Work Text:
It was a damp April morning and the evening rain still clung to the ivy leaves outside my bedroom window. As my patients’ needs were not pressing, I had no desire to rush off into the muddy streets so I tarried over breakfast. I was absorbed in the news — or rather the lack thereof, for there seemed to be no new clues — in the Park Lane incident. Not for the first time over my solitary breakfast and morning news did I think of, and sorely miss, my dear friend and companion.
Finally donning my hat, I opened the front door to find myself face to face with an abashed Inspector Lestrade, fingering his hat brim and looking for all the world as if I had caught him with his hand inside a cookie jar.
“Lestrade! My, but it’s been a tick, come in,” I welcomed him heartily. It had been more than a year since I had last seen the man — Mary’s funeral perhaps — and my life without Holmes did not take me into circles which involved the police.
Lestrade nervously handled the hat in his hand, turning it in an awkward circle, before giving me what — for him — passed as a smile. “It is good to see you, Doctor Watson. I was hoping I might catch you at home. But if you’re on your way out —"
“No, no, come in,” I waved him into my entryway, taking his hat myself and calling over my shoulder for the girl. “Tea? Coffee? Do you have time for a smoke? It has been too long, man. I say, you look harried. Is it this Adair case then or do you have a medical complaint?”
He looked sallow and his eyes bore shadows beneath them, but his countenance expressed a marked relief at the mention of the Park Lane affair, as if I’d somehow pulled off one of Holmes’ tricks of deduction.
“Actually, a spot of coffee and a smoke might be just the thing, Doctor. You’re spot on — it is this Adair business I wanted to see you about. It’s a devil of a case. One he would have loved,” he said, a perceptible weight of reverence and cynicism in equal measures upon the word which stood for Holmes.
We traded pleasantries while the girl set out the coffee and, as if through some agreed upon signal, pulled out our tobacco and sat forward in our chairs as soon as she had closed the door. For a moment there was a feeling like a spark lighting up in my chest, a memory of old times and getting down to the business of a case that I’d not felt for nearly three years.
Lestrade looked embarrassed again, but soldiered on. “You see, Doctor Watson, the thing is, I could use some assistance. Some outside assistance, you understand,” his eyes darted to the door before returning to my face. “There’s something I’d like to ask your help on, only… well, I know you aren’t in the same line of work as he was and have no cause to help us, but…to be honest, I don’t know who else I could ask,” he said shifting in his seat and gazing into his coffee cup.
“Lestrade, I would be honored to assist the force in any way I can. Officially or unofficially. What is it I can do?”
Relief washed over the man’s small, drawn face. “Well, it is a bit out of the usual line, but you know I am thorough, if nothing else.”
I agreed, sipping my coffee and feeling an old eagerness building in my stomach that I’d long forgot. The game was afoot.
“It’s just this, Doctor Watson. The Yard has heard talk of a woman — one of these card reading fortunetellers, spirit mediums, or what have you— you know the type?” He waited for me to nod in agreement and seemed to be trying to decide how to proceed with his request so I took pity upon him.
“I am aware of how some people prey upon the lonely and the bereaved, and of how some people choose to be parted from their money, Lestrade.”
Again, his face showed that I had lifted a burden from him with my words. “Exactly, Doctor Watson. And usually this isn’t police business, you understand. Not unless we have evidence a crime is being committed. While it’s unfortunate that some will empty the pocketbooks of old ladies who will pay dearly to speak to their deceased husbands, we’ve quite got our hands full with more pressing matters.”
“Of course. Like the Adair murder, I assume?”
“Quite. Like the Adair murder.”
“And so, you need me to, what? Assist in looking into someone who is lightening the pocketbooks of this town by rapping on tables and pretending it is their dearly departed here to convey a message from the beyond?” I felt a small shard of ice through my heart at such flippant language of the deceased, my own two losses still palpably tender, and wished I could be the kind of man who believed in a world after this one which allowed for communication with those who I missed so dearly.
“Well, that’s the thing. It’s more than rapping on tables, or lights blinking, or all the old tricks. We’ve heard tales of this woman for some months and the thing is, she seems — at least this is what they say — to be something of the real thing. She apparently takes one look at the client and reads them like a book — can tell who they are and what they do, who they lost, and why they’re there to see her, just like —"
“Just like he did,” I finished.
“Yes. Just so. I don’t hold with magic, Doctor Watson. I’m a practical man. But these folks talk of how this woman knows all about them at a glance and can tell them things no one could possibly know. I put it off as just talk, mind you. Really, not police business. But, I tell you, some of what I’ve heard makes me wonder if she… well, if she isn’t like him. Can she do what he did? Or does she have some other means of knowing about her clients?”
I puffed on my cigar for a moment while I took this in. Holmes had always claimed that anyone could learn his methods and replicate his observations and inferences. He’d even written a piece about it, as I recalled his “Book of Life” article with a fond pang.
I nodded slowly, contemplating. “And you want — what? For me to test her, I suppose?”
Lestrade frowned around his cigar. “Yes. I need someone to see if she… well, if she can do what he did. If she can see all the things he saw and pull them together the way he did. And… well, Doctor Watson, no one knew him better than you. And I can’t really send one of my men, now,” he looked ashamed again. “I’d be very grateful if you could check it out, Doctor.”
“Well, certainly. But what has this got to do with the Adair case? Do you think she’s somehow involved? I read that Adair was an avid card player, but I assumed it was the usual rubber of whist and not fortunetelling that he was caught up with,” I jested.
Lestrade jumped up and tossed his cigar end into the grate and began pacing the room on his short legs, clearly not finding amusement in my remark.
“No, of course not! I don’t think she has the first thing to do with this case. Not yet… Not unless… Oh, hang it all, Doctor Watson, I’m at the end of my rope. I can’t make heads of tails of this case! If ever there was a case where I longed for him to stroll in, throw a careless look around the room, and point out what we had all missed, it is this one!”
“I see,” I said, sitting back in my chair, a heaviness settling on my heart. “You want me to find out if she’s anything like Holmes… and if she may be willing to assist you.”
“It is that, precisely.” Lestrade hung his head. “I could not have anyone on the force know. But I am a desperate man, Doctor Watson. The Yard is under immense pressure on this case, and… and… I could not have my men know. You knew his methods… if anyone could tell…” He turned his head to the window, sparing me from having to face him as I agreed.
“Of course, Lestrade. As I have already said, I will help. The killer must be brought to justice and the Yard has their hands full. Eyebrows would be raised if one of your men went into such an establishment, but a poor widower such as myself…”
Lestrade spun to face me, his narrow face aglow with hope. “Oh, thank you, Doctor! Yes, yes, exactly. One of my boys would give up the game, certainly. But even if she knows who you are, all the better, for — oh… forgive me, Doctor Watson. I mean no disrespect to Mrs. Watson’s memory,” he ducked his head.
“Nothing to worry over, Lestrade. Mary would have loved nothing more than playing a part in solving a mystery. She put great value in his methods, you know. I promise, she would be honored. But do you think this woman will really know who I am? I’m not so well-known, and certainly not wealthy.”
“That’s the thing of it, Doctor Watson. I can’t be sure how she does it. It is possible she studies up on her clients. Maybe learns of them through her other clients? Maybe she is a devotee of the societal pages? Maybe she has a band of street children who follow them around,” he flashed a quick smirk, “really anything is possible. I only wish to know if she is the real thing.”
“Of course. I would like nothing more than to feel that I can be of some use to the Yard again. And to be honest, it has been quite some time since I’ve had any little excitement such as this. It will be a pleasure. Do you have her address? Ah, good, I can go today after I finish my rounds. Shall I meet up with you this afternoon?”
“Oh, Doctor Watson, I cannot tell you the relief this gives me. If she’s some charlatan card reader, so be it. But if she has some way of assisting us and I didn’t take a chance… well, it has been gnawing at me that I had to but try. I will be meeting with Lady Maynooth this afternoon, but come down to the Yard this evening around seven.”
“Leave it to me, Lestrade,” I said, returning his hat and fetching up my bag. “I will report in this evening and you shall know exactly how this lady stands, one way or the other.”
And with that, we each went about the affairs of our day.
I fingered the address card Lestrade had given me as I walked down the pavement. It was not a wealthy street by any means, but quite respectable and the houses and street were tidy. My rounds had gone quickly and I had found my thoughts wandering to how I should approach the lady as I went about my day.
If she did have some source of knowledge about her clients, then perhaps I should take pains to conceal my identity. This was not an area I was skilled in, not like my friend who could alter his appearance completely with little more than a change in posture and voice.
I settled upon a false name and muttered introductions to myself as I walked the last block, “Hello, I’m Mr Ormond Sacker… Good afternoon, I’m Sacker… How do you do, Sacker, is my name,” until I felt confident I would not slip up.
The house was so nondescript that I walked past the gate, despite looking for the number. I suppose I had been expecting some touch of the dramatic, but it looked quite like its prosaic neighbors. I marched up to the door, squared my shoulders, and rang the bell.
“Hello, I’m Ormond Sacker, here to…” My thoughts were interrupted by a muffled call from within.
“Come in, it is open,” a woman’s voice with a heavy French accent called. Well, perhaps this home was more bohemian than I had thought. Even without servants, I had at least expected someone to greet me. I harrumphed a little, but opened the door.
The entryway was very small, with a simple but polished hall tree and half-moon table by the door. The tidy space opened to a modest sitting room where a woman was seated at a divan, her hands moving steadily in her lap. She had dark hair piled atop her head and she wore a dark blue dress. The house was small but bright, with sunlight streaming through the lace curtains. I realized I had been expecting some cavernous, dim space, not unlike one of Holmes’ opium dens. This could easily have been one of my patients’ homes.
The woman glanced up at me, before returning her attention to the item she passed back and forth between her slim hands. I took two steps through the entryway which was enough to place me in the doorway of the sitting room she occupied. I opened my mouth to speak but she put up a hand to stop me.
“No names. Please,” she said. I closed my mouth in surprise, my hand paused midway to removing my hat.
Her eyes flicked to me again, briefly.
“You have been in Switzerland, I perceive.”
The air seemed to take on an electric hum and thicken around me. I felt as if the floor tilted beneath my feet and I put one hand out to catch the door frame. She glanced up at me again, surprise showing in her raised brow. She studied me for a moment as I fought to regain my breath, her words almost physically throwing me from my balance.
“Your hat,” she inclined her head towards my hand which clutched at the thing. “It is a style popular there,” she said as she steadily shuffled what I could now discern as playing cards within her pale hands.
I cleared my throat, trying to recover from her choice of words. Of course a French woman could be familiar with a Swiss hat. It had been the merest coincidence that her words echoed those Holmes had spoken upon meeting me, so many years ago.
“Ah, yes. It is. I have...I...I am —"
“You are here to see what you can learn. Sit,” she gestured to a plush mauve colored chair across from the matching divan.
The room was decidedly feminine, with a pale yellow wall and pink roses embroidered upon the chair’s cushion. A low table sat between the chair and divan, and while the room was sparsely furnished, it felt homey and nonthreatening. Nothing, I now realized, like the places I had imagined I would find myself.
The cards made a rhythmic shickt-shickt-shickt noise as she continued shuffling them. Her hand was practiced and did not falter, her long thin fingers moving swiftly. She was older than I had first thought, more middle-aged than young. Her eyes were an intelligent slate gray; her dress and jewelry demure, speaking of understated elegance. She glanced up at me again.
“I am correct, yes?”
I found my throat dry. “Yes,” I agreed, sitting and placing my hat upon my knee. My hands were sweating, no doubt from the momentary shock. I reminded myself I was here on unofficial police business and turned my attention to what information I could observe. She seemed focused on the cards moving in her hand and appeared to pay me little mind, but she had been quick to identify my travels from the hat, showing her as no stranger to my friend’s methods.
Shwaach.
She pulled a card from the deck and placed it on the table between us. It was not a regular playing card, such as I am familiar with, but bore a rather gruesome image of a skeleton with a scythe, flanked by two heads.
“You have known death,” she said, her eyes on the card as she ran a finger around the edge.
Well, if this was the extent of her tricks, it should be an easy report to Lestrade. Who had not known death? I felt my nerve harden, despite the fiendish image before me. I had no intentions of making it easy on this woman if I were to truly test her.
While I may no longer have the mourning band around my hat, there is a look which sets men like myself apart — a certain something which can be read about the eyes that speaks to loss. I saw it upon my own face each morning in my mirror. If she was anything like Holmes I was sure she would have noted it, along with any lack of attention from my housemaid as to some manner of my dress, which would easily mark me as a widower.
“Of course,” I responded, a bit haughty, “who has not. Really, though, I —"
Shwaach.
The colorful card she turned over showed a man in a large hat behind a table which was covered with various items or tools. I was immediately reminded of Holmes’ chemistry table, perhaps because the man seemed to be intently working on his craft and held something which looked not unlike a test tube.
“Le Bateleur,” she said in French. “The Magician. Slight of hand. Talent. Concentration. Willpower. Skill. Trickery.”
Shickt-shickt-shickt
The sound the cards made against each other as she rapidly moved them seemed to grow louder.
Shwaach.
The next card bore a figure holding a sword in one hand and a scale in the other. “Justice. Truth. The logical approach.” She glanced up and met my eye, “You know who I speak of, yes?”
The startled expression on my face must have answered her, for she returned her gaze to the cards passing through her hands.
Shwaach. Shwaach.
She turned over two new cards. One bore an evil creature with wings, seeming to hold two people prisoner in chains, and the other displayed a man hung upside down by his foot. I suppressed a shutter as she ran her finger gently around the edge of the card which proclaimed it to be Le Diable.
“There is attachment here. Deep attachment. Addiction. And something…forbidden. This is someone who sees everything,” she moved her finger to trace the edge of the next card, “and sacrifice. There was no other choice to be made, but sacrifice.”
I fought to swallow down what was rising within me. It is all trickery, I told myself. These are vague statements, they could fit anyone, really.
“And now, like him,” she tapped the card of the man who hung by his foot, “You are suspended. You are caught between what was and what will come.”
It felt too warm in the small room. I forced myself to focus on how she was able to do this. She had but barely looked at me, so I did not believe she had read from some mark of dust upon my trousers or ink smudge upon my thumb. The room held no mirror, so I did not believe that she could secretly view me without my knowledge. There was no one else here, that I was aware of. I had given no name, no details at all.
shickt-shickt-shickt
Despite myself, I heard my voice say, “And what is it that will come?”
Shwaach. Shwaach.
Two more cards. One bore the image of a stone tower, its roof falling off, and two people tumbling to the ground below. The other bore another figure with wings, this time an angel blowing a trumpet; below it, what seemed to be a soul rising from the grave.
“Change. Something unexpected. A new beginning,” she said tapping the second card, “A resurrection, perhaps.”
“What kind of new beginning?” I asked, my skepticism returning. This was all just stuff and nonsense. She had coincidentally reminded me of Holmes and it had made me read meanings into the few words she had spoken.
Shwaach. Shwaach.
A card with three figures, above them a winged cupid, arrow in hand. The other was a card of two figures standing under a large sun, rays radiating all around. I could never look upon an image of the sun and not think with amusement at how astonished I had been in those early days when I discovered that Holmes was unaware and unconcerned that the earth traveled round the sun.
“The Lovers. And the Sun — a very fortunate card.”
“What, I am to meet someone, then? To be remarried?”
“The Lover can indicate deception. But it is a card of choice. There will be a choice to make. The Sun says that you will have joy, happiness, unconditional love, deep friendship. It is a good card. All will be well, I assure you.”
She sat back on her divan, hands finally still, and looked at me openly. “You are not one to believe unless you see a thing with your own eyes. I understand this. You will see it when it happens,” she shrugged as if bored, “There is no more I can show you now. You have learned what you came for, yes?”
“I have,” I said, rising. “And I thank you for your time. I did not inquire as to the costs of your insights, I am afraid —," she waved her hand as if to dismiss me.
“Leave something on the table by the door on your way out. You will be back if you have need and we will discuss fees then. Consider this a demonstration only, for you do not believe my words. It is no matter.”
I nodded my goodbye and left some coins on the table as I hurried out. What a strange woman. She’d said practically nothing, just a handful of random words about each card. Yet somehow, the hairs on my neck had stood when she had revealed those images and my mind had conjured up memories of distant times and my dear Holmes.
I checked my watch and saw that it was some time before I was to meet Lestrade. I decided to walk past the Park Lane house. Later I could make my way to the Yard to tell Lestrade the woman had been a complete charlatan and did not know the first thing of Holmes or his methods.