay. The type of silt from Dr. Robinson’s neighborhood and the silt from Brownley’s shoe can be found all around London. I shall not bore you with the particulars but suffice to say, it will not be enough to convince a British jury, let alone enough to arrest him.”

"And proving that Mr. Brown is Alexander Brownley will do nothing to tie him to the murder and attacks," Ives finished. "What if we could obtain a sample of his handwriting?"

"I have thought of that. The notes, you recall, were written in block letters, even when his fury came through. Even in his irrational moments he took pains to conceal his normal penmanship."

"And breaking into his house is illegal and therefore inadmissible in a court of law," I added, looking sideways at my friend. I could not put it past him to seriously consider that course of action.

Holmes merely smiled. "Of course. That is why the only solution I can see to our conundrum is to catch him in the act."

"You mean to wait until he tries to kill someone else?" exclaimed Ives, the hand holding his own water glass suspended in midair. He looked as horrified as I felt.

“In point of fact, I mean to catch him in the act of delivering one of his charming little epistles,” retorted Holmes with a heavy amount of asperity. “I know Watson has described me as cold-blooded and machine-like but I like to think I have some limits.”

Ives raised his eyebrows and seemed to be one the verge of one of his characteristic, sarcastic comments. It might be beneficial to simply let them have at each other, if only to clear the air, but I was loath to see them do it in a public forum. I cleared my throat. “If I understand what you are proposing, it will mean following Brownley constantly.”

“It will mean some nightly vigils, yes,” the detective conceded. “I think it is safe to say he poses no risk during the day.” To my relief, he seemed to have regained some good humor.

Ives, too, had calmed down. “Will we be standing guard singly or in pairs?”

“That depends on the answer you have to my question.”

“Which is?”

“How many notes did Dr. Robinson receive prior to his wounding, and how quickly did they arrive?”

Ives settled back in his chair. “Two notes. The first came before Malkin sent on my message about being wary, around May 25th or so. The second came the day before Douglas Chamberlain was murdered.”

Only five days between the second message and the shooting! Though I could scarcely believe less than a week had gone by since I first learned the truth of the case. It seemed an age.

Holmes jotted the information down on his cuff. “Brownley has sped up his agenda, I fear. I will not risk employing the Irregulars now. The danger is too great and most of them are too young to testify in court. As for how we shall arrange guard duty, pairs will be the safest. One man to subdue him, the other to fetch the police. It is a trifle risky but any more on his tail and Brownley would certainly be aware of it.”

Privately I agreed that it was a risky plan but the only alternative I could conceive was even riskier and I did not yet dare to voice it in Holmes’s presence. For one, my friend would dismiss it out of hand. For another, I myself was reluctant to participate in such an operation. Nevertheless, I could not in good conscience ask another to do that which I hesitated to do. I decided I had to seek a second opinion on the matter.

When the time came for us to part ways I asked Holmes to go on without me, as I wished to accompany Ives on a visit to Dr. Robinson. I have never been good at deception, especially around Sherlock Holmes, but I played shamelessly on his previous distress at seeing the nature of the young doctor’s wound.

“Watson, you look pensive,” Ives observed when I did not rise from the table.

“I don’t like the idea of waiting for Brownley to strike again,” I confessed.

“Nor do I, but what alternative do we have?”

I raised my eyebrows and looked at him significantly. I could tell, by the knowing look he gave me in return, that Ives had considered the same plan. “Holmes won’t like it, you know,” he warned.

I sighed. “Yes, I know. That is why I think we shall have to employ an official ally in our endeavor to bring him round. Inspector Lestrade wants to bring this case to a close almost as badly as we.”

“Then all that remains is to hash out which one of us it is to be.”

I have rarely seen Holmes genuinely puzzled but he certainly looked it when he walked into Lestrade’s office a scant forty-five minutes later and saw not only the inspector but Dr. Ives and myself waiting for him. Of course, his confusion lasted no more than a few seconds.

“It is to be a conclave, then?” he queried, taking the proffered chair by the door.

“Of sorts,” Lestrade agreed nervously. He had agreed to the unpleasant task of explaining though he appeared to be having second thoughts. Nevertheless, he carried on. “The doctors here have shared your plan to capture Brownley. I’ve no real exception to it other than to point out it would be safer and more efficient to have some men from the Yard close at hand.”

“I agree but as I’ve already said, we cannot have an entourage blundering all around London after him,” replied Holmes impatiently.

“And I agree with you there,” the inspector said hastily. “But suppose you knew where Brownley was going to strike next, and had a fairly good idea when.”

Holmes went still. “You are proposing to set a trap for him, using a former army doctor as bait.” He did not wait for Lestrade to confirm this but looked hard at Ives and me. “And who is to be the unlucky fellow?”

It was now or never. I steeled my resolve. “I am.”

“Absolutely not.” His posture grew as stiff as his tone.

I had suspected as much. “I am the logical choice, after all. I know about the case and its dangers, I have had experience with snipers and with London criminals, and I am very nearly a public figure already.”

“I will not have putting you putting your life in unnecessary danger!” Holmes rose with such force that his chair clattered on the floor before righting itself. I knew his anger was born of concern but I found I had finally had enough of such high-handed treatment, and not only from him.

“And I will not have an innocent doctor put in unnecessary danger in my stead! It’s hardly your choice to make, Holmes. I could just as easily march down to the pension office and personally hand the man a copy of A Study in Scarlet with the first four paragraphs underlined.”

Holmes went deathly white. “That would be the most singularly foolish thing you could possibly do,” he snarled.

“Oh, I quite agree,” I said coldly. “That is why we are asking you to help us formulate a plan, since you have proven your skill in setting up such captures.”

Somehow he managed to go a shade paler than before at my mention of the Camden House affair just two years ago. Before our dialogue could turn uglier, however, Lestrade interrupted with a faint cough.

"Gentlemen," he began and both Holmes and I withdrew slightly. The look he gave me told me this discussion was far from over. I rather welcomed it.

"I fear it is three against one, Mr. Holmes," Lestrade went on. "We do intend to proceed with or without your help."

"What you mean," Holmes muttered through clenched teeth, "is that Watson will take matters into his own hands regardless of my opinion." He mastered himself with an obvious effort. "Very well. If you are so bound and determined to do this, at least give me twenty-four hours to formulate a plan that will not end in tragedy. I trust this is an amenable compromise?"

With a most relieved air, Lestrade agreed that it was. Without waiting for anyone else to speak, Holmes gave his a sharp nod without sparing a glance in my direction, and left the office. There was a noticeable silence from the floor as he left. With a sinking mortification I realized we had been audible to the rest of the officers.

Ives gave me a small smirk as I felt my cheeks grow warm. “That sounded familiar,” he murmured.

I started to stammer an apology that the little inspector waved away before it could progress. “It was worth it, if only to see someone get the better of Sherlock Holmes in an argument,” he grinned.

At least someone found the situation amusing.

I paused with my hand on the doorknob to the sitting room. I could smell his pipesmoke already. Given the time he had had between leaving Scotland Yard and now, Holmes must have consumed an incredible amount of tobacco. With a sigh, I turned the knob.

The atmosphere of the room was thick but I forebore any comment. Holmes leaned back in his chair with his legs propped up on the ottoman and his pipe in his mouth. He did not stir as I entered. Slowly I shed my hat and coat.

“Holmes, I – ”

“You may be gratified to learn I have nearly completed plotting out a course of action that I believe will meet with your approval,” he interrupted coolly.

“I’m glad,” I said sincerely. Cautiously I settled into my chair. “I was not serious about giving Brownley a copy of A Study in Scarlet, you know.”

The only motion from him was the smoke that curled about him. We sat in oppressive silence for a few minutes. Finally Holmes slammed his pipe onto the side table and turned to face me directly. “What on earth has possessed you?” he demanded. “I know your penchant for running your head into danger but to deliberately put yourself into harm’s way goes beyond the pale!”

I blinked in surprise. I had expected anger but not the distress that he could not quite disguise. Even had I been so inclined, I could not dissemble a second time.

“You ask what has possessed me. It is more apt a phrase than you know. The answer is fear.”

His brow creased and I rushed through the rest of my explanation. “During the war fear was a constant companion for all of us. We learned to live with it or else it would destroy us. Afterwards . . . we had to learn to live in peace and that was almost more difficult. It is not easy to trust that one is safe after living in mortal peril for months on end. Once was enough. I will not do it again, not here and certainly not now.”

“You didn’t sound frightened in Lestrade’s office,” Holmes said quietly. “More angry, I should say.”

“It is a trick we learned in combat. Become angry enough and the fear recedes. It was not truly you I was angry with, Holmes,” I added with all the earnestness I could muster. “I apologize if I led you to believe I was. It is Brownley. It is the knowledge that he is still out there and that he is capable of raising memories I thought were long buried. And I am angry with myself for allowing him the power to frighten me.”

I drew a deep breath. “But I cannot live in a constant state of rage either. That has its own repercussions that I prefer to avoid. This has to end, Holmes, and I wish be a part of it rather than a spectator. I would much rather lure Brownley to me than to remain in continuous uncertainty.”

The clock quietly ticked away the seconds. It was the only sound in the room.

“I owe you an apology as well, Watson” said Holmes at last. “I hadn’t realized . . . That is to say, you have clarified some matters for me and I thank you. This trap you have devised is the most logical solution. We shall make it work. In the meantime . . . stay angry, Watson. It will serve you far better than fear. Pick a fight with me if you must; I shall understand now. But stay angry.”