Holmes opened his eyes and looked across at Descartes. He had been listening intently to every word of the valet’s story, and with the conclusion of the narrative, he was quick to interject. “Chief Inspector Wattisfield and his officers have a clear duty to ensure that this matter is brought to a conclusion in the most satisfactory manner, in accordance with the laws of this land. For what it is worth, I am convinced that you have told us all of the pertinent facts in this case, both clearly and honestly. I do not believe you are guilty of murder and would say that a strong case could be made for this to be viewed, more appropriately, as an accidental death. What say you, Watson?”
I nodded in agreement, adding that justice had to be served, but could see little point in pressing for a charge against Descartes in the circumstances. Henshaw’s manner and intentions had not been honourable and I imagined that none of the staff would shed much of a tear for his passing.
Wattisfield, of course, would not allow us to brow beat him into any sort of decision there and then. He busied himself with practicalities for the rest of the morning. Descartes was told that he would be kept under house arrest for the foreseeable future, in the charge of one of his original captors. Mr and Mrs Dawson were told what had happened at the same time as Gerald Harker, although the full story of the Descartes Inheritance was kept from them. After some telephone calls back to Scotland Yard, Wattisfield announced that a car would be arranged to take us back to Holmes’ farm. By the early afternoon, the two of us were once again seated around my colleague’s comfortable kitchen table enjoying a plateful of Holmes’ garden produce. An hour later, I bid Holmes farewell and made the journey back to London.
***
It was a good two months before I heard anything further about the Trimingham escapade. I was re-reading a favourite American Western novel in my small street-facing parlour, one chilly afternoon, when I heard a distinct rat-a-tat on the front door. I knew instantly that it was Holmes, his knock as familiar to me then as it had always been in our Baker Street days. I could not hide my pleasure on answering the door.
“Watson, your passion for Zane Grey is a new affectation on your part, but I am reassured to see that you have not lost your traditional love of snooker.” He swept into the hallway and continued his discourse, while removing his hat and heavy black overcoat. “I would venture that your trip to the theatre yesterday evening was marred by an argument with a taxi driver on the way home and in recent days you have received news that your application to become a member of the governing board of the Charing Cross Hospital has met with success. How am I doing so far?” he chimed.
I could but smile and, as ever, be humbled by Holmes’ proficiency in observing those tiny clues which pass unnoticed by so many of us, and which provided him with the vital intelligence to see so far into the personal affairs of other men. On this occasion, I had no appetite to query how he had managed to discern so much of my recent life in such a short space of time.
“I take it that you have news of the Descartes case?” said I.
“You are not wrong, dear friend. I have just come from Scotland Yard where I was engaged to decipher an intercepted communication from a Bolshevik sympathiser in Sydenham to his Soviet paymasters. In doing so, I appear to have foiled a plot to murder the Foreign Secretary. While there, I caught up with Chief Inspector Wattisfield, who had been told that I was in the building and sought me out. He had some good news.”
Holmes went on to say that the charges against Heinrich Descartes had been dropped, the lawyers acting for the Crown being persuaded that there was little evidence on which to secure a conviction for manslaughter. Descartes was free to leave the country, but had chosen to remain at Trimingham Manor and continue in his role as valet to Gerald Harker. The Dawsons were apparently delighted with the outcome.
“Very neat, Holmes,” I ventured, “but how does that leave the matter of the Descartes Inheritance?”
“That, I cannot tell you. Wattisfield has spoken to Descartes and returned the Harker letter to him. He also gave me a copy of it, which I thought you might like to keep for your records. He made it clear that any claim Descartes may wish to make upon the estate would be a civil matter, outside the interest or concern of the police. He left it with the German to decide how the matter might be pursued.”
“Then there is still some hope that this long-winded saga might yet be resolved and we will live to see Descartes inherit his birthright,” said I.
“There is every chance of a legal resolution, I would say, Watson. As to whether it will come in my lifetime, remains to be seen.”
His anomalous reply took me by surprise. But in that moment, I realised, for the first time in our long association, that despite his enduring professional reputation and undisputed genius, Holmes’ life was every bit as fragile and fleeting as my own.
As it turned out, Holmes’ prediction proved to be correct. Some years later, in the late summer of 1938 - two weeks beyond my eighty-sixth birthday - I chanced to read a small piece in The Times about the extraordinarily long-time a German-born valet had waited to inherit a legacy of £40,000. It appeared that when Gerald Harker had reached the age of eighteen, he had been persuaded that his valet - whom he had always treated more in the manner of an older brother than that of a servant - should receive the money, which had been held in trust by the Harker family since 1921. It gave no further details, but indicated that the two men had gone into partnership in a business venture to re-open a number of South African diamond mines.
It was gratifying to learn, finally, that the case had been resolved in such an agreeable fashion. And while it had been many years since I had had any call to document one of our innumerable adventures, I felt at that time that I owed it to Holmes to set down in writing The Trimingham Escapade. Unlike me, he had not lived long enough to learn of its conclusion, having passed away quietly a decade before on his lonely farm in Sussex. I dedicate this final tale to him that he may finally rest in peace.
About the Author
Mark Mower is a crime writer and historian whose passion for tales about Sherlock Holmes and Dr Watson began at the age of twelve, when he watched an early black and white film featuring the unrivalled screen pairing of Basil Rathbone and Nigel Bruce. Hastily seeking out the original stories of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and continually searching for further film and television adaptations, his has been a lifelong obsession.
Now a member of the Crime Writers’ Association, Mark has written numerous books about true crime stories and fictional murder mysteries. His tale, The Strange Missive of Germaine Wilkes, appeared as a chapter in ‘The MX Book of New Sherlock Holmes Stories’ (MX Publishing, 2015) and his non-fiction works have included ‘Bloody British History: Norwich’ (The History Press, 2014) and ‘Suffolk Murders’ (The History Press, 2011).
Alongside his writing, Mark lectures on crime history and runs a murder mystery business. He lives close to Beccles, in the English county of Suffolk, with his wife and daughter.
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