The Confidential Casebook of Sherlock Holmes by Marvin Kaye Read Free Book Online

eminent parties involved have passed on. Such was the adventureof the noble husband, a matter that threatened to destroy not only the good name of one of Britain’s most revered authors but also my relationship with my literary agent.
    One summer afternoon in the year 1900, finding myself in the vicinity of our old Baker Street lodgings after a professional call, I decided to drop by 221B. Mrs. Hudson informed me that a client had just arrived, but as Holmes customarily welcomed my presence at these interviews I did not hesitate to mount the stairs. In the sitting room I discovered Sherlock Holmes listening to a small, respectably dressed woman with a plain, pale face—an utterly unprepossessing type such as one might pass on the street with scarcely a glance.
    â€œAh, Watson. I would like you to meet Mrs. Hawkins,” said my friend. “I trust you won’t mind, Mrs. Hawkins, but Dr. Watson often does me the courtesy—”
    â€œOh, Mr. Holmes, I’m afraid I . . .” The stranger rose from her chair, her wan cheeks suddenly flushed. She pressed a handkerchief to her mouth to conceal a cough. Then it struck me; I knew this woman, though not under the name of Mrs. Hawkins. As soon as she recovered her composure, she spared us both further embarrassment by introducing, or rather I should say, reintroducing herself.
    â€œIt’s Mrs. Doyle, Dr. Watson,” she said, extending a tiny hand. “We met once years ago, through my husband, who I believe still acts as your literary agent.”
    â€œOh, yes. Quite so,” I answered. Her palm trembled in mine. “I regret, however, that it has been ages since he and I last met. How is Mr. Doyle, if I may ask?”
    During the silence that ensued, only the sound of Holmes thrumming his fingers against his chair could be heard.
    â€œI am very sorry, madam,” the detective said at last, “but if you are indeed the wife of Arthur Conan Doyle, the historical novelist and, more to the point, my colleague Dr. Watson’s literary agent, you present me with a potential conflict of interest. I cannot help you.”
    The woman gave a little gasp.
    â€œI could refer you, if you wish. A Mr. Adrian Mulliner—”
    â€œOh no, Mr. Holmes, only you can help! Forgive me. Hawkins is my maiden name. I feared you would dismiss me without a hearing if I had revealed my identity immediately. You must understand. I’ve come all the way from Hindhead. For months I’ve been in agony over whether or not to seek you out. Please, Mr. Holmes, allow me at least to finish my story.”
    With these words the woman sank back in her chair and began to cry quietly into her handkerchief. Again she coughed, in a manner that suggested some serious lesion of the lungs. I hardly dared look Holmes in the eye. One would have to be a heartless fiend to ignore her distress.
    â€œVery well, madam,” Sherlock Holmes said gently. “As I had barely time to note that you are fond of animals and devoted to your children, a girl and a boy if I am not mistaken, before Watson here arrived, you might as well repeat for him what you have already confided to me.”
    â€œThank you, Mr. Holmes,” she answered, her tears now dried. “You are truly a gentleman. As I said before, we met fifteen years ago in Southsea, Portsmouth, on account of my brother Jack, one of Arthur’s resident patients. Alas, poor Jack proved to have cerebral meningitis and succumbed within weeks. In my bereavement I naturally turned to Arthur for consolation, and he responded with a warmth that betrayed a deeper sympathy. We married that summer, and a kinder, more protective husband no woman could dare dream for, Mr. Holmes. If you have read my husband’s book
The Stark Munro Letters
, you may have gained some notion of the sweet, affectionate home life that was ours in those early days.”
    Holmes’s hooded eyes flickered in acknowledgment, though I